In my years of fighting my (sometimes extreme) introvert-ism (is that a word?) I have noticed something unfortunate. . . it is when I try hardest to impress someone or be liked that I am at my most annoying and obnoxious. I get nervous and say stupid things and the things that sounded witty and cute in my head come out sounding like complete rubbish. And I realize in horror, as the words spill out of my mouth, that the object of my fruitless attempts to please is looking at me with a look that says something akin to "Are those words really coming out of your mouth?" or "Are you really that stupid?" or "I REALLY don't like you" or something to that effect.
Sigh, readers. I'm afraid Ini has bombed yet again:(
Friday, June 29, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Daytrip to Odaiba
Jion-Empire flew in from Seoul to spend the week in Tokyo, and stayed with me all of last week. And as much as I love living alone, I enjoyed the company, and the reunion with yet another fellow Columbia J-school sufferer and survivor. Okia, J-E and I headed to Odaiba on Saturday, peeking into a few shops in the mall, and then making a beeline for the beach, where we spent the day chatting lazily, and enjoying the absence of the rain that was predicted. One thing that never ceases to amaze me about Tokyo is how pleasant and clean it is -- I keep expecting to suddenly stumble upon the filth that pervaded NYC, all hidden away to be revealed only after my initiation into this city -- and how breathtakingly stunning parts of it are . . . (while Odaiba is not exactly in the center of the city, it is not far from it by any means. . . and many of these photos were taken mere minutes from the city center).
Reinbō Burijji (Rainbow Bridge) from the mono-rail
Okia and J-E on the beach
Okia and me in the artificial tunnel where the restaurant we had dinner was located
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Monday, June 18, 2007
After a long day. . .
Okia enjoying my new recliner after a long day of furniture building. . .
Exhausted Ini putting our handiwork to good use
Exhausted Ini putting our handiwork to good use
Monday, June 11, 2007
Lessons in humility
In the 39 days I've been in Japan, and before that, I've often wondered why God decided to send me here. I'm sure there are several reasons, but as time passes, I've come to recognize one in particular.
I'm one of those people who, when deciding between struggling through something on their own for 30 minutes and doing it easily in 10 by asking for help, will choose the former. But I'm realizing that that's not easily accomplished in a country where I feel illiterate and incomprehensible most of the time. For instance, no matter how long I stare at a row of coloured liquids in similar bottles in a supermarket, I'm not going to have a revelation about which of them is the hand soap I want. And no matter how much time I spend "umm"ing and "aah"ing and "hai"ing on the phone with the gas company guy, the words coming out of his mouth aren't suddenly going to start making sense to me. . . or vice versa.
And so, out of necessity, I've started to humble myself. I've started to deal with the possibility that I might indeed look stupid if I'm holding a bottle that's, to the shop assistant, clearly labeled "soy sauce" and ask (in Japanese) "Is this soy sauce?" I'm getting used to constantly asking for directions, mostly by gesturing wildly, despite the possibility that the bewildered expression on my face might elicit a helpless one on response. And I'm getting used to asking Okia 17 times a day to call the cable company to set up an appointment, or to come over when the gas company guy is expected so she can translate for me (Poor Okia, she's spent almost every weekend since I got here with me, acting as translator, tour guide and furniture-building-helper. . . and now I'm moving 10 minutes away from her!)
I'm still not comfortable with asking for help and acknowledging my helplessness, feminine charm notwithstanding. But it's not a matter of comfort. It's a matter of swallowing my pride and being ok with sometimes looking and feeling stupid. I often feel overwhelmed and helpless and completely drained from the sheer effort of living in a place where I can't even read a label or fill out a simple form on my own. But I am slowly learning to live with that. And looking forward to the day when it finally all starts to make sense.
I'm one of those people who, when deciding between struggling through something on their own for 30 minutes and doing it easily in 10 by asking for help, will choose the former. But I'm realizing that that's not easily accomplished in a country where I feel illiterate and incomprehensible most of the time. For instance, no matter how long I stare at a row of coloured liquids in similar bottles in a supermarket, I'm not going to have a revelation about which of them is the hand soap I want. And no matter how much time I spend "umm"ing and "aah"ing and "hai"ing on the phone with the gas company guy, the words coming out of his mouth aren't suddenly going to start making sense to me. . . or vice versa.
And so, out of necessity, I've started to humble myself. I've started to deal with the possibility that I might indeed look stupid if I'm holding a bottle that's, to the shop assistant, clearly labeled "soy sauce" and ask (in Japanese) "Is this soy sauce?" I'm getting used to constantly asking for directions, mostly by gesturing wildly, despite the possibility that the bewildered expression on my face might elicit a helpless one on response. And I'm getting used to asking Okia 17 times a day to call the cable company to set up an appointment, or to come over when the gas company guy is expected so she can translate for me (Poor Okia, she's spent almost every weekend since I got here with me, acting as translator, tour guide and furniture-building-helper. . . and now I'm moving 10 minutes away from her!)
I'm still not comfortable with asking for help and acknowledging my helplessness, feminine charm notwithstanding. But it's not a matter of comfort. It's a matter of swallowing my pride and being ok with sometimes looking and feeling stupid. I often feel overwhelmed and helpless and completely drained from the sheer effort of living in a place where I can't even read a label or fill out a simple form on my own. But I am slowly learning to live with that. And looking forward to the day when it finally all starts to make sense.
Friday, June 08, 2007
"Serious blog" alert!
I've posted an article on my serious blog. I'd almost given up on that blog, but came across an article that had me INCENSED and had to comment. Please read and let me know what you think (even if you disagree with me. . . I'm far from impartial!!)
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Tokyo, Tokyo. . .
I came across this article about Tokyo while trying to figure out the best mode of transport to go from my current accomodation to my future one. It's pretty interesting, and, I have to agree with the author about both the chaos of street layouts and building numbers , and the absolute discipline of the Tokyo "underground." It is, nevertheless, the most organized, disciplined and "perfect" place I've ever been to--I'd love to see a subway brawl here, just to know that it can happen here too!
Robert Fulford's column about Tokyo taxi drivers from The Globe and Mail
If you hail a taxi on the streets of Tokyo, the first surprise is the back door: it's controlled from the driver's seat, and swings open magically before you can reach the handle. Other surprises follow. Lace doilies cover the seats. The driver wears a tie and a white shirt, and perhaps white gloves. Remarkably, doilies, shirt, and gloves always--in my experience, at least--seem to have just arrived from the laundry.
How that's accomplished is part of the mystique of the Tokyo cab driver, one of the unique figures of Japanese culture. In a status-conscious society, he's clearly aware that his status is not low. He presents himself to his customers with extreme gravitas, in the manner of a corporate financial officer. After all, he performs intensely demanding work.
Tokyo people keep anxiety at bay by erecting elaborate structures of space and time. The city runs on maps and timetables, time being regulated with astonishing precision. Ten years ago, on my first trip to Japan, I discovered that when the schedule says the Tokyo-Kyoto bullet train will arrive at 11:34 a.m., it never--barring castrophe--arrives at either 11:33 or 11:35. Once, when a friend of mine made that journey, floods caused a 20-minute delay; the conductor, mortified, walked slowly through the train, apologizing individually to each passenger. But I didn't know, till recently, that the same precision rules underground Tokyo. Subway stations have signs that tell you how long it takes to go from this station to any other on the same line. And (take it from one who ran a test) if the sign says the train will cover the six stations from Kasumigaseki to Shinjuku in 13 minutes, then that's how long it will take--not 12, and not 14.
But that's just underground Tokyo. On the surface, no such principles apply. Everyone must live with the historic chaos of the Tokyo street plan. Tokyo had two opportunities to reorganize its streets, after the vast destruction of the 1923 earthquake and after the 1945 firestorms created by American bombing. On both occasions, it retained the old system. So today, though it has few ancient buildings, the ghost of old Tokyo lives on in the street plan. The city's true character lies not in its vistas but in its layout: you grasp it by walking rather than looking.
Land developers must fit their buildings onto paths carved out by long-ago rice growers and sake brewers. It's like the tangle of Toronto's Rosedale, multiplied 10,000 times. Many streets have no names. Many buildings are numbered in the order in which they were built, so that No. 64 may stand next to No. 13.
This is the world in which the taxi driver reigns. In a cityscape designed by the mad or the eccentric or the merely absent-minded, he's a lonely rationalist.
Stepping into a taxi, a foreigner usually has a map, drawn by the host for the evening, labelled in Japanese as well as English. (Mapmaking is a Tokyo art form.) The driver, receiving it, switches on his light and begins examining it. He turns it upside down, looks at it sideways, turns it over to see whether there's information on the reverse. He compares it with his map book. I doubt that Martin Heidegger, studying Plato, ever looked more serious than this man preparing to journey across Tokyo.
The study time may be the most exciting part of the ride, as you wait breathlessly for the driver to decide where this place is and how to get there. Finally he issues a quiet and tentative "Hmmmuh," nods, and you are on your way.
One recent night we set out to hear a lecture at the Deutsches Institut für Japanstudien. The cab driver, following a meticulously prepared map, drove us to a grey building whose front displayed no word of identity, in English, Japanese, or German, and no number either. By a process of elimination, he had decided this must be the building. Yet even he wasn't positive, and he wasn't about to be responsible for leaving two poor foreigners marooned in the middle of Tokyo. So he leapt from his car, found the floor directory in the lobby, and came back, triumphant, to say the institute was on the second floor.
Half a dozen years ago, a cab driver of the utmost solemnity took my wife and me deep into the Tokyo suburbs, toward a house whose map we had given him. For the longest period, he couldn't find it. He had to stop several times to consult policemen. Finally he found it. We thanked him and he drove off. But that was not the last we saw of him. We had left two umbrellas, small and cheap, on the floor of his car, and half an hour later, having driven many miles before finding them, he was back at our host's house to return them. Of course, he accepted no tip. Tokyo cab drivers never do. They are professionals. You would no more tip a cab driver in Tokyo than tip a brain surgeon in Canada. And in Tokyo, no one seems to find any of this remarkable.
Robert Fulford's column about Tokyo taxi drivers from The Globe and Mail
If you hail a taxi on the streets of Tokyo, the first surprise is the back door: it's controlled from the driver's seat, and swings open magically before you can reach the handle. Other surprises follow. Lace doilies cover the seats. The driver wears a tie and a white shirt, and perhaps white gloves. Remarkably, doilies, shirt, and gloves always--in my experience, at least--seem to have just arrived from the laundry.
How that's accomplished is part of the mystique of the Tokyo cab driver, one of the unique figures of Japanese culture. In a status-conscious society, he's clearly aware that his status is not low. He presents himself to his customers with extreme gravitas, in the manner of a corporate financial officer. After all, he performs intensely demanding work.
Tokyo people keep anxiety at bay by erecting elaborate structures of space and time. The city runs on maps and timetables, time being regulated with astonishing precision. Ten years ago, on my first trip to Japan, I discovered that when the schedule says the Tokyo-Kyoto bullet train will arrive at 11:34 a.m., it never--barring castrophe--arrives at either 11:33 or 11:35. Once, when a friend of mine made that journey, floods caused a 20-minute delay; the conductor, mortified, walked slowly through the train, apologizing individually to each passenger. But I didn't know, till recently, that the same precision rules underground Tokyo. Subway stations have signs that tell you how long it takes to go from this station to any other on the same line. And (take it from one who ran a test) if the sign says the train will cover the six stations from Kasumigaseki to Shinjuku in 13 minutes, then that's how long it will take--not 12, and not 14.
But that's just underground Tokyo. On the surface, no such principles apply. Everyone must live with the historic chaos of the Tokyo street plan. Tokyo had two opportunities to reorganize its streets, after the vast destruction of the 1923 earthquake and after the 1945 firestorms created by American bombing. On both occasions, it retained the old system. So today, though it has few ancient buildings, the ghost of old Tokyo lives on in the street plan. The city's true character lies not in its vistas but in its layout: you grasp it by walking rather than looking.
Land developers must fit their buildings onto paths carved out by long-ago rice growers and sake brewers. It's like the tangle of Toronto's Rosedale, multiplied 10,000 times. Many streets have no names. Many buildings are numbered in the order in which they were built, so that No. 64 may stand next to No. 13.
This is the world in which the taxi driver reigns. In a cityscape designed by the mad or the eccentric or the merely absent-minded, he's a lonely rationalist.
Stepping into a taxi, a foreigner usually has a map, drawn by the host for the evening, labelled in Japanese as well as English. (Mapmaking is a Tokyo art form.) The driver, receiving it, switches on his light and begins examining it. He turns it upside down, looks at it sideways, turns it over to see whether there's information on the reverse. He compares it with his map book. I doubt that Martin Heidegger, studying Plato, ever looked more serious than this man preparing to journey across Tokyo.
The study time may be the most exciting part of the ride, as you wait breathlessly for the driver to decide where this place is and how to get there. Finally he issues a quiet and tentative "Hmmmuh," nods, and you are on your way.
One recent night we set out to hear a lecture at the Deutsches Institut für Japanstudien. The cab driver, following a meticulously prepared map, drove us to a grey building whose front displayed no word of identity, in English, Japanese, or German, and no number either. By a process of elimination, he had decided this must be the building. Yet even he wasn't positive, and he wasn't about to be responsible for leaving two poor foreigners marooned in the middle of Tokyo. So he leapt from his car, found the floor directory in the lobby, and came back, triumphant, to say the institute was on the second floor.
Half a dozen years ago, a cab driver of the utmost solemnity took my wife and me deep into the Tokyo suburbs, toward a house whose map we had given him. For the longest period, he couldn't find it. He had to stop several times to consult policemen. Finally he found it. We thanked him and he drove off. But that was not the last we saw of him. We had left two umbrellas, small and cheap, on the floor of his car, and half an hour later, having driven many miles before finding them, he was back at our host's house to return them. Of course, he accepted no tip. Tokyo cab drivers never do. They are professionals. You would no more tip a cab driver in Tokyo than tip a brain surgeon in Canada. And in Tokyo, no one seems to find any of this remarkable.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Sweet reunion:)
Weds and me!
Weds had an identical red tent that I couldn't bring with me. Okia and I went to Ikea (Okia went to Ikea. . . heehee) this weekend to buy my furniture (more on that later) and lo and behold. . . there was the red tent! So Okia bought it, took it home and promptly installed the little guy in it. Looks like he missed it too!
Pensive Weds!
Weds had an identical red tent that I couldn't bring with me. Okia and I went to Ikea (Okia went to Ikea. . . heehee) this weekend to buy my furniture (more on that later) and lo and behold. . . there was the red tent! So Okia bought it, took it home and promptly installed the little guy in it. Looks like he missed it too!
Pensive Weds!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
