I am not a professional Tokyo tour guide, but I can play the part, and in the last few years, I’ve done just that—many times. We have hosted family, friends, colleagues and even my former boss who, I must admit, was clearly impressed with my leadership skills when I successfully led him through the side streets of Shibuya (maybe I should have had him update my performance evaluation).
With visitors in tow, I have strolled through shrines. I have meditated in gardens. I have slurped noodles and shared sushi. I have been to the top of Tokyo Tower and to the bowels of Shinjuku Station. I have cruised and I have cooked. I have taken so many pictures with Hachiko that I think it’s time that I erect a statue of myself, camera in hand, in front of the famous dog.
So I was not at all anxious with our latest set of visitors. I believed I had done it all. I believed I had seen it all, too. They couldn’t spring any sightseeing request surprises on me.
“What?” I said with surprise. “You want to do what?”
“The fish market,” our visiting friends repeated. “We want to see an auction at the famous fish market.”
Previous guests had also mentioned Tsukiji fish market, but soon lost their zeal when I explained that it was a very early morning outing. These visitors, however, were serious. They told me so.
“We are serious,” they said in unison. “We really want to see the auction.”
I always aim to please, so to the auction we went.
Yes, we woke up extra early. Yes, we checked the auction times in a number of tour books and websites. Yes, we took the first train. And, yes, we were the only ones on it.
And, yes, we missed the auction.
“No!” I shouted in disbelief at the tourist who informed me that the tuna auction was over. “No! No! No! No! I can’t believe it.”
What was a tour guide to do? What was a failed tour guide to do? Of course, there was still sushi for breakfast. Of course, there was still the market to wander through. Of course, there was still the forklift frenzy to watch. But they had woken up before dawn to see bidding.
And so…
“Tour guide services for sale,” I yelled. “Expat tour guide services for sale! Do I hear ¥1,000? ¥1,000, anyone? How about ¥500? Expat tour guide services for sale….”
I am not usually a silly morning person, but I am willing to play the part.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Mi Kasa Es Su Kasa
I’m on a mission. And not just any ordinary mission. I’m on a mission to find a new umbrella. But not just any ordinary umbrella. I am on a mission to find the ugliest, most resistible, most hideous umbrella in Tokyo.
Believe me, I’m not on this mission because I hate umbrellas or because I don’t have any fashion sense. I just need a better way to keep track of my umbrellas. Too many umbrellas look the same. Since moving to Tokyo, I have bought nearly every umbrella sold here.
Big ones, little ones, polka dotted, too.
Green ones, plaid ones, black and blue.
Cheap, expensive, fancy, plain,
And tons of transparent ones from the conbini down the lane.
“Maybe,” I said to my husband as I futilely searched the restaurant’s umbrella stand for my umbrella, “maybe, there’s some kind of honor code that I don’t know about. Maybe all umbrellas are considered shared property and that’s why mine keep disappearing. Mi kasa es su kasa. My umbrella is your umbrella. What do you think?”
“I don’t think that phrase means what you think it does,” my husband replied.
Yes, I’m on a mission. But not any ordinary mission. I’m on a mission to find more friends. And not just any ordinary friends. I am on a mission to find exciting, whimsical friends who love adorning their stemware with wine charms.
Golf ones, boating ones, shells from the beach,
Tea party, tennis themed, in the shape of a peach.
Artistic, seasonal, nautical,
Holiday, animals, tropical.
“Charms help you keep track of your glass at cocktail parties,” my mother explained. “Thank you for the gift,” I said as I studied the mini lucky horseshoe charm, “but I don’t go to cocktail parties. Really, the only thing I need to keep track of is my umbrella.”
When it rains, it pours. That’s it.
I’m no longer on a mission to find the ugliest umbrella. Now I am on a mission to personalize my umbrella with one of my many wine charms. A bit of sparkle, a bit of inspiration and a whole lot of identification. A simple, efficient umbrella accessory.
“Cell phones shouldn’t have all the fun,” I said to my husband as I tied a charm to the handle of my umbrella. “On the next rainy day, I am bringing out the horseshoe.”
Believe me, I’m not on this mission because I hate umbrellas or because I don’t have any fashion sense. I just need a better way to keep track of my umbrellas. Too many umbrellas look the same. Since moving to Tokyo, I have bought nearly every umbrella sold here.
Big ones, little ones, polka dotted, too.
Green ones, plaid ones, black and blue.
Cheap, expensive, fancy, plain,
And tons of transparent ones from the conbini down the lane.
“Maybe,” I said to my husband as I futilely searched the restaurant’s umbrella stand for my umbrella, “maybe, there’s some kind of honor code that I don’t know about. Maybe all umbrellas are considered shared property and that’s why mine keep disappearing. Mi kasa es su kasa. My umbrella is your umbrella. What do you think?”
“I don’t think that phrase means what you think it does,” my husband replied.
Yes, I’m on a mission. But not any ordinary mission. I’m on a mission to find more friends. And not just any ordinary friends. I am on a mission to find exciting, whimsical friends who love adorning their stemware with wine charms.
Golf ones, boating ones, shells from the beach,
Tea party, tennis themed, in the shape of a peach.
Artistic, seasonal, nautical,
Holiday, animals, tropical.
“Charms help you keep track of your glass at cocktail parties,” my mother explained. “Thank you for the gift,” I said as I studied the mini lucky horseshoe charm, “but I don’t go to cocktail parties. Really, the only thing I need to keep track of is my umbrella.”
When it rains, it pours. That’s it.
I’m no longer on a mission to find the ugliest umbrella. Now I am on a mission to personalize my umbrella with one of my many wine charms. A bit of sparkle, a bit of inspiration and a whole lot of identification. A simple, efficient umbrella accessory.
“Cell phones shouldn’t have all the fun,” I said to my husband as I tied a charm to the handle of my umbrella. “On the next rainy day, I am bringing out the horseshoe.”
Monday, August 17, 2009
The object of my affection
The object of my affection in Tokyo is very cute. Admirable qualities also include punctuality, honesty and reliability.
The object of my affection is a very smooth operator, yet I don’t have to worry about any guessing games.
The object of my affection is also very quiet about my (lack of) cooking skills.
“I love it!” I said to my husband. “I just love this IC card.”
With PASMO (or Suica), I can go places. B.P. (before PASMO), I went nowhere. Actually, I did go somewhere: to my local train station where the intimidating and overwhelming subway map stopped me in my tracks. The thick lines and thin lines and dotted lines and loopy lines. Jr lines and metro lines and government lines and private lines. Bright colors and pale colors and colored codes. Adult fares and child fares. No fair. I was perpetually confused.
"Mommy, are we there yet?" my son asked me.
"No, Sweetie," I answered as I contemplated the stations C3, G10 and A9. "I'm not sure where we will end up or how much it will cost, but I'm pretty sure if we follow these letters, we might end up winning Bingo."
“Mommy, are we there yet?” my son asked me a few minutes later.
“No, Sweetie,” I answered as I continued to study the map. “Let's go home. I definitely need to return later with some professional navigating tools to help figure out the fare and plot our course. I wonder if Dad still has a sextant and compass from his sailing days.”
With PASMO/Suica, I can focus on the day’s adventure because the IC card automatically debits the correct fare. This means: no more embarrassing ticket wicket rejection. Before the IC card, I was always setting off the ticket wicket alarms; the flashing red light loudly signaling my obvious inability to figure out the correct fare. “Just me again,” I would say to the white-gloved subway officer as I gave him additional coins. “See you tomorrow.”
But then the IC card entered my life. Glorious, easy, convenient IC card. No more guesses. No more frustrations. No more hassles. No more compasses. No more pocketful of coins. No more apologizing to the white-gloved subway officer. OK. I admit it, sometimes I am still rejected at the ticket wicket, but now I easily and instantly recharge and am quickly on my way. Success! Let the Tokyo adventures begin!
“Mommy, are we there yet?” my son asked me.
“No, Sweetie,” I said as I reviewed the balance on his IC card. “I need to put more money on your PASMO. By the way, where did all your train money go? And, where did you get all that food?”
“Oh,” he said with a mouthful of potato wedges. “Did you know you can buy stuff at the conbini with your PASMO or Suica card? All you do is swipe. It’s awesome! Who wants a corn dog?”
The object of my affection is very cute. Admirable qualities also include punctuality, honesty and reliability.
The object of my affection is also full of surprises.
The object of my affection is a very smooth operator, yet I don’t have to worry about any guessing games.
The object of my affection is also very quiet about my (lack of) cooking skills.
“I love it!” I said to my husband. “I just love this IC card.”
With PASMO (or Suica), I can go places. B.P. (before PASMO), I went nowhere. Actually, I did go somewhere: to my local train station where the intimidating and overwhelming subway map stopped me in my tracks. The thick lines and thin lines and dotted lines and loopy lines. Jr lines and metro lines and government lines and private lines. Bright colors and pale colors and colored codes. Adult fares and child fares. No fair. I was perpetually confused.
"Mommy, are we there yet?" my son asked me.
"No, Sweetie," I answered as I contemplated the stations C3, G10 and A9. "I'm not sure where we will end up or how much it will cost, but I'm pretty sure if we follow these letters, we might end up winning Bingo."
“Mommy, are we there yet?” my son asked me a few minutes later.
“No, Sweetie,” I answered as I continued to study the map. “Let's go home. I definitely need to return later with some professional navigating tools to help figure out the fare and plot our course. I wonder if Dad still has a sextant and compass from his sailing days.”
With PASMO/Suica, I can focus on the day’s adventure because the IC card automatically debits the correct fare. This means: no more embarrassing ticket wicket rejection. Before the IC card, I was always setting off the ticket wicket alarms; the flashing red light loudly signaling my obvious inability to figure out the correct fare. “Just me again,” I would say to the white-gloved subway officer as I gave him additional coins. “See you tomorrow.”
But then the IC card entered my life. Glorious, easy, convenient IC card. No more guesses. No more frustrations. No more hassles. No more compasses. No more pocketful of coins. No more apologizing to the white-gloved subway officer. OK. I admit it, sometimes I am still rejected at the ticket wicket, but now I easily and instantly recharge and am quickly on my way. Success! Let the Tokyo adventures begin!
“Mommy, are we there yet?” my son asked me.
“No, Sweetie,” I said as I reviewed the balance on his IC card. “I need to put more money on your PASMO. By the way, where did all your train money go? And, where did you get all that food?”
“Oh,” he said with a mouthful of potato wedges. “Did you know you can buy stuff at the conbini with your PASMO or Suica card? All you do is swipe. It’s awesome! Who wants a corn dog?”
The object of my affection is very cute. Admirable qualities also include punctuality, honesty and reliability.
The object of my affection is also full of surprises.
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