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.
Showing posts with label Sapporo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sapporo. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
In Which I Contemplate Stealing Moisturizer, Bikes and an Entire Apartment Building
In New Zealand, if you left your iPod on the bus, you could kiss it, and your Taylor Swift back-catalogue goodbye. The chances of someone both god-fearing and proactive enough to hand it in have to be in the realms of nil - even if someone worthy and gold-souled were to come across it, they would likely halfheartedly glance in a two-metre radius, perhaps waving it in the air whilst coughing in an attention-seeking manner, before putting it back where they found it and replacing their own head phones. Far more likely than this is that it would be on TradeMe within the hour.
Not so here. I am told that Japanese people put so much faith in the worthy nature of their compatriots that they will leave house and car doors unlocked, preferring to relieve themselves of the hassle of the key-hunt at the end of the day (incidentally, why ARE keys so small? It is not convenient, it is DIFFICULT, particularly if you are the proud owner of what I like to call a Life Bag, wherein you secret your ENTIRE LIFE and finding a flat silver thing amongst the lipsticks, hairbrushes, assorted make-up products, numerous drink bottles, wallet, passport, phrase book, any number of novels, diary, bananas, bento, sunglasses, rainy-day hat, surprise-cold-day scarf, bicycle lock, bills (many) etc is Mission, if not Impossible, then certainly Annoying and Time-Consuming). The building in which I live, home to some 50 different apartments, has an unsecured entry, so presumably, should I feel so inclined, I have fifty Japanese fridges and fifty Japanese closets through which to rummage at will. I have not yet put this theory into practice, fearful as I am of a stint in Japanese prison. And knowing my luck, I would open the door of a Yakuza den and find myself in the midst of whatever the most feared gang in Japan do in their spare time (Go Fish and hot chocolate, I suspect, Japan being what it is).
Among the hundreds of bikes left at the train stations on any given day, I have personally observed at least one in six to be totally unsecured, ready for the taking. And though there are men in uniforms dotted throughout the racks, looking po-faced in olive green, I suspect that their function is more to ensure that each bike is positioned perfectly parallel to the next in an aesthetically pleasing manner, rather than to engage in hot pursuit of potential bike thieves. The reason I know this is that they patrol on foot, in tight pants. They would have no chance at running down a dedicated hot-wirer (probably not necessary to steal a bike. Hot pedaller? Anyway). Although I believe there are occasional incidents of bike theft, the perpetrators ('perps', if you watch CSI or are Rupert) are invariably drunk business men, who have accidentally imbibed past the last train, and through a whiskey-brain-haze deduce that a bike ride, zig-zagging and dazed as it might be, will likely be both faster than walking and cheaper than a taxi. And when the destination has been reached (or they pass out and fall head-first over the handle-bars), the bike will be left where it falls, as the intention in taking said vehicle will never be theft, but merely convenience. I have heard tell that this is a legitimate culture in Japan, whereby hundreds of bikes, devoid of any owner save Sapporo city itself, remain at busy train stations, week after week, until some boozed-up business man, takes one to its next destination and next would-be thief. Like chain-mail, but useful. I myself am part of a system much like this one, but it involves umbrellas rather than bikes, and nobody but me knows that they are partaking.
Shop keepers, usually those members of society most vigilant and suspicious of theft, are also of the Japanese civilian mindset, which holds firmly that what's yours is yours, and what's mine is mine. Thus, the chemists here have stands outside the doors of the shop, totally unsupervised, groaning with thousands of yen worth of product. I today observed one woman take a moisturizer in each hand, cross the road to discuss her oily T-zone (conjecture) with her friend, and then return, place one product back on the stand, and proceed inside to pay. It simply boggles the mind that it would not even occur to her to continue casually down the road, stolen skin product clutched in sweaty fist, and save that couple of thousand yen for a celebratory successful-shoplifting Suntory.
This being the case, I daily absentmindedly leave my treasured iPhone on my desk at school, safe in the knowledge that no light-fingered begrudging English student will filch it and publish the naked pictures of me contained therein (lie) on the Internet. If I'm late for the train, I leave my Mama Cherie unsecured (though I would in fact be flattered if someone saw the rusty old woman as worthy of theft). On one memorable occasion I realised at the bottom of the lift that I had forgotten to bring down the truly disgusting bags of trash that had been rotting on my balcony for some weeks, and, jettisoning all cargo in favour of speed, left my entire Life Bag in the lobby as I boarded the lift once more. Of course, it remained when I returned, blue and denimy and unharmed, if slightly grumpy at being so abandoned in favour of five bags of banana skins (the ONLY cheap fruit).
In NZ, my absent-minded (but very attractive) sister once left her expensive cell phone in the back seat of a cab, and gave it up for lost. To her enduring surprise, the cab she took at the end of the night, of the hundreds in Wellington, was the same one in which she had arrived, with said cell phone neatly nestled in the back. In NZ, this is beautiful and fateful coincidence. In Japan, the driver would have tracked her down, apologised for the inconvenience, handed her the cell phone, given her a packet of tissues and offered her tea.
Not so here. I am told that Japanese people put so much faith in the worthy nature of their compatriots that they will leave house and car doors unlocked, preferring to relieve themselves of the hassle of the key-hunt at the end of the day (incidentally, why ARE keys so small? It is not convenient, it is DIFFICULT, particularly if you are the proud owner of what I like to call a Life Bag, wherein you secret your ENTIRE LIFE and finding a flat silver thing amongst the lipsticks, hairbrushes, assorted make-up products, numerous drink bottles, wallet, passport, phrase book, any number of novels, diary, bananas, bento, sunglasses, rainy-day hat, surprise-cold-day scarf, bicycle lock, bills (many) etc is Mission, if not Impossible, then certainly Annoying and Time-Consuming). The building in which I live, home to some 50 different apartments, has an unsecured entry, so presumably, should I feel so inclined, I have fifty Japanese fridges and fifty Japanese closets through which to rummage at will. I have not yet put this theory into practice, fearful as I am of a stint in Japanese prison. And knowing my luck, I would open the door of a Yakuza den and find myself in the midst of whatever the most feared gang in Japan do in their spare time (Go Fish and hot chocolate, I suspect, Japan being what it is).
Among the hundreds of bikes left at the train stations on any given day, I have personally observed at least one in six to be totally unsecured, ready for the taking. And though there are men in uniforms dotted throughout the racks, looking po-faced in olive green, I suspect that their function is more to ensure that each bike is positioned perfectly parallel to the next in an aesthetically pleasing manner, rather than to engage in hot pursuit of potential bike thieves. The reason I know this is that they patrol on foot, in tight pants. They would have no chance at running down a dedicated hot-wirer (probably not necessary to steal a bike. Hot pedaller? Anyway). Although I believe there are occasional incidents of bike theft, the perpetrators ('perps', if you watch CSI or are Rupert) are invariably drunk business men, who have accidentally imbibed past the last train, and through a whiskey-brain-haze deduce that a bike ride, zig-zagging and dazed as it might be, will likely be both faster than walking and cheaper than a taxi. And when the destination has been reached (or they pass out and fall head-first over the handle-bars), the bike will be left where it falls, as the intention in taking said vehicle will never be theft, but merely convenience. I have heard tell that this is a legitimate culture in Japan, whereby hundreds of bikes, devoid of any owner save Sapporo city itself, remain at busy train stations, week after week, until some boozed-up business man, takes one to its next destination and next would-be thief. Like chain-mail, but useful. I myself am part of a system much like this one, but it involves umbrellas rather than bikes, and nobody but me knows that they are partaking.
Shop keepers, usually those members of society most vigilant and suspicious of theft, are also of the Japanese civilian mindset, which holds firmly that what's yours is yours, and what's mine is mine. Thus, the chemists here have stands outside the doors of the shop, totally unsupervised, groaning with thousands of yen worth of product. I today observed one woman take a moisturizer in each hand, cross the road to discuss her oily T-zone (conjecture) with her friend, and then return, place one product back on the stand, and proceed inside to pay. It simply boggles the mind that it would not even occur to her to continue casually down the road, stolen skin product clutched in sweaty fist, and save that couple of thousand yen for a celebratory successful-shoplifting Suntory.
This being the case, I daily absentmindedly leave my treasured iPhone on my desk at school, safe in the knowledge that no light-fingered begrudging English student will filch it and publish the naked pictures of me contained therein (lie) on the Internet. If I'm late for the train, I leave my Mama Cherie unsecured (though I would in fact be flattered if someone saw the rusty old woman as worthy of theft). On one memorable occasion I realised at the bottom of the lift that I had forgotten to bring down the truly disgusting bags of trash that had been rotting on my balcony for some weeks, and, jettisoning all cargo in favour of speed, left my entire Life Bag in the lobby as I boarded the lift once more. Of course, it remained when I returned, blue and denimy and unharmed, if slightly grumpy at being so abandoned in favour of five bags of banana skins (the ONLY cheap fruit).
In NZ, my absent-minded (but very attractive) sister once left her expensive cell phone in the back seat of a cab, and gave it up for lost. To her enduring surprise, the cab she took at the end of the night, of the hundreds in Wellington, was the same one in which she had arrived, with said cell phone neatly nestled in the back. In NZ, this is beautiful and fateful coincidence. In Japan, the driver would have tracked her down, apologised for the inconvenience, handed her the cell phone, given her a packet of tissues and offered her tea.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
NB: I have found Japan.
Or, have found myself in Japan (more likely, given my navigational skills). Either way, here I am. In the five days since my departure, have progressed from New Zealand to Tokyo to Sapporo. The flight was uneventful - barely noticed time passing, preoccupied as I was with watching the entire first season of Glee. Turns out that an uninterrupted flow of show tunes and baby-daddy drama distracts entirely from the discomforts of coach class. Why is that I am always seated behind the shameless recliner? Is there something about my backstage presence that draws them backwards? Do I emit tangible magnetic attraction? Gravitational pull? Mystery abounds.
Stepping off the plane into Tokyo was like being buried in flannels. The air is thick as stew, hot and wet and cloying. Walked the length of the airport (same as length of New Zealand) behind a tiny Japanese child who skipped as she walked, the back of whose t-shirt read `Honey Love Closet`. In my time-warped state I could not decide what would possess someone to print this on a t-shirt. Finding myself now in a functional state (running at approx 70%), I am still unsure. It puts one in mind of the genitals of a female bear. Or something. At any rate, inappropriate when placed between the dainty shoulder blades of an Asian infant.
Did you know that the Tokyo airport comes equipped with a personal train to get you from different terminals? That upon arrival, your temperature is taken, and finger prints and photograph recorded? That it is inevitable, if you arrive with a planeful of New Zealanders, that the tall boy standing behind you in the customs queue will in fact have been hosted in the house of your best friend during a waterpolo tournament, and sparked adolescent interest leading to instant recognition some 7 years later? That despite clinical strength deoderant you WILL sweat enough to fill a canteen and slick your perfect fringe to your forehead? All of these things are proven truths about Tokyo airport.
Outside the terminal. Buried in yet more flannels. JET personnel assaulting you with fixed smiles every five metres. Sunglasses sliding down your nose, puddles in your bra, Wellington-style boots becoming individual foot spas. Bus ride. Air conditioning. Insurance forms. Who will benefit from my accidental death insurance, should I accidentally choke to death on a flannel? 50% Mum, 50% Dad. Forgive me Aravin, but I will not tempt you to homicide for yen of yen.
Keio Plaza. 26th floor. Views almost back to New Zealand (true). Shower. Shower again, this time cold. Then venturing out into the streets (more flannels), accosted with bright lights, bright voices, katakana, kanji. Order one beer. Arrive in a 1.5 litre bottle. Resign self to drunkeness. Prawns, scallops, dumplings. Photographs. Brief panic at being lost (despite being 5 mins walk from hotel. Unsuprising). Sleep.
The following two days: orientation coming out my ears. Had not realised how disorientated I had been. Can tell you all about culture shock. Driving in Japan (cannot drive in NZ, but). Having a baby on JET (thank goodness, life plan coming together). Eating in Japan (through mouth, same as home, boring). Sleeping teaching partyingcontraceptiondoctor`svisitscyclingcleaningtatamihidingone`s tattooonsensex/nosex. Then: freedom. Much beer, much food, Karaoke. Convincing rendition of Alejandro (no gun bra but cannot have everything). Men sleeping in streets, eating from hands, all cleanly shaven, freshly washed, well-spoken and polite. Mystery. Boy bleeding in street. Express concern. HIs friends reassure concerned gaijin (foreigner) `Is ok, he is in hell`. Good, relief. Edamame at 2am. Sleep (aside: have stained every pillow case since arriving in Japan bright red. Clear contradiction to assertion that this is natural hair colour. Problem).
Sapporo-bound. Casually clothed (much make-up though, obv. Cannot change self). Carrying own body weight in luggage (luggage = mainly clothes plus occasional hair bow). Starbucks in airport `Are you America?` ......`Yes, am` (aside: cannot for life of me find normal, right-inclined apostrophe. Japanese apostrophe`s drunk, leaning wrong way. Too much Sapporo). New experience during flight: cameras mounted on under-carriage of plane, showing real-time take off/landing. As if strapped to plane`s bum. As if large, terrifying Japanese crow. Disorientated (alas, after all that work at becoming orientated. Waste). Landed. Taxi ride. Constant attempted conversation by driver in Japanese. Much nodding, much smiling. Put on sunglasses, pretend to sleep. Buildings, roads, cars. On and on and on. Japan is big (who knew?).
Arrive: JICA. Some sort of student hostel. Small room, small bed. Am back in Weir House. Much retrogression today. Beer and chocolate and Jelly Beans from 7 Eleven. Feeling much more myself (require excess alcohol and sugar to be self? Problematic). Chat. Back to bedroom. Reread Secret History for nine hundredth time. One of only 6 books to make it to Japan. Worthy. Sleep. 12 hours, sleep.
Then: Move to apartment. Lengthy description thereof necessary (brief introduction: have found at least 15 futons in cupboard. Also, in pantry, approx 15 cans of creamed asparagus). More blogging later (promise, probably Monday. Weekend is for drinking). Now: orientation. Thank goodness, feeling positively directionless.
Stepping off the plane into Tokyo was like being buried in flannels. The air is thick as stew, hot and wet and cloying. Walked the length of the airport (same as length of New Zealand) behind a tiny Japanese child who skipped as she walked, the back of whose t-shirt read `Honey Love Closet`. In my time-warped state I could not decide what would possess someone to print this on a t-shirt. Finding myself now in a functional state (running at approx 70%), I am still unsure. It puts one in mind of the genitals of a female bear. Or something. At any rate, inappropriate when placed between the dainty shoulder blades of an Asian infant.
Did you know that the Tokyo airport comes equipped with a personal train to get you from different terminals? That upon arrival, your temperature is taken, and finger prints and photograph recorded? That it is inevitable, if you arrive with a planeful of New Zealanders, that the tall boy standing behind you in the customs queue will in fact have been hosted in the house of your best friend during a waterpolo tournament, and sparked adolescent interest leading to instant recognition some 7 years later? That despite clinical strength deoderant you WILL sweat enough to fill a canteen and slick your perfect fringe to your forehead? All of these things are proven truths about Tokyo airport.
Outside the terminal. Buried in yet more flannels. JET personnel assaulting you with fixed smiles every five metres. Sunglasses sliding down your nose, puddles in your bra, Wellington-style boots becoming individual foot spas. Bus ride. Air conditioning. Insurance forms. Who will benefit from my accidental death insurance, should I accidentally choke to death on a flannel? 50% Mum, 50% Dad. Forgive me Aravin, but I will not tempt you to homicide for yen of yen.
Keio Plaza. 26th floor. Views almost back to New Zealand (true). Shower. Shower again, this time cold. Then venturing out into the streets (more flannels), accosted with bright lights, bright voices, katakana, kanji. Order one beer. Arrive in a 1.5 litre bottle. Resign self to drunkeness. Prawns, scallops, dumplings. Photographs. Brief panic at being lost (despite being 5 mins walk from hotel. Unsuprising). Sleep.
The following two days: orientation coming out my ears. Had not realised how disorientated I had been. Can tell you all about culture shock. Driving in Japan (cannot drive in NZ, but). Having a baby on JET (thank goodness, life plan coming together). Eating in Japan (through mouth, same as home, boring). Sleeping teaching partyingcontraceptiondoctor`svisitscyclingcleaningtatamihidingone`s tattooonsensex/nosex. Then: freedom. Much beer, much food, Karaoke. Convincing rendition of Alejandro (no gun bra but cannot have everything). Men sleeping in streets, eating from hands, all cleanly shaven, freshly washed, well-spoken and polite. Mystery. Boy bleeding in street. Express concern. HIs friends reassure concerned gaijin (foreigner) `Is ok, he is in hell`. Good, relief. Edamame at 2am. Sleep (aside: have stained every pillow case since arriving in Japan bright red. Clear contradiction to assertion that this is natural hair colour. Problem).
Sapporo-bound. Casually clothed (much make-up though, obv. Cannot change self). Carrying own body weight in luggage (luggage = mainly clothes plus occasional hair bow). Starbucks in airport `Are you America?` ......`Yes, am` (aside: cannot for life of me find normal, right-inclined apostrophe. Japanese apostrophe`s drunk, leaning wrong way. Too much Sapporo). New experience during flight: cameras mounted on under-carriage of plane, showing real-time take off/landing. As if strapped to plane`s bum. As if large, terrifying Japanese crow. Disorientated (alas, after all that work at becoming orientated. Waste). Landed. Taxi ride. Constant attempted conversation by driver in Japanese. Much nodding, much smiling. Put on sunglasses, pretend to sleep. Buildings, roads, cars. On and on and on. Japan is big (who knew?).
Arrive: JICA. Some sort of student hostel. Small room, small bed. Am back in Weir House. Much retrogression today. Beer and chocolate and Jelly Beans from 7 Eleven. Feeling much more myself (require excess alcohol and sugar to be self? Problematic). Chat. Back to bedroom. Reread Secret History for nine hundredth time. One of only 6 books to make it to Japan. Worthy. Sleep. 12 hours, sleep.
Then: Move to apartment. Lengthy description thereof necessary (brief introduction: have found at least 15 futons in cupboard. Also, in pantry, approx 15 cans of creamed asparagus). More blogging later (promise, probably Monday. Weekend is for drinking). Now: orientation. Thank goodness, feeling positively directionless.
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