Japan – Page 10 – hannah ananas

Japanese Animal Crackers

Because this small interaction with some of my Japan people was awesome, I thought I’d share it.

……………………………………….

Person 1:

Person 2: Cuuute. Where’s that from?

Person 3: Kawaii

Person 1:

Person 1: Animal crackers!

Person 4: M. Duck. We’re one step closer to learning the duck’s first name.

Person 4: Any bets on what it is?

Person 1: Haha, I thought the same thing

Hannah: Mallard duck

Person 4, simultaneously: Common sense says something nature-themed like Marigold, but I’m voting Marzipan

Person 4: Shh, no one asked for rationality.

Hannah: Okay, then. Obviously, it’s Msteven Duck

Hannah: The M is silent

Person 4: That’s the spirit

Hannah: Don’t you mean “mspirit”?

Hannah: :P.

Person 4: Hahah

Person 4: Touché

Sticker from Person 1: Punked?!

Later, from Person 1, again: Some of these are oddly specific, while some are not

……………….

I really do love Japan’s odd relationship with English.

Post-a-day 2017

Good morning… fancy an earthquake?

This morning, I woke up around five in an extreme panic. My bed was shaking, and my subconscience was sure that the building soon would be tumbling down – this was a massive earthquake, and it was lasting… already almost a minute before I could get my bearings and turn on a light.

And then, as I discovered where exactly I was, – in the USA, and specifically Texas – it took me another moment to discover what was happening. I knew that it was not an earthquake. It was not the gymnasium over my head, either, as it was in a place where I briefly worked immediately after arriving to the US. So, what was it? ‘What is going on?!’ my insides demanded to know.

And then I heard it: a wind-filled noise, accompanied by a soft chugging sound of deep iron. It was a train. While the sounds of trains have never much bothered me, even when I lived beside tracks in the past, I’m not sure that I ever noticed a shaking tied to the passing of one. Nonetheless, I experienced it in full force this morning.

After I realized that it was simply a passing train, – though, I was still surprised at how much it shook the house and its contents – and not an earthquake, I mentally noted that I didn’t even have to start panicking. A few seconds after this noting, my body finally began to respond to the threat of the earthquake. It had been as though I were in a fight or flight mode, and so hadn’t had the various responses tied to the fear in the perceived situation. Once I was safe, they all kicked into action, and I began shaking all by my self. I was physically panicking now. My breathing tighted to a near non-existence, and my heart raced. My skin prickled all over, and I had to force myself to swallow and then take slow, deep breaths.

I wonder if it will happen again this morning…

Post-a-day 2017

Kill Bill and Mailboxes

Have you ever seen “Kill Bill”? It’s a spectacular film (and set, actually), and I fell in love with it when I was around the time of middle school. My eldest brother was in college, and he had me watch it with him one time. I was enthralled. I couldn’t tell if I actually wanted to be like Uma Thurman in the film, or if I just liked marveling at her humbly.

It ended up being one of the few pieces of Japanese culture that has stuck with me (before I moved to Japan, that is). Not that the film is Japanese itself – it just has Japanese things in it, specifically a samurai-like relationship to swordsmanship and fighting. Quentin Tarantino was the first director whose name I remembered, as well as the first whose style I learned to identify. I’m not sure I would have been a fan had I not seen Kill Bill as my first full exposure to him and his style. However, I absolutely love his directing, and therefore end up loving movies that otherwise make little sense at my being a fan of them (blood and gore and anger are really not my thing).

All of this aside, however, something from the Kill Bill films stuck with me even stronger than anything else. The scene where the money briefcase is opened, revealing loads of cash, and then, suddenly, as a chunk of cash is removed, a poisonous snake shoots out and bites the man who opened the case, killing him. It is such a sudden event, and it includes such a confirmation of the guy’s mortality, that it hit me hard. While I mentally am totally comfortable with the scene, I suppose there is a sort of psychological response that I had not anticipated would last for so long as it has: I don’t stand in front of the mailbox to open it. I stand to one side, and open the box. Then, I lean over to see inside the box, still at an angle to it. Once I have verified the absence of any snake, I then reach in and pull out the mail.

This was an immediate response to having seen this scene. It was intentionally done, each time I went to check the mail. Now, more than 15 years later, I still do it. I kind of chuckled at myself today, as I noticed that I was doing it, completely unaware of what I was in the process of doing – avoiding a snake attack. I mean, seriously, a snake in my mailbox? Possible, but insanely unlikely.

Like I mentioned, it might be something psychological deep down… but it also could be just that I grew so accustomed to doing it intentionally, that I ended up sticking with it unintentionally, even after the snake idea was long out of my mind. I find the latter to be more likely than anything else.

But I could just be crazy. That would explain a lot, I imagine. 😛

Post-a-day 2017

In the raw… not

Sometimes I wonder if my OCD isn’t the only thing I have. I had a sort of episode today, which is what called to mind this idea (though I have had it regularly for years).

I had just showered, and was using the bathroom briefly before dressing. My mom had just shown me a dress she was considering for my cousin’s upcoming wedding, while I had been wrapped in my towel. When she came back toward my bathroom a minute or so later, telling me to look at another outfit, I told her to wait a minute, because I was peeing. She, in good humor, and not thinking much into it, said, ‘No, look at it now. I have it on already,’ and began to open my bathroom door, to show me the outfit.

Without having my chance to think anything through, I had thrown my arms around me protectively, and was almost yelling – not actual yelling, but much louder and more panicky than regular speech – to tell her to shut the door, and saying that she doesn’t ‘get it’; I was serious about waiting a minute.

I was almost in tears. My mind was able to view the situation with sanity – What on Earth, girl? It really is okay that your mother see you naked and/or on the pot. What just happened in here, darling? My reaction, however, had been instantaneous and automatic, leaving no attempt to consult with my brain on the matter before responding to the situation.

I went to talk to my mom about it afterward, and my eyes teared while we hugged. It had taken me a while to go see her outfit, because something had me feel a need to be fully dressed before going to see her, as opposed to my usual comfort level of a bra and underwear being just fine. It was like an odd means of making up for having felt exposed – compensating by over-dressing.

Growing up, I never was very comfortable with nudity of my own body. My female family members were all incredibly comfortable with being nude around the house. I’m not sure I went a week at any given point in my childhood without seeing at least one of them walking around naked. And it never disturbed me. I even marveled at how comfortable they were with being nude, and respected it. I think I even thought that I would be so comfortable by the time I was around their then-ages (college-aged).

It never happened, though. College came and went, and here I stand totally uncomfortable with my own nudity around others. In college, I was surprised that more girls in the dorm didn’t walk around more often in their towels. I had just learned so well from my sisters how to make a towel stay in place wrapped around my body, that I spent plenty of time down the hall with friends, their constantly wondering and asking how my towel stayed up. I didn’t even have to consider if I were comfortable in a towel – I just was. In the same way, I suppose, I never even considered the idea of being comfortable nude – I just wasn’t.

And I imagine that all of that is somewhat normal for a good chunk of my society. Some girls strip down entirely in the locker rooms after water polo practice, and some just don’t. I have actively pursued being comfortable with my own nudity, just in my own presence, over the years, in hopes of 1) learning to appreciate my own body, and 2) being comfortable with certain close family and friends being around when I’m changing or have to use the bathroom. (There are just certain scenarios that are part of life, and I can’t seem to see myself possibly functioning in them.)

But, just to throw in a sort of curve ball, let’s talk about how I am fine with other cultures and my own nudity. I specify: Bath houses in Japan and a topless beach in Spain all had my full participation. I was slightly nervous initially, but the social acceptance of the behavior allowed me to accept mentally the task. I even appreciated the ease and comfort of the accepted nudity. For the topless beach, I wasn’t with friends, so that made it loads easier. But the bath houses in Japan were easy enough to do with multiple friends, after my initial exposure to how the whole thing worked. So, social context makes a huge difference in my comfort levels, it seems. In my apartment in Japan, with the same friend with whom I had hung out naked in an onsen, I would not be found nude… take away the bath house, and the comfort disappears with it.

So, sometimes I seem to be in good shape and totally normal. I changed at the YMCA the other week after swimming, and I did it in a way that was much more exposed and easy-going than I ever would have done in the past. Perhaps, despite the fact that the general social context has changed (not Japan anymore), since it is a changing area at the gym, I still can grasp the behavior mentally, and participate to a certain degree, after my experiences in Japan. However, since it is not Japan, and the general social context has changed in terms of nudity acceptability, I am only okay with it, because no one I know is around to notice me. Add a family member to the equation, and I’d bet that I would be wrapped up or in a bathroom stall while changing clothes.

And I think all of that is somewhat normal, too. However, when something like today happens, where it is not just a matter of my being uncomfortable, but a matter of my having a panicked, immediate reaction to the situation, I wonder if there is something more to it.

Post-a-day 2017

My real voice

In college, I spent a summer studying in Germany. It was a language school setup, filled with foreigners, but in such a small town that everyone knew that we were studying German, and so everyone always spoke to us all in German. I had already studied abroad a few times before this adventure, and I had learned firsthand about what works and what doesn’t work, in terms of language immersion. I was dedicated to learning German, and so I made sure that I only spoke in German with others, even if they spoke to me in English. This made friendships hard among the people in my program’s group, since they all used English together; I came across a bit snobby, but I was just really committed to learning German.

I made friends with other foreigners rather easily, though, and especially ones in higher levels of German, which was even better for me. My German was improving immensely. But this led to a unique situation one day.

One day, near the end of either my time at the school or my friend Paul’s time there (he’s British), I found myself faced with a desperate Paul, actually begging me to speak English. Why?! was my repeated question to his pleas.

“Because I want to hear what you sound like!”

I don’t know if he was pleased or not by how I sound in English, but I spoke a little for him. And it was way weird, using English with him, despite the fact that I’d heard him speak English loads, and that it’s our common native language. I had just never used it with him.

And then this brought up a unique and interesting sentiment. He wanted to hear me, and that meant speaking English. I can guess that my native tongue was the one in which Paul believed my identity to lie. I know that it felt like I was setting aside a sort of mask when I switched to English with him. I even felt a little called-out… as though I had been hiding somehow, and it had been behind German. The real me (I) lay in English, in the English part of me.

Yet, years later, here I am, missing the parts of me that belong to these different languages in which I have lived. A part of me, true me (I), exists only on German, and others in French, in Spanish, and in Japanese. So much so that the real me (I) is this whole combination of languages – I feel a huge emptiness and feel not myself when I am using only English in my daily life. I listen to Spanish-speaking radio when I’m in Houston, mostly because I don’t get to use Spanish often enough. I read every night in French, and trade off an English book for a German one at times for my evening reading, too. I regularly pull out a Spanish book to read, or my German audiobooks. And I have noticed that I have been searching for a tolerably satisfying way to have Japanese in my near-daily life, too. (For now, it has just been the occasional music, and a perpetual repeat of a certain song being stuck in my head.) When I don’t have them all, it is as though a part of me is missing, and suddenly getting to speak with someone in them, almost reminds me of that mask I was setting aside in Germany with Paul… like I am again setting aside some mask I have been wearing.

Perhaps it is now a mask of monolingualism, pretending that I only speak English, while I long for the world to talk to me in several languages, all the time.

Anyway… I’m exhausted. And I miss Paul. He was studying opera, and was a really great guy. I wonder if he’s been really successful with opera these past several years. Maybe I can go see him perform one day. That would be awesome. 🙂

Post-a-day 2017

Books for Previews

I read books in the movie theatre. It’s true. I really do. Not during the film, of course, but beforehand, and sometimes even during previews.

It all started when a friend of my dad’s gave me a book called Staying Alive in Year Five. I think it might be an Australian book. Whatever its origin, I loved reading the book. I remember being so excited to see what happened next that I took it with me everywhere, so I could read whenever I had the chance.

This, naturally, included the movie theatre. We always get to the film early in order to get good seats, and then the movie itself never starts at the specified time, anyway. So, I sat down in my seat by my family members, and I opened up my book and read. I was excited for the film, but I was also disappointed at having to stop reading, when it got to the beginning of the film.

Nowadays, I still read before a movie, if I’m there at all, of course. There hasn’t been much to spark my interest lately, so I haven’t often been at the cinema. And Japan was different, simply because I wanted to learn as much Japanese and Japanese culture as I could, so I watched all the previews and everything rather avidly. Aside from those specific circumstances, I read. I almost always have a book with me. Living in Japan meant that I ended up always having my Kindle, since hard copies of books in not Japanese weren’t so easy to come by. I would read at work, on the train, and at home. While walking around (once I bought earphones I could wear again [Thanks, Korea!]), I listened to audiobooks. Occasionally, I listened to music, but typically not. I just love books.

Post-a-day 2017

I can’t walk right…

I walk on the wrong side, too. Whenever I’m on the stairs, or even if I end up in a sidewalk/hallway sort of situation most times, I don’t even realize that I’m in the left side until I reach oncoming traffic. At those times, I resort to my Japan automatic behavior of scooting simply to the middle of the stairwell, as opposed to switching sides entirely. While escalators and roads were set sides, stairwells and walkways often had signed alternate setups for walking (due to high traffic in train stations and such), so I regularly was too confused when either there weren’t signs or people united them. It quickly became a habit of mine, especially at school, just to put myself in the middle of the stairwell, and to let people go around me as they pleased.

And now I find myself always starting on the left side, and pushing quickly to the center as people approach, just like in Japan. I find it amazing, the habits we build in life.

Post-a-day 2017

the wrong side of the road…?

I have been three days riding my bike (bicycle) now, and I still am not fully accustomed to it. A car was a reasonably easy adjustment, because the driver seat is on the opposite side of the car, making it significantly easier just to flip everything for the road. I also have spent hours upon hours driving in the US, and only a handful of days doing it in Japan. Bicycling, however, is a rather different story.

I spent a good number of days riding my bike part of the way to work at my last US job, and I used my bicycle for a good amount of my getting around town (combined with the local busses). But that in no way adds up to how much I have driven in Houston. In fact, I think it is quite likely that I actually spent more time riding my bike on the roads in Japan than I ever have in Houston. I think I’ve spent more calendar days using a bicycle on the roads in the US – I’m saying “on the roads”, because I know I have spent more time and more calendar days using a bicycle in the US than in any other country, but not necessarily as an alternative to a car as a means of transportation – than in Japan, but the days I spend riding in Japan included a LOT of road time every time I went to and from work.

All that said, despite however terribly it may have been said, I have spent a lot of time riding my bicycle on the left side of the road, following traffic in Japan this past year. This means that I kind of have a really strong habit of getting to the left side of the road whenever I ride. I have consciously pushed to the right these past few days, but it has been tough. Especially when there are no moving cars around, I really struggle. I find myself already going to the left side, before it clicks that that’s the wrong side here. (Hey, I’m glad it does click, though, and fast!)

As I approached a road with a huge median in it yesterday morning, and there were no visible moving cars on the nearer side of it, I suddenly discovered how much my instincts have been “messed with”, so to speak. I truly had no idea which way to check for traffic, as I approached the road (I was on a path perpendicular to the road.). Even though it seemed like no cars were around, I went ahead and stopped at the edge, because I wanted to figure this out. After a handful of seconds, during which I get quite silly and out of place, a car came along on the far side of the road, the opposite side of the median from me. It was coming from the right. Unfortunately, that didn’t have anything click for me – there was no Aha! moment for me, and I was disappointed. However, I am smart, and so I immediately deduced that cars must come from the left on the side by me, if they’re coming from the right on the far side of the road. I was just a bit bummed that I was having to deduce, instead of just suddenly remembering and knowing.

On a handful of other occasions, – possibly two or three handfuls, actually – I have found myself heading to the left side of the bike trail or the road, but it is always under the same circumstances: I am alone, and I am turning. So, if I keep that in mind, and just focus whenever I’m about to turn, I’ll be in good shape in no time. (As if I haven’t been thinking this all week already…)

Anyway, just thought I’d share all of that, because it’s kind of fun (to me, anyway).

Post-a-day 2017

Am I insane yet?

Have you ever felt as though you were going insane? I have been in the US for four days now. I feel like I am losing it. I have conversations, and I struggle to maintain focus. People tell me things, and I have only a vague memory of what wa said to me, without actually being able to remember anything concrete from the communication. A coworker told me her name today, and I consciously felt as though I had completely lost her name. However, when I threw out what felt to be a random guess at her name, the guess was correct.

Whether I am actually losing it, or I am merely living in a different state of consciousness relating to memory, I am not certain. I am almost certain that it is all mainly due to the fact that my brain has not adjusted to the 14-hour difference in life here yet, nor to the constant English all around me, the combination of which puts me into a real state of confusion as my brain attempts to pay full attention to every bit of English it hears.

It really just makes me feel like I might simply be going crazy. I know that I’m not. It just feels like insanity settling into my head.

Post-a-day 2017

Getting to the airport

So, I still hate living in Japan, and it reminded me of this fact on my way to the airport this morning. However, I also still truly love parts of this place and culture. My trip to the airport reminded me of this fact, too.

As I struggled with three rolling bags and a guitar (I know, I know – stupid. But it was unavoidable.), the terrible signage and lack of findable elevators was driving me insane, along with the constant rumble strips for hard-of-seeing individuals (I don’t blame anyone for that – it merely added to my struggle, is all, with the suitcase wheels constantly getting stuck in them.).

So, rather than just being able to take an elevator to the right level, and walk flat to my airport train, and then take a second elevator down, I took what felt like an insane route, due to poor signage. Struggling to exit the final tiny escalator (width-wise tiny), and get my stuff out of the way for the people behind me, I was totally I surprised to find myself outside with rain. Yes, the whole station connects in a covered and underground area. But this was the only path I could take, based on signs (which I know is false information, because I’ve been to the same area before, just from a different direction). I finally gave up attempting to pull both big bags at once (one had the smaller rolling bag on top of it, and was somewhat impossible to manage off smooth, flat terrain), and just left one sitting near the escalator. I trudged through the rain with the two bags, and wasn’t even sure how far I would go before turning back for the other bag. I was unconcerned about leaving my bag, though, because 1) this is Japan, 2) it’s freakin’ heavy and hard to move, and 3) some station staff were standing right near it, and they saw me leave it there in my struggle.

I could tell the station staff guys were a bit concerned about my bag, so, when I found a spot covered from the rain, just around the corner, I propped my two bags against the wall, and started heading back for the other bag. Of course, there were no signs for the train line I wanted, but that was no surprise – this is Japan.

As I came around the corner, however, one of the old men station workers was heading my way with my bag. I thanked him in Japanese, and started to go to take the bag from him, but he asked in adorable English (meaning I understood, but it was not really correct at all) if I were taking the Narita Express. I said that I was, and he just nodded, kept walking, and pointed up the escalator to the left. I quickly grabbed my other bags and followed.

The big bags barely fit on the even smaller escalator we were using, but we managed. At the top, I expected he might return my bag to me, but he again kept walking ahead of me, showing me the way to a train whose signs I still couldn’t find.

Remember that this is Japan (as if you could forget), so, of course, we came to a staircase now. No alternate route. None. But we took an escalator to where we were, so it makes perfect sense for only stairs to follow. But then, the upside of Japan came again, and a young-ish guy helped us carry the bags up the stairs, once he saw the station worker attempting to pick up one of my bags, as I carried another up with the guitar. I heard the station worker comment to the guy that I was alone and carrying all three suitcases, and I smiled – people really can be super sweet here. I in no way deny that.

So we continued on, and found our ticket barrier for the train. I still had to buy a ticket, so he asked the window worker, and she sent me to the machines. Unfortunately, the 7:13 train that was about to leave didn’t have any tickets available on the machine. The next was at 8:00-ish, which started to put me into a panic. I quickly asked about the 7:13 train, and my old man asked the window people for me. Yet another station worker came from the window, and started tapping at the machine screen for me a few moments later. Eventually, despite various issues, I got a ticket for the 7:13. At least, it would let me on the 7:13.

Again, I heard the conversation happening about my being hitori desu! and mitsu desu ne. The worker who helped me get my ticket then took over for the old man from the other section of the station, and took one of my big bags for me. I thanked the old man profusely, and marveled one last time at his light blue eyes. He wished me luck and courage.

I got stuck in the ticket barrier. Yes, literally, because the one bag was too wide, and so the lady let me go back and bring my bag through the side area. However, that meant that my ticket was eaten by the machine, since I didn’t make it all the way through the barrier. And I only had so many minutes before the train.

The lady rushed over and opened up the ticket barrier, pulled out my ticket from a bin, and handed it to me, wishing me luck and courage, as well. I thanked her greatly, and started rushing after the worker who’d taken my other bag.

We had just barely five minutes, and I could tell we had far to go, simply by the fact that he was checking his watch and hurrying along so quickly. The long corridor that greeted us as we rounded a corner made me a bit more nervous. We rushed down the walkway, though, and he eventually declared that it would be okay. He led me to an elevator (phew!), and we went down to the track. The whole time, he had been talking with me, chatting about my stay and whatnot, and then telling me about where I could sit on the train. Some good final practice for my Japanese, I suppose. It was really nice to have someone to chat with me casually, though, especially with the physical stress and mental workout that had been going on so far today (and that still awaited).

He helped me on the train, showed me the secret seats in the wall, and wished me safety and good health. After a few minutes on the train, the ticket checker guy who’d seen us get on came out of his little room and smiled at me as he walked past. A few moments later, he came back and summoned me silently with the Japanese wave. I followed, and he offered me a real seat in the cabin. I thanked him, and collapsed into the seat.

Now, a bit of snacking and a bathroom break later, I am almost to the airport. I don’t know how much my bags weigh. One is for sure okay, the other concerns me a bit. I’ve never measured 70lbs before, so I don’t know how that feels. I’m a rather good judge for 50lbs, though, and my second checked bag is right close to 50. My carry-on is way heavy. But it might still be okay. We shall see…

I still have to cancel my phone contract at the store, too. And get through security with my Fuji-San hiking stick. And make it on the plane, of course. So, let’s hope for the best here, eh?

Fingers crossed!
P.S. Oh. And, as a side note, I happen to be sick right now, too. It all started with the whole smoking at dinner the other night. My throat started burning then, and hasn’t stopped since.

Post-a-day 2017