So work is sending me to Japan for 2 months and I needed a way to keep in touch with everyone, hence this blog. Part “hey, I’m still alive”, part diary, part travel guide, part chance to prove I’m not truly illiterate – however you look at it, the intended goal is to entertain. Apologies in advance for when I descend into a morass of homesick whining.
Not that I’m particularly defining home as a place. I’ve lived in too many places to be that attached to any one of them. Home is where your stuff, your pets, and your people are. Where you can speak and be spoken to and actually understand the *entire* conversation. Where not every minute of every day is an adventure, so you can relax. Where you’re not an ambassador of sorts, so you’re allowed to have a bad day.
And it’s good to be home.
I couldn’t leave Japan without seeing a sumo tournament in person. Luckily, I have friends who felt the same way so, after disposing of the last of the junk from the apartment and saying a final good-bye to the little silver dirtball on wheels, I headed to Tokyo. We got to the arena around 2, only to realize that we were still pretty early and had plenty of time to take in the sights (the tournament actually runs 9am – 6pm, but the matches are scheduled in reverse order of rank, so no one but relatives show up until the late afternoon).
For starters, let me just say that sumo is very much more impressive in person than on tv (just like figure skating or ice hockey). Tv gets you all the close ups and replays that you’ll never get in person. But the tv doesn’t even come close to adequately conveying the size or speed or energy of these events. Sumo wrestlers are LARGE people. And they crash together HARD. And the normally very reserved Japanese populace apparently feels that this is one of the places where decorum is not required (or desired). No streakers like in a European soccer match, but would you have guessed that the Japanese were capable of tossing seat cushions like we throw graduation hats? (We were later told that’s a “boo”, not a cheer – which just makes it all that much more impressive.)
The arena itself is an octagon around the center “shrine.” The first rows of seats immediately around the pit are for the batters up, judges, and high paying patrons. The first tier is all “box seats”. And the second tier is more of those red velvet movie theater seats designed for little Asian people. We’d decided to splurge and get the box seats, without really knowing what we were in for. For the record, a “box seat” is a space about 6 feet by 6 feet, ringed with a metal railing about a foot off the ground, and furnished with 4 pillows. Yes, they really do expect 4 adults to fold themselves into this space for 9 hours. Apparently Japanese origami skills extend beyond paper. Luckily the people in the box in front of us didn’t show up until really late so we could stretch our legs forward. We got up a lot too – how else would we have seen the myriad of trinkets for sale in the booths?
We also had a couple of “sumo for dummies” type books. A few tidbits we found particularly striking:
* The reason I could never figure out the “go” signal from the ref is that there isn’t one. The two wrestlers stare at each other until they both decide to go. That’s in part why there are so many false starts (and is a large part of the strategy to winning).
* The arena management does, in fact, take out extra insurance on the people sitting in the first couple of rows.
* The loin cloth (at least at the higher levels) is made of silk and it’s considered bad to wash it. So it’s merely “aired out” until it’s replaced (typically once a year).
The coup de grace, though, came during the second to last match. Advertisers can put prize money on certain matches, which gets them a small banner parade before the match. I don’t know who paid what, but yes, Hello Kitty made it to the sumo tournament.
We’re done here for this contract! It’s been fun, but it’s definitely time to turn out the lights and go home. Now, how to empty the apartment back to its “furnished” state and pack all the acquired junk into the 4 bags the airline will let me have ... I think we’re going to introduce the Japanese (who generally value brand new things) to several concepts: a yard sale, “free to a good home”, and a pre-packed camping box. :-)
And no, I never thought that that quote would ever be appropriate in my life. But it’s oddly apropos right now.
So we were happily eating our tekadon (sp?) at lunch today (big bowls of rice with a thick layer of tuna sashimi on top), when the sushi chef started chopping up this really weird looking stuff for the next customer. It looked kind of like a really pretty, frilly, spiral streamer except it was all white and obviously soft. Our curiosity did not go unnoticed, and the daughter came over and started talking (she spoke pretty good English). It’s apparently very difficult to get because it has to be served super fresh. But when it is, it’s really good and “creamy” (her word, not mine). Well one thing led to another and we ended up trying it. It was pretty good, although a little on the squishy side for me.
Now, the rule I’ve lived by over here is that you never ask what you’re eating. Instead, just shut up, smile, and enjoy – life is better that way. If I’d followed my own rule, I would still be proud of myself for being brave enough to try fish intestines (which is what we assumed it was) and I would be a much happier camper. Instead, I’m sitting on the knowledge that I’ve just eaten raw cod testicles. “Creamy” indeed.
How do I know this? Because the only place within an hour’s driving distance of here that sold decent American pizza has sold out to some Japanese pizzeria chain. We drove all the way over there for lunch only to realize we could have gotten better pizza 2 km from work (and that’s not particularly good pizza either). Shrimp and raw tuna and corn just do NOT belong on my pizza.
And to top it all off, the little grocery store here stopped carrying my dark chocolate fudgesicles.
Finally, something cultural besides food! Ray-san and I drove down to Tokyo to watch Kabuki (ok, Ray-san drove while I thanked my lucky stars I didn’t have to – I just had to navigate, which isn’t particularly a walk in the park either). Now, the full Kabuki experience is a 6 hour long performance shown in three sections. You have dinner during the intermissions. And if you’ve actually splurged and gotten box seats, you dress the part. I think I saw more adults in kimono in one night than I’ve seen the entire time I was here.
For us less cultured slobs though, you can buy a ticket to just one of the 2 hour long segments for really cheap. And you can get earphones with English commentary for even less. You sit in the nosebleed seats, so bring binoculars. But that also means your entertainment includes all the dressed up people in the box seats.
I don’t know how old the national theater really is, but it looks like late 1800s – all red velvet and mahogany and great acoustics and those really uncomfortable seats. Cameras weren’t allowed though and they watched us gaijin like hawks so I couldn’t even sneak a couple without flash. I think that’s seriously the worst treatment I’ve gotten out here. Do we really look that disreputable? (ok, maybe I don’t want that answered)
The segment we saw was a morality play about old sins coming back to haunt you (with an element of fate thrown in –the first sin was predestined, his only crime was trying to fight it). But it’s the acting you go to see. The fight scenes in particular are really stylized. There’s not even a pretension that it’s natural. At intervals, the drums will beat once and the actors will suddenly hold their dramatic poses for a minute as the echoes die away. Cheesy as all get out, but arresting nonetheless. It’s also apparent that the poses have some meaning that adds to the scene and we’re just missing it. The death scenes went a little overboard though – talk about the embodiment of “just die already!”
And to top it off, we made it home without getting lost. At least, we don’t think going 270 degrees left around the beltway to go 90 degrees right counts as being lost because we knew we were doing it. We just couldn’t find the entrance going the other way. Maybe it’s like the bay area with exits that only work in one direction.
Today is a national holiday here (when I asked what the holiday was, I was told “in respect for aged persons”). Of course, this means there have been festivals in various cities all weekend. The one I went to was a little different than the last one here in Omiya. Instead of people carrying around a portable temple, this was a large covered float on wheels. The musicians and little kids rode inside, while the older boys provided propulsion and girls did some sort of fan dance alongside. The cool part was that the float and the first half dozen pullers were all draped in the same piece of fabric that all led to the lion’s head “mask” that was leading the whole thing.
The carts are on wheels and have a motor of sorts. So all the helpers really have to do on a flat street is guide it along. But their turning radius is pathetic, and apparently brakes are completely optional. It took at least a dozen guys throwing all their weight against the cart before it stopped on a relatively shallow downhill.
But dancing lion heads and oodles of people in yellow spider-man jammies still don’t beat naked butt-cheeks.