Thoughts on Travel and a tell-all Travelogue of my Adventures Abroad

Friday, March 20, 2009

Top Five Things I Want to Do Before I Leave Japan


Me, in front of Matsumoto Castle



Now that I have less than a month left on this island, I feel this constant, nagging urge to dig out my Lonely Planet guide book and get to work crossing off all of the touristy "must sees" of Japan.

Just yesterday I was actually contemplating if I should visit Tokyo Tower or Tsukiji Fish Market sometime next week. But then I was like, wait a mintue. Why would you want to visit a tackier, uglier version and blatent rip-off of the Eiffel Tower? And since when is waking up before dawn to watch some smelly fish being sold in front of a horde of snap-happy tourists an idea of a 'good time' to you? Luckily, I came to my senses. And here's my Top Five list.


5. Attend a Traditional Japanese Tea Ceremony.

4. Enjoy a ridiculously over-priced 1,800 yen cocktail at the New York Bar in the Park Hyatt Hotel (where "Lost in Translation" was filmed, a favorite film of mine!).





3. Visit the Butler Cafe.

It's a Maid Cafe for women! Good looking (?) foreign men in tuxes's call you 'madam' and 'princess' and lavish you with attention. While ordering around my own 'man-servant' has never been a particular life goal of mine, I think the cafe sounds like fun! A real 'only in Japan' experience, no?




2. Go to the Kanamara Matsuri (Festival of the Steel Phallus, or "Penis Festival!")


None of my Japanese friends believe me when I tell them, but the Penis Festival is actually a real, Japanese festival and not some gay porn convention. Like with any good festival, there's going to be drinking and dancing in the streets and...giant penis shrines, seasaws and penis-shaped snacks and deserts.





1. Go to Kyoto!

I have a four day weekend coming up next week and I plan on couch-surfing in Kyoto. I've already arranged to meet up for dinner with a few people there as well. I'm super excited. I went there once in high school, but I've been wanting to visit again as an adult. Somehow I think I'll appreciate all of those temples a little bit more now than I did at 15.

There are a few things that didn't make it on my list because unfortunately I just don't have the time or the money. Okinawa was one, the Yuki Matsuri was another. And I really wanted to take that overnight ferry ride to Miyakejima to swim with the dolphins. But I guess I'll just have to come back to do those things, now won't I?

Know of anything else that should be added to my list?

The Souvenir Tattoo



Photo by Monocular Jack


One of my old co-workers once had the name and image of the cruise ship we worked on tattooed to his upper arm. We were on Nassau in the Bahamas and he was drunk on this sudden, new found love for the cruise line industry as well as just plain drunk from two many tequila shots at the crew bar.

Last I heard he's since gotten an office job on land somewhere in the suburbs of upstate New York. I wonder what he thinks about his mini-blue cruise ship tattoo now?

I'm not against souvenir tattoos in general (after all, I've got two of them!) and I actually like the one pictured above (although I'd never get something quite so large) but it makes me wonder: What is it about traveling that makes people want to immortalize the experience by undergoing the painful and expensive process of scarring themselves irreversibly?



Photo by Twiggy



Photo by Juan Pablo Giusepponi


For me, that answer lies somewhere in my fear of change. I find that right before I'm about to make a scary leap of faith into uncertainty, I'll get this sudden urge to do something risky, challenging, frightening or drastic, like bungee jump, chop off all of hair or get something pierced or tattooed.

In a weird way, it makes whatever transition I'm about to face a lot less frightening. Leaving my job at Disney World and moving to New York, for example, seemed like a walk in the park after facing my fear of needles and getting my tongue pierced (fortunately, I came to my senses a few months later and took it out! So not classy).

But it also has to with nostalgia and the desire to preserve a cherished experience, as well. When I was in Germany, my best friend at the time and I got tattoos on the same place on the right side of our lower backs. We'd decided that our friendship, which we'd decided was already sealed by fate, should also be sealed by blood. We called ourselves 'tattoo buddies', ("We'll be friends for life!"). Ironically, 'life' when I was 22, meant the following six months. I haven't seen or spoken to my tattoo buddy since I last visited France, almost four years ago.

But I like the fact that wherever I go in the World, I'll carry a little part of my Germany experience with me, even if it's only the ink from a tiny back alley tattoo parlor in Leipzig.

Sure, I'll probably regret it when I'm 80, and my red hibiscus tattoo has been so badly stretched out and faded that it looks like a painful welt or rash. But like Carlos, my tattoo artist in Japan told me, "A naked, old person is ugly with or without tattoos. At that point, you won't care what you look like."

Sometimes though, I think that there are a probably a lot less painful, less expensive ways to honor a memorable trip or time abroad. A picture or a postcard might not last as long, but it won't be something you'll regret as soon as that 'vacation high' wears off. I think I often fall easy victim to the thrill of a new experience and feel this impulsive need to get tattooed, just as I feel the impulsive need to buy a collection of hand-painted bobble head creatures in Mexico or a necklace made out of Yak teeth in India.

I think this dangerous 'impulse tat' habit I've been developing, is something that I definitely need to work on. After all, I wouldn't want to ever rue the day I got suckered into getting something as cheesy as a Japanese cherry blossom etched onto my ankle, (oops! Too late...). Or how about the ever classy and sophisticated subway map on the stomach tattoo?

The Drunk Girl


Last night I witnessed no less than three people throw up in the Shinagawa train station: An elderly man, a college kid and a very drunk, teenage girl.

I'd just missed the last train home and was stranded seven long subway stops from my apartment. It was 1:30 in the morning and I was exhausted after having run a marathon race through the long, train station tunnels. Those 12:30 sprints to the station feel a little like an "Amazing Race"-type event; stampedes of drunk businessmen and fashionistas in three-inch heels race up and down flights of stairs and down long, low-ceilinged corridors. Uniformed guards direct traffic at every bend in the tunnels, shouting out encouraging words of "Be careful!" and "Hurry!" It's nerve-wracking and stressful, but in a weird way, exciting too.

I crossed the finish line last night a dissapointing 5 seconds too late. The train doors had just closed as I reached the platform edge and I was left staring at the blank faces of the hordes of people jammed in the train cars, their faces pressed against the glass like shrink-wrapped barbie dolls.

That's when I spotted The Drunk Girl. The train conductors were in the process of waking up all of the drunks passed accross the subway seats, (there were about three in each car) when The Drunk Girl came dangerously close to stumbling off the platform edge.

"Careful!" I yelled and grabbed her by the arm. She looked around in a daze, mumbled something which I couldn't understand and then threw up. Interestingly, she didn't seem to notice, kept right on walking through the puddle of puke, slipped and fell.

Oh boy. What a trainwreck
, was what I found myself thinking. Yet at the same time I felt a pang of empathy. I think everyone at one time or another has experienced being "THAT Girl" or "THAT Guy". I certainly have. So I helped her up and guided her to a seat to one of the platform chairs and bought her a bottle of water.

We sat there for a while in silence. She sipped water, seemingly oblivous to my presense while I tried in vain to ascertain what her name was or where she lived. I picked up her purse where it was lying near the platform ashtray pulled her to her feet. "Come, let's go!" I said, half-dragging her towards the station exit. My plan was to get her into a cab, but every few feet she'd sort of collapse to the floor and start to pass out again. Eventually I managed to push her into an elevator but then she sat down and stubbornly refused to get up again.

"Stand up!" I said to sternly, in my best teacher voice. "Now!"

She just groaned, frowned down at her lap and mumbled something to me in this annoyed tone of voice.

Ugh. I was tired and about ready to leave. But I didn't want to just abandon a passed-out teenager in a deserted train station. On the other hand, this was Japan; the third safest country in the World. I once left my cell phone in a train station bathroom and found it still laying there, untouched and unharmed, five hours later. I was almost positive that if I left her there, that she too would still be laying in that exact spot untouched, and unharmed, five hours later.

But just to be on the safe side, I flagged down a passing train conductor. "I don't know her," I said pointing at The Drunk Girl, "but she's sick." I didn't know the Japanese word for 'drunk' but I trusted that he could figure that one out.

Sometimes Tokyo at night seems a little like Pinnochio's "Treasure Island"; like a playground full of lost souls in an alcohol-fueled haze, sprawled out frat-boy style on the dirty ground in a puddle of their own puke or urine. It's sad and it's difficult for me to understand just how so many people let themselves get fall-down drunk.

Is it because Japan is so safe? In New York City, being that drunk and taking the subway late at night is just asking to get robbed. It can also earn you a ticket for 'disturbing the peace' and a night in the drunk tank. Maybe it's so common-place to see people drunk and disorderly simply because it's legal? Or mabye because there isn't such a negative stigma attached to it?

I don't understand it.

15 minutes later, while I was waiting in the taxi line, I spotted the Drunk Girl crossing the street, headed in the opposite direction of the station. I sure hope she made home okay.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Globe Trotter



Photo by Diabolo-Spinner

"Runaway train never going back
Wrong way on a one way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow I'm neither here no there."

- Soul Asylum

Every day I'm finding it harder and harder to leave Japan.

It's not just that my boss has offered more hours, more pay and a chance to design and run my own weekend art courses. It's not just that my friends question my sanity and guilt trip me with "Everyone is always leaving me!" It's also that well, Japan is a tough place to leave.

Just ask all the people who came here for "just a year", 15 years ago.

I think my friend described it best when she compared living abroad to her daily running routine. She hates to run and yet she does it because she knows it's good for her, just as although she may hate living in Japan at times, she still knows that she'll be a better person because of it. I like that analogy.

If living abroad can be compared to a morning jog, then I'd say that living in Japan is like a marathon run up Mt. Fuji. It's agonizing, exhausting and a giant pain in your side, yet it's one of those things that when it's all said and done, you're glad you did it.

Even though it's been the most difficult past 10 months of my life to date, part of me is afraid if I leave, I'll miss the constant challenge. I'll long for that 'runner's high' you get after accomplishing some small feat that anywhere else would be considered mundane and trivial. Like that first time you place in order in a restaurant without having to point at the pictures, for example, or that first time you watch a TV commercial and find that you're able to understand every word of it. Every-day activities like trips to the bank or the supermarket become these huge, all consuming events, extra-curricular activities even.

Take grocery shopping, for example. I dread it at home and often live off of plain bread or canned olives, just so that I don't have to trek to the store. But when I travel or live in a foreign country, it becomes one of my favorite things to do. I could (and do), peruse the ailes of Peacock (Japan's version of Safeway or Stop and Shop) for hours, examining food labels and snacking on sushi or wasabi-flavored potato chips.

Sometimes the process can be irritating, like today when I mistakenly bought vinegar thinking that it was vegetable oil. But I guess that's one of the things I love best about Japan: It can be really mind-numbingly difficult. But difficult is interesting. Difficult is an adventure. Difficult is definitely not life back in the US.

I tried to explain this to my mother today, but I don't think she fully understood what I meant. A trip to the dry cleaners doesn't have to become a four-hour saga in order for life to be interesting, she pointed out. "That's what hobbies are for," she said. "Take a yoga class if you're bored."

But it's not the same. Comparing the mental and emotion stimulation you get from living abroad with a yoga class or a book club meeting, is like comparing a two week vacation at a resort on St. Lucia with a weekend at the Ramada Inn in Albany. There's just no comparison.

I think the hardest part is knowing when to call it quits. Where do you draw the line between a healthy amount of 'difficult', a healthy amount of pain and struggle and just plain, 'beat your head against the wall' insanity?

I just can't tell anymore if the pain I'm experiencing means I'm getting into shape or if it means that it's time to, you know, climb off the treadmill.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

I'm Leaving Japan

Everyone's always told that when my time came to leave Japan, that I'd just intuitively know. As if I'd wake up one morning and start to make myself a breakfast of curry and rice and the realization would just hit me that: I've had enough. I want to go back to the land of pancakes and bacon and Eggo waffles.

I guess for me, the realization was two months in the making and sort of came to head with a conversation with my mom last Saturday night.

"Come home for a few days," was my mom's suggestion, after I mentioned that I had a vacation coming up at the end of the month. My family lives in San Francisco, and under normal circumstances, flying 6,000 miles for a four-day weekend would be a ludicrous idea. But one of the perks of having a mom who works for an airline, is that I can fly at the last minute, and for free.

"I can't, I moaned woefully. "If I go back home, I won't want to leave. It'd be too difficult to make myself come back to Japan," I believe were my exact words. I could see my mom frown through the Skype camera's image on my computer screen.

"If that's how you feel Reannon, then why are you living in Japan?"

Why, indeed.

Everyone asks me this...all the time. And I never know how to answer that. It's second only to the more popular "What do you like about Japan?" question, which is something else that I never know how to answer.

It's not that I don't like Japan. It's just that I find existing here to be a tremendous struggle. In the last two months, I've been laid off from my job and evicted from my apartment. I've started a new job (whose teaching philosophies I don't agree with) and moved into a ghetto apartment which (at 80,000 yen per month) I can't even begin to afford with my part-time job.

My mom suggested that this might mean that the Universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe Japan isn't where I should be right now.

And while I'd hate to be one to argue with the Universe, how do I really know that it's correct? How much of what I'm experiencing is just a part of normal life struggles? As in, "maybe if I work a little harder or wait a little longer, things will get better?"

And who's to say that my unhappiness has anything to do with Japan? Maybe it's just me. And maybe I'll find that moving to California will just make things worse. I've never lived there. Besides my parents and my little brother, I won't know anyone. And I'll have to face the shame of being 26 and sleeping on my parent's couch while I look for work at...where? Starbucks? Safeway?

But even though I cried through the whole thing, and regretted it minutes later, I told my boss on Monday that I was quitting. I officially gave my two months notice.

My co-workers and boss took me out to dinner afterwards and tried to convince me to stay.

"Every foreigner has a bad day and then decides they're going to leave Japan. It'll pass." Was the general consensus. They sited stories of friends who've claimed to be "moving to Hong Kong next summer" for the last 12 years. One of my co-workers has quit twice, declaring to everyone she knew that she was returning home to Scotland. But she's always changed her mind.

I know these stories were meant to be uplifting; to give me hope. But they all just scared the crap out of me. I don't want to be that "Japan Lifer" who gets stuck here, swallowed up in their dead-end teaching jobs and who finds themselves at the age of 45, singing the Alphabet Song to a class of ungrateful seven year olds...and hating life.

But then I have these happy "God, I love Tokyo" moments. Like yesterday, when I was walking through the sunshine along the Sumida River. Sometimes this city just seems so magical, like it's pulsing with exciting possibilities. And as I stood on a bridge, I examined the view around me: A rushing river, a cherry blossom tree, a neon flashing Mitsubishi billboard the size of a building and a barefoot homeless man cooking vegetable stir-fry over a gas-powered stove.

And I found myself thinking: Am I really ready to leave this all behind?

I think so, was my reply.

I guess that's as certain as I'll ever be.

Monday, March 9, 2009

The Phantom White Dude

I found something strange in the bathroom this morning.

It was a real, live, breathing White Dude. And he was washing his face in bathroom sink.

"Um, hello." I said, uncertainly. Who was this guy and how did he get into the apartment? Had yet another foreigner moved in over night? And if so, where was he sleeping? With the two ("sometimes three") Indians? And wasn't some sort of fire code (or two) being broken with all of these people living here?

He straightened up quickly, spun around and gave this startled (almost guilty), look. Like a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Hi," he said and then wiped his hands on a towel.

"I'm Reannon. I just moved in."

He mumbled his name, turned his back to me and started to brush his teeth.

Okaaaaaay.

Later, when I questioned my roommates about the occurrence, they raised their eyebrows in surprise.

"You saw him? Wow. You mean you actually saw him?" They said, incredulously.

"Who 'him'? Who was he?"

"I only saw him twice," one of the Indian's volunteered. "And I've lived here for a year."

Apparently he's our 9th roommate. The Phantom White Dude who lives in the apartment in the hallway. Everyone knows of his existence. And some people have even claimed to have spotted him once or twice, but only in the darkened shadows of the dead of the night. No one's seen him in daylight. And no one's ever spoken to him.

Except for me, apparently.

His existence in the Foreign Ghetto is sort of mystery. Mainly because no one can fathom how he's survived so long...without the use of a kitchen or a toilet. His apartment is furnished with only a bed, a small desk and a lamp, so the landlord gave him a key to our apartment so that he can use the bathroom and kitchen facilities whenever he wants.

Only he never does.

How very, very odd.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

My New Apartment Situation

When I went to pick up my key to my new apartment, I asked the receptionist at the agency to look up some information about my soon-to-be new roommates. I was then informed that I'd be living with five people: Four guys and a girl. An American, a French, an Australian, a Brit and an Italian.

I was indifferent to their nationalities but was mostly grateful that at least one of my roommates would be female. My biggest fear was that I'd end up with some post-college ESL teaching party boys with their beer bongs and loud music. Or some "I heart Japan and it's the best place in the World" weirdos, because those people's obsessions with this country teeter on the fanatical level - It's scary. I figured that if I had a female roommate, at least I'd have someone to roll my eyes at when life in the ghetto got too intense.

I was surprised upon arrival, however, to find that the Europeans, American and Australian had mysteriously vanished. Perhaps they had once upon a time resided there, or perhaps they never did at all and it was just a glitch in the computer, but all of the people gathered in the living room were from Asian countries.

There was the Chinese grad student. The Taiwanese pop singer, the two (recently unemployed) Thai boys and the two ("sometimes three") Indians. Apparently, my five bedroom apartment is home to seven (sometimes eight) people. No one could tell me the Indians names, or what they did for a living. "They cook a lot," was all I was told.

Although it's a little crowded, and the apartment is a mess (more about that in a second) I'm pretty excited about the arrangement. I debated a lot with myself about moving into a 'gaijin house' (foreigner house) as they're called, and I worried that I'd be distancing myself from Japanese culture even more than I already am. But I think that even if it's not a 'Japanese culture' experience, it's still a uniquely Japan experience. Plus I'm getting a chance to live with people whom I'd rarely have a chance to live with in the States, certainly not all under one roof. I'm really looking forward to getting to know all of them.

Already, the Taiwanese girl and I've become fast friends. We watched American Idol together (OMG I have satellite TV again!) and she braided my hair and told me that I was the first person she'd ever met with "real green eyes". Ha ha.

The apartment set-up is bizarre, in that the living room is littered with the left-over belongings of past residents. Even though the Taiwanese girl has lived in this apartment for the past three years, she's never bothered with throwing any of it out. So as a result, there are old suitcases, guidebooks, camping equipment, a soccer ball and a kite all collecting dust in piles in the living room. The worst is the bathroom, where the shelves are crowded with half-empty bottles of sunscreen and vitamins and tubes of toothpaste, all of which are glued in place with a thick layer of green mold and mildew.

What's weirder still are the post-it notes and hand-written signs that are tacked up everywhere, some of which are so old the paper is yellowed and the hand-writing is barely visible. Some of the notes are written in Korean, some in German (one of them says "Don't forget to lock the door!" and another lists instructions on how to work the remote control on the TV). The best are the EngRish post-it's! One of them says: "Put toothpaste in your eye. You will wake up."

I've decided to ration those ones out by only posting one per day. I'll call it: "The Daily Dose of EngRish". : )

There are even goodbye notes dated from two years ago, taped to the wall by people named 'Axel' and 'Miles Davis'. "These were the best six months of my life! I will always remember you!"

I feel like I'm living in the graveyard of long-gone ESL teachers. Or else some sort of living, 'fully-preserved' museum tribute to 2006. It's really, really bizarre.

I'll post pictures soon.

The Foreigner's Ghetto


At first glance, there's nothing seemingly unusual about the building. Just your average seven story, red brick building on a nondescript street in Tokyo's financial district. But upon second glance, you might notice that hanging from every apartment window are identical, lime-green, plaid curtains, or perhaps you spy the giant sign posted near the front entrance that lists the address of the building in English, instead of Japanese. But if you pay very close attention, you might just notice that every person who enters and exits the building is a foreigner.

If you should see such a building, you will know that you've arrived at the "Foreigner's Ghetto".

The "ghetto" or "refugee camp" or "Zoo", is home to to foreigner's of every size, shape and color. They could be the waiter at TGI Fridays or the English teacher at Gaba or the intern at the Korean Embassy. The only thing they all have in common is that they aren't Japanese and they aren't rich enough to afford to live anywhere else.

Because no one in their right mind would chose to live in the foreigner's ghetto. It's over-crowded, your roommates are picked at random by the company who owns the building and the rent is so inflated that you wind up paying twice the amount a Japanese person would for an apartment the same size. But unfortunately, Tokyo leaves you with few other choices.

Landlords require an outrageous amount of money up front as a security deposit (which you don't get back). They also require a two year commitment and your company's co-signature on the lease. But even if you manage to cough up the money to cover the hefty fees and coax a signature out of your boss, you'll be lucky to find a landlord that will rent to you if your last name isn't Sato or Suzuki.

Yes, that's blatant discrimination. And yes, it's perfectly legal.

The landlords' argument is that foreigners are a flight risk. What's going to stop some ESL teacher from skipping out on their rent and hopping on the next ferry to South Korea? That's understandable. There's no laws preventing discrimination against age, race or gender in Japan, so it's logical that landlords wouldn't want the headache and hassle of renting to a foreigner when there are millions of qualified Japanese candidates waiting in line for a chance to rent that same coffin-sized apartment.

It's just unfortunate that this frame of thinking effects even responsible and upstanding foreign residents, like my American friend. He has a masters degree in Japanese literature, works as a translator and speaks Japanese fluently. He spent thousands of dollars on and half a decade, mastering the language; he's not going to be leaving Japan anytime soon. And yet, even he had a tough time finding someone who would rent to him.

Conversely, if a Japanese person should want to rent a room in the 'Foreigner's Ghetto', he or she would be barred from doing so. So the discrimination works both ways, I suppose.

But it's not all 'hard knocks' in the ghetto. There are some advantages. All the apartments come fully furnished and the utilities are included. You can move in or out with only a week or two's notice and a housecleaning service comes once a week to clean the common living space (kitchen, bathroom and living room).

Plus it's sort of exciting to live in Tokyo's own miniature version of the "melting pot", even if it feels a little odd to share such close living quarters with complete strangers. You don't get to meet or speak with any of your housemates before you pay the deposit and sign the contract, so it's a little like agreeing to be on the reality show the "Real World", minus the cameras, fame and endorsement deals.

This is a funny article Metropolis printed featuring an interview with a Japanese photographer who created several photo books featuring the apartments of foreigner's living in Japan. He claimed to be most surprised by how open the foreigners were to the idea of having their privacy invaded. Most of them didn't mind having candid photos of their apartment taken, even if it meant the World seeing their messy, dirty rooms or their personal porn collections.

To see some of the photos he took, visit his website: http://www.otsukayutaka.com/

Moving Day

It is my belief that there are a few things in life that one should never have to experience alone. One of them is celebrating a birthday. Another is being 16 and eating at an empty table in a crowded high school cafeteria. And another is...moving.

Yesterday I moved to my new apartment with only Me, Myself and I for moral support. And the entire time I was hauling my suitcases and garbage bags full of clothing, books and the contents of my fridge (can't throw away perfectly good imported tortillas!) through the pouring rain, I found myself thinking that right about then would be a nice time to have a boyfriend. Or maybe a mother that lived close by.

Because boyfriends and family members are really the only people you can rely on to drop everything and call-in sick at work to help you haul luggage up two flights of stairs.

I mean, I'm sure my friends would have helped (had I asked), but I didn't want to bother them. That's the problem when you have to vacate your apartment by noon on a Friday; everyone's got something more important to do. Like, earn a living.

But I succeeded in hailing a cab, and explaining to the cabbie where I wanted to go and I was feeling sort of proud of myself. I'd packed, cleaned my apartment, payed my deposit, picked up my keys and hauled everything down the stairs and three blocks to the main avenue, all in under five hours. Just in time to haul my exhausted self to work.

Well, 10 miles and 45 minutes later, the cabbie finally pulled up in front of my new apartment building. To say that we got a little lost would be an understatement, but then that's not entirely out of the norm for cab rides in Tokyo. I've found that a lot of the time, taxi drivers will only pretend to know where they're going. Sure, they'll nod self-assuredly and briskly murmur 'yes, yes' after you've asked given them the address, but then they'll spend a good long while fiddling with their GPS's and circling the block; all the while refusing to stop and ask for directions. It's infuriating.

But the time we spent driving in circles gave the cabbie and I chance to talk, so I didn't mind. He was old and a bit senile and spent most of the ride mumbling to himself and scratching his head in anxious confusion, but he was an interesting character. I mentioned that I was from New York and he informed me that he once knew someone who lived there. We discussed the rain for a bit and he rambled on about something or other about a car, to which I said 'yes' a lot.

After I'd lugged the last bag from the trunk and slammed it shut, I stood in the rain and smiled at him and waved goodbye. He didn't notice though, because he was hastily lighting a cigarette and as he drove off, I felt this inexplicable urge to shout after him, "Wait! Don't leave me here all alone just yet!" I imagined what would would happen if he stopped. He'd help me with my luggage and I'd invite him in for tea and together we'd go through the uncomfortable process of meeting my new roommates.

But I resisted the urge and found myself feeling sad to see him go. Bizarre, I know. I'd known him less than an hour! I guess it was because he was a familiar face in an unfamiliar situation. He was the last connection I had to my old neighborhood, my old apartment. Now I was standing on the corner of some unnamed street, hugging my stereo to my chest and staring up at the red brick apartment in front of me. Somewhere on that second floor, my new life (Japan Part 3), lay in wait for me.

And I guess you could say I was feeling a bit wary. A bit unsure of myself.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Are Japanese and American Children Really all that Different?



I spent all of last week shuttling back and forth between my old job teaching (mostly North American) pre-schoolers at an International school, and my new job, teaching ESL at a Japanese after school preschool program. The whole experience was exhausting (imagine working for nine hours straight, all of your students under the age of six) but the experience got me thinking.

Are Japanese and American three-year-olds really all that different?

My Japanese boss believes that answer is a definite 'no'. She believes all children are basically the same, especially at the preschool age.

My ESL teacher friends have all sounded in with a resounding "Hell yes". As more than one friend put it "Japanese kids are really, really weird."

Here are some of my observations from the last few days.

Five Differences Between Japanese and American Children

* Japanese children tend to 'shut-down' when they're upset. I've noticed that if a Japanese child is either angry, sad, bored or just doesn't want to do something, he or she will give you this blank, expressionless 'poker face' look (that is, if they look at you at all). They won't acknowledge they've heard you and won't even respond when you tap them on the shoulder or say their name. It's perplexing because you're left try to surmise why it is they're upset, (or if that's even the case). I used to think that it was because they couldn't articulate their feelings in English, but I've watched them do the same thing with the Japanese staff. The Japanese teachers will usually try to joke around in order to coax a smile out of them, or else cuddle them and heap lots of praise and encouragement.
My reaction is to assume it's an attention seeking behavior and ignore it, but maybe I'm wrong?



American children do this too and might say things like: "I'm not talking to you!" and then go sit in the corner and pointedly ignore you, but it usually doesn't last more than a minute or two. I find with American children, it's fairly easy to discern what they're feeling, mostly because they won't hesitate in telling you. Or it'll be written all over their expressive little faces. But then, perhaps someone not familiar with American children wouldn't say that it's easy.



* Japanese kids are used to being 'man-handled'. I've observed this happening a lot, especially when mother's drop their children off at school. If the child is in a bad mood and doesn't want to go, he won't say a word but will instead, just sit on the floor and refuse to budge. No screaming. No crying. No tears. Just the silent treatment and the 'poker face'. It's uncomfortable to watch, because the mom (embarrassed), will whisper and speak softly in the child's ear, pleading and trying to gently pull him into a standing position, but to no avail. After about five minutes, she'll pick him up and carry / drag / yank / pull / push the motionless child into the room. He'll then silently walk back out of the classroom and drop like a dead weight onto the hallway floor and the whole process will start all over again.

When teaching, I've found that I can quite easily maneuver a child around by gently pushing him or her in the direction I want her to go. Or if I want a misbehaving child to sit, I can simply pick them up and place them in a chair. This isn't true with American children. If you try to coax a child into a line by pulling them by the hand, for example, he or she will likely shout: "I can do it by myself!"

* Japanese children are fiercely competitive...from a very young age! They seek adults approval and are perfectionists. They won't offer an answer to a question unless they are sure that it's the correct one. This makes games hard to play at times, because the children are hesitant to just 'take a wild guess', which is often necessary for a game to work properly. It's interesting because even though they're competitive, it's usually only with themselves. Every time we play a game and a child is struggling with an answer, another student (even someone from the opposing team, will whisper the answer in the child's ear. It's sweet and adorable but I've got to wonder: Why? Does it have to do with the whole group culture orientation, ("I help you, you help me"?) Or is it that they can't stand to see one of their classmates uncomfortable or embarrassed?

American children, on the other hand, have no problem volunteering an answer, and won't hesitate to shout out an answer, oftentimes when the teacher hasn't even asked for one. For the most part, they're a lot more uninhibited and more willing to take risks. I guess that can be attributed to the American educational concept that "there are no wrong answers". They also have an 'every man for himself' attitude towards games and will be quick to shout out "Hey, he cheated!" or "That's not fair! You helped him!"

* Japanese children need 'genki'teachers! It's funny, because when I first started working at the international school, one of my boss's criticisms was that I was 'too energetic'. "Speaking in a loud, overly-excited voice, just adds to the chaos and will make the children more rowdy and disruptive. Speak in a normal, quiet, soft tone of voice and they will calm down and listen to you." This is more or less what I was told, and it really worked. At the Japanese school, however, my boss told me that I need to be more 'genki' (excited, energetic and expressive). At first, I balked at the idea. I follow the philosophy that if you plan an interesting, fun lesson, you shouldn't have to work hard to encourage the children to participate. They'll naturally want to join in because it's fun. But I think that because Japanese children are quieter and more timid than American or Western children, they need an energetic teacher to 'show' them how to have fun.

* Japanese children love silly, physical humor! That's another reason why the 'Genki teacher' thing seems to go over well. Children love it when the teacher 'accidentally' trips over a chair or messes up the words to a song. One of the best teaching tricks to use with Japanese children, is to intentionally get an answer wrong and have them correct you. They never seem to grow tired of this and will gleefully shout out: "Noooo! That's wrong!" 'High Fives', sound effects, funny drawings on the board...these all go over amazingly well in the Japanese classroom.

American children aren't so quick to buy into it, however. If a teacher 'accidentally' dropped his flashcards in front of a class of pre-school American students, for example, they'd more than likely roll their eyes in annoyance.

My boss pointed out that perhaps a lot of my observations have less to do with the fact that my students are Japanese and more to do with the fact that they're non-native English speakers and in an ESL setting.

What do you think?

Monday, March 2, 2009

Dirty Rich



"We do the dance right
We got it made like
Ice cream topped with honey
But we got no money "

- Lady GaGa

I once met a 23-year-old who had won the lottery. I can't remember now how much she won, but it was enough that she could afford to quit her job giving private violin lessons in Australia and use her winnings to move to Salzburg, Austria, to attend a music conservatory. That's where met; in a German class.

Back then I was making 65 Euros a week working as an Au Pair and living in the basement of my employers river-front mansion, so her new-found 'dirty rich' status fascinated me. I remember asking her over beers at the Irish pub, about how her life had changed since winning.

She said that she honestly hadn't noticed much of a difference, and that she lived, (more or less) the same frugal lifestyle she did in her pre-lottery days.

Yeah, I know. I know. That was, like, total bullshit. I mean, she wouldn't have been talking to me in a bar the Austrian Alps, had she not paid the $2,000 dollar plane ticket with her lottery money.

But. I thought her answer was interesting anyway.

And even though I've long since fallen out of contact with her (Hell, I don't even remember her name), I still remember what she claimed were the 'Best Three Things About Being Rich'. And they were as follows:

1. Ordering Grande Caramel Macchiatos whenever she wanted
2. Being able to afford manicures and weekly massages
3. Buying all of the New York Times bestsellers right after they were published, instead of waiting until they arrived in used book stores.

I mean, obviously there was a fourth (and more important), answer that she completely neglected to mention. Like, for example:

Never having to work again.

or how about:

Paying her prestigious, private, masters program tuition - upfront and in full.

Since then though, I've come to define being 'rich' and 'making it' by similar terms.
After all, it's the little things that you end up salivating and obsessing over when you're broke. Right now, for example, I would give anything to walk down the street to "Freshness Burger" and spend 11 bucks on a gourmet cheeseburger (lettuce, tomato, avocado), instead of making due with bread and butter, a banana and a carrot.

I dream about head massages at the hair salon or gourmet chocolate or TiVo. And I would love to see an end to the circular debates I have in my head when grocery shopping: Should I buy the white bread, which is 30 cents cheaper and has three extra slices, or the wheat bread, which tastes better and is healthier? It's such a waste of mental energy.

Six months after I moved from Austria to Germany, I got a job nannying for a family who lived on the top floor of large hotel. Housekeeping cleaned their apartment every morning and they had access to 24 hour room service. An Olympic-sized swimming pool, sauna and gym were only a short elevator's ride away. And because the father was the general manager, he and his family could stay in any of their hotel's hundred resort locations, for free. In fact, his son had already lived in hotels in Paris, Cape Town and Munich...and he was only 11.

It was then and there that I decided that I'd be forever happy if I could just find someway to live in a hotel for the rest of my life. Sadly, this dream doesn't seem likely to ever materialize, being that:

1. I'm not Paris Hilton

2. I'm not married to a Hotel General Manager

3. I don't have a degree in Hotel Management and have zero business skills, so my odds of becoming a hotel manager are about as good as the odds of, well... winning the lottery.



This video is hilarious. And so, so true.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

The 'Cafe Apartment' in Koenji is not Worth Writing Home About





The apartment was typical by Tokyo standards; A one roomed studio, sparsely furnished and only big enough to hold a max of 10 people. It was located in trendy Koenji, (a neighborhood known for it's used clothing and record shops) and sandwiched between a Lawsons and 1,000 yen barber shop.

"Make yourself at home," our hostess murmerd as my friend and I took off our shoes and took a seat around a wooden coffee table.

The living room was already comfortably crowded with guests doing just that. A college student in a flowered skirt and knitted ski cap sat on the cushioned floor studying. A couple sat cross-legged around an identical coffee table, flipping through a pile of outdated magazines and a Lonely Planet guidebook. Another couple lounged on a sofa sipping tea and as they colored on placemat-sized pieces of white paper.

Our hostess returned a moment later and wordlessly handed us a small manila envelope. Inside were several folded, letter-sized pieces of paper.

'Cafe Apartment' read the typed letter head. A menu.

We were in a coffee shop. A coffee shop that had been modeled to resemble a Japanese apartment.

I'd found this cafe on the internet earlier that day when I was looking for an interesting alternative to Starbucks. Espresso served in a cozy living room setting? What could be better? The photos on the website had given me the impression that the cafe would be spacious and with an artistic, retro flare.


In reality, the apartment was tiny and incredibly plain. The beige plastered walls were bare. And besides the few English and Japanese children's books that lined the shelves, there were no decorations.

It was dissapointing because there was much that could have been done with this theme. So much wasted potential. They could have had board games availble for people to play, for example. Or books that people over the age of five would enjoy reading. They provided colored pencils and paper for people to color with but there was nowhere to display the completed pictures. Why not have a giant magnetic white board (designed to resemble a refrigerator door) with colorful alphabet magnets for people to hang their artwork? Or perhaps a magnetic poetry board? They had thought to add a chalkboard, but they chose to hang it in the bathroom. Again, a clever idea that wasn't given enough thought.

I've always wanted to start my own coffee shop / bookstore. Maybe one day when (if?) I settle down, I'll start my own 'Cafe Apartment' in the States. Call it "My Place" (as in, "Wanna go to 'My Place'?") and have it modeled like a teenager's bedroom or perhaps a college dorm.

I'd definitely have a pet cat or dog. And a white picket fence and a clothes line with underwear and college sweatshirts dangling off of it. I'm picturing lava lamps, glow in the dark stars on the ceiling and posters of boybands. I'd have an entire wall decorated with framed 'family photos'; the black and white ones you can find at the Salvation Army or perhaps I'd let customers bring in their own. We'd have movie and game nights and serve favorite comfort foods like chocolate chip cookies, PP&J and apple pie.

What do you think? Does anyone know if an apartment-themed coffee shop is already in existence in the States?