Pondo-san 　ポンド

Washlet Woes

2012-01-31T09:37:00.000+09:00

I just want to apologize to patrons (particularly the lavatory ladies) of an unnamed restaurant in Roppongi.

I am really sorry.

It is really difficult to admit this....recently, when I was out at an unnamed restaurant in Roppongi, I just couldn't figure out how to flush.

I am so sorry.

Just to be clear, I am no Japanese washlet rookie. On the contrary, over the years in Tokyo I have become quite the expert. I have successfully waved, stomped, and experienced a somewhat impatient auto-flush. I have triumphantly pulled levers, pushed buttons, and yanked chains.
Who controls the control panel? Oh yeah, this lady does!

But, this time, I was completely baffled. I was way out of my league. I was in serious trouble.

Honestly, please believe me, I did everything I could think of. I inspected the panel. I felt around the tank. I examined the stall from floor to ceiling for buttons or infrared sensors or some kind of sign. Any kind of sign.

So, I did what I thought was best.

I found a marker in my bag, wrote "SUMIMASEN" ("excuse me; sorry") across a long strip of toilet tissue and then wrapped it around the commode like it was a crime scene.

Then, I briskly walked out of the rest room.
And, headed immediately for the check out line.

While I was waiting to pay, I heard some women chatting in the back of the line.
One of them said, "One of the ladies in this restaurant has very impressive handwriting."

"Yeah," said her friend, "And, apparently, quite an insatiable appetite for asparagus."

I am not sure exactly if they were referring to me; I will not confirm nor deny. However, I will accept the penmanship compliment.

I hope this never happens to me again.

And, I also hope for a new smartphone app that can help me be less dumb.

I am hoping for a remote flush device.

And, in the meantime, I promise to cut back on a certain green vegetable.

The Katakana Challenge

2011-11-30T14:46:00.001+09:00

Yeah. It was probably not a good idea to try to learn Katakana while I was on a diet.

Recently I enrolled in an intensive Japanese language school. My first goal as a student is to finally master Katakana, one of the Japanese writing systems.

How hard can Katakana be really? I can do this, right? I have memorized my childrens' social security numbers. Mostly. I have memorized all our computer passwords. I have memorized cell phone numbers from two countries that we live in. I have memorized the secret chocolate and mint bar recipe from my husband's family. I've memorized song lyrics, packing tips, moving lists and spelling hints like "i before E except after C." I know how to remember the planets in order: My Very Educated Mother Just Saw Uncle Nick (Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune).

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

I can't do this.

It seems that my brain is full of social security numbers, passwords, phone numbers, song lyrics, chocolate recipes and planets.

"Now, remember," my sensei reminded me. "This is basic Katakana. But there are additional Katakana sounds. This little dot here above the syllable turns the H sound into a P. Ha Hi Hu He Ho is now Pa Pi Pu Pe Po. And these short lines turn the K sound to a G sound. The T sound to a D sound. The H sound to a B sound..."

Can I do this? Can I do this? Can I do this?

I have to do this. My first Japanese language "test" is coming up and I really want to pass.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

So today is my "practice test" to see how well I can read Katakana without looking at my workbook and to see if I can successfully read a menu and place an order in Japanese.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

During LBK (Life before Katakana), when I was looking for something to order, like a salad for instance, I would literally look for salad. I would look on menus for pictures of salad and then point at it and then point at myself. Or, I would look for plastic replicas of salads in the restaurant display case and then point to it and then point to myself. Or, I would wait for another customer to order salad and then point to their salad and point to myself. Or, I admit, during LBK I have had to pantomime a salad. And, believe me, it is really hard to pantomime lettuce and carrots. Usually in my awkward pantomime communication panic, I would pantomime being a rabbit. Unfortunately, that usually ended up with the waiter pointing me in the direction of the nearest pet shop.

But now, I am experiencing LAK (Life After Katakana) which means I can read and understand some of written Japanese. I now know that salad in Katakana is サラダ. I can read it and I can order it. LAK means no more hopping around and twitching my nose for carrot sticks.

But for some reason today I can't find and read any menus that have healthy sarada. For some reason, the only menus I can read have high calorie Katakana words. I am surrounded by menus with ケキ cake and 　クーキ　cookie and デザト dessert and アイス　クリム　ice cream.

I guess that's it. I guess the only way to improve my Japanese skills is to speak what I currently know. Apparently, right now, I only know how to order cake. Looks like I will be eating a lot of cake.
Looks like I will be wearing my elastic-waist band Thanksgiving pants a little bit longer.

And, that is when I saw it. Actually, that is when I read it. I just turned my head the next display over and saw another Katakana word that I could read.

スパンクス

Su-pa-n-ku-su.

I pronounced it again. Su-pa-n-ku-su. What is it? What does this sign say?

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

I read it a little faster.
Spa-n-k-s. Spanks. Spanks? What does that mean?

Oh my.

I got it now: Spanx ®! The slimming...shapely layering...piece.

Is it just coincidental that the only things I can read in Japanese are sweets and Spanx?

"Kore o futatsu to kore o futatsu chuumon shitte kudasai," I ordered confidently. Two of those, I asked as I pointed to the cake, and two of those I asked as I pointed to the Spanx. Please.

(Yeah, I admit. I need to work on my number quantities. Right now I only know how to order two of something.)

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

And I did it.

I proudly ate my cake while wearing my Spanx. OK, I did feel pangs of guilt--unless that is the slimming/hugging feeling, but I was actually very proud of myself that I read AND ordered in Japanese.

Besides, I had followed my teacher's advice when she sent me on this Katakana practice test mission. She told me "GANBATTE KUDASAI. DEMO MURISHINAI DE KUDASAI."
(Hang in there/Do your best, but don't do the impossible).

I believe that just might be my new motto.

A (Rainy) Monday Morning Musing

2011-11-27T18:30:00.001+09:00

“That is it! That is it! That is it!” I said with frustration to myself as I stared at my empty umbrella stand. “I am NEVER buying an umbrella in Tokyo again.”

Don’t get me wrong. I love umbrellas. In fact, I have a collection of umbrellas. That is, I had a collection of umbrellas.

Before moving to Japan, I did not own an umbrella. In fact, even as a child in America, I did not have an umbrella. I did have a rain jacket and a plastic sandwich bag that I would rubber band around my ankles to keep my shoes dry. I’m not sure if it was the family budget or the fad, but every rainy school day, my siblings and I would eat french toast with a side of toast for breakfast and then slip our shoes into our Wonder Bread sandwich bag booties for our walk to school.

As an adult, for whatever reason, I did not have a umbrella either. Instead, on a drizzly days, my colleagues and neighbors turned to the national news. The rainy day strategy was simple: just hold a thick paper over your head and briskly run to the nearest office. When my colleagues and I arrived at work, we looked wet, but also eager, ambitiously out-of-breath and well-read.

In Tokyo, however, kasas rule. So, overtime, I collected a vast array of umbrellas: black, blue, striped, dotted, clear, collapsible, automatic, clear, expensive, inexpensive, clear. But, one by one, my umbrellas disappeared. My sons continually misplaced the umbrellas.
“I left it at school, Mom,” said son 1
“I left it on the field,” said son 2.
“Lft @ *$,” texted son 3. “BTW whatz 4 dinna?” (By the way, *$ means Starbucks. Yes, I admit it. I had to look it up).

My umbrellas were everywhere and anywhere except at home.

“That is it! That is it! That is it!” I said with frustration as I stared at my empty umbrella stand. “I am never buying an umbrella for those boys again.”

Instead, I decided that I would teach my careless sons a lesson. It would be a day of reckoning and they would be contrite. They would be more responsible. They would be careful.

I did not replace the lost umbrellas. Instead I bought a few new umbrellas that only their mother would love: pretty, frilly umbrellas decorated with adorable kittens and precious baby pandas. We’re not talking kawaii desu. We’re talking super kawaii desu.

“Where are the boys?” I asked my husband one rainy weekday morning.
“They already left,” he said.
“I bet they learned their lesson,” I reflected as I watched the storm. “They are probably feeling upset about now.”
“Upset?,” my husband said. “Actually they were feeling pretty good.”
“Feeling upset about showing up to the game soaking wet,” I clarified. “You know because they didn't have an umbrella because they keep losing them.”
“Oh,” my husband commented. “They had umbrellas. They grabbed those new wildlife-themed ones.”
What the what?
“I never had a chance to say goodbye,” I said wistfully as I stared out the window
“To our boys?” my husband asked. “Its okay. You will see them again at 5 PM.”
“No,” I said. “To my new umbrellas. I will never see them again.”

Oh, a lesson was learned alright. It was a day of reckoning alright. In Tokyo, my sons want the newest igadget and headphones, but they do not pay attention to accessories. A rainy day is not a day to be picky.

So, from one parent to another, if you happen to find a super kawaii baby panda umbrella, please return it to me.

I will be the one standing in the rain wearing my sandwich bag booties.

The Queen of Car Cuisine

2011-02-28T12:45:00.002+09:00

“Is there an election coming up?” I asked a friend of mine one afternoon. I heard a recorded broadcast in the distance. I assumed the message must have been coming from one of the megaphone-equipped political campaign vans that I had seen and heard before.

“No,” she answered. “That’s the yakimo man.”

“The Yakimo Man?” I questioned. “Who is he? What political office is he running for?”

“Don’t you know him?” she asked. “He is the guy who sells sweet potatoes out of his truck.”

Now, back in America, I usually ate all my meals on a plate either in my own kitchen or at a restaurant. And, yes, I usually forbade my sons to eat any food that was found sitting around inside our minivan. But, in Japan, I admit, I have become the Queen of the Carsuine (car cuisine). Surprising myself, I have purchased the most flavorful roasted chicken, scrumptious homemade cupcakes, yummy Mexican food, and delicious coffee--all out of the side door (or window) of an automobile.

But, I had never tried the bag-wrapped, straight from the back of a car-oven, roasted sweet potato.

“That’s him! That’s him! The Yakimo man!” I cried from inside my apartment. I heard the Yakimo Man. He was nearby! Oh, the melody! The sweet potato siren was tempting me to wander the side streets and discover this new delicacy, this new carsuine delight.

“Yakimo! Yakimo! Abunai! Abunai!” I yelled as I hurried down the streets. I could feel my mouth water already. Watch out! Let me through! I am coming, Yakimo Man, and I am hungry!

“Yakimo?” I enthusiastically ordered as I looked through his truck windows. As I looked at the driver and the driver looked at me, I realized there was no yakimo aroma. That is strange. My friend had told me that you could smell the roasting potato. I could smell something but it wasn’t sweet potato. It smelled a little rusty. Perhaps it was a special sauce?

“Yakimo?” I asked again as I looked around his truck.

Also, I realized there was no burning fire. My friend had mentioned that there was an open wood-burning oven in the back of the yakimo mobile. Where was the oven?

And, it was after I ordered again and realized a few people had lined up behind me with broken computers, worn-out air conditioner, and old electronic junk that I quickly surmised there must be a third type of roving vehicle with a broadcast message.

This was not my sweet Yakimo Man. This was the electronics repo man. Yes, he also cruised around town. Yes, he also played a sweet sounding message to announce his arrival. Yes, he had a loudspeaker. But, no, he did not sell sweet potato. Nor chicken. Nor Mexican food. Nor coffee. Nor cupcakes. Believe me, I asked.

Apparently, he collects old electronics and gadgets.

Long story short. That is the reason why Mommy ran out of the house promising sweet potato treats and returned home empty-handed and without her watch.

Book Club

2011-02-28T12:43:00.002+09:00

Hey friends and followers!

Sorry for my absence...I have been writing short essays about living in Japan & signing a book contract. Stay tuned for something this summer!

New to me

2010-04-21T09:17:00.003+09:00

"Can you repeat that?" I said to a Japanese friend of mine. "I don't think I understood you."
"The money," my friend said again. "The money must be fresh."

Fresh money? Fresh money? Is there actually sour money in Japan?

In my attempt to avoid making any mistakes (or at least obvious mistakes) at an upcoming Japanese wedding ceremony, I asked my friend to teach me about Japanese wedding customs.

"As a guest, please wear a formal dress," she said. "And, your husband needs to wear a suit."
Got it. Easy.

"You need to say omedetougozaimasu (congratulations) to the wedding couple and their families," my friend suggested.
Got it. I can do that. Easy.

"You do not bring a present."
Got it. OK. That's actually good news. I wasn't looking forward to running around Shibuya searching for waffle makers, blenders and salt and pepper shakers.

"Here, wedding gifts are money."
OK. Back home, I would write a check, but in Japan, you present gift cash. OK. Sounds easy enough.

"Please enclose the cash into a special festive wedding envelope."
Special wedding envelope? Got it.

"And," my friend said very seriously, "this is very important. The money must be fresh."

Fresh money? Fresh money?

"Can you repeat that?" I said. "I don't think I understood you."
"Fresh," she said. "New cash. No wrinkles. No creases. No folded corners."

It was at that point that we both noticed the clothes I was wearing--a wrinkled shirt, a creased skirt.

"Well, at least no folded corners..." I said as I tried to straighten my attire.
"I think," my friend suggested. "To be safe, I think you should iron the money."

Iron money? I can't iron money. First, I would be too nervous. Second, what happens if I burn it? If it is bad luck to present wrinkled money, it must be terrible to present charred, smoking, holey yen.

I got it.

"Here you go," I said to my dry cleaner the other morning. "Five business shirts. One suit jacket. One pair of trousers. And, some wedding gift money. Little starch. No wrinkles. See you Wednesday."

When in Tokyo...

2010-04-21T08:56:00.003+09:00

I remember when I first walked through our Tokyo apartment, I was very pleased, relieved and impressed. I was impressed with the friendly neighbors. I was impressed with the location. I was impressed with the sliding doors in the rooms. And, I was very impressed with the large soaking tub and technologically advanced toilet.

“You can heat the seat,” my husband said.
Heat the seat? Amazing!

However, it was when I saw the laundry room that I became less impressed and more intrigued.

“That is certainly a strange looking microwave,” I said. “And, why is it in the laundry room?”
“That is the dryer,” my husband quietly said.
The dryer? That is the dryer?
“That dryer looks like it can only handle one person’s load,” I said. “We are a family of five. We need four more.”

I admit it, back in my home country, I was spoiled. I was the proud owner of a quick, efficient, super-sized dryer. Once in awhile, it would swallow socks, but that was the price to pay for convenience and warm, fluffy clothes. Every Wednesday and Sunday night, I would throw, shove, push, ram, and jam clothes into the bowel of the machine. “What are you trying to do?” my husband asked me one night when he saw me knee-deep in the dryer. “Are you stomping grapes to make wine?”
“Nope,” I said as I crushed wet clothes under my toes. “Just making room for some bath towels. I know I can fit more in here.”

“You can keep up, can’t you little guy?” I encouraged my new petite dryer. “You are like the little engine that could. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.”

It tried, but it really couldn't.

So, as I have learned, when in Tokyo do as the Tokyoites do. Instead of battling or becoming frustrated by this little dryer, I joined my neighbors and set up a laundry line and drying rack on my small patio. All was well except my timing. Unfortunately, I hung up my first line of clothes the night before a typhoon. The next morning, after the storm passed, I had to knock on door of my first floor neighbor.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said. “But I believe the storm blew my pajamas onto your patio picnic table. And, those are my socks on your barbecue grill...and....those are my....”

I admit it. Even with the laundry line and drying rack, I still can’t keep up with the dirty laundry of my family (I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.) With three active sons (not to mention messy noodle eating), I constantly have clothing and sports gear drying outside and inside the apartment: on the line, on the kitchen stools, over the desk chair, on the ping pong table, on the sofa.

“What are you doing?” I asked my son the other afternoon.
“Dad said I could watch TV for an hour.”
“You know my TV rules,” I scolded. “If you are watching TV, it must be for two hours and you must spread out your arms. I’ve got sweatshirts to dry,” I said as I draped the hoodies over his shoulder. “Remember to rotate your arms every ten minutes or so. Now, where’s the dog? I need him to help me air dry this sweater.”

It is around this time of year that I visit my home country. I look forward to seeing friends and family. I look forward to sharing our Tokyo photos and adventures. I look forward to experiencing my home culture again. But, what I really look forward to is reuniting with my dryer.

Co-co-aaaaaah!

2010-01-15T14:37:00.004+09:00

My 2010 resolution is to study Japanese again. I took a bit of a break to get all the particles in order (o, to, mo, no, here we go!) But, as this recent conversation highlights, perhaps it is best if I just take up knitting.

“Yes! Cocoa!” I said to my son through chattering teeth. “Look! On the English menu. It will warm us up!”
My son and I had spied a new small shop on our walk home from the grocery store. We were really, really, really hoping to find a hot beverage to warm us up.
“Perfect!” I said to my son. “Cocoa is on the menu. This will be easy.”

Part 1. What I think I am saying:

“Cocoa,” I said to the woman behind the counter.
“Hai,” she answered. And, that is all she did.
A few moments later I tried again.
“Cocoa,” I repeated a bit louder.
“Hai,” she said again. However, instead of making the drink, she looked around her shop and then just looked at me as if she expected me to say something else.
So, I did.
“Brrr,” I said as I hugged myself and pantomimed being cold. “Brrr. Brrr. Brrr.”
She looked at me a bit strangely.
“Cocoa,” I said one more time. Then, I pointed to the menu board behind her.
After a few moments of reviewing the menu, she pointed to “cocoa” on the board.
“Hai!” my son and I both said quite enthusiastically.
“So desu,” she said. And, then she said to me, “Co-co-ah.”

Co-co-ah? If “co-co-ah” is the pronunciation for “cocoa”, then what was I saying?

Part 2. What I was really saying:

“Koko,” I said to the woman behind the counter. (“Here. This place right here.”)
“Hai,” she said. (“You got it. A bit obvious, but you are right.”)
A few moments later I tried again.
“Koko,” I repeated a bit louder. (“Here. I am still stubbornly standing here. Telling you that I’m here. In this place. In this spot. Saying it loudly.”)
“Hai,” she said again. (“I agree. You are here.”) However, instead of making the drink (which she didn’t know I was ordering), she just stood there and looked at me as if she expected me to say something else (which would make sense because I was at the counter). Unfortunately, I hadn’t figured out my mistake yet, so instead I did this:
“Brrr,” I said as I hugged myself and pantomimed being cold. “Brrrrrrr. Brrr. Brrr.”
She looked at me strangely. (No kidding).
“Koko,” I tried one more time. (“Here. Here. Here. Love the word. Could say it all day.”). And, then (it's about time) I pointed to the menu board behind her.
After a few moments of reviewing the menu, she pointed to “cocoa” on the board.
“Hai!” my son and I both said quite enthusiastically.
“So desu,” she said. And, then she kindly tried to correct my mistake, “Co-co-ah.”

Aaaah.
Yeah, you know, on second thought, knitting is probably about right.

The Sleeping Lion

2009-12-17T12:45:00.001+09:00

This is a first.
A definite first.

“See?” I said to the person sitting next to me on the train. “See that guy over there? He fell asleep standing up.”
I didn’t wait for my train buddy to answer.
“I call that the Statue style.”

Ever since moving to Tokyo a few years ago, I have observed hundreds of passengers asleep on the train; not to mention, a variety of impressive subway sleeping postures.

“See her?” I gently nudged my buddy. “Hands folded across lap. Head tilted way back. She’s definitely a Stargazer.”

“And, that guy,” I said as I viewed a snoring young man slouched in his seat with his hat pulled over his face. “He is what I call The Cowboy.”

“And,” I continued, “Do you see the woman who has fallen asleep with her head forward and her hands under her chin? She is The Thinker. And, that guy over there? He fell asleep with his sunglasses on. He is The Poker Player. But, to be honest with you, sometimes I can’t tell. He actually could be a poker player.”

“And,” I continued, “Do you see the sleepy passenger whose head bobs side to side? He has definitely fallen asleep in Table Tennis mode.”

“And, you,” I said a bit louder to the person next to me. “You are what I call The Sleeping Lion.”

This is a first.
A definite first.

A fellow train passenger has fallen asleep on my shoulder. Deeply, deeply asleep on my shoulder.

I could not wake him with my silly subway sleep observations.

“Sumimasen, sumimasen,” I said a bit louder. “Ummm… Sleeping Lion…my station stop is coming up soon….sumimasen….”

I could not wake him with sumimasen.

“Hi, Honey,” I pretended to speak on my cell phone. “Mommy will be late tonight. I am trapped by a lion.”

I could not wake him with a loud cell phone conversation.

This is a first.
A definite first.

I have no choice. Apparently my escape will require some sort of creative calisthenics. Tuck and roll? Back handstand? Aerial cartwheel? I wish I was better at gymnastics.

“Lion, how can you sleep?” I yawned. “There is so much constant commotion…and all those calming announcements…and the gentle rumbling…and the soothing white noise…and…the….hypnotic hum...”

This is a first.
A definite first.
Shhhhh.

Tokyo Hatitude

2009-11-16T17:47:00.003+09:00

“Aah!” I heard my son scream from behind the apartment door. “A stranger is trying to get into the apartment! It’s some kind of horrifying scarecrow in a dressy white belly shirt.”
“I’m not a stranger,” I said through the door. “I’m your mother. Please open the door. I can’t reach the handle. Quickly! This shirt is cutting off the circulation of my arms.”
“Mom?” he questioned as he spied me through the security peep hole. “You tried to buy fancy clothes in Tokyo again, didn’t you?”
“It said M size,” I defended myself. “I didn’t know that M meant microscopic.”

I know. I know. I know. I should have known better. As an American size, mature woman, I know it might be difficult for me to find designer apparel in my size (or the size I want to be) in Tokyo.

So, I’m stuck. I’m really stuck.

“I’m stuck!” I yelled at my son through the door. “Please open the door for mommy. OK, you’re right. I did it. I put on a dressy shirt that was too small for me. The collar is choking me. I need you to cut it off.”
“C’mon, Mom!” my son said. “Not again!”

I know. I know. I know. I should have known better. In fact, I learned it might be challenging to shop here when I first moved to town.
“I’m looking for a fancy dress for an event,” I had said to some mothers at the bus stop. “Does anyone know where I could buy one?”

I know. I know. I know. I should have known better. The recommended dress shop was a maternity store.
I was not expecting. And, I was not expecting that.

I know. I know. I know. I should have known better because last time I went clothes shopping, I promised myself I would never do it again.
“C’mon out so I can see,” my friend said. We were at a store in Shibuya that sometimes stocks foreigner sizes.
“What do you think?” I asked when I came out of the dressing room.
“What’s on your feet?” my friend questioned.
“Oh! Check these out,” I said as I waved my feet around. “These soft and nifty slippers were in the dressing room.”
“Those aren’t slippers,” my friend said as she looked around. “Those are make-up hoods. You’re supposed to put it on your head when you’re trying on new clothes.”
“That’s it,” I said to myself as I took off my slippers. “I am never going shopping in this town again.”

I know. I know. I know. I should have known better because again this morning I tried fashion fate and lost. As soon as I pulled the dressy white shirt over my broad shoulders, it got stuck. “I love it,” I barely whispered to the saleslady at the counter. “I love it so much that I will wear it just like this. Don’t mind my tears. Tears of joy, really. By the way, I can’t seem to turn my head or move my arms. Can you please just swivel me towards the door? Doomo.”

I know. I know. I know. I should have known better. So, that’s why, starting right now, I am only shopping for hats.
A hat keeps your head warm.
A Tokyo hat is very chic and makes a fashion statement.
A hat transforms a normal outfit into a wow outfit.
A hat hides a bad hair day.
A hat is one size fits all.

"It's all about Tokyo hatitude," I said to my son.
"Puns! Mom!," he said. "C'mon, not again!"

.

Wannabe crooner

2009-10-19T10:21:00.002+09:00

I’m a wannabe crooner. I love songs. I love to sing. I sing in the shower. I sing while making dinner. I sing while exercising.
“Honey, are you OK?” my startled husband asked me the other day in the fitness gym.
“Fine,” I answered as I took off my headphones. “Why?”
“Oh,” he answered. “I thought you were in pain.”

OK. I love to sing, but, I admit, I don’t sing well.

But, what I lack in talent, I make up for in enthusiasm. So, when a friend of mine invited my husband and me to karaoke, I answered with a very excited “genki desu.”

I love going with genki. After nearly three years of attempts, my brain has proven to be impervious to the Japanese language. This conclusion was quite apparent when I introduced my husband (shujin) as my prisoner (shuujin).
“Sorry, dear,” I said as I shrugged.
“It’s OK, warden,” he answered.

So now instead of struggling through my limited sentences, such as, “The weather is nice today isn’t it?” or “That is a pen,” I am just going with genki—it’s simple, it’s upbeat, it’s enthusiastic, it’s easy. It’s genki.

“Genki,” I said to my friend. “But, by the way, I’m not really a good singer.”
“C’mon,” she said. “Karaoke is a Tokyo must-do.”
“You said the same thing about an onsen,” I said. “And, that was quite the learning experience.”

I remember my onsen lesson very well.
Lesson #1: the towel is small. Minuscule. “Excuse me,” I had said to the receptionist. “This is my towel? I think I’m going to need at least three more. Actually, why don’t you just give me the whole basket of towels? And, if you don’t mind, I’ll take your window curtains too.”
Lesson #2: At an onsen, you leave your towel and your inhibitions at the door.
Lesson #3: It’s really not the ideal place for conversation. “So,” I had said to my friend after we soaked in the onsen for a few minutes, “How do you cook your pot roast?” I really couldn’t help myself. It felt awkward to be in such an intimate setting without chatting. I figured at the very least we could swap recipes.

"C'mon," my friend said again.
I’m a wannabe crooner. So, I agreed to join my friend at karaoke. I stood on the stage. I sang. I even tried out an air guitar power stance.

However, apparently, even at karaoke, there are some singing standards. Soon after my set, the manager turned off my mike and handed me a tambourine.

I may be a wannabe crooner, but, apparently, I should stick to percussion.

The Table Wrangler

2009-09-11T12:31:00.002+09:00

Yes, I had high hopes for myself when moving to Tokyo.

And, so far, I have learned many new things. For instance, I have spent a considerable amount of time trying to learn a new language. To be honest, I am still trying to memorize and differentiate similarly-sounding subway lines, train stations, streets, and shops.
“It’s Akasaka,” I said to my husband.
“No,” he said. “It’s Asakusa.”
“Really?” I said. “I thought that was Arakawa.”
“No, that is the name of our apartment manager.”
“Ahhhhh!”

Similarly, I have spent significant amount of time learning the currency—the exchange rate, the number of zeros, the best point card deals, not to mention, the pronunciation.
“Where have you been?” my sons asked me last week.
“Well,” I answered. “I went to the bank to get money and I decided to show off my Japanese skills. Big mistake. There was definitely some kind of miscommunication. I said yon-sen and ended up in a hot spring bath with nothing but a little bitty towel. So, how was your day?”

I have also learned about new food, new traditions, new schools, new maps, new counters. OK, I admit it, I gave up trying to learn all the counters.

Apparently, even after two years, there is still a lot more to learn.

“Look!” I said to my son the other day at a crowded coffee shop, “There’s an empty table! Aren’t we in luck today?”
“Look,” my son said as we sat down. “Someone left her purse, phone and ID on the table.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “You know what we are going to do? We’ll just sit here and keep an eye on the belongings until the owner returns. No doubt she will be very grateful that we were here to protect her stuff from theft.”

“By the way, Mom,” my son said. “A lady is staring at us.”

“Yes,” I answered quietly. “That happens sometimes.”

“Um, Mom,” my son said again a few minutes later. “The lady with a tray of food is still standing behind you. And, you know what? She looks like the picture on the ID card.”

“There’s no doubt about it,” my friend said later that night. “You blatantly stole her reserved table. Haven't you ever noticed that people reserve tables with their personal belongings here?”

Reserve a table with friend? yes. With a "reserved" sign, of course. But with an unattended purse and cell phone? Unbelievable.

“Well,” my friend said. “Think of it this way—Tokyo provided an opportunity for you to reinvent yourself. And, it looks like you have done that.”

Yes, I had high hopes for myself in Tokyo.

I knew I would change during our stay here. Become a Japanese cook, maybe. Become an English teacher, perhaps. Become an author, yes, hopefully. But become a dining room desperado, a coffee shop seat thief, a table wrangler, never. Yee haw.

Playing the Part

2009-08-23T12:29:00.001+09:00

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.

Mi Kasa Es Su Kasa

2009-08-23T12:26:00.002+09:00

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.”

The object of my affection

2009-08-17T11:43:00.003+09:00

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.

A photo tour of Tokyo

2009-05-06T14:15:00.028+09:00

Shopping time! Looking for a special good luck charm for the special someone for the New Year? Then, this is the place! Good luck!

This is my favorite find! Behind a modern hotel is a 400 year old Japanese garden! It is unbelievable. While we were there we saw a couple in traditional wedding kimonos. I could have stayed here for hours. In fact, I think I did. You gotta love the red bridge!

The Palace is only open twice a year to the public, so we headed to the East Garden. The grounds were very spacious....no Starbucks to be found!

Got sushi? I visited Tsukiji Market, the largest fish market in the world! I did not get up at 5 a.m to see the famous tuna auctions (sorry, getting old); instead I enjoyed a leisurely stroll (and many a smell) around 9:30 a.m.

Street festivals "matsuri" are great fun! Men and women chant while carrying the portable shrine down the street. The portable shrines are very heavy; our teenage son volunteered to join the carriers and experienced a very sore shoulder! Matsuri food tip: grilled corn on the cob dipped in soy sauce is delicious!

Cherry blossom season is spectacular in Tokyo! Traditionally, families visit this temple to pray for good luck during school exams. I will be back in June when the high school finals start!

Surround yourself in good spirits! This is the entrance towards Senjoji Temple, the oldest and most famous Buddhist temple. And, yes, those are very large wooden sandals.

A Tokyo Triumph

2009-04-23T13:22:00.001+09:00

Think. Think. Think.
“C’mon,” I encouraged myself in the mirror. “Think! Think! Think! You can figure this out!”
“Aren’t you an educated, clever, confident, competent woman?” I asked myself.
“Yes, I am!” I answered.
“Haven’t you persuaded your family to try new foods and eat with chopsticks?”
“Yes, I have!” I said.
“Haven’t you triumphed over train schedules? Haven’t you become proficient with the Pasmo?”
“Yes! Yes I have!” I cheered for myself.
“Haven’t you moved across the globe? Haven’t you met new friends? Haven’t you learned how to speak a new language? By golly, haven’t you had the courage and self confidence to walk around in your glory to soak in an onsen?”
“Yes, I have! Yes, I have!”
“Then,” I said to my reflection. “You can do it. You can figure out how to flush.”

No, I can’t.
Yes, it’s true. I have clearly met my match with the Japanese washlett. I believe I have tried everything and now I am simply out of ideas. Here I sit completely flustered. This is a new low.

Think! Think! Think!
Is there a wall button? To be honest, I have not had success with pressing random rest room wall buttons. Let’s just say, my first washlett experience was quite alarming. Apparently, in my apartment, the big button on the panel is not the flush button as I incorrectly assumed. It is an emergency button that summons the security team.

Think! Think! Think!
Is there a handle? Is there a sensor? No and no. I have inspected the throne area for a handle. I have waved my hand around just in case there was an automatic sensor. I have even reached around the walls for some kind of pull chain. I am stalled. I have never, ever spent so much time contemplating plumbing.

Think! Think! Think!
Could it be voice activated? I cleared my throat. “Done!” I said out loud. “Finished….Completed…Concluded….All set…Sayonara….”

Nope. It’s not voice activated.
Think. Think. Think.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

What? What was that noise? What did I do? It’s a floor button! The button on the floor runs the water! You did it! You competent, confident woman!

Take that Toto. You may have intimidated me, you may have even surprised me by warming my seat, but you did not defeat me.

Now, if I could just learn how to ride my bike in high heels while holding an umbrella and cell phone while carrying groceries… now that would be a true Tokyo triumph.

Soy to the World

2009-03-22T17:02:00.002+09:00

“Sumimasen (excuse me)…” a colleague of my husband’s said to me.
“Hmmmm,” I answered. I had just put a forkful of pea pods into my mouth.
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW.
Alright, yes, I was intensely chewing because I was nervous. Very nervous. I was the only spouse who had come to this dinner. The only spouse.
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW.
Second, I was intensely chewing because I was hungry. In the dim light of the restaurant, I couldn’t identify anything on the table that I liked to eat, or could successfully eat with chopsticks, except for these pea pods.
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW.
And, third, I was intensely chewing because I am not a good Japanese speaker. And, eating allowed me to successfully hide my lack of fluency. Instead of speaking, I smiled. Or nodded. Or arched my eyebrows. Or winked. And, continued chewing and chewing and chewing.
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW.
And, lastly, I was intensely chewing because, apparently, I must have put the toughest pea pods on the planet into my mouth.
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW.
“Sumimasen…” the colleague said to me again. “We were noticing how you eat edamame. We are curious. In Japan, we squeeze the beans into the mouth like this. We would never eat the pod.”
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW.
GULP.
Eda what? A WHAT? Squeeze the beans out? Don’t eat the pod? Edamame? This isn’t a pea pod? THIS ISN’T A TOUGH AND HAIRY PEA POD? No wonder I’ve been chewing this thing for hours. I was really beginning to think something was terribly wrong with my teeth.
“Hmmmm,” I answered as I quickly thought of what I should do. This is a little embarrassing. What should I do?
1. Laugh at my mistake, head to the restroom, wash out my mouth and escape out the window.
2. Tell them I am on a very unique and strict Edamame Diet.
3. Panic.

I have my integrity. I have my pride. I have my strong bicuspids. I will not be humiliated by a legume.

“Oh really,” I said. “That is very interesting because in my part of America, we chew the dickens out of these beauties. Itadakimasu.”
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. SWALLOW. SWALLOW AGAIN. AND A THIRD TIME.

Just for the record, edamame is a tasty treat, if eaten correctly.

Also, I will be staying home during the next company get together.

the "Hai" and Bye

2009-03-08T20:59:00.003+09:00

The waitress looked at me.
I looked at my husband.
My husband looked at me.
We looked at the waitress.
Although my husband and I have some Japanese language skills now, we did not understand a word of what she had said to us.

At anxious moments like this, I start to panic. I know I should say something, but what? Quickly I thought of my options.

“Moo ichido onegaishimasu.” This is the ideal response. It is a Japanese phrase. It is very polite. It is easy to say. However, I have had very little success with this phrase. For me, moo ichido actually brings mo’ trouble. I am implying that I will understand the next time around or the time after that, but I usually can’t. In fact, one time at a coffee shop, the Japanese associate actually asked if I could please speak in English.

“Ashita wa ka-yoobi desu.” Tomorrow is Tuesday. According to my sensei, this statement is one of my best sentences. At first I was thrilled. But soon I realized my best Japanese sentence is quite useless. First, it states the obvious. Second, I can only use it on Mondays.

“Kore wa pen desu.” This is a pen. I like this sentence. You can say it anytime and just about anywhere. When feeling overconfident about my Japanese skills, I can also remark that the pen is blue and short and beautiful and writes well. Unfortunately, pen conversations are usually one-sided.

“With a little milk and sugar, thanks.” OK. I admit it. Out of desperation to say anything, I have sometimes just answered with this English line. Granted it is not very helpful at the gas station or at the post office, but, frequently, I do get a cup of coffee with a little milk and sugar that settles my nerves. Then, I can usually muster up a comment on today’s nice weather. I’m pretty sure the post office personnel think I’m a high-strung meteorologist.

I looked at the waitress.
The waitress looked at me.
I looked at my pen. And, just when I thought it was time to mention my beautiful, short, interesting writing pen, I heard my husband say “Hai” (yes, that's fine.)
“You understood what the waitress said?” I asked in disbelief.
“No idea,” he admitted, “but from the context of the situation, I knew she had to be asking if we wanted our bill or if we wanted to bring home the leftovers. The context is key.”
He said “Hai.” We paid the bill. We said “Bye” and we left. No drama. No pantomiming. Just Hai and Bye. Just Hai and Bye.

Hai and Bye. It’s simple. It’s easy. It’s conversational. It’s very agreeable. It’s a bit adventurous. It works!

“Hai” I said to my hairdresser who then gave me a fantastic shoulder massage. “Hai” I said to a clerk at a favorite store who then presented me with a point card. “Hai” I said to the barista at my local café who then warmed up my cookie. He warmed up my cookie!! “Hai” I said to my family’s dentist who then handed me an estimate for braces for my children.

Just to warn you, sometimes the Hai and Bye can become the Hai and Sigh.

Welcome to my world

2009-01-15T11:20:00.001+09:00

“Take off your shoes! TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES!”

As a foreigner in Tokyo, sometimes it takes me a few days to commit a faux pas. Other times, like this time, it only took seconds.

It was my first time stepping into a Tokyo store. My first step was clearly a misstep.

“Irashaimase! IRASHAIMASE!” the saleswoman cried out to me.

“Ira what?” I stammered. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Is it the shoes? Do I need to take off my shoes?” Just a few days earlier, at my sensei’s home, I mistakenly wore outdoor shoes indoors. I didn’t know that I needed to change into house slippers. Then, I mistakenly wore the house slippers into the toilet room. I didn’t know I needed to change into toilet slippers. I was not going to experience another slipper slip up. I took off my shoes.

“Irashaimase!” the kind saleswoman said again.
“Thanks for telling me,” I replied. “I got it now: no shoes.”
“Irashaimase,” another saleswoman said to me.
“Yes,” I said to her. “I’m taking my shoes off. I got the message.”
“Irashaimase,” another saleswoman said to me from across the floor.
“Wow. You too? From way over there?” I said as I held up my footwear for all to see. “All set now, ladies. No need to tell me again. My shoes are off. Now I know: irashaimase means no shoes.”

Irashaimase, however, does not mean “no shoes.” I learned that on the second floor when two salespeople approached me at the top of the escalator.
“IRASHAIMASE!” they said together in a very, cheerful sing-song way.
“IRASHAIMASE!” more salespeople on the floor repeated.

What is going on? Did I walk in on a department store musical? I am definitely missing something. Everybody is telling me the same message and I don’t know what it is.

What could irashaimase possibly mean?

Irashaimase! IRASHAIMASE! Your zipper is down! YOUR ZIPPER IS DOWN!
Irashaimase! IRASHAIMASE! You don’t wear white after Labor Day! NO WHITE CLOTHES AFTER LABOR DAY!
Irashaimase! IRASHAIMASE! Don’t look now, but Brad Pitt is behind you! BRAD PITT IS BEHIND YOU!
Irashaimase! IRASHAIMASE! You have spinach in your teeth. SPINACH IN YOUR TEETH!

“Irashaimase means ‘welcome’,” my sensei patiently explained me at my next language class. “They are welcoming you into the store. It has nothing to do with shoes or Brad Pitt or spinach.”

Irashaimase. Love it. Live it. It’s everywhere.
“Irashaimase,” I enthusiastically said to my husband when he came home from work.
“Irashaimase,” the clerk said to me at the coffee shop.
“Irashaimase,” the security guard said to us when we walked by the construction site (welcome to my secure area?)
“Irashaimase,” the crossing guard said to our friend. (welcome to the pedestrian walkway?)

So, now when I’m greeted with irashaimase, I know exactly what to do. I offer a polite bow of thanks and then walk around confidently with my head high, my teeth clean and my shoes on. While living in Tokyo, I may be clueless, but I certainly will not be clueless and shoeless.

Miss (mis)Pronounciation

2008-12-02T10:52:00.012+09:00

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

2008-11-16T22:50:00.009+09:00

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?

2008-11-09T16:59:00.002+09:00

“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

2008-10-30T12:20:00.005+09:00

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

2008-10-05T18:52:00.005+09:00

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

2008-09-04T10:38:00.007+09:00

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?

2008-08-26T09:56:00.002+09:00

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!

2008-05-20T22:58:00.014+09:00

"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?

2008-04-24T15:18:00.007+09:00

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

2008-04-14T11:03:00.006+09:00

"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

2008-03-30T21:20:00.009+09:00

"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

2008-03-04T16:15:00.011+09:00

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

2008-02-13T15:17:00.009+09:00

"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?

2008-01-15T13:47:00.000+09:00

"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

2008-01-06T11:24:00.000+09:00

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."

Lessons

2007-11-07T09:33:00.000+09:00

It has been a few weeks since I last updated...so here are my excuses.

Halloween lessons
"Are you sure, Luv?" My Australian friend Muffin asked me in a panic. "Are you sure she can be a Panda?" Like other foreigners in my neighborhood, Muffin had come to talk to me again about the rules of Halloween. To our absolute surprise and delight, our neighborhood here in Tokyo was hosting trick or treating for hundreds of costumed kids and adults. And, as one of the Americans in our apartment complex, I had become, by default, the resident expert on the holiday.

"Yes, Luv," I reassured her. (G'day Mate and G'Day Fosters! Somehow I've moved to Japan and picked up Australian lingo). "I'm sure. Your daughter does not have to wear a scary costume for Halloween. She can be a panda. A panda is a great costume."

"Oh," Muffin said. "I thought she had to have a scary costume, so I bought her a scary accessory to carry. I'll let her know that she doesn't have to trick or treat with numchucks after all."

English lessons
A few weeks ago, also around Halloween time, I was invited to tour a Japanese elementary school with my sensei. It was a day of firsts for me.
First, it was the first time I was in a Japanese School.
It was also the first time I was wearing slippers....in any school.
And, it was the first time I was attending an English elementary class in Tokyo....in slippers.
And, it was the first time (and hopefully the last time) I was asked this question:
"Sumimasen, (excuse me)," a student asked me.
"Hai," I answered. I was very proud to use my Japanese.
"Are you a Mommy or a Mummy?"

Turkey lesson
I actually wasn't sure what to do. It's always the same question when I go shopping. Carry it or ship it? Carry it or ship it? On the one hand, I really should carry it home. Why risk not getting it on time? This was the very reason I had left my home early this morning. This is the very reason I took 4 trains to get here. This is the reason I measured my oven before coming here and brought my tape measure with me. This is the reason I yelled, "Yokatta!" (great!) in the middle of Costco (or Costoco, as they call it here). This is why I had a huge smile. I had heard from other foreigners that Costco had frozen turkeys for the holiday season, so I had traveled by several trains and grabbed one of the last birds.
And, now, I had to figure out how to get Tom home.
Carry it or ship it?
"Carry it," I said to the clerk. "I'll carry it home." I patted Tom on the back.
The clerk stared at me. My friend whispered to me. "I'm not so sure your supposed to carry a frozen turkey on the subway," she said, "unless maybe you disguise it in a Gucci shopping bag." My friend was right. There are a lot of signs in the Tokyo subway showing subway manners. There are signs with picture cues illustrating how to stand in the train; how to hold your backpack; how to stow your over sized bag; how to move over to make room for other passengers; how to avoid getting fingers and feet stuck in the door; and, I think, how to drink a beer with Hideki Matsui. But I had never seen a picture in the subway of a happy woman carrying a frozen turkey.
"Ship it," I said.

Japanese lessons
Try saying "atatakakunakatta" (it wasn't warm) correctly three times fast.

If you can do it, I am pretty sure you win a beer with Matsui.

Ganbatte

2007-10-23T12:59:00.000+09:00

"Give it all you've got today," I said to my boys first thing Monday morning. It was a big day for them and I was convinced that my motherly reminders might make a difference. And because I was so nervous for my boys, I yelled all of my other favorite motherly sayings:

"Make a contribution!"

"If it's worth doing, it's worth doing well. Give 110%!"

"Drink your milk!"

"Don't poke anyone's eye out!"

"Strive to be the person the dog thinks you are!"

"If you have to borrow money, borrow from a pessimist. He will never expect it back!"

Monday was indeed a big day for my boys. It was one of those do-or-die days. "C'mon now!" I cheered from a distance. "Curt, Jonathan, keep your focus. Kevin, be a leader. Okajima-san, Matsuzaka-san...this bow's for you." My family and I may be half a world away, but we love our "boys" back home. Red Sox ga suki desu.

Over the past 10 months since we moved to Tokyo, my family and I have experienced many changes:

We've become much more adventurous eaters (sweet beans, beef tongue, shark, edamame note to self: pop edamame in your mouth, don't actually try to chew them).

We've changed our acccent. ("Wicked good" is now "oishii des.")

We've learned how to quickly slip off our tie-shoes. Sometimes a little too enthusiastically.

We've changed our feelings towards green tea ice cream. (oishii des.)

And, we've started following local Japanese baseball teams. (You just got to love yelling "Go Hamfighters!")

But, my family and I have not changed our love for our home team. We are still crazy as always for the Boston Red Sox. Go Sox!

So, "banzai" (well done!) against the Cleveland Indians on Sunday night (Monday morning Tokyo time). Go get those Rockies on Wednesday night, boys. Remember who you are. Don't poke an eye out. And, as they say in Tokyo, "ganbatte kudasai" (do your best)!

You Have Arrived At Your Destination

2007-10-08T11:24:00.000+09:00

"What did she say?" my friend Muffin (*name changed to protect the newly licensed) asked me in a slightly panicked voice.

"She said 'You have arrived at your destination,'" I hesitantly repeated to my friend.

My friend and I looked around. This was not our destination. Not at all. Nothing looked familiar. Not the buildings. Not the side streets. Not the Hiragana (well, actually, the Hiragana could be the same. I haven't learned how to read it yet.) By car, the trip from our apartment complex to our downtown appointment should have taken 20 minutes. A very easy 20 minutes. At this point, we have been driving around Tokyo for almost two hours.

I looked outside the car window. "I can't even see Tokyo Tower," I said to my friend. The Tokyo Tower is 333 meters tall. An extremely handy landmark. Where are we?

We both looked at the car's GPS Navigation System. "C'mon Beverly," I said. "Don't give up on us. I know it has been a trying trip for you. I know we didn't follow your directions exactly. I know we asked you to recalculate the route several times....but please, Bev, please, show us the way." (About 45 minutes into our adventure, my friend and I decided to name the navigation voice "Beverly." We had actually hoped it would turn our luck around. In our experience, Beverly's are always kind, courteous, reliable, patient and extremely helpful. )

"What do you say, Bev?" my friend asked as we both stared at the screen---hoping to see the "recalculating route" message once more.

"You have arrived at your destination," Beverly flatly repeated.

"Wow, Beverly, " I said. "For having such a sweet-sounding voice, you've got a stone-cold heart."

Due to this driving experience, I have suggestions for a new kind of navigation system-one that's specifically designed for those new to the city, new to driving or, well, just knuckleheads.

1. As soon as the foot hits the pedal and the seat adjusted, the system should be able to identify its driver. "Oh, hello, Muffin. I knew it was you. Giving driving another go, are we? Very well. My calculation determines 90% change of getting lost. Please take the next right. First stop is the Petrol station. This could be a very long day."

2. If the system has had to recalculate the route 10 times, it will automatically acknowledge the real-time tension in the car and offer an easier route. "System senses high frustration level. Committee meeting route aborted. Coffee shop route initiated. Grand size latte with a spot of sugar recommended. Take the left in 100 meters. Your order has been called in."

3. If the GPS has had to recalculate the route over 10 times, it will immediately kick in to emergency gear. "Take your hands of the wheel. Take your hands off the wheel now. Emergency measures initiated. Soothing music will commence immediately. Seats will begin massaging neck and back quadrants to alleviate tension. Auto pilot on. Destination: nearest Spa. Team notified and at the ready. Dinner reservations also made. After such a stressful outing, you deserve to go out tonight. But, please, for goodness sake, listen to Beverly: take the train."

Mom's Field Trip

2007-09-25T14:16:00.000+09:00

"Three cheers for Mom's field trip!" I encouraged.

We were hot. Really hot.
It was crowded. Really crowded.
And the specialty food item---
"Sweet potato ice cream," I told my youngest son.
"Really?"
"Really."
"No corn on the cob dipped in soy sauce?"
"No."
"Really?"
"Really.

"Three cheers for Mom!" I said again in my most energetic way.

We were at the famous Samurai Archery Horseback Festival--on one of the hottest days of the summer.

"C'mon, boys," I said. "Samurai. Archery. Horseback. Think about it. It's going to be incredible. Let's just stay to see the targets."
"Mom?"
"Yes, Honey."
"Mom, we found a target. And, coincidentally, it's back at the train station."
"The train station?" I asked. "What do you mean? There's no target there."
"Yes, there is," my son answered. "Our target is air conditioning and cold ice cream at Baskin Robbins."

I had researched the festival, the train schedule and the route to the shrine. But I hadn't considered the extremely humid weather.

"I have a new idea," I said as we cooled off at 31 flavors. "From now on, I think Dad should plan all our field trips."

"Three cheers for Mom!"

Dad's Field Trip

2007-09-21T11:53:00.000+09:00

Beautiful Japanese robes.
Exquisitely decorated mikoshi.
Awesome headbands.
Colorful paper lanterns.
"And," added our seven-year-old son, "don't forget: Delicious roasted corn on the cob dipped in soy sauce."

Oh yeah, our recent adventure (planned by Dad) to a local matsuri (Japanese festival) was a true...and delicous success.

The day started with a leisurely breakfast at home.
Then we took an easy train commute to the fun neighborhood of Shimo Kitazawa.
We found a great location to view the amazing parade of mikoshi. ("What do you think they are saying?" our son asked as we watched the men and women sway and chant as they carried the portable shrines. "I'm not sure," I whispered. "Maybe....this is heavy. This is heavy. This is heavy.")

We followed the parade through the narrow side streets without getting lost. (Hint: just follow the paper lanterns).
We found our way back home again. (Hint: just follow Dad's head).
"And," added our seven-year-old son repeated, "Don't forget the delicious roasted corn on the cob dipped in soy sauce."

And, our kids found a new favorite food.

"Three cheers for Dad's field trip!" I said. "What a great day in Tokyo!"

"Three cheers for Mom," my husband said. "She's planning the next adventure while I'm on a business trip."

Let's just say, I should have stuck with the corn.

Ohmygosh-imas

2007-09-09T13:16:00.000+09:00

"What are you doing?" my husband asked me the other day.
"I'm practicing how to bow very low," I said from the floor.
"Oh," he said. "I thought you were trying to do a push up."

Tomorrow I have my Japanese class. My first lesson in three months. And, I am very nervous. Very, very, very nervous. I will have to admit to my sensei that I didn't study--at all--this summer. And now, now, I've got my -mas' all messed up. I can't keep my Japanese verbs straight. I don't remember if I'm coming or going, taking or drinking, eating or existing. Nomimas, norimas, mimas, kaimas, kaerimas, ikimas, tabemas, aimas--OH MY GOSH-IMAS!

"And, that's not all," I said to my husband who is a very diligent student, "I definitely, definitely have a particle problem."

I reviewed my old notes.

When saying "also," I need to use "mo."
For possessives, that's a "no."
For "and", that's "to".
Drinking, eating, watching, use "o."
Buying a peach, that's a momo.
Confusing mo, no, to, and o--now that's a no-no.

"Well," my friend said to me. "At least, you know the difference between kudamono and kodomo. The other day I went to the store for fruit and mistakenly asked to buy children. "

"Don't worry. It will be fine," my husband comforted me this morning. "Just think of it this way. If I can climb Mt. Fuji, you can figure out Japanese.....And if not, well, it looks like we'll be eating a lot of peaches."

Tokyo, Part Ni

2007-08-29T14:53:00.000+09:00

Three sleepy kids, one husband, one border collie, 9 large suitcases, 18 pair of shoes, 25 hours of traveling and one new cookbook called: 101 WAYS TO STIR FRY. Konnichiwa, Tokyo! We're back!!!!

And, just to let you know, we are smarter.
We are no longer the rookies of six months ago.

1. When we first arrived six months ago, we didn't know what to buy for our first dinner or where to go to buy it. We ate at McDonalds.

This time, we knew where to buy food....but knew the Dominos Pizza phone number even better. (We are still sticking with cheese and pepperoni topping. So far no takers with the mayonnaise/corn/tuna special).

2.This time, I accept street handouts. Well, not just any street handouts. In Tokyo, companies pass out free mini packets of tissues. It's wonderful! I've got tissues in my earthquake kit, in my kids' backpacks, in my purse, in my pockets, in my dog bag, up my sleeve. In fact, I have so many tissues, now I'm starting to pass them out on the street.
"It's a great way to meet people," I said to my sons. "People with allergies love me."

3. This time, I know to look out for bikes. With a basket in the front and one in the back, the bikes here really do not look at all threatening. But, my goodness, watch out! It's Tokyo Drift, The Two Wheel Version.
"You know," I said to my allergic friend. "You know, I have a hard time talking on my cell phone while walking. Today I saw a woman biking, while talking on her cell phone, while holding an umbrella."
My friend sneezed in agreement.
"And you know the kicker?" I said. "She was also wearing high heels."

4. Oh, the shoes. The shoes. Tokyo women wear gorgeous high heel shoes--up and down stairs, in and out of trains, while playing badminton, hurrying down the street--everyday and everywhere.
"What are you doing, Mom?" my son asked.
"I have decided to put away my comfortable, moldable footbed sneakers. I thought (grunt, groan) that if I could fit my feet into city heels (grunt, groan), then I would be fitting in better to life here."
"Mom," my son said. "I think your City Heels are making your little toe bleed."
"It's ok," I said. "I've got plenty of tissues."

pointo caado

2007-05-21T11:36:00.000+09:00

"Read it and weep," I said to my husband as I showed him my brand new card. "Can you beat Tower Records?"

"Two words," he said with confidence. "Bic Camera."

Oh! Snap! Trumped by the electronics store again!

Since coming to Tokyo four months ago, we've started to adopt some pretty cool Tokyo traditions.

We now all eat with hashi (chopsticks). (Some of us are better than others.)

We are all learning how to speak Japanese. (Some of us are much better than others.)

We remember to take our shoes off at the door. (Some much, much better than others.)

We bow while talking on the phone. (Ok, that was just me. And, it happened once.)

We sumo wrestle (Ok, that's just our 11-year-old son. He lost his first tournament, but did catch two goldfish with rice paper. So it was a win afterall.).

And, now we are starting to collect store point cards (or pointo caado, as they say here).

It's easy as ichi, ni, san.
1. The clerk of any store: "Fastjapaneseyoucan'tunderstand pointo caado des ka?"
2. You: "Hai."
3. They give you a card!

It's the easiest and most rewarding task I've done in Tokyo. And, now I'm addicted. It doesn't matter if I'm at a supaa (supermarket) or depaato (department store), I will say yes to "....pointo caado des ka?". And, I hoard and value my point cards like a 10-year old with his pokemon deck. "Mr. Donut-san, I choose you!"

"Do you even know how many points you have on the cards?" my husband asked me.
"No," I said.
"Do you know how to redeem your points?"
"No," I said.
"Do you know what prizes you could earn with the points?"
"No," I said.
"You're just excited to answer 'yes' in Japanese, right?"
"Hai," I said.

To be honest, I had tried "moo ichido onegaishimas" (one more time please), but "hai" is soooooo much easier to say....and if I play my cards right I just might get a cool prize. I'm hoping for a "Misdo" (Mister Donut) chef hat.

Yakitori

2007-05-08T14:26:00.000+09:00

My friend Cindy recently noted that I blog alot about food.
It's true.
It's really true.
I have never spent so much time thinking about food. How to find it? What is it? Will my kids like it? How much can I carry home? How do I cook it?

After four months of making every variety of stir fry, I decided I needed a few more strategies to help spice up our dinners. First, I decided to watch and learn from local shoppers. I now watch what they put in their grocery handbasket and do the same. The other day I brought home something new.

Of course I can't read the label, so my son has to translate it. "Moyashi," my son said.
"Sounds delicious," I said to my boys as I checked out the package. "Maybe it's some kind of elegant noodle."
"Mom," my son said. "It's Japanese bean sprouts." Crunchy!

My second strategy for success is this: if I find a food or drink that my kids like, I buy multiples of it.

Clearly this "bulk buying" makes the clerk at my small local grocery very nervous. The other day I bought 4 liters of milk (will probably last me 2 days, maybe). I could tell by the look on the clerk's face what he was thinking.
"That American woman is doing it again! She's clearing us out. A few days ago it was chicken. Then the cereal. Now it's the milk. Quick! She's heading for the bean sprouts! Guard the sprouts! Save the sprouts!"

I'm not sure if it's because of my cooking or because our boys just lost their baseball game, but the other night my husband decided it was time to go out for dinner.
"McDonalds?" my youngest son asked. He always asks for McDonalds.
"TGI Fridays?" my 10-year-old asked. He loves their ribs.
"Outback Steakhouse?" my 14-year-old asked. He loves their desserts.
"Yakitori," my husband answered. "We're going to Kichijojo. We're going out for traditional Japanese food."

We were actually doing it.
We were actually going out for our first family Japanese dinner.
No English menu. No Japanese friend to help translate. Just us. And our self confidence. And some yen. And maybe a little international sign language.

"How are we going to order?" I nervously asked my husband. "I only just learned adjectives this morning in my Japanese class. All I can say is: Kono wa chiisai handbag des. This is a small handbag."

"Chicken," my husband said in English to the waitress.
"Hai (Yes, I understand)," the waitress said. Yes!
"Asparagus," my husband said. "Tomato," he added.
"Hai," the friendly waitress said. She understood! We're ordering!
"Kono wa chiisai handbag des," I proudly said. I couldn't help myself.
"Hai," the waitress answered with a smile to my kindergarten sentence. Oh! I love this place.

So, now I have a third strategy-it's called the Mother's Day Wish List. When we find a place that we all like, I add it to my list. This restaurant is now on my list.

My fourth strategy is to put my Mother's Day Wish List on the refrigerator. I will let you know if either of these strategies work.

If not, it's back to bean sprouts.

Lioness

2007-04-20T12:59:00.000+09:00

"Swimming cap?" I asked my first grader. "Are you sure you need a swimming cap?"
"Yes," he said. "It's on the paper from my teacher. It says I need a swimming cap."
I could feel myself starting to get nervous. Really nervous. I have seen this movie before and I know how it ends. I leave my apartment happy as a lark with an easy task, and come home hours and hours later with something all together wrong.
"What is it, Mom?" my boys asked the other morning.
"Pastry," I said as I passed out the fluffy buns. "I went out this morning to buy treats."
"Mom," my son said after his first bite. "My pastry has meat in it. I think you discovered the Japanese hot pocket."
"Well, look at that," I said as I checked inside mine. "I guess we'll just put a little mustard on it and call it lunch."

"Swimming cap?" I asked the clerk. "Do you sell swimming caps here?" I had spent the morning searching several stores before I remembered that there was a Japanese school with a swimming pool near our apartment. Caps must be here.

"Swimming cap?" I said.
"Slippers," she said.
"Swimming cap?" I said.
"Slippers," she said.
"Swimming capo," I said. Then I pretended to put on a swimming cap and swim around the lobby. My front stroke is terrible.
"Slippers," the woman said again. This time she acted out too. She pointed to her feet which were in slippers. Then she pointed to mine which were still in my outdoor shoes.

"Ticket?" I said.
"Ticket," she said.
"Ticket?" I said.
"Ticket," she said.
It took about 20 minutes, but we were now downstairs in front of the swimming pool...and in our matching slippers. There was a vending machine at the door. Apparently, you need to buy a ticket to swim. I wasn't here to swim, I just wanted to buy a cap. How do you explain that? I thought of the few sentences I knew from Japanese class:
1. It's a rainy day out, isn't it?
2. It's a nice day out, isn't it?
3. Good afternoon. This is a pen.

I bought a ticket.

"Swimming cap!" I said enthusiastically. And, there it was! The woman had it behind her desk all along. It was beautiful. It was blue. It was waterproof. It was for an adult.

"Child cap," I said.
"Child cap?" she answered back.
"This is a cap for an adult," I tried to explain. "Do you have caps for children?"

40 minutes later I emerged from the school. I had spent money on a ticket for a pool with no intention to swim; I spent money on a cap for myself because I didn't know how to tell her I only needed a kid's cap; I spent more money on a kid cap; and I was able to leave the school despite the fact that the woman and her friend kept politely pointing me to the direction of the pool. Who could blame them? I was surely their best customer.

"Swimming cap," I said to my son proudly as I lay it on the dining room table. I was absolutely exhausted but very, very proud of myself. Kind of like a lioness bringing antelope back to the pride. "Feast on this."
"Hey, Mom," my fifth-grade son said. "I forgot to tell you, but I also have a paper from my teacher. I need something for music class."
"Oh yeah," I said as I slumped on the couch. "What do you need?"
"A recorder."

A recorder? A recorder? That's impossible to act it out. I'll have to sing instead. I wonder if they know the song "Hot Cross Buns" here.

"You better call your father," I said. "Tell him to bring home more money. This could be a very costly search."

P.S. By the way, Cherry Blossom (Sakura) season was beautiful here in Tokyo!! This a picture of my son and a visiting Flat Stanley at Yoyogi Koen. I thought it would be more interesting than my new swimming cap.

What did I say?

2007-04-02T10:39:00.000+09:00

Forget Wikipedia, the place to go for information, resources and the inside skinny for Tokyo is clearly the school bus stop.

"Hair Maker?" a Bus Stop Mom (BSM) repeated back to me.
"Yes, you know, a hair stylist," I explained. (The signs at the beauty salons here say "Hair Make" so I figured the stylist would be called a Hair Maker.)
"OK! Yes!," the BSM said. "I have two recommendations. But that's really too bad you're looking for haircuts. You were our first hippie family in the neighborhood."

"This place?" my teenage son asked me with suprise. "This place? Mom, c'mon! Don't you love me?"
"Listen," I explained. "I only heard about two places from the BSMs. This place offers the best deal in town."
"But, Mom," my son said. "I'm going to a dance. I can't get my hair cut there. Where's Dad? Dad!"

Needless to say, we went to the nicer hair make shop down the street.

"Mom," my 10 year-old son said as he watched his older brother completely enjoy his first hair cut in Tokyo. "You didn't tell me that his hair cut came with a massage! A hair cut and a massage! This place is awesome!"

"And you know what," he continued. "Just look how long my hair is! It is really long. Too long in fact. You know what? On second thought, I think I could also use a trim."

"Sumimasen!" I said to the stylist as I pointed to my ten-year-old. "Sashimi o kudasai."

I sat down pretty proud of myself. Oh, yeah, I am really tackling Tokyo now. I figured out who to ask to find a good place. I figured out how to get here. I have enough cash. I found some place my boys really like (maybe too much?). And, I know enough phrases to communicate my needs. I am really tackling Tokyo now!

Wait a minute.
Wait a minute.
"Sumimasen! Skoshi! Skoshi!" I said to the woman stylist. "I meant to say Skoshi. Little. Little trim." I was afraid to ask. "What did I say? What did I ask for?"
"Sashimi," she answered with a smile. "You said sashimi."

How embarrassing.

I meant to ask for a little trim. Instead I ordered raw seafood.

In case you were wondering, Hair Makers can cut, perm, color and massage, but they can't make an embarrassed mother disappear.

The ol' Song and Dance Routine

2007-03-28T09:45:00.000+09:00

Here we go again.

Last time I was at this store I was looking for soba-long, thin buckwheat noodles (As a side note, oh man, do I wish I was long and thin like a soba noodle). A mother at our bus stop had mentioned that foreigner kids like soba. So, I wanted to give them a try. But first I had to find them.

"Can you tell me where I can find noodles?" I asked the clerk at the grocery store. From the look on his face, I instantly knew that this would be a lost in translation moment. A lost-in-aisle six-translation moment. And, just before I started to pretend to slurp imaginary noodles, I decided to try my favorite phrase and frequent savior: "sumimasen" (excuse me).

"Sumimasen....soba noodles?"
"Hai!" The clerk said. ("Hai" means "I understand" and I understand how much I love hearing this answer). He showed me the soba...and then curiously watched as I took a digital picture of the package.(Hey! Every foreigner has his or her own survival system. Mine is to shop with a photo album and camera....which usually means I shop alone.)

And now here I am again.
"Frosting?" I asked the clerk. "Cupcake frosting?" I had found cake mix and muffin tins on my own, but I couldn't find the frosting. It's got to be here.
"Sumimasen...frosting?" I asked again. This time no "Hai." No Hai? No Hai? Oh no.

Oh no. Here we go.

I had remembered to bring my camera, my train pass, my yen, my id card and my metro map, but I didn't remember to bring my translation dictionary.

Here we go. Time for the ol' song and dance routine. I pointed to the frosting part of the cake on the cake mix box. I cleared my throat, blew out imaginary candles, and started to sing: "Happy birthday to you...happy birthday to you..."

"No. No. No," the clerk said.
"I know. I'm sorry," I said. "I'm a terrible, terrible singer. My family cannot carry a tune. But what we lack in talent, we make up for in enthusiasm." I enthusiastically smiled.
"No. No. No," he said again as he pointed to the picture. "In Japan, we do not import icing."

What? No. No. No. No. No. No. It's my son's birthday and he was planning to bring cupcakes to school for his first grade class.

OK. OK. OK. At this point, some may have gagged or groaned or grimaced.
But, I googled. And, I was able to find a frosting recipe and a conversion table for the wet and dry ingredients.

"You taste it," my son said to his older brother. "You're the oldest, you go first."
"No," my son said as he looked at the cupcakes. "It's your birthday. You have the first bite."
"Mom," my birthday boy said after the first bite. "It tastes good, but it looks...weird."

He was only 7, but he was right. I had never made homemade frosting before, but it did look weird. Very weird. Maybe it was the butter? The milk? Maybe it was converting the recipe to metric? And maybe, just maybe, with a little creativity, the cupcakes could actually look appetizing?

And, that's why, in case the school asks, that's why my son went to school with cupcakes completely covered with chocolate candies.

Hai!

Tee Time

2007-03-26T09:58:00.000+09:00

It's March.
It's outside.
It's one lap in a 40 degree pool.
"Mom," my son asked. "This is tradition? Swimming in 40 degree water? Who's tradition?"
"Ummm....polar bears," I said.

On St. Patrick's Day, my husband and two older boys took the plunge, literally, and joined a small, shivering and elite group: the Tokyo Polar Bear Swimmers.

Apparently, we will do just about anything for a good cup of cocoa and a cool tee. It's a really cool tee.

# 302

2007-03-19T09:26:00.000+09:00

My doctor wears slippers. Dark blue Duke University slippers.

Back in the States, if my doctor greeted me in slippers, I'm pretty sure I would have left the medical clinic rather quickly. But in Japan, slippers are a sign of respect. And, here at this medical clinic, everyone (nurses, doctors, patients, everyone) wears slippers inside the office.

Unfortunately, as I quickly found out, if you have size 8 1/2 wide American feet, you don't fit in the small complimentary slippers. You have to walk around in your socks. Your worn-out, threadbare, inappropriate, not-laundry day socks.

Foreigner faux pas, #302.

So, here I sit in front of my new doctor. I'm trying to act as poised and sophisticated as possible, but it's a little difficult. My throat is throbbing, my body is aching and my non-pedicured tootsies are peeking out the numerous hosiery holes.

"Any questions?" my doctor asks me after the diagnosis of strep throat.

"Yes," I said. "I have two questions. One, where do I pick up my prescription for penicillin?" I attempted to clear my throat. "And two--more importantly--in your professional opinion, where's the best place around here to go sock shopping?"

Signs, streets and shopping-oh my!

2007-03-14T10:21:00.000+09:00

"Wow," said my friend at the school bus stop. "Unexpected twists and turns, heart-pounding excitement, non-stop action, thrill-packed adventures, an exhausting ascent...my goodness what were you doing? Climbing Mt. Fuji?"
"No," I answered. "Just trying to find my way out of the Shibuya Train Station."

My husband and I were in Shibuya Station, the third busiest commuter rail station in Tokyo. A huge complex that connects to other private railways and subways, houses tons of shops and restaurants, and offers six ways to exit.
"Honey," I said to my husband as I followed him through the corridors, up and down escalators, and around the English signs. "We aren't in Maine anymore."

"No," my husband said as we exited the station and stood at a 4-way intersection of people. "We are now at the busiest pedestrian crossing in the world."
I looked across the street. There were tons and tons of buildings, billboards, signs, shopping streets...and thousands of people lined up to cross.

"How about this?" I quickly said while the light was red. "How about if I stay right here for you. How about if I faithfully wait at this exit for you to pick me up and guide me home?"

My husband looked at me. Then, he looked at my guidebook. Then, he looked at the nearby bronze statue. "You've been reading about Hachiko again, haven't you?"

Well, Ok. I love the story. It's a great story. For 11 years, Hachiko waited at the station for his master to come home from work. The statue is a symbol of loyalty and devotion.

"C'mon," my husband said. "The light is green."

Admittedly, at first, to me Shibuya was overwhelming. And a bit intimidating. But now I love it. Shibuya is truly awesome. We have favorite restaurants, a favorite park, favorite coffee shops and a great walk back home. We even have a rallying cry: Sha-boo-ya!

Watch out Shinjuku, we're coming for you next!

Coffee Talk

2007-03-12T11:06:00.000+09:00

My goal for this week: try to speak Japanese to someone other than my Sensei. Now, I adore my Sensei. She is extremely well-mannered. And, she is very, very friendly. In fact, her favorite hobby seems to be introducing herself to people on the subway. She also enjoys telling me that I'm doing a great job. Over and over and over again. Unfortunately, since she's my Language Lesson 1 CD Sensei, she's not quite the coffee drinker and I'm looking for a coffee friend.

I also decided that I would try to speak Japanese without using my old reliable phrases of the past two months (thank you, good morning, good afternoon, you've worked hard, cheers, good night, grande cappucinno and excuse me). Admittedly, I have become somewhat of a Sumimasen ("excuse me")-addict and use this phrase all the time--whether it makes sense or not. I just love saying it. I say it while shopping, paying bills, cooking soba, buying tickets, brushing my teeth, helping with homework, tucking my sons in at night...
"Sumimasen! Sumimasen..."
"Dad!," my son yelled. "Mom's calling me by the wrong name again."

"Eigo ga wakarimasu ka?"
Silence.
"Eigo ga wakarimasu ka?" I repeated to the clerk.
More silence.
Clearly, something is not right. This is the conversation starter that my CD Sensei uses all the time and she's never had to wait this long for a reply. In fact, by this time, CD Sensei and her new friends have already exchanged addresses, discussed the time of the day and figured out the time the bank opens. Over and over and over again.

"What?" the clerk at the coffee shop finally answered in English. "What did you say?"
Let's just say, it's not a boost for the self confidence, when you ask "Do you understand English" and the answer is "What?"
"Grande cappucinno," I said quite sheepishly. "And, make it strong."

My goal for this week: find a new goal.

Shop Till You Drop

2007-02-28T10:19:00.000+09:00

The other day I found out that some grocery stores deliver. And, some will actually deliver for FREE if you spend at least 10,000 Yen (about $100). Spending this amount of money at the grocery store is not a problem: I am raising three growing boys, one who's nickname is Big Country; and I currently live in a country where prices are double and serving sizes are halved, so a box of cereal here lasts about, let's see, about two seconds. Just one second more than a liter of milk. Although carrying two bags of groceries home from the store every afternoon is exercising arm muscles I didn't even know I had (Oh my goodness! Is that a tricep?), I am here for an adventure and decided to give delivery a try.

In my USA life, the shopping routine went like this: drive up to the curb of the supermarket on Sunday afternoon and basically fill up the back of my minivan with every item from aisles 2-10. Eat well until Thursday. Go out to dinner Friday night. Pick through peanut butter, leftover pot roast and pie crusts on Saturday. Repeat on Sunday.

This time, I rode two trains; carried 25,000 Yen cash (about $250-just in case); walked past the Russian Embassy; and strolled down a few blocks to the 2-story grocery store. Inside, I found bratwursts, Doritos, ginger ale, big packages of meat, plus aisles and aisles of great local food with English signs, so I was able to write English on the label so I knew what I was bringing home. So, that's cream cheese! Look! Microwave popcorn!

And, that's when the adventure began. I didn't realize that once you purchase your groceries, it gets bagged, boxed, dri-iced, and delivered. Basically, I didn't realized that I had to beat the delivery van home. So, he had to fight Tokyo traffic and find limited parking space, but I had to travel back on two trains wearing Comfort Mocs and a puffy periwinkle winter coat. This was not a fair race. I wished I hadn't skipped breakfast.

I tried to remember the running skills my friend Ming has tried to teach me over the years. I paid with my left hand, while pumping up my right arm and turning my feet to the door. Eyes on the prize! Go!

I ran across the street and up two blocks. I ran past the security at the Russion Embassy. I ran down the flights of stairs. I put my tickets through the wicket. I caught the train and my breath. I caught the second train and a break--a seat. When I got to my stop, my grocery-carrying-toned-triceps helped propel me down the street into my apartment building, up the stairs and into my apartment. I made it. And, I definitely earned my Haagan Daaz Green Tea Ice Cream treat.

Ding! Dong!

I deliberately greeted the delivery man with an overly polite graceful bow, so he wouldn't notice how sweaty, grimy and out of shape I was. But just in case he did, I've decided to avoid the store for a week or so. No worries, I've got plenty of microwave popcorn.

Fire Queen

2007-02-21T17:12:00.000+09:00

Yesterday I went...wait for it...wait for it...grocery shopping. OK, so pretty much for the past 6 weeks I have gone grocery shopping every day, but shopping is a true adventure and yesterday was a true milestone.

When I entered this grocery store the first time, I felt like I had landed on Planet Tokyo. Everything looked different, even the vegetables. All the labels were in Hiragana or Katakana, so I couldn't read them--instead I had to study the pictures on the labels to see if I could figure out the item or what you would use it for (Oh! Is that Tony the Tiger!! I think this is Frosted Flakes). The meat comes packaged in small 200 gram portions and very thinly sliced. My head instantly hurt. It actually felt like I was taking the SATs: How many grams in a pound? How much is 3,000 Yen and is it enough? How many thin slices of meat can be smooshed together to create a hamburger? If one train leaves the station at 9 AM going 45 mph carrying a bushel of apples and the other train leaves station B at 11:30 going 60 miles per hour....

"Honey," I said to my husband in a panic. "I think I need a #2 pencil."
My husband, who did much better on his SATs than myself, did all the shopping that night.

The second time I went grocery shopping, I was a sucker for anything--any box, any liquid, any thing, that had English written on it.
"Hey, Mom," my son said. "What's for dinner?"
I held up a box with bold English letters.
"We're having TACO KIT and we're drinking AQUARIUS." I actually don't know what Aquarius means, but it is a cool song.

"Hey, Mom," my son said the next night. "What's for dinner?"
"Dinner," I answered. "Seriously, the label on the box says DINNER."
The DINNER spice mix was actually curry. Hot curry. Hot hot curry. Very hot, hot, hot curry.

"Hey, Mom," my son said after he took his first bite. "I think from now on, I'll call you Fire Queen."

The next time I went grocery shopping, I confidently filled a basket with vegetables, bought 400 grams of thinly-sliced chicken, and a bag of rice. I also closed my eyes and randomly picked out a liquid of black sauce. I was hoping for soy sauce, but it easily could have been dark corn syrup. Or Cola.
"Hey, Mom," my son said. "What's for dinner?"
"Stir fry," I answered.
"Didn't we have that last night?"
"No, son," I answered. "Last night we had Chicken, Broccoli, Snow Peas and Mushrooms over Rice with a Soy/Corn/Cola Sauce."
My son looked at me. "What's the difference?"
I looked at him. "The name."

But yesterday, with 6 weeks of education and experience under my belt, I passed the Grocery Store Test. I can now identify and appreciate many of the ingredients. I know where to find what I need and how many grams to buy. I can buy the appropriate weight to carry home by myself. And, thanks to a cooking class, I can read the soy sauce label and serve at least one non-curry dinner Japanese style-lots of smaller dishes filled with tasty, fresh, healthy food.

Mr. Miyagi, I believe I have earned the rank of orange belt.

Fuzzy rice and Tonkatsu

2007-02-16T13:05:00.000+09:00

Well, we've been in Tokyo just over a month now, so we decided to celebrate in true Tokyo style. Oh yeah, we bought a rice cooker.

It's not just any rice cooker mind you. It has many buttons, displays and beeps; it looks like a little R2D2 and probably can even show a hidden message about the Force, but all I do is push the one English button.
"Mom," my son asked. "What are you doing?"
"I'm making rice."
"No, Mom," he said. "You're making fuzzy rice."
He was right. The one English button that I pushed to start the machine actually says "Fuzzy" on it. (I'm thinking that it should probably say "Fluffy" instead??) Anyway, we had rice for dinner that night and many nights after and it tastes perfect every time...and not at all fuzzy, to the great disappointment of my six-year-old son who wanted to write about fuzzy rice in his school journal.

The other update is that we are learning how to read.
"I know what that says," my husband said last night. He was looking at a sign at a restaurant. He's been taking Japanese lessons.
"Me too," my oldest son said who is also taking lessons. "I can read it too! I can read. I can finally read."
"So," I said, after a few minutes of high-fiving and fist-pounding to celebrate with them. "What does it say?"
"Tonkatsu!" my husband and kids yelled. "Tonkatsu! Tonkatsu!"
"So what does that mean?" I asked after a few minutes.
Awkward silence. The ol' translation buzz kill.
Here, you need to do a triple translation. First, figure out if it's hiragana or katakana, then read it, and then translate to English.

I looked up tonkatsu in my dictionary when we got home. That's right. We were fist-pounding on the streets of Tokyo about "pork cutlets." Yes!

Pondo-san

2007-02-13T10:35:00.000+09:00

Call me Pondo-san.

And, if that doesn't work after a few minutes, please go ahead and smack me on the back of the head.

We've been here in Tokyo a month now and we are starting to settle in. I can actually say a few phrases in Japanese: "excuse me," "good day" (before 11 a.m.); "good day" (after 11 a.m.); "thank you" (formal), "thank you" (informal), and "I'm sorry for thanking you informally when I should have thanked you formally. Excuse me. Sorry. Good Day. Thank you. Sorry. Good Day. Sorry".

I've also invented the Sumimasen Shrug. "Sumimasen" means "excuse me." You use this when you accidentally bump into someone, if you are trying to get out of the subway or if you need attention at a restaurant. However, if you add a helpless shrug with the phrase, I have found that you can gain some sympathy while grocery shopping (my biggest challenge). "Sumimasen (with shrug)soba noodles?" "Sumimasen (with shrug) chicken?" "Sumimasen (with shrug) stain stick?" "Sumimasen (with shrug) my rock?"

Oh, yes, my rock. I love my rock. Due to the fact that I can't read or write Japanese signs, that the charming streets twist and turn, and that many of the streets still look the same to me, I've had to become vigilantely visual to find my way around. (I had thought about leaving a Hansel and Gretel bread crumb trail when I leave the apartment, but because of the hungry crows that hover and the fact that a sleeve of bread only comes with 8 slices and costs 400 Yen, I decided to find another strategy.) So, for now, I am memorizing routes by sights and smells: a faded blue punch buggy and an immobile scooter guide me to the school bus stop and back; colorful springs on a tree means the 100 Yen store (Dollar Store) is near and my rock means home is right around the corner.

"Hey," a mom I met at the bus stop said to me the other day as we both idled at a train crossing. She was in a car. I was walking. "What are you doing? Allergies?"
"Oh,no," I said. "I'm just sniffing around for the pine smell. If I can find and follow the pine smell, it will lead me home from here."
She looked stunned. "Wow," she answered. "You already figured out The Pine Smell! You're doing great!"

I wasn't sure how to answer, so I just did my kind of cute Sumimasen Shrug.

Pondo-san ポンド