Tuesday, May 30, 2006

So much for sleep

I absolutely planned to go to bed after dinner last night -- until I found out it was also karaoke night.

Now, you just cannot go to Tokyo and not do karaoke. It's illegal. Or should be. So, even though I was about to fall face-first on the (very clean) pavement, I lumbered to the karaoke place. This was just like "Lost In Translation" -- you rent a room for 2 hours, and you get your own machine with thousands of songs, and all you can drink.

This was the source of much of my pre-trip stress -- what song would I sing? And would I horrify everyone with my lack of singing ability?

The second worry was a bit ameliorated on my first night here, when Tim asked anxiously "Are you a good singer?", and was visibly relieved when I said no. The first worry was exacerbated by the excessive songbook, and by the promise that Tony would stun us all with his rendition of "My Way."

The upshot: Tony did stun us (dude can flat-out sing); Sid did the Hammer dance; and my musical muse -- at least for the night -- was:

(I cannot escape this woman)

Britney.

Yeah, that's right. Stacy and I rocked "Toxic." You got a problem with that?

And did I go to bed after that? Oh no. Instead we headed to expat bar Geronimo, which is something like a rite of passage for Americans in Tokyo (at least Americans affiliated with Stripes). We were greeted by a paper sign on the door that said "Due to recent events, all professional rugby players are banned from Geronimo." (Now that sounds like a fun night. Too bad I missed it.)

Geronimo wasn't the coolest bar in the universe, but it does have a great view of Tokyo, and a wall of plaques with the names of people who've drunk a huge number of shots (I variously heard 17 and 19) in one sitting. Many of them are former Stripes employees.

Still not done ... we stopped at McDonald's on the way back to Hardy Barracks.

So at 1 a.m., I finally slept.

My new Japanese word of the day: juhachi-ban. It means "number 18", but it also means your karaoke song. I've gotta find a better juhachi-ban.

Day 2.75 -- jet lagged now

I am going to collapse.

But first I'm going out with all my Far East colleagues for a night of izikaya and all you can drink.

Monday, May 29, 2006

Day 2.5 -- still no jet lag!

Yesterday was a blast -- I had no work to do here, so Sam took me sight-seeing. We went to a shrine in Akasuka where you buy a fortune based on your age for 100 yen (about a dollar). Mine was good, but Sam's, not so much -- the last line was "Marriage and employment must be stopped." There are wires nearby where you tie bad fortunes, to wish them away, so Sam tied his. I kept mine. (I'll post photos on Flickr tomorrow.)

Then we went to investigate the orange Eiffel Tower, which is called Tokyo Tower (clever!). It's actually a very organized (and kitschy) tourist attraction -- for 700 yen you can take an elevator to the top (if you've ever ridden up the actual Eiffel Tower, you'd be amazed at how smooth and non-scary this ride is). There's an observation deck, where I got a sense of just how crowded Tokyo really is -- in many spots there's not a visible patch of ground, just an insanely dense and chaotic mass of buildings going every which way, as though they just built wherever they could find square footage. I wasn't able to see Mount Fuji -- too overcast -- but I did get a good look at the city.

Halfway down the tower are five floors of attractions, including a minor amusement park with rides for kids; a wax museum (admission was extra, so we skipped it); a Guinness Book of Records museum (bizarre, and we saw a kid getting his picture taken holding the shoe of the world's tallest man. The shoe was about two feet long. The best part was the ads, which were only in Japanese, so we were left to try to guess why the pictured items were record holders -- longest-eared dog? largest sport coat? gorilla with a TV where its face should be? -- because we also skipped that); a cool-looking restaurant with low tables and surrounded by curtains of rice strings; and a cafe that looked like a diner in the States.

We passed up the diner for a crepe stand outside -- the crepes were HUGE and yummy. I got ice cream and blueberry sauce, but if I'd been so inclined I could have gotten tuna with pizza sauce or scrambled eggs and curry. But I was not so inclined.

By the time we got back to Hardy Barracks the reporters were starting to arrive from all over Japan and Korea, and a bunch of us went to dinner at a place called Pizzakaya (if you read the last post, you learned the Japanese word izikaya; this is a play on words. It's really just a very good pizza place). We skipped the Japanese favorite of corn and mayonnaise and had more American choices like pepperoni and four cheese. Awesome pizza. Then we went to a tiny bar called The Cavern, which had framboise (yay!) and really does look like a cavern inside, minus the stalactites and stalagmites. The place could hold about 20 people. It was really laid-back and a good time.

Went to bed around midnight; woke up at 6. I'm amazed I'm functioning. We'll see how well I hold up in the day of meetings that is before me.

My Japanese word for the day: sumimasen (excuse me).

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Konichiwa from Tokyo

I'm really here! It doesn't quite seem real yet ... or maybe that's just the jet lag talking.

The 15-hour flight was not the worst I've ever taken -- that would be the 10-hour flight from Frankfurt to Chicago with a broken tailbone -- and the food (remember food on planes?) wasn't half bad. And just around the time I started to think "I have to get off this plane, or I'm gonna pull a Jack Bauer," I saw on the little "you are here" screen that the plane was approaching the northernmost islands, so I didn't have to hijack it.

It probably won't surprise anyone to learn that the Japanese run the world's most efficient airport. Narita is spotless, the escalators and moving sidewalks are space-age smooth, I cleared quarantine, immigration and customs in 10 minutes, and my luggage was already on the carousel when I got to it. Airport managers of the world, take note ...

I walked out of the airport expecting to see something out of "Lost In Translation." But Narita is about 40 miles from downtown Tokyo, and the surrounding area looks nothing like Tokyo. Lined with trees and noise-abatement walls, the Kanto Expressway looks for all the world like any highway in Virginia -- except everyone's driving on the left. Then we drove through an industrial area containing the headquarters of nearly every electronic and automobile I've owned. We also passed two random, ginormous Ferris wheels (one, I was told, is the world's largest) and the Eiffel Tower (it's a radio tower, but it looks just like the one in Paris. Except it's orange.)

And then we were downtown, and that really does look like Tokyo. (Because, duh, it is.) I was surprised to see how many signs are in English -- it's very trendy here to use English, so it's pretty easy to figure out what most businesses are. (The fluency of the sign writers, however, varies wildly. One colleague saw a T-shirt that said "You broke my arm." My new mission in Tokyo is to find and purchase that shirt.)

I unpacked, did a little B&E of Stripes' Tokyo office -- which was empty -- and realized I had no idea where my co-workers were or how to contact them (my cell doesn't work here, and I'm quickly realizing how addicted to it I am), so I wandered back toward Hardy Barracks (a military owned housing/lodging/crash pad for drunken troops where I'm staying, and which conveniently is across a parking lot from the Tokyo office, so for the next 10 days I have a 15-second commute) thinking "I have nothing to do." Followed by, "You're in Tokyo. There are 10 million things to do on this block."

And then co-workers Tim and Sam spotted me, and rescued me from an evening of wandering around Tokyo lost.

Our plan was to eat dinner at a Brazilian restaurant, but the 90-minute wait deterred us, so instead we went to a place called Tangu, whose orange vinyl booths reminded me of a 70s-era generic IHOP. It's actually an izikaya -- a diner-like place that serves small plates of Japanese food. (Like tapas, but Japanese.) They thoughtfully provided an English menu with many (hopefully) inexact translations -- we passed on the "nuggets of chicken gristle," "big eyes tuna sashimi," "abdomen meat of bonito" and "delicately fried squid liver and all." What we did have: gozya (potstickers), shrimp with mayonnaise sauce, fried rice with crab meat, white asparagus, yakitori (chicken on skewers), and other things I couldn't begin to spell or describe. Tons of fun. Then we went to a bar in Shibuya called BYG, that boasts an amazing selection of music on vinyl and CD, and takes requests. I discovered umeshu -- plum wine that goes down nice and sweet. (This morning I discovered my head was stapled to the pillow.) We drank til midnight, telling stories about other nights of drinking (most of which ended in injuries).

And then I slept -- for the first time in 37 hours.

Friday, May 26, 2006

This is the thanks I get?

Before I leave, I've gotta clear one thing up.

Last week, I put myself on the line to defend the increasing indefensible Britney Spears. I probably was the only person in the blogosphere even remotely on her side in the wake of Babygate Part XXIV.

And what do I get in return?

This.

Your honor, I can no longer provide an adequate defense. I hereby withdraw.

Sayonara!

There are only so many calamities that one can have in the tiny, congressional representation-deprived, not-quite-diamond that is the District of Columbia. So I'm taking my act on the road -- to Japan, South Korea and Australia -- where language barriers, currency conversion and jet lag no doubt will ensure that hilarity will ensue. And if those don't do the trick, there's always karaoke.

I'll be posting as often as I can, and uploading my photos on Flickr; links to come.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Living up to low expectations

In a recent post, Stacy described me as "the calamity-prone goddess of D.C."

Yesterday I went out of my way to prove her right. At least the calamity part.

When I opened my front door last night, I heard a motor running. I thought at first my neighbor was mowing, but it got louder as I moved into the house. I followed the sound upstairs, slightly alarmed but mostly curious as to what the heck it could be.

As I climbed the stairs, I noticed it was a lot warmer upstairs than downstairs. Not just in a "heat rises" kind of way, but about 20 degrees warmer.

I followed the noise into the bathroom, where I discovered that the hook that so neatly held my hair dryer on the side of the vanity had fallen off, and improbably, somehow the hair dryer had gotten switched on as it plummeted to the floor.

I guess it had been on for hours, because it was about 90 degrees in the bathroom.

What I learned yesterday -- you can heat your house with hair dryers! Provided you don't mind the electric bills and the very real possibility of finding your home replaced by a pile of ashes.

I learn something new every day; it's not necessarily useful.

Monday, May 22, 2006

It's not blue

This morning, a guy in a suit offered me his seat on the train. (In five years of daily commuting, this has never happened.)

Maybe he's just old-school. Or maybe he's on board with John Kelly's attempt to return chivalry to Metro.

But, considering I was mistaken for an expectant mother last week while buying a shower gift at Babies 'R Expensive, I'm gonna dig out my "8-Minute Abs" video the minute I get home.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

Sympathy for the she-devil

I never thought I'd find myself saying this, but ... I kinda feel sorry for Britney Spears right now.

Brit's back in the tabloids for nearly dropping Sean Preston while trying to fight her way through crowds of paparazzi in New York, her latest would-be-comical-if-it-didn't-involve-a-baby mishap.

I'm not even about to defend her for driving with the baby on her lap ... or not knowing how to use a car seat ... or marrying a loser ... or her entire career. (Although Nickel Creek's cover of "Toxic" is wicked cool.)

But ... as a fellow klutz, I can see myself being in this position. Not the being-chased-by-photogs part, but I manage to fall quite a bit on my own, even when not surrounded by a crazed mob. And if I was holding a baby during one of my clumsy spells, yeah, I can see potential catastrophe.

(Mental picture: Sharon reading this post in horror, yelling, "And I let that woman hold Harper! Never again!")

Being a trifle clumsy doesn't make her a bad mom.

Being pregnant again by KFed, however, does.

Saturday, May 20, 2006

An open letter to people at my gym

Dear people who use/hang out at my gym:

1) Why do you work out in street clothes? I don't get it. It's not that you're wearing T-shirts and shorts that could do double duty as workout clothes; half of you are in sweaters and Timberlands. Were you just wandering through the mall and decided "Eh, I didn't really find anything I wanted at Old Navy, I guess I'll hit the gym to make my trip worthwhile"? The other day, I saw a woman wearing:
* extremely low-rise capri jeans
* five belts (none of which helped to hold up the jeans)
* at least 30 bracelets
* a tank top
* kitten-heel sandals
* granny panties that came up six inches above the top of her jeans

I wanted to ask her the two obvious questions:
a) Why would you wear that to run on a treadmill?
b) Why would you wear that?

I'm not saying you've gotta be in head-to-toe Foot Locker. I'm just saying it's a little weird to lift weights in a dress shirt and tie, is all.

2) As hangouts go, the gym is kinda lame, don't you agree? Everybody's all sweaty and looks bad, the lighting is garish, and at $45 a month, the cover's kinda steep. So if all you want to do is hook up, maybe the food court would be more fun. The seats there are more comfortable than the leg extension machines you're slouched on, and you won't get in fights every two minutes when people kick you off the equipment. No, really. I mean it. Leave. Now.

3) It's ludicruous that the gym doesn't provide towels, I hear ya, but pop in Target and buy a hand towel, would you? Having to wipe pools of your sweat off the equipment is just nasty.

And a few words for the management:
1) Buy some more increment weights. There's, what, two five-pound weights in the whole gym? And they're always in some bizarrely obscure spot -- yesterday I found them stacked like Jenga pieces on a scale. If tiny Bowie Athletic Club can afford increment weights for each machine, surely a huge fitness chain whose name rhymes with 'rallies' can spring for some.

2) Do something about #2 and #3 above. You maybe wouldn't have to lock people into decade-long contracts if they actually liked the gym.

3) What the heck do the trainers do? I've never seen them actually training anybody. I have seen them ignore people using equipment the wrong way, refusing to follow basic gym etiquette and overexerting themselves to the point of collapse. Worth mentioning, no?

I bring this up because I have a confession -- I cheated on you, Bally's. It started out innocently enough -- I was running an errand in Greenbelt and yes, we had a date that night, but there was a huge accident on Route 1 and since you close ridiculously early, I couldn't get there on time. So I went to Beltway Plaza, thinking the gym there was a Bally's, but no, it was Gold's Gym. (Maybe it used to be Bally's? I could have sworn it was a Bally's, but I was pretty emphatically proved wrong.) But I really wanted to work out. I needed it, Bally's, and you couldn't give it to me, so I got it from someone else. (Actually, I said to the guy at the desk, "Look, here's the situation -- I'm an idiot. I thought this was my gym. Can I get a one-day pass?")

And, oh, Gold's gave me what I wanted. There must have been 10 trainers on the floor, just talking to people and encouraging them (yes, believe it or not, just regular people who pay the membership fee. Talking to them!). It's actually open useful hours. And oh yeah, they have towels.

And so I sneaked in an illicit week at Gold's, thrilled by the clandestine nature of it all. The trainers showed me machines you never told me existed. (And for some reason, I burn more calories on their treadmills than on yours.)

I'm back, of course, because my free pass expired. But my eyes have been opened. I know I can do better. And once my crazy-long contract is up, you better believe I will.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

You talkin' to ME? Well, are you?

Thanks to the brilliance that is Stacy, I've enabled the comments feature so that anyone can comment, not just people with Blogger accounts. Cause how elitist is that?

So, bring it.

Finally, a little something for the shoplifters

I hit H&M tonight after work; no reason, really, except that my gym plans were put on hold after I fell this morning while walking across F Street and hurt my ankle. I wasn't too injured to shop, though. And while standing in line for the fitting room (a very long line -- might I suggest not blocking half your fitting room doors with racks of rejected try-ons?) I noticed one of those absurd things that I so enjoy finding.

When you go into the fitting room, the attendant hangs a color-coded tag on the door to indicate how many items you have. Completely normal, but here's the weird thing -- the white tags have the number 0 on them.

Zero.

"Um, items? I didn't have any. I just, uh, came in to sit down for a minute. Cause it's kind of hot in here, specially when you're wearing five shirts and three pairs of pants."

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Much as I love Gallery Place at 2 a.m. ...

DCist is beta testing possibly the best-ever use of text messaging (aside from whiling away the time in church). LastCall promises info on D.C. weather, movie times and concert listings, and lets you make restaurant reservations through Open Table -- all very cool. But I'm most excited about the feature that tells you Metro times. You just text METRO [NAME OF STATION], and you get the next train times, in both directions, from any station.

Oh, the possibilities! No more skidding, breathlessly, onto the platform only to see taillights fading into the tunnel! No more sinking of my heart as my bleary eyes take in the words "4 Rd Glenmont 17"! No more three-level sprint between the platforms at Fort Totten in a transit "Deal Or No Deal" (7 minutes til the next Red Line train? I'll take my chances on what's on the lower-level platform, Howie. Sorry, the Green Line train just left. Now let's watch as our contestant sprints up the escalator, weaves around plodders on the main level, and does another escaltor sprint before her 7 minutes are up!)

202-299-7949: it's already programmed into my phone.

Monday, May 08, 2006

Stupid cell phone tricks

I was walking down the escalator at Metro Center today when my phone rang. I'm not one of those people who stomps around D.C. with my phone glued to my ear, but I guessed -- correctly, it turns out -- that it was Debra answering the question I'd just left a message asking her, so I fished my phone out of my purse and promptly fumbled it. In an unbelievable sequence of events, the phone bounced down three steps, hit its edge on the edge of a step, flipped itself open, cartwheeled down two more steps and landed on its back, with the display screen cheerfully counting away the call time.

Damage: none, except maybe to Debra's ear.

LG camera phones are built Ford tough.

And I'm sure this story is being told at the dinner tables tonight of everyone who watched me chase the phone down the escalator.