It's rare for me to watch a movie that I remember two years later, let alone one that I not only import on DVD, but that I even end up buying the accompanying comic books too. Or, in this case, the manga. Actually, it's not rare; it's unheard of. While this may not shock those of you who know me well, many suspect that because I work in the videogame industry that I have certain, shall we say, traits. Assumptions are made that I'm into action figures, that I like science-fiction and superheroes, and that I've collected comic books, played Magic: The Gathering or Dungeons & Dragons, and, well, you get the idea. The truth is, the only action figures I've ever owned were a couple of ThunderCats when I was 10; I hate all things Stars, particularly Wars and Treks; I couldn't tell you who the Superfriends are. I'm not even sure if there are Superfriends or if I just made that up. And though I did buy a couple of "Ghost Rider" and "Silver Surfer" comics as a child, 90% of the reading I've done since then has been, gasp, non-fiction. I'VE. NEVER. ROLLED. TWENTY.
Alas, I am a very poor excuse for a geek. But this doesn't mean I can't be swayed. My time spent writing the Batman: Arkham Asylum Official Strategy Guide two summers ago sparked such a keen desire in me to learn more about the Batman universe that I actually bought the "Arkham Asylum" graphic novel by Grant Morrison and Dave McKean (an exceptional piece of storytelling and art). Though I now have no idea where that book went, I do recall enjoying it considerably (and yes, I do hope to be writing the guidebook for the sequel later this year... fingers crossed).
And that brings us to my foray into manga and Ikigami...
Showing posts with label japan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label japan. Show all posts
The Great Wave
Though I walked by countless souvenir shops lining the streets of Kyoto near the temples, I resisted the call of the wooden shoes and candies filled with red-bean paste; I gave nary a sideways glance at the parasols and fans; and though the sake sets and chopsticks were quite attractive, their pull could not pry the precious yen from the depths of my pockets. Damn you, faltering exchange rate! But global economic catastrophes aside, I was on a mission. A mission for woodblock.
For as long as I can remember, I've always been drawn to woodblock paintings or, more correctly, woodblock printings. I was able to recognize the style at an early age, then truly felt its pull upon reading "Everett Ruess: Vagabond for Beauty", about a boy who had disappeared from his aristocratic life in California to explore the canyon country of the American southwest. He paid for his travels by making and selling woodblock prints of the landscapes he traversed (as an aside, anyone who enjoys the story/movie "Into the Wild" should really read this book). There was something about being able to paint an image by carving it from wood that instantly captured my imagination. The images he created were simple yet detailed and, above all, they were powerful. Hard lines, black ink, white paper. You can see and purchase reproductions of Ruess's work right here.
The woodblock artform originated in China but much of its current popularity can be attributed to the Japanese who really came to perfect the techniques used during the seventeenth century. Though there are plenty of westerners practicing woodblock prints, I wanted to bring one home from Japan. I even had one particular print in mind, "The Great Wave off Kanagawa". It's arguably the most famous print from this art style in the world and one that I've always admired. It was created by an artist named Katsushika Hokusai in the early seventeenth century.
Tim and I entered a gallery in one of the shopping arcades near Kyoto's Nishiki Market. It was filled with hundreds of the most incredible woodblock work I had ever seen. I could have spent hours -- and millions of yen -- in the gallery if I was so fortunate as to have an abundance of either. Though I didn't, I was intent on getting something. I decided on a pair of prints of cranes that were pre-framed and simple, yet elegant.
I wasn't completely satisfied with the choice and on my way to pay for them, wandered down another aisle and started picking through the stacks of matted prints on the floor, beneath one of the display shelves. And there I found it... "The Great Wave off Kanagawa".
The reproduction print was made in 1921 during the Taisho period. The paper has browned a bit, but other than a faint crease that can only be seen in certain lighting conditions, the print is in exceptional condition. The sandwich-style matting has a nice description on the back that explains Hokusai's works and how this was but one image from his "Thirty Six Views" book that showcased three dozen images of Mt. Fuji. Though its 12,000 yen price-tag was a bit more than I budgeted for, it was exactly what I had hoped to find. My inability to speak the language left me with no choice of haggling the price down, so I paid up. No sooner than leaving the store did I begin to worry about getting it home without damage. The security folks at the airport wouldn't let me carry it through the metal detectors so I had to lay it on the belt and send it through. It was sandwiched between two thin sheets of cardboard and made it through okay. At least at Kansai International, not so much in San Francisco where it got caught and started to bow. I caught it just in time before the conveyor belt completely folded it over. It survived without damage. Barely.
I'm going to take it to get framed tomorrow, a process that will no doubt take a week or two and cost as much as the print itself. I'll post a photo once I get it on the wall. I also have more to say about woodblock printing, but that's for another post at another time.
For as long as I can remember, I've always been drawn to woodblock paintings or, more correctly, woodblock printings. I was able to recognize the style at an early age, then truly felt its pull upon reading "Everett Ruess: Vagabond for Beauty", about a boy who had disappeared from his aristocratic life in California to explore the canyon country of the American southwest. He paid for his travels by making and selling woodblock prints of the landscapes he traversed (as an aside, anyone who enjoys the story/movie "Into the Wild" should really read this book). There was something about being able to paint an image by carving it from wood that instantly captured my imagination. The images he created were simple yet detailed and, above all, they were powerful. Hard lines, black ink, white paper. You can see and purchase reproductions of Ruess's work right here.
The woodblock artform originated in China but much of its current popularity can be attributed to the Japanese who really came to perfect the techniques used during the seventeenth century. Though there are plenty of westerners practicing woodblock prints, I wanted to bring one home from Japan. I even had one particular print in mind, "The Great Wave off Kanagawa". It's arguably the most famous print from this art style in the world and one that I've always admired. It was created by an artist named Katsushika Hokusai in the early seventeenth century.
Tim and I entered a gallery in one of the shopping arcades near Kyoto's Nishiki Market. It was filled with hundreds of the most incredible woodblock work I had ever seen. I could have spent hours -- and millions of yen -- in the gallery if I was so fortunate as to have an abundance of either. Though I didn't, I was intent on getting something. I decided on a pair of prints of cranes that were pre-framed and simple, yet elegant.
I wasn't completely satisfied with the choice and on my way to pay for them, wandered down another aisle and started picking through the stacks of matted prints on the floor, beneath one of the display shelves. And there I found it... "The Great Wave off Kanagawa".
The reproduction print was made in 1921 during the Taisho period. The paper has browned a bit, but other than a faint crease that can only be seen in certain lighting conditions, the print is in exceptional condition. The sandwich-style matting has a nice description on the back that explains Hokusai's works and how this was but one image from his "Thirty Six Views" book that showcased three dozen images of Mt. Fuji. Though its 12,000 yen price-tag was a bit more than I budgeted for, it was exactly what I had hoped to find. My inability to speak the language left me with no choice of haggling the price down, so I paid up. No sooner than leaving the store did I begin to worry about getting it home without damage. The security folks at the airport wouldn't let me carry it through the metal detectors so I had to lay it on the belt and send it through. It was sandwiched between two thin sheets of cardboard and made it through okay. At least at Kansai International, not so much in San Francisco where it got caught and started to bow. I caught it just in time before the conveyor belt completely folded it over. It survived without damage. Barely.
I'm going to take it to get framed tomorrow, a process that will no doubt take a week or two and cost as much as the print itself. I'll post a photo once I get it on the wall. I also have more to say about woodblock printing, but that's for another post at another time.
The Rightness of Japan
The Lonely Planet guidebook to Japan has the following to say about Osaka:
And contains a similar description for the temple-rich capital city of Kyoto,
Few are the travelers who have never been to a land they couldn’t envision moving to at once. Usually, it’s easy; a sun-drenched beach where tall drinks float on the hands of waiters in a never-ending procession straight to your veranda; or perhaps a town of cobble-lined paths snaking their way past the very galleries and cafes the famed artisans of history books once prowled; or maybe a mountain village with but a single dirt road, several papaya plantations, and a nice villa from which to soak in the surrounding rainforest. Who couldn’t get used to that? It’s an idyllic setting… on the surface. Seldom do we get a chance to peel back the glossy layers of our destination and reveal the warts. Rarer still do we see the heart. Life as it really is can be easy to miss for the dreamy traveler.
It is in this regard that makes Japan so different from everywhere that I’ve been. Osaka in January, with its endless sprawl of concrete cubes, pervasive gray skies, and bouquets of cherry blossoms existing only on postcards and signage, is a place that reveals its most vital of organs to the visitor without delay. It’s what I had come to call its “rightness”. And it’s more attractive than any travel brochure photo I’ve ever seen.
As I made my way by train from Kansai airport to my hotel in Osaka’s business-focused Kita district, north of the rivers that bisect it, I felt myself slipping deeper and deeper into a cloak of invisibility. I was primed for this most different of cultures, but at a blue-eyed and shoeless 6-feet in height, I expected to stick out a bit. And I’m sure I did – complete days went by in Osaka without me seeing another westerner -- only the Japanese are too polite to ever let you notice. Eye contact, a friendly konichiwa, a pair of pursed lips ever-so-slightly turned up into a smile: these are the things I sought to capture on the streets of Osaka, and later Kyoto, but they proved as elusive as a geisha in Gion.
The bustling train stations, streets, and maze-like underground shopping malls may be filled with millions of people, but you wouldn’t notice it by the sound. Mihan, a pretty early twenties college student who works part-time at the guesthouse I stayed at while in Kyoto, commented to me one night that the people of Osaka are boisterous and loud compared to those in Tokyo. In this land of ultimate courtesy and politeness, I had to bite down hard to not laugh aloud and risk offending her. The truth was, as I had seen and heard it, was that nearly everyone, regardless their age, sex, or status, walked with a sense of purpose and self-induced isolationism. Earbuds were as ubiquitous as the bottles of Kirin-branded green tea I grew to enjoy. Many were texting. Endlessly texting and when not texting, they were watching television and scanning the web on their high-tech phones. Save for a few instances of what I would suspect was school-age giddiness and travel-induced excitement shared by friends, nobody spoke. That is to say I heard very little voices beyond the constant chorus of arigato go zai mas emanating from every kiosk, shop, noodle stand, and, to be certain, every staffed position in the city. The Japanese are quite indeed very thankful to those they do business with.
The silence was even more pronounced on the network of subways and buses that I eventually came to rely upon heavily for my daily site-seeing activities. Talking on a cell-phone was a much frowned-upon no-no, as was conversation above a whisper of any kind it seemed. The signs that are there to warn against the former behavior seem to only exist for the benefit of the visitor, those of us who are used to our senses being assaulted by others … and returning the favor in kind. It’s not a rule sent down by an oppressive regime, but rather one born from a very deeply-ingrained sense of public courtesy. Not about to speak for tens of millions of people, but my semi-informed opinion is this is a land whose people place far more emphasis on the collective than they do on themselves. They sacrifice or find workarounds for situations in which their personal desires – say, calling a boyfriend while on the subway – might interfere with the contemplation and serenity of others. For as much as I love my high tech toys, I would trade them all in a second if only there was a way to export this silence and courtesy to the west.
The rightness I came to fall in love with goes far beyond the Japanese’ reluctance to gab on a cellphone while out in public. Truth be told, if someone was to explain to me, prior to my visit, all of the behavioral idiosyncrasies that make up this society, I would have surmised that Japan was indeed one very stuck-up place to live. There is little doubt in me that I would have made a remark about there being a huge need to yank a few million sticks out of a few million you-know-whats. But being there, if only for a week, and seeing the people conduct themselves first hand, has given rise in me a deep sense of societal jealousy.
The examples are endless, so I’ll name but a few.
Shoes. Everyone, whether they’ve been overseas or not, knows to take one’s shoes off upon entering a house and, in many cases, a restaurant in Japan. The streets and sidewalks, though they may appear spotless for western standards, still harbor the grit and grime of the outdoors. The Japanese, unlike, say, an American household practicing “Japan-style” living, take it further though and ensure a pair of slippers just inside the entrance to the bathroom. A detail easily overlooked elsewhere. In restaurants, patrons will find an array of slippers near the hall leading to the restrooms that they may choose from. Sadly, I’ve yet to find any within two or three sizes of the elevens I need, but tiny slippers beats the alternative. Inadequate slippers aside, this was but another notch in the belt of the Japanese way of thinking through all the details. Not unlike the rack of umbrella bags many restaurants have ready for guests who stroll in on a rainy night.
Being that the primary purpose of this trip was to meet with a software developer whose games I will be writing the strategy guides for this year, I made sure to school myself on the intricacies of exchanging meshi and following the proper protocol during the meeting regarding sitting, standing, and the hows and whys of addressing people correctly. Although this level of formality is certainly foreign to me, I soon came to see that its roots extend into other forms of communication, and are not merely for business appearances. Take, for example, a group of friends going their separate ways after a night on the town. They bow and thank one another for the good time. The key being to bow. One of the many things I came to learn this week was that bowing doesn’t have the implied sense of servitude that we may see it as. It’s about respect and loyalty, certainly not about obedience. And while I knew that was the case for business meetings and official greetings from one service employee to a customer, I never would have expected to see a group of twenty-something women, buzzed from too much sochu or sake perhaps, bowing their goodbyes at the end of a hot night out in Kasharawa. The younger generation may be rebelling in their dress, but tradition and dedication to their upbringing is alive and strong.
Tim, my editor and travelling companion for much of this trip, brought with him instructions to go to a McDonalds restaurant while we were in Japan. I admit, I balked at the initial suggestion. I visit the golden arches rather infrequently at home in Washington and seldom without an immediate after-taste of self-loathing and a burp of shame. Yet, I obliged, and was most pleasantly surprised. Nevermind the impeccable décor, soft piano jazz music, and friendly, polite service, but both my Egg McMuffin and Sausage McMuffin w/Egg looked exactly like the photo. This has never happened to me before. Never have I been to any fast-food restaurant in the USA, regardless the chain, where the sandwich wasn’t smooshed into an unrecognizable mess or, at the least, assembled so sloppily that it bore no resemblance to the photo on the menu board. Not the case in Japan. It would seem that, and again I have multiple examples that bear this out, that people simply care a lot more about their jobs there, regardless how menial we might perceive those tasks to be here in western society. There is no other way to put it, than to say my Egg McMuffin was assembled with care.
I thought this Mickey D’s example may have been an isolated incident until we went to Mister Donut (as an aside, let me assure you that these western-style chain restaurants were only visited early in the day or very late at night… we went native for lunch and dinner every day). Here we sat, eating donuts and drinking coffee in a crowded upstairs sitting area, when a boy, no more than 17 years old, came to give us a refill of our coffee. He was polite. Gracious. And, ultimately, thanked us for allowing him to serve us. It was nice, I thought, and something he felt obligated to do for foreigners. But that wasn’t so because moments after refilling our cups, he walked over to a table of young teenage girls who were busy reading their manga, and he treated them with the same courteousness and respect he did us. I can only surmise that he didn’t view us as tourists or foreigners or his elders any more than he viewed them as his countrymen or his juniors. Instead, he viewed us all, no doubt everyone he would pour coffee for, as simply his company’s customers. And serving his employer’s customers was , at that moment, the most important thing in his world. At least on the outside.
This level of service and dedication to one’s employer was on display everywhere we looked. As was an overall sense of courtesy and politeness that, frankly, I came to cherish. For although I considered myself nearly invisible on the street, it never took more than a tap on the shoulder and a polite sumimasen to get all of the assistance I could ask for. Never was I met with a short-tempered frustration about my inability to speak Japanese. Never was I ignored. And never was I made to feel like my request was a burden or that I was putting someone out. Heck, the one time I know I screwed up – I was in Gion on a Friday night and staring at the skirts across the street and walked straight into someone – it was the guy I nearly knocked on the ground who apologized to me.
In hindsight, he might have been staring across the street too… you should have seen those girls.
Probably on the way to their shift at a hostess bar.
Wow.
A digression, although a pleasant one. Shall we continue?
As the days went by and I began to really get the feel for this land of the rising sun, I noticed a change in the way Tim and I spoke about Japan. It was no longer with a mystified admiration, but it was with an affection and, speaking for myself, a sense of sadness that we knew our time in this culture would soon come to an end. Gone would be the soothing beeps and chimes of the train station and garbage trucks, forgotten would be the high-tech public toilets and spotless restrooms, and out of lives forever would be the money trays and the reluctance to hand money directly from one person to another. Gone would be the cute.
For as much as I wanted to get home to Kristin and had to get home for work, I didn’t want to leave. I spent my second to last day in Kyoto on a long walk through the city’s northwestern corner. I took the bus to Kinkakuji Temple, then proceeded to walk several miles along tree-lined streets, past fantastic single-family homes belonging to city’s wealthiest of citizens, and eventually down a busy boulevard back towards town. My walk would take hours and as it grew colder, and I hungrier, I stopped in at a jazz bar. I was the only person in the place and took a seat at the bar and ordered a coffee. The bartender knew no English and I had all but exhausted my knowledge of Japanese in the act of ordering my drink. Nevertheless, I felt at home. I sat and thumbed through my phrasebook in silence and the bartender sat off to the side reading his paper. It was mid-afternoon and I felt a chill coming on.
I coughed twice and sneezed once. Details I normally don’t track, but what happened next forced this recollection.
The phone rang. The bartender talked briefly before hanging up then set to boiling a pot of water. I continued to read my book.
Two minutes pass, the kettle whistles, then he sets an elegant tea cup and saucer down in front of me.
“Hot ginger,” he says, then fakes a sneeze. “You feel better, okay?”
…
Is someone giving me a cup of free tea because I sneezed a big deal? No, nor am I saying it wouldn’t happen here in the USA or in any other country for that matter. Especially if you’re the only one in the cafe. But when you combine all of these little things, they amount to one very big thing: the rightness.
I love where I live. I love travelling around the United States and seeing the sites and the parks and cities. I’m not quite sure even if I could up and move to anywhere in the world that I would necessarily want to do so. But that all being said, Japan isn’t only making better cars and better televisions and gadgets of various sorts. They’re making a better society. Or, at the very least, one that’s a whole lot more livable.
When it comes to society and the American Dream and, let’s face it, the overall superiority complex many Americans have towards other cultures, I can’t help but think that ignorance may indeed be bliss. We indeed have it pretty good on the surface, but where it really counts, when it comes to unveiling our warts and our heart in comparison... knowledge and experience only bring the sorrow of what might have been. Or what, if our parents are to be believed, used to be.
Sigh.
I began writing this essay on the train to the airport, right after the woman charged with cleaning my train car exited the train with her cart of supplies and bowed to us and thanked us for waiting.
"This isn't to say Osaka is an attractive city; almost bombed flat in WWII, it appears an endless expanse of concrete boxes punctuated by pachinko parlours and elevated highways."
And contains a similar description for the temple-rich capital city of Kyoto,
"First impressions can be something of an anticlimax. Stepping out of Kyoto Station for the first time and gazing around at all the neon and concrete that awaits you, you are likely to feel that all you've heard and read about Kyoto is just so much tourist-literature hype."
Few are the travelers who have never been to a land they couldn’t envision moving to at once. Usually, it’s easy; a sun-drenched beach where tall drinks float on the hands of waiters in a never-ending procession straight to your veranda; or perhaps a town of cobble-lined paths snaking their way past the very galleries and cafes the famed artisans of history books once prowled; or maybe a mountain village with but a single dirt road, several papaya plantations, and a nice villa from which to soak in the surrounding rainforest. Who couldn’t get used to that? It’s an idyllic setting… on the surface. Seldom do we get a chance to peel back the glossy layers of our destination and reveal the warts. Rarer still do we see the heart. Life as it really is can be easy to miss for the dreamy traveler.
It is in this regard that makes Japan so different from everywhere that I’ve been. Osaka in January, with its endless sprawl of concrete cubes, pervasive gray skies, and bouquets of cherry blossoms existing only on postcards and signage, is a place that reveals its most vital of organs to the visitor without delay. It’s what I had come to call its “rightness”. And it’s more attractive than any travel brochure photo I’ve ever seen.
As I made my way by train from Kansai airport to my hotel in Osaka’s business-focused Kita district, north of the rivers that bisect it, I felt myself slipping deeper and deeper into a cloak of invisibility. I was primed for this most different of cultures, but at a blue-eyed and shoeless 6-feet in height, I expected to stick out a bit. And I’m sure I did – complete days went by in Osaka without me seeing another westerner -- only the Japanese are too polite to ever let you notice. Eye contact, a friendly konichiwa, a pair of pursed lips ever-so-slightly turned up into a smile: these are the things I sought to capture on the streets of Osaka, and later Kyoto, but they proved as elusive as a geisha in Gion.
The bustling train stations, streets, and maze-like underground shopping malls may be filled with millions of people, but you wouldn’t notice it by the sound. Mihan, a pretty early twenties college student who works part-time at the guesthouse I stayed at while in Kyoto, commented to me one night that the people of Osaka are boisterous and loud compared to those in Tokyo. In this land of ultimate courtesy and politeness, I had to bite down hard to not laugh aloud and risk offending her. The truth was, as I had seen and heard it, was that nearly everyone, regardless their age, sex, or status, walked with a sense of purpose and self-induced isolationism. Earbuds were as ubiquitous as the bottles of Kirin-branded green tea I grew to enjoy. Many were texting. Endlessly texting and when not texting, they were watching television and scanning the web on their high-tech phones. Save for a few instances of what I would suspect was school-age giddiness and travel-induced excitement shared by friends, nobody spoke. That is to say I heard very little voices beyond the constant chorus of arigato go zai mas emanating from every kiosk, shop, noodle stand, and, to be certain, every staffed position in the city. The Japanese are quite indeed very thankful to those they do business with.
The silence was even more pronounced on the network of subways and buses that I eventually came to rely upon heavily for my daily site-seeing activities. Talking on a cell-phone was a much frowned-upon no-no, as was conversation above a whisper of any kind it seemed. The signs that are there to warn against the former behavior seem to only exist for the benefit of the visitor, those of us who are used to our senses being assaulted by others … and returning the favor in kind. It’s not a rule sent down by an oppressive regime, but rather one born from a very deeply-ingrained sense of public courtesy. Not about to speak for tens of millions of people, but my semi-informed opinion is this is a land whose people place far more emphasis on the collective than they do on themselves. They sacrifice or find workarounds for situations in which their personal desires – say, calling a boyfriend while on the subway – might interfere with the contemplation and serenity of others. For as much as I love my high tech toys, I would trade them all in a second if only there was a way to export this silence and courtesy to the west.
The rightness I came to fall in love with goes far beyond the Japanese’ reluctance to gab on a cellphone while out in public. Truth be told, if someone was to explain to me, prior to my visit, all of the behavioral idiosyncrasies that make up this society, I would have surmised that Japan was indeed one very stuck-up place to live. There is little doubt in me that I would have made a remark about there being a huge need to yank a few million sticks out of a few million you-know-whats. But being there, if only for a week, and seeing the people conduct themselves first hand, has given rise in me a deep sense of societal jealousy.
The examples are endless, so I’ll name but a few.
Shoes. Everyone, whether they’ve been overseas or not, knows to take one’s shoes off upon entering a house and, in many cases, a restaurant in Japan. The streets and sidewalks, though they may appear spotless for western standards, still harbor the grit and grime of the outdoors. The Japanese, unlike, say, an American household practicing “Japan-style” living, take it further though and ensure a pair of slippers just inside the entrance to the bathroom. A detail easily overlooked elsewhere. In restaurants, patrons will find an array of slippers near the hall leading to the restrooms that they may choose from. Sadly, I’ve yet to find any within two or three sizes of the elevens I need, but tiny slippers beats the alternative. Inadequate slippers aside, this was but another notch in the belt of the Japanese way of thinking through all the details. Not unlike the rack of umbrella bags many restaurants have ready for guests who stroll in on a rainy night.
Being that the primary purpose of this trip was to meet with a software developer whose games I will be writing the strategy guides for this year, I made sure to school myself on the intricacies of exchanging meshi and following the proper protocol during the meeting regarding sitting, standing, and the hows and whys of addressing people correctly. Although this level of formality is certainly foreign to me, I soon came to see that its roots extend into other forms of communication, and are not merely for business appearances. Take, for example, a group of friends going their separate ways after a night on the town. They bow and thank one another for the good time. The key being to bow. One of the many things I came to learn this week was that bowing doesn’t have the implied sense of servitude that we may see it as. It’s about respect and loyalty, certainly not about obedience. And while I knew that was the case for business meetings and official greetings from one service employee to a customer, I never would have expected to see a group of twenty-something women, buzzed from too much sochu or sake perhaps, bowing their goodbyes at the end of a hot night out in Kasharawa. The younger generation may be rebelling in their dress, but tradition and dedication to their upbringing is alive and strong.
Tim, my editor and travelling companion for much of this trip, brought with him instructions to go to a McDonalds restaurant while we were in Japan. I admit, I balked at the initial suggestion. I visit the golden arches rather infrequently at home in Washington and seldom without an immediate after-taste of self-loathing and a burp of shame. Yet, I obliged, and was most pleasantly surprised. Nevermind the impeccable décor, soft piano jazz music, and friendly, polite service, but both my Egg McMuffin and Sausage McMuffin w/Egg looked exactly like the photo. This has never happened to me before. Never have I been to any fast-food restaurant in the USA, regardless the chain, where the sandwich wasn’t smooshed into an unrecognizable mess or, at the least, assembled so sloppily that it bore no resemblance to the photo on the menu board. Not the case in Japan. It would seem that, and again I have multiple examples that bear this out, that people simply care a lot more about their jobs there, regardless how menial we might perceive those tasks to be here in western society. There is no other way to put it, than to say my Egg McMuffin was assembled with care.
I thought this Mickey D’s example may have been an isolated incident until we went to Mister Donut (as an aside, let me assure you that these western-style chain restaurants were only visited early in the day or very late at night… we went native for lunch and dinner every day). Here we sat, eating donuts and drinking coffee in a crowded upstairs sitting area, when a boy, no more than 17 years old, came to give us a refill of our coffee. He was polite. Gracious. And, ultimately, thanked us for allowing him to serve us. It was nice, I thought, and something he felt obligated to do for foreigners. But that wasn’t so because moments after refilling our cups, he walked over to a table of young teenage girls who were busy reading their manga, and he treated them with the same courteousness and respect he did us. I can only surmise that he didn’t view us as tourists or foreigners or his elders any more than he viewed them as his countrymen or his juniors. Instead, he viewed us all, no doubt everyone he would pour coffee for, as simply his company’s customers. And serving his employer’s customers was , at that moment, the most important thing in his world. At least on the outside.
This level of service and dedication to one’s employer was on display everywhere we looked. As was an overall sense of courtesy and politeness that, frankly, I came to cherish. For although I considered myself nearly invisible on the street, it never took more than a tap on the shoulder and a polite sumimasen to get all of the assistance I could ask for. Never was I met with a short-tempered frustration about my inability to speak Japanese. Never was I ignored. And never was I made to feel like my request was a burden or that I was putting someone out. Heck, the one time I know I screwed up – I was in Gion on a Friday night and staring at the skirts across the street and walked straight into someone – it was the guy I nearly knocked on the ground who apologized to me.
In hindsight, he might have been staring across the street too… you should have seen those girls.
Probably on the way to their shift at a hostess bar.
Wow.
A digression, although a pleasant one. Shall we continue?
As the days went by and I began to really get the feel for this land of the rising sun, I noticed a change in the way Tim and I spoke about Japan. It was no longer with a mystified admiration, but it was with an affection and, speaking for myself, a sense of sadness that we knew our time in this culture would soon come to an end. Gone would be the soothing beeps and chimes of the train station and garbage trucks, forgotten would be the high-tech public toilets and spotless restrooms, and out of lives forever would be the money trays and the reluctance to hand money directly from one person to another. Gone would be the cute.
For as much as I wanted to get home to Kristin and had to get home for work, I didn’t want to leave. I spent my second to last day in Kyoto on a long walk through the city’s northwestern corner. I took the bus to Kinkakuji Temple, then proceeded to walk several miles along tree-lined streets, past fantastic single-family homes belonging to city’s wealthiest of citizens, and eventually down a busy boulevard back towards town. My walk would take hours and as it grew colder, and I hungrier, I stopped in at a jazz bar. I was the only person in the place and took a seat at the bar and ordered a coffee. The bartender knew no English and I had all but exhausted my knowledge of Japanese in the act of ordering my drink. Nevertheless, I felt at home. I sat and thumbed through my phrasebook in silence and the bartender sat off to the side reading his paper. It was mid-afternoon and I felt a chill coming on.
I coughed twice and sneezed once. Details I normally don’t track, but what happened next forced this recollection.
The phone rang. The bartender talked briefly before hanging up then set to boiling a pot of water. I continued to read my book.
Two minutes pass, the kettle whistles, then he sets an elegant tea cup and saucer down in front of me.
“Hot ginger,” he says, then fakes a sneeze. “You feel better, okay?”
…
Is someone giving me a cup of free tea because I sneezed a big deal? No, nor am I saying it wouldn’t happen here in the USA or in any other country for that matter. Especially if you’re the only one in the cafe. But when you combine all of these little things, they amount to one very big thing: the rightness.
I love where I live. I love travelling around the United States and seeing the sites and the parks and cities. I’m not quite sure even if I could up and move to anywhere in the world that I would necessarily want to do so. But that all being said, Japan isn’t only making better cars and better televisions and gadgets of various sorts. They’re making a better society. Or, at the very least, one that’s a whole lot more livable.
When it comes to society and the American Dream and, let’s face it, the overall superiority complex many Americans have towards other cultures, I can’t help but think that ignorance may indeed be bliss. We indeed have it pretty good on the surface, but where it really counts, when it comes to unveiling our warts and our heart in comparison... knowledge and experience only bring the sorrow of what might have been. Or what, if our parents are to be believed, used to be.
Sigh.
I began writing this essay on the train to the airport, right after the woman charged with cleaning my train car exited the train with her cart of supplies and bowed to us and thanked us for waiting.
Japan Photos Posted
You can see my photos from Japan right here.
I recommend viewing them as a slideshow with the info box on and the speed set to slow. Enjoy!
I recommend viewing them as a slideshow with the info box on and the speed set to slow. Enjoy!
I Didn't Know an Octopus had Balls
Dotombori Arcade... many more photos to come next week.Our feast Monday night kept us out later than our still jet-laggy bodies were ready for but we couldn't have been any happier. Our hosts ordered a most excellent assortment of sashimi, fanciful chicken skewers, a carrot salad made from rather large, sweet carrots from Kyoto, and also a red snapper. When asked if we were interested in trying anything specific, after it was clear we were not done eating, I couldn't resist: I ordered the horse sashimi.
Yes, that is correct: raw horse. The presentation was superb, and the meat very tasty. I began with a piece of very dark red meat, that I was told likely came from the thighs. I followed this with a piece of lighter meat (closer to the body), then finished with what i at first thought was a type of cheese, but it was actually the mane. It wasn't the hair, but rather the fleshy part of the mane along the horse's neck. That one took a little getting used to and offered a more challenging texture to overcome.
For drinks, we began the night on beer then our host ordered three varieties of sake brewed in her hometown area in northern Japan. The sake was poured, overflowing actually, into a large square glass placed inside a circular bamboo cup. In America, we try to avoid cramming square pegs into round holes, but here in Japan I realize that doing so simply means you're about to drink some damn fine sake. The glasses were passed around the table for sharing and tasting -- we're all friends here, right? -- then we each settled on our favorite variety. With a beer and an overflowing glass of sake in me, it was time to move on to the shochu, Japanese whiskey. Shochu is a clear alcohol, fermented from a variety of starches like buckwheat, sweet potato, and more. The sweet potato version is the strongest which makes sense since those little spuds are used to make ethanol. The large spheroid of ice in the glass gave the shochu a nice, chilled temperature but was not needed to douse any "fire-water" affect, as it was very easy to drink. Dangerously so, perhaps.
The excitement of Monday night carried over to Tuesday morning when, after a breakfast of cold bacon, scrambled eggs, and miso soup, Tim and I walked through northern Osaka to the Yodobashi Camera store, an 8 floor feast for your electronical senses. With entire massive floors devoted specifically to cell-phones, cameras, audio/visual equipment, and of course, a floor just for toys and videogames, it was clear we could spend hours there. And so we did.
Did you know that there are over 400 styles of ear bud speakers for your iPod in Japan? Oh yes. Some costing hundreds of dollars for the purest of sounds. Others adorned with Swarovski crystals, and still others made from exotic hardwoods.
The camera floor had what seemed to be the contents of every camera shop in New York City all rolled into one giant store. I was relieved to see my new Canon G10 costing well over $100 more in Japan than the price I paid through B+H Photo. For those who like to torture themselves with camera-envy, the store also had a Canon Mark III on the floor, retailing for the US equivalent of approximately $8000. Lenses sold separately.
The videogame aisle, on the one hand, wasn't quite as extensive as, say, a Best Buy or Toys R Us. At least not in terms of games, but what they lacked in shock-value for games was more than made up for by their assortment of strategy guides. The sheer number of books and the space devoted to them in the store was shocking. An entire wall lined with hundreds of books from all genres, systems, and some even going back several years.
Later that day, after another very successful interview session and demonstration at [XX--censored--XX] Tim and I said farewell to our hosts who would be riding the shinkansen back to Tokyo. I took a quick 90 minute sojourn up to my room to get some work done before we met back up for a night on the town; I wanted to see the neon.
As I had mentioned in an earlier post, our hotel was in the Kita district of Osaka, the business part of town, but tonight we were headed south to Dotombori Street, Osaka's bustling epicenter.
We walked and talked our way several blocks southeast of our hotel to a subway station then took a deep breath and sacked up for the challenge of buying our own subway tickets. Our initial attempts were ones of confusion. We stood slack-jawed and perplexed, staring at the confounded machines trying to make sense of what seemed to be a very straightforward process. We simply had no idea how to go about buying a ticket. I had done the research ahead of time, I knew where we wanted to go and on which train, but the vending machine ticket seller blocked our path. Eureka! We figured it out. Finally.
Two stops later, we emerged from the underground hustle and bustle of the subway station at Shinshaibashi to find a world of high-end department stores sprawled out around. Oh, look, a Louis Vuitton store. There's one for Dior. Oh, a three-story Chanel store.
This next statement can't be overstated: the Japanese are incredibly stylish, fashion-conscience people. And, with respect to the women, they look damn good.
I've never seem something so sexy as a twenty-something Japanese woman in a short plaid skirt, black stockings, and thigh-high boots straddling a relic of a bicycle at an intersection. A poofy winter white coat with fur trim completed the ensemble.
We guys call this material.
Nevertheless, as impressive as the high-end shopping opportunities on display were, Tim and I are of simpler taste and lighter means, so off we went into the nearby arcade. Not a videogame arcade, but rather a narrow primarily pedestrian-only street lined with hundreds of shops, cafes, pachinko parlors, hostess bars, and massage parlors. It was a feast for the senses and a place where even the locals seems ready to stop and take a photo. I took dozens. Some are comical, others showcasing the crowds and signs, others the neon glitz, and others of Tim playing Taiko Drum Master in an arcade.
Being a badge-carrying member of the Eats All Streetfood Association, I did not hesitate to order up a half-dozen tako-yaki at the first vendor I encountered. Tako-yaki is the specialty of the Osaka area and, quite literally, is a fried ball of octopus. It's drizzled in a teriyaki sauce, then drizzled again with a white mystery sauce, then given a heavy showering of grated ginger flakes.
It wasn't that the tako-yaki was bad. And It wasn't that I was afraid my limited shellfish allergy might extend to octopus. No, the problem with the six tako-yaki in my hand was that they were too damn hot. Not spicy hot, mind you. Hot, hot. Hot food is fine. I like hot food. I seek out hot food. This was ridiculous. My first bite instantly blistered the roof of my mouth and I dropped it back into the carton. I was able to, over ten minutes, consume my first tako-yaki and while not necessarily soemthing I will miss back in the States, it wasn't bad. I pierced the other tako-yaki in attempt to cool them off, but despite this effort, my second oco-ball was so excruciatingly hot that I had no choice but to spit the entire thing back into the dish.
At least I wasn't in a society with particularly clean, formal, people all around me.
Oops.
A cauldron of bubbling batter and semi-solid octopus gushed from the tear I had put into the ball before spitting it back into the dish and, I believe it was at this time when Tim's willingness to try it began to evaporate, not unlike the endless supply of steam emanating from the ruptured morsel in my hand. Twenty minutes after buying the tako-yaki, unable to eat more than two of them due to the scorching temperature and unwilling to continue holding the plate of food, I finally dumped it into a garbage can.
I wasn't the least bit surprised to see a near-identical carton of tako-yaki, half-eaten, inside that same bin.
Home and Away: Mountains and Towers
Went down to the convenience store at the base of the hotel this morning for a cup of coffee. No hot coffee, but plenty of refrigerated drinks. I passed on the Starbucks to have this instead. How could something so foreign make me feel so at home all at once?
One of the places I've wanted to check out in Osaka before leaving for Kyoto on Wednesday is the Umeda Sky Tower. It just so happens that my meeting today was in the 9th floor of said building. My contact and translator treated me to a great lunch then found we had nearly an hour to kill before the meeting so we were going to take the elevator to the top of the tower to see the "Floating Garden" on the bridge that connects the two towers. Unfortunately, the upper levels are closed until Wednesday for renovation. I'd say that this is not a problem and that I'll just return on Wednesday before hopping the train to Kyoto, but it's supposed to be cloudy and drizzly all week and today was bright and sunny.
Here's a shot from ground-level of the Umeda Sky Tower. My meeting was in the left-hand tower.
As for today's meetings, they went very well. I got to watch a demo of [XX--censored--XX>] and meet the Producer for one of my all-time favorite games. Then it was off to the conference room for one-on-one interviews with the Producer of my current project, [XX--censored--XX], followed by the Director for that same game. It was a little weird playing journalist since I don't normally concern myself with much of the fan-service questions the journos ask, but it went well and I was able to get some very good info for the strategy guide, including photos.
We were able to arrange for me to return tomorrow afternoon for a group meeting with the division leads on the game with the hopes of having them show me their secret tips and tricks on a build of the game.
Now I just have to hope Tim gets here soon, as we're waiting on him before going to dinner. Hope he's feeling adventurous...
Japan: Bring Your Own Slippers
What a stressful, confusing, and absolutely marvelous day.
It started with a phone call from my editor Tim. He was in Chicago, and just learned that there was a mechanical delay and that he would not be making the connecting flight to Osaka out of San Francisco. On the positive side, this left me with an entire row in economy plus to stretch out and sleep for the 11 hour flight. The downside to this was that I would be flying solo in the meetings on Monday.
I will let you know how that goes later today. Or tomorrow. Or was that yesterday? I don't know anymore. I woke up Saturday morning at 4:30 for a flight and now it's Sunday night.
No, I can't tell you who won the AFC & NFC Championship games... I crossed the date line on a 747, not a DeLorean.
My flight landed at Kansai International Airport outside of Osaka around 4pm local time and after a photo, fingerprints, and bag-search I was officially in. I made my way through the airport to the train station and, surprisingly enough, managed to purchase a ticket, board the right train, and make it 75-minutes through the suburbs to downtown Osaka all on my own. From there it was just a short 5 minute cab ride to the hotel.
In attempt to keep with the local customs, I took my shoes off upon entering my room and, to very little surprise, found the complimentary slippers barely extending past my arch. They're so cute. Good thing I brought my own... ahh, the benefits of doing a little research ahead of time.
The hotel is in the northern business portion of Osaka known as the Kita district. It doesn't have the bustling nightlife of the south side of the river (where I hope to head with Tim on Tuesday) but it does have a very lengthy underground shopping mall that links the many subways, train stations, and hotels together.
I took a business card from the front-desk and a map I couldn't read and headed out in search of dinner. A short walk down a rather welcoming alleyway lead me to the entrance to the underground mall. There was something spectacularly risky about going underground and potentially popping back out somewhere far from my hotel that I found attractive so I went for it.
Much of the shops and restaurants in this glorified mile-long subway terminal were closed. It's a Sunday night, after all. I eventually came to a McDonalds and put my head down and kept walking. I was in search of -- there's one! -- a red lantern, the tell-tale sign of an izakaya.
I knew I wanted to eat at an izakaya and I thought I was prepared to do so, but these places (counter-style pubs) are very much the domain of the locals and, so I've read, will go out of their way to discourage gaijin like me from entering (usually because they know it will be hard to communicate). I ducked under the plastic curtain and took a seat at the counter.
And immediately had a brain fart. I forgot how to even order a beer. I forgot I had a phrase book in my pocket. I spaced out, competely.
Fortunately for me, at the far end of the 6-person counter, sat a stylish young couple who spoke english. Turns out they live in Osaka, but the husband has a friend who, get this, lives in Tacoma, WA. He helped order for me, got me an Asahi Super Dry -- my favorite Japanes beer -- and then I took it from there.
The izakaya consisted of a counter with six stools and behind it was barely enough room for two people to stand. The main food here was fried skewers of everything you could ask for. Just like American bar-food, only smaller portions. My english-speaking friend helped me order up some beef, pork, onion, and asparagus.
I was trying to be agreeable.
A plate of cabbage was put before me, along with my mug of beer, a hot towel, and an empty stoneware cup. The way the place works is that each skewer was, I don't know, maybe 80 or 100 yen, and you dip the skewer into the communal bowls of sauce -- just once I was instructed in case I was going to pull a Castanza -- eat the food, and put the empty stick into the cup. The barmaid then counts the sticks when you're done. I noticed the couple had sticks of several sizes, so I imagine there is more to this, but my two beers and six skewers came out to just 1100 yen, which under normal financial conditions would be $11.
By this point of my stay, I was getting familliar with the phrase book and attempting fractured cave-man speak efforts at conversation with the woman behind the counter. I really had no choice, as she had so little room to move she was forced to stand directly in front of me. I asked for the bill and know enough numbers (although japanese numbers change depending on what it is you're counting... go figure) that I could understand the tally and pay.
And for the second time in the two hours I had been in Japan, my tip (chip-pu) was refused. I know tipping around the world isn't as common as it is in the US, but habits are hard to break. I was able to reason why the cab driver refused my small-change tip, but a bartender handing me back the 200 yen? I rampaged through the phrasebook and found the words for "tip" and "custom" and was able to convey that I offered her the tip out of habit and that I was sorry if I offended her. She laughed and told me it was okay (at least I think she did) and that was that.
I made my way back through the underground mall to the right staircase and, here I am, sitting in some sort of robe that would have fit me a lot better when I was 15, and watching incomprehendable Japanese television.
This is going to be one hell of a week. As long as I can get through these interviews tomorrow.
Man, I wish Tim was here.
It started with a phone call from my editor Tim. He was in Chicago, and just learned that there was a mechanical delay and that he would not be making the connecting flight to Osaka out of San Francisco. On the positive side, this left me with an entire row in economy plus to stretch out and sleep for the 11 hour flight. The downside to this was that I would be flying solo in the meetings on Monday.
I will let you know how that goes later today. Or tomorrow. Or was that yesterday? I don't know anymore. I woke up Saturday morning at 4:30 for a flight and now it's Sunday night.
No, I can't tell you who won the AFC & NFC Championship games... I crossed the date line on a 747, not a DeLorean.
My flight landed at Kansai International Airport outside of Osaka around 4pm local time and after a photo, fingerprints, and bag-search I was officially in. I made my way through the airport to the train station and, surprisingly enough, managed to purchase a ticket, board the right train, and make it 75-minutes through the suburbs to downtown Osaka all on my own. From there it was just a short 5 minute cab ride to the hotel.
In attempt to keep with the local customs, I took my shoes off upon entering my room and, to very little surprise, found the complimentary slippers barely extending past my arch. They're so cute. Good thing I brought my own... ahh, the benefits of doing a little research ahead of time.
The hotel is in the northern business portion of Osaka known as the Kita district. It doesn't have the bustling nightlife of the south side of the river (where I hope to head with Tim on Tuesday) but it does have a very lengthy underground shopping mall that links the many subways, train stations, and hotels together.
I took a business card from the front-desk and a map I couldn't read and headed out in search of dinner. A short walk down a rather welcoming alleyway lead me to the entrance to the underground mall. There was something spectacularly risky about going underground and potentially popping back out somewhere far from my hotel that I found attractive so I went for it.
Much of the shops and restaurants in this glorified mile-long subway terminal were closed. It's a Sunday night, after all. I eventually came to a McDonalds and put my head down and kept walking. I was in search of -- there's one! -- a red lantern, the tell-tale sign of an izakaya.
I knew I wanted to eat at an izakaya and I thought I was prepared to do so, but these places (counter-style pubs) are very much the domain of the locals and, so I've read, will go out of their way to discourage gaijin like me from entering (usually because they know it will be hard to communicate). I ducked under the plastic curtain and took a seat at the counter.
And immediately had a brain fart. I forgot how to even order a beer. I forgot I had a phrase book in my pocket. I spaced out, competely.
Fortunately for me, at the far end of the 6-person counter, sat a stylish young couple who spoke english. Turns out they live in Osaka, but the husband has a friend who, get this, lives in Tacoma, WA. He helped order for me, got me an Asahi Super Dry -- my favorite Japanes beer -- and then I took it from there.
The izakaya consisted of a counter with six stools and behind it was barely enough room for two people to stand. The main food here was fried skewers of everything you could ask for. Just like American bar-food, only smaller portions. My english-speaking friend helped me order up some beef, pork, onion, and asparagus.
I was trying to be agreeable.
A plate of cabbage was put before me, along with my mug of beer, a hot towel, and an empty stoneware cup. The way the place works is that each skewer was, I don't know, maybe 80 or 100 yen, and you dip the skewer into the communal bowls of sauce -- just once I was instructed in case I was going to pull a Castanza -- eat the food, and put the empty stick into the cup. The barmaid then counts the sticks when you're done. I noticed the couple had sticks of several sizes, so I imagine there is more to this, but my two beers and six skewers came out to just 1100 yen, which under normal financial conditions would be $11.
By this point of my stay, I was getting familliar with the phrase book and attempting fractured cave-man speak efforts at conversation with the woman behind the counter. I really had no choice, as she had so little room to move she was forced to stand directly in front of me. I asked for the bill and know enough numbers (although japanese numbers change depending on what it is you're counting... go figure) that I could understand the tally and pay.
And for the second time in the two hours I had been in Japan, my tip (chip-pu) was refused. I know tipping around the world isn't as common as it is in the US, but habits are hard to break. I was able to reason why the cab driver refused my small-change tip, but a bartender handing me back the 200 yen? I rampaged through the phrasebook and found the words for "tip" and "custom" and was able to convey that I offered her the tip out of habit and that I was sorry if I offended her. She laughed and told me it was okay (at least I think she did) and that was that.
I made my way back through the underground mall to the right staircase and, here I am, sitting in some sort of robe that would have fit me a lot better when I was 15, and watching incomprehendable Japanese television.
This is going to be one hell of a week. As long as I can get through these interviews tomorrow.
Man, I wish Tim was here.
Surprisingly Tasty
Oh, Maruchan, where were you when I was in college?
Not exactly "camping food" but if there's a better meal out there for a dollar, then I'd like to see it. This noodles and vegetables meal seriously kicks the MSG out of ramen and while the seasoning leaves a little to be desired, it was tasty enough that I actually wished I had bought a second box. I guess I'll just have to eat the Entenman's... sigh.
And for no reason in particular, the official Maruchan commercial:
Not exactly "camping food" but if there's a better meal out there for a dollar, then I'd like to see it. This noodles and vegetables meal seriously kicks the MSG out of ramen and while the seasoning leaves a little to be desired, it was tasty enough that I actually wished I had bought a second box. I guess I'll just have to eat the Entenman's... sigh.
And for no reason in particular, the official Maruchan commercial:
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