They cry so beautifully in mascara in the movies. An elegant trail of black, usually down only one cheek. A solitary tear. There is a Hollywood glamour about the thing, as glassy-eyed starlets passively allow their surroundings to crumble.
I'd stopped writing anything at all a few days before the move. That always means something's wrong. It was too much pressure every time I opened a blank page. Write your future. Prove it to yourself that you are making the correct decision, in elegant, confident prose. Such a waste, not to write at least something. But there was too much stress and shittiness that saw me fail financially, geographically and emotionally. Watching my possessions dwindle down to what could be posted or carried. I send a washing machine to the wrong friend's house and someone else mistakenly gets a microwave. I didn't want any of my deposit back anyway.
In the end, it is the note I write to M that opens me up again. She is supposed to be coming with me to the airport, but lies sleeping feverishly in bed while I pack. I sit down to write the kind of goodbye that is too rushed and written in scratchy pencil and conveys only 2% of what you love about the person. But it makes me cry anyway, by myself and then onto her white duvet as I lean over her wakened body and crush it with a hug. She tells me off for crying: tomorrow it will be sunshine and sea and men again and for all the tomorrows I choose.
In the cab through Yoyogi Uehara, I check my face in the mirror, and even in the dark, there is a smudged cloud under each eye, glassy and dazed. A gig is letting out at Shibuya O East, and the cab has to stop while we are thronged with goth lites in green hair. That morning, I'd gone to a photo exhibition in Ebisu, and it had seemed so exactly like a normal Sunday in Tokyo, with a matcha frappuccino afterwards, to celebrate the beginning of the summer. Nothing that gave the sense of an ending.
On the bus away from the city there's "Little Red Corvette" by Prince, another questionable selection from the ipod to soundtrack this moment.
There is no sense of release, only loss. Not even that, just nothing. I feel like writing about though, so things can't be so strange, but only in teenage melodramatic tones.
I look forward to descending into the flippancies of Travel Bitching, what I should have really named my blog. I know soon I will shrug off this emo mourning and I will want to write about the place I am in, beautiful men I latch on to and the heinous ones that take a shine to me. There will be mediocre sex and sunburn and lower back tattoos and banana daiquiris I pour into the pool when I get bored with them. The Romance of travel/adventure/exploration and solitude. There will be endless questions about Japan. People want to hear about green kit kats and false exoticism. Perhaps I will avoid mentioning it and let people think I have come from London. Nobody wants to hear my version of Japan while I am still sulking: land of instructions and some of the worst pizza I have ever eaten.
It would seem that a lot of people agree with me, as the flight is packed. The inflight magazine has an article on the Japanese cherry blossom, but I saw them a few days ago, on M's birthday, when she skived off work and we went and laid in Yoyogi under the first trees. So I don't need to read it. Finish. Tick.
Showing posts with label Japan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Japan. Show all posts
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Endings
Some things I will miss about Japan, Part 29c
- The chocolate peanut butter pie at that cafe in Sakuragicho that looks out over the big wheel in Yokohama. But then, everywhere looks out over the big wheel in Yokohama. It's the cafe that plays Nine Inch Nails followed by Bob Dylan and then the Spice Girls. Unasked for western nostalgia, whisking you back to another time without permission. You need time to prepare when you go back.
- At school, that kid who always writes "Fin" at the end of all his journals. God knows where he picked that up from. I see him in the corridors, having walking-backwards competitions with his friends, and at lunch, hiding his vegetables in his neighbour's carbohydrate.
- The Toyoko line. You should really stand at the front of the train to get off at Kikuna, but you have a better chance of getting a seat if you remain at the back and walk up. I always forget to walk up. On the way to shows, I am that crazy girl in the corner, silently mouthing the words to my set, or out loud if I'm really worried. On the way to conversation lessons with salarymen, I prep with articles about sweatshop workers in China, floods in Bangkok, collapse in Europe. The Toyoko line home from Nakameg.
- Mimi, a ball of unaffected energy and unconditional love.
- Dean & Delucca, Marunouchi. Your coffee always gave me epiphanies.
- The tedious everyday minutia that added up to a life for me and I thank it for that. At the end, during the packing and the almost ritualistic binning, I am left with just a dress that I can't bear to part with because it's so special or the pattern is beautiful or that I was so happy in it, and a pile of notebooks attempting to document My Life In Japan. A ¥6000 package sent home, and a little bag for the road. This is a little or a lot or nothing.
- The urban, yuppie cleanliness and disposable income I'm going to trade for unemployed, wandering homelessness. In these final days, I wonder whether I should get some kind of trinket to serve as a trophy. This is what it meant. But this is when people are most vulnerable to getting tattoos.
- It's difficult to summarise an experience until you are well out of it. How this is not how life works for most people, who don't have the luxury of A London Phase, The Japanese Phase and endless Malaysian Days. Most people just continue on, from day to day, in the same place with the same things, not needing anything to reflect on/from. "Japan" as some finite experience, now finished and neatly tied with a bow at its fruition. It's ongoing. You aren't allowed to have several lives, or even two. You have to drag around the same lead character wherever you go, moving from plot to plot, with the same tired old flaws that occasionally lessen and improve.
- It began with 12 simple kanji. Tree. Power. Man. Soil. Car. Emergency Exit.
- To have all my hopes and fears either confirmed or pacified by spending time with all those other people doing exactly the same thing as me. Travel in the hope of finding a narrative thread.
- Talking with a British guy, in a bar in Tokyo, who hasn't been home in a while, and that look they give you that says: "Oh yeah....I remember what you British girls are like!" and suddenly my personality has currency again.
Friday, June 17, 2011
What's new, Kitty Kat?
15 months in this great nation, and while I'm yet to manage a haircut or master the lingo at the most basic of levels, I have immersed myself fully in Japanese culture. I've ikebana-ed, learnt to make sushi, seen the sumo and most importantly, consumed a vast quantity of Nestle's greatest product, the humble Kit Kat.
May I present my Top 13:
We'll start with the most transparently Japanese of the flavours: Green tea (matcha). This one's available exclusively in the all-nite convenience store based in Narita Airport, hence the hideous Vietnamese bedspread pictured beneath.
The colour is mould and the flavour too slight, when you consider the potential deliciousness of the marriage of bitter matcha and sweet sweet cocoa.
Sakura matcha, or, in layman's terms, green tea with a hint o' cherry. Exquisite. I was almost mauled to death by Narese deer while walking through a herd and ripping one of these babies open. Available in Kyoto, and only in cherry blossom season, boo.
Wasabi, a Shizuokan speciality. Could definitely have used a bit more, urm, wasabi. Bit of a swizz this one. With colouring almost identical to its tastier older sister, the Matcha, it follows suit in flavour, with perhaps the merest whisper of artificially sweetened mustard aftertaste.
The Daddy of them all: This one's dark and delicious and comes in a Chunky-style bar form. Adults only.
Bitter Almond, seen here struggling to survive a Japanese summer. I know just how it feels, but I'm not half as delicious.
From the sublime to the plain disgusting: the European Cheese. A whole lot more effort has gone into producing a suitably authentic French pong. The smell is wholly realistic, but the taste, well...
Inside, hundreds of the foul tasting buggers, thousands, millions, breeding, multiplying like a horrific fungus, like bacteria like, well, cheese.
The ghostly pallor of emmenthal. Still, one whiff of this and its sayonara to European homesickness.
A change of pace now, to the malteaser-shaped "Big/Little". Note the confusing use of both English and Japanese in the product name.
Sweet potato, in bar form. The texture is somewhat akin to that of the Holy Grail, the Kit Kat Chunky. Not available in Asia. Let's take a moment to reflect on the pathos of that last statement.
Still, look how happy I am to have found one, and on the streets of Akihabara too, more commonly known for its electro gadgets, doleful-eyed, latterday geisha maids and Sexy Sex Shops.
Waiting for the last train back to the hostel, the Midnight Munchies make their presence known, and I just can't wait any longer.
Long enough to take a pic of the Almond, in bar guise, which I appear to be holding in my prosthetic hand.
Strawberry Shortcake. Short, saccharine and ultimately unfulfilling.
Pretty pale pink, though.
But let's get back on the chocolatey horse of goodness with this double whammy: the Cola/Lemonade twin pack.
With a rather anaemic brown colouring, the cola could use some work, much like the non-fizzy kind of penny sweet cola bottles. The Lemonade however is a taste sensation.
Back to the balls, of the Custard Pudding variety. The lily has officially been gilded with this disconcertingly phosphorous offering.
Less chemical in taste, and with possibly my favourite packaging of the bunch, the plain, no-nonsense, dark choc of the Semisweet is a winner.
And for the bonus round - Coconut M&Ms, all the way from Guam! Slightly soapy aftertaste. My quest for the Coconut Kit Kat continues.
Alas, the Soy Sauce, the Miso, the Ginger Ale and the Royal Milk Tea remain illusive, but that shall make them taste all the sweeter when they are mine,
May I present my Top 13:
We'll start with the most transparently Japanese of the flavours: Green tea (matcha). This one's available exclusively in the all-nite convenience store based in Narita Airport, hence the hideous Vietnamese bedspread pictured beneath.
The colour is mould and the flavour too slight, when you consider the potential deliciousness of the marriage of bitter matcha and sweet sweet cocoa.
Sakura matcha, or, in layman's terms, green tea with a hint o' cherry. Exquisite. I was almost mauled to death by Narese deer while walking through a herd and ripping one of these babies open. Available in Kyoto, and only in cherry blossom season, boo.
Wasabi, a Shizuokan speciality. Could definitely have used a bit more, urm, wasabi. Bit of a swizz this one. With colouring almost identical to its tastier older sister, the Matcha, it follows suit in flavour, with perhaps the merest whisper of artificially sweetened mustard aftertaste.
The Daddy of them all: This one's dark and delicious and comes in a Chunky-style bar form. Adults only.
Bitter Almond, seen here struggling to survive a Japanese summer. I know just how it feels, but I'm not half as delicious.
From the sublime to the plain disgusting: the European Cheese. A whole lot more effort has gone into producing a suitably authentic French pong. The smell is wholly realistic, but the taste, well...
Inside, hundreds of the foul tasting buggers, thousands, millions, breeding, multiplying like a horrific fungus, like bacteria like, well, cheese.
The ghostly pallor of emmenthal. Still, one whiff of this and its sayonara to European homesickness.
A change of pace now, to the malteaser-shaped "Big/Little". Note the confusing use of both English and Japanese in the product name.
Sweet potato, in bar form. The texture is somewhat akin to that of the Holy Grail, the Kit Kat Chunky. Not available in Asia. Let's take a moment to reflect on the pathos of that last statement.
Still, look how happy I am to have found one, and on the streets of Akihabara too, more commonly known for its electro gadgets, doleful-eyed, latterday geisha maids and Sexy Sex Shops.
Waiting for the last train back to the hostel, the Midnight Munchies make their presence known, and I just can't wait any longer.
Long enough to take a pic of the Almond, in bar guise, which I appear to be holding in my prosthetic hand.
Strawberry Shortcake. Short, saccharine and ultimately unfulfilling.
Pretty pale pink, though.
But let's get back on the chocolatey horse of goodness with this double whammy: the Cola/Lemonade twin pack.
With a rather anaemic brown colouring, the cola could use some work, much like the non-fizzy kind of penny sweet cola bottles. The Lemonade however is a taste sensation.
Back to the balls, of the Custard Pudding variety. The lily has officially been gilded with this disconcertingly phosphorous offering.
Less chemical in taste, and with possibly my favourite packaging of the bunch, the plain, no-nonsense, dark choc of the Semisweet is a winner.
And for the bonus round - Coconut M&Ms, all the way from Guam! Slightly soapy aftertaste. My quest for the Coconut Kit Kat continues.
Alas, the Soy Sauce, the Miso, the Ginger Ale and the Royal Milk Tea remain illusive, but that shall make them taste all the sweeter when they are mine,
Friday, March 18, 2011
I'm a bit cold
A handy survival guide to winter in the northern hemisphere.
When you're 600m above sea level, cycle to work and spend your days expelling breath in little fluffy clouds, extreme measures are called for.
Receding hairline? There's an app for that...
Exhibt A: Steve Jobs
As sunglasses are to Bono, and luscious locks were to Sampson, the simple, clean lines of the Jet Black poloneck are the source of all Jobs' power. The fact he comes across as a cheap French mime artist are purely a bonus.
The polo neck is to be worn under all your clothes (over a vest top) lest a whisper of flesh fall prey to the wicked winds of the west. It's a little bit beatnik, a little bit existentialist and a whole lot hideous, but as we will see in Exibit D, fashion is really not on the agenda here.
Exibit B: The Beanie
Jason Mewes and I share many striking similarities: a love of Prince; a forehead you could project a movie on; the long, mustard-coloured tresses; and a predilection for 7/11s (I like the snacks). But let's focus on the head gear.
Note the jaunty angle of the hat: the beanie comes smoothly down almost to the eyebrows, covering the large shiny forehead and making a feature of the much overlooked eyebrow region. The hair can be utilised as a makeshift scarf.
C: Now is the winter of our discontent
But not of our discomfort. Now is the time for trans-fats, artificial colours, MSGs and Red Dye #2. Accept no substitutes. Chase that junk food dragon til your insides turn all gooey and warm and glowy, or you pass out into a sugar coma, and wake up incapable of ingesting solid food. Broccoli tastes of Cold.
D: The Layered Look
Less of a "look" than noisome eye pollution, do not try to fool yourself you are rocking wunnuver-kind vintage. You are almost certainly wearing clothes that old ladies died in. You look decidedly dumpy. If you are wearing less than 5 layers (including underwear), you have failed.
The worst aspect of this particular "vogue" is that it looks suspiciously like you've made an effort. We're mixing patterns, eras, cuts, fabrics - I hesitate to include "styles" in this list, as there are none on display - it's a sartorial nightmare.
Be warned, this is not the "Frasier's Crane's apartment" of dressing. Don't think that by having one carefully chosen patchwork jerkin and mixing it with contrasting plaid bolero you can somehow tie everything together with that sassy pair of antique feather earrings. You look dreadful. But you are warm. Now you know how those old people feel who have to chose between heating and eating each Winter. Dressed like this, however, you do not deserve to eat.
Note Betty's long loose hair, similar to Mr Mewes', covering both ears and neck. It's much too cold for the smart, professional, working gal bun. A fringe is also sensible, and may negate the need for The Beanie. This in turn is negated by the fact that you already look appalling. Glasses can add anything up to an eighth of a degree in extra warmth.
E: Reading material
The three volume Victorian novel is perfect for this time of year. Calm yet convoluted middle class life, nonsensical character development (is it development to get married?) and pleasingly implausible plot twists, all set against the backdrop of a drafty Gothic castle/turbulent moor/damp squalid debtor's prison.
Anything Russian is also good. At least Lara and Yuri are colder than you are. People also get cold in Dickens, usually under conditions of forced labour and/or domestic abuse. Shakespearean tragedy offers a wealth of ritual blinding, matricide/suicide/homicide, hanging and really annoying timing coincidences, all of which are quite cheering under the circumstances
F: Coping mentally
Got a thermometer built into your alarm clock? If you do, you're probably the kind of guy/gal with a compass in their shoe, and I take my beanie off to you, but I digress, Get Rid Of It.
Likewise, stop checking weather updates. It's Cold. Deal with it. Constant mental reinforcement of just how cold you are (as though you need reminding) is not going to help. The temperature in the corridor is cheerfully displayed at a brazen 8 degrees. and it's only going to get colder.
G: How to stay warm in class
Think warming thoughts. Think of the two pairs of tights, tracksuit bottoms, hat, scarf, earmuffs and two pairs of gloves you will don to cycle home, through the snow. Home to your 1x1 two-bar heater, rattling aircon and sporadic, earthquake-inspired power cuts.
If all else fails, make a blog post about how dreadful your life is and melt the frozen tears into pools of joy. If nothing else, it will guilt trip your friends into posting you chocolate.
When you're 600m above sea level, cycle to work and spend your days expelling breath in little fluffy clouds, extreme measures are called for.
Receding hairline? There's an app for that...
Exhibt A: Steve Jobs
As sunglasses are to Bono, and luscious locks were to Sampson, the simple, clean lines of the Jet Black poloneck are the source of all Jobs' power. The fact he comes across as a cheap French mime artist are purely a bonus.
The polo neck is to be worn under all your clothes (over a vest top) lest a whisper of flesh fall prey to the wicked winds of the west. It's a little bit beatnik, a little bit existentialist and a whole lot hideous, but as we will see in Exibit D, fashion is really not on the agenda here.
Exibit B: The Beanie
Jason Mewes and I share many striking similarities: a love of Prince; a forehead you could project a movie on; the long, mustard-coloured tresses; and a predilection for 7/11s (I like the snacks). But let's focus on the head gear.
Note the jaunty angle of the hat: the beanie comes smoothly down almost to the eyebrows, covering the large shiny forehead and making a feature of the much overlooked eyebrow region. The hair can be utilised as a makeshift scarf.
C: Now is the winter of our discontent
But not of our discomfort. Now is the time for trans-fats, artificial colours, MSGs and Red Dye #2. Accept no substitutes. Chase that junk food dragon til your insides turn all gooey and warm and glowy, or you pass out into a sugar coma, and wake up incapable of ingesting solid food. Broccoli tastes of Cold.
D: The Layered Look
Less of a "look" than noisome eye pollution, do not try to fool yourself you are rocking wunnuver-kind vintage. You are almost certainly wearing clothes that old ladies died in. You look decidedly dumpy. If you are wearing less than 5 layers (including underwear), you have failed.
The worst aspect of this particular "vogue" is that it looks suspiciously like you've made an effort. We're mixing patterns, eras, cuts, fabrics - I hesitate to include "styles" in this list, as there are none on display - it's a sartorial nightmare.
Be warned, this is not the "Frasier's Crane's apartment" of dressing. Don't think that by having one carefully chosen patchwork jerkin and mixing it with contrasting plaid bolero you can somehow tie everything together with that sassy pair of antique feather earrings. You look dreadful. But you are warm. Now you know how those old people feel who have to chose between heating and eating each Winter. Dressed like this, however, you do not deserve to eat.
Note Betty's long loose hair, similar to Mr Mewes', covering both ears and neck. It's much too cold for the smart, professional, working gal bun. A fringe is also sensible, and may negate the need for The Beanie. This in turn is negated by the fact that you already look appalling. Glasses can add anything up to an eighth of a degree in extra warmth.
E: Reading material
The three volume Victorian novel is perfect for this time of year. Calm yet convoluted middle class life, nonsensical character development (is it development to get married?) and pleasingly implausible plot twists, all set against the backdrop of a drafty Gothic castle/turbulent moor/damp squalid debtor's prison.
Anything Russian is also good. At least Lara and Yuri are colder than you are. People also get cold in Dickens, usually under conditions of forced labour and/or domestic abuse. Shakespearean tragedy offers a wealth of ritual blinding, matricide/suicide/homicide, hanging and really annoying timing coincidences, all of which are quite cheering under the circumstances
F: Coping mentally
Got a thermometer built into your alarm clock? If you do, you're probably the kind of guy/gal with a compass in their shoe, and I take my beanie off to you, but I digress, Get Rid Of It.
Likewise, stop checking weather updates. It's Cold. Deal with it. Constant mental reinforcement of just how cold you are (as though you need reminding) is not going to help. The temperature in the corridor is cheerfully displayed at a brazen 8 degrees. and it's only going to get colder.
G: How to stay warm in class
- Stand as close to the windows as possible and bathe in the rogue pools of sunlight that collect on the floor.
- Allow any heat residue from the sun to soak into your back. Do not allow the students to pull the curtains. This is your only source of warmth, and some of them are wearing shorts.
- Play "Where is the Draft Coming From?" and reward yourself with a pinch on the wrist for each correctly identified open window/door. Bonus points if you know that closing it is a mere formality, that the offending door/window will be reopened in a matter of minutes and is a complete waste of time.
- Think very deeply about your most embarrassing moment. A recent one. Really project, now. He was asking out the girl behind you. You will glow a lovely warm red.
- Laugh very, very hard. Similar result.
- Think about sex. Ibid.
- Prowl around the room stealing students' hot water bottles/hand warmers. They will think it's funny and cute. Again, half of them are still wearing shorts.
Think warming thoughts. Think of the two pairs of tights, tracksuit bottoms, hat, scarf, earmuffs and two pairs of gloves you will don to cycle home, through the snow. Home to your 1x1 two-bar heater, rattling aircon and sporadic, earthquake-inspired power cuts.
If all else fails, make a blog post about how dreadful your life is and melt the frozen tears into pools of joy. If nothing else, it will guilt trip your friends into posting you chocolate.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Les Patineurs
What's cuter than Japanese kids?
Japanese kids skating!
A Sunday afternoon at Yokohama's open-air rink, starring a few overprotective parents and their appendages.
See? You don't need to be actually touching that filthy germy ice to get the full experience. It's a biological hazard.
I'm not your god damned accessory, mother
Never leave a man behind.
Laugh now, but you'll all be wearing braces come Fall/Winter '12.
Nice girls don't get the corner office. Let's take her down.
You promised you wouldn't let go!
The "I didn't fall, I'm just prepping for a handstand" pose. We've all been there.
Hey Tiffany, let's totally get lattes and bitch about our tennis instructors after, m'kay?
Little Tarquin simply adores coming out on the ice, when he's not studying Swahili and needs a break from his fencing lessons.
When I'm cleaning windows...
It's no good. We're going to have to amputate. But think of the money you'll save on shoes.
One does not tie one's own skates.
The Bunny Knot can be taxing from this angle.
This is giving me the worst helmet hair.
Left together, right together, FOCUS, aaaaand Blades of Glory!
I can sit here ALL day.
Outta my way, amateur!
Muh ha ha, little does she know about that patch of salt ahead...
Japanese kids skating!
A Sunday afternoon at Yokohama's open-air rink, starring a few overprotective parents and their appendages.
See? You don't need to be actually touching that filthy germy ice to get the full experience. It's a biological hazard.
I'm not your god damned accessory, mother
Never leave a man behind.
Laugh now, but you'll all be wearing braces come Fall/Winter '12.
Nice girls don't get the corner office. Let's take her down.
You promised you wouldn't let go!
The "I didn't fall, I'm just prepping for a handstand" pose. We've all been there.
Hey Tiffany, let's totally get lattes and bitch about our tennis instructors after, m'kay?
Little Tarquin simply adores coming out on the ice, when he's not studying Swahili and needs a break from his fencing lessons.
When I'm cleaning windows...
It's no good. We're going to have to amputate. But think of the money you'll save on shoes.
One does not tie one's own skates.
The Bunny Knot can be taxing from this angle.
This is giving me the worst helmet hair.
Left together, right together, FOCUS, aaaaand Blades of Glory!
I can sit here ALL day.
Outta my way, amateur!
Muh ha ha, little does she know about that patch of salt ahead...
Monday, January 10, 2011
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