Me: Did you hear that?
Mom: Yeah, what was that?
Me: A fart.
Mom, laughing: I just heard your fart all the way from Japan.
This is the relationship I have with my mother. I'm glad some things never change. The only problem with using the computer and interweb as a telephone is that the powerful microphone built into the Macbook is at the same level as my lower torso when I'm sitting at the table. When I fart, the whole world can hear. If they're listening.
***
Weekend. Saturday morning. Iwaki city.
A powerful gust of wind forced its way through the open windows of my apartment, causing an open door to slam shut. The thunderous bang of wood smashing wood at hurricane speed served as a reasonable wake up call. Now, an hour later, two cups of instant coffee and a Sigur Ros record in to the morning, here I am.
The first week of work was wonderful and exhausting. I haven't looked forward to a Saturday this much since I worked at the newspaper. Though, I suppose this is the first week I've actually worked since I left The Examiner in early June.
The paid holiday is over. Sort of.
As an assistant elementary school English teacher, my actual job responsibilities consist of repeating simple English phrases such as, "What do you want to eat?" and "When is New Year's Day?"
We sing songs too. This week alone I was actually paid to sing Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Six times.
I like fifth graders the best. They're the most in to it. They're attentive and excited and eager. Third and fourth grade are still a little too young to truly understand the meaning of the lessons. And sixth graders are mostly too cool for school. They just sit there and don't make much of an effort. Unless something funny happens.
Example:
Friday's sixth grade lesson was: What Do You Want to Eat? I Want to Eat _____.
We had picture cards of the foods. Mainly western cuisine you can find in Japan. We worked on proper pronunciation of these words. The Japanese are quick to adopt and Japanify many aspects of western culture, food is no exception.
We say, Hamburger, Pizza, Spaghetti.
They say, Haamu-Baagaa and Pii-za and Supaa-gheeti.
These cheeky sixth grade bastards had a field day with spaghetti.
I was intentionally over enunciating the word, to get them to hear the western pronunciation.
Spa-ghe-tti, Spa-ghe-tti, Spa-ghe-tii
All the boys started laughing uncontrollably.
I taught this lesson to three sixth grade classes before it dawned on my what was so funny.
You see, the word geri in Japanese means diarrhea. And the proper pronunciation of the word in Japanese happens to sound exactly like the proper pronunciation of "ghetti" in spaghetti.
So I would say, "Spaghetti! Spaghetti! Spaghetti!"
And they would hear, "spa-Diarrhea! spa-Diarrhea! spa-Diarrhea!"
Once I figured out what was going on, I thought it was pretty damn funny too. But I tried to hide my smirk as I looked towards the Japanese teacher to see if she knew what was going on as well. I think she had an idea.
A Japanese elementary school is a strange place. There is no cafeteria. There is no janitor. Why would they need these things when they have a captive audience of hundreds of little kids?
Shit you not. The kids serve lunch and they eat in their classrooms with the teachers. And every day after lunch, for 45 minutes, they clean the school.
I had heard that this was the case in Japanese schools, but seeing it first hand was something else.
They call school lunch kyushoku. Every day a kyushoku center brings lunch for the school in large metal containers. You have no say in what's for lunch. Everybody eats it. After fourth period about a quarter of the kids in each classroom don white, lab coat-esque smocks and thick cotton surgical masks. Then they bring in plates and trays and the metal containers filled with the day's lunch. And they serve it up soup kitchen style.
Sometimes I eat lunch with the students. They get a kick out of this, especially when I bring my own lunch. I've never seen kids stare with such amazement at a person eating a tuna sandwich and banana.
After lunch the kids brush their teeth. Then they clean. Sweep, mop, scrub, dust. Even the teachers and staff pitch in. I do not. I tend to hide out somewhere and have a nap. However, I'm not sure how effective having kids clean the school really is. I know when I was that age and my parents made me clean something, the only tool I'd make use of was a wet rag. As long as it looked clean, it was good enough. I carry much of this same attitude with me to this day.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
dream interrupted
The hour was late, somewhere deep within the dreamy void between night and day. The six beers I drank earlier were still coursing through my veins. The Sigur Ros album I began on my iPod had finished and I was fast asleep long before the end. The room was warm enough to not want any blankets or clothing other than boxers, but not hot enough to demand air conditioning.
I'm having a dream. Somewhere in Japan, seeing sights with a blonde girl named Jess. We marveled at the sights before us: Buddhist monuments, towering skyscrapers, ancient shrines, enormous hotels. And beer gardens.
Earlier that day, in reality, away from the dream, Jess called to invite me to a beer garden back in Iwaki. I could not attend, as I was across the prefecture in Aizu, getting to know the Ando family on a weekend-long homestay. Somehow Jess calling me worked its way into my dream. I don't know what sightseeing had to do with it.
Anyway. The dream was interrupted. I heard something. A door sliding open. Feet patting across the tatami mat floor.
There is someone else here now. I can sense their presence in the darkness.
I want to say, "Who's there?" but my mind is drunk and tired and the Japanese won't come out. English won't work. It's a child. Kai. He walks over to me. I'm on the ground, laying on a futon. The blanket is thrown off to one side. Kai takes it and covers himself up, lying at my feet.
I don't know what to do. I don't know what this means. Kai is autistic. He can't use words. In order to communicate with him you need pictures and gestures. I don't know why he's in the room with me in the middle of the night.
He nuzzles my feet, curling up close. Inching up my legs, snuggling my femur, holding on tight. Eventually he works his way up to my torso and we lock in a full-on spoon.
What would you do if a six year old autistic Japanese boy walks in to your room in the middle of the night while you're fast asleep and starts spooning with you while you're wearing nothing but underwear?
This is not a question I ever thought I’d have to ask myself. I advise you to take a moment and consider it, in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation.
So what did I do?
Well, I just went with it. I scooted over the edge of the futon to make room and fell back asleep with Kai at my side, his face buried in the small of my back.
When I woke up he was gone and I was hung over and alone. Not an unusual way for me to start a morning.
***
Backtrack to earlier in the day, before the late-night encounter.
I finish couple of mandatory Japanese classes at a university and now I’m sitting in a room with the rest of the new Fukushima JETs. Earlier we all received a page of information about our host families for the weekend. As I sit there waiting for my family to arrive, I read over the info sheet.
Hiroaki Ando, 37, teacher; Miyuki Ando, 36, housewife; Rui, 7, first grade; Tai, 6, kindergarten; twin brother Kai, mild autism.
There’s more written in Japanese, a portion of it has been translated:
“Strong drinkers welcome! I smoke, but will refrain if you do not.”
Oh no, Ando-san. There will be no refrain necessary. I think we’ll have a good time.
Slowly people’s names are called out. The crowd cheers and claps whenever a name is announced. Sending off their peers with godspeed.
When the man calls out James Foley, I get up and go. I’d been rehearsing in my head how the first few moments of the initial meeting would go. I had the Japanese all thought out, I had some questions ready.
Of course all that shit goes out the window when you finally meet your maker.
I was taken by surprise. My host dad was waiting for me when I walked out of the classroom. I’m a lot taller than he is, but he is solid and well-built, wearing a T-shirt and athletic shorts. I’m expecting a bow and all the obligatory Japanese that spews out when you meet someone for the first time.
Instead he extends his arm for a handshake and in English says, “Hi, how’s it going? Please call me Hiro.”
Along with him are two of the boys, Rui and Tai.
It’s about a 20 minute car ride from the university to their home in a new suburb of the city. In the car I talk with my host dad and the boys.
“Rui, how old are you,” I say in Japanese.
“I’m seven,” he says back to me in English.
Hmm. Impressive for a seven year old.
“Can you guess how old I am?”
“Uhh, you’re 23.”
“Good guess. How’d you know?”
“I read it on your sheet.”
Smart kid. He likes Pokeman and beetles. Not Beatles. Beetles. Japanese boys love beetles. The nasty fuckers with long horns and huge pincers. They collect them in two varieties: alive and in plastic. The boys have a terrarium filled with beetles and they sit there and watch them mill about and occasionally fight. When the living ones aren’t in the fighting spirit, the boys resume the violence with their plastic, life-size replicas.
Rui and Tai are pretty much inseparable. They play Nintendo together and run around and fight and do all the shit that little boys like to do to each other.
Kai is a different story.
The first thing I noticed about Kai, before I saw his deep and beautiful black eyes, or his six-year-old, gap-toothed smile, was his prepubescent, uncircumcised penis.
Indeed, an unusual first impression have. But, then again, Kai is an unusual boy.
When I first saw him he wasn't wearing pants. His dad gave me a heads up about this during the car ride over. The kid just doesn’t like wearing clothes. He had on a T-shirt when I first walked into their home. But it was off within the minute and he was running around the living room and bouncing off the walls and anything else in his path.
There’s a small exercise trampoline set up against the wall of the living room. The naked boy jumps on it for an eternity, banging his head and hands on the wall. Nobody in the family seems to pay it any attention. They don’t hear the pounding and the screams. They don’t see the bouncing naked boy and his flailing penis. Or so it seems. But after six years, I guess they’re used to it.
His parents, Miyuki and Hiro, are the most patient and tolerant people I have ever met. They take everything in stride and good humor. I was amazed at level of noise and calamity they seemingly just didn’t notice. My mind traveled back to the days when I still lived with my mother and siblings, years ago.
If we so much as made a wrong step on the floor at the wrong time and the creek of the old wooden floorboards traveled downstairs to my mother’s lair, we’d hear her roar and scream to be quiet, that we’re making too much noise, that she can’t hear her show. I always found this ironic because her outbursts were usually much louder and longer than any of our trivial noise infractions.
This was my first time living with three little boys. And I don’t think I’d ever met an autistic person before I met Kai. Their parents are saints of tolerance and patience.
Talking with and getting to know them was a great experience. The wife doesn’t really know English and she’s a hell of a cook. She fed me better than my grandmother. From the minute I walked into her home I had food in front of me. She worked hard to prepare the meals and she went out of her way to abide by a request that I not eat beef or pork. She’d always serve the kids first, then me and Hiro. Sometimes, but not often, she’d sit down and eat something with us. She is very skinny.
Kai is a big eater. The first night he devoured every single bowl of tuna and asparagus appetizer that was placed on the table. Then he proceeded to eat just about everything else he could get his hands on, all within a span of about 15 minutes. Then he’d indicate he was full and leave the table, striping off the apron his mom put on him before the meal, and goes back to jumping naked on the trampoline.
The dad knows quite a bit of English. Between the two of us we know enough about our respective foreign language of choice to construct sentences and carry on basic conversation. We just lacked the vocabulary to make it fluid. So we’d sit there at the table, drinking sake and beer and smoking cigarettes, dictionaries in hand, talking about any and everything, pausing to look for words we didn’t know or a simpler way of explaining a point or idea. We hit on George Bush, the Iraq war, the Japanese government and education system, the importance of locally grown food, and the difficulties of raising a child with autism. And of course we traded of names of movies and actors we liked.
The mom loves Cameron Diaz and thinks she’s pretty. She was shocked when I told her she was washed up and not worth anybody’s time back in the states.
When I left they gave me a present. Aizu is famous for its hand thrown pottery. They gave me a cup. It’s glazed porcelain and a blush design the looks like melting stalactites. It’s sitting on my shelf right now. I can see it. And from now on whenever I look at it I will be reminded of the Ando family. Though really, how will I ever forget?
I'm having a dream. Somewhere in Japan, seeing sights with a blonde girl named Jess. We marveled at the sights before us: Buddhist monuments, towering skyscrapers, ancient shrines, enormous hotels. And beer gardens.
Earlier that day, in reality, away from the dream, Jess called to invite me to a beer garden back in Iwaki. I could not attend, as I was across the prefecture in Aizu, getting to know the Ando family on a weekend-long homestay. Somehow Jess calling me worked its way into my dream. I don't know what sightseeing had to do with it.
Anyway. The dream was interrupted. I heard something. A door sliding open. Feet patting across the tatami mat floor.
There is someone else here now. I can sense their presence in the darkness.
I want to say, "Who's there?" but my mind is drunk and tired and the Japanese won't come out. English won't work. It's a child. Kai. He walks over to me. I'm on the ground, laying on a futon. The blanket is thrown off to one side. Kai takes it and covers himself up, lying at my feet.
I don't know what to do. I don't know what this means. Kai is autistic. He can't use words. In order to communicate with him you need pictures and gestures. I don't know why he's in the room with me in the middle of the night.
He nuzzles my feet, curling up close. Inching up my legs, snuggling my femur, holding on tight. Eventually he works his way up to my torso and we lock in a full-on spoon.
What would you do if a six year old autistic Japanese boy walks in to your room in the middle of the night while you're fast asleep and starts spooning with you while you're wearing nothing but underwear?
This is not a question I ever thought I’d have to ask myself. I advise you to take a moment and consider it, in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation.
So what did I do?
Well, I just went with it. I scooted over the edge of the futon to make room and fell back asleep with Kai at my side, his face buried in the small of my back.
When I woke up he was gone and I was hung over and alone. Not an unusual way for me to start a morning.
***
Backtrack to earlier in the day, before the late-night encounter.
I finish couple of mandatory Japanese classes at a university and now I’m sitting in a room with the rest of the new Fukushima JETs. Earlier we all received a page of information about our host families for the weekend. As I sit there waiting for my family to arrive, I read over the info sheet.
Hiroaki Ando, 37, teacher; Miyuki Ando, 36, housewife; Rui, 7, first grade; Tai, 6, kindergarten; twin brother Kai, mild autism.
There’s more written in Japanese, a portion of it has been translated:
“Strong drinkers welcome! I smoke, but will refrain if you do not.”
Oh no, Ando-san. There will be no refrain necessary. I think we’ll have a good time.
Slowly people’s names are called out. The crowd cheers and claps whenever a name is announced. Sending off their peers with godspeed.
When the man calls out James Foley, I get up and go. I’d been rehearsing in my head how the first few moments of the initial meeting would go. I had the Japanese all thought out, I had some questions ready.
Of course all that shit goes out the window when you finally meet your maker.
I was taken by surprise. My host dad was waiting for me when I walked out of the classroom. I’m a lot taller than he is, but he is solid and well-built, wearing a T-shirt and athletic shorts. I’m expecting a bow and all the obligatory Japanese that spews out when you meet someone for the first time.
Instead he extends his arm for a handshake and in English says, “Hi, how’s it going? Please call me Hiro.”
Along with him are two of the boys, Rui and Tai.
It’s about a 20 minute car ride from the university to their home in a new suburb of the city. In the car I talk with my host dad and the boys.
“Rui, how old are you,” I say in Japanese.
“I’m seven,” he says back to me in English.
Hmm. Impressive for a seven year old.
“Can you guess how old I am?”
“Uhh, you’re 23.”
“Good guess. How’d you know?”
“I read it on your sheet.”
Smart kid. He likes Pokeman and beetles. Not Beatles. Beetles. Japanese boys love beetles. The nasty fuckers with long horns and huge pincers. They collect them in two varieties: alive and in plastic. The boys have a terrarium filled with beetles and they sit there and watch them mill about and occasionally fight. When the living ones aren’t in the fighting spirit, the boys resume the violence with their plastic, life-size replicas.
Rui and Tai are pretty much inseparable. They play Nintendo together and run around and fight and do all the shit that little boys like to do to each other.
Kai is a different story.
The first thing I noticed about Kai, before I saw his deep and beautiful black eyes, or his six-year-old, gap-toothed smile, was his prepubescent, uncircumcised penis.
Indeed, an unusual first impression have. But, then again, Kai is an unusual boy.
When I first saw him he wasn't wearing pants. His dad gave me a heads up about this during the car ride over. The kid just doesn’t like wearing clothes. He had on a T-shirt when I first walked into their home. But it was off within the minute and he was running around the living room and bouncing off the walls and anything else in his path.
There’s a small exercise trampoline set up against the wall of the living room. The naked boy jumps on it for an eternity, banging his head and hands on the wall. Nobody in the family seems to pay it any attention. They don’t hear the pounding and the screams. They don’t see the bouncing naked boy and his flailing penis. Or so it seems. But after six years, I guess they’re used to it.
His parents, Miyuki and Hiro, are the most patient and tolerant people I have ever met. They take everything in stride and good humor. I was amazed at level of noise and calamity they seemingly just didn’t notice. My mind traveled back to the days when I still lived with my mother and siblings, years ago.
If we so much as made a wrong step on the floor at the wrong time and the creek of the old wooden floorboards traveled downstairs to my mother’s lair, we’d hear her roar and scream to be quiet, that we’re making too much noise, that she can’t hear her show. I always found this ironic because her outbursts were usually much louder and longer than any of our trivial noise infractions.
This was my first time living with three little boys. And I don’t think I’d ever met an autistic person before I met Kai. Their parents are saints of tolerance and patience.
Talking with and getting to know them was a great experience. The wife doesn’t really know English and she’s a hell of a cook. She fed me better than my grandmother. From the minute I walked into her home I had food in front of me. She worked hard to prepare the meals and she went out of her way to abide by a request that I not eat beef or pork. She’d always serve the kids first, then me and Hiro. Sometimes, but not often, she’d sit down and eat something with us. She is very skinny.
Kai is a big eater. The first night he devoured every single bowl of tuna and asparagus appetizer that was placed on the table. Then he proceeded to eat just about everything else he could get his hands on, all within a span of about 15 minutes. Then he’d indicate he was full and leave the table, striping off the apron his mom put on him before the meal, and goes back to jumping naked on the trampoline.
The dad knows quite a bit of English. Between the two of us we know enough about our respective foreign language of choice to construct sentences and carry on basic conversation. We just lacked the vocabulary to make it fluid. So we’d sit there at the table, drinking sake and beer and smoking cigarettes, dictionaries in hand, talking about any and everything, pausing to look for words we didn’t know or a simpler way of explaining a point or idea. We hit on George Bush, the Iraq war, the Japanese government and education system, the importance of locally grown food, and the difficulties of raising a child with autism. And of course we traded of names of movies and actors we liked.
The mom loves Cameron Diaz and thinks she’s pretty. She was shocked when I told her she was washed up and not worth anybody’s time back in the states.
When I left they gave me a present. Aizu is famous for its hand thrown pottery. They gave me a cup. It’s glazed porcelain and a blush design the looks like melting stalactites. It’s sitting on my shelf right now. I can see it. And from now on whenever I look at it I will be reminded of the Ando family. Though really, how will I ever forget?
Monday, August 20, 2007
Cameron Diaz is a greedy whore. Or: Why I stopped worrying and bought in to it all.
In the film Lost in Translation, Bill Murray plays a semi-washed up actor from America who travels to Tokyo to do a series of promotional advertisements for Suntory whisky. "For good times, make it Suntory times," he says into the camera over and over again much to his chagrin, as well as to the dismay and frustration of the Japanese director who, despite all his best efforts, can't communicate the intricate subtleties of tone, body language and facial expressions needed to make the hazy Mr. Murray gazing into a double whisky on the rocks appear to be something more than pensive drunk.
Despite the hangups, the ad campaign comes off successfully and Bill's face is plastered on the sides of city buses and beamed into TV sets all over Japan. All the while, he feels strange and out-of-place, like he's living his life in some sort of glass asylum, where he can see and hear everything, but can't really get his hands and feet muddy. Stuck in a box, with Scarlett Johanson in an endless city of neon and mystery.
What was never mentioned, however, is that if the ad campaign were truly successful, the percentage of Japanese businessmen drunk on Suntory whiskey and slumped over on the midnight train must have skyrocketed, thus increasing an already astronomical number.
Sadly, here in real Japan, we have no Bill Murray. We have no Scarlett Johanson. But we do have Suntory whisky. And we do have Cameron Diaz.
Just like back in America, and any other major capitalist world economy, Japan has lots of different cell phone providers. One of the big players used to be Vodafone. Recently it was bought out (or maybe just renamed? Not a fact worth researching...) by an entity called SoftBank.
And just like in the film or any real-world massive capitalistic endeavor, a big-time promotion was on the ticket. Except instead of getting a thoughtful and well-respected thespian who is able to play a sauced and washed up celebrity who can no longer cut it stateside, we get the real thing. Cameron Diaz.
She has taken this nation by storm. Her face plastered on posters and billboards. Her eyes and bleach white smile glowing from the TVs in every living room in the country. And what is she towing behind it? The nation's cheapest cell phone plan. It's less than 1000Y a month. That's not even 10 dollars.
And along with most of the other new Iwaki ALTs, I signed right up. At the time, I had no clue about how to go about acquiring a cell phone in Japan, let alone did I know about how the various plans were promoted. Advertising, Cameron Diaz specifically, played no role in my selection of SoftBank as my service provider. I was completely unaware of the massive marketing campaign. I heard it was cheap, and when you're nearly a grand in the hole and two weeks from payday, cheaps sounds like a good deal.
But ever since my bright yellow SoftBank phone came into my life, I've had an adverse subconscious reaction to the advertising. I see their logo, I recognize it, I make a relevant association because I use their service. I say, "Ahh, yes. I use SoftBank. I'm part of their family. My phone is sexy and yellow. I can call all my friends who also use SoftBank for free. How nice."
Then I see Cameron Diaz. And I want to vomit in my mouth.
But there's no turning back now. I'm locked in a two-year contract. Actually, I hear it's much easier to break a cell phone contract here than it is back home, where those greedy bastards at Sprint tried to make me pay $200 to get out of my contract. But negotiating a new cell phone contract in Japanese is not an easy task. I don't even think Japanese people understand Japanese cell phone contracts. They are full of ambiguous numbers and unknown kanji. I sat there in front of the saleswoman, having my passport and address and bank account information ready. And she would start talking in honorific Japanese (which no foreigner understands) about the various options I could add or not add to my basic plan (for which the vocabulary I did not have) and I did not understand a single thing she said to me. And I could see in her eyes she knew this too. All I wanted was for her to give me my yellow phone. And I had the feeling all she wanted to do was to get the crazy foreigner away from her counter as fast as possible. But it's her job to ask me if I want to pay extra for voicemail, it's her job to ask me if I want to purchase insurance. She would flip through the pages of the contract, pointing at random prices and mysterious charts, and I would sit there looking like a deer in the headlights begging for mercy from the horror speeding towards me.
However, everything has worked out so far. I'll know for sure once the bill comes. In the meantime, I'll keep enjoying my cool yellow phone. And learning to embrace Cameron Diaz.
Despite the hangups, the ad campaign comes off successfully and Bill's face is plastered on the sides of city buses and beamed into TV sets all over Japan. All the while, he feels strange and out-of-place, like he's living his life in some sort of glass asylum, where he can see and hear everything, but can't really get his hands and feet muddy. Stuck in a box, with Scarlett Johanson in an endless city of neon and mystery.
What was never mentioned, however, is that if the ad campaign were truly successful, the percentage of Japanese businessmen drunk on Suntory whiskey and slumped over on the midnight train must have skyrocketed, thus increasing an already astronomical number.
Sadly, here in real Japan, we have no Bill Murray. We have no Scarlett Johanson. But we do have Suntory whisky. And we do have Cameron Diaz.
Just like back in America, and any other major capitalist world economy, Japan has lots of different cell phone providers. One of the big players used to be Vodafone. Recently it was bought out (or maybe just renamed? Not a fact worth researching...) by an entity called SoftBank.
And just like in the film or any real-world massive capitalistic endeavor, a big-time promotion was on the ticket. Except instead of getting a thoughtful and well-respected thespian who is able to play a sauced and washed up celebrity who can no longer cut it stateside, we get the real thing. Cameron Diaz.
She has taken this nation by storm. Her face plastered on posters and billboards. Her eyes and bleach white smile glowing from the TVs in every living room in the country. And what is she towing behind it? The nation's cheapest cell phone plan. It's less than 1000Y a month. That's not even 10 dollars.
And along with most of the other new Iwaki ALTs, I signed right up. At the time, I had no clue about how to go about acquiring a cell phone in Japan, let alone did I know about how the various plans were promoted. Advertising, Cameron Diaz specifically, played no role in my selection of SoftBank as my service provider. I was completely unaware of the massive marketing campaign. I heard it was cheap, and when you're nearly a grand in the hole and two weeks from payday, cheaps sounds like a good deal.
But ever since my bright yellow SoftBank phone came into my life, I've had an adverse subconscious reaction to the advertising. I see their logo, I recognize it, I make a relevant association because I use their service. I say, "Ahh, yes. I use SoftBank. I'm part of their family. My phone is sexy and yellow. I can call all my friends who also use SoftBank for free. How nice."
Then I see Cameron Diaz. And I want to vomit in my mouth.
But there's no turning back now. I'm locked in a two-year contract. Actually, I hear it's much easier to break a cell phone contract here than it is back home, where those greedy bastards at Sprint tried to make me pay $200 to get out of my contract. But negotiating a new cell phone contract in Japanese is not an easy task. I don't even think Japanese people understand Japanese cell phone contracts. They are full of ambiguous numbers and unknown kanji. I sat there in front of the saleswoman, having my passport and address and bank account information ready. And she would start talking in honorific Japanese (which no foreigner understands) about the various options I could add or not add to my basic plan (for which the vocabulary I did not have) and I did not understand a single thing she said to me. And I could see in her eyes she knew this too. All I wanted was for her to give me my yellow phone. And I had the feeling all she wanted to do was to get the crazy foreigner away from her counter as fast as possible. But it's her job to ask me if I want to pay extra for voicemail, it's her job to ask me if I want to purchase insurance. She would flip through the pages of the contract, pointing at random prices and mysterious charts, and I would sit there looking like a deer in the headlights begging for mercy from the horror speeding towards me.
However, everything has worked out so far. I'll know for sure once the bill comes. In the meantime, I'll keep enjoying my cool yellow phone. And learning to embrace Cameron Diaz.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
お盆
This string of good fortune cannot last forever. I have not physically been to work since Friday. Today is Wednesday. I was given the first three days of this week off because of the Obon Holiday, a traditional Buddhist holiday which the Japanese celebrate around this time every year. The intentions behind the holiday are to give pause and remembrance for dead ancestors. The Japanese who live in the cramped metropolises that dot the island leave the neon and the noise and return to their families in the countryside, to visit one another and clean the graves of the departed. They must ritualistically burn sacraments or something too because while I was out jogging at sunset yesterday, running along a river path into the red and purple horizon, there were dozens of families gathered outside there homes huddled around tiny pyres of burning matter. I didn't stop and ask any of them exactly what they were doing, but it's no coincidence that I passed a half dozen or so households doing the exact same thing at the same time. According to Wikipedia (which I can freely cite now that I'm no longer a member of The Media, though let's be honest, newsfolk, we all go to Wikipedia to begin the research on every story...), Obon is a shortened and Japanified version of a the Sanskrit word ullambana , which means "hanging upside down in hell and suffering." The purpose of the Obon for the Japanese is to eliminate the suffering of those hanging in ullambana. Or so it seems. This means very little to me, as I'm pretty sure no one I've known is hanging upside down in hell and suffering. Every one I know who's likely in hell are probably drunk and dancing and smoking weed with Kurt Cobain. But whatev. I got three days off work.
But really, who am I kidding? I haven't worked since June 8. That was my last day at the newspaper. I've basically been on a paid holiday ever since. After coming out $2,000 ahead after my car was totaled in a high speed freak accident involving an unsuspecting and stupid deer, I wound up drunk and high on pain killers in the middle of Tokyo. And I was getting paid for this. I've been "on the clock," so to speak since July 29. But I haven't worked a day. I haven't taught anybody anything. I haven't even been to my schools. Since I've been here all I've done as part of the job is sit through various orientations and fill out endless stacks of paperwork. And tomorrow, when this holiday is over, I won't go back to the Board of Education. Instead I'll get on a bus and ride to Fukushima City for yet another two-day orientation.
This can't last forever. But I'm enjoying it while it lasts. One day soon the work will start and I will be surrounded by thousands of screaming children, all of them dying to climb all over me and poke and prod me in inappropriate places. And I will do this for five days a week and come home tired and exhausted. And it will be great fun.
But really, who am I kidding? I haven't worked since June 8. That was my last day at the newspaper. I've basically been on a paid holiday ever since. After coming out $2,000 ahead after my car was totaled in a high speed freak accident involving an unsuspecting and stupid deer, I wound up drunk and high on pain killers in the middle of Tokyo. And I was getting paid for this. I've been "on the clock," so to speak since July 29. But I haven't worked a day. I haven't taught anybody anything. I haven't even been to my schools. Since I've been here all I've done as part of the job is sit through various orientations and fill out endless stacks of paperwork. And tomorrow, when this holiday is over, I won't go back to the Board of Education. Instead I'll get on a bus and ride to Fukushima City for yet another two-day orientation.
This can't last forever. But I'm enjoying it while it lasts. One day soon the work will start and I will be surrounded by thousands of screaming children, all of them dying to climb all over me and poke and prod me in inappropriate places. And I will do this for five days a week and come home tired and exhausted. And it will be great fun.
Monday, August 13, 2007
I steal the Internet from my neighbors. I've been doing it since I got here and I don't think I'm going to stop until they become wiser and turn on the security features to their wireless router. Of course, I have considered the possibility of having falling into a horrible trap. Open wireless networks, I'm pretty sure, are like open windows. It's safe to assume that if I look out the window and see a lonely drunk Japanese man touching himself on the sidewalk next to the elementary school, chances are he can see me too if he takes the time to look. How can an unsecured wireless network be any different? Perhaps my neighbors are villainous computer hackers and have already accessed all my personal banking information, stolen my identity, and took the time to peruse my porn collection, allowing them to pinpoint my personal preferences in smuttery and potentially hold this information over my head in a cruel, yakuza-esque blackmail scheme?
I can see the headlines now.
Gaijin entwined in blackmail scandal; Authorities seize largest pornography collection this side of the Pacific.
Well, it probably wouldn't be seized. It not that offensive...
But until the cops come a'knockin, I'm going to keep stealing this wonderful Interweb and pray that my neighbors are just dumb and oblivious and can't read English and have no interest in my bank account or my porno.
I can see the headlines now.
Gaijin entwined in blackmail scandal; Authorities seize largest pornography collection this side of the Pacific.
Well, it probably wouldn't be seized. It not that offensive...
But until the cops come a'knockin, I'm going to keep stealing this wonderful Interweb and pray that my neighbors are just dumb and oblivious and can't read English and have no interest in my bank account or my porno.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
1001 words
The blue Mini Cooper flew down the narrow roads of this vast city, heading towards the ocean. I was riding shotgun, though here that means I was riding where the driver’s seat usually is. Koji was driving. It was his mom’s car. I had only met him about 10 minutes earlier, when I got into the tiny car as it came to a stop outside my apartment. Inside along with Koji was Anou, a New Zealander who’s dreadlocked, half Laotian and built like a rugby player, and Rich the vegetarian from England. I work with Anou and Rich at the Board of Education and they invited me to come swimming at the beach as I was leaving work today. My original plan was to go home, take off all my clothes and dry my tired and sweaty body in front of the fan for a couple hours and then have a nap. For some reason, the beach seemed like a much better idea.
I had tried going to the beach before, during my first weekend in this city. I woke up at an unheard of hour and couldn’t get back to sleep. I changed into running clothes and went outside. There is a river next to my apartment. It runs east to west. Following this basic knowledge, it seemed logical that if I ran east along the river, I would eventually get to the ocean. This did not happen. After about an hour of running, I was drenched in sweat, suffocating from the humidity, wishing I didn’t smoke cigarettes and ready to turn around for the long haul back home.
This spontaneous road trip to the ocean proved to be just what I needed. Me and three guys, all from incredibly different parts of the world: Japan, England, New Zealand, America—a motley crew, indeed. When we made it to the beach and pulled into the parking lot, a naked Japanese boy was running around the lot. He seemed happy and oblivious. We laughed but were distracted by the beautiful women rinsing the ocean and sand off their thin bodies at the shower outside the public toilet.
I needed to get away from the routine I was setting myself into. I needed to hangout with new people and do something other than sit around my apartment in my underwear, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer in a futile attempt to battle this cruel and godless summer weather. This was good.
I’ve been here two weeks and have only met two Japanese twentysomthings who do not work at the Board of Education. This is sad and ironic. It was nice meeting Koji, We talked in Japanese about baseball and the sunset. He’s never been to America but he knows about the Kansas City Royals and George Brett. We both agreed the Royals suck.
The ocean was cold and salty. I hadn’t been in the ocean in more than a year. It was nice to let it swallow me, cover my body in salt and foam, make my hair coarse and wet. The waves were not magnificent, but it was fun to try and catch them and swim along. The ocean floor was covered in seaweed. At one point we started throwing it at each other. Maybe one day a fisherman will harvest it and it will be processed and eaten. Probably not. But you never know.
After an hour or so, we made our way towards the shore. There was a crowd of Japanese gathered in a circle. They had completely buried one of their friends in sand and built him a gigantic penis and a pair of breasts. It was incredibly hermaphroditic and amusing.
We stared playing soccer with a beach ball. Running in the sand, when the purpose is solely to run, is difficult enough. Playing soccer in the sand is infinitely more challenging. Two on two. Anou and I versus Koji and Rich. It was a grueling battle. Each time a goal was scored the defense had to do ten push-ups. Anou and I lost. I felt bad because he plays a lot of sports and I presume he is naturally competitive and likes to win. I’m horrible at sports,. I was always the last one picked to be on a team growing up. Unless the kid with one leg was around. Then I had second-to-last place in the bag. Regardless of my ineptitude, I had a good time.
After we were tired and finished we made our way back to the car. We took quick showers to rinse off the ocean and sand. As we were heading back to the car we stopped an old Japanese man on a bicycle for the time. He started quizzically into his cell phone and turned to us. “Farsighted,” he said, handing the phone to Anou. It was a quarter past six. We chatted with the old man in a mixture of Japanese and English. He is a recreational skin diver and every Sunday he ventures to the bottom of the ocean to collect sea urchins and abalone.
We drove to an okonomiyaki restaurant and had dinner. Rich and I ordered beers and talked about the hippies and vegetarianism. When new customers came in the whole staff, which was mainly comprised of attractive young women, would say in unison, “Irrashaimase, bum bon bon!” in a musical sing-song way. It was an amusing gimmick.
Afterwards we drove home.
I had tried going to the beach before, during my first weekend in this city. I woke up at an unheard of hour and couldn’t get back to sleep. I changed into running clothes and went outside. There is a river next to my apartment. It runs east to west. Following this basic knowledge, it seemed logical that if I ran east along the river, I would eventually get to the ocean. This did not happen. After about an hour of running, I was drenched in sweat, suffocating from the humidity, wishing I didn’t smoke cigarettes and ready to turn around for the long haul back home.
This spontaneous road trip to the ocean proved to be just what I needed. Me and three guys, all from incredibly different parts of the world: Japan, England, New Zealand, America—a motley crew, indeed. When we made it to the beach and pulled into the parking lot, a naked Japanese boy was running around the lot. He seemed happy and oblivious. We laughed but were distracted by the beautiful women rinsing the ocean and sand off their thin bodies at the shower outside the public toilet.
I needed to get away from the routine I was setting myself into. I needed to hangout with new people and do something other than sit around my apartment in my underwear, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer in a futile attempt to battle this cruel and godless summer weather. This was good.
I’ve been here two weeks and have only met two Japanese twentysomthings who do not work at the Board of Education. This is sad and ironic. It was nice meeting Koji, We talked in Japanese about baseball and the sunset. He’s never been to America but he knows about the Kansas City Royals and George Brett. We both agreed the Royals suck.
The ocean was cold and salty. I hadn’t been in the ocean in more than a year. It was nice to let it swallow me, cover my body in salt and foam, make my hair coarse and wet. The waves were not magnificent, but it was fun to try and catch them and swim along. The ocean floor was covered in seaweed. At one point we started throwing it at each other. Maybe one day a fisherman will harvest it and it will be processed and eaten. Probably not. But you never know.
After an hour or so, we made our way towards the shore. There was a crowd of Japanese gathered in a circle. They had completely buried one of their friends in sand and built him a gigantic penis and a pair of breasts. It was incredibly hermaphroditic and amusing.
We stared playing soccer with a beach ball. Running in the sand, when the purpose is solely to run, is difficult enough. Playing soccer in the sand is infinitely more challenging. Two on two. Anou and I versus Koji and Rich. It was a grueling battle. Each time a goal was scored the defense had to do ten push-ups. Anou and I lost. I felt bad because he plays a lot of sports and I presume he is naturally competitive and likes to win. I’m horrible at sports,. I was always the last one picked to be on a team growing up. Unless the kid with one leg was around. Then I had second-to-last place in the bag. Regardless of my ineptitude, I had a good time.
After we were tired and finished we made our way back to the car. We took quick showers to rinse off the ocean and sand. As we were heading back to the car we stopped an old Japanese man on a bicycle for the time. He started quizzically into his cell phone and turned to us. “Farsighted,” he said, handing the phone to Anou. It was a quarter past six. We chatted with the old man in a mixture of Japanese and English. He is a recreational skin diver and every Sunday he ventures to the bottom of the ocean to collect sea urchins and abalone.
We drove to an okonomiyaki restaurant and had dinner. Rich and I ordered beers and talked about the hippies and vegetarianism. When new customers came in the whole staff, which was mainly comprised of attractive young women, would say in unison, “Irrashaimase, bum bon bon!” in a musical sing-song way. It was an amusing gimmick.
Afterwards we drove home.
Back at my apartment I started drinking whiskey. I am having a few people stay at my apartment tonight because about 40 of us are attending an all-you-can drink party and the likelihood that most people will be bombed and not ready to catch the last train home when the time comes is very high. So I in addition to cleaning the place up a bit, I decided to put some pictures on the walls. Part of this idea included making a collage. Danielle has assured me this does not make me gay. I want to believe her.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
countless chrystal chandeliers
The Tokyo sky burns an electric blue and neon orange tattoo on to the eyes of all who dare to look. Buildings soaring so high in the air that their tops break the stratosphere, past the smog and neon lights. On the ground everyone is small and insignificant. From the fortythousandth floor of this enormous hotel, the vast metropolis pluses and glows. Like a moth drawn to a lamp, millions cannot resist the lights. We need the fire. But the fire can kill us. This city will swallow you alive if you're not careful.
After an incredibly toxic and equally sleepless 38 hours, the 200 of us from the Chicago area arrived at the hotel. The plane ride from O'Hare to Narita is horrible and long. I ate two hydrocodone and started drinking bloody marys as soon as we hit 30,000 feet. When you can't feel your legs, a 14-hour international flight in coach is infinitely more bearable.
There are more than 1,500 first-year participants on this program. We were all comfortably packed in the exquisite Keio Plaza Hotel, which is in Shinjuku--the heart of Tokyo. It's the kind of place where you can order a $12 cocktail from the penthouse skybar and walk underneath countless crystal chandeliers as you navigate your way through the vast marbled lobby. We stayed in Tokyo for 3.5 days, the intent being that we would attend a two-day orientation conference. That, of course, was not an any reasonable persons' agenda.
Don't think I'm not grateful for this opportunity. Imagine how many hundreds of thousands of dollars the Japanese government (well, probably their tax payers...) has spent to pay for the international flights and hotel bills of about 1,500 people. And they've been doing this for 20 years. Jesus. The first few days of this program were some of the most insane days I've ever put myself through. I met so many amazing and wonderful people. I drank far too many beers and smoked and endless amount of cigarettes and probably spent way too much money in the process. Oh well...
You can drink and smoke anywhere in this country. God help me.
As soon as we arrived at the hotel we were eager to get out. I found myself in a group of people mainly from the midwest. We left the hotel in search of food and drink. We found it not far away. A nice traditional Japanese restaurant. It was reasonably priced and the staff spoke English, which was nice because it's a pain in the ass to translate for eight different people. I ate tenzaru soba. The only reason that's relevant is because tenzaru soba is absolutely my favorite Japanese food and though here it is ubiquitous and the epitome of Japanese cuisine, you cannot find it at any respectable Japanese restaurant in the states. Think cold buckwheat noodles and tempura fried giant shrimp and veggies with a savory, tasty dipping sauce.
By the time we left the restaurant the sky had erupted in a thunderous downpour, sending everybody scattering for cover from the rain. I had no umbrella and no problem being wet. I started walking down an unknown street with a guy from Nebraska named Matt. We spent about 10 minutes walking along the glowing wet Shinjuku streets before we decided it was time for a drink. Soaked and in need of spirits, we starting looking out for a bar. It smacked us right in the face when we saw a small black square sign that read BAR in white letters hanging from the fourth floor of a nondescript building somewhere along the neon streets of Shinjuku. This was the place. At about the same time, we were spotted by a flock of JETs from England. There were about half a dozen of them. One of the guys stopped us and asked, "Aye, do you know where the bah is?" I pointed to the sign and told them to follow us.
Once we were upstairs and out of the rain and into the light, I could see the faces and bodies of the beautiful people I randomly encountered. One of them I particularly fancied. Becky. She is exotic and alluring. Her eyes are mysteriously Asian and her hair is fire orange. She is the definition of fabulous. There is a hole in her tongue where a stud used to be and she embodies this strange Euro-fashion chic that I will never truly understand. She wet to university at Edinburgh and studied archeology and can't speak any Japanese. Coincidentally, she was placed in Koriyama, which neighbors Iwaki. What a weird and small world.
We spent the night getting pissed on Japanese beer and talked about how the whole world hates Victoria Beckham. Equally interesting: British women have just as much of an interest in the television program Desperate Housewives as American women. They also like Radiohead just as much as we do. I managed to see Becky over most of the orientation, as we attended many of the same workshops and mandatory prefectural meetings.
The next night I went out with five people from the Chicago group. Kipp, Annie, Danielle, Ryan and Stacie. I had become familiar with them because they were members of a facebook message board. None of us are placed anywhere remotely near one another, so it was a rare opportunity to be able to hang out with them all together. We left the hotel after the sun had set and started walking to the into the pulsing neon unknown. Even though Tokyo is the most international city in Japan, being a foreigner still gets you stares. This is compounded when you are sauntering down the narrow roads in a drunken horde. We found a small whiskey bar on second floor of a random building miles away from our hotel. They played quiet jazz and the setting was intimate, only about a dozen seats in the whole place. The problem with drinking at a bar in Tokyo is that almost anywhere you go you're subject to a 500 yen table charge on top of the already overpriced drinks. You can't think about money the same way in this country. It comes and goes with incredible ease.
We stayed at the intimate bar for several rounds. At one point I was drug downstairs to the adjacent sex shop to help Stacie from Iowa in her selection of a new vibrator. It's not safe or appropriate for a woman to walk into a sex shop in Japan by herself. I was happy to be of assistance. After thorough deliberation, we decided on a gurthy pink one with metal beads near the tip and strange tentacles affixed to the shaft. I am told these do wonders.
After purchasing the item, we went back to the upstairs bar for another round. When we left the tiny bar it was pouring rain again. Umbrellas in this country are more or less free for the taking. You sort of pay it forward. Buy an umbrella, use it while you need it, ditch it somewhere once the sky dries up. This works out, as often you get caught in the rain without an umbrella. The bar had a full selection of abandoned rainshields. I chose a yellow one and ventured out into the wet neon streets. Our goal was to find a karaoke box that charged a reasonable price and included drinks.
We found a good spot that cost 2000 yen an hour and included all you could drink. We stayed for three. You can only imagine what six incredibly wasted Americans belting out tunes like Bohemian Rhapsody, Gangsta's Paradise and Champagne Supernova sounds like after they've all been chain smoking Japanese cigarettes and drinking whiskey for hours.
I don't know if it was through my initiative or hers, but once we left the karaoke box and stormed back into the rain I found myself in the arms of a girl from Minnesota. Her name was Annie. She seems like a hipster type and knows Japanese better than me. We made out in an enclave for an eternity. Our heads were full of booze and lust, so we hailed a cab to take us somewhere to unwind. It's hard for the Japanese to get away from the millions packed like sardines in the heart of Tokyo. Young couples, many of whom still live with their parents, need a place to have some privacy. There is also much perversion and prostitution. To cater to this, there are what's called Love Hotels. They're incredibly discreet and also very clean and charge by the hour. We had the cab take us to one of these. I can't remember how much it cost, but we were able to negotiate a room and fell quickly into bed.
We all met again the next day for an equally entertaining, though less insane, night. It was sad to leave these people. We are placed in various off-the-map towns across the island. The chance that we'll all be in the same place at the same time ever again is incredibly slim and I cherish the few short days we had together. If anything, I for sure have places to crash as I travel to the various corners and islands of this strange and beautiful country.
After an incredibly toxic and equally sleepless 38 hours, the 200 of us from the Chicago area arrived at the hotel. The plane ride from O'Hare to Narita is horrible and long. I ate two hydrocodone and started drinking bloody marys as soon as we hit 30,000 feet. When you can't feel your legs, a 14-hour international flight in coach is infinitely more bearable.
There are more than 1,500 first-year participants on this program. We were all comfortably packed in the exquisite Keio Plaza Hotel, which is in Shinjuku--the heart of Tokyo. It's the kind of place where you can order a $12 cocktail from the penthouse skybar and walk underneath countless crystal chandeliers as you navigate your way through the vast marbled lobby. We stayed in Tokyo for 3.5 days, the intent being that we would attend a two-day orientation conference. That, of course, was not an any reasonable persons' agenda.
Don't think I'm not grateful for this opportunity. Imagine how many hundreds of thousands of dollars the Japanese government (well, probably their tax payers...) has spent to pay for the international flights and hotel bills of about 1,500 people. And they've been doing this for 20 years. Jesus. The first few days of this program were some of the most insane days I've ever put myself through. I met so many amazing and wonderful people. I drank far too many beers and smoked and endless amount of cigarettes and probably spent way too much money in the process. Oh well...
You can drink and smoke anywhere in this country. God help me.
As soon as we arrived at the hotel we were eager to get out. I found myself in a group of people mainly from the midwest. We left the hotel in search of food and drink. We found it not far away. A nice traditional Japanese restaurant. It was reasonably priced and the staff spoke English, which was nice because it's a pain in the ass to translate for eight different people. I ate tenzaru soba. The only reason that's relevant is because tenzaru soba is absolutely my favorite Japanese food and though here it is ubiquitous and the epitome of Japanese cuisine, you cannot find it at any respectable Japanese restaurant in the states. Think cold buckwheat noodles and tempura fried giant shrimp and veggies with a savory, tasty dipping sauce.
By the time we left the restaurant the sky had erupted in a thunderous downpour, sending everybody scattering for cover from the rain. I had no umbrella and no problem being wet. I started walking down an unknown street with a guy from Nebraska named Matt. We spent about 10 minutes walking along the glowing wet Shinjuku streets before we decided it was time for a drink. Soaked and in need of spirits, we starting looking out for a bar. It smacked us right in the face when we saw a small black square sign that read BAR in white letters hanging from the fourth floor of a nondescript building somewhere along the neon streets of Shinjuku. This was the place. At about the same time, we were spotted by a flock of JETs from England. There were about half a dozen of them. One of the guys stopped us and asked, "Aye, do you know where the bah is?" I pointed to the sign and told them to follow us.
Once we were upstairs and out of the rain and into the light, I could see the faces and bodies of the beautiful people I randomly encountered. One of them I particularly fancied. Becky. She is exotic and alluring. Her eyes are mysteriously Asian and her hair is fire orange. She is the definition of fabulous. There is a hole in her tongue where a stud used to be and she embodies this strange Euro-fashion chic that I will never truly understand. She wet to university at Edinburgh and studied archeology and can't speak any Japanese. Coincidentally, she was placed in Koriyama, which neighbors Iwaki. What a weird and small world.
We spent the night getting pissed on Japanese beer and talked about how the whole world hates Victoria Beckham. Equally interesting: British women have just as much of an interest in the television program Desperate Housewives as American women. They also like Radiohead just as much as we do. I managed to see Becky over most of the orientation, as we attended many of the same workshops and mandatory prefectural meetings.
The next night I went out with five people from the Chicago group. Kipp, Annie, Danielle, Ryan and Stacie. I had become familiar with them because they were members of a facebook message board. None of us are placed anywhere remotely near one another, so it was a rare opportunity to be able to hang out with them all together. We left the hotel after the sun had set and started walking to the into the pulsing neon unknown. Even though Tokyo is the most international city in Japan, being a foreigner still gets you stares. This is compounded when you are sauntering down the narrow roads in a drunken horde. We found a small whiskey bar on second floor of a random building miles away from our hotel. They played quiet jazz and the setting was intimate, only about a dozen seats in the whole place. The problem with drinking at a bar in Tokyo is that almost anywhere you go you're subject to a 500 yen table charge on top of the already overpriced drinks. You can't think about money the same way in this country. It comes and goes with incredible ease.
We stayed at the intimate bar for several rounds. At one point I was drug downstairs to the adjacent sex shop to help Stacie from Iowa in her selection of a new vibrator. It's not safe or appropriate for a woman to walk into a sex shop in Japan by herself. I was happy to be of assistance. After thorough deliberation, we decided on a gurthy pink one with metal beads near the tip and strange tentacles affixed to the shaft. I am told these do wonders.
After purchasing the item, we went back to the upstairs bar for another round. When we left the tiny bar it was pouring rain again. Umbrellas in this country are more or less free for the taking. You sort of pay it forward. Buy an umbrella, use it while you need it, ditch it somewhere once the sky dries up. This works out, as often you get caught in the rain without an umbrella. The bar had a full selection of abandoned rainshields. I chose a yellow one and ventured out into the wet neon streets. Our goal was to find a karaoke box that charged a reasonable price and included drinks.
We found a good spot that cost 2000 yen an hour and included all you could drink. We stayed for three. You can only imagine what six incredibly wasted Americans belting out tunes like Bohemian Rhapsody, Gangsta's Paradise and Champagne Supernova sounds like after they've all been chain smoking Japanese cigarettes and drinking whiskey for hours.
I don't know if it was through my initiative or hers, but once we left the karaoke box and stormed back into the rain I found myself in the arms of a girl from Minnesota. Her name was Annie. She seems like a hipster type and knows Japanese better than me. We made out in an enclave for an eternity. Our heads were full of booze and lust, so we hailed a cab to take us somewhere to unwind. It's hard for the Japanese to get away from the millions packed like sardines in the heart of Tokyo. Young couples, many of whom still live with their parents, need a place to have some privacy. There is also much perversion and prostitution. To cater to this, there are what's called Love Hotels. They're incredibly discreet and also very clean and charge by the hour. We had the cab take us to one of these. I can't remember how much it cost, but we were able to negotiate a room and fell quickly into bed.
We all met again the next day for an equally entertaining, though less insane, night. It was sad to leave these people. We are placed in various off-the-map towns across the island. The chance that we'll all be in the same place at the same time ever again is incredibly slim and I cherish the few short days we had together. If anything, I for sure have places to crash as I travel to the various corners and islands of this strange and beautiful country.
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