E-Tales: Guam Diary, Part I

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Kids grow up fast, they say. By chance, a few days ago I came across Elena’s diary. I was astounded by the revelations in her daily musings about the life of a five-year-old. I’d like to share a short sample of her take on our trip to Guam last December.

Wed., Dec 21: Departed Yokohama in dead black of night. 0400 up; Daddy annoyingly giddy. Cab driver spiteful; senses we are going to tropical climes? Arrive at the groggy-feeling train station. Little sister—what’s her name again? oh yeah, little miss shitbag—insists on walking up and down aisle on airport train shuttle, collecting laminated instructions on how escape in the event of emergency.  Mommy looking stressed. Airport: on time. Dad lugs our bags grudgingly. Immigration: whaaaa? Won’t let me through? Stare hard at Immigration Guy. Dad sweats the interrogation. Bureaucrat utters something about wrong stamp in my passport. Moron. Parents talk through it. We glide through airport; board aircraft. I screech; demand business class. They give it up—suckers.

Flight good. I work on my art. Marina poops diapers. 33,000 ft. and reeking. Mommy drinks too much. Daddy pretends he doesn’t hear us, reads magazine. Arrive. Warmth and mango smell. Have I been here in a previous life? Palm trees look confident. People drive slower here; look happier. We view Tumon Bay from the windows of our Nissan Murano cab. Water looks like popsicle blue. Hotel room OK, more Havana 1959 than Guam 2011. Marina freaks out; thirty minutes’ screaming equals new dimension of hell.  Sleepy now. Why don’t people speak Japanese here? Daddy drinks local beer; happier than usual. Sign: ABC Store. What, they don’t know their ABCs yet? Morons.

Thu., Dec22: 06:30—Eyes pop open on huge elevated bed. TV squawking SpongeBob Squarepants on Nickelodeon:  what is this shit? Wait…not so bad. Tied on feedbag at hotel breakfast; ate only sugar. Parents oblivious. Little sister quiet, for once. Old marble pillars in ballroom look like my dollhouse. Leave hotel 09:30. Sunny out already. Yay. Sit on hardwood seats on tourist bus; no windows. Feels kitschy but delicious. Wide girth on these folks. Hit Micronesia Mall; coax Dad into many arcade games; roller coaster; boring teacup ride: what am I, three years old or something? Come on. Won lots of cheap stickers from games. Give to sister ‘cuz I don’t want ‘em; win brownie points with parents.
12:35. Lunch. Tried local fare at glitzy-looking food court. Crap. Gimme McDonald’s, please.
Afternoon sun feels nice on neck; usually no ponytail in December. Go to "Largest K-Mart in the Pacific.” Who gives a rat’s ass? Toys look different than in Japan; build quality sucks, though. Japan still has lead in the toy game, I reckon.
Evening: Battle with Mom over…I forget why. Major confrontation. I’m cranky? My ass. Dad avoids issues again by heading to balcony with Bud Light in his mitt. We all sleep well as car horns honk on the tourist drag.

Fri., Dec 23. Another sugar breakfast? Fine by me. Mom and Dad babble about going to waterslide “for you.” Yeah, right. This ain’t Disneyland, folks. Later; eat my words. Tarza waterslide on hill near hotel kicks ass. Water warm like pee-pee here. I could do all the slides because staff pays zero attention to the rules. Rule #1: don’t drown. Everything else is cool. Starting to like these people. Less starchy than back home. Sign: “Tax Free.” Everywhere. Who cares? Spend day in sun; water chutes smoking fun; haul ass up and down hill to various waterslides all day.
Evening. Back to hotel room, out to dinner. Mom and Dad pick steak and lobster place not too far from hotel. Daddy kept going on and on about the goddamn cricket sounds, reminds him of summer, all that shit. I don’t eat any of the swill at the steak and surf joint. Potato chips only, please.

Parents. Suddenly realize they are old. Dad’s breath always smells of stinky coffee in morning; annoyingly chipper. Avoid Mommy until after she drinks her coffee. Hmm…coffee. Intrigued by this magic brew, I stealthily scoff a sip. Tastes like shit. Adults must be insane.

To be continued.

More Train Tales

I spend more time commuting now than I used to when we lived in Hiroshima. Besides getting me to the workplace, the train rides offer interesting insights into the Japanese psyche, which still confounds and interests me despite the years I’ve spent here.

Case in point: a man who tends to take the same train as me during the morning rush hour, who spends the entire journey downtown at the very front of the car, standing right behind the driver (separated by a sheet of  transparent glass), declaring each and every stop and other automated announcements about ten seconds before they are actually broadcast. He is oblivious to the norm of near-silence usually observed onboard trains, as he joyously--and in a loud, clear voice –gives his memorized version of the recorded voice announcements. Except for the clickety-clack racket of the moving train, this is the only other readily audible noise in a car with about 100 passengers.

What does this tell us about Yokohama? There is still a collective human heart beating beneath the seeming indifference and distance between individuals created so that millions of people crammed into a limited space can live together without confrontation. My sense is that in Japan there is a premium put on not being a nuisance to others; I get stares at times if I eat a snack while walking in the train station, occasional frowns if my iPod is too loud when wedged against other passengers on trains. Talking on the cellphone while riding the train or subway is a universal no-no. Yet this man, who defies the sacred silence of my morning commute, is left alone to do his thing. Is it the same degree of tolerance that I enjoy as a foreigner when I unwittingly violate public etiquette? Anyway, it’s refreshing to see that this slightly odd, but harmless, behavior is accepted.

Japan is renowned for its cleanliness and the stellar personal hygiene of its people. No argument here about that: anti-bacterial sprays and hand sanitizers at almost every building entrance, white face masks if you’re sick with a cold or to prevent sneezing during allergy season, and a wall of products at every drug store nationwide—all attest to the national attention paid to staying clean and healthy. Usually both sexes do these personal processes in private or stealthily. Yet, given the necessary space, younger Japanese women still apply their make-up on the train, despite public awareness campaigns to try to discourage it.

Why does it persist? I don’t know—boredom? Multitasking in a time-efficient way?  Better than sleeping? I’m not sure, but it sure is interesting to see this very private behavior performed in a very public space.

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M is Two

There is beauty in simplicity, and the words “happy birthday” have that magical tone that conjures up smiles. Nothing brings me more pleasure than to wish my youngest daughter, Marina, the happiest of birthdays as we celebrated her second year on the planet and with us in the Rising Family. 

The celebration
Joined by longtime friend J.K. and his own brood of young’uns, we BBQ’d and feasted. The cake was brought out and we sang happy birthday. Fueled by the sugar, the kids whirled around the living room in a frenzy. Parents survived with a few drinks and great cheer. Marina seemed a bit overwhelmed by it all, although we did our best to gently prevent a certain older sister from trying to steal too many scenes from the birthday girl.  Attention was focused on our mighty mite, and she beamed with happiness upon receiving a bunch of gifts, especially those from Canada Nana.

The next day, we took both crews to the nearby “Kodomo no Kuni” (Kids’ Country), which is a veritable heaven for little kids: animal petting, fluffy animal rides, tandem bicycle riding with mom, Lord of the Flies-like trampoline jumping—all while being surrounded by a small army of likeminded tykes. 

Happy birthday, Ms. M. We wish you a terrific year ahead.

The Art of the Burn: Hanami BBQ

The Rising Family + grandmother were among the throngs who recently celebrated the arrival of spring in Japan. Naomi’s mom had generously decided to visit and help us take care of the manic twosome during Lady E.’s spring break from school. Mom-in-law was terrific help and the girls very much enjoyed her being around. Before she returned home, we decided to partake of the full bloom of the cherry blossoms in our region. Eager to embrace spring, we -- like millions upon millions across Japan -- staked out a nice spot for cherry blossom viewing on a Sunday. Still new to the area, I had sought advice from a lifelong resident and found a popular spot not too far from home.  Since we were competing for a prime location with the locals, with their home court advantage, we needed a carefully crafted strategy, a detailed logistics plan, and flexible tactics to be successful. Sound like a military campaign? During cherry blossom viewing time, no prisoners are taken.

We loaded up the kids and took off for our day o’ fun at 0900. Yes, nine o’clock. Yet, when we arrived, the parking lot was already full. Zoinks! Directed to a temporary lot, I packed up the hibachi and picnic table, and hauled it over to the BBQ areas to find that no reservations were available! After all that effort to get there…I gave my best sheepish I’m only a helpless gaijin grin, laid on some syrupy polite Japanese, and the guy managing the BBQ area sympathized while regaling me of tales of his trip to Niagara Falls. One-two-three, and the kids went off to play with their mom and grandma while I hiked up the hill, filled with cherry trees awash in pink blossoms, to our spot. The hillside was fast filling up with revelers, and it wasn’t ten o’clock yet. I started the rituals of “The Way of the BBQ.”

In Japan, there is set way doing almost anything, and straying from the accepted norms often invites criticism, scorn and ridicule. In any case, despite my long tenure in this lovely country, I don’t hold much to the contemplative way of viewing things like cherry blossoms. Is there a transient beauty in cherry petals falling to the earth that are reflective of the fragility of life?  I mean, come on. It’s just a BBQ and sometimes a lot of booze (the non-family variety BBQ, usually with coworkers).

I prefer to dwell on how many minutes to cook the chicken wings, rather than contemplate my own mortality, as the spring breeze pulls the blossoms off the tree boughs.

The ladies enjoyed my BBQ spread as much as I enjoyed making it for ‘em. It was a pleasant spring hanami for us after all.

Still Cocos After All These Years

The Rising Family is discriminating when eating out. Due to a finicky collective palate, there is usually only one unanimous choice: the Cocos restaurant chain. We are proud “Cocos achievers” and have been since Lady E. was born (see Eatin' Out, Elena Style).

Entering the restaurant, the welcome chime triggers Pavlovian gushes of saliva. Next, a bouquet of singed meat, boiling pasta and the buzz of young hormones emanating off the wait staff assaults your nose. The paisley-themed carpet stains invite the eye as you navigate the minefield of wandering toddlers. Sitting down, the menu is duly presented with a flourish by the consistently nervous-looking server (pimples optional). They seem to sense the coming cleanup of spilled drinks and the inevitable detritus of broken crayons and half-chewed food that accumulates under our table. 

In an ironic rejection of Michelin-guide snobs who revel in tablecloths, soft lighting, and chic décor,  Cocos eschews the posturing of two-stars. Fittingly, we focus our taste buds on the Cocos special du jour for kids—usually a splat of spaghetti, a glurt of curry and rice, or the hamburger-thingy platter drowning in demi-glace. This restaurant has something for all tastes! However, it is more cordon blow than Cordon Bleu.

To be fair, Coco's is a nationwide chain of family-oriented restaurants that offers a wide range of dishes including hamburgers, spaghetti, pizza and doria (rice casserole with white sauce). The hard buns never lie. The all-you-can-drink bay of beverages never runs dry. The clientele? There is has a palpable esprit du corps among the variously haggard, harried, enraged and/or despondent-looking parents as they deal with their offspring.

And the best thing: no tips! (Admittedly, this is the case throughout Japan.)

Ambiance? Check. Competitively priced? Check. Palatable food? Check minus. Such is our fine dining experience with two small kids. C’est la vie de la famille.

Mother Nature is a Shitter

Woke up this morning to find the city blanketed in snow. First words that came to mind were “the shitters.” This is the first substantial snowfall this year, and it comes at the end of February? What’s up with that, Mother Nature? Why are you messing with us like this?

For those who have read Stephen King’s “Christine”, you know what I am talking about: today, Mother Nature was a shitter.

Van Dyked

It was about ten minutes before eight on a Monday, and I was wedged into the commuter train with the other passengers so tightly I literally could not move my arms. I had navigated sleety roads to the train station--cold out, no coffee yet--and I was heading into the office facing a tough week ahead. I made a colossal mistake in my iPod choice for the train ride: a Johnny Cash cover of Nine InchNails’ “Hurt”:

I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real

It was that kind of morning.

Stay with me here, people. We all face these bleak early mornings like this from time-to-time, and I know I ride the same philosophical train that billions of others do. My point?  It’s what happened next.

I disembarked the train and elbowed my way through the jostling crowd, cutting through the streams of passengers blocking my path, and distractedly stroked my goatee. The bristles reminded me that my way of clearing the dark clouds of February was growing a goatee for the month. I’ve been doing this for the past few years, and it’s become a habit. The question is why? The first time I grew it prompted repeated comments from co-workers and friends, and I suppose I like(d) the attention. But I also enjoy the temporary nature of my goatee: I shave it off, without fail, at the end of February. The finality of the act puts February behind me, signaling the end of winter.

Plus, a little hair on the face seems to give men a little predator chic. Rougher. Meaner? I’m unsure as to the sociological origins of not shaving a part of my face. I have been striving to leech a little badass, an evil-Mr.-Spock vibe, but I suspect I come off more like Pres. Lincoln the day after a bender. Regardless, I still feel the addition of a goatee adds a bit of spice to an otherwise bland month.

As I was mulling over the words for this post, I did some trolling on the Net and discovered that my “goatee” is technically called a Van Dyke. This means I have been mistakenly defining the hair on my face for years. A fit allegory for the past couple of weeks.