Behind Enemy Lines: Fighting the Flu

For a long while, we teachers were winning the war. Many of the students had already fallen in battle, but our troop held strong. Our enemy? The dreaded influenza, or as they say in Japan, “influ.”

Last Tuesday, one of the teachers felt sick so he went to the clinic. We got the news shortly after. The devastating news came that the enemy had taken him.

We sprang into action to defend our remaining soldiers, opening windows to ensure air circulation. I am stationed directly next to the infected fighter, so I repelled from my desk faster than two magnets pushed together.

Thankfully, despite my personal apprehensions regarding wearing one, I decided to overcome my awkward feelings and don a mask before school that day. To further bolster my defences, I washed my hands as if I’d developed a sudden obsessive-compulsive fear of germs.

Yet, our efforts began to seem futile after our enemy took one of our own as a hostage. He went missing, and it wasn’t until the next day that he was returned to us. He didn't fall to the flu as the first soldier had. (Is my analogy getting too convoluted? Basically, the second teacher felt ill and went to the clinic, and so he didn't come into school the next day but he got the results that it wasn't the flu). 

Anyways, on another note, I have come to not just tolerate, but passionately adore face masks. They are not only saviours keeping me from getting the dreaded influenza, but also a really nice thing to wear when you are having a “bad face day.”

We all have “bad hair days.” When I have one, I either pull my hair into a sloppy ponytail or wear a hat. But on bad face days, when I had a bit of dry skin in one spot and a huge zit on my cheek, I never knew what to do.  Now, the problem is instantly solved by my new friend, face mask.

Yes, I truly wish it would catch on in the States, but as I discovered first hand, they still induce fear and confusion outside of Japan. When I arrived in Denver still donning my face mask, a terrified looking little boy pointed at me and asked his dad, "what happened to her?" Oh man... I assured him I was fine and let out an involuntary chuckle. 

Yet, it clearly works- guess who is free of the flu? That's right, yours truly!

See? It can be sexy!

Grandpa and I Stole My Bike

Before I can get into the crazy adventure involving dashing around my town with a locked bike, I will provide a bit of necessary background information. Last Sunday, someone took my coat from the gym. This wouldn't have been a huge deal if my bike and apartment keys weren't in the pocket. But alas, they were. So, thankfully, one of the coordinators who works for my company came and saved me. We got me a spare key from the apartment office, a process which was relatively painless. The bike situation, however, proved to be a bit more complicated.

Many bikes in Japan, including mine, have locks attached to the back tire. When you lock it, it induces a sort of bike rigour mortis, preventing the back tire from moving and the kickstand from being lifted.

The little round thing under the seat on the rear tire is the lock

I live about a mile away from the gym, so the thought of toting a partially immobilised bike all the way there sounded painful to say the least. However, leaving it at the gym overnight was not possible either, so the coordinator and I hoisted it into the trunk of her car and drove it back to my apartment. I'm pretty sure whoever saw us thought we were pulling a grand-theft bicycle. Oh well.

I realised after just one day how much longer it takes to walk everywhere when you are used to biking. All of a sudden, journeys everywhere seemed like voyages to Mordor. So, I decided I needed to get the lock situation taken care of. Along with my coordinator, three others helped me make my bike rideable again, and if people in Japan hugged, they would have all gotten one from me for their amazing collective effort.

1) The Vice Principal at my school. Of course. He is my superman. A few days after the theft of my bike key, he asked how I was and I explained that I was a bit distressed. At that point I realised that the coat robber wouldn't be returning it.

When I told the VP what happened, he banged his fist on the desk and said, with the kind of conviction I would expect from a judge reading the verdict of a grisly murder case, "Marisa. This is not ok. Japan should be safe place. Japan must apologise!" And he told me that I must take the bike to the bike shop to get the lock cut off, and that this would cost about $10.

He said he would try to drive me when his schedule was clear, but we couldn't seem to find a convenient time for both of us so I said I would walk it to the bike shop, no big deal. He then reached into his desk and produced a nice, fancy bike lock and said "Marisa, I present you this. Then, no need buy new lock." Wow, I was speechless with gratitude. It also piqued my curiosity as to how he magically always has whatever I need in his desk.

He then informed me that next week he will take me to an Indian curry lunch as a further apology from Japan. Despite my assurance that I was not mad at Japan and such kindness was unnecessary, he insisted.

2) My new Japanese Grandfather. So, finally, I decided that enough was enough. I needed to just suck it up and walk my heavy bike to the shop. I will say that walking a half mile lugging a heavy bike with immobilised wheels is easily one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I paused every ten minutes or so to change my arm positions and take a breather. Once again, I am sure that everyone who saw me thought that I looked insane and that I was stealing a bike.

This is mine, I swear!

When I was about halfway to the shop, an elderly man approached me and asked me in Japanese if I was okay. He then began talking rapidly in Japanese and asking me questions and I just kept saying that I was okay because I didn't understand him. Eventually, he jaunted off ahead of me.

About fifteen minutes later, the bike shop was finally in sight. So was the same elderly man, who was rushing towards me again. He looked extremely worried, and informed me that the bike shop, my destination that seemed so within reach at last, was already closed. My heart sank. I tried to explain to him that I would still walk my bike to the shop and come back tomorrow, but he didn't understand a word. He was determined to help me, and refused to leave me stranded.

Finally, a metaphorical lightbulb appeared over his head. He pointed across the street at a bike parking lot beside an apartment building and I nodded in agreement- it looked like a nice place to leave a bike. So we decided to jaywalk my bike across the street. I tried to help him as he took the bike from me, and he insisted that he could carry it himself. So this little, 70-plus-year-old-man lugged my locked bike across the road, dodging cars, and we parked it among the other bikes. I thanked him profusely and asked him name, and he said simply "Ojiisan" ("Grandpa" in Japanese). He then told me to take care and walked off into the distance and out of my life.

3) The bike shop owner. The next morning, I rushed back to where Grandpa and I left my bike. There is was, safe and sound. I walked it over to the bike shop, where the owner got out a set of hedge-clippers that looked like they could sever the strongest metal in half. He clipped off the lock and I asked him in my terrible Japanese how much it would cost. He waved off the notion and insisted that it was "daijoubu" ("okay") and that he was happy to do it. I told him "I'm so happy!" in Japanese, thanked him profusely, and, FINALLY pedalled off to the station.

That's a happier ending than many Disney films, in my opinion.

A Bonsai Bond

I have trouble taking care of things. I own fish and they die instantly. I have even had cactuses die while under my care. As Demetri Martin says, I am less nurturing than a dessert. How sad. So, when someone gave me a Bonsai tree, you can imagine my fear. This was not just a tree. It was something to care for, something for which I would be responsible.

Previously, my idea of plant care was putting the plant either somewhere in direct sunlight, in an area that gets some sun for 10 minutes a day, or in a dark corner, and giving it some water whenever you happen to remember. That is until one day when you forget completely and then glance over to see it dying and begging you for water making you feel beside yourself with guilt causing you to desperately try to save it to no avail.

However, I knew this time had to be different. Bonsai trees as gifts are important to say the least when it comes to Japanese culture. I made a commitment to myself to keep my photosynthetic friend alive for as long as I could.

The first thing I noticed while having another living thing in my apartment is that I will talk to just
about anything. I greet 植木 (Ueki which means potted plant in Japanese) every morning, an action possibly indicative of insanity that I am glad no one is around to witness. Ueki has taught me that plants are actually hard work. She is the neediest mini tree, she reminds me of Regina George from Mean Girls; so ridiculously high maintenance.

Ueki ALWAYS NEEDS SOMETHING! I feel like an annoyed mother throwing up her arms in defeat and shouting "I JUST gave you water!" Bonsai trees apparently drink faster than Bikram yoga practitioners in Death Valley. Not only do I have to give her water multiple times a day, but I have to put her in the sunlight, which sometimes is non-existent in my apartment. The art of Bonsai care gets more refined still. Bonsai trees actually turn towards the sunlight and grow only in that direction, meaning that you need to turn them often to keep their trunks growing straight. I found this out when Ueki began growing sideways when I left her in the same spot, to the point that the pot holding her almost tips over in the direction she is growing. 

She is a cool tree, though, and lovely, and I must admit it is nice to have to take care of something. Except when she gets too demanding, that is. 

植木

All a Matter of Perspective

Having lived most of my life in a place where rain is not often in the forecast (except in rare, apocalyptic amounts), I have had to make some adjustments while living in Japan. I used to morph into Grumpy Cat when I woke up to a dark, cloudy, rainy day that would make a perfect backdrop for an anti-depressant commercial. This morning, I opened the door and saw a deluge of rain, but decided to accept it and be okay with it. “Alright, rain,” I said (because I am weird and talk to forms of precipitation sometimes), “you are here today. There’s nothing I can do to change that, so I am going to embrace your presence.” The rain gave me a symbolic thumbs-up in response, cheering me on. The rain and I have a pretty solid relationship, and I want to keep it as such.

Just embrace it!

So, equipped with my new attitude of acceptance, I got dressed in my rain boots and walked to work with a cheerful bounce in my gait. I probably looked like an idiot, but I couldn’t have cared any less. Many Japanese people, and people all over the world, see the rain as an excuse to skip the gym. In my opinion, it is the perfect reason to go to the gym. What’s better than hitting the elliptical machine and then rewarding yourself with a nice dip in the outdoor hot tub afterwards? Relaxing in a steamy spa in the rain is one of the best experiences.

These guys know what's up

I have also accepted that I am just not good at umbrellas, proved by the fact that even when I use one, I manage to arrive at my destination sopping wet. There are some days when I wish I were blessed with the super power to generate a rain-repelling force field around me. But, there are much worse things than getting a little wet (or, completely drenched in my case) in the rain. So, the rain and I have decided not just to reconcile our differences, but to embrace a beautiful friendship, because it’s all a matter of how you look at things in life. The rain can make you a Grumpy Cat, or a Happy Cat. It’s up to you.

Your choice.

Otters, Pandas and Bears, Oh My!

If Dorothy had decided to venture to the Ueno Zoo instead of Oz, she would have encountered very different creatures. I'm not sure what it is about zoos in other countries, but so far my experience has shown that animals abroad are much livelier. Yesterday, the inhabitants of Tokyo's famous zoo were as active as those in captivity can get given their space constraints. The most exciting thing was the activity of the animals that zoo-goers pay to see like tigers, polar bears, gorillas and pandas. I have been to the San Diego zoo more times than I can count and have never seen a giant panda as close up as I did in Ueno.

I think I'm invading this panda's personal bubble

Not only were the gorillas monkeying around (there's a little primate humor for you), but they had an adorable little whippersnapper of a baby with them. The otters, which often sleep in American zoos or hide better than Waldo, snaked around playfully like furry little eels through the water. I have seen polar bears all over the world, in places like San Diego, Colorado and Madrid. Yet, I have never seen one bounding back and forth, jumping, and diving as I did in Tokyo. All of the beautiful creatures were truly a sight to behold, and made me realize with how many beings we share this Earth. Sorry, I hope you all had your Lactase ready, that got a bit cheesy without warning. My favorite was the snowy owl. It pivoted its head sharply a few times a minute and once stared directly at me with a piercing gaze through yellow eyes. I felt like it was looking right into my soul. Maybe it was Hedwig and had magical powers and actually did stare into my soul.

One of my favorite exhibits was the one featuring Japanese birds. One of the reasons I liked it was its complete emptiness of the building. I suppose most of the visitors figure they have seen enough Japanese birds just by living in Japan. Yet it was so peaceful watching the graceful beings amid no sounds save the echo of my footsteps. If I were a zoo animal, I would definitely be a Japanese bird because I wouldn't have to deal with annoying people glaring at me and being loud at all hours.

I think that visitors who don't speak Japanese should get a discount at the Ueno Zoo, since almost all of the signs are in Japanese only, thus meaning they miss out on the information about the animals. Okay, okay, I concede it is only $5 to get in which is really nothing, especially in comparison to other zoos. At least the names of the animals were translated, some rather comically. One was called a “Dhole,” and I could just read it as a D-Hole, which just sounds wrong. It looked like a kind of fox. I guess maybe foxes can be D-Holes.

The only downside, as is often a downside in theme parks, zoos, and other attractions, was the mass amount of people. This particular outing redefined what it meant for a place to be crowded. I eventually lost count of how many times someone ran into me with her stroller, or a child stepped on my feet. Not a single person said “excuse me” or “I’m sorry.”

However, for every inconsiderate person on this Earth there exists at least one considerate one. The language barrier in Japan has discouraged me to the point where I rarely ask for help or for directions anymore. Even when I ask a question in Japanese, I can’t understand the answer, so the point of asking is moot. Upon arrival in Ueno, however, the zoo had already been open for hours and I didn’t want to waste time wandering around lost beyond reason. So, after realizing the map was of little assistance, I asked the two women standing beside me which way the zoo was. A look of determination came over their faces and they said “please, we go together.” I felt bad, because one had a suitcase and wore sky-high heels and the other carried a tiny baby. But they insisted. So, we walked across the station to the information booth and they found out where to go. Then, they walked me all the way out to where signs pointed the way to the zoo, chatting with me animatedly the whole time. After such a short time with them, it surprised me when I felt sad upon going our separate ways. When you are in a foreign country, you tend to latch onto any human interaction rather quickly.

Small Acts of Kindness

Tonight, despite having a great day overall, I felt angry once I arrived at the train station. It was one of those times where I just felt mad. Mad at myself, mad at Japan, mad at the weather, mad at the world. I wanted to hit the next passerby and cry all at once. 

Things only went downhill for me emotionally when I arrived at my bike to find that a large wind gust had blown it down along with the bikes beside it. I knew that the logical way to get it upright from underneath the neighboring bike under which it was now pinned was to treat it like a tangled necklace. But, like most of us when we see a tangled necklace, patience was the furthest thing from my mind. Screw logic. 

I began tugging angrily at the bike, which was hopelessly tangled up with its neighbor in what seemed like a penthouse-worthy tryst of bike lovin'. As I began to make strange noises expressing my frustration, a Japanese man ran over to me and asked me if I was okay, and began helping me with the bike. His act of kindness quickly jolted me back to reality. I felt like an idiot for my public display of impatient lunacy. Not only did he lift up my bike for me, but he lovingly untangled the three bikes beside mine which had fallen over. His caring gesture was infectious, and I instantly began to help him. He started speaking to me in Japanese, and I felt pretty awesome for understanding some of it.

Quick side note: in the past two days alone, three Japanese people have told me that my Japanese is amazing. Doing so has just instilled in me what I believe is a completely false sense of confidence, but at least now I try to use what little of the language I know. 

So after the man who helped me hopped on his bike and wished me good luck, a massive gust of wind blew over the three bikes we worked so hard to straighten up. They of course took out my bike, knocking it hard on the ground. If I hadn't been cheered up to such a high level, I would have been fuming. But another amazing thing happened. An elderly little Japanese man rushed over to help me with my bike. It was such a seemingly simple act of kindness, but it made me so cheerful! He and I worked to pick up my bike and those which had fallen over. Such a simple way to bond with your fellow human being!

So, I want to thank those two men for their acts of kindness today which taught me how much of a difference such seemingly small things can make. 

My Nagging Conscience

During my weekend in Kyoto, I had no shortage of "Gaijin moments." Gaijin, which means foreigner, is a slightly derogatory term used here in Japan. So, those moments are ones where visitors do something totally stupid because of cultural differences. I am not immune to those moments. In fact, I am particularly prone to them. 

One particular incident that stands out like a preppy girl at a goth convention (do they actually have conventions? How strange would that be?) occurred at a sushi train restaurants. For those of my readers who are unfamiliar with these places, they feature little plates of sushi going around on a conveyor belt in front of diners who can reach out and take what they like. Each plate costs about $1, which is pretty awesome. It kind of makes me feel like this: 

So, almost immediately plopping down on a stool, my eager eyes caught sight of what looked to me like tuna and some fish I didn't recognize topped with a dollop of something that looked like horseradish. The little card featuring the name of the sushi had a lengthy title beginning with the word "horse" so I assumed that my thinking was correct. 

A look of terror quickly befell my friend's face and he asked me why on Earth I just took that plate. I didn't understand the problem and just stared at him blankly. Then, my face adopted the same expression of shock and terror as he informed me what my "horseradish fish" really was. Not horseradish. Raw horse meat.

My first instinct was to immediately return the plate to the conveyor belt, but of course, since I touched it, such an action was unthinkable. My heart began to race and I was awash with complete panic at the revelation that there was RAW HORSE MEAT in front of me. So many horrific thoughts began to swim in my mind. First, that it went against every ethical bone in my body to have to PAY for that plate. Second, the fact that they were serving horse at a sushi restaurant. If it were a seahorse, MAYBE I'd understand.

I began to calm myself down when it hit me that there was really nothing I could do. The horse was dead and on little blobs of rice on three plates going around and around on a sushi conveyor belt. Nothing I could do could change that. But the horse continued to haunt me like a ghost, slowly passing me by about every two minutes, because no one else was a terrible monster like me and picked up the horse plate. After about an hour, only one plate in addition to the one on the counter way too close to me was taken by someone else. That person is far worse than I am, however, considering they actually ATE the graceful, majestic creature.

The situation felt very reminiscent of the horse head in the bed in The Godfather. I couldn't even escape the haunting of the horse meat in the picture of me in the restaurant. If you look right to the right of my hand, you can see the little plates of equine "sushi."

WOW, I really can't escape my mistake! I am listening to Pandora, and a song by a band called "Horse Feathers" just came on, no joke. I am scarred enough by knowing what horse meat looks like. Visions of raw horse meat will dance around in my nightmares like sugarplums dance in the visions of sleeping children waiting for Santa. Except I bet that sugarplums dance in a jolly, cheerful and magical way whereas slabs of dead horse dance in a demonic, terrifying way. Strange analogy, sorry...

I'd prefer this any day

I will never live this down...I am sorry to horses everywhere! At least I didn't actually EAT one of you! Please consider this my public apology.

Sunrise Run

Yesterday at school I was discussing running with the vice principal because that is our common ground. It’s what we bond over. In particular, after having been mercilessly destroyed by track and field club, we now talk about our love of long, slow, relaxing runs. He said that he wakes up at 4:30 every morning so he can begin his run at 5:00 in order to watch the sunrise. I told him he was crazy.

Like this.

Coincidentally enough, I found myself awake around 4:30 the morning following our discussion. I decided it was meant to be and got my butt out of bed for a sunrise run so see what the fuss was all about. Although I don’t see myself making these runs a routine occurrence, I did appreciate the beauty of the sunrise blazing like wildfire across the sky. It truly was breathtaking, to the point that I paused my run to snap a photo.

On a somewhat different note, but still related to runs, I am always unsure whether or not to greet people whom I pass. Should I give a grin? If it’s a fellow runner, should I flash an “I know how you feel” expression? Should I ignore them completely? Should I give a nod of acknowledgement? Or, should I take it to the other end of the spectrum entirely and give them a disgruntled scowl? Okay, perhaps not the last option.

This morning, I was so chipper from the beauty of the sky on such a cool, crisp morning that I decided to be super cheerful with every fellow human I passed. The first target of my kindness was an elderly, slightly hunched over man with a frighteningly stern face. I didn't let this deter me, however; I went all out and gave him a big smile, a “good morning,” and a nod. A gigantic, toothy smile shattered his stony expression instantly, and he returned my greeting in kind.

I'm gonna make you smile, grumpy man!

The next person I came across was a woman appearing to be in her early 30’s (although this is Japan, so she may have been like 86) riding her bike. I gave her a little nod because that is all I had time for as she passed. Her stern expression did not waver. Whatever, that’s your problem, bike lady. Be angry. See if I care. I wouldn't let her get me down. The next couple was kind, but not over the top, when returning my gesture, but it was enough to keep my spirits afloat. The remaining recipients of my cheerful greetings responded with at least a mini-bow of acknowledgement. That’s good enough for me.

A Pear, Chocolate, Coffee Kind of Monday

I woke up realizing that the dreaded Monday had come and a wave of panic cascaded upon me. Yes, I had a serious case of the Mondays. I forced myself against my will to power through my morning run. I'm proud of myself for doing so, though I wore a pained expression and refused to greet my fellow runners. 

Yes, that is how my day began. However, things made a quick turn around when I arrived at work. One e immediately and handed me a piece of dark chocolate. I'm not sure if he could just read my emotions that well and I looked like I needed it like a car accident victim needs a blood transfusion or if that is his cure all for everyone's Monday blues, but whatever the case he quickly became my saving angel of the day.

It gets better. I finally realized the degree to which good coffee trumps crappy instant coffee. Last Friday, I bought some origami coffee (because everything in this country has to be origami) which is really high quality coffee in a bag that you place in a cup with this little paper contraption holding it to the sides. Then, you pour hot water over it and let it seep through for a few minutes. Sounds a bit time extensive, but totally worth it. So, I had the delicious, bitterness of dark chocolate and the unparalleled taste of truly good coffee intermingling in a sensational symphony of taste in my tummy. How could things possibly improve?

As I sat down, marinating in the bliss that had overcome me, a really shy older teacher with whom I work bashfully said "excuse me" and handed me a bag. "This is pear," he said. "From my own garden. "I could not suppress my over-the-top grin." For ... me? "I said, surprised." Yes, yes, please enjoy! "This may seem a strange gift, but it is not in Japan. Receiving fruit is like receiving gold. At the supermarket, Asian pears sell for over a dollar a piece. That is expensive for one piece of fruit! I might also add that I am the only one whom he gave a pear. I felt pretty darn special

!