Nakau and changes

Ba bada bam!!!

Well, it had to happen sometime....this blog has officially changed it's format. (Actually, I, Uri Mordecai, changed it.)

I awoke from my January to early March hibernation session, which is quite popular here in Japan, to the growling of an empty stomach. Of course, I had been asleep for 51 days, so I wasn't surprised, but, I got to thinking; what's my favorite thing in the world? Well, food of course! I love food, especially now that I haven't eaten for almost 2 months (or 21 fortnights for those who are playing at home). So I decided, no I DECLARED, that this blog shall from this day forth, be about food. I figure one day it will act as my resume when I apply to Michelin in order to travel all around the world rating expensive and exclusive restaurants, which just so happens to be my dream job.

Now, for all you readers out there that are bummed out about the format change, I sincerely apologize. I remember when my favorite radio station, 104.1 THE HOG (for those playing at home), changed formats and became 104.1 The Point. Literally over night, THE HOG threw in the classic rock towel and became purveyors of crappy right wing radio (which I listen to exclusively). It wasn't the subject matter that irked me, it was the lack of warning. So, once again, I sincerely apologize.

Whilst I was pondering this format change in my post hibernation grogginess, I realized what my second favorite thing is, after food, that is. It is....wait for it....CRITICISM! Yeah, that's right, I love to criticize. Seriously, ask any of my ex-girlfriends. Ask my current girlfriend (but, lo: her answer wouldn't suffice). I am a master of rephrasing “you're doing it wrong”. It is an art that has been steeped in my subconscious ever since I was raised by a friendly pack of engineers and nurses on the deadly steppes of Arizona.

So, in my hibernation induced stupor, I finally realize what my true talents are. Eating and Criticizing. Sometimes, I can even do them simulataneously. “Holy whale burger” I mumbled, “I'm a food critic”

So, my story comes to a close, for this chapter, “Over the Pond”, has reached its conclusion. I am now officially 'over the pond' and things just seem kind of normal now. Not that Japan has suddenly become less zany overnight, but I suddenly have lost the urge to compare it to Arizona. But, I have not lost the urge to write to you, my loyal and palletely challenged friends. At least now, my urges (for those of you playing at home) have been centered around all the awesome food in this country. I wish to share with you the joy of eating in Japan. And don't worry, in due course I will include 'wacky Japan' in every story.

Let the criticizing begin!

We are going to start this food addled (read: fat) adventure off right. Nakau. Thats right, you read it correctly Nakau. Say it with me now: na-ka-oo. By far, I have eaten Nakau more than any other restaurant in Japan. What do they serve, you ask? Well, of course, ricebowls! But this isn't your typical border line racist 'yokahoma rice bowl' garbage we get back in the good ole US, but a fantastic creation known as 'gyu-don'. It basically translates to 'msg flavored beef with mushrooms and onions over rice, in a bowl'. Mmmmm......ajinomoto.......

Anyway, lets get back on track here. The reason I love Nakau is becaue it has facets, and we shall explore them all, because, you know, I love facets!

Nakau is fast food. I like fast food, but this is different than the Jack in the Box/Taco Bell/In-N-Out which I love. This is seriously fast food. When you walk into Nakau, you are of course greeting by a rousing round of welcomes, but also by a machine. This machine says nothing, at first, but once you step into its realm, it will command and embarrass you with the detexterity only a machine can muster. At Nakau, you must placate the machine to get your food, which is actually quite easy once you know how. You put in some money (up to ￥10,000 for those of you playing at home) select 'eat in' or 'take away' (in Japanese!) and then select your food. Easy right? Easy.......

Actually it is easy, after you know how, but the first time you try it, I guarantee you will have your food made to go, and your change will be donated to your local chapter of 'The Proponents of MSG in Babyfood Lobbyist Organization' or the PMSGBLO. Once you learn which button is 'eat in' and which button is 'gimme my ￥9700, or $111, back you bastard machine' you are set! All the other buttons have pictures of the food items on them, which you can select at your leisure. Okay, embarrassing episode #1 is finished, I promise.

Now, onto to #2: One of the reasons Nakau is so fast, is because when you select which item you wish to eat, it directly stimulates, via electrode, the region of the brain associated with the item. There are only two employees at any given time, so they gotta be in the know! But, the embarrassing part is that the computer also announces it to the world, very loudly, over the restaurants loudspeaker system. What's that you say, machine? Fat American ordering the Jumbo size beef bowl, Udon soup, and 10 piece fried chicken? Everyone gets to hear it. Nothing more embarrassing than everyone hearing your order when your are really hungry! Or, have just woken up from hibernation. And of course, in Japanese style, the voice announcing the order is done in a comical, helium-obsessed voice of a Japanese high school student of indeterminable sex.

After you have been defiled by this machine, you take your ticket, your change and sit down. A person will be waiting for you with a cup of tea, hot in winter, cold in summer. Nice. They will take your ticket, tear off a sliver and announce to you and everyone around you what your order is. Again. I usually just bow my head and sob and this point, but before I can even begin to produce a tear, my food is brought out. I kid you not, sometimes within seconds of sitting down. Like under 10 seconds. Its amazing. It makes waiting in line, in a car, for fast food feel like a going to a high school theater production. The speed at which my steaming pile of MSG coated beef and onions and rice is plunked down makes all my sorrow and embarrassment wash away, like a hot bath after a day of teaching English (as you all know, I am a native Dansk speaker).

Nakau's atmosphere is nothing more than stifling at best, but hey, I came here for speedy food, not for entertainment. The first problem is the music. There is the Nakau theme song and two other songs on rotation, at all times. I have memorized the Nakau theme song, I am proud to present it here to you:

Nakau-de

ooh ooh ooh

Nakau-de

ooh ooh ooh

Nakau-de

Gohan o tabeyo

Nakau!

This translates roughly to 'use Nakau, use Nakau, eat Nakau for every meal, Nakau!'

I know the lyrical content is weak, but the beat is damn catchy, not to mention that it is played every minute without compromise. They usually start of playing some J-Pop, akb48, or exile, for example (both are highly recommended by me). But, our lovely idol groups will never reach the end of their songs because at that magic 1 minute mark, the song is stopped and Nakau jingle is played again. And again. It's insane.

The other sounds common to Nakau are the typical salary man or construction working eating food so fast he sounds like he choking. I have seen a man slurp an entire dish of soba noodles in one continuous motion. The only thing faster than the service is the eating. But, Nakau is open 24 hours (yay!) so the real freak show comes out at night. I have never seen drunker people in my life. Its not uncommon to see a man sleeping with his face in his bowl. I tried it one time myself, but I got rice in my beard. So, you can snoring to list of wacky sounds.

How does it taste? Well, its salty, satisfying, and cheap. That's right, it tastes cheap. But sometimes you know, cheap is exactly what I want to taste. Its the same thing with grilled food, such as yakitori: meat, stick, fire, eat. Simple cheap fantastic. I go for a full stomach and some entertainment. I suggest you do the same. http://www.nakau.co.jp/

Pictures coming soon!

Wanko Soba in Morioka

Wanko Soba

“Don’t chew”, my boss reminded, “and don’t drink the soup either, it will only slow you down. Actually, don’t even think, just eat”.

“How many did you eat?” I asked.

“154” was the reply.

“Damn, that’s a lot. My goal is 150”, I said, gazing over his shoulder. It was the night before my winter vacation began. I had two goals, actually; the first was to be in Morioka the next day, and the second was to engage in the food challenge known as Wanko soba.

Morioka is a fairly large sized city about 2 hours north of beautiful Fukushima. Its claim to fame is that there are lots of rivers, and lots of tasty kinds of noodles. Wanko soba is the most famous noodle from Morioka because of the ridiculous ceremony that is involved while eating. People in Morioka are friendly, but they are also very hungry. This is true, because the point of the game is to try to eat as many of these little bowls of noodles as you can. The portions are just a bit bigger that bite-sized but the trick is to swallow the noodles whole. I was skeptical about this so-called “trick”.

When I stepped off the train, I was greeted by a blast of cold air and the satisfaction of completing my first goal: I had arrived in Morioka. It was about 4pm, and the sun was in its last stages of descent into the ocean. I walked out of the station and was instantly covered in powdery, dry snow. I ran, carefully on the ice, to my hotel, checked in and cowered in my room while debating whether or not I should go back to Fukushima to escape the cold. I thought about my itinerary of heading farther and farther north to eventually make it to Sapporo by New Year. I shivered at the thought.

I put on my down coat, and took off outside. I was going to eat Wanko soba. My stomach was growling words of motivation to me; I hadn’t eaten anything, except for two small rice balls that day. I checked the map to the restaurant and started walking. The snow was heavy, but it was dry and didn’t melt on my jacket. The fresh powder also made walking on the ice easier, providing a bit of traction. Walking on ice was something I was going to learn a lot about during my vacation….

I walked for about 30 minutes. I didn’t realize how far away the place was because, like usual, the map wasn’t to scale. This is a common problem in Japan. Whenever I see a map that isn’t from Google, I go to great lengths to avoid using it. But, in this case, I had no choice. I told my self that the walks, and the cold, were only strengthening my appetite.

Finally, I found the street that I thought the restaurant was on and began my search. I saw a family getting out of a car with a massive sumo sized guy in the lead. This was a good sign. He looked like the sort of fellow that considered Wanko soba to be the pinnacle of culinary artistry. I walked near to them, which of course terrified the children. I heard him ask the parking lot attendant about the restaurant, which is called Azumaya. He pointed and I smiled. All I had to do was follow the leader. This was easy, because I was basically at the door, I just couldn’t read the sign. The sumo guy looked at me suspiciously and I said in my best broken Japanese “I want to eat Wanko soba too”. He smiled and held the door open for me.

We were led upstairs, to the thunder dome of the Wanko challenge. The place was basically empty, but I did choose to come here in winter which I’m guessing isn’t the high season for tourists. As I came around the corner into the main eating arena, I was surprised to see another lone wolf foreign traveler, who had obviously already finished eating. He was sprawled out on the tatami floor, with a massive pile of empty bowls in front of him. His bib hung loosely around his neck, his face red and puffy. He looked like Jaba-the-hut; I was excited and terrified at the same time.

We started chatting and he labored to speak.

“How many did you finish?”, I pried.

“142”, he looked ill as he thought about the number. His stacked of dishes looked like the walls of the coliseum in front of him.

“Good luck”, he murmured as he died in front of me. (Not really, but I felt like typing that anyway.) He got up laboriously and engaged in what I soon realized was the most difficult part of the challenge: putting your shoes back on after you leave the tatami area. Bending over to tie my laces was going to be impossible. I pondered as the waitress brought out my spread of food with all the pomp and circumstance associated with an eating challenge.

There were about 15 little dishes with different types of flavoring agents to add to the Wanko soba at the eater’s discretion. I wasn’t interested; I wanted nothing but noodles to fill my stomach. She handed me my bib and told me instructions in Japanese. Apparently, when you are finished you have to grab this lid from off of the table and slam it down on top of your bowl and scream the Japanese equivalent of “uncle”. The waitress would hover over me for the duration of my eating and continue to fill my bowl from her small and numerous bowls, all the while encouraging me.

The challenge began. I held up my bowl and she poured in the contents of a smaller bowl, expertly tossing down the empty serving bowl next to me. I slurped down the noodles without chewing and almost choked, immediately deciding that I would at least chew a few times. I didn’t drink the broth and poured it into a nearby bucket on my table. Before I could look back up at her to request more, she had dumped another portion of noodles into my bowl without me noticing. She was clearly and expert at force feeding people. I looked up at her and she barked “Ganbatte!” which translate roughly to “you can do it!”

I ate and ate, chewing less and less as I went along. Eventually I became sort of stupefied by process and would catch my self almost pouring out the noodles into soup bucket as soon as she added them into my bowl. I was clearly fighting and emotional battle as well as a physical one. My body was trying to trick me into not eating. The woman was forcing me, tormenting me. Occasionally she would refill my bowl and soup would splash everywhere, covering me. She would grin and say sorry and then laugh. The sound of her throwing down the bowls one by one became like some form of torture, the lacquer crack, crack, crack getting louder and louder. It was like a scene from “Saw 14” or “Seven” or some other diabolical movie, except I had sought out and was going to pay monetarily for the torture.

I passed 80 and I knew I was reaching my limit. My stomach was full and I could feel the noodles getting harder to swallow. I reached 90 bowls and decided 100 was my limit. I barely forced down number 100 and made room to set down my bowl….I couldn’t find the fucking lid! Before I knew it she had refilled my bowl and was egging me on to eat more more more. I then realized why there were some many dishes with flavoring agents presented at the beginning of the challenge, not to enhance the noodles, but to hide the lid in order to further the torture. Before I ate bowl 101, I found the lid and held it in my left hand, with my chopsticks, and my eating bowl in with my last portion of noodles was in my right. It was a struggle, but I managed to use my chopsticks while holding the lid, finish the noodles, slam the bowl down and place the lid on top. She was right there on top of me trying to launch one more portion of noodles into my bowl before I could get the lid on. I had forgotten the word I was supposed to yell, so I simply said “finished” in Japanese. She smiled and the evil force feeding look melted from her face. She had returned to her sweet waitress self.

I looked at the stack of bowls in front of me; it was hard to imagine eating the contents of all of them. I asked her about the records and she told me that the men’s record was 430, and the women’s record was…brace yourself…570 bowls. I felt like a chump. The sumo guy I had followed into the restaurant was finishing his meal too, he had eaten 140 something. I need to practice. I don’t remember putting my shoes on…nor do I remember the walk home. It was reminiscent of a night of binge drinking; waking up and realizing that vast swaths of time have disappeared from my life.

If you’re ever in Morioka, you must eat Wanko soba. It’s not very tasty, and it definitely isn’t classy, but it is unique and unforgettable.

Iizaka Town

Iizaka Town

Yesterday, I went to a town called Iizaka. It neighbors Fukushima city, and is in what is know as the Date (say: Dah-Teh) district of Fukushima prefecture. If you have heard anything about Iizaka, you have heard this: the city is home to over 70 onsen, or hot springs. It is the most famous place in all of the Tohoku region (think: Japanese bread basket) for hot springs. And where there are hot springs, there are old people. Iizaka is famous for hot springs and old people. I had to see it.

I moseyed on down to the station. It was a freezing miserable day, but at least it wasn’t raining. When I arrived, I saw the other piece of common knowledge spread about Iizaka: it’s train service. The Iizaka train is famous in Fukushima for being the oldest, slowest, noisiest, bumpiest and most expensive train in the whole prefecture. It is operated by a private company so they can basically do whatever they want and charge whatever they feel. But, I hadn’t been on any trains in close to 4 months, so I was excited to move somewhere by way of rail.

I neared the ticket area. Usually, there is vending type machine with locations and prices. Put in your money, push the button and a ticket will appear. Not so. I looked around with the “hey, gaijin here, someone tell me what to do” face. It worked flawlessly and a man I assumed to be the ticket collector beckoned me over. I told him in astoundingly flawless Japanese that I was making my way, or trying, to Iizaka. He looked to his watch and pointed. He pointed to a train off in the distance along the platform. Sensing some sort of time urgency I made my way through the turnstile, and toward the train. I still didn’t have a ticket.

As I boarded, I noticed the 200 year old lady in front of me push a button to open the door. A few people were in front of me, and I was the last to board. After I got on I noticed the same button inside the train. The slowly turning gears in my brain alerted me that this was some type of open and close button. I didn’t want to bother with it, so I took my seat. I figured that the door would close on it’s own after a few seconds. Nope. The freezing cold wind was blowing in the train and everyone was pissed off. Eventually an old man stood up with a “hmmmpf” and closed the door. He looked at me. I looked at him. If he was an American, he would’ve flipped me off. But, this is Japan and the old man could do it with his eyes alone. Sorry old man, if you’re reading this.

As I sat, waiting to depart I realized that there was absolutely no time urgency what-so-ever. The ticket collector must have assumed that like most people boarding the train, I would require approximately 15 minutes to walk the 30 feet from the turnstile to the train. I wondered why he had pointed at his watch. Why didn’t he let me buy a ticket? Why was the train he pointed to under a sign marked to a different city? I was really starting to miss the efficiency, ease, and professionalism of the JR trains as opposed to this privately owned abomination. A JR train would never have a door button.

Anyway, we were off. The train was almost empty. There were a few old people, and an occasional school girl. It got me thinking: why were there so many more school girls than boys? This train had a maybe ten girls (the train only had three cars so I could see beginning to end no problem) in uniform, on a Sunday nonetheless, and not one boy. I started to wonder even more: were there really that many more school girls than boys? Did I just not see the boys because they didn’t wear tiny skirts in the middle of winter? Was it the socks? My mind started to wander. I snapped out of it by staring at an old lady who was staring at me. Her frigid stare and strange amalgam of winter clothing brought me back from my uniform induced stupor.

After about 10 stops, or about 30 minutes, I realized that I should have arrived in Iizaka already. I whipped out my handy dandy iPhone and checked my GPS. Lo and behold, I was a farther from Iizaka than when I had started. I was passing a “town” called Takako, which is basically the Japanese equivalent of naming a town Eleanor, or Beatrice, or some other antiquated name. I got off at the next stop. I was in the middle of nowhere. The sky was absolutely massive and clouds dotted out the sun. The wind was whipping and the groves of apple trees surrounding me were dancing in unison. I didn’t care about Iizaka. I could’ve stood at that train “station” for an hour absorbing the view. Luckily, the next train back to Fukushima was in 45 minutes so my wish was fulfilled. I took a seat and watched the clouds roll by. (If you have never seen clouds in Japan, you are in for a treat. They move with astounding speed and are quite mesmerizing.)

I hopped on the train, found the stupid door button and settled in for the ride. Once again, old ladies with prying eyes, sleeping old men and motionless school girls surrounded me. On the return journey, I thought back to the ticket collector at the turnstile. Was that guy purposely screwing with me? Not only did he give me a clear indication of time urgency, but he pointed directly to the wrong train. I daydreamed about slapping him with my glove and challenging him to pistols at dawn. At least I got to see Takako and her beautiful view.

Once I arrived back in Fukushima, I realized that I could’ve returned for free and simply boarded the correct train. I had never paid. I thought about it while standing approximately ten feet from the collector who clearly didn’t know shit about nonverbal communication. I decided to be honest and walked back through the turnstile, did a u-turn, and paid again. I wasn’t bowing this time. Bastard. This time I ignored all forms of help and walked directly to the train under the massive sign with the arrow and ENGLISH pointing to Iizaka.

I was off. The real Iizaka train was definitely all it was hyped up to be. It was bumpy, it stopped every 11 feet, it was cold, and the loudspeaker announcing the next station was too loud, yet somehow still incomprehensible. I put my chin on my chest and closed my eyes.

Once I arrived in Iizaka, I was happy. The city was small (less than 24,000), the sky was massive and beautiful, and the river running through the city was a nice refrain from the noise of Fukushima. It was noticeably colder. I zipped up my vest and headed off toward a hill. Usually when I arrive in a small city, I walk toward the closest hill and try to get to the top. Iizaka had a nice little hill from which I could view the city and take in the beauty of an extremely old and slightly dilapidated shrine. The river wound through the downtown and buildings jutted up from each bank in sheer walls of 10 stories or less. It was quaint and peaceful. It reminded me of Flagstaff, Arizona.

I wandered around in the downtown and eventually found a little park type thing with a place to dip my feet in some hot water. I walked to the main house area to see if I could rent a towel. It was free. I liked Iizaka even more, instantly. I soaked my feet in some scalding hot water as other old people and a few couples did the same. The same old ladies with the frigid stares and strange clothes now smiled at me and bowed. The power of something as simple as hot water was amazing.

With my feet nice and boiled, I dried off and slid my boots back on. I wanted to find the real hot spring. The pleasure of the hot water on my feet made me want to soak my entire body. I was not prepared for such a venture, but I figured I could at least find the bathhouse and come back next weekend. I walked around, through a nice temple and a graveyard and eventually found a big wooden building with a steaming tank raised high next to it. This had to be it. I was curious to see the inside of such a structure and also see what type of amenities they offered. Maybe I could rent a towel and whatever I else I needed. I walked over to the sliding doors. The doors were marked with the kanji for men and women, separately. You know what that means: naked time. I slid open the door and saw a small entrance area with a place to remove shoes. There was another sliding door inside and someone was coming out of it. I peeked in. I’m not really sure what I expected, but there was a bunch of naked dudes and steam. Everyone was old.

I ran. I ran all the way back to the train station, back to my house and into my bathroom. I filled my bath tub and threw in some bath salt. I drank a beer and read a book, and I didn’t have to see any naked dudes. Afterward, I lay in my bed until my hot water induced fever dissipated, slowly drifting off to sleep. It was fantastic. I can see how a public bathhouse would be enjoyable, if it was the year 1450. I think I will stick to my bathtub at home, though. No body minds if I drink beer, fart, or drop my book in the water. Nobody minds if I forget to push the button on the door. And, best of all, there are no ticket collectors on the way to my bathroom.

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.