Except for purposes of faithfully serving my company, it's been hard to free up some time at the keyboard. As such, there is some catching up I'd like to do.
This summer, it was discovered that street vendors in Beijing were substituting softened cardboard for minced meat filling for meat buns. For the uninitiated, Chinese meat buns are the East's answer to Italian calzones or English Cornish Pasties except that they are generally steamed rather than baked.
Beijing meat buns.
However, I guess it was all a scam. So says the Chinese government. Apparently, it was also newsworthy enough for the AP to enlighten us with as we sipped our morning cups of coffee and reviewed what was going on in the world. And, so enamored were we with the honesty and integrity of the Chinese government, especially in regards to food and consumer product safety, that I suppose no respectable journalist has second-guessed it. Luckily, I'm neither a journalist nor respectable.
What a boatload of feces. Why would a journalist fabricate a story like this? In order to make the Chinese people look bad in the eyes of the rest of the world? Because of the fact that street vendors lie, cheat, and steal in order to make a profit, even at the risk of the health of fellow Chinese, of women and children? Did he make this up to embarrass the government (at all levels) by highlighting the fact that food safety and health inspections are either fabricated or non-existent in China? Or was he just trying to prove the already overly-demonstrated point that China is developing/trying to develop (translation: people are getting rich/trying to get rich) at a rate faster than the Chinese culture, society, government, and environment can handle?
Gee, we've plenty of valid and proven examples and incidents that do all the above already; no need to make anything up! So, back to the question of "why would some John Doe journalist fabricate a story like this"?
Answer: He wouldn't.
The report claims that this journalist thought up the idea himself of using caustic acid to soften up cardboard, chop it up, add it to fatty minced meat, fill some buns, and get it all on hidden camera. Right. If I had to decide who would be most likely to think up a way to dilute minced meat with readily available garbage, I would most definitely choose some insurgent freelance reporter with a bone to pick and no clear motivation rather than a meat bun hawking street vendor looking to save a few thousand RMB in overhead so he can stock up on coal to heat his shanty and pay his rent.
I would be willing to bet one month's worth of my measly salary that there is some kind of cover-up involved and that journalist is probably already in a gulag or dea... oh, hold on a minute. Be right back. Doorbell just rang... must be the Beijing Public Security Bureau and/or Secret Police.
In other old news....
Some background.
The meat of the story... no pun intended: China Officials deny flood rats on the menu.
Seems fairly simple to draw this out:
Vast amounts of flooding = vast amounts of homeless rats (2 billion, according to Chinese media! And these are just the ones they... um... "caught"... and... um... "counted.") = vast amounts of rat meat made readily available to a culture famous for eating any living creature whose back faces the sun.
Approached from a completely new and arbitrary direction:
People desperate to get rid of rats/surplus of rat meat + street vendors looking for things other than pork to fill their buns.
Chinese authorities denied that evidence of rat meat for sale in markets in southern China. Maybe they should have checked a bit further north.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
I am currently on a business trip in Kagoshima, which is on the island of Kyushu and is the southernmost prefecture in Japan. This is the farthest south I have been in Japan; so far, the only noticeable differences between Kagoshima and the rest of Japan is that it is much warmer here (i.e., it’s now nearly the end of autumn and I was sweating just after a 20 minute walk) and the foliage is more reminiscent of the tropics (i.e. I see palm trees, which I don’t see where I live in Kanagawa).
Apparently, this area is famous for pork and thus prompting me to eat a pork dinner. Although I pirated this photo off the internet, this is exactly what I had:
This is called Satsuma Black Pork Tonkatsu. Tonkatsu is a meat fillet that is breaded and deep-fried. It can be any meat, but is traditionally pork. I’m not sure why exactly it’s called Black Pork; the meat is actually white as one would expect. It was delicious although the taste is pretty much the same as regular Pork Tonkatsu.
Satsuma, incidentally, is the historical name for this southern region which includes Kagoshima. Being the furthest south and thus most distant from Edo (Tokyo), Satsuma is known for the Satsuma Rebellion (in addition to black pork) and the ultra-nationalist samurai that populated and ruled the area. These samurai, angered over an edict passed during the Meiji Restoration, which declared the end of their social class, staged a rebellion that was a tactical failure but successfully landed the event in most Japanese history books. Essentially, the samurai were pissed off because the edict also declared the wearing of samurai swords to be illegal. In my reading, both in books and online, there is no mention of the samurais eating black pork; still, people insist that it’s a local delicacy.
On a more cheerful note, here is a photo that I took of a vending machine in Tokyo:
Anyone who isn't a complete stranger to Japan will not be surprised to see beer and alcoholic beverages that are available in vending machines. However, what struck me as different (read: odd) was that one could also buy a meal in a can. The ones in the middle left row are oden, a kind of Japanese snack of stewed root vegetables, tofu, etc. The bottom left row of cans is Japanese ramen noodles, in two flavors.
Ultimately, what's cool about Japanese vending machines is that you can buy hot beverages, which is nice during the winter. I suppose hot Japanese stewed root vegetables or ramen might be just as nice on a blustery winter day.
One thing that I have failed to find (not that I am interested or anything) are vending machines that sell used underwear. Before I came to Tokyo, I had heard that these existed. Sadly enough, the popularity of this product seems to have run its course. Again, ramen might be a suitable substitute in this case.
Lastly, since I am on the subject of vending machines, a parting shot from my hotel:
The only thing missing? A vending machine that sells frankfurters on a bun... with a side of used underwear.
Apparently, this area is famous for pork and thus prompting me to eat a pork dinner. Although I pirated this photo off the internet, this is exactly what I had:
This is called Satsuma Black Pork Tonkatsu. Tonkatsu is a meat fillet that is breaded and deep-fried. It can be any meat, but is traditionally pork. I’m not sure why exactly it’s called Black Pork; the meat is actually white as one would expect. It was delicious although the taste is pretty much the same as regular Pork Tonkatsu.
Satsuma, incidentally, is the historical name for this southern region which includes Kagoshima. Being the furthest south and thus most distant from Edo (Tokyo), Satsuma is known for the Satsuma Rebellion (in addition to black pork) and the ultra-nationalist samurai that populated and ruled the area. These samurai, angered over an edict passed during the Meiji Restoration, which declared the end of their social class, staged a rebellion that was a tactical failure but successfully landed the event in most Japanese history books. Essentially, the samurai were pissed off because the edict also declared the wearing of samurai swords to be illegal. In my reading, both in books and online, there is no mention of the samurais eating black pork; still, people insist that it’s a local delicacy.
On a more cheerful note, here is a photo that I took of a vending machine in Tokyo:
Anyone who isn't a complete stranger to Japan will not be surprised to see beer and alcoholic beverages that are available in vending machines. However, what struck me as different (read: odd) was that one could also buy a meal in a can. The ones in the middle left row are oden, a kind of Japanese snack of stewed root vegetables, tofu, etc. The bottom left row of cans is Japanese ramen noodles, in two flavors.Ultimately, what's cool about Japanese vending machines is that you can buy hot beverages, which is nice during the winter. I suppose hot Japanese stewed root vegetables or ramen might be just as nice on a blustery winter day.
One thing that I have failed to find (not that I am interested or anything) are vending machines that sell used underwear. Before I came to Tokyo, I had heard that these existed. Sadly enough, the popularity of this product seems to have run its course. Again, ramen might be a suitable substitute in this case.
Lastly, since I am on the subject of vending machines, a parting shot from my hotel:
The only thing missing? A vending machine that sells frankfurters on a bun... with a side of used underwear.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Belly button lint, culturally speaking
I present some other random and not-so-random observations about Japanese people and culture. Warning about keeping your expectations realistic. Will the following be a stimulating investigation with a heavy academic bent? Hmm, doubt it. Strange perspectives and tongue-in-cheek humor (translation: bad writing) that may kill some grey matter and make you laugh to the point where you snort milk out of your nose? Hopefully. You've been warned.
Collected over several months of... ahem... rigorous field analysis.
About bodily contact:
In Japanese culture, physical contact among casual acquaintances or strangers is not really allowed. It can be rather strange and uncomfortable for the touchee.
BUT… the rules are broken when boarding trains. With regards to getting a seat or just getting onto the train, it's every every man, woman, child for him/herself. Pushing, elbowing, and grabbing the side of the door or the top of the door frame to leverage body into the car is the norm.
One cool trick: turning your back to the doorway of the train to “back into” the car – as if it is less intrusive than just walking directly into the car face first.
For women, the rules are back in force once they sit down. Woman shy away when men sit down next to them; seemingly afraid of incidental and even unpreventable contact. Something as minor as brushing your arm or elbow against theirs seems out of bounds for Japanese women. I usually have to sit with my hands on my lap (not resting on my crotch... that might offend their sensibilities), resting on top of my backpack, or out in front near my knees so women don’t think I am trying to feel them up or grab them by pretending to cross my arms in front of my chest (a technique used by Japanese guys). Considering how perverted lots of Japanese guys are, I guess they have good reason to be paranoid but it leaves me feeling just a bit dirty.
About being subservient:
Lower managers modify their voices (kind of like what we in the West consider as baby talk) with upper managers. This is accompanied with constant bowing and the shuffling of feet.
Office ladies (a.k.a. secretaries and often, glorified secretaries) with otherwise normal (and oftentimes amazingly husky) voices speak with a timbre reminiscent of the 3rd grade or perhaps Shirley Temple. Again, imagine baby talk, but in an office environment. Office ladies, or OLs, also usually wear black shoes (no heels) and black stockings that cover their calves. My guess is that they are not allowed to look sexy in any way whatsoever as this would be a distraction for the male occupants of the office, and that my friends, would be an indication of the sway of sexual power that women have over men. Generally though, I wouldn't think it makes a big difference to the guys, as they are usually fantasizing about digitally-created bimbos, school girls, and tentacle sex.
Note to reader: the Japanese have an odd fascination with sexual intercourse involving a human and a tentacled partner, preferably a giant octopus or squid. This has been portrayed in Japanese wood block prints from the 18th and early 19th centuries, so I am not making this up.
The word “to arrive" or "to come” – mairimasu vs kimasu – both carry the same denotation, but the former is used by the subordinate to lower his/her position in regards to the other person. For example, if I were to tell my boss that I am coming to his office, I would use mairimasu. If he were to tell me the same, he would use kimasu. Mairimasu is also used in the train station announcements to say that the train is arriving. To whom the train is subordinate to, I couldn't tell you.
Things that are not strange, just different:
Japanese people like to say otsukaresamadesu - this is a short phrase to express acknowledgement that what you just had to endure was tiring and perhaps troublesome. This is spoken between friends and/or colleagues after drinking parties or group dinners or a night out singing karaoke, said to the passenger by the taxi driver after arriving at your destination, and between colleagues after work when leaving the office. It is also necessary to say this to colleagues when answering phone calls from them, or vice versa.
Once I saw an old woman using her shoe to push a piece of garbage into a rain water gutter running along a flight of stairs. The strange thing was, the gutter was, at the most, 1 inch deep and a couple inches wide, so shoving the garbage (it was a plastic wrapper) into the gutter didn’t hide it at all. The pragmatist in me says that she was moving it out of the way of other pedestrians so they wouldn't slip on it and fracture a tibia. The cynicist in me says that she cared so much about the appearance of the stairs that it didn't register in her mind that she could have better preserved the purity of this public through way if she had just picked the garbage up and thrown it away in a rubbish bin.
Note to reader: The reason that Japan is so clean is because there are practically no trash cans or rubbish bins in public areas like sidewalks and train stations. No trash cans = no trash. Where does all the trash go then? That, my friend, is the million yen question. Answer? On the sidewalk! And no, Japan is NOT as clean as the rest of the world thinks. The trash is just more well hidden!
From a pep talk given to me and another colleague by our Japanese manager (and I paraphrase) – "It doesn’t matter how much you really know or what your skills are – all that matters is that if asked to do something… anything… your reply every time should be: 'Yes, I can do it.' "
The person at KFC forgot to add the side dish to a set menu that I ordered for take out. After calling them to let them know about it, a person from KFC came to my apartment to deliver the food and apologize. All I can say is... wow.
One night I decided to order sushi from a sushi restaurant that delivers. After taking my order on the phone, I innocently asked the sushi restaurant worker how long it would take. She replied that the delivery would take over 2 hours. What kills me is not the fact that there was a 2 hour hold up on sushi delivery on that particular night but rather that she would not have told me if I had not asked. Again... wow.
Collected over several months of... ahem... rigorous field analysis.
About bodily contact:
In Japanese culture, physical contact among casual acquaintances or strangers is not really allowed. It can be rather strange and uncomfortable for the touchee.
BUT… the rules are broken when boarding trains. With regards to getting a seat or just getting onto the train, it's every every man, woman, child for him/herself. Pushing, elbowing, and grabbing the side of the door or the top of the door frame to leverage body into the car is the norm.
One cool trick: turning your back to the doorway of the train to “back into” the car – as if it is less intrusive than just walking directly into the car face first.
For women, the rules are back in force once they sit down. Woman shy away when men sit down next to them; seemingly afraid of incidental and even unpreventable contact. Something as minor as brushing your arm or elbow against theirs seems out of bounds for Japanese women. I usually have to sit with my hands on my lap (not resting on my crotch... that might offend their sensibilities), resting on top of my backpack, or out in front near my knees so women don’t think I am trying to feel them up or grab them by pretending to cross my arms in front of my chest (a technique used by Japanese guys). Considering how perverted lots of Japanese guys are, I guess they have good reason to be paranoid but it leaves me feeling just a bit dirty.
About being subservient:
Lower managers modify their voices (kind of like what we in the West consider as baby talk) with upper managers. This is accompanied with constant bowing and the shuffling of feet.
Office ladies (a.k.a. secretaries and often, glorified secretaries) with otherwise normal (and oftentimes amazingly husky) voices speak with a timbre reminiscent of the 3rd grade or perhaps Shirley Temple. Again, imagine baby talk, but in an office environment. Office ladies, or OLs, also usually wear black shoes (no heels) and black stockings that cover their calves. My guess is that they are not allowed to look sexy in any way whatsoever as this would be a distraction for the male occupants of the office, and that my friends, would be an indication of the sway of sexual power that women have over men. Generally though, I wouldn't think it makes a big difference to the guys, as they are usually fantasizing about digitally-created bimbos, school girls, and tentacle sex.
Note to reader: the Japanese have an odd fascination with sexual intercourse involving a human and a tentacled partner, preferably a giant octopus or squid. This has been portrayed in Japanese wood block prints from the 18th and early 19th centuries, so I am not making this up.
The word “to arrive" or "to come” – mairimasu vs kimasu – both carry the same denotation, but the former is used by the subordinate to lower his/her position in regards to the other person. For example, if I were to tell my boss that I am coming to his office, I would use mairimasu. If he were to tell me the same, he would use kimasu. Mairimasu is also used in the train station announcements to say that the train is arriving. To whom the train is subordinate to, I couldn't tell you.
Things that are not strange, just different:
Japanese people like to say otsukaresamadesu - this is a short phrase to express acknowledgement that what you just had to endure was tiring and perhaps troublesome. This is spoken between friends and/or colleagues after drinking parties or group dinners or a night out singing karaoke, said to the passenger by the taxi driver after arriving at your destination, and between colleagues after work when leaving the office. It is also necessary to say this to colleagues when answering phone calls from them, or vice versa.
Once I saw an old woman using her shoe to push a piece of garbage into a rain water gutter running along a flight of stairs. The strange thing was, the gutter was, at the most, 1 inch deep and a couple inches wide, so shoving the garbage (it was a plastic wrapper) into the gutter didn’t hide it at all. The pragmatist in me says that she was moving it out of the way of other pedestrians so they wouldn't slip on it and fracture a tibia. The cynicist in me says that she cared so much about the appearance of the stairs that it didn't register in her mind that she could have better preserved the purity of this public through way if she had just picked the garbage up and thrown it away in a rubbish bin.
Note to reader: The reason that Japan is so clean is because there are practically no trash cans or rubbish bins in public areas like sidewalks and train stations. No trash cans = no trash. Where does all the trash go then? That, my friend, is the million yen question. Answer? On the sidewalk! And no, Japan is NOT as clean as the rest of the world thinks. The trash is just more well hidden!
From a pep talk given to me and another colleague by our Japanese manager (and I paraphrase) – "It doesn’t matter how much you really know or what your skills are – all that matters is that if asked to do something… anything… your reply every time should be: 'Yes, I can do it.' "
The person at KFC forgot to add the side dish to a set menu that I ordered for take out. After calling them to let them know about it, a person from KFC came to my apartment to deliver the food and apologize. All I can say is... wow.
One night I decided to order sushi from a sushi restaurant that delivers. After taking my order on the phone, I innocently asked the sushi restaurant worker how long it would take. She replied that the delivery would take over 2 hours. What kills me is not the fact that there was a 2 hour hold up on sushi delivery on that particular night but rather that she would not have told me if I had not asked. Again... wow.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Life is tough... here.
Today I feel like writing about random things so pardon my meandering. If you get bored, just enter another URL into your browser bar and I will disappear!
I have lived in Japan now for a total of 24 months. The first stint for 10 months, and now on my second attempt, which is going on its 14th month. I will be seeing my 3rd winter in Japan... and I DO love winter.
In my short time here, it's questionable whether I have really learned anything about Japan and its culture that I did not learn in academic study or via my own reading. Granted, my language skills are getting better... slowly... and thus I am able to pick up more and more cultural nuances through the language. But still... in general, I think my brain hasn't gained much since the day I first arrived in Japan over 3 years ago. In fact, I might be getting dumber.
One thing I HAVE perfected is how to EMULATE being Japanese. Not actually becoming Japanese, but just pretending to do so. For example:
- I sometimes bow when I talk to someone over the phone, especially my managers.
- I have the vexing habit of saying "maybe" a LOT more than I used to. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, for example, when I look up at a gray sky and say "Maybe it will rain today". But it does get kind of annoying when people ask me, for example:
1. if my mother is a woman or
2. if the ocean contains salt water or
3. if 2 plus 2 equals 4
... and I reply with "Maybe".
- I say "Sorry" instead of "Thank You" when people do things for me. Or the opposite case where I expect a "Sorry" to come when "Thank You" is the only appropriate reply. This happened just recently on a flight back from the US. After I helped a woman lift her suitcase into the overhead compartment, she said "Thanks". I said "No, no, it's really okay". See? I thought she was going to apologize, so I was already telling her not to.
If perhaps after another couple years living in Japan that scenario plays itself out again, I would probably whip out a sushi knife and chip off my pinky so as to apologize for helping her.
I am coming to the sad realization that I am one of those foreigners that can never quite get comfortable with Japanese culture. Despite my cognitive abilities to rationalize the "whys" and "hows" of the culture, my heart (and admittedly, lack of patience) is screaming "That is completely, utterly, [insert colorful metaphor here] wrong and idiotic! That doesn't make ANY sense at all! Why, in MY country, we do things this way....."
When, of course, I am NOT in my country, but theirs.
Which begs the question, especially in an office environment and business context... being ethnocentric isn't necessarily wrong, is it? So many East Asian (indeed, Asian, in general) companies have already or are adapting a Western style of doing business. So why can't I speak up as an employee in my company and demand (heck, even just recommend) that we do things the Western way? One thing is for certain: the fact that I work for an ultra-conservative, ultra-traditional Japanese company contributes 95% to my misery in the land of the rising sun.
I have lived in Japan now for a total of 24 months. The first stint for 10 months, and now on my second attempt, which is going on its 14th month. I will be seeing my 3rd winter in Japan... and I DO love winter.
In my short time here, it's questionable whether I have really learned anything about Japan and its culture that I did not learn in academic study or via my own reading. Granted, my language skills are getting better... slowly... and thus I am able to pick up more and more cultural nuances through the language. But still... in general, I think my brain hasn't gained much since the day I first arrived in Japan over 3 years ago. In fact, I might be getting dumber.
One thing I HAVE perfected is how to EMULATE being Japanese. Not actually becoming Japanese, but just pretending to do so. For example:
- I sometimes bow when I talk to someone over the phone, especially my managers.
- I have the vexing habit of saying "maybe" a LOT more than I used to. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, for example, when I look up at a gray sky and say "Maybe it will rain today". But it does get kind of annoying when people ask me, for example:
1. if my mother is a woman or
2. if the ocean contains salt water or
3. if 2 plus 2 equals 4
... and I reply with "Maybe".
- I say "Sorry" instead of "Thank You" when people do things for me. Or the opposite case where I expect a "Sorry" to come when "Thank You" is the only appropriate reply. This happened just recently on a flight back from the US. After I helped a woman lift her suitcase into the overhead compartment, she said "Thanks". I said "No, no, it's really okay". See? I thought she was going to apologize, so I was already telling her not to.
If perhaps after another couple years living in Japan that scenario plays itself out again, I would probably whip out a sushi knife and chip off my pinky so as to apologize for helping her.
I am coming to the sad realization that I am one of those foreigners that can never quite get comfortable with Japanese culture. Despite my cognitive abilities to rationalize the "whys" and "hows" of the culture, my heart (and admittedly, lack of patience) is screaming "That is completely, utterly, [insert colorful metaphor here] wrong and idiotic! That doesn't make ANY sense at all! Why, in MY country, we do things this way....."
When, of course, I am NOT in my country, but theirs.
Which begs the question, especially in an office environment and business context... being ethnocentric isn't necessarily wrong, is it? So many East Asian (indeed, Asian, in general) companies have already or are adapting a Western style of doing business. So why can't I speak up as an employee in my company and demand (heck, even just recommend) that we do things the Western way? One thing is for certain: the fact that I work for an ultra-conservative, ultra-traditional Japanese company contributes 95% to my misery in the land of the rising sun.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
No more excuses
I have decided to stop making excuses for not blogging regularly. Of course, the fact that I work in a Japanese company and spend a considerable amount of time on trains suffering the odor of drunken old Japanese businessmen may have something to do with my absence from the blogging world. But anyway....
From now on, I will only post a blog once a year. The date and content will be unannounced. The tale, whether fact or fiction, elegantly written in my classic style. Those of you either lucky or bored enough to stumble onto my little niche in this world wide web at precisely the right moment will be bestowed a gift beyond gratitude.
Disclaimer: I may feel motivated now and then and post several blogs a year. Whoo.
Oh, and another thing. I won't hide it. This blog is all about ME. Not anyone else. Not about Japanese or East Asian culture. Not about travel and adventure. Just me. Let's drop the facade, people; we wouldn't be here right now if we didn't enjoy talking about ourselves and having the rest of you read about us. This is, after all, the "Me" generation... us with our own little "niches in this world wide web". Who are we fooling anyway? The internet has no boundaries. It's ethereal. Neither physical nor temporal. Can we really carve niches out of nothing? Nothing save a bunch of 1's and 0's, at least.
With all that said and done, stay tuned for the next series of 1's and 0's about me and my life and the things that only I care about.
Cheers.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Taiwan
I arrived in Taiwan today for the start of a two week long business trip. I am in a small industrial city near the airport but outside of Taipei. The last time I was in Taiwan was 1987; things seem considerably different now, at least according to Lonely Planet. According to the area around my hotel... I might still be back in 1987.
There are no sidewalks here. Pedestrians (of which there are few) share a "path" meant for bicycles, mopeds, and motorcycles.
Unlike Hong Kong, most of the signs and billboards here do not have English and are only in Chinese. Again, I have to remind myself that I am not in Taipei. This weekend will be my chance to do some exploring, and I will find out more then.
For now, I have the chance to reminisce about childhood memories. Browsing a local fruit vendor, I see white peaches the size of coconuts. I remember being 9 or 10 years old, riding a tour bus with my father and older brother, and buying the same peaches whenever the bus stopped to let the passengers out to walk or sightsee. Peaches so sweet and juicy that biting into them felt like getting hit in the face with a balloon filled with sugar-water.
The fruit... the fruit here deserves mention. Living in Hong Kong afforded me the luxury of having an endless supply of cheap tropical (and the typical, of course) fruit. The same applies for Taiwan, but the giddiness that feel now is overwhelming considering I currently live in Japan, a country where electronics are cheaper than fruit... okay, that might be a slight exaggeration. But the cost and lack of variety of fruit in Japan is no laughing matter. I do love fruit.
On the menu tonight: red mangos, lychees, white peaches, small sour plums, a papaya, and a green guava. Tomorrow: dragonfruit, rose apples, pineapple, more lychees, yellow mangos, and goodness knows what else. For the next two weeks, I am going to gorge myself on fruit until I collapse or run out of money.
There are no sidewalks here. Pedestrians (of which there are few) share a "path" meant for bicycles, mopeds, and motorcycles.
Unlike Hong Kong, most of the signs and billboards here do not have English and are only in Chinese. Again, I have to remind myself that I am not in Taipei. This weekend will be my chance to do some exploring, and I will find out more then.
For now, I have the chance to reminisce about childhood memories. Browsing a local fruit vendor, I see white peaches the size of coconuts. I remember being 9 or 10 years old, riding a tour bus with my father and older brother, and buying the same peaches whenever the bus stopped to let the passengers out to walk or sightsee. Peaches so sweet and juicy that biting into them felt like getting hit in the face with a balloon filled with sugar-water.
The fruit... the fruit here deserves mention. Living in Hong Kong afforded me the luxury of having an endless supply of cheap tropical (and the typical, of course) fruit. The same applies for Taiwan, but the giddiness that feel now is overwhelming considering I currently live in Japan, a country where electronics are cheaper than fruit... okay, that might be a slight exaggeration. But the cost and lack of variety of fruit in Japan is no laughing matter. I do love fruit.
On the menu tonight: red mangos, lychees, white peaches, small sour plums, a papaya, and a green guava. Tomorrow: dragonfruit, rose apples, pineapple, more lychees, yellow mangos, and goodness knows what else. For the next two weeks, I am going to gorge myself on fruit until I collapse or run out of money.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Tales from the... aaahhh, whatever
Memories from living in Japan, the first attempt...
I remember two particular students of mine when I was masquerading as an English teacher. One, although never officially diagnosed (at least according to the school) was probably autistic. He was 5 years old and didn't speak a word of Japanese, let alone English. His mother admitted to me that the only reason she brought him to class was so he could have some friends.
He didn't, of course. The other kids ignored them. For his part, he ignored them too. In fact, nothing much caught his attention except for a foam ABC puzzle game. The letters were cut out of a foam template, and the child is supposed to match the shape of the letters with their proper order. When he realized I was interested in playing with him, all he wanted (in fact, he wouldn't leave me alone after that) was to play with the foam ABCs with him. He would put a letter in my hand and steer it to a place on the template. He would make quite a few mistakes (I am not sure if he really recognized what the ABCs were) and when I tried to put the letter in the proper order, he would resist at first, then give in. I explained to him in English where each letter should go, even singing him the ABC song. Ever talk to someone or some inanimate object and know that you were not understood, or even heard?
It saddened me to know that he seemed to live in his own little world.
But aside from the foam ABC game, we did manage to bond a little. Unlike what I have read about autistic kids, he didn't mind letting me pick him up and hold him. After the first time, as with the foam letters, he wouldn't leave me alone and would often crawl on me, climb on my back, or sit in my lap as I taught the class. When the rest of the class was busy with some work, I would hold him and we would both stare out the window of our 2nd floor classroom. The school was in the countryside, so on clear days, we were afforded a beautiful view of the surrounding neighborhood, rice fields, and mountains. He seemed as rapt as I was to watch the outside world unfold, or simply the clouds floating by.
The other boy was in another class. Quiet... maybe that's why I liked him. There were times that he would smile at me for no obvious reason, his grin from ear to ear and some kind of knowing look in his eyes. As if he and I shared a private joke. I would like to think that he was simply happy to be there. It made me happy to be there.
There was a katsudon shop near the train station in the city where I lived during my teaching days. Katsu is a fried, breaded meat cutlet, usually pork or chicken. Don means over a bowl of rice, so in this case, katsudon is a fried, breaded cutlet served over a bowl of rice (not all Japanese foods are so identifiable, I should add). This particular shop was fast and cheap and thus won my regular business. I loved that they gave you all-you-can-eat pickled daikon (white radish). I might have put them out of business for all the daikon I devoured at each meal.
One other regular was a guy that liked to dress as a woman. Lipstick, mascara, wig, mini-skirt, and high heels. The real deal. Well, not the "real" real deal, but a genuine fake, as it were. One thing I never understood about him was that he never shaved his legs, and would often have a 5 o'clock shadow. Why bother to dress so provocatively if you are not going to shave your legs?
I never inquired within. Was too busy eating my pickled radish, I suppose.
I remember two particular students of mine when I was masquerading as an English teacher. One, although never officially diagnosed (at least according to the school) was probably autistic. He was 5 years old and didn't speak a word of Japanese, let alone English. His mother admitted to me that the only reason she brought him to class was so he could have some friends.
He didn't, of course. The other kids ignored them. For his part, he ignored them too. In fact, nothing much caught his attention except for a foam ABC puzzle game. The letters were cut out of a foam template, and the child is supposed to match the shape of the letters with their proper order. When he realized I was interested in playing with him, all he wanted (in fact, he wouldn't leave me alone after that) was to play with the foam ABCs with him. He would put a letter in my hand and steer it to a place on the template. He would make quite a few mistakes (I am not sure if he really recognized what the ABCs were) and when I tried to put the letter in the proper order, he would resist at first, then give in. I explained to him in English where each letter should go, even singing him the ABC song. Ever talk to someone or some inanimate object and know that you were not understood, or even heard?
It saddened me to know that he seemed to live in his own little world.
But aside from the foam ABC game, we did manage to bond a little. Unlike what I have read about autistic kids, he didn't mind letting me pick him up and hold him. After the first time, as with the foam letters, he wouldn't leave me alone and would often crawl on me, climb on my back, or sit in my lap as I taught the class. When the rest of the class was busy with some work, I would hold him and we would both stare out the window of our 2nd floor classroom. The school was in the countryside, so on clear days, we were afforded a beautiful view of the surrounding neighborhood, rice fields, and mountains. He seemed as rapt as I was to watch the outside world unfold, or simply the clouds floating by.
The other boy was in another class. Quiet... maybe that's why I liked him. There were times that he would smile at me for no obvious reason, his grin from ear to ear and some kind of knowing look in his eyes. As if he and I shared a private joke. I would like to think that he was simply happy to be there. It made me happy to be there.
There was a katsudon shop near the train station in the city where I lived during my teaching days. Katsu is a fried, breaded meat cutlet, usually pork or chicken. Don means over a bowl of rice, so in this case, katsudon is a fried, breaded cutlet served over a bowl of rice (not all Japanese foods are so identifiable, I should add). This particular shop was fast and cheap and thus won my regular business. I loved that they gave you all-you-can-eat pickled daikon (white radish). I might have put them out of business for all the daikon I devoured at each meal.
One other regular was a guy that liked to dress as a woman. Lipstick, mascara, wig, mini-skirt, and high heels. The real deal. Well, not the "real" real deal, but a genuine fake, as it were. One thing I never understood about him was that he never shaved his legs, and would often have a 5 o'clock shadow. Why bother to dress so provocatively if you are not going to shave your legs?
I never inquired within. Was too busy eating my pickled radish, I suppose.
Seeing red
Over an hour's worth of typing has been wasted on what was supposed to be tonight's blog about Japan and Hong Kong. Accidentally closed my browser and... well, the rest is history. Am still a bit pissed over it so instead of writing every thought and feeling all over again, am going to be melancholy for a bit. Enjoy!
Lyrics from a song that still has a grip on me:
"When you try your best, but you don't succeed
When you get what you want, but not what you need
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
When the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
High up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
If you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth"
What is it worth to have tried and subsequently failed at something? Are there failings... losses... that you can walk away from and in the end, honestly you don't regret it?
Am waiting for the day to come when memories don't reappear with the sting of emotion still attached. Well, for the sad ones, anyway.
Lyrics from a song that still has a grip on me:
"When you try your best, but you don't succeed
When you get what you want, but not what you need
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
When the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
High up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
If you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth"
What is it worth to have tried and subsequently failed at something? Are there failings... losses... that you can walk away from and in the end, honestly you don't regret it?
Am waiting for the day to come when memories don't reappear with the sting of emotion still attached. Well, for the sad ones, anyway.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Train Life
Much of what I have seen and/or experienced this time in
However, spending much of my time commuting by train has afforded me a glance into another aspect of Japanese life and culture. No, I’m not talking about yakuza, bosozoku (bike gangs), drug dealers, hostess women, or akibakei. Purely child’s play. I am talking about getting to the heart of the matter.
I have seen well beyond the heart and soul of the Japanese people and let me tell you: when you get past the clean, cold and crisp, there lay waiting for you a hot, moist and gooey center that can't be rivaled by even the freshest oven-baked chocolate-chip cookie. Let's take a bite, shall we?
Strap Hanging
For the sake of brevity, let's call these people Hangers. There are at least two types within this category, the first being the kind that holds onto the straps and sways with the momentum of the car. These are often old men. These old men are often drunk. These drunken old men always smell bad. They are happy (translation: too lazy) NOT to use their legs as tools to help maintain their balance, but instead rock back and forth with every jolt of the train on it's tracks. Standing next to these drunken, old men is like being in a mosh pit with your grandfather but sans music.
There are also Hangers who fall asleep while standing up and suddenly let go of the strap. Much to the dismay of the person seated before them if they happen to be facing the seats, as invariably, the Sleep Hanger knocks off that person’s glasses or simply slaps him on the forehead. Sleep Hangers are mutated forms of the basic Strap Hanger.
Seat Ninjas
Seat Ninjas are an evolved species with origins dating back to the Edo Period of Japanese history. Although there is a direct correlation between the first sightings of Seat Ninjas and the beginnings of steam locomotion in
NOTE: For simplicity’s sake (we like that around here), I will play the role of the seated person trying to stand up to get off at my stop.
- Holding onto the strap (often, posing as a Hanger or Sleep Hanger) then, as I stand up, leaning in at a 45 degree angle to capture my seat.
- Sitting on me as I get up. These are the least subtle and skilled of the Seat Ninjas.
- Sliding across the lap of the person next to me and into my seat as I stand up.
- Obachan style – The word obachan is a moniker given to your grandmother or random old ladies. They are known to stake their claim to seats with their umbrellas or canes. They will literally stab the seat as soon as your crotch creates enough space so as to prevent anyone else from sitting down. Seat Ninjas often masquerade as obachan on rainy days and when they are feeling a bit frisky.
- Old school Seat Ninjas will teleport into your seat after having distracted everyone with a smoke bomb.
Sleepers
These come in several types as well. Among the seated versions, the most notable are the ones with head back against the window and mouth agape, as if just begging you to drop your old gum or some coins down their throat. There are also those with no cervical vertebra who sleep with their chins resting on their chests. You often expect the skin around their necks to give out at any moment, their heads dropping onto their laps with a swift ripping sound and a terrible deluge of drool onto the crouch area of their pants. One of my personal favorites is the ones that lean to the side. Basically, they end up resting their heads on the adjacent person’s shoulder. It’s fun to watch said person either avoid the leaning mass coming at him by leaning forward or to the opposite side (if there isn’t anybody there) or by suddenly shrugging his shoulders to “politely” wake up the offending sleeper. Said sleeper, within an average of 3.7 seconds, will be once again leaning on the same shoulder. And the game resumes.
Another aspect of
Sharing steam with 60 strangers during the winter months, when the heat in the train car creates a perpetual sauna on wheels. The condensation on the windows closely resembles Niagara Falls (the Rhine or Urubupunga for you more exotic types) and is comprised of the sweat, breath, and goodness knows what other biological and digestive vapors evacuated by the 59 other passengers in the car. Now imagine that the car is packed shoulder to shoulder, or worse, and you (most likely your face) are pressed up against aforementioned flow of water. Outside of peak commuting hours, you’re lucky just to experience fogged-up glasses as you board the car.
The paradox of physical contact in
As a rule, Japanese people are generally uncomfortable with touching and excessive bodily contact between strangers or those unfamiliar with each other (with the exception of old Japanese men who like to pet school girls). Except in the most cosmopolitan encounters, bows are still preferred over handshakes. However, this rule flies completely out the door and into space when it comes to bodily contact on trains. It is a supreme mystery to me why this is so and I’ve only been able to draw one conclusion:
Due to the collectivistic consciousness of Japanese culture, excessive physical contact is tolerated on trains because everyone is helping everyone else get on board, with the understanding that everyone just wants to go home (or shopping, which I would say for Japanese people, warrants more attention and chest and back-rubbing than the desire to go home). People will literally push and shove their way onto trains, with little regard for physics and the rated human capacity deemed acceptable by the engineers that designed the car. I have been pushed (hard, I might add) by weirdos who talk to themselves (that is a whole other blog), obachan, and even a Buddhist monk.
The ones that get on a crowded train when it is already packed to the gills have a special technique. As they approach the car, they turn 180 degrees so that their back is facing the people closest to the doors. Indeed, the doors can’t even close at this point; there are so many people already inside. With back turned, the guy (not just guys but Japanese women too; they have found equality, at least in this respect) inserts his buttocks and one foot onto the car first (ala Shaquille O’Neal). He then reaches up with one or both hands and grips the upper railing of the car, where the door normally meets the roof, and actually uses his arms like levers to force the rest of his body into the car. Well, the Japanese are good at engineering, I will say that.
The Japanese businessman, or sarariman, is notorious for being a pusher. I once saw a sarariman place his hand FULLY on the back of an old woman and sent her nearly flying onto the lap of the seated person in front of her. She then turned and swung her handbag at him, catching him on the bum. He gave her a dirty look. She returned the glare. I grinned. Tis’ a good thing, being a foreigner with a keen eye for culture.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Growing up
I'm an uncle. Well, in fact, I have been an uncle for a few years now, ever since several of my cousins started raising goats... I mean, having kids.
But now, it's the real thing. My older brother and his wife welcomed their first (and only) daughter into this wacky world last week. 8 lbs. of joy, born at home in a tub full of water, and named after the mom. Ah, brings back memories. Well, except that I was fat, came out (reluctantly) in a hospital room, and my mother and I do not share the same first name. Oh, and I'm not a girl.
Oddly enough, I didn't feel much of anything the moment I had read the email announcing the baby's arrival. But later on that day, I felt... proud. Then... anxious. As if suddenly, I realized, the two boys in those old photos aren't boys anymore.
Congratulations to the parents. And congratulations to me. I feel like Charlie Brown when Sally was born. I want to hand out candy cigars to friends. But I don't have any friends in Japan. More importantly, I don't know where to get candy cigars.
Two dear friends of mine also were legally separated this month. It's been nearly a decade since I met them, when they were just dating. In the years that passed, I came to know them as two of the best friends a guy could ask for. We have even been roommates. They have given me some fond memories. At this very moment, they are figuring out where life will take them next, as individuals. To both of you, I say, "Throw yourself into the depths of every sorrow while sorrow comes now so easily. Later, when the tides change, you'll want to remember how bad it all was. We need opposites, so take every moment as it comes."
As I witness the lives of others, I am reminded that life doesn't ever become stagnant. Despite my best efforts, time will make me an old man. What do I want to do between now and then?
Just one thing...
Find the answer to that question.
But now, it's the real thing. My older brother and his wife welcomed their first (and only) daughter into this wacky world last week. 8 lbs. of joy, born at home in a tub full of water, and named after the mom. Ah, brings back memories. Well, except that I was fat, came out (reluctantly) in a hospital room, and my mother and I do not share the same first name. Oh, and I'm not a girl.
Oddly enough, I didn't feel much of anything the moment I had read the email announcing the baby's arrival. But later on that day, I felt... proud. Then... anxious. As if suddenly, I realized, the two boys in those old photos aren't boys anymore.
Congratulations to the parents. And congratulations to me. I feel like Charlie Brown when Sally was born. I want to hand out candy cigars to friends. But I don't have any friends in Japan. More importantly, I don't know where to get candy cigars.
Two dear friends of mine also were legally separated this month. It's been nearly a decade since I met them, when they were just dating. In the years that passed, I came to know them as two of the best friends a guy could ask for. We have even been roommates. They have given me some fond memories. At this very moment, they are figuring out where life will take them next, as individuals. To both of you, I say, "Throw yourself into the depths of every sorrow while sorrow comes now so easily. Later, when the tides change, you'll want to remember how bad it all was. We need opposites, so take every moment as it comes."
As I witness the lives of others, I am reminded that life doesn't ever become stagnant. Despite my best efforts, time will make me an old man. What do I want to do between now and then?
Just one thing...
Find the answer to that question.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Chemicals
What are emotions? Just chemicals in our brain? Something as a result of a chemical reaction in our brain? If so, then what is that 'something?' What are the triggers that cause those chemical reactions?
Are emotions energy then? Pulses of electricity that travel along our nervous system? Energy transmitted from cell to cell, across nerve ending to nerve ending?
These days, research and modern science tells us stress physically destroys our body. Not only is there a mental toll on our brain, but a physical one as well. Chemicals released as a result of distress or anger or extreme sadness actually eats away at our cells the same way that toxins or poisons or drugs do.
Do children heal faster and better from this same kind of deterioration? We know they are more resilient to bumps and bruises, cuts and scratches. But how about the kind of damage that comes as a result of negative emotions?
What does it do to a child when he feels such burning anger, or such deathly sorrow at such a young age, without experience or wisdom to keep his head above water, without rationalism to help fool him into thinking the world isn't so cruel?
It's been over 20 years since I buried my first pet, and at least a decade since I last thought of him and those horrible moments I described in my earlier post. But to this day, the anger I felt then wells up in me again, so easily and as quickly as if it all happened hours ago.
One dead pet doesn't need to mean shit to anyone else in the world. It doesn't need to mean anything to anyone in the grand scheme of things, especially when compared to starvation in impoverished countries, and soldiers dying in wars being fought for worthy principles. But it did mean something to one boy. It was, for one moment, a pain in his heart the depth of which no one could fathom. And, as if fate had to select the perfect moment for wickedness, just at the moment that the very small world of one boy came crashing in on itself, some other kids decided that it would be fun to watch, in mockery, a boy mourn for his pet.
I have the will, the power, the cunning now... to destroy the adults that those neighborhood kids have grown into, should fate or luck lend me a hand and let me cross paths with them again.
What becomes of a heart that has carried around so much hated? What joys, or possibilities of joy, atrophy beyond all hope or recognition?
Friday, February 09, 2007
Strangers again
Before I left Hong Kong, my former colleagues from the university threw me a going away dinner. We went to a place near Tsuen Wan in the New Territories called Sham Tseng, or Deep Well, in English. We dined on roast goose, and later, ate dessert by the seaside.To protect the innocent, all names and identities in this post have been fictionalized. To a point. Sort of.
Out of the five people in this picture, only one of them is still at the university, where we all had met each other for the first time. The froggy looking guy on the far left was an intern from France, who became of one my closest friends in Hong Kong. Kombo (a.ka. His Kombo-ness a.k.a. Komber-ino) is now back in France, finishing up university studies and looking for opportunities to see the world again. The grinning idiot next to him managed to find his way to Japan, where he currently serves as a slave to his company and the tag-teaming Odakyu and JR train systems. Continuing to the right is another one of my very best friends. Despite being a few years my junior, Batz was (is) decades wiser. We started working at the university on the same day, and indeed, he was the first friend that I made on this trip to Hong Kong. What I will never forget is his maturity and support during one of the toughest times of my life, when I was made single again by my girlfriend at the time. If it hadn't been for him, I would have never chose the path that I did, and would have missed out on one of those rare opportunities to feel alive. He is still in Hong Kong now, making eyeglasses all Frenchmen would be proud of.
To Batz's right is Michigan, another guy I will never forget. Although we never spent quite as much time together as the other guys, he and I became fast friends, and met often for dinner. In fact, I can say without a doubt that Michigan was the first Hong Konger I met that spoke excellent English. It shocked me the day I first met him in his office at the university; it was good enough that I had wondered if he was an overseas born Chinese.
I remember the moment that Michigan and I met; my boss took me and Batz into an office to meet him and some other colleagues. Him, Batz, and I were the only ones among the few guys in the office that spoke decent English. After the obligatory greetings and small talk, we all just kind of looked at each other and stood around with our hands in our pockets. It must have been after a lengthy moment of silence that we all grinned and said our "Nice meeting you, see ya later"s.
Obviously, Michigan didn't study abroad long enough, because he didn't even know what the hell 'pasta' was. He's still in Hong Kong too, enjoying (or trying to) his current job designing stuff that he doesn't really know how to design. Well, there is always Karate.
Last, but not least, we come to the lone survivor of the university gang. Although he and his wife joined our group gatherings every once in a while, he and I never really spent much time hanging out. Mostly, I think, because we were both shy about our respective second languages. But I can't think of a friendlier or humbler person than Sam. I hope, with all of us gone, that he is still enjoying that corner desk with that amazing view from the 11th floor.
I remember... when Batz and I first got to the university, we initially worked in a basement lab that was empty save for a few old filing cabinets, a couple desks, and a fast prototyping 3D "printer". A PC was brought down for me to use while Batz lived off his trusty laptop. It was only the two of us down there, and no one ever came down to visit us. In fact, I doubt anyone even knew that we were there. Most likely, even our boss forgot that he had hired us and stuck us down there. Our daily routine was to spend the morning hours "doing research" on the internet, then go to lunch, then spend the next couple of hours trying to keep our eyes open, and finally, till 5pm came around, refining our email and net surfing skills..., uh, I mean, doing more research. At 5pm sharp (not always, as there were occasions that we had longer than usual emails to draft), we would pack up and walk down to the train station together. I'd ask him if he'd gotten any work done that day, and he'd reply "No." My answer was, strangely enough, similar, whenever he asked the same question.
I miss my friends. They are, and always will be my friends, but as the days, hours, minutes, and seconds pass... we become strangers again. Living our own lives, in our own countries. Getting married, finding girlfriends, changing careers. Despite convenience of technology, emails and online greetings get fewer and farther between. Eventually, you find that you easily forget about those that came into your life at some point or points in the past. Time has a way of dulling the most piquant memories involving the best of friends.
Forgetfulness is supposed to be a natural defense mechanism, I suppose. If we lost the ability to forget, to let go, we'd go mad from wanting. No where to go but forward; nothing to do but move on. Memories and old friends touch us so deeply only because we had to say goodbye. As is our nature, we inevitably take people and places, moments and events, for granted until we realize later that these things don't repeat themselves in exactly the same way as the first time.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Philosophy and other shenanigans
"This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You wash your hands using the blue soap - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You wash with the red soap - you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes."-- Morpheus, from The Matrix, unreleased Editor's Cut
While visiting Bangkok last month, I managed to find my way to some sort of zoo/tourist trap where I saw tigers, alligators, and elephants playing soccer. As pleasing as all that was, the most interesting bit came from the men's washroom, where I found this dual soap dispenser. It seems the Wachowski brothers became theatrically inspired while on vacation in Bangkok, soaking up all the fun that elephants and soccer balls and little brown people prodding the poor things with sharp metal hooks have to offer.
It also seems that there are quite a few Thais in Wonderland. And who says you need recreational drugs and prostitutes to have a good time in the Place of Olives?
On the subject of matrices...
The common mortal... is not capable, at least not continuously so, of observation that in every sense is wholly disinterested.... He can turn his attention to things only so far as they have some relation to his will, however indirect it may be. [The] ordinary man does not linger long over perception, does not fix his attention long on one object, but in all that is presented to him hastily seeks merely the concept under which it is to be brought, as the lazy man seeks a chair, and then it interests him no further. That is why he is so soon done, with works of art, objects of natural beauty, and indeed everywhere with the truly significant contemplation of all the scenes of life.
--Schopenhauer
Why are we satisfied with rules, formulas, concepts? Why don't we... why don't I!... wonder about what is beyond our senses, our perception, our logic? For some, there is enough safety in knowing that there is a Creator. He is the rule and the exception, and the origin. For others, a big bang. Okay, so we don't know exactly where we come from. But how about where we are? What is our reality? Are we in it? Is my reality someone else's reality? Can two beings share the same reality? What is sleep vs. awake? What is a dream? Where is a dream?
What if reality is the following: a dream, dreamt by one person. We are all in that person's dream, but we also are dreaming. In our dream, we fall asleep, wake up, and have dreams.
Is The Matrix just a movie? It's an idea, which is all we can grasp of it. The idea of a reality outside of the one we know. More than just chop-socky satire, anyway.
Reflections...
In my seventh-grade science class, one of our projects was to design an ingenious container to hold an egg and prevent it from breaking after being dropped from a height of about 15 feet. The most creative kids encased their eggs in containers of Jello or peanut butter. Me? I wrapped my egg in so many layers of cardboard, foam peanuts, foam padding, and tape that it could have survived a trip around the world, including a stopover in Iraq, and a plane crash. But it wasn't creative. I saw the look on my teacher's face as she watched me spend at least 5 minutes cutting open my monstrosity with dull scissors, and producing my egg, still in tact and without a scratch. Her look made me feel like I would have been better off if it had broken. Some feelings of rejection and failure, no matter how insignificant at the time, stick with you for life.
I had a green parakeet named Ernie. I loved him more than I could remember. What I do remember is how I tried to spoil him. With watered down apple juice as a treat instead of plain water (not sure if he ever went for that). Fresh lettuce leaves and apple slices for snacking. New newspaper lining his cage, at least a few times a week. And I remember one day, he couldn't sit on his perch anymore, but instead hobbled about on the floor of his cage. Each time he tried to fly or climb up to his perch, he would fall off. That evening, my mom put Ernie and his cage in the garage. I remember it was a cold night, too cold for a sick bird at least. The next day, I buried him in our front garden. I had made an "awning" out of a shoe box lid and some straws to cover him when it rained. The neighborhood kids, who never liked me but liked to make fun of me, came over to our yard and stood over me, laughing, as I tried to make my awning stay upright over his grave.
My brother and I were latch-key kids. We had keys to the front door of our house, and almost always came home from school before our parents. I remember, on one occasion, he and I got home at the same time but he had forgotten his key. I had mine, but wouldn't open the door until I had made him get down on his hands and knees and lick the dirt. Sorry, bro.
Children know not their cruelty.
In movies, we see ill-fated lovers parting ways at the train station. Each gazing upon the other's face; within a matter of seconds the distance between them turns infinite. They continue looking, well past the range of sight, as if to imagine they could still see each other, like specks on the horizon. One on the train. The other, standing alone on the station platform. I consider myself lucky to have experienced this once, as the one staring out the window as the train pulled away. Like in the movies, you really do put the palm of your hand on the window, as if to reach out to her, that feeble, impossible gesture... just one last touch of her hand. How many times in life can you say you've been there, done that? Humphrey and Ingrid managed it much more gracefully than I did; my tears came from an endless reservoir. First on the train. Then the plane. The bus home. The next day. And the days that followed. How lucky I am to be haunted by the memory of a broken heart.
Here's looking at you, kid.
From a university philosophy class, two things I might someday forget:
1. Descarte's Meditations
2. Plato's Allegory of the Cave
From the same class, something my professor said that I will never forget:
"I have spent the majority of my life misjudging people."
Parting shot:
On the way from the airport to the hotel, my first glimpse of Thai culture, from the inside of the tour guide's van.
Tales from the Frontal Lobe, Part 4
Bangkok
Bangkok is NOT cheap. It's a wonder why tourists who shop in Bangkok think it is so cheap when countries like India and China have so much (for so much less) to offer. At least, this was what some Indian woman was jabbering on the phone to someone else while sitting next to me in a bus.
Next time I go back, I am going to eat more local food. To hell with being a tourist.
The Floating Market has lost its appeal. Probably lost it a good 20 or 30 years ago. Gone are the brilliant colors. Sitting in a boat in the narrow canals these days feels more like sitting in Los Angeles traffic at 6pm on a Friday evening. Forward progressing movement occurring in such minute increments that you might as well be going backwards (which actually happened quite often in those stupid boats with our stupid boat driver who never could put us in the right direction).
Running
Newport News Park. 5 miles a day. Deer. Birds. Water. Sunsets. The unwinding at the start, limbs and joints figuring out how to coordinate with each other, lungs fighting to expand, mind struggling to escape from a day's worth of thoughts. Soon after, things start loosening up. The breath comes easy, eventually unnoticed. The beating of your blood pump fades into the gentle and satisfying thump of feet on trails padded with leaves and pine needles. In motion there is freedom. How I long for it now....
Bangkok is NOT cheap. It's a wonder why tourists who shop in Bangkok think it is so cheap when countries like India and China have so much (for so much less) to offer. At least, this was what some Indian woman was jabbering on the phone to someone else while sitting next to me in a bus.
Next time I go back, I am going to eat more local food. To hell with being a tourist.
The Floating Market has lost its appeal. Probably lost it a good 20 or 30 years ago. Gone are the brilliant colors. Sitting in a boat in the narrow canals these days feels more like sitting in Los Angeles traffic at 6pm on a Friday evening. Forward progressing movement occurring in such minute increments that you might as well be going backwards (which actually happened quite often in those stupid boats with our stupid boat driver who never could put us in the right direction).
Running
Newport News Park. 5 miles a day. Deer. Birds. Water. Sunsets. The unwinding at the start, limbs and joints figuring out how to coordinate with each other, lungs fighting to expand, mind struggling to escape from a day's worth of thoughts. Soon after, things start loosening up. The breath comes easy, eventually unnoticed. The beating of your blood pump fades into the gentle and satisfying thump of feet on trails padded with leaves and pine needles. In motion there is freedom. How I long for it now....
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