Rafter Ninjas

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

If I am getting better at being in Japan, why is it that I keep making the same mistakes? Somehow I again found myself bowing profusely and repeating “moshiwakearimasen” to a subway attendant. Apparently the custom I just invented of getting into the station at Ginza, guiding your wife to Roppongi, and then taking the train back yourself and getting out the same place you got in does not exist in Japan. This action instead demonstrates some nefarious purpose, at least to confuse the machine that reads my Suica prepaid card. And in Japan, you do not confuse the robots.


I know it’s only Tuesday, but I seriously freaking out that we are not going to be able to do everything by Saturday night. The fact that we already have blisters and our bodies are aching from walking is not the issue. Part of it is that we get tired by 10 pm and Japan does not. Tsutaya, the Japanese version of Barnes & Noble, is open until 2 am. No wonder we can’t compete…


I think we have a myth about Japan that Japanese people do not express themselves as openly as Americans do. Except in direct conversation, I have seen quite the opposite. We started yesterday at Akasaka near an ancient temple, where we found a tiny restaurant built in the old style. It was started by a guy who played the Shamisen, which is sort of an ancient guitar. After he brought us the most delicious 12-item bento boxes I have ever been in the presence of, he sat down to play while we ate. Forget the music for a minute – the food was amazing. Sushi, cooked fish, tempura – everything was perfect. I have no idea what the raw things were – one thing was in a hermit-crab shell. Whatever it was, it was delicious. People ask me why I don’t eat sushi, and the truth is, I don’t like it – in America. Somehow it tastes different in Japan. Or maybe I’m just afraid to offend the guy playing the Shamisen. It is entirely possible there are ninjas in the rafters waiting with blow darts if I spit out the wrong thing.


And, by the way, the whole thing cost less than a trip to Saint Maartens on the UVa corner.


When the day starts with something so exquisite, it only makes sense that we went to a club to see a Beatles tribute band. If there is something more fun than watching 4 Japanese men perform “A Day in the Life” like they were on stage at the Albert Hall I haven’t found it yet. But then again, it’s only Tuesday and I have a piece of paper next to me that says “7/29 Mr. [Lastname] [Firstname] Ninja Restaurant Akasaka”

Pantomime Elvis

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

People often ask us why we are going back to Japan after I just went last summer and we both went in November. I think it’s because it’s basically a giant Disneyland and we have yet to go on all the rides. But when you can go to Denny’s and get Korean-stle nan myung, spaghetti, gyoza, and French onion soup all at the same time, the question itself seems rather stupid. The menu provides a wide selection of hamburgers, udon, hotpot and okonomiyaki selections, at reasonable prices. They should make one of these in America…

We fell asleep last night to a show on the History channel about the History of Odysseus. A person who did not, in fact, exist. A history based upon a book that is actually fiction. Did anyone else notice that the History channel has slowly started telling completely fictional stories?

Of course, I’m in Japan, the land where the real and the pantomime are barely separated. I’m not reporting anything new to everyone who knows Shibuya and Harajuku, but I guess I thought the dancing Elvis impersonators had to be a myth. There is no way that people would dress up in leather pants and dance in the 98 degree heat while wearing 15 lbs of hair product….oh…wait….

They were actually pretty good, and despite their almost certain heat exhaustion danced their hearts out. Truthfully, I preferred the poodle-skirt dancers.

But that’s pantomime. Real Japan is inside the park, where Yoyogi is this amazing retreat for a land where most people live with 3 other people in an apartment the size of my college dorm room. The sort of place that would go for $300 a month in Charlottesville (or $2k per month in Manhattan). Yoyogi, which is a sprawling open space, is where you can finally go to have some space to do whatever you like, be that learning to walk a tightrope, playing cello backwards, or practicing your comedy routine.

These are the reasons I love Japan. For A, it’s really the shopping and the food. Of course, in this country, A is a size 2 – which means that there are many people smaller than her. She bought her first pair of Capri pants yesterday, at least the first that didn’t just look, well, like pants. I just get to wander and take in the daily lives of people who don't realize that "Jersey Shore" is a documentary.

Shibuya is amazing in almost every respect, and I could have spent all day walking through its warrens of tiny restaurants and amazing little shops. Not to mention the endless underground food courts in the department stores. But after walking for almost 12 hours in the 95 degree + heat, I started to feel chilly and my fingers felt oddly numb. After about an hour of that I decided it was a sign, so we hobbled back to the hotel and called it a night.

Made it

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

I've finally reached Shinjuku, the first place in Japan I ever wanted to visit 20 years ago when I first caught the bug. The hotel is beautiful, built only 2 years ago and already the winner of "best hotel of the year" in some travel-website competition. The staff is bilingual and advertises themselves as such, making the hotel ideal for Annie, but they could have put us in an engineering access tube for the elevator shaft and I'd love the place because they spoke to me entirely in Japanese. Of course now I have no idea where anything is.

One of the dangers of deciding it’s more fun to use the local language and not simply stay at the Hyatt in Orlando is that when you walk into your hotel room and the lights don’t turn on, you won’t know why.She probably explained it to me, or it was written on the various signs written in Japanese around the hotel. Either way, when we walked it we hit every switch we could find, only, no lights.

Fortunately, I had my flashlight on me. Once again, this is one of those moments when people often yell at me, asking "Are you crazy?? Why do you carry a flashlight/ducttape/a knife" everywhere???" Usually, this question is asked at a moment that tends to answer the question on its own, like Andrew asking while I am fixing his sunroof on the way to Virginia Beach, or, in this case, standing in a dark hotel room on the other side of the planet. In this case, it revealed that you have to stick your room key in this device for the lights and AC to come on. No leaving everything on all day while we wander around town, I guess....

Still, no mastery of Japanese or the plots to the first 3 seasons of MacGuyver has given me the insight to figure out what this is. The room has a kitchen, microwave, hairdryer, iron, TV, computer set-up, etc. etc. And this. What the heck is it? I have turned it over, shaken it, flipped the handles, and it doesn't do anything. It takes batteries, or it plugs into the wall, but it doesn't open. It has handles on the bottom too, and it can stand on its side. And the hotel thought it such an important amenity to include it at no charge. This is the first time I've stayed at a hotel in Japan, and I'm not trying to be ungrateful, but seriously - what the hell is this thing?

I have no illusions, however, about what this is. I'm just not sure I'm into using it.

Well, at least the place has a person I can talk to, unlike my apartment in Fukuoaka, or was built after the invention of electricity, unlike our place in Kyoto. And it comes with his and her kimonos.

Of course, despite the language differences, this place is incredibly user-friendly. We got to the express train to Shinjuku with no trouble at all after landing in Narita. The train announcements were in English, Japanese, Mandarin, and Korean. The signs clearly marked everything and we could have made it with no language at all, since the pictures were completely clear. Much easier, say, then trying to get from Terminal 7 to Terminal 1 at JFK in Brooklyn.

I realize America isn't designed for foreigners, but shouldn't it at least be user friendly for someone who doesn't actually work at the airport? 3 people told us that the way from Terminal 7 to Terminal 1 was the train, but each decided not to share that the tracks were out of service and the train, in fact, wasn't running that day. After waiting for the train that wasn't coming, some TSA guy getting off his shift told us we had to take the train to Howard freakin' Beach, then get back on the airport train and ride back to the airport the other direction. We'd still be at Kennedy now if not for him. Not that it would have been all that bad - Terminal 1, the foreign carrier terminal, has some of the best Korean food we've had on vacation.

So then I fell into the river...

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

I fell into a river today. 

Not some small river at a temple, I fell into the largest river in central Kyoto. 

And in doing so, I learned that iPhones don’t swim (I’ll be getting a new one of those, I guess) and your passport will, for a period of time.  Also that water is cold.

Look, I’ll be the first to admit this blog has been a little boring this time around.  To be honest, not a lot of wacky, zany stuff happened.  A and I had a great time, ate amazing and fun food, and saw some of the most beautiful sights in the world.  This has been the best vacation ever. 

However, back to me falling into the river. 

So here’s the dilemma:  I had to return my bicycle by 3 pm.  And A's.  Only A had sworn off of riding a bicycle in Japan on account of 3 accidents in a one –hour period.  Therefore, I had to ride that back yesterday in the night.  When I arrived at the store, expecting to be able to just leave it there, I found them locked up with no parking anywhere.  Aware, as you are, that you should not just park anywhere (even though everyone does) I set out to find a bicycle parking lot. Finding a bicycle parking garage, I took my ticket and returned home.

Today, I rode my own bike to the shop.  I had only 20 minutes, which look like plenty of time.  That is, until I saw an unusual sight – a bicyle submerged in the river, and two sad looking little girls staring at it with their mother. 

I stopped, of course (shut up, Bryan, I know), and inquired as to the problem, as if it wasn’t obvious.  The little girls had accidently let their bike fall into the river when they parked it on the sidewalk. 

So I looked at the bike, looked at my umbrella, belt, and duct tape I keep in my bag, and thought “this will be easy.”  I rigged up a bike-fishing pole and caught the bike on the fourth try, pulling it up from the water. 

Only the cord broke and I was left with my belt in my hands, with the bike and umbrella still in the water – so close.  Probably just 10 feet away.  I could reach it, I thought.  The slope into the water didn’t look that bad, and I could climb back up on the rock face. 

Halfway down, I learned that wasn’t such a good idea, as I slid feet first into the water.  Once in the water, I began to quickly ascertain that I was in trouble.  There was no way back up onto the sidewalk, no stairs within a mile sight in either direction, and only the people at the sidewalk to not help me.  Not good.  I also remembered that I still had my iPhone, which I realized immediately was dead. 

Suddenly two cyclists stopped – and believe it or not, one of them had a cord long enough to reach me.  He threw it down and in about 15 seconds I remembered my “Project Adventure” training from High School on how to scale a sheer wall with a tension rope.  Carrying me (and the bike) up the wall made all those long boring days worth it immediately. 

Once at the top, I immediately fell into Japanese-mode, doing what any good Japanese person would do – bow repeatedly and deeply and humbly ask their forgiveness for my terrible error and foolishness.  They, in turn, expressed great regret at my soaking wet, dirty, and passport/iPhone/all my possessions soaking wet state.  No, it was my fault, I insisted.  And then quickly left.

Because, as you may remember, the bike was due back, now in 10 minutes. 

So, back to my house, quick change, and then back on the road.

Only I had forgotten one thing – in my soaking-wet wallet was the card to get the OTHER bicycle out of the garage.  CRAP.  I carefully removed it, still wet, and placed it carefully in my bike-basket to dry as I rode.  

OK, I KNOW that was a stupid idea.  Of course the card flew out in the first 5 minutes.  Thus, I spent the next 10 minutes frantically retracing my steps looking for a tiny piece of paper  in the middle of a three-lane road on a bicycle.  NOT EASY.  But I found it

Back on my way, I made it to the store, returned the first bike, returned the second bike (after a quick and VERY rough translation of the garage instructions, unaided now by my handy kanji translation software located on the dead iPhone), and headed straight back to meet Annie. 

So here I sit, in an internet café in Kyoto, Japan, having just taken a shower in their somewhat luxurious shower/tanning booth suite, watching my coat dry and letting their massage chair ease my troubles. I got lots of cool stuff here and ate great food, but I think in the end this trip was more amazing for A, since she has never been here before.  I know you all were hoping for more zany adventures and silly observations, but truthfully Kyoto isn’t that kind of city, or at least it wasn’t for us this time around. 

I am planning to try to write some follow-up blogs when I get back about some of the sights and go into some more detail about some cool things I saw.  The truth is that I have been too exhausted at the end of each day to write anything, but also too absorbed with planning the next day. 

And then I fell into the river and everything went crazy.  A and I ate burgers made of rice-cake buns with carrots and korean Kalbee and I bought a bunch of Jpop CDs.  And now I we have to find some way to dry my clothes to pack and leave tomorrow.  

There is an expression in Japanese that you say at the end of the day or at the end of a visit - Otsukaresamadeshita - literally, "thank you I am very tired."  

Well, Otsukaresamadeshita, Kyoto.

Yes, fine, we went to McDonalds.

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

I don’t think I’ll be taking Annie to Tokyo.

 Not that it was part of the plan for this trip, anyway, but one swipe at Osaka left her mumbling and shell shocked. And hungry again, for some reason, but a quick walk to Pontocho solved that.Although I will tell you that the sign “we have english menu” is not as helpful as it sounds, when the staff do not themselves speak English.

We had made a trip to the National Bunraku Theater in Osaka, which is the premier venue in Japan to see Bunraku and Kabuki theater.For those of you who haven’t wasted hours of your life mired in the minutae of a tiny island country that, other than having made your Camry, is of little interest to you, Bunraku is traditional Japanese puppet theater.And before you laugh and say “puppets? like muppets?”(actually, I first saw Bunraku ON the muppet show when I was a kid and thought it was pretty damn cool) don’t start laughing yet – some of the performers, who are completely visible to the audience while they operated the puppets in teams of 3 per puppet, have been deemed “living national treasures” by the Japanese government.I know, but please hold your laughter until the end.In order to ascend the ranks of Bunraku puppetry, one must spend about 10 years operating the legs (which is a pain in the ass, I think, because female puppets don’t actually have legs), then 10 years operating the left arm, and then you get to run the right arm and head.

Now, go ahead and laugh if you wish.

But it is an intense experience, partially because an old Japanese man is reading the story from a raised dais like a Cantor reads the Torah.Some of these men, apparently also deemed Living National Treasures, are amazing.Accompanied by a man playing a Shamisen, sort of a 3 stringed guitar, this guy tells the story in traditional Japanese, which apparently is so difficult to understand that the Japaneseneed subtitles, or supertitles, as it was there.

Anyway, that play, which ran 4 hours, was all fox-demons and kimono and seppuku and Noh music, interrupted only by a snack time (well placed for A) in which the entire audience appeared to be aware that they could bring their own food and immediately poured out into the lobby to eat their food quietly and quickly.

As soon as it was over, we headed out to Osaka proper.And straight into Las Vegas crossed with 5th Avenue on Thanksgiving weekend.It was a national holiday, which meant no school and thousands of kids and adults jammed into the streets.Music videos blaring in the streets from giant billboards visible from Space – where you can see their reflection on the moon if you look carefully, I think.After an hour of this spectacle/eye torture, Annie had had enough – “find me a Starbucks” she declared.So I left her at the international point of refuge to explore on my own.I don’t think she was a fan.

After a couple hours of crazieness for me and cafe time for A, it was back to Kyoto for a quiet dinner in Pontocho of daikon oden, octopus tempura, and various pickled vegetables.

But yesterday was the reason we came to Kyoto.After a rather difficult trip to rent bicycles, which included A losing her ticket while mid-journey (I have now can mark off “being scolded and admonished in Japanese by a public official” off in my “to do in Japan” lit), and a stern admonition from the bike rental place (“Park only in designated areas.Do not do what Japanese people do.They do not care about their bicycles.They are cheap.”) it was off to Chishaku-In, a temple and garden complex in Southern Higashiyama.

Other than a rather violent fall into the street straight in front of a City Bus, Annie did well riding for the first time since childhood.And it was worth the peril.

Chishaku-In is a temple of the Chizan School of Shingon Buddhism. Built in 1585, the original garden has been attributed to the tea master Sen no Rikyu.  If I didn't think I needed to get Annie something to eat, I'd still be there now.  But once again, other than being amazingly beautiful, it raised lots of questions.  

For one thing, we were reminded once again of the idiocy of Japanese tourism.Here was one of the most beautiful gardens in the world, and other than a single tour group, and a couple of errant travelers, the place was completely empty.We thought perhaps it was because it was a weekday, but that myth was dispelled at Kiyomizu Dera, which was packed like a Taylor Swift

concert (like the pop culture reference? I know, most of you don’t know who that is, and anyone who reads this in the future won’t either).

Ok, the view is cool and it’s a cool building, but the walk isn’t that far from one to the other.

It was going to take a lot to clear the disappointment of Kiyomizu Dera from A's mind, so a quick jaunt to the Tanai Meguri (womb walk) was in order.Truthfully, I had no idea what it was, and every guide I read refused to say.All they said was, you have to go.So 100 yen later I was walking down a deep staircase into a cavern devoid of light or any guide whatsoever.I’m as horrified by subway gropers as anyone, and I am troubled that Japan has to have a dedicated women’s only subway car, and that there are men who patrol the subways with uniforms and armbands as part of an anti-groping campaign, but a few minutes into having no idea where I was going and wondering if I would eventually just be eaten by a minotaur, I reached out and put my hand on the shoulder of the woman in front of me.Sorry lady, I want to be polite, and all, but I don’t want to die.

I think a Japanese person might have just chosen death. I suppose you learn a lot about yourself in these situations.

Anyway, I’m going to respect the tradition and not say what was down there.It really was odd, that’s all I’ll say, and I can’t give you the explanation because it was in Japanese spoken too fast and too complicated to understand.

At this point, we retrieved our bicycles from the designated parking lot (where only bicycles from our rental place were parked – I smell kickbacks….) and we were off to Kodai-Ji.

One more fall from her bicycle and A and I made it just as night fell.In her defense, by the way, Japanese streets are not exactly made for biking.Or driving.Or really both plus pedestrians.

One new phenomenon in Southern Higashiyama is that a few temples have decided to open at night and illuminate the paths in the fall for visitors.Here, for the first time, we and the tourists all agreed that we had found something amazing.

Chion-In had the same opportunity, and we visited there as well.Here, I figured, at least the Japanese wouldn’t do something insane.As the rain began to pour and everyone magically pulled out umbrellas that we had never seen them carrying before, now for the second day in a row, I could hear the sound of a piano playing, almost as if it was coming from the main temple.That was impossible, of course, since these were sacred spaces where you couldn’t take pictures or approach the altar or, presumably, set up your huge loudspeakers and your Casio 3000 electric piano and put on a concert in the middle of the night.

At least one of those statements is incorrect, to my surprise.Anyway, it really was raining pretty hard, so it was a fine opportunity to sit and not get rained on.  Even after, however, it was worth continuing on despite the rain, if only thanks to Jean's amazingly rain-resistant wool cap (thanks Jean!) and the overpowering beauty of our surroundings.  

Chion-In had the same opportunity, and we visited there as well.Here, I figured, at least the Japanese wouldn’t do something insane.As the rain began to pour and everyone magically pulled out umbrellas that we had never seen them carrying before, now for the second day in a row, I could hear the sound of a piano playing, almost as if it was coming from the main temple.That was impossible, of course, since these were sacred spaces where you couldn’t take pictures or approach the altar or, presumably, set up your huge loudspeakers and your Casio 3000 electric piano and put on a concert in the middle of the night.

At least one of those statements is incorrect, to my surprise.Anyway, it really was raining pretty hard, so it was a fine opportunity to sit and not get rained on.

At the end of the night, which included a visit to a traditional Japanese tea house in an amazing garden at Chion-In, testing my ability to be obsequiously polite in Japanese (ever use the phrase “Please forgive me for leaving before you” in Japanese?I had not), ), we decided to push the bicycles home, after A discovered she could crash her bicycle without even riding it.

And really, wet, tired, and in pain from walking continuously since 9 am, up dozens of long flights of stone steps on this and that mountain, standing in some of the most beautiful gardens in the world, drinking fine tea and eating perfectly prepared bento lunches, we can be forgiven for our visit to McDonalds and a couple of quarter pounders and fries.

Eaten by a Bear

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

Any trip overseas comes with challenges.The internet connection is spotty, the brands are all different at the convenience store, our phones don’t work at all, despite AT&T’s hollow promises and pathetic tech support (“having trouble? Call us!” Thanks idiots), the house you rented doesn’t have central heat or hot water except from the shower head…

Kyoto is an ancient city, and for whatever reason the Japanese haven’t adopted central heating much around here.And this house is no exception.There is one heater, in the bedroom, labled entirely in Japanese (well, I guess our air conditioner at home is entirely in English, so I can’t complain), and god damn it I was cold yesterday.Paper sliding doors are beautiful, but not made for insulation.Apparently the do burst into flames fairly quickly, though, or so I’ve read since this city has been burned to the ground more than a few times in the last 1000 years.

Yesterday was our jaunt down the path of philosophy (Tetsugaku no michi), a rather storied and now constantly traveled tourist destination.

As we walked this idyllic and storied path, the same thought kept crossing my mind – “how long before Annie stabs me in the face with a sharp object repeatedly and then dissappears into the crowd?" She’s starving and hasn’t eaten since breakfast, which, if you know Annie, is akin to bear-baiting a rabid, starved zombie polar bear with the a sharp stick while wearing Calvin Kline’s “scent of salmon.”

But starvation has it’s limits, and apparently those limits are defined at one border as: Okonomiyaki (Literally, as-you-like-it grill). It’s an omlette of sorts of meats and vegetables. And it was not on the menu, despite how many we past in a fit of hunger. After passing those up and regretting 30 minutes later, I was so desperate that we nearly considered eating at the Westin Hotel, which would have been so shameful I’d nary have reported it here.

Finally, however, we stumbled on a tiny Udon shop and almost fell into the place over ourselves.Finding a seat we were presented with the menu:

OK, so this menu isn’t even phoenetic – you need to know the characters to order.Annie was starving and time was short.In comparison, my Japanese mid-term was the equivalent of the MPRE.And this was the Bar Exam – high pressure, and my future depended on it.

Customs

by Kensatsukan Gaijin
I think I got my first clue that I was doing something crazy again when I tried to fill out the Immigration Card prior to getting off the plane.

Here's my address in Japan:

Kyoto-Shi Higashiyama-Ku
Sanjo Dori Shirakawa Bashi
Higashi Hairu 2 Chome
Nishi-Machi 151-11

Here's how much space they give you to write your address in Japan: { --------- }.

I think the idea is that your address is supposed to be: Hilton Hotel, Tokyo, Japan.
Or Marine Corps Base Echo-Delta, Okinawa, or something like that.

I burned through 2 cards trying to write the whole thing on the card before giving up and writing it out in Japanese (which, believe it or not, takes up half the space).

Then I got to the customs form (which asks, by the way, if I am bringing any swords into Japan. Why would I bring one with me? It would be like bringing my gun from England in case they didn't have any in Texas.) The customs form had 1/3 the space. So I gave up and used the polite-est verb form I know to get one of the stewardesses to write it for me. Man she could write small...I did feel bad, asking her to take a break from her 13 hour non-stop patrol of everyone in our section to make sure everyone had something to drink the entire freakin' time.

I should point out that our flight, on ANA (Japanese Airline), had FREE BOOZE. No joke. Free wine, free beer. And before you get any ideas of what this flight quickly turned into, they couldn't GIVE the stuff away. Not because it wasn't good - Annie liked the wine, and asked for it with a $10 bill in her hand expecting to pay. The stewardess didn?t even look at the money. But I guess there just wasn't an inherent desire to get f**c$ed up anywhere on our docile passenger manifest. God help us if Southwest tries this on the Dulles-to-Columbia, South Carolina jaunt I suffered through last month. I don't think they have enough handcuffs at the airport...

But I was left to marvel at a smiling uniformed ANA stewardess walking through the cabin with free wine and beer and being ignored like she was handing out tickets to an "Ace of Base" acoustic-only comeback concert in Camden, NJ.

It's fun showing someone else the country that blew you away once before - here at Narita Airport (where I am writing this) Annie is just now seeing the zen garden in the middle of the passenger concourse at Narita Airport, the massage chairs with customer wake-up calls so you don't miss your flight, the changing rooms in the immaculate restrooms that each have a place to leave your shoes before you change...

Meantime I can finally enjoy my Kochakaden Royal Milk Tea again - it's as good as I remember it. I really hope this tiny map to the bus from Osaka to Kyoto is right, because I have another tiny map written in mostly Japanese to follow to get to our house. I tried to explain where we were staying to the people at immigration and after we both realized neither of us was going to understand where this place really is, they waved me on.

Ashita Kyoto ni Ikimasu Yo!

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

Tomorrow at 11:20 am we take off from Dulles Airport on the way to Kyoto, my second and Annie's first trip to Japan. Last time I wrote this blog I started it Tarantino-style, mid-story, so I thought this time a traditional beginning would be a good start.

Here are my expectations about Kyoto:

1. It will be in Japan

2. I will not be at work

As long as those expectations are fulfilled, I will be happy.

For those of you playing the home game: We leave Friday, land Saturday, and will leave Kyoto the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Kyoto was the capital of Japan for about a thousand years, blah blah blah [insert stolen wikipedia info here] [bluebook required citation: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kyoto ]

Here is the FAQ that this blog has lacked, resulting in a many many email complaints in my head just now.

Where are you staying?

We are renting a traditional machiya (like a townhouse) in Gion, the traditional geisha district in old Kyoto. VRBO link here:

http://www.vrbo.com/209514

Jay, does Annie speak Japanese?

No, you freakin' racist - she's Korean, not Japanese. Get it straight.

But I thought Japanese people and Korean people don't like each other!

Correct

Why are you going to Japan during Thanksgiving?

Public Sector Math: Thanksgiving week + 3 1/2 days leave = 10 days off.

And why Japan? Please see previous entries (e.g. Little girl buying cigarettes, free drink & movie dispensing net-cafes with massage chairs, catch and eat your own eel stands, etc.)

When is this pointless post going to end?

Departing Reflections

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

I’m sitting in Narita International Airport with a few minutes before my connection and reflecting on the Tsunami I lived through, well, the Tsumani I created for myself, in Japan. An obvious question is what I will miss most.

Some things are obvious. Living a 50 second walk from a convenience store, and a 90 second walk to my

preferred

Konbini, or 90 seconds in the other direction to a huge used Manga/Anime/CD store. Or the fact that you can eat amazing food for less than $10 almost anywhere. Netcafes, Anime at the Theater, Band-aids that kick way more ass than American Band-aids, Milk Tea, brown rice tuna mayonnaise onigiri, no tipping anywhere, etc.

And of course I’ll miss the fact that my greatest daily worry was getting my –te form conjugations corrrect. As difficult as Japanese is, finally having students to struggle next to was fun. There’s no way to explain to you dear readers why the word “Gerbil-tachi” still makes me laugh uncontrollably.

Of course, it will also be the little things. I’m dreading the silence of walking in and out of a convenience store the first time I go in. I have a feeling it will be a little haunting. All after I've finally figured out how the odd shower/bath combination works. After stumping me for 5 days, I realized the genius of the Japanese shower - it's built for you to take a shower while sitting down. Think that's ridiculous? Well, after having the kinds of days I had, sitting down was a dramatic luxury.

Maybe I’ll miss just how safe Japan is. Moving out, I left my keys in the mailbox for the Apartment management, and it was the first time I realized that the mailboxes were set up so that I could have taken any mail from any mailbox at any time. The office mailbox wasn’t even locked. And aside from crime, despite the tiny streets and complete lack of traffic enforcement, I saw nary an accident or near collision. The care everyone takes for each others safety is staggering for a former New York City regular.

Of course, one factor that has driven this trip for me is being willing to try new and crazy things. Pictured to the right is me, in my apartment in Tenjin, Daimyo, doing something called "ironing." When you are out of school clothes (ok, 5.11 pants, but still...) and don't have a dryer, this is a great way to quickly get clothes ready for class. Man, I did some crazy new things on the other side of the world!

Maybe what will shock me the most is the general disorder of everyday American behaviour. Right now I’m watching a 4 year old kid walk over and deposit his plastic water bottle in one of the 4 impossibly complicated trash dividers all by himself. My connection from Fukuoka boarded and cleared out so fast I was stunned – I briefly wondered whether Japanese people drill getting in and out of planes regularly as children to prepare them for daily life.

Ever wonder why it takes so long for people to get on and off a plane? I now know the answer. It’s because they are not Japanese. The solution to quick boarding and disembarking is to only allow Japanese people to travel on airplanes.

On an escalator they line up meticulously on the left (drive on the left, stand on the left, I guess.) No one has to tell them, they just do. On a jog one day I ran past a group of 13-year old kids putting up a tent for a track meet. One of had taken charge and was directing the group, who in complete unison on her order lifted the tent into the air to complete its construction. Watching the cabin crew demonstrate the safety drill on the plane was like watching a Kabuki performance, all of them moving simultaneously with precision.

Sure, the Japanese economy is obviously bloated with idiotic and duplicative jobs that are a complete waste. But every one of those needlessly duplicative or pointless employees busts their ass at their job anyway. I’ve grown so used to employees of the book store, fast food restaurant, or bakery bolt across store at top speed to complete some quotidian task that I have almost grown to ignore it.

But this concern for order is coupled with a concomitant concern for the well-being of others. And the truth is simply that I’m going to miss the Japanese people the most. They have survived for thousands of years as a unique and resilient culture by constantly adapting, growing, and reinventing themselves while remaining true to their true nature, a nature that as generous and welcoming as I’ve experienced. I left home expecting a week of crazy robots and silly “Engrish” signs and am leaving deeply grateful for a genuinely wonderful journey.

When I boarded my connection from Fukuoka, I watched a teenage kid walk up to an old woman who was obviously confused about her seat and walk her all the way to the other end of the plane where her seat was. Total strangers will do that for one another and I’ve seen it repeatedly.

Hell, if nothing else they were incredibly forgiving of my idiotic mistakes. It wasn’t until my third day that I realized I had been handing store clerks money while simultaneously saying “here, give me this.” The bus driver finally gave up trying to explain how to use the unnecessarily complicated payment box and carefully took my coins one by one from my hand, all the while apologizing and bowing. While sitting next to a woman on the train, I proceeded to ask her incessant questions, if only to practice my vocabularly and grammar, until I discovered that she was dying of cancer. Never meaning to pry, of course, I was speechless; something I should have been to start with, really, but I was being an eager student…

Still, it’s a good thing I’m returning to America. First of all, I’m sure that Sonia is ready to kill me. Secondly, my spelling is already starting to deteriorate. I struggled over the spelling of “parallel” last night (I finally had to google it) and I just noticed I spelled “behavior” with the British spelling above. Language immersion is the only way to learn a language and a surefire way to ruin your own.

Well, that’s all for now. I’ve already started the progress of re-acclimation to the states. Step one: One order of mikusu pisa (mixed-topping pizza) and Potaato (fries). Delicious-janai, but it’s a first step.

Ja, Mata!

Dazaifu

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

When I woke up this morning, even I had to admit that it was time for some simple peace and quiet. A nice tranquil day at a temple and garden - that's sort of what I imagined Japanese tourism to be, and why not do that at least once.

Well, I got that. But like everything else Japanese, it shoved my expectations into a locker and took their lunch money to take their mom out to dinner and a movie.

And I don't have a photo to go with any of what happened. But that's OK with me.

To start with, someone at school mentioned I should visit Dazaifu Tenmangu Shrine, an 1100 year-old temple outside the City. A quick train ride and I was there. A 3-hour tour, I figured. A 3 hour tour.

On arrival I got distracted by a small path that lead off to the side of the main temple. The path was unmarked, except for some small flags with Kanji beyond my ability. So I followed it. For a long time. Long after it stopped being paved, or marked, or whatever. Unfortunately, the main shrine is a tourist trap, as beautiful as it is. The approach is lined with an attractive row of cheap tourist shops stocking food and souvenirs. It is pretty, but there you go. So when I saw the barely marked, tiny path off to the side, I set off where no one else was going.

If I can describe my approach to Japan, it is this exact attitude. That I will just go somewhere or do something, despite how fruitless it appears, because I know deep down that Japan is going to reward me with something amazing. Finally, after I reach the peak, I came upon this beautiful, tiny shrine built directly into the mountain.

I felt pretty proud of myself for climbing to the top to find this place, until I turned around to find an elderly man who had done the same thing and was there to pray.

However, other than the old man, I have to say that much of this visit I was struck by one repeated thought.

The Japanese are idiots.

The main temple is fine, and all, but as I wandered I began to discover temples and shrines that were as stunning as they were deserted. Take Komyozenji Temple, for example.

This zen temple is 800 years old and is astonishingly beautiful.

And astonishingly deserted. There was someone else there - I saw shoes at the entrance. But I never saw that person, or anyone for that matter.

Not that I'm complaining. I wouldn't have had it any other way. I ask for some peace and quiet, and Japan gives me a moment of perfect contemplation. Wow.

At a certain point in this trip, though, I started to notice that my instincts are usually to avoid going down the unknown path, to defer risk, and to stick with the known. And every time I've defied those instincts, it's lead me in amazing directions. When I noticed that absolutely no one was following the road to "Kyushu National Museum" which, admittedly, was clearly a long hike up a mountain road, my mind said "that trip will be a complete waste of time."

So, off I went to Kyushu National Museum.

A quick word about Japanese customer service. It is amazing, and they take it very seriously. At the Konbini (convenience store) the staff will cry out, in unison, at the top of their lungs, "Irrashaimase!!!" when you arrive, as will every shopkeeper and restauranteur in the entire prefecture. And woe if you are standing behind someone else in line. The 7-11 clerk stocking in the back will bolt to the front of the store to serve you so you don't have to wait 12 seconds to buy your pack of gum. I'm expecting to feel particularly empty when I walk into 7-11; many people have asked why Japanese people almost never emigrate to the US. I'm starting to understand.

Hell, last night when my schoolmates and I got lost on the way to the bar, we asked a guy handing out flyers for a different bar and he not only told us how to get there, he lead us there on his own.

But Kyushu National Museum is staffed better than the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and was entirely deserted in the middle of the day on Saturday. There were maybe 30 visitors in this enormous and gorgeous, modern building. Every exhibit room had a staff member who would quietly operate a video projector that presented information about the artifacts, some of which dated back 15,000 years to early settlers in Japan. The woman at the information desk was delighted to speak English with me, and I did not deprive her of the chance to use her English, probably for the first time all year.

Oh, and Myo Sim readers - Two Words: Muramasa sword. Amazing.

Kyushu National Museum.

That done, I did want to see something more. The map I picked up was entirely in Japanese, save a couple of unhelpful words. So, off I went through the Dazaifu suburbs to see I could find some of the other ancient temples that were apparently marked on the map.

A quick word on how you can identify a Buddhist temple in Japan. Japanese Buddhists do not shave their head in solidarity with neo-nazis. What you see pictured here is NOT a swastika. What you see on the left is a "Manji" or reverse swastika. It is an ancient Buddhist symbol that some parents still sew into their children's clothes to protect them against evil spirits. And dates with Western girls, I expect...

Anyway, armed with a map covered in swastikas, I began to wander.

Boy did I wander.

I found a quiet temple at the top of these stairs in a Dazifu suburb and discovered that I'm not the only one who realizes how deserted these shrines are. I found two high school kids whom I clearly disturbed in a moment of awkward intimacy, made staggeringly more awkward by the appearance of a bearded American with a camera. Oops. Should have left a scrunchie on the statute of Kannon, kids....

But I digress...

I finally find what I thought to be a minor shrine off to the side of a street in town. It was quiet and, of course, empty. This shrine also appeared to be in operation of some kind, attended by a woman wearing all black. I asked if the residence is open to view and she happily directed me inside. After laughing at me while I looked at some statutes of musicians that she explained were part of her collection and decidedly NOT national artifacts, I ask her about the large shrine before me.

She tried to explain what it is, but I didn't understand her words, save references to "Kannon,""priests,""old," and "child space robot pilots", I think.

After we talk some, she asked if I would like to see the inside. Of course, I reply, not realizing what I was asking.

She disappeared and reappeared with a key, leading me to the back door, a huge and ancient door secured with a padlock. A quick warning about "Shashin Dame!" (no photos) and I am directed inside, and then abandoned inside.

Even if I had been able to bring the camera, the photo and the words would fail what I found myself standing before after winding my way through the entry hall. The woman had left me alone in a shrine containing an enormous, two-story golden statue of Rusyanabutsu Buddah roughly 1000 years old. I cannot tell you how long I stood there. My sense of time and space completely disappeared as I stood in awe of the moment and this astonishing sight. Stunned, that is, until I heard the loud clatter of a coin offering behind me - behind me, and the locked gate that separated the rest of the public from this shrine.

The old man there to pray before Buddah certainly gave me a strange look - the same look you might give a Japanese man with the Declaration of Independence in his hands during your visit to the National Archives.

You see, I thought that I was at Kanzeonji Temple, which is a temple mostly made famous by the Tale of Genji. Not a particularly special temple, but according my reading of the map and my pathetic Japanese, that's where I was.

CHIGAI.

Wrong Again.

I was standing inside Kaidanin, which throughout Japanese history has been one of only three places in Japan where Buddhist monks could be ordained. This fact I realized only after I left and ran smack into Kanzeonji, next door. Oh crap...I should have bowed WAY more than I did and jacked up the politeness level to ultra-formal. Too late.

My feet were killing me. I was tired, now, and definitely had reached the height of my day. I decided there was no reason to go into the tiny Kanzeonji museum that lay hidden in the garden and ignored by all but a few picnickers. It was almost entirely unmarked and adorned in windowless concrete. A complete waste of time, from the outside.

I don't have to tell you that I went inside.

OK, first of all the guard was about 80 years old and spoke really good English. The entry was tiny and, by Japanese standards, a little run down. Kyushu National Museum this was not. In this case, I cannot blame the Japanese for ignoring this site. It appears to be almost deliberately abandoned.

How anyone was supposed to know that upstairs stood 15 of Japans most ancient and enormous Buddhist stautes, I don't know. I do know that someone went to the trouble of printing an English guide in a font that bespeaks of an issue of National Geographic circa-1974.

No photos allowed. That was OK with me. Annie might be able to describe the feeling of standing before am enormous, 17-foot tall 1000 year old image of the Buddhist god Amoghapasa cut from wood and adorned with gold. I'll just tell you that it takes the ground out from under you.

I found myself wandering the Dazaifu suburbs for a while after that. By 4 pm, it was time to go home. One thing was for sure. I had failed the one thing I had on my list the whole time. To visit a real Japanese sword shop. Well, that's OK. Bound to be that way.

I sat on the Japanese train reading my manga and eating my rice ball like a good commuter. By the time I reached Tenjin it was 4:45. I had an approximate location for a sword store, but there was no way I'd make it in time.

Impossible.

There's that word again, I thought. Impossible. How it was that a week into my Japan vacation I still believed that something wasn't possible I cannot explain. Well, if a fruitless journey was to be, then so be it. I found a bus thanks to a helpful old woman and off I went.

I did not find a sword store.

Again, my Japanese intelligence had failed me. The directions were not to a sword store at all. At least not a store like I had expected.

I found a sword making store. That is two say, I found two men seated on the floor polishing Katana blades in the manner that has been in place for over a 1000 years. There was a man there with an enormous book discussing, well, I don't know what he was discussing. It was definitely about Katanas and Kendo teachers. That much I got.

I just sat and watched for about a 1/2 hour, until closing. They must have thought me nuts, enraptured while they mixed clay and water and carefully polished their craftsmanship with the same stones I had seen in George Moody's basement before he was murdered. Other than the electric lights over their heads, what I was watching I could have seen 500 years ago in Muramasa's workshop.

I didn't even bother asking to take a photo.

Some things aren't meant to be asked.

So that's it. A quiet day in Japan. I could have spent days touring Dazaifu. I was limited only by time, hunger, and my lack of additional band-aids for my feet.

And the truth is, I could have spent another week in Fukuoka and still never have seen the simplest of places. When I booked this trip, I didn't even know that there was a place in Japan called Fukuoka. I found Genki JACS by accident while looking for a Japanese school in Tokyo and accidently running a google search without including "Tokyo." If they hadn't been the only school to allow a single week of study, I'd have gone to Tokyo in a heartbeat.

And I'm not the only one who feels that way - I saw maybe one foreigner a day, outside of school, that is. This is a city by Japanese, for Japanese. And maybe that's why it was so special. Maybe Americans and Westerners haven't ruined it yet. Either way, the only reason I'm sitting in this chair writing this right now is that I can't stand on my feet without feeling pain.

And it's the best pain I've felt in years.

Damn Asian Drivers

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

Look, nearly everyone in America would rank our Asian-American bretheren as being a little jozunai when it comes to driving.And I’ll admit that my first couple of days here, I repeatedly blinked in amazement at what I perceived to be the worst driving I’ve ever seen.

That’s in addition to the bicycles, which nearly everyone rides with the seat all the way down and on the sidewalk.From an American point of view, this is doubly idiotic, regardless of how omnipresent the behavior is. And of course, fundamentally, Japan is a bicycle culture. Bikes are omnipresent and the primary form of transportation. Women ride them to work wearing skirts and suits.

No Need for Giant Parking Garages at a Japanese Train Station

I even caught a story on the morning news about efforts to raise awareness of the dangers of texting while biking, and holding an umbrella while riding, complete with experiments testing stopping distance, reaction time, etc. But all of this just reinforced my perception of the Japanese being driving-wa jozunai.

But like most other things about Japan, I had it all wrong.

The Japanese are the best drivers in the world.

Bar none.

Think I’m wrong? You are looking at one of the many streets in Daimyo, Tenjin. Typical street, some are smaller, some a little larger. And before you say, hell, I've driven down streets like that, try this - this is a two way street. And sidewalk. And bike lane.

So you think the Japanese are bad drivers? I’ll give YOU a car and send you driving down a sidewalk and then make you pass another car coming the other way while avoiding dozens bicycles and pedestrians who are oblivious to your presence.Then I’ll occasionally stop a delivery truck in the middle of the sidewalk and make you repeat until you get it right.

Don’t worry, I’ll bring a snack and something to read…

In the meantime, bow down and respect the Mario Andretti’s of Western Japan.And as for the bicycles, I couldn’t raise my seat on my rented bike and, consumed with frustration, rode off imagining myself in Ring #2 at Barnum & Bailey with a pair of giant red shoes and a seltzer bottle.That is, until I realized the reason for this idiotic setup – what you lose in power and speed, you make up for in control.A good thing when you are sharing the sidewalk with dozens of pedestrians and having to stop on a dime repeatedly.

Oh, and your face won’t get sliced up by a thousand umbrellas.So you’ve got that going for you, which is nice.

And by the way, they regularly ride while holding an umbrella. I can barely take my hands off the handle bars to signal a turn. These people ride one-handed in the rain through a crowded street shared with cars and a thousand pedestrians.

Or maybe I’m just getting too Japanese for my own good.Today at school I found myself pronouncing English with a Japanese accent when I spoke to another student from America on the way to lunch.Uh-oh….

The Moon Cannot be Stolen

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

Today was just like any other day in Japan.

Which is to say, it started out badly and ended by blowing my socks off so fast they spun the earth backwards on its axis, simultaneously leaving me breathless and saving Lois Lane from dying in some idiotic deus-ex-machina landslide/earthquake.

I'll get right to it. Bike tire was flat when I woke up, this makes me mad for reasons not worth getting into, except that it involves me getting splashed with rusty rainwater, etc. etc. No lunch break leaves me exhausted, I leave school in a sour mood, and because of the bike, don't get to the temple before it closes, whatever.

SOOO...I go shopping at Canal City Hakata, which is sort of a trendy spot with lots of expensive shops and gift items. Wandering through, I accidently run into a movie theater, and reading the titles I realize they are showing the new release of Neon Genesis Evangelion - ok, now skip the rest of the paragraph if you are not an anime fan. It was freakin' awesome, the theater was packed, and interestingly there is now significant product placement in Anime - Panasonic, DotComO, etc.

Movie was great, and looked amazing.

So, back to my story. I leave the theater with little idea of what to do, except to walk down this street by the canal and see what's up.

It's a series of Yatai (street food vendors) set up on the left, with the Canal on the right. The night is beautiful, it's 9:30, and I have no idea of what to do, except that I have only 2 more days in Japan after tonight.

But I'm starting to think that I've done it all. In fact, I'm starting to be concerned that the whole thing was a mistake - staying in Fukuoka the entire week. A couple of guys are taking the Shinkansen to Tokyo tomorrow and I'm thinking of joining them. What more could I do here, after all?

And what

happens next....well, give me another 2 paragraphs. I promise it's good.

This next vendor catches my eye. It's a bucket of Unagi (eel) and a woman with a tiny grill. The idea is immediately obvious. Catch your own eel, and eat it. 500 Yen - 5 bucks.

OK, Japan, let's do this.

I go fishing.

Now, I'm not a fisherman; I've never been fishing. And that becomes immediately obvious after I break two of the fishing rods. The woman finally cries out "Dam-e!" which translates into "cut it the F*&# out you idiot foreigner."

So anyway, this guy next to me looks sympathetic and steps in to show me how its done. His technique is actually quite good and he catches an unagi quickly - but returns it to the tank. In the meantime, he notes that I am wearing 5.11 pants. That I find VERY unusual. Normally only military, law enforcement, or holster-sniffers thereof know what these are. In Japan it almost knocks me over. So he and I chat some, and I start to realize that the people there are treating him with a level of respect that is palpable. He is also conjugating his verbs in a very unusual fashion.

So I ask him what he does for a living...and he refuses to answer the question. He just sort of mumbles and looks away, in a way that only a Japanese person can.

"Oh crap," I think "I think I'm hanging out with a Yakuza (gangster.)"

Then again, it's Japan, so what do I care?

The respected man is handed Unagi that I never see him pay for, and in turn he offers it to me. It was absolutely amazing. Delicious. So we sat down on tiny stools and talked over fresh grilled eel.

Anyway, you have no idea how hard it was to figure out, using my Japanese, that the man was not a gangster at all. He was the Sergeant in charge of gang investigations for the Fukuoaka Police Department (something he only admitted to me after I told him what I do for a living.)

OK - I know, I know.

I'm a prosecutor, for goodness sake. I KNOW that he could be making that up. He gave me his card, but that will take me 14 months to translate. He had a badge, but he also has internet access. So sure, it could have all been a lie.

Until he offered to take me out for Sashimi.

"Sashimi wa daijobu?" (Is Sashimi OK)? Keep in mind that in America, I won't eat a tuna sashimi, and I know what's coming. In fact, I have almost never eaten real sashimi. So of course, I happily reply "Daijobu!" and followed him down alleys and back stairs until we entered some basement restaurant in Hakata.

Close your eyes for a moment, and think about what you think would happen when the chief inspector for the gang investigation unit of the prefectural police walks into a Sashimi joint in Asia. Got that in your mind?

THAT is what happened. The staff almost tripped over each other trying to get him a table, and quite nearly threw out someone who was at one table because they needed the space. The Japanese can be obsequious and phony, but what I saw was no act.

But the Inspector was fantastically kind, generous, and patient. We talked for hours and stayed well after closing. The staff there apparently are quite fond of him, and by extension, me, at least for the night.

I cannot convey to you how amazed I was at this entire experience, except to say this: we sat and talked for 2 hours, and had an amazing time, and I was so blown away by everything that I barely noticed that I was eating a fish called, according to my dictionary, a "Stinger Fish" while it was still breathing and looking back at me, occasionally audibly snapping its mouth while we ate its flesh. I barely blinked while eating Fugu (blowfish) that is actually WORLD FAMOUS for being deadly if not prepared correctly.

One inevitable question is, what can you talk about for hours with a man who speaks almost no English and you speak terrible Japanese. All I can say is that there are certain experiences that all law enforcement share. Bad judges, retirement issues, chasing around bad guys who are always younger even though every year you get older, etc.

Plus, it being Japan, he is also a Kendo instructor and studies Jujutsu. Most Japanese Police Departments have a Kendo school, in fact. So at the end of the night, we talked kendo some before the wait staff decided to come hang out with us and they all taught me Hakata street slang and laughed as I tried to pronounce it.

So there you go - Japan is more astonishing than eating another living creature while it looks back at you.

'nuff said.

Hunger Paens

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

The definition of trust in human society is taking food from a complete stranger and eating it voluntarily. I have repeatedly found myself at the mercy of hunger and illiteracy, resulting in some acts of faith I would never have performed at the local Applebees.

My first full day here I walked for over 6 hours before I realized that the promise of food at the top of this park I was visiting was an illusion; the promised sidewalk vendors arrived for the Cherry Blossom

Festival and left soon thereafter. All that was left was an old man in a truck that seemed permanently affixed to the ground

and his 50-something friends who sit around and smoke and watch the feral cats

and dogs that live at the top of this park. He spoke in a thick Kyushu dialect and it was all I could do to read the Katakana menu and find an item I could pronounce. What I got was this:

Can't decide between a hotdog, a hamburger, or a cheesteak? Why not get all three in one? This would be banned immediately in America, but I'll say this - it was freakin' amazing.

Trust, then, is walking into Lawson's convenience store and asking what the items are in the hot food case (sort of like the 7-11 hotdog case). When the clerk explains that the 3 varieties are "regular" "hot" and "cheese," I pick "hot." On the face of it, this is total madness. Really? Just bring me the hot thing. I don't know what it is, but I guess it will be spicy.

Whatever it is, it's my new favorite food, and I found out that 2 other students live off it too.

Or my night of Kendo-exhaustion, when I decided to visit the restaurant across the street - hell, it's always busy, so it has to be good, right? Upon receiving the menu I realize I can't speak Japanese at all. So the waitress take my order: "Please, just bring me anything." "How many anythings?" she asks? "3 please" I reply.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Look, she tried to explain what the food was, but I kept thinking, "Lady, I speak enough Japanese to tell you that 'My apartment is....' but not enough to know how to say '...on fire'. I think that's in Level 3. Anyway, either you bring me something or I'll pass out on the floor in your restaurant."

I still couldn't tell you what I ate, but it was fattier than anything I've eaten in America, and there was a picture of a pig on the menu, so I guess it was pork. Except I don't think there are pigs in Japan...

Or yesterday, when I read the word "Ramen" on the sign to this shop and decided to give it a try.

This should be easy.

The inside looked totally normal, and quite relaxing.

I know the words for various types of ramen, so why not give it a shot.

I try to order, and the woman politely points to the vending machine. She knows the English word "ticket," for some reason, but no other english, but that's enough to make me realize that I have to buy a ticket from this machine to order my food. Now that makes absolutely no sense.

But this ramen was awesome.

My school doesn't give me a lunch break - damn Japanese and their "Gambatte!" attitude. Gambatte, for those of who who don't know, means "Life is pain, suck it up, loser." So I took my 5 minute break between classes to run to the grocery store under the school. No time to read labels - I watched two men in the prepared food aisle stare at the selection for a minute and then grab the same thing. Well, I'll take that. It has to be good, right?

ah, so...

by Kensatsukan Gaijin
You know what the difference between men and women is?
I don't think it would have taken a woman 3 days to realize that the linens in the closet are for her bed and that she's been sleeping on a bed without linens the entire time.

Me, on the other hand....

Best Day Ever

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

I started the day with only 3 blisters on my feet, a bicycle that worked, full of energy and plans to study all night. It's now midnight, I haven't even started my homework, I have skin on the bottoms of my feet ripped off, both my hands have skin ripped off, I no longer have my $100 SureFire tactical flashlight, I still have to take a shower, and my entire body feels like I was trapped in a combine.

I am on cloud nine.

Here's the deal - my schedule, compacted as it is, calls for class all day. No break for lunch (freakin' Japanese and their "Gambatte" attitude). So the day is over, I still have to get a card reader (thank you Apple store, once again), but before I leave the school I get this vague rumor that there is a Kendo class on Monday nights across the street at the youth center. 6 pm.

I figure, hey, I'll never get to see that again - I'll just go at 6, watch a kendo class, and then get dinner and do my homework. The whole thing will take 2 hours, tops. Quick stop to 7&i Holdings, Inc. (Apparently there is no need for a fictitious trade name in Japan for 7-11 - the full corporate title works just fine) for an onigiri (rice ball) and some lemon milk, and off I go.

First lesson - never trust your intelligence. 6 pm was NOT correct. After an incredibly confusing conversation with the old man at the counter, during which I think I may have told him that I was at the gym because I had learned that the Youth Center had just acquired warp technology, I figured out that he was saying wait until 7 pm, that's when class begins.

CRAP. No time for homework, no time for dinner.

7 o'clock rolls around. No Kendo. Just these two wackos. Who inflate this giant rubber ball and begin to toss it back and forth for no apparent reason.

At this point I'm so goddamn tired I actually fell asleep sitting there watching this madness.

Then, out of nowhere, in walks Yamasaki Sensei. He is immediately fascinated with my visit.

Now, keep in mind that I have read one thing over and over on the web: One absolutely, positively, NEVER may just walk into a kendo studio and just "take a class." You must appear with an introduction, preferably from a reputable school, and with prior arrangement.

You cannot show up in 5.11 tactical pants, your Commonwealth Attorney Polo Shirt, and beginner level Japanese and get invited to practice.

Lesson Two: The Internet is no match for the Japanese, who have got to be the most welcoming people I've ever met.

I'm handed a shinai and off we go.

For the Kendo students, a brief summary - the workout was intense, focused, innovative, and fascinating. I've got a bunch of new exercises for you all. Just don't plan to walk the next day...

Then out come the Katana. And for reasons I will never understand, he hands me a Katana and we set into Iai. Of course, I have no idea how to properly perform the Japanese Iai, and so this does not go well. But we end class with Yamasaki Sensei demonstrating a number of the old Iai forms, which up until now I have only seen in archival footage. These are simply amazing. I nearly started to cry watching him perfom these kata. However, that might also be because my hands and feet were in excruciating pain....

Yamasaki Sensei is clearly having a great time, though - we take lots of pictures. He makes me pose for him with his sword (I'll try to get the pictures from him, I have his email) and we take lots of group photos.

His student wasn't too h

appy about the whole thing, I think. I'm sure I got WAY better treatment than he did on a daily basis. Then for some reason Yamasaki sensei asked the ball-throwers to join the picture. What is the deal with these people?

And here's where the whole thing turns quintessentially Japanese - HE invites ME to coffee - so off we go! Starbucks, right? The guy is a simple civil servant by day (I think, at least - my Japanese is so bad that he might have told me that he was the Emperor's personal bodyguard), so nothing fancy, I figure.

Hells no.

We walk straight into the Fukuoka Grand Hotel's coffee room, which is sort of the Fukuoka equivalent of Tea at the Ritz. 3 bedraggled, sweaty, smelly strangers walk into this beautiful tea room and the staff greeted us like royalty. Japan, baby. It rocks.

Although I have no idea how I survived the conversation, it was just amazing. And he started giving me gifts!! Little fans, but still - what's up with that? I knew he would insist on paying (thank god someone warned me not to offer to pay - he might have cut my head off right there if I had tried to pay. Thank you to whoever gave me that warning.)

But I had nothing to give him; I didn't exactly come prepared for a kendo lesson from a true Japanese Kendoka. The only thing of any value I was even carrying was my tactical flashlight. I never travel without it....but tonight.... well, let's just say that I was glad to let it go.

What can I say. When I got outside the tire on my bicycle was flat, I had eaten exactly 3 rice balls and nothing else the entire day, it was 10:30 pm, and I still had homework and laundry.

And 3 days into my trip I have done more than I ever dreamed of.

Now, if I don't figure out the past indicative form my Sensei is going to chase me down and smack me. And I am in no shape to run very far....

Everything is Burnable

by Kensatsukan Gaijin

A quick word on trash, packaging, and this insane place.

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First, the Japanese pride themselves on being green.

Second, they wrap EVERYTHING in 12 layers of plastic.

These band-aids had a package. Then each band-aid had a smaller package. Once you opened it, the band-aid itself had a protective layer of packaging that was only used so you can put the band-aid on without touching it. Then, once you've applied it, you remove that packaging so that you can now remove the last pieces of band-aid packaging (the little strips we always use), and bang - you are now carrying a handful of trash instead of thinking about your feet bleeding.

But here's the thing. There are no trashcans here. I walked for over 7 hours yesterday and found 2 trashcans. You wouldn't know it, of course, because there is absolutely NO TRASH on the streets. I guess everyone just carries it. Maybe that's why all the men carry purses.

Anyway, so here we have trash out the wazoo, and the Japanese are crazy about their trash, so you have to separate your trash into 3 categories that I do not understand at all: burnable, recylable plastic, and robot, I think. I have no idea what's "burnable," so I'm not throwing anything out. If you really ask yourself "could I burn this?" long enough you start asking alot of questions about yourself you don't want the answers to.

Fukuoka At First Glance

by Kensatsukan Gaijin
Still struggling with the memory stick issue. Right now I'm at an Internet cafe, sitting in a high-end massage chair, eating noodles, and finding it hard to be that concerned. I have a Japanese movie playing in the other window on this computer, and will end up paying less than $10 to sit here, in a massage chair, for 3 hours watching whatever movies I want, all the soft drinks you can drink, heck, even if I need a shower they have them. And tanning beds, for some reason. There is a machine that dispensed my noodles, and will give me about 10 other hot foods. Or I can order a Pizza - that might be a bad idea in a land without cows.

This place is amazing. I've already met my first goal of eating at a sidewalk noodle shack (yatai) in the rain while people walked by with clear plastic umbrellas. Fortunately Edward James Olmos was a no-show. Maybe I'm not a replicant...

My best comparison for Fukuoka right now is Cambridge, MA for those of you who've been there. Maybe Brooklyn after that. Lots of tiny streets, high-end boutiques and trendy second-hand stores, right next to ancient temples and antique-looking restaurants. A working city, with a large, young, bohemian contingent.

Tonight is my second night going to bed after midnight (a.k.a 11 am to the rest of you). I don't feel any jet lag, but I just don't see the value of sleep. After all - I can sleep when I get back to work. Last night I fell asleep to a TV show that taught Chinese - in Japanese. It was great review of both languages, actually. I should find this on DVD. If I'm not careful I'm going to fall asleep here in the internet cafe; which, by the way, is the recommended way to stay cheaply in Japan if you have to extend your stay one night or get here a day early, according to my school. It's cheaper than a hotel, and nicer to boot. Name me one hotel you've stayed at that has a free massage chair, free internet, free movies on demand, free drinks, and hot food 30 feet away. All for under $10 per 3 hours.

Anyway, sleep is for suckers. I woke up this morning after 4 1/2 hours of sleep, ran for 1 1/2 hours, took a shower, bought my adapter, and then headed out. 7 hours of walking later I had hit the beach, Hakata (canal city), several neighborhoods, all in all over 7 miles of walking and the blisters to prove it. I am officially out of band-aids. Even my replacement Japanese ones.

All this time, however, I ran into Westerners exactly 3 times. Once, while running near a popular hotel, then at the beach, a German family (used some German, in Japan. Double points for that), and then at a man-made lake. Each time, there was this funny greeting we made, as if we knew each other from "back home." It's bizarre. It's the camaraderie of being the handful of Westerners in a city that is NOT a tourist destination for Westerners.

Favorite interaction of the day, though: Riding the elevator at Hakata Station with a 5 year old boy behind me. I said "Konnichiwa!" He replied "Konnichiwa, Ji-San."
Translation: "Hi, Old Man!"

Not good.

More pics tomorrow, if I can get a computer to read this damn memory stick. No luck here.

Oh, and it's my first day of school tomorrow.
Wish Annie a Happy Birthday if you haven't already!!