Japanese Friends and a Foreign Weekend

Hi Friends. Just so's you know, I'm sick and crabby and I just sneezed all over my brand new MacBook, so this blog post might have five shades of bitterness that I don't usually add. I got woken up at 9am this morning (UNGODLY) by a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses (GODLY) - a group who represent the only pushy breed of Japanese people, and whom specifically target foreigners dumb enough to put their names in English rather than Japanese on their mailboxes - who SHOULD have taken one look at me and backed away slowly with their hands over their mouths (which would have resulted in their falling down eleven flights of stairs, but oh well at least they're going to heaven, right?) but instead opted to talk me, word for word, through a 5-page colour brochure luridly depicting the glory of Christ. Not until I gave them the same treatment as I did my MacBook did they allow me to close the door and crawl back under my 3 duvets.

The reason for my illness is, I think, this: a desire for change. I have been living in Japan for four months now, and there comes a moment when you are forced to realise that brevity of time in residence is no longer an excuse for having such a scarcity of Japanese friends. This realisation occurred, for me, on Thursday and Friday of last week, during which time I was occupied in attendance at the JET Mid-Year Conference. This involves the reunion of all JETs in your prefecture (in my case, the whole of Hokkaido) in one hotel, and opportunities to discuss lesson-plans, living situations and life in Japan. During the conference, I got the distinct impression that JETs fortunate enough to be situated in Sapporo existed on the outskirts of these conversations. You see, Hokkaido is large and cold and mountainous and snowy. Roads become impassable. One's closest neighbour might live in Russia. So many Hokkaido JETs face extreme loneliness and possible depression. In contrast, if a Sapporo JET should become homesick, he/she could immediately go buy some shoes at Top Shop, drink a Starbuck caramel macchiato, then visit the local English bookstore for the latest Phillipa Gregory offering. Tastes of home are easy to find, and this, it appears, strips us of any license to complain.

There were definite good sides to the conference. I enjoyed immersing myself, albeit briefly, in some Kiwiana - there is only one other Kiwi in Sapporo, but a fair few of them spread thinly across the fields of Hokkaido (I could feel my accent getting broader as the conversations progressed). It was nice to observe some European fashion doing the rounds. And I got to wake up at 9am rather than 6am. But so many gaijin in one room was, truly, overwhelming. We are so loud! So tall! I can't even imagine what it must be like for those far-flung JETs who've not seen blue eyes in four months.

It got me thinking - why don't I make more of an effort to ingratiate myself with Japanese people, when such a concentration of foreigners makes it abundantly clear to me how much I have come to enjoy Japanese company? (PS: Can you tell that I've been watching waaaay too much Sex and the City - "I couldn't help but wonder..."

With that in mind, this weekend just gone saw my most concerted effort to make Japanese friends. Was I successful? Hai.

Friday night, Fay, Pui Wing and I effectively crashed a Japanese Bon Enkaii, which is a party to celebrate the end of the year. When I say crashed I mean that we were invited, but we were invited last Saturday night at a gaijin bar (the one with the Dalmation and Stephen King, if you're a dedicated reader) by a Japanese girl under the influence of three too many tequila shots, whose recollection of the invitation must have been hazy at best. Despite this, we were welcomed warmly, and sat down at a table with some 30 other Japanese people. Their English was fantastic, and my Sex and the City reference was provoked by the women with whom I conversed most - 30-something single, gorgeous women with jobs and goals and truly fantastic legs. One in particular, whose bottom I had spent some time admiring as we climbed the stairs to the restaurant, whom I would have categorized as model/trophy wife/designer transpired to be in the ARMY, which makes me almost wish that Japan would go to war again, just to see how invading forces reacted when it was a Japanese Heidi Clume who raided and plundered (apparently in my mind, warfare involves pirates).

I consumed nabe and sashimi and lotus root...




...and basked in the company of fabulousness for nearly 7 hours. Much alcohol was imbibed and food eaten. I formed many friendships (we're now FaceBook friends, there is no greater recognition).

The men started to falter:




But the women soldiered (PUN) on:



(The one on the right is GI Jane).

This night was fabulous for many reasons, but the most important of them is this: I learnt that my impression of Japanese women is stereotypical and flawed. True, many of them are abject husband hunters. True, the moment I mentioned that I had a boyfriend of 4 years, all eyes flickered to my ring finger. But, these women were strong and sassy and educated and independent. They flirted with the myriad handsome men who were present, but didn't fall at their feet, nor desert their friends to court them. Despite all cultural memes to the contrary, they were Samantha, Carrie and Miranda - they weren't Charlotte.

This revelation was worth a Saturday spent, in pain, in bed.

Saturday night was a different experience - an attempt to break out of the JET mold by spending some time with non-JET foreigners, those who have been here some 7-30 years, those who look upon JET as the kindergarten of foreign experiences. I was invited to this party to an adorable Japanese girl called Emily (Emiri), all five feet of her (we had done some bonding last Saturday):



The party was at an apartment about two minutes walk from the centre of town. During this walk I was introduced to Colin, who I immediately identified as a Kiwi, and who, it transpired, hailed from the same tiny Auckland neighbour-hood as myself. Devonport must be diversifying. The apartment was 18 floors up, an apartment which made JET accommodation look like a bomb shelter. The view alone was worth extracting myself from my sick bed (this photo does not show it as well as it might):


Though hosted by a true-blue Ozzy, the party was filled with many Japanese women cut from the same cloth as those from the night before - young, bilingual and gorgeous. They brought blue cheese! They drank red wine! They were... me! I didn't last very long at this party (I swear I have the PLAGUE, ok), but I stayed long enough to taste true, multi-cultural Japanese life.

I know I sound wanky, but this weekend really was a revelation. I know I am the worst kind of foreigner - I can only make friends with locals who speak my language, I'm only brave enough to attempt it when vodka has been taken - but I feel like I made an effort, and that this effort was rewarded.

In other news?

You can buy strawberries at the supermarket now:


>

They're only $20 a punnet.

Odori Park is all gawdy and gorgeous for the White Illuminations:



(As you can see, the Japanese fetish for all thing kitsch has not been stymied by the use of the word 'White' in all posters advertising the event).

And... there's only one full week of work left before Christmas and New Years and Tokyo. Hurrah! Also, I'm traveling out to Niseko next weekend to indulge in a little sex... outside the city.

Ha! Bye!

Books and Dogs and Bars

This weekend was my first since the departure of Manfriend, and so it was absolutely essential that it not be spent exclusively lurking beneath the covers with Sex and the City and chocolate. I am determined not to become one of those depressives who functions only in the vicinity of their other half, and so I turned to an old friend to help me through the hurdle: tequila.

It is because of this errant friend that I have not been outside in daylight since Friday afternoon. It hurts my eyes, ok?

Friday night kicked off with a delicious Thai dinner in Susukino. I had been craving Thai for some time, largely due to an unsatisfied addiction to corriander. I would have thought this herb sufficiently Asian to be found in these parts of the world, but it is nowhere to be found in the supermarkets of Sapporo. My Tom Yum soup was, therefore, extremely well-received, though so spicy as to remove large sections of my tongue. If my night had ended there, I probably would have gone to sleep, pleasantly fragranced with my favourite herb.. Alas. Upon the insistence of one seasoned Sapporo drinker, we ended up in the local tequila bar, somewhat ominously named "Raw Life" (which, amusingly, when spoken in Japanese-English comes out sounding like "Low Life"), where one can find 101 different types of tequila. My clearest memories of the night include: reading a book at the bar with two Japanese girls entitled "White Rabbit and Black Rabbit" (I'm pretty sure the rabbits got married at the end; I'm also pretty sure the book was in Japanese, so I have no idea how I actually managed to read the book); giving a Michigan girl advice on what medical condition to feign in order to pre-emptively terminate her contract with a Japanese Catholic school (if memory serves, we settled on endometriosis); finding a Clive Cussler novel in a corner of the bar and sitting down to read it with a Choco Pie I found in the bottom of my bag; and, finally, having to hold a fellow JET upright by means of a head lock in the taxi cab on the way home, in order to prevent him from causing a fatal accident (he had fallen fast asleep on the taxi driver's left arm, who was far too polite to tell him to feck off, and was therefore attempting to handle 3am traffic single-handedly).

Why do I always end up reading?

Anyway, Saturday night was the annual Christmas party, held by one Sagara Sensei, Japanese teacher to the majority of JETs living in Sapporo. It was held in a seedy part of Susukino, surrounded on all sides by host bars promising, among other things:



How do you turn that down?

Despite the location of the venue, the interior was far from seedy. No naked girls, no Man Baths, no dancing entertainment. I did find, however, this:



So I can't say I wasn't warned about this:



Why? Why? Why the bread? Why dogs? Why are they on the bar? Whyyyyy?

Once I managed to turn my eyes away from this confusing scene, there were good times to be had. Crab legs to be eaten. Moscow Mules to be drunken (yes). Bingo to be won. Karaoke to sing. After all, Taylor Swift wasn't going to sing herself now, was she (though that would be cool. Aside: do you think pop stars actually DO sing their own songs if they ever find themselves in karaoke booths in Japan? Because they really should. And imagine, for example, Britney Spears singing Miley Cyrus "Party in the USA"! What fantastic fusion!). Anyway, I got into the Christmas spirit:



Because it's not really Christmas unless you're wearing a battery-powered Santa hat, is it?

After the Christmas party, it should have been home time, but it wasn't. So about 15 of us set out for Pete's Bar, a gaijin bar a few blocks away. But not before really capitalizing on the location:



Good.

At Pete's Bar, I found tequila (which tasted like nail polish remover, which should have warned me AGAINST taking four shots thereof, but I never learn, do I?), but I also found this:



AND these:



WHAT is with the proliferation of books and dogs in bars in Japan??

Anyway, been distracted by the above prevented me from participating in the below:



Which can only be a good thing.

(PS: You can tell I'm blogging hungover because I'm using all my photos in order to distract you from the fact that I'm not writing much. But it might be a welcome change from my usual novel-length postings. So soak it up. Be visual. Enjoy the colours. I'm going to go read some of the books I stole now).

Nudity and Cats in Equal Measures But Not At The Same Time

Hi Friends (capital F to show that you're Important)! Apologies for hiatus - but I have a better excuse than the usual combination of minor depression/hangover/abject laziness: a visitor from across the world!

Yes, this last week I played hostess with the mostest to my friend Nicole, on the second leg of a trip that includes Australia, Japan, Egypt, Syria, Jordan, Europe, the UK and Abu Dabi. I don't even know where most of those places are (ok, all of them). She arrived in true travelling style, clad in a blue ski jacket and wearing a backpack that was fully as big as the average Japanese man (entirely possible that that is precisely what it contained, she is vicious when provoked). I spied her through the gates of the train station (not difficult, as she was sporting a Japanese man on her back) and hollered to her in a most un-Japanese fashion. A familiar face! But she was dozy as fuck from an 11 hour train trip and simply stood there, gawking at the unfamiliarity, clearly afraid that if she moved one foot, she would fall down the rabbit hole. So I approached the woman manning the ticket box with an expression akin to that which one might wear upon dropping one's only child onto the train tracks, feigned some frantic Japanese accompanied by some manic facial expressions, and she waved me through, clearly afraid that I might spontaneously decombust in Dickensian fashion if left to brew a moment a longer. I ran up to my errant friend and grabbed her from behind, upon which she screamed and jumped, clipping me violently beneath the chin with her luggage.

Her first words to me in Japan? 'Oh! You look like Princess Leia!' (I was wearing my new favourite fashion accessory, a luciously furry pair of leopard print ear-muffs. Also probably because I'm alarmingly attractive and hold myself with royal poise). We hugged, we laughed, and then I towed her back through the gates, where the ticket-woman was still peering anxiously after us, clearly expecting that her acquiescence would be taken advantage of, and that we were primed to sprint for an un-paid-for train. She was probably subsequently soothed by the obvious fact that Nicole was so exhausted that she could barely walk.

It was so strange, and yet so wonderful, to have something so familiar in such a foreign environment. Nicole is one of those people who radiates comfort and surety and capability, as if you could lock her naked in an underground dungeon for a year, and when you finally went in to check on her decomposing corpse, she would be sitting there calmly watching Scrubs and eating Pad Thai, having fashioned clothing and shelter and a television from the very walls themselves, and created full meals from the animals and vegetation contained therein. She would then talk you calmly through your reasons for imprisoning her thusly (she is a Psychology major), before laying you flat with a single blow (she is a Combat regular and alarmingly strong).

So even though every Japanese person in the vicinity of the station was noting her for her strangeness, both in attire and in appearance, I was being transported back to New Zealand and to high school by her presence.

Nicole was my very first visitor in Japan, and as such I was eager to show her the best time possible. I was eager to show her everything. Everything. I perhaps took this too far on Tuesday, when I encouraged her to partake in public nudity, in that very Japanese manner: the Onsen, natural mineral hot springs that bubble from the volcanic mountains, and can only be properly enjoyed as God intended it: naked.

We bussed out to Jozankeii, a mountainous area about an hour out of Sapporo. The scenery was beautiful, but I was preoccupied with attempting to un-fasten my bra through nine layers of clothing, fearful as I was of unattractive red lines on my breasts. Why was I mindful of my naked appearance, given that I would be appearing only to a pool-ful of sweaty Japanese pensioners? Welcome to the depths of my psyche. Dive in. The water's very, very, very cold.

Turns out, the only really awkward moment was that first strip, where everything is revealed for the first time. Each onsen goer is provided with a 'modesty towel', a strip of white towelling approximately the size of the tea towel. So it is the choice of the wearer whether to use said tea-towel to cover either both tea cups or one's bowl. I opted for the former, though I was very aware of the latter. (NB: the pubic wax is not a phenomenon embraced by the Japanese. They don't shave, they don't wax, they don't trim. Thus, though everyone was naked, Nicole and I were the only ones who really LOOKED naked, if you get my drift, which I imagine you do). By mutual consent, Nicole and I walked side-by-side, thus avoiding the very pertinent 'who gets to study whose butt' issue. The first step in onsen-ing is the clean down, as the pools themselves are filled with natural hot water and are not improved by the addition of Western perspiration. This involved sitting on a little stool in a long line of naked Japanese woman sitting on little stools, soaping up, and rinsing down. The appropriate procedure was a little obscure, and Nicole's face must have revealed it as such, as a tiny, tanned, bird-like old woman took it upon herself to squat before her and demonstrate proper use of the shower head and soap. Nicole handled herself, and the little Japanese breasts jiggling before her nose, with aplomb. Once we were suitably sanitary, the little lady proved to be a useful guide, as she then showed us through an obscure door to the outside onsen.

I don't know why ANYONE would use the inside onsen.

The air was freezing, probably two degrees below. The pool itself was about knee deep, steaming hot and faintly sulfurous. It was designed to look natural, as if carved out of the very mountains, and so was surrounded by boulders, all of which were thickly capped in snow. As we quickly sat down, so best to hide goose-pimpled flesh and winter-white thigh, snow began to fall, melting immediately as it met the steam. It was infinitely, amazingly relaxing, and the absence of swim-wear only seemed natural in the perfect environment. Nicole and I quickly relaxed into comfort in our nakedness, and did out best to appear as the natives did. This was unsuccessful, and not only because we giggled nearly constantly. We had been told before entering the onsen that the modesty towel should be removed before entering the water, and that the best thing to do with it was to put it upon ones head. So, before entering the water, I encouraged Nicole to fold up her towel and balance it upon her head, in the manner of someone practicing deportment with something easier than a book, which we both did. Upon surveying the other occupants of the pool, however, it became apparent that 'putting the towel on your head' actually meant 'wrapping it elaborately like a turban so that your hair doesn't get wet'; and that our attempt made us look like three year-olds who had dressed themselves for the first time and ended up with pants on inside out and backwards.

It didn't detract from our pleasure any.

After the onsen we partook in curry. Whyyyy there was an Indian restaurant in the midst of such a very Japanese situation, I know not. I did not complain. Onsen and naan bread - the makings of a perfect day.

Topping this experience the next day was going to prove difficult, I knew, but I think I was successful in my quest, when I managed to locate for Nicole a uniquely Japanese experience: the Cat Cafe. These establishments are principally to be found in Tokyo, but there is one in Sapporo, called, appropriately, Love Cat. Good. We had no idea what to expect, and having an open mind proved to be the best possible approach. Upon entering, we were instructed to wash our hands thoroughly. We then entered a room, about the size of the average living room filled with: cats. About 17of them. All fully grown and large, all perfectly casual in each other's company. Sitting in the midst of these cats was a Japanese salary man, clearly on his lunch break, playing with the cats like a toddler. The room was filled with towers and couches and toys and cages and - yes - catwalks, for the entertainment of the langorous moggies. It was a truly weird experience. Nicole and I had no idea what to do. We couldn't have been more awkward if we were naked again. We perched on the couches and watched the sole other occupant of the room indulge in what was clearly a well-developed feline fetish. It was interesting, I'll give it that, but there was one cat with a diaper on, and no kittens, and it DID smell funny. The proprietor of the establishment did her best to give us our full half hour $8 worth, furnishing us with toys and catnip and attempting to teach us the names of each kitty (I should have told her not to bother, I can't even remember the names of my students) and I can say that I'm glad I went, if only so that I can say I have done so, and state definitively that I will require smothering with a pillow if I ever demonstrate ANY tendency towards becoming the fabled crazy cat-lady.

So, all in all, an interesting week in Japan, in which I was able to abandon my (flawed) attempts to assimilate with all things Japanese, and flagrantly indulge in being a tourist.

Nicole left this morning, but not before a pretty serious earthquake shook her up some. Snow, nudity, cats and an earthquake - the woman can't say she got anything other than a full, unadulterated Japanese experience.

In other news? My lovely manfriend has been snapped up by INTERAC for a full-time, four-month teaching job in Niseko, a skiing village about two hours out of Sapporo. I am pleased for him. I am. I am. But I am also deeply sorry for myself and my new single status (we are not actually separated, I just like alliteration and exaggeration in equal quantities), as living alone does not appeal much at all.

That said, his departure prompted the purchase of a lovely new MacBook, so the flashy technology and bountiful me-time will no doubt result in relentless blogging. And TV series watching. And red wine drinking. And, mayhap, my first step in the direction of Crazy-Cat-Lady-Hood. Pillows at the ready, readers.

Kaisei What?

I don't mention much of what goes on at school in this blog, primarily because I am always so exhausted by the end of the school day that everything I learnt/absorbed/experienced during the day ekes out of my ears and is replaced by Facebook status updates and La Roux lyrics; and secondarily (a word? perhaps) because at least one fluent English speaking Japanese teacher is an intermittent visitor at my humble URL, and sometimes I am subject to blog-vomit, whereby the censorship of material that could potentially get me ostracized/fired/deported is abandoned in favour of deference to my typographical gag reflex (that was a long sentence, but you made it, congratulations).

But weird things happen there. Oh yes. Many things I can't explain. Some of them aren't even interesting enough, or striking enough that my brain makes a conscious blog-memo ("Blemo"), but they are, in fact, unusual. In this blog post I will try to recall some of the more poignant instances for your reading pleasure. I mean to pleasure you as best I can. For as long as possible. Take your clothes off.

1. The Fox on the Soccer Field

Why?

I am living in the fifth biggest city in Japan. Sapporo is home to the entire population of New Zealand (not literally, obviously, otherwise it would BE New Zealand). Geographically, it is fairly small, which means that all four million residents live on top of one another, like Japanese Jenga. And they all, every single one of them, have cars and schools and houses and garages and favourite restaurants, which means that Sapporo is an extremely urban city. There are many bridges, roads and highways. The school in which I work is located in an area called Motomachi, which is no exception to this rule, surrounded on all sides by supermarkets, apartment blocks and busy streets.

So you can imagine my surprise when, upon incidentally looking out the window whilst turning on the photocopier (I work HARD), I saw a large, tawny, bushy-tailed fox frolicking in the school fields. And he really was FROLICKING. He was making a positive SPECTACLE of himself. First, he played with the crows. Then, they got their friends and ganged up on him. So then he ran away from the crows. Then he got himself tangled in the soccer net (soccer cage? soccer goal? the place where you try to kick the ball). Then, he found a baseball and began playing with it. Dribbling it around the field and whatnot (exaggerating a little - he dropped it and accidentally kicked it, but you enjoyed the mental image didn't you?).

This was my first experience with a wild fox, and I really did expect it to occur on the mountains of Hokkaido. Something picturesque and Laura Ingalls-Wilder-esque.

I also expected, given the Japanese penchant for cleanliness and order, something more of a furor when said canine was discovered. These were, after all, fenced in school grounds. Children were due their PE lessons on the very grass on which the fox was standing. But when I walked past the principal's office he was laughing at the foxes high-jinks just as I was, and displaying no obvious concern for - oh I don't know - RABIES?!?! But what do I know?

Anyhoo, this was two days ago and Fantastic Mr Fox has not been sighted since, so I can only hope that he packed up his baseball and took to the road with his crow-nies (geddit?). I remain utterly bemused as to how he came to be in the middle of such a densely populated area, but no one seemed to share my concern. I even went to lengths of pretending to BE a fox in front of my English classes, but I think this may only have produced greater fear of ME rather than regard for the welfare of the fox. I labour in vain.

2. Someone Stole the Mouse Balls

That got your attention, didn't it? But this was not some biological experiment gone horribly awry, but rather a rare student prank. One of the classrooms (called the "Call Room". Like a hospital. For no obvious reason) contains about forty computers. And during one of my lessons, one of the mice (mouses?) was discovered to have its "ball" missing, thus rendering it useless. The SHAME of the ball-less mouse! The reaction of the teacher in charge of said ball was pure anger (very quiet, restrained anger. I had to imagine it forming and raging within him, like a little wee typhoon, because the only external reaction was slight downward tilt of the head). Apparently this was the latest in a spate of recent ball thefts (it's a CRIME WAVE), and it was the last straw. So what did he do? The only thing he could do. Secretly, without informing any of the other teachers scheduled to teach in this classroom, he removed the ball from every single mouse. And put them in bags. Who's laughing now, ball thief?! Anyhoo, the "Call Room" is now no good to anyone, the computers being entirely emasculated.

Everyone complains, but the balls have not been replaced.

Possibly the best thing? The bags of balls (ball sacks) are sitting on the desk at the front of the classroom. In plain view. If one ball was so tempting, should not the bag o' balls be removed from view? Imagine the trophy value of forty balls!

One could make a necklace.

(I am getting delirious).

3. Arthur Miller in Japan

My students are smart. No two ways about it. They know their shit ("shit" in this instance being a synonym for 'English"). The English room is therefore stocked with myriad texts to keep their spry minds occupied, should they desire. Abridged versions of every classic imaginable are housed therein (I should know, I've read them all. NB: Abridged "The Secret Garden" is JUST as boring as the full length one. A ridiculous book. What is with Dickon? No one loves the outdoors that much! NO ONE. Why has no literary critic discovered that he is clearly an undiagnosed sufferer of Down's Syndrome?).

While I was hunting for an unread butchered work, I came across the collected short stories of Arthur Miller. I was delighted. But stumped. Where did he come from? How did the leather-bound beauty come to lie in Sapporo? What misguided English teacher thought it the best prose with which to titillate the novice English learner?

Whatever his/her motivations, I thank you. Arthur has been a real gentleman to me. And reads much more smoothly than the Level One "Matilda" with which I had formerly been occupied.

4. To be continued. I am tired and this blogging is preventing me from consuming my fine $8 Chilean red. Unfair.

In summary: foxes, mouse-balls, Arthur Miller.

Just another day in the life of a JET.

Japants (or "The Lack Thereof")

Here is the great thing about being in Japan: I know for absolutely certain that I am not in New Zealand anymore.

This would be my greatest fear, should my overseas exploits lead me more West-wards: that the likes of London, Sydney, and Vancouver (I have no idea whether these places are West of New Zealand, this is beside the point) would all be more striking for their similarities to, rather than differences from, the Land of the Long White Something. Japan does not make me fear this. In fact, finding ANY point of convergence presents something of a challenge - so far, I can only state definitively that they drive on the same side of the road and also have Pringles.

One fabulous ramification of this vast cultural gap is the difference in fashion. In New Zealand, it is only natural that common trends should tend towards the New Zealand body shape, which ultimately makes a necessity of covering up the bad bits and exploiting the good. As a nation tending towards a gentle beer belly, our tendency therefore is to make much of the decolletage - opaque tights and a low neck will get you all the places you want to go (Estab, and then Burger King). As a quintessential example of this body shape, my wardrobe is thick with tights and rife with boob tubes - the neck and shoulders are where my superpowers lie, while I must allow my legs to be my kryptonite (thanks for the thighs, Ma). Not so in Japan! Oh no!

Breasts here are like drugs. Nobody has them. And if you have them, you keep them hidden away, otherwise everyone will want a go. One of my first days in Japan, wearing a top that in New Zealand would be considered positively demure, suitable for office work, a close-up photo of my breasts was taken by a portly old man on the subway. I was too surprised to permit the feminist to rise within me. Sometimes I think of him, a little nostalgically, sitting up in bed clutching cellphone, staring at the faint shadow of real-life White-Girl-Cleavage on the tiny screen. And I could hardly blame him - my modest C cup is an anomaly, even on the midnight subway returning from the red-light district. The above-the-waist fashions here therefore tend toward the collar and tie. Even the proliferation of the maxi-dress here in the un-seasonally hot summer did not allow for the spaghetti-strap to make a comeback - they all wear t-shirts underneath. No, what the Japanese work is the leg. And, woah, do they work it.

You have not seen legs until you've been on a crowded 7am subway with 500 15 year old girls. I am aware of the perverted nature of this subject, and that this should be authored by a hairy 50-plus in a wife-beater with his hands down his pants. But my fellow JET's even have a name for it: "Junior High Thigh". Their school skirts are rolled so as to be crotch-skimming, and the legs thusly revealed are long, pale and thin with barely a hint of either muscle or cellulite. This is just how they're made. And looking from these pins, to mine own, safely concealed beneath the ubiquitous 80-denier black stockings, I do begrudge my breasts, so I do. The most dangerous part of this blatant attractiveness is the inherent innocence. The 14 year-old school girl will sit with legs widespread on the bus, on the subway, beneath the desk at school, with never a hint of the knowledge that the 25 year old English teacher standing before her is trying with all his (or her, I'm not above it, though I am shielded from it by the fact that a. I teach at a Senior High School, at which stage they have learnt to be appropriately scared of the power of their bodies and b. Kaisei has no uniform) might to resist the hitherto dormant paedophllic inclination that is stirring. You have to feel sorry for the teacher trying to explain the meaning of the word "fancy" while Junior High fannies air themselves easily before him. The most striking point is their seeming carelessness - though they must stand before mirrors in the morning, carefully rolling their skirts to display the lower butt-cheek to best advantage, their poses once so attired are artless. There is no cocking of the knee, no careful drape of a crossed leg - they are still schoolgirls, and they giggle and huddle and squat exactly as one would expect. It is no wonder they are the subject of countless pornographic books, disguised as comics - no surprise that the brothels one passes in Susukino are adorned with false blondes in miniscule approximations of school uniform: in a country where false modesty and ignorance are considered worthy attributes, the giggling adolescent in navy socks is a symbol of the most perfect, corruptable, purity.

This post has, as they seem always wont to do, wandered off topic somewhat. But I think that nonetheless my digression has summarized the inclination of Japanese fashion aptly: it is all about a subtly sexualized rendition of the inner child, made manifest in long socks, short skirts, high necks, tartan and bows. Big hair is also the go; the best have manfully gone through the painful bleach process to achieve the gingery/honey blonde which is the best Britney that Asian hair can manage. Make-up focuses on the EYES, capitalized to show the desire that they be AS BIG AS POSSIBLE. Huge, spidery lashes, white powder at the inner corners, a constant Bambi-bashfulness. Cheeks glow with blush - the Japanese value their pallor, shrinking from the day beneath frilled sunbrellas, and so the pinker the cheek, the paler the rest of the face by comparison. In passing, do you know why so many Japanese will put their hands to their faces (in the peace sign, of course) in photographs? Because they think it makes their faces look smaller. I have no idea, but feel it is an important cultural point. High heels seem an essential element of any outfit, and it is not uncommon to see a young Japanese woman, impeccably dressed in the shortest of skirts, riding a bike in leopard-print six-inch stilletto's whilst both texting and smoking.

I am in awe.

In short (skirts), I am no Japanese girl. That said, as I go out tonight (it being a public holiday tomorrow, thank you Equinox Day), I will be wearing an outfit purchased in Japan - a short creme dress with a ruffly hem, a long black vest with similar ruffles, and red lipstick to top it off. And - because I am from New Zealand, and therefore the reluctant owner of a fine pair of "Mince Pie Thighs" - black tights.

A Little Bit Camp

Get to know me even a little bit, and you will immediately become aware that I am not low maintenance, appearance-wise. Stemming perhaps (certainly, this is not an immense psychological challenge) at least a decade of extremely low self-image, inevitable comparisons with two very attractive sisters and some bullying experienced in formative years, a lot of my current confidence is gleaned from the ability to look in the mirror and, objectively, like what I see. And, objectively, my natural reflection grants me none of this self-assurance. My addiction to hair-dye began at 13; eye-liner at 15; hair-straighteners at 17; and expensive foundation at 18. I consider my unprimed image a blank canvas, requiring extensive and painstaking application of paint (preferably MAC) before public exhibition may be considered. I know this isn't healthy - I am envious of those who unthinkingly leave the house in the mornings fresh-faced with pillow-imprints still upon their blithely smiling faces - but nonetheless it is a fact of my life. My ability to interact with others, do my job properly and behave like a functional human being relies almost exclusively upon the strength of my face-faith. This means that I am rarely (OK, never, I sleep in my make-up, I can't even DREAM confidently with a naked face) unmade up, I refresh this facade frequently, and I consider a bad hair day no less an affliction than the clap. All of this then culminates in one certainty: camping is not my natural environment.

The irony of this escapes me not, the whole point (or so I am informed by those with an earthier bent) of camping being "getting back to nature". My response to this "why would you want to do such a thing?" I firmly believe that the whole campaign of human accomplishment is premised on the ultimate goal of getting as far away from our natural roots as possible. Keep your caves - I'll have a penthouse. The higher the better! If I can be closer to the sun than to the earth then I must be extremely successful! Natural materials? No - give me stainless steel, titanium, the harder and less bio-degradable the better. Why would something subject to degradation be desirable? Unfathomable. Living as I now do on the 11th floor of an apartment building as asthetically pleasing as a single cinder block stood on end, I consider myself to have come rather far in the world. And yet, this very weekend, I voluntarily subjected myself to something that ought to have been obliterated as a leisure-activity when resort hotels were conceived of - camping.

I can only put it down to FOMO. Or perhaps the formation of fissures in my thus far rock-hard attachment to the concrete jungle in which I reside - maybe the move to Japan has awoken the nature-lover within (think it vastly unlikely)... Anyhoo, I am a boastful recent survivor of Lake Toya '10, the destination for a Hokkaido Welcome Camp at the end of a 3 hour bus-ride. This was back to basics stuff (or as basic as I can manage, which still involves an iPhone, vodka and liquid eye-liner). No mattresses. One toilet. And no showers. Not that thatmattered in the end, as "camping" as an experience legitimated all my hitherto blocked-out memories; and it rained, near constantly, from the moment of arrival to precisely the minute we were back onboard the bus. My last camping experience was circa '05 and was less of a "getting back to nature" event so much as a "drinking as much alcohol in as short a time as possible" vendetta. Five years appears to have had less of an effect on me than I might have thought (have now thought hard, have only marginally longer hair and a tattoo to show for one half-decade departed) because I found myself gleefully skulling a lethal vodka/lemonade concoction out of a water bottle whilst sitting in a circle playing "I Have Never". Despite the fact that this last blog documented clearly the onward march of my 20's, methinks much of the 17 year old remains in me still, and not merely in the form of a Harry Potter addiction. So how did I survive nearly 20 WHOLE HOURS without electricity? Simple. I was drunk for most of it, and asleep for the rest.

Camping therefore remains an experience, if not wholly foreign, then certainly blurry to me (NB: Have discovered how to use italics. Expect more of it). I feel it is best left that way. And yet: now, back in my apartment, with a laptop on my lap (where else, pray tell?) and a perfect fringe, I feel a certain freshness that I certainly did not have at this time on Friday. There is something to be said for the power of nature, for the beauty of Lake Toya is really best left unsubjected to sarcasm. The water was cool and grey; the leaves yellowing and collecting at the margins of the shore; the mountains at the horizon really did loom and tower like all the best mountains ought (though Japanese mountains do mirror their human counterparts in their smallness and uniformity)(dammit, nearly made it through that whole description sans sarcasm. Alas). Though my shoes are ruined and all photos of the event depict me with an alarming expanse of forehead, I do not regret this regression into a less vain past. Time (20 HOURS) away from the city has zenned me out. I am drunk on ozone (and, admittedly, red wine).

Maybe occasionally (very), it would do me some good to be reminded of the wonder of an unmarred landscape, even when compared to the genuinely impressive results of a flawless MAC finish... A gentle constant rain may be soothing - bugs in ones food a source of protein - a sleepless night on rocky earth a chiropractic success... But next time I'm bringing an air-mattress. And a pillow. And a small - but well-equipped - collapsible bathroom.