mini milestones, and a big one coming up

Two weeks from Sunday will be one year since I moved to Japan. I promise to write a long, deep post about the past year, what I've done and learned, etc. In the meantime, to tide you over, two amusing anecdotes:

1) Last week Sarah, Jon and I went to Tokyo Disney. Or, rather, we tried to. By the time we arrived at 10:30, the park was already at capacity for the day, so we went to Disney Sea instead. Sea is more about the experience than the rides -- there's nothing in that park that compares to Space Mountain, or even the Matterhorn -- and I'm more about the rides. (Space Mountain! Matterhorn!) It was fun nonetheless -- a bit odd to hear Mickey Mouse speaking Japanese, but still fun. Japan and Disney are a match made in heaven; the Happiest Place on Earth meets the Most Inclined To Spend Ungodly Amounts Of Money On Cute Things Place on Earth. (see also: tiny dogs)

Now to the anecdote: There are two exits at the Disney subway stop, marked with signs in Japanese and English. As we surged through Minami Deguchi/South Exit, a Japanese girl, about 8 years old, tugged her mother's hand and pointed to the sign. "South! South!" she exclaimed, clearly proud to have recognized the English word. At the same time, I was saying to myself, "Minami! I recognized that kanji!"

2) Also last week, I finally made my first pilgrimage to the Shibuya outpost of Tokyu Hands, a DIY store with supplies for just about any hobby or craft you could name, plus things like luggage and bikes. I quickly realized this could easily be an 8-hour errand; six stories of amazing goodies! But I focused, got my beading supplies, and was on my way out when I was distracted by an entire floor devoted mostly to clocks. This may surprise people who've been in my apartment in Tokyo, which has NO clocks except the one on the microwave, but I LOVE clocks. I don't know why -- I barely use them, preferring my cell phone -- I just do. Then I saw a wall of posters, including an amazing, '50s-era map of Tokyo, with its major streets named "Avenue A," "19th Street," etc., just like New York City, during the occupation. I instantly thought the map would make a great going-away gift for Allison, one of my fave reporters, who just left for Italy.

There have been a lot of times in the past year when I wasn't able to buy something because I just didn't know how to communicate what I wanted. But I stood back, I did some mental vocabulary review, and I realized, I can make this purchase. So I found the nearest staffer and said, in Japanese, that I'd like to buy that map of Tokyo, on the wall over there, with a frame.

For the first time EVER, there was no hesitation on the part of the Japanese half of the conversation. She didn't look at me as though I was speaking Greek; she didn't say "sumimasen?"; she didn't repeat the request back to me in English; she didn't call a co-worker to come translate. She just went to the posters drawer, pulled out the map I'd asked for and said "Kono wa?" (this one?) I said yes, she asked if I wanted a white frame or a black frame, I said white, she asked me to wait while she framed it. And I had. The whole. Conversation. In Japanese. Without having to apologize, or explain that I only speak a little Japanese. It's like I actually can maybe sort of communicate, or something.

Thrilled with my purchase, and pumped about my conversation (Nihongo wa dekimasu, bitches!) I headed home, and decided to treat myself to the salami/proscuitto plate at my neighborhood pasta joint. It came, and my first thought upon seeing it was, I'm glad they brought chopsticks with this, because the basket on the table only has forks, and proscuitto is damn near impossible to cut with a fork. So I scooped up a hunk of delectable-looking ham.

Or, started to, but something immediately went wrong. The top chopstick shattered, and pieces flew everywhere. I was baffled -- what the hell just happened? -- but then, as I picked a sliver out of my hair, I realized ...

... that they were actually breadsticks.

Utensil identification FAIL.

(As Stacy helpfully pointed out to me later, what kind of jerk makes breadsticks that look exactly like chopsticks? In Japan?)

year-round insanity

One of the many cool things about Tokyo is that nearly every restaurant employs guys who zip around on little motorbikes, delivering food to anyone too busy/lazy/cold/hot/etc. to go get it themselves. You can get just about anything delivered here: curry, sushi, pork cutlets. Even booze!

Even this:




The skeptics among you may be thinking, yeah, this has been on the Internet for a while. It's totally Photoshopped. Funny, but fake.

Let me restore your faith, o cynics: this is NOT Photoshopped. This was in my mailbox when I got home from work last night. (And my 'Shop skills are nowhere near this good.) This is the Four Seasons pizza from the oddly named Strawberry Cones (the name makes me want ice cream, or maybe crepes, but not pizza).

Let's take a look at what we have here, shall we?

Clockwise from top left, this culinary masterpiece has four topping sections:

• Sweet corn, in what appears to be curry or barbecue sauce
• Tuna with potato, tomato, onion, garlic and parsley, crisscrossed with mayonnaise
• Salmon and broccoli with "gratin sauce"
• 5-cheese margherita

The toppings aren't that noteworthy -- pretty typical for Japanese pizza, especially the corn and the mayo. (Why must they ruin all food by squirting mayo all over it?)

The part that takes the cake, er, pie, is the crust. Note the artful arrangement of the extras. Each section gets two. First, the yellow globs (I think, based on my previous experiences with Japanese pizza, that these are mozzarella; this topping does not hold up well, as the globs get cold and congeal quickly.) Not in the mood for rubbery cheese balls? Well, you're in luck, because the other half of the crust is topped with ... pigs in a blanket!

All this can be yours for only $25!!!!!*

* For a medium. Large pizza is $35.

i sort of need that toe, thanks

Yesterday morning I managed to bash my left pinky toe into my coffee table. I hoped the combination of ibuprofen, wine and sleep would banish the pain by today, but it still Hurts. So. Much. If I did a "Things I Hate Right Now" list*, this would be number 1.

The pain's not really the problem, although I can't say I enjoy it. The bigger issue is that my primary mode of transportation is through the courtesy of my two feet. So impairing my ability to walk is the equivalent of wrecking my car.

* I've thought many times about creating this list, but I'm always reminded of the C&H strip where Calvin starts a list of "A million things that really bug me" and Hobbes says "How about excessively negative people?"

nihongo wa sukoshi shika dekimasen

("I can only speak a little Japanese.")

I thought it would never happen, but Tuesday night I finished Book I of Japanese for Busy People -- the equivalent of finishing a year of college-level study. Up next: Book II, which will prove to be a bit more of a challenge because parts of the book, including the dictionary, are written in kana; and starting the daunting challenge of learning to read and write kanji, the alphabet consisting of thousands of Chinese characters. I'm working from a book called "Easy Kanji," which is a ridiculous oxymoron. It's from the same series as the "Easy Hiragana" book I mocked in an earlier post, but I have to admit, that book, and its companion, "Easy Katakana," did teach me those alphabets. So I was kind of superstitious about sticking with the same series for kanji. But I've already realized -- I'm going to need a LOT more books. Muzukashii desu! (It's difficult.)

photos from my korea vacation

I'm leaning toward posting pics on Facebook rather than on Flickr these days, because Flickr allows only a few uploads per month unless you pay for a premium account. This album is accessible even to people who aren't on Facebook:

http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=37486&l=2a87f&id=720561445

Enjoy!

gain a fortune, lose a kettle

I started this morning the way I've started every work day this decade: put the kettle on to make tea; check e-mail while I wait for the water to boil.

The e-mail held the news I've been waiting nine months to hear: my house is sold. I've been afraid to even mention that it was under contract -- I know all too well that real estate contracts can fall through right up until closing. But it's done: all the i's are dotted, the t's crossed, every one of the 10,000 documents required to transfer a house is signed, by some guy named Carlos (the buyer) and by Mary Ellen (acting as me, through the magic of a power of attorney).

I'm 99 percent ecstatic about the sale. I wanted to sell for a lot of reasons:

1) My infernal ARM was due to adjust in November (yes, I'm one of those people who took out a hybrid ARM with the intention of flipping the house before the interest rate went up, thereby contributing heavily to the mortgage crisis. You're welcome.)

2) The mortgate, along with the various expenses of maintaining an empty house, were eating up a lot of the disposable income that was supposed to be one of the perks of working in Japan.

3) Most importantly, I didn't want to move back to that house. One big thing I learned from living there is, I am not handy, and I'm not a person who gets any pleasure from yardwork or gardening. I grew to hate the huge yard, which always needed to be mowed, or raked, or sprayed for ants, or have a giant nest of angry bees removed. I think my happiest moment in packing up the house was when I pushed my flimsy snow shovel into the trash bin and vowed that, as God is my witness, I'll never shovel again. On top of that, after living car-free in Tokyo, I can't imagine ever going back to a lifestyle that doesn't let me walk to nightlife, grocery stores and public transportation. It was a cute house and I'm glad I owned it, but next time around, I'll be looking for something very different.

The 1 percent is a bit of unavoidable melancholy that I always feel when I have to give up something that's been a part of who I am. (I think my bitterest tears were shed for my 1976 cobalt blue Corolla, with the rotting floorboards and the sticking carburator that stranded me on so many cold winter nights.) The melancholy is mixed with a soupcon of fear -- I literally can't go home again. I've cut my last physical tie to D.C., as well as giving up my biggest adult achievement and my primary source of equity.

But the fear yields something else: freedom. With that chain unbound, the world is my playground -- when my contract at Stripes ends, I can live anywhere I want. (Anywhere with gainful employment, that is.) Into the great wide open, and all.

Wait a minute, you're saying. Was there a kettle in this story? Was there a point to this story?

Yes, and yes. Getting there.

So, I read the e-mail. I did cartwheels. (Mentally.) I let out a breath I've been holding for nine months as the housing market descended to lows even Dante couldn't conceive. Then I put my last Earl Greyer teabag into a cup and picked up the kettle.

I should mention here that the kettle is, I believe, older than me. It's a sturdy old Pyrex percolator that my mom made her breakfast tea with, my whole life, until she got a bigger one and gave me the old one.

Ah, here it is, and it appears these were made between 1952 and 1960. Damn, it's older than I realized:

Just as I started to pour, the kettle broke in half. Just under the metal band -- suddenly I was holding the handle and the lid, and the bottom of the kettle was on the stovetop, and boiling water was everywhere. I got lucky -- most of the water ended up on the counter and the floor, although some of it did splash me, and I have a pretty nasty burn on my stomach. But it's small.

Somehow, though, the loss of the kettle hit me much harder than the loss of the house. Part of it was the shock -- the house has been under contract since May. (Also, physical pain played a role.)

I didn't mean to turn the kettle into a metaphor, but I just now did, in my mind. Because even though I'm sad to lose my heirloom (I maybe cried a little bit), I'm also excited to shop for a new kettle. Just a couple of weeks ago, I was eyeing jewel-toned OXO kettles at FrancFrancFranc, an awesome housewares shop. I coveted them, but turned away because I had a perfectly good kettle at home. And now, out of the loss, comes freedom, to buy a new one. So it's just like the house. And that's enough of this tortured analogy. Good night.

better late than never

Now that I finally have Internet (hooray!) I've gotten around to posting photos from cherry blossom season on Flickr, as well as some exterior shots of my apartment. I'll try to post interior shots later this week, but first I need to clean. :(

To see them, use the link at right, or find me on flickr -- username brechtgirldc.