Cats and Dogs

Cats and Dogs

The shoe factory, and Japan as a whole, decided that November 23, 2010 would be a national holiday to honor all those hard working salarymen (myself included) with a day off. Unluckily for the salarymen they probably have to work twice as hard during the week or come in on Saturday AND Sunday to make up for the lost time. Regardless, I wanted my long, three day weekend to occupy my mind and give me a change of scenery. I decided a one night vacation would do.

I had recently heard about an island called tashiro-jima. I don’t know what that means, but the island is also known as “cat island”. Let me describe it to you. A long time ago, this was a bustling fishing destination. Although the island is only about 5 miles across, many people lived here and many more stopped by on their way out to sea. The island also used to produce silk. They kept some cats as mousers in order to protect the worms from the mice. Over time, the fishermen became fond of the cats always welcoming them home and begging for scraps of fish. They came to realize that the cats were not only good luck, but that their actions could be interpreted in order to predict the weather and fishing conditions. I couldn’t agree more.

Anyway, the island is facing population decline. Everyone is moving to the big city. The island is now home to about 100 people. The youngest is 37, the rest are all over 60. A perfect place for an aspiring old man such as myself. There is no hospital, school or (gasp!) convenience store. A boat comes once a month with gasoline. There are a few inns and markets and that’s it. But, what the island doesn’t have, it makes up for in its stray cat population: there are over 200 stray cats. I don’t know who counted, but that’s the figure I found in my research. Dogs are strictly forbidden. Sounds like a great place to wander around and take pictures for all my loyal fans.

I was beginning to make my travel plans, when I observed the calendar. November 22 was my departure date. I then observed my bank account. The observations were bleak. My life has become a series of TARP bailouts and great depressions; getting paid monthly is very tough. That first week after salary is joyful, I have endless money. The days before the 25^th are painful. I eat white rice three days straight. To complete the metaphor, I usually end up borrowing some cash from my British and Japanese counterparts, who I have named The Royal Bank of Matthew and Mrs. Zaibatsu. That aside, I realized I could not go to Cat island…yet.

I did the next best thing: I went to the cat café!. That’s right, Neko (cat) café. Neko café is a “café” inside of a movie theater. Yes you read that right. Inside this café are drink machines and cats. 12 cats, I think, all of whom are permanent residents. You pay per hour and can drink all the machine made coffee, soda and tea you want. You can sit and read peacefully with a cat on your lap (boring), or run around like a 24 year old idiot American and harass the felines. It is quite spectacular. For 600 I got about 40 minutes or cat pestering pleasure including tail pulling, ear scratching, paper ball/string chasing. I was happy. There isn’t much more to say about Neko café. It is simple and enjoyable.

Where do the dogs come in, you ask? Well in my wanderings, I also happened upon a dog café. This one is a little different. First of all, it is called “Happy Seed”. I have no idea why. Happy Seed sounds like something only a person with a y chromosome could make. Whatever. They have only one permanent resident: a Pomeranian name Koro. He is very friendly, and like all Pomeranians, very stupid. This café makes its money by offering a nice setting in which to enjoy and coffee while your dog gets groomed. Afterward, your dog can play with Koro and also marvel at his stupidity and cuteness. I went to this café also, but it was on a Monday and Koro was the only dog there. There were a few others, but they (or their owners) were only interested in grooming and they left shortly after their services were finished.

While my adventures were not quite as adventurous as Cat island, and its hundreds of cats and, not to mention, it’s near hundred of near hundred year old people, I was satisfied that I got to spend some quality with some friendly animals, see some new places, and meet some new people. Cat island will have to wait until next time. Maybe the population will have thinned a little by then, but I’m sure I’ll still have fun talking to a 90 year old fisherman and feeding the cats.

Cant Live With It, Cant Live Without It

Cant live with it, cant live without

(This post, thankfully, doesn’t really require pictures. Instead, please enjoy some random shots of Fukushima)

I’ve been in Japan for almost 6 months. I’m still shocked on a daily basis, no doubt, but recently I’ve been pondering how I would feel if I left. I have no intention of doing so, but I have started comparing my old life with the new and improved (read: new and different). Japan has started to feel normal…things I always imagined as fresh and exciting have started to become mundane and usual.

One thing that I could not live without is the Japanese toilet seat. If you are betting that this item is what spurred me to write this article, then you sir/madam are correct. I cannot live without a Japanese toilet seat. If you have yet to experience this new fangled and delightful contraption, then you are in for a surprise. Some things I like: walk in front of it and the lid lifts up automatically. A heater begins to warm the seat like a toaster coil…now when I sit down I worry about burning my ass instead of freezing it. Bashful when nature calls? No problem. Hit a button or two and you have a loud and obnoxious fake flushing noise. It is clearly a recording, but I’m sure all the other bathroom users would rather hear a recording of water as oppose to curry and beer from the night before leaving your body. Smells bad? No problem. A tiny fan like the one in your computer will carry all your scents away to some nether region of the earth. Toilet paper? That’s for losers. I require 3 different and unique streams of nicely warmed water (with controllable pressure) to clean my soiled parts after I doody. You can even control the direction of the stream (by moving your ass of course). Somehow, the toilet always seems to get the target right on the mark…this makes me think that somewhere in Japan, there is an R&D department working on the next generation of butthole detection technology. We’ll just leave that one be.

There is a problem, though. Somehow my Japanese language primer failed to include a chapter on Japanese toilet kanji (characters). Pushing a button for the first time without knowing what it will do is downright terrifying. Is that the gentle warm mist or the deep colonic? Did I choose the scalding enema or the creepy fake coughing sound? There is only one way to find out…you must be brave young grasshopper! Oh yeah, and be sure you know which button means STOP.

Another aspect of Japanese life that is downright fantastic is the service industry in general. No matter what the venue, the wage, or the occupation, employees will bend over backwards and forwards (bowing?) to help you and see to it that you are satisfied. Every time I go to 7eleven or Sunkus (Japanese name for circle K) I see this philosophy implemented. If there is someone behind me in line and only one cash register open, the employee will scream something and suddenly another employee will come sprinting out of some corner, dropping whatever he or she was doing immediately to help the next customer. I mean full on sprint, linebacker status, from the back of the store to the front just to ring up one customer at 3:30am. With a smile.

This would never happen in America. You are lucky if there is two people working the registers. Forget getting the first guy to call for help. You know he is covering while the other employee does whippits in the back of the store, knowing his time will subtracted later on if he asks for help.

Although I bash the American store clerk (convenience store or otherwise) there is one thing that the Japanese clerks do that drives me crazy. I have no idea why, but when the transaction comes to the point where I am due change and a receipt, the Japanese clerk will bundle the entire stack into a neat little package. Bill’s on bottom, receipt in the middle, and a stack of coins on top. This is placed ever so lightly and precariously in my hand. All the time they saved rushing an employee up to front is done away with when it takes me 3 minutes to sort out my change and documentation. What’s that you say? You bought a 105 yen rice ball with a 5000 yet note? You better be ready to organize as soon as that change comes your way. It’s really hard to explain, but holding my wallet in one hand and trying to separate coins off the top, a receipt into the trash box (next to the register) and bills into the bill fold section of my wallet with my other hand is nearly impossible. IT DRIVES ME INSANE! I don’t want a damn receipt for a donut anyway! You said it best Mr. Hedbird R.I.P.

The Races

I hate horses. Let’s just get this out of the way to begin with. A horse, to me, has the same mentality as a cat. A cat will let you stroke its back and scratch it ears, but as soon as it becomes tired of your antics, it will try to kill you. A horse has the same temperament. If it does not approve, it will try to hurt you. The reason I don’t like horses and I do like cats is because when cats decide they’ve had enough, they feebly try to scratch and hiss. A horse, on the other hand, weighs much more than a human and can therefore injure or kill it easily. I hate horses because they can kill me easily, and they’re easily spooked.

Even though I have a certain animosity (read: fear) of horses, I nonetheless like to see them. They are amazing creatures, just like cats. So when the biannual Fukushima horse races began, I decided I must attend. What could be better than to sit in the cool sunshine, with the colors of autumn all around and a crisp breeze, doing the same thing, in the same spot, as people 200 years ago?

I arrived at the race track, one of the nicest buildings in all of Fukushima. This is one of those places that they built to attract people to an otherwise unremarkable city. There are only 5 places, give or take, in Japan that host horse racing. Fukushima is one of them. There were rumors that we might see some celebrities. The rumor is that celebrities bring their extra marital affairs up to Fukushima, from Tokyo of course, to watch the horses and not get caught by the media. I wouldn’t know a Japanese celebrity anyway. I was there for the excitement of the sport. And to gamble. And to eat and drink beer.

100 yen was all it cost to enter. That is about $1.15. After that, one could, in theory, enjoy a full day of excitement for not a penny, or better yet, not a yenny (1 yen, or a yent) more. But who could resist then opportunity to actually make money while one enjoys a sport? I know I couldn’t, and cant. I immediately found a program and began to skillfully and tactfully choose my horses on nothing but their names. In keeping with tradition, the horses had the most ridiculous names possible which made choosing fun and difficult. A few notable examples: Eugenic Blue, Gingei (a type of fish), Miguel, World Rolex, Ti Amo Brio, Universe Guy, and Smile King. I could go on an on. I usually bet on which ever horse had the most striking name, and if there was a gaijin (foreigner) horse, I would bet on him or her. There were a few from the USA and a few from Ireland.

You place your bet by filling in a super complicated card that looks like a standardized school test sheet. Lots of bubbles, number 2 pencils. After that, run it through and machine, add money, and collect your receipt. I usually only bet 100 yen at a time, but on the last race I went big and bet (and lost 1000) yen. Thankfully, we had a Japanese speaking friend with us that figured out the betting cards….somewhat.

The first time my skill with name choosing paid off, I had bet incorrectly, and although I had chosen the winning horse, some other parameter wasn’t met and I was sadly paid no money. It is really demeaning to walk back to the machine with a big grin, insert your receipt with the expectation of money, and receive nothing but a giant exclamation point on the screen and a very polite and very Japanese explanation that they cannot pay you any money at this time. Keep trying sucker is what it really says.

I simplified my betting formula and streamlined my choosing algorithm. I now chose only the gaijin horses. One horse, first place, all or nothing was my bet. And I won. Yes, that is a picture of your’s truly with a victory ticket. I chose Gingei to come in first place and he did. I had bet 100 yen and was a paid back 500 yen. It was sublime. I immediately bought a victory beer which cost 400 yen. Thank you Gingei!

The races are in Fukushima for the duration of November. Since I have officially been diagnosed with gambling fever, I shall return next weekend, if the weather permits, for a fun filled day of sun, gambling, food and drink. And of course, those frightening, yet majestic beasts known as horses.

Typhoon Park

to all my loyal fans (15 according to my blogger homepage) sorry my posts have been few and far between. I'm struggling with a bit of writer's block. please send me any all requests in the comments. thanks for reading! -Uri

Typhoon Park

The weekend was approaching, so was the typhoon. I pray for clear skies on my weekends, but this being the wettest, greenest country in the world, it does have to rain sometimes. Usually it rains on Sunday and Monday, when I am free from the clutches of the shoe factory. This is a fact. Today, I decided, the rain would not get the best of me. I would suit up with all the waterproof gear in my possession and head off to a new park to enjoy the autumn leaves.

I had just bought a pair of rain galoshes, but I decided, “nah the rain isn’t that bad. I’ll leave ‘em at home”. I left my apartment without my rain coat on, hoping to brave to ever so fine drizzle that is a Japanese typhoon. Rarely are the drops big and heavy, but for some reason the misty drizzle makes you twice as wet. The tiny drops stick to everything and cannot slide off like the big drops I’m used to. Needless to say, I got to the second flight of stairs of my apartment (lucky number 404) before I put on my rain coat.

I made it to the bus station, mostly dry. My pants were a little damp, and my shoes were wet, but my socks were dry. Nothing a 40 minute bus ride wouldn’t cure. There was the usual confusion about which bus to board, where it was headed and the anxiety of heading in some direction without really knowing if it was the intended direction or not. If you can’t live with this type of grief, don’t leave your country. Luckily, Japan is so damn beautiful that even getting lost is usually rewarding.

I made to the intended destination, a sports park at the base of the Azuma-Bandai skyline. I got off the bus, and was treated to rain. Once again, this isn’t the big drops of pouring rain, but the light mist that you can barely feel, but soaks you to the core. After a quick pit stop for a coffee and a map consult I headed off into the park.

I could’ve cared less about the rain. With everything being damp and dark green, the colors of the leaves seemed to pop even more than usual. The reds, oranges and yellows were significantly brighter against the soaked wood and green grass. Everything seemed to have the contrast turned up. Everything felt much more surreal against the wet backdrop. The clouds hugged the mountain crests behind the park and lazily floated up and over…actually I don’t know if they were clouds or fog, technically. All the leaves, brown, green, yellow or red, shined with the sugar coat of rain water.

My feet were soaked. I hated myself for leaving my brand new rain boots back at home, nice, dry, and worthless. My feet weren’t cold, just uncomfortable with their squishy-ness. Even though I could see my breath all day, I was never cold. I think the layer of cloud-fog was crucial in keeping some kind of warmth near the ground. The rain never once let up, so we retired to the sports center area and drank some coffee.

I took off my shoes and laid on a couch; all the children stared at me. It’s quite funny to watch a child realize you are foreigner. One moment they are running along, lost in their world of imagination. Their world is sublime until they catch your face. Once they see you they either wave and say “hello!” (rarely) or they become instantly quite and introverted. You can see a child go from mindless animal lost in imagination, to silent contemplator within 2 seconds. Their smile melts into a serious expression of fear and wonder. Often the parents follow the lead of the child, albeit much later on the uptake. Continually they look back to check on us after they have walk far past.

Speaking of children: near the sports center, there is a leaf pit. It is exactly as it sounds. A giant box, full of leaves for children to play in. I almost jumped in it my self. The kids would build up a big pile of leaves and heave themselves into, or throw there sister/friend into from behind. Such a simple idea…”hey lets build a box out of wood, fill it with the billions of leaves in this park, and let the kids play in it!” I was amazed, though, that super clean Japan would allow such a dirty device for children to play in. That leaf pit looked a haven for spiders and ticks, the latter of which I am deathly afraid. Sorry, no pictures, but I still haven’t overcome my fear of photographing children in the wild. It just doesn’t seem right.

The rest is history. I got on the bus, got off the bus and walked home. I ate at my usual weekend stop off, the wonderful CoCo Ichiban; a massive plate of rice and curry hits the spot any, cold or hot, wet or dry.