The one where I'm wearing rose tinted specs

These past few weeks, I've been rushing around the streets of Nagoya achieving what in the real world west would amount to approximately jack shit. However this is Japan and a productive day is measured now by tiny triumphs of navigation and breakthroughs in communication.


For example, I'm sitting in my apartment this evening with a glowing sense of satisfaction. Why? I took the 20 min subway ride to Sakae, found (despite the best efforts of every local I questioned) the English language bookshop, and bought the study books I've been hankering after these past few days.

Right?

Fantastic, I know. A titanic effort. I couldn't be more proud.


Now, I sit here and a part of my brain is jumping up and down, pointing out how ridiculous that sounds. You bought some books? In a shop? The mind boggles.


OK, only a very small part of my brain is saying that. The rest is perfectly happy doting over my shiny bag of goodies. Having set the bar so low, life has been very simple for me. I've had a great time! Order a coffee and a sandwich? In Japanese? High five. Chat up the barmaid? In Japanese? Great. I can't lose. I hope that this giddy excitement lasts all year. Hell, I hope it stays with me when I eventually head back to Europe. You'll be the first to know when the rose tinted specs don't fit anymore, I promise.


Now, something interesting! 5 Things, actually. How exciting.


1 - "Perhaps, possibly, maybe..."


As I wandered from corner to corner, blindly turning left and right and left again, I stewed. Why can't I get a straight answer in this country!


When your naive protagonist cheerfully locked the door of his apartment that same morning he didn't think twice about such trivialities as maps or a street address.


I had taken maybe 2.5 seconds out of my morning coffee/cereal slurp to mash some half-assed queries into Google Maps. Satisfied that the red dot confirmed the existence of a bookstore somewhere in Nagoya, I closed the window and thought no more of it.


I mean, I can always ask directions when I'm near, right?


Wrong.


Thoroughly lost, I swaggered up to the parking attendant, ready to unleash a storm of well practised Japanese. Naturally, his face was a picture of pure horror as it slowly dawned on him that this Gaijin was making a beeline for him. He tried looking the other way, pretending he hadn't seen me, his mind in overdrive playing out all the terrifying possibilities my relentless approach might entail.

It was such a good day, until now.

"Excuse me, where's the nearest bookstore to here?" (translated)


Rather than putting him at ease, this banal request had the opposite effect. Clearly, he hand't the first clue where the nearest bookstore was. But was he going to admit that? No way! What ensued was a cringeworthy exchange during which I tried to extract a direct answer, while he danced around my clumsy interrogation with delicate nothing-statements such as "a bookshop, hmm", "there must be one nearby", "are you sure you're in the right area?" and, taking first place: "I think it's closed at this time".


Closed. Are you shitting me? It's 2pm on a thursday, and you're telling me the bookshop is fucking closed.

Fuck.

After a few rounds of this I finally got the point, thanked him profusely for wasting 5 precious minutes of my life, and moved on.


So I'm still getting used to this indirectness that plagues the Japanese. There are two sides to it. When you understand this game and it's subtleties, it would be clear as day when the parking attendant is just trying to say "I don't know, piss off" just with more bowing and smiling. Is my clumsy straight-talking just social Tourette's to them? Without a doubt. Is their roundabout prevaricating excruciating to the average westerner? Oh yeah. Who's right? Tough call. Give it 50 years and I doubt many traditional Japanese values will have survived the rampant westernisation that started at the turn of the last century.


So case closed, but for now I promise I'll put up, shut up, and print off a map next time.


Keep your ear to the ground for Part 2, in which I'll talk about who-knows-what for a little too long. Subway etiquette, fucking good sushi, partying salarymen and something else, I'm sure.

踊り海老 - Odori Ebi

Love it or loathe it, raw seafood is a key ingredient in much of Japan's traditional cuisine. I've long had no qualms at all about tucking in to these slippery little morsels of goodness. In fact, in the tired, naive arrogance of the self proclaimed 'seasoned' traveller, I thought myself impervious; unshockable - a veritable eating machine.

I once ate bull's testes, you know. Didn't blink. Cried a little. Crossed my legs all the while. Yada yada.

H's younger sister invited the two of us to dinner one night at a restaurant she had only recently resigned from. A little probing in my best Japanese (read: terrible Japanese) rewarded me with a cryptic non-answer as to why she had left, though she assured me they were on good terms. Encouraged that she had understood my question in the first place, I continued to assail her with a barrage of mediocre grammar and clumsy textbook phrases throughout the night.

And so it was that I sauntered up to the square wooden door set in the wall of the subway down from Nagoya central station. Solid as a rock, prepared for anything.

I paused, blinked. Now, it's my experience that things tend to get larger as you approach them. This door however clung stubbornly to proportions more suited to say, a hobbit, than a human being. I may be on the  tall side even for a westerner, teetering at 6'3", but if I told you this door came higher than my waist, I'd be lying.

Taken aback, I turned in askance to H and mini-H, who stood behind me looking terribly pleased with themselves. They pushed past and casually limboed down, under, through and in. All very well when you're scraping a very Nipponese 5'-nothing! I'd like to say I kept a small shred of my dignity as I contorted the lanky gangliness of my limbs through this entryway, but the raucous laughter that met me on the other side said otherwise.

Not to be discouraged, I shimmied my way to the table beaming my widest Gaijin grin, silently plotting sweet revenge on these twin tricksters. Needless to say, I would not leave with the last laugh that night.

"To the food!" you cry. Patience - first came the Umeshu, plum wine.

Check out those plumptious beauties floating at the bottom.

'Tasty' isn't even the half of it. I'd go so far as to say, 'really tasty'. I'm not going to fumble with any deep and erudite descriptions of this silky-sweet boozy goodness, but if you ever have a chance to try some, jump right at it. It's very much like a dessert wine or fruit liqueur (funnily enough) but with it's own special zing that comes from the unique Ume fruit (plum meets apricot). Too sweet? This particular restaurant also offered a blend of Umeshu and regular grape wine in red or white. Enough said.

Now a lot of the time, Japanese restaurants will offer up a description of each menu item in the easily deciphered Katakana characters. These characters are used for foreign-loan words - take トイレ, lit 'toh-ee-reh'. Yeah, you guessed it - means toilet. Or スケジュール, lit. soo-ke-jyuu-ruh, for 'schedule'. Much in the same way that in the UK, restaurants used to regale in offering up menus written in french, in Japan it's fashionable to write them in Katakana. Imagine my chagrin, then, as I found myself faced instead with a page of altogether more hostile Kanji (chinese) characters. The fuck-you vibe was palpable.

Naturally, I leant back and let the girls take charge. Naturally, this wasn't the week's best decision. After their earlier victory, H and her eager accomplice were determined to milk the evening for all the cheap titters they could get.

They jabbed eagerly at a page of the menu, all smiles, but their eyes glittered with malice. "Odori Ebi!" they exclaimed. Resigned, I shrugged and steeled myself with a generous gulp of wine.

The waiter brought forth an innocuous looking white dish, covered by a small plate which he gingerly set down between us. The girls regarded this with a mixture of fear and anticipation. "Jaa, kore wa eigo de nan desu ka?" I prompted. So, what's that called in English? After a quick look at the ceiling for confirmation, H replied:"dancing shrimp".

The plate rattled ominously.

I tentatively removed the cover to find my worst fears confirmed. Two fat Kuruma Shrimps (Japanese Tiger Prawns) squatted in a shallow pool of Sake, feelers wandering drunkenly. Let's call them Samantha and Thomas.

Sensitive readers, go no further.

Under the watchful eyes of H & co, I gripped my balls in one hand, and made a feeble jab at the drunkest looking prawn with the other. Samantha. To our (the prawn and my) surprise and horror, I got her first time. Now fully awake, she twisted to and fro, little legs pedalling manically. I closed my eyes and gripped her head in my other shaking hand, muttered a quick prayer, and pulled.

Murder!

"Fuck this" were the words that most likely went through the surviving crustacean's mind at this point. Time slowed down as I watched Thomas' herculean leap out of the bowl, over the wine glasses, past the menu racks and oh so close to the table's edge. My sluggish reflexes barely saved this delicacy from a final resting place on the restaurant floor. I juggled the desperate fugitive back to the bowl, and unceremoniously dispatched him.

Thoroughly traumatised, I had a long drink before getting to the equally challenging task of taking the remaining shell from the still wriggling corpses before me.

That said, they were so tasty, dipped in a blend of soy sauce and wasabi, that it made the whole macabre episode almost worth it. One small victory - expecting squeals and weeping, my coldblooded ruthlessness stunned the devious duo into silence and reverently muttered 'Sugoi!' (amazing). I'm never usually very modest, but I thought I'd milk that one.

Oh, and if that wasn't bad enough, the chef then whisks away the remains to return a little later with two deep fried prawn heads for our degustation. Charming. Thomas and Samantha reunited, at least.

Finally, I understand why H's sister decided to leave this 8th circle of hell. Night after night of this would take its toll on even the most hardened carnivore. On the upside the waiter, impressed with my mettle, filled my glass to overflowing for the rest of the night.


Predictably, the meal quickly descended into a fog of wine, laughter, more wine and wine. More than that, I cannot tell you. So be warned: always come prepared for the worst. Then prepare all over again, because you're in Japan, and you don't know the half of it!

Thank god there were only two.

Interlude: (Shallow) Soul Searching

I leant back in the seat, fingers poised over the keyboard.


Why?


Sorry for the melodrama. It's not what you think, I promise.


The internet cafe is a stone's throw from Fujigaoka station, crouched under a bustling Izakaya. Mundane? Far from it! Private booth: sofa, chair. Your bed for the night, or as long as you choose. Thrum hum of air con. Whisper of cloth, creak of leather. Free drinks, cheap food.


I cradled my bowl of miso soup, basking in its heady fumes. Peace. Do you see?


--
The manic shout of light and sound was extinguished with a purr of the automatic door. I stood for a moment, shaking my umbrella free of those more tenacious flakes of snow. As my senses thawed from the onslaught of a winterlocked Tokyo, I caught a hint of spice. Hiss of pans, laughter, chatter. Refuge!


I prised my token from the machine on the wall. The chef received it with a bow, and was quickly lost in the drifting clouds of steam that courted the center of the Ramen house. I sunk onto my pew, quickly losing myself in the bubbling, stirring, shifting, pouring across from me.


Do you see now?


Some crave vivid culture, others yearn for virgin nature. All well and good, but if my stomach's still rumbling at the end of the day, count me out. What frames every sunrise; seals each tentative new friendship? What does it all boil down to? It's the food.


Delicious, exciting, enticing. Sweet, smoky, smear it all over me.


The city - home of Karaoke, Kyabakura and Konbini? Sure. But udon, sushi, sashimi - thank god! Share my delight as I discover for myself this paradise of food. May your inner fat-man rejoice as I dole out juicy, eaty secrets, alongside the week's mischief.


Our first Adventure: Prawn.

Back alleys of Shinjuku

Baptême du Feu

Having spent a number of days lurking around the seedier internet cafes and Izakaya of Fujigaoka, not to mention a whistelstop weekend in Tokyo (patience!), it was time to face reality and responsibility. I was to (bravely) embark upon a Jasonian quest for the fabled Gaijin Card - a key that would unlock most doors for me in Japan. Armed only with my unwavering grin, two battered Passport photos and my ever shaky Japanese, I opened the door of the apartment to a day of uncertainty, embarrassment and hopeless navigation.

The first faux-pas of the day was brought to my attention with a tentative 'S-s-sumimasen...' (excuse me). I turned from my intense scrutiny of the platform edge upon my saviour's third attempt at drawing my attention. A wide eyed Japanese woman stood behind me, gesticulating worriedly both at my feet and the watch on her wrist. I smiled, enthusiastically nodding my agreement while my mind raced to find meaning in this odd display. A quick look at my feet confirmed that I was indeed wearing shoes, neatly laced, newly polished. 8AM, my watch read. Something nagged at the edge of my thoughts.. Oh! Another look at my shoes confirmed my suspicions. Klutz that I am, I was standing on a sizable, luminous-yellow sign inscribed with the words: 'Ladies only'. I threw our nameless heroine a hasty 'Arigatou!' as I trotted conspicuously up the platform to where I saw other men were standing. Not a moment too soon! The rumble of the tracks told me I had avoided this taboo incursion by mere seconds.

Tasty background
'Ladies only' carriages have been in service in Japan since 1912. These carriages are for women who seek sanctuary from the wandering hands of the shadowy Chikan (pervert). In rush hour, when the trains are bursting at the seams, it is not uncommon for these unsavoury characters to prey upon helpless members of the fairer sex. Having spent many a subway ride with my face a hair's breadth from one neighbour's armpit and my hands pinned to my sides by the others, I can well understand the need for segregation. While we're on this vein, why is it impossible to silence the shutter sound on Japanese camera phones? I'll give you one guess...


Needless to say, it wasn't without a healthy amount of trepidation that I scuttled off the subway and into the ostensible warren of ticket gates and staircases that makes up 市役所 (city hall) station. Squatting under the elegant lines of Nagoya Castle, this somewhat more imposing, industrial tower block glares down unblinkingly upon the rush of Salarymen who mob the streets of centraｌ Nagoya.

The corridors of the city hall proved a stark contrast to the smorgasbord of words, colours and sounds of the high street. In fact, I spent what felt like several days wandering down grey-walled halls, past grey doors, up grey staircases without seeing even one sign or clue as to where I was. Long after my breadcrumbs and chalk ran out, I rounded another corner of this vast labyrinth and stumbled into a couple of hapless maintenance men huddled in some forgotten recess. Much to their dismay, I let out a triumphant cry and advanced towards them. They tried to back away from this wild eyed, grinning Gaijin, but not fast enough. The next few minutes were spent trying to establish contact; think Independence Day, but more hopeless. Every attempt I made to ask for directions is Japanese drew increasingly horrified looks from the pair. The final straw was my innocuous 'Eigo de hanashite, kudasai' (Please can you speak in English?). They exchanged a glance and a mutter, and whisked me away, down, up and around until I was more lost than I had previously thought possible.

To my intense relief, our journey ended not in a holding cell, but at a little window set in the wall, marked with a little grey sign reading 'Reception'. By the time I had finished exhaling my voluminous sigh of relief, my reluctant guides had once again vanished into the grey warren and I found myself in the company of a little grey man who peered up at me from the other side of the glass.

Disaster. He quickly made it clear that my quest had beer for naught - the application for my Alien Registration had to be made in my local ward office. So about 10 minutes walk from my apartment, at the Nagakute-shi ward office. Woe!

Many hours later, footsore and thirsty, I stumbled back through the rectangle of light and warmth and into the safety of my Apartment. H raised an eyebrow at the single, tatty sheet of paper I triumphantly held aloft. Suffice to say, I have never before appreciated the eloquence of that simple facial expression. The paper I brandished wilted even further in my upheld fist, and the hearty glow of pride I had felt turned into the faintest candle glow.

We've got a long way to go yet.

First Steps

I stopped in my tracks, letting my overladen trolley judder to a halt in front of those too-clean, automatic doors that heralded my entry into this strange new land; home for a year. I clutched my papers in one hand, that accusatory word still emblazoned in my mind: Alien.


The numbness I felt was cut only by a vague sense of terror as I looked out over the cacophony of barely-decipherable Kanji characters crowding the arrivals lounge of Nagoya International Airport.


To do: Japanese lessons. No, scratch that, intensive Japanese lessons.


I was awoken from this dread-reverie by the pitter patter of H's footsteps as she came to greet me. Having barely pulled through the adversity of longhaul air travel, her punctuality made me weak at the knees. In retrospect, perhaps this was merely the rush of unprocessed air that suddenly soothed my overwrought lungs.


H, you ask? OK, just this once. It's Haruna if we're going to be official. Good teeth, good legs, and most importantly, good English. Dear reader, let us now join in breathing a collective sigh of relief. Please allow our protagonist a little leg up in his time of dire need. 'Cheater!' I hear you cry. To which I can only reply, wait and see. If there's trouble to be found, I will undoubtedly hop, skip and jump my way into its gaping maw. You are sure to have you fair share of delicious twists and turns in this little tale.


Ahem --


Sensing my distress, H wasted no time in pushing me onto the nearest bus. Destination: 愛知県愛知郡長久手町大字長湫字下川原１９‐２１. Home, or so it would soon become...