tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-159021572024-03-07T12:12:57.924-08:00Western Woman - One Way To TokyoShort Stories (Fiction) that may be of interest to ex-pats in Japan.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-70885055472293186672008-01-21T20:41:00.000-08:002008-01-21T21:02:09.408-08:00<a href="http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b33/fourthfloor/Philadelphia/VinylStackwebbed.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px;" src="http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b33/fourthfloor/Philadelphia/VinylStackwebbed.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> Same problem with formatting... Just can't get the indents to transfer into the final version. I edit, they show up in the preview, but not in the final blog entry. If anyone has any clue how to get my quoted speech and paragraph switches indented, I'd be forever grateful. Critiques, advice, ideas... post them here for any of these stories.<br /><a href="http://www.africanrhythmsradio.com/gfx/AFR-Vinyl.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.africanrhythmsradio.com/gfx/AFR-Vinyl.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.ruhrtal-cruising.de/wp-content/uploads/2007/07/coltrane_420x205.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.ruhrtal-cruising.de/wp-content/uploads/2007/07/coltrane_420x205.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><strong>We Already Know Act II</strong> <br /><br />Hindsight is 20/20. That’s what keeps going through my head each time I allow myself to go over the events that led up to my present state of single, unemployed and thousands of miles away from home. Hindsight. Not a hell of lot of good it does me, but it’s the going over of the events, detail by detail, that gives me comfort. Not in a masochistic way, though. I don’t analyze each mistake and beat myself up over my incredible lack of common sense. What I do, in the long hours of the seemingly endless days that I sit in my eight by ten meter Tokyo apartment is change the events.<br /> As I replay the past four years of my life, memory by memory, I hit pause whenever I witness yet another of my knee-jerk reactions or lousy choice of words. When I hit pause, I listen more, speak less. In this dual reality that I am creating with my well-timed pauses and re-sets, maybe I can somehow salvage a bit of what I lost, or at the very least, learn from my mistakes. I know it isn’t real, this re-created world, but what the hell, it helps pass the time. <br /> What is it that brought me here, to four walls, a futon, a hot-plate and a public toilet shared by the five other tenants on my floor? Do I blame Miho? Or maybe my former boss Miyata-<em>san</em>? Or could it be my handful of friends who were full of advice but couldn’t, when the real crunch came, find some floor space for me to rest my head? I want to blame Kellie. I really do, and for a long time I did. But recently, I guess these past three months or so, I’ve started taking the mature route for once, and I’m blaming myself. Or, perhaps I can make my own conscience a little less culpable by blaming my present sorry state on the fact that I’m a man. Common sense got momentarily blinded by my goddamned ego. Well, that, and my penis. The two seem to be inextricably entwined. I know I’m not unique in this matter. I just thought I was a little bit smarter than the rest.<br /> So, to re-create and, subsequently change those memories that brought me here I always have to begin at that same time and place. I can actually pinpoint the exact moment that my downfall began. I call it Act 1, Scene 1 for referencing purposes in my muddled mind. I can lay back on this flimsy futon in my Shinjuku rabbit hutch and access that imaginary rewind button to the moment that led me to where I lay right now. The memory is clear, vivid. When I’ve played the scene through, then I can start reconstructing it. If I can rearrange it in just the right way, maybe, just maybe, when I open my eyes I’ll be in that imagined place and not in this Tokyo limbo. <br /> It was winter, Vancouver, West end, Jervis Street, red brick, three-storey walk-up. Four years ago, almost to the day. I was stretched out on the sofa, Mortal Kombat on pause on the TV screen, a can of Kokanee beer beaded with condensation on the coffee table beside me. Perfection. It was only ten a.m. and I still had a full day of rest and relaxation ahead. It was my day off from HMV, and I had started it with a vengeance. Beer for breakfast and a Mortal Kombat marathon planned to last until dinnertime when Kellie would be home with take-out chop suey and egg rolls from the Chinese down the street. I’d get in a bit of laundry, but that could wait until after lunch. It couldn’t get much better. I was reaching for the remote control, about to resume the battle where I had left off when I heard the key in the lock of the front door. Besides Kellie and me, the landlady Sandra was the only one who had a key. <br /> “Shit!” The sound of my own voice caught me somewhat off guard in the silent apartment. If Kellie’s working the early shift, she let’s me sleep in, tiptoeing through the apartment, bypassing piles of music magazines and LP’s with the stealth and silence of a Ninja. She doesn’t know I’ve watched her in action some mornings as she goes through her coffee, toast and makeup routine. No matter how hard I try, I can’t match her morning grace, and usually manage to knock some knickknack off of some counter on those mornings when <em>I</em> have to do the early shift. <br />In any case, the sound of the key and my own voice spurred me into action. I didn’t think the landlady would be much impressed by my Spiderman boxers this early in the day. I jumped off the sofa and over to the other side of the room where the overflowing laundry basket had tipped over on its side. I grabbed the first pair of jeans I could find off the top of the heap and had one leg partially on when Kellie walked in, clutching a large cardboard box in both arms. The box was big enough to obstruct her view and she nearly tripped over the stack of LPs on the floor in front of her. <br /> “John, help me with this, I’m going to drop it!” She had the box at a lopsided angle, on the verge of losing her balance and dropping whatever it was she was carrying. With the Levis firmly tangled around my lower legs, I managed to hop over to her and grab one end of the box. We heaved it onto the coffee table together, almost knocking over the can of Kokanee. She finally had a chance to look at me. I guess the sight of Spiderman and the jeans caught around my ankles was a bit much. She started to laugh, shaking her head and about to put her hand on my chest. <br /> It’s at about this point in Act 1 Scene 1 that I hit pause. Kellie’s laughing, her hand is reaching towards me, her eyes sparkling, shining, green. “Of course they’re green,” she used to say when I’d comment on them, “Kelly green, don’t you know?” At this exact moment her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, a few stray dark brown strands touching her cheek. If I could reach out right now from where I’m sitting in this Tokyo one-room, I’d brush the bits of hair away from her cheek and I’d kiss her. But, I can only hit pause for only so long. The show must go on. Play.<br /> My only thought now that she’s standing in the living room at ten in the morning is that my Kokanee/Mortal Kombat marathon is shot, and that I’m going to have to get going on the damned laundry. Why was she home from work? Those, in fact, were my very next words.<br /> “Why are you home from work?” She wasn’t letting my lack of enthusiasm for her early arrival faze her. <br /> “Put your jeans on and come sit over here.” She was now sitting on the sofa, patting the area beside her where I had been stretched out just moments ago. She leaned over and took the Kokanee off the table, wiping the small puddle of condensation from the tabletop with cuff of her sweater and taking a small sip before putting the can on the floor beside her. She pulled the heavy cardboard box to the middle of the table, and began pulling various items from it. There were maps, paperback books, a dictionary, and a stack of cd’s, and they all had one thing in common; the word “Japan” printed on them. From the bottom of the box she pulled out The Vancouver Sun classifieds. A large red circle in the lower corner of the paper was jumping out to be read. She handed me the paper and I sat down beside her. She tapped on the red circle.<br /> “Check it out. What do you think?”<br />I read the item out loud;<br /> <em>Large English conversation school based in Tokyo, Nagoya and Osaka seeks instructors to teach conversational English to all ages. No previous experience necessary. A four-year BA in any discipline is mandatory, as is a positive attitude and a teamwork spirit. Housing/health insurance provided. Couples housing available. Group interviews to be held January 7th, 10:00 am @ The Hotel Vancouver, Sterling Room, 1st floor. Resume and references a must.</em> <br /> I finished reading and looked up at Kellie. When she got excited or winded, her cheeks would become two perfect circles of red, making the rest of her freckled skin look even paler than it was. Her Scottish genes couldn’t be suppressed if she had any strong emotion brewing. Now was no exception. She looked like she was about to explode.<br /> “Well?”<br /> Her need for a response was too much. Where the hell did this come from? I leaned over to her side of the sofa and grabbed for the can of beer on the floor beside her. The TV screen had the frozen image of my Mortal Kombat character, Jade, caught mid-flight as she was about to pounce on her opponent. If Kellie had just come a couple of minutes later I could have finished it off. She caught me eyeing the remote control and snatched it. She hit re-set and the main menu came up on the screen. Then she turned the TV off and looked at me again. The redness in her cheeks had faded somewhat.<br /> “Come on John. I’m serious about this. What do you think?”<br /> What did I think? I was still mourning Jade’s loss. It was too early and too unexpected to discuss what Kellie had just thrust in front of me. So I diverted the focus back on her. I was good at misdirection.<br /> “Why aren’t you at work? You have a full shift today.” <br />She pulled at one of the maps on the table and began to unfold it.<br /> “I called in sick. It’s Monday morning in a cd shop. They’re not going to miss me. And, as you can see, I’m thinking of… leaving. With you.”<br /> We both worked for HMV. She was right about the Monday morning bit. It was dead in there until after lunch. But still, it really was unlike her to miss a day. I reached out for one of the language books and looked at her.<br /> “I thought we were going to open a vinyl shop? It’s what we’ve been talking about for three years. We can’t just pick up and leave. Besides, there’s been talk of making me night manager in the next couple of months at HMV.”<br /> I threw the book back on the table and took a swig of the beer. Warm. I set it less than gently back on the table. Pause.<br /> See that reaction there? The passive-aggressive can on the table bit? I’d change that. I’d sit back calmly and listen to what she had to say. Live and learn.<br />Play.<br /> She picked the book up and smoothed the cover with her shirtsleeve, looking at me. I knew she was weighing how to deal with me; soft touch or hard sell. I could read Kellie better than I could read myself. At least I could back then.<br /> She reached over for my hand and held it, looking not right at me, but at some spot over my left shoulder. She was going over what she’d probably rehearsed on the walk over here. <br /> “Look. We’ve talked for three years. And that’s it. Talked. Between us we own over 5000 pieces of vinyl. The two of us are walking encyclopaedia of music. Through the Internet we’ve got close to 10 000 hits on our Rarewaxx website. It’s time to do something.”<br /> She let out a puff of air and her shoulders relaxed considerably. Those must have been the lines she memorized. And what she was saying was true. But what did Japan have to do with any of this? Those were my next words.<br /> “What’s this got to do with Japan?” I stood up and walked towards the kitchen. Well, it was a kitchen of sorts. It was more of a small alcove that was separated from the living room by a wood and tile island. The island was supposed to serve as some kind of eating surface, but was now covered by at least 200 LPs, stacked in 6 different piles, alphabetically and according to genre. What we lacked in housekeeping skills, Kellie and I more than made up with in our meticulous packaging and order of our vinyl. To some, the various piles and crates scattered throughout the apartment must have looked like a complete mess. Not for us though. Say you wanted the 1966 first edition Buffalo Springfield in Stereo? Kellie would know to go to our bedroom, my side of the bed, 7th pile, close to the bottom. But, say you changed your mind and decided you actually wanted the 1967 re-release of the same (but subtly different) album? Well, I’d know to go to the closet in the side room, pulling the red (not blue) crate from the second shelf, left side. To put it mildly, we knew our stuff, and we knew how to find it.<br /> She still hadn’t replied to my question and was rifling through the box in front of her. I continued into the kitchen area, opened the fridge and grabbed a Kokanee. I called out to where she was sitting.<br /> “Beer for breakfast?” She looked up and smiled. <br /> “I’ll take part in your unorthodox breakfast if you’ll just sit down here beside me and listen to what I’ve got to say.” Two cans in hand, I went back to the living room, sat beside Kellie, and listened to her. I wasn’t a pushover. I liked the pattern we had settled into. I liked the thought of being an assistant manager with weekends off. Those weekends represented more vinyl. Drives down to Seattle, even Portland to scour hole-in-the-wall record shops, impressing even Kellie with what I’d dig up. <br />But, the more she talked, the clearer her vision became to me. And it made sense. We would teach in Japan, save shitloads of money and return to Vancouver in two years. With our savings, we would put a down payment on one of the vacant storefronts on Hastings Street, filling it not only with some of the vinyl we’d accumulated, but adding the many rare finds we’d have picked up in Japan. “JK Rarewaxx” would be up and running within three years, one year before each of us hit our thirtieth birthday. And that final bit, the part about turning thirty? That’s what really did it. I didn’t want to manage an HMV at thirty. I wanted my own store, and Kellie’s enthusiasm and research were helping to make that distant image a little clearer, a little closer.<br /> The only time Japan had ever registered on my radar was when I was spending far too much money on some import I had to have. It was a place, far away, that sucked money from my bank account, and in return offered pristine 12 inch slabs of vinyl. I had a love/hate relationship with the place, and now, it seemed, it would soon be my home. Kellie’s excitement had infected me, and in my mind, we were already in the Hastings Street shop, buying, selling and talking vinyl, and making money at the same time. Japan was merely a bridge to that final destination. Pause.<br /> Bridge. Yeah, right. Would’ve helped to have had the foresight that it wasn’t just any old bridge. It was one of those fucking drawbridges. The kind that seem quaint and fascinating at first, holding your attention as the road in front of you lifts and tilts in front of your face. The novelty of a road cut in two slowly wears off as you look at your watch and realize it takes a hell of a long time for the two sides to become one again. And by the time they do, things have changed. The bridge looks the same, but the sights on the other side have shifted somewhat. There’s that hindsight popping in again. <br /> I’m not ready to hit Play quite yet. Act I is over, the scene is complete and it has tired me out. If I keep hitting pause, the drawbridge will stay put. No more memories will pass through, forcing it to slowly come apart, to separate. I want to keep the other side in view, Act I with all its promise. It’s the best part of the whole drama. Once that drawbridge comes up, I lose sight of what brought me here. <br />This futon is actually feeling a little cozy right now. I’ve got the mini gas heater pointed at my feet, and a small heating pad tucked into my pillow. I don’t have much in the way of furniture, and really, where would I put it? My futon takes up three quarters of my living space. What I do have is my turntable, state-of-the-art, with Coltrane just itching to belt out a tune. I’ve got two speakers in each corner of the room and I’ve had them cranked loud enough to garner a few dirty looks from the neighbours when I throw out my trash. I really don’t care. I’ll remain the ignorant foreigner. It’s easier that way. <br /> I’ll get to Act II. Just not right now. I’m quite content to remain on pause for the time being. There’s the needle going down, the vinyl spinning and, yes, there it is, that slight, almost imperceptible crackle that tells me I’m about to be blown away. It’s got to be one of my favourite things. Act II can wait. It’s not going anywhere.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-88939521915763540742007-12-10T05:20:00.000-08:002007-12-10T21:55:50.275-08:00<a href="http://www.reviseict.co.uk/images/computer_frustration.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.reviseict.co.uk/images/computer_frustration.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><strong>Blogspot Blues...</strong><br />I just can't seem to get the hang of editing once my piece has been transferred into the Blogspot space. Any indents, bolds or italics are automatically removed. The italics and bolding I can fix. The indenting... it just won't let me. So, if you're reading this and have any insight, please drop me a line. The story below is the worst yet in terms of formatting. I haven't posted here in a while, so I'm not sure if the options have changed. I just can't format the quoted text to be indented properly.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.yourrestaurants.com.au/static/media/x600/74943_74001_2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px;" src="http://www.yourrestaurants.com.au/static/media/x600/74943_74001_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.intleducenter.umd.edu/images/clothing/geta.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px;" src="http://www.intleducenter.umd.edu/images/clothing/geta.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />The Insider</span> <br /><br /> Jerry Jersey was sitting in his favourite neighbourhood café, flirting with his new favourite waitress. He did his best flirting by using colloquial Japanese. It was something he’d picked up when studying <span style="font-style:italic;">karate</span> in downtown Osaka twenty years before. This style of Japanese was more guttural, harsher, less polite than everyday Japanese. Osakan Japanese came from the wrong side of the tracks. If James Dean had spoken Japanese, it would have been Osaka-<span style="font-style:italic;">ben</span>, the language of <span style="font-style:italic;">Yakuza</span> gangsters and television bad guys. Jerry Jersey had decided early on that it would be his jargon of choice when flirting with any particularly cute specimen of waitress. As far as he was concerned, it was his grasp of Osaka-<span style="font-style:italic;">ben</span> that made the girls remember him. Never mind the fact that he was six foot five, had steel grey hair and wore traditional Japanese wooden <span style="font-style:italic;">geta</span> on his size thirteen feet. <br /><br />On this particular day, Jerry had his writing equipment spread out in front of him, managing to take up three of the café's tables. He had six pristine calligraphy brushes lined up to his right. To his left was the brush stand and small inkpot, still virgin, waiting for the black fluid to be added. In front of him he had spread out a white sheet of the finest silk-thread paper, purchased moments ago from Suzuki-<span style="font-style:italic;">san</span> in the shop across the street. Suzuki-<span style="font-style:italic;">san</span>, the ancient owner of the stationery shop, suffered from osteoporosis so severe it had her doubled over into an imperfect letter C. Looking through her shop’s plate glass window earlier, she had seen Jerry coming from almost five blocks away. Soon the sound of his wooden <span style="font-style:italic;">geta</span> could be heard kicking up pebbles on the road. She had made her way upstairs where she and her husband had a small apartment, and added a quick dab of cream rouge on her cheeks and a swipe of red on her lips. She made her way carefully back downstairs and into the shop, and before Jerry had even walked in the door, Suzuki-<span style="font-style:italic;">san</span> had chosen the finest silk-thread paper, rolled it up and had it wrapped and ready to go on the counter. A soft chime indicated his arrival through the sliding wooden door. Jerry crouched down when entering to avoid hitting his head on the doorframe.<br /> <br /> “<span style="font-style:italic;">Irraishaimase</span>! Jersey-<span style="font-style:italic;">san</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">konnichiwa</span>!” Her booming welcome made Jerry glow, and he bowed deeply towards the owner. He used his formal, polite Japanese with Suzuki-<span style="font-style:italic;">san</span>; he never used Osaka-<span style="font-style:italic;">ben</span> with the older ladies. <br /> “Ah, Suzuki-<span style="font-style:italic;">san</span>. You knew I was coming. You’re looking spry today. What have you been up to?” He bent over, matching Suzuki-<span style="font-style:italic;">san</span>’s posture in order to see her face-to-face. <br /> “Ah, Jersey-<span style="font-style:italic;">san.</span> You know, it’s the same old thing. Aches, pains and a son who never calls…” <br /> She shook her head, looking to the floor and shrugging her shoulders. She stole a peek at Jerry, her head still bobbing in resignation. He knew the look. She wanted something, and he was only too pleased to comply. He stretched out one of his long arms, wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled her in close. Suzuki-<span style="font-style:italic;">san</span> melted into the crook of Jerry’s arm, and accepted his comforting pats on her shoulder with a long sigh.<br /> “Suzuki-<span style="font-style:italic;">san</span>, you should take a vacation. You get that husband of yours to fly you down to Okinawa. A bit of sunshine and some Okinawan <span style="font-style:italic;">sake</span> are just what you need.”<br /> <br /> He continued patting the shop owner’s shoulders, oblivious to the fact that he was the only person in Suzuki-<span style="font-style:italic;">san</span>’s seventy-five years to have the honour of giving her such an informal, affectionate gesture. Whenever Jerry Jersey entered her small shop, she suspended reality for the moment, and imagined herself somewhere exotic, a place where everyone had the hands of giants and hair tinged gold and silver from a never-setting sun. That place was <span style="font-style:italic;">Gai-koku</span>, “outside country”, the land where Jerry came from. But, Suzuki-<span style="font-style:italic;">san</span> knew better than to ask Jerry about <span style="font-style:italic;">Gai-koku</span>. <br /> <br /> When she’d first met him, in the days when her back was a little straighter, her hair not so streaked with grey, and Jerry Jersey was a blonde, she’d asked what she thought was an innocent question in her faltering English remembered from grade school; <br /> “Please tell me, what country come from? Where is home?” <br /> It was the only time she had ever seen anger in his pale eyes. He had answered in perfectly polished Japanese; <br /> “Pardon my rudeness, but please speak to me in Japanese. Japan is my home.”<br /> There was an uncomfortable silence, but it lasted for only a few moments. It was broken by Jerry’s admiration of the horsehair calligraphy brushes behind the glass case in Suzuki-san’s front counter. That day, so long ago, he had purchased the most expensive brush in the shop, along with a tablet of creamy white rice paper. He returned monthly, chatting about calligraphy technique with Suzuki-san, always purchasing at least one or two items in the shop. Jerry Jersey was her best customer. <br /> <br /> Today, as he continued to give her reassuring pats, Suzuki-san knew Jerry would be going next to Sakura Baba, the café across the street. He always claimed Sakura Baba had the best green tea in Seki, maybe in all of Japan. But Suzuki-san knew the real reason Jerry was a regular customer. Baba-san, her close friend and owner of the café, had a knack for hiring attractive waitresses. Jerry could sit in Sakura Baba for hours, his calligraphy brush never once invading the inkpot, chatting with Baba’s newest waitress in his best Osaka dialect, making her laugh and blush.<br /> <br /> It was late afternoon, and after giving Suzuki-san his word that he would come by her shop tomorrow to show her his newest calligraphy brushwork, he made his way across the road, and walked into the empty café, settling comfortably into his favourite table. Jerry Jersey liked to sit close to the doorway of the kitchen. It was a spot where, if he was at just the right position, he could peek through the slit of the half-curtain that separated the cooking area from the café itself. It was back there that the waitresses and Baba-san would sit, sometimes catching quick puffs off of slim cigarettes before patting carefully at their hair and straightening their skirts to join the customers out front. He liked watching them while they were unaware and un-self-conscious. He liked too, to watch the change that would come over their faces when they stepped into the café from the kitchen. For Jerry, it was all about the eyes and the lips. There was the smile that he was sure Baba-san had taught them on their first day of the job, seeing as they all did it so well. It was a smile that said; “I’m genuinely happy to see you.” The waitress’ eyes also conveyed this with a warmth and sincerity that made Jerry Jersey weak in the knees. He never understood how, in all these years, each and every waitress at Sakura Baba managed to make him feel like he was the most important man in the world.<br /> <br /> On this day, he hadn’t even begun to pull his calligraphy gear from Suzuki-san’s well-wrapped package when Sakura Baba’s newest waitress set a cup of green tea, a ceramic chopstick rest in the shape of a cherry blossom, and wooden chopsticks on the bamboo placemat in front of Jerry. She may have been new, but she already understood the routine. Jerry came to the café every day. <br /> <br /> Before he had retired from the Seki Arts, Communication and Travel Council, Jerry could visit Sakura Baba only once or twice a week, and he had always been eager to try out the special of the day. It was back in those early days, dining with his supervisor Kobayashi-san, that a waitress-in-training had witnessed Jerry Jersey’s blue eyes flash in anger. Just as today, there was the incredible smile offered with the ceramic cup of green tea, which had been placed just so in front of him. The chopstick rest and chopsticks, however, were placed only in front of Kobyashi-san. A fork, knife and spoon were carefully arranged on Jerry’s bamboo placemat by the attentive waitress. The young woman then addressed Kobayashi-san, not acknowledging Jerry as she held up her order pad and pen.<br /> <br /> “Have you and your guest decided on your meals?” She waited for Kobayashi-san to answer, but before he could say a word, Jerry stood up, his knees banging the underside of the table so hard that the Soya sauce bottle tipped on its side and started bleeding black liquid onto the white tablecloth. Baba-san had come running from the kitchen when she heard the commotion out front. The scene that greeted her in the café stopped her in her tracks. Jerry Jersey, all six feet five of him, stood with his hands on his hips glaring down at the waitress. Kobayashi-san was on the verge of standing up himself, but thought better of it when Jerry stopped looking at the waitress long enough to shoot him a look that clearly indicated; “Don’t move.” Kobayashi-san settled back into his seat. Jerry then spoke to the waitress who was staring intently at the floor.<br /> <br /> “I am a customer. I have read the menu, and I know exactly what I would like. Please get your pen ready and take my order.” <br /> His Japanese flowed smoothly, his stress and intonation perfect. The waitress, although shaken at the initial confrontation, regained her composure and wrote down Jerry Jersey’s order. She then asked Kobayashi-san for his choice, and bowed deeply to the men before going back to the kitchen. Baba-san followed her into the back, where a low and indiscernible exchange of words took place. A few moments later, the waitress came out from behind the half-curtain, and once more made her way to Jerry Jersey’s table. He was now sitting in his chair, both he and Kobayashi-san silent as they attempted to sop up the spilt Soya sauce with the hand towels they had been given earlier. Kobayashi-san noted to himself that the dark stain on the table had taken on a shape not too dissimilar to that of Italy, but thought that now would not be the best moment to point it out. The waitress was now at Jerry’s side, and was gently removing the silverware from the bamboo mat. In its place, she set down a chopstick holder and chopsticks, along with a fresh bottle of Soya sauce. She bowed once again, and moved swiftly back to the kitchen. Both men took a sip of their tea. The anger in Jerry’s eyes was gone now, and he was looking at the stain on the table. He pointed at it and looked at Koyayashi;<br /> “Looks a lot like Italy, doesn’t it?” Kobayashi-san now felt it was okay to laugh, and the two of them resumed their previous conversation. <br /><br /> That had been many years and many waitresses before. Kobayashi-san was long gone, transferred years ago to the arts council in Fukuoka. Jerry, on the other hand, never left Seki, witnessing the rapid changes in the town, feeling the growing pains as much as the locals. Through it all, he could count on Sakura Baba, its strong green tea, and its beautiful waitresses to keep him occupied.<br /> <br /> Today Jerry was chattering away in Osaka-ben, the calligraphy brushes untouched, the ink poured but unused. The waitress, Sayaka, stood beside Jerry’s table, offering her brightest Sakura Baba smile and nodding intently at his story, when they walked in. Four of them. Three guys and a girl. They all looked strangely similar, each with a hooded blue sweatshirt, khaki trousers and black and white Converse sneakers. The tallest of the group, one of the guys, had blonde dreadlocks partly covered by a knitted black cap. He was holding court, the others following him into the café as he announced their presence, his vowels distinctively long and drawn-out Californian;<br /> “What the fuck is a “Baba”? Is that like short for “Barbara”? His friends laughed as they scanned the café, free of customers save for Jerry Jersey sitting by the kitchen doorway. As soon as they had entered, Jerry grabbed one of his brushes and stared intently at the white paper in front of him. He ignored the four new arrivals as the waitress hurried over to show them a table. Sayaka had paused only momentarily when she saw the four new arrivals, her initial surprise almost not registering at all. She smiled at them and offered a greeting;<br /> <br /> <em>“Irraishaimaise! Hai, dozo.”</em> She gestured towards a large table in the centre of the café. They followed, still laughing. She left for a moment to go into the kitchen when one of the guys spotted Jerry at the far table. Pointing at him with one hand, he used the other to punch the dreadlocked boy in the arm, motioning towards where Jerry was seated. Jerry still ignored them, dipping his brush into the pot of ink. He started brushing the paper in long, easy lines, pulling up at the end of each stroke with a flick of his wrist. The boy with the dreadlocks grabbed at the girl beside him, pushing her towards Jerry’s table;<br /> <br /> “Go on Justine. You like the older, artsy types. He’s a regular Pablo Picasso right in the middle of bum-fuck Japan.”<br /> Justine refused to be pushed, and backed into one of the boys, who in turn fell into the table behind him. <br /> “Matt, you’re an asshole.” Matt righted himself and cuffed Justine on the back of the head;<br /> “Christ, girl, you don’t know your own strength.” He grabbed one of the chairs and sat down, pulling Justine with him so that she was sitting on his lap. Sayaka came out from behind the kitchen curtain carrying a large tray with four cups of green tea. She stood at the table as the remaining two in the group sat down opposite Matt and Justine. She placed each cup gently in front of them. Matt grabbed for his cup, taking a long swig. He immediately spit out the contents, spraying tea all over Justine and the table in front of him;<br /> “What the hell is this crap? That is not coffee!” He was sputtering, pushing Justine off his lap and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The waitress stood on the side, unsure which direction to go. Matt looked right at her and pointed at the spilt tea on the table;<br /> <br /> “Well, what the hell? It says “Barbara Café” on the sign outside. You call that shit coffee?” At this point, Baba-san came out of the kitchen. She looked over to Jerry Jersey. He hadn’t moved from his seat. He appeared to be frozen, his calligraphy brush hovering over the paper, mid-stroke, unmoving. Although his head appeared to be facing down to the lines he had already drawn, Baba-san was quite aware, from her angle, that Jerry’s eyes were in fact taking in the scene in the middle of the restaurant. Sayaka was attempting to wipe the mess from the table, and started speaking in broken English;<br /> “I, I,… very sorry. I,… so sorry.” <br />She offered bows to each of them, still attempting to sop up the mess. And, grasping for more English, she attempted an explanation;<br /> “Café” is only <em>style</em>. Café is <em>style</em>.” She put the emphasis on “style”, but with her pronunciation, it came out more like “Sty-u-ru”. Her explanation was met first with blank stares, and then giggles, first from Matt, followed soon by the three others. Justine was the first to respond;<br /> <br /> “Yeah. Whatever. Just get us some coffees. Four creams, three sugars. Right?”<br />The waitress looked blankly from Justine and then to the others. Whatever the girl was saying to her was incomprehensible. She looked over to Baba-san who was rooted to her spot by the kitchen curtain. She was still looking at Jerry, who hadn’t budged. There was a momentary silence, broken only by the buzz of the electric clock hanging on the far wall. It was Matt who broke the lull.<br /> “What the fuck does someone have to do to get a goddamned coffee around here?”<br /><br /> And that’s when Jerry Jersey had enough. When he lurched up from his seat, the table in front of him nearly toppled to its side. He caught the edge just before it tipped over completely, but wasn’t able to stop the inkpot from upending all over his silk-thread paper and the white tablecloth. There was black ink everywhere, on his hands, on his trousers, right on down to his traditional wooden <em>geta</em> on his size thirteen feet. He didn’t care. He pushed the table out of his way, and in three easy steps was standing in front of the group of four. He towered over them. They stared up at him, their mouths open, no sound coming out. And he let them have it. His face was crimson, appearing especially flushed against his shock of silver hair. When he spoke, the force of his words produced a spray felt by all four. His speech was short and succinct;<br /> “You low-life mannerless scoundrels are the reason I hate foreigners. Go back to where you came from until you learn to speak properly and treat people with respect.”<br /> <br /> When he finished speaking, the room was once again silent save for the clock-buzz, which was sounding even louder than it had before. It took about ten seconds, but then it happened. Matt pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up and over his capped head, the others following suit. Without a word, he stood up and, with Pied Piper efficiency, led his group out the door. It wasn’t until they were down the steps and across the street, standing in front of Suzuki-san’s stationery shop, that Justine finally spoke.<br /> “What in the name of Christ was that old bastard saying? Could you understand a word of it?”<br /> They shook their heads in disgust. Matt started walking again, the others still following. He pulled the hood off his head, the ends of his blonde dreadlocks popping out from under his cap. He was smiling.<br /> “Yeah, they say those old ex-pats lose it after awhile. I’d say he’s well off his rocker. The Japs can have him for all I care.” <br /> He linked arms with Justine, and the group continued walking towards a more familiar sight glowing in the distance; two golden, yellow arches, with writing underneath announcing, in English, that over 2 billion had been served. Matt let out a whoop, and they ran the distance to the beacon glowing in the night. <br /> <br /> In Sakura Baba, Jerry Jersey was beaming. His new favourite waitress was in awe and couldn’t stop praising him. Baba-san had been busy wiping his wooden geta, now almost ink-free and drying on a sheet of paper on the floor of the kitchen. It was a special occasion, and all three sat together with steaming cups of green tea in front of them. Baba-san proposed a toast;<br /> “To Jersey-san, our very own Osaka gangster. May he always protect Sakura Baba. <em>Kanpai</em>!!”<br /> They clinked their cups of green tea, and took long, deep sips of the bitter drink. Sayaka was still staring at him, and finally spoke;<br /> “Jersey-san? I know it’s not exactly ladylike, but will you teach me some of that Osaka dialect? It may come in handy someday.”<br /> Jerry Jersey put his cup down, and lay his two hands on the table, palms down in front of him. He closed his eyes, and a serene smile came over his face. He didn’t move, save for a slight sway in his shoulders. Sayaka and Baba-san looked at each other, and then back at Jerry. Baba-san finally spoke;<br /> “Jersey-san? Are you okay?”<br />A small tear had squeezed out of the corner of one of Jerry’s closed eyes. It was the perfect drop, pear-shaped, and it was making its way slowly down Jerry’s cheek, moving in and out of well-worn crevasses before settling on the corner of his smiling lips. He finally opened his eyes and wiped the small drop away with a brush of his thumb. Jerry looked into Sayaka’s eyes, stood, and offered a polite bow.<br /> “I would be honoured to teach you Japanese. We shall begin tomorrow.”<br />He turned to Baba-san, offering a slightly deeper bow;<br /> “Thank you for the delicious tea.”<br /> <br /> The inkpot and brushes had been cleaned and packed away into the bag Suzuki-san had given him earlier that day. He tucked it under his arm, and walked towards the kitchen. Bending below the curtain, he reached for his wooden geta and slipped them on his feet. With two more slight bows, he made his way to the front door, slid it open, and let himself out. Baba-san and Sayaka stood side-by-side at the door, waving good-bye until Jerry Jersey was at the bottom step. He turned left and made his way home. <br /> <br /> Suzuki-san, in her apartment above the stationery shop, was tucked safely in her futon beside her snoring husband. She could hear the wooden shoes hitting the pavement outside as Jerry walked by. She smiled and closed her eyes, falling asleep immediately. That night, Suzuki-san dreamt of a sun-drenched Okinawan beach, where she sat, sipping sweet <em>sake</em> with Jerry Jersey by her side.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-73638292938185357342007-06-26T21:08:00.000-07:002007-12-10T21:57:55.417-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i.a.cnn.net/cnn/2004/US/06/14/trafficking.report/vstory.japantraffic.afp.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px;" src="http://i.a.cnn.net/cnn/2004/US/06/14/trafficking.report/vstory.japantraffic.afp.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://drugs.greenparty.org.uk/img/news/xtc_playboy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px;" src="http://drugs.greenparty.org.uk/img/news/xtc_playboy.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>One Way To Tokyo</strong><br /><br />As she unwrapped the white pantyhose from the cardboard and plastic wrapper, Leah had to give her aching head a shake. White pantyhose. Size extra-small. “<em>I can’t fucking believe this</em>.” Pulling the hose out of the wrapper, she gave them quick little back and forth stretches, pulling the waistband away from the toes with the flourish of a polka-playing accordion player. “Come on, stretch!” As the elastic began to give, her arms reached out in wider and wider arcs until she couldn’t reach any further. Satisfied, she set them on the floor beside her and looked at the nurse’s uniform hanging on the hook in front of her. With a sigh, she pulled the white polyester one-piece off its wire hanger, causing the metal to clang against the mirror behind it. <br /><br />Looking into the mirror, Leah could take in not only her nearly naked self, but the whole of the small space she was in as well. The empty sake bottles on the floor behind her were lined up neatly against the wall. The flimsy cloth “privacy” curtain in the doorway was embroidered with an ukiyo-e print she had seen many times before. The one with the Japanese courtesan being taken from behind by a warrior with an incredibly oversized penis. Eighteenth century Japanese porn. She took a closer look at the courtesan’s face, noticing how her eyes were squeezed tightly shut forming two downward crescent moons. Her bright red lips were pinched, creating a cherry pout. The warrior’s greased jet-black hair was pulled into a ponytail so tight his angular face was caught in a permanent grimace of pain. Or was it ecstasy? <br /><br />The thought of ecstasy brought Leah out of her art appreciation mode and back to the change room. Her linen pants were in a rolled ball under the small wooden stool to her left. Bending down, she grabbed them and dug through the pockets, searching for the small wad of tissue she was certain Suzanne had passed her late last night after her shift was over. “You look like shit. Smarten up and take one of these before you start your shift.” She pulled out a yellow bottle and tapped out six or seven pills, and wrapped them in white tissue. Leah had been exhausted and was now questioning if Suzanne had in fact given her anything. She groped through both front pockets of the soft linen pants. Empty. “<em>Shit</em>.” The nurse’s uniform was still draped over her arm. She threw it to the floor and got down onto her knees, her hands scrambling past the sake bottles and over to her Louis Vuitton shoulder bag. Yuji had given her the bag three weeks ago, a “thank you” for time spent over dinner and drinks in Ginza. <br /><br />The dinner. The dinner she couldn’t get out of her head. Raw fish so fresh it was still squirming on its bed of rice. <em>Sake</em>, chilled and fragrant. She sipped the drink in the traditional way, from a small square cedar box with a touch of salt on the side. Leah thought that if cherry blossom petals were edible, this is what they would taste like. There was cod roe, glistening orange and pearl in a nest of soft white grated radish, looking more like children’s glass marbles than something she could eat. It was edible art. Leah had been told by the other girls about this restaurant. She knew the meal would total more than she made in a week. She consumed the small fortune without guilt. She felt she’d earned it. She felt the same way about the Vuitton bag presented to her at the end of the meal as she was finishing off her green tea. <br /><br />Yuji had excused himself and pushed his stool away from the sushi counter, presumably to go to the restroom. He came back moments later carrying a large box bearing the unmistakable LV insignia. “No more backpack style for Leah-chan. This is lady’s bag to suit Leah-chan’s lady style.” He looked pleased, leaning back, grinning. He took an extra deep draw on his cigarette before crossing his arms in front of his chest. He was watching, waiting for her reaction. She gave him what he wanted. Leah pulled the brown and gold leather bag from the box and held it up in front of her. “Yuji san, it’s gorgeous. Just perfect for me.” And with that, she began to transfer her backpack belongings into their posh new leather home.<br /><br />Now, kneeling on the worn <em>tatami</em> floor of the makeshift change room, she had taken most of the contents out of her expensive bag and spread them out in front of her. She returned to digging through the remaining bits still hidden in zipped side pockets, past the plastic bottle of hairspray and the butane curling iron. Tobacco crumbs and lint caught under her fingernails as she dug even deeper into the folds of decadent Vuitton cloth. Leah was rewarded for her diligence. She found it. She unfolded the tissue, picking up one of the tablets and inspecting it more closely. Light pink, the size of an aspirin, a smiley face etched into its surface. She ripped off a small piece of tissue and wrapped the pill into it. She then tucked it safely in her bra. The remaining pills she placed back into the bag. Leah picked up the white pantyhose and nurse’s uniform from the floor and started getting dressed for work. She glanced again at the image of the courtesan, frozen forever in her erotic pose. As she pulled the nylons up and over her hips she shook her head and sighed. Yuji would be arriving soon. <br /><br />***<br /><br />This scene was not what Leah had in mind when she boarded a plane to Japan nearly a year ago. Tokyo and Kyoto were only supposed to take up a week or so of her three-month “mental health” break from what she had begun referring to as “the hell that is my life.” She watched as friend after friend paired off to become a couple, a part of a “we” that seemed to elude Leah. At twenty-seven, she had never had a relationship that lasted longer than three months. She knew she had to get away for awhile when she started resenting some of her closest friends because they seemed to be moving forward, following some sort of innate compass that directed them to follow a path that led from being student to girlfriend to wife to mother. She used to pride herself on not fitting in, being the odd one out. Not anymore. With thirty on the horizon, and her best friend informing her that a baby was on the way, Leah pulled a suitcase out from under her bed and started throwing things in. Then she called a travel agency. And then she quit her job. She was as determined about detaching herself from the life she was leading as her friends were about their decision to settle into their own. <br /><br />She’d kept in touch with Suzanne, her roommate in university through sporadic e-mails over the past few years. The last she’d heard, almost a year ago, she was in Tokyo, teaching English. When Leah wrote to her a week before leaving Vancouver, Suzanne had written back with her telephone number and an offer to meet her at the airport. Her brief note ended with; “Can’t wait to see you. Are you ready for some fun?” It may have been only two short sentences, but for Leah it was exactly what she needed to take away the uncertainty she was feeling about her decision to leave. <br /><br />The Suzanne who met her at the airport was in no way similar to the Suzanne she had last seen at graduation six years ago. Gone were the ripped Levis, Birkenstock sandals and ever-present ponytail. This Suzanne standing at the arrivals gate oozed glamour. Her hair was golden, shoulder length, wavy. Her makeup wasn’t overdone, applied expertly to show off high-cut cheekbones and deep set blue eyes. When she leaned in to give Leah a hug, she smelled rich, all subtle Chanel and salon-scented hair. On the train ride into the city, Leah had to ask. “You look like a fashion model, Suzanne. How are you doing that on a teacher’s salary? Is the pay that good?” Suzanne laughed, but didn’t answer immediately. “When we get off the train, I’ll be able to explain it better.” Leah watched the scenery flash by as the train made its way to Tokyo Station. Neon lights, Statue of Liberty replicas and flashing signs were everywhere. It felt like riding down a never-ending Vegas avenue, kitsch everywhere she looked, an electric buzz hanging in the air. “Welcome to Wonderland, kiddo. Are you ready for that fun I mentioned?” Suzanne had linked her arm through hers and led her out of the crowded train, through the station maze and out onto the streets of Tokyo. Dusk was giving way to night, but there was no sky to be seen, no stars or moon to indicate time or place. Neon reds, whites and yellows had taken over the firmament and again, Leah thought of Las Vegas, city of no clocks. She wondered if Tokyo’s inhabitants were as oblivious to day and night as the dwellers of Vegas casinos. <br /><br />Leaving the main roads, they made their way to Suzanne’s apartment, crisscrossing through roads so small they would be considered alleys back home. As Leah’s eyes adjusted to the sudden dark of the narrow streets, it appeared to her as if they had stepped back years in time from the scene they had just left behind. These roads were pitch black, illuminated here and there by the soft red glow of paper and bamboo lamps outside curtained doorways. The smell of barbecue chicken wafted out of metal grates in puffs of pale smoke, reminding Leah she hadn’t eaten since the tasteless pasta lunch on the airplane. <br /><br />“Almost there, just down this road a bit.” Suzanne directed them down one last alley and stopped in front of the doorway of a wooden two-storey house. She opened the front sliding door with a flourish and gestured Leah to enter. “Welcome! Oh, and don’t forget to take your shoes off. There are house slippers right here.” They were standing in a small foyer totally taken over by all manner of women’s shoes. High heels, sling backs, glittery sandals. It looked like the remnants of a bargain basement shoe sale. She handed Leah a pair of worn cloth slippers that appeared to be made for a child. Suzanne laughed as she said; “One size fits all.”<br /><br />The first room they stepped into had wall-to-wall mattresses on the floor. Suzanne pulled on a string hanging from a ceiling lamp. After a few hesitant flickers, the room was completely illuminated. The overhead fluorescent light created a stark contrast to the dimly lit foyer they had just stepped out of. “Just step over the bedding. We’ll go into the kitchen.” Leah hitched her backpack over her shoulders and was about to step over one mound of bedclothes when it suddenly moved. She jumped back, almost falling over another mountain of sheets and blankets. “Suzanne! Something's in here!” She pointed at the still moving lump in front of her. Suzanne came back, and with no hesitation, pulled back the top cover. A woman lay in a curled foetus position, sucking her thumb and moaning softly. She was wearing a schoolgirl blue and white sailor uniform, complete with cotton white knee socks and Hello Kitty hair clips. She appeared to be about twenty-five years old. <br /><br />“ Jesus Christ. Joanne, get up! You’re not supposed to wear the costume out of the club. And you should be at the club. It’s almost eight.” Suzanne pulled the covers completely away from the mattress. This was met with even louder moans from the semi-conscious Joanne. “Just a few more minutes…” She rolled over onto her stomach and dug her face deeply into her pillow. Her schoolgirl uniform was now tangled up around her waist, revealing a lacy pink and white pair of Hello Kitty underpants to match the hair clips. “Joanne. Get. Up. Now.” Suzanne didn’t raise her voice to make her demand clear. Her words had an edge, a coolness that didn’t need volume to convey that she ought to be obeyed. Joanne rolled over, sat up for a moment, and then stood up straight, stretching her arms above her head and grazing the low ceiling with her fingertips. Yawning, she started to make her way towards the doorway. “Joanne, Mama-san will kill you if she sees you in costume outside the club. Change now and put Sailor Moon into a bag.” Joanne nodded and continued yawing as she left the room. <br /><br />Suzanne turned towards Leah. “Come on. Don't mind her. Let's get you some food.” They walked down a short hallway, past a room where Leah caught sight of Joanne. She was wearing a lace push-up bra and still had on the Hello Kitty panties. She was standing in front of a mirror applying make-up. Leah knew Joanne could see her reflected in the mirror and was about to look away when Joanne spoke, brushing mascara onto her lashes as she did so. “You new? You taking Sherri's shifts?” Her flat vowels gave away her Boston upbringing. Leah wasn’t sure what to say. “Um, yeah, I guess I'm new. I just got off the plane a couple of hours ago.” Joanne nodded, putting down the mascara wand. “Well, when Sherri turns up, you’ll be out of a job. She's the best.” She picked up a blush brush, and ran it along her cheekbones, never taking her eyes off of Leah’s reflection. “Leah? Come in to the kitchen.” Suzanne’s voice carried down the hall, and Leah moved on, ending the short conversation with Joanne. <br /><br />The fluorescent lighting in the kitchen was just as bright as in the front bedroom. It was hard on Leah’s jet-lagged senses. Since she’d walked off the plane, everything she’d encountered seemed a little off, out of kilter. Surreal. “Suzanne, you’re not really a teacher, are you?” Suzanne had her back turned to her, standing at the small gas stove and stirring something in a pot. “Well, can’t pull the wool over your eyes, eh?” She turned around, holding a bowl of rice and a smaller bowl of soup. “Here, eat this. I’ll explain.” And she proceeded to tell Leah her story. She’d arrived in Tokyo and had landed a teaching job at a small language school, Joyful Apple, right in the middle of the city. Her boss was nice enough, the pay reasonable. It just didn’t suit her image of what she thought Tokyo had to offer her. She wanted excitement, and dancing around with three year olds just wasn’t cutting it. She’d answered an ad on an Internet site looking for Western foreign women to “engage in conversation with established mature gentlemen in the comfort of a private club”. So she’d thought, what the hell, and gave it a shot on a Saturday night. <br /><br />She quickly learned the real terminology after a few Saturdays spent in the private club called Seventh Heaven. It was a hostess bar, and the gentlemen were in fact middle-aged married businessmen who spent wads of cash on bourbon bottle-keeps and the opportunity to have a Western woman in a cheesy costume light their cigarette and stroke their egos. But it wasn’t the typical salaryman that intrigued Suzanne. They were boring. They paid their monthly membership fees to Mama-san, the owner, and it was those fees that paid all the hostess’s salaries. Not a huge wage by any stretch, but enough to get by and still buy a few nice things. The hostesses didn’t have to pay rent either. At any given time, six to eight women were living dorm style in the house Leah was sitting in now. None of that is what kept Suzanne in her signature maid’s costume. It was the one or two regulars she kept during the week, outside Seventh Heaven working hours, who kept her going. <br /><br />As Leah’s jet-lagged brain tried to absorb the information Suzanne was giving her, she had a few questions, waiting for the right time to interject. She finally asked; “What’s the difference between a regular and just a normal customer in the club?” A regular, Joanne explained, made your income double, sometimes triple. That was the difference. A regular took you out for expensive meals before your shift started. A regular bought you fancy gifts. A regular paid Mama-san extra membership fees, ensuring you would be their exclusive hostess whenever they came to the club. <br /><br />At this point, Joanne walked into the kitchen, her auburn hair no longer in pigtails but pinned into a simple bun. A classic orange and white Gucci print dress clung to her long frame. Why a man would want this beauty transformed into a Sailor Moon schoolgirl was beyond Leah. She was too tired to ask. Joanne glanced at Leah and then addressed Suzanne. “I’m going to need a little… assistance to get through tonight.” The glare Suzanne shot Joanne made it quite clear this wasn’t good timing. Suzanne stood up and went into a small room off the kitchen, gesturing Joanne to follow. Joanne shot a withering look towards Leah and went into the room behind Suzanne. <br /><br />There was no door between the room and the kitchen, so even though they kept their voices low, Leah could still hear the exchange. She could distinguish the nasal Boston vowels in Joanne’s voice. “How could Mama-san replace Sherri so quickly? It’s been only a week. She’ll be back. Yuji’s her regular.” Suzanne responded in a low, even tone; “She’s not replacing Sherri. Now take this, but only take half. You obviously messed up yesterday if you were sleeping in so late today.” They came out of the room a few moments later. Suzanne kissed Joanne on the cheek and told her she’d see her later that evening at the club. Joanne picked up her handbag and left without saying goodbye. <br /><br />Suzanne turned her attention back to Leah. “Are you weirded out by this? Should I have told you before you got here?” The whole scene had indeed caught her off guard. Suzanne’s transformation to chic city girl, the circus atmosphere in Tokyo, the dark alleys just beyond the mayhem, and of course, Joanne. Was her mundane Vancouver reality just a plane ride away or had she landed in another universe? There was really only one thing she could think of saying that would suit the moment; “Will you introduce me to Mama-san?”<br /><br />***<br /><br />Mama-san took care of all the bureaucratic details that would allow Leah to work for her, and within days of arriving, Leah became a nurse at Seventh Heaven. It all seemed so easy in the beginning. The men were like children, little boys who needed to be indulged after a tough day on the playground. She didn’t have a regular, so she’d would sit with up to seven different groups of men over the course of an evening. Each man had to have a bottle of bourbon kept at the bar. Each bottle cost thirty thousand yen. Converting to dollars, Leah couldn’t believe the close to three hundred dollar price tag for one bottle of booze. Each member also paid the equivalent of ten thousand dollars per year to have the privilege of carrying a Seventh Heaven membership card. That was basic. There were also gold cards for exclusive customers who received such perks as champagne on their birthday, or “two-girl service days”, when a man could have his pick of two costumed hostesses pouring drinks at his table. A gold card cost fifty thousand dollars a year. There was occasional talk of a platinum card, but none of the girls had ever seen one.<br /> <br />The routine rarely varied. The customer would arrive, and if the evening was slow, he could choose from the menu of hostesses available; “Nurse Leah”, “School Girl Joanne”, “Maid Suzanne” “Cheerleader Nadia”. Mama-san would always try to keep ten options on the list. But sometimes, a girl wouldn’t show up. And she would never return, swallowed up, it would seem, into the Tokyo nightlife. Anonymous. Gone. Her name would be whispered in the change room or back at the house for a while, but there were always others to replace her. And her name would be a vague memory of those girls who would stay on for a while longer. <br /><br />The girls who had regulars would be reserved, off-limits for the time paid in advance. Time was indeed money, and at Seventh Heaven, regulars paid three hundred dollars an hour to have the privilege of reserving a hostess. These are the customers Mama-san adored, and she rewarded the girls who had regulars with small perks. They could come in later, leave earlier, and, if she were feeling particularly generous, even have a night “off”. The night off would be spent with the regular, just in another location. A fancy restaurant, a burlesque show. A hotel. The girls didn’t talk about that part. Leah tried to get Suzanne to open up about it after she had been hostessing for nearly four months.<br /><br />“Where do you go with Yamada-san on Wednesday nights?” They were sitting at the kitchen table, under the fluorescent light. “Oh, dinner, sake bar… bloody expensive places.” Suzanne tried to change the subject. “Let’s go shopping tomorrow. New shoes. We need new shoes…” She stared off into the distance. Leah noticed the bags under Suzanne’s eyes, and the fact that she was using heavier makeup to conceal them. “Come on, Suzanne. I might have a regular soon. I need to know what to expect.” Suzanne lit a cigarette, blowing the match out with an exaggerated breath. “Look, you do what you’ve got to do. You’ll know when the time comes.” Discussion closed. <br /><br />As month six closed in, so did the fatigue. Most evenings, by the time midnight rolled around and she’d already poured at least a thousand dollars worth of Seventh Heaven bourbon, she was exhausted. It seemed that as her novelty wore off, the men felt free to graduate from little boy curiosity to adolescent hands-on exploration of Leah’s nurse’s uniform. Light taps on her leg became full-on gropes of her thighs. What were once polite comments on “beautiful Leah-chan’s hair” gravitated towards “Leah-chan’s bosom is great” followed by lurching attempts at copping a quick feel. She became quite adept at dodging their hands, but it was getting increasingly difficult to maintain a smile. Mama-san took Leah aside one evening at close to one a.m. She may have been close to seventy years old, but she had the energy and quick reflexes of someone much younger. She could spot an empty bottle from across the bar, unscrew a new one and have it at the customer’s table before they were aware they had even finished off their first. <br /><br />“Leah-chan. Smile is important. Only one a.m. Still three more hour. Smile a happy nurse smile.” Leah went back to her table, a fake grin pasted on her face, and braced herself for the rest of the evening. <br /><br />Inside, she felt dread building in the form of acid bile in her stomach. Mama-san was waiting for her at the door that evening as she left. “Leah-chan. I talk to Suzanne-san about smile problem. She help you. Talk to her.” As Leah walked home through the pre-dawn Tokyo streets, a slow panic was creeping over her. After three months in Tokyo, she’d arranged for her apartment in Vancouver to be let go, the contents sold by the landlord for a somewhat inflated fee. She’d been spending money on clothes beyond her means, borrowing against future pay cheques to keep up with the other girls in the house. They all had regulars keeping them afloat and clothed in Gucci and Chanel. Mama-san kept her debt sheet up-to-date, and included a copy of it in Leah’s pay packet. In six months, Leah was three pay cheques behind in payments to Mama-san. By the time she arrived back at the house that early morning, she had worked herself into a full frenzy. Suzanne was waiting for her.<br /><br />“Mama-san said you need a little help.” She sat her down at the kitchen table. She had a yellow prescription pill bottle set out in front of her. “This will get you through the night. Don’t take it until close to midnight, and only take half.” She put one of the pink tablets on the table, smiley face up, and cut it in two perfect halves using a razor box cutter. “This is two night’s worth right here. You can get another in two days.” And that was that. Suzanne went upstairs to her bedroom, and Leah went into the mattress room, stripped down to her underwear and fell into a dreamless sleep.<br /><br />It wasn’t so long after she started taking her nightly half tablet that Yuji-san expressed an interest in the happy nurse. He started reserving a table for himself and Leah at least once a week, much to Mama-san’s delight. The hostesses thought Seventh Heaven had lost Yuji after Sherri took off. Nurse Sherri had been his favourite. It looked like Leah might be able to fill her nurse’s shoes. She could keep Yuji entertained for hours, refilling his drink, lighting his cigarette, and laughing hysterically at his attempts at jokes in English. Her pink tablet made it all so easy. And she was actually starting to see some income in her pay packet rather than a debit note. Yuji-san had arrived just in time.<br /><br />***<br /><br />After the nurse’s costume was zipped tightly over her breasts, the white panty hose adjusted and her nurse’s cap firmly in place, Leah bent down to pick up the white linen pants she had almost ripped apart when trying to find her tablet. She folded them and placed them on top of her Vuitton bag. She put the lot in her locker against the wall and secured it with the small padlock Suzanne had given her. “You never know when one of the girls might be a little down on her luck…” She always made sure to lock it up before starting her shift. It was only seven p.m., but Yuji had asked for an early reservation. <br /><br />Leah was already contemplating the pill in her bra. She unzipped the top of her uniform, and fished out the rolled up tissue. She unwrapped it, surveyed the tablet for only a moment before popping it into her mouth. She zipped her uniform back up. Before lifting up the curtain to step out into the bar, she gave her courtesan one last smile. She offered the Japanese words of courage given to someone off to perform a difficult task; “<em>Ganbatte ne</em>”. She saw Yuji waiting for her at his reserved table and gave him an enthusiastic wave. He was the only customer in the bar. The other hostesses hadn’t arrived yet. Leah smiled, grabbed the bourbon bottle and two glasses, and made her way over to him. He looked pleased, but shook his head no when she went to pour him a drink. He had his car keys on the table. “We have reservation tonight. Famous place. Go now.” They waved to Mama-san and left the bar. Leah was still in her uniform.<br /><br />***<br /><br />It was Joanne who notified the police when Leah hadn’t returned to the mattress room for the third straight day. She’d been asking Mama-san why Leah wasn’t coming in, but Mama-san wouldn’t answer. She’d only shake her head and say; “No problem. No problem. Don’t talk about that. Upset other girl.” Joanne wanted to talk to Suzanne, but she had left on vacation in Thailand, promising souvenirs from the islands for the hostesses. The other girls in the house were too new or too self-absorbed to notice that Leah hadn’t been back for three days. When the police questioned Mama-san about Leah’s behaviour, she talked about the debts Leah had rung up, how she’d had a hard time keeping herself afloat. When her locker was pried open, and the six tablets of ecstasy were found in her bag, that ended the investigation for good. Leah, if she did return to Seventh Heaven, would be arrested. So much the better for her if she didn’t come back at all. Mama-san said Leah had made a bad reputation for the bar. It would take months to lose the stigma of a drug-taking hostess who skipped town. <br /><br />When Suzanne returned from Thailand, Mama-san scolded her in front of all the other girls. For appearances sake, it seemed the right thing to do. “Leah-san recommended by you. Why you recommend such a girl?” Suzanne looked down at the floor, but could feel Joanne’s eyes staring at her. She wouldn’t look up until all the girls left the room and she was alone with Mama-san. Mama-san coughed gently as she lay a manila envelope on the bar counter. She walked silently past Suzanne, and gave her a nod and tacit smile. She continued walking and entered into the change room, pushing past the curtain in front of her. The warrior and the courtesan swayed momentarily in the breeze created by Mama-san’s entrance. And then they returned to their pose, the courtesan’s eyes still closed, the warrior’s face forever frozen in its pose of pain and ecstasy. Mama-san turned the lights off and returned to the front bar. <br /><br />Suzanne and the manila envelope were gone. Mama-san knew she could count on Suzanne to be there promptly at eight that evening. They were, after all, one hostess down. Surveying the room one last time, she locked the door and walked out into the cool Tokyo dawn. She could get in a few hours sleep before getting down to the business of hiring another hostess. And then she remembered something. She clucked her tongue in disgust as the image of Leah leaving the bar came back to her. She realized was going to have to buy another nurse’s uniform. She shuffled down the street, shaking her head slowly back and forth as she did so.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-28740230506699974802007-05-02T04:51:00.000-07:002007-05-02T05:00:53.911-07:00<a href="http://www.cordellhullinstitute.org/pubs/Tokyo-skyline-2005.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.cordellhullinstitute.org/pubs/Tokyo-skyline-2005.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.orangecone.com/images/myphoneisme1.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.orangecone.com/images/myphoneisme1.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a>Ennui and Forgetting to Breathe <br /><br />Cassie was able to keep her secret for nearly a month. She didn’t tell anyone what she was up to. Not Sophie, her Canadian roommate. Not Joel, her American co-worker. And certainly not Yuriko, her boss at Joyful Apple Language School, the place where she taught English to Japanese kids every afternoon.<br /><br />The first time she did it, Cassie sat alone in a private cubicle of Tokyo’s newest fad; the all-night Internet café. For only 300 yen per hour, customers could sit in fully private three-meter by three-meter rooms, complete with a cushiony overstuffed leather chair, computer desk, lemon-scented towelettes and a mini-bookcase crammed full of manga comics. Built into the computer table, where a pullout file drawer would normally be, was a mini-bar fridge, stocked full of juice, green tea, beer and crunchy seaweed snacks. On this particular Friday night Cassie gave the seaweed a miss, and decided on a beer. She inserted 230 yen into the slot on the desktop, and punched her selection, A7, onto the keypad built into the handle of the fridge. There was a soft clicking noise followed by three quick beeps. An automated female voice let her know her selection was ready. She opened the fridge door, slid open the plastic window in front of her Sapporo beer selection, and pulled the cold can from its slot. Another beer fell efficiently into the empty space. Closing the fridge, she pulled the metal tab open with a satisfying crack, and took the first sip. The taste was as satisfying to Cassie as water to a desert dweller. She closed her eyes and smiled. <br /><br />Alone in a cubicle on the 11th floor of a nameless building in the middle of the world’s largest city, and not a person knew where she was. She felt invisible and she liked it. She took another sip of beer and settled into the comfort of the executive- sized leather chair. It dwarfed her, making her feel small. She liked that, too. Invisible, small. Two words that had not been used to describe her since she arrived in Tokyo almost three years ago. She leaned over to her left and pushed the power-on switch of the hard drive. Feeling around the perimeter of the flat-screened monitor in front of her, she found a hard plastic knob and gave it a snap. The screen came to life with a pale blue glow. The familiar “e” icon for Internet explorer was at the top right of the screen. Cassie immediately dragged her mouse across the pad and clicked on it. Her intention was to write a quick note to her mother and then surf some of the news sites to see what was going on in the world. <br /><br />She was immediately sidetracked by a spam ad flashing on the screen. It was in Kanji so she couldn’t immediately understand the words. The pictures pretty much gave away the ad’s intent though. There were seven or eight different photos spread across the monitor, each one depicting a happy dating scene between a Japanese woman and a white male. One picture showed an ecstatic couple, doubled over laughing standing under a tree in a park. Another had a well-toned and tanned man throwing a Frisbee to a smiling bikini-clad beauty on the beach. Yet another had a classic sitting-in-front-of the-fireplace scene, both parties leaning in for an intimate toast with their glasses of red wine. Cassie rolled her eyes and was about to shut the window on the screen when she stopped mid-click. Something about the fireplace girl caught her eye. Leaning in closer, she realized the smiling woman on the screen looked a lot like her boss, Yuriko. Craning her head in for a closer look, she realized it wasn’t Yuriko, just someone who looked very much like her. It was while she sat there alone, thinking about her boss, when her plan began to develop. <br /><br />In retrospect, she supposed there were a couple of factors that prompted her to investigate the site further. First and foremost, she was bored. She’d done all the newcomer to Japan stand-bys in her first year. She’d sung enough bad karaoke with Sophie, her roommate and her co-worker Joel to last a lifetime. There were really only so many times she could tolerate “New York New York” sung out-of-tune by red-faced Sinatra wannabe’s. As for shrine and temple viewing, in three years she’d been to more than one hundred of the sacred sites. They came in all shapes and sizes and levels of ostentation, welcoming her with bright red torii gates or granite replicas of snarling foxes. There had been the bold shrines, imposing and breathtaking on hills on top of cities. And there had been the shy temples; some tucked away so effectively down the twisting back alleys of villages with unpronounceable names that she’d never been able to find them again. In any case, the lure of the unknown temple had lost a bit of its luster over time. They didn’t charm her anymore.<br /><br />So, she was bored. But on top of that, she was lonely, too. And she had felt this way for quite some time now. She wasn’t lonely for friendship or bonding with co-workers. She had that. Cassie was lonely for some good, solid, male companionship. A phone call the following day would be a nice touch, too. It just wasn’t happening, and she had come to the conclusion that for the remainder of her time in Japan, it would remain so. Japanese men didn’t seem to find her height and outspokenness attractive qualities in a romantic partner. She’d had exactly four dates with four different Japanese men. Three ended with a polite bow outside her apartment door. They had never called back. The fourth ended abruptly just inside her apartment door. She hadn’t even taken her shoes off when Tetsuya, her date for the evening, felt this would be an appropriate time to grab her breasts, double fisted, and hold on for dear life. She realized then that there were indeed assholes in every culture. So she called it a day when it came to dates with the locals. She’d be depressed for days wondering why they didn’t call back and it just wasn’t worth the hassle.<br /><br />As for dates with foreign men, it wasn’t an option. They were great for conversations in pubs over a beer, but when Cassie felt there might be a chance for a bit more, the American, Brit or Canadian she was chatting with would make it quite clear he was in Japan not simply to sample the food. There was any number of single, young Japanese women hanging out in the foreign hot spots, eager to learn English and have a bit of fun with the gaijin men. Cassie couldn’t blame anyone for the way it worked. Shit, if she were a guy, she’s certain she’d be doing the same thing. It looked like lots of fun and it appeared to do wonders for the ego judging by the smiles and confidence of the men. But it didn’t help her cause much, and it left her high and dry in the area of romance. <br /><br />So now, staring at the screen and all the happy couples, she decided that if she couldn’t beat them, and if she couldn’t join them, she could perhaps live vicariously through them. And her boss Yuriko was the ticket. In Cassie’s estimation, Yuriko was the female equivalent of the overworked salaryman. There was one vital difference though. A salaryman could loosen up after work with some sake and conversation, maybe even a clandestine dalliance or two. Not so for Yuriko. Married at twenty-two, divorced at thirty, in the eyes of many Japanese men she was damaged goods. Hell, in her own eyes she was damaged goods. So, she shut herself off to any kind of socializing outside the confines of the Joyful Apple Language School. Yuriko was the first to arrive at work, hours before any of the children would make an appearance for the first lessons at noon. She was the last to leave at night, locking doors and setting alarms on her own, long after Cassie and Joel had finished their last evening classes and had darted out the door. Joel would disappear immediately into the Tokyo nightlife and Cassie would often go back to her flat to hang out with her roommate, each rehashing their workday over a beer.<br /> <br />In any case, in the past three years, Yuriko had accepted exactly two of Cassie’s weekly “Let’s go out for a drink” invitations. And on both occasions, Yuriko talked about work, about the children in Joyful Apple’s conversation classes, and about the happiness of the mother’s whose kids were enrolled. Yuriko worried about all things work related and never once mentioned herself. Cassie tried. She tried at first to be unobtrusive, to gently coax some personal information out of her boss. Yuriko wasn’t having any of it. She had a talent that Cassie had noticed in many Japanese women; Yuriko could take any question directed her way, turn it inside out, lob it back and have Cassie unloading her own woes and life story for the rest of the evening. When Cassie would be back in her apartment, tucked into her futon and going over the events of the evening in her mind, she would realize that she had done all the talking and Yuriko had offered all the wordless nods of understanding. <br /><br />There was something else that stood out on the rare evenings Yuriko came out; men, the foreign ones anyway, were smitten by her. On the two nights she had ventured out to the ex-pat pubs with Cassie, men had flocked around their small bistro table, attempting the kind of small talk typical to the venue; “So… have you ever been to England?” “So… are you studying English?” “So… can you recommend some tourist attractions?” Those were the nice ones. The assholes in these places could certainly be a lot more direct, assuming little to zero English on the part of the Japanese girl they were attempting to pick up. “So… are there any nice hotels in the neighbourhood?” “So… ever dated a foreigner?” “So, will I be taking you home tonight?” Some foreigners lost their luggage on the flight over to Japan. Others, Cassie decided early on, lost their common sense. <br /><br />On their two nights out though, some pretty nice guys approached Yuriko. The jerks probably steered clear when their radar detected Cassie’s presence. They probably knew their inappropriate pick-up lines would be intercepted and thrown right back at them. But, the genuinely interested ones who did attempt conversation were completely shut out by Yuriko and sent packing almost immediately after their brief attempt at conversation. After each interruption, Yuriko would turn her focus back to Cassie, sometimes rolling her eyes. <br /><br />Cassie finally had to say something; “Look Yuriko, pick a nice one and invite him over to the table. I don’t mind at all.” And she really didn’t. These nights out, in Cassie’s opinion, were for Yuriko to let her hair down and step outside her salaryman role. Cassie could go out with her friends any old time; a night out for Yuriko was an event. Why not go all out with a bit of male company? But Yuriko wasn’t having any of it. She would simply shrug and say; “No. I’ve been married. I’m divorced. I’m not interested.” She would then steer the conversation back to Cassie’s own love life or, more accurately, lack of one, and that would be that. Discussion over. Yuriko’s expertise in the art of redirection would prevail, and Cassie would continue talking about some dating fiasco in her past. <br /><br />So, boredom and a need to interfere in Yuriko’s non-existent social life are what spurred Cassie on that first night in the Internet café. Scanning the screen in front of her, Cassie searched for the icon that would allow her to peruse the dating ad in more detail. She found what she was looking for in the lower left-hand corner of the ad, right beside the playful Frisbee playing couple on the beach. The word “English” was underlined, indicating it was a link. Clicking on it immediately brought a new page to the screen. Cassie smiled. Staring back at her was a page in English, necessary, she supposed, seeing as it was a site with a high number of romantically inclined English speakers. <br /><br />The first page began with; “Who Are You…?” Listed under the title “Options”, Cassie was given choices regarding gender, nationality, language, and relationship preferences and asked to write a short letter of introduction. She clicked on the appropriate boxes for each. Female, Japanese, Japanese/English, Friendship. For the letter, she knew she would have to make it brief if she were to make it believable. Cassie imagined that if Yuriko were writing a letter in English on this site, she would be conscious of making English errors. She’d be cheerful but not too wordy. Cassie typed in her introduction:<br /><br />Hello,<br /><br />I am 34 year-old Japanese woman in Tokyo. I enjoy many activity, but mostly travel and language exchanging with new people. I would greatly enjoy communication with Native English speakers to discuss interesting topic while eating in nice restaurant or lively pub environment. I could also assist with your Japanese! Sincere and honest reply only please.<br /><br />Sincerely, TokyoLady<br /><br />Cassie filled in the required personal information, and felt she’d guessed quite accurately when it came to Yuriko’s height and weight. She didn’t go into too much detail in the personality profile, but felt she was honest and in keeping with the spirit of Yuriko’s personality when she said she was “hard-working” and “not interested in foreigner man looking for quick fun”. Hopefully it would weed out the wankers looking for one-night stands. She then set up an inbox mail account in TokyoLady’s name, and sent the whole lot off with one quick click of the mouse. <br /><br />Cassie smiled, content, but a little uncertain about what she had just done. She shut down the computer and left her private Internet world behind. She paid her 900 yen, not believing three hours had slipped by so quickly. She slipped into the elevator, punching in “G” for Ground floor and was whisked away from the Internet café in a quick downward lurch. Moments later she was back among the masses, shedding her anonymous status and once more letting her foreign face stand out in the crowd on her short walk home. She was still grinning as she let herself into her flat ten minutes later. For the first time in ages, Cassie slept soundly through the night.<br /><br />Cassie started going to the 11th floor Internet café every evening after work. At the front desk, the same two teenagers with identically spiked Astroboy hair would greet her by name when she signed up for a room. “Ah Cassie-san! O genki desu ka?” They would smile and one would hand over the key that would unlock the door to her cubicle. Settling into the familiar comfort of her over-stuffed chair, she would begin the nightly ritual of sifting through anywhere from fifteen to fifty responses to TokyoLady’s profile. Ninety percent were usually the same old crap. The men who made it incredibly easy to press delete with their emails full of text message short forms, liberal use of exclamation points and insights into their desire; “U R gr8!!! – Im HOT 4 U TokyoLady!! Call Lou@080 5413 1719.” That left ten percent who had at least a few redeeming qualities. And of those, Cassie would choose just one, cutting and pasting his personal information from the screen and copying it into her own file she had labelled “Keepers”. <br /><br />After two weeks, she knew she would actually have to respond to the fourteen keepers she had in the file if she were going to keep their interest. There was really only one, though, that grabbed her attention. She re-read his letter of introduction.<br /><br />Dear TokyoLady,<br /><br />I read your (brief) profile, and appreciated its simplicity. I am new to the “online” game, but have seen enough letters these past few weeks to come to the conclusion that most of the writers are quite adept at fiction! I’ll reply to brief and simple with brief and simple; Forty-four, Irish, Engineer, Divorced. I love Tokyo, but need a bit of downtime from the hustle and bustle. Perhaps we could exchange a few more letters? My name is David.<br /><br />The first time she had read the letter, Cassie’s stomach had clenched into a tight little ball. What she was doing became much less anonymous and a hell of a lot more real with that one line; My name is David. The release from boredom these past two weeks had been fun, but she hadn’t really been giving much thought to the actual people behind the letters. Or to Yuriko, for that matter. Sure, her ultimate goal was to have Yuriko meet a hand-selected man, but Cassie hadn’t planned much further than the initial letter-writing phase. She was beginning to realize that her boredom had not only made her more creative, it had also allowed her to put reality on hold momentarily. Easy to do, she supposed, when sitting alone in a lemon-scented cubical without anyone to bounce ideas off of. That’s what her roommate Sophie was for, but Sophie hadn’t been around for the past three weeks. She had nearly one month’s holiday time and was using it up, backpacker-style in Indonesia. As small beads of sweat began to form on Cassie’s upper lip, she was beginning to realize that Sophie was not just a good friend for boredom release, she was an anchor that held her back from doing silly things.<br /><br />When the initial panic wore off, Cassie got to work. She rationalized, as she sipped on her beer and stared at the computer monitor, that everything would all eventually fall into place. And she began to type. She introduced Yuriko to David in more detail. The English wasn’t perfect, but Cassie didn’t go overboard with the grammatical shortcomings. She didn’t embellish Yuriko, she offered only what she knew. When she finished up, she quickly hit “send” and shutdown the computer. She didn’t want to think about it anymore.<br /><br />Between work and her nightly trips to the Internet café, Cassie found that time, rather than dragging as it used to, was flying by at amazing speed. Sophie was back from Indonesia and getting impatient for a night out. The kids she was teaching appeared to be happy learning English. Rather than the usual dead-man-walking shuffle to the classroom, they ran, grabbing her hands and pushing her into the room. Their eyes lit up when she entered and they would shout out; “Cassie-sensei! Ge-mu! Ge-mu!” which meant they wanted her to set up the seats for another round of musical chairs. Cassie knew exactly why there was a spring in her step when she made her way to work. She was abundantly aware of why she would suddenly find herself in her Internet cubicle, lost in thought and unable to remember leaving work for the walk to her 11th floor sanctuary. She liked David. He had been sending letters daily, and she found each of them to be honest, straightforward and funny. It was becoming increasingly more difficult to maintain the Yuriko façade, and Cassie found herself injecting more and more of herself into each letter. And David kept responding.<br /><br />It was when Cassie was packing up one night after work that her fantasy life came to a crashing halt. Yuriko peeked her head out of one of the classrooms. “Cassie-chan? Could I talk to you for moment?” Cassie looked up from where she was sitting at her lesson planning station. It was almost 8:30 p.m. Joel had slipped out the door moments before and she was planning on doing the same. Sophie was waiting for her at the flat, impatient for a night of catching up. When Cassie walked into the room and Yuriko shut the door behind her, she knew something was up.<br /><br />Cassie sat in one of the desks but Yuriko remained standing at the front of the room. She finally spoke; “Why have you been staring at me? Why do you watch me?” Yuriko had a hurt look on her face. Her raised eyebrows and crossed arms were enough body language for Cassie to know her boss was not happy. And her question was a valid one. Cassie had been staring at her, catching what she had thought were unseen glances through classroom door windows, or quick peeks onto Yuriko’s desktop to pick up any clues of her hidden personality. She’d actually been quite proud of her detective technique, feeling a certain sense of accomplishment when she felt she had unraveled another secret in the Yuriko puzzle. A discarded movie stub in the trash indicated a fondness for French films. The daily cardboard coffee cups from Starbuck’s carried a scent of vanilla, which to Cassie meant a preference for sweet over bitter. In an even bolder move, Cassie had scanned the music on Yuriko’s iPod when she had left it out on the lunch counter one afternoon. George Harrison’s travelling-through-India phase was definitely in her top ten. <br /><br />As Yuriko waited for an answer, Cassie was now very certain of one thing; she would make a lousy detective. For Yuriko to be this straightforward and direct meant that Cassie had most certainly crossed some sort of line, and now she was being held accountable. A superior detective would have had an out, a back-up plan for just such a confrontation. Cassie, however, was struck momentarily dumb. She looked up at Yuriko’s face, and decided to be honest. Well, somewhat honest. She wouldn’t go so far as to tell her what she had done, but she would tell Yuriko how she felt about her reluctance to socialize.<br /><br />“Yuriko, you’re still young, you’re gorgeous and you’ve resigned yourself to a life that revolves around Joyful Apple Language School. I’ve been watching you because I want to set you up.”<br /><br />Yuriko kept her crossed-arm stance, but her brows did soften somewhat. She moved closer to Cassie, pulled a chair out from one of the desks and sat beside her. “Cassie, work makes me happy. You’re confusing Cassie-chan’s needs with my needs. Time to stop. What makes you happy?” And Yuriko, as deft as always, deflected the issue at hand right back into Cassie’s court. Cassie had to think for only a moment. What made her happy? The happiest she had been in a long while had been in these past three weeks. What made her happy? Corresponding with David.<br /><br />“Cassie-chan, when I divorced, I made decision for my life. Open school, use my English, working hard. I like it. No, to be honest, I love it. Now, stop spying on me!” She was smiling as she spoke, and she had pulled her chair closer to Cassie’s. Looking at Yuriko, Cassie could see why she was so attractive. It went beyond the dimples and the smile. She carried a simple honesty with her in her words and in her gestures. When the time was right, she wouldn’t need Cassie to create the perfect romance for her. She’d do just fine on her own. Yuriko gave her a pat on the back and stood up to leave. “Come on, go home now. I’ll lock doors.”<br /><br />Cassie knew Sophie was probably getting impatient back at the apartment. She also knew she had to clean up the mess she had created. Somewhere in Tokyo, an Irishman named David thought he was forging a friendship with a lovely lady named Yuriko. Cassie had two choices; she could stop corresponding and simply shut down the account, or she could level with him. Yuriko’s words were still in her head; “What makes you happy?”<br /><br />As she made her way to the Internet café, Cassie went over the various scenarios that could play out once she told David the truth. She did not imagine any positive outcome, except, she supposed, a certain sense of relief that her charade was over. On the 11th floor, her two smiling greeters handed her the key with their enthusiastic greetings; “Konnichiwa Cassie-san! O genki desu ka?” As she booted up the computer, she already had the short note to David composed in her head. Simple, contrite, honest. She signed it; “Regretfully yours, Cassie” and sent it before she had a chance for any second thoughts.<br /><br />She managed, much to her own surprise, not to go anywhere near the Internet café for three full days. It was Sophie who convinced her to check the account. Sophie, actually, had been a lot more supportive than Cassie had imagined she would be. She called her a few uncomplimentary names, told her she needed to get lucky, and that was that. She was concerned about the moping about the flat, though. “Go on, go check the account. Get out of here.” She practically pushed Cassie out the door. <br /><br />She made a ten-minute walk last thirty, taking in the sites around her. She stopped dead, and did a full three hundred and sixty degree turn. She was in the heart of the world’s largest city, and she could feel its pulse throbbing through her body. Closing her eyes, she let the beat continue, not seeing anything save for the afterglow of neon behind her closed lids. How had she managed to let boredom creep into her life? Why had she created a crazy drama around her boss, a woman who was comfortable enough in her own skin to do exactly what she wanted? <br /><br />Cassie opened her eyes, and noticed two things; nobody on the sidewalk was paying attention to her, and she was standing almost face to face with a stone Buddha on a black lacquer pedestal. Temples could squeeze into the smallest spaces, and this one, though she had passed it countless times, had remained anonymous and unseen to her for three years. This small granite structure, with its incense burner and stone candle lantern, was wedged between a cell phone shop and a moveable stand with a vendor selling fried octopus. Cassie stepped closer to Buddha’s smiling face, almost nose to nose, and did something she hadn’t done in awhile. She took a deep, lung expanding breath, and let it out in one slow stream of air. It took her three years and an uncountable number of visits to temples all over Japan, and she was just now getting the message. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.<br /><br />Cassie turned away from Buddha and walked towards the café. She had no idea what would be waiting for her on the computer screen, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. When the building came into site, she looked up and counted eleven floors. She could see the glow of the café’s neon sign, flashing its open twenty-four hour status. She stepped into the elevator. Yuriko’s voice was in her head again; “What makes you happy?” And Cassie accepted the moment for what it was; a mere instant in time that would never exist again. It was her choice what she would do with it. Her choice right now was to hit eleven on the keypad in front of her. Cassie took one more deep breath and let it out before the elevator doors slid shut and she was carried noiselessly up to the eleventh floor. <br /><br />EndUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-44210939401811977962007-04-22T07:07:00.000-07:002007-05-02T05:59:44.387-07:00<a href="http://www.ayarestaurant.com.au/images/blogProfilePic.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.ayarestaurant.com.au/images/blogProfilePic.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> Myopic Youth<br /><br />I got in another fight with Yoichi today. He’s gone now and the apartment’s empty, silent. As he snapped his briefcase shut with a “This discussion’s through” finality, I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him again until two or three a.m. when he would be standing drunk in the entrance of our bedroom, wobbly. He would use his briefcase as a waving ballast to somehow give him the balance necessary to stay on his feet. But that scene will be acted out a long time from now. It’s 7:00 a.m. And I’m already spent. Ready to go back to bed. This morning’s blowout has exhausted me. I’m pushing thirty (“Still so young. Still my little baby,” says my Mom during our weekly long-distance phone fests). Pushing thirty. My mind and body beg to differ. I never imagined that I could ever feel so tired.<br /><br />I scan the small space Yoichi and I co-habitate. Our living room window faces a slate-gray cement wall, the aparment block next to us. Natural light can’t make its way in, so I’ve compensated with potted plants and cut flowers to create a a certain softness in our perfectly square environment. We’ve been in this Tokyo 1st floor apartment going on three years now, which is a record for us. Before that it was two years in Yokohama. Before that it was two years in Osaka. And before that is was two years in Nagoya. The days I miss most. Yoichi’s job with its present prestigious title of “Senior Systems Business Analyst” for Toyota had its humble beginnings back in Nagoya, company headquarters. I was a student, a recent high school graduate, studying Japanese for a year in preparation for my first year of Asian Studies back in Canada. God we were young.<br /><br />Yoichi was a lowly Toyota first-year intern back then, and I had caught his eye one night in a smoky izakaya. The izakaya were part of the reason Japan lured me to stay longer than my intended gap year before university. That, and Yoichi, of course. In any case, the best izakaya were tucked away down back alleys, their red paper lanterns guiding would-be customers from the glam of the mainstreet to the unknown of the dimly-lit back lanes. Charcoal smoke smelling of chicken and wood would be gusting out a metal grate and out onto the lane. The scent would waft up and down the alleys, taking passersby hostage with one quick whiff. When I entered into one of those places, I inevitably had to crouch down as I slid the wooden doors open, stooping over to enter the mini-door frame. Some izakaya had been built not long after the war, when people measuring anywhere near my height were certainly not the norm. Not so these days. I’m still a bit of a freak, a foreign woman at 5 foot 10, but I’ve recently seen more than a few schoolboys who can look me in the eye without having to stand on tiptoe. I call it “Big Mac” syndrome. God bless America.<br /><br />Anyway, this particular izakaya on this particular night nearly ten years ago had something more to offer me than the regular sweet sake swill and crispy chicken on sticks. It was packed with salarymen - Japan’s frontline business soldiers. I wasn’t fond of salarymen. From my pre-twenties perspective, their age could have ranged anywhere from mid-thirties to late sixties. In other words, old. Salarymen in an izakaya weren’t an unusual sight for a Friday night. The thing that struck me immediately was that these particular salarymen didn’t fit the profile of the common downtown, middle-aged office drone. Salarymen all had a code of behaviour and a uniform that set them apart, making them easy to spot in their endless sameness. The way I saw it, all salarymen sucked on Mild Seven Lights with such ferocity you’d think their life depended on it. They would pull in deep breaths of smoke, and then exhale in whistling gusts through nicotined teeth and flared nostrils. Salarymen absent-mindedly touched and retouched their thinning comb-overs while they talked, ensuring that the stinky signature salaryman brand hair tonic was keeping their remaining hair plastered firmly to dandruffed scalps. Salarymen were the ones who, even after spending twelve to fifteen hours in a pressed suit and starched white shirt, couldn’t find that little bit of inner rebel to loosen a perfectly aligned tie. As I scanned the izakaya that night from my vantage point at the front door, I could see that the particular breed of salaryman I had grown accustomed to had undergone some sort of Twilight Zone transformation. There wasn’t even a hint of hair tonic stink in the air. Not that night. <br /><br />These guys sitting cross-legged on tatami mats at low-lying tables were, first and foremost, young. My entrance caused the mix of excited voices to come to a complete stop. The silence had caught me off-guard momentarily. Well, the silence and the fact that about fifteen men in their early twenties were staring at me.<br /><br />There was a haze of cigarette smoke hanging over their heads in soft blue halos. Sure enough, they were wearing suits, but not in traditional salaryman style. Most of them had loosened their ties and unbuttoned their white shirts, some all the way down to their bellybuttons. One had his tie wrapped around his head and had wooden chopsticks stuck in at either side of his ears. The long pieces of wood stood straight up, like two alert antennae searching a frequency. He’s the one who broke the silence. “Oh! America-jin desu ka?” He was pointing at my chest, at right about the same spot that all his pals were focusing their attention. I crossed my arms and answered with some of the Japanese I’d picked up in nearly six months of study. “Chigau… Canada-jin desu.”<br /><br />This set the room buzzing as they all cheered their enthusiasm for the Canadian arrival. The one who had mistaken me for an American continued; “Oh, Canada! Niagara! Beautiful!” He had pulled one of the chopsticks from his tie headband and was waving it in my general direction. “Come on, come on! Canada-jin, drinking!” I was still hesitating in front of the door, knowing that once I committed myself to joining this group of eager office workers, I would be setting myself up for an inevitable hang-over the next morning. I scanned the small room. The crimson faces smiling back at me and the twenty-odd litre-sized Asashi Super Dry bottles scattered on the large table were good indicators that these guys were quite serious in their get-drunk quest. I had learned from stories told to me that many Japanese lacked a certain enzyme that breaks down alcohol properly. After a few nights out on the town, I was able to recognize the ones who were most susceptible to this genetic quirk. The red-faced side effect certainly didn’t deter most young guys from drinking until they passed out cold, sometimes while still in the bar.<br /><br />As I wavered between the common sense, go-back-to-your-dormitory-now choice that lingered just behind me, the enthusiasm of the drunken young pseudo-salarymen in front of me was proving to be more attractive. I knew, even in my limited night-life experience in Nagoya, that I would be treated like a Princess. I knew beer would be refilled in my glass after every sip. I knew an assortment of izakaya delicacies would be placed before me on perhaps a dozen or so miniature dishes. I knew each and every guy in there would push and shove at the others to get a chance to talk with me. And I knew that it was all part of a show that would leave me feeling a little empty (and headachy) in the morning. But, my ego needed stroking, even if it was in the most superficial of ways. So, I walked in, slipping off my shoes and stepping onto the tatami to a round of cheers from fifteen adoring young men. I was nineteen for Godsakes, was there really any other option? <br /><br />As I stepped up and onto the tatami platform, one guy in particular was using his eyes quite effectively to gesture me to sit on the small cushion beside him. He appeared to be the least drunk of the bunch and seemed far more capable of suppressing his enthusiasm for me, the gaijin who had just crashed the party. As delicately as my size long legs would allow, I stepped up and over four or five sprawled young men who had made this part of the tatmami mats as cozy as their own living room. They leaned their backs against the wall, legs outstretched toward the table, some leaning on one elbow while sipping beer from extra small drinking glasses. Beer could be gulped in one quick sip which would bring immediate action from those close-by. Another litre bottle would be held up by a co-drinker and the foamy refill would be splashed into the glass. A drinker rarely refilled his own glass in this part of the world. I had learned of the custom in my first week in Japan, so this night, when I sat down and picked up my own mini-glass, I was well-prepared for the two or three bottles that were suddenly hovering by my side. I leaned in closer to the eye-gesturer, giving him the opportunity to pour my first glass.<br /><br />He stopped pouring just as the foam was about to spill over the top. I was about to bring it to my lips when he spoke; “Wait! First a toast to the mystery Canadian… Kanpai!” Everyone raised their glasses high for the clinking of glasses. I did too, but I couldn’t stop staring at my new seatmate. What the hell? His English was not only perfect, he had a clipped, English accent. I took the mandatory first sip and placed the glass on the table top. It was immediately topped up by the guy with the tie around his head. “Go, drink, drink!” I smiled, but felt the need to focus on the English speaker beside me. <br /><br />“Uh, your English is… well it’s really good.” He smiled, bowing his head slightly. As I watched him, something became clear. He liked me. And, I guess I was feeling more than a little intrigued by him myself. As the realization crept up on me, I could feel the beginnings of a slow-moving blush moving from my neck to my face. I grabbed for my glass and gulped the beer down in two quick swallows. Very ladylike, I’m sure. Tie-head refilled it. “Go Canada! Drink, drink!” He was beginning to annoy me.<br /><br />“Never mind him. If you don’t want anymore, just put your hand over the glass like this.” His English accent was unnerving. He was the first bilingual Japanese I had met since arriving in Nagoya. I was becoming so accustomed to the Japanized version of English, it hadn’t crossed my mind that maybe the guy was indeed an Englishman. It all just seemed completely out of place in this back-alley beer and chicken joint. In retrospect, I guess he was just as out of place as I, a lone five-foot-ten Canadian teenager wandering in unannounced. As he leaned over to cover his own glass to demonstrate, Tie-head, still chatting with the guy on his right, continued to pour, oblivious to the hand covering the glass. The beer splashed everywhere, including over the tabletop and onto my lap. My newfound Henry Higgins jumped up with a “Baka!” expletive and reached for the box of tissues under the table. He practically emptied the box sopping up the beer on the table and laying several layers in the general vicinity of my lap. Tie-head remained oblivious, as did the rest of the crew. My Englishman, on the other hand, seemed to take on the embarrassment that should have rightly been Tie-head’s. “I’m so sorry. Are you uncomfortable? Do you want to leave?”<br /><br />I laughed and told him I was fine. I wanted to stay. And could he please tell me his name? “Yoichi Imai. My friends call me Yo.” He reached out his hand and I took hold of it. He gave me a solid handshake, not the soft squeeze that someone accustomed to bowing generally offers a gaijin. I liked the feel of his hand. And I liked the way he looked me squarely in the eye. Quite simply, I liked him. And that’s how Yoichi Imai swept a Canadian teenager off her feet. A firm handshake, eye contact and perfectly formed James Bond vowels. I was hooked.<br /><br />Yoichi was old-fashioned. He courted me. He would walk me to my school dormitory after our dates, never expecting or pressuring to be let in. He probably knew the dorm rules of the school better than I did. He knew everything better than I did. I learned that he had been born in Nagoya, and moved to England when he was three. His father was an engineer for Toyota, and taught courses every other year at University College London. Yoichi and his mom remained in England while his father moved back and forth every other year from Toyota headquarters in Nagoya. He called the set-up tanshinfunin, kind of like a long-term commuting father. To me, it sounded cold, unromantic. I declared I would never have such a life with whoever my husband would be. Husbands and wives stick together.<br /><br />I felt I was studying hard but after close to a year, I still could only read about 300 or so kanji, the Chinese-based alphabet. Compared to the more than 2000 plus kanji a Japanese highschooler would know, I felt illiterate and depended on Yo for things that most ninteen year-olds took for granted; reading street signs, understanding the ingredients on a food package, even something as simple as reading a restaurant menu. And the more he helped, the less I studied. We created our own little Westernized bubble, speaking in English, going to foreign-run bars, unearthing hidden English repertory cinemas that most Nagoyans didn’t know about. No one else existed in our self-made world.<br /><br />As my school year was coming to a close, we both started panicking. I felt I hadn’t learned enough, and I certainly didn’t want to say goodbye to Yoichi, or the special place we had created. He was entering into his second year at Toyota and couldn’t afford to take time off. It would have hurt his career. My student visa had run its course. It was time to for me to back to Canada. The countdown was on. It was suddenly two weeks before my departure when something quite unexpected happened. Yoichi proposed. And I said yes. I didn’t want the world we had created to disintigrate.<br /><br />Could that have been almost a decade ago?<br /><br />So here I am, surveying my first-floor Tokyo apartment this quiet spring morning, and the memory of that first meeting and our first months together seems like it belongs to another couple. The Yoichi who stormed out of the apartment moments ago, briefcase firmly in hand, is another man. And I suppose I’m a different person myself. Shit, I was still a kid when we were traipsing through Nagoya, chattering in English looking for the perfect scone shop. <br /><br />There are no more scones. No more English films on lazy afternoons. There are certainly no more Friday nights in a back alley izakaya. Well, not together in any case. Yoichi still goes. Not just on Friday’s, either. I’ve ventured a couple of times to his favourite backalley haunt. He doesn’t know. I peeked through the small space in the sliding wooden door and I could see him. He wasn’t sitting on the tatami. He was on a barstool with other Toyota execs, leaning over sake cups, lost in conversation. He was in his starched white shirt and pressed pleated suit pants. I could see his Mild Seven Lights laying on the counter in front of him, another pack peeking out of his jacket pocket. And when he stood up to go to the toilet, I could see his tie was perfectly straight, held in place by his shiny Toyota ten-year pin. <br /><br />My potted plants need watering, but, at the moment, there’s something else a little more pressing. I sigh as I make my way out to the kitchen to find the mop, the broom and the dust pan. I make my may to the front door and I survey the mess on the floor. The object of my fury and early morning tantrum is smashed to pieces on the floor. Shards of pale blue glass are all that remain. Nobody would be able to recognize what the bottle once held. The scent would give it away immediately, though. The unmistakable aroma of anti-dandruff hair tonic. I’ll be able to clean away the pieces of glass. That heavy smell will last awhile. Perhaps even a lifetime.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-17949063692290282612007-03-02T02:52:00.000-08:002007-03-02T03:13:12.375-08:00Summer Printclub Fun In Nara<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy9fZhQK_gmN9hNvUJmsxg3A0cs3vL2M4MxIHDuh2xr9MGVbh46hHvg7aokKGH6SgVSdmwtUA4rwApRj6zsksqZDRurQQXGbBKCgfq8Kldh11PigCAlctslp-Pfga-i-jDXHvg/s1600-h/NaraPictures.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy9fZhQK_gmN9hNvUJmsxg3A0cs3vL2M4MxIHDuh2xr9MGVbh46hHvg7aokKGH6SgVSdmwtUA4rwApRj6zsksqZDRurQQXGbBKCgfq8Kldh11PigCAlctslp-Pfga-i-jDXHvg/s320/NaraPictures.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037278709902316210" /></a> <br /><br /><a href="http://www.nycvisit.com/_uploads/images/taxi_web_op.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.nycvisit.com/_uploads/images/taxi_web_op.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a>Taxichat!<br /><br />I read a book in Ireland last summer called Tales From the Rearview Mirror. Each small chapter is a vignette from the taxi driver's point of view. Brian was saying the other night that it would be interesting to get the perspective of the passengers as well, so a new blog was born. Brian has created "Taxichat". How often do you travel from A to B in a taxi and in the matter of a couple of kilometers you've found out more about your taxi driver's life than you do of some people you've known for years? If you have an interesting story from one of your taxi rides, go to Brian's blog and share it with everyone. Go to this link http://www.briancullen.net/ and then go to the profile. Click on Taxi Driver Interviews.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-65981582602216720952007-02-13T17:45:00.000-08:002007-02-13T21:08:05.936-08:00<a href="http://imagesource.allposters.com:80/images/pic/SSPOD/superstock_892-239_b~Subway-Station-Tokyo-Japan-Posters.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://imagesource.allposters.com:80/images/pic/SSPOD/superstock_892-239_b~Subway-Station-Tokyo-Japan-Posters.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> <a href="http://www.urbanlowdown.com/img/articlePics/204_1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.urbanlowdown.com/img/articlePics/204_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Midlife Enlightenment<br /><br />“What the hell am I doing here?” These were the first words that came to Kate’s mind when she queued up under the official looking sign labelled “Aliens”. <br /><br />There were two other line-ups, one for “Japanese Nationals” and the other for “Alien Re-entry”. The one she chose seemed the most logical. She and the planeloads of other weary arrivals separated themselves from the Japanese and formed a somewhat orderly line under the sign flashing their new identity. Waiting to clear immigration, Kate looked around at her fellow aliens and something became abundantly clear. She was alone.<br /><br />At 42, she found herself on a cusp. At a stretch, she could be considered a baby-boomer, while at the same time she straddled that other generation, named for a book and referred to as “X”. Kate preferred the latter, and she didn’t really mind the label. It made her feel like she belonged to something. And there were worse things than belonging to the slightly neurotic, intellectualized nomads called Gen X. She scanned the line for other like-minded travellers. Not a one in sight. There was a group of East Indian ladies with at least a half-dozen kids of various ages in tow. For having just flown from what Kate assumed must be Delhi or Mumbai to Tokyo, the kids were incredibly well behaved. Most were clinging to their Mothers’ saris, brown eyes wide, sucking their thumbs or twirling their hair. <br /><br />There was an energetic group of seven or eight Filipinas, each helping the other adjust a purse strap or tame frizzy airplane hair as they chatted in what sounded like Spanish on speed. Kate couldn’t remember the name of the language they were speaking. She listened and watched some more, racking her brain for a name to attach to the words flowing so smoothly from their mouths. From the way they were grooming each other and re-applying lipstick, Kate thought they looked more like they were preparing for a nightclub rather than the immigration booth at the head of the line. They were happy, uninhibited. And then she remembered the name and said it aloud to herself with a sense of satisfaction; “Tagalog…” Forgetting place names, dates, book titles, was happening with more and more frequency lately and it rattled her when it did.<br /><br />A bit further down, a group of men were eyeing the Filipinas, nudging each other and smirking. She knew what they were. GI’s on furlough. They were representatives of Uncle Sam’s finest military might. When she was in her late twenties, she had taken a leave of absence from her teaching position at an all-girls high school. These get-aways seemed to be a perk the Gen X’ers had over their baby-boomer predecessors. It was almost a given that time off is a part of seniority, and if not offered, it was time to move on. On this particular leave, she had spent almost a month in Thailand, one week of which she lay low in one of the seediest places she had ever seen - Khao San Road in Bangkok. <br /><br />Right now, the baritone voices of the men drowned out the chatter of the Filipinas ahead of them, enough so that the women stopped their conversation dead to shoot the men withering glares over their shoulders. There was a quick exchange of Tagalog amongst themselves and fits of giggles as the women turned back to continue their previous discussion. The men, all in their early twenties, were silenced for a moment. The one closest to the Filipinas, stocky and so blonde he could have been Albino, broke the silence; “Dudes, they want it and they want it baaaad!” He grabbed his groin and swung his hips in the direction of the women. They ignored him, but his mates didn’t. He got a few slaps of encouragement as he continued swaying his hips to and fro. Kate had to look away. She didn’t want her own blondeness to include her in any way with these assholes.<br /><br />She realized that these GI’s lining up for immigration could have been clones of the ones roaming those gritty Bangkok alleys she had been exploring in the early nineties. Kate wasn’t sure whether to think it ironic or sad that for US military men so much had remained the same over the years, from the haircuts to the cocky attitudes right on down to the generic light blue acid washed jeans. She decided right there that the only thing that distinguished these guys from their brothers before them was the location of the countries they were bombing. And even at that, it was only by a few hundred miles or so. She snuck another peek at them as they continued their attempt to get the Filipinas’ attention. She knew there were army bases in Okinawa, and Okinawa was at the opposite end of the country from where she would be living – Tokyo. At that, she smiled, and checked her progress in the line. Her attention was brought back to herself by a wave of loneliness as she looked from the front of the line all the way to the back.<br /> <br />Indian mamas, Filipina party girls, Army surplus wankers. She brought her eyes once more to the front of the line and started the scan yet again. Even if there were only one woman her own age, even if she were on the arm of a husband, a lover, a significant other, it didn’t matter. Kate just wanted to see one other middle-aged, female alien to validate her own decision to be here. Even as she scanned, she was consciously hating herself for needing the reinforcement. She looked at her stuffed backpack lying on its side at her feet. It had tipped over from the weight of its contents and looked slightly ridiculous, bulging at the seams, some of the contents spilling out the top. The Canadian flag sewn on years ago was frayed at the edges. She gave the bag a bit of shove with her foot and felt a sudden flash of resentment.<br /><br />She thought back again to her stay in Thailand. Kate remembered watching the weathered hippies as they walked the beaches of one of the more secluded Thai islands she had visited almost fifteen years ago. Wearing their flowing long skirts and headbands, they would sit with the locals making jewellery from shells and weaving wristbands from hemp. Looking back, she had a pretty good idea of what was going through her mind at the time. It was surely nothing too harsh or overly malicious. Probably more of a tolerant pity accompanied by the words; “Grow up.” <br /><br />These were the words going through her head now as she bent over to pick up the dead weight of the toppled-over backpack. This time they were in self-reproach. She repeated what she had said a few minutes earlier; “What the hell am I doing here?” The initial judgement she had passed on the GI’s she now directed back at herself. Had she changed at all in fifteen years? <br /><br />She shuffled ahead as the line moved forward a few inches. She focused on the colourful headband on the traveller in front of her. Now was not the time to have a meltdown considering she was about to face immigration man and his magic rubber stamp. Self-pity and jet lag made for a bleak blend. Kate decided to drown out her thoughts and the voices around her with music. She used music the way some people consumed Prozac. It was her feel good drug, her escape hatch. She hit play on her i-pod, adjusted the earphones, and closed her eyes as the first few notes of Comfortably Numb carried her away from the gloom that had burrowed itself so deeply into her thoughts.<br /><br />**<br /><br />Passing through immigration had been a lot easier than she had predicted. The questions the official had asked her had been straightforward enough. “Why are you here?” Easy. She was offered a teaching position at a junior high school through a recruiting agency in Vancouver. She was on sabbatical from her own teaching position back home. “How long will you stay?” Again, simple. The agency had taken care of the paperwork, and she was guaranteed a one-year visa. “Will you have family members joining you?” Nope. Single, no dependants. <br /><br />She did have a small stomach flutter when she had said she was single. In reality, she was divorced. Or, more exotically, she was a divorcee. Never mind that the marriage lasted exactly sixty-four days and took place in Vegas on her twenty-first birthday. She used to hide her divorced status for years. She had felt ashamed of her Las Vegas adventure with her high school sweetheart. After the age of thirty-five, however, she found the “D” word rolling off her lips more often when asked her marital status. By her mid-thirties, it seemed like a better club to belong to than the one labelled “single, never married.” <br /><br />Final question; “Do you have an address in Japan?” She pulled out the slip of paper the agency had given her. It was neatly typed and included a map from downtown Tokyo to her final destination. Her street name had 18 letters. Kate tried to say it, but it was unpronounceable. She showed it to the man, he scanned it briefly, and stamped her passport with a swift flick of his wrist. “Next please…”. And she was in. She was, officially, an alien. Kate adjusted the weight of her backpack and made her way to the luggage carrousel and customs. <br /><br />***<br /><br />The agency had offered to pick her up the following day from Narita Airport. She was arriving on a National holiday and there was no one available to meet her. Kate could have stayed the night at the airport hotel, but she declined the offer, opting instead for the adventure of locating the apartment on her own. Standing in the middle of Shinjuku station, she was beginning to question the sanity of her decision. She had read about it. She had seen pictures of it. Photos and words had no way of conveying the madness surrounding her. She stood still and in awe as the humanity swarmed around her on all sides. She felt invisible as people jostled past her, stubbing their toes on her rollaway suitcase. <br /><br />She had tried to navigate the station to get to the exit she needed, but the combination of sounds, sights and smells and the sheer volume of people were overwhelming. Kate imagined the sight from a bird’s eye-view. She wasn’t sure if the image that came to mind was from a nature program she had once seen or from a biology book she had once read, but all she could think of were ants. Hundreds of thousands of ants going about their daily business, never touching, never stopping. And here she was, all 5 feet 10 inches of her with bobbed blonde hair, creating a disruption in the natural order of the Shinjuku universe. <br /><br />Unhooking her backpack, she set it on the floor. She laid her suitcase on its side, pushing the metal handle in as she did so. And then she sat down, cross-legged, in the middle of the busiest train station in the world. She adjusted her headphones, hit play, and let Pink Floyd reinvent what she was witnessing. Her body, her suitcase, her oversized backpack acted as miniature dams to the flow of people. And, just like water in a river, the people reacted accordingly. They redirected themselves around the intrusion, continuing on as if never interrupted. Kate smiled to herself. Many travellers to Japan found enlightenment sitting zazen with Buddhist monks in hidden Kyoto temples. She found it waiting for her on the concourse of Shinjuku Station at rush hour. <br /><br />Kate was brought out of her reverie by the sight of the American GI’s from the airport. She could see them striding through the station, dodging commuters and laughing. But she couldn’t hear them. Their lips were moving, their hands motioning here and there, but it meant nothing without the words to match the gestures. They practically stepped on her as they made their way through the crowd. From their reaction, she assumed they were laughing at her. One stepped over her suitcase, leaned down and put his face close enough to hers that she could smell aftershave and French fries. Pink Floyd still filled her senses, but the GI’s voice managed to break through. She could feel the spray on her face as he yelled; “You’re a fucking freak!” Judging from the contortions overtaking the faces of his pals, he was a hit. They continued their way through the station, receding into the distance. If they had any more comments to add, she couldn’t hear them. And then she couldn’t see them. They were swallowed up by the masses and gone.<br /><br />In the next moment, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked behind her to find a businessman staring down at her. It was difficult to judge his age. He could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. He had on a smart blue suit and heavy black-rimmed eyeglasses. She removed her earphones. “Missus, are you fine? Are you English speaker?” His raised eyebrows and cocked head made Kate smile. He was truly concerned. She answered him as she brushed her pants down with her hands and stood up; “I’m good. Thanks.” <br /><br />She hoped her smile was sincere and not overdone. She’d been reading up on cultural communication and she didn’t want to come across as a phony in her first meeting with a Japanese person. “Do you need an information for train?” He was gesturing toward the overhead subway map. It looked like a jumble of Crayola colours splashed on paper by a hyper six-year-old. Kate showed him her map, and he walked her directly to her platform. He even told some fellow passengers where she needed to get off. He left her with a bow and a smile as the train doors slid shut.<br /><br />She was offered a seat by one of the passengers who had taken note of her stop. She declined the offer. She hitched her backpack securely on her shoulders, and placed her suitcase beside her. She was back on her feet again. She drank in the sights of the train and the people in it as it pulled out of Shinjuku Station to bring her to her new home. Quite possibly, she could belong here.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1170403576130721592007-02-02T00:01:00.000-08:002007-02-02T00:17:06.903-08:00I can't say that I'm speaking for all western women when I write opinion pieces. I can say, however, that the pieces I write, whether they are short fiction, bits of poetry, or the article I wrote below, are compilations of the opinions of the western women I have met over the years here; from Kagoshima to Morioka. I still haven't made it to Hokkaido or Okinawa. But when I do, I can't wait to meet and chat with more western women, and add their thoughts and stories to my stuff. I would love to hear from all who are checking in. Please drop me a line...<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hormel.com/images/glossary/c/creme_puff.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.hormel.com/images/glossary/c/creme_puff.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.kaeru-no-elka.com/gaijin-.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.kaeru-no-elka.com/gaijin-.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Identity, Guilt and Puff Pastries - Western Women In Japan<br /><br />Having lived in Japan for eight years, I have had the opportunity to cross paths with many wonderful Western women from many different countries. Each woman has been unique in her background, her character and her motivations for coming to Japan. In many of my conversations, however, there has often been a common thread of interest; that of identity, and how we viewed ourselves in the context of our place in Japan in the role of "Western Woman". We often contrasted ourselves first to where we came from and to who we were before arriving in Japan, and then to how we fit into our new home, often in comparison to Japanese women. <br /><br />Sometimes these conversations were empowering, sometimes enlightening, sometimes frustrating. Why did the issue of identity keep cropping up? It most certainly never took up such large chunks of conversation time back home. The more I talked, the clearer it became. One thing Western women adore, cherish and will fight for is choice and the freedom to speak their mind. We didn't have such things not so long ago and they are an integral part of who we are. Being in Japan suddenly made our freedom to choose and our freedom to speak our minds not such desirable qualities. In fact, it is these very qualities that are seen as unattractive and undesirable in Japanese women. <br /><br />As Western women in Japan, we find ourselves in a lose/lose situation where our identities are concerned. If we hold onto our western selves, it is difficult to forge meaningful relationships with Japanese. That's not to say we don't make friends with Japanese; we do. It is just very difficult for these friendships to get beyond the novelty of us being the strange, outspoken foreigner. We're good for cafe chats, and the occasional dinner; superficial and fun. It rarely goes much beyond that. If we try to assimilate more Japanese qualities into our personality, we run the risk of losing the respect of our Western girlfriends (as well as going against the grain of our personal beliefs). What is bound to stem from all of this internal identity juggling is negative feelings towards the people, the culture and the country itself, and for this I sometimes feel guilty.<br /><br />We've landed in a place where our fundamental belief that having an opinion, (and sharing it freely) actually works against us. Doing what we do naturally makes us appear harsh, abrasive and unfriendly. And, because our identity is so deeply ingrained in our personal expression, we dig ourselves in even deeper as we try to defend ourselves against our detractors. Our words, our pride in our intelligence and our outspokenness are the tools we used back home to express ourselves, to defend ourselves, to get by day-to-day. We didn't even think about it. It's who we are. In Japan, those tools just don't work.<br /><br />We have found ourselves in a culture that doesn't value overt forms of expression in women. As such, from our western perspective, it can make Japanese women appear weak, overly accommodating, and immature. Because our education and socialization taught us that these are negative personality traits, we find that when we are socializing or working with Japanese women, we sometimes feel disdain, anger, amusement, or pity towards them. Making negative judgments of the culture and the people of Japan seems to be the unfortunate but common side effect of not fitting in. Perhaps this negative appraisal is part and parcel of being judged daily ourselves, whether it be based on being outspoken, trying to purchase size 9 shoes, or an inability to sit seiza. There is, however, that companion sentiment to this judgement that I mentioned earlier, and that is guilt. <br /><br />Again, whether we refer to ourselves as feminists or not, a running theme of the movement is the sense of sisterhood with all women, across cultural, ethnic and economic lines. Am I abandoning that sisterhood when I feel anger or disdain when witnessing immaturity and self-deprecating behaviour in Japanese women? I am in Japan. I am here by choice. My intellectual instincts tell me to adjust, to appreciate the culture, to assimilate. My gut instinct is counteractive and kicks my intellect all over the floor. My gut recoils and balks when I try to reason with it intellectually. My intellect reminds my gut that I am the way I am because of my own cultural upbringing. My culture isn't better. It's not worse. It's just different. My gut answers back (vehemently and full of acid, I might add) that No! My way is better! Everyone else is wrong! And there goes that warm fuzzy sisterhood out the window. My gut always wins, and I end up with indigestion and a guilty conscience.<br /><br />You would think that with all this internal struggle with identity, there wouldn't be any time to devote to romantic interests. With so much energy being expended as the intellect and gut duke it out, who has time to worry about relationships? Ah, but wherever you are, there's always time for a little romance, isn't there? When it comes to l'amour, there seem to be two predominant themes for Western women in Japan. Scenario one involves Japanese who view Western women, sexually, as an anomaly, something along the lines of a grade school science project. The specimen is poked, prodded, dissected, and eventually set aside with a bit of a sour grimace. I remember peering into a bucket in my science class at all those poor discarded frog carcasses, thinking it so cruel. At least Western women have disposable income at their fingertips to soothe battered egos with an este treatment or a haircut when cast aside by a J-lover. It must be said, though, that even with our new haircuts, aromatic candles and creamy puff pastries, those bruised hearts still smart from the rejection.<br /><br />Scenario two? Well that would have to do with our counterpart - Western man. Just as our identities have had to undergo reconstruction during our stay here, so too has Western man's. Only it's different. Very different. Whereas Western woman has to question whether she is jeopardizing her whole belief system or merely being nice in the simple act of preparing tea for a male co-worker, Western man has found himself on territory that is almost eerily too friendly and accommodating. As he takes his first tentative steps on Japanese soil, I imagine him shooting a few wary looks over his shoulder, first to the left, then to the right. Out of his lips, an almost indiscernible; "What the fu...?" In the beginning, it must seem quite surreal. This is when I like Western man in Japan the most. He doesn't know what's hit him, and just as with anything that seems too good to be true, he's questioning it. Just-off-the-boat Western man is great fun to talk with. But, inevitably, he changes. <br /><br />I'm not going to go too deeply into those changes. We've all heard about the phenomenon of Western man in Japan. A stereotype perhaps, but, as in most stereotypes, there is a seed of truth and it can be infuriating at times for Western women. To acknowledge its existence is normal. Too dwell on it until we become bitter doesn't help or change anything. So, here's my acknowledgment and tip of the hat to Western man in Japan. I hope we can sit down and have a civil chat over a glass of wine sometime soon. <br /><br />Being Western woman isn't always easy. But, it isn't all that bad either. We find ourselves here by virtue of the multitude of choices made available to us because we are Western women and we were lucky enough to have this Japan option available to us. The choice to leave is always there, hanging in the wings with a come hither wink. We choose to ignore it for the time being as we delve deeper not only into the culture we find ourselves in, but also into our own ever-changing identities. We find ourselves questioning, analyzing, and getting to know ourselves more intimately than we probably ever could had we never boarded that plane. <br /><br />Perhaps that's part of the journey as well; unearthing those bits and pieces of ourselves that we never knew existed. There are those ugly traits that we'll find, the ones we won't necessarily like. Finding something you don't like about yourself at least gives you the opportunity to change it. Never knowing it was there is like never fully knowing yourself. Just as in our friends and lovers, we have to take the good with the bad. A lot of the fun is in the discovery. I'm willing to let this journey go on a little longer, learn a little more, and, hopefully, smile and laugh at it all at the end of the ride. And, if I'm lucky enough to meet you somewhere along the way, I've got quite a few stories and some creamy puff pastries I'd like to share.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1169730574093005612007-01-25T05:03:00.000-08:002007-01-25T05:09:34.106-08:00<a href="http://www.girlawhirl.com/girlawhirl/artman/uploads/airplane_seat.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.girlawhirl.com/girlawhirl/artman/uploads/airplane_seat.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Thoughts From 32A<br /><br />With her seat in its proper upright position, seatbelt securely fastened and table tray firmly latched as instructed, Sophie started tapping her foot as she waited for the plane to pull back and taxi. She fumbled through the seat pocket in front of her, pulling out the glossy in-flight magazine. Flipping through the pages, she noted in the entertainment section that there would be four movies, two sitcoms and a documentary shown between Toronto and Tokyo. Long flight. She fidgeted some more, stretching and unstretching her legs, already feeling cramped even though the plane hadn’t even started moving. She knew her hangover had something to do with her inability to sit still. Remnants of the nausea she felt in the taxi on her way to the airport still clung to her belly and pasty mouth, reminders of last night’s going-away party. For the moment, she didn’t want to think about that. About saying good-bye to her friends. About flying halfway around the world for a job she wasn’t even sure she wanted or was suited for. What she really wanted was to sleep. <br /><br />Outside the little square of window to her left, Sophie watched as the ground crew zipped across the tarmac in luggage vans and fuel trucks. She wondered if it bothered them that they were being observed from hundreds of little squares of window just like her own. Sophie continued looking on as one baggage handler in particular heaved an oversized duffelbag onto the back of a trolley. She was curious if he ever scanned the windows above him, wishing he could take-off and away from his daily grind. Sophie stared at the back of his head, willing him to look up. She wanted to see his face. She wanted to wave. She wanted to connect, but she wasn’t sure why. Pressing her face right up against the window, her breath created a circle of mist in front of her nose. She drew a happy face in it. “Come on baggage guy, look at me…” As she whispered, even more mist grew on the window, covering up her drawing. She wiped the dampness away, watching as he hopped in his little truck and drove away.<br /><br />Her attention was drawn to her seatmate on her right. He was already dozing, his head bowed, chin bobbing close to his chest. Since he was asleep, Sophie could scrutinize him more closely. He had on a starched, white button-up shirt and a navy blue tie held in place by a gold tie clip. She recognized the letter T Toyota insignia on the clip immediately. She had sold her own beat up Toyota the previous week, one of her last preparations before her move. She had cried as she watched its new owner, a flighty freshman in a tight-fitting sorority sweater, drive off in a squeal of burnt rubber. The car was ancient, rusty, ready to fall apart. Sophie couldn’t imagine that sparkly girl appreciating the dents, and the stories behind them, that the Toyota had all over its body. But, she had to sell it, just as she had sold everything else, right down to her eating utensils. She needed the money. It had bought her the seat she was sitting in right now - 32 A, Window.<br /><br />She focused once again on her well-dressed seat companion. His dark suit jacket was folded neatly on his lap, the seatbelt fastened securely over it. His black hair was cut short. It was impeccable, not a strand out of place. It was hard to judge his age. A few flecks of gray mixed with jet black on his head indicated he could be in his forties, maybe early fifties. She knew what he was. Pulling her bag from under the seat in front of her, she reached in, feeling around for her pocket dictionary. Pulling it out, she flipped immediately to the glossary at the back. She glided her index finger down the page, sounding out the letters under her breath as she passed them; “P, Q, R, S,… Salaryman.” Under the word was a short definition: “Japanese white-collar office worker. Often works long hours with low prestige in office hierarchy.” Sophie looked on as he continued sleeping beside her. She wondered if he would agree with the definition in her book. <br /><br />The plane moved forward with a jerk and her salaryman snorted, shifted his head to the left, and continued sleeping. The cabin crew glided up and down the aisles, eyes scanning left to right, on the lookout for in-flight violations. “Excuse me, Miss? Please put your bag under the seat for take-off.” Sophie had been so busy trying to see who was going to be scolded for not putting their seat up or for speaking on a cell phone that she had neglected to put away her own stuff. She looked up at the flight attendant to say sorry. The woman was gorgeous. Charcoal black hair pulled tightly in a perfect bun, crimson lipstick expertly applied, red and white silk scarf tied in a perfect bow around a slender neck. Even if she spent a few hours on her make-up and clothes, Sophie knew she could never pull off the natural elegance of this flight attendant. <br /><br />She remembered Derek waxing nostalgic about his high school days in Shanghai. He’d only been there for a year while his Dad was doing research for a military museum, but to hear him talk, he had dated half the female population of China. He called the attraction “The Asian Mystique”. If Derek were beside her right now, he’d be trying to find a way to have a chat with the Japanese cabin crew. For him, this plane would be dripping in Asian Mystique. Sophie smiled as she thought about her friend. She was going to miss his calm presence. She put the dictionary back in the bag and stuffed it under the seat.<br /><br />The beauty of the flight attendant brought Sophie’s attention to her own appearance. She realized she must look like crap. Hungover, no shower, not even a dab of concealer on her face; she knew she looked a mess. She had meant to add highlights to her blonde hair to brighten it up, trim the frizz off the ends, maybe even have her eyebrows shaped. She just didn’t have the time. The packing, the good-byes, the paperwork, all of it consumed her these past two weeks. Sitting now in her window seat was the first time in a long while that she had anytime to actually think. She’d been on autopilot for so long that the sound of that voice in her head, the one that questioned, advised and sometimes ridiculed, caught her off guard. <br /><br />“After take-off, go to the restroom, wash your face, freshen up. You’ll feel better.” She was relieved to hear the voice. Today, it had a motherly tone. Something she needed right now. She looked around. The flight attendants had taken their seats, and the plane was picking up speed. She knew she was supposed to stay put for the next little while, but she needed one more thing from her backpack. She groped again under the seat in front of her and felt what she needed in the bag. She yanked out a yellow file folder. On the front was a picture of a bright red apple with a cartoon face. It had a toothy smile and oversized eyes, one winking. The big apple head came complete with a little apple body, its two arms held high, one hand giving a peace sign, the other an enthusiastic thumbs up. The apple was ecstatic. The reason was written in bold orange letters at the top of the page; “Joyful Apple Language Experience – English For You’re Fun!!!” <br /><br />A wave of nausea swept over her yet again. Sophie leaned back and closed her eyes. Right now she wasn’t certain if the need to throw-up was because of last night’s excess, or for the fact that she was the newest employee at “Joyful Apple Language Experience”. The voice came back. “Time to sleep now. Think about this later.” She tucked the folder in the seat pocket, pulled down the blind on the window, and followed the wisdom of the voice. Sophie was asleep before the plane’s wheels left the ground.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1164712789557082912006-11-28T03:18:00.000-08:002006-11-28T03:23:16.373-08:00<a href="http://www.poets.ca/linktext/direct/pics/ondaatje.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.poets.ca/linktext/direct/pics/ondaatje.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />When I wrote the story below, the one with the taxi driver, I based his looks on this man. Does anyone know who he is? A delicious chocolate treat if anyone knows. I hope he doesn't mind... I've seen him in person on a few occasions, and his features always stunned me. (BTW, the story is fiction. Some of you were concerned in my last story that I had burnt my house down. Nope. All of this is fiction unless otherwise stated.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1164541224032511942006-11-26T03:33:00.000-08:002006-11-26T03:40:24.043-08:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/1350/1489/1600/998528/sarah.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/1350/1489/320/59806/sarah.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />I've added another story below. For the few people who are reading these every month, you may notice some repetition coming up (in images, use of words, theme...) I am restructuring some of my writing for the course I'm taking. Blogger is my guinea pig site; a place where I can test-run some of my story ideas. This one takes an idea I had awhile ago and changes it into the third person. Comments, constructive criticism, your thoughts... anything would be welcome as I am submitting these for my course. Have a read and let me know what you think. Thanks to all who keep peeking in. xox :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1164540648278736602006-11-26T03:17:00.000-08:002006-11-26T03:30:48.306-08:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/1350/1489/1600/642839/IMG_1213.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/1350/1489/320/461856/IMG_1213.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Scratching the Surface<br />- i -<br />It crossed Sophie’s mind for a moment that she might not make her flight. She sat in the back seat of the taxi on the way to Toronto International Airport doubled over and nauseous. She fumbled through the bulky knapsack at her feet, searching in vain for a hairclip, an elastic band, anything so she could pull her hair back into a ponytail. She was certain she was going to be sick, and she didn't want any of it flying into her hair. Hopefully, she would soon be on a fifteen-hour flight bound for Japan. As bad as she was feeling, Sophie had enough forethought to know that any lingering smell brought about by her present nausea would cling to her for the rest of the day and night. Digging deeper, she felt the fuzzy material of her headband at the bottom of the sack and pulled it out. She caught most of her matted hair in one hand and pulled it into a quick bun on top of her head with the other. A few whisps of blonde clung to the dampness on her face. She wasn't sure if she was sweating from the humidity or from the hangover that had completely taken over her body. The car lurched, and came to a sudden stop. Sophie's head butted into the headrest of the seat in front of her.<br /><br />She let out a grunt and her backpack shifted enough so that much of the contents were now splayed on the floor beside her feet. She didn't think the driver had noticed, but he turned around sideways, looking apologetic.<br /><br />"Sorry Miss. Heavy, heavy traffic. Maybe stuck ten, fifteen minutes." He turned to face the road again. Through the windows on both sides, Sophie could see the cars were lined up on the highway, not moving, practically touching bumpers. She checked her watch. She had planned for small time traps such as this. Panic wasn’t setting in yet. She tried to focus on things other than time and the sorry state of her stomach. <br /> <br />She looked at the back of the driver's head. A few strands of dark hair peeked out from under his tightly wound turban. The fingers of both his hands were wrapped firmly around the steering wheel as he looked left, then right, hoping to find a space in one of the packed lanes beside them. No luck. Sophie was pleased he was at least trying. Another wave of nausea swept over her, and she had to forget about the taxi driver while she leaned over to put her head between her legs. She tried not to make a noise, but something between a cough and a gag came out of her throat, and she jerked forward even more.<br /><br />"You alright Miss?" The driver turned halfway in his seat to check her state in the back. She could sense his concern, but Sophie wasn't certain if it was for her well-being, or for the possibility that his maroon vinyl seats might soon be covered with the contents of her stomach.<br /><br />"You want water?" Before she could answer, the driver was rifling around in a large plastic bag on the passenger seat next to him. Traffic was still not moving, and it was getting even more humid in the small space. He pulled a large plastic bottle out of the bag, unscrewed the cap, and swiveled around to pass it to Sophie.<br /><br />"Don't worry. Brand new. Take it." He leaned over the seat and set it down beside her. <br /><br />When she brought the bottle to her mouth she realized just how thirsty she actually was. In just a few noisy gulps, nearly half the bottle was empty. She looked up to see the driver staring intently at her, and for the first time she saw his face full on. He was beautiful. There was no other word to describe his features. Mocha skin, high-cut cheek bones, long, slender nose. There were feminine undertones delicately etched on his face giving him a certain softness. The fact that his hair was pulled back under a turban brought even more attention to his bone structure. But what struck Sophie most were his eyes. They were a deep ocean blue so unexpected that she sucked in a mouthful of air and bottled water at the same time. She began sputtering and coughing, trying to get the misdirected water out of her lungs. <br /><br />"Miss, Miss? You want air?" The driver had turned around and was fumbling with the switches on the door beside him. Both front windows were already wide open, but since they weren't driving, absolutely no air was circulating in the car. Both back windows began to glide open smoothly with a mechanical sigh. Sophie immediately leaned over and hung her head out the side. The air wasn't really that much different outside, but having the option of getting sick out the window rather than on the seat brought her an immediate sense of relief. She coughed and sputtered a few more times, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and then brought her head back into the car. She leaned heavily back into the seat.<br /><br />"Miss? So sorry. No air conditioning. Broken. You okay now?"<br /><br />He had once again turned completely around to face her. He was looking closely at her. Sophie was struck silent by the incredible blue eyes staring back at her. She felt guilty. She didn't deserve his concern. She had brought this on herself. Bits and pieces of the previous evening started to come back to her. <br /><br />- ii -<br />Last night had been her going away party. A handpainted sign hung on the front door of her apartment when she got home from the Japanese Consulate downtown. "Good Luck Sophie!" was printed in red and black block letters. Someone had taken the time to print the words in stylized Asian script, each letter ending with a calligraphy flourish. The last of her bags had been packed and her teacher's visa from the Consulate was firmly pasted in her passport. It was time to say good-bye to her friends. She had invited them over to her now empty apartment. There were about fifteen people sitting on leftover packing boxes and suitcases. All kinds of drinks, potato chips and pizza slices were spread out on the floor in front of them. Sophie was going to Japan for a year, and the reality of her decision to work overseas began to sink in after beer number five. <br /><br />Beer melencholy took over and the sadness of the impending good-byes was welling up insider her. She looked around at the roomful of her friends. She took another swig of her beer, saying out loud what she had been thinking; "I'm going to miss you guys..." She swayed a bit as she spoke and then took a seat on an overturned empty milk crate.<br /><br />Derek, her co-worker from Tower CDs was beside her in a flash, kneeling and putting his arm around her shoulders. “Ah Sophie, you’ll be fine. You’ll make friends. You’ll see. Trust me, change is good.”<br /><br />Of all her friends, Derek probably knew best what she was going through. He was what was known as an “army brat.” His dad’s position in the Canadian army had Derek moving around from country to country, army base to army base from the time he was born. The past four years in university were the longest he had stayed put anywhere. He was still reassuring her when their other co-worker Elise made her way over. Judging by her lack of balance, she had probably surpassed Sophie’s five-beer mark quite awhile ago. She was carrying two beers, one in each hand, and passed one to Sophie.<br /><br />“Cheers to you, Sophie.” Elise reached out to touch bottles for a toast, but misjudged the distance and instead swung her arm past Sophie’s bottle and was toasting air. Derek smiled and gave a bit of an eye-roll for Sophie’s benefit. Elise wasn’t paying attention. She pulled a crate over and sat down, putting her arm around Sophie’s right shoulder. Sophie was now sandwiched between her two friends. <br /><br />Elise could still string a few sentences together. She swayed on her seat as she spoke; “Hey, you’ll be flying around on rickshaws and eating Peking duck by this time tomorrow.” Her arm was completely wrapped around Sophie now. Derek looked amused and stayed put, kneeling on the floor beside them. Elise gave Sophie’s shoulder an extra squeeze and leaned in closer. Sopie tried to stand up, but the weight of Elise’s arm and her own unsteadiness fed by the five beers forced her to stay put on the crate. <br /><br />They may have all been drunk, but Sophie couldn’t let Elise’s comment slip by. Why was her friend talking about China?<br /><br />“I’m going to Japan, Elise. Japan…” At least that’s what she tried to say. The beers had turned her tongue into a slab of numb rubber. <br /><br />“You know, Japanese, not Chinese…” Was anybody listening? Both her friends were smiling. Elise put down her beer, stood up and did a little click of her heels before she started to sing a rhyme Sophie hadn’t heard since grade school.<br /><br />“Chinese, Japanese<br />Dirty knees, Look at these!”<br /><br />While singing, Elise pulled the corners of her eyes first up, then down, touched her knees, and in her final flourish, she pulled her blouse up and over her breasts. All eyes in the room were soon focused on her. Well, one part of the rhyme had certainly changed since grade school. Sophie remembered the eye gestures, but she certainly never got a peek of a lacy 36-D pink push-up bra. Elise soon had a crowd around her asking her to sing the rhyme again. Sophie pushed herself up and off her red milk crate with substantial effort, and made her way towards the empty kitchen.<br /><br />The walls had clean square outlines where her Miro and Picasso prints had hung over the kitchen table. They had held the place of honour on the centre wall for the four years Sophie had lived here. They had seen her through from day one of of her freshman year right through to her graduation two weeks ago. Those prints, along with her books and freshly printed university degree were now nestled safely in boxes labelled “Sophie’s Stuff” in her parent’s suburban basement. She leaned against the kitchen counter, trying to absorb the mixture of emotions washing over her. Being drunk didn’t help matters much.<br /><br />Derek walked in and put his empty beer bottle on the counter. He smiled at Sophie. “Ah. Just the person I was looking for.”<br /><br />He walked over to her and took one of her hands in his. He looked her straight in the eye.<br /><br />“I know you’re disappointed in Elise, in the group out there…” He gestured to the living room with his free hand.<br /><br />She didn’t know what to say. She was indeed aware of how quickly political correctness went out the window when there were plenty of beers and no visible minorities around. But, was it affecting her so strongly only because she was going to Asia? She felt like a fraud and a hypocrite.<br /><br />“Soph, you’re going to have to get a thicker skin. Soon, you’re going to be the one on the other side. Soon, nobody will know or probably even care if you’re American, Australian or Austrian. Won’t matter. You’ll be a foreigner and that’s that.”<br /><br />She could always count on Derek for his honesty, and now was no exception. Two words stuck out for Sophie in what Derek had just said; thick skin. Along with Japanese verb forms and pronoun usage, it was now on her list of things to perfect.<br /><br />The last of the well-wishers piled out at 3:00 a.m., taking empty pizza boxes and bags of cans and bottles with them. Elise had three different admirers vying for the coveted position of escort home. The only part of her little rhyme that anyone remembered was the last line; “Look at these!” Evidently people liked what they saw.<br /><br />Sophie said her last good-byes, closed the door and looked at her empty space. Derek had pre-ordered a taxi for 8:30 am the next day. Everything was set. Sophie unrolled her sleeping bag, crawled in and stared at the ceiling. That’s when the nausea set in. It was a mixture of booze, fear and greasy pizza, and it looked like it was going to stay. She closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing.<br /><br />It was the persistent buzz of the intercom that woke her to the stark brightness of the living room that morning. She lifted her head slowly from the floor and looked around her. No curtains, no furniture, just some empty crates, glaring sunshine and the promise of humidity in the air. She untangled herself from the sleeping bag and stumbled to the intercom.<br /><br />“Hi, Hello?” She pressed her lips close to the mouthpiece on the wall.<br /><br />“Yes, It’s taxi. It’s 8:30. I will wait.”<br /><br />“SHIT!” She didn’t say that part into the intercom. She pressed the ‘speak’ button and spoke into the wall again.<br /><br />“Give me 5 minutes. I’ll be right there!” She pressed ‘listen’ one more time.<br /><br />“Alright. But airport traffic will be very busy.”<br /><br />No shower, no trip to the coffee shop next door, not even a splash of water on her parched tongue. Sophie rolled up her sleeping bag, strapped her backpack to her shoulders and picked up her suitcases. She threw a last glance at her apartment, pausing when her eyes got to the white squares that used to house her favourite artists. She took her key off its “S” shaped keychain and dropped it in the mailbox of her landlady. The clank that sounded when it hit the bottom of the box signaled the end of an era. When she stepped into the taxi, she knew it was the beginning of a new one.<br /><br />- iii-<br />“Miss? You okay now?”<br /><br />Sophie snapped out of her reverie. The taxi driver was still turned around in his seat looking at her.<br /><br />“I’m better. Thanks for opening the windows. It’s helping.”<br /><br />He turned to face the road again and let out a little laugh. “Look ahead, Miss. Traffic is moving! We will go soon.”<br /><br />Sophie began to collect the bits and pieces from her backpack that had fallen onto the floor of the taxi. Lipstick, tissues and a pocket dictionary of Japanese phrases were scattered at her feet. She put the tissues and lipstick back in the bag, but paused to look at the dictionary. She decided there was no better time than the present, and cracked it open to the first page. She started scanning “Greetings” when the car jerked forward. The traffic jam appeared to have come to an end, and they were beginning to pick up speed. The taxi driver took a look to his left, then right, then into the rearview mirror. Sophie caught site of those eyes again, and they still had the same effect. They took her breath away.<br /><br />The driver took his cue from a gap in trafffic, and made his way over to the faster lane. The blare of the horn behind them was deafening. Sophie jerked around to see where it came from, and her driver quickly brought the taxi back into its original lane. In just seconds, a blue convertible, top down, pulled up to their left keeping the same speed as the taxi. The driver of the sports car appeared to be in his fifties. His salt and pepper hair and v-neck cardigan gave him the look of a tv sit-com Dad. The two cars were close enough for Sophie to see the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. They were not happy eyes. He was glaring at her taxi driver. There was no doubt about it. He was furious.<br /> <br />The man was wagging his index finger at the taxi, and his face was contorted with anger as he looked quickly straight ahead at the road in front of him and then to the taxi driver on his right. He kept looking back and forth, road to taxi driver, five or six times before his fury burst out of his mouth. The taxi’s windows were still wide open. There was no way to mistake what he was yelling.<br /><br />“Fucking Paki! Don’t they have cars where you come from? Paki go home!”<br /><br />His finger wagging turned into a middle finger salute, held high above his head and waving in the air as he sped ahead. <br /><br />Sophie looked to the rearview mirror to catch sight of her driver’s eyes. She couldn’t see them. He was looking intently straight ahead. The back of his neck was scarlet.<br /><br />“Miss?” He was now looking in the mirror, and Sophie looked up to catch his gaze.<br /><br />“Are you okay Miss? I am so sorry for the shock.” He looked back to the road again.<br /><br />Sophie wanted to say something, anything. She could think of nothing. She felt ashamed. She stared out the window in silence, watching the scenery race by and the airport come into view. The queaziness was still there, and she took another gulp of water. She realized then what it was that she wanted to say, but knew she wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have accepted it. She wanted to say “I’m sorry.”<br /><br />As Toronto International Airport came into view, Sophie tried to collect her thoughts. She wouldn’t see this place for a whole year. Would she miss it? She knew she would, and she also knew she would be homesick for things she had not even thought of yet. She opened the door to her taxi. The driver had already placed her luggage on the sidewalk in front of her. As she struggled to get her backpack on, he came around behind her. <br /><br />“Miss, let me help you.” He pulled the strap over her left shoulder and shifted the weight so that it was hanging evenly from her back.<br /><br />“You have a safe journey, Miss.” He smiled, his eyes looking straight at hers. Sophie wanted to say something. She wanted to somehow acknowledge his kindness .<br /><br />“You’ve been very helpful. Please, how do you say “Thank you” in Pakistani?”<br /><br />He looked at her with a bit of a quizzical look on his face, his head tilting slightly to the side. And then he smiled.<br /><br />“Miss, I don’t know about Pakistani. But in the part of India where I come from we say “Dev boren koru.” <br /><br />It was Sophie’s turn to become red. She finally said what she had wanted to in the taxi. “I’m sorry.”<br /><br />“Miss. You don’t worry. You will go on a plane. You will see. Everything will be good.”<br /><br />He gave her a little pat on her shoulder, smiled, and turned to get into his cab. Sophie picked up her suitcases and walked towards the terminal and the plane waiting to take her to Japan. She stuffed the dictionary in her pocket. She knew it wouldn’t teach her everything, but it would be a start.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1162476394503485392006-11-02T05:55:00.000-08:002006-11-02T06:10:01.946-08:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/1600/IMG_1265.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/320/IMG_1265.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Reading In the Woods<br /><br />The Writer's Group got together for a reading the day before Halloween. I decided I had better dress up for the occasion. It really was a perfect spot not far from Higashiyama Koen, but well hidden from the masses. My Halloween story is below, under the picture of my favourite Buddha. (PS; If anyone knows how to make italics or bold in the text here, please teach me! I need it quite a bit in the story below, especially for the foreign words. Any input would be appreciated.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/1600/IMG_1221.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/320/IMG_1221.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Bargaining With Buddha<br /><br />One of the things that sticks out in my memory the night the infestation took place was the weather. It was oppressively humid and sticky, one of those summer evenings in Japan that feels like someone took a sopping wet wool blanket too soon out of a hot dryer and spread it out evenly over the city. It's itchy, it's sticky, and the weight of the dampness is almost unbearable. Those kinds of conditions have a habit of bringing out the worst in people. <br /><br />Wait, did I say worst? That sounds a bit like a judgment call, and since I'm talking about myself here I feel I had better be a little less harsh. To not give my own behaviour the benefit of the doubt would be unfair…wouldn't it? <br /><br />So, perhaps what may be more appropriate would be to say is that it’s those kinds of weather conditions bring out the primitive in people. Gut reactions based on instinct, not experience. Spontaneous responses that hearken back to a time and place when such mechanisms were necessary. We've grown soft and complacent in our cushy computer worlds, never having to depend on the direction of the wind, or on the scent that it carries, to guide our actions. We need never worry about what may be lurking in wait just around the next boulder, or burrowed deep in heavy, dark earth, just itching to lunge on the next unsuspecting passerby.<br /><br />So, I guess my reactions were primitive, primordial, impulsive. Did I deserve what I got? Maybe I did have it coming. Perhaps I did deserve it. But, did the punishment really fit the crime? I just don't know. What I do know, what I’m almost certain of, is that the incident came about because I had made a deal with Buddha. I'll never know if Buddha would have kept his end of the bargain because I reneged on our deal almost immediately. <br /><br />I remember clearly the day I had walked the four hundred meters to my neighbourhood Temple. I was on a mission. I needed to talk to Buddha. Talking to my own God had yielded no results in a predicament that was slowly driving me mad. My life was being ruled by another force so invasive and persistent that I had been reduced to a twitchy, nervous wreck, jumping at the slightest movement caught from the corner of my eye. A shoelace, untied and dangling loosely from an unworn boot in a closet would send my heart racing and break beads of sweat on my upper lip. A harmless twig, stuck to the leg of my pants would be brushed away madly and frantically as others watched in curious amusement. My nerves were shot, and I knew my sanity was not far behind. At this point, you may well be wondering exactly what it was that was causing my irrational, knee jerk responses to benign objects. Allow me to help you see it in your mind’s eye.<br /><br />To give you as clear an image as possible, you will need to hold up your two index fingers in front of you. Now, pull those two fingers apart in opposite directions, putting a distance of ten to twelve centimeters between them. There. You have the length. Now, imagine the thickness of one of those cheap plastic Bic pens, ballpoint. Can you see the roundness of it? That’s the width. The color? A deep, earthy brown, threatening to become black, with a hint of intense maroon thrown in for flash. Texture? To look at it, you would be certain, judging by the shimmer and shine, that to the touch it would moist, soft, sticky. You would be wrong. To touch it would yield a rubbery, scaled surface. The final addition? Onto the full length, add anywhere from one hundred to one thousand legs, each as fine as a strand of baby hair. There you have it. The bane of my existence; the Japanese centipede. The mukade.<br /><br />Ah, mukade. When I moved into my home, I hadn’t realized, until comfortably settled in, that I was trespassing on centipede territory. In those innocent days, I didn’t even know that the Japanese word for centipede was mukade. The sound of the word, moo ka day, gave it a certain aura, like it came from one of those black and white Japanese monster films with characters named Mothra and Godzilla. The mukade had decided I was their nemesis, and, as in those old movies, there would have to be a Monster vs. Adversary situation. In the end though, who filled which role?<br /><br />The mukade made me aware of their existence in a multitude of creative twists and turns. Brushing my teeth, about to spit frothy mint into the sink, I encountered the first one, coming up the drain to welcome me. I saw first its pincers feeling hesitantly at the circular, silver rim of the drain. As I watched in silence, I realized there was something alive in my once innocuous sink. I froze, mid-spit, not able to fathom what could possibly be attached to those two waving prongs peering out of the black hole below. The pincers felt around enough to realize there was no present danger, and its full body slithered into view. I couldn’t move. I could only stare in disbelief as its full form, ten centimeters, two pincers, and a thousand legs, glided smoothly from the drain hole and up onto the edge of the sink. The silence had to be broken. I screamed, not bothering to rid my mouth of Colgate foam, and ran out of the bathroom. Round 1 – Mukade.<br /><br />Ordering pizza one late night, I waited in my bedroom on the second floor, reading Philip Roth’s latest. It was a dark little number called Patrimony, and it was setting the tone for a somber evening. I was laying stretched out on my bed, so fully engrossed in the sad and morbid tale unfolding in the pages in front of me that I hardly noticed the ring of the doorbell. When I finally clued in, the ringing had become impatient; short, sharp jabs on the doorbell by the Domino’s Pizza delivery boy waiting below. I grabbed the cash, and ran down the stairs. <br /><br />On the second-to-last step, I stopped dead. There it was; bathroom mukade’s bigger, more menacing brother, laying in wait on the landing. As I stood in lurid limbo on the steps, Pizza boy was getting angrier and more insistent on doorbell duty. The short, sharp jabs became one long, steady buzz. <br /><br />Just to the right of the landing was my boyfriend’s size 12 hiking boot. It was almost within my reach. I eyed the slinking mukade who seemed oblivious to its surroundings, and I took my chance. I leapt over the step, grabbed the boot, and opened the door, practically in one fluid action. The delivery boy did not fit the mold of my previous pizza pie couriers.<br /><br />If you have ordered pizza in Japan, you may already be aware of a phenomenon that afflicts young delivery boys who find themselves on the other side of a foreigner’s door. When the door is opened to retrieve the goods and pay the price, the sight of a gaijin face sets off a series of predictable reactions. First, there is the startled gasp; that intake of air that indicates the boy was unprepared for such an unfamiliar sight. Then there is the slight back-step, a minute but discernable distancing from the unknown. This is followed by a few moments of silence as thoughts are collected, and the situation is analyzed. Usually, the voice is then found, offering both an “Excuse me” and an “I’m sorry” in quick succession… “Sumimasen, Gomen na sai”. And then more silence as the bill is paid, and the pizza passed over the threshold into the unknown land of foreigner.<br /><br />On this particular night, the impatient delivery boy was most certainly not silent and did not follow the traditional pizza delivery pattern when the door was finally opened. The sight of a white girl with a size 12 boot waving in her right hand was too much for him. He yelped, dropped the pizza, and stumbled backwards at least three feet. I took that opportunity to turn around to face the centipede dancing on the first step and slammed the boot full force onto its squirming, rubbery form. I had to take a peek. I lifted the toe of the boot and looked underneath. It was still moving, trying to get away even though half its body had become one with the stair. Unbelievable. I slammed the boot down again, pizza boy witnessing the massacre in relative safety outside the front door. When I lifted my weapon this time, the splay of guts was a good indication the mukade was no more. I tried to ignore the fact that the bottom part of his body, now dismembered from its head, was still trying to get away. <br /><br />I turned to face pizza boy. He was shaking, mouth open, pizza box still on the ground in front of him.<br /><br />“Ikura desu-ka?” I said, asking him the price in my best Japanese. I straightened my shirt, patted down my hair and smiled in as friendly and non-threatening a way as possible, trying to regain his trust. He wasn’t having any of it. He kept the gulf of space between us, and didn’t take his eyes off of me as he reached down to pick up the dropped pizza box. After paying for the pie and closing the door behind the psychologically scarred Domino’s boy, I turned to inspect the remains of the mukade. Even though his lower half was still squirming and its multitude of legs were doing a final death dance waving madly in the air, I felt it wouldn’t be too premature to declare; Round 2 – me.<br /><br />Although I had won the last round, the whole affair was getting to me. I said a nightly prayer, asking only that the centipedes not enter my space. My prayers went unanswered. I had daily encounters, finding centipedes of various lengths and widths, scattered throughout the house. No place was off limits; closets, drawers, and, the favourite meeting spot, the bathtub. I was losing the energy necessary to keep up with my unrelenting adversary. I started to contemplate moving to one of those small, cramped apartments, typical of large cities in Japan. True, apartments like that have no character or space, but, most important to me was that they also have no mukade. I started perusing the realty ads daily.<br /><br />And then I realized something. I was praying to my God for a solution when I was dealing with Japanese centipedes. Rather than God, perhaps Buddha would have more of an understanding of my predicament. And, as luck would have it, Buddha lived right next door.<br /><br />I made my way to the Temple, following the scent of incense up the gravel path to the gates. I washed my hands in the stone vessel, purifying myself before I made my request. I walked up the steps to the grated donation box and threw in my lucky gold five-yen coin. I clapped my hands, and faced the golden idol just beyond the doorway of the Temple itself. And then I made a bargain with Buddha. I looked up to the imposing gold figure in front of me.<br /><br />“Buddha, if you keep the centipedes outside, I will leave them be.”<br /><br />Short and sweet. I thought Buddha, in his Zen simplicity, would prefer that to a flowery, wordy request. I bowed deeply, turned, and followed the path back the few minutes to my house. <br /><br />It worked. It really did. I didn’t see a centipede for ten days. Ten days of bliss. No waving pincers in the cereal box. No 100-legged dances across my kitchen floor. I could take a shower without first flushing a slithery invertebrate down the drain. I could go to bed without brushing down the sheets for unwelcome, multi-legged guests. It was heavenly.<br /><br />But I ruined it. Day eleven, in the garden. I was pruning and clipping, pulling up weeds, preparing the wildly overgrown backyard for a barbecue. The humidity had made me cranky, and I was taking out my frustration on a particularly resilient weed. I stopped pulling on its leafy roots and started to dig into the damp earth around it with my fingers. The sting I felt was excruciating. I pulled my hand to my mouth, my instinct to suck on the wound. I looked closely at the tip of my finger. I was faced with two distinct holes, blood beginning to bubble up and spill over. I looked down at the weed I had been uprooting. The mukade was still there. It was the biggest yet, and, I am certain it was taunting me. Half its body was undulating, weaving in the air, reaching still for that finger it had just poisoned. <br /><br />The rusted garden trowel I had been digging with was sitting on the ground just to my left. Gut instinct. Primitive fury. Primordial impulse. In a flash, the trowel was in my hand. It came down hard on the mukade, dissecting its body into two even pieces. The pincer portion of the body attempted flight, and started burrowing into the earth. My foot came down squarely on its head. I ground it into the earth with all my force. It didn’t stand a chance.<br /><br />I stood up, throwing the trowel to the ground, and started tending to the throbbing wound at the end of finger. As I watched the tip change in colour from pink to red to a deep purple bulge, what I had done started to sink in. I had broken my deal with Buddha. I hadn’t kept my end of the bargain. I massacred that centipede on its own territory. What had I done?<br /><br />I lay in bed that night, reading Nick Hornby. I needed something lighthearted to focus on as I tried in vain not to go over the details of the death in the garden. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I began to wonder if I should have had some ceremony for the centipede. Perhaps a cremation in the barbecue with a few prayers asking for forgiveness thrown in? I was contemplating firing up the backyard barbecue when the first one arrived. It announced its presence by slithering across the page of the book I was reading. I screamed and leapt out of bed, knocking the centipede off the book and into the sheets.<br /><br />My barefeet hit the floor and felt immediately the rubbery, resilient body of another mukade. This one didn’t have a chance to bite. I didn’t pause to think or make a plan; I just ran. I was out of the bedroom and hit the stairs blindly, not watching where my feet were going. They knew the route and I merely followed. The bottom step was once again occupied. However, this time it was not by one but at least ten of them, sliding and crawling over one another in their attempt to get to the second step. <br /><br />I had no time to think. I jumped over the slithering mass, and knew where I had to go. I grabbed a box of wooden matches off the kitchen table, and ran to the back doors to the yard. When I got to the doorway of the living room, I had to stop. The floor, made of traditional Japanese woven-straw tatami, was strewn completely with waving, sinewy mukade. Of all shapes, sizes and lengths, they tangled together in a jumbled, seething mass in front of the glass doors to the backyard. I had to shut down my senses and go on sheer instinct. I ran to the front door and grabbed those size 12 boots. They had served me well once before and I was relying on them to help me again. I put the huge boots on my feet, and made my way once again to the back door. I did my best to ignore the rolling, rubbery sensation under the thick soles as I trod over dozens of squirming mukade.<br /><br />Finally outside, I went straight for the aluminum barbecue. I lifted the grates and struck the matches wildly, trying to light the bits of sticks and twisted paper still remaining from the last party. A small flame took, and I blew lightly on it, hoping it would be strong enough to catch. As the feeble flame grew stronger, I lit another match and used it as a guide to find the remains of my earlier kill. Five matches later, and I found both parts of its mangled body, half buried in the moist earth. I carried the head and the remaining part of the carcass carefully over to the barbecue, and, asking Buddha’s forgiveness, I threw the lot into the flames.<br /><br />I watched as the body parts curled and crackled in the fire. As the smoke and flame licked higher and higher, I was soon overcome by a horrible stench that sat heavily in the humid air. I had never smelled anything like it, but could only imagine that the closest thing to compare it to would be burning flesh. I covered my nose and mouth with the sleeve of my pajama top, bitter tears welling in my eyes. I had to get out of there. As I tried to get around the barbecue, the lace of my oversized boot caught in the metal stand that held the flaming mess of paper, sticks and centipede. As I stumbled away, the whole thing tipped over completely, still hooked to my boot. <br /><br />As the barbecue came crashing to the ground, glowing embers were flying everywhere; onto me, onto the grass, and onto the laundry hanging from the nylon line just by the back door. As the hanging underwear and socks started to catch with small sparks, I still felt I had a chance. I started pulling the smoldering laundry off the line, stamping on it, spewing so many bits and pieces of orange and yellow sparks all over the yard like a firecracker. And then I saw it. The kerosene can. What remained of last winter’s fuel stock was in a large, metal canister under the overhead laundry canopy. I also saw a sizable burning ember drop from a flaming sock right onto it. Whatever oil had splashed onto the can and ground around it, was now cloaked in a pale blue veil of flame. <br /><br />Gut instinct. Primitive fury. Primordial impulse. I ran. I left the boots behind and bolted over the backyard fence and onto the street. It only took moments. The house was traditional, and it was old. That meant it was made of one thing only; wood. Flames took over the first floor, the smell of burning tatami and balsam filling the small street in a matter of minutes. Neighbours came to watch in awe, their faces glowing not only from the light of the fire but from the humidity that clung to their skin like adhesive.<br /><br />In barefeet, I turned away from the scene, and walked up the street the short distance to the Temple. I needed to talk with Buddha. The sound of sirens filled the air as I made my way up the steps, tiptoeing delicately over the jagged gravel and over to the basin holding the purification water. I paused to wash my hands, taking a moment to splash some of the cool water on my face, washing away the slick sweat and gritty soot that had been clinging to me fiercely. I didn’t have a donation this time. The only thing I could offer was a deep bow of apology and regret. I looked into Buddha’s lair, but could see nothing. Was he there? Was he watching? I thought again of the importance of simplicity, and kept it at that. <br /><br />“I’m sorry. Sumimasen. Gomen na sai.”<br /><br />I turned and walked slowly back to what remained of my house. Firefighters filled the street, clomping up and down the road in their bright yellow gum boots, dragging water-logged hoses back to their engines. The rotating red lights on the top of each truck shone in wide arcs over the remaining stragglers, my neighbours. If they had been worried about me, I couldn’t tell. As I walked towards them, their faces betrayed no emotion. They only stared and took small, hesitant steps backwards as I walked past them, barefoot and silent. <br /><br />Water was beginning to roll down the small road in my direction, criss-crossing in ever-widening rivulets. The cold water touched my feet and the coolness brought with it a certain sense of relief. I breathed in deeply. The stench was gone, replaced by the more comforting smell of burning leaves and a hint of incense. As I looked at the skeletal remains of my house, I had to smile. What else could I do? The mukade were gone. <br />***<br />The insurance people contacted me last week. They wanted me to go through what remained of my house. I knew there wasn’t much to see. I told them it wouldn’t be necessary, that there was nothing left to salvage. They said they had pulled a couple of items from the ruins and asked if they could send them on to my new address. <br /><br />When I opened the box this morning, I could catch a whiff of woody smoke as I cut through the thick rubber tape on the cardboard box. Lifting the flaps up and open, I peered inside to find two small reminders of a bargain I had made not so long ago. A pair of size 12 boots with the laces slightly singed and tied in two neat bows were lined up symmetrically, nestled in the packing foam at the bottom of the box. Digging deeper into the Styrofoam bits, I could feel something hard, covered carefully in bubble wrap. Before I had completely unwrapped it, I knew what it was by the shape and the feel. The garden trowel. <br /><br />My hands are gritty with soil as I write this. My new garden is smaller than my last, a little less wild, and a little more in keeping with its environment. I even have a mini carp pool and a bonsai tree in the corner that offer that little bit of Zen I used to try and absorb at my former neigbouring Temple. The place of honour, though, is in the centre on a small, cement slab. A Buddha figurine watches serenely over two large boots and a rusty garden trowel. His gaze is calm, wise, all-knowing. I look around at my new house, my new garden, and the battle-weary size 12 boots, and my instinct tells me only one thing. I am home.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1161410767264328972006-10-20T22:51:00.000-07:002006-10-20T23:06:07.290-07:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/1600/IMG_1187.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/320/IMG_1187.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/1600/IMG_1191.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/320/IMG_1191.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />A night out in Nagoya at a great izakaya called "Shin" in Sakae. Brian drank beer, I stuck to wine. The food was great, especially the sesame/salt cucumbers and the garlic butter potatoes. We'll be going back. We were there as a pre-sayonara party for Tanya who will be going back to Oz on the 30th. One of the more difficult aspects of being Western Woman is the inevitable saying good-bye to the other great Western Women you meet here. <br /><br />I first met Tanya in 1996... Can it really be that long ago? It's because of these inevitable good-byes that sometimes I hesitate to forge new friendships when new people arrive. But then I realize that even though these friendships often have an expiry date on them as far as location is concerned, it would be a great loss to have not taken the chance to get to know the great people whose paths I have crossed. If I had said; "Oh, she's going to be gone soon, why bother becoming friends...?" there would be so many unmade memories... that would be even more sad than the actual saying good-bye. So, newcomers to Japan, I look forward to meeting you someday. To old friends who have come and gone, I miss you and think of you often.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1160302788834252462006-10-08T03:11:00.000-07:002006-10-08T03:19:48.856-07:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/1600/Murrough%20-%203.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/320/Murrough%20-%203.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />A day with Brian in Wicklow, very close to his Dad's house. Thank you Brian for showing me beautiful Ireland, and of course for getting me over to Drumshambo (trains, buses, cars, and, the power of a hitchhiking thumb). A beautiful summer...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1159678490564500012006-09-30T21:50:00.000-07:002006-10-01T07:00:51.436-07:00The Fairy Tale of Drumshambo<br /><br />There's a song my boyfriend sings to me in Gaelic. It's about a little boy who needs shoes. His family is too poor for all the kids to have a pair, so the youngest has to wait until he'’s old enough for such a grown-up luxury. I hear this song, and I think of my father.<br /><br />My father was born in 1933 in Drumshambo, County Leitrum, Ireland. Drumshambo. What a mouthful for a little girl. As I was growing up, my father would tell my sister and me bits and pieces of his life in Drumshambo. When I was about six or seven, my older sister took me aside and whispered in my ear; "There's no such place as Drumshambo. It’s just an Irish fairy tale." And so it was. For me, Drumshambo, County Leitrum, was a mystical, magical place, suspended in a mist in my father's own imagination. <br /><br />Stories and rhymes...<br />It was that imagination and ability to tell a story that helped me go to sleep many nights as a child. If my father came into my room at bedtime, and he had a comb in his hand, I knew I was in for a great story. He would sit on the bed and tell me about Gulliver and his travels. Oh the places Gulliver went, but my favourite was Lilliput. My father told me how the people of Lilliput captured the giant Gulliver. Putting the comb against my leg, he showed me how the Lilliputians had to climb, and climb, and climb to get onto giant Gulliver. Closing my eyes, I was the size of Gulliver and could imagine the little people of Lilliput scrambling to capture me. When the story finished, out would come a piece of tissue paper which my father placed over the comb, and he would show me how a piece of black plastic with pointy little teeth could make music. And then, goodnight and lights out. But how could I sleep with the music of the comb still playing in my head and dozens of Lilliputians dancing on my bed? I would wonder if Lilliput was like Drumshambo.<br /><br />Libidigister, Mr. McGibb, Bad P, Runaway & Standstill. All characters in a little story my dad would tell while driving the car. I can't remember the story, but the names of those characters still fly easily off my tongue and produce a smile as I remember him telling me about them. Were they friends of my dad's? Did they come from Ireland? Asking these questions would get me a wink and a laugh as he drove our monster-sized Delta 88, but never a concrete answer. Or, maybe he would just go onto another story or rhyme;<br /><br />"I went to the chapel tomorrow,<br />I took a front seat in the back,<br />I fell from the floor to the ceiling,<br />And broke a front bone in my back"<br /><br />I don’t know how many times I asked my dad to repeat this, trying to make order out of the linguistic mess he’d just offered. I’d go over it again and again, but to no avail. He knew something I didn’t and I felt it must be a grown-up thing; something I would understand when I got older.<br /><br />Homemade Bubbles...<br />It wasn’t often that my father’s humour upset me, but there is one day that stands out in my memory where the twinkle in his eye did not win me over. It had to do with bubbles. We were in the supermarket, and I was firmly planted in front of the section with comic books and small toys. A bright pink bottle with a picture of a girl blowing bubbles caught my eye. I had to have that bottle and the bubbles that must be hiding inside. I grabbed it, and ran down the aisles looking for my dad. When I found him rummaging in the bread section, I showed him what he needed to buy for me. “I want bubbles!” I told him as I put the bottle in the cart. He smiled, removed it, and said it was a waste of money. “We can make our own bubbles. You’ll see.” He gave it back to me and told me to return it to the shelf. He continued to look for a loaf of bread from the counter in front of him. I stood firmly and mustered up as much conviction as my six years would allow. I put the bubbles back in the cart. “I want these bubbles.” He removed them again. “We’ll make our own. Put these back.”<br /><br />The floodgates broke and the tears were streaming down my face. To no avail, I might add. He continued searching for the perfect loaf. His ignoring me made the tears come harder. And then I got the hiccoughs. I was a hyperventilating, hiccoughing, snotty mess. I wanted to scream. But, instead of a noise emanating from my mouth, a huge bubble of mucous came out my nose and just hung there on my face. My dad looked at me trying to suppress a smile. But he couldn’t do it; he started to laugh. And what did he say? “See? Didn’t I tell you could make your own bubbles?” Needless to say, my six-year old self didn’t see the humour in the situation.<br /><br />After a stony-silent car ride home, I went to my bedroom and slammed the door. I was never going to leave. But soon, my dad was calling me. He was on the back balcony. My curiosity got the best of me, and I went out. Our balcony was on the second floor and looked out over a small backyard. When I got outside, I saw on the picnic table below a bowl of water, a bottle of dish soap, and a coat hanger. “Come on. I’ll show you something,” he said as he took my hand and brought me downstairs. <br /><br />He showed me how to unhook the clothes hanger and make a wand with a circular end. He mixed up the soap and water and poured it onto a flat plate. He dipped the wand into the water, blew on the transparent rainbow in the circle and voila! A perfect bubble popped out and floated across the backyard. I was in awe. For me, it was as if magic had been performed. I spent the rest of the afternoon creating the perfect bubble, knowing they were so much better than the pansy sissy bubbles still trapped in that pink bottle at the supermarket. <br /><br />You lead, I go first…<br />My father taught me yet another linguistic turn-of-phrase as he helped me onto my first bike ever. It was navy blue, had a banana seat and that cool looking loop of metal that acted as a back support behind the seat. From the end of each handlebar hung multicoloured tassels that would flap in the wind. Well, I could only imagine them flapping in the wind, really. I couldn’t ride my bike. I just couldn’t get the hang of it. I had absolutely no balance and would topple over the moment I sat on that cushy banana seat. So, my dad would stand behind the bike, hold onto the metal loop, and off we would go. I would pedal, he would run, saying all the time; “See, you’ve got it! You’re riding the bike. I’m going to let go now.” And I would holler back; “Don’t let go!” <br /><br />And there we were, flying around the block for the 10th time, my dad panting and me ecstatic as the tassels flapped around at the end of the handles. <br /><br />Of course, the inevitable happened. I looked behind me. Sure enough, my dad was there, running and panting as I pedaled, but he wasn’t holding the bar. I immediately lost my balance and fell off the bike. I demanded to know why he hadn’t been holding on. “Well, you did fine on your own the first 9 times around, I saw no reason to start now.” The wink, the smile, the laugh. I couldn’t believe it. I had been riding on my own? There’s no way. It was that Drumshambo magic appearing yet again. <br /><br />I never needed my dad to run behind after that. From then on, he would be on his own snappy ten-speed, a bike he had put together himself with various parts. We’d go on journeys up and down the streets of our neighbourhood, sometimes even venturing over into the next neighbourhood where my Grandparents and Uncle Mike lived. At the beginning of each bike ride, as we saddled up for the journey, he would turn to me and say; “You lead, I go first.” And off we would go. <br /><br />Tummy in, chest out...<br />The first day of school. Playing trumpet in a music recital. Going up to bat in a softball game. My first job. Going away to university. Moving to Japan. These are all milestones in my life, and the first step of each of these challenges began with the phrase; “Tummy in, chest out.” This advice from my dad has been my mantra from as far back as I can remember. When you pull your tummy in, when you push your chest out, the surge of confidence is tangible. This four word imperative has seen me through some of the most challenging experiences of my life.<br /> <br />My dad showed me a photo last Christmas. It was a grainy black and white, circa 1939. He had brought it back from his trip to Ireland, and it was the first photo I had ever seen of Drumshambo. In it were children ranging in age from about five to fifteen. He pointed at the building behind the kids. “This was in front of my school. All the kids studied together.” They were all lined up, little ones in front, bigger kids in back, looking very intent and serious, hands at their sides, standing soldier-straight. Not a sloucher in the bunch. “Tummy in, chest out.” It looked like that must have been their mantra, too. <br /><br />I looked more closely at the picture. The kids in the front had no shoes. “Where are their shoes?” I asked my father. He laughed and answered, “If you were hungry, what would be more important – food or shoes?” And it became clear to me that Drumshambo was not a fairy tale. It was real, and achingly so. The poverty, the hard work, the need to find a better life were all staring back at me from that photo. My dad could have told the hard tale of his youth to my sister and me. He could have talked about being hungry and walking to school in bare feet. Rather, he let Drumshambo create its own magic by not filling us in on all the details of its harsh reality. And for that, I am grateful.<br /><br />Any regrets...<br />When my father moved to Canada in his twenties he probably didn’t realize he wouldn’t return to Ireland until four decades later. He never visited Ireland when I was growing up. Maybe that was another reason it didn’t seem real to me. Sure, there was some Irish paraphernalia here and there in the house. A shillelagh hanging on the wall, a bottle of holy water from Knock Shrine, an Irish record or two tucked away; but that was all. Living in Japan, I’m surrounded by foreigners, myself included, who regularly wax nostalgic for their country, their hometown, their culture. I often hear comparisons made between Japan and the various homelands, with the country of birth usually being touted as the more superior. My father never did that. He came to Canada, and that was that. <br /><br />He went back to Ireland a few years ago, and was shocked at the wealth and success of the people now living there. Those same people he had walked barefoot to school with now owned million dollar homes and holidayed in places like Mojorca and Ibiza. Did my father wonder if he should have stayed? I haven’t asked. I suppose I’m afraid he’ll say yes, that leaving one difficult life and stepping into another reality that was just as harsh, if not sometimes worse, was a mistake. When he arrived in Canada, he had joined the army and was promptly sent as far north as possible. While he patrolled the Distant Early Warning lines in -40 degree temperatures, did he imagine Drumshambo as a fairy tale as well? <br /><br />For most, trekking off to a foreign land to forge a new life is taking the road less traveled. Not so for an Irishman of my dad’s generation. He chose the road out of Ireland that was well worn-in by thousands of emigres before him. It was those who stayed behind that were taking a bigger gamble, and, by all appearances, they hit the jackpot. Does my father ever wonder; “What if I had stayed?”<br /><br />***<br /><br />I went to Ireland last month. I had a lump in my throat as I made my way into the town of my father’s childhood. I drove out into the countryside to look at the mines where my father had worked. They’re closed down now, but still carry out tours that are advertised with the line; “Discover for yourself the fascinating and exciting life of the miners!” I can imagine my father laughing at such on odd take on his former employment. I went to the opening of the shaft that years before brought the miners down into the depths of the earth to dig for coal. As the elevator made its way down, did my father tell himself; “Tummy in, chest out!” as he prepared for the hard work ahead of him? Was it the fairy tale of a land called Canada that kept him going? <br /><br />As my flight leaves Ireland, I look out the window at the vast, green expanse below and, even though I saw it with my own eyes, I still question if that place was really there… <br /><br />There is a land, far, far away. It is a land where people have strange names and talk in riddle form. They tell stories and blow perfect bubbles while riding on little, blue bicycles. Their music flows out of the teeth of combs. On shoeless feet they stand tall and proud while the twinkle in their eyes tells a story of a lifetime. The name of this land is Drumshambo.<br /><br />The endUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1154235433192468622006-07-29T21:09:00.000-07:002006-07-30T05:50:48.943-07:00Back to Vancouver<br />Reverse Culture Shock, Squeegee Kids and Me <br /><br />Squeegee Kids. This was a new term for me when I returned to Vancouver. Five years in Japan had left gaping holes in my pop culture lexicon. Over the course of those five years, the landscape and feel-good atmosphere of the city had also changed. It was like Vancouver had been a child when I had left, and when I returned, that child was entering that unknown and often cruel territory called adolescence. Vancouver was growing up fast, and with its growth came a loss of innocence. With the decadence of Asian investors and dot.com gen-XY money, came the fallout of the have-nots. The have-nots followed the scent of money and home-grown top-grade weed, certain that Vancouver was Eden by the Sea; a Mecca for those who liked a temperate climate and guaranteed jobs. The promise of cool breezes, sleeping on the beach, and selling home-made jewellery to smiling tourists brought the have-nots in droves seeking the easy life. Why stay in the east and work in a cubicle when paradise was only a one-way economy flight away? Oh, and did I mention the weed? <br /><br />To the youth who lived east of the Rockies, Vancouver was a beacon, sending out feel-good, nurturing vibes. It was Canada's equivalent of late-sixties, early-seventies San Francisco and 1980’s Amsterdam combined. Turn on! Tune in! Drop out!Vancouver had its very own Timothy Leary in the form of Marc Emery, marijuana advocate par excellence. An already somewhat pot-friendly City Council was being pressured by Marc and his pals at High Times magazine to make the stuff one hundred percent legal. When I returned in 2001, that dream was almost a reality. Pot really seemed to be illegal in name only. <br /><br />People smoked freely on the streets, in bars, and in the cafes on Hastings Street. Not the really bad part of Hastings. No, the still trendy area, where dreadlocked boys and patchoulli girls hung out in droves. When they weren'’t smoking pot in the cafes, they were hanging out on the sidewalk playing hakisak and talking the deep sort of philosophy that only stoned twenty-five year olds know how to spout. Ask anyone of those nouveau hippies where they were from, and you would get a geographical mosaic of Ontario small towns as your answer; Windsor, New Liskerd, Sudbury, Mississauga, Cobalt, North Bay. Marc Emery was an Ontario boy himself, (London, to be exact) before heeding the call west. I wonder if he fancies himself a latter-day Moses leading the Exodus to the promised land? <br /><br />While the smoke of this THC fuelled peacenik phenomenon was wafting over the beaches in Kitsalano, drifting into the used clothes shops on Broadway and forming fluffy clouds over the front lawn of the Vancouver Art Gallery, a much harsher, meanly aggressive chemical was marching up Granville Street and camping out close to Davie. If THC is another way to spell peace and understanding, crystal meth was its polar opposite, its chemical components comprised a whole alphabet soup of corrosive additives. Its users came from even further east than the pot kids, and they were generally five to ten years younger. Their childhoods were spent in towns named Val d'or, Lac St. Jean, Laval, Lachine, and St. Jerome. The Quebecois. <br /><br />These were the Squeegee Kids, and they scared the hell out of me. <br /><br />The squeegee kids are so-called because that is how they make the money to buy the crystal; they carry a bucket of soapy water and a squeegee, waiting at red lights to wash down the windows of stopped cars. They have a punk rock sensibility about them that can be seen not only in the Doc Marten lace-ups and the soaped-up spiked green hair. It's also apparent in the confidence of their swagger. Sid and Nancy moves, right down to the fuck-you sneer are all there as they approach a car to be washed. <br /><br />Watching the daily pantomime on the corner of Granville and Davie is almost laughable in its predictability. Squeegee in hand, Sid Viscious approaches a Volkswagen hatchback, suburban mom at the helm. She first reacts with a shake of the head and looks straight ahead as her hands grip the steering wheel. This tactic doesn’t work. The squeegee kid dips his tool of the trade in his bucket of water. The driver will then raise her hand, index finger out, gesturing no with a back and forth wag. Sid keeps coming.<br /><br />And, there it is. The sudden look of horror on the driver's face when she realizes this guy is going to wash her window whether she likes it or not. Then there's the frantic search for the door-lock button and the window-up switch. A trapped animal waiting for the light to change, she looks straight ahead, trying not to aknowledge the sludgy water being splashed on and wiped off her windshield. The light changes, and for the first time ever, the suburban housewife's Volkswagen's tires squeal as she bolts out of the intersection. The reaction from the squeegee kid? Not much of one, except for the occasional "Chalis! Tabernac!" shouted to no one in particular. These aren't really bad words either, when you think about it. Church words, holy words. Uttered on a street corner at a missed chance for a quarter and a snort.<br /><br />Where were these guys before I left for Japan? I can watch them from my 2nd floor window, as I sit at my kitchen table in my Davie Street apartment. I watch, transfixed, as they twist and jerk down the street, unable to escape the St. Vitus Dance phenomenon particular to speed junkies jonesing for a fix. I watch from my window as they transform from urban punk chic when they first arrive, to scab-covered, homeless addicts, sometimes down on their hands and knees picking at chewing gum and bits of garbage on the street, thinking, in their drug destroyed brains, that those little pieces of crap might be crystal. <br /><br />I watch, from my 2nd storey window, when they absolutely can'’t score the five bucks necessary for an all-day high and they resort to mixing rubbing alcohol and water into bottles and slugging it back. Average age? Late teens, early twenties. What happened to Mecca and all the opportunities west of the Rockies? Am I just more sensitive because I have returned from "safety country"” Japan? I need to find out. I need to talk to an actual person rather than make assumptions from my cushy 2nd storey vantage point. I pull on my coat, get my notepad and pencil, and go down the flight of stairs to the grittiness of a world I do not know or recognize anymore.<br /><br /> ~***~<br /><br />When I wake up the next morning, it dawns on me that letting the speed freak and his German Shepherd spend the night might not have been one of my smarter moves. He's still there, the speed freak, laying splayed on the sofa, one leg stetched ridgedly straight out from his torso, the other bent at an awkward angle, dangling off the couch. The sole of his dirty bare foot is buried into my cream shag carpet. I know I'll need some heavy-duty cleanser to get the heel print grime out, but that isn'’t really the pressing issue at the moment. The speed freak’s German Shepherd is standing guard beside the head of his sleeping owner. He is resting on his haunches with a sentinel’s steadfastness. He is panting practically in time with his owner's quick and shallow breaths. <br /><br />That's what is grabbing my attention now. That big dog is staring at me, not menacingly, but with very intelligent, all-knowing eyes. What those eyes tell me is to stay the hell away from his Master, and all will be fine. So, I do. I back up, turn around, and return to my bedroom to contemplate my next move. I am beginning to sympathize with that suburban wife in her Volkswagon.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1151143049187624422006-06-24T02:56:00.000-07:002006-06-24T04:04:43.690-07:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/1600/p11.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/320/p11.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />The First Trip Home<br /><br />-i-<br /><br />Christmas decorations and muzak versions of White Christmas arrive full force in Japan on December 1st. It looks and feels as if anything remotely related to Christmas, save for Baby Jesus and all that holy stuff, has exploded all over Nagoya. The streetlights, bus stops, storefronts, and even mini-bonsai trees are festooned with silver tinsel, blinking twinkle lights, and waving Santas. I half expect to see little elves with toy-making tools running about, preparing for the big day. It’s the North Pole, minus the snow.<br /><br />This is my first Christmas season in Japan, and it is surreal. I really don’t know what I expected at this time of year, but if I’d had any notions about the season, they certainly had nothing to do with the consumer craziness that was taking hold of the city. Japan at Christmas is a retailers dream come true. <br /><br />I have seen this insanity back home, of course. But it strangely seems to justify itself in that there is a small rememberance, tucked way in the recesses of our collective North American consciousness, that there really is a deeper meaning and reason for the season. A slight nod to the birthday boy might be given in the form of a visit to Midnight Mass, or maybe a little prayer at Christmas dinner, or perhaps a gift given to the needy in the form of canned food. Something. Anything. The sentiment of the season still does exist even though it has to be dug out from under a ton of gift-wrap and overindulgence.<br /><br />I cast my cynical eye over the Christmas craziness in Nagoya, and start counting the days to my Christmas homecoming with a vengeance. The final straw comes three days before my departure home. I am sitting at my own little desk, which is one among an island of eight foreign staff at the publishing company where I work. It is a very typical office, by Japanese standards, in that privacy is not a priority in its layout. Our eight desks are lined up in two rows of four. I am facing my co-worker, and he is facing me. At the head of our eight desks is our group leader. He has the honour of not only having a view of all eight of us, he is also the holder of the phone. If any of us receives or needs to make a phone call, we have to use the leader’s phone.<br /><br />There are seven more islands, eight desks and one leader each, spread out over the whole of the office space, with nary a wall or partition between us. This was group work, and I was a part of it. Kind of. I guess our island of eight plus leader felt a little out of place as we were all foreign. We called our little office oasis “GI”, short for “Gaijin Island”, but that was our little secret. We had freely referred to ourselves as Gaijin in the past, but at some point we must have ruffled some feathers. The Bucho told the Kacho, the Kacho told our leader, and our leader told us to stop using the word Gaijin in the office. So we did. Now we were codeword “G”, and, during the day, we lived on “GI” from 9:00 to 5:30. We certainly could be childish when we wanted to be.<br /><br />Anyway, it’s three days before Christmas holiday departure, and Michiko, a co-worker from a neighbouring island comes over for one thing or another. As I rifle through my papers looking for what she needs, she points at some of the cards and pictures decorating my work space. “Is that your mother?” she asks, pointing at a photo of my mom at Christmas. I answer yes. “Oh, she is very beautiful!” I smile, and hand her the form she was looking for. She points at the next picture on my desk, a Christmas card from an Aunt. “Is that a cousin?” She asks, pointing at Baby Jesus in a manger scene. I don’t know what to say. I check to see if she is laughing, if she is pulling my leg. Her sincere gaze leads me to believe that she truly thinks that this is a relation of mine. I tell her who the baby is and she gives many nods of earnest understanding as I give the history of Christmas in a 40 second soundbite. I explain that that’s why I’ll be away for a couple of weeks; I’ll be celebrating the season with my family. She nods some more, and then gets a mischeivous look in her eye. Gaijin Island is almost empty, most of my co-workers having gone to get some lunch. She looks left and right and then comes closer to me. She speaks in a low voice, very breathy, very excited.<br /><br />“I’ll celebrate Christmas, too!” She looks over her shoulder. It’s all clear. She begins again. “My boyfriend made a special reservation at Hotel Christmas in Gifu! They only take a reservation at Christmas and he got it! He got the Christmas special with Mr. and Mrs. Santa Sauna room!” Michiko is blushing deeply at this point, but there is a real look of joy on her face. I tell her that’s great, and to enjoy the 25th. She practically skips back to her island. <br /><br />I pin the Christmas card back in its place. Baby Jesus is looking serene under the watchful gaze of Mary. I wonder if Michiko thought that Mary was my aunt and Joseph my uncle? Who knows. What I did know is that had they been able to make reservations at love hotels way back at Christmas number one, I guess we would have missed out on the whole Nativity scene. Joseph could have simply called ahead to the Inn, Jesus would have been born in comfort, and the whole family could have relaxed in a soothing sauna. Dark cynicism is taking root in my guts as I sit by myself at my desk. Cynicism, I am realizing, is one of the side effects of disbelief. I can either fight it, let it simmer inside, or flee. Danger! Danger! I wanted to get home, to reality, away from the surreal Nagoya surroundings, and off of Gaijin Island.<br /><br />-ii-<br /><br />The view of Toronto Pearson International airport is obscured on the other side of my little JAL economy class window by ice. And sleet. And snow. And hail. I don’t want to leave my seat. The sound of the ice storm battering the little window to my left is a little off-putting. But, my friends, whom I haven’t seen in close to a year, are waiting inside the terminal for me.<br /><br />After getting my gift-laden bags from the luggage carrousel, and pushing through the swinging doors into the terminal, I soon find myself the centre of attention. My friends have swarmed me, full of excitement and questions.<br /><br />“You're skin and bones. Don’t they feed you over there?” is one of the first enquiries I field. Before I can fully explain that my diet is actually better than it ever has been, someone has already jumped in.<br /><br />“What do you expect? She’s probably living on rice.”<br /><br />I let that slide. I’m too tired to go into my daily food intake. On Gaijin Island, we eat from the office cafeteria, where french fries, coca cola and hot dogs are unheard of. Miso soup, salads, pickles, rice and cutlets are the daily fare. We’re a fit lot on our little Island, although we have been known to go on the occasional cookie run to the Lawson’s Convenience Store down the street.<br /><br />We make our way out to the waiting gargantuan SUV in the parking lot. We throw my bags in the back, and then comes the next comment.<br /><br />“Bet you’re glad to be in something with 4-wheels and an engine rather than the rickshaws they’ve got over there!”<br /><br />What? I’m trying to conjure up an image of what an actual rickshaw is in my jet-lagged addled head. It takes awhile, but I finally clue in to what he’s referring to. I look at him to see if he’s having me on. I don’t think he is.<br /><br />I get settled into the backseat, and we all hunker down for the two-hour ride ahead of us. The windshield wipers are going full speed, but they simply can’t keep up with the rate of the snowfall. Kind of like me not being able to keep up with the comments and questions flying my way.<br /><br />“What’s the strangest thing you’ve eaten?” That one comes to me from the front seat. I think for a moment, and come up with mayonnaise, corn and octopus on pizza. There’s a long silence. And then:<br /><br />“You mean…they’ve got pizza over there?”<br /><br />I’m about to tell him it’s delivered by rickshaw when I think better of it. The whole scenario is getting a little surreal; the weather, the questions, the comments being thrown around without any thought. Where was I and who were these people?<br /><br />My vacation continues in much the same vein. Comments about the Japanese being wonderful craftsmen. The Great Wall is testament to their handiwork, isn’t it? Had I had a chance to visit it? It’s one of the Seven Wonders, you know...<br /><br />It went on and on, no matter where I went. Once people realized I was visiting from Japan, the talk went on to pandas and concubines, spicy pickles and Tai Chi. The mishmash of Asian influences that encapsulates most people’s vision of Japan amazes me. And it has me wondering if only a short time ago I too had such a jumbled view of where I now lived? Was it possible? Thoughts of Gaijin Island are swirling in my head. Maybe it is an oasis. I do know that I am looking forward to landing on it, and having a chat with its inhabitants. Had they too experienced this strangeness with the natives of their previous homes?<br /><br />-iii-<br /><br />I’m in the duty free shop in Vancouver on my stop-over back to Nagoya. I stop to look at the different knick-knacks they have on display. Christmas items are now marked down 50 to 75 percent. There’s a little wooden Nativity scene, complete with Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the Three Wise Men. I pick it up and walk over to the checkout. There’s a bowl full of plastic Santa figurines, only a dollar a piece. I pick one out, and have the purchases put in a bag.<br /><br />When I return to Gaijin Island on January 4th, I look over at Michiko’s desk. Her group has already gone for lunch. I pull the Nativity out of my bag. Santa Claus is now firmly a part of the scene having been set in place earlier with some sticky glue. I have a little card with a maple leaf on it, and I place it beside Michiko’s computer terminal. On the front of the card, I have pasted a picture of my family. We’re a pretty happy lot. On the bottom is a small note:<br /><br />Christmas is what you make it. You made mine a happy and thoughtful one. Thank you Michiko. <br />From your Friend on a Neighbouring Island<br /><br />I walk back to my desk, my own little piece of Gaijin Island, and set out my miso soup, pickles and rice. I don’t think lunch has ever tasted so good.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1150604401586512472006-06-17T21:03:00.000-07:002006-06-17T22:39:44.353-07:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/1600/Brian_with_Sarah_in_Bumphy_s.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1350/1489/320/Brian_with_Sarah_in_Bumphy_s.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />A photo of Westernwoman with the Storyteller<br /><br />Ah, here comes summer. My experience with summer last year was, to the say the very least, horrendous. Everyone felt my wrath. (Apologies...) I sat down to write a bit about the whole debacle that was summer sometime in Sepember last year when I had found a bit of vacation time tucked away and jumped aboard a flight to Vancouver. When I returned to Nagoya, Autumn was in the air, and I got that little bit of perspective that was so desperately lacking while I was going through those scorching, pavement melting days last August. So, I've dusted off that entry, hoping that it will allow some sobering perspective to land on my shoulders DURING those hot, hot days that are just around the corner. As always, I'm seeking that elusive perspective while in the moment, rather than in retrospect. Here's hoping it will work. And, if I do start to complain about the heat in August... kick me!<br /><br />Snow Fairies in August<br /><br />Summertime in Nagoya was HELL. The combination of heat, pollution and humidity created a sweltering stew of anger, bitterness and frustration that boiled within me daily. I was horrible to be with and even worse to look at. My hair was plastered to my forehead with sweat, my back bent, carrying the weight of August's cruelty squarely on my shoulders. If I managed to look up, everyone was met by the surly scowl firmly set on my face; I was a mess. The day my boyfriend left for his four weeks of holidays to much cooler climes was my meltdown day. Who was I going to complain to now? Who would console me as I berated the Nagoya heat, waxing nostalgic for Canada's majestic snowcapped Rockies and cobalt-blue waters? He didn't need to know that three-quarters of my life had been spent in the oppressive thirty degree Celsius heat and humidity that constitute a typical Toronto summer. <br /><br />People who have never lived in Canada have a vision of snowshoes, maple syrup, and Bonhomme the snowman dancing gaily at La Carnivale du Quebec. I wasn't about to burst anyone's romantic notions of that cool, pristine beauty that makes up their year-round vision of Canada. Hell, there are Americans living mere miles from the Canadian border who arrive mid-July, skis firmly strapped to the roof of the mini-van. I am not going to be the one to put an end to the myth. It's far too much fun to laugh and point at mini-vans with US plates sporting skis in July. Besides, admitting that perhaps I had endured a sticky summertime or two in my past would have taken away from the steam of my present temper tantrum. My delicate Canadian sensitivity to the cruel Japanese heat was my armor for the war of guilt I was about to wage against my poor, unsuspecting boyfriend.<br /><br />"How can you leave me now? I'm dying!" <br /><br />These were the first words from me to him on the morning of his departure. I was lying stretched out across the bed, one arm draped dramatically over my eyes, the other hanging limply over the side of the bed. I took a peek at him from under my arm. He was still packing.<br /><br />"God you're lucky... The temperature is supposed to go to 57 Celsius today. It'll be nice up on that plane, drinking beer in the air-conditioning, watching movies..."<br /><br />I was still watching him closely under the cover of my arm as he walked from the closet to the luggage and back again, tossing various bits and pieces in. He spoke as he threw a pair of socks in the general direction of the bag.<br /><br />"Hmm... 57 degrees sounds a bit on the hot side, doesn't it?" He had a hint of a smile on his face. "Why don't we check the internet and get the weather report?"<br /><br />I wanted to scream. Why was he being so practical in my time of need? Stronger, more mature methods were needed.<br /><br />"This isn't fair!"<br /><br />I flung the words across the room as I sat up on the bed. I crossed my arms in a huff across my chest. I scowled. Menacingly.<br /><br />That got him. He stopped packing and sat down beside me, putting his arm around my shoulders. He poured me a glass of water from the decanter beside the bed, and had me lay down. And then he told me a story. In it were snow fairies and princes and mermaids and fire-breathing dragons on a trek through icy glaciers. His tale unfolded and I closed my eyes and saw the world that his words were painting for me. The images were so clear and vivid and detailed that I felt I too had joined the fairies on that magical glacier, floating out to sea in a time long past. Gone were the heat, the humidity, and the childish urge to induce guilt. My eyes remained closed as the words washed over me, cool, crystal clear and calming. <br /><br />As the fairies and dragons walked hand-in-hand through the swirling white snow of my boyfriend's tale, the realization of what I had been doing to myself became abundantly clear. Nagoya summer was hell because I had made it that way. I was so caught up in how I was being affected by the sun's rays I neglected to notice that there were a few other people living and working in the city as well. I'm sure many of them were not as lucky as me to have a personal storyteller to take the temperature down a notch or two.<br /><br />When the story wrapped up, the fairies and dragons having successfully overcome numerous hardships and obstacles along their way to the conclusion, I opened my eyes. My boyfriend smiled and stood up to continue his packing. I got up too, and helped put the last of the clothes into the bag before squeezing it shut and setting it beside the door. I felt sheepish and more than a little silly for my pettiness. He seemed to have forgotten my earlier childish behaviour, and we ate a nice breakfast together before he headed off on his vacation.<br /><br />These days, autumn has been making quite a show. The crisp mornings, blue-skied afternoons, and crescent moon nights all add up to paradise for me. Fall has pulled out her red carpet, and I'm traipsing down it with my head held high and a smile on my face. I know that at the end of Autumn's cameo appearance, there lay months of frosty nights and shivering mornings with the air so cool I'll be able to see my own breath as I step out of the shower. It's at these times, when I am on the verge of berating the poor insulation and inferior heating systems in Japan, that I hope my storyteller will once again step in to set me straight. I have a feeling that he has a few more tales up his sleeve; stories of tropical green forests and sun maidens dancing under golden skies. It will be these words that carry me, unscathed and frostbite free, through the cold Nagoya winter that awaits us all. Bring it on; I am ready.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1148475044004803032006-05-24T05:19:00.000-07:002006-05-24T05:50:44.056-07:00Windows On Japan<br />A Memory in Four Parts<br /><br />Part I – In the Air<br /><br />September, 1995. Air Canada flight 26, Vancouver to Nagoya. I’m sitting in economy, crammed bent-kneed into my too-small seat, when I get my first real taste of Japan, both literally and figuratively. This is a few years before Asian edibles, particularly the Japanese variety, have become commonplace in Canada’s west coast. I’m staring out the little window to my left, my own rectangular slice of the world spread out in front of me in fluffy whites and streamlined blues. This is my adventure and it has just begun. When offered the choice of lasagna or Japanese noodles, I jump on the noodle option immediately. I want my culinary experimentations to begin right now. The flight attendant, wearing a uniform the same colour as the slick blue sky outside my window, passes me my tray. On it is a neatly arranged assortment, including soba noodles, a perfect cube of white tofu, and steamed sticky rice. The soya sauce is packaged in miniature plastic fish-shaped bottles. I rip my chopsticks apart quickly in anticipation. They break unevenly in two. The wood is jagged and splintered, one stick much thicker than the other. I quickly attempt to cover my faux pas, hoping my Japanese seatmate won’t notice how awkward I am with my woody eating utensils. <br /><br />But, he notices. He makes an enthusiastic eating gesture, smiling, and says to me; “You use chopsticks very well!” His grin is contagious.<br /><br />I beam.<br /><br />Part II - Landing – Nagoya Airport<br /><br />When the plane lands, I follow the crowd of people in front of me. They seem to know where they’re going. I look at the signs directing weary travellers to their proper waiting stations. My queue is labelled quite clearly. In bold red lettering, it reads “Aliens”. I take my place in this line, passport gripped tightly in my free hand, while the other hand attempts to adjust the straps of the 30-kilo backpack weighing me down. Jet lag is making its presence known through a persistent buzz deep in my middle ear. The fluorescent lights lined up symmetrically above my head add to the din with their own frantic rhythm; Bizz! pause. Bizz! pause. Bizz! The lights flicker in time with the persistent drone. I dig into my pockets, hoping to find a Tylenol among the lint, coins and candy wrappers. No such luck. My boarding pass stub is there though, its edges already curled and frayed. Seat 42A, Window. I put it back in my pocket. I’ll keep this as a souvenir; maybe paste it in a photo album later. The buzz in my head continues.<br /><br />After a not-too-long wait, I find myself first in the queue, being summoned forward to the large, windowed Immigration cubicle. Stony faced, middle-aged Immigration Man, official officer’s hat firmly planted on the top of his head, has his hand outstretched before him. I decide he is definitely a no-nonsense type. I lay my passport in the opening below the glass. His hand glides under and grabs it in one swift motion.<br /><br />An image suddenly comes to mind. My going-away party. Two nights ago. Bags packed, I had put my important going-to-Japan documents, including this sacred passport, on the glass-topped coffee table. One of my friends, a west coast boy through and through, is smoking a joint. His baggie of stuff is spilling out onto the tabletop, mixing with beer drippings and nacho chip crumbs. What if that granola-stompin’, tree-huggin’, hippie wannabe dropped some his weed into my passport? <br /><br />The bizz-buzz cacophony gets louder, my legs wobble, and the window separating me from my future reflects a blurry image of myself, hair askew, eyes dark with semi-circles, droopy and in need of sleep staring back at me. To Immigration Man in front of me, I am certain my face reflects that of a hard-core heroin junkie, desperate for a fix. I’m screwed. <br /><br />He glances at the computer. He glances at me. He glances at the computer again. And then he speaks;<br /><br />“English Teacher?”<br /><br />I nod. I let out a bit of an affirmative “uh huh” and bob my head up and down. Perky, I should look perky. I could be teaching this man’s child. I attempt to curl the corners of my mouth up, but not too much. These Immigration guys can detect insincerity a mile away. They can also sniff the scent of one lone pot seed buried deep at the bottom of an overstuffed backpack. Or, stuck in the creases of a brand new passport for that matter. He’s looking right at me. Did his nose just twitch? <br /><br /> I’m screwed.<br /><br />He rifles through the empty pages of my passport one more time. He grabs the rubber stamp in his right hand, and down it comes on page two. Bam! He slides it underneath the glass towards me. I grab it and attempt my first Japanese word with a real live Japanese person;<br /><br />“Areeegattooo!”<br /><br />I’m not certain, but I think I see Immigration Man’s stern façade crack slightly from behind his glassed-in enclosure. I detect the beginnings of an almost smile itching to get out. I think it’s his eyes that give him away. There is a glimmer, perhaps even a twinkle, buried in there somewhere. I hike my backpack over my shoulder and make my way to the luggage carrousel. I no longer feel fatigued or worn out. I practically bounce over to the circular conveyer belt, scanning for my belongings as it spits out bag after bag. I can’t help it. I give myself a little pinch.<br /><br />I am in Japan. I am, officially, an Alien. I have the stamp to prove it.<br /><br />I beam.<br /><br />Part III - Welcome to Japan<br /><br />My new home is, in reality, a room. It’s 6-tatami and contains a bar fridge, a portable gas burner on the bedroom floor, and a foldaway futon mat and cover. There is no chair or table. But there is a little TV. I put a patterned shawl over the unwatched television set, and place a lacquered black and red vase filled with yellow daisies on top. It’s the little touches, I know, that make a space a home. A good friend taught me that, and I never forgot those words of wisdom. They sure come in handy in this small space.<br /><br />Toilet, sink and bathtub are all contained in a plastic stall very similar to the Air Canada restroom on my flight over. And, a thoughtful addition, an opaque plexiglass window on the toilet’s sliding door allows a soft glow to permeate the little cubicle space. I can read my Let’s Go Japan! by its soft light. After all, it’s in this space where I have the only seat in the house. Many trips, some to Kyoto and Fukuoka, others to Sendai or into the Gifu wilds, are planned from my throne in my multi-tasking cubicle. Do Japanese use these cubicles as a personal library and planning space as I do? My gut instinct tells me probably not, and I’m not fluent enough in the language to ask such a personal question. It will have to wait.<br /><br />My neighbours have brought me a large box of tomatoes. They are gorgeous tomatoes, perfectly round and plump, each with a bright green sprout on top. I generally don’t eat tomatoes, picky eater that I am; however these particular specimens are practically begging to be devoured. I eat those tomatoes with every meal for a week. I dice them in a bowl with a dash of salt, a touch of pepper, and a drizzle of vinegar. I eat them with unevenly separated, splintered wooden chopsticks, sitting on my throne, (lid and seat down, of course), reading Soseki’s I Am a Cat.<br /><br />I beam.<br /><br />Part IV – Fitting In<br /><br />Backpack firmly fastened to my shoulders, this book-carrying tool that is used by one and all back home, is now a symbol, in my mind anyway, that declares I really am different, an alien. I don’t fit in with the women here. One of my daily pass-the-time-on-the-train games is to count how many Japanese women I see carrying a backpack. From amongst the Prada, Chanel and Louis Vuiton totes, the highest number I ever spy is two. As it turns out, one of those two backpack toting Japanese turns out to be a Canadian. <br /><br />I still remember her name, even though we only had a two-minute conversation on a train between stops. She had noticed my little maple leaf pin and came and sat beside me. She was Louise from Kapiskasing, a fresh-faced and happy JET. She had arrived a week earlier, she let me know in her breathy, early-twenties enthusiasm. We only had time to chat for two stops, and then she was gone. I watched her through the window of the train as she bounced down the stairs to the adventures she would certainly find. Her backpack announced her foreigness without hesitation or apology. Its very difference from the norm made her special, someone to whom exciting things would happen. It didn’t weigh her down. I felt like such a Japan old-timer gaijin; jaded and cynical. I had been in Nagoya for four months. I wanted to slam my backpack on the floor of the train and stomp on it.<br /><br />Before the train doors close, a little girl, perhaps four years old, jumps on with her mother, narrowly missing the whoosh of the sliding doors. Mother and daughter are laughing, a little out of breath, as they search for a seat. The daughter climbs up on a vacant spot. The little girl kneels on the seat, nose pressed against the train window, as her mother carefully removes her daughter’s miniature Pokemon sneakers. She is very careful not to let the little shoes touch the seat, and she places them on the floor below. The girl is now ready for the scenes that will soon be flying by in front of her through her own personal square of window. She has the best seat in the house. <br /><br />Kneeling and gazing out the window, her back is towards me, she is wearing an oversized Sailor Moon backpack. Sailor Moon is staring at me with one liquidy, twinkling exaggerated manga eye. The other eye is closed in a conspiratorial wink. Her cartoon smile, although subtle, is most certainly directed at me. Sailor Moon is communicating with me on an afternoon commuter train. I look around to see if anyone else is giving this extraordinary event any notice. Everyone is doing their own thing; reading, dozing, applying make-up. My stop is next.<br /><br /> I hike my backpack securely on my shoulders and watch the neon Pachinko and Karaoke signs going by outside the window in front of me. The train comes to a stop, and the doors slide open to let me out. I give a final glance over my shoulder at the little girl who now has both hands planted against the window. She’s willing the train to move again, slapping her palms on the glass and giggling. I step out of the train and onto the platform. I am now on the other side of her looking-glass world, and we stare at each other as the doors slide shut. I wave. She’s still laughing as the train begins to move. She waves back at me, and slaps the window one more time. She keeps waving as the train picks up speed. And then, she’s gone. I know she can’t hear me, but I say it anyway. <br /><br />“Arigatou.”<br /><br />I run down the steps and into the station, my backpack bouncing against me, offering a gentle reminder of its weight. I walk into the station.<br /><br />I beam.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1142321623233455752006-03-13T23:31:00.000-08:002006-03-13T23:33:43.246-08:00Today Westernwoman is going to write from a man's perspective<br /><br />Choices at the Crossroads<br /><br />I sat alone one afternoon<br />A beer my only friend<br />The bar that day was empty<br />Not a soul from end to end<br /><br />The mug soon offered only dregs<br />I gestured for one more<br />The barman did oblige me<br />A perfect pint he poured<br /><br />I took a swig and licked my lips<br />Trying not to think too hard<br />About the reasons I was here<br />Sitting lonely at the bar<br /><br />But pints have this tradition<br />It is worn and it is true<br />Beer melancholy soon creeps up<br />And then you’re feeling blue<br /><br />The barman he has seen this sight<br />A million times before<br />He hides a yawn, wipes up a glass<br />And looks up to the door<br /><br />It suddenly swings open<br />Afternoon light creeps in<br />In walk two gents with faded jeans<br />Their faces showing grins<br /><br />They swagger over to the bar<br />One with two fingers held up high<br />“A pint for me and for my friend<br />We’re feeling mighty dry!”<br /><br />Two mugs are set down on the counter<br />Soon filled with golden beer<br />One gent looks right at me and says,<br />“Mind if we sit here?”<br /><br />One fella sits to my left <br />The other to my right<br />One slaps my back and with a wink says<br />“Cheers mate, we don’t bite!”<br /><br />Gent to my right smiles knowingly<br />And makes me feel at ease<br />Left guy’s more aggressive<br />Perhaps a man who likes to tease<br /><br />“Hey there my name’s Dexter,”<br />Says the man with the calm smile<br />“We’re pretty parched, our legs are sore<br />I think we walked eight miles.”<br /><br />“Hey mate my name is Southpaw,”<br />Says new friend number two<br />He drinks his drink, slams down his glass<br />“I’m still thirsty, how ‘bout you?”<br /><br />Barman pulls us our frosty drinks<br />They’re set down one, two, three<br />One for Dexter, One for Southpaw<br />And one for new friend me<br /><br />“Hey fella, what’s going on?<br />What’s with the worried face?”<br />Asks Dexter sitting to my right<br />His demeanour full of grace<br /><br />Southpaw leans in closer<br />His eyes come near to mine<br />“Come on friend and spill your guts<br />We’ll listen, we’ve got time.”<br /><br />And so that’s how it happened<br />That’s how it came to pass<br />I started talking slowly<br />Staring down into my glass<br /><br />“Well here’s how it goes fellas,”<br />I began my tale of woe<br />“It’s all about a decision<br />I made not so long ago<br /><br />I was living my life from day to day<br />Doing ordinary things<br />I worked and did my fair share<br />On occasion I’d even sing<br /><br />I had someone beside me<br />It wasn’t a great fit<br />But I had made my bed, it’s done I thought <br />this is where I must sit<br /><br />But on my daily journey<br />One day I did get lost<br />I came upon a crossroads<br />Like something out of Faust<br /><br />I suddenly had options<br />Destinations I could choose<br />Left or right or straight ahead<br />I really couldn’t lose<br /><br />I took a peek behind me<br />At the life that I had made<br />The complications and the pitfalls<br />I had the power to make fade<br /><br />I turned my head and looked up high<br />I was seeking some advice<br />I yelled “Please Lord God help me<br />It’s not like rolling dice…”<br /><br />No voice told me what to do<br />So it’s gambling I did choose<br />The familiar road behind me<br />Was the path that had to lose<br /><br />I stepped hesitantly forward<br />My feet wobbly at first<br />But then my gait got stronger<br />An amazing esteem burst<br /><br />“I am me, me am I, <br />This is who I am!”<br />I shouted to the skies above<br />Breathing deeply as I ran<br /><br />All the hurts and disappointments<br />Of my previous life<br />Were now so far behind me<br />That old life full of strife<br /><br />The road at first was smooth as silk<br />It really was a dream<br />Each morning new adventures<br />Idyllic it did seem<br /><br />But then one day there was a bump<br />The next day a few more<br />My new path now not so easy<br />My feet were getting sore<br /><br />I took a glance behind me<br />And that’s when I did see<br />Remnants from my other life<br />Had come to follow me<br /><br />The reminders from my past life<br />Had taken human form<br />With legs and feet and arms and hands<br />And a face that looked forlorn<br /><br />“Why have you forsaken us,<br />your connections to your past?<br />This new life you have left us for<br />Do you think it’s going to last?”<br /><br />I felt the tug of guilt’s strong chains<br />Pulling strongly from behind <br />I questioned my motives for my choice<br />Had I been wrong? Had I been blind?<br /><br />And so I sit today alone<br />Seeking solace in a beer<br />The bumps ahead do scare me<br />The guilt behind I fear<br /><br />I looked up then to Dexter’s face<br />His eyes so calm and blue<br />And then I looked to Southpaw<br />His smile wide and true<br /><br />They nodded at me knowingly<br />They both set down their beers<br />“Listen friend and you’ll soon see<br />there is nothing you should fear.<br /><br />We all come up to crossroads<br />Humans young and old<br />To make a choice is bravery<br />You do not sell your soul<br /><br />There are so few who take the chance <br />To move forward, left or right<br />They think that standing still is easier<br />Than trying to take flight<br /><br />How could we move forward<br />If by one choice we remain<br />In never seeking options<br />The road would stay the same<br /><br />This is true and this is tried<br />however we must stress<br />The road that is left behind<br />Should not be left a mess<br /><br />The road behind is property<br />Where others will remain<br />To leave unfinished business<br />Is considered inhumane<br /><br />Those bumps you felt, that forlorn face <br />They haunt you for a reason<br />To choose a forward path is bravery<br />To neglect the old one treason<br /><br />Slow down my friend, and breath in deep<br />Let out a lengthy sigh<br />The paths we choose aren’t easy<br />But they’re the right ones by and by<br /><br />To second guess, to wonder if<br />To ponder endlessly<br />Wasting time on the road you chose<br />That’s squandered destiny<br /><br />I am me, me am I, <br />This is who I am<br />Shall once again pour out your lips<br />Shouting loudly as you can.”<br /><br />Dexter finished up his beer<br />And Southpaw had his fill<br />They pushed their seats out from the bar<br />Laying down money for the bill<br /><br />I pushed their money at them<br />I couldn’t let them pay<br />These two new friends had helped me<br />They had let me have my say<br /><br />I stood to say goodbye<br />As they walked over to the door<br />Southpaw’s wink and Dexter’s smile<br />Had touched me to my core<br /><br />Those two had really helped me<br />They had made it very clear<br />Life offers endless choices<br />Many ignore them out of fear<br /><br />I do expect more crossroads<br />And more choices I will make<br />Knowing all the better now<br />That the best one I will take<br /><br />I know too not to leave behind<br />Bits and pieces of loose ends<br />They will be tied up very neatly<br />I will make proper amends<br /><br />Thank you Dexter, Thank you Southpaw<br />You truly helped me see<br />Whether left or right or straight ahead<br />On the right road I shall beUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1140854395132851132006-02-24T23:57:00.000-08:002006-02-26T18:02:32.810-08:00La Plus ca Change... <br /><br />“I hate Western Women.” The words rolled easily off his tongue, and his face betrayed no sense of irony as he made his proclamation to me one Fukuoka Friday night in spring. We were in our local, a nighttime hangout populated by Gaijins who enjoyed cheap beer and all-you-can eat peanuts in the shell. We were nursing our respective drinks; a glass of white wine for me, a mug of Asahi draught for him. We didn't know each other in the biblical sense, there was about a twenty-year age gap separating us, but we weren’t just mere acquaintances either. This man had, on more than a few occasions, opened up to me and shared many stories of his personal life, seeking advice, but often, I believe, just needing someone to listen.<br /><br />And I did. I listened attentively and with compassion for some of the hurts this man had gone through in his many years of living in this country. From what he had told me over the course of our Friday chats, and from the lines furrowed deep in his brow, I could tell that his time here had not been easy. <br /><br />He would open up to me as we nibbled salty seaweed bar snacks and chucked peanut shells onto the floor. Much of the hurt he had endured had been incurred through the course of more than a few failed relationships. They had been relationships which had begun like so many over here, with all the hope and anticipation that this country can offer with its Land of the Rising Sun mystique. <br /><br />However, the brightness, the newness, the shininess of the Eastern enigma is soon dulled and dampened when the realities of an intercultural relationship set in. The linguistic miscommunications, subtle but meaningful gestures missed, the unspoken cues sent out by both parties but received by neither, all contribute to the breakdown of so many Gaijin/Japanese couplings. Perhaps at the root of these breakdowns is the disappointment of unmet expectations.<br /><br />We would discuss until the early hours those cultural misunderstandings that occur within these relationships, misunderstandings that would so often be dealt with through gut reaction rather than logic, shoji doors being slid shut with an abrupt slam of frustration, unwarranted accusations being flung without thought, or a cultural slight being uttered with contempt by both people in the relationship. So often, a misconstrued comment or action could have possibly been turned around and used positively as a solid and useful building block toward the creation of a long lasting bond. <br /><br />Unfortunately for many, myself included, those building blocks are often seen and used as barriers to communication rather than stepping-stones to a more solid cross-cultural union. <br /><br />These are some of the more intense and emotional topics my drinking partner and I would touch upon during our weekly barstool therapy sessions. We didn't solve the world's problems, nor did we discover any magical key that could have changed the outcome of his failed marriages. But, the talk and the company sure were nice.<br /><br />Sometimes we would leave those familiar barstools behind on balmier evenings, and go for walks, criss-crossing the many bridges that populated the city. We’d find our favourite outdoor yatai stand, run by an ancient obasan and her daughter, and munch on chicken gizzards and tiny whole birds barbecued on sticks. Actually, he would eat, and I would usually watch, still unable to bring myself to eat those Fukuokan delicacies. And he would talk some more, late into the evening, our wine and beer replaced by sweet smelling sake. <br /><br />By listening to him, I was better able to come to terms with my failure to keep my own culture-crossing relationship afloat. I had listened, over the course of many weeks, to the sadness, the guilt, and the anger that this man had allowed to well-up inside him over the years, and I am sure that I saw a positive shift in his attitude towards his past relationships, seeing them more as learning experiences rather than sheer failure. He began talking about taking small trips, showing me some of his travel guides and going over his plans. It was quite a shift in behaviour for a man who, not so long ago, was resolute in his plan to be as hermit-like as possible, save for his Friday night forays to the familiar barstool.<br /><br />It was on a Friday in March that I found him not at his usual barstool, but in a small room adjacent to the main barroom, with his maps and guide books spread out on the table, one Asahi draught mug holding down the right corner of the map, a chilled glass of white wine holding down the left. He held up his jockey for a cheers, a huge smile on his face. <br /><br />“Beware the Ides of March!” was his toast as we clinked glasses. <br /><br />It was indeed March 15th, and the sakura were making their Kyushu debut, making their presence known in a pink flourish directly outside the window. They were practically glowing in the early evening light and I had to pause for a moment to take it all in. <br /><br />Here we were, continents away from our respective homes, a generation or two separating us, living in a country that often treated us as if we were not only aliens, but circus freaks as well, and we had managed to create a mutually beneficial friendship out of this mishmash of odds. Had we met each other in our own countries, our age and experiences would dictate that we would probably never have become friends. <br /><br />It was precisely through his age and experience that I was able to accept and understand that ending my own strained inter-cultural relationship was not an indication that I was a bad girlfriend; it was simply time to move on. And, from what I could see in the happy man planning his vacation in front of me, he too had decided he was not totally to blame for his marriages that hadn’t worked out. We had helped each other, as friends do. <br /><br />I pulled up a chair close to the table so that I could pore over the maps with him. Travel guides for Okinawa, Taiwan, Malaysia and Thailand were covering the table-sized map unfolded in front of me. I brushed away some of the peanut shells littering the top portion of the map, and traced with my finger the bright yellow line that highlighted a path from Okinawa and on through to southeast Asia. At certain points on the line were email addresses and names penciled in with stars beside them. Some were five-star names with exclamation marks; others only had one or two stars with double question marks. I could see he had been doing his homework, and had been in touch with more than a few women on the unlimited number of Internet sites that catered to this kind of vacation. <br /><br />I too had been doing my homework, getting a few of my own ideas together in preparation for his vacation. Just because I would be working during the summer didn't mean I couldn't help to plan his great escape. I was excited to show him what I had been carrying in my backpack all day. I pulled out a “Let’s Go! Canada” guide, a map of the ten provinces and three territories, and a “Via Rail Travel Canada by Train” spring/summer timetable. On my map, which was now fully unfolded and covering Asia completely, I too had made a yellow highlight. It ran from Vancouver to Toronto, a distance of about 2,200 miles. <br /><br />“Look!” I grabbed his hand and guided his index finger from British Columbia to Ontario. “In total, this trip takes three days through mountains, forests, prairies… and it’s almost half the price of the Southeast Asia trip.” He was looking at me like I was speaking a foreign language. He withdrew his hand from mine and grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the corner of the table. <br /><br />“Why would I want to go to Canada?” He was munching on the peanuts, more of the casings and skins falling onto the table, Montreal disappearing under a particularly large shell.<br /><br />I brushed the shell away. Montreal was my hometown, after all. “Look, you’ve been to Okinawa. You’ve been to Vietnam. You’ve been to Thailand. You’ve never been to Canada. It’s time for something new.” I pushed the map a little bit closer to him, part of it sliding off the table. He pulled it up completely; Asia came back into view again. <br /><br />“I have a bit more than sightseeing on my mind…” He winked as his finger pointed and touched down on a few of the five-star names. <br /><br />I slid the map of Canada back on the table. “You don’t think that over the course of three days and 2,200 miles you won’t meet a few interesting specimens of the opposite sex?”<br />And that’s when he said it.<br /><br />“I hate Western Women.” He pulled the map of Canada up and started folding it, bending and creasing it in the wrong direction. I stared at him as he battled with the folds. My ears were burning and I could feel the heat of tears as they welled just under the lower lids of my eyes. I didn’t dare blink, and I knew that if I moved my head even a fraction of an inch, I would soon have salt water running down my cheeks.<br /><br />He gave up the struggle with the map and laid the crumpled mass of paper on the floor next to his chair. He sat down, pulling Asia closer to him as he did so. <br /><br />“What do you think? Should I take a boat from Kagoshima to Okinawa and enjoy the sea for a bit, or should I just hop on a plane here in Fukuoka?” <br /><br />He had his calculator out and was punching in numbers, presumably to figure out the optimum time/distance ratio for his boat versus plane dilemma. The jockey glass beside him on the table had just a mouthful of beer left in it. My own wine glass was empty. I grabbed both of our glasses and went out to the front area where the regular Gaijin crew was engrossed in a basketball game on the overhead TV. I held up the draught glass and pointed at it, catching the eye of the Aussie bartender. He nodded his understanding and started pulling another glassful from the Asahi spigot. <br /><br />“Need another glass of white, Love?” He passed me the chilled glass of draught and I shook my head no, passing him my empty wine glass. He went back to the excitement of the New York Knicks on the TV, and I made my way back to the side room.<br /><br />Travel plans were in full swing. He had his handheld magnifying glass out and was giving Thailand his full attention. I set the beer glass gently beside him, and zipped up my backpack. I left the map of Canada where it was, crumpled on the floor beside his chair. As I slipped the bag straps over my shoulders, I looked back at him, and allowed the tears I had been holding onto to finally release. They were hot and blurred my vision to such an extent I could no longer see him clearly. He was just a blur of colour. As I turned to walk away, I whispered the only words I could think of as an appropriate final farewell.<br /><br />“Et tu, Brute…?”<br /><br />I walked out of the room, out of the bar, and into the twilight of the sweet smelling evening. Sakura petals were already beginning to scatter, looking to my eyes not so much like flowers, but more like a soft December snowfall on a downtown Montreal street. But, this was Japan, and spring was in full swing. Although I had my head down, not seeing the path in front of me, my feet instinctively knew the way home. They had walked this route uncountable times before, and had always landed me safely at my front door. Tonight would be no exception.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1138015579783726382006-01-23T03:06:00.000-08:002006-01-23T03:26:20.500-08:00Memories of Japan, the First Time Around - Part 1<br /><br />Curiosity and the Cat <br /><br />I came across something the other day; something I wish I hadn’t seen. I was looking in places I should have left well enough alone, but, alas, that is not my nature. I am curious to a fault, and it is this certain character flaw that has been my undoing on many occasions in the past. I scratch at surfaces, and if the surface proves unyielding, I simply scratch harder, getting dirt under my nails as I attempt to get at the nitty gritty of whatever anomaly it is that has caught my attention. I never seem to know the appropriate time to keep my nose and hands out of business that is not mine. My inquisitive nature has unearthed many a nugget of information I would have rather not known. I get knocked off balance on these occasions, and as I regain my composure and dust myself off after such an episode, I vow to show restraint in the future. I am aware that, unlike my feline counterparts in the curiosity department, I do not have nine lives. <br /><br />I remember one day in particular when the curiosity of cats gave me pause for thought. I was living in Kitakyushu, Japan in a lovely condominium. It was a deluxe 3-bedroom marvel with a kitchen the size of most people's one-room apartments. My pussycat, Passé Passé, had full run of the place, and took up residence in the smallest tatami room that ordinarily, Japanese tenants would have used to pray for their dearly departed loved ones under Buddha's watchful gaze. Little Passé Passé was illegally brought into this palace, snuck in one evening right under the very nose of Nosy Watanabe-San, the gaijin-wary caretaker. I suppose he had reason to be both nosy and gaijin-wary seeing as I was sneaking live contraband into his building. That doesn't take away from the fact that he was, in my estimation anyway, too meddling and interfering for his own good.<br /><br />The day in question, the one that brings to mind curiosity and all its pitfalls, was rainy, dreary, and a bit lonely. I wanted something to do, but no amount of reading, web surfing or DVD watching could take away from the monotony of a day spent totally indoors, safe from the rain but not from my own strange thoughts. They were convoluted musings, which involved fleeing the country and becoming a nun in Vatican City. I'm not kidding. Thoughts of joining the Sisters of Service were often crossing my mind when the strangeness of Japan, and the farcical nature of my intercultural relationship with one of its native sons, overwhelmed me. I needed a break from my crazy thoughts and from myself. Where the hell was the cat?<br /><br />I peeked into her Holy Buddha tatami room. Nothing in there (save for the slain cat-nip mouse and the tattered Hello Kitty blanket that she snuggled up in nightly). Next, the shower room, where she liked to watch the drip-drip-drip of the leaky faucet that Nosy Watanabe-san, had yet to fix. Little Passé Passé was fascinated by water, and could watch that faulty faucet for hours. Not there either. Damn it! I was bored and needed entertainment. Where was she? <br /><br />I looked into the WC. Passé Passé, on the surface, was very much the delicate lady, tail usually held high and taut, twitching as she carried out her royal inspections. She did, however, have a bit of the old alley cat in her, and that element was never so apparent as when she peered into the toilet bowl, had a good sniff, and then drank to her heart's content. That day, apparently, she wasn't thirsty. In fact, (much to her chagrin, I'm sure) the lid was down on the seat. I lifted it, an enticement just in case she did need a wee nip in the near future.<br /><br />Off to the kitchen, and there she was, totally unaware of my presence. That kitchen could have been a part of the African savannah for all she knew, such was her utter concentration and twitching nose. Passé Passé was perched on the edge of the kitchen garbage bin, three paws gripping the outer rim, claws poking holes in the plastic liner, while her other paw hung poised and rigid above the open mouth of the garbage can. There was most certainly something in there, and she wanted it. <br /><br />Still holding her balance, she swiped into the depths of the bag, grabbing, apparently, at air, for when her clenched paw emerged, there was nothing in it. That didn’t stop her, and she continued her quest. Each time she took a swipe, her balance would momentarily be lost, and she'd sway back and forth, back and forth, never completely losing her equilibrium, but coming awfully close. She was concentrating so hard on whatever was in there that she never acknowledged my presence as I stood in the doorway. While I observed the balancing act in front of me, I was marveling at what an amazing creature she truly was. That tail, those whiskers, the finely honed claws, all working in harmony to allow her the poise and balance necessary to get whatever prize was just out of her reach. <br /><br />The ringing doorbell and the subsequent “Sumimasen!” holler that immediately followed caught us both off guard. Passé Passé was stuck in precarious garbage bin limbo. For a moment, there was absolutely no movement made by either of us. I watched, stock-still and silent, waiting to see which way the pendulum would fall. Was this feline’s destiny going to be in the bin or onto the cold floor? The final outcome of Passé’ curiosity? The bin. She fell into the trash with an almighty crash as the doorbell sounded again.<br /><br />“Sumimasen!” There came the shout again from the front door. I was contemplating not answering it to tend to the needs of the poor cat who was now floundering in the bin, when all of a sudden I wasn’t given the choice. The voice yelling out the Japanese version of “Excuse me!” was now much closer. I had forgotten something most expatriates are quite shocked to realize when first arriving in this country. The front foyer to houses and apartments is pretty much public property, a space where delivery people, cable TV bill collectors, and, apparently on this day, nosy building managers could freely enter. Watanabe’s voice was loud and clear and definitely inside the apartment.<br /><br />“Sarah-san! Haitte yoroshi desu ka?”<br /><br />If I knew enough Japanese at the time I would have yelled back that asking to enter was a bit redundant seeing as he was already inside the apartment. According to my Canadian sensibilities and perspective, anything on my side of the front door was indeed inside.<br /><br />But, that really wasn’t what was going through my mind as he shouted out his presence. I was more focused on my contraband cat who was still caught in the depths of the bin. I could tell she was not happy with this arrangement. Her momentary prison was shaking from side to side as she attempted to claw her way out. She hadn’t vocalized her displeasure yet, but that would be coming soon if she didn’t get out of there within the next few moments. If I did somehow manage to dig her out of the bin, Watanabe-san would be sure to see her. There was no door on the kitchen and it was certain that she would run to the comfort of Buddha and Hello Kitty in the holy tatami room. Doing so would bring her in the direct line of view of Mr. Nosy. <br /><br />I had no choice. I turned up the volume of the little transistor radio sitting on the counter, allowing the tinny sound of J-pop to fill the room. I grabbed the lid to the bin and whispered a quick “I’m sorry!” to Passé, whose startled and indignant face was peering up at me from her stinky new home. I took a deep breath and squashed the lid firmly on top of the bin. If she were to meow, her squawks would blend in just fine with the crap emanating from the radio. <br /><br />I brushed my fingers through my hair, took a quick peek at my reflection on the surface of the toaster, and made my way out to the front room to face my nemesis. <br /><br />To Be Continued...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1132752135148464142005-11-23T05:11:00.000-08:002007-02-13T22:11:04.476-08:00<a href="http://www.creativepapercrafts.com/images/products/S_haf2623_small.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.creativepapercrafts.com/images/products/S_haf2623_small.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> Reminiscence of Summer Blues to a Red Autumn Beat<br /><br />A drooping flower <br />Head bent in defeat<br />overbearing, oppressive heat<br /><br />The summer sun<br />beats<br />down on me<br />my head the surface<br />on which the unforgiving<br />rays of solar energy<br />belt out their<br />summertime riff<br /><br /><br />as lazy black and yellow<br />bees<br />keep the time<br />that neverending beat<br />Bop bopping around <br />the listless drooping flower<br />that is me<br /><br />Summertime blues<br />my July August identity<br />head still bent<br />in defeat<br /><br />Oh please<br />I beg that yellow orb<br />so circular and infinite<br />Cease, Cease grant me<br />Peace<br /><br />-<br /><br />My Autumn self<br />lazes, gazes<br />contentedly<br />stretching limbs and breathing deep<br />the crispness in the air<br /><br />a timpani<br />Resounding for all<br />to hear<br />rat-a-tat<br /><br />Fall air is wisdom, knowledge<br />books cracked open, pens gliding<br />smoothly<br />over crisp white paper<br />scritch-scratch<br />telling stories, rhymes and myth<br />of summertimes past<br />that no longer exist<br /><br />For Autumn is here<br />her glory unfolding<br />oranges yellows fiery reds<br />my head<br />held high to see and breathe<br />and feel at long last<br />a sensation <br />that is truly<br />PeaceUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15902157.post-1132749627078704652005-11-23T04:22:00.000-08:002005-11-23T05:06:27.706-08:00My Mother Is Human<br /><br />My mother is human. To many, that is abundantly clear. This is not simply because the statement itself could hold true for any of the six billion inhabitants of this earth. No, it is much more than that. It is plain to see for those who have come into contact with her because she exudes humanity in all she says and does. <br /><br />For anyone who hasn't met my mother, I offer an image. It is of a later-years Audrey Hepburn surrounded by needy children in Africa, caught unawares by a photographer in a freeze-frame image familiar to many. She, as always, exudes a certain grace and elegance that belies the environment she is in. She holds one of those children in her arms, captured forever in an evocative black and white photo whose image will translate, without words, the story of the sadness in Africa to the masses in North America. <br /><br />That picture may have been taken to pull at heartstrings, create lumps in throats, and possibly to induce guilt in our overfed Western sensibilities. But all that doesn't matter when you get past the emotion and simply look at the subjects. She doesn't care about the cameras surveying her. She is simply giving comfort to a child in need, and that is all she cares about for that brief moment in time. This unselfconscious ability to give without thought to what will be received is at the core of who my mother is. <br /><br />This is not to say my mother is a Saint. Absolutely not. And she would be the first to contradict anyone who came close to branding her with such a lofty and unrealistic title. Again, she is human, and with her humanity comes something intrinsic to my mother's whole being; insecurity. Saints may be altruistic, forgiving and kind; however I do not recall any insecure Saints being introduced to me in my early Catholic school years. Although often humble, Saints could go about their daily business knowing they were serving a higher power. My mother's insecurity often clouds and distorts her original good intentions, and she ends up feeling incredibly misunderstood and under-appreciated. Only those closest to her are aware of this.<br /><br />Compassion and insecurity go hand-in-hand in the making of my mother's humanity. There is, however, one more vital ingredient in the mix that makes my mother who she is. The ingredient is Guilt with a capital G. My mother carries her Guilt so tangibly on her shoulders that she actually stoops when she walks. She blames her bad posture on a slipped disc. I know it is actually the burden of the Guilt she imposed upon herself nearly 25 years ago. Indeed, a Silver anniversary is approaching for my mother. It is not her 25th wedding anniversary; that event took place nearly a quarter-century ago. No, this anniversary marks the day when an old and incredibly self-destructive chapter in my mother's life was finally closed and laid to rest, and a new one opened, rife with possibility. <br /><br />It was nearly 25 years ago that we almost lost my mother. Her insecurity had manifested itself, over the course of several years, from self-doubt to self-hatred to self-destruction. My mother had tried to kill her insecurities by drowning them in alcohol. In the end, she very nearly killed herself. The insecurities, of course, remained on dry land, intact and at the ready to set sail at any time. The years during my mother's alcoholism are not only a blurry haze for her, but for the rest of the family as well. There are of course some concrete, horrible memories that occasionally bob to the surface, but for the most part, it is a time in the life of our small family that remains submerged, held down firmly in place by the weight of my mother's Guilt over the pain she feels she inflicted upon us.<br /><br />What strikes me when I think about the Guilt my mother has imposed upon herself, is how incredibly unscathed I am from what I know has destroyed many children who were touched by alcoholism. I have met many scarred and hurt women who often blame their mothers for their woes. Mothers who relentlessly reminded daughters to watch their weight, apply their make-up properly, get the right man and produce grandchildren upon request. These are bitter daughters, brought up on a steady diet of Guilt. Not me. My mother, knowing Guilt as she does, never imposed its wrath on me. I was reminded constantly of my worth, told I was pretty and smart, encouraged to travel, and never, ever pressured to get married or have children. I have received a wonderful gift because of my mother's inverted Guilt. I have the freedom to be me and not who she wishes she could have been. <br /><br />Even though she hasn't touched a drink in almost 25 years, my mother freely admits to being an alcoholic. She uses the present tense adhering to the adage that "once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic." If she is in a position to help someone in need of advice or can offer an ear to listen when a person is hurting, the compassionate side of her humanity takes over. The insecurity is momentarily forgotten, and she is in her element. She is confident and helpful and caring when someone is reaching the end of their rope. When I hear her offering advice to her sister-in-law, or listening to her brother when he is down, I can easily conjure up that black and white Audrey Hepburn image of a woman who is so unaware of the outside world while so focused on what is in front of her. When my sister, a hard nut to crack at the best of times, momentarily lets down her guard and talks frankly to my mother, the weight of the Guilt is momentarily lifted. Her back straightens up, she leans closer in order to hear better, and simply listens, nodding, smiling and feeling, to her core, the emotions being shared.<br /><br />I am learning, as I straddle the threshold of middle-age, not to judge my mother. Having spoken to many daughters, I know I am not alone. We wonder to ourselves why we get so angry and frustrated with these women who brought us life. I watch how men communicate with their moms and there doesn't seem to be this animosity. But, as tiny bits of that wisdom brought about by living life settle in, the picture is becoming clearer. I only have to close my eyes and think back to that moment in every teenage girl's life when she looks at her mother with contempt and says (sometimes for all to hear), "I will NEVER be like you." <br /><br />When I said those spiteful words to my own mother, she lost her momentum for a mere fraction of a second. Her hurt was almost indiscernible. She stopped what she was doing, (applying makeup), turned to face me in the small space we were in, (the bathroom) and said in a very steady, firm tone; "Someday you will understand why I do what I do." She then picked up her mascara wand, turned to face the mirror, and continued what she had been doing before I had interrupted her with my grand revelation. It was definitely not the reaction that I had anticipated, and I suppose that is why I remember it so well. <br /><br />She was right. I understand her actions, her mistakes, and, most of all, the things that make her human. I understand these things because she taught me, she nurtured me, and she guided me away from some of the paths I could have unwisely followed without her direction and experience. My mother's humanity, her compassion, her insecurity, and her Guilt, make her who she is. Daughters have been told through the ages that, over time, they will become their mothers. I wouldn't want it any other way.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0