Miss (mis)Pronounciation

I’m on the lookout for a new hairdresser in Tokyo. This newest mission has nothing to do with my hair.

It has absolutely everything to do with my pronunciation (mispronunciation) of Japanese words. I admit it. I am vexed by the vowel. I can’t make sense of the short and long sounds.

When we first moved to Tokyo, I would carry around a book of essential Japanese phrases that included such handy gems as:
Sumimasen (Excuse me. Sorry)
Eigo ga wakarimasu ka? (Do you understand English?)
Fohku o kudasai (Can I have a fork?)
Watashi wa Karen desu. Toilet wa doko desu ka? (My name is Karen. Where is your toilet?)
Otearai ga ugoki masen (The toilet does not work).
Pen ga irimasu (I need a pen)

But, now I’ve started carrying another book. A much more essential book. This one includes all the Japanese words that I’ve managed to mispronounce and should never, ever attempt to say again.

I have introduced my shujin (husband) as a shuujin (prisoner).
I have accidentally confused a sori (sleigh) with a souri (prime minister).
I have described my ani (big brother) as ani (simplistic).
And then of course there was that embarrassing moment during a holiday meal with my sensei and her friends when I toasted with a phrase that I honestly thought I had pronounced correctly. Their horrified expressions said otherwise. I am still apologizing.

“Smooth, Mom, real smooth,” my son whispered to me the other day, as he shook his head. “You just told that mother that her baby was scary.”

And, I have become notorious for complimenting mothers on their frightful-looking infants. My kawaii (cute) always sounds like kowai (scary), not matter how high pitched and enthusiastically I say it.

And, now, a new problem pair to add to list:

“Byoin,” my sensei patiently repeated. “This is the word for hospital.”
“Beyooeen?” I said.
“You just said biyooin, the word for hair dresser,” my sensei explained. “Try again. Byoin.”

“Bee yooo en. Bee you in. Bee yond. Beyonce,” I said to my husband later that evening. “Let’s just face facts. It’s no use. It doesn’t matter how much I try. I can’t master the pronunciation.” And, I know it is bound to happen. Someday I will end up taking a taxi to a stylist to perm a broken ankle or, perhaps much worse, I will show up in the emergency room for a case of the bad hair day.

So, in order to avoid being crowned Miss (mis)Pronunciation of Tokyo, I have decided to take some precautionary steps to limit my mistakes:

1. The one and only time I will say kawaii is during Halloween.
2. At my next formal dinner with my sensei and friends, I will wear a medical mask to prevent any embarrassing gaffes.
3. And, now, I'm on the lookout for a new hairdresser. I don’t care how much the stylist costs, how far away the shop is, or even if the stylist can speak English. I don’t even care if the shop has a working toilet or a pen.

My only requirement: that it is conveniently located next to a hospital.

P.S. My friends and I recently climbed Mt. Takao. Here are some photos of our outing!

Turkey Day, Tokyo Style

Thanksgiving in America may start with making lists and making phone calls. Can I put my brother-law-down for his special cranberry sauce? Is Mom making the gravy this year? Who's bringing the Brussels sprouts? Who wants to eat Brussels sprouts? Does Grandpa want to make turkey soup? What about the jello salad? Does anyone want to sit at the kid table? What time is half time?

But, in Tokyo, Thanksgiving starts with measuring tape.

"Honey," my husband asked. "What are you doing?"

"I'm measuring the oven," I said. "Because it would be just my luck to find a turkey that ends up too big for our oven."

"Oh thank goodness," he said with a sense of relief. "For a moment there, I thought you were measuring us for signs of metabo." (In Japan, "metabo" is short for "metabolic syndrome" which is a symptom for, well, basically, having to say sayonara to the skinny jeans).

So, with my measuring tape in hand, I headed out to track down a turkey. And, let me tell you, that finding a turkey in Tokyo is no easy feat. It's not easy on the feet either. Local grocery stores carry 200 gram packets of chicken. They carry this delicious, thinly sliced beef for shabu shabu. They have unbelievable sushi, sashimi, squid, octopus, eel, onigiri, $80 melons, and something called Calorie Mate. But, they do not carry a 12 pound bird.

So, three trains and 1 taxi later, my friend and I arrived at the nearest Costco (pronounced Costoco here). We had heard rumors that it might be selling frozen turkeys during the holiday season. "Look!" I said with my head in the freezer and my elbows out to protect my find from other expats moms. "I found one! I found one! Look! This turkey will fit in my oven AND it has a pop up button! A POP UP BUTTON!!" Bonzai!

And, so, I happily carried my Tom out of the store.

And, then 20 minutes later, I carried Tom back to the store.

It really isn't my style to argue with a subway security man. I mean he's got the law on his side, not to mention a very spiffy uniform. I just got a bag of giblets. So, although I didn't really understand what he was explaining to me (for all I know, he could have been saying "Wow! Well done! You found a turkey with a pop up button!"), it did have something to do with the turkey and the train.....

"Tom? We are waiting for Tom?" my husband asked me next morning. "Who's Tom again?"

"Tom the Turkey," I said. "I wasn't sure how to get him home, so I shipped him. Tom should be arriving at 9 a.m."

In America, you wait for the arrival of holiday guests and even the cable guy. In Tokyo, it's turkey time.

So, what am I thankful for this Thanksgiving?

I'm thankful I found a turkey for Thanksgiving in a foreign country.
I'm thankful I burned many a metabo calorie on this search.
I'm thankful for the pop-up button.

And, I'm thankful that my family is adventurous and embraces new experiences. Because, come Christmas, I think I just might skip the traditional American feast and try an easy, popular and finger lickin' good holiday tradition in Japan. What's on the menu? A big bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Running of the Ravens?

“Daaaad!” my son yelled as he looked out our apartment window. “Come quick! Quick! There’s a frothing madwoman outside our apartment!”

“Not to worry, son,” my husband said after he peeked out the window. “That’s not a frothing madwoman. That’s just your mother. She started a running regimen today.”

Yes, I’ve started running. And, believe me, it isn’t pretty. And, it certainly isn’t as easy as I thought.

“It is easy,” a running friend assured me. “It’s all in the breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Find your rhythm. Find your pattern. And, before you know it, you will love running and we can be running buddies.”

So, for this morning’s run in the city, I decided to give my friend’s technique a try:
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The-city-is-so-beautiful-in.
What-a-great-way-to-start-the-day-out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
This-is-easy-in. Yuck! A bug in my mouth! Gag-out.
I-definitely-need-a-running-buddy in.
Maybe-she’d-know-the-closest Starbucks-out.
Or-the-closest-Krispy Kreme-in. Yummy-donuts-out.
What-are-all-those-crows-waiting for-in?
Pick-up-the-pace-NOW-out!

Oh, the crows. The crows. When we first moved to Tokyo, I did not care for the crows at all. It seemed that every time I made progress towards my PH.D in the P.E.T., not to mention a concentration in combustibles, incombustibles, glass and bottle sorting, the hungry crows were always lurking. These large winged, steely-eyed bullies were always waiting and anticipating a weakness to my commitment to trash. So far, our bags have been spared, but my neighbor’s trash has frequently fallen prey.

But, now, well, I can see the crows in a new light.

“What did you say?” I asked my husband when I returned from a morning run.
“That was your record time,” he repeated. “Did the breathing technique work?”

I shook my head no.

“Well,” he said. “What was it? What made you run so fast today?”

“The crows,” I said. “They…must…have…thought…I …was…on…my…last…breath,” I explained between huffs. “More and more ravenous ravens circled around me. I didn’t want to slow down.”

Spain has running of the bulls. In Tokyo, it's running of the ravens.

“Daaad!” my son yelled the next morning. “Come quick! There are strange, scary creatures outside the apartment window!”

“Don’t worry, son,” my husband said reassuringly as he peeked out the window. “Those aren’t strange creatures. Those are crows and, apparently, they are now your mother’s new running buddies.”

Actually, you know what, on second thought, maybe I got just a bit carried away with the crows. Starting tomorrow, I think I’ll try indoor swimming.

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I am so excited. So excited! The other night I went to my friend's house for a birthday party. Yes, a friend. Not just an ordinary friend. A best friend.
"You are my best friend," she said as she hugged me. "It's so great to have found such great friend in Tokyo. I didn't know I was going to find such a great friend but here you are!"

I did it! I really did it! After nearly two years here, I have found a true friend.

Oh no, it wasn't easy finding a friend in a foreign country. First, I had to remember how to find a friend. I actually think the last time I had to find a friend was in kindergarten...and that was easy. Sit near the girl with all the crayons. Stay away from anyone who eats paste. Learn how to skip rope. Done. By afternoon snack, I had a best buddy.

But, here, in a new home with new neighbors and, well, ..how does an adult find friends? Where do you start?

I started on the first floor of my apartment complex: the mailroom.
"Oh, hi there," I said to the first person who entered the mailroom to open her box, "you caught me getting my mail. We haven't met. Would you like to go out for some coffee sometime?"
"Actually, I don't drink coffee. Thanks though. See you later."
Open box.
Close box.
Peek around the room corner.
Open box.
Close box.
Peek around the room corner.

"Oh, hello there," I said to the next person who entered the room. "Just checking for my mail. You here for mail too, right? I see we both like to check the mail.....How about coffee? Would you like to join me for coffee?"
"Oh, I'm busy this week and I don't drink coffee. Maybe some other time."
Open box.
Close box.
Peek around the corner.
Open.
Close.
Peek around the corner.
Open.
Close.
Watch the sun set.

"G'day," a woman said to me.
Apparently I had fallen asleep leaning against the wall of the mailroom. Finding friends is exhausting work. "I'm new here," I said in a bored voice. "And, I'd love to have coffee with you sometime."
"Coffee?" She answered in an Australian accent. "I don't drink coffee, mate. But, I do drink Fosters. Why don't you come over now?"
Ding! I found a friend!

Another method I used to find friends was to go to my boys' bus stop. The hard part was actually getting to the bus stop. My boys don't really need me to escort them anymore. "It's raining," I pleaded to my boys. "I'll carry the umbrella for you, if you let me walk with you."
"OK, Mom. Just this time. But no kisses at the stop. Fist pumps only."

But I discovered the best way to find friends is through the kid's school. I met my best friend (she and I are definitely best friends now) while cheering for our sons' football team. It was much easier than standing in the mail room for hours.

"You are my best friend," my best friend repeated at her party. And, I took a picture of us. Me and my best friend. My ray of sunshine. Telling stories. Laughing. Eating cake.

It took nearly two years, but I've got a buddy.

I am excited. So excited.


Dear Diary,
Scratch the last entry.

Yesterday on campus I saw my best friend, my amigo, my tomodachi, mon ami, my freund. "Hi!" I said. I air kissed her cheek. Best friends air kiss.

"It's too bad you didn't make it to my house last night," she said.

Apparently, I look like someone else altogether in the dim light. And, after a few glasses of wine.

I'm heading back down to the mailroom.

Tongue-tied in Tokyo

It's been two months since our return to Tokyo. Although we've been very busy adjusting to Tokyo life again (starting school, starting Japanese class, reconnecting with friends, spending yen, grocery shopping everyday, figuring out train maps, trying to find a restaurant that might serve the American Thanksgiving dinner--by the way, there are 80,000 food venues in Tokyo), we have experienced some very exciting events too:

In late August, we watched a spectacular fireworks display--10,000 fireworks with about the same number of spectators. http://www.tourism.metro.tokyo.jp/english/index.html

In September, my courageous husband, a few of his brave colleagues and our motivated 12-year-old son climbed Mt. Fuji in the sleet and rain and cold. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Fuji

In late September, I put on my hiking boots and participated in my own grueling ascent. I climbed Mt. Toei Oedo. This is actually not a mountain. It's a subway line that's 48 meters below ground. Believe me, after struggling up several flights of stairs and escalators to get from the center of the earth to fresh air, you are definitely ready for a bowl of ramen and a hot coffee. I keep hoping to buy a souvenir walking stick as a proof of my endurance.

And then, last Thursday night, well, we received a very memorable "gift" from one of our favorite local restaurants. And, to make a long story even longer, here's the story and I'm sticking to it.....

Think. Think. Think.
Quickly, I tried to think of some of the other gifts my husband and I have received from other Japanese shopkeepers over the last two years.

I looked at the wrapped package once again.
Definitely too heavy to be dishware. Probably not a Snoopy mug.
Definitely too big to be any kind of accessory. Probably not a cell phone strap.
Definitely too bulky to be a promotional giveaway. Probably not a point card.
Definitely too lumpy to be a decoration. Probably not a Pet Hotel calendar.
Could it be a bag of potatoes? Maybe it’s a pumpkin?

Think. Think. Think. What could it be?

“Gift. For you,” the Japanese chef said in English as he presented the package to us. He appeared to be waiting our reaction. This was one of our favorite local restaurants, so I didn’t want to disappoint him. But, I had no idea what “the gift” was.

Think. Think. Think.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you,” my husband said to the chef. “Arigato gozaimas.”
Clearly my husband had figured it out. “Honey,” he said to me. “Congratulations. You are the recipient of a gift of beef tongue.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beef_tongue

And, for the first time in my life, I was tongue-tied.

Think. Think. Think.
“Maybe,” I said to my husband later that evening as we both stared at the block of beef now sitting on our kitchen counter. “Maybe it’s too special to eat. Maybe I’m supposed to wrap it up in washi paper or something. Or maybe I’m supposed place it on our mantel next to our Hummel.”

“No,” he said. “We definitely need to cook it. And we should find a recipe fast. We probably can’t return to the restaurant until we’ve feasted on tongue. They will definitely want to know if we liked it.”

So, now I’ve got an important mission for this week, actually two. I’ve got until next Saturday night to serve an awesome tongue dinner. And, I have to figure out the custom for beef tongue gift giving. Is it proper etiquette to show up at the restaurant with an equally kind and thoughtful present?

Think. Think. Think.
The chef’s expertise is cooking. He gave us a gift of food.
My forte is writing. I should give him the gift of….hmmm.....

My Beef Tongue Haiku
Oh sweet, beefy t
You are not chicken, nor pork
Oh, my precious tongue
My poetry in a pot
I have got your tongue
But you have my heart, tonight
Be a tasty treat
In my covered kettle
Boil and simmer
Be a slice of goodness, please
And, if not, my sweet
Please, oh, please, pass the sake

The Koban

The other day, I had a run-in with the law. Actually, it was more like my very first run into the law; well, actually, maybe it was more like a step into the local koban (police station).

"Konnichiwa," I said. "Do you understand English?"
"No," the police man answered. (Aha! Trick question! So it appears you do understand English!)

"My son found a woman's wallet over by the swings on the playground," I said in English. I put the wallet on the counter.
I pushed the wallet towards him.
He pushed paperwork towards me. Then he started to tell me something too fast! too fast! I can't keep up! OhmygoodnesssomeveryfastJapanesetoofasttoofasttoofast....

"Gomen nasai," I said (I'm sorry), "wakarimasen." (I don't understand).

I did understand some of his Japanese. I was supposed to stay in the station. I was supposed to fill out a form with the details of where I found it. But, I couldn't read the paper. And, he was clearly trying to tell me something else. Too fast! too fast!

"Mom, what are you doing?" my eight year old asked me. I decided it was time to act out the scene: my son and I walking along. My son spotting the wallet near the playground.

"Mom?" my son said.
"Weeeeee," I said as I pretended I was on a slide and the swings. "Weeeee, I love the slide and swings. Oooh, I love to climb." If only my friends in America could see me now.

The officer could see me now and he was clearly very confused. I guess I might have looked like some crazy dancer or crazy person.
My son could see me now and he was clearly embarrassed.

The officer picked up his phone.
I picked up my phone.
Apparently, it was time to play "Who could find a translator first game". The battle of the address book.
"Watashi no sensei des," I said as I gave the officer my cell phone. My sensei (Japanese teacher)is on the line.
Ding! I won! I won! I won!

After passing the cell phone back and forth, I finally understood the situation. Apparently, it's Japanese custom to give a reward to the finder. But, because this lost wallet had no cash, our reward for turning it in would be 10% of nothing....which is nothing.

"Ok desu." I said to the officer. It's all OK. I don't need a reward. I just need some butter. And, some aspirin. I think I did something to my back while pretending to climb the bars.

So this is what I learned:
1. Even after a year here, every day is an adventure.
2. It's best to know a lot of Japanese.
3. It's even better to have a Japanese speaker on speed dial.
4. I'm absolutely dreadful at charades.

Where's the butter?

Oops.

Apparently, I’ve got butter on the brain.

Oh, yeah, I’ve become absolutely nutter over butter. I was not always like this. My butter mania condition started about five months ago on one fateful Friday. As usual I walked to my local Japanese grocery store. As usual, I reached up to pick up a box of butter. However, this time, not as usual, instead of a picking up dairy goodness, I picked up a sign. A white sign with black Japanese writing. I couldn’t read it, but I did not take this to be a good sign at all.

“Didn’t you hear?” a friend said to me later that afternoon. “There’s no butter.”
No butter?
“Well, actually,” she quietly said as she looked around suspiciously. “You may be able to find some butter around town. But, you have to be quick. Bye. Got to go.”

For my family who loves to cook and bake, this dairy deficiency is not just a menu malfunction, it affects our social lives. No butter means no more baked goods to share. No butter means no more birthday cupcakes. And, no more sautéed suppers. And, no more weekend pancakes with friends…

“And no more sleepovers,” I warned my 15-year-old son, “I don’t think I can handle a horde of hungry teenage boys staying over during a butter shortage.”

And, no butter means no butter knives. For now, I guess we have a drawer full of matching letter openers.

And that is the very reason why I became my family’s Dairy Detective—a butter brigadier. I had one job and one job only: to search and seize the buttery sticks.

“Wow,” I said to my friend one afternoon. “This is a great parking spot. How did you find it?”

“My GPS,” she said as she pointed to her car’s navigation system. “It speaks in English and Japanese. It gives me directions. And, it tells me where I can find parking.”
“Do you think…” I carefully whispered to my friend, “Do you think your GPS can tell me where I can find some butter?”

So, this is the very reason why I was so very proud of myself last week. I had found butter. Not just one slab—I had found the mother load. I did it! I did it!

“I did it!” I said to my husband as I showed him my impressive collection. “My hard work finally paid off. I was at the grocery store. I saw a supply of butter. They were in blocks. They were in English. They were mine.”
“How many did you buy?” he asked.
“I bought them all,” I said as I danced a celebratory dance around the counter. “Boxes and boxes of beautiful, spreadable, edible, creamy blocks.”
“Um, Buttercup,” he said to me. “I know why there were so many boxes of butter at the store. I know why the boxes were in English.”
“You do?” I said as I continued to dance.
“It’s because we are in America this week, not Japan. You shopped at an American grocery store. You stocked up on butter in the wrong country!”

Oops.

Oh yeah, apparently, I’ve got butter on my brain. So now that we are back in Tokyo, I’ve decided it may be best if I take a butter break for awhile and just stick to my non-stick pan.

Forget being a soccer mom! I'm a sumo mom!

"Mom," my 8-year-old son said to me about a month ago. "I want to sumo wrestle."

This request did not surprise me. First of all, my boys are always making interesting requests, such as:
"Mom, I want a clone."
"Mom, I want to name my lizard after you."
"Mom, I want a new chocolate ice cream cone. Mine just melted on the backseat of your car."

Another reason why this sumo request did not surprise me was, well, we live in Tokyo and sumo wrestling is Japan's national sport.

Not to mention, of course, there was the fact that my boys had been sumo wrestling in the living room every night after dinner.

"That's my new rug!" I yelled.
"No, Mom, it's the wrestling ring."


"Mom! Mom! Guess what?" My son said to me a few weeks ago. "I made it! I'm going to the tournament!" Sure enough, he had met the very strict criteria for an invitation to the Chofu City Wanpaku Sumo Tournament:
He had attended every practice.
He attended practice with a good attitude.
He demonstrated sportsmanship.
He showed excellent sumo skill and focus.
And, he had promised the coach I could get him to the tournament by 7:30 in the morning.

"7:30! 7:30!" I said. "Don't sumo wrestlers sleep in on the weekends?"

And, so there we were, early Sunday morning for the annual youth sumo tournament between the American School and two Japanese schools.

"You're next!" the teacher told my son. "Think of your move." (In hindsight, instead of focusing on his own move, it would have been better for my son to focus on his opponent's move which was basically this: plow my head into the stomach of the American kid and push him over the edge of the ring in the next 15 seconds.)

"It's ok," my son's teacher said when my son lost. "It's double elimination. You're still in it."
"You know what this means," I said to my boy. "This means it's comeback time. It's time to study other matches. It's time to focus on the moves. It's time to clear your mind. It's time to work on the intense eye stare."
My son started to walk away.
"Hey, where are you going?" I asked.
"To the concession stand," he said. "It's time to eat."
I started to give him the intense eye stare.
"Don't worry, Mom," he said. "Winning the sumo match is part mind game. And, my mind is made up to win."

And he did. When it was his turn to wrestle again, he won. One match after another match after another. And, he actually had a signature move: to grab his opponent's mowashi, dance around the ring a bit and then fling the opponent to the ground.

"Mom, Mom, I got a silver medal! I got second place!" A silver medal! Second place in the sumo tournament? Wow! Wow! The last time my boy won anything sports-related was in kindergarten. He won the Donut Eating Contest. And the prize was a glass of milk.

("C'mon, Mom," my son said. "You make it sound like it was easy. It wasn't easy. The donuts weren't just sitting on a table. They were hanging on a string.")

All I know is--I absolutely loved the sumo tournament. In America, I may have been a soccer mom, but, in Tokyo, I'm sumo mom.

Kore wa nan des ka?

It's a hand towel, I said to myself as I studied the fabric again. It must be. A hand towel makes sense. A hand towel is a custom at Tokyo restaurants anyway. But at restaurants, the cloth is usually small. And moist. And sometimes warm. This towel is larger. It is also dry. And, this hand towel also has a large pocket.

It's probably not a hand towel.

I studied the non-towel again.

I put my hand in the pocket.

It's some sort of puppet, I said to myself. It must be. Japan is a very courteous, quiet and respectful country. So, a little hand puppet makes sense. That way, you can just quietly and courteously wave above the dressing room curtain for assistance.

I looked at the puppet.
The puppet looked at me.
It's probably not a puppet.

Usually, at this point in "Tokyo Moments", I would just give up and ask. I would simply perform my perfected "Sumimasen"-and-shrug-routine and have someone show me what to do. Or, I would just look hopelessly confused and someone would help me. Or, I would just ask as politely as I could, "Sumimasen. Kore wa nan des ka?" What is this?

But, not this time. This time I am in a dressing room. And, I've been here awhile now. And, now I'm a bit embarrassed. And, not to mention, I'm naked.

I do have my cell phone though. Maybe I could just call the store? "Konnichiwa, shujin wa salaryman des. (Good afternoon, my husband is a salaryman. [This is one of my best Japanese sentences]). I'm calling from Dressing Room ichi. What do I do with this white towel thing?"

C'mon, I said to myself. It's just a square piece of fabric. This should be easy to figure out.
I studied the non-towel, non-puppet again.

It's got to be a "gift", I said to myself. That makes sense. It's quite common for stores and restaurants here to offer a "thank you gift" for your business. In the last few months, I've received free samples of lamb, a complimentary scoop of cherry blossom gelato and a Snoopy tote. But, I haven't bought anything at this store yet. And, why would she give it to me as I was walking in to the dressing room?

I don't think it's a thank you gift.

I studied the non-towel, non-puppet, non-gift, white cloth with pocket one more time. OK. OK. Wait. Wait. I did it. I figured it out!

Hop. Hop. Hop. Fall. Ouch.
Hop. Hop. Hop. Fall. Ouch.
Hop. Hop. Hop. Fall. Ouch.

"So, did you have any luck shopping today?" my husband asked me later that afternoon. I told him about the mystery towel. "Oh," he said. "I was told that it's a make up hood. You're supposed to put it on your head before you try on new clothes. It will protect the new clothes from make up stains."

"Put it on your head?" I said. "Really? You're joking."
"You didn't put it over your head?" my husband asked me. "What did you do with it?"
"I put my feet in it," I said. "I figured it must be some kind of special dressing room slipper. No wonder I kept losing my balance."

Hop. Hop. Fall. Ouch.
Hop. Hop. Fall. Ouch.

CNN

"Mom," my 15-year-old son said as he looked around at all the cameras surrounding us. "I think it's about time to put this sign away."

A few weeks ago, my family and I (including my parents who flew in from Massachusetts, USA) attended the MLB opening series at the Tokyo Dome (Red Sox vs. Oakland A's). It's bit of a long story how we were able to get tickets to Game 1. It was 2 parts luck; 1 part flattery and 1 part social (i.e. I'm very chatty).

"So," I said to the school mom sitting next to me (a few months ago now). "What company brought you to Tokyo?" Several of us moms were assigned/volunteered as the decorating committee for a school event. I know I probably should have been focusing on my bows and ribbons, but I don't like silence.
The mom looked at me. "We are here with MLB. Do you know Major League Baseball?"
This is when I messed up on my bow. By the way, the glue from a glue gun is hot.
"So des ne," I said in Japanese (In English: Ohmygoodnessohmygoodnessohmygoodnessohmygoodnesohmygoodnessohmygoodness.
"Oh, what a lovely bow!" I said to my new and best friend. "You have such talent...and by the way...Oh! my what wonderful colors you chose! By the way, do you know how...beautiful! Just beautiful ribbon! DoyouknowhowtogetticketsfortheRedSoxgamehereinTokyo? Wow! You are such a lovely, lovely decorator."

Anyway, we were able to get tickets and be part of a very exciting event. It was unbelievable. At the game, I was expecting to see exciting 9 innings. I was expecting to hear Sweet Caroline. I was expecting Manny to be, well, Manny. But I was not expecting the Keg Girls (young woman who walk up and down the stands with beer keg on their backs). I was not expecting dried squid. And I was not expecting this question:

"Hi. We are from CNN. Can we interview you and your family?"

And, so, my parents, my 3 sons, and 2 men from Boston we didn't know were on CNN outside the Tokyo Dome! I guess we were easy to pick out of the crowd of 45,000: My parents were wearing Cape Cod sweatshirts. My boys and I were wearing Red Sox gear from head to toe. And, we also had a sign that read "Red Sox Victory" in Engish and in Kanji.

"Mom, Mom," my son said from the side of his mouth as another crew filmed us with the sign. "I'm putting the sign away. I really came to the game early to see batting practice, remember."

I also didn't expect to be interviewed by Japanese TV stations. But, as soon as we left the CNN interview, we were immediately surrounded by more crews. They loved the boys' homemade English/Kanji sign.

So, lessons learned from this Tokyo adventure: Be a Sox fan. Know your kanji, and of course, be chatty.

To see the video, go to: http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/sports/2008/03/25/lah.japan.baseball.cnn?iref=videosearch

Ode to my Little Black Notebook

"Look over there," my son quickly whispered to me. "No, wait. Don't look. OK. Look. No, wait, don't look. Look, now! No, don't look. OK, look, but please don't be obvious."
"What exactly am I looking at?" I whispered back at my son as I rubbed my sore neck.
"Mike Lowell, Mom," my son whispered. "It's Mike Lowell! Over there. You know, The Mike Lowell from the Boston Red Sox. Dad spotted him. Quick! Look now! Oh no. That was a little too obvious."

As a tall man in Tokyo, my husband enjoys a few extra height perks: he can quickly spot open seats on the subway, he can efficiently and confidently weave us through the crowds, he can get us a comfortable corner table at a favorite soba shop(named, to our delight, Soba Chafe)...and he can spot a major league baseball player at Easter Mass.

I really wish I had worn red stockings.

"Psst, Mom," my son whispered to me a few hymns later. "Do you have anything to write on? After mass, I think I will try to ask for his autograph."

Let's see...what do I have to write on? I've got receipts from the grocery store. I've got my paper point cards. I've got a pack of tissues. I've got Kit Kat candy wrappers. I've got a metro map. I've got a small box of tylenol. I've got yen. I've got it.

"My little black book," I said to my son and husband once mass ended. "I've got my little black book with me."

My little black notebook. Oh, how I love my little black book. This gift from a friend in the States has been with me since Day One in Tokyo. It may be a pocket sized journal, but this humble, discreet diary has got it all: my first very, very, very, very detailed train route in Tokyo when I was terrified I was going to get lost; the address of my first friend who I met the day I registered my family at the town office (actually called "alien registration"); the name of a favorite hamburger place that I heard from another mother while on a morning walk; directions to the nearest 100 Yen store where I purchased inexpensive glasses before our shipment of goods arrived; a scribbled map to my first Tokyo Starbucks; a starred subway exit number to get to the movie theatre; a circled note to find the nearest ATM; plus, many quirky translations, noteworthy numbers and subway stories.

And, so here it is, an Easter Sunday entry. Three pages away from the word "platypus" (don't ask); two pages away from the address to a favorite kimono store (haven't gone yet); one page away from my scribbled notes on some interesting cultural observations (what's the deal with the armless, legless tumbling doll?):

a slanted, a cursive, a very kind

Mike Lowell 25


Go Sox.
Go Little Black Book.

The Dip

I looked at the woman behind the desk.
She looked at me.
I looked at the little, little, tiny towel that she just handed me.
Chotto motte. Wait a minute! Wait a minute. This is not a towel. I know the sign says "Towel," but this is NOT a towel. A hand towel, maybe. A face cloth, maybe. A veil, maybe. An eye patch, maybe. But certainly not a bath towel. This teensy weensy towel can't possibly cover anything.

I looked at the woman behind the desk.
She looked at me.
"Chiisai des," (it's little), I said in Japanese.
She looked at me.
I looked at my backpack. I hope, I really hope that I packed my travel sewing kit. Certainly I did not want to offend any customs. But, maybe, just maybe, I could sew 2 or 3 or 37 of these small traditional towels together and create one big coverup, perfect for us more bashful types. Yes, that's it! I could make a toga. Or, better yet, a ghost costume. Next time I'm bringing a sheet.

I looked at the woman behind the desk.
She looked at me.
"It's my first time at an onsen," I said.

Yup. I was doing it. I was really doing it. I was actually going to try the highly popular Japanese onsen for the first time. A relaxing soak in a natural hot spring was exactly what my sore body needed after a day of skiing.

I was doing it. Well, actually, I wasn't doing it quite yet. First I needed to get over the fact that this women-only onsen was public. I will be soaking with strangers. And, that this onsen had a, ahem, bathing-suit-less custom. So, nothing was going to be between me and the hot spring bath except my Revlon lipstick, Ruby Radiance.

I looked at my friend who was already in the onsen.
She looked at me.
Be a mermaid, be a mermaid, be a mermaid, I said to myself.

And, after a few nervous minutes, I did it. Very slowly (it was hot!), I entered into a glorious, wonderful, extraordinary, picturesque, unbelievably hot outdoor onsen. I did it!

I looked at my friend.
She looked at me.
"The towel," my friend said to me as she pointed to my towel. I had put it on one of the granite rocks. (Where else are you supposed to put it?) "You are supposed to put it on top of your head. It will help keep you cool. You are not supposed to put it on the rocks."

"So...," I said after a few more minutes. I actually wasn't sure if you are supposed to chat in an onsen or not. But, it felt strange not to say anything. Here we were--a few foreigners and Japanese women together with dollop of towel on our heads. Here we were up to our chins in a hot spring. Here we were experiencing an onsen the, ahem, Japanese way. And, at some point, we were all going to have to get out of the bath and walk naturally to the dressing room. So, shouldn't we chat a bit first? Shouldn't we at least share addresses for a holiday card? Weren't we the sisterhood? The Sisterhood of the Suitless. The Sisterhood of the Brave. The Sisterhood of the Not-So Embarrassed. The Sisterhood of the Little Towel. But, what exactly do you talk about in an onsen? Clothes? The Billy's Boot Camp exercise DVD?

I looked at my friend.
She looked at me.
"So...," I said to my friend. "How do you cook your pot roast?"

The Lunch Date

"I don't know what to do," I said to my husband this morning. "What do you think?"
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Do you want to say no?"

No? No? I couldn't say no. How could I say no? This was an opportunity of a lifetime. Today, I was going out for lunch. And,it wasn't just any lunch. It was lunch at a Tokyo restaurant. And, it wasn't just any Tokyo restaurant.

"This is not just any Tokyo restaurant," the editor of a Tokyo magazine had reminded me a few days before. "This restaurant has a two month waiting list for lunch! And, we got you in to write a review for our English readers."

"It has a two month waiting list, remember?" I yelled to my husband from inside my closet. "What do you think I should wear? Aren't restaurant reviewers supposed to dress in classy burgundy sports coats and black merino wool turtlenecks?"

After finally settling on my first restaurant review outfit: a maroon sweater and elastic-waist band black pants (It was an all-you-can-eat buffet afterall), I decided I needed to focus on something even more important to help prepare for my critique. I needed to do something about my name. This is Tokyo. I needed a new name that sounds sophisticated. I needed a name that sounds honest. I needed a name that sounds cultured and culinary. I got it.

"I thought of my restaurant review name," I said to my husband before he left for work. "Call me Francesca Fromage."
"Francesca Fromage," he said. "I think you just burned your english muffin in the toaster."


"So, what do you think?" the restaurant's public relations person asked me as I was sampling the coffee. I had taken the subway and easily found the restaurant. I had queued in the foyer. I had toured the dining room. I had stood in the buffet line. I had met the chefs. I had admired the setting. I had taken notes. I had sampled food. I had nibbled. I had dipped, sipped, sliced, diced. But, I had not quite finished testing the all-you-can-eat dessert station. And, my goodness, there were so many desserts to choose from: cakes, pastries, specialty breads, eclairs and even a very tempting vase of delicous-looking cookies with a sign that read in English "For display only. Do not eat."

"You know," I said. "I do feel a compliment coming. I really do. But, you know what would help? Another eclair. They are just so small, I couldn't quite savor it long enough to find the right word. Actually, maybe two or three more eclairs would help keep those compliments coming...okay maybe just the whole platter..."

I don't know if I'll write any more restaurant reviews. I don't know if I will be asked back to this restaurant. I don't know if I will write another article for this English magazine. But, I do know that Francesca Fromage loves her chocolate. And, that she can somehow break the new toaster.

P.S. This is a picture I took on Coming of Age Day. These women are dressed in their formal kimonos and celebrating becoming "adults" (age 20). It is much better than a picture of me and the coming of middle age.

Hello, my name is Karen. Where is your toilet?

"Sna-ko fli-to?" my teenage son read very slowly.
"Sna-ko fli-to?" I repeated. "Sna-ko fli-to?" This is going to be harder than I thought.
My son and I stared back at the DVD cover. What is this movie?
Clue #1: Samuel L. Jackson
Clue #2: airplane
And, now Clue #3: "Snako flighto. Snako flighto!" my son yelled as he translated. "It says Snake Flight. Snake Flight! This is the movie Snakes on a Plane!"
"You're right! Of course! Great job!" I said as I gave him a fist pump. "The good news is that now we know we are in the action category. The bad news: we can't rent this movie for family night. Look! There's Matthew McConaughey. Can you try to translate this one?"

After a year in Tokyo and some language skills under our belt, we decided to join our neighborhood video store. With a Japanese DVD player (which we now have), logic skills to figure out the plugs, remote control and buttons (which my husband has) and the correctly formatted DVD (which this store has), we can rent American movies.

But first, we have to figure out the movies.

"What do you think?" I said to my son as I held up a DVD with Matt Damon on the cover. "Do you think this is Bourne Ultimatum? Bourne Supremacy? Bourne Identity? Maybe it's The Departed?"

Thanks to my son's katakana and hiragana translating and Samuel L. Jackson, Matt Damon and Bruce Willis, we discovered the action aisle. From DVD covers of Will Ferrell and Jim Carrey, we determined the comedy corner. And, DVDs of Kiefer Sutherland, Kiefer Sutherland and Kiefer Sutherland, we figured out the TV series collection. (And, after a few seconds of attentive investigating, I did find out that the "Hot! Hot! Hot!" section referred to the newest releases and not, well, not some other genre that would make me blush. The movie Devil wears Prada did have me momentarily worried, but the new National Treasure assured me that my deduction was correct. Thank you, Nicolas Cage!).

"C'mon,Mom," my son said, "stop stalling. It's time to become members. The clerk is staring at us."
"You ask how to join," I whispered back. "You know that you have the best pronunciation in the family. The only phrase I can say well is "Watashi wa Karen des. Toilet wa doko desu ka? ('My name is Karen. Where is the toilet?')"

I'm not really sure how we did it, but somehow we got a membership card, successfully rented movies from a local store, successfully watched the movies in English, and learned the location of the nearest toilet.
A very successful mission, indeed.
Take that Jason Bourne!

Happy New Year

Happy Year of the Rat from Tokyo!

I can't believe we have been here a year already. It just seems like yesterday that our oldest child was lost in our new apartment complex; our middle child was accidentally left behind on a train platform (while we were on an express train); my husband and two sons went on a "fun run" in our new neighborhood that ended up becoming a very long, very cold and very unfun run; we visited Meji Shrine with over a million people; my family and I moved around as one amoeba family until we all memorized our route home; my movers entered my apartment via my living room window; and, of course, it felt like yesterday when I mistakenly pressed the alarm button thinking it was the flush button and ended up having a very awkward meeting with security. Oh, wait, that was yesterday.

Other awkward highlights from Year One in Tokyo:

"Is there a place nearby where we can eat?" I asked as I first motioned food going into my mouth and then dramatically rubbed my tummy. Pantomiming. I can't help it. I just can't help myself. I have to communicate. And, if I don't know how to say it in Japanese and if I can't just point and pay...then, I pantomime. Every time.

"Is there a place nearby where we can walk the dog?" I asked the relocation coordinator as I grabbed a pretend leash and started striding around the room of the apartment we were looking at. "Or, a place where we can ride a bike? Ring! Ring! Look out!" I said as I grabbed the pretend handlebars, kicked the pretend stand, and pretend pedaled over to my husband and coordinator. "Would you like an afternoon newspaper?" I asked as I reached into my pretend bike basket.

"Karen san," our relocation coordinator said.
"Yes."
"I speak fluent English."

"Karen," my husband said.
"Yes."
"Want to get away?"

*****

"Domino's is here!" our boys yelled as they looked through the camera of the intercom system. "And he came on a scooter! That's cool!" It was Day Two in Tokyo and I just wasn't quite brave enough to tackle the local grocery store yet.

"Somethingsomethingsomething en des," the delivery man said. His sentence was clearly way too long to be the cost of the pizza, so I figured he must be asking me if I liked his cute Domino's helmet.
"Hai," I said and then bowed. It was a really cute helmet.
"Receipto," he said as he gave me the pizza receipt. I guess he figured out I had no idea what he was saying.

And there it was in my hand--my first receipt in Tokyo. "Wow. There are certainly a lot of zeros here," I said. Three zeros actually. And a comma. I'm not sure what this number means here yet, but 5,000 is a very big number in America. I gulped. I started to sweat. "Honey," I yelled down the hallway to my husband. "Did you buy two pizzas or the whole Domino's franchise?"

I looked back at the receipt. Yep. All three zeros were still there. I wasn't seeing things. "Boys," I said to my kids. "Quick! Check under the sofa cushions for some extra money!"
"Mom," my son said. "We just moved in. There wouldn't be any money in the sofa."
"You're right, you're right," I said. "Quick! Go introduce yourself to our new neighbors and see if you can sell them our sofa."

There it was--another first, actually two firsts: 1) my first "sticker shock" and 1)my first time scaring a delivery person. "I feel horrible," I said as I watched him run to the elevator. "I don't know how to apologize. Maybe I should pantomime somehow how sorry I feel."
"Fight the urge," my husband said. "Fight the urge."