Sushi War

I return, drunker by far than I should be at this hour on a Wednesday, fresh from a midweek sesh with the clerk from one of my schools, who also happens to teach in the weekly assembly of studious foreigners and native Japanese volunteers I've been frequenting since September. Apart from a mutual love of Eberhard Weber, I have learned also of the profound battle between Sushi chef and customer.

Apparently (and bear in mind that at the time of writing, I am pretty damn drunk) when entering a sushi restaurant (a real sushi restaurant, not one of those Kaiten [conveyor belt] places frequented by plebs) the first thing one orders is Japanese style omlette, a.k.a yakitamago a.k.a gyoku. This is the initial yardstick by which the merit of the establishment is measured. The pernickity, overtly sadistic or just plain savvy customer will first examine the colour and aroma of this offering, then taste it. At this point, the chef, or sushi-ya-san will be fretfully awaiting the connoisseurs judgement. As an alternative to a speedy "bill please," the customer may decide that the gykou is good enough to warrant staying, at which point they will order hot sake

Relief for the sushi-ya-san!...for now...

There then follows a battle of the wills, both chef and customer testing the others depth of knowledge in this chosen battlefield. The customer will ask the chef to recommend the days special, a challenge which will reflect on the chef, as he no doubt chose the special himself from the fish market at some ungodly hour in the morning. This is a ritual battle with one victor. The cunning customer could potentially walk away from a sushi banquet fit for a Daimyo for as little as twenty-five quid, the alternative being twice as much if the sushi-ya-san works out that his opponent is in fact blagging it.

This confrontation with the chef is apparently typical of Japanese cuisine, and now this factoid has been imparted to me, it makes perfect sense. In most of the restaurants I've been to here, there is naught separating chef from customer but a modest kitchen counter. Here, the cook is completely responsible for what is served in their restaurant, with none of this hiding behind the double-swinging kitchen doors. If a customer doesn't like what they've been served, then the chef will answer to their complaints, before the entire shop if need be.

Diving deeper into the Japanese consciousness and acknowledging a profoundly militaristic culture, this practice presumably has its roots in the tea ceremony - Samurai, preparing to go into battle would have a nice cup of tea beforehand. Perhaps they had families and children. Perhaps they would go on to win a great victory for their Lord and lands. Perhaps they would die in trying. Perhaps this would be the last cup of tea they would ever drink. Better then, to make it the best cup of tea ever, before them, to make it with all the effort one would put into fighting for their home and to be answerable to ones comrades before death and glory.

It's funny and frustrating that I feel I'm only just getting a handle on this amazing country with only four months left of being here.

Power up! V(^-^)V

Ten years ago, the seventh incarnation of the erroneously titled Final Fantasy series bleeped into life on the original Playstation. It may have cost many their degree. It damn near cost me mine. A colossal virtual world and the means to navigate it were presented along with a story arc that potentially offered infinite gameplay. One commanded an increasing troupe of wanderers encountered at different parts of the tale, enemies became friends, friends became enemies and the death of one corner of a love triangle simplified matters in one sense, but deepened them in another. Video game characters had taken a great leap away from the pill popping madman who can only face his ghosts when he`s pumped up with the right stuff.

Ten years on, this supposed Final Fantasy has apparently left more of an emotional dent than the following five (possibly six) – not only are we graced with a feature length, absurdly dense CGI animation, but limited edition drinks bearing the ambiguous moniker of “Potion.”

This has been tickling me for a couple of days now, especially considering where it`s come from – to find, in Japan, source of the life consuming computer game, echoes of the mortally wounded sprites` most treasured resource, precious, life-giving, healing potion, lying around in a convenience store is like a pixelated half-dream come true.





Indeed, this country can be a paradise for the easily amused.

Cut the clap.

DISCLAIMER: the title of this entry is not a reference to the myth that Japanese people mix up their "l's" and "r's". "L" doesn't exist in their syllabic alphabet, and the closest thing it has to an "r" only slightly resembles an "l"...anyway...

I’m on a very long holiday right now, and I love it. I have a life beyond public school education and English conversation classes – I can go exploring in Tokyo.

Nestled in between the super-hip neighbourhoods of Harajuku and Shibuya, Yoyogi Park is like the chill out space of a three-room club. It attracts creative individuals looking for a place to do their artistic thing, more often than not, varying degrees of pop group and a near residential tribe of dread-locked percussionists but it also sports jugglers and dancers wielding fans or Santa costumes (depending on the weather).

Yesterday, I discovered in a large concrete boulevard (the starting point for last weeks’ Tokyo Pride March) small pockets of break-dancers. I’ve always found something slightly ludicrous about hip-hop; I simply can't, won't and don't stop. This could be down to a combination of the absolute nonsense some rappers come out with, and bad luck – I’m assured that there is “intelligent” and “right-on” hip-hop out there, but I haven't found enough to convert me. To be fair, my own record collection hardly displays Wildean wit, but lyrical content becomes insignificant when one is witness to the astounding acrobatics on display to the tune of ripped wax.

Back in Kawasaki, itself no stranger to street performers, one such dancer had attracted a crowd of Friday evening shoppers. His backward somersaults were accompanied by a hip-hop soundtrack and the audience doing the unthinkable – there are few things I hate more in the world than rhythmic clapping. The appreciation of a good performance is dulled into shameful silence when one discovers their fellow punters have been reduced to a legion of imbecilic sycophant sea lions.

That’s a rather unkind analogy, reminding me of a trip to the dilapidated dream that is Coney Island, and my first and only attendance to a Sea World style performance. The audience was made up of an elementary school outing and a couple of squadrons of US Marines, clapping the rhythm of a turgid sub-Ibiza house drone, whilst a graceful, beautiful creature of the deep, a sea lion no less, spun round on a back flipper. Our entertainer didn’t clap once, and I was with him on that, although I would have given him a fish had I the chance. Truly, he was a seal of quality.

Ice Cream & Salt.

Sailing away from Tokyo bay at night, millions of light bulbs dimly sketch the outline of skyscrapers, whilst more prominent and famous landmarks have their own source of illumination. Having this notoriously cramped city spread before you grants a perspective of scale previously only offered by outings to towering vantage points. Even the pale imitation of the Eiffel Tower looks impressive.

This metropolitan manifestation of the ever-imminent future recedes into the black distance with each wave, and we seem to travel back in time to Hachijojima (八丈島), southernmost of the sub-tropical Izu islands.





Formerly a prison colony of the Edo period, the island boasts an extinct volcano, Hachijo Fuji, Nazumado (one of Japans' top ten scuba diving locations), consistently warm water and no less than seven varieties of mushrooms that glow in the dark. Significantly, it has two features absent from Tokyo; an abundance of space and comparatively few people.



Not ten minutes walk from Sokodo Port lies a free campsite commanding a view of a dark volcanic rock beach and the Mihara mountain range. For the past eleven years, from July to September, a typhoon shelter on the grounds has accommodated Watanabe san, a construction worker from Tokyo who visits the island every summer to go fishing. He is a deeply tanned, well built man of fifty-eight, with a disco-stud curl to his salt and pepper hair, a gold chain hanging around his neck, and a mouth of perfect teeth which appear to be false, but reside in a genuine smile. He is well known amongst the fishermen and professional chefs of the island, and draws a crowd when bearing his prizes from the ocean



There is a great supply of dry wood and fire pits. Our clothes bear the aroma of a week spent cooking by campfire. The highly suspicious Japanese sausage (related to the wiener) is rendered more than palatable with a smoky taste, whilst corn on the cob is fired with a more vigorous character than if it had been boiled, but no campfire pleasure can best baked potatoes and beans after a lengthy abstinence.

In contrast to the emptiness of the streets, the beaches and oceans are teeming with life. Amongst the rocks, coral and rippling polygons of sunlight, it's possible to see puffer fish and stingrays, but also less notorious denizens; butterfly fish sporting black and yellow stripes; long and incredibly thin flesh-coloured creatures, with large eyes and no discernible mouth; lone hunters who seem to change colour, red, blue brown and green; glittering, silvery fish like a shoal of daggers with quietly chattering beaks; graceful streaks of brilliant yellow, delicately nibbling on the nutrition-rich sea-bed; a multitude of tiny flickering wisps of light that swim together like a breathing cloud.


The Uakari is commonly known as the English monkey, as its' red face resembles those of Britons in hotter sunnier climates than they're used to. Within two hours of pitching our tent, we were sunburned to within an inch of our pallid lives and spent the rest of the day sitting in the shade and complaining about the weather.
The Japanese word for sunburn is "hiyake," a fact conveyed to us many times by passers-by. Such is the hospitality and helpfulness of these island folk that we merely had to walk into a shop in order to be directed to the suntan lotion. Aloe Vera is also a suitable balm for this bugbear of the travelling Englishman.

Time is meaningless when you're being a beach-bum for a week. There has been no urgency to our activities, no need to be anywhere or do anything. A week with nothing to do in a beautiful spot has been enlightening, especially upon returning to Tokyo bay. The air became dusty and harsh, eyes itched, previously un-sneezing noses erupted in abrupt reports and we found ourselves surrounded by millions of people, with very little time to do what they had to, crammed into a space which appears both colossal and absolutely tiny. I wonder about our chances of getting a seaside cottage on prescription.

七夕祭 - Tanabata Matsuri

Princess Orihime (織姫, Weaving Princess) and Prince Hikoboshi (彦星, Cow Herder Star) fell in love and were married. Unfortunately, being Gods, they had a number of responsibilities which, post-nuptially became neglected, and chaos was caused by Hikobashi's wandering cows, whilst Orihime's father Tenkou (天工, Sky King) had no more cloth. In his fury, he demanded that the lovers be separated, but then in a moment of fatherly remorse, he permitted them to see each other once a year on the seventh of July. People in Japan celebrate by writing wishes, usually in the form of poetry, and tying them to a bamboo tree.

The number seven is traditionally a lucky number in Japan. For starters, there are the Seven Gods of Fortune, the custom of eating Nanakusa, or "seven herbs" (Seri (Japanese parsley), Nazuna (shepherd's purse), Gogyou, Hakobera (chickweed), Hotokenoza, Suzuna, Suzushiro) in porridge on January 7th to cure illness, seven sins, seven virtues and let's not forget the Seven Samurai.

All this generally tends to point to the 7th of July 2007 (7.7.07) being a pretty damn auspicious day. Not surprising then that my favourite Japanese band, Boredoms (now recording under the name V∞redoms) are performing a once in a lifetime concert with no less than 77 drummers...


...in New York...which is surprising, but not the nice kind. Feast your eyes on the press release, then weep.

Sushi Bar in Asakusa

For those of you viewing at work, volume isn't essential, but it adds something.

The Last Sanja Matsuri?

"Oh, you like Asakusa? There are many foreign country people there."

I've received this response from Japanese people with practically every mention of my fondness for this area of Tokyo, as if what drew me was kinship with my fellow non-Japanese, whatever country they come from.

Of course, these demographic commentators are quite right - Asakusa is crawling with tourists, hardly surprising since it's dominated by the magnificent Sensō-ji, Tokyo's oldest Buddhist Temple.


Asakusa is almost like a theme park of traditional Japan, as if Kyoto had been heavily edited and compressed into a Tokyo neighbourhood. Kaminarimon, the Thunder Gate, opens into a long market street, where shopkeepers, well versed in "trade English" provide innumerable trinkets to legion of foreign visitors. I am the slightly embarrassed owner of what I perceived (before purchase) to be a stylish sake flask. Of course, once I actually took the time to read the kanji on the side, I learned that it said 'Asakusa, Tokyo." I might as well have bought a T-shirt reading "I went to Japan and all I got was...<insert joke here>".


The more I think about that slightly ill considered purchase, the less bad I feel. It's like a moment of clarity, because it is so typical of Asakusa. When I arrived over two years ago, alone and illiterate in a strange country, the way Asakusa looked and felt was adequate balm for lingering doubts and fears I had. Now, a bit more savvy and considerably more cynical, I can see the place through two different eyes. Despite its' colossal tourist trap status, Asakusa is still a beautiful neighbourhood, and whilst there isn't an awful lot to do after seeing Sensō-ji (except for holing up in one of the countless restaurants) what I find appealing about it is, when compared to the rest of Tokyo, the relatively gentle pace. This usually doesn't apply when describing Tokyo's most boisterous O-mikoshi festival, Sanja Matsuri.


Over three days, hundreds of portable shrines are carted around the area by packs of able bodied young people, gradually getting drunker. Moving one of these things takes a great deal of effort, even if you are being supported by about twenty other people. The endorphins are palpable, the rhythmic chanting joyous and exciting, the atmosphere utterly electric. For some reason, this year was much quieter than other occasions, but no less charged with a massive sense of community, something I greatly admire about Japan. This communal sensibility isn't extended to all by all of course. Brian overheard an elderly man grumbling that the name should be changed to Gaijin Matsuri.

Perhaps feeling this kind of inclusion in a sprawling metropolitan labyrinth like Tokyo is only for people who live there. At the same time as the overwhelmingly huge Sanja Matsuri, was a smaller but no less rambunctious festival in and around our local shrine, the small and simple Hiedaijinja.





The mood here is warmer, more intimate and familiar, helped no doubt by the presence of my students from several different schools. Stall holders exercise what English they possess, undoubtedly directed at us because we are almost certainly the only non-Japanese present. Local bigwigs have directed us to the centre of activity, asking us to enjoy ourselves, and even greeted us with genuine bonhomie.



As far as our long term plans go, this will be our last Oda Matsuri (although the festival season is just starting). Maybe what we'll miss most about Japan isn't the magnificent otherly architecture, interesting culture or sense of adventure, but the fact that this quiet little nook of a huge alien industrial city has been shaped into a home.

Brass Band Club

Yesterday, I played my trumpet for the first time in a long time, but perhaps more significantly, the first time since I've given up smoking. Clearly my lungs have had plenty of time to recover, and I wasn't as breathless as I thought I would be. Perhaps it's time to get back into music. Finding the right outlet could be tricky though. The only one I've discovered thus far is the school Brass Band club.

Of course, five minutes into the club activity, I remembered why I never go. A word now irrevocably linked to my idea of Japanese education is drilling. Yes, all my teachers over the years have told me that it's really useful to spend ages doing long notes, and by thunder, it'll build your stamina, but where's the fun?

A typical brass band club session will commence with the designated leader announcing what particular warm-up exercise will be played. Everyone responds with "Hai!" which although means "yes" is probably closer to "affirmative". This exercise will be done for a minute or two. At this point, I'm usually raring to play some actual music, but there's more to be had. Much more. In the past, I've joined brass band club sessions where the kids have played long notes and scales for an entire hour...five minutes break...another hour of long notes and scales, thankyou very much, time to go home.

This particular brass band did something I've never seen before - at a command from the leader, every child produced a plastic bag, and started breathing into it whilst the percussion section dutifully beat out an increasing number of beats on a row of desks behind us.

The weirdest thing I've experienced thus far in brass band club is the tuning up process. There's nothing wrong with using an electronic tuner, but they seem to be speaking a foreign language (in terms of the music vocabulary I was raised with) when they hold a beeping box in front of my instrument and declare "plus four" as opposed to "sharp" or "flat."

Although music is something I want to get back into, I'm faced with the choice between intense study of Japanese (at a desk and everything) and playing long notes for two hours...what to do...

京都へ行った

Yes indeedy, nearly a month ago, we went to Kyoto. Our thanks go to the magnificent Japan Rail Network, for the ludicrously inexpensive seishun ju hachi kippu.


Pictured is one of the myriad corridors of torii in Fushimi Inari, amongst Kyoto's most famous shrines (apparently featured in the film Memoirs of a Geisha.)


Written on the torii are names of individuals or businesses who have donated money to the shrine...our saintly landlord being one of them. A day or two before we left, he charged us with finding his torii...since there are quite literally thousands, he drew us a little map, and even wrote us a note which we were to give to a certain store owner, who would be sure to guide us...

...of course, the night before we left, we joined Brian & Kaori for their housewarming party...thusly, alcohol was consumed, bed was entered at an irresponsible time, and exited at a risky hour. We forgot both the map and the note. No matter, thought we, we can find the right torii...and we tried...

...did we find it?





No.



The rest of Kyoto was, of course, lovely, despite bursts of rain & cheap hostels (free dead cockroach with your duvet).

As mentioned earlier, we have also been graced with the prescence of my mother.

Cheers mum.

I can feel my English deteriorating exponentially to the improvement of my Japanese. Recently, I have been a man possessed when it comes to studying. This is partially why I haven't been blogging a lot of late. However, assuming after such a lengthy period of slack I still have readers left, (and to quote Dave) this blog isn't dead...not by a long shot...

Confessions of a less than dedicated blogger...

...mother's here...having fun...bye for now.

Belated Birthday Blogging

There's us with that stalwart of Japanese animation, the giant robot, this character appearing in the film Laputa by Hayao Miyazaki, perhaps the most famous animator in Japan. Studio Ghibli, which he founded, was responsible for 2001's magnificent 千と千尋の神隠し, Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi (released in the West as "Spirited Away") amongst other notable releases.

We've long been admirers of his work, so for Hayley's birthday, we went to the Ghibli Art Museum, well worth the thousand yen price.

...and now we're on holiday...in fact we're going to Kyoto on monday...watch this space...

Another Graduation...

The year seems to have passed in the blink of an eye, but at the same time dragged like a leaden coat and tails. The proceedings were just as emotional as last year, but we were graced with no less than three teachers wearing Hakama. Pictured is Endo Sensei, a teacher of Japanese who sits next to me, and one of the special needs teachers, whose name I haven't caught yet.


As is the way with these things, everybody filed into the ostentatiously decorated gym, applauded whilst one hundred and fifty students marched slowly to their seats (by the end of two out of four classes, I was desperate to stop clapping), possibly daydreamed whilst those same students were presented with certificates, and almost certainly fell asleep during the Koucho sensei's (Principal's) speech. Notable this year was the fact that the farewell procession of sobbing third graders went out through the sports ground. By the time that had been organised, most of them had cheered up.



I signed a lot of year books, posed for an inordinate number of pictures, had a very tasty bento, complete with sekihan (rice steamed with sweet red beans) and then...nothing...

Long term readers of this blog will be aware of my most common complaint with work. For those of you who have come here by accident (and have made it this far), regardless of my workload or the actual presence of students, I'm required to stay on school grounds until 4:30. Usually I use this as an opportunity to really hammer my Japanese studies, but today (and days like it in the past) a cloudy block descended, rendering me incapable of concentration due to the sheer absurdity of it all. Why was I there? What purpose did it serve?

I sat there for a while and actually managed to get a bit of study done, but that niggling sense of being able to do it at home kept knocking. Then teachers started leaving at the morally reprehensible time of 2:30, and I began to question my sanity.

At the end of each day, I'm supposed to get a stamp on my time sheet from the Vice Principal (Kyoto Sensei). At Elementary School, where I usually finish at 1pm, I can coax permission to leave from the Kyoto by handing them my time sheet for the stamp, which invariably ellicits the salutation "O tsukare sama deshita," which literally means "honorific tired person was" and kind of means "very good day at work, you must be tired, (I'm) go(ing) home". Faced with another couple of hours of enraged thumb twiddling, I readied my paperwork for the walk up to the Kyoto's desk, only to be stopped by one Kamihara sensei, a Social Studies teacher for whom I have tremendous respect, not least of all for his affable charisma, who suggested we go to the gym and practice Kendo. Strike me down with a bamboo sword if I didn't say yes.

Kendo, simply put, involves donning cumbersome and visibility-reducing armour, before bashing your opponent with a big stick and shouting at them. There are three strike points, the head, wrist and body (or rather, right hip). Kamihara sensei is very good.

Kendo might look simple, but precision is the key. Kamihara sensei was really walloping me - I could feel it with the blows he rained down on my head - but I emerged relatively bruise free. The armour is pretty solid, and a direct hit will do little more than ring in your ears. I however have all the precision of a rabid elephant on a motorcycle, as Kamihara sensei's right hip can no doubt testify.

That done, he suggested we have a bout of Aikido which I am genuinely interested in. Quintessentially a self defense martial art, Aikido relies upon using the energy expended by potential attackers back on themselves. Kamihara sensei is also remarkably good at that, flooring me several times during our spat. I returned to the teachers room an hour later, sweaty, bruised and in the highest of spirits...

...until the Kyoto sensei (who can't speak a lick of English) asked an English teacher what I was doing today. That ruffled me a bit because I can actually speak Japanese. Said English teacher didn't ask me, rather she said she didn't know, and we should ask a different English teacher. Bear in mind that I am within spitting distance of these people. Off goes the Kyoto to find this other teacher, whilst I ask the English teacher if there was anything I could help with. She looked me in the eye and shook her head. I held my gaze, and she eventually came clean, not that there was anything to bloody well come clean about - grrr! I hate this country sometimes.

Peculiar day, highs, lows, tears, laughter, civility, lack of and bashing people with sticks. I'm going out with Hayley for her birthday.

Reading

There is nothing more likely to ruin a consistently solid run of reading than starting a book reviewing blog, but I've not stopped completely. At the moment I'm wrestling with ゲゲゲの鬼太郎 (Ge ge ge no Kitarou) and since it's in Japanese, I'm struggling.

First published in 1966, this series of manga by Shigeru Mizuki features pretty much the entire bestiary of traditional Japanese monsters, or 妖怪 (Youkai). The protaganist, Kitarou (meaning Ogre/Demon Boy) occassionaly acts as a go-between for the worlds of Humans and Monsters, helping out one when the other oversteps their bounds. What I've read so far is gleefully ghoulish. Take for example, Kitaro's father, Medama Oyaji (eyeball father) who lives in his son's empty eye socket, usually obscured by that rouge flap of hair.

At the moment, a young baseball player has happened across Kitarou's bat (lying about in a graveyard). The bat of course has magical powers, and the team are on their way to becoming professionals, when Kitarou turns up, wanting it back. The young player is reluctant to relinquish his tool to fame, so a challenge is declared, naturally, with a game of baseball...Kitarou's team mates are a variety of nasty creatures, and the human baseball players are appropriately terrified, as this game may cost them their souls...

...so that's what I'm doing now...

Another enkai

I have been home for two hours since this seemingly purposeless gathering of teachers. I was warned previously that the principal of this school has taken to getting extremely drunk and making inappropriate speeches...thankfully, my Japanese ability is still equal to that of a particularly gifted chimp, and I missed the bulk of any faux pas he may have made...but he did get drunk extraordinarily quickly...and I was sitting next to him, and consequently, was denoted his drinking foil for the evening...suffice to say, it's friday night where I am, and enkai has been confirmed as my favourite Japanese word.

Hakone

During the Tokugawa Shogunate (1603-1868) this town was an important stop off on the old Tokaido, the route which connected Kyoto to the new capital of Edo, now Tokyo.


At the base of Kamisan (God Mountain) lies lake Ashi, pretty much the centre of our long awaited break.


However, a surprisingly constant companion was the notoriously elusive Mount Fuji.


I still find it astounding that such a prominent mountain can be so difficult to spot. Our excursion last autumn to the Five Lakes region, at the very base of Fuji, gave us only this vague glimpse.


Fuji cheered us home on the way back to Kawasaki, its' unmistakable silhouette standing out against the orange sunset like a massive mound of mashed potato.

This trip was all about relaxing, which we did in style at the Fuji-Hakone Guest House, truly worthy of the plug. After the madness of commuting on a friday night from Kawasaki, we stepped off the bus into the mountains, fresh air and utter silence. Within an hour, we were in a rotenburo, unconcerned about the rain beause of the geothermally heated water. One drawback of bathing in volcanic springs is that you will reek of sulphur for days to come.

Hakone also, surprisingly, contained a museum dedicated to the novel Le Petit Prince.



The story being a memory from childhood, it was great to find this place, but one wonders what the hell a museum devoted to one book by a Frenchman is doing in a mountain town in Japan.