#imtoobigforthisplace

[ngiarra]

Since I first traveled to Japan over 12 years ago, I’ve heard about the beauty of the spring sakura season.  Back then I told myself I could imagine what it is like as I had seen plenty of  cherry blossoms in the U.S. I remember walking along the path in front the Sullivan building on North campus and enjoying the blossoms there thinking, “this must be just like Japan.”  I told myself it couldn’t be much different.  I was terribly wrong.  While a handful of spots in the U.S. might have a smattering of trees, nothing compares to Japan. The Japanese love for the sakura runs deep, and they are literally everywhere stretching alongside rivers, roads, and parks as far as the eye can see.  You see them in places you didn’t even realize they were planted as their color bursts forth against the pale blue of the bright spring sky.  

Today, as I walked along the river path near my house, the blossoms were beginning to fade.  Little droplets of pink and white leaves swirled in the air cascading down like confetti; but unlike some random man-made celebration, this was nature’s yearly spectacle bringing with it a feeling of renewal and a galvanization of spirituality.  Igetit now. I understand.

The sakura is the epitome of Japanese life, the understanding of beauty’s impermanence and the awareness that true beauty is not external; rather it is embedded within.  They embody mindfulness, the true spirit of Buddhisim, the belief of living in the moment and enjoying the here and now, not longing for the past nor worrying about the future. Everywhere you look you see families, friends, and lovers huddled on a blanket spread out under a tree, laughing, enjoying a drink, a bite to eat and the warmth of good company, while occasionally looking up smiling basking in nature’s miracle. Enjoying the time now while it lasts for its beauty is fleeting.  

Even at this moment as I sit and write this on a Tuesday afternoon in early spring, I watch children playing under the blossoms, laughing and running while their parents sit and enjoy an afternoon picnic. I get it now, and it is just one more thing to cite when asked what it is that makes me love it here so much.

[ngiarra]

LOVE Arm in arm they pass, her frail, bony fingers grasping onto his elbow steadying him as he shuffles along. She wears a black, silk kimono with a subtle pattern of matte black chrysanthemums with dark green florets delicately embossed on the fabric. The decoration is so slight that I fail to notice it from a distance, but I see it as they draw closer to me and am struck by its beauty. An equally beautiful white-on-white obi is cinched tightly around her waste and her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled tight to her head with a black lacquer comb trimmed in mother-of-pearl. Her wooden gaetas click-clack as she moves along in a delicate, almost regal, gait. He is dressed in grey slacks, with a grey and blue plaid sport coat over a white polo shirt and an ill-fitting baseball cap of a long-ago disbanded baseball team on his head. His thick-soled, black sneakers help to stabilize him on the uneven pavement upon which his gaze is steadfastly fixed. She lovingly guides him along as they chat, all the while watching him with a glimmer in her eye and a beaming smile. The chemistry between them is unmistakable as they move along lost in their own little world. She is doing most of the speaking, but he peppers the conversation with little asides, to which she responds with a schoolgirl’s giggle. His eyes brighten every time she laughs, as if her joy is the only thing that matters to him. As I watched them, I was reminded of how many times I witnessed the same kind of love between my parents. I won’t ever forget the tenderness with which my dad cared for my mom as he remembered every doctor’s appointment, kept track of her numerous prescriptions and their dosages, reminded her of the tv schedule so she wouldn’t miss her favorite shows, or just got her out of the house on a beautiful day. I’ll cherish the tender kisses I watched them share when he would leave the hospital to go home and get some rest for his weary body, and I’ll hold dear hearing her whisper “I Love You” in her throaty, exhausted voice as he left. I know their love kept her going much longer than she should have. She wanted to stay alive not for herself, but for him. She fought to honor the love of the man who stood by her through the incredible highs and devastating lows of a fifty-four year marriage, and their bond strengthened through that battle. In the end the inevitability of a failing heart and weak lungs was too much to overcome, leaving behind not just an immeasurable sadness but an incredible amount of love as well.   As the elderly couple disappeared around the corner, I smiled to myself and thought of how their love, like my parents’ love, won’t ever fade. Sure, someday one of them will no longer be there to prop the other up, but love doesn’t end when one person dies. I believe the love that existed becomes stronger as the essence of the love they felt is poured back into our hearts and keeps growing. By treasuring every moment we spent, every time we laughed or cried, and constantly revisiting those memories, we keep that love alive. And after we’re gone, all of the love we’ve nurtured and grown gets poured into those we leave behind, further perpetuating the cycle. Perhaps it is a trite, simplistic theory, but I’d rather spend the rest of my life loving and remembering those who’ve passed than succumbing to the melancholy. 

[ngiarra]

Sukiyaki -

If you’re lucky, one day you’ll travel to a place where you don’t speak the language, can’t read the signs, or recognize the food. You’ll sit around a thick slab of a table that’s seen years of homework, laughter, tears, and many, many meals. You’ll face a large cast iron pot, or nabe in Japanese, with a small pat of lard in it, listening as it sizzles with the increasing heat, dissolving it into the rich, black iron. A handful of sliced leeks, some napa cabbage, and the freshest mushrooms you can imagine will be added along with some thinly-sliced, perfectly marbled beef. A liquid of soy sauce, mirin, dashi stock and sugar will be poured over the top, and it’ll gurgle away on the table in front of you as it cooks. It will smell delicious, and when the first round is cooked, you’ll stab at the fixings with your chopsticks, dip them into a raw egg that was laid that morning, and taste the goodness that is sukiyaki.

In many parts of the world cooking at the dinner table is a commonplace occurrence. Whether it be fondue in Switzerland, BBQ in Korea, hot pot in China, or numerous dishes in Japan, the concept of cooking raw ingredients at the table on a small burner is a welcome, family undertaking. This method of eating sparks a bond between family and guests as you prepare the meal together, adding little bits of what you like to the communal pot. Conversations grow as you discuss what you enjoy eating, how you like it prepared, and talk about the deliciousness bubbling up before you. You’ll pour each other drinks, keep dipping into the pot over and over until you can no longer stuff yourself, and the conversation will last well into the night.

In America, we don’t quite have anything like this. Sure, the family meal is still cherished in many households, such as the wonderful Sunday dinners at my parents’ house when I was younger, but this idea of cooking at the table is not a common occurrence for many Americans. In fact, when I’ve mentioned to some friends I’ve eaten at Korean or Japanese restaurants where you cook your own food, their response is usually “you mean I have to pay to cook my own food?!” Our idea of food cooked at the table is usually in some “Japanese steak house” with a pseudo-master flipping shrimp into his pocket, tossing knives, and squirting oil on the hot griddle almost burning the place down in a flash of fire.  

If you want to experience something more traditional, buy yourself a little butane burner and a small ceramic pot. Throw in some konbu, a little miso paste and whatever ingredients you like and simmer it slowly over a nice bottle of sake with some people you love. I guarantee you’ll be hooked. And if you’re ever traveling and you get the opportunity to partake in this type of meal at someone’s house, please do it. You’ll be enriched by the experience and will salt away a life time of memories!

[ngiarra]

There’s a struggle going on in Japan and in true Japanese fashion, it’s contradictory in nature. While the Japanese are very in touch with their history and keeping traditions alive, some aspects of Japanese life are beginning to feel the impact of a continually evolving society. The battle between history and modernity is one that is waged everyday, and I saw the impact of it Saturday night.  

After working during the day on Saturday, we met up with one of す’s university friends in Shinjuku to have a bite to eat and some drinks. Shinjuku is one of the largest areas of Tokyo and offers pretty much anything you could want from the sublime to the ridiculously deviant. It is home to one of the largest, most beautiful parks in Tokyo, Shinjuku Gyoen, as well as thousands of tiny little restaurants and bars crammed into maze-like streets offering just about any type of cuisine imaginable. It’s also the nexus of Tokyo’s sex industry with both “girls” and “boys” bars, strip clubs, soaplands (don’t ask), and pour bars (look it up lol).

We first stopped at a non-descript Izakaya, or Japanese pub, located in the basement of a Shinjuku office tower for a bite to eat and some drinks. The walk to the restaurant was like something out blade runner as we headed down a huge underground walkway lit up with  symmetrical fluorescent lighting stretching for what seemed like forever. It was as modern as modern could be. Our friend chose this particular restaurant because they offered a nomihodai, or all-you-can-drink, menu for ¥1750 (about $15). The food was pretty tasty, and I did manage to behave myself, so it was quite enjoyable. I got my ¥1750 worth and managed to remain coherent.

After finishing up there he wanted to take us to an old school yakitori restaurant. We crossed into Shinjuku near Golden Gai, a tiny alley loaded with little bars and restaurants about the size of postage stamps, and came upon a yakitori place that looked like it had been there since the Meiji era in the 1800s. In fact, the restaurant is about 100 years old. To the left of a dark-stained wooden door wearing years of exposure to the elements stood a charcoal grill and an elderly man standing behind it cooking. The entire grill area was coated in ash from the many orders of yakitori prepared over time.

We walked in and were directed to a narrow staircase wedged into the corner of a tiny room full of people eating. There were perhaps three or four tables with people eating and drinking. Upstairs was more open and not crowded at all. Dark wooden beams framed the dim stucco walls yellowed from years of cigarette smoke. We were seated at a low slung corner booth that surrounded an irori, or hearth, with a large iron kettle hanging from thick wooden arm. There were a couple of pieces of plywood covering the opening of the hearth, and our friend told us when he first started coming there, the hearth was exposed and used to warm food.

The waiter came over with the warmth of a Santarpio’s waiter on a Saturday night when you’re seated at his table right before the start of the 12 am card game. He was on the chubby side with his hair combed forward almost down to his bushy eyebrows. He wore a blue and white rugby shirt with thick horn-rimmed glasses that magnified his dark brown eyes. His shirt was tucked into his jeans which were pulled high above his waist and held up with a weathered brown belt. He grunted a welcome to us, and we ordered a bunch of food and drinks for all. He nodded and walked away then returned to deliver our beers.

As we chatted, our friend explained the place’s caste system to us: downstairs is for the regulars, and upstairs is for everyone else. He used to frequent the place often, and eventually made it downstairs, but he hadn’t been in in over a year. He picked up his beer and became sad as he sipped. Then he continued, “This place has been here over 80 years. It used to always be packed, but now, the young kids don’t like to come here. If this was ten years ago, we wouldn’t be able to get a seat. It makes me sad.” As so often happens in many cultures, places like this become obsolete despite the oodles of character they possess. Not to mention the food, which was great. As we continued eating and drinking, I reflected back on many of the places back in Boston that are similar. Some have survived merely because of the tourism industry, and others have fallen by the wayside due to modernity and changing times. The same happens here as people gravitate towards the shiny and new.  It made me happy that I could experience the food and the ambiance before it becomes just another relic frozen in the memories of those who loved it.

[ngiarra]

Honor thy father and mother

He walks down the narrow hallway, his slight frame silhouetted by the light coming through the window at the end of it. He carries a clementine and a cup of water. The fusuma, or sliding panel, makes a low rumble as he works it from left to right. He kicks off his slippers and enters the tatami mat room. In the corner there’s a butsudan, or large mahogany shrine, going from floor to ceiling with a square blue pillow on the floor in front of it. The slotted folding doors of it are open revealing a small blue and white ceramic bowl filled with sand, a box of thin sticks of incense, a small package of thin white tapered candles, and a small brass bell sitting on a tiny cushion of alternating red and green panels with gold stripes in between.

Above those items sits two small color photographs in black frames. One photo is of a serious looking gentleman with gaunt, high cheek bones, ashen skin and dark brown eyes. In the other an older woman with a round face, thinning grey hair, age spots, and a slight smile on her face peers out. She is the spitting image of the man kneeling before her. He places the fruit and the water on the ledge of the altar, lights a stick of incense, and quickly waves it in the air to extinguish the flame. The scent of the smoke fills the room as he picks up his prayer book and beads, then taps the bell. The ping of the bell rings clear and solemn, breaking the silence of the moment as if to alert the spirits of the dead. He breaks into a low, rhythmic chant, slowly reciting from the book. He does this for about a minute before ringing the bell once more as if to say, “ok, I’m done now, ありがとうお母さんとお父さん(thank you mom and dad). 

He repeats this process again in the evening with a small cup of rice and a cup of sake. In fact, he repeats it just about every day, steadfastly deliberate and methodical in his movements. His precision honors the couple brought together many years ago who had given him life. He shows his gratitude to them, for bringing him into the world and making him who he is today. They are never out of sight, nor out of mind, and are always in the heart. 

[ngiarra]

We made it!

Landed at haneda last night and made it to Ota. The reality of moving here slapped me in the face when I realized my stay would be indefinite. This time was different. I looked out the car window and took in my new home without thinking about how much time I had to spend in Tokyo. No need to rush and eat my favorite foods, or visit my favorite places. I have all the time in the world.

I woke up this morning and created this blog as a way to describe my journey for those interested. I’ll try my best to keep it updated regularly. Hit me up with any questions or comments.

[ngiarra]

A rainy morning in Ota after a day of epiphanies yesterday. I realized that until my visa arrives, I’m nobody. I don’t exist. I have no keys, no car, no home, no identity. I’m invisible here. For example, yesterday we tried to get SIM chips for our cell phones, but I couldn’t get one since I don’t have my identity card yet. For now, I exist in the margins, part visitor, part tourist, part resident. It’s refreshing actually. I feel like I could disappear into the ether without a trace if I wanted. I could pull an Abbie Hoffman and vanish completely, but then I’d miss out on a lot of really cool shit. For now, I just wait until my life in America morphs into my life in Japan. 

We’ve been here a day and have already discovered the little nuances life in Japan has. For example, when people move out of an apartment, they take their light fixtures with them. Add that to the list of the million other things we’ll need to buy! It’s a process and an exciting one at that. We go sign the paperwork for our apt today, and then head to Nagano tomorrow. Looking forward to getting up there where it’s cool and the air is clean! Ahh tranquility.

[ngiarra]

Many people have commented on how sudden this move has seemed, but in reality, it has been quite some time in the making. When す& I got married, one thing we agreed on was the fact that we wanted to live somewhere other than Boston at some point in our future. We thought about Europe, Hawaii, and the West Coast, with each location having its pros and cons. We settled on Japan for obvious reasons. Once we made our decision, すkicked into focus-mode and began planning the move. If you know my wife, you know she’s deadly when homed in on a task.

When we first learned we’d be moving to Japan, we figured out a monthly budget and scoped out various parts of the city where we wanted to live based on what we could afford. Setagaya was our destination of choice, specifically near Shimokitazawa station, as it’s a very hip, boho area with lots of artists and musicians. We figured living there was a dream as it was probably out of our price range, unless, of course, we wanted to live in a 200 sq. ft studio. Luckily, we found a good-sized place that was relatively cheap a few stations over from Shimokitazawa, so yesterday we decided to do some recon.

I’d read a lot about Shimokita, as it’s called, and it looked really cool. Reality surpassed my expectations! Shimokita reminded me a lot of Cambridge/Somerville before gentrification set in. There are a ton of small independently owned shops and restaurants. Most of them are tucked away down tiny little streets about as wide as my wingspan. Cozy little bars with four or five stools dotted every nook and crevice, and there were quite a few cafes and small music venues. It was all way hip with new discoveries around each corner.  

We needed lunch and happened upon a place called the Rainbow Kitchen, a funky little wine bar located on the corner of a lazy intersection. We nestled ourselves into a tiny table tucked underneath a spiral staircase and watched confused tourists, locals walking with purpose, and workers passing by. The meal came, and it was great; an order of pasta, omelet rice with braised beef, and a couple of beers for about $30 (no tip necessary in Japan). The staff was very friendly and engaging, smiling and joking with us as we ate, and laughing at the big guy speaking bad Japanese wedged in under the stairs. I’m sure they were quite impressed with my remarkable agility as I managed to eat while sandwiched between a Lally column and a picture window without causing too much damage. After lunch, we spent the rest of the afternoon taking in more of the neighborhood and rummaging through used record stores and furniture shops. It blew me away to think that this will be my hood from now on as it’s only about 10 – 15 minutes from our place. I’m more than excited to go back and explore more.

After exploring, we headed to Shibuya, another trendy albeit extremely crowded area of Tokyo, to meet our realtor and sign the lease on our new place. Much like the cell phone transaction the day before, it was quite an experience. Unlike America, where businesses throw huge legal documents at you and ask you to sign, here they go through every single line of the contract explaining each detail so there’s no misunderstanding the terms. We sat in the realtor’s office for about 90 minutes going over everything and signing document after document. I think we signed less stuff when we sold our house. I’m still the invisible man (apologies to Ralph Ellison), so nothing is in my name, but at least now I have a place to live.

Already Tokyo has amazed me with the sheer variety of things it has to offer, the volume of people, and the amazing culture. Of course, this is no Eden. It’s crowded (Shibuya was insane), ridiculously hot and humid (I sweat in the shower), and the culture is extremely rigid with its rules and regulations (not good for fat, boisterous Italian-Americans), but so far, it seems to me that the positives are far out weighing the negatives!