Scene from a Blind Date

setting: A cute Filipina sits by herself at the sidewalk cafe. Our protagonist is wondering if she’s the blind date he’s supposed to meet.

Alex: Hello, are you Grace?
Girl: Are you Alex?
Alex: Yes.
Girl: I’m not Grace.

Strawberries, Yokohama, and Millbrae

20 March 2008
Rain is falling here in Tokyo. Today is Thursday, Spring Day, a National Holiday and I had the day off. I was supposed to go down to Yokohama to meet up with the Kannaka family and from there go farther south to Kamakura to visit a temple with a large Buddha, dig for clams on the beach, and try two restaurants, one famous for it’s thick pancakes and the other a sushi restaurant. Instead, I spent the day here in soggy Tokyo.

Keiko Kannaka is the sister of my friend Eiko. Her husband Haru is an officer in the Japanese Navy and they have two girls and a boy: Aiko (13,) Yuko (10,) and Masayuki (6.) Last weekend, they came up to Tokyo from Yokohama, met me at my apartment, and took me back to their place in Yokohama. The train rides took about an hour and we changed trains three times. I had my first home-cooked lunch in Japan, fondue in which we dipped bread, sausages, and assorted vegetables: broccoli, mildly sweet yellow potatoes, potatoes, and orange squash. Keiko also served a cold, thin-sliced, marinated pork and a delicious salad.

Afterwards, we went in their minivan to Costco. It looked a lot like the Costcos in the Bay Area, except it might be possible the Bay Area stores have more Asians. Ok, not really. The sushi and sashimi departments are huge and Keiko bought some fresh salmon sashimi. I bought a case of vanilla soy milk, identical to the cases I bought back in the States, except about $7 more per case. I also bought a Costco rotisserie chicken for ¥599 (about $5.99.) We shopped at a few more stores and then went back to the Kannaka apartment for dinner.

Keiko and Aiko select some salmon sashimi for dinner.

Keiko prepared salmon sashimi, pork tenderloin tonkatsu, thin-sliced beef and asparagus rolls, snap peas, and rice. It was delicious. After dinner, we opened a box with ready-to-assemble desserts: 6 shortcakes, fresh strawberries, and a can of whipped cream. The strawberry shortcake-making competition was on!

Masayuki, Yuko, Aiko and the strawberries.

Keiko’s shortcake was the best looking, for sure. I’m not sure Haru’s creation would have won any awards. After dinner, we chatted a bit, making plans for today’s postponed excursion to Kamakura. We all piled into the minivan for the hour ride back to my apartment in Kamiyacho, Tokyo.

I felt quite alone the following Sunday. I realized how much I miss my Millbrae family and the home-cooked meals and happy kids. I wish they were still only 20 minutes away. I thank my dear friend Eiko for introducing her sister to me and of course, Haru-san and Keiko-chan for opening their warm home to me. Without a doubt, those were my two favorite meals since coming to Japan almost 4 weeks ago.

Unfortunately, weather forced a postponement of today’s Kamakura trip. I’m really looking forward to seeing the Kannakas again.

Moon and Sun

So, how was your trip?

How do you answer that?  Uh, it was fine…

The real answer after 2.5 weeks in China and Japan is there were too many sights, smells, tastes, sounds, touches, people and stories to answer that with “fine.”

Ask me about a story and maybe I’ll tell you about:

…laughing with a group of Chinese college students on the Great Wall at Mutianyu, who just fooled me into thinking they’re Japanese (which they’re studying at the University.)

…sitting down for sashimi lunch with Sissi, who I’ve known for months, but just met that morning.

…sharing mooncakes at Peoples Park with a girl from Nanjing to celebrate the mid-Autumn festival.

…dancing with a gorgeous Tibetan girl at Bar Rouge on the Bund.

…learning the Tokyo Metro system after a Shimbashi dinner with a laughing girl named Miwa.

…using a calculator as the primary communications conduit so as to haggle over the cost of postcards at Beijing’s Pearl Market.

…Or the flight across the Pacific on elegant Japan Airlines, chasing the sun and in turn being chased by the moon.

Or maybe I’ll just show you a picture.

Proof of the existence of Lawyers

At my home, as is the custom in many Asian homes, I have a no shoes policy.  Everytime I’m in a public restroom, I look down at the disgusting floor and I’m reminded of why I do this.  I firmly subscribe to the Asian philosophy of leaving one’s outside dirt, shoes, and troubles at the door.

My condo is currently on the market and I’m having an open house this weekend.

I just had to sign a document advising me that “slip and fall incidents among such business invitees increases when stocking feet and/or disposable shoe covering requirements are put in place.  Particulary hazardous under such requirements are hardwood and other hard flooring surfaces.  Seller acknowledges the recommendation of Broker and its agents against “shoes off” requirements.”

There’s more to it.  By signing the document, I agree to hold harmless, indemnify and defend Broker against injury claims.

I’m thinking of having my legal team draft up a document for prospective buyers to sign where they agree they must take off their shoes, but acknowledge that entrance into my mostly carpeted unit is not without hazard and the wearing of body armor and helmets is recommended.  Further, they agree not to fall.  And if they do, they agree to blame nobody except themselves.

It’s not like I’m selling an ice skating rink.

Japan Airlines Flight Attendants

In 1997 I flew Japan Airlines (JAL) to Manila with an overnight layover at Narita International, Tokyo. Their flight attendants are lovely and wear stylish, but conservative uniforms.

The plane got in around 4pm. I went through customs and got outside just as the Hotel Nikko’s bus pulled up. I grabbed a seat near the front.

At the time, JAL had a subsidiary called  JALways Reso’cha with tropically painted 747s. Their flight attendants had very beautiful uniforms with big, colorful tropical hats. While I was waiting, teams of girls started boarding the bus as their flights came in. Every single one of them walked past me to get to the back of the bus.

The ride to the hotel was paradise. I could hear them happily chattering away behind me. That was the day I decided female Japanese is the most beautiful language on the planet.

Fatal error #1: Always sit at the back of the bus. I would have had a longer view as they came up the aisle and I could have observed them during the 15 minute ride to the Hotel. Optimistically, I decided there was no way I would miss paying a visit to the hotel bar that evening.

I got off the bus and checked in. Fatal error #2. Don’t be in a hurry to check in at a hotel. The line of JAL girls behind you should be in front of you.

I put my stuff up in the room and came down, had dinner and went back up to my room. It was still early, so I showered and fell asleep (fatal error #3) watching the Japanese news. When I woke up it was well after 11pm and I got up to the bar as fast as I could.

It was empty except for an old Australian having a whisky. I joined him and ordered a coke. The Australian had been there all night. “Nothing much happening up here,” he said.

These are the events that shape my life.

coffee cups vs teacups

Years ago, I read a book titled From Bonsai to Levis, a book on marketing mistakes made by US companies in Japan.  By now, I’m sure the book is dated and I recall nothing of the book except one story about instant cake.  It’s been years, so forgive me if I get some details wrong, but it went something like this:

Back in the 50s, when the cake mix was invented, it was a complete cake batter in a carton.  An American housewife could open the carton, pour it into a cake pan and put it into the oven.  Focus groups with housewives indicated why it wasn’t selling.  It was too instant.  The manufacturers reconfigured the recipe so the housewife had to add some eggs and milk and maybe some oil, mix it well, and then put it in a cakepan in the oven.  The housewife now felt like she was part of the process and the boxes of cake mix sold like the proverbial, um, hotcakes.

Eventually, the marketers started looking at Japan.  The Japanese have a liking for cakes and pastries, so it made sense.  At the time the average Japanese household didn’t have an oven, so that presented a minor problem.  But many households had a rice cookers, so the recipe was easily be adapted to a different cooking source, as well as the Japanese tastes.

Initial sales were promising but then quickly dropped off until sales numbers were almost zero.  Again, focus groups were used to determine why these weren’t selling as successfully as in America.  The initial popularity was attributed to mere novelty. 

The problem was the flavor.  Not that the cakes tasted bad or wrong or anything.  It’s just that in Japanese culture, rice is pure.  It just seemed wrong to have chocolate or lemon or other flavors in the rice cooker.  I’m sure rice cookers can be thoroughly cleaned until there’s no chance of the taste lingering to “flavor” the rice.  To the Japanese housewife, it just felt wrong.

Silly?  I can think of other examples.  We’ve all met people who say Chinese food just tastes better when eaten with chopsticks.  They’re right, too.  It really does taste better, except it doesn’t.  Really.

I have coffee cups and I have tea cups.  I could never put anything except tea in my teacups, except water, of course.  I never use my coffee cups for tea.  I use them for coffee, water or milk.

Now when I say milk, I mean soymilk (because lactose doesn’t tolerate me.)  Which brings up another example of the brain’s control over the body. 

I stopped drinking milk about 20 years ago.  I can put a little cream in my coffee and drink a about a half cup of milk, at most.  I have to be careful to eat only small amounts of cheese (including pizza.)  I carry lactase enzyme pills if I’m going to Gaspare’s or Kinchley’s to chow on some pizza or Alfredo.  Without them, I’d be passing gas like a superhero, or worse.

The thought of a tall glass of cool white milk does not appeal to me.  In fact, the thought of the discomfort that would be caused by drinking it almost causes the discomfort.

Recently, I discovered soy milk when I got a free sample at Costco.  After my fourth or fifth case I’ve noticed a few things.  I can’t drink a tall glass of it.  Can’t.  I can drink a half of a glass and if I want more, I pour another half glass.  And another.  I can consume it in quantity, but not more than half a glass at a time.  I can’t stand the sight, or thought, of a full glass of the nondairy liquid which looks and tastes (to me, anyway) like milk.  I’ll eat two small bowls of cereal rather than one big bowl.  Weird, huh?

Yes, I know the science but call me a Japanese housewife because it doesn’t change how it feels.  On the other hand, I’ve been known to cook more than rice in my rice cooker.  Mind over matter? 

I don’t mind and it doesn’t matter. 

上海出租汽车 (shang hai chu zu qi che) Shanghai Taxi

Shanghai taxis are very clean and many of them are locally made VWs called Santanas.  There are old and new model Santanas.  In the US the old model was called the VW Quantum.  I haven’t seen the new model Santanas except in Shanghai.  Here’s a privately owned VW Santana

DSC04499, originally uploaded by Clipper Monsoon.

In the upper right corner of the windshield, a small LCD monitor provided the latest news in Mandarin.  Upon entering a taxi, a recording in a woman’s voice would welcome us aboard the taxi, in both English and Mandarin.  Some of the taxis had a plexiglass shield around the driver.  We could go almost anywhere in Shanghai for about $1.30.

DSC_0569, originally uploaded by Clipper Monsoon.

I shot the following video from a taxi in Shanghai.  I’m not sure exactly where we were, but we were coming from a delicious home-cooked lunch in a western residential neighborhood of SH.  All of the high-rise buildings in this area are apartments.  I think apartment is sometimes interchangeable with condominium, denoting ownership.  The taxi goes past a few low-rise shops and then turns right onto a main avenue.  Shot on my last full day in 上海, 31 Dec 2006.

Too lazy to hit the shift key.

Could we live without capitalization?  How about punctuation?  These are two casualties caused by modern communications as the world talks by keyboard more than ever.  The world has grown smaller, and apparently so has the list of rules when emailing and chatting. 

There’s a third casualty, too.

People type words they would never say verbally.  They will type sentences they would never say.  I think it is because they are too lazy (and I am serious about this) to find the apostrophe key.  I am talking about contractions.

People type words they’d never say verbally.  They’ll type sentences they’d never say.  I think it’s because they’re too lazy (and I’m serious about this) to find the apostrophe key.  I’m talking about contractions.

If you read the two previous paragraphs, maybe you’ll see you’re much more likely to SAY the second one.   We speak in contractions but many people don’t “write” using them.  Pay attention to your emails and see if I’m right.

This is a factor of typing that didn’t exist with cursive writing.  Capital letters, and some forms of punctuation require the use of the shift key.  That’s twice as much work, if you think about it.  Inefficient, right?

If you really want to discuss efficiency, there’s texting, which is the extreme version of keyboard communication.  If texting were an Olympic event, the Filipinos would win the gold every 4 years.  They’d be to texting what the Romanians are to gymnastics. 

Add driving to the recipe and you have the makings of a true Olympic event.

Any Filipino, regardless of age, can pilot an automobile through the chaos they call traffic, while lighting a cigarette, turning up the aircon, honking the horn, swerving to avoid jeepneys and texting Mama a Mother’s Day greeting.  It’s really quite brilliant.

we shud also gib tnks 2 da flpnos 4 prvng 2 us dat vwls r not ncssry

Credentials

Sheryl Crow says “We have risen to great heights of arrogance in our refusal to acknowledge that the earth is changing.”  She believes that human activity is causing global warming and can be stopped.  Sheryl Crow is a nine-time Grammy winning American blues rock musician.

Reid Bryson holds the 30th PhD in Meteorology in the history of American education.  A climatologist for six decades, he was identified  by the British Institute of Geographers as “the most frequently cited climatologist in the world.”  Bryson believes climate change is consistent with the earth’s history.   Greenland was once green and farmed by Vikings.  The sun and water vapor have more to do with global warming than CO2.

So there’s some disagreement in what each believes.  Who’s right?  Who will more people listen to?  Let’s compare the two:

Sheryl Crow: 9 Grammy Awards
Reid Bryson: 6 decades as a climate scientist

Sorry, Reid.  9 beats 6.  You’d need three more decades just to tie Ms. Crow.

Carma

My carma seems to be at an all-time low.

I left a little earlier than usual for work today.  I noticed a screw stuck into Xiaoyu’s portside front tire.  That’s driver’s side to you cake-eating civilians.  Unless you’re from Japan, Hong Kong, or the UK, in which case it’s the other side. 

So I drove the 1.8 miles back home and switched Xiaoyu for Darth, cancelling out the being early to work.

The good news is that Costco fixed the tire for free.  Also, they balanced and rotated all four tires.  And they filled the tires with nitrogen.  All of this for no charge.

I had to go to San Francisco tonight to meet someone for a former business colleague of mine.  I was on the sketchy part of 6th in the heart of the Tenderloin.  Traffic was pretty thick and the sidewalks were full of this neighborhood’s typical characters, mostly druggies and street people.  A police car pulled out of a side street and got behind me with his lights flashing.  I pulled over thinking he wanted to get by.  Nope, he was pulling me over. 

I got a ticket because there was somebody in the crosswalk with me.  What?  I didn’t see anybody in the crosswalk with me.  I wasn’t talking on the phone or fiddling with the radio.  Maybe there was someone in the crosswalk with me.  How would I know?  I know for a fact there was nobody with 10 feet of my car.  I had cars beside me and in front of me.  It stinks because nothing can be proven.  I haven’t gotten a ticket in years.  I do full stops at stopsigns.  I use my turn signals.  I asked the cop for a break.  No cigar.  Bad carma.

I was so irritated and in a foul mood.  And I still had to meet this lady at a Starbucks.  I was meeting her for coffee so she could get some information from me about my job.  She is considering something similar.  Turns out she just moved here from Korea a month ago and so far was disappointed in the Korean restaurants at Japantown.  I asked her if she had eaten dinner and she hadn’t and neither had I so we went to Jang Soo BBQ way out there on the other end of Geary.

She seemed impressed by the authenticity of the restaurant.  I told her I didn’t even want to open the menu and she should do the ordering.  We ended up having such an enjoyable (and spicy) meal, I forgot I was supposed to be in a bad mood.

She liked Xiaoyu, by the way, the car that had given me a flat tire and a traffic ticket.  Also, we found easy parking near the restaurant.  This weekend I’ll give Xiaoyu an oilchange and I’m sure my carma will improve.

I like to say that eating ethnic foods can be an experience kind of like traveling.  A culinary mini-trip.  I don’t often think of it from a reverse perspective.  I’m happy I was able to show a lovely new San Franciscan a place she told me reminded her of the restaurants “back home.” 

I’ll take karma over carma any day.