Engrish Report III

 A handbag:

"On The Rord Again"

I think they should make a song out of it.

On a large shopping bag:

"You gave all these gentleness of me and strength
STRONG CHILD TREASURE
CUTE KID GOOD CHILD
your word is like magic.
GENTLE CHILD
SPLEASE PRAISE ME."

Needless to say, the 'splease' is sic.

On a haute coutoure ad:

"Lingerie is Love-Jewelry"

I'm not even sure what to do with that one...

A type of candy:

"Crunky Ball Nude"

Ironically, they kind of look like gonads.

2 gems from the pizzeria where I ate in Shinjuku last weekend:

"sake is the best of all"

and, the HOLY GRAIL of all engrish:

a poster of a frog in a glass that says:

"ENGRAND"

That's where I'm going on my next vacation.

And oh @#$% a @#$%ing KAPPA!

Note from the Blogger

Pictures are really difficult to format on this blog. For some reason I'm really picky about that. So it bugs me.

AND NOW YOU KNOW. (+_+)

Escape to Kamakura

Ever since I found out I would be in Tokyo, I have planned to spend most of my weekends in Kamakura. Yet my glitzy new social life and the excitement of the city have kept me in the entertainment districts for nearly a month now. For a couple of weeks I resolved to go to Kamakura today, and by god, I did. And was very surprised to find it only took 45 minutes to get there. If it weren't for the expense (maybe $16 round-trip?), I would be there every day! 

There are many things to see and do in Kamakura, but today was just about personal sanity--I had to get out of the city and do some hiking. So I had planned to just walk the Ten-en trail that winds around the hills above Kenchoji. But of course, Engakuji is right there at the Kita Kamakura station, so I couldn't help stopping there first. 

The winter sun hangs low over Japan, so when I reached Kita Kamakura at 2pm, its gradual descent had already begun. Half of me felt edgy about being caught on the trails in the dark; The other half was delighted that everything is transformed by 'the golden hour,' and I happened to have 3.

I wandered through Engakuji, simply experiencing the place. I didn't bother to identify the various buildings or their historical context--I left my inner-academician at home. The ume blossoms were lovely--Engakuji has many. Certain things from Dr. Harper's art history lectures did strike me, and it was very powerful, experiencing them in person: the indigenous Japanese layout--meandering, asymmetrical, intuitive; the easy mixture of decorative Chinese architecture and austere indigenous styles; the amazing little accidents of nature celebrated everywhere... I love the masonry that lines the walkways. It was a wonderful contrast to the reconstructed masonry I saw at the Imperial Palace on sunday. Those straight, solid walls communicated power and force, but at Engakuji, straight rows of square rock give way to random thrusts of twisting cliffside, and groping roots cling to every crack.

Accidents of nature rock my socks off. And yes, that is a money mushroom.

One of the highlights of Engakuji was a venerable old ume tree, bent over like an elderly rice-farmer, its trunk so cracked and broken as to appear hollow; it completely depended upon the supports that had been carefully constructed around it. However, at the end of this tortured trunk there bloomed a sparse crop of ume blossoms, lovely in their scarcity. That is the kind of tree Zenchiku described as the pinnacle of reticent beauty: "after enduring years of rain, dew, wind, and snow, [it] puts forth only a few scattered blossoms."

 

As I was leaving Engakuji, aware of the waning light, I noticed a group of people dressed in traditional Japanese clothing. I wandered toward the subtemple and found that they were practicing traditional archery. It was like dance: precise, slow, grueling, elegant... A man in his sixties raised his loaded bow above his head and slowly brought it down to his chest; even more slowly, he drew back the bowstring, his arm visibly shaking with the effort. When he finally loosed the arrow, it whizzed swiftly to the target. It was mesmerizing to watch. The golden light hit their white garments in just such a way... I so wanted to keep this image. It took a few minutes, but I psyched myself up to approach one of the instructors and ask if I could take a photograph. She smiled and said it was fine, so I took a few.

A cheerful middle-aged man was working the gift-shop counter. We bantered a little, and he told me about his visit to Los Angeles 20 years prior. Everyone in Kamakura was friendly. Tokyoites are amazingly friendly for city folk, but a small town like Kamakura can't be beaten.

 After Engakuji, I walked past a little studio with a wall covered by postcards and prints of cats. The cats were rendered in various colorful pop-art styles. A little tabby--one of the models, I later learned--slunk away as I approached. A kind, joyful looking man was crouched out front, watering some potted plants. "Is this [uncle's] art?" I asked him. He smiled and nodded. I explained my course of study in Tokyo, and we struck up a fun conversation. He showed me one of the postcards that included all five of the cats depicted in his work. They all live there with him; he told me each of their names. They were all adorable, but I only remember three of them: Gohan (rice), Meron (melon), and Mikan (clementine/satsuma). I bought one of his postcards and got his meishi (business card). I'm gonna post a link to his website, however, a lot of the art I saw at his shop is much better than the stuff he has uploaded here:

http://www1.kamakuranet.ne.jp/nekonohako/index.html

I walked past a Murasaki Imo Sofuto stand--they sell Kamakura's famed purple potato ice cream (!)--but I was short on change and decided to save that experience for later. Then I entered Kenchoji. I ended up cutting through most of it, though I did enjoy a glance at the architecture, and on my way back down, I heard an evening service being chanted, which was lovely. I made my way up several flights of stairs to the highest point in the complex; high-school baseball players sprinted past me, panting and groaning. Lions and strange bird-faced guardians grimaced at all newcomers. In front of the highest sub-temple sits an observation deck, and there I found the baseball boys convalescing on benches. I was awed when I looked back and saw the whole of Kamakura laid out before me, and the ocean beyond. Oddly, It was my first time seeing the water since my flight into Narita, though I live about 30 minutes (walking-distance) from the bay.

That's where the trail began-- the Ten-en 'Haikingu Kosu' (Hiking Course ^_^)--and it went straight upward--another two flights of stairs, and an even better observation deck. I could see about forty-five minutes between the sun and the sea, so I picked up my pace. From there the trail was often flat, though sometimes I had to scale surprisingly steep rocks with both hands. One particularly precipitous passage had a helpful knotted rope attached to it.

The terrifying part? Several people passed me as I panted asthmatic, with a calm and composed 'konnichiwa!' ...and most of them were at least 60 years old. I had actually read about this curious phenomenon-- the septuagenarian domination of the sport of hiking in Japan. Apparently it is unique among the world's countries: few nations have such active seniors. Still, nothing can prepare you for the mortifying moment when someone more than three times your age leaves you in the dust.

The trails were lovely. At first I found myself in a tunnel of dense bamboo, but after that it was standard forest, golden light streaming through bare deciduous branches. Among their snaky roots were nestled dozens of caves and niches, some of them a foot tall, some of them big enough to walk into. Many of these hosted little buddhas, bodhisattvas, and images of teachers. Spent incense sticks stood in little glass cups at their feet. One magnificent near-life-size statue of a teacher sat serenely at the top of a steep rock formation, framed by fluttering white prayer flags. Ancient kanji carved in the cliffside had become nearly illegible with age.

Periodically I would reach a small clearing, and once again Kamakura--clear to the sea--lay golden before me. The camaraderie of hikers is even greater than that of morning people--everyone I passed greeted me with a hearty 'konnichiwa!' Broad, dark hawks swooped overhead, crying out into the evening, and occasionally I'd be startled by the ominous and sudden WARRA! of a crow overhead.

Elated by my surroundings, I clearly saw what the theme of the entire day had been-- a recurring thought: this is the Japan I came to see. This is the Japan I was looking for. For the past few weeks, I've dressed well and made an effort to be very outgoing. I've even gone out on the town and partied (a little). Free to try on a new identity, and without any intense academic workload to tether me to my old one, I definitely experimented. But today as I was hiking, it suddenly seemed very clear: I have flirted with Shinjuku, Shibuya, and Minato--clothes, makeup, and getting phone numbers from random (but charming!) Japanese college boys. But days like the one I had today in Kamakura--they're the reason I'm here, and I won't let go of that.

Little did I know that the high-points of my day had yet to come. When I reluctantly doubled back to the observation deck at the trail head, the sun was finally about to touch the sea. It hovered in the haze like a giant, bright, pink-gold peach. Below it the sea glowed, a flat strip of light. It was like living and breathing inside an 18th-century gold-leaf byobu. The orange of the sky was fading, and a light blue mist hung over the city below.

Sunsets are hard to capture, but I tried. Basically, it was like this except cooler.

An old man walked up beside me. He grinned and asked me where I was from. I told him, and he made a gesture like he'd been hit by a truck ("Uwa!"). From then on I was drawn into a wonderfully animated conversation with this eccentric ojiisan, which lasted the entire walk back to Kita-Kamakura station. I guess another one of those universals is elderly people thrilled to spend a few minutes not being ignored. In any case, he spoke slowly and clearly (or 'normally and comprehensibly' to my ear, but I guess that's why I'm a gaijin) and so we sustained a shockingly fluent conversation.

It was wonderful practice. Maybe I was on a roll, or maybe I just knew he'd be patient with me so I was less flustered, but I must have used every grammatical construction I've learned over the past 3 semesters. We talked about all sorts of things. He told me he was out walking for his health, because he has diabetes. He also told me about a trip he once took to San Francisco, and about seeing the Golden Gate Bridge. He laughed when I told him that in LA, a distance that takes 30 minutes by car requires 2 hours by bus ("Don't you have trains there?"). He even asked me if LA was scary (making a pantomime of a handgun--he's the second person here to associate LA with such a gesture). We talked about various Japanese foods I have yet to try--he was surprised to learn that I, [gaijin], 'can' eat sushi ("taberaremasuka?! Uwa!"). But he also seemed surprised that I had never eaten eel. Go figure. He also told me he actually doesn't like Murasaki Imo Sofuto, though he's lived in Kamakura his whole life.

He was curious to know what Americans think of Japanese culture. It was hard for me to describe in broad strokes, so I decided to focus on a positive specific: how American kids love Japanese anime. He thought this was pretty amusing. It led to a detailed conversation about our favorite Miyazaki movies (yes, even Ojiisan loves Miyazaki!), which led to the shocking revelation that I am actually familiar with some of the iconic Japanese films that came out when he was my age ("Mizoguchi wo shteiru?! Ozumo?!!"). That was a wonderful affirmation. It's actually the first time I've talked about movies with a Japanese person old enough to recognize my favorite art films from the 50s and 60s.

When I reached the train station we went our separate ways, but I sure hope I run into him again--after all, Kamakura's a small place.

Here are some more pictures of Engakuji:

Engrish Report II

A loofa with a suggestive silhouette scrubbing herself (suggestively):

"It enjoys the girl at sweet time"

I also walked past an old dude (60's?) wearing a white hoodie (street cred in itself--esp. in Japan) with these words written in rainbow letters on the back:

"I will try hard if you will allow me a short vacation."

I should probably explain the hilarity of this injoke: in japan, when someone is intimidated by an endeavor or even just happens to be doing something difficult you say "gambatte!" The literal translation is, "try hard!" Teachers and superiors will also often say this to students/employees. When a professor hands you a test, this is what they say. So in Japanese terms, this old dude is stickin' it to The Man. Hat-tipping is necessary.

Engrish Report I

Two gems from the cover of my composition notebook (which I bought, 3 for a dollar, at a hyakuen shop):

"It is our hope that this item will become your good friend and help to make your life enjoyable all the time."

I thought this was a pretty generous expectation for 30 cents. But the copywriter covered his/her tracks:

"The benefit of this notebook is up to the sense that comes from your passion."

... so I suppose my passion will dictate the bounds of our friendship. As of right now? I wouldn't call us 'passionate' quite yet, but my notebooks and I have a decent working relationship. And at the moment my life is enjoyable, nearly all the time. So maybe there's something to it. (^_-)

Another good T-shirt:

"Come back, apple!" (surrounded by bouncing apple motif)

Second Sunday

As soon as I woke up today, I slopped together some clothing, ran a brush through my hair, and hurried out into the cold morning air. It was all in the name of journalism: I wanted to photograph my neighborhood in the gentle morning light. However I do enjoy being out and about on quiet mornings. And quiet it was. Japan may be a driven, performance-oriented place, but not at 7am on a Sunday. I shivered my way down the street, snapping furtive photos of interesting buildings, trying to capture the flavor of the place for my readers. 

It is a nice neighborhood, though it is an odd alternation between packed, grubby apartment buildings and shiny ‘five-star’ living. Literally, there is the “Five Star Takanawa” apartment just down the street. There are also some modest houses. The roads are narrow and petite, like so many in Tokyo. Sprawling 3-laned boulevards and expressways make up the skeleton of the city, but these little winding byways fan across Tokyo like veins.

Our apartment building (below right) is one of the grubbier buildings, but it isn’t packed tight like some of the others. It almost seems as if it’s been grandfathered in, because it sits opposite an exclusive gated community (I’m not even kidding--we see chauffeured cars roll past sometimes). There’s one magnificent tree next to our building (see below right). As my roommate Aki put it, one tree can make a big difference. Crows roost in it often. But mostly it’s just a nice chunk of green.

We’re also right next to a temple with a graveyard. It occurred that maybe that’s why they put such an affordable gaijin house here! Japanese culture is notoriously superstitious about ghosts, and the rest of the graveyard is bordered by parking lots and little bits of trees. However, I've noticed a lot of little cemetaries crammed in between houses throughout the city. It's quite different.

The apartment itself has ‘a touch of mange about it,’ but it’s quite comfortable. I am even a little cautious about calling it Spartan, because this is apparently luxurious living for a Tokyo daigakusei (college student). It even has more amenities (and a little more space?) than my L.A. digs. It’s wonderfully quiet too--nearly as quiet as my Westchester place. It would be, if it weren’t for the law school boys downstairs. At least they’re kind of entertaining: you should see their risible attempts to hook me up with one of their shy roommates. ^_^

A middle-aged Londoner lives across the hall from us. His name’s Tony Tapper (which sounds amazing in his accent--positively Dickensian) and he’s quite kind. On my very first day here, my roommate wasn’t home, and he drew me an elaborate map to make sure I got to the housing office in Shinjuku so I could get my key.

The indefinable camaraderie of ‘morning people’ is apparently universal. When I reached the charming little neighborhood park (above), it was nearly empty. A small coterie of older men were huddled around a bench a little ways off; surely village regulars. I wandered into the park, eyeing my prize: a blooming tree, one of the hearty few at this time of year. It is lovely. I couldn’t really capture it in photos, but I tried. Half of the tree was bare, but for a few crinkly red leaves still clinging to the slender branches. The other half had a sprinkling of lovely little white blossoms, and the branches were filled with little buds.

A kindly old man saw me admiring the blossoms, and we had a brief exchange in simple Japanese. He told me they were “ueno hana ume”--I didn’t recognize the word ‘ueno’ as anything other than a place name (see ‘Ueno Park’ entry ^_^), but according to an online dictionary, it can mean ‘first.’ I did know that ‘hana’ means flower and ‘ume’ is a type of Asian apricot. Indeed, umeboshi, pickled apricots, are a delicious traditional food that happens to be sitting in my fridge right now. So I responded, “Ah, like umeboshi!” Which made him smile. He pointed out another tree in the park, a sakura (cherry blossom). We agreed that we were looking forward to April. We commented on how early and pretty the blossoms were, but then we both got really cold (the old man gestured to his ears, but for me it was my fingers that were about to fall off) so we parted ways.

Most of my readers are probably aware of the prominence of the sakura in Japanese culture; come April, a third of the trees in the city will erupt with little pink blossoms, and hanami will begin. Hanami is the 1000-year-old tradition of ‘flower-viewing.’ There are many flower festivals across Japan, throughout the year--festivals to celebrate plums, peaches, chrysanthemums, and many others. But the sakura hanami is a universal phenomenon. Every year ther’s a ‘flower-watch’ on the national news, meteorologists and botanists diligently tracking and forecasting the spread of the blooms. So what does one do at a hanami party? Well, first one sets out a lovely picnic blanket; then one unpacks some elegant, healthy and delicious bento… and then you get falling-down drunk. Apparently, Hanami is really just an extra-classy excuse to get plastered by 10am. It’s like this, except outside:

To be frank… I can’t wait! I’m gonna bang on my rice-bowl with my chopsticks and it’ll be awesome. [NB: Japan’s drinking culture is the single fact that can explain the phenomenon of karaoke. According to many, many jidaigeki this nerd has seen, musical drunkenness is a revered tradition]

Anyway, I love little conversations like the one I had in the park--it’s my favorite thing about Tokyo. For such a big city, people really are very friendly and obliging. You’re expected to follow certain codes of behavior, and share certain values, which seem pretty homogenized from my background. But shared values and predictable behavior become a sort of social lubricant--there’s a sort of trust that becomes possible. Well, the extremely strict laws and enforcement also add to that. I see children, even in the nicer neighborhoods, walking or biking around by themselves.

For all who are curious, here are a few more photos of my neighborhood and my apt:

This is a totally shibui house down the street from us--it's completely covered in vines.

This is the entrance we use.

Our kitchen. Check out all the counter space. ^_^

The toaster oven on top is my new best friend. I put meat and veggies in tin foil, stick em in there, and that's how I eat.

This is the half of my room that isn't bed...

... and this is the half that is.

State-of-the-art desk.

Elegant boudoir. [note the hanger-holder--a clever dollar-store gadget]

That's the tour, folks.

I'll tell you about my scandalous weekend adventures when I've finished my homework [i.e., next month].  ^_^

Light-High and Fancy Free: Shinjuku

My head's still spinning from my first Friday night. Mild-mannered Arigato-san just had a 'wild' time out on the town!

My roommate and I made our second foray into Shinjuku's night-time scene. Fortified by the company of a trusted guy friend, we spent hours wandering those dazzling colonnades of neon color. We simply observed and explored.

Our first stop was a major department store, OIOI. Each floor of this colossus caters to a different 'scene,' or set of fantasies-- in fact, I am fairly certain that each of the floors hosted a handful of haute designers' specific boutiques. It was a spectacle, and we freely let our imaginations meander through the strange, winding backways of fashionably constructed identity. On the Lolita floor, we braved a frilly jungle of bustles, lace, and fur. One floor was filled with Japanese skater clothes: the kitschy love-child of Run DMC and Tony Hawk. But my favorite was the quasi-Edwardian fashion; prim but classically flattering clothing with (more than) a hint of 1890s daydream. Think long (but well-tailored) skirts with laced-up boots; sexy bodices over modest blouses; a top-hat here and a little lace there, but nothing too sensational. Mostly earth-tones. Basically, I think I'd feel like a witty Edith Wharton character in those clothes. They're wonderful.

I also felt a regrettable weakness for the modified-schoolgirl look that defined one of the boutiques. I just have a thing for tiered skirts and plaid. But hey, all my life I went to private schools with dress codes. Go figure. My roommate was most enthusiastic about the visual kei stuff (punk meets glam?). It's not my scene, but I liked one collection called "Alice and the Pirates." That is literally Alice of Lewis Caroll, encountering Pirates of the Caribbean (?). Japanese pop culture has a strange love for Alice: I intend to cover that in my forthcoming 'Japanamazing' page.

Then we met five or six guys from the Waseda University Tennis team. We needed directions in order to find Golden Gai, a famous, eccentric bar district. By this time I had some experience accosting random strangers for directions. In the company of my (picky but shy) roommate, I was accustomed to singling out attractive young men for said directions. And so, in my usual, caution-to-the-wind manner, I threw myself at a group of young men who happened past, shouting an earnest "Sumimasen!" They were well-dressed, and several of them were quite good-looking.

We described to them the specific gothloli bar we were trying to find. It's called Sumire no Tenmado, or something thereabouts... My guidebook said it is Tim Burton's favorite place in Tokyo, and a truly surreal experience. The boys were amused by our interest in a 'Gosu-rouri kissa' (kissa = cafe). Fortunately, they all spoke very good english, and several of them had iphones. They tried to direct us, but we were kind of confused. So they said, "well, why not?" and decided to take us there themselves. From the start they were jaunty and fun, and clearly very charmed by their new gaijin acquaintances. They were enthusiastic about my hometown, L.A. "Eiru Ei! Eiru Ei!" hooted one of the rowdier ones. They had that cocky joviality peculiar to athletes of any stripe. It was endearing. Because there were so many of them, each of us had at least two or three guys to chat with as we walked. We laughed a lot and connected over all sorts of odd things. One of the boys asked me if it snows in L.A., and I tried to explain that it's a desert, but they don't have deserts in Japan. I thought maybe the word 'cactus' would make it clear, but they didn't know what a cactus was, so I had to try to explain. One of the boys had the funniest look on his face--something between puzzlement and skepticism. Then the boys told us about their tournament in Bangkok, and said there were lots of pretty temples there. We talked about movies and music. All in all it was exciting, free and easy conversation as we strolled through one of the bright and bustling centers of Tokyo.

Surrounded by our cheerful retinue, we eventually reached a dingy little back-alley that is, apparently, the famed 'golden gai.' We spent about 30 seconds in the gothloli kissa before deciding we might get rufied and robbed. I'm sure we were too hard on the place, but it was pretty eerie. What else did we expect? In any case, we weren't too disappointed; the highlight of the evening was the moment when several of the Waseda boys presented us with their meishi, or business cards (which everyone has here in Japan). They were officially the first phone numbers I had scored in Tokyo. A minor victory, but a very satisfying one.

Mad Dash through Shinjuku

My first outing to Shinjuku whipped past so quickly that it registers as a series of impressions: bright lights and tall buildings; chasing my roommate in a crazed sprint across the crowded sidewalks and sidestreets; asking attractive, well-dressed, good-humored young men for directions; vertical strips of color lining broad boulevards; winding backstreets receding from the glow; in those backstreets--dinginess without desperation--no addicts or night-walkers, just steam billowing up past cloth flags that shout "Ramen!" and "Udon!"; Savory smells, murmurs, and laughter wafting; more running, panting, euphoria; stumbling upon a giant red torii gateway tucked among the starry streets of this entertainment district... It was all gloriously exhilarating.

Why the rush? My roommate and I are required to pay our rent, in person, every month, at our landlord's housing office in Shinjuku. It was time for our January visit. We also needed to find Kinokuniya--a giant bookstore that carries English language books--so we could purchase a text for our Nation and Japanese Art class. Everything closed at 8, but somehow we managed to find our way from south Kabuki-cho to the sakura house office. And it was incredibly fun.

Harajuku!

Today I made my first foray into the mythical shopping district--the holy grail of clothes-horses--called Harajuku. Its reputation reached America when Gwen Stefani went all wapanese on the album Rock Steady. We only walked along Takeshita street, but the experience was overwhelming. Myriad boutiques spill out into the narrow, crowded lane. They cater to Japan’s many fashion ‘scenes:’ gothloli, skater, visual kei, etc. The throng itself reflected the wide variety of tastes therein. People-watching in Harajuku is a fascinating indulgence. I spent almost an hour waiting for one of my friends to finish her cell phone registration, but I was perfectly content to simply stand in a warm shop and watch the crowd pass by.

'Loli' and 'gothloli' particularly fascinate me. Most people are aware of this trend because a) it is outrageous and b) the internet exists. However, to see a lolita--in person--is kind of an experience. For those of my readers who are unfamiliar with this particular subculture, the name is derived from Nabukov's novel. Apparently in Japan (and Mickjaggerland), this is not a hanging matter. Basically lolis dress themselves like victorian porcelain dolls. They often have long, curled hair with big round bangs. They also wear make-up and eyelashes to really sell the whole porcelain thing. In terms of color and style, there are dozens of categorized variations. Gothloli and sweetloli are two of the simplest. Gothloli looks like something out of a Tim Burton film. Sweetloli makes women look more like cupcakes--think pink and frills. And the skirts? So many petticoats! I don't have any photos of the 'sweetlolis,' but I did get a photo of this gothloli (or maybe she fits under 'classic loli'?). I have to admit, while most of me thinks the trend is a bit absurd, and at best, a novelty... I think somewhere, deep down inside, my seven-year-old self is giggling, clapping, and jumping up and down. I have yet to try the loli look, but maybe next halloween...? (Please, dear reader, save me from myself!)

In terms of regular fashion, most Japanese women wear their hair long, and especially fashionable ones have wavy, flowing extensions. They wear a variety of fashionable clothes, but they tend to include a lot of leather and lace. A shocking number of them wore shorts without any stockings. I don’t know how they didn’t freeze.

Young Japanese men tend to have carefully coiffed hair, sporting the windswept look; their pants are generally cut like kind of modified skinny-jeans (even dress slacks with suits!) and they wear long, narrow shoes--like a cross between a cowboy boot and a clown shoe. Many wear scarves and peacoats or military-looking jackets.

However, in Harajuku, men were wearing all sorts of things. I saw a guy walk past in a utilikilt. I also saw a guy wearing a kind of tunic top that I’d only ever seen as women’s wear.

In general, fashionable Japanese men can be very androgynous, and some women as well. This is particularly true of J-rockstars. Google image ‘visual kei’--you’ll see what I mean. I’ve even begun a little mental game--especially pertinent to the adverts plastered all over the train stations--in which I try to guess the gender of some of the more fashionable people around me. It isn’t always easy.

Another game of mine is recording good Engrish. There was lots of fun engrish on various t-shirts and sweatshirts in Harajuku. I definitely liked the girly pink sweatshirt that said, “you must be change believer want to see in the world.” I think MLK would approve. But my favorite, by far, was the frayed guy-sweatshirt I saw in a skater shop. It said, in big, faded capitals, “THE ONLY WAY OUT IS FIGHT.” Fight indeed.

According to Fodor's, the average Harajuku shopper is 16 years old. I think this is a misleading datum. A lot of the shoppers I saw were either 20ish or 8ish. There happen to be two different Claire's locations on Takeshita street alone, as well as a few other girls' boutiques. The schoolgirls (pictured above) were very amused to see gaijin tourists taking their photo. And yes, Takeshita street is as packed as it looks. A lot of Tokyo's entertainment districts look like this at peak hours.

To my friend Bree: check out the Vivienne Westwood Gothloli sign!

Sundry Cobwebs: Crows

I had heard about Japanese crows before. My favorite humor blog even did a story on them: http://www.cracked.com/article_17453_5-diabolical-animals-that-out-witted-humans.html

However, I was still surprised when I first saw one, and shocked when I first heard one. Firstly, they are much bigger than American crows. Their beaks are really long and sharp-looking, and their claws are just… yikes. Then they open those black face-pincers and out comes a throaty Warra! Warra! It’s like that wince-worthy noise Golem makes when he coughs. Except it sounds more like an angry person shouting. It seems monstrous compared to the polite rasp of the American “caw!”

Then there’s the fact that they’re clearly not afraid of you. I noticed that they don’t pay much attention to pedestrians. They’ll reluctantly hop out of a car’s path, but that’s about as good as it gets. At first I found their entitlement quirky--charming, even. Then, my first afternoon in my apartment, there came a loud, low, Warra! Warra! outside my window. I could see a big, black blob through the frosted glass. We Americans often regard such urban wildlife with amusement and curiosity. I mean, who doesn’t like chasing pigeons once in a while? In this state of naïveté, I slid the window open by a few inches. A cold, glittering eye stared back at me. It had the kind of beak that could gauge out your eyes and then come back for some brains. It took a few steps toward the screen, its long, sharp claws clinking on the railing. It cocked its head, considering the food inside the apartment and the screen that protected the food. That screen also protected my face. I felt a little uncomfortable, so I started to hiss and shoo it away with my arms. It didn’t even flinch. I shouted at it and banged on the glass a little, but it just looked at the screen, clearly planning something diabolical. Then it lunged at me and I reflexively shut window, very, very startled.

They're always there, too.  They gorge themselves on garbage in dark back alleys. They sit in flocks up in the trees, watching and waiting. They swoop low over pedestrians, big black shadows croaking their discontent. I haven't encountered any scary people yet in Tokyo, but those god-damned crows...

Don Quijote: Fustercluck

The following is a story of keen intentions and scatty actualities. I’ll try to set the stage briefly, but skip the logistics if they bore you. The main point is that I had a hundred reasons to feel impatient.

I had spent the entirety of Friday sitting through orientation. It was both boring and frightening, which I didn’t know was possible (no wait, I’ve done college loan paperwork before…). Saturday morning I had a list of things I wanted to get done. The stakes were high: everything would be closed Sunday and Monday (nat’l holiday). But, due to a tedious array of inconveniences and late-learned facts (I’ll skip that rant), I had to rearrange my little schedule over and again until my window was almost shut. Having finished my Japanese placement exam, I was faced with a decision: ‘disappear’ and worry my roommate for the second time in as many days, or spend the next two to three days without a cell phone or an alien registration card. I chose the former, telling myself that I could only promise her it would never happen again if I had a cell. I justified the ward office trip thinking she was probably there herself. But there was one thing I absolutely could not justify: being in Roppongi after dark. I had only spent half of my Friday hearing about why I wasn’t supposed to be there.

Tokyo is a pretty safe city because the police are so harsh. There’s a flavor of fascism in some of their policies: gaijin get 23 days in the brig if they’re caught without their passport; make that five years in hardcore prison, if they’re on a bike and they don’t have the registration with them. Drug offences are even punishable by death.

But the police don’t care about gaijin on gaijin crime. Roppongi is filled with bars owned by foreign mobs--Russians, Taiwanese, whatever--and aimed at foreign men. The US embassy’s website has a list of 75 different Roppongi bars known to drug their clients and take their money. Every single semester, at least two students in my program wake up with empty wallets. Therefore the safety portion of our orientation boiled down to this: never go to Roppongi at night unless you have a police escort.

About 24 hours later, the sun set, and guess where I was? That is, without a phone, or a single soul knowing where to find me…

After walking two miles to the Minato Ward Office, only to find it closed, I walked another two to a shop called Don Quijote. It was recommended by an orientation speaker as the place to get a cheap cell, though it happens to be in Roppongi. When I entered, the place seemed a treasure-trove of kitschy curios; by the time I left, I knew that everything obnoxious about Tokyo is crammed within those four little walls. I don’t want to be too hard on the place; it is quite a spectacle, and spectacle is a valuable thing. But this place was too much. Imagine a wal-mart stuffed into a pulsing, flashing, sweaty little dance club. Now imagine that, instead of a neat row of aisles, it is an ever-growing maze. Its shelves are lined with a plethora of needless crap, and amidst the crap, little TV screens continuously repeat the same ads.  Every ten steps you take, you are assaulted by an enthusiastic anthropomorphized sponge (or sock, or dildo…) vaunting about its many virtues in rapid Japanese.
About twenty minutes of Don Quijote might have been pleasurable. A half hour might have been tolerable. But it took nearly an hour and a half for the sales clerk to prepare my prepaid phone. This is probably my fault. I hadn’t known I’d need my full street address, so he may have pushed me through a loophole of some sort.

Even so, the punishment was disproportionate to the crime. Immense irritation sharpened by a tinge of fear. Knowing that every moment I waited, my roommate was getting angrier and Roppongi was getting darker and my own nerves were beginning to fray.  Even if I wasn’t putting myself in danger, even if that orientation speech was entirely aimed at the dumb frat boys who would inevitably get themselves shafted... I knew my silly imagination would make every passing stranger into a Mafioso or a slave-trader. And I'd get lost.

As all this went through my head, I just wished the anthropomorphized dildos would shut up for a second. And that's why I don't like Don Quijote... But I guess I'll still buy things at the Shinjuku one. Because they do have a lot of stuff. A lot.

For the folks following along back home: I got out of Roppongi via taxicab, safe and sound, and didn’t have to pay too much to reach a neighborhood I knew.

The silver lining? Having walked around Minato, alone, without getting lost. Seeing the wide gates of Zojoji in twilight, and the elegant kimono-clad matrons walking through them. Shiba park in the golden hour, school-kids walking to baseball practice and businessmen hurrying home to dinner. Women with strollers and young couples holding hands.  It was as though all the friendliest people in Tokyo had emerged to greet the evening, united by a common sense of relief and relaxation. On my way from Minato to Roppongi, I even passed the broad feet of Tokyo Tower, which was once the tallest building in the world. Moreover, when I got home, Aki and I went to a dollar store and found an incredibly inexpensive way to outfit our apartment. So, you know how it is when things end well.

A Night in Narita: Antidote

I found that Narita was much easier to navigate without my giant duffle. In fact, now that I wasn’t in everyone’s way, the city even seemed a little friendlier. I was free to explore, and there were so many new, strange sights. I felt a little like I’d landed on another planet. There were lots of food stalls and lively little restaurants with traditional Japanese exteriors. I contemplated ordering something, but decided that Konbini (convenience store) food would be more practical and painless. And yet I passed by several konbini, still reluctant to settle for fluorescents and crinkly plastic. I examined several menus outside appealing little bistros. Most of them had no English. Disheartened, I pretended to be perusing them with curiosity and discernment. [I was still very self-conscious about my gaijin-ness].

I wandered down narrow streets without any sidewalks--intimacy and venerability to rival the likes of Toledo and Carcassonne. I hesitated at one alleyway. Still cozier, it also hosted several little restaurants. There I happened upon my gaijin gem: “Tacos Factory,” a “Mexican Dining Bar.” I was utterly drawn in by the intriguing premise and the accessible menu. No one would have to explain a ‘quesadilla’ to me. And to think, I could eat Japanese food in America, and days later, LA food in Japan!

Friendly cooks shouted to me from the first-floor window. “Irashaimase!” They waved me toward a tiny, rickety flight of twisting stairs. I hesitantly climbed it, feeling like Alice in a rabbit-hole. But once I reached the top, I found myself in a wonderful little eatery, perched precipitously above the street. The atmosphere of the place was exquisite. Nine square feet of seating and a pint-sized bar-tap. I was enveloped by a comfortable closeness; toasty warmth and the scent of tobacco, low lights and murmured conversation.

A cheery waitress behind the bar motioned me in, and I slid onto a barstool at a slim counter lining the window. I was a little shocked so many people could fit in one space, and delighted that a restaurant could be so small and comfortable without feeling crowded and noisy. The waitresses bantered with customers in a genuine, friendly way, uninhibited by the stilted Japanese etiquette of strangers. I looked out onto the cold street, safely tucked into my new retreat. And once again, alone was okay.

Then something miraculous happened: the waitress came to chat with me. Her warm, friendly conversation washed away all of the awkward, insecure, ‘foreign-ness’ of the past 4 or 5 hours. We discovered that we were both college students, and that her major is English Literature (while mine is Japanese Art History). She told me her favorite author is Henry James, but she has only read him in translation.

It was affirmation, exactly when I needed it most. The biggest of my insecurities was this: here I was, devoting my career to Japanese studies, without ever having been to Japan, and barely knowing the language. The past few hours had revealed just how little I knew about Japan--just how foreign I was. I definitely had a few “what the hell am I doing?!” moments. But here was another college student confidently devoting herself to a completely foreign thing. She didn’t have enough English to read the literature she had decided to specialize in, and suddenly it was okay that I speak so little Japanese. I felt like we were in the same predicament, and I was fortified by her cheer and excitement. She was the first person I really talked to in Japan, and I felt like we had a lot in common. I went home practically skipping.

Oh, plus the quesadilla was really good. Someday I’ll give Tacos Factory a full review; for now, I’ll just give it my highest recommendation.

Tokyo Transit Blues

I must admit that my first impressions of Japan were forbidding. My waltz through customs was shockingly simple, but my relief was overshadowed by a few daunting realizations. I found the train terminal easily enough, but I could not read any signs, could barely communicate with the sea of humanity hurrying past me, and I needed to get myself and my ginormous duffle from the airport to my hotel. Luckily I had printed several google maps of potential train routes, and was able to point and grunt my way to central Narita.

When I did get into town, all my expectations of a jovial night of sightseeing were blown away. The sun had set at about 4pm. I found myself alone in a dark and foreign place.

I had a stroke of luck: I could see my hotel from the train station. But first I had to figure out how to get out of the station-- dragging 3-months of clothing behind me. When I reached the exit, feeling completely bewildered and out-of-place, I realized that I had no idea how to get to the hotel (and I could no longer see it). Narita is full of little circuitous streets--it kind of resembles a medieval European town--so I was thoroughly confused. Not to mention that my giant bag and I took up half the road. A drunk guy muttered at me. I passed demonstrators, and feared they might be the nationalists I’d read about online (scary!).

By the time I reached my hotel, I felt like a spectacle of a lost foreigner, and was happy to shut myself in a little room where no one could see me. And it was a little room. The bathroom was about the size of an airplane toilet, with just enough space for a tiny tub. The rest of the room was bed.

Just then, in that little room, ‘alone’ seemed excruciating. I desperately wanted to call home, to talk to someone I knew--but I couldn’t get skype to work. At last I settled for a hot soak in the tiny-tub. But then my stomach started to growl. I had to emerge and find food. So I decided to ‘man up.’ I put on my war-paint, resumed my battle-armor [read: cute outfit], and even managed to muster a spirit of adventure.

Bin to Bimbimbap: the Airport Boogie

It was my first time traveling internationally by myself.

After 24 hours of frenzied preparation, I found myself packed into a winding TSA line. My mom waved goodbye, and I wished I could tell her how grateful I was for all of her help. As soon as she left, I was struck by how alone I felt. I have traveled alone often--Oregon to Massachusetts was my regular high school commute. However, I saw very few Americans in the line around me. Indeed, I was a stranger in a strange land long before I reached this amazing little island. What's more, my loneliness was without dread: just a hint of agency, accompanied by premonitions of wandering bewilderment.

By the time I reached my gate, English was the tertiary language, superseded by both Korean and Japanese. I was one of a handful of gaijin. On the Korean Air flight I was acutely aware of the little differences that signaled my departure from all things familiar. Oddly enough, they all seemed to improve upon my experiences on American airliners.

Firstly, there were complimentary toothbrushes and toothpaste. I had brought my own in my carry-on, and was glad to find them unnecessary. Then there were the white slippers, a very sensible courtesy. I don’t know Korean customs, but in Japan it is uncouth, even in modern homes, to wear shoes inside the house. In fact, it was a legally binding part of my lease agreement for my apartment: no shoes.  There is even a separate pair of slippers used only in the restroom.

I had always wondered how Japanese people handled airplane bathrooms. Those little plastic boxes of filth make me want to go out in the woods and conduct austerities for months, and I wasn’t even raised with Shinto values. The answer has two parts: the slippers, and regular cleaning by the flight attendants. During ‘peak’ restroom moments (read: 15 minutes after a meal), every 3 clients or so, one of the prim and pressed stewardesses would go over all the key surfaces with little Lysol wipes. All in all, it was a civilizing experience.

Plus I got to try my first Bimbimbap bowl! It was a bowl of cooked vegetables. You put rice on top, pour on a hot sauce, and mix the whole thing vigorously. I liked it a lot.

Back-blogging: A Pre-[r]amble

Greetings Aerogram readers! It has taken me a week to get my blog up and running. I’ve had some crazy adjusting to do since I got here. However, I think this might be a good long-term system: I jot down entries throughout the week, then revise and post during the weekend. So there will be a bit of a lag. I am also still trying to figure out the blog formatting itself, so parts may be somewhat awkward. Eventually I’d like to link a flickr feed, but I haven’t gotten there yet. My first week is going to have lots of crazy long entries because this is the stuff I really want to hold onto: the first impressions, the novelties, the adventures, the ‘euphoria.’ I promise there won’t always be so much flotsam.

A note on style:

Sparse, austere, economical prose is a hallmark of Japanese literature… But you’re not gonna find it in this blog. I began writing entries with the purest intentions. No more than 250 words per entry, I told myself. Short and sweet. Entertaining, digestible. These are ‘Aerograms,’ not 3-volume novels. Even after a few days of writing, I still maintained the illusion that I would eventually edit my entries down to such a length. After a week, that illusion is dead. I hope I will learn to write with restraint over the next few weeks, because revision takes a lot of energy. Maybe a year from now I can whittle this blog into something readable, but for now, it is what it is. I guess this blog is also a travel diary for me, and I really want to remember every detail! We all have our vices; mine is wanton self-expression. Sincere apologies.

I have tried to bracket my worst tangents as supplemental pages. I know some of my readers might actually be interested in them. Or maybe I just need to force them upon the world. However, you will find them under 'pages' at the top right side of the blog. For the rest of the flab, PLEASE skip and skim at your own discretion. Also, some of my post titles will be cryptic or esoteric. If you're curious as to their meaning, go ahead a post a comment.