Japan Series: Tokyo

Hello or, as they say in Japan “Konnichiwa!”, though I rarely heard it during my trip to Japan last week. After a rather long and tedious series of attempts to go to Japan, including but not limited to applying and being refused for the JET program, considering and finding it financially impossible to go on a TESL, as well as what seems like years and years of “I’ll save up the money and then…”s, I finally made it to the otaku promise land, where all of my favourite things came from: Bad Japanese animation, video games, origami, sushi, geishas, cosplayers…the usual slew of cliché notions come to mind.

Of course, as anyone who has traveled to encounter a culture distant from their own, it is rarely the things you knew you would find that charm you. Contrary to my imaginings, the expanses of neon lights did not dazzle me, the endless supply of anime merchandise was less intoxicating so much as dizzying, Kyoto’s Geisha district, Gion – was an old world street with a few kimono-clad women carefully tiptoeing down its cobble-stones, with no interest in stopping to chat (understandably). Some things however, amazed and warmed me in ways I had never expected, namely, the people – both classic and flashy, young and old, Tokyo’s inability to pick just one identity delighted me.

At first glance, Tokyo is much like New York, a huge expanse of humanity trying to get from place to place, teaming crowds, defined by their generation, their age, their subculture. Anything you could imagine finding in a big important city, you will find in Japan: Young trendy teens in the trendiest fashions, the strangest outfits imaginable, business men in suits and ties, homeless people quietly living on the margins.

Yet, Tokyo is nothing like New York. Whereas New York is rough around the edges, to be generous, Tokyo is a well-oiled machine; efficient, cutting-edge and timeless.

Tokyo is:

• Efficient. The city runs like clockwork: Trains arrive on time, cars stop at yellow lights, people walk when they are told to and follow the signs. There is also never any confusion on the numbers; if there’s a price on it, that’s the price. No hidden taxes or tips. Pay the bill, be clear and concise, go.
• Convenient.Everything is color coded, clearly indicated and convenient. Thirsty? You are likely to be standing by a vending machine. Hungry? A bento stand awaits you at the station. Need to pee? The subway washrooms are clean, have soap and there is hardly a line up.
• Courteous. It is also, by far, the most polite city I have ever been to. When an old woman gets on the train, someone systematically rises. If you hear a cough, don’t be irritated, the person is likely wearing a medical mask to keep you from catching their cold. You will never hear a phone ring on the bus, no one is calling their friend obnoxiously from the other end of the station, no one is pushing you and if they do, they will apologize so much you’ll feel sorry you were in their way. If you ask for directions, someone will help you.
• Organized. For such a large city, the orderliness of Tokyo was shocking. How could so many different-looking people fall into line so smoothly and seamlessly? Japan is a society of rules that, from my limited experience, seem to be rigidly followed.
• Clean. There were no public garbage cans for long stretches of street and yet no garbage anywhere in sight. Garbage was also divided into combustible, non-combustible and recycling…and people followed those rules.
• Hard-working. Everyone we saw on the street was busy. No one was sitting around doing nothing. Flowers were tended to, customers were served and greeted, even older people seemed intent on getting from point A to point B. I certainly did not miss salesgirls painting their nails and ignoring me here in North America.
• Crowded. Nothing will prepare you for Shibuya crossing, the flood of bodies moving all around you.
• High end.This is not to be taken lightly. Tokyo is an expensive city. It does not shy away from it, it knows its worth and flaunts it with all of its GUCCI and Prada glory. I had endless shoe envy at the women clicking on by down the street. Tokyo urbanites all look like they’re dressed in their finest, even the tiniest imperfection was certainly intended and polished.

The pace of life in Tokyo is a shaking, frantic heartbeat, always on the go and stimulated in all of its senses. I loved the surprise at every turn, but was glad to turn South when the time came. Never underestimate the power of “too much.” Patrick calls it Toys R’ Us syndrome. It’s that moment when I walk into a store and am so excited at everything I see that I take it all in and feel lightheaded, filled with it all. Too many options, too many impressions, it brings out that child in me that steps back and just wants to pick a single toy, one small thing to latch on to, to focus on, to commit my energy to something that won’t get lost in the hugeness of it all.

Now Live From Nippon

Contrary to popular belief, vacation and adventure are two distinct experiences, vacation implying relaxation, while adventure only suggests being out of your comfort zone or discovering something new. My experience thus far suggests that in adventuring, one tends to learn a great deal about the world, but an even greater deal about oneself. Being far away from family and friends, when every blink brings novelty, is both humbling and empowering. 

I am currently in Fukuoka,  the largest city in Kyushu, one of the southern islands of Japan. It’s a young city, without the cosmopolitain attention-seeking madness of Tokyo, nor the traditional, old-world feel of Kyoto. Had my best friend not been posted in Okagaki village, a sleepy but heart-warming town of 30,000 about an hour from Hakata JR station, I would most likely never have known to come here. Guides tend to overlook these not-so-touristy cities. The pace of life here resembles Montreal it seems, though everything is more efficient and convenient, in true Japanese fashion. As such, I feel a comfort in this city, though Okagaki will certainly be among the highlights of my trip. The town’s people were so inviting and the children so eager to allow us strangers into their world. Getting a sticker from a little Japanese boy was, by far, the most amazing thing this asia-loving gaijin could want. Despite the fact that Patrick and I have both been physically and emotionally worn out from the stress of so much novelty, I’m really glad we made the leap and braved the big wide world. He’s curled up  on my elbow in our tiny box of a hostel room( this place gives a new meaning to quaint) sleeping off his cold. Nobody ever said adventuring would be easy but it IS worth it!

The Pre-Japan Jitters

It has been a stressful few weeks. My roommate left for the land of the rising sun, the days seem to stretch on endlessly, culminating in tomorrow’s departures gate.

To Tokyo

Whenever I undertake a trip, all of my past trips seem to come into a blurry focus, as though my mind is searching for some hint as to the unknown it’s about to experience, filling that void of “otherness” as best as it can. I have taken many voyages and been on many flights, and yet I can’t seem to recall a single one in any detail. Perhaps it is comparable to the way my mother can’t remember being in labor – for me, flying has always involved some form of discomfort. Of the 10 hour flight between Moscow and Montreal, I remember only the departures gate. When I flew to Israel, I only remember trying to unblock my nose (I’ve always flown with colds, it never fails). On the flight to England, my ears felt like they were going to explode and the air waitress offered for me to hold styrofoam cups with warm tissue at the bottom…whether to unblock my ears or to watch me put cups to my ears and grimace, I’ll never know.

Flights are an odd phenomena, cut off from the earth, from time, from space, you become a satellite, anchored only to earth’s gravitational pull, as far away from a human’s natural place as you’re likely going to be in your lifetime. And yet, there you are, rising into the sky without any of the glamour or glitz and somehow, you land on the other side of the planet. I will be the first to admit that flying makes me nervous, I am not one who likes to lose control and flights are just that, a complete surrender to the forces that be. Here’s to that flight, here’s to tomorrow, here’s to saying goodbye to the office, to safety, to worries about tomorrow. It’s finally Japan time. See you all in the East!

 

A Wallet Full of Moths…No Wait, Just the Moths

Have you ever had your wallet stolen? It is perhaps the single most shocking first world problem – having the things that prove you are part of the privileged class with cards to your name being stripped from you. It happened on Friday. I had been in a luggage store for a while rummaging through the multitude of options available to me as carry-ons for Japan ( my goal remains being able to fit 2 weeks-worth of stuff into a small bag that can both roll and be carried), then with my purchase in hand, I proudly marched over to the Forever 21 in search of cheap flip-flops or ballerina slippers. I felt it too! I’m sure I did! That moment when a woman brushed up against me at Forever 21 and I politely said “Oh, sorry” and went on my way. My purse was open, with both straps on my shoulder. Then, at a shoe store right accross the street, I found the cutest little red ballerinas, see exhibit B below:

I reached into my purse, dug around and suddenly realized — it was gone! I thought I would panic, I thought my knees would give out and my heart would stop… but nothing happened. I was simply standing in a store with nothing to pay with. What could I say? The woman was sympathetic, but what could she say? Little red shoes and I were simply not meant to be. I dashed out of the store and ran back the way I came – I asked at every store I had been at, then reported everything to the security information desk. Of course, I also didn’t have a means of getting home since my bus pas was safely tucked into my wallet, along with my licence (and address), medicare card, social insurance number (yes, I promise never to travel with it again) and my citizenship card, with a picture of myself as a 5 year old grinning on it. I did the rounds, surprised at how calm I actually felt. There’s just a complacency when you realize you’ve been had and your only answer from here is to start picking up the pieces. I called Patrick to rant my complacent rage and set off to the bank by foot, what other solution did I have?

Once I had gotten to the end of the line-up, I realized I had nothing to prove who I was. The woman at the bank knew me of course, but it was so strange to stand there with no documents and no paperwork, just me, myself and I answering questions about the only expertise I truly have: Myself. My address, my phone number, my birthday —the thief had them all too! By the time I’d gotten to the bank, they had already gotten 100$ off my debit and credit card respectively. I couldn’t even feel upset, I was simply at a loss. I stepped out of the bank holding my sole connection to economic stability: A debit card with access to my account. Once on the street, with Patrick in tow, I did the rounds of phone numbers : Social Insurance, Medicare, etc. There were visits to be made and papers to be filled out…but as it was Friday, my options were limited. I was dying to check the mall one last time – maybe the thief had dumped all of useless documents and Pharmacie points cards somewhere! To no avail.  As we trecked back through the mall, Patrick asked what I had been buying. “Red ballerinas”, I grumbled longingly. He insisted we buy them anyway, his treat .

High Ho, High Home

Above, you will find, a rather poor attempt at showing you my future apartment, done with the wonders of the iPad – in all its drawing glory. I had to edit with MS Paint. It doesn’t quite project the instant love Patrick and I felt when we came in, after 3 flights of stairs and were greeted with a tiny, sun-lit bedroom where someone had been learning to play “Fly Love” on an electric piano and pinned up a poster of Marilyn Monroe. Just as with my previous apartment, there was a lot of elbowing on both sides. “Hey”, “so”, “What do you–” and glacing back and forth at each other. When we met the building owner the next day in his office, it felt much like signing a pre-nuptial agreement, and I think our palms were just a little clammier than the unseasonably warm Montreal spring necessitated when we finally emerged onto the street.

Operation Apartment

Ladies and gentleman, I need a place to live. The arrival of spring in Montreal has been a beautiful thing and while I would love to be prancing about taking in Vitamin D, I need an apartment that will house Patrick and myself as we attempt the Life of the Young Couple. This experience, while lived by so many before us, is made no less stressful by the input of the “experienced”. That’s right parents, grandparents and overly trusting twenty year-olds who have already taken the plunge, moving in with your significant other STILL seems like an impossible feat from where I’m standing. Like much else in our 20s, it seems that no one remembers this stage in their lives and can’t seem to recall any tips besides “The first year is the hardest”. Thanks, something to look forward to.  That said, thus far, I’ve come across a number of options for us to try and make peace with:

1)        The distant dream home: By distant, I really do mean FAR. Prices are low, apartments or houses are to die for but transportation is virtually non-existent. It would be like isolating ourselves to a small island, minus the palm trees. Togetherness would be achieved through sheer necessity.

2)       The Montreal equivalent of the Manhattan apartment. So close to the downtown core that we could walk to work and school. Rent costs are intended for young professionals with salaries in the 6 digit range…the type that never go home because the apartments are essentially storage units. They’re tiny, drafty and lack a proper kitchen.

3)        The shooting stars: The illusive apartments that appear on craigslist and vanish just as suddenly. They’re gorgeous, well-located and surprisingly cheap…until they vanish. We had almost caught one…but we then waited outside a building for half an hour and the landlord never showed up.

4)       The 1984 capsule: These apartments tend to be the most affordable and balanced option…as long as I can accept that I’m living in a hamster cage of sorts, with hundreds of other apartments exactly like mine along a long corridor. I understand the practicality of this kind of building; low income housing for the masses…but wouldn’t it be grand if each at least had a little something special about it? Am I being too picky? Probably. These also come with the added bonus of graffiti and potentially loud neighbors (Understandable, being trapped in 1984 would make me angry too).

5)       The residential duplex: Impossible sans car, these are located in safe, kid-friendly areas with lots of parks…and no grocery stores. I know, I know, I’m young and able…but when it’s -25 degrees out there, I’ll be ordering pizza.

Those are my current options. We will continue the quest in the coming weeks. Who knows, maybe a hybrid DOES exist!

A Place to Rest my Head in the Land of the Rising Sun

Nothing makes me feel like I’m leaving on a trip than booking accomodations. 

Plane tickets and train tickets are too transient, too tied to the hustle and bustle to feel like true, concrete plans. This weekend, Patrick and I perched on the edge of my bed and set out the parameters of our stay in the Land of the Rising Sun, city to city, tatami mat to mattress, imagining where we would be putting our heads down each night. Did you know that the Japanese term for their own country Nippon or Nihon means just that – the place from which the sun originates?

Choosing hostels in Japan is a little more complicated than in the Western World. Options are vast, as our price tags. Western style hotels, western hostels, Japanese Ryokan, guesthouses, the infamous capsule hotels…the possibilities are endless! Thank goodness for Google…we’ve now set up where we would rest each night…Tokyo, Kyoto, Hiroshima, Fukuoka, Osaka and back to Tokyo – a wild ride awaits us!

Like any responsible traveler, I have purchased the Lonely Planet Japan Guide and been diligently(not diligently enough but hey…) revising my Japanese manuals : Japanese for Busy People, Genki Japan and the adventures of Mary-San as well as a few other textbooks I’ve picked up here and there. Naturally, this will in no way prepare me for the cultural and linguistic barrier I’m about to face, but it helps me feel more secure to know that I can minimally ask for directions. Patrick has commited himself to the Japanese Rosetta Stone and has learned such useful phrases as “The man runs”, “The little girl runs” and, of course “The woman drinks”. I’m sure all of these will be vital.

 

 

 

The Meaning of Success

Is this what success looks like?

A great deal of ink has been spilt over the notion of success, most likely more in the past few decades than in all of history combined. There are self-help books, psychology books, fiction novels, biographies, marketing and leadership books…my options on the topic are limitless – but how do you sort through the clutter and figure out the meaning of success in your own reality? There’s a debate about subjectivity here, but I think success and failure can be seen on a scale between the homeless man shooting up in the parking lot and say…Barack Obama or Steve Jobs. I’m sure some might argue with this notion as being too black and white, in which case, I would have  a difficult time discussing success at all. What truly differentiates these men? The answer is simple: Not very much. Circumstances, discipline, money, family…all of these combine to create a Golden boy or a good-for-nothing. Success is driven by identity and self-definition: How can I succeed in a way that makes me feel fulfilled? The debate of the privileged, isn’t it? My parents had to wonder how they would feed their children and here I am, giving myself a potential aneurism over the notion of a success that fits with my values.

Looking over my surroundings, you can say that anyone who gets to work in an air-conditioned environment with free coffee and their own company e-mail address has attained a type of success, the American cubicle dream. Yet somehow, the polished desks don’t quite make me want to burst into song.

The recent trend of bucket lists has been another means of defining or at least qualifying success. The film tapped into a universal need to feel that the 100 years or so that we have on earth are not wasted. If you get to check off “bungee jumping”, “kissing in the rain” and “visiting Africa”, it seems that you’ve succeded. My favourites of course, on these lists is the common “be spontaneous”.  The Secret suggests that mind over matter will allow you to claim success, no matter what it is and that all your dreams will come true …if you want it hard enough.

The messages are convoluted: Work hard and use mind over matter, dream big and be patient, define the moments you want to live but be adventurous and spontaneous about them. What’s a girl to do? Is my success measured by the house I will one day have(Oh wait, “materialism is bad” cry the socialists), the relationships I establish (“be independent though!” cry the feminists), my children (“but living through your children is detrimental to both you and them!” cry the psychologists).

Most agree that measuring success, at the end of the day, is about being happy. However, measuring happiness is about as easy as predicting the weather. You can study it, try and make predictions, evacuate when necessary but sometimes… nature just doesn’t give  a damn, much like emotions. Today, I can be lethargic and miserable and tomorrow I might be over the moon ecstatic.

My answer? I don’t have one. It’s a great big balancing act and “the end of the day” could come on any day. My generation’s carpe diem rhetoric has made us both the most self-absorbed and the most jaded generation in a very long time and as I rat on it, I also know that this comes from my own doubts about my ability to succeed and my ability to be on the side of the scale with the President and not with the hobo.

My current measure of success? Fitting way too much information on a single powerpoint slide. Size 10 seems promising. SUCCESS!

Rince, Dry, Repeat…Repeat Damnit!

“A dishwasher is a mechanical device for cleaning dishes and eating utensils - Wikipedia. Emphasis on the “eating utensils”.

Masha’s First World Problems this week: Dishwashers.

This is truly a compelling story of drama, violence, disgust and perseverence. Stay tuned.

It was a fortnight ago when we discovered the horror: We were taking what we thought were perfectly clean Finish-washed dishes out of the dishwasher and sipping at our tea over lunch…until our coworker – one with a sense of smell superior to most pointed out “…why do the dishes stink?” She was right. It was disgusting…really disgusting. The kind of disgusting that makes you want to wash your own dishes by hand (like they did in the olden days).

The dishwasher superman was called the next week. Unfortunately, he felt that he couldn’t actually fix the dishwasher until the water had been taken out. He left us with a 75$ bill for his climbing our staircase and called it a day. Guess we’ll write that one off.  After numerous phone calls to check that we had emptied the offending machine, he returned, armed with a mini vacuum…which could have emptied the water. He then seemed to have kicked the dishwasher a few times, wrote out a 170$ bill and headed out to wherever dishwasher demons gather. Unfortunately, all the kicking seems to have accomplished was to dent the bottom of the dishwasher, making it look a little like it had been mauled.

In the meantime, we had been hauling dishes to the 3rd floor dishwasher, most likely purchased somewhere around the time when I was born. It had been loyally supporting the onslaught until today. This morning, with a cry of pain and remorse…it too, succumbed to the same fate. We have contacted the dishwasher man to return and maul this one as well.

Next week, I’m reaching for the Sunlight for my own needs…everyone else can turn to paper plates.

 

Leon Trotsky thinks you’re Hotsky

Valentine’s day, brilliant money -making scheme created by Hallmark Cards inc. in their endless quest to help you express your emotional constipation, has become a political term as dangerous as Christmas it seems. Everywhere I turn, there’s either a girl loving her free flowers or someone wishing me a Single’s Awareness Day (SAD) day. When I was in college, by which I mean CEGEP here in Quebec (age 16-17 for me, about 16-25 for most of my friends), I used to throw Single Awareness Day parties. The premise of these was that you could come to the party so long as you acted single, and if you were with someone, you couldn’t hold hands or do anything but chat like regular, SAD human beings. These were great fun and I like to think that lonely hearts were mended on those days, oh who am I kidding? Everyone hooked up after those parties, finding love in all the wrong places.

In line with my anti-Valentine’s day doctrines, my roommates and I spent last year together. We had wanted to buy penis shaped pasta…but the store was all out so we settled for ricotta cheese hearts. There was red wine and we put a red bow on Sir Paw McCatney:

My apologies for the quality of the photos. Sir Paw is not a big fan of photos. We were trying to capture his absolute joy at having the scarf on. On the left is our rosé, may it R.I.P., next to a red mug with paper napkin roses. (I’m a whizz at making those! – ask me!)

This year however, I inevitably woke up next to my Valentine and it seemed rude to ignore the fact that we are the people Valentine’s day was created for, we’re those jerks who kiss on subway platforms, hold hands on the escalator when you’re trying to get upstairs and are running late, those darned kids at the bottom of the stairwell necking, those people you frankly wish would just get hit by a bus. There was nothing I could do, there he was beside me and my foggy mind forgot all the reasons I had opposed this holiday: “Happy Vday.” I said, and because Patrick doesn’t use contractions in his sentences, he answered “Happy Saint Valentine’s Day.” and that was that.

As we had decided on not giving gifts this year due to a) saving money for Japan and b) He now works 12 straight days with no breaks, I gave him a deck of cards bound up in a spiral with 54 reasons why I love him, 1 reason per card inscribed in my messy handwriting on each (I’m sorry for making you sick). He gave me a sheepish look for not having bought something obnoxiously expensive for once.

With that, in the words of Karl Marx and a clever Vday card I found online:

“Roses are red, So is the state, Let us be comrades, Because you are great.”