Hour 49: 9:00a - "You're paroled? Congrats! Time to find yourself a woman and get into trouble." - Text message from Chris, hours after I was discharged.
I eventually fell asleep but spent most of the night tossing and turning. Hospital beds are not comfortable. For places that are supposed to aid in convalescence, hospitals sure are uncomfortable, drab, boring, tasteless places. I would have felt a lot better with some sun, some decent food, and a colour scheme other than "neutral."
My wound hurt less than it had the day before. Where before I could walk but only slowly, today I was able to walk at full stride. When I took my breakfast tray down the hall to drop it off, I bumped into the nurse who was with me the first night and she was shocked to see me up and mobile only two days after being unable to even sleep. I smiled and thanked her for the other night and then waltzed off down the hall, leaving another confused nurse in my wake.
The doctor was quite pleased with the speed of my recovery and after poking me some more, asked me when I'd like to go home. I smiled and said, "Now." She laughed and said that if my blood test tomorrow morning was good then I could go home tomorrow morning. I was ecstatic. If she had told me I'd have to stay a few more days I would have tried to bribe her. I'm sitting here on a Saturday writing this and according to the original estimation I'd still be in the hospital right now -- possibly till Sunday. I would have gone insane.
Aimee came for lunch and I told her the good news. Neither of us wanted to get our hopes up, but it was difficult since I was no longer in pain and didn't appear to have developed an infection. We lounged around talking about how nice it would be once I was home, Aimee gagging down some unappetizing sushi from the grocery store, me gagging down rice gruel. Not exactly a good note for Aimee to go to work on, but someone had to earn the money while I was infirm.
I spent most of the day reading and working on a little Japanese. A couple of the nurses were pretty impressed that I was studying while recovering from surgery. Not impressed enough to slip me a little extra (or decent) food, but oh well. Aimee had brought me some pears, bananas, watermelon, and cashew nuts, so I was well stocked.
Our friend Chris came to visit me after he finished work and he brought me a sandwich -- a true friend. I stashed it in my refrigerator for breakfast and I walked him through the whole ordeal. I was no longer hooked up to various machinery (even my IV had been removed) so it was a little less dramatic. I also didn't have any pictures -- another regret from this experience. Neither Aimee nor I were thinking about posterity, apparently.
Chris left around 8:00 and I went to bed to read, hoping to outlast my laughing neighbour. No such luck though -- his movies were more entertaining than my book. I didn't have as much trouble falling asleep as I thought I would though. I guess my rage toward him was dissipated slightly by the likelihood that I'd be leaving the next day, so I slept a little better. No dreams though, which was surprising. I remember that I was having a dream while I was being operated on, but since that one I can't remember anything else. I would have thought that being doped up would produce some good ones, but alas...
I was woken up by a nurse roughly shaking me, which I took as a good sign: If I can be roused roughly then I must be good to go home, I thought. She took my blood and then what I hoped would be my last breakfast arrived.
Aimee snuck in 30 minutes before visiting hours started and we laid in bed relaxing. She had only been back in Japan for 10 days before I got sick, so we hadn't spent all that much time together between work and socializing. Laying in a hospital bed together wasn't exactly romantic, but it was nice.
My doctor, another doctor, and three nurses all showed up shortly after Aimee arrived and we weren't sure at first what to make of them. Either the news was dire, or they just wanted one last look at the foreigner. Luckily it was the latter. I was given my biopsy results (negative) and my doctor said my blood work was okay, so I was free to go. I thanked them for everything, we packed my bags, and I damn near skipped out of that hospital just after 10:00a Wednesday morning -- 73 hours after my operation started.
The sandwich Chris gave me was the first thing I ate when I got home and it was delicious. Does the penal system have a program in place where you can request a first meal after you're paroled, like you can request a last meal before you're executed? Because that meal would taste really, really good. Probably better than a last meal; I think if you knew that you were eating your last meal it would taste like ashes.
It's Sunday morning now and I've been out of the hospital since Wednesday. I'm totally mobile, I feel fine, and there's only the slightest bit of pain under my incision -- and only if I push hard. My vacation ends on Tuesday, when I start work again.
Somehow I forgot to mention that my doctor said I had the smallest appendix she'd ever seen -- about the size of my pinky finger. So if I've learned nothing else from this experience, at least I've learned this: Size does matter, but not how I originally imagined it, and possibly only to cute Japanese surgeons.
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 1
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 2
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 3
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
18 September 2011
17 September 2011
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 3
Hour 25: 9:00a - "Boredom is rage spread thin." - Paul Tillich
I woke up in a tangle of IV tubes, heart monitor wires, blood pressure gauge hoses, and thrombosis prevention compression socks/boots. But I woke up in very little pain. Aimee came around 9:00 o'clock and I told her my harrowing tale. She wasn't impressed that more wasn't done to help me, but she was pleased to see me feeling much better. "You're my little invalid now," she cooed, clearly pleased with her attempt at humor.
The nurse from the night before was gone, so a different one came by and was shocked to see me not writhing in pain. I guess the report from the night before was pretty damning. I was sitting upright on the bed talking to Aimee, the only evidence of my ordeal the sweaty, disheveled sheets beneath me. The nurse took my blood, temperature, and blood pressure, and then left, no doubt confused that my smile wasn't a grimace.
My cute doctor came in next and she too was surprised by my rapid convalescence. She poked my stomach expecting me to pass out in pain, but I didn't feel much more than some slight discomfort. The only place that hurt was below the incision where my abdominal muscles were stitching themselves up. The doctor shrugged and said I could eat solids for lunch and drink tea and water, but no juice.
Meals in Japanese hospitals are as bland as their counterparts in Canada -- and likely the world over. However, they do serve a lot of vegetables. They're steamed and flavorless, but they're vegetables nevertheless. Where Japanese meals really differ is that they give you no utensils.
I thought they forgot to bring them so I rang the nurse and she asked me, quizzically, "You didn't bring your own?" Um, no, I didn't bring my own utensils when I came to the hospital in pain the other night. She left and brought me a spoon and then told me that I could buy one downstairs after my meal. When I finished my lunch I scratched the number off the back indicating what wing it was from and put it in my drawer. Buy my own spoon indeed.
Aimee left shortly after I gagged down lunch and boredom promptly set in. I had my Kindle with me (I anticipated having to provide my own entertainment, not my own utensils) with a bunch of books I wanted to read, but I was still bored. I think setting or environment must have a lot to do with boredom. Reading at home in a relaxing chair, or lounging outside next to a lake or river with a book -- reading in places like these is not boring. But reading on an uncomfortable hospital bed? Boredom defined, somehow. Maybe it was because that was the only option I had.
Dinner came around and I gagged down some more rice gruel and bland vegetables. Even the food was boring, as unstimulating to the palate as the environment was to the senses. Boredom inside my body and out. Surely sleep would entertain me; painless, deep sleep.
Meet my first neighbour. To my right, with his mouth aimed right at the thin partition dividing my "room" and his: the snorer. Light out, head hits the pillow, snoring begins. For 30 minutes. Straight. And then... silence? Strangely enough, yes. His snoring could be heard down the hall; it rattled the walls; it surely threw off the timing of pace makers. And it blew itself out after 30 minutes, the bass drum sound turning to the sweet sounds of a baby breathing. Peace.
Meet my second neighbour. Directly across from me, headphones on, laptop on, what must have been the funniest movie ever made playing on his computer because he would not. stop. laughing. Not a loud, obnoxious laugh, though. This could barely be described as a laugh. It was a gentle sucking in and expulsion of air; a polite noise to indicate that yes, what was said was funny; a Japanese, I'm-in-a-hospital-and-must-be-polite sort of laugh. The most irritating laugh I've ever had to suffer.
An obnoxious laugh could be stopped. Ring the nurse, point to the offender's area, and sleep. But how could I call a nurse for a little snicker, a soundless chortle? Call her over and have her wait? "You'll hear it, I promise! It's unbearable!" There was nothing to be done. The rage that had unfolded itself into boredom concentrated itself into an impotent wish that the man's computer would explode, ending my suffering.
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 1
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 2
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 4
I woke up in a tangle of IV tubes, heart monitor wires, blood pressure gauge hoses, and thrombosis prevention compression socks/boots. But I woke up in very little pain. Aimee came around 9:00 o'clock and I told her my harrowing tale. She wasn't impressed that more wasn't done to help me, but she was pleased to see me feeling much better. "You're my little invalid now," she cooed, clearly pleased with her attempt at humor.
The nurse from the night before was gone, so a different one came by and was shocked to see me not writhing in pain. I guess the report from the night before was pretty damning. I was sitting upright on the bed talking to Aimee, the only evidence of my ordeal the sweaty, disheveled sheets beneath me. The nurse took my blood, temperature, and blood pressure, and then left, no doubt confused that my smile wasn't a grimace.
My cute doctor came in next and she too was surprised by my rapid convalescence. She poked my stomach expecting me to pass out in pain, but I didn't feel much more than some slight discomfort. The only place that hurt was below the incision where my abdominal muscles were stitching themselves up. The doctor shrugged and said I could eat solids for lunch and drink tea and water, but no juice.
Meals in Japanese hospitals are as bland as their counterparts in Canada -- and likely the world over. However, they do serve a lot of vegetables. They're steamed and flavorless, but they're vegetables nevertheless. Where Japanese meals really differ is that they give you no utensils.
I thought they forgot to bring them so I rang the nurse and she asked me, quizzically, "You didn't bring your own?" Um, no, I didn't bring my own utensils when I came to the hospital in pain the other night. She left and brought me a spoon and then told me that I could buy one downstairs after my meal. When I finished my lunch I scratched the number off the back indicating what wing it was from and put it in my drawer. Buy my own spoon indeed.
Aimee left shortly after I gagged down lunch and boredom promptly set in. I had my Kindle with me (I anticipated having to provide my own entertainment, not my own utensils) with a bunch of books I wanted to read, but I was still bored. I think setting or environment must have a lot to do with boredom. Reading at home in a relaxing chair, or lounging outside next to a lake or river with a book -- reading in places like these is not boring. But reading on an uncomfortable hospital bed? Boredom defined, somehow. Maybe it was because that was the only option I had.
Dinner came around and I gagged down some more rice gruel and bland vegetables. Even the food was boring, as unstimulating to the palate as the environment was to the senses. Boredom inside my body and out. Surely sleep would entertain me; painless, deep sleep.
Meet my first neighbour. To my right, with his mouth aimed right at the thin partition dividing my "room" and his: the snorer. Light out, head hits the pillow, snoring begins. For 30 minutes. Straight. And then... silence? Strangely enough, yes. His snoring could be heard down the hall; it rattled the walls; it surely threw off the timing of pace makers. And it blew itself out after 30 minutes, the bass drum sound turning to the sweet sounds of a baby breathing. Peace.
Meet my second neighbour. Directly across from me, headphones on, laptop on, what must have been the funniest movie ever made playing on his computer because he would not. stop. laughing. Not a loud, obnoxious laugh, though. This could barely be described as a laugh. It was a gentle sucking in and expulsion of air; a polite noise to indicate that yes, what was said was funny; a Japanese, I'm-in-a-hospital-and-must-be-polite sort of laugh. The most irritating laugh I've ever had to suffer.
An obnoxious laugh could be stopped. Ring the nurse, point to the offender's area, and sleep. But how could I call a nurse for a little snicker, a soundless chortle? Call her over and have her wait? "You'll hear it, I promise! It's unbearable!" There was nothing to be done. The rage that had unfolded itself into boredom concentrated itself into an impotent wish that the man's computer would explode, ending my suffering.
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 1
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 2
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 4
16 September 2011
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 2
Zero Hour: 9:00a - "Don't Thank Me; Thank the Knife." - Dr. Hibbert
Minor surgeries like gall bladder removal and appendectomies are typically done by laparoscopic surgery. Unfortunately for me, I was in the city hospital -- as opposed to a private hospital -- and they lacked the equipment for laparoscopic surgery. So I had a good ol' fashioned laparotomy. For those of you uninterested in Wikipedia articles: in laparoscopic surgery, small holes are cut into you (3-4) for a camera, a knife, and a tweezer like apparatus to grab your diseased organ; in a laparotomy, your abdominal wall is sliced through to gain access to the diseased organ. Laparoscopic surgery has a significantly shorter recovery time since the damage to muscle is minimal. Laparotomy recovery time is longer (and more painful), but leaves you with a significantly cooler scar. And my dad always told me that chicks dig scars.
When I was wheeled out of the room where I changed into my surgery outfit (they're as bad here as they are back home), two of the guys from work had arrived and were standing with Aimee at the end of the hall. I opened my legs and flashed them, but being a modest country, the nurse had asked me to leave my boxers on while I was changing. Everyone laughed nonetheless. (Except for 10 excruciating hours of pain post-operation, I made light of this entire experience).
The cute doctor and her team of nurses were in the operating room and we greeted each other as if we were meeting for the first time -- it was very formal and not at all surprising. I jumped up onto the table and laid back and we practiced the things they would ask me after the operation was finished to make sure I was coherent: Open your mouth; Squeeze your hand; Open your eyes; Breathe. I know all these things regularly but we practiced them several times so they were familiar. I have no recollection of whether or not I said them.
After my Japanese lesson they put the gas mask on me. I started to feel drunk and I told them and everyone laughed. Then I asked if I was the first foreigner anyone had operated on, and that got a really good laugh. My greatest regret is that I cannot remember anyone's answer.
There's an episode of Seinfeld where Jerry tells George that the secret to being a comedian is going out on a laugh. George spends the episode leaving meetings and so forth after making everyone laugh. I followed this rule to a tee. Everyone was laughing and I felt pretty good and then I was out. The next thing I remember was someone saying "Stanton-sama" and I was being lifted from the operating table to a bed. After that I remember hearing my co-workers discussing Sex and the City (the male ones; Aimee and the female were discussing something else, I later found out).
The pain started promptly when I got to my room, and it was my own doing. I mentioned that we practiced some sentences earlier. The one I practiced more than any other was "Sore o nuite kudasai." Or, "Please pull that out."
The English speaking doctor told me I'd have a catheter for the operation; pretty standard procedure. He told me it would be removed around 6 hours after I woke up; not so standard procedure? "Um, what if I want you to take it out earlier?" I asked. He said to just tell the first person I spoke with that I wanted it removed. So I practiced that very simple sentence over and over because I wasn't sure how my Japanese would be right after surgery. Pretty good, apparently, because whomever I spoke to removed it promptly. Painful, but much less painful than waiting 6 hours till I was fully coherent.
I dozed on and off for the next couple of hours while Aimee sat next to me, alternatively upset because I was in pain, and enthralled by her book while I slept. I think she preferred it while I slept, and rightly so -- I'm orders of magnitude grumpier when I'm in pain than when I'm, let's say, hungry. In particular, I don't like to be touched. So I was writhing in pain on the bed and Aimee's (anyone's) first instinct was to touch me, but that just made me lash out.
When the pain became unbearable I asked for relief. The nurse came and hooked up this bag full of milk-looking fluid to my IV and told me it would take 30 minutes to empty into my bloodstream. It didn't help. The 30 minutes came and went, but 20 minutes after that the pain was worse. I asked for something stronger and they brought a bag of heavy-duty pain killer. I have no idea what it was but it worked wonders; I was in pain one moment and then blissful the next. It was 30 minutes before visiting hours ended so Aimee snuck in a kiss while I was high and left. I don't know how long I slept for.
When I woke up again I was in pain. But dull pain; pain waiting to be painful. I wanted to outsmart this pain so I called the nurse again and asked for more medication. But she said I couldn't have any. The stuff they had given me earlier was too strong to give regularly; I'd have to wait 3.5 hours before I could have something else. And the something else couldn't be the strong stuff -- it had to be the ineffectual milk. I was livid. The pain sensed weakness and launched its assault.
Slowly, I could feel the pain spreading from my incision into my lower abdomen, and then up into my stomach, stopping just below my ribs. My entire mid-section was screaming. It felt like I was being stabbed to death, but somehow gently enough that I wouldn't die. I pushed the buzzer repeatedly for the nurse but they kept telling me the same thing: they couldn't give me anything. I asked for a doctor and this took forever because there wasn't one in the wing I was staying in.
By the time the doctor arrived I was in tears, almost screaming. My legs were kicking back and forth and I was alternating between squeezing the sheets and pounding the mattress. The doctor must have been moved by my death throes as he authorized the nurse to sedate me -- but with the ineffective milk. I almost died. And later, I think the nurse thought I had.
I watched every drop drip into my IV for 30 agonizing minutes, and then lay there for another 10 building a hatred in my head so powerful it would have infected any remaining vestigial organs, had I had any -- good riddance, tonsils and appendix. The milk did my body no good. Then suddenly -- I have no idea how much time passed -- I found myself on my side, in rapture. I felt nothing. I didn't even respond when the nurse asked if I was alright. I didn't respond again when she asked more urgently. Nor did I flinch when she grabbed my wrist to check my pulse, presumably to make sure she hadn't just killed me.
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 1
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 3
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 4
Minor surgeries like gall bladder removal and appendectomies are typically done by laparoscopic surgery. Unfortunately for me, I was in the city hospital -- as opposed to a private hospital -- and they lacked the equipment for laparoscopic surgery. So I had a good ol' fashioned laparotomy. For those of you uninterested in Wikipedia articles: in laparoscopic surgery, small holes are cut into you (3-4) for a camera, a knife, and a tweezer like apparatus to grab your diseased organ; in a laparotomy, your abdominal wall is sliced through to gain access to the diseased organ. Laparoscopic surgery has a significantly shorter recovery time since the damage to muscle is minimal. Laparotomy recovery time is longer (and more painful), but leaves you with a significantly cooler scar. And my dad always told me that chicks dig scars.
When I was wheeled out of the room where I changed into my surgery outfit (they're as bad here as they are back home), two of the guys from work had arrived and were standing with Aimee at the end of the hall. I opened my legs and flashed them, but being a modest country, the nurse had asked me to leave my boxers on while I was changing. Everyone laughed nonetheless. (Except for 10 excruciating hours of pain post-operation, I made light of this entire experience).
The cute doctor and her team of nurses were in the operating room and we greeted each other as if we were meeting for the first time -- it was very formal and not at all surprising. I jumped up onto the table and laid back and we practiced the things they would ask me after the operation was finished to make sure I was coherent: Open your mouth; Squeeze your hand; Open your eyes; Breathe. I know all these things regularly but we practiced them several times so they were familiar. I have no recollection of whether or not I said them.
After my Japanese lesson they put the gas mask on me. I started to feel drunk and I told them and everyone laughed. Then I asked if I was the first foreigner anyone had operated on, and that got a really good laugh. My greatest regret is that I cannot remember anyone's answer.
There's an episode of Seinfeld where Jerry tells George that the secret to being a comedian is going out on a laugh. George spends the episode leaving meetings and so forth after making everyone laugh. I followed this rule to a tee. Everyone was laughing and I felt pretty good and then I was out. The next thing I remember was someone saying "Stanton-sama" and I was being lifted from the operating table to a bed. After that I remember hearing my co-workers discussing Sex and the City (the male ones; Aimee and the female were discussing something else, I later found out).
The pain started promptly when I got to my room, and it was my own doing. I mentioned that we practiced some sentences earlier. The one I practiced more than any other was "Sore o nuite kudasai." Or, "Please pull that out."
The English speaking doctor told me I'd have a catheter for the operation; pretty standard procedure. He told me it would be removed around 6 hours after I woke up; not so standard procedure? "Um, what if I want you to take it out earlier?" I asked. He said to just tell the first person I spoke with that I wanted it removed. So I practiced that very simple sentence over and over because I wasn't sure how my Japanese would be right after surgery. Pretty good, apparently, because whomever I spoke to removed it promptly. Painful, but much less painful than waiting 6 hours till I was fully coherent.
I dozed on and off for the next couple of hours while Aimee sat next to me, alternatively upset because I was in pain, and enthralled by her book while I slept. I think she preferred it while I slept, and rightly so -- I'm orders of magnitude grumpier when I'm in pain than when I'm, let's say, hungry. In particular, I don't like to be touched. So I was writhing in pain on the bed and Aimee's (anyone's) first instinct was to touch me, but that just made me lash out.
When the pain became unbearable I asked for relief. The nurse came and hooked up this bag full of milk-looking fluid to my IV and told me it would take 30 minutes to empty into my bloodstream. It didn't help. The 30 minutes came and went, but 20 minutes after that the pain was worse. I asked for something stronger and they brought a bag of heavy-duty pain killer. I have no idea what it was but it worked wonders; I was in pain one moment and then blissful the next. It was 30 minutes before visiting hours ended so Aimee snuck in a kiss while I was high and left. I don't know how long I slept for.
When I woke up again I was in pain. But dull pain; pain waiting to be painful. I wanted to outsmart this pain so I called the nurse again and asked for more medication. But she said I couldn't have any. The stuff they had given me earlier was too strong to give regularly; I'd have to wait 3.5 hours before I could have something else. And the something else couldn't be the strong stuff -- it had to be the ineffectual milk. I was livid. The pain sensed weakness and launched its assault.
Slowly, I could feel the pain spreading from my incision into my lower abdomen, and then up into my stomach, stopping just below my ribs. My entire mid-section was screaming. It felt like I was being stabbed to death, but somehow gently enough that I wouldn't die. I pushed the buzzer repeatedly for the nurse but they kept telling me the same thing: they couldn't give me anything. I asked for a doctor and this took forever because there wasn't one in the wing I was staying in.
By the time the doctor arrived I was in tears, almost screaming. My legs were kicking back and forth and I was alternating between squeezing the sheets and pounding the mattress. The doctor must have been moved by my death throes as he authorized the nurse to sedate me -- but with the ineffective milk. I almost died. And later, I think the nurse thought I had.
I watched every drop drip into my IV for 30 agonizing minutes, and then lay there for another 10 building a hatred in my head so powerful it would have infected any remaining vestigial organs, had I had any -- good riddance, tonsils and appendix. The milk did my body no good. Then suddenly -- I have no idea how much time passed -- I found myself on my side, in rapture. I felt nothing. I didn't even respond when the nurse asked if I was alright. I didn't respond again when she asked more urgently. Nor did I flinch when she grabbed my wrist to check my pulse, presumably to make sure she hadn't just killed me.
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 1
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 3
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 4
15 September 2011
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 1
Saturday, 10 September, I got up at 8:00a for work, as I usually do. My abdomen felt a little cramped, but I didn't think anything of it. I ate breakfast as usual, showered as usual, and went to teach my classes as usual. The irritation persisted throughout the day, and I thought maybe I slept funny. When I got home we went out to celebrate a friend's birthday and the irritation persisted throughout the night at about the same level. Neither of us thought much of it; we joked that maybe I had appendicitis.
At 4:30a Sunday morning (11 September), I woke up in a little bit of pain for the first time. It dawned on me that maybe I should feel around my abdomen to see if the pain was localized. And it was -- above my appendix. I got up to use the washroom and then laid back down in bed and felt around again. Yup, right above the appendix. I turned to Aimee and asked, "Are you awake?"
"Ugh," she groaned.
"I think I'm sick."
Some more poking by me and some groggy getting dressed by Aimee preceded our walk downstairs to the convenience store to find out where the closest hospital was. Just down the street, luckily. Rather, luckily if it was open.
We walked through the doors of the hospital and the place was dark. No lights. No noise. No people. We poked around and I called out once for someone behind the counter (the counter that had a bank of computers with their screens on. I knew I wasn't too far gone because I still raged about wasted energy.), but no one was around. On our way back out a patient came out of the elevator and he explained to us that the hospital wouldn't be open today because it was Sunday. This floored us. In Canada hospitals are open all day, every day (although apparently emergency care [24 hour hospitals] is a thing from 1950 onward). Furthermore, you have to call first in Japan; you can't just show up.
We went home and checked Google for hospitals in Nagoya that were open on Sunday and found a couple. We called one and they were closing in 15 minutes (so if I showed up with my guts in my hands...?). We called the second one and they were open, so we jumped in a cab before they could send me and my primed appendix elsewhere.
Once we finally got inside the hospital, things became normal. They smell as sterile as any North American hospital; they're bureaucratic; the tests are as routine; one of the doctors even spoke English. One important difference, though, was the wait time: nonexistent! We walked in the door, I handed them my card, and within 10 minutes I was being examined by two doctors and three nurses. I was in the examination room by around 6:30a and by 7:30 I had had bloodwork and a CT scan. By 7:35 we were waiting for a surgeon to consult with the other two doctors (and when a cute Japanese woman walked by I said to Aimee, "I bet that's my doctor," to which she rolled her eyes) and by 7:40 I was diagnosed with acute appendicitis.
The English speaking doctor asked if there was any Japanese person we could call to have them help translate, because some of the vocabulary is pretty technical, so I went through my phone and called everyone I knew. However, since we were all out late with most of them the night before, no one answered their phones. I finally got a hold of one of the three people who work in personnel at our company, but none of them were able to come before 9:00, which is when the doctors wanted to operate. "Do your best," I said to the English speaking doctor.
There's not a lot to know about appendectomies, surprisingly; they're pretty routine. He drew a map of my large intestine, appendix, and blockage, and explained what they would do. He told me the possible complications and the recovery times, and introduced me to my doctor: the cute Japanese woman who walked by earlier.
Mike: 1 Aimee: 0
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 2
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 3
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 4
At 4:30a Sunday morning (11 September), I woke up in a little bit of pain for the first time. It dawned on me that maybe I should feel around my abdomen to see if the pain was localized. And it was -- above my appendix. I got up to use the washroom and then laid back down in bed and felt around again. Yup, right above the appendix. I turned to Aimee and asked, "Are you awake?"
"Ugh," she groaned.
"I think I'm sick."
Some more poking by me and some groggy getting dressed by Aimee preceded our walk downstairs to the convenience store to find out where the closest hospital was. Just down the street, luckily. Rather, luckily if it was open.
We walked through the doors of the hospital and the place was dark. No lights. No noise. No people. We poked around and I called out once for someone behind the counter (the counter that had a bank of computers with their screens on. I knew I wasn't too far gone because I still raged about wasted energy.), but no one was around. On our way back out a patient came out of the elevator and he explained to us that the hospital wouldn't be open today because it was Sunday. This floored us. In Canada hospitals are open all day, every day (although apparently emergency care [24 hour hospitals] is a thing from 1950 onward). Furthermore, you have to call first in Japan; you can't just show up.
We went home and checked Google for hospitals in Nagoya that were open on Sunday and found a couple. We called one and they were closing in 15 minutes (so if I showed up with my guts in my hands...?). We called the second one and they were open, so we jumped in a cab before they could send me and my primed appendix elsewhere.
Once we finally got inside the hospital, things became normal. They smell as sterile as any North American hospital; they're bureaucratic; the tests are as routine; one of the doctors even spoke English. One important difference, though, was the wait time: nonexistent! We walked in the door, I handed them my card, and within 10 minutes I was being examined by two doctors and three nurses. I was in the examination room by around 6:30a and by 7:30 I had had bloodwork and a CT scan. By 7:35 we were waiting for a surgeon to consult with the other two doctors (and when a cute Japanese woman walked by I said to Aimee, "I bet that's my doctor," to which she rolled her eyes) and by 7:40 I was diagnosed with acute appendicitis.
The English speaking doctor asked if there was any Japanese person we could call to have them help translate, because some of the vocabulary is pretty technical, so I went through my phone and called everyone I knew. However, since we were all out late with most of them the night before, no one answered their phones. I finally got a hold of one of the three people who work in personnel at our company, but none of them were able to come before 9:00, which is when the doctors wanted to operate. "Do your best," I said to the English speaking doctor.
There's not a lot to know about appendectomies, surprisingly; they're pretty routine. He drew a map of my large intestine, appendix, and blockage, and explained what they would do. He told me the possible complications and the recovery times, and introduced me to my doctor: the cute Japanese woman who walked by earlier.
Mike: 1 Aimee: 0
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 2
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 3
73 Hours in a Japanese Hospital: Part 4
22 May 2011
Why Dogs Bark at Other Dogs
Aimee and I were in Osu with our friends Chris and Caitlin, and their friend Anne, this afternoon. The girls wanted to go shopping and Chris and I opted to go wandering rather than suffer being strung along to various shops. We're both horrible to go shopping with, we've been told, and that wasn't about to change in a single afternoon.
We were wandering around aimlessly when I noticed a tall white guy walking in the opposite direction with his Japanese girlfriend. I raised my eyebrows in a male "I acknowledge your existence" sort of way, as I usually do when I make eye contact with men, and he laughed. I realized that I had looked at his Japanese girlfriend before I made eye contact with him, and he must have seen me do it, and when I raised my eyebrows he must have thought I was somehow complimenting him. I would have laughed in the same derisive way had our situations been reversed.
I laughed and told Chris what had happened and he laughed and said, "After living in Japan I now understand why dogs bark at other dogs."
I laughed again because I instantly understood what he meant. We're all foreigners in Nagoya but we're not tourists: we live here, we work here, we have lives here. We've got our social circles, our local bars, our grocery stores, our neighbourhoods; we have the same things that are "ours" that we all had back in North America. So when we see a foreigner we all instantly wonder what they're doing in "our" city.
The phenomenon is probably more strongly felt where we live than if we lived in a tourist city, like Kyoto or Tokyo. No one comes to Nagoya for tourism. There are a couple of huge office towers here and a single castle - nothing too interesting. It'd be like going to Canada to see Hamilton. So any foreigners we see here almost certainly work here. They're not just some dog who happens to be passing through our park; they've moved in and we want to know why.
This feeling isn't malicious, but it's definitely stronger than the feeling of curiousity when we see foreigners in our home towns. I think it stems from the experiences with douchebags that we've all had since living here. The obnoxious foreigners who get angry when waitresses don't speak their language; the obnoxious foreigners get upset when they can't pay with credit cards; the obnoxious foreigners who lose their minds when they see a sign without English on it. You get my point.
We all love that we have the opportunity to live and travel abroad, and we think that everyone should live in a foreign country for part of their lives. It's a life changing experience and everyone, douchebag or otherwise, should try to experience it. Nevertheless, we still all feel like barking a little when we see someone we don't know.
We were wandering around aimlessly when I noticed a tall white guy walking in the opposite direction with his Japanese girlfriend. I raised my eyebrows in a male "I acknowledge your existence" sort of way, as I usually do when I make eye contact with men, and he laughed. I realized that I had looked at his Japanese girlfriend before I made eye contact with him, and he must have seen me do it, and when I raised my eyebrows he must have thought I was somehow complimenting him. I would have laughed in the same derisive way had our situations been reversed.
I laughed and told Chris what had happened and he laughed and said, "After living in Japan I now understand why dogs bark at other dogs."
I laughed again because I instantly understood what he meant. We're all foreigners in Nagoya but we're not tourists: we live here, we work here, we have lives here. We've got our social circles, our local bars, our grocery stores, our neighbourhoods; we have the same things that are "ours" that we all had back in North America. So when we see a foreigner we all instantly wonder what they're doing in "our" city.
The phenomenon is probably more strongly felt where we live than if we lived in a tourist city, like Kyoto or Tokyo. No one comes to Nagoya for tourism. There are a couple of huge office towers here and a single castle - nothing too interesting. It'd be like going to Canada to see Hamilton. So any foreigners we see here almost certainly work here. They're not just some dog who happens to be passing through our park; they've moved in and we want to know why.
This feeling isn't malicious, but it's definitely stronger than the feeling of curiousity when we see foreigners in our home towns. I think it stems from the experiences with douchebags that we've all had since living here. The obnoxious foreigners who get angry when waitresses don't speak their language; the obnoxious foreigners get upset when they can't pay with credit cards; the obnoxious foreigners who lose their minds when they see a sign without English on it. You get my point.
We all love that we have the opportunity to live and travel abroad, and we think that everyone should live in a foreign country for part of their lives. It's a life changing experience and everyone, douchebag or otherwise, should try to experience it. Nevertheless, we still all feel like barking a little when we see someone we don't know.
13 March 2011
Happy Japaniversary?
11 March 2011 was our one year anniversary in Japan. We've got lots of goodbye parties and end-of-the-year parties to go to this month, so we decided not to do anything special. This was a good idea, as The Ring of Fire gave us something much more memorable than an expensive dinner.
Neither of us have been in a country during a natural disaster. The closest thing to a natural disaster I've experienced was a big ice storm in 1998. So this has been a very interesting experience for us, even though we're 400km south of where the earthquake's epicenter was.
To start with, I've never felt an earthquake last for 2 minutes. Since we're 400km from the epicenter, what we felt was probably only a magnitude 3 (I'm guessing based off of other 3s I've felt since living here) but it lasted for so long. The other earthquakes I've felt have lasted for 10 seconds. Maybe. Sometimes it has taken me the duration of a quake to even recognize that one was happening and I wasn't just dizzy. But this one I had time - lots of time.
I was eating a sandwich in the lunchroom when I felt a train go by (the school I was at is next to a train station) and the building did its usual rumbling. But when the train was gone the building was gently swaying. I thought it might be an earthquake, and after sitting in my chair for 10 seconds trying to figure out if I was just dizzy or not, I got up and stood in the doorway. For 30 seconds. And the building still swayed. I could hear two of the staff members at the front of the school talking, and they didn't sound alarmed, so I walked up.
"Uh, this is an earthquake, right?" I asked. The ladies paused, tilted their heads to the side in consideration of my question, and concluded that yes, the gentle swaying of our building was indeed an earthquake. They started to giggle softly at the strangeness of it; "I thought I was just dizzy," one of them laughed. I started laughing too and said I had thought the same thing. The other lady took out her iPhone and checked a website that reported earthquakes at almost the second they happened. The long time it took for the page to load, and not the way her face sagged when she saw the magnitude of the earthquake at its epicenter, should have been the first indication that maybe this wasn't a small, localized earthquake.
"There was an 8.6 (report at the time: I think it has since been raised to an 8.9) earthquake in the Tohoku area," she said quietly. What had before been humorous laughs at the gentle swaying of the lights and 100kg air conditioner hanging above our lobby, and the silliness of thinking we were just dizzy, turned to somber thoughts about what our office would have looked like after 2 minutes of an 8.6 magnitude earthquake.
Even though I knew the size of the earthquake, the reality of the situation didn't start to take hold until after work when I checked my phone. My shift started at 3:00, just 15 minutes after the earthquake, and lasted until 9:00. When I took my phone out of my pocket it was lit up like a Christmas tree: four missed calls, 6 unread text messages, 4 unread emails, and countless Facebook notifications. My train ride home was spent texting one of my sisters and drafting an email to send to family and friends when I got home.
More troubling than the numerous attempts that were made to contact me was the visible frustration of the Japanese passengers trying to contact people with their cell phones. Almost everyone on every train I've been on is doing something with their cell phone, but it's usually mindless, meant to pass the time. On this night, everyone was focused and intense. I knew that 8.6 magnitude earthquakes were bad, and knew that the number of people trying to get in touch with me was indicative that the aftermath was terrible, but seeing people who live with earthquakes year-round so worried was really disconcerting.
I spent two hours when I got home writing emails, texting, and calling family and friends back home to let them know we were alright. I'm thankful that I'm alive in a time when it's so easy to get in touch with people. Had I not been working, I would have been able to let people know that we were alright before they even woke up back in Canada. At the same time, had cell phones and the internet been down, me not being able to respond promptly to emails and text messages would have been interpreted as a sign that I was not okay. Choose a metaphor to describe the good and bad of instant communication - there is no shortage.
Neither of us have been in a country during a natural disaster. The closest thing to a natural disaster I've experienced was a big ice storm in 1998. So this has been a very interesting experience for us, even though we're 400km south of where the earthquake's epicenter was.
To start with, I've never felt an earthquake last for 2 minutes. Since we're 400km from the epicenter, what we felt was probably only a magnitude 3 (I'm guessing based off of other 3s I've felt since living here) but it lasted for so long. The other earthquakes I've felt have lasted for 10 seconds. Maybe. Sometimes it has taken me the duration of a quake to even recognize that one was happening and I wasn't just dizzy. But this one I had time - lots of time.
I was eating a sandwich in the lunchroom when I felt a train go by (the school I was at is next to a train station) and the building did its usual rumbling. But when the train was gone the building was gently swaying. I thought it might be an earthquake, and after sitting in my chair for 10 seconds trying to figure out if I was just dizzy or not, I got up and stood in the doorway. For 30 seconds. And the building still swayed. I could hear two of the staff members at the front of the school talking, and they didn't sound alarmed, so I walked up.
"Uh, this is an earthquake, right?" I asked. The ladies paused, tilted their heads to the side in consideration of my question, and concluded that yes, the gentle swaying of our building was indeed an earthquake. They started to giggle softly at the strangeness of it; "I thought I was just dizzy," one of them laughed. I started laughing too and said I had thought the same thing. The other lady took out her iPhone and checked a website that reported earthquakes at almost the second they happened. The long time it took for the page to load, and not the way her face sagged when she saw the magnitude of the earthquake at its epicenter, should have been the first indication that maybe this wasn't a small, localized earthquake.
"There was an 8.6 (report at the time: I think it has since been raised to an 8.9) earthquake in the Tohoku area," she said quietly. What had before been humorous laughs at the gentle swaying of the lights and 100kg air conditioner hanging above our lobby, and the silliness of thinking we were just dizzy, turned to somber thoughts about what our office would have looked like after 2 minutes of an 8.6 magnitude earthquake.
Even though I knew the size of the earthquake, the reality of the situation didn't start to take hold until after work when I checked my phone. My shift started at 3:00, just 15 minutes after the earthquake, and lasted until 9:00. When I took my phone out of my pocket it was lit up like a Christmas tree: four missed calls, 6 unread text messages, 4 unread emails, and countless Facebook notifications. My train ride home was spent texting one of my sisters and drafting an email to send to family and friends when I got home.
More troubling than the numerous attempts that were made to contact me was the visible frustration of the Japanese passengers trying to contact people with their cell phones. Almost everyone on every train I've been on is doing something with their cell phone, but it's usually mindless, meant to pass the time. On this night, everyone was focused and intense. I knew that 8.6 magnitude earthquakes were bad, and knew that the number of people trying to get in touch with me was indicative that the aftermath was terrible, but seeing people who live with earthquakes year-round so worried was really disconcerting.
I spent two hours when I got home writing emails, texting, and calling family and friends back home to let them know we were alright. I'm thankful that I'm alive in a time when it's so easy to get in touch with people. Had I not been working, I would have been able to let people know that we were alright before they even woke up back in Canada. At the same time, had cell phones and the internet been down, me not being able to respond promptly to emails and text messages would have been interpreted as a sign that I was not okay. Choose a metaphor to describe the good and bad of instant communication - there is no shortage.
15 February 2011
Who is your daddy, and what does he do?
I had a private lesson with a 16 year old girl today and it prompted me to finally write about something that, for a long time, I've thought is quite strange.
There are an unusual number of Japanese kids who don't know what their parents' names are, nor what their parents do for a living. Let that sink in a little. It's natural for a 5 year old to not know their dad's name, nor to know what their father does for a living. But a 16 year old girl? It's unbelievable.
I know the names of every family member I can think of, and I know what they do for a living. This 16 year old girl with whom I was talking thinks her father's name is Norimoto. Thinks! I guess this gives her an out when she gets in trouble at school and can't give her father's name to someone so they can call him, but I really can't think of how this is beneficial.
Later in the lesson we were talking about occupations and I asked what her nameless father did. She said she wasn't sure. Okay... not everyone knows exactly what their parents do at their place of work. But most know where they work. "Does he work in an office?" "Um, maybe?" Maybe!? You live with a nameless man who disappears for more than half the day and you don't know where it is this man disappears to?
This isn't an isolated incident; as I said in the beginning, this is something that has perplexed me for some time. I taught a junior high school class a couple of months ago and they were learning occupation names. Only one of the students knew what his father did (he's a pastry maker).
I get that it's rude to call your parents by their first names (at least when you're young) but I don't think it's rude to ask them their names. And unless your father is a member of the yakuza, I don't think it's unwise to ask what he does. Or at least where he works. At the very least, maybe ask the general direction he heads in when he leaves the house in the morning.
There are an unusual number of Japanese kids who don't know what their parents' names are, nor what their parents do for a living. Let that sink in a little. It's natural for a 5 year old to not know their dad's name, nor to know what their father does for a living. But a 16 year old girl? It's unbelievable.
I know the names of every family member I can think of, and I know what they do for a living. This 16 year old girl with whom I was talking thinks her father's name is Norimoto. Thinks! I guess this gives her an out when she gets in trouble at school and can't give her father's name to someone so they can call him, but I really can't think of how this is beneficial.
Later in the lesson we were talking about occupations and I asked what her nameless father did. She said she wasn't sure. Okay... not everyone knows exactly what their parents do at their place of work. But most know where they work. "Does he work in an office?" "Um, maybe?" Maybe!? You live with a nameless man who disappears for more than half the day and you don't know where it is this man disappears to?
This isn't an isolated incident; as I said in the beginning, this is something that has perplexed me for some time. I taught a junior high school class a couple of months ago and they were learning occupation names. Only one of the students knew what his father did (he's a pastry maker).
I get that it's rude to call your parents by their first names (at least when you're young) but I don't think it's rude to ask them their names. And unless your father is a member of the yakuza, I don't think it's unwise to ask what he does. Or at least where he works. At the very least, maybe ask the general direction he heads in when he leaves the house in the morning.
08 December 2010
Learning Japanese - Validation
Studying another language is difficult and it sometimes feels like I'm not making progress. I'll sit on the train trying to understand what Japanese people are saying and I'll only be able to pick out a few words. Or I'll try to read advertisements and forget what certain kanji mean. But then things like the following happen that validate my attempts to learn Japanese.
This afternoon in one of my classes I corrected an 8 year old girl's kanji. There was a picture of a train ticket from Tokyo to Osaka and I pointed to Tokyo and asked if she knew what this word was. I helped her sound it out and then she wrote the kanji for it above the word. But I noticed that one of them was wrong. And she didn't. I looked at her, then at the kanji, then at her again thinking she would notice, but she hadn't. So I went for it.
"Chigau" is the verb "to differ from," but used the way she used it it roughly translates to "It's different!" "Sensei, kanji ga wakaru?" means "Do you understand kanji?" This episode took maybe 30 seconds but it made me feel pretty good about myself... Even if it was just one simple kanji that the 8 year old I corrected can draw better than I can with her left hand. Blind folded.
My other Japanese language episode was a lot more validating.
I was heading out to pick up some wine for a party last weekend and on my way out the lobby a Japanese woman said "Excuse me" in Japanese. From here on in, everything written in English was said in Japanese.
"Yes?" I said, smiling.
"Do you know how to use these new mailboxes?"
I turned around thinking there must have been a Japanese person behind me that she was talking to. But there wasn't. She was asking me, a dirty foreigner, how to do something she, a Japanese woman, didn't know how to do. I was floored. But it just so happened that I did know how to use the new mailboxes. So I mustered up my courage and saved the day.
"First, you have to turn to the right till the dial starts clicking. Then, stop at the first number. After that, turn left to zero and open the door." This was all said with perfect Japanese (and a little pantomiming...) - but there was one problem.
I was using my mailbox to give the demonstration, which made her think that every mailbox had the same code. Apparently she didn't get her code in the mail, which explained why she didn't know how to open the door. So I guess I didn't save the day entirely.
If you don't understand how these little events can make someone happy then you have to imagine experiencing them as someone who is learning a foreign language. The majority of the time it's frustrating as hell but then these little things happen that make the studying worthwhile.
After I bid the lady good evening ("Konbanwa!") I smiled the whole way to the store and all the way back. And it was the first thing I told Aimee about when she got home. And the first thing I told my friends at the dinner party. And, hopefully, it will be one of many more anecdotes about how learning another language is a lot of fun.
This afternoon in one of my classes I corrected an 8 year old girl's kanji. There was a picture of a train ticket from Tokyo to Osaka and I pointed to Tokyo and asked if she knew what this word was. I helped her sound it out and then she wrote the kanji for it above the word. But I noticed that one of them was wrong. And she didn't. I looked at her, then at the kanji, then at her again thinking she would notice, but she hadn't. So I went for it.
Mike: Is this 'Tou'? *pointing at the kanji on the left*
Student: Chigau! ...Sensei, kanji ga wakaru?
Mike: No. *smiling*
"Chigau" is the verb "to differ from," but used the way she used it it roughly translates to "It's different!" "Sensei, kanji ga wakaru?" means "Do you understand kanji?" This episode took maybe 30 seconds but it made me feel pretty good about myself... Even if it was just one simple kanji that the 8 year old I corrected can draw better than I can with her left hand. Blind folded.
My other Japanese language episode was a lot more validating.
I was heading out to pick up some wine for a party last weekend and on my way out the lobby a Japanese woman said "Excuse me" in Japanese. From here on in, everything written in English was said in Japanese.
"Yes?" I said, smiling.
"Do you know how to use these new mailboxes?"
I turned around thinking there must have been a Japanese person behind me that she was talking to. But there wasn't. She was asking me, a dirty foreigner, how to do something she, a Japanese woman, didn't know how to do. I was floored. But it just so happened that I did know how to use the new mailboxes. So I mustered up my courage and saved the day.
"First, you have to turn to the right till the dial starts clicking. Then, stop at the first number. After that, turn left to zero and open the door." This was all said with perfect Japanese (and a little pantomiming...) - but there was one problem.
I was using my mailbox to give the demonstration, which made her think that every mailbox had the same code. Apparently she didn't get her code in the mail, which explained why she didn't know how to open the door. So I guess I didn't save the day entirely.
If you don't understand how these little events can make someone happy then you have to imagine experiencing them as someone who is learning a foreign language. The majority of the time it's frustrating as hell but then these little things happen that make the studying worthwhile.
After I bid the lady good evening ("Konbanwa!") I smiled the whole way to the store and all the way back. And it was the first thing I told Aimee about when she got home. And the first thing I told my friends at the dinner party. And, hopefully, it will be one of many more anecdotes about how learning another language is a lot of fun.
15 November 2010
No Wonder We Got Seats
I forgot to post this a couple of weeks ago.
I was working an extra shift on my day off and another teacher and I rode the train home together. This scene greeted us when we got on the train.
Unfortunately I can't move the crap at the right side of the screen so that the full video is viewable from this website.
Public intoxication is really common in Japan and isn't frowned upon. I've seen more drunk people stumbling around the streets here than I ever did at university. And no one cares.
I was working an extra shift on my day off and another teacher and I rode the train home together. This scene greeted us when we got on the train.
Unfortunately I can't move the crap at the right side of the screen so that the full video is viewable from this website.
Public intoxication is really common in Japan and isn't frowned upon. I've seen more drunk people stumbling around the streets here than I ever did at university. And no one cares.
06 October 2010
Stop Speaking Japanese To Me
Aimee and I are both studying Japanese but it's not that Japanese that this post is about. Although Aimee does sometimes find it irritating when I speak actual Japanese (my Japanese skills are higher than hers).
As English teachers we sometimes have to simplify our English when we talk to lower-level English speakers. This was a little difficult at first but after almost 7 months here it's ingrained and automatic. So much so that it's transitioned from a classroom thing to an outside-the-classroom thing. Perhaps this was inevitable.
The most common way to simplify your English is to make it really obvious that you're asking a question. In Japanese a question is made by putting a "ka" at the end of the sentence, so there's never any confusion about whether or not a question has been asked. If there's "ka," it's a question. In English it's sometimes a little more subtle. So one way to simplify your speaking is to make questions really obvious by having a rising intonation at the end of every one. This is natural with any yes/no question ("Did you have a good time?" "Do you want to see a movie?"), but a little less so with what/where/when/who questions.
We had this exchange last night:
It can be frustrating having to simplify your English but it's even more frustrating when that simplified English migrates into your everyday life. Next we'll be putting an "s" at the end of uncountable nouns.
Pray for us.
As English teachers we sometimes have to simplify our English when we talk to lower-level English speakers. This was a little difficult at first but after almost 7 months here it's ingrained and automatic. So much so that it's transitioned from a classroom thing to an outside-the-classroom thing. Perhaps this was inevitable.
The most common way to simplify your English is to make it really obvious that you're asking a question. In Japanese a question is made by putting a "ka" at the end of the sentence, so there's never any confusion about whether or not a question has been asked. If there's "ka," it's a question. In English it's sometimes a little more subtle. So one way to simplify your speaking is to make questions really obvious by having a rising intonation at the end of every one. This is natural with any yes/no question ("Did you have a good time?" "Do you want to see a movie?"), but a little less so with what/where/when/who questions.
We had this exchange last night:
Mike: What are you going to buy me for dessert? *his voice rising*
Aimee: Stop speaking Japanese.
Mike: Uh, what?
Aimee: You're speaking to me like I'm a Japanese person. *her voice rising*
Mike: Am I? *his voice rising*
Aimee: Yes, and it's really irritating.
It can be frustrating having to simplify your English but it's even more frustrating when that simplified English migrates into your everyday life. Next we'll be putting an "s" at the end of uncountable nouns.
Pray for us.
30 September 2010
Ankle Socks and Other Workplace Fashion Faux Pas
I wear ankle socks with my dress pants. White ones. Apparently white socks don't match dark pants but it's really comfortable. Dress socks are too tight and make my legs itchy. And they trap heat. When it's 39 degrees plus humidity, every little bit helps. Ankle socks -- of any colour -- are against the dress code but that doesn't bother me. I'm told that if I want to be fashionable I should buy dress socks; at the very least I should wear black ankle socks.
I roll my sleeves up. This isn't against the rules like the ankle socks are but I'm told it's not fashionable. Apparently it's too casual. I'm told that if I want to be fashionable I should buy short-sleeved collared shirts.
I use my hiking day bag to bring books and work stuff to work. It's 4 years old and has been all over the west coast and the Yukon; it's had the shit kicked out of it. It's not dirty but it's worn. It's a great bag and I like it. However, it gets more strange looks than my white ankle socks do. I'm told that if I want to be fashionable I should buy a brief case or, at the very least, a messenger bag.
There is not a chance in hell that I'm buying more Stuff so that I'm considered fashionably dressed. There isn't language strong enough for me to convey how ridiculous I think fashion and its trends are. I don't look unprofessional with my white ankle socks, rolled up sleeves and backpack - I just don't look trendy. It is important to look professional at work - it is not important to look fashionable or trendy.
I got on this rant because 9 times out of 10 when I ask one of my students what their hobbies are, they tell me, "Shopping." And when it happened again yesterday I had to vent.
Shopping is not a fucking hobby. And you don't need to buy clothes every 4 months because the trends change. Some assholes you've never met set trends. Buy clothing that never goes out of style and stop wasting time, energy, money and resources on trends.
I roll my sleeves up. This isn't against the rules like the ankle socks are but I'm told it's not fashionable. Apparently it's too casual. I'm told that if I want to be fashionable I should buy short-sleeved collared shirts.
I use my hiking day bag to bring books and work stuff to work. It's 4 years old and has been all over the west coast and the Yukon; it's had the shit kicked out of it. It's not dirty but it's worn. It's a great bag and I like it. However, it gets more strange looks than my white ankle socks do. I'm told that if I want to be fashionable I should buy a brief case or, at the very least, a messenger bag.
There is not a chance in hell that I'm buying more Stuff so that I'm considered fashionably dressed. There isn't language strong enough for me to convey how ridiculous I think fashion and its trends are. I don't look unprofessional with my white ankle socks, rolled up sleeves and backpack - I just don't look trendy. It is important to look professional at work - it is not important to look fashionable or trendy.
I got on this rant because 9 times out of 10 when I ask one of my students what their hobbies are, they tell me, "Shopping." And when it happened again yesterday I had to vent.
Shopping is not a fucking hobby. And you don't need to buy clothes every 4 months because the trends change. Some assholes you've never met set trends. Buy clothing that never goes out of style and stop wasting time, energy, money and resources on trends.
21 September 2010
More Strange Subway Stuff
I wrote 3 months ago about some strange stuff I saw one day. I've since seen much more pornographic sandwich board advertising and have even seen more of the little Michael Jackson impersonator. But until today I hadn't seen much more strange subway stuff.
I was riding home from school practicing Japanese and two Japanese girls sat down beside me. I didn't give them much thought and went back to trying to learn 3000 kanji so I can read a Japanese book (only ~2850 to go!).
A few stops after the girls got on the train I noticed a guy shoving himself through what was now a crowded subway car. He wasn't excusing himself as he pushed his way from one end to the other. He was making for the other end of the car but when he was perpendicular to the girl two spots to the right of me he made an abrupt turn toward her and pushed his way past a couple more people to stand in front of her. He grabbed two of the rings hanging from the ceiling and then leaned in, bringing his face about 4 centimeters from hers.
From the moment I noticed this asshole shoving himself through the crowd to the point where he leaned into this girl's face was about 10 seconds. At first I thought he was just a rude asshole; then I thought that this rude asshole must know this girl because he made an abrupt turn toward her. But he didn't.
Immediately after leaning into her personal space he repeatedly shouted "Sumimasen! Sumimasen!" ("Excuse me! Excuse me!"). He shouted for about five seconds and then, disgusted that the girl didn't acknowledge him, resumed pushing his way through the crowd to the other end of the train car.
I was totally fixated on this guy: from the moment I noticed him pushing his way through the crowd, to when he was shouting at the girl, to when he stormed off in anger, I didn't take my eyes off of him. And I was the only one. Not a single person cared that he was pushing his way through the crowd; not a single person cared that he was shouting at some girl; and not a single person cared when he resumed shoving his way through the crowd. The strangest part was that the girl he was shouting at didn't bat an eyelash while he shouted at her.
When the screamer exited the car I looked over at the girl and she was gorgeous - and very composed. Her beauty explained why the guy took an interest in her but I wasn't able to figure out how she remained totally serene. It bothered me more than it did her that she got screamed at by this guy. She acted as if he hadn't existed. Maybe she's adjusted to these kinds of things the same way women in North American adjust to being hooted and hollered at?
If I spoke better Japanese I would have loved to talk to her about the whole episode. If I ever see her again I'll have a leg up on the competition, too - I'll know not to break the ice with a "Sumimasen."
I was riding home from school practicing Japanese and two Japanese girls sat down beside me. I didn't give them much thought and went back to trying to learn 3000 kanji so I can read a Japanese book (only ~2850 to go!).
A few stops after the girls got on the train I noticed a guy shoving himself through what was now a crowded subway car. He wasn't excusing himself as he pushed his way from one end to the other. He was making for the other end of the car but when he was perpendicular to the girl two spots to the right of me he made an abrupt turn toward her and pushed his way past a couple more people to stand in front of her. He grabbed two of the rings hanging from the ceiling and then leaned in, bringing his face about 4 centimeters from hers.
From the moment I noticed this asshole shoving himself through the crowd to the point where he leaned into this girl's face was about 10 seconds. At first I thought he was just a rude asshole; then I thought that this rude asshole must know this girl because he made an abrupt turn toward her. But he didn't.
Immediately after leaning into her personal space he repeatedly shouted "Sumimasen! Sumimasen!" ("Excuse me! Excuse me!"). He shouted for about five seconds and then, disgusted that the girl didn't acknowledge him, resumed pushing his way through the crowd to the other end of the train car.
I was totally fixated on this guy: from the moment I noticed him pushing his way through the crowd, to when he was shouting at the girl, to when he stormed off in anger, I didn't take my eyes off of him. And I was the only one. Not a single person cared that he was pushing his way through the crowd; not a single person cared that he was shouting at some girl; and not a single person cared when he resumed shoving his way through the crowd. The strangest part was that the girl he was shouting at didn't bat an eyelash while he shouted at her.
When the screamer exited the car I looked over at the girl and she was gorgeous - and very composed. Her beauty explained why the guy took an interest in her but I wasn't able to figure out how she remained totally serene. It bothered me more than it did her that she got screamed at by this guy. She acted as if he hadn't existed. Maybe she's adjusted to these kinds of things the same way women in North American adjust to being hooted and hollered at?
If I spoke better Japanese I would have loved to talk to her about the whole episode. If I ever see her again I'll have a leg up on the competition, too - I'll know not to break the ice with a "Sumimasen."
02 August 2010
World Cosplay Summit
The picture to the left was taken this past Sunday at the World Cosplay Summit, which was conveniently held 10 minutes from our apartment. The character you are looking at is Porco Rosso, who is from one of Hayao Miyazaki's oddest films: Porco Rosso.Cosplay is a compound noun formed from "costume" and "roleplay." In Japanese it is pronounced "ko-su-pu-re." People (mostly young) dress up as characters from manga, video games, fantasy novels and movies, anime, and hentai. It is quite an odd event but it's also a lot of fun if you're open minded. The people get really into it and put on quite a good show.
There were a few Final Fantasy characters - mostly Cloud and Sephiroth - and a lot of Zelda characters. Most of the Links I saw were women and they were as attractive as you'd imagine they would be. Unfortunately I didn't get a picture. My friend did get an awesome picture of Ganon though:
He looked even better in full costume. At this point he was walking to the stage where the performances took place. You didn't think people from eight different countries just came to dress up, did you?
Each country put on a ~5 minute skit that was typically a popular scene associated with their characters. We saw four of them but not the one I really wanted to see: Cloud vs. Emerald Weapon. Don't bother clicking the link if you didn't play the game - you won't like it. Their costumes were both excellent, but I only got a shot of Cloud:
The best performance we saw was put on by the Korean team. Unfortunately I didn't get any pictures of them because we didn't see them before the skits started and we were too far away to get decent pictures of them when they took the stage. One of them was dressed as a giant robot and the other was dressed as a samurai warrior. The samurai would jump off the robot doing these aerial kicks or he would run up him and flip off him like you see martial artists run up walls and flip off them. The choreography was really well done for an amateur exhibition.This event was probably the most quintessentially modern Japanese thing we've seen so far. We've seen the traditional things you think of when you think of Japan (castles, temples, kimono) but this was something entirely different. Even though it's relatively new (the Summit has only been held since 2003) there was still the same sense of propriety and custom you feel at a traditional Japanese event. You weren't allowed to take pictures at random - you had to ask permission and then thank the person or people for allowing you to take a photograph. This stems from the initial practice of photographers photographing reiya (people who dress up) and then giving them copies of the pictures as gifts. There was also a level of seriousness from the reiya that I didn't expect. They would get in character when they had their photos taken and then they would be all smiles and happy afterward. It was really interesting to watch the transformation.
I can definitely see the appeal of being able to transform yourself into a character from your favourite entertainment medium but I don't think it's for me. I do enjoy dressing up for Hallowe'en but I don't think I'd like to do anything more than enter a best dressed competition.
26 July 2010
Weird Day at the Pool
It was an uncomfortable 40 degrees on Sunday so we went to the pool with a few friends to cool off. Or had intended to cool off.
The pool was only 1 meter deep so it was a little less lame than being in a wading pool. It wouldn't have been too bad if it were cold, but since Nagoya has been so hot for 5 weeks the water was lukewarm. It was like sitting in a luke warm bath. It would have been an entirely worthless experience had we not been with friends with whom we could complain about the warm water.
After soaking in the giant bathtub we got out to lay on the side of the pool to read/tan/talk. About ten minutes later a bell rang and everyone got out of the pool. Some men got up to stretch so we figured that the bell ended the child swim and started the adult swim. But this guy was just prepping for the stretching routine that everyone was about to do.
Some weird music started playing and then everyone stood up and started stretching in sync. From the 4 year olds up to the 80 year olds everyone knew what actions to do and when. It was eerie how coordinated everyone was. The 5 of us sat in awe, no doubt making fools of ourselves by starting at everyone - but we couldn't look away.
This is the stretch routine they were doing if you want to check it out. Having seen the whole thing in person I didn't watch the entire video since nothing compares to watching it live.
The pool was only 1 meter deep so it was a little less lame than being in a wading pool. It wouldn't have been too bad if it were cold, but since Nagoya has been so hot for 5 weeks the water was lukewarm. It was like sitting in a luke warm bath. It would have been an entirely worthless experience had we not been with friends with whom we could complain about the warm water.
After soaking in the giant bathtub we got out to lay on the side of the pool to read/tan/talk. About ten minutes later a bell rang and everyone got out of the pool. Some men got up to stretch so we figured that the bell ended the child swim and started the adult swim. But this guy was just prepping for the stretching routine that everyone was about to do.
Some weird music started playing and then everyone stood up and started stretching in sync. From the 4 year olds up to the 80 year olds everyone knew what actions to do and when. It was eerie how coordinated everyone was. The 5 of us sat in awe, no doubt making fools of ourselves by starting at everyone - but we couldn't look away.
This is the stretch routine they were doing if you want to check it out. Having seen the whole thing in person I didn't watch the entire video since nothing compares to watching it live.
22 July 2010
"My name is Dragon!"
Sometimes Japanese people take English names to use at the schools we work at because it's easier for the Native teachers to pronounce them than to pronounce Japanese names. I think this is ridiculous - your name is your name and you shouldn't change it because some people who come to your country to work have a hard time pronouncing it. But this is a choice a grown person makes so I've never said anything to anyone other than Aimee.
This past weekend I worked at a kids summer party at one of my schools. Basically my job was to play games with each of the groups of 20 or so kids who rotated around the different game centres in the building. The last group of the day was the largest and also the most disturbing. My conversation with the first kid who came in illustrates this:
Mike: "Hello! What's your name?"
Kid: "My name is Dragon!"
At first I thought this was cute. The kid wanted to be a dragon so he called himself Dragon. I asked the next kid:
Mike: "What's your name?"
Kid: "My name is Bear."
Ok, maybe this kid likes bears? At this point most of the kids had come into the room and I started looking at their "My name is ____" name tags and was thoroughly disturbed. Here are some of the highlights:
Wanting your kids to learn another language is a good thing. Languages are useful and anyone who can speak more than one language has a huge leg-up in life - especially if that language is English. However, it is ridiculous to go so far as to give your children English names thinking that this helps the process. It is especially ridiculous when those names aren't even names! If the group were any larger they would have had to start giving the kids numbers as names.
Maybe I'm making a light situation into something it's not but wouldn't renaming your child make them feel like their real name isn't good enough or is worthless in another country? When I was learning Japanese at university my Japanese friends gave me a Japanese name (it's Masato and it means "elegant and graceful person," which I am). They would call me Masato when they helped me with my Japanese or when I helped them with their English but I never thought about changing my name. My name is part of my identity.
I don't think that changing part of a child's identity is a good thing. If I were one of those children I immediately would have questioned why I needed to have an English name just to go to an English party. Children are already easily confused as it is. Why would a parent willingly add to that confusion?
This past weekend I worked at a kids summer party at one of my schools. Basically my job was to play games with each of the groups of 20 or so kids who rotated around the different game centres in the building. The last group of the day was the largest and also the most disturbing. My conversation with the first kid who came in illustrates this:
Mike: "Hello! What's your name?"
Kid: "My name is Dragon!"
At first I thought this was cute. The kid wanted to be a dragon so he called himself Dragon. I asked the next kid:
Mike: "What's your name?"
Kid: "My name is Bear."
Ok, maybe this kid likes bears? At this point most of the kids had come into the room and I started looking at their "My name is ____" name tags and was thoroughly disturbed. Here are some of the highlights:
- A group of 5 or 6 boys came in and they were all named after colours. I had a Blue, Green, Red, Yellow and Orange.
- Dispersed throughout the group were common animals. I had a Dog, Cat, Mouse, Snake and Bear.
- The worst was the group of girls named Chocolate, Cinnamon and Candy. They had no idea that if they lived in North America they would be destined to become strippers.
Wanting your kids to learn another language is a good thing. Languages are useful and anyone who can speak more than one language has a huge leg-up in life - especially if that language is English. However, it is ridiculous to go so far as to give your children English names thinking that this helps the process. It is especially ridiculous when those names aren't even names! If the group were any larger they would have had to start giving the kids numbers as names.
Maybe I'm making a light situation into something it's not but wouldn't renaming your child make them feel like their real name isn't good enough or is worthless in another country? When I was learning Japanese at university my Japanese friends gave me a Japanese name (it's Masato and it means "elegant and graceful person," which I am). They would call me Masato when they helped me with my Japanese or when I helped them with their English but I never thought about changing my name. My name is part of my identity.
I don't think that changing part of a child's identity is a good thing. If I were one of those children I immediately would have questioned why I needed to have an English name just to go to an English party. Children are already easily confused as it is. Why would a parent willingly add to that confusion?
11 July 2010
The Japanese Shaved My Earlobes
I had my first straight-razor shave this week and it was quite an experience. I went to my usual barber and got my usual haircut. The last time I was there he asked if I wanted a shave but I declined citing a lack of cash (even though Japan is a cash-based society I carry little cash). I told him I would try one next time though because I had not had a straight-razor shave before.
So, it's 6 weeks later and I'm laying back in my chair with my beard lathered. And my... forehead lathered? This is kind of odd, I thought to myself. I didn't think the fine blonde hairs on my forehead warranted much attention but the barber was the one with the razor so I kept my mouth shut. I also thought that if I tried to speak my forehead would krinkle and I would have part of it sliced into. He must have also thought I was developing hairy ears since, after leaving my forehead smooth and unscathed, he immediately shaved my earlobes and the outside of my ears.
Throughout the whole experience I never once thought about asking for an explanation or asking him to stop. Remember, I'm the guy who let Japanese men feel him up so getting a shave is a walk in the park. I thought the forehead shaving was a little odd but having my earlobes and outer ear shaved actually felt kind of cool. You know that feeling you get when someone kisses your ears? The "this is cool but it wouldn't be cool if they stuck their tongue in my ear" feeling? Having your ears shaved is kind of similar. It's cool unless the barber slips and lops a chunk of your ear off.
While I was impressed with the thoroughness of the shave, it was less smooth than I thought it would be. I think the barber thought so too - when he finished he stood up, wiped his brow and said "Muzukashii," which means difficult. I guess he wasn't used to shaving thick North American beards.
So, it's 6 weeks later and I'm laying back in my chair with my beard lathered. And my... forehead lathered? This is kind of odd, I thought to myself. I didn't think the fine blonde hairs on my forehead warranted much attention but the barber was the one with the razor so I kept my mouth shut. I also thought that if I tried to speak my forehead would krinkle and I would have part of it sliced into. He must have also thought I was developing hairy ears since, after leaving my forehead smooth and unscathed, he immediately shaved my earlobes and the outside of my ears.
Throughout the whole experience I never once thought about asking for an explanation or asking him to stop. Remember, I'm the guy who let Japanese men feel him up so getting a shave is a walk in the park. I thought the forehead shaving was a little odd but having my earlobes and outer ear shaved actually felt kind of cool. You know that feeling you get when someone kisses your ears? The "this is cool but it wouldn't be cool if they stuck their tongue in my ear" feeling? Having your ears shaved is kind of similar. It's cool unless the barber slips and lops a chunk of your ear off.
While I was impressed with the thoroughness of the shave, it was less smooth than I thought it would be. I think the barber thought so too - when he finished he stood up, wiped his brow and said "Muzukashii," which means difficult. I guess he wasn't used to shaving thick North American beards.
01 July 2010
No shirt, no shoes... get arrested?
In one of my kids classes a couple of weeks ago my kids asked me what I wore in Canada (they only ever see me in suit pants, a collared shirt and a tie). I told them that in the summer I wear shorts and a t-shirt, but if it's hot I just wear shorts. They lost their minds. They told me that kind of thing would get you thrown in jail here. I assumed they thought I meant I go to restaurants and stores without a shirt and just laughed their comments off as a lost in translation kind of thing.
A few days later Aimee and I were stretching after one of our runs in the park I took my shirt off to cool down and went about my stretching. This caused some curious and outright scandalized stares from passers- and runners-by. Thinking there may actually be something to this topless nonsense my kids were talking about, and not wanting to further scandalize anyone, I put my sweaty shirt back on.
The next day I asked one of my near-fluent adult students what the big deal was with taking my shirt off. He smiled and told me that if a policeman had seen me he would have come over and told me to put my shirt back on. I thought he was kidding but he assured me that it was illegal for men to walk around without a shirt on. I was stunned.
Let me tell you about some of the things I've seen in Japan that are far more scandalous than me running with my shirt off:
A few days later Aimee and I were stretching after one of our runs in the park I took my shirt off to cool down and went about my stretching. This caused some curious and outright scandalized stares from passers- and runners-by. Thinking there may actually be something to this topless nonsense my kids were talking about, and not wanting to further scandalize anyone, I put my sweaty shirt back on.
The next day I asked one of my near-fluent adult students what the big deal was with taking my shirt off. He smiled and told me that if a policeman had seen me he would have come over and told me to put my shirt back on. I thought he was kidding but he assured me that it was illegal for men to walk around without a shirt on. I was stunned.
Let me tell you about some of the things I've seen in Japan that are far more scandalous than me running with my shirt off:
- a homeless man at the train station masturbating while staring at one of my American friends (I didn't actually see this but it came up one night while a bunch of us were out. I found this absolutely hilarious and chastised her relentlessly for not taking a photo of the guy. Brief aside: the situation reminded me of that episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia where the homeless guy masturbating in the alley stares at Dee.)
- more skirts-that-are-short-enough-to-be-panties than you'd see at a Victoria's Secret runway show
- Japanese men looking at magazine porn while riding the subway
- Japanese men looking at manga porn while riding the subway
- Japanese men looking at internet porn on their phones while riding the subway
- Japanese men looking at porn videos on their iPods while riding the subway
27 June 2010
My First Experience Being Felt-Up by Japanese Men
Over the weekend our friends Chris and Caitlin had a couple of their friends come to Nagoya to visit and we all went out for dinner. While we were eating these two Japanese girls came over to talk with us. This is common in Japan. After a sufficient number of alcoholic drinks, Japanese people lose their reluctance to practice their English on foreigners. They stayed for a few minutes to talk about where we were from and how they wanted to go to America and Canada and then returned to their table.
After dinner we saw them again with their male friends at the subway station. This is where things got a little weird...
I guess the male friends wanted to see what I looked like under my shirt so they come over and before they had even introduced themselves they lifted my shirt up to see what I was hiding. I found this very amusing. I guess they liked what they saw because then they felt my pecs. They felt over my shirt so it was only a little weird. I probably would have drawn the line at being felt-up underneath my shirt. Instead of responding like a lot of foreigners would (yelling, lashing out, screaming) I just lifted their shirts up. They and their girl friends found this incredibly amusing because they all burst out laughing. The guys then slapped their bellies and said they were fat. I told them that I'm skinny because I run every week; they told me they were fat because they drink beer every week.
That episode was definitely the strangest thing that has happened to me since moving here. I thought maybe I wasn't offended because I had been drinking but even two days later I still think it's just funny. I think a lot of it had to do with the demeanor of my frisky friends. They were drunk and happy and harmless. Had some sober Japanese business man come up to me to lift my shirt my reaction would have been much different.
My only regret was that I didn't tell the guys that next time they want to see a foreign man's stomach they should send their girl friends over to do the undressing.
After dinner we saw them again with their male friends at the subway station. This is where things got a little weird...
I guess the male friends wanted to see what I looked like under my shirt so they come over and before they had even introduced themselves they lifted my shirt up to see what I was hiding. I found this very amusing. I guess they liked what they saw because then they felt my pecs. They felt over my shirt so it was only a little weird. I probably would have drawn the line at being felt-up underneath my shirt. Instead of responding like a lot of foreigners would (yelling, lashing out, screaming) I just lifted their shirts up. They and their girl friends found this incredibly amusing because they all burst out laughing. The guys then slapped their bellies and said they were fat. I told them that I'm skinny because I run every week; they told me they were fat because they drink beer every week.
That episode was definitely the strangest thing that has happened to me since moving here. I thought maybe I wasn't offended because I had been drinking but even two days later I still think it's just funny. I think a lot of it had to do with the demeanor of my frisky friends. They were drunk and happy and harmless. Had some sober Japanese business man come up to me to lift my shirt my reaction would have been much different.
My only regret was that I didn't tell the guys that next time they want to see a foreign man's stomach they should send their girl friends over to do the undressing.
17 June 2010
Beer Gardens
This past Sunday Aimee and I had our first visit to a Japanese beer garden. It was hosted by one of the schools Aimee teaches at and we, along with a friend and a couple other Western teachers, were the token Westerners attending the party. This afforded us a discount on the entry price (1500 yen instead of 3300) and the rockstar status most foreigners get when they're surrounded by a group of Japanese people who wish to speak English.
Beer gardens are all you can eat and drink so there is no shortage of entertainment in the form of Japanese children running around with heaping plates of food and Japanese men inebriated enough to try their best at picking up women. I saw more unsuccessful flirting Sunday night than at a high school dance. Keep high school flirting in your mind while you read the next paragraph (I'm thinking specifically of this scenario: You ask your friend to tell the friend of a girl you like to tell the girl you like that you like her... maybe... only if she likes you back).
Draw a tall, narrow rectangle. In the bottom right corner is M (for Mike) and the top right corner is K (for Kate, our friend). The top left corner is JM (Japanese man) and the bottom left corner is JL (Japanese lady). JM makes small talk with K before revealing the reason he introduced himself - JL would like to be introduced to M. K tells JM to tell JL to introduce herself then. JM smiles and says she is embarrassed. K interrupts my conversation with a different Japanese lady and introduces me to JM. We make small talk until JM tells me that he had himself introduced to me so that he could introduce me to JL. Two things should strike you as odd here. First: we are adults and should be able to make our own introductions. Second: JL was sitting closer to me than JM was (you can see this because you drew a rectangle). JM and I had to lean uncomfortably over the backs of our chairs to make the kind of small talk you make when you first introduce yourself to someone you like so that JL could overhear it ("Where are you from?" "How old are you?" "You have the most beautiful eyes in the world and I could be swallowed up in them..."). I found the whole episode quite humourous - I'm not sure that my tone has captured that.
JL and I talked (with JM translating a little since his English was pretty good) for a little while until Aimee came back from refilling our glasses. JL didn't lash out when I introduced Aimee as my girlfriend but I could tell she was disappointed. Brief aside: I've had numerous conversations with friends and girlfriends (ex and current) about the appropriate time to divulge that you have a boyfriend/girlfriend and have never reached a consensus.
Now, to continue my tale...
The garden is on the rooftop of a 6 story building in the heart of Nagoya. It was raining though so we were eating under tarped gazebo frames. This was a pretty stifling environment to be in. The food at a beer garden is cooked at the table on hibachi-like grills so there's lots of smoke which gets trapped because of the tarps. This smoke is mingled with cigarette smoke since there are no laws in Japan banning smoking in restaurants. Add to this a humidity level that is rivalled only by sitting in tub full of water and you get a recipe for a not-so-comfortable night. I had had a lot to drink the night before so I wasn't in an all-you-can-drink mood otherwise I probably would have been more comfortable than I was.
I'm also not as enamored with all-you-can-eat restaurants as I used to be. When you're a teenager they're fun because you have an appetite that could shame an elephant and no real understanding of how wasteful it is to eat a twentieth of your body weight in one sitting. The problem is that no one needs to eat 5 dinner plates worth of meat and 3 bowls of pudding. All-you-can-eat restaurants perpetuate the belief that people need to eat until they're stuffed when people actually only need to eat until they're not hungry. I think this message would fall on deaf ears here though (if I could even translate it into Japanese properly) because Japanese obesity rates are essentially non-existent when compared to obesity rates in North America.
Beer gardens are all you can eat and drink so there is no shortage of entertainment in the form of Japanese children running around with heaping plates of food and Japanese men inebriated enough to try their best at picking up women. I saw more unsuccessful flirting Sunday night than at a high school dance. Keep high school flirting in your mind while you read the next paragraph (I'm thinking specifically of this scenario: You ask your friend to tell the friend of a girl you like to tell the girl you like that you like her... maybe... only if she likes you back).
Draw a tall, narrow rectangle. In the bottom right corner is M (for Mike) and the top right corner is K (for Kate, our friend). The top left corner is JM (Japanese man) and the bottom left corner is JL (Japanese lady). JM makes small talk with K before revealing the reason he introduced himself - JL would like to be introduced to M. K tells JM to tell JL to introduce herself then. JM smiles and says she is embarrassed. K interrupts my conversation with a different Japanese lady and introduces me to JM. We make small talk until JM tells me that he had himself introduced to me so that he could introduce me to JL. Two things should strike you as odd here. First: we are adults and should be able to make our own introductions. Second: JL was sitting closer to me than JM was (you can see this because you drew a rectangle). JM and I had to lean uncomfortably over the backs of our chairs to make the kind of small talk you make when you first introduce yourself to someone you like so that JL could overhear it ("Where are you from?" "How old are you?" "You have the most beautiful eyes in the world and I could be swallowed up in them..."). I found the whole episode quite humourous - I'm not sure that my tone has captured that.
JL and I talked (with JM translating a little since his English was pretty good) for a little while until Aimee came back from refilling our glasses. JL didn't lash out when I introduced Aimee as my girlfriend but I could tell she was disappointed. Brief aside: I've had numerous conversations with friends and girlfriends (ex and current) about the appropriate time to divulge that you have a boyfriend/girlfriend and have never reached a consensus.
Now, to continue my tale...
The garden is on the rooftop of a 6 story building in the heart of Nagoya. It was raining though so we were eating under tarped gazebo frames. This was a pretty stifling environment to be in. The food at a beer garden is cooked at the table on hibachi-like grills so there's lots of smoke which gets trapped because of the tarps. This smoke is mingled with cigarette smoke since there are no laws in Japan banning smoking in restaurants. Add to this a humidity level that is rivalled only by sitting in tub full of water and you get a recipe for a not-so-comfortable night. I had had a lot to drink the night before so I wasn't in an all-you-can-drink mood otherwise I probably would have been more comfortable than I was.
I'm also not as enamored with all-you-can-eat restaurants as I used to be. When you're a teenager they're fun because you have an appetite that could shame an elephant and no real understanding of how wasteful it is to eat a twentieth of your body weight in one sitting. The problem is that no one needs to eat 5 dinner plates worth of meat and 3 bowls of pudding. All-you-can-eat restaurants perpetuate the belief that people need to eat until they're stuffed when people actually only need to eat until they're not hungry. I think this message would fall on deaf ears here though (if I could even translate it into Japanese properly) because Japanese obesity rates are essentially non-existent when compared to obesity rates in North America.
06 June 2010
Strange things...
I saw three very strange things today. In order of strangeness: a 5 year old boy dancing to Michael Jackson in the street; a man wearing a sandwich board advertising porn; three girls on the train touching each other's breasts. All of these events were within an hour of each other.The boy in the picture above was dancing where these guys usually dance. He must be a good dancer if he can scare off those greasers. Kidding aside, the kid was quite good. He was dancing to "Smooth Criminal" and he definitely was one.
The man wearing the sandwich board with scantily clad women on it was kind of creepy. He was handing out tissues (handing out packages of tissues with information about your product on them is a mainstay of Japanese advertising) which had the address of some sort of strip club on them. I was most intrigued by the look on the man's face. He was just as resigned to his crappy job as anyone else I've seen doing something they hate. It didn't seem to bother him at all to wear a sandwich board with pictures on it that 13 year old boys would happily masturbate to. Although with the advent of the internet I imagine 13 year old boys now need something more racy than women posing provocatively in their bras and panties to get off...
The young girls touching each other's breasts was the strangest thing I saw all day. I was riding the train home from work and these girls got on the train and stood next to the door. One of the girls had a loose bra strap so she asked her friend to tighten it for her. I'm sure just this act would give a lot of Japanese men something to think about for the rest of the evening. After it was tightened the girl admired herself in the glass door. When she turned around her friend poked her in the breast. Then the pokee poked the other girl in one of her breasts. After a few more rounds the poking turned into groping. It's like they were feeling for growth. I'm sure young girls do this all the time - at home. Everyone is curious about their bodies and there is nothing wrong with that. However, you don't explore your body and your friends' bodies on a train that, from 5am-9am and 5pm-9pm, has women only cars because of problems with sexual assault in crowded trains.
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