Spring in Fukui

Originally posted April 14, 2005:

Fow now, I am on respite from summiting Himalayan peaks, dodging bullets in the Darien Gap, and trekking along the bottom floors of Hawaiian volcanoes.

So, take a stroll with me from my apartment along the Asuwa River into the heart of Fukui City...

It's a beautiful spring day. The cherry blossoms along the river have been in full bloom for just over a week now, and the flowers are starting to shed their petals. It's like it's snowing, minus the cold and the ridiculously popular (and stylish) rubber boots worn by all Japanese.
A note on the rubber boots: Fukui hasn't quite caught on to the phenomenon of snow plows yet. As such, during the heavy snows (i.e. most of winter), sprinklers are installed along the sidewalks and side-streets. Major roads have permanent sprinklers which appear as nothing more than small holes along the center medians. Woe to the ignorant foreigner to bend down to peep into one of these holes at the exact moment the water is turned on. Of course, if such a person were to be THAT unlucky, and to be that dim-witted as to be found standing in the midst of traffic peering down at the pavement as if in search for a lost contact lens, then a good spurt in the eye may be just the thing the doctor ordered.

I digress....

So, you can imagine that the water emitted from the sprinklers combined with snow makes for some fairly slushy and wet sidewalks and curbs. Some curbs can treacherous to the unwary pedestrian, as it's often difficult to tell where the dirty slush/water ends and the wet pavement begins. They're like punji pits, I tell you. Thus, the rubber boots. All knee-high, and always made in bright colors. Some display their brand or manufacturer's name along the side (which in Japan, it seems, could be anyone or anything). Wilson. Good Year. Panasonic. Blind Mice. Fetid Toe. You name it.

Of course, even knee-length boots can't protect the innocent commuter from the numerous sprinklers that haven't been, ah... calibrated. Many send their streams UP INTO THE AIR, often at angles greater than 45 degrees. Perhaps to melt the snow before it even hits the ground. The unlucky by-product is, you can imagine, a nicely drenched shirt or pants-leg. Paying attention to where you walk in Fukui in winter is KEY.

Anyway, where was I... oh, yes, spring.

Japanese people of all ages are out in hordes, strolling, biking, or sitting along the river-walk. Most have cameras; those that don't use their mobile phones to take snapshots of the trees and the scenery. Ahh, technology.

We continue along, noticing the large sign advertising Romanian hostesses at a local adult establishment. It's always pleasant to know that the Japanese are so cross-culturally friendly.
The sidewalks, might I mention, are all paved in tile, often in various hushed tones and patterns. The manhole covers have meticulously carved dragons and phoenixes emplazoned in bright reds and blues. We are hard-pressed to find any sign of littering, the sidewalks are immaculate.
Making our way into the heart of downtown, we see that the main street branches off into a left and right. On the left, we find the banks and the major finance district. Which comprises of..., well, the few banks and the central post office. To the right, towards which we now head, is the shopping district. A couple hundred-yen stores (equivalent to the dollar store, depending on how the exchange rates are doing), a McDonalds, a few coffee shops, some small clothing boutiques and, the two crown-jewels of Fukui, our department stores: Loft (nothing Lofty but the prices) and Daruma Seibu (the 'Daruma' indicating something to do with Buddha. The connection is lost on me).

On warm days such as today, we can see a van parked outside the front entrance of Seibu. A couple Iranian chaps, dressed to the nines but still somewhat shifty in appearance, are out hawking knock-off watches and leather goods. Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Rolex.... We turn off to the right for a latte at Seattle's Best Coffee, where we will later see the same Iranian fellows picking up lone Japanese females. They are, we note, fairly aggressive in pursuing phone numbers. We decide their charm lay in their broken Japanese with Middle-Eastern accents.
There is a large clock in the small square dividing Loft and Seibu. Called the Century Clock, it displays the time by years, starting from 2000 to 2100. 2005 is barely a tick in the clock's movement. We both ponder the relative insignificance of our existences compared to that of the next 95 years, and decide that the 350 yen we each paid for our small lattes was well worth the cost.

It's lunchtime. We see legions of salarymen walking here and there, off to some cafe or eatery for a quick lunch, then back to work. Many have their phones glued to their ears. Even more smoke cigarettes as they walk. Cigarette smoke, we find, is hard to avoid in Fukui, and indeed, all of Japan. School children are also out and about. Most wear the same uniform: black or navy blue suit coat, matching pants for the boys, skirts for the girls. I innocently remark how short many of the skirts are, as the really short ones barely cover the, ah, necessary parts. Later, after some casual observation, we find that all the girls wear athletic shorts or tights underneath. Much to the discouragement of the dirty old men that roam the trains and buses.

I have read that Japanese girls (and women) wear short skirts to make their (relative to Westerners') legs look longer. The same applies to their fanatacism in wearing high-heeled shoes and boots. To their defense, it seems to work (from what I hear).

However, and call me crazy, but the sight of a woman in a mini-skirt and 3-inch stilettoes walking (read: stumbling) in half a foot of snow on a brisk, snowy day in the middle of January, as stimulating as it may sound, involves more than a bit of lunacy. Vanity, it's been said, will kill you.

Often, we see teenage boys decked out in gangster rap attire and sporting crew-cuts or corn-rows (invariably, dyed blond regardless of the mode of cut. I suppose they have a hard time deciding whether to emulate African Americans or Caucasian Americans. Or, maybe, the youth of Fukui all just want to be Kid Rock.) On weekends, we see them milling about on the sidewalk, posing, smoking, yakking on their phones, and hoping to be noticed by the passing girls. At night, they can found in the many underground walkways, listening to hip-hop and practicing their break-dancing moves. Who says all the Japanese are hell-bent on getting into college?

Of the same genus of teenage boys, we often see a different species dressed in loose-fit, billowing pants. Loose, is, I need to point out, a loose description of these pants. Suffice it to say that if any one of these young men found themselves on the edge of a cliff and needed to dive off, they needn't worry about having enough material to make a parachute.

For some odd reason, this style of pants is that worn by the Japanese construction worker. Try to picture a house or an apartment building being built by these fellows, and you will conjure up an image of a small army of blond-haired, crew-cutted, Japanese MC Hammer impersonators, walking to and fro on gangplanks, carrying tools and slabs of wood. Most likely, they will ignore your stares, as their attention is much too invested on perfecting their moon-walks and inverted neck-spins.