Tokyo festivals

Last weekend, Tokyo residents celebrated the summer with (at least) two area festivals. . . and as one was in my former neighbourhood and one in the current one, I went to both. I have never seen more food than at the first one (in my old neighbourhood)! There was every kind of food imaginable, from noodles to octopus, kebabs to fried rice, (literally rice that was fried, on a stick!), kakigoori (shaved ice with syrup on top) to Japanese wines, champagne and beer. There was Turkish food and Egyptian food and Indian food, Italian food, even Sri Lankan food!

My new friend O'Rhi with her well-deserved noodles! Octopus!
The Sri Lankan food stall!
We found the Dom Perignon stall!

The second festival, the Koenji Awa-odori, was completely different. Okia and I walked down to the far end of the market street in our neighbourhood and settled down. Pretty soon, people started lining up. And then, the dances began. I watched enthralled as old and young, men and women, dressed in various traditional Japanese costumes, travelled down the street, dancing in formation, playing instruments and calling out the traditional chants.

Okia waiting for the dances to begin

Geta

Published authors

I wandered into a bookshop during lunchtime today in search of a guide book for my trip this weekend (yes, I'm actually venturing outside of Tokyo-- yaay! But more on that later) I stopped in front of the shelf displaying the latest arrivals. . . and what do you know? There, sitting on the shelf, was Gio's new book.

And, right below it was the book that Pendio edited.

It was very strange. How does one go all one's life without knowing ANY of the authors of any of the multitude of books displayed in a bookstore, and then suddenly, in one day, find that one knows TWO of them (and interviewed a third)?!?! Weird, I tell you!

I felt a prick of pride, particularly on seeing Gio's book. I've been receiving vague updates on its progress for the past few years, so to actually see the finished product, so prominently displayed, gave me goosebumps. With a huge grin that I couldn't wipe off my face, I picked it up, read the introduction, flipped through it, and debated whether my wallet could bear the dent buying it would leave. In the end, I didn't. I think I might still buy it (and yes, read it!) despite my woeful lack of knowledge about (and interest in:() the subject.

And now, methinks, maybe it's time to write my own. What say you, good reader? Actually, I have sort of thought about it (well, in the vague way that one would consider climbing Mount Fuji--which, incidentally, I'm also contemplating doing. . .sigh, I've such high hopes for my life). I even have the makings of an idea for a book--although even the thought of pursuing it makes me want to go take a nap. Only problem (or I guess I should say, one of many problems). . . I have the attention span of a comatose grasshopper. So whether I could finish writing an entire book is highly questionable. And even if I managed to miraculously plough through one, all the waiting around for publication would be enough to drive me to the madhouse. So maybe not? I can always live vicariously. I'm sure Gio has quite a few more books up his sleeve. . .

Where's the Harry Potter magic?

After witnessing the frenzy that was the release of the final Harry Potter book, I figured I should find out for myself what the big deal was. So I finally went and got Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone -- yes, yes, I confess I am just now reading the first one. The Harry Potter phenomenon too has managed to completely pass me by . . . I do indeed live under a rock.

I'm almost at the end of it and I must say. . . I DON'T GET IT! I don't see what the hype is all about! I've read The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings several times and loved both (I even confess to shedding a few tears while reading the latter) . And I've been known to read random children's books well into (and past) my teens, just for kicks. So you would think that I'd be well on my way to heading up the Tokyo Harry Potter Fan Club.

But sadly, the most I can say for Harry Potter is. . . meh. The descriptions are vivid, the plot has held my attention and it has an element of suspense. I concede that it's above average. But I can't for the life of me see what makes it the worldwide phenomenon it has become. I've looked and looked, hoping the magic (heh heh) would emerge with each turn of the page, but haven't had any joy so far. And I am convinced there must be far better books lurking in obscurity in the world of children's literature that are more worthy of the attention this series has garnered.

I will probably continue to read the rest of the books in the series, because I still hope to find the magic ingredient (heh heh heh) . . . and because I'm obsessive compulsive like that. But I don't know. . .

I am well aware that this is tantamount to sacrilege in the Harry Potter world and that I am liable to be stoned to death by die-hard fans. But I am willing to brave the consequences and confess -- my name is Ini and I can't get into Harry Potter.

Teh LOLCATS complation video

I just had to post this. Laugh away!!

Suffocating. . .

There are times when all I want to do is curl up into a ball and go to sleep and not wake up until the thick cloud clinging to me and hovering around me disintegrates and I can actually breathe again. This is one of those times.


I'll be back.

Photo courtesy of Half Moon Imaging

Where have all the endorphins gone?

I have been on a health kick for the past couple of months -- going running almost every morning, taking care to eat (relatively) healthy food (the last time I so much as looked at a pizza was about six weeks ago) and in smallish amounts. These phases descend on me from time to time. Unfortunately, they don't last very long, so I try to make the best of them when I am still caught up in them.

The weird thing, though, is that I find myself in a constant state of annoyance and irritability during these times. Which I find perplexing. Because, isn't exercise supposed to make you feel BETTER? Aren't those endorphin thingies that the brain releases during and after exercise supposed to increase your sense of wellbeing? In my case, it seems like the opposite happens.

Take last night, for instance. I went to bed in a slightly better mood than I've been for the past few days. But as I tossed and turned, I managed to have a mini-inner tantrum, thinking about various things, situations that bug me but are not entirely tragic or life-altering. I got so worked up that I even composed a blog entry, mostly about my work situation, which has served to enhance my prolonged crabbiness (who knows, I might even end up posting it the next time my annoyance level rises -- yikes!) The result -- I couldn't fall asleep, which made me wake up in an even worse mood today, get annoyed at the smallest things at work, and feel even worse.

Sigh! It's a vicious circle! Maybe I should go back to sleeping in and eating junk food. After all, aren't chubby people supposed to be jolly?

An eighth Harry Potter book . . . from China!

Harry Potter fans bemoaning the end of the series. . . cheer up! There's an eight book being written--in China.

I got a kick out of this story about fake Harry Potter books burgeoning in China. (I know it's a serious problem, but it's still pretty funny!) Apparently some of the knockoffs are better than the original version!! Wonder how Rowling feels about that!

What is the seventh Potter book called in China?
By Howard W. French
Tuesday, July 31, 2007

SHANGHAI: Chinese readers could not wait for the official release of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows," the much anticipated seventh and concluding book in the series, a little more than a week ago. And they did not have to.

A book with the same title came out a full 10 days before the official worldwide English-language release on July 21 — a wholly unauthorized version that bears nothing in common with the instant best seller written by J. K. Rowling.

The iterations of Potter fraud and imitation here are, in fact, so copious they must be peeled back layer by layer.

There are the books, like the phony seventh novel, that masquerade as works written by Rowling. There are the copies of the genuine items, in both English and Chinese, scanned, reprinted, bound and sold for a fraction of the authorized texts.

As in some other countries, there are the unauthorized translations of real Harry Potter books, as well as books published under the imprint of major Chinese publishing houses, about which the publishers themselves say they have no knowledge. And there are the novels by budding Chinese writers hoping to piggyback on the success of the series — sometimes only to have their fake Potters copied by underground publishers who, naturally, pay them no royalties.

No one can say with any certainty what the full tally is, but there are easily a dozen unauthorized Harry Potter titles on the market here already, and that is counting only bound versions that are sold on street corners and can even be found in school libraries. Still more versions exist online.

These include "Harry Potter and the Half-Blooded Relative Prince," a creation whose name in Chinese closely resembles the title of the genuine sixth book by Rowling, as well as pure inventions that include "Harry Potter and the Hiking Dragon," "Harry Potter and the Chinese Empire," "Harry Potter and the Young Heroes," "Harry Potter and Leopard-Walk-Up-to-Dragon," and "Harry Potter and the Big Funnel."

Some borrow little more than the names of Rowling's characters, lifting plots from other well-known authors, like J. R. R. Tolkien, or placing the famously British protagonist in plots lifted from well-known kung-fu epics and introducing new characters from Chinese literary classics like "Journey to the West."

Here, the global Harry Potter publishing phenomenon has mutated into something altogether Chinese: a combination of remarkable imagination and startling industriousness, all placed in the service of counterfeiting, literary fraud and copyright violation.

Wang Lili, editor of the China Braille Publishing House, which published "Harry Potter and the Chinese Porcelain Doll" in 2002, one of the Chinese knockoffs, said: "We published the book out of a very common incentive. Harry Potter was so popular that we wanted to enjoy the fruits of its widely accepted publicity in China."

The attitude reflected in Wang's comment goes a long way toward explaining not only the explosion of unauthorized Harry Potter literature in China, but also the much larger problem of rampant piracy in China, where travelers can find six different knockoffs of Viagra, without prescription, on display at airport drugstores, and where bootleg DVDs, fake Picassos, and even near-identical copies of famous-brand automobiles are widely available.

China has recently stepped up efforts to rein in the production, and especially the export, of fraudulent and substandard goods in the wake of scandals concerning exports of contaminated food and a dangerous drug additive. Authors and editors say, though, that cleaning up the worlds of literature and publishing is, at best, an afterthought.

Wei Bin, editor of the Writers' Publishing House, which investigates book piracy, said that his group's last survey in 2001 showed that as many as 30 to 40 percent of the books for sale in China might be illegal.

"The focus of the government is not to fight against piracy," Wei said. "It seems they fight harder for banned publications, like pornography, political books, such as things written about the leadership, the government, and historical matters like the Cultural Revolution, and the Anti-Rightist Campaign.

"They maintain tight control over such things, but as literary books, such as the ones we identify as being pirated, when we report the matter to the relevant authorities, they settle matters by leaving them unsettled."

Neil Blair, a solicitor at the Christopher Little Literary Agency in London, which represents Rowling, said the company was investigating reports of piracy and preparing to take action through its local lawyers and Chinese publishers and with the help of law enforcement officials in China.

"Some of these examples seem to suggest that J. K. Rowling actually wrote the books," Blair said, speaking of the fake books. "It is possible that people might buy those believing them to be part of the series, and obviously they'd be disappointed. "

An Boshun, the editor of one of the best-selling works of Chinese fiction in recent years, "Wolf Totem" (whose author has maintained anonymity), said there were at least 15 million fake copies of that novel in circulation here, compared with 2 million legal ones.

"I once even got a call from someone who said that he represented two pirate-book businessmen and they wanted him to say thanks to me for my work," An said. "They wanted me to know that 'Wolf Totem' had brought many job opportunities to country folks working in printing shops in Hebei and Shandong Provinces."

Some homegrown "Harry Potter" authors are also unabashed about their forays into publishing.
One such writer is a manager at a Shanghai textile factory named Li Jingsheng. "I bought Harry Potter 1 through 6 for my son a couple of years ago, and when he finished reading them, he kept asking me to tell him what happens next," he explained. "We couldn't wait, so I began making up my own story and in May last year, I typed it up on my computer. I had to get up early and go to bed late to write this novel, usually spending one hour, from 6 to 7 in the morning and 10 to 11 in the evening to write it."

The result was "Harry Potter and the Showdown," a 250,000-word novel, the final version of which he placed recently on Web sites, followed by a notice saying he was looking for publishers. The book quickly logged 150,000 readers on a popular Chinese site, Baidu.com's Harry Potter fan Web page.

"This is fantastic," Gu Guaiguai, an admiring reader, wrote online about "Showdown." "I wonder if Rowling would bother to continue to write if she had read it."

Another reader was even more breathless. "You are the pride of our Harry Potter fans," he wrote, adding, "We expect you to go on and write Harry Potter number eight," which Li has in fact already begun.

For all the reader enthusiasm, no publishers contacted Li, a 35-year-old high school graduate who grew up in rural Henan Province and said that he and his wife, who works at the same factory, together make about $600 a month.

That didn't stop his book from turning up for sale in a bound version on the streets of Beijing, Tianjin, Dalian and Shenzhen under the imprint of the People's Literature Publishing House, the official publisher of the Harry Potter series in China, which says it had nothing to do with the printing of "Showdown."

"You are not supposed to use the name of Harry Potter anywhere else other than J. K. Rowling's own books," said Sun Shunlin, director for business development of the publishing house.
Not all book editors hew to this strict interpretation of copyright, however. Lu Jia, whose Ba Shu publishing company acknowledges printing one knockoff, "Harry Potter and the Chinese Empire," a few years ago, initially said she did not wish to discuss Harry Potter. "It had problems of intellectual property violations," she said.

Moments later, though, Lu spoke almost wistfully about the experience. "Everything would have been fine if they hadn't made the cover so obvious, even if you copied some sections of the original story," she said. "But the cover was so outstanding, and foreign people care a lot about things like that."

Help Rizana Nafeek

Some of you may have heard of the case of the Sri Lankan teenager who has been sentenced to be beheaded in Saudi Arabia on charges that she murdered a four-month old baby left in her care. The baby allegedly choked to death while the girl, Rizana Nafeek, 19, was feeding him. Here is an article about the recent developments.

My heart goes out to the family of the baby who died. . . I truly believe that there's nothing worse for a parent than the death of a child. But taking the life of someone who made a heart-breaking mistake won't undo the tragedy and the wrongs that have already happened.

Please add your voice to calls to the baby's family and the Saudi government to pardon Rizana and spare her life. The east of Sri Lanka has already been ravaged by the war and tsunami and much loss and suffering. This is a heart-breaking fate to befall someone who wanted a better life for herself and her family.
An Amnesty International letter with addresses to send to.

A letter drafted by the Asian Human Rights Commission asking the baby's family to pardon her.

An online petition.

Strange encounter

Disclaimer: If you read this and think "Oh Puhleeze," allow me to assure you that I am in full agreement. This "episode" (for lack of a better word) takes on some minor significance only because of my reaction to it. Ok, now that you've read this, you HAVE to read the rest of the post! :)

For the past few weeks, I have been waking up early to go running in a park some distance from my apartment. The park, unfortunately, is far enough away that I spend considerably more time running TO it than actually IN it. I've been trying to find shorter ways to get there and have been making some progress in this quest, shortening the route to it by a little each today. Today, I managed to find the shortest.

On my way back, however, I miscalculated how far I was from the turn that would take me back home, and ended up turning too early. The result: my unfailing ability to get myself lost on the simplest of routes kicked in. I soon found myself completely turned around, lost in a web of tiny residential streets, with about five minutes left to get home to make it to work on time.

I began jogging toward the end of a small deserted street, in the general direction of where I thought I needed to be headed -- deserted, that is, except for the figure of a woman standing a few yards from where the road ended and another road ran across horizontally across it. The woman looked to be in her late 60s, with a noticeable bald patch on her head, dressed in a long skirt and a cardigan. What struck me, and sent a sudden chill through my body, was the way she stood -- shock still, erect and watchful, smack in the middle of the left side of the street, not off to the side as one normally would. She seemed to be watching for someone, and for a moment, I thought perhaps she was awaiting someone behind me. . . only, there was no one.

As I jogged towards her, she looked directly at me and bowed deeply -- like only the politest of Japanese waiters would. I smiled a little uneasily and continued on about half a minute past her. Discovering that the area was no more familiar than the place I'd traveled away from, I turned around to ask her for directions. . . only to find the road completely deserted. I looked toward the building, an old house, she'd been standing in front of, but there was no sign of anyone stirring.

I continued on, looking over my shoulder occasionally, trying to tell myself that my reaction was the result of one too many ghost stories around the campfire in which passersby saw lone women standing on the street, only to turn around and find them gone. But the uneasiness and the strange clamminess I'd felt upon first seeing her continued to disturb me.

I found my way eventually and sprinted home. My quick shower failed to dispel my nervousness, and even in my apartment, I continued to glance around me as I got ready. It was only when I reached the busy main street that I managed to calm down. And unbelievably silly though my reaction seems (she probably was a sleepwalking housewife), I do wonder. . .

Another first

I was deeply engrossed in producing an interview about an IPO in Hong Kong (ok, so maybe "deeply engrossed" is pushing it a bit) when Ed II suddenly looked up from his computer. "Did you feel that?"

I clicked on the pause button on the video player, looked up at him and frowned. It was Umi no Hi, or Sea Day, a national holiday in Japan, and we had a full load of work with a skeleton team of two producers and one editor. I was geared up to be a production machine and wasn't in the mood for interruptions. "Feel what?"

"That's an earthquake," he replied calmly, grinning widely at being the one to enlighten -- and shock -- the novice.

"What? Really?" I ripped off my headphones, and channeled all my energy into feeling whatever he had felt. Nothing. I was just about to pooh pooh his claim and dismiss the silliness of calling a barely-felt tremor an earthquake when suddenly, I felt myself sway.

I gaped at him. "Oh my gosh!" I rushed to the window, a little wobbly on my feet, as if I was on a boat on a somewhat turbulent sea. Not too shaky, but definitely not firm. And then it stopped. Outside, people on the street 21 floors below looked like multicoloured bugs, enjoying the day off and the atypical bright blue sky and warm sunshine. Nothing seemed amiss. I would have thought I had imagined it, if not for Ed II.

Still in shock, I was walking back to my desk when the building began to sway again. This was definitely disconcerting, this enormous 50-floor mass of concrete, metal and glass moving as if it was a mere twig on a tree branch. I sank into my chair still in shock, just as the headline flashed: "Earthquake shakes buildings in Central Tokyo" -- there's certainly nothing like experiencing the news as it happens.

Over the next few minutes, more headlines moved: "Earthquake is centered near Noto Peninsula on Japan Sea" and "Earthquake near Niigata, Japan, has magnitute of 6.6, NHK says." Niigata is nowhere near Tokyo, which made the fact that we had felt it here all the more irksome. I couldn't imagine the people in Niigata.

More stories came up over the next few hours, including one about a fire at a nuclear power plant in Niigata, and reports of between two and four deaths caused by the quake.

And then it was back to life as usual, at least in Tokyo. Which fits in with the general view of earthquakes here. When I first moved here, I was shocked and a little disturbed by how matter-of-fact people here are about the possibility of one happening. Relocation and real estate agents calmly advise new-comers to arrange furniture in a way that ensures safe exit -- and avoids squashage -- during an earthquake. Instructions from the gas company guy about what to do with your appliances during an earthquake are part of the service. Each ward has earthquake emergency procedures in place and designated evacuation sites. Not really surprising for one of the most earthquake-prone countries in the world. But not especially comforting either -- preparedness has its benefits, but it is also a constant reminder that one could happen at any time.

And now that I think about it, I really don't know what to do or where to go in an earthquake. That might be a problem. Particularly since Ed II just informed me that Tokyo itself is about 20 years overdue for the mother of all quakes.

Any hope for me?

I came across this article in the International Herald Tribune this week, written by a Japanese woman who lived abroad for many years before returning to Japan. If she's having problems, I figure I'd better resign myself to being one of those rude, awkward "gaijin." At least I won't be the only one!

Meanwhile: Japan's subtle etiquette code
By Kumiko Makihara
Tuesday, July 10, 2007

TOKYO: Every day in Japan I face etiquette dilemmas.
My son returns from camp with another child's clothes. Do I ship them back dirty, which seems sort of mean, or do I launder them, which would cause the owner to lose face?

My neighbor tells me to leave my phone number in her letter box if I want to occasionally receive baked goods from her. It seems forward of me to leave her my number, but I don't want to ignore her request.

I'm in a crowded train, and my nose is running. Blowing is considered disgusting here, but the alternative is disgusting to me.

From the proper degree of a bow (15 to 45 degrees depending on occasion) to how a lady eats a rice cracker (broken by hand into bite size pieces with handkerchief on lap), a complex and subtle etiquette code dictates the proper way to do everything in Japan.

Japanese embrace the rules because following them assures there will be no offensive or embarrassing moments. My parents implanted the code into me from childhood, warning that I would be shunned if I didn't learn the protocol. But my reflexes are rusty from having lived abroad for many years.

Judging from the large section of manners books at my local bookstore, I'm not the only lost, rude soul. Increased social interaction and new technology like cellphones and computers have diversified scenarios giving rise to more rules and a big demand for the latest etiquette guides. Last year, long-time former bureaucrat Mariko Bando set out to write a book on how professional women could maintain their emotional dignity in a male-dominated workplace, but her publishers urged her to cover etiquette tips like attire, manners and polite language. She complied, and "Dignity of a Woman" has become a best seller.

Manners books traditionally focused on "kan kon sou sai" - literally meaning the rites of coming of age - weddings, funerals and ancestor worship. Now they offer titles like "PTA Dictionary for Getting Along with Others and Writing Notes," which tells you how to inform the teacher that your child has to sit out gym class or how to wiggle out of committee duties. A letter-writing guide offers tips on composing an apology note to a store where you have shoplifted two packs of gum and some AA batteries, (express deep remorse even if the items are small) and declining an offer for a second hand piano (blame it on a scatterbrained child who now wants to take swimming instead).

It doesn't all end in this lifetime either. Funeral preparation books offer pointers on how to be well-regarded after death.

Want to make a phone call? I found four books on the store shelf devoted exclusively to phone manners with tips like no walking and talking on a cellphone because the other party might detect a roughness of breath or hear your footsteps. If you buy the phone guide, you might need a language handbook, too, to guide you through the maze of honorifics. I was recently tongue-tied with confusion on the phone with my father's secretary when trying to tell her my father didn't need to call me back. I must use respectful forms when addressing her but humble language when referring to my father or myself.

There are plenty of etiquette guides for foreign visitors, but it's probably most important to try to do as others do instead of flaunting what you think you may know. On several occasions I've seen foreigners striking wooden chopsticks against each other, smug that they know how to smooth off any splinters. That's actually a crass gesture. These people probably don't know that there are more than 30 faux pas chopsticks maneuvers each with their proper term like sucking and wandering.
A likely infraction that is a topic of much discussion these days is applying makeup on trains. It's become a common sight to see young women drawing their eyeliner and brushing on mascara with great dexterity in crowded morning commuter trains. While critics say grooming is a private act that others don't wish to observe, "there are still no rules for anonymous situations," says Bando.

I'm still trying to get my bearings back, and my current strategy is to overcompensate. I laundered and ironed the scraggly camp clothes and took a gift with me when I presented my neighbor with my phone number. On the packed train, I dabbed my nose and swallowed the rest. All for the sake of politesse.

Kumiko Makihara is a freelance writer based in Tokyo.

Grace. . .

I watched Dead Man Walking today. Not intentionally. I was flipping through channels, trying to find something that would entertain me for half an hour before I got down to some serious Japanese studying. I stopped when I realized what the movie was, and, although I told myself I wasn't in the mood for something so serious, I couldn't change the channel.

As the movie progressed, I kept asking myself what I would have done if I had been in Sr. Helen Prejean's place. . . would I have stood by the wholly unlikeable, somewhat sleazy, unrepentant Matthew Poncelet who was accused of (and denied until the end) raping one and brutally murdering two teenagers, or would I have turned my back on him? I knew all too well what the answer would have been. Even if something in the man had moved me to stand by him when all others had turned away, it wouldn't have lived for long past the hurt and accusation in the eyes of the teens' parents when they realized a woman of God was taking the side of their children's murderer. I would have changed sides pretty quickly -- and no doubt I would have seemed right to do so.

But I would also have lost the opportunity to help save at least one soul. Because at the end of it all, it was Sr. Helen's persistence in showing love to a convicted murderer, despite all other opposition, including his admission of guilt, that brought both him and his victims' families to at least some understanding of grace -- him to tearfully acknowledge his guilt and need for forgiveness, and them to realize how much courage it takes to extend, if reluctantly and bitterly, that forgiveness.

At Poncelet's funeral, one of the teenagers' fathers approaches Sr. Helen and tells her wistfully, "I wish I had your faith."

"No," she responds. "It's not faith. I wish it were that easy. It's work."

And so it is. Faith motivates us to do the hard and unpleasant work needed to give it meaning, to make others look at us and see something different, something that they want others to see in themselves. Fraternising with prostitutes and tax collectors didn't improve Jesus' reputation or make his social life any easier. But he knew that they, despite their hard exteriors, were the ones that needed someone to reach out to them, to care for them, the most.

And so it is today. It is the office gossip, the school reject, the town grouch, those who seem to deserve the least, who need the most. I've realized that, these days, my idea of extending grace to someone I don't particularly like is to avoid them (after all, if I stay away, I avoid confrontation and keep from making our relationship any worse. . . that's grace of a sort, right?) But not doing harm isn't equivalent to doing good. Not by a long shot. Reaching out and taking a stand for those who seem undeserving of and ungrateful for our love is hard, thankless, heartbreaking work. But those who persevere will be rewarded in the end. . . and the reward may take on unexpected shapes and sizes.

The latest challenge. . . wi-fi

So I finally got tired of tripping over all the cable wires and the power wires surging out of various electrical appliances. I also realized that I was sorely missing my wireless router. So last week, off I went to good ol' Bic Camera (the equivalent of Comp USA/Best Buy/Circuit City etc). I've wandered through the store enough times now to have a pretty decent idea of what's where (and the chart that shows what's on each floor is in English too. . . yaay!)

So I ambled up to the third floor, unusually confident and excited at the thought of doing away with at least one of the tiresome wires. I was a bit thrown when I got to the signs that read wireless LAN and wired routers (since I was looking for a wireless router) and decided to go with the wireless LAN option (I really should get more tech-savvy). I walked over to the shelves, and stared at the boxes, with all the vital information marked clearly. . . in Japanese. It just would have been too easy otherwise. With I sigh, I began picking up boxes, trying to decipher from the little pictures and the very few numbers which was the right one. (I would have asked for help but I've come to notice that at Bic Camera, all the sales people around me seem to mysteriously disappear when I turn around to ask for something!) I finally settled on one, shuffled over to pay for it and headed on home.

Exhausted with the effort of finding the router, I decided to put up with the wires for another couple of days until the weekend. So it was that on Saturday, I awoke refreshed and ready to tackle the daunting task of setting up my wireless router.

And four hours later, I was no nearer to a solution. The closest I came was to the panels that appeared to show that my computer was recognizing the router and was trying to set it up. At first, this pleased me immensely. But the process was so slow and my computer took so long to download each page that I realized (slightly late) that I might have gotten a router that was too slow. And when, after the first few panels, the characters on my screen began to look different from the ones in the instructions, I gave up in frustration, packed the router back in its box and hooked the wires back up.

Now all I need is to go back to the elusive store assitants, explain why I'm returning the router after I'd opened the box, and find the correct one. . . all in sign language.

Witty and charming, or annoying and obnoxious?

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:(

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).

View from the mono-rail to Odaiba

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

Sunset over Tokyo Bay

Found it!

I have discovered BBC World on my TV at work. All is well with the world again. . .

After a long day. . .

Okia enjoying my new recliner after a long day of furniture building. . .
Exhausted Ini putting our handiwork to good use

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.

"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!!)

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.