tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59603229611584182482024-03-14T01:46:55.908+09:00The Bearded KaijuI moved to Takayama, Japan with my darling wife and left brisket and jalapeños for ramen and unidentifiable seafood. I am a writer, English teacher, scifi addict, and a bit of a drinker. These are my stories. J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-30984863743221885582015-04-13T21:42:00.001+09:002015-04-14T16:51:59.401+09:00Same Old Faces <br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This morning Raquel and I donated and dashed. We’re
preparing to backpack through Europe and needed to do something more productive
with our clothes than burn them. We knew we couldn’t just sell them to the
Santa shop that passes for a thrift store in Takayama. We’d tried that last
week only to have them give us back half of our sweat stained shirts and
threadbare sweaters. They wouldn’t even take them for free! So we hatched us a
plan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sumimasen!” I roared as I dropped two bags bulging with
clothes on their countertop. The clerk twittered away in Japanese while Raquel
dumped another couple bags on the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ichiban,” he said, gave me a laminated number 1, and
pointed to the ceiling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course I’ll wait for you to refuse most of our moderately
worn out clothes my good sir. Why yes you can keep the beat up suitcase too! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Raquel did a quick lap through the lady’s clothes as to not
arouse suspicion then made for the exit, pausing only to mumble loudly and
point at the roof. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Why yes dear I do believe I will meet you upstairs for some
light souvenir shopping! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I did no such thing. Instead I nodded to the man
appraising the resale value of the sweater my wife had bought at the very
store, turned left as if to go upstairs, but instead tossed their damn laminated
number on top of a used washing machine and sprinted for the already idling
car.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Drive! DRIVE! They probably think I robbed them!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Why are you running?” Raquel asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because it’s more fun now drive damnit! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So marks the beginning of the end of living in Takayama, a
place I’ll miss little, filled with people I’ll miss a lot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">People like Cody, whose brewery I neglected to visit despite
having brewed the best sake I’ve ever tasted. If there’s one thing I’ll lament
about leaving Takayama, it’s not going to Cody’s brewery. But we’ve had our
fun. Cody had us over for dinner (we cooked it for him), and after he’d already
gotten me pleasantly inebriated, he dragged me to the house of my boss, his
father-in-law. I shuffled in with a bowl of hot chili and presented it to who I
believe is the most fearsome man in Japan. This man is so frightening, that he
almost reduced me to tears when I tried to enquire about his son. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How’s Cody?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Kore?” he said pointing to a clump of carrots. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cody? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Kore!” he shook the carrots more violently. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cody! Your son-in-law, Cody! Please, I’m sorry, he brews
sake! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ah… he’s fine. “</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This man from my nightmares accepted my bowl of chili from
underneath his coffee table, and divvied it up so his family could try it. They
all agreed (or at least pretended to) that it was delicious, but Cody’s nephew
was so smitten with my generous dollop of spicy meat-soup that he insisted I
take home a 12 pack of ramen noodles. I tried to decline but before I could
some other relative shoved a piece of fruit in my hand. I got out of there
before they filled my pockets with the contents of their refrigerator. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rtxkp39mzYo/VSu3hwLndZI/AAAAAAAAAig/B2Z-X96B1EE/s1600/IMG_4452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rtxkp39mzYo/VSu3hwLndZI/AAAAAAAAAig/B2Z-X96B1EE/s1600/IMG_4452.JPG" height="348" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kuniko! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">People like Kuniko, my guardian angel. Kuniko is so sweet
that she has asked about my hangover and denied its existence in the same
sentence. I’ve sung “A Whole New World” with Kuniko, stolen Jasmin’s part and
been too drunk to notice, but did Kuniko mind? Not a bit, she just sang louder.
Kuniko was the only person besides my wife to make it through hospital security
to visit me. She has made dinner reservations for us, talked to the man whose
car I smashed on her day off, and taken us to town for not being able to dance
the ABC song up to her impeccable standards. We tried to give her a present
when we last met, a nice card we’d gotten from a museum she liked in Kanazawa,
but she trumped us with a bag full of snacks, fancy folders and handkerchiefs.
She is an angel. Fear her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then there’s the regulars, what Master Kensei likes to call
the same old faces. <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/11/desolation-row.html" target="_blank">Kensei, a man so cool he has his own post. <o:p></o:p></a></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-01pP3HCn2SI/VSu5Spygm3I/AAAAAAAAAi0/8AS458suUis/s1600/IMG_4712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-01pP3HCn2SI/VSu5Spygm3I/AAAAAAAAAi0/8AS458suUis/s1600/IMG_4712.JPG" height="313" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The closest thing Steve has to a frown</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/09/raquel-rides-gods-wooden-penis.html" target="_blank">Steve </a>with his yappy grin, unshakable optimism, and never
ending stories. I couldn’t have survived <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2015/02/snowboarding.html" target="_blank">snowboarding</a> or my <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2015/03/getting-my-testicle-removed-in-japan.html" target="_blank">surgery</a> without
Steve there for me. He continually reminds me I should be lucky I have all
these foreigners around, because when he got here, he had to learn it all
himself. Steve was the first person I ever heard say Takayama is the greatest
town on earth, but he and all these people seem to feel the same way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-01pP3HCn2SI/VSu5Spygm3I/AAAAAAAAAi0/8AS458suUis/s1600/IMG_4712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/08/24-amazing-hours-in-japan-part-2.html" target="_blank">Chaba,</a> who I hope I will get to see again, otherwise my last
memory will be of him arriving at a restaurant the moment I finished eating,
ordering a beer and showering me in candy. Not a bad memory except that he had
to wear gloves and a jumpsuit while he ate because his hands and who knows how
much else was stained with blood red paint. I asked him why he was such a mess
to which he replied simply, “I was painting.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/12/japanese-thanksgiving.html" target="_blank">Eric, the other artist in town and a shit-talking poet</a>, who after a few months of
proclaiming that he was God and art was his universe finally confessed that
it’s really just therapy. Well, that’s not quite true. He only told me it was
therapy because I had confessed that I think about a target audience when I
write because I want to sell my novels, something Eric found hilarious and
unartistic. Eric invites me to McDonalds because, “the coffee’s OK,” then
insults me for meeting him at McDonalds for the next thirty minutes. He’s spent
the last two weeks predicting when the cherry blossoms will bloom, “Yeah
they’re very close, I think maybe, hmm… when are you leaving? Five days? Yes, they
look like they’ll be ready in about six or seven.” I still don’t know how his
lovely wife puts up with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2015/02/the-magical-ice-lord-yushi.html" target="_blank">Nolico,</a> who showed us, after being here for nearly a year, a
side of Takayama I’d never seen. She insisted on a shortcut, our heads
swimming, who were we to disagree, and we found ourselves in the old quarter of
Takayama—a place I’ve been to dozens of times—but never like this. It was
deserted save for us. Paper lanterns cast a warm glow on the towering torii gates
and ancient wooden homes. Except for a single car poking out from a side alley,
I was transported centuries into the past. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Except for the fucking hotel under the Torii gate!” Ah, <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/08/24-amazing-hours-in-japan-part-1.html" target="_blank">Alex the Ukrainian Israeli</a>, who can be so hard to impress that his smile’s worth a thousand shekels. We
planned on having a going away party last Saturday, but Alex threw a quiet
birthday party on Friday that boiled into a wild night we were all too drunk to
stop. Alex always makes the party happen. I had set him up by playing his
favorites, the Beatles and Elvis, to which he proclaimed to Kensei that he only
needed one more album for it to be the perfect night. Kensei dug up some
blistering fast bluegrass and Alex and I showed off her patented hillbilly
boogie. I can’t wait for him to come visit us in Austin and tear it up Texas
style. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hEHq270LlMA/VSu4v7ww7MI/AAAAAAAAAis/62wRhEKuws8/s1600/11118860_10102905948033937_667617384_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hEHq270LlMA/VSu4v7ww7MI/AAAAAAAAAis/62wRhEKuws8/s1600/11118860_10102905948033937_667617384_n.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On Saturday we chatted and sipped our Heartland, happy to
all be together, but exhausted from the night before “Looks like last night was
your going away party,” Alex said between sips of Jim Buck. And dammit he was
right. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But that’s life, aint it? We can plan our vacations and our
parties, but we can’t tell when that moment you’ll never forget will come. So
many of us wait for that perfect moment at that perfect time: for a festival
that gets rained out (100% chance of rain tomorrow) or a flower to bloom in a
town that’s just too cold. So many of us wait for these moments—for the dance
party or the scenic view—that we forget to appreciate all the little things:
The spur of the moment vacations that turn out better than grand plans, the
idle bits of conversation we’ll never forget. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If there’s one thing I learned from living in Japan a year,
it’s to appreciate the little things you got around you, don’t take any of them
for granted, because you never know when you’re gonna lose a nut, and you don’t
wanna waste your night worrying, when you can be bullshittin’ with people that
you love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So seize the day, move abroad, take that trip! Just remember
that Takayama’s got more soul than Tokyo, you just got be willing to dance for
it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>J. Darris Mitchell lived in Takayama Japan for ten months, and wrote about what he did </em>ever single week<em> on this blog! Go ahead and explore, or<a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014_06_01_archive.html" target="_blank"> start with Day 1...</a></em></span></div>
</div>
J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-86768870435322411062015-04-09T19:52:00.001+09:002015-04-09T19:52:53.840+09:00Sakuras in Bloom Don't Smell like Perfume <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-24h0E3nK7Sw/VSZU3k5WMRI/AAAAAAAAAh4/7kK8HVUyQ64/s1600/IMG_0194.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps if my wife and I had come to Japan earlier we would have stayed longer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JKYH9Vn6Kx4/VSZXHzQMN4I/AAAAAAAAAiM/m7R-Rtz4IdE/s1600/IMG_0333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JKYH9Vn6Kx4/VSZXHzQMN4I/AAAAAAAAAiM/m7R-Rtz4IdE/s1600/IMG_0333.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The magnificence<br />
Sakura, stone wall, cold stream<br />
Kanazawa's boss</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We arrived in June and weren’t greeted by the majesty of the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura, </i>the cherry blossoms. In
Japan, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura</i> represent the start
of spring and of the New Year. For me the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura</i>
were always the end game. I knew that life in Hida-Takayama would be different,
and <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2015/02/the-magical-ice-lord-yushi.html" target="_blank">winter would be cold</a>, but that in the spring, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura</i> would bloom, and I would say farewell. And for a time even
that seemed doubtful, for when I asked about the festival for which I’ve been
waiting for nearly a year, most of the locals would only frown and said “snow.”
And that was why, not 30 minutes after <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2015/03/getting-my-testicle-removed-in-japan.html" target="_blank">finding out that I was cancer-free</a>, we
bought tickets to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shinkansen, </i>the
bullet train, to Kanazawa. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Three days off celebration later, and we were running like
like hell to make our connection in Toyama. I was stoked. Even discovering that
it we’d boarded a reserved train and that we’d have to pay extra didn’t bother
me as I watched mountains zip buy, admired cars crawling along their archaic
highways, and generally tried to combat motion sickness. This thing was fast,
faster than (most) birds, faster than (old) planes, faster than a (rather slow
at only 200 miles per hour) speeding bullet! We rolled into the station, I pried
myself away from the window and looked at my smiling wife. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I love you,” I told her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Why?” she asked, grinning like girls do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You gave me the window seat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her grin weakened a bit. </span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We emerged from the station and laughed at the queue of Japanese
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gaijin</i> waiting for the bus. Ha!
Who would want to take a bus on a beautiful day like this? The park’s not far,
Takayama is colder, and you’re going to miss the sakura! Thirty minutes of
hat-snatchingly cold gusts of winds and just one measly sakura later, we found
a temple that was only minutes from out hotel. Our walk had done little but
waste time, for even the seafood market we passed had been slowing down,
lunchtime being something as fleeting as the cherry blossoms in Japan. Annoyed
but not beaten, we snapped the first of over 500 pictures of the soft pink
blossoms and walked the next 50 meters to drop our bags at the hotel. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were off to the magnificence that is Kenroku-en Garden
during <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura</i> season! Yes it was
cold. Yes it was cloudy. No, it didn’t matter. Our march to the garden began
with a row of twenty? fifty? a hundred? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura
</i>bursting forth down the main avenue. Raquel darted through traffic to take pictures
as I carefully avoided a gaggle of bleached blonde Japanese boys. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6pmNhSqY7IM/VSZUaXuo-MI/AAAAAAAAAhg/OcOR6B9EUtk/s1600/IMG_0252%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-24h0E3nK7Sw/VSZU3k5WMRI/AAAAAAAAAh4/7kK8HVUyQ64/s1600/IMG_0194.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-24h0E3nK7Sw/VSZU3k5WMRI/AAAAAAAAAh4/7kK8HVUyQ64/s1600/IMG_0194.JPG" height="247" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bearded Kaiju<br />fights mightily to support<br />
huge croquet mallet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t think that the Kenroku-en has an official beginning
or end, but we somehow meandered down pathways that each outdid the one before.
We strolled through the plum gardens, Raquel fuming “How can they already be
done? There’s no bugs to pollinate them!” and mozied under ancient pines held
up with massive inverted croquet mallets. Finally we found our way into…let’s
call it the central promenade. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A lazy stream circled a grove of every sized <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura</i> while Japanese tour guides barked
what I hope were elegant haikus into loudspeakers over the twittering
conversation of the tourists. Amateurs dueled for space with selfie poles.
Professionals adjusted their F-stops and tripods, and Raquel and I tried to fit
somewhere in the middle. (We had only selfies and F-stops, no poles of any kind)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From there we set out giggling for the nearby castle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This was my favorite part of the Gardens, for through a pink
malaise of blossoms photographers of every caliber tried to frame the castle in
all its glory. I took a dozen of these photos myself, and mused briefly on what
having a castle surrounded by soft pink flowers might do to a man’s libido. My
guess is good things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MnG_5zyvCEg/VSZUbgLd7fI/AAAAAAAAAhs/p_Vy7ONvWUo/s1600/IMG_0321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MnG_5zyvCEg/VSZUbgLd7fI/AAAAAAAAAhs/p_Vy7ONvWUo/s1600/IMG_0321.JPG" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mighty castle thrusts<br />Through pink feminine blossoms<br />
Things happen in bed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We hopped on and off a bus and arrived at a near-deserted
riverside walk flush with pink blossoms. We shared the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura </i>with only four other people: two old ladies snapping
unsmiling portraits of each other and a professional photographer taking
glamour shots of a young woman dressed in an unusually flattering Kimono.
Raquel tried not to get caught peaking at the old ladies and I tried not to get
caught peaking at the model’s photoshoot but the voyeurism ran thin and we
marched on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We spoke of beauty, of the transience of the seasons, of
love and life, but alas, we came upon on our hotel before we came upon
enlightenment. There we took a good friend’s advice and rather than showering
sought out <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/10/bromance-on-ontake.html" target="_blank">the public hot baths</a>. Public baths are always a better decision
than the tiny boxes with a trickle of water that are Japanese hotel bathrooms
(just be sure you scrub before getting in the tubs you greasy foreigner). At
this particular hotel the bath was on the roof, so not only did we get a shower
and a soak, we got to do so while admiring <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura</i>
14 stories above Kanazawa. Totally worth the male nudity. If you don’t think so,
do yourself a favor, and don’t ever travel abroad. I was careful to cover my
tattoos and not my lonely testicle with a hand towel because I’m polite, not
prudish. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Refreshed, relaxed, and reclothed, we set out for the
evening’s entertainment, which proved to be a thoroughly disappointing
experience. Raquel (I will blame her forever for this) was too quick and ordered
the sushi set, so instead of ordering piece by piece an avoiding the gross
stuff, so we had to choke down squid and octopus. I love Japanese food, even
the gross stuff. I’ve eaten fried fish skeletons, shirako (that’s fish sperm to
those keeping score at home), loach, even Bar-B-Q’d horse, but try as I might I
just don’t like squid or octopus on my sushi. On a stick? Maybe. With some noodles?
Sure! But on rice, with nothing to hide the texture? Yech. Still, I chewed
through and was ready to order more, but Raquel pushed her squid in front of me
and begged me to ask for the check. We went to an unmentionable bar not worth
mentioning after that, and rose the next morning to hunt out more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a brief stop at the contemporary art museum—I liked
they swimming pool exhibit, but was flabbergasted and a little offended that they
would host an architecture for dogs exhibit at the same time as an exhibit for
the ‘architecture post-Fukushima—we sought out more of the intoxicating <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A day of hiking through hills and hidden gardens and we
found ourselves at another riverside park, leaning against a wall that both
supported <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura</i> trees and sprouted
fresh mint from the mortar. Old men smiled at us and Pilipino tourists sexually
assaulted a low hanging <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sakura</i>
branch. I nursed a beer and we both composed Haikus. Until next week, my final
post from this amazing country, I leave you with advice for visiting Japan. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nbWkvx5Ifjs/VSZUaOFcMpI/AAAAAAAAAhY/c613V-H8JU8/s1600/IMG_0266%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nbWkvx5Ifjs/VSZUaOFcMpI/AAAAAAAAAhY/c613V-H8JU8/s1600/IMG_0266%2B(2).JPG" height="387" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <em><span style="font-size: large;">Drink beer in the park <o:p></o:p></span></em></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><em>
</em></span><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><em></em></span> </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><em>The love of my life </em></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><em>with me</em></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"></span></em> </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sakura season<o:p></o:p></span></span></em></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><em>
</em></span><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nbWkvx5Ifjs/VSZUaOFcMpI/AAAAAAAAAhY/c613V-H8JU8/s1600/IMG_0266%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><em></em></span></a><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><em> </em></span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>
</em></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">J. Darris Mitchell
lives in Takayama Japan for seven more days. If you liked this post, tell your
friends and see <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/07/i-risk-my-life-with-duel-bladed-barber.html" target="_blank">what else he’s done in Takayama</a>. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-61494440459506460092015-03-30T12:18:00.004+09:002015-03-30T12:36:20.901+09:00Roomiez <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Four days after <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2015/03/theres-lump-on-my-testicle.html" target="_blank">discovering I was going to lose my left nut</a>, the
new teachers moved in. The Let’s English teacher life is a strange one, for
each teacher must introduce their replacement to the way of life they’re about
to say goodbye to. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JhmnUihLEHw/VRi_2ayz-iI/AAAAAAAAAg8/vEmtSp3N6s4/s1600/IMG_4166.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JhmnUihLEHw/VRi_2ayz-iI/AAAAAAAAAg8/vEmtSp3N6s4/s1600/IMG_4166.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a>The first night was complete with awkward conversation,
carefully sipped beers, and commiserating about our boss (<a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/09/japan-land-of-landlords.html" target="_blank">not Iwayama-san,never Iwayama-san</a>). But as the days went on, we started to grow a bit closer. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
<o:p></o:p></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They say food is a way to man’ stomach, and if it’s true
then Brian and I are friends indeed. My obsession with peanut butter had been unrivaled
on any of the islands of Japan. Yet Brian has forced me to pass that crown.
When they moved in we had a half of a jar of peanut butter (Brain continues to
insist it was less) as well as another giant unopened container, like big
enough I could lift weights with it. It’s hardly been two weeks, and somehow
the second jar is almost empty. Brian eats it with everything he can think of:
bread, ice cream, pancakes. Raquel has been mercilessly insulting his love of
peanut butter and insistence on having ketchup with his eggs, to which Brian
simply smiles, shakes his head and says, “Ra-ke-ru!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I thought Sarah was better suited to the quiet mountain
life. When I met her I thought she seemed quiet and polite, but as time has
passed she’s relaxed enough to revealed her true nature. Sarah makes noises,
and they’re impossible to describe in words. Suffice to say that before we went
to bed last night Sarah gave an impassioned speech about the benefits of waking
up and growling like a dinosaur, and called on us to try this morning ritual
because “it makes getting up more fun.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The four of us spent yesterday cruising Takayama, and I
think our relationship took a turn for the serious. We started the day at my
favorite hangover spot, Arai Udon. That Brian tried to argue for another
restaurant and I flatly refused his request speaks to how comfortable we’re
getting with eachother (at least Raquel and I are comfortable busting Brian’s
chops). We went to a thrift shop after that, where Brian and I wandered
aimlessly, Raquel got her shop on and Sarah danced ceaselessly. After that we
explored the Big Valor.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cJf-TvO_Cyw/VRjDuEiFlOI/AAAAAAAAAhI/Za5g99fQJ6A/s1600/IMG_4186.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cJf-TvO_Cyw/VRjDuEiFlOI/AAAAAAAAAhI/Za5g99fQJ6A/s1600/IMG_4186.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Japanglish at best this is. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Big Valor is the closest thing Takayama has to a
shopping mall, in that it’s a couple of clothes shops nestled atop a grocery
store. On the weekends families dress up in obsolete Tokyo fashion and strut
while grandparents eat red bean paste and watch nature documentaries in the
food court. Raquel and I bought juices boxes and found a bench to enjoy the
show. While waiting for our roomies to find us we caught Sarah whipping her
head back and forth, looking for Raquel and asking, “Mom?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yeah, it’s getting weird.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Juiceboxes drained and the whole day ahead of us we set out
to peruse this pinnacle of culture. Brian and Sarah laughed at Japanglish
T-shirts, Raquel bought coloring books, and I got mauled by a 5-year-old whose
mother didn’t realize that the towering bearded white person whose crotch her
son was nuzzling was actually his former English teacher. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Onwards we went, in pursuit of ever greater thrills. The
next stop in what hopefully will mark the true beginning of a long-lasting and
bizarre relationship was the Sega World. Sega World is like an arcade, except
instead of games it has a fleet of claw machines and on the first
floor, and coin games and chain-smokers above them. We dove in with
reckless abandon. Raquel and I tried our hand at winning a stuffed animal while
Sarah tried to make change and ended up with 300 useless metal slugs instead.
We took our devastated roommates upstairs, plopped them down next to one of
the many chain-smokers, and introduced them to the enigma that is Japanese coin
machines. <span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fZ1slFdc9-c/VRi_xrqWjvI/AAAAAAAAAg0/CoxII1IOTYc/s1600/IMG_4184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fZ1slFdc9-c/VRi_xrqWjvI/AAAAAAAAAg0/CoxII1IOTYc/s1600/IMG_4184.JPG" height="640" width="380" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Raquel said the make-up choices were limited, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">but I don’t know, what do you think? </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A man can never win at a Japanese coin machine. They’ve made
it illegal to cash in the coins for prizes, so literally all you can hope to
win is more time before you lose. This means no matter how long you play, all
you’re left with us a nagging sense of wasted time, and a feeling that if you
just would have had a few more coins, you could have beaten the system. Brian
and Sarah fared no better. Their coins gone, they looked to us for salvation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fZ1slFdc9-c/VRi_xrqWjvI/AAAAAAAAAg0/CoxII1IOTYc/s1600/IMG_4184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We played Japanese air hockey (better than American air
hockey because of the rainbow round) and finally went into a photo booth. A
Japanese photo booth should be on everyone’s bucket list for a visit to Japan.
They’re simply amazing. They enlarge your eyes and lips, whiten your skin, and
generally contort your visage into something from anime. It’s incredible. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally exhausted, we made for Indian food. We had a vague
idea of where it was and by some stroke of luck I spotted it and Raquel pulled
over. We feasted on curries hotter than anything I’ve had in a year and each
had a piece of naan larger than a pizza. Heaven, that is until the indian food
set in halfway home, and Brian demanded first for the bathroom. Raquel
and I took offense at this, but ultimately agreed to wait in line for our own
toilet. At least he lit some incense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So there it is, the dawn of a friendship, complete with
food, fun, and sequential shits. I hope our replacements visit us in Texas one
day, so we can share the eccentricities and quirks that can only develop when
people live together with everyone else we know, who will be forced to look in
from the outside and shrug, thinking simply, “I don’t get it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">J. Darris Mitchell
lives in Takayama Japan but will (hopefully) be going home on April 15<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>.
If you liked this story, share it with your roommate! </span></i></div>
J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-63086143739208530162015-03-22T15:52:00.004+09:002015-03-29T23:25:30.218+09:00Getting my Testicle Removed in Japan<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s 2:00pm on Wednesday, March 18<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>. I’m in
Takayama, Japan. I’m in a Red Cross hospital. In 18 hours they’re going to
remove my left testicle and the tumor growing from it. A man with a milky eye
is staring at me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Jo-?” He says it too short, little more than a grunt, and I
repeat it for him. This time he holds out the vowel, “JO-o-o-o.” Sounds have
specific durations in Japanese, and I suppose they do in English too, because
no one ever gets my name quite right. But t</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">he nurse gets close so I nod and he introduces me to
the woman who will be caring for me the next few days, Izumi. Raquel grabs on
to her name and thanks the woman for doing the job my wife is so good. The rest
of the nurses giggle. Raquel looks relieved that it’s not so serious that no
one can laugh but I think it’s too early in the day for this shit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Izumi comes out from behind the station to measure my
height. She needs a foot stool to reach above my head. We go to my room. The
bed is too small, so Izumi rolls it away while I stand dumbly and look at my
roommates. One is snoring. One is in a wheelchair. I will learn the last of
them is blind. Because I’m willing to share a room with them, I won’t have to
pay a penny to stay in the hospital overnight. It’s 2:15. Maybe I should have
asked for a private room. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s 2:45. Izumi has already taken my blood pressure and
prodded my swollen testicle. She tapped it once, like I would test on eggplant
for ripeness, and scribbles a paragraph in Japanese. I pull my pants back up. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At 7:00, they stick a needle in my arm that they’ll use to
deliver drugs and fluids during my stay here. I’ve spoken to the doctor. I
finally got the courage to ask how many times he’s done this operation before, an inguinal orchiectomy. He ticked
on his fingers “about twenty?” he said, and I was able to breathe easier. Izumi
giggled. “First time?” she asked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s 9:00 and the hospital is quiet except for my snoring
roommates. I’m not tired. I miss my wife. I want a beer. I dream I’m in a
nursing home and all of the fish in the aquarium there can’t remember how to
eat. A bright orange fish jumps out of the tank and bites me in the crotch. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
I wake up. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s 6:30 AM. I’m ready to get rid of this fucking testicle.
It’s funny how fast we forget our loyalties. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s 7:21. A nurse gives me a pain killer through the needle in
my arm. It’s very difficult to read or write. I’m staring at the T-shirt I’m
wearing. I’m supposed to be wearing a robe. I don’t know how to change because
I’m connected to a bag of drugs by a long tube. A nurse comes and helps me,
trying not to giggle. I smile at her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I lose track of time. They take me to the Operating Room. It’s
big and empty except for me in the center of it. I sit up and they stick a
needle in my spine and inject an anesthetic. The doctor touches a cold wet
piece of gauze to the right side of my abdomen and asks if I can feel it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes, I say, angry that I have to say yes. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“OK” he says, “can you feel this?” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Feel what?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They’ve completely numbed the left side of my abdomen. They
nod to eachother and I lay down, my arms are extended on either side, as if to be tortured. They cover me in a blanket and remove all of
my clothes. They hang a curtain below my neck so I won’t have to watch them
remove my testicle, but I can see my reflection in the glass light fixtures
above me. They’re shaving me. They’re swabbing my penis with iodine. The nurse
apologizes for the music and puts on Taylor Swift instead. I don’t know how to
ask for anything else. I try to focus on the words to “Shake it Off.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I try to look away as they slice into my abdomen with a
scalpel. I try to look away when the doctor reaches into me with one his
frightening devices. They remove the testicle. I’m relieved. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How much longer? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ten minutes,” the doctor says. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">My heart rate drops to 39 beats per minute. </span>They ask in
broken English if they can give me an injection to raise my pulse. I say yes
and try to stay awake. The injection doesn’t work, so they give me another one.
My pulse raises to 47 bpm. The operation is finished. My
temperature is 35.2 degrees Celsius, about 95 degrees Fahrenheit. I’m very cold
and they move me to a heated bed and roll me out of the operating room. The
nurses bow as we pass. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s 2:30. I can feel my legs. The painkiller they gave me
intravenously has finally set in. It was thick and white. Reminded me of either
milk of the poppy or semen. I waited too long to ask for it and Raquel had to
watch as I wreathed in pain after the local anesthetic wore off but before the
drug set in. She left when I was still sweating and groaning. I’ve only been in
that much pain once before. I shouldn't have waited. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s 4:30. I wake to find a nurse draining my catheter. I
didn’t even know I had a catheter. I try to sit up and feel myself urinate. I
have no control over it. I’m very embarrassed but he pretends like he doesn’t
notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A little later the doctor asks if I want to see my testicle.
I nod for some reason, and he brings it in a Tupperware dish. My testicle is a
yellowish ball dwarfed by a large pink tumor growing from it. I’m relieved it’s
not inside me anymore. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>If you ever feel anything wrong, go to the doctor. </strong></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;"><em>Time
is your best weapon.</em></span></strong> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Looking at the tumor, I can’t help but think about why I got
testicular cancer. I blame myself, what I’ve eaten, that I’ve not exercised
enough, my great uncle, my luck finally running out. Raquel blames Japan, the
diet, the radiation, the mercury in the fish, the universe. We’re both wrong I
think, but it hurts too much not to blame anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Raquel visits me before bed. She’s happy I’m not in as much
pain, so am I.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s 9:00am on Friday and the doctor is about to remove me
catheter. “Painful,” he says and yanks the tube and I groan and try not to
squirm as he pulls and pulls and pulls. At least this explains why I couldn’t
control my urine. Asshole had that thing so far in it must have been in my
bladder. An hour later and it burns like I’m pissing out barbed wire. But this is nothing
compared to how I felt yesterday. At least I can walk. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Raquel visits and asks when I can go home. I’m
so happy to have her that I want to laugh and cry, but it hurts my abdomen
to do either so I just tell her soon. She leaves and I go to sleep. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s 8:00am on Saturday and the doctor says I can go home, I
just need to watch for swelling. “If you get headache, drink water, then call
us.” OK. I think I understand. I hobble to the elevator and find the payphone and
call Raquel. She’s out at kindergarten graduation. I hope she has the car. I
don’t want to be here anymore but by the time I make it back to fifth floor it
hurts to sit up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s 11:00 am and Raquel and Kuniko are here to take me home. The nurses ask if I want to stay for lunch. We laugh. It still hurts. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Outside, I thank
Kuniko and hug her for her help but she’s too short and it hurts to bend over.
I get in the car and look at Raquel. She’s so beautiful, and I’m so happy to
have her. She drives me home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><em>J. Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama with his darling wife. He is hoping to go home in April, but is awaiting the pathology report. Most of his posts aren't this depressing, but shit happens.<a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2015/03/theres-lump-on-my-testicle.html" target="_blank"> Click here to read about when he was diagnosed by a man who didn't speak English</a>, <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2015/03/dude-i-wrecked-your-car_14.html" target="_blank">here for a car accident</a>, or <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/09/raquel-rides-gods-wooden-penis.html" target="_blank">here for a much more entertaining penis festival.</a></em></span></span>J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-78083397897410473562015-03-17T08:46:00.000+09:002015-04-02T21:00:12.037+09:00There's a Lump on my Testicle. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Tuma” and an emphatic nod, was how I was told that my
testicle is going to be removed in less than a week. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wait, what? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Japanese nurse sitting next to the doctor translated his
diagnosis. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The growth appears to be a tumor, he thinks you will need to
get it removed as soon as possible, either this week or next, OK?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wait, what? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“He wants you to get tested. Please follow me.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I went from laying on a paper sheet with my “shirt up and
pants down,” to a roller coaster ride through the Japanese medical system.
Fortunately my coworker Kuniko had phoned ahead, and the hospital had arranged
for an English translator, a Japanese nurse named Nolico, otherwise I’d still
probably be navigating the disinfected labyrinth that is every hospital in
every country. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first stop was a pee test. Somehow, I got the only squeamish
nurse in the whole place—perhaps her English ability affected her
sensitivities—so I had to nod and smile while she tried to explain how to urinate into a cup. Finally I had to snatch the plastic cup out of her hand and make my way
into the bathroom. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It is like teller window!” she called after me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stepped into the stall, dropped trow, and peed in a cup,
careful not to go neither above nor below the ascribed line. Jesus this was
going to be quite a day I thought as I pinched off the flow. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Next up was blood work, where Nolico bumped into her
grandfather or great uncle or some shit and made excited conversation with him
until she remembered that oh yeah this fucking gaijin has a lump on his
testicle and she had to hold his hand through the whole damn operation. Lucky
for their conversation, I was up next, and sat down at what looked like a fast-food
counter for blood work. Two stools sat across from two dedicated nurses, who
could find veins so quick Dracula’s head would spin. They punctured me and minutes
later had filled 10 or so tiny vials of blood to be tested. I tried to
peak at the old guy next to me, did he have more vials or less? But alas, I was
whisked away for another test before I could count them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This time I was able to leave my pants on, just the shirt
had to go. The nurse was polite about my tattoos and copious body hair, and
popped on her suction cups professionally. She pressed a button on a machine
that spit out a foot or so of paper, an EKG or something? And we
were off. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This time I needed an X-ray and only had to take off my
button up shirt (the high this week was 4 degrees Celsius, so I had a few
layers.). I stood next to a machine and made a variety of poses while the
technicians hid behind safety glass, giggling and taking pictures. I swear I was doing tiger style and lotus hands out there while they sprayed me with X-rays. Needless to say I was sweating. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It's warm isn't it?” Nolico asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">No, I'm not fucking warm,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I MIGHT HAVE CANCER!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And that’s when I got scared. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next test was a CT scan. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My grandfather died from a CT scan. He had to swallow a
fluid that the machine would be able to detect, but he had a bad reaction and
never recovered. I told this to my English speaking nurse, who translated to the technician
who told me not worry. If anything went wrong I could press a button.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thanks for
the reassurance, Doc. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But a CT scan was the best way to find out if the lump
had metastasized and spread to other parts of my body, so what choice did I
have? My grandfather was in his sixties and suffering from a cancerous liver,
I’m 26 and healthy with a lump on my nut. Raquel appeared at this very moment,
and I had time to tell her that I was about to attempt what my grandfather
hadn’t lived through. She seemed about as relieved as I was that I’d have—thank
goodness—a button to press! But we talked to the nurse again and she assured me
I’d be fine, and to tell them if I felt anything strange. So in I went, and
two minutes later out I came. I had no bad side effects, not even the warmth they
warned me I might feel after the intravenous solution mixed in with my
blood. The technician told me to drink plenty of water that day to help remove
the solution and I was off to meet the doctor again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Japan is nothing if not efficient, for though only two hours has passed, my results had all come in already. Everything looks good. Blood work doesn’t show high
levels of tumor markers, the X-rays and CT scan don’t show anything unusual in
any of the common places testicular cancer spreads to, not my lymph nodes,
lungs, or kidneys. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yet, despite this tiny glimmer of good news, I will have to
return to the hospital a week later to have my testicle removed, as this is the
only way to find out if the growth is cancerous, and to prevent it from spreading
if it is. Once it’s removed they will dissect my poor lost testicle to find out
what afflicts it and has made it so swollen and firm. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hear that the surgery can be painful, but in Japan I can
stay in the hospital for free, and they want me to stay there for a week to pump me
full of painkillers. So now I have nothing to do but wait, and try not to worry,
and to tell everyone I know <span style="font-size: large;">CHECK YOUR BALLS and your BOOBIES! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <span style="font-size: small;">If anything is different, anything, please go to the doctor! I promise it won't be as awkward as learning you have a "tuma." </span></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<em>J.Darris Mitchell went through an inguinal orchiectomy (that's when they remove the cancerous testicle) in Japan. <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2015/03/getting-my-testicle-removed-in-japan.html" target="_blank">Click here to read about it. </a> It was scary, but you can handle it. And please, if you so much as THINK something is wrong, see your doctor immediately. </em>J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-15209096899952968872015-03-14T18:58:00.002+09:002015-03-29T20:11:45.689+09:00Dude, I Wrecked Your Car!
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is officially the worst week of my life. First, one
hell of an awful visit to the doctor, and then today, I got in my first car
accident. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What made it worse was that I was supposedly showing people
how to drive. It’s hard to argue that that’s what I was actually doing
considering the utter failure that ensued. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was attempting to turn right on green, a task not without
challenges but in no way difficult, and failed. One second I was following the
car in front of me, the next a car horn was blaring and baring down on us. I
hit the gas, praying to get out of the way in time and I almost did- but didn’t.
It just hasn’t been that kind of week. The other driver swerved enough to only
clip the back end of the car and smash his headlight, but seeing as how he didn’t
want to risk oncoming traffic, collide we did. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Shit. Shit. Shit, are you guys OK? Shit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The new English teachers were both sitting on side of the
car that had been struck, and both looked more than a little freaked out. No
one was hurt so now began the agonizing process of swapping insurance information
with an angry Japanese man. I pulled the car over, turned on the flashers, and
approached him, bowing and muttering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gomenasai.
</i>I think that translates roughly to ‘I’m really fucking sorry.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He wasn’t yelling, but he wasn’t too pleased either. It
seemed to him I was in the wrong, and I didn’t have the heart to argue
otherwise. After a minute, I finally made it clear that no, I didn’t understand
a word he was saying, and that if he had a cell phone he better bust it out so I
could call someone who did. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He dialed my Japanese guardian angel and coworker Kuniko a
few times, but she didn’t pick up. Today was her only day off this week, and I’m
sure she was trying to enjoy it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When she didn’t pick up I just about barfed, but instead
held it down and had him call another friend to translate, but alas only her
Dutch husband answered and his Japanese skills aren’t quite up to snuff when it
comes to settling insurance claims. So the driver and I stood and gestured, until
finally my darling wife came over and had us trade information. I promised we’d
call him soon, and with a suspicious glance at the roman letters on the piece of
paper I’d given him, he let us go on our way. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Do you guys need to go back home?” the new teachers asked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hung my head and nodded. Yeah, I’d need to tell the
boss-man about this. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The new teachers wisely went on a walk while I called
Kuniko, who finally answered and called Iwayama-san, who called the insurance
company. Kuniko asked if we didn’t mind staying at the house for a few minutes
so Iwayama-san could come check out the carnage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I still can’t get over how polite the Japanese are. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Iwayama-san showed up grinning, like he always does. The only
difference was that for once he didn’t have a cabbage or a bag of apples to
give us. He asked if we were ok and I told him yes, and he asked me if the car
still worked and I told him yes. I told him I was sorry and he just grinned and
patted me on the back. Iwayama-san adores Gaijin, and believes we are at our
cutest when we are at our most inept. I’m surprised his dog has all four legs
really. He seems like the kind of guy who’d try to nurse a bird with a one wing
or a raccoon without a tail. For all I know he’s pleased the car has a nice ding
in it now, it makes it that much more endearing. He told me not to worry and
that he had a good deal on the insurance. I asked if we could still use the car
and he laughed and said yes and then was on his way. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So we piled back in the car, apologized to the new teachers
who apologized to us and we all laughed about how we’re all becoming Japanese.
We sat down to a cup of tea and I realized that this time last year, I had just
won a beard contest and finished a marathon and that life’s not always going to
be peaches and gravy and that sometimes it’s really, really hard, but—and this
is from a man whose had entirely too much peaches and gravy in his life—when
the peaches and gravy finally run out (and it will) there will still be the people
who apologize for being in the car you smashed and the people that bring you
bags of apples, and though there may be no peaches, there’s people like my
darling wife- people who are more than willing to take the wheel when you lose
control, and drive you home for a cup of tea when you need it most. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">J.
Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama Japan with his darling wife, and two
wonderful new teachers who will be using the car he almost destroyed. If you
enjoyed this story please share it. <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/09/japan-land-of-landlords.html" target="_blank">Click here to read more about Iwayama-san.</a> </span></i>J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-40221531728497481422015-03-05T10:30:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:11:45.695+09:00Get Used to It! <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My time as a teacher in Japan only stretches another fifteen
days. I’ve broken protocol and started telling my students that I’ll be
leaving. Neither my wife nor our coworker supports this. I guess they’re
rip-the-bandage-off-at-once kind of people. Responses vary, and I’m beginning
to think I should’ve just pulled a Houdini in two weeks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Most of the students only ask about the new teacher. “Boy or
girl?” “Is she pretty?” “How old are they?” Most agreed a female teacher would
greatly improve their current predicament. One group of seven year old boys,
possibly resentful they were going to have to learn how to terrorize a new
teacher effectively, spent the class period drawing piles of smiling poop on
the board. Neither the promise of candy or threats in a foreign tongue could
deter this behavior. Two of my adult classes stole my thunder by actually
quitting the class moments before I was going to break the news. “Sorry, Joe.
Last class.” I tried to explain that I was leaving too and that they didn’t
need to apologize but they just bowed and made their exit while I tried not to
feel abandoned. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not all responses were bad though. Two thirteen year old
boys who refuse to speak English unless I let them play basketball cheered me
up. Haruto asked me how many more classes we’d have together and when I told
him it was only three.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He repeated “Oh
no! Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!” on loop for the next three minutes. That’s the most
English I’ve ever heard him say, and it hit me right in the feelz. Takumi, not
as prone to bizarre and emotional outbreaks said nothing, only smiled. Haruto
called him careless (We’d been studying adjectives but I didn’t have the heart
to correct him) but Takumi only dug through a notebook. He found what he was
looking for, looked me straight in the eyes and told me, “Good friends live on
in the heart.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I did my best not to blubber like a grandmother in front of
two boys only interested in throwing a deflated rubber ball in a dented metal
can. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the reaction that touched me the most was from the first
person I told. I let slip that I was leaving because Akira informed me he was
going to be opening a Japanese style steak house. As in a place that only seats
six people, and he will personally prepare every bite of food for his diners.
He wants to open in November, he just needs a location. My mouth watering I
confessed that I wouldn’t get to try his steak because I was leaving in a month
for America. He frowned at me and reached for his dictionary. After thumbing
around he said, “I got used to you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What a compliment. But there’s a lot in those words. Maybe
it means I’ve adapted to life in Japan that such a simple statement could mean
so much. But I guess that’s the truth of life. We only grow accustomed to the little
things that make us comfortable. Coffee, how people say hello, all the little
stuff you never notice unless you have to go without. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I had got used to life here, and damnit Japan, I
mean it. </span>J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-47558194711575822682015-02-25T21:13:00.002+09:002015-03-29T20:12:11.626+09:00The Magical Ice Lord Yushi<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mfDK7H8XTPk/VO27LSbOR_I/AAAAAAAAAfs/HIyxHmC7o4s/s1600/IMG_4748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mfDK7H8XTPk/VO27LSbOR_I/AAAAAAAAAfs/HIyxHmC7o4s/s1600/IMG_4748.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">An ice demon approached me scowling and carrying a banner.
He was dressed straight from the legends and smiled with too many teeth. I
called my friends over only to find that they too had been confronted by one of
these ice demons, their King in fact, the Magical Ice Lord Yushi! </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But let me back track, you’re probably lost. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When the water molecule falls below 0 degrees Celcius (a
convenient temperature to be sure) it begins to exhibit curious properties.
When a people evolve around this molecule in its solid state, they too begin to
exhibit quirks and curiosities of their own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A curiosity of my own caused me to pile into a car to see
this man named Yushi. I’d been told he eats bears, owns a mountain, and creates
an ice forest every year. When invited, I always say yes to meeting people like
this. My wife on the other hand, had no qualms about ignoring a Magical Ice
Lord. When I asked Raquel if she wanted to join me, she simply chortled and
snuggled deeper under our heated coffee table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ehs72aGPk4s/VO27g4tXdsI/AAAAAAAAAgU/JVn5A28XWyk/s1600/10968191_10153062201013459_2023995011_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ehs72aGPk4s/VO27g4tXdsI/AAAAAAAAAgU/JVn5A28XWyk/s1600/10968191_10153062201013459_2023995011_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lake never knew what hit it... Because it's a lake.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I crammed into a car with too many foreigners and away we
went to meet a man on his mountain, stopping only to throw snowballs into a
frozen lake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The ice forest began ordinarily enough. There were trees,
and snow on them! It didn’t really seem like the kind of place that a Magical
Ice Lord would want to live, but around a bend were confronted with a wall of
ice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was 5 meters tall, and had swallowed up birch and pine in
its hunger to expand. It looked like the prototype for the wall built to keep
out the white walkers. Alex and I proceeded to insult it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Yx8bSV3FIrU/VO27MgkIs7I/AAAAAAAAAf8/i9y8S73IKjk/s1600/IMG_4753.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Yx8bSV3FIrU/VO27MgkIs7I/AAAAAAAAAf8/i9y8S73IKjk/s1600/IMG_4753.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lord Yushi's Ice Forest.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That’s ice all right.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Looks cold.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Giggle-giggle-snort-giggle-giggle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I edged through the entry way into the festival proper.
Nothing in Japan is free, but I’ve spent 300 yen in far worse ways. I once
hiked 4 kilometers to find that the entrance to the sacred pond I sought cost
300 yen to enter (as in go past the fence not swim). I remember laughing at the
foolish Japanese who’d approach the gate, peak around a corner, and leave, too
cheap to shell out 3 coins! I paid the entrance and realized that yeah, it was
just a stupid pond and I’d been ripped off. They didn’t even have none o’ dem
fancy colored fish or tiny lil’ trees or nothin! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The ice forest was more impressive. It rose up on either
side of snowy promenade for maybe a kilometer. Fathers dragged children on
sleds, vendors sold roast fish, and tourists snapped pictures with Japanese
White Walkers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2i09yXvZiCg/VO27LrjSvvI/AAAAAAAAAfo/6TR4jr41Ehc/s1600/IMG_4749.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2i09yXvZiCg/VO27LrjSvvI/AAAAAAAAAfo/6TR4jr41Ehc/s1600/IMG_4749.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eric introduced Yushi to me and like any good tourist I
threw my arm around him and took a selfie. This was his family’s land, and
every year the whole clan through this party and dressed up as beasts and priests
and…a giant corncob? I looked to Nolico for an explanation but she only
shrugged and mumbled something about this area growing good corn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I swear, in Japan, everything and nothing is sacred. Here we
were in this crazy winter realm, a land of demons and bears and ancient
priests, and this dude was dressed up to hock corn. They weren’t even selling
any corn! I don’t get it, but I guess I’m alone in this sentiment, for Alex
giggled and asked if I’d take his picture with the stupid corn guy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h_VynA6NGCs/VO27M1i99FI/AAAAAAAAAgA/ed2k30YJ9t4/s1600/IMG_4772.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h_VynA6NGCs/VO27M1i99FI/AAAAAAAAAgA/ed2k30YJ9t4/s1600/IMG_4772.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">God he loved that corn...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I tried a new fish (always a highlight for me) and we all
wandered around and took pictures until the sun went down and the cold set in.
Lord Yushi saw us shivering and offered to let us use his hotel’s Onsen. That’s
right, this mountain king even had his own volcanic hot tub. I nodded dumbly,
this sounded too good to be true! And indeed it was, for though Lord Yushi was
indeed generous, he was also hosting a festival and wasn’t really in the
position to be giving guided tours. Instead he led us to the winter games. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Somehow Eric, Alex and I all ended up not only competing but
in the same heat, even though most of the competitors were children or their
grandparents. But with a grand prize of 3,000 yen on the way (about 30 bucks)
we were not going to let those little bastards make off with our loot. So when
told we had 60 seconds to stack a tray with as many hazelnuts as we could, we
jostled for position as we neared the bucket of hazelnuts, and stacked those
trays to the sky. I lost to Eric, but he was promptly beaten by some dumb kid’s
mom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our heads hung low, we watched the rest of the competition
until it was Nolico’s turn. She’d been watching the competition closely, and
had quite the strategy for stacking nuts. She wobbled back with more hazelnuts
in her tray than I thought possible. She ended up coming in second place! We
patted her on the back and congratulated her until we found out that not only
did she win 2,000 yen, every competitor received 500! We had drinking money!
Alex struggled with the economics of it (“But how can they make money if they
give away more than the entrance fee!?”) but when Nolico bought us hot sake he
stopped complaining. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rkgwyDmbjQw/VO27NEsoljI/AAAAAAAAAgE/Q6O_jBmzeyc/s1600/IMG_4763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rkgwyDmbjQw/VO27NEsoljI/AAAAAAAAAgE/Q6O_jBmzeyc/s1600/IMG_4763.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe One day I'll be an Ice Lord too...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Everyone lined up to make mochi after that. To make mochi
you smash perfectly good rice with an enormous hammer while a man dressed like priest
kneads the dough between strikes. All the while an ice demon humps the person
trying not to smash the preist’s fingers. I was shocked everyone in Lord
Yushi’s family still had all their fingers. Mochi hasn’t really made the jump
to America. I’m not sure why, It translates roughly to fucking-disgusting-rice-goo-that’s-impossible-to-chew-and-even-harder-to-swallow.
But most people seem to like it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Humped and tired, we knew it was time to leave when the band
(playing on a stage made of ice) started playing a jazzy rendition of “let it
Go” on saxophone. I made awful puns about “the cold not bothering me anyway”
until actually it did start to bother me and we got in the car and drove home,
happy to have a designated driver, and happier to have heat.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rkgwyDmbjQw/VO27NEsoljI/AAAAAAAAAgE/Q6O_jBmzeyc/s1600/IMG_4763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2i09yXvZiCg/VO27LrjSvvI/AAAAAAAAAfo/6TR4jr41Ehc/s1600/IMG_4749.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Yx8bSV3FIrU/VO27MgkIs7I/AAAAAAAAAf8/i9y8S73IKjk/s1600/IMG_4753.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rkgwyDmbjQw/VO27NEsoljI/AAAAAAAAAgE/Q6O_jBmzeyc/s1600/IMG_4763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
</div>
J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-43835083435539350972015-02-17T20:30:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:12:11.621+09:00Snowboarding <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
A good friend of mine once said that the cold is awful, but
at least there’s winter sports. In other words, to survive it, embrace it. With
this in mind I eagerly accepted an invitation to go snowboarding for the first
time. <span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HNKVkbyvJ-U/VOG1ylb_zvI/AAAAAAAAAeo/OKmSirssN2A/s1600/IMG_4713.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HNKVkbyvJ-U/VOG1ylb_zvI/AAAAAAAAAeo/OKmSirssN2A/s1600/IMG_4713.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If this uncoordinated fool can snowboard, you can too! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And eager doesn’t begin to describe how I felt. I’ve always
been one to get overly excited. The night before catching a plane, or even the
first day of school, I can hardly sleep. I wake every a few hours only to find
that alas, it’s not yet time to make coffee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The anticipation of snowboarding definitely fell on my excited
spectrum. I went to bed at ten; we were to meet at seven am, and I had to get
my rest! I woke a few times and always fell back into restless dreams of
snowboarding in Colorado with my brother (an event that’s never happened). I
had gotten out of bed, eaten coffee and drunk my breakfast by 6:15, only to
realize that 6:15 is too early for even me to eat anything. Undeterred, I fixed
my wife a cup of coffee and lured her out of bed. I spent the next ten minutes
dressing and undressing (though I’d already laid out my clothes the night
before) polishing my goggles, and going over what little I knew about
snowboarding from youtube.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Raquel finally came downstairs and drove me to McDonald’s. I
bid her farewell in the parking lot and proceeded to chatter inanely to Steve
while he drove us up a mountain through his hangover. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We found the slopes nearly deserted. There were maybe 5
other people braving the early morning cold. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Excellent </i>I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no one to
embarrass myself in front of. </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
marched into the ski lodge and I demanded the largest boots they had. They fit-
barely, and with a nod and a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daijobu </i>to
my instructor, I was ready. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vzduxRqhMWs/VOG1yqWQ1jI/AAAAAAAAAew/X1G7dvFe-NA/s1600/IMG_4711.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vzduxRqhMWs/VOG1yqWQ1jI/AAAAAAAAAew/X1G7dvFe-NA/s1600/IMG_4711.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fukushima-san was always encouraging. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A note on my instructor. Steve introduced him as “Fukushima,
like the nuclear meltdown.” Fukushima-san had patient eyes, and just a touch of
gray hair that poked out from his ski cap. His snowboard though, was what held
my attention. It was hardly wider than a ski, as tall as he was, and black as
obsidian. It looked like a super villain’s snowboard, or perhaps something made
to surf the rings of Saturn. I looked at my own fat red rental with relief. His
board gave me motion sickness just looking at it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We went to face the mountain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Skate?” Fukushima-san asked me and I tried to mumble an
excuse that would both make my soon to be obvious lack of snowboarding skills
understandable yet explain why I was willing to go snowboarding when most
people were still asleep under electric blankets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I went with, “not really for a while… er… ever.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It seemed to have the desired effect because he showed me
how to strap in my boots, and pushed off across the flats, using one leg to
propel him every few meters, then balancing on his board until he slowed down.
I looked at Steve and tried to explain myself but he just laughed, “Yeah I hate
this shit.” He skated away on his board with a bit less grace than
Fukushima-san. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I half-slid, half stumbled after them, and was relieved to
find that unlike skateboarding, snowboards can’t shoot out from under you and
roll off into a busy street, instead they bring you down with them. But the
snow was soft, and after a few slips I was at the bottom of a shallow hill.
Fukushima-san was already at the top, Steve was tromping up after him, using
the edge of his board to dig into the slope. I followed, already breathing
heavy, yet when I got to the top, my heart truly began to race.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WjBqlJOaX10/VOG2S2ujpjI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/OkSDw8NqH08/s1600/IMG_4721.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">They had brought me to the ski lift.</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WjBqlJOaX10/VOG2S2ujpjI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/OkSDw8NqH08/s1600/IMG_4721.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WjBqlJOaX10/VOG2S2ujpjI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/OkSDw8NqH08/s1600/IMG_4721.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This can’t be right! Where’s the bunny slope?<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is the bunny slope,” Steve said and shuffled after
Fukushima-san who’d already boarded a lift and was rising up the mountain into
the growing blizzard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stumbled after Steve and managed to get next to him before
the ski lift hit me in the butt and I crashed down next to Steve. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Careful to lift the nose of your board up. If it gets
caught you’ll get sucked off the lift and bust your ass.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I lifted the nose of my board up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a frightening five minute ride, we disembarked and I tried
not to get smashed by the ski lift. The whole day nothing was more difficult
than getting on and off that cursed ski lift. It’s the adult version of those
rotating gates at swimming pools that kids can exit through but not enter. I
kept imaging myself twisted and mangled, hanging from the wires, my blood
forming red icicles, and going up and down the bunny slope for a frozen
eternity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By the time I shuffled over to the top of the hill, I was
actually ready to snowboard. Anything seemed better than that damn ski lift. <br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />
I kept my board perpendicular to the slope and slowly eased
forward off the edge, and, just like that I was snowboarding! I coasted maybe
20 meters before plopping on my ass. This was fun! And just by slightly
adjusting the angle I could go faster! Why didn’t anyone tell me how easy this
was? Steve boarded up next to me and offered a pat on the back, and Fukushima
came over and gave me an encouraging thumbs up. I noticed he still hadn’t
strapped his one of his feet into his board, though. </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I pointed the nose of my board down the hill and WHOOSH!
Away I went. Faster and faster I plummeted, only to realize that I didn’t
really know how to stop. In an effort to not create a sonic boom and cause an
avalanche I turned my board perpendicular to the mountain and….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">YEEEAAAARRRRHH!! I tumbled head over heels down the
mountainside. Eventually coming to a rest within earshot of Steve laughing
maniacally. Fukushima-san boarded over, still with only one foot strapped in, and
said only, “slower, like a falling leaf!” and thus I was a snowboarder. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We went down the bunny slope again and again. I learned to
dig my heels in to brake, to cruise back and forth across the width of the
slope to keep my speed down and to always, ALWAYS fall on my butt and not on my
face. We even tried the course on the other side of the ski lift, and though terrifying,
I managed to bridge the thick powder, avoid the ski lift poles, and get back to
main course without hurting myself too bad. I was a natural! I was born to do
this! Not since Tonyhawk’s Proskater had I found a sport that suited me so
well! Sure, the ski lift still terrified me, children were skiing circles
around me, and I could only ride on the backside of the snowboard and never the
dreaded frontside, but that would all come in another fifteen minutes! <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was so sure of my natural aptitude that when Steve
suggested we go to the higher (aka highest) slope I didn’t protest, not even
when Fukushima-san looked at Steve then back to me and said, “crazy,” did I
protest. I knew how to stop, how bad could it be?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F6WpA-iysK4/VOG1zziYx4I/AAAAAAAAAfE/AK67360cwqc/s1600/IMG_4720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F6WpA-iysK4/VOG1zziYx4I/AAAAAAAAAfE/AK67360cwqc/s1600/IMG_4720.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The much taller and more terrifying slope, <br />
complete with slalom course. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ten minutes on a nearly abandoned ski lift and I was quaking
in my ski boots. I had just seen a snowboarder plunge off the top of the hill
and vanish. Like, literally. One second, he was there, real as the cold, then
he pushed off and was gone. He reappeared seconds later, a tiny blur at the
bottom of a long steep hill. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fukushima-san gave me a thumbs up and I asked to see him go
first. Mistake. He vanished just like the last guy, to appear as an even faster
blur even farther down the mountain. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That obsidian board of his was really
something. I was beginning to wonder if I could put sandpaper on mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But with a nod from Steve I plunged onto the course. Well, maybe
not plunged. More like kept the back of my board dug into the thick snow, and
slowly slid down the mountain. We’re talking glacial speeds. Not my finest
moment. People skied past, a lot of people. Hey at least I was giving the pros
an obstacle. But the hill started to flatten out, my confidence returned, and
away I went, not really trying to keep up with the blur that was Fukushima-san,
but at least staying close enough to be seen if I crashed.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We came to an even smaller and more precarious ski lift than
the last, and rode it back to the top of the insane slope. This time I accepted
that I would go down the mountain slower than thawing snow and actually enjoyed
myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steve and I traded places as we
boarded in and out of each other’s paths, Fukushima-san raced through a thick
layer of fresh powder and I followed, then pulled ahead, eager to impress my
teacher, only to discover that snowboarding through thick fresh powder looks
way cooler than it actually is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I crashed, and found the snow had molded itself perfectly to
my body. Try as I might, I couldn’t get up. I looked up to find I’d crashed
directly under the ski lift, and people were either awkwardly avoiding looking
at me (in japan, sometimes I can taste the awkward) or just laughing their ass
off at the giant westerner who’d stuck himself in the snow. I struggled and
thrashed but could not move. I’d push myself into a sitting position, only to
have the snow collapse and engulf me yet again. Fukushima-san couldn’t stop
laughing and Steve was demanding I give him my phone to take a picture. I
should’ve, but I didn’t see how I could possibly reach it without sinking
deeper. Finally Steve offered me a corner of his board, I unlatched a boot from
my own board, and pushed off Steve to half-crawl, half-drag myself free of the
snow. I was steaming with sweat, my glasses were fogged, my breathing labored.
Fukushima-san and Steve queued up for the lift, and I shook my head. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I couldn’t do it.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Steve nodded and told Fukushima-san they’d do a few more
runs than meet me back at the lodge. I nodded, pretending I understood the Japanese
and not just Steve’s look of pity when I asked the way back. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fukushima-san pointed to a narrow path before me that
zigzagged through the woods. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It would have been beautiful if I wasn’t so exhausted and
terrified I’d find myself in another snow drift. The path was almost empty, and
had gentle slopes that connected flat stretches of fresh snow. I boarded back
and forth, my thighs burning, stopping at the beginning of each slope so I
wouldn’t have to skate through the flats. Old men skied past with their
grandchildren. Snowboarding babes tried not to giggle while they asked if I was
alright. I’d nod and give ‘em all a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">daijobu</i>
and push on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-anO2PGvOyOc/VOG1zg7d7mI/AAAAAAAAAe8/qhWMSvHhg3E/s1600/IMG_4714.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-anO2PGvOyOc/VOG1zg7d7mI/AAAAAAAAAe8/qhWMSvHhg3E/s1600/IMG_4714.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thus, I was a snowboarder.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I finally found my way back to the lodge, unstrapped my
board and drank some Sports Sweat, as the athletes do here in Japan. Steve and
Fukushima-san showed up a while later and we feasted on ramen and hot coffee
from a vending machine before trying to bunny slope a final time. <br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
I managed to make it down with only falling twice, a
personal best, but the second time I fell forward so hard my head spun, and
when Steve told me he didn’t usually like to go back out after lunch I nodded
weakly, blamed the early afternoon crowds for compacting the snow and making it
more difficult, and bowed my thanks to Fukushima-san. <span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span><br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He told me to call him if I ever want to go
snowboarding again. Kind words, I thought, until I remembered how hard he’d
laughed when I was stuck in the snow. Anything to break up the monotony of
winter I suppose, and nothing warms the heart like laughter. <br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em> </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em> J. Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama Japan with his darling wife, and is waiting for the snow to melt. If you enjoyed this post check out the rest of what he did in January</em>! </span><br />
<br /></div>
J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-31934531240261566132015-02-12T21:00:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:12:11.608+09:00The Missing <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With three months left in Japan, I’m already starting to
wonder what I’ll miss. The people are what I miss most about the States (except
for Gray Wind) and I imagine that’s what I’ll miss most about Japan. Only so
many weekends are left of drinking at the Greatest Bar on Earth or falling
asleep under Eric and Nolico’s kotatsu (a coffee table equipped with a built in
heater and a blanket that I never want to leave behind even though it’s next to
useless in Texas). I finally went snowboarding (more on that next week) so there’s
not much left on my bucket list. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Instead I’m left to wonder what I’ll miss the most. I
think it’ll probably be the little things. Of course it’d be easy to say the
sushi and the seasons (though I won’t miss the cold) but I think it’s all the
minute strangeness of Japan that has worked its way into me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I imagine I’ll miss walking into businesses. Every one
greets you with shouts of “Sumimasen” and says goodbye with deep bows and cries
of “arigatoa gozaimasta,” even if you leave having only purchased a bottle of
cheap whiskey and a package of horrid gummy candy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I won’t miss that when returning a movie late can almost
shut down an entire store. A day before, they’d called to tell us we’d accrued
500yen in late fees, or about 5 bucks. Undeterred by this amount we ventured
back to the store for more movies (there’s not much to do when it gets dark at
5:00) only to cause the checkout girl to suffer a panic attack. She scanned our
card, saw something awful flash on the screen, and malfunctioned. She looked
from the screen to us and back again, unsure of how to proceed. Her manager
noticed her plight and came to her rescue, but he too had to consult a
clipboard with a handful of violators on it and had to enter an override code
before the computer and the check out girl self-destructed. To think, in Austin
they just asked us to pay it down to 8 dollars. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I won’t miss the snow, but I’ll probably miss the way it
brings together the community. I never felt the sense of community to be
terribly genuine in my neighborhood in the States. It seemed our relationship
as neighbors revolved around keeping the front yard looking trim, an activity
that always felt a waste of time to me. Why grow it at all if only to cut it
back? It’s not like people were playing soccer on it. Mowing the lawn is truly
a Sisyphean task; shoveling snow is no less repetitive, but it’s much more
useful. If I don’t shovel out my car, I can’t leave the house, and besides
that, I never had a neighbor mow my lawn for me or smile if I decided to mow
theirs. Here, all the sixty year olds and I take turns unclogging the creek bed
from the snow our insane landlord dumps into it. My neighbors know that my car
may not be shoveled out as early as theirs, but by god I’ll clean the lines
between our parking spots before they get home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I doubt I’ll miss being in a land with a language I don’t
understand, but even that has its advantages. It’s easy to read on busses, for no
snippet of conversation will distract me, and I can speak freely anywhere and
about anything I like. True, some Japanese speak English well enough to
understand my complaints about the texture of the raw shrimp or boiled squid, but
they’re so damn polite they’d never confess and embarrass me. Not even when
discussing lingerie with my wife in department store did the little old lady my
wife had been talking to in English for the last twenty minutes bother to tell
me she understood every perverted word that left my mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There’s a thousand other little thing I may miss: bowing
instead of shaking hands (weird), NEVER tipping (awesome), the thousands of
men’s hairstyles as diverse as tropical birds (strange considering women’s
single hairstyle: long), women wearing short skirts under the down jackets even
though it’s snowing, men shoveling snow and scrubbing windows in business
suits, sitting on the floor at a fancy restaurant, udon for breakfast, and on
and on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yet who can say what will stick? There’s dozens of things
I’ve already forgotten about in the States that during the first month seemed barbaric
to go without. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What I still miss about Austin is the people. My hippie
parents, my hippier sister, Raquel’s mom’s cooking and her dad’s made up words,
her sister and her boyfriend and their outrageously delicious hipster meals,
drinking beer with Tam and Cole, playing D&D with Mike at his corporate
headquarters, talking chickens with Organ, Mitch and Robyn and their baby who
won’t be a baby by the time we get back. I miss y’all and so many more so much.
I can’t wait to be back to see everyone (especially Grey Wind), yet each day
closer to seeing you means a day less with the people here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So I must be strong and talk aliens and God with
Chaba, hoist penis effigies with Steve, pick Kensei’s brain for the origins of
rock and roll, and tag along to Nolico’s parties always drinking and talking,
drinking and talking with Eric and Alex, for my time is short, and I don’t want
to waste a moment of it.</span> </span><br />
<br />
J. Darris Mitchell will live in Takayama, Japan for a while yet. If you enjoyed this post please share with the people you like sharing with. J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-42101282305161039052015-02-03T20:28:00.001+09:002015-03-29T20:12:11.615+09:00The Perils of Not Speaking Japanese. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Six months in japan and I have my regrets about moving here
from Texas. I suppose it’s to be expected, after all my wife and I picked Asia because
it would be different-whatever we thought that meant, and different it proved
to be. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My friend Cole once said, “Japan is different down to the smallest
detail, but the big picture is the same.” Wise words. Truly descriptive of
being in a land where people pay handsomely for bar-b-q’d chicken skin yet balk
at the idea of eating eggs and god forbid- not rice- for breakfast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">However my friend Tam noticed something else about Japan, “The
language is different.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Truer words were never spoken. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Japanese language is not easy. There are two alphabets,
one for local words and one for imports, plus thousands of Chinese pictographs
called Kanji that are said to possess some sort of logic that eludes me. And
then there’s the pronunciation. Syllables almost always have two parts, a consonant
sound followed by a vowel sound, and if that pattern is not respected, my words
are not understood. It’s Ka-zu-ki not Kaz-u-ki, ya foreigner! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And thus my knowledge of the language has been laid before
you in its entirety. I understand less than little. I have kindergarten
students who speak better English than my Japanese. I can read the numbers on
cash registers and nod during appropriate points in conversation (hint-nod when
the speaker frowns, laugh when they smile) so people think I can survive here,
but this is a farce that has worn through. Already the cashiers see me for the
liar than I am. Even if I pay and nod at the proper times and smile my most
competent smile, they always give the receipt to Raquel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not speaking the language of the locals is awkward at best,
and terrifying at worst. If I’m lucky, and with some of my friends who do speak
English, they’re cursed to translate everything I say until the group eventually
splits in two, those who want to talk English with Joe the bearded fool and
those who don’t. If I’m without such lifelines, not speaking Japanese can be
truly terrifying, like when the bus driver doesn’t turn of the PA system on the
bus and mutters under his breath for miles without anyone getting up to stop
him. I realized then, that he could be threatening his passengers, telling us
all to remain quiet or he’d drive us off a cliff, or he could be worshipping
the benevolent supreme god of kittens and I wouldn’t have a clue. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After being here for six months, I dread meeting new people,
Japanese or not, for they always ask the same question: “How’s your japanese?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s not. It doesn’t. Its existence is negative. As in no, I
can’t speak a lick. I can’t read it, write it, or anything else. The only thing
worse than my Japanese is some of my students English. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I must have invoked the wrath of the Japanese god of language,
for my last six weeks of teaching English been saddled with 3 extra classes each
week, each with a group of students with more abysmal English than the last. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Please don’t misunderstand, not all Japanese speak bad English
(I wouldn’t survive here if not for them) but, much like myself, some just don’t
have the touch of tongues (my japanese is so bad when I try to speak a word of
it to my six year old students they laugh and heckle me). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This week I asked a new student, “How are you?” to be
answered with panicked breathes, wide eyes and “mudi-mudi-mudi-mudi-mudi-mudi!”
Or “impossible-impossible-impossible-etc-until-your-breath-runs-out.” I mean,
my japanese is bad, but I can at least say “Genki-des” at the appropriate point
in conversation (though I’m probably saying that wrong too).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Another group of adults panicked when, I asked them to repeat
pairs of difficult sounds. I separated “L” and “R” into distinct sounds, made
in entirely different parts of my mouth. They looked as if I was asking them to
make paper cranes out of starburst wrappers using only their tongue. They attempted
to repeat the throaty and guttural, “R” and the tongue-titilating “L” and were
met with only by my unenthusiastic support (its hard to fake being impressed
when you see a group of grown men bite their bottom lip and attempt to make a ‘v’
sound only to spray saliva all over eachother). No one enjoyed those moments, except
maybe the same god who likes watching me suffer any time I introduce my wife “Raquel”
(there’s an L and R for those counting) to blank confused stares.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, yeah, I have my regrets. Language is a big deal, and
hard to get around. Not speaking the local language is a serious handicap, and
has made me appreciate those who do speak my language. And yet, the very ability
that I treasure in them, dooms me to not learning Japanese and not being able
to speak with anyone else. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Aw well, as they say in Japan,
mudi-mudi-mudi-mudi-mudi. </span>J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-2672178498136909232015-01-27T21:25:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:14:37.365+09:00The Snow Won't Melt my Heart <span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ah, a month in, and still the snow fascinates me. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6uRiBXSPKBo/VMeDSeTFnVI/AAAAAAAAAeM/pBa-wvK0Wgw/s1600/IMG_4138.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6uRiBXSPKBo/VMeDSeTFnVI/AAAAAAAAAeM/pBa-wvK0Wgw/s1600/IMG_4138.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bearded Kaiju, seen here fascinated by snow. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am from Austin, and have only fleeting understanding of
the cold. Wow! It rained and all the streets are covered with a thin film of
ice! Chaos! Wow! It’s so cold you can leave the beer outside! Hyuk hyuk hyuk!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here the cold is stronger, a bitter god angry at the joys of
summer. I know there are fiercer gods of cold out there, “All you who live
south of the Wall are Southerners,” but I don’t ever want to meet them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here, the cold is an entity, not a number that measures the
absence of heat. Pah! I feel myself relating more and more to the ancient
philosophers who believe cold was a force and not the base state that modern
physicists define it as. To think the sun is the aberration in our universe is
counterintuitive to the human experience. When the sun is shining and the
‘natural state’ of the universe is melted away if just for a cloud free
afternoon, my world feels right, not alien. And the neighbors agree, albeit in
their obsessive hardworking Japanese way. A sunny day means a day of watching
sixty year old men scale rickety ladders up onto their roofs and hurl mountains
of snow atop their sixty year old wives. A sunny day doesn’t mean less
shoveling, it means a joyful day spent scraping away the bottom few centimeters
of ice that make the road truly treacherous. Ah, a recent convert to Celsius, I
relish the 5 degree days, and positively bask when its 8 degrees outside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For the cold will return, it has each and every time so far,
and I suppose if the physicists are right, it always will, soon as we shift out
of the light of our freakishly optimistic sun, the cold returns, as inevitable
as the dark. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I try not to get angry when someone from Austin tells me,
“oh, its’ the same temperature in Takayama as it is here right now!” I
understand. I’ve made the same righteously unsympathetic statements to a friend
living in Boston and my family in Michigan. A moment of equality only drives
the abject misery of living in the cold deeper into my frigid bones. For a
moment when—gasp—it’s a few degrees above freezing in my home town and my
current residence represents a huge difference in experience. For 3 degrees
Celsius in Austin is one of the colder nights, here in Takayama, it’s a warm
afternoon. That difference may seem pedestrian but it is not. Cold is not
something that can be thwarted with a scarf and a cup of hot cocoa. It is a
merciless, relentless enemy, who sees no attack upon my sanity too insidious to
employ.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Chj48uypLl8/VMeDSBAtgYI/AAAAAAAAAeI/qh0O6AnihrY/s1600/IMG_3989.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Chj48uypLl8/VMeDSBAtgYI/AAAAAAAAAeI/qh0O6AnihrY/s1600/IMG_3989.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A man must shovel the snow. Even in the face of more snow<br />
This is right, and as it should be. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve woken to find all the windows frozen shut, with a shirt
hung carelessly close frozen to the glass, as if it’d reached out to lick the
frost and been trapped there. I’ve woken to find the olive oil frozen into a brick
(It’s been too cold to put honey in my coffee for months). I’ve discovered my
washcloth frozen to the shower tiles, the shampoo beyond unusable. I’ve had
entire days ruined because I’ve run down stairs at the crack of dawn to turn on
the kerosene heater in the kitchen (no central heat for me) only to seek refuge
thirty minutes later and discover the cursed thing was out of fuel and my
kitchen still a frozen wasteland. I sleep with a hat, every night. I wear two
hats and six layers during the day. I rant passionately about my heated coffee
table (my beloved kutatsu). I value soup above all other foods. And, when given
the opportunity to spend the night in a repurposed bakery up in the mountains,
I leap at the opportunity, not because a bakery sounds warm, but because a
night away from home will give us enough time to wash our sheets and let them
dry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So my wife and I found ourselves whisked away, up into the
mountains, towards Mastumoto. I told my students of my plan to sleep in an old
bakery in the mountains and they warned me of the drive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Be careful, the way between here and Matsumoto is very
treacherous. Its full of twisting, frozen roads and haunted tunnels.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I nodded, thankful for the terrifying advise, but explained
that in fact I wasn’t going all the way to Matsumoto, I’d be stopping somewhere
along the way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh! We’ll watch the news!” one of my students exclaimed,
“If a bear comes down out of the mountains, we’ll know it’s you!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Everyone laughed at the dire predicament I’d soon find
myself in, and I lamented that despite my time here, I have not developed a
Japanese sense of humor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Still, the promise of adventure stirred my frozen bones and
I packed my bag with enough calories to survive a hike out of the mountain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The drive was spent in second gear, climbing six hundred
meters along mountain roads that were only ploughed when they straightened out.
Between harrowing turns and bone rattling bumps of ice, we found ourselves in
old twisty tunnels. I always imagined tunnels to be pushed straight through mountains,
but these beasts were like something from inside an ant colony. Dull flashing
lights warned us of approaching walls and sharp turns. I mistakenly asked Eric
why the tunnels were haunted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Because so many people crash and die here,” his wife Nolico
said from the steering wheel before popping out of tunnel, running a red light
and smiling, “oops!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When we arrived at the bakery, I had never been so happy to
set foot on an iced over road. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It turned out our host was far from a baker. He was a guitar
player that—everyone but him likes to remind us—used to tour with Deep Purple.
He kept the wood burning stove stoked as he wailed on his guitar, Eric played
the harmonica and I did my best to insult Eric through rhyme between sips of
sake. More people showed up, including Steve, who assured me that this was as
good as it got, and even though we’d only been here a few months, we better
damn well recognize that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And you know, after getting slush in my boots, and snow down
my coat, after paying for tank after tank of stinking kerosene, I got it, loud
and clear. Nothing is better on this earth than warmth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Warm people, music so loud it heats your bones, and fire. Be
it from the sun, that unnaturally optimistic aberration, or from wood burnt to
keep out that most vicious of gods, it doesn’t matter. For warmth, in all of
its forms, is as good as it gets. </span></div>
J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-18502380027712714282015-01-20T20:30:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:14:52.747+09:00Sushi: 100 yen or 100 dollars? <br />
<h2 class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
Sushi. <o:p></o:p></h2>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That one word was enough to bring me to Japan. It is a
global food, an international delight, known for its simplicity and its
freshness, but I must say:</span><br />
<h3>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think that word means what you think it means. </h3>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sushi is a different beast in Japan. To begin with, there
are no sushi rolls. They just don’t do that here. Sushi means rice with
vinegar, fish and a touch of wasabi. They look at California rolls and cream
cheese with the same disdain you’ll feel for pizza with shrimp, corn and
mayonnaise (yeah let me know when you try it). I have been served something
wrapped in seaweed paper, sure, but it was masticated fish parts and rice,
nothing more, no cucumbers, no jalapeno slices, and gods no mayonnaise. Get
over the mayonnaise.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />
And don’t worry! You won’t miss all that crap designed to hide
the quality of the fish. Sushi is omnipresent and hard to avoid in japan. It’s
as ubiquitous as beef in Texas, and served in as many ways.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3Rm_6YFqqVs/VLydmHAc8PI/AAAAAAAAAdw/ybtREhVLmP8/s1600/IMG_4227.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3Rm_6YFqqVs/VLydmHAc8PI/AAAAAAAAAdw/ybtREhVLmP8/s1600/IMG_4227.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mountain woman excited about massive tuna </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, a disclaimer, I don’t live on the coast. In fact, I
probably live as far away from the coast as possible, up in the mountains in
the center of Honshu, the main island. Yet I am still closer to the coast than
I was in Austin, and while I’ve had better in Tokyo, if you come to Takayama, the
sushi is worth trying. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are many levels
sushi. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the bottom of the list is the stuff from the grocery store.
The packs of six or eight pieces of seafood on rice is good for the price
(think dollar burger at your favorite corporation) but the novelty wears off
quickly. The tuna’s not the greatest, the salmon’s not the freshest, and they
tend to lump a few too many pieces of mollusk in there for my taste. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v0Etn8EVZvk/VLydmOIXcFI/AAAAAAAAAds/GgvSvCoyAY0/s1600/IMG_4228.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v0Etn8EVZvk/VLydmOIXcFI/AAAAAAAAAds/GgvSvCoyAY0/s1600/IMG_4228.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chicken, radish sprouts, miso soup, edamame, rice and <br />
of course, tuna. Slice it yourself and its still good sashimi. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The best thing about the grocery store in Takayama is when
they buy a tuna or two from the coast and haul it up for us mountain-folk. When
the tuna appears, madness descends on the grocery store. Old ladies jostle for
position in line, old men outbid eachother on who gets to take home the
enormous fish head. If there is a whole tuna fish at the grocery store, you buy
a cut because—even with inferior knife skills—you can prepare the most
delicious fish you’ll ever eat at home. For about ten dollars, you can get a
piece of lean red meat, the most popular of all cuts. Though if you’re feeling
lavish, get the orange stuff from the same fish. It’s fatty and wonderful, and
a bargain considering all you have to do is put it on vinegared rice with a
touch of wasabi to make it as good anything from a restaurant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Next up is train sushi. These restaurants literally parade
pieces of sushi past your nose on a conveyer belt. Take all you want! They’ll
count the plates when you leave. There are of course, varying degrees of
quality at these places. I would avoid the restaurants that advertise
‘everything for 100 yen’ and go to the more upscale places that charge 2 or 300
yen for a piece of fish on rice (I know, big spender). The conveyer belt places
are a great first stop for sushi because you can try all the weird stuff you’ve
never seen in the states without a chef watching to see if your palette is
refined enough to handle it (trust me, it’s not). I’ve tried baby squids, fish
organs, a variety of fish eggs, raw shrimp, raw crab claw, raw scallop, as well
as a handful of unidentifiable fish (my favorite is the purple one). Be sure to
try the weird stuff in the beginning of the meal, otherwise you’ll be left with
the taste of raw crab claw on your tongue. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Above that is the fancy restaurants with display cases of
their favorite creatures chopped to pieces. While expensive, I’ve never been
disappointed at one of these places, even in my mountain village. Though I’ve
learned there is a difference between fine sushi in the mountains and fine
sushi in Tokyo. When my friends from America came to visit we went to the best
sushi restaurant in Takayama one day, and a fantastic sushi restaurant in Tokyo
the next. Both were delicious, but the difference is clear. Here in Takayama,
the fish was at the forefront of the meal. They served big slabs of whatever
they’d had trucked in that morning, tuna, salmon, eel, and of course, the local
specialty, Hida beef. The emphasis was undoubtedly on the quality of the fish,
which was far fresher and richer than anything I’ve had in Austin, and I know,
freshness is not the mark of great sushi, but I live in the mountains OK? Cut me
some slack, the sushi chef in Tokyo sure didn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G75OMKeDty8/VLydmI9_J7I/AAAAAAAAAdo/uYy03puNp-M/s1600/IMG_4532.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G75OMKeDty8/VLydmI9_J7I/AAAAAAAAAdo/uYy03puNp-M/s1600/IMG_4532.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Tokyo, sushi masters can make even this mass of <br />
revolting tentacles delicious! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In Tokyo, the emphasis was on the interplay between the fish
and the rice. Sushi is supposed to be about the rice, and Yazuda certainly followed
this rule. His rice had fantastic texture and a subtle vinegar flavor that
accented the fresh seafood marvelously. He didn’t focus on serving great
hulking slabs of fish, instead he’d pair a piece of shrimp with just the right
amount of course salt, or add a pinch of lemon to some creature I’d never heard
of and bring tears to my eyes. He chastised my palette at first (a nice way of
saying he talked a lot of shit) but I grunted at the appropriate bites so he
left me alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As a Texan, I’d say the difference is like good steak versus
good brisket. Steak is undoubtedly about the meat. You see the meat, you chew
the meat, you swallow the meat, and damnit its good. Brisket though, is less
about the meat and more about the entire sensory experience. The meat is still
there, of course, but there’s also spices and smoke and fantastic texture,
perhaps even a touch of sauce. Expensive sushi is like the finest brisket, it’s
a labor of love that transforms the fish into something beyond fish, something
transcendentally delicious that still somehow is unmistakably simple and
familiar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But, that being said, there’s still a conveyer
belt place in town I haven’t been too… and sometimes there’s nothing better
than a burger. </span>J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-28293692318348404182015-01-13T20:30:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:07:51.343+09:00The Magnificent Tourist Trap in Halong Bay.
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--F3dGdDII8o/VLOQK3dC7zI/AAAAAAAAAdQ/BARevQaxfJI/s1600/IMG_6764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--F3dGdDII8o/VLOQK3dC7zI/AAAAAAAAAdQ/BARevQaxfJI/s1600/IMG_6764.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Halong bay is the most utterly gorgeous tourist trap I have
ever visited. To appreciate it, one must charter a cruise and venture out on
the water, where the natural splendor outside of the boat will distract you
from your urge to abandon ship to escape the lack of substance within it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Halong bay is made by the same forces that carved the Grand
Canyon, yet is so different in composition it boggles the mind. As we sailed
past massive boulders spattered with lush vegetation and hidden caves, I
couldn’t help but think of the creatures that must live in the 1,969 islands. If
Japan (where I currently live) is the land of Kaiju crashing through mountain
passes into cityscapes; Vietnam is the home of dinosaurs. As our boat cruised
between massive thrusts of limestone, I kept my eyes peeled, sure I would see a
pterodactyl hunting a giant squid. It’s a place from another time, a world all
of its own that can only be appreciated by chartering a boat, and going <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in</i>, but therein lies the paradox: It is
impossible to appreciate Halong Bay—kayaking through caves into hidden coves,
boulders big as skyscrapers floating past each other, the screech of caca
monkeys at sunset—without crowding onto a boat with exactly the things we go in
to nature to avoid: drunken Spaniards, pretentious Frenchmen, and loudmouthed
Australians. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Really I felt like the people on our boat must typify every
experience that has ever taken place on a tour bus, boat or any other confined
place with limited choice of weapons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There were: a gaggle of horny, wine drinking Spaniards, an
adorable family from Korea with adorable children that needed constant
reaffirmation of their own adorableness, a British photographer bent on
convincing me photographs weren’t realistic, loud mouthed Aussies, a French
family that hated the food, various honeymooners desperate to hide from the
rest, and us- the sneering tattooed American hipsters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VGWv0puH7ZQ/VLOQJRDrF-I/AAAAAAAAAc4/oSL_Zn4H_Go/s1600/IMG_6438.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VGWv0puH7ZQ/VLOQJRDrF-I/AAAAAAAAAc4/oSL_Zn4H_Go/s1600/IMG_6438.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So close to paradise, and yet so far away</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While we cruised around the bay, desperate for a glimpse of
a rare caca monkey or perhaps a brachiosaurus, I overheard debates about the
history of the word selfie, complaints about how the Australian booze
was—surprise!—more expensive than the local brew, and lamented how my fellow
travelers’ comparison of the food on the ship to a TGIFriday’s was appropriate,
but their enthusiasm for the same meal was not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the bay was always there, eager to reveal hidden secrets
that have been discovered a thousand times over by a thousand different people
and will inspire a thousand more thoughts of our humble place in the natural
world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And, despite the company, we still managed to have a good
time. When the crew offered to take us swimming, and the men on the boat (your
narrator included) eyed each other warily, no one wanting to jump in and no one
wanting to lose face in front of his lady on this tropical cruise, Raquel dove
over the edge of the boat without so much as removing her glasses. Everyone
shrieked in surprise, and despite my best efforts to follow her, the two French
teenagers managed to pause the games on their cellphones, strip down, and dive
in next to my grinning wife before I could so much as get my shirt off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HTq-vr8vKKI/VLOQKlSks3I/AAAAAAAAAdI/5U_JJMeSTkY/s1600/IMG_6677.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HTq-vr8vKKI/VLOQKlSks3I/AAAAAAAAAdI/5U_JJMeSTkY/s1600/IMG_6677.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oysters so fresh you need box cutters to get inside</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When the cruise took us to a fishing family’s floating home,
we all laughed at the family dog that lived on the nearby island, enjoyed the
strong-as-battery-acid rice wine, and let our jaws drop at the enormous fish
the family was fattening up to be sold on the mainland. I was first in line for
the oyster the grandmother of the family dredged up from the bay and handed to
her son to be cracked open with a box cutter. It was seasoned only with the
salt of the Pacific Ocean, and grown by this last of the fishing families. It
was delicious. Once the bay was filled with whole communities of people like
this, complete with schools and shops, but Vietnam—in its communist
glory—deemed the natural splendor of the bay and all its creatures and coves
more valuable than the traditional lifestyle it once afforded the Vietnamese.
Aussies, Europeans and the errant American are willing to pay enough money so
that the people here can protect the creatures instead of hunt them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The quagmire of this family being allowed to stay on the bay
because of their ties with the tourism industry that pushed the ‘genuine’
fishermen out bothered me less after seeing the oil floating around the
houseboat’s engine. I don’t know if it’s a good thing exactly, but hey, it
makes for glorious views and protected habitat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The contradiction of clinging to a traditional lifestyle and
embracing the conveniences of the 21<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">st</span></sup> century is a way of life in
Vietnam. It doesn’t seem the façade that Japan sometimes touts so proudly.
People here harvest their rice by hand because they have to, not because it’s
the way grandmother did it. Our guide in Sapa had a cell phone, while in the
capital of Hanoi entire city blocks sometimes have to go without power. That
seems to be life in this crazy country, where a cheap beer costs $.30 and an
expensive one costs 50,000 Vietnamese Dong. I don’t know if my presence as a
tourist helps or hurts, but I know it’s a hell of a lot better than America’s
history over here, and if all they want from me is a few extra bucks so I can
experience the magnificence of Halong Bay, what am I to do but pony up with
other tourists, snap as many pictures as I can, and tip handsomely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MJVMnS9gTpk/VLOQJdZA8JI/AAAAAAAAAdA/Y-J3je-N_B0/s1600/IMG_6558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MJVMnS9gTpk/VLOQJdZA8JI/AAAAAAAAAdA/Y-J3je-N_B0/s1600/IMG_6558.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Good evening Vietnam. I can’t wait to come back. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>J. Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama Gifu with his darling wife. This is the third installment of a series on Viet Nam. Read about <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2015/01/hiking-rice-paddies-of-vietnam.html" target="_blank">the rice paddies of Sapa</a> or about <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2015/01/hanoi-delicious-food-and-dangerous.html" target="_blank">Hanoi the communist capital</a></em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-22320110381552932332015-01-07T09:23:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:07:51.232+09:00Hanoi: Delicious Food and Dangerous Streets
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We got in from Sapa at 4 AM, and after declining a street
peddler’s proffered cigarettes and marijuana, we ditched our bags with the
sleeping bellboys at our hotel, and took to the streets. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But first, a confession. I came to Vietnam for one reason
really, the food. My hometown Austin has fantastic Vietnamese cuisine. And I’ve
been to a few Tran clan Bar-B-Q’s and made my own spring rolls while chowing
down on the family goat. When we arrived in Hanoi, I knew what I wanted most of
all was to eat, eat, eat. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But alas, at 5 am, nothing was open save a French looking
hotel on Hoan Kiem Lake. We sipped <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EAN3weEZexo/VKx7Uap4ofI/AAAAAAAAAcA/FeByruK6b_M/s1600/IMG_5991.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EAN3weEZexo/VKx7Uap4ofI/AAAAAAAAAcA/FeByruK6b_M/s1600/IMG_5991.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A pig on it way to market, if it survives the ride</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
strong coffee made with sweetened condensed
milk and watched the city come to life. When it’s awake, Hanoi is a nest of
crocodiles on caffeine. People zip by on motor bikes carrying ladders, bags of
rice, even live pigs. Pedestrians have no stoplights to protect them, so must
say their piece with god and wade out into the street if they wish to leave the
block of their hotel. Street peddlers effortlessly brave the traffic to wheedle
money out of tourists with offers of shoe shines, bad donuts and delicious
bananas. All the while people are buying gifts, selling silk and eating on
every corner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EAN3weEZexo/VKx7Uap4ofI/AAAAAAAAAcA/FeByruK6b_M/s1600/IMG_5991.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My hunger aroused, we went off in search of street food, a
simple task in Hanoi. Walk ten paces. Look around. You’re inside of a
restaurant. Look at what everyone’s eating. If it looks good, get a bowl, if it
doesn’t, keep walking. It doesn’t matter. You’ll find another place to eat soon
enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We started the culinary rollercoaster with pho (flat rice
noodles) beef and a generous handful of fresh basil, lemon balm, mint, and
cilantro (coriander to those outside of Texas). We seasoned everything with hot
chili paste and vinegar flavored with garlic. After breakfast we found a bahn
my stand (as they spell it in the North) with a glistening gelatinous brick of
pate. The chef—her sandwich was good enough to warrant the title—smeared the
pate on a short baguette, then added chili sauce and fresh cilantro, toasted
the bun, and voila, I was in sandwich heaven. On and on we ate, my mantra
became:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Babe, you know what I could go for? A bahn my and a cup of
coffee.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Everything was delicious and cheap except for the one ‘classy’
restaurant we went to, that tasted like Asian fusion food the world over.
Blech. I’ll take my pho served out of a motor bike repair shop thank you very
much. Trip Advisor is great, but when it comes to Hanoi, just follow the
crowds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You’ll find more than those two most famous Vietnamese dishes.
We took a food tour in Hanoi, something I recommend arriving at hungry. We
tried (I apologize for my lack of accents): Bun Rieu Cau- a noodle and tofu
soup served with crabs found in the rice fields and Raquel’s favorite dish, Bun
Cha- BBQ’d pork in fish sauce with papaya slices, eaten by dipping noodles and
herbs into the soup and then devouring; this dish was my favorite and rather
different from Bun Cha I’ve tried in the states, Banh Cuon Nong- Vietnamese
rice flour crepes stuffed with pork and onions, Hoa Qua Dam- fresh fruit served
with coconut milk and the dish we kept coming back for, fried spring rolls and
finally a cup of strong coffee served with eggwhites whipped into thick cream.
The experience was delicious and oh-so-satisfying, and I cannot recommend it
enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2KNjFPthlOY/VKx7VrsNkoI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/2Zx04fGenWg/s1600/IMG_6343.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But not everything in Hanoi was food and coffee. We met our Ukrainian
friend from Japan at Ho-chi-Minh’s mausoleum and explored the bars of Hanoi
together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dAZ5W3-pEs0/VKx7WRnt2jI/AAAAAAAAAcY/mbpB57bkzNc/s1600/IMG_6359.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dAZ5W3-pEs0/VKx7WRnt2jI/AAAAAAAAAcY/mbpB57bkzNc/s1600/IMG_6359.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guard Chicken</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first stop was a bar we’d been to earlier simply because
they had a chicken that patrolled their front steps. I was instantly in love
with the place because they had a keg of homebrewed beer they had to finish
that night. This meant a glass of beer was going for 6,000 Vietnamese Dong, or
about thirty cents. I had a couple before our rendezvous with Ho-Chi-Minh, and
a dragged our friend Alex there for a couple more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was a lot of fun traveling through Vietnam with a former
Soviet because Vietnam still flies the red flag. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You know only Vietnam, Lao, China, and Cuba are officially
communist?” he said with a grin, then shrieked with excitement and ran off to
take pictures of a statue of Lenin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We wandered deeper and deeper into the old quarter, crossing
deadly streets, always eating and drinking, eating and drinking. We ended up in
an alley crowded with tables serving pork, chicken and vegetables cooked on a
sheet of aluminum foil over a chunk of sterno. We piled our plates high and
nibbled away until midnight, when the diners all around us left, and the
servers unceremoniously folded up and hid the tables and chairs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A drunken man accosted us, begging the three of us to come
drink with him. We laughed and declined, not sure what such an offer would mean
in Hanoi, and immediately regretted it. For when we turned around the entire
city was silent. Only police cars and street sweepers could be seen. We turned
down street after street, looking for a bar, a bottle of whiskey, turpentine,
anything! But alas, nothing could be found. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2KNjFPthlOY/VKx7VrsNkoI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/2Zx04fGenWg/s1600/IMG_6343.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2KNjFPthlOY/VKx7VrsNkoI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/2Zx04fGenWg/s1600/IMG_6343.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This</i> is what it
means to be in a communist nation,” Alex said with a smirk. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Desperate, we led him to a corner store we’d found earlier,
only to find it dark and locked. Undeterred by the law of land, Alex knocked,
pounded and pleaded until finally the shopkeepers let us in with their fingers
pressed to their lips- to quiet us as much as to suppress their own giggles. We
filled a plastic bag with big bottles of cheap beer, whispered our thanks and
snuck out in between roving cop cars. We joined the other tourists drinking on
the shores of Hoan Kiem Lake and sipped our beers while Alex regaled us with
stories of the USSR. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It was illegal to buy alcohol late at night, so the cab
drivers always kept vodka,” he gestured to a woman selling flowers and she rode
her bicycle over. He asked her for beer and she pulled out two ice cold cans
from beneath her bouquets and peddled off into the night. “I like it here,” he
said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We spent the night shooting dice and finishing our beer in
our hotel room. Eventually I rousted the bellboys to open the bicycle lock
keeping the door shut and sent Alex off into the dead streets of this red city.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next day we went to Halong bay, a beautiful place that—quite
unfortunately—can only be experience by boat filled with tourists. But more on
that next time Dear Reader, I look forward to telling you about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-86789842183982936252015-01-02T13:21:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:07:14.301+09:00Hiking the Rice Paddies of Vietnam <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vEAl0KmDNXE/VKYaSQuKGzI/AAAAAAAAAbQ/qAGSsU1cUf4/s1600/IMG_5877.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vEAl0KmDNXE/VKYaSQuKGzI/AAAAAAAAAbQ/qAGSsU1cUf4/s1600/IMG_5877.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Vietnam is a marvelous country. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After living in Japan for six months, I thought that I would
be in some way prepared for a weeklong vacation in and around the capital of
one of the last officially communist nations in the world. How wrong I was. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My wife and I started our trip to Vietnam by almost missing
our plane. We made it through security to be greeted by a smiling flight
attendant. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hanoi at 10 am?” she asked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We nodded, relieved we’d made it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Gate 18. Run.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After landing in Vietnam we discovered we hadn’t packed
photographs for our visa, a necessary inconvenience for any American wishing to
visit the country. Desperate, Raquel ripped the photo off of her international
driver’s license and dug up a ridiculous photo of me from her wallet. The attendant
nodded at the pictures, not caring in the least that they were the wrong size
and color, and happily took our cash, even if it was the currently deflated Japanese
yen. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C5rnG9GOEvk/VKYaT7nHtuI/AAAAAAAAAbo/SIhcDPCa934/s1600/IMG_6335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C5rnG9GOEvk/VKYaT7nHtuI/AAAAAAAAAbo/SIhcDPCa934/s1600/IMG_6335.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rules for crossing the Streets:<br />
1. Don't Run 2. Don't Stop 3. Don't Worry</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We made it to Hanoi and roamed the streets for a few hours
before we had to catch a train to Sapa. The streets of Hanoi overflow with
energy. People everywhere are eating on the sidewalks at tiny red tables and
even tinier blue stools. Drivers weave in and out of each other without stopping
for traffic lights, merchants balancing baskets of bananas or wide eyed
tourists. The only rules on the streets of Hanoi are: Don’t run, don’t stop,
and don’t worry. I think the last one’s an impossibility, yet the locals didn’t
seem to notice the traffic. Some restaurants even had their kitchens (oil drums
or coffee cans filled with charcoals) across from the dining areas (more tiny
tables and tinier stools). Servers ran back and forth between motor bikes laden
with families, ladders and live pigs to bring diners another tiger beer or
tiger shrimp. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_lJGJEkZzcE/VKYaToyjkpI/AAAAAAAAAbs/X3Gz3-sVndk/s1600/IMG_6056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_lJGJEkZzcE/VKYaToyjkpI/AAAAAAAAAbs/X3Gz3-sVndk/s1600/IMG_6056.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tru guided us through the villages and farms near Sapa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We took the train that night and in the morning hired a
guide named Tru of the H’mong tribe to take us through the mountainous rice
paddies and villages around Sapa. It was a gorgeous couple of days. We saw
women dying handmade clothes for the New Year, toothless children chewing on sugarcane,
and a ninety year old man buried next to his wide on an unmarked grave on a
mountainside. All the while Tru told us stories and asked us questions of the
outside world. We told her about farms in Texas and about Japanese food and she
told of us her people’s history, of the time her ancestors were so hungry they
traded a wife for a loaf of bread, of the woman who fell in love with the tiger
who stole her away from her husband. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We stopped to sleep at matronly grandmother’s house. She was
of the Red Zhao tribe and was a big round woman with big round cheeks, no
eyebrows, and her hair hidden inside a red cap fringed with white, an odd
reminder of Christmas coming in a few days. She and her daughter-in-law cooked
for us while her three-year-old grandson terrorized every living thing in his
vicinity. He was an unstoppable ball of energy, always hungry and always
moving, and his grandmother spoiled him rotten. At one point his father began
chopping wood and the little monster wasn’t mollified until he was given a
splintery log and an appropriately sized knife. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cfbVEQ5PvjE/VKYaSYEJ0LI/AAAAAAAAAbY/34UrVI5G744/s1600/IMG_6008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cfbVEQ5PvjE/VKYaSYEJ0LI/AAAAAAAAAbY/34UrVI5G744/s1600/IMG_6008.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Master of the house, seen here without his machete</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dinner consisted of bamboo shoots, tofu and tomatoes, pork, deep
fried spring rolls, French fries with pickled garlic, and greens that Tru assured
me were tender and fresh—the older plants were for the pigs. To drink we had homemade
rice wine, or “happy water” as the Grandfather of the house called it. This was
no delicate Japanese sake. This was something closer to moonshine. I’d expect
it to be served from a mason jar but they poured it from a plastic jug normally
used to transport gasoline into an empty sprite bottle and then into my glass.
I drank until I couldn’t, then they directed us towards the herbal bath. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was the only person who didn’t know the enormous vat of
brambles and branches simmering over an open fire for the last two hours was us
to bathe in, for when they told me it was bath time and gestured to the pot
that I had assumed was being used to soften more pig food, I nearly spit out my
happy water. Bewildered and… happy, I tried my best to figure out if they expected
me to strip down in their living room right then or wait for them to leave. Fortunately
it was neither: while the patron of the house had been plying me with happy
water, his son had been in another room, filling two enormous wooden barrels
with what looked like very strong tea. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We slipped into this ramshackle bathhouse with rough
concrete floors, a tarp for a door and corrugated plastic to keep out the
elements, and stripped down. Raquel sunk into her bath gracefully as a swan, I splashed
in like a fattened pig. I am not unusually tall by American standards, 6’1”,
but in Asia, I am a towering behemoth. The bath was so small I had to stick my
toes out of the top of the barrel while I soaked my torso, for at least then I
felt more like a tea bag than a sardine waiting to be canned. After thirty
minutes we stepped from the bath into the chilly mountain air, dressed and
headed for bed with a nod of thanks to our hosts. Raquel loved the bath but I prefer
Japanese bathhouses fueled by hot springs—even with stench of sulfur and
strutting naked men—to the feeling of waking up smelling like brambles and dead
leaves. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next day we hiked out of the countryside and back into
Sapa. We hung around the city, ignoring the cries of the steer vendors, be it “Go
shopping with me?” or “you have beard like monkey, you buy?” and loaded onto a
bus that raced down the mountainside and dumped us at the train station moments
before our train debarked. Hungry and jealous of the Vietnamese couple across
from us, snuggling as they savored their bahn my, we slept. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next morning we woke in the train station in Hanoi at
4am. We declined the offered rides on the backs of motorbikes. We were in no
hurry. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We found out hotel dark and locked. Having not seen a coffee
shop or restaurant open so early, we resigned to wait. Nothing but motorbikes
laden with meat and vegetables moved in the empty city, and I found myself
contemplating the mad rush down the mountain to make our train, only to have to
wait for the sleepy capital to come to life. A woman strolled by and offered us
cigarettes or marijuana. She was confused why we were on the streets if not
looking for drugs so we explained that our hotel was locked. She laughed uproariously
and banged on the door until a hidden bellboy sleeping under a blanket in the
lobby jerked to life, shuffled to the door, and unlocked the bicycle lock
barring our entrance. He roused his companion, who told us simply to come back
later, then escorted us out. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thus our adventure in Hanoi began, but that’s a story for
next time Dear Reader, and I look forward to telling it. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Joe Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama, Japan, but recently spent a week in Viet nam, and would love to tell you all about it! <br />Please follow and +1! Click here for <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2015/01/hanoi-delicious-food-and-dangerous.html" target="_blank">drinking in the communist capital!</a></em></span>
</div>
</div>
</div>
J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-15869233014268278272014-12-16T13:22:00.002+09:002015-03-29T20:14:52.741+09:00Blizzard Strikes Takayama! <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here in Takayama, we are in the midst of what I will be the first
to call a blizzard. It has been snowing all weekend, and is supposed to keep up
for another three days. Even the locals say this is a lot of snow, for this
time of year. They weren’t expecting this much snow until January! Hyuk hyuk
hyuk. I shiver in my boots and try to smile as I blunder my way through this
winter wonder land. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j25pqvZSAiM/VI-1TfkHkXI/AAAAAAAAAbA/pajHd8muxHQ/s1600/IMG_4259.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j25pqvZSAiM/VI-1TfkHkXI/AAAAAAAAAbA/pajHd8muxHQ/s1600/IMG_4259.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The local temple, mid-blizzard.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are rules to the snow, things that only those who live
in it would ever learn. I am learning them, day by day, though its not a gentle
education. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Rule #1 No one will teach you how to drive in the snow until you demonstrate you cannot drive in the snow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Remember: slow, steady, and don’t worry when you wife comes
home ten minutes after leaving for work, sweaty and with a pounding heart
because she couldn’t drive up the twisting driveway to school. No one can! She
ended up having to take a cab who refused to drive up the same driveway because
of—you guessed it—the snow! Sure, our car has four wheel drive, but no one told
us that until it failed it to make it up the winding driveway of blind turns that
busloads of children somehow traverse without death. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Rule #2 There are laws to shoveling the snow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What some may see as a simple chore I look at as good
exercise and loads of fun. There is a tiny creek that runs alongside our street
that has yet to freeze. All the shoveled snow gets dumped into it and washed
downstream. I find this fascinating. No matter how much snow I dump in this
inch or two of running water, it melts away and vanishes! I’ve tried damming
the creek with snow, slush and ice, but nothing stops it! On and on its run,
enabling my play. After thirty minutes of shoveling, I’m not left with a huge
pile of snow, but clean streets! I worry what will happen if this stream freezes
(which seems inevitable to my ignorant Texan sensibilities) but until then, it’s
shovel! Shovel! SHOVEL! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nTcHQH_QaeA/VI-0ZXVqwBI/AAAAAAAAAa4/WJQ0qL5Ug0g/s1600/IMG_3983.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nTcHQH_QaeA/VI-0ZXVqwBI/AAAAAAAAAa4/WJQ0qL5Ug0g/s1600/IMG_3983.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bearded Kaiju, seen here stealing snow. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know I’m not alone in this passion. A friend told me her
dad is so passionate about shoveling the snow he shovels his roof. That
sometimes she’ll wake up to find he’s shoveled his walk as well as all the
neighbors. She said her neighbors fight over where to put the shoveled snow,
but it sounds more likely that they’re arguing over who gets to shovel what.
Every morning, senior citizens take to the streets with shovels and straw hats,
eager to out shovel each other. I want to join them, but I wake later and thus
am left with already shoveled streets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But no bother! We’re in the middle of a blizzard! There’s
enough snow for everyone to shovel. But apparently, that is not the way of
things. After my wife’s harrowing drive to work, we set to work shoveling out
our street, a sort of cul-de-sac with six houses on it. After thirty minutes the
neighbor came out to question what the hell we were doing. My brave wife tried
to explain we found it interesting (an adjective the Japanese love) but we were
met with a blank, untrusting face. We tossed our piles of snow in the creek and
got the hell inside, moments before a friend of the neighbor showed up,
probably to watch the barbaric foreigners shoveling someone else’s snow. We’re
actually fairly certain she called our landlord to come plow our driveway (he
showed up as I was writing this). This is the same guy who painted
our parking lot rather than telling us where to park, so it seems likely, either that or he saw us shoveling and got jealous. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Rule #3 Snowball fights are always OK. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve started snowball fights with my wife, five year old
school children, drunken friends in the dead of night, and strangers in restaurant
parking lots. Always the first snowball is met with disbelief, and then quickly
followed by a return volley and a smile. Snowball fights build relationships
and lessen stress. Snowball fights turn the world around you into a battlefield
of the gentlest kind. Enjoy them, relish them, for you’ll need some way to
fight against all these damn rules. And remember, snowballs translate far
better than a stolen snow shovel. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>J. Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama, Japan with his darling wife. Read more about <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/12/this-is-most-snow-ive-ever-seen.html" target="_blank">the snow</a> or about that time his<a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/08/takayama-floods.html" target="_blank"> house was almost washed away</a>. </em></span></div>
J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-7788435536879002702014-12-10T12:24:00.001+09:002015-03-29T20:14:52.756+09:00This is the Most Snow I've Ever Seen!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To a Texan boy, there ain’t many things more magical than
snow. My family’s from Michigan, so I have a few pieces of memories of holding
a snowball or watching in horror as one of the neighbors bashed my father’s
snowman with a skateboard. But I moved to Texas for kindergarten, so most of my
memories of snow involve cars crashing and making 11 inch snowmen that melt
before noon.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tafgJG-4RCQ/VIfBOy1sw7I/AAAAAAAAAag/yRnZjoiIpDM/s1600/SNOW%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tafgJG-4RCQ/VIfBOy1sw7I/AAAAAAAAAag/yRnZjoiIpDM/s1600/SNOW%2B(2).JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To a Texan, even this pile of garbage is beautiful under fresh snow. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Takayama, Gifu has changed all that. It began to snow in
earnest last Friday. My wife and I rushed outside for the smallest of reasons,
to take out the garbage, to check the mail, always after bundling up under too
many layers. The snowflakes that day seemed bigger than my hand, huge, silent masses
of fluffy ice that were thicker than any fog. They would fall for a spell then
stop and melt away before another flurry would begin. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What little snow that did stay on the ground I scooped up
and hurled at my students. Though I gave the five-year-olds a ten-to-one
distance handicap, I still managed to hit each of them with far more snowballs
then they hit me. Ah to have eye-hand coordination. The game only stopped
twice, once when I chastised a child for throwing balls made of slush and rocks
instead of snow (I’m from Texas, and that don’t seem right) and once when the
whole gang of them chastised me for some egregious sin I will never understand.
Still, we all returned to the warmth of the school smiling. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">vThe next day the snow committed to covering the landscape.
The snowflakes shrunk to a tenth of their previous size, and instead of falling
heavily for twenty minutes at a time, they fell unceasingly for twenty four
hours. By the next morning the entire town was covered in (gasp) three or four
inches of snow. I began to chant “this is the most snow I’ve ever seen!” unceasingly.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was perfect really, for that day was to be a white Christmas.
Though it was still early in December, the English school where we work was
hosting a plethora of parties, and lucky for us they’d all be decorated with
the most festive of precipitations. We pulled our scarves closer to keep the
errant snow flake from finding its way in to our coats, and unloaded the car. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QUvtZ9pcEYw/VIe7eI460EI/AAAAAAAAAZg/_Uez4DJWXTI/s1600/CHRISTMAS%2BCAKE.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QUvtZ9pcEYw/VIe7eI460EI/AAAAAAAAAZg/_Uez4DJWXTI/s1600/CHRISTMAS%2BCAKE.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The highs and lows of Christmas cake. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The party went by without a hitch, well, mostly. The games
flew by. We served the Christmas cake, which in japan is a shortcake with
pineapple rolled into a spiral around whipped cream and is not as good as it
sounds. The kids, high on the cake, crashed into eachother like reindeer. Finally
the big moment arrived: Santa was here! He stomped into the room with his hat
pulled low. The youngest child was terrified and screamed at her mother for
putting her on Santa’s lap. The older kids screamed “Joe-sensei!” and Santa
looked around confused. The oldest kids waited in line, mumbled ‘merry Christmas’
and made off with their haul of goodies. But most of the students seemed genuinely
convinced that of course ol’ Europeon Saint Nick would make it to an English school’s
Christmas party in early December. What else does he have to do this time of
year? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After that we braved the snow again, this time through
enormous windows at the Japanese restaurant that was hosting our adult students’
Christmas party. We sat and chatted about the weather, about skiing, about what
exactly I was about to eat. All the while I stared out the window as the snow
kept falling. We ate and we drank until the restaurant turned out the lights
illuminating the trees outside, and my beautiful panorama of leafless cherry
tree branches and dense piney shrubs felt all the colder. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We left the restaurant and made for the nearest karaoke bar,
though not until I chunked a few snowballs at the ten year old kid who was
trying to peg his mom while she waited for dad to get the car. I consider it a
success, because by the time we turned the corner, the entire family was
furiously pelting each other with snow.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We tromped through the snow in single file, the man in the
front breaking trail for us. I love the way snow sounds when it crunches under
foot. It’s the sound of something miraculous compressing into something bland
and pedestrian. It must sound like the opposite of diamonds being made. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I marveled at the town I thought I knew so well. Where were
the streets? The sidewalks? Where were the trees I’d spend so many hours
painstakingly cataloguing, learning which would bloom in spring and which would
put on the most impressive shows of fall foliage. Under the snow, they were all
the same: slumbering giants with nothing to do but shoulder the weight and the
cold until spring. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f2b8xhAFGu8/VIe7eIaZpyI/AAAAAAAAAZk/HDm0LGQRedA/s1600/FRIENDS%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f2b8xhAFGu8/VIe7eIaZpyI/AAAAAAAAAZk/HDm0LGQRedA/s1600/FRIENDS%2B(2).JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are my best friends as usual, giggling like a schoolgirl,<br />
asleep, and brooding over booze and cigarettes </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The snow still seemed magic when hours later I watched it
fly by as a taxicab drove us home from our last stop of the night, a Dutch Christmas
poetry party. The snow hadn’t even lose its splendor when at the party I drank
too much and had to sit outside in the cold and sober up. My friends found me
out there, without a coat or a hat, and challenged me to make a snowman the
next day. They’re good people.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I managed to make that snowman (with more than a fair amount
of help from my darling wife) and still the snow seems magic to me. Today the
temperature is rising to a whopping 44 degrees Fahrenheit, and the snow is
melting. But even this is beautiful. The sounds of water dripping, of branches
snapping up after losing their melting weight echo through our town, and it
makes me appreciate the transient beauty of snow. Even in Texas I understood
that snow could change everything overnight, but here that realization seems
even more present. </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BUf_6vX3_9k/VIfBOvWu5mI/AAAAAAAAAac/6mkiFEhjEKw/s1600/WIIFE.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BUf_6vX3_9k/VIfBOvWu5mI/AAAAAAAAAac/6mkiFEhjEKw/s1600/WIIFE.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When the snow falls, another city awakens: a city where
teachers attack their students with weapons made on the street, a city with the
paths of human and beast laid bare for all to see, a city where even the trees dream.
In this city spring may come for a day or two, but always the threat and beauty
of the snow lies at the top of the mountains, threatening to come down and stay
for the winter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I for one, can’t help but invite it in. But let’s see how I feel
in February. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
</div>
<em>Joe Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama, Japan with his darling wife. Though he's excited for the snow, he still fears the coming months. If you liked this story, please +1 and share with your friends! </em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G9WvrAZC4Os/VIe7fqMlTjI/AAAAAAAAAZs/sEzTHt0iCTs/s1600/WIIFE.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </em></div>
<em> </em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kffbGYbPM2E/VIe7eDK2H8I/AAAAAAAAAZc/35p96F0wLUk/s1600/SNOW.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </em></div>
<br />J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-66786843935378409842014-12-02T21:00:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:07:51.452+09:00Japanese Thanksgiving<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A psychedelic Japanese Indian, an Israeli from Ukraine and a
vegetarian Dutch English teacher walk into the coolest bar on earth for
thanksgiving dinner. Elvis Presley croons “Blue Christmas” as the bartender
sips his whiskey and asks, “Hey, where are the Americans?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We, of course, were an hour late. I tried to blame my Latin
wife, an always successful strategy with my family in Texas, but the Eurasians
were having none of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nolico the psychedelic Japanese Indian pushed her headdress
aside as she danced in her seat, “You said seven, it’s eight. This is magic
quiche Eric made!” I took a bite, wondering if it would make me wiggle and
groove as much as she already was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Alex the Ukrainian Israeli cursed us, “Damn Americans think
they’re so important. Would you like some Ukranian salad?” he heated up a pan
for fresh falafel, “If it is not good, then it is Russian salad.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And Eric, the vegetarian English teacher asked if we had
brought any chicken and apologized for being on time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The coolest bartender in the world laughed and sipped his
whiskey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These are my friends in Japan. And they’re good ones. I’ve
already told you a little about <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/08/24-amazing-hours-in-japan-part-1.html" target="_blank">Alex, the Ukrainian Israeli that witnessed medestroy a restaurant</a>, and I’ve told you about<a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/11/desolation-row.html" target="_blank"> Kensei, the bartender sippingwhiskey and the coolest man in Japan</a>, so today, I’ll tell you about Nolico and
Eric.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nolico is the best dresser in town. Half as a joke, Raquel
said to dress up as Indians for Thanksgiving dinner, so Nolico came with
feathers in her hair and a headdress. She vanished at some point in the night,
and reappeared with dozens of locals. Japanese people of all ages poured
through the door. Nolico shouted hello and fed every single one of them while
the rest of us jabbered away. But Nolico’s greatest strength is that she
married Eric in Holland on the back of a bicycle, and has managed to stay
married to him for more than fifteen years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Don’t get me wrong, I love Eric, he’s just a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bit </i>sarcastic. He spent thanksgiving
dinner convincing everyone in the bar my wife was british, and then convinced
an older Japanese man that she was flirting with him, and the old dirty bastard
tried to steal a kiss right in front of me (fortunately his friend whacked him
on the head before I had to intervene and end my stint in Japan in prison). So,
quite wisely, I don’t believe anything Eric says anymore. He recently tried to
explain his behavior by enlightening my about Dutch Christmas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dutch Christmas is celebrated on December 6<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>,
and came before American Christmas. It is celebrated by reaching your hand into
a mysterious box filled with something revolting, and then--I don’t know--I
guess just having a gross hand for the rest of the night. The pinnacle of the
celebration is the stinging poems people write for each other in some kind of
horrid secret Santa ceremony. I’m fairly convinced this was all an elaborate
ruse told to convince me to write a vicious poem about either his best friend
Alex, or his wife Nolico, but in honor of Eric, I wrote one about him. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Lying Dutchman<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eric is a giver, of
facts that are not true </span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He’ll pour you beer
from your own bottle, convince you that the sky’s not blue,</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you go with him to
eat-it’s fine. He won’t eat that much</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He’ll drink instead,
and quite a bit, and then ask you to go Dutch</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That means he’ll pay
for half the meal, a steal! A deal most kind!</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But he won’t pay a
single yen, he’ll let it slip his mind</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nolico his gracious
wife, she’s the one that pays,</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eric wouldn’t dream of
it, don’t trust a word he says</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eric threw a party, on
the day of Halloween,</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For his friends to come,
they had to pay, a thought- to me-obscene!</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every year he goes to
Holland, so if he’s not around</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He’s charging his own
students for a tour of his hometown,</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When my friends came
to visit, I asked sir Eric-chan</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To come on out and
meet them, to see what’s going on,</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He came out alright,
he did! For two minutes, or was it three?</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were drinking
whiskey, so Eric had some tea</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The man, he is a
teacher, a giver oh-so-wise,</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He wants to
quit--don’t think he won’t--once he gets his prize,</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Though the two of us
are rivals, we both teach English for our work,</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eric wants me to teach
his classes, what a lazy jerk! <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We’re working on a
project because Eric begged me, ‘please’,</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">While I give my sweat
and blood he just insults my Japanese, </span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s fine, I think, I
don’t speak it well, his criticism’s fair, </span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though when I mess up, he laughs so hard that those
around me stare,</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I wouldn’t trade
him for a better friend, an easy find I’m sure </span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’d have my pick of better
dressed, more handsome, more demure,</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There’s kinder folk,
with finer taste, men I’d friend with ease</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Eric laughs when
no none does, at childish jokes like these</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Merry
Christmas Eric! Don’t worry about giving me a gross box or anything! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Joe Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama Japan
and goes drinking with all these lecherous cretins when he’s not teaching
English. If you enjoyed this post, why not write a dirty poem for one of your
friends? </span></i></div>
J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-46157775813244994712014-11-26T11:08:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:07:51.407+09:00I got #2 problems living in Japan<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My wife just burst into our living room, furious. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Did you use the last of the toilet paper?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I admitted I had and asked, “What’s wrong with the washlet?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The drip!” she said and scowled and marched back down
stairs. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Toilets in japan are like something out of a science fiction
movie, perhaps 2001. They can be either intimidatingly futuristic or unapologetically
archaic. The toilet in our house is equipped with an adjustable seat warmer,
two flush settings, and a water jet that can wash your ass in three different
places with five different power settings. Despite this marvelous piece of
technology, my wife still prefers toilet paper. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It just doesn’t feel clean without it. Plus there’s the
drip-dry.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am decidedly in the other camp, and see the minute you
need to air out as a minute of quiet bliss. I have not used toilet paper in our
house since we’ve been in Japan, and am not look forward to digging around my butt
crack with thin tissue when I get back to the U.S. of A. It’s unsanitary, ineffective,
and a huge waste of resources. The Japanese bathroom experience is superior. They even
have a little faucet on the back of every toilet, so you can rinse your hands
with the water that fills up the toilet tank. Not that you need to, because you don’t
have to worry about getting shit underneath your fingernails. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That is, if you’re at home. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Taking a dump in public takes far more courage. Some toilets
are the sleek futuristic models, but most are barely a step up from a latrine,
just a trough in the ground with handles to hold on both sides. You’re not even
supposed to face the door, you’re supposed to squat facing the wall, while the
guy in the stall over sits atop a porcelain throne. I have no idea how a people
so accustomed to a robotic butt butler can transition to keeping their balance
while their cheeks dip so precariously close to cold porcelain. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What’s worse is that the food in Japan is far from fibrous.
I was eating the hipster veggie diet when I lived in America. Kale, chard, and
spinach, all from our garden, with a healthy dose of brown rice (sounds fibrous
to me) and the occasional bowl of raisin brain. Now I eat primarily raw fish, white rice
and miso soup with a single leaf of seaweed. This means I’m far from regular, so
when duty calls, I make for the nearest bathroom for fear of losing my golden
opportunity. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been lucky. Normally I can just clench it and wait the
guy in the good stall out, but all good things must come to an end. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I might’ve lasted longer if my know-it-all friends Tam and
Cole weren’t in town from the States. After three days of their badgering about
the toilets, I found myself above the only vacant trough. Their words of wisdom
raced through my head. “Dude western style toilets cause you hemorrhoids,” “Yeah
man pooping in a squat gives you a more complete poop.” On and on, as if they’d
lived here for years. Still I found strength in their words, gritted my teeth, and grabbed hold of
the railings so as not to lose balance. It went successfully.
I told my friends and they looked shocked. “Whoa, like, how was it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What do you mean how was it? You were just singing its
merits!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yeah but like, I’ve never used one.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goddamn know-it-all Americans. But at least they give me
courage while I dangle above the squat toilet that has haunted me the most, the
one at work. I would think that an English language school of all places would
have a western style toilet, but of course that’s asking too much in this
paradox of a country. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I squat, and I shit, and I miss my Washlet and its
multitude of features. I don’t care what my wife says. I’ll take the drip-dry and
a newspaper over a deep-knee bend any day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<em>Joe Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama Japan with his beautiful and patient wife. He would like to apologize for the potty-humor, but can't promise it won't happen again. If there's something you'd like to know about being a foreigner in Japan, say so in the comments! </em>J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-80341953452703629512014-11-18T20:30:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:07:51.492+09:00Desolation Row
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Kensei is the coolest man in in the world</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He wears Texas Tuxedos without a trace of irony. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He’s on the cover of the local magazine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">His title says “Rock” Division on his business card.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He puts whiskey in his coke just for the flavor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He runs the greatest bar in Japan, called Desolation Row. A
great name, made better because inside you can hear anything ever sung by Bob
Dylan, down to the bootlegs. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After all, Kensei is the coolest man in the world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Desolation Row overflows with vinyl. If it rocks, Kensei’s
got it. I’ve cheersed beers to more American classics than I’ve ever heard in
bars in the states (no Lady Gaga for Kensei, ever.) His favorite (obviously I hope)
is Bob Dylan, but I’ve listened to the Boss, Tom Waits, Muddy Waters, and my
personal favorite, Earl Scruggs. That Kensei has Earl Scruggs is not unusual,
but that he has my favorite record, The Kings of Bluegrass is what sets him
apart from anywhere else I’ve ever been. And when my friend Alex asks to be the
DJ and exclusively plays the Beetles and Bluegrass so the two of us can dance behind
the bar while Kensei refills our Jack Daniels, Kensei does so with a smile and a
nod of his head. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But its not just the drunken parties that make Desolation
Row so great. The space itself is beautiful in a hole-in-the-wall kind of way. Most
of Desolation Row is filled with the bar itself: a six inch slab of an ancient Japanese
tree. Ask Kensei about it and you’ll find that though it weighs a ton, it
traveled to Desolation Row from Kensei’s old bar, a herculean feat Kensei
probably did with ease. Handmade shelves are crammed with vinyl and CDs. The back
of the bar is a cozy space that features a Botsudan, a traditional Japanese shrine
for dead ancestors, but don’t worry, Kensei got it purified before he got it
put in his bar. You can normally find the tourists lucky enough to find their
way down to Desolation Row clustered around it, because having something like
that in a bar terrifies the locals. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The locals tend to crowd the bar and pick Kensei’s brain.
Kensei knows all, from American Western movies to the best hidden bars in Kyoto,
not that you’ll be able to find them, because you’re not as cool as Kensei. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Kensei is the coolest man in Japan. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-phgvrY4S9vQ/VGrmdgd1m8I/AAAAAAAAAZM/1lokwqvVpps/s1600/Kensei%2B(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-phgvrY4S9vQ/VGrmdgd1m8I/AAAAAAAAAZM/1lokwqvVpps/s1600/Kensei%2B(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This weekend I had the honor of seeing his personal library.
Kensei mentioned it once and I’ve been hounding him since. HE agreed to take me
on Sunday, even though we’d harassed him to opening his bar the night before
and demanded free beer for having to wait. Still, Kensei met my wife and I near
the city library, a place I would find had less than half of the English selection
of Kensei’s collection. We strolled towards the temples in Takayama and found
his library nestled above a babbling creek, hidden beneath beautiful maples on
an ancient road once home to the famous carpenters of Takayama. He ushered us across
his personal bridge with a laugh, then revealed the contents of his library. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-phgvrY4S9vQ/VGrmdgd1m8I/AAAAAAAAAZM/1lokwqvVpps/s1600/Kensei%2B(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The fact that I could only read a tenth of the books in no
way took away from the experience, for his English selection would take years for
me to read. Capote, Steinbeck, Toni Morrison, Joyce, King, Dickens, Austen,
Wells, and more, all crammed together between thousands of Japanese books. I
filled a bag, then topped it off with a few classic Hollywood western movies
and was then was bestowed his favorite book. Bob Dylan’s autobiography,
Chronicles: Volume one. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It starts when he’s a kid, but kinda jumps around when he
gets to New Orleans, not in sequence you know? It’s a good book.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course that’s his favorite book. Kensei is the coolest
man in the world. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-phgvrY4S9vQ/VGrmdgd1m8I/AAAAAAAAAZM/1lokwqvVpps/s1600/Kensei%2B(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-phgvrY4S9vQ/VGrmdgd1m8I/AAAAAAAAAZM/1lokwqvVpps/s1600/Kensei%2B(3).jpg" height="297" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And of course Kensei will know more about classic everything
than I ever will. I was lucky enough to see his library, an experience I found
he hasn’t shared with many, and an experience I will treasure forever (or until
I finish my bag of books and beg to return). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Desolation Row will forever be my favorite place in
Japan. Stop by if you come to Takayama, I’ll be the guy with a beard not making
room for you at the bar, after all there are chairs by the Botsudan, and I got
some books to discuss. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Joe Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama with his wife, who Kensei likes more than him anyway. If you enjoyed this story, read more about parties at Kensei's, or come see us at Desolation Row </span></em></div>
J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-22659845005889870472014-11-11T21:00:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:07:51.242+09:00Tokyo Nights <br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My two best friends came to visit us in Japan, and the trip
started of disastrously. They were supposed to fly in from Tokyo to Nagoya, but
in a desperate effort to make it to a Halloween party, I had them catch the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shinkansen </i>so they could get here sooner.
That’s right. In Japan, trains are faster than planes. </span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TGNC1a9ZCMA/VGGDG5Vi7-I/AAAAAAAAAYc/okuIJBUDgyg/s1600/IMG_3804%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After an hour of waiting I abandoned my car in the passenger
pick up area and started making laps around the train station. I yelled their
names and clicked my tongue until my mouth was sore. After two hours I asked
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shinkansen </i>operator if a typhoon
had washed the train into the sea. After three hours and a fresh patch of gray
hair in my beard, I contacted the police. They took me to the station master
who, after 20 sweaty, agonizing minutes, gave me the microphone for the PA
system. This was my one and only chance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Tam Tran and Cole Welsome, this is Joe Mitchell. Please
come to the Station Master’s office,” boomed throughout Nagoya station. I had
done it and I collapsed from exhaustion, if they were here, they’d find me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Seconds later, someone knocked on the door and the police
opened it to the two smiling faces of my best friends. They looked like they’d
just awoken from a pleasant nap, and indeed they had. Turns out I’d send them
to the wrong connecting station in Tokyo, and they’d just barely made a train
and arrived in Nagoya moments before. So I’d ruined our chances of making the
party and probably taken a few years of my life, but, on the other hand, if the
station master had let me use the PA any sooner, they wouldn’t have been in the
station to hear it, and I would have abandoned them for a stiff drink. </span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TGNC1a9ZCMA/VGGDG5Vi7-I/AAAAAAAAAYc/okuIJBUDgyg/s1600/IMG_3804%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TGNC1a9ZCMA/VGGDG5Vi7-I/AAAAAAAAAYc/okuIJBUDgyg/s1600/IMG_3804%2B(2).JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We still made it to the after party at the Karaoke bar,
where they met Chaba (dressed as a woman and armed with a gun) and sang
Takayama to sleep with Tam’s throaty rendition of Weezer’s sweater song, and
Cole’s always stunning performance of “Witchy Woman.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We spent a few days in Takayama, mostly enjoying the fall
foliage and playing with monkeys and squirrels. We ate at all our favorite restaurants. Tam
and Cole seemed most impressed with the curry restaurant we’d never been to
before, though it made Raquel feel sick. You can never please ‘em all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We left for Tokyo to make our reservations for Yazuda sushi.
It was divine. Even after I told Yazuda-san himself I had eaten tuna liver in
Takayama, and he (not so politely) informed me that tuna <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">guts</i> are always dumped into the sea, and in a mountain town like
Takayama, it was far more likely that I’d eaten bear liver than tuna <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">guts, </i>it was still the most delicious
meal I’ve ever eaten. I ate twice as much sushi as Tam and Cole, and they were
forced to watch as me and the man who’d replaced Raquel at the 8 seat restaurant
(she refused to eat sushi two days in a row) grunted our appreciation as we stuffed
our mouths with the likes of sea urchin, needlefish and the best shrimp, EVER.
Only when Raquel strolled in, after waiting on the steps outside the restaurant
for an hour, did we make our exit. High on omega-3’s, I passed out in a stinky
fishy mess, and we reconvened in the morning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next day we killed time with a giant Gundam until our
reservation at the Robot Restaurant. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A note on themed restaurants in Tokyo: </span> </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9lMtmZhdz3w/VGGDG_6QOFI/AAAAAAAAAYY/ghmtwOBWYDs/s1600/IMG_3833%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9lMtmZhdz3w/VGGDG_6QOFI/AAAAAAAAAYY/ghmtwOBWYDs/s1600/IMG_3833%2B(2).JPG" height="319" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1. <u>Cat cafes have far too many rules</u>. Don’t pick up
the cats, don’t let the cats sit on table, don’t touch the sleeping cats, don’t
chase the cats, on and on and on. I found a cat who liked tummy-rubs, so it was
still worth it, but for the tourist visiting Japan, avoid the cat café. You’ll
have far more fun tormenting your own ball of fur when you return home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">2. <u>Not all maid cafes are created equal. </u>Raquel and I
went to a maid café on our last visit to Tokyo, and loved it. The maids taught
us all kinds of cute tricks, and the place was filled with all sorts of people,
from Japanese bikers to British grandmothers. The maid cafe we took Tam and
Cole to was empty except for a few single guys who spent a little too much time
there. It was still overwhelming and we ended up paying too much (I wanted the maid
dance <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">instead </i>of the photo, damn it!)
but thus is life in Tokyo. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">3. <u>The Robot Restaurant is awesome. </u>The Robot Restaurant
had it all: Saxophone wielding angels and robot guitarists who played nauseating
renditions of James Blunt songs, drummers on ten foot tall dueling robotic
platforms, a giant sequined horse, even a chain gun-wielding Rita Repulsa (my
first crush) who was eaten by a huge jungle snake. The show was so good that
one of the local crime lords came out, complete with 5 hired escorts and two bodyguards.
I heard someone complain that the crime lord’s women got all the popcorn, but I’d
rather be popcorn-less than a prostitute any day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AbukA4qVJsI/VGGDINldmaI/AAAAAAAAAYw/f3zAst1qFuQ/s1600/IMG_3887%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AbukA4qVJsI/VGGDINldmaI/AAAAAAAAAYw/f3zAst1qFuQ/s1600/IMG_3887%2B(2).JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>You haven't experienced James Blunt until you've seen it performed by robots. </em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We went shopping in Akihabara the next day, and I watched
the chaos of Tokyo slowly blind my friends. They started strong, but by the
evening Cole was complaining that the claw machines were a conspiracy and Tam
looked like his beloved sage grouse, paralyzed by bright lights. We dragged
them to Karaoke and plied them out of their daze with alcohol, otherwise I think
they would’ve ended up in a puddle, trying to hide from the lights and the Japanese
and the consumerism beyond anything Austin has to offer. But we had fun. Cole
found a vending machine that served hot corn drink and drank way too much of
it, and Tam and I danced to some street music, though when I blinked Tam had
been replaced by a Japanese man furiously dancing with my crotch. I found my
friends and we got the hell out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We made the mistake of taking them shopping again the next
day. Tam shrugged compulsively as shop owners made him clean their store fronts
and Cole proclaimed he’d rather people watch than shop, though his back was
turned to the seething crowd behind us. Raquel, oblivious to their plight,
shopped like a fiend until they abandoned us for the nearby Meiji Shrine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The magic of Tokyo is the juxtaposition of it all. On one
side of the tracks is the busiest shopping district in Tokyo, on the other an
ancient mystic forest, swirling with mist and sacred temples. I found Tam
underneath a Torii gate, clearly looking relieved to be somewhere he could hear
birdsongs. Cole had left him for a bathroom, so we set out into the park,
hoping to spot a giant white tongue clicker. Meiji shrine and the park around
it is beautiful, like something from another time. We saw three weddings, a
collection of flowering bonsai trees, and woman who could make birds land in
her hand. Meiji Shrine is magic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I asked them what they thought of it all, of Japan, of
Tokyo, and of Takayama. I think Cole said it best. “Japan is different down to
the smallest detail, but the big stuff’s all the same.” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it’s true. Everything is different in Japan, the stores,
the restaurants, the games, but it’s still all the same, clothes, food,
distractions. Like everything about the modern world, Japan has the rare ability
to overwhelm but is usually underwhelming to a fault. But the great thing about
it is when the flashing lights are too much, and there's too many people all around you, you can head for the wild that’s always
pressing in on the cities and escape, as long as you’re willing to follow your
friends. </span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-37II-jcvYZE/VGGFHI1rKDI/AAAAAAAAAY8/u5i7D7M8P84/s1600/IMG_3534%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-37II-jcvYZE/VGGFHI1rKDI/AAAAAAAAAY8/u5i7D7M8P84/s1600/IMG_3534%2B(2).JPG" height="319" width="320" /></a></div>
<em></em><br />
<em>Joe Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama Japan with his darling wife, and already misses his friends. If you liked this story, +1 it, or read more about <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/09/the-sounds-of-tokyo.html" target="_blank">Tokyo</a>, or <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/07/japan-food-fish-and-grocery-stores.html" target="_blank">Japanese food.</a> </em>J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-33651392648297149652014-10-29T08:08:00.002+09:002015-03-29T20:07:51.362+09:00Bromance on Ontake<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9Vhz9Zl2V3g/VFAglNbRZjI/AAAAAAAAAX0/C8ngujxpxus/s1600/IMG_5537%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9Vhz9Zl2V3g/VFAglNbRZjI/AAAAAAAAAX0/C8ngujxpxus/s1600/IMG_5537%2B(2).JPG" height="319" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt. Ontake recently erupted and still smolders. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We climbed a volcano close enough to Mt. Ontake to see the
smoke rise from the recently erupted volcanic sister. As the tour bus rounded a
bend in the road and the plume of smoke appeared, the passengers all gasped and
shamelessly snapped pictures. I was sitting next to Raquel and a seat over from
the other half of a budding bromance. Had I known that the proposal would lead to undressing and bathing with fifty other Jpanese men, I might not have accepted the offer to climb Mt. Norikura. But I didn’t know where this bromance was going to take me, so away we went. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am no stranger to the bromance. I’ve had them start in
high school classrooms from shared chuckles or in a bus when a bearded man
noticed I was reading his favorite book. My most recent bromance began at work
when a coworker mentioned he had nine pets at home. I simply <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> to know more! I typically think of bromances
as two men try to feel eachother out to see if there’s more than just sparks
and if a true relationship can be kindled. Sometimes a bromance blossoms into
something longlasting, but what happened with Mr. Tomodachi was something
different. It was all over so fast, and I have nothing to show for it but
memories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After agreeing to climb the mountain together (We had already
forgotten about our wives) we ate a bowl of noodles to build up our strength.
Tomodachi-san and I both ate are soup much too fast and were forced to make
small talk and giggle while our wives finished their meal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We set off after that, Tomodachi-san plowing ahead and me
trying to keep up. We’d wait for the women ever so often, I’d snap pictures,
the women would catch up and with a cry of ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">daijobu!’
</i>Tomodachi-san and I would set off again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bW0bp-CpGWA/VFAglOj5SmI/AAAAAAAAAYA/6OCwacEgrTc/s1600/IMG_5496%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bW0bp-CpGWA/VFAglOj5SmI/AAAAAAAAAYA/6OCwacEgrTc/s1600/IMG_5496%2B(2).JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The bottom part of the trail up Norikura is a breeze. It’s
all gently rising switchbacks that take hikers past fields of shrunken pine bushes
and snow hiding from the end of summer in the shadows of boulders.
Tomodachi-san told me he’d once bicycled up from the very bottom of Norikura,
the part of the journey where we’d rode the bus. Needless to say, I was
impressed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The trail grew steeper and became little more than a pair of
guide ropes framing volcanic gravel and boulders in a jagged line towards the
peak. Tomodachi-san never slowed; he only paused to wait for his wife now and
then. He told me he was sixty-three and I simply couldn’t believe that he still
looked so young.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But you have no gray hair! I exclaimed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He smiled, tickled that I’d noticed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We reached the peak and snapped pictures of Mt. Ontake on
the horizon. We were a little unnerved watching a recently erupted volcano
while we stood on its sister, so we headed back down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We stopped only to have a snack once the trail levelled out.
While we ate Raquel spotted a stoat and Tomodachi-san’s wife saw a magnificent
bird that only lives in those mountains, but Tomodachi-san and I only had eyes
for eachother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back on the bus, Tomodachi-san asked if we’d like to go to
an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">onsen </i>together. I had been looking
for an excuse to go to a traditional Japanese bath, and this seemed like the
perfect opportunity. What better way to cement a friendship than getting naked
together? Raquel was less enthused, but still agreed that at least we’d have
genuine Japanese people with us, and there was less of a chance we’d get thrown
out for our tattoos. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">onsen </i>we
separated to go to the respective gendered pools. I shucked off my clothes, and
Tomodachi-san led me to the showers. I found a stool and a showerhead amongst
dozens of other naked men who were all eagerly soaping their pits and rinsing
their balls. They all scrubbed with unbridled enthusiasm. It’s taboo to bring
dirt into the spring-fed baths, and they’re serious about it. Scrubbed clean,
we headed outside for a hot sulfurous bath. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PNqoUHvow_w/VFAglMxineI/AAAAAAAAAX4/eiOnshO-6s0/s1600/IMG_5554%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PNqoUHvow_w/VFAglMxineI/AAAAAAAAAX4/eiOnshO-6s0/s1600/IMG_5554%2B(2).JPG" height="319" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A pool in the crater of Mt. Norikura. Onsen are spring-fed<br />
pools heated by the volcanoes everywhere in Japan. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Atsui! Atsui!” </i>Tomodachi-san
said as he sunk into the steaming water. We soaked in the bath as naked
Japanese men gossiped around us. I don’t speak much Japanese and Tomodachi-san didn’t
speak much English, so we just sat in silence, enjoying the fall colors and each
other’s company. An older patron rose from the pool as we entered. His balls
dangled so low I could see them from behind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a few minutes I understood why so many men were
getting up, shamelessly stretching and moving to other pools. The water temperature
and mineral composition of each pool was different. We were in one of the
hottest, and it was filled with white mucous-like flecks that made it look like
egg drop soup. We ambled over to another pool that was cooler and looked more
like ocean water. It was there that Tomodachi-san asked me who my best friend
in Takayama. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I told him it was Kensei-san, the most badass bartender in
all of Japan. Tomodachi-san didn’t know him though. He revealed that he knew my
boss Iwamaya-san, and seemed relieved that he wouldn’t have to share me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Friends?” he asked me, and touched my shoulder. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Friends, I agreed and clapped him on the back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We finished our soak and headed to the waiting room to meet
our forgotten wives. They weren’t there yet, so we sat down and waited. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I went to get tea and returned to find Tomodachi-san laying
down, staring up at the ceiling. I laid down too, relaxed by the mineral
springs and the warm light coming from the rafters of the hotel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Joe-san?” Tomodachi-san asked, and I rolled over to find
him staring at me, his head propped up on his arm, like a tween at a sleepover
ready to reveal her big crush. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Today, a secret?” he asked, and put two fingers to his lips
to ask for silence. “Iwayama-san” he said, and shook his head no. I was
confused, but hadn’t been planning on revealing my intimidate day in the
mountains to my boss anyway, so I agreed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our wives returned, Tomodachi-san swore them to silence as
well, and we parted ways. Though I have his phone number, I can’t imagine
actually calling him. But maybe that’ll change the next time I need some fresh
air and a good soak. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em>Joe Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama, Japan
with his darling wife who’s his actual best friend in town. If you enjoyed the
homoerotic vibe of this piece, you might <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/08/takayama-floods.html" target="_blank">enjoy grunting with gaijin</a>, if you
want more about the natural splendor of Japan, why not <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/08/the-insects-of-japan.html" target="_blank">find out the insects of Japan</a>.</em> </span>J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-71256346898115054772014-10-21T21:00:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:07:51.463+09:00The Horror of the Lion-dancers<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JE8QYPGQAYg/VEXCscg-fVI/AAAAAAAAAXM/1kPsH1OOOrY/s1600/IMG_5617.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JE8QYPGQAYg/VEXCscg-fVI/AAAAAAAAAXM/1kPsH1OOOrY/s1600/IMG_5617.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Lion-dancer nibbles the brain of a defenseless child.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This weekend we witnessed the horror of a Lion-dance
festival. Thirty beasts moved in unsettling synchronized steps, then turned
their snapping jaws on the crowd. Some of the adults offered their own flesh,
but the most delicious morsels, the children, were unwillingly sacrificed to
the monsters. Kids watched in mute horror as parents carried screaming children
to the jaws of the hungry, dancing lions. Dazed, the children didn’t think to
protest until their own parents lifted them and carried them to their doom.
They’d scream, punch with their tiny little fists, cry for help, but to no
avail. The only escape was through the jaws of one these beasts. The
Lion-dancers would nibble at the screaming child’s brains, their parents would
laugh and maybe snap a picture, and then the ordeal was over. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Do you want a snack? Parents would ask their traumatized
little ones. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I needed this festival. As the trees turn orange, and
Halloween approaches, I’ve been feeling a bit homesick. There’s still bags of
cheap candy in the stores in Japan, but everyone assures me that, no, there
will be no trick-or-treaters. I always hiked miles as a kid, jacked on high
fructose corn syrup, daring my friends to go grab candy from the abandoned
house with a strobe light flashing eerily, only to pee my pants as a masked
killer rushed us from the hedges. Later, too old to trick-or-treat I dressed as
a scarecrow on my front porch and grabbed unsuspecting victims or simply hid
inside the door, waiting for the perfect moment to strike as my wife doled out
candy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So alas, I was quite sad I
wouldn’t get to scare any children this year. </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zb-lLS0D5Ag/VEXCseVbVzI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/6cU9Fs-0fZ8/s1600/IMG_5607%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It seems that duty lies with the Lion-dancers. </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zb-lLS0D5Ag/VEXCseVbVzI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/6cU9Fs-0fZ8/s1600/IMG_5607%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zb-lLS0D5Ag/VEXCseVbVzI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/6cU9Fs-0fZ8/s1600/IMG_5607%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My first experience with the Lion-dancers was at the
kindergarten where I teach. The teachers stopped class and dragged the kids out
to playground while the principal locked the doors to prevent the kids from
hiding in the building. Six men came out, dressed in traditional Japanese garb.
They played an eerie melody on shrill flutes that wormed its way into my head.
One child was already crying, and soon the whole school was sobbing. They knew
what was coming. Only I was ignorant of the terror. </span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lU7knA9vW6A/VEXCsJy6J4I/AAAAAAAAAXI/apLIL8RxP80/s1600/IMG_5601.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lU7knA9vW6A/VEXCsJy6J4I/AAAAAAAAAXI/apLIL8RxP80/s1600/IMG_5601.JPG" height="245" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Lion-dancers made their entrance. As for costumes, I’ve
seen far more convincing at Haunted Houses. A Lion-dancer is obviously two men,
a sheet, and a red lion/dragon/dog mask with a moveable jaw that one of the
dancers snaps in time to the music. The Lion-dancers hopped and their jaws
snapped to the beat. The kids tried to scoot away, but their cruel teachers,
(myself among them) didn’t let them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“They’re just people,” I cooed in a foreign tongue. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://instagram.com/p/s1I9adK_Fm/?modal=true" target="_blank">Then the Lion-dancers rushed forward. The kids ran</a>. Teachers
stopped as many as they could. I managed to snag a few and held them down as
the Lion-dancers approached, jaws snapping. We took turns dragging the kids
forward towards their hungry jaws. The Lion-dancers would politely nibble each
child’s skull--melting them into a sobbing wreck--then abandon them for their
next victim. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I actually had to teach them English after this traumatizing
experience. The kids looked like hell. Their hair was tangled, their clothes
dirty from running and falling in the path of the Lion-dancers. They sang the
alphabet through tear streaked faces. They needed a nap or a stiff drink. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I told this story to one my most gifted students and she
explained the horrific custom. A bite from the Lion-dancers bestows wisdom, so
schools hire them to terrorize the children and parents drag their children to
festivals to be bitten. Lion-dancers were soon going to visit her high school
and she doubted she’d be able to face them. When she was little, a Lion-dancer
came to her door and chased her through her house until it cornered her under
her bed. Her parents dragged her out and offered their screaming child to the
monster. This student is seventeen years old and she’s still terrified of the
things. The terror of the experience must be proportional to the intelligence
bestowed, because she’s one of my brightest students, and I have heard no story
more terrifying. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back at the festival, the Lions left and were replaced with
a slow procession of children. They moved<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kNNhy5j1EUI/VEXCtFqPFwI/AAAAAAAAAXY/h-G_l_s77dk/s1600/IMG_5711%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kNNhy5j1EUI/VEXCtFqPFwI/AAAAAAAAAXY/h-G_l_s77dk/s1600/IMG_5711%2B(2).JPG" height="222" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The young samurai of the festival</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
across the stage in a hypnotic dance.
There were tiny girls in kimonos, boys with spears, hammers and umbrellas, and samurai. After the trauma of the Lion dance, their performance was relaxing
and absorbing. They moved with the surety of tradition, each verse another step
in their dance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These weren’t the same kids whose parents drag them to these
festival. These were performers, a part of the festival, perhaps the children
of the Lion-dancers. These were the children who made the festival exist, the
kids carrying the tradition. But there were only so many of them. The rest were
from all over the city, brought here to experience the purest of emotions,
terror, and in doing so, perhaps plant the seed of distrust in their parents
that would one day grow into full-fledged rebellion and drive them from their
homes. After all, they weren’t part of any traditional dance, they were victims
of the slaughter. City kids with videogames and ramen noodle shops and no roots
to their past, save this one, the one that might drive them farther from
tradition than their own terrified parents already are. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I don’t think it will. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zb-lLS0D5Ag/VEXCseVbVzI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/6cU9Fs-0fZ8/s1600/IMG_5607%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zb-lLS0D5Ag/VEXCseVbVzI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/6cU9Fs-0fZ8/s1600/IMG_5607%2B(2).JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There’s something about terror that transcends culture;
people the world over value fear. Be it the Brothers Grimm, Freddy Krueger or
Lion-dancers, adults get a sick pleasure from traumatizing their children.
Parents, camp counselors and big brothers the world over recognize this. Some
part of us wants to be scared, that’s why we ask to hear ghost stories and to
see scary movies. Fear awakens something in us, something primal, but perhaps
it must be balanced by silly masks and obvious costumes, so we can still sleep
at night in a house with the true masters or terror: our parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Joe Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama Japan with
darling wife, and looks forward to carving pumpkins and handing out candy
despite the lack of trick-or-treaters, damn it. Read more about a <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/10/a-foreigners-view-of-japanese.html" target="_blank">genius Japanese students</a>, or other <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/10/a-foreigners-view-of-japanese.html" target="_blank">weird Japanese festivals</a>. And please +1 if you liked this
story! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kNNhy5j1EUI/VEXCtFqPFwI/AAAAAAAAAXY/h-G_l_s77dk/s1600/IMG_5711%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </span></span></div>
<br />J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960322961158418248.post-386883946050638832014-10-14T21:00:00.000+09:002015-03-29T20:07:51.375+09:00Takayama Matsuri<strong><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The shrill trill of flutes, ancient <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yatai, </i>and the greasy smell of festival food all competed for my
attention. I had been looking forward to this <a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/07/Eatfishdontpetfish.html" target="_blank">festival</a> since we arrived in
Japan. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T97nJkJpeQE/VD4hHJN3RhI/AAAAAAAAAVw/8aVaBDPrzq8/s1600/detail.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T97nJkJpeQE/VD4hHJN3RhI/AAAAAAAAAVw/8aVaBDPrzq8/s1600/detail.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The story goes the emperor of Japan hired carpenters from
Takayama to build his palace, as they were the best woodworkers in all of land.
And though they built his beautiful home, they were still required to pay heavy
taxes. Unhappy with this state-imposed robbery, the carpenters melted all of
their money into gold leaf, traded their skill for silk, and made the most
beautiful <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yatai </i>in all of Japan. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And yet, something about the festival, like much of Japan,
is an unspoken bond between the ancient and the modern, (another contradiction
for my regular readers). In the states, there are no festivals like this, no
ancient rituals to the gods. In the states, people crowd around to see
musicians play guitar, while at the Fall Festival, they crowd around to see
puppets. And when the puppet fails to swing out to the last rung of the monkey
bars, a man in a hood carefully moves it, strings be damned, and the crowd
giggles at this failure of ancient technology and snaps pictures on their cell
phones. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iv09E7t8008/VD4gPUKPcpI/AAAAAAAAAVg/iI_AzmmlwnI/s1600/nighttime.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iv09E7t8008/VD4gPUKPcpI/AAAAAAAAAVg/iI_AzmmlwnI/s1600/nighttime.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The old and the new blend together seamlessly in japan. Even
the crowd seemed a mix of the centuries; there were tiny children and doting
grandparents, uniformed teenagers daring each other to dip their toes in the
river, Tokyo fashionistas in too-high heels, and Europeans crowding around the
only gyro stand in all of Takayama. Though we were all there ostensibly for the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yatai, </i>I think that we, like people
throughout the ages, truly enjoy festivals for the food. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is what my students told me after all. “The best time
to go is 10am.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Really? Why’s that?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That’s when the food stands open.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The food was also part ancient tradition and part modern
artifice. I, being the foolish foreigner that I am, headed straight for the
enormous spiked sea snails an elderly man was grilling. Shocked that I wanted
one of these horrifyingly large mollusks, he carefully picked a juicy one and
handed it over with a tiny wooden spear for me to gore it with. I wandered off,
cradling my meal and looking for my wife. I founder her grinning ear to ear as
she held a big, round orange and sucked the juice from it. Drinking orange
juice straight from the orange looks like something traditional, but it
requires a specialized blender to liquefy the fruit’s insides and not damage
the peel. The ancient and modern blended yet again. Eager to show her up with
my far more bizarre festival fare, I speared my snail’s firm flesh and took a
bite. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was the most
disgusting thing I have ever eaten. Ever. I am not one to be squeamish. I dine
on all manner of sea creatures, from<a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/07/try-moss-flavored-fish-organs.html" target="_blank"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">unagi</i></a>
to urchin. I’ve eaten cartilage, raw scallops and garden snails by the bucket.
I once slaughtered a guinea fowl only to dine upon its
heart and gizzards. So I think I’m more adventurous than some (certainly than
my wife, who thinks a cucumber on a stick is the epitome of exciting food)
but this sea snail was horrible. It was bitter, bitter as the
smell of burnt matches. It was huge and impossible to tear apart with my teeth.
I’ve had snails before, and always the intestines are removed, but not for this
guy. As I gnawed at the snail’s flesh and attempted to force it down my throat,
I saw centimeters of curled up blackness approach my mouth. It was too much. I
spit it out, ashamed of my shortcomings, and begged my wife for a drink of
orange juice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I gave up on traditional food after that. I queued up with
the Europeans for a gyro, bought a bag of tiny pastries that are somewhere between
a baked donut and a funnel cake, and a skewer of delicious hida beef. The gyro
was strange, the sweets gave me a bellyache, but the hida beef… oh yes. Hida
beef is richer than the emperor. Hida beef is succulent rivers of fat between
tiny islands of muscle. If hida beef is the solar system, the planets are the meat,
and the enormous space in between is grass fed, pampered perfection. Satiated,
we went off in search of the parade.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The parade is a fantastic blend of the ancient and the modern.
Around a dozen men haul each <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yatai </i>down
narrow Japanese streets. People lined up, eager to see this procession. One man
screamed at the rest to get out of the way while a bumbling police officer continued
to let cars drive towards the approaching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yatai</i>.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1yetTeJTM3E/VD4gxUcVnOI/AAAAAAAAAVo/UVdFNztS9mA/s1600/boss.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1yetTeJTM3E/VD4gxUcVnOI/AAAAAAAAAVo/UVdFNztS9mA/s1600/boss.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some of the elaborate floats<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>have children perched atop them, some venerated members of the
community, but the tallest float had the greatest rider. He perched atop the
very tip of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yatai</i>, and did not
come down, not even when they tilted the entire structure back on two wheels so
they could maneuver it around a corner. He carried a pronged stick, and used it
to prevent electrical wires from snagging on elaborate gold sculptures or electrocuting
anybody. His presence, more than anything else at the festival, made me
appreciate the blend of the ancient and modern. This route has changed little
over the years. And yet the festival evolves. It has too. <strong>Water damage and
theft might have once been the greatest threat to the gods within the floats, </strong></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>but now </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>this man must ride the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yatai </i>to
prevent death by electric wire.</strong> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the festival participants take all this in stride. There
is no contradiction between the old and the new, no need to silence your
cellphone in the presence of the divine. There’s a coexistence between the
ancient and the modern here that is as puzzling as it is refreshing. I can see
a seven eleven from the temple near my home. Apartment buildings fight rice paddies
for space; neither is willing to move, and neither has to. Instead both ways of
thought, tradition and progress, grudgingly accept each other and force each
other to evolve. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s strange and a little unsettling, but it’s beautiful and
makes for better festival food than sea snail.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em>Joe Darris Mitchell lives in Takayama Japan with
his darling wife. If you enjoyed this story, why not drunkenly tell your friend
about it at the bar, or hit the +1 button?</em> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Read more about </em><a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/07/Eatfishdontpetfish.html" target="_blank"><em>Festivals</em></a><em>,</em><a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/07/japan-food-fish-and-grocery-stores.html" target="_blank"><em> food,</em></a><em> or </em><a href="http://www.joedarris.com/2014/07/this-indepedence-day-try-sex-down-under.html" target="_blank"><em>fun</em></a><em> in Japan.</em></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span>J. Darris Mitchellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665715164076143920noreply@blogger.com0