Protocol 7

I have a confession to make. It’s the kind of confession that you normally wouldn’t bring up in mixed company, or with people you don’t know very well, but the blank buffer of cyberspace gives me enough false courage that I can talk openly. The whole thing happened a number of months back, but my conscience has been dogging me ever since. I’ve tried to justify the experience by telling myself things like, “But you didn’t know!” or “You were just being polite!”, but in the end these soothing excuses amount to nothing more than a bucket of fail. No one forced me to do it, I did it of my own accord.

I ate a lobster. I ate a lobster while it was still alive.

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When we first set off to live in Japan, five to ten years sounded like a good amount of time to spend battling robots and learning to be ninja. However, angry robots are a bit thin on the ground, and stealthy is hard to come by when you stick out like a sore thumb. And so, after three and a half years of ramen and karaoke, it is time to say farewell.

My mom always told me that you wake up one day and you *just know*. You know that the cycles of love-hate are no longer dialectic but circular, the horse has been beaten, the pigs are flying… whatever metaphor floats your boat. Okay, so we didn’t exactly rub the sleep from our eyes and reach for the suitcase, but close enough. Not to mention I really can’t stand Japanese beer.

And since beer (and whiskey) is the elixir of life, we’ve decided to head to Canada, land of beer, beer, and something called hockey, which must be a sport fishermen play. And while I’m excited about the beer, I’m worried about retrofitting my computer to the telegraph system used by the citizens, not to mention learning the language.

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The rainy season has come and gone, replaced by a blazingly hot, humid, and repressive summer. The days are now averaging around 35º C, hot enough to render yours truly into a lifeless piece of flesh lounging about in her underwear in front of two electric fans. Cold showers provide temporary relief from the oppressive heat, as does a trip to the local combini, where we can bask in the coolness of regulated temperatures while browsing for chocolates and canned oxygen. For extended relief we head to the river, where cooling waters have an undisputed and rejuvenating effect on tired summer bodies. As it’s too hot to continue typing, the narrative will henceforth be strictly visual.

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The West has always lagged behind Japan when it comes to technological innovation, especially in the realm of robots and heated toilet seats. Humanoid machines and warm bums are indeed exciting, but pale in comparison to the unsung combini (convience store), whose shopping experience Japan has elevated to an artform. And the Pièce de résistance? Canned oxygen.

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Japanese-English, or Engrish, adorns every other physical object in Japan, from clothing to billboards to candy. It’s near impossible to avoid the omnipresent poetic flourishes painted on the side of pachinko parlours and gas stations, and has even inspired several websites dedicated to documenting the phenomenon, including an online store that sells various items emblazoned with reproduced Engrish phrases.

Westan toilets and soft dinks are not limited to the realm of printed text, but also find their home in spoken communications. A ‘biking lunch’ isn’t a midday meal on a bicycle, but an all-you-can-eat buffet (spelled Viking and derived from smorgasbord, go figure). Shorts are called ’short pants’, lest you get confused with something else that is short, and ‘expat’ is apparently something you shoot at (this one I still haven’t figured out). Whether the Engrish is spoken or printed, native speakers are enchanted with the new linguistic configurations that confront them day in and day out (or at least I am).

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I’ve never been a fan of shopping, unless it’s for electronics or the occasional thrift store foray, so you can imagine how happy I am that the three pairs of pants I brought to Japan are falling apart. Falling apart is an understatement - the hems are gone and the fabric is wearing thin - I carry around scissors and safety pins just in case of further impromptu degradation. I usually enjoy flipping through racks of thrifty threads if I’m in the right mood, but I *hate* shopping for pants about as much as I hate pretzles and elbows. To say that I possess a megaton of hate would not be an exaggeration. And shopping for pants in Japan effectively doubles, if not triples, my pants-shopping hateration.

It’s always been difficult for me to find pants that fit properly, and in the past I’ve generally stuck to wearing men’s suit pants. Occasionally I will find the odd pair of jeans that happen to fit, but in a world that loves low-riders and skinny jeans, they are few and far between. In Japan, the task of locating pants that can sustain my trunk’s junk is nigh impossible, and I’m a size six back in the States. In a country that boasts size 00 (yes, that’s double zero), a girl who usually doesn’t have body issues suddenly begins to plan her upcoming crash-course diet of seaweed and tofu (and beer, natch). After two hours of fitting-room devastation I found one pair that fit, but made me look incomprehensibly short, like I had been squished in a fun-house mirror. The next size up was in the plus-size section. Needless to say, I’m still sporting the same threadbare leggings I was last year.

Golden Week has come and gone (and gone), underscored by the incessant rain dismally signaling a return to work after seven blissful days of vacation. This is the exact same thing I said last year, except with perhaps a little less rain. Golden Week is a springtime blessing, a weeklong national holiday (more accurately, several individual holidays in series) that’s even better in Hamamatsu owing to the three-day revelry known as the Hamamatsu Matsuri (festival). Last year we had a lot of fun as spectators, but this year passively watching wasn’t enough; we participated.

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Hamamatsu is a fairly small city, the kind of city that is absent from guidebooks and is sometimes coupled with the pejorative “armpit” to descibe its more industrial aspects. It may not be the cultural hotbed that Tokyo is, lacking capsule hotels and panty vending machines, but there are a few places to visit should you find yourself in the area. If you happen to like bright colors, pollen, and screaming children, the Hamamatsu Flower Park is just your cup of tea. It’s also a great place to see the cherry blossoms.

Alex, the cactus picture is in fond memory of the time you fell into that prickly beast at the botanical gardens in Ann Arbor.

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Studying Japanese, or any other language for that matter, is a challenging and frustrating experience, but quite rewarding if you put the time in. My favorite part of studying a foreign language is the moments of insight, usually quite small and nuanced, that introduce a new perspective or deepen cultural understanding.

Prior to the Japan chronicles, my experience with languages extended to only a couple of the romance languages, Spanish and Latin. Latin was enjoyable because our teacher was crazy (that fun kind of I-love-Latin-more-than-anything-else crazy that only Latin teachers possess) and the etymological aspect was interesting. Etymology is your standard, run-of-the-mill language insight that you expect to receive when taking a language class. I can’t recall any moments of surprise and reflection during my tenure as a Latin student, though I do remember asking, in Latin I, if the phrase ‘Aes Sedia’ had any meaning (if you are familiar with The Wheel of Time books then you know what I’m talking about). However, I’m not interested in what’s expected, but rather what is unexpected, the insights that make you go hmmmmmmmmm.

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Japan has so many festivals it’s impossible to keep track of them all. Hamamatsu’s Yosakoi Ganko Matsuri is no exception.

Around the middle of March the streets downtown are closed to traffic and opened to 3000+ dancers from around the country. I’ve serendipitously stumbled across the Ganko Matsuri two times… the good fortune of deciding to take a leisurely walk on a nice day. Curious as to the origins and meanings of the Yosakoi Ganko Matsuri, I turned to my students for consultation.

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