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En Ga Aru

March 1, 2021

I sometimes tell younger men that if they want to seduce someone, one of the fastest ways to close the deal, so to speak, is to inject a sense of coincidence into their meetings, popping up naturally, nonchalantly where the woman wouldn’t expect to find you. “This can border on stalking,” I warn them, “so be sure not to overdo it.”

After bumping into each other a few times, say to the woman, “It must be fate,” then ask her out for drinks. If she believes that two of you have en (縁がある、en ga aru), why half the work will have been done for you. If, on the other hand, the relationship doesn’t work out, you can say the two of you simply didn’t have en (縁がなかった、en ga nakatta). Couples who divorce or break up never to speak to one another again are said to have cut the en (縁を切った、en-o kitta). Relationships that are difficult to break off are called kusare’en (腐れ縁、lit. a rotten relationship).

When people learn that both my first and second wives hailed from Kagoshima prefecture, one from the Ôsumi peninsula, the other from Satsuma peninsula, they comment that I must have some kind of en with the prefecture. “Yes,” I reply, “in a past life I was Saigô Takamori’s pet dog.”[1]

In spite of my normal skepticism of “destiny”, there are times when the accumulation of coincidence is far too great to ignore. Take the Japanese princesses Masako and Kiko, wives of Crown Prince Naruhito and Prince Fumhito, respectively.

Princess Masako's maiden name was Owada Masako (小和田 雅子, おわだまさこ), Kiko's was Kawashima Kiko (川島紀子, かわしまきこ). Line the two princess's maiden names up side by side with Masako's maiden name on the left and Kiko's on the right and you get: 

 お o          か ka
わ wa       わ wa
だ da        し shi
ま ma       ま ma
さ sa        き ki
こ ko        こ ko

Now read the boldfaced hiragana. 

お o        か ka
わ wa      わ wa
だ da                     し shi
ま ma     ま ma
さ sa                      き ki
こ ko      こ ko


→ お・わ・だ・ま・さ・こ  おわだまさこ   小和田雅子  Owada Masako

お o        か ka
わ wa                     わ wa
だ da      し shi
ま ma                    ま ma
さ sa      き ki
こ ko                     こ ko

→ か・わ・し・ま・き・こ  かわしままさこ  川島紀子  Kawashima Kiko 

Whaddya think? Have they got en?

Princess+Kiko.jpg
In Japanese Language, Japanese Women, Life in Japan Tags En, En Ga Aru, 縁がある, 縁, 川島紀子, Kawashima Kiko, 小和田雅子, Owada Masako, Japanese Imperial Family
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To the Knackers

February 26, 2021

I had an interesting conversation with a friend a few years ago

For the past several years Kei has been importing riding horses to Japan from Germany and early on I helped her out with correspondence, drawing up preliminary contracts, and so on. The reason she came to me is that, as I have mentioned elsewhere, I once lived in Germany and can still understand the language somewhat. Kei only knew a handful of words: ja, nein, danke schön, bitte. In the kingdom of the blind, they say, the one-eyed man is king.

Fortunately for her and me, most of the Germans we were dealing with spoke damn good English. (That wasn’t the case in the 1980s.)

Two years later, her business has expanded with small, yet encouraging steps and has had her traveling to Europe on a monthly basis, shopping for horses, investing in them, and participating in international equestrian events as a judge. Reading this, you might get the impression that Kei is a fabulously wealthy woman, but nothing could be further from the truth: she is, in fact, a modestly working class, single mother who has gotten by on her wits and creativity. I have a lot of respect for the woman.

Anyways, Kei will be making two trips to Germany again next month to introduce a German breeder/trainer to her Japanese client who’s interested in buying a “high level horse”. Until now, Kei has been buying horses with somewhat humble pedigrees for eventing [1] enthusiasts and riding clubs in Kyūshū and was excited to finally deal in some top level horses.

Hearing this, I joked that there were four levels of horses: high-level, mid-level horses, low-level, and glue.

This is where the conversation became interesting.

Kei laughed then told me about a local company called Kohi Chikusan owned by a Mr. Kohi (sounds like the Japanese pronunciation of coffee). Kohi, she said, takes “compromised” horses off of stables’ hands and “makes arrangements for them”. Some of these horses are put down, some are resold and show up, seemingly miraculously, at rival stables, and a few are sold for horsemeat. (Don’t worry, most of the horsemeat used in the delicacy basashi[2] comes from Australia.)

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“Whenever a horse acts up or doesn’t respond well,” Kei said laughing, “we tell it we’re going to call Kohi-san.”

I couldn’t help but be reminded of the scene in George Orwell’s classic Animal Farm when Boxer is sent to the glue factory.

I tried to google Kohi Chikusan, but couldn’t find anything.

“They don’t have a website,” Kei said.

“No, I don’t suppose they would.” Talk about a niche business!

Kei explained that they had to use the service because when a horse weighing five hundred kilos dies it’s nearly impossible to move it. Rigor mortis sets in within a few hours after death, freezing the horse in the position that it died in, and the only way to get it out of a stable is to chain it to the back of a tractor and drag it out. Not exactly the kind of thing you want your paying customers to see when they’re practicing their jumps.

“So, whenever a horse becomes too ill for the veterinarian to treat, we call Kohi-san.”

“Kohi isn’t a very common name, is it?” I said.

“That’s because he’s a Buraku-min,” she replied matter-of-factly. “A lot of people involved in that kind of business come from the Buraku-min. Meat handlers, too.”

This morning when I was looking into the family names of the Buraku, I learned that while the caste system of feudal Japan was abolished in Japan in the early years of the Meiji Period and all Japanese were assigned family names, the Buraku-min were given family names that would make them still recognizable from ordinary Japanese a hundred years later. These names apparently include the following Chinese characters: 星 (star); body parts, such as 手 (hand), 足 (foot), 耳 (ear), 頭 (head), 目 (eye); the four points of the compass, 東 (east), 西 (west), 南 (south), 北 (north); 大, 小 (large and small); 松竹梅 (pine, bamboo, plum), 神, 仏 (god and buddha) and so on. Examples include: 星野 (Hoshino), 小松 (Komatsu), 大仏 (Osaragi), 神川 (Kamikawa), 猪口 (Inoguchi/Inokuchi)、熊川 (Kumakawa)、神尾 (Kamio), and so on. (Beware of assuming that everyone with these kinds of names are Buraku-min, they are not.)

I wrote about the Buraku-min in Too Close to the Sun. The passage from my novel discussing these unlucky people has been included below:


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In the afternoon, I’m summoned to the interrogation room where Nakata and Ozawa are waiting for me.

Both of them are in an easy, light-hearted mood today. The desk is free of notebook computers; there are no heavy bags filled with thick folders of evidence on the floor.

Ozawa is slouched comfortably in his seat, tanned fingers locked behind his head.

"What was the name of that Korean restaurant you mentioned last week?" he asks.

"Kanō," I say, taking my usual seat, still bolted to the floor.

"Where was that again?"

"It's in Taihaku Machi, a rough neighborhood near the Chidori Bridge."

"Taihaku Machi?"

"Along the Mikasa River, across from Chiyo Machi."

"Chiyo? Ugh!" he says grimacing. "Why is it that all the good Korean restaurants have to be located in the shittiest part of town?"

Nakata asks me if I know what Eta is. I shrug.

Ozawa tries to look it up in his electronic dictionary, but can't find it.

"Figures," he grumbles.

"How do you write it," I ask.

Ozawa scribbles the following two kanji in his notebook: 穢多 The first character, 穢, he says, can be read as kitanai and means filthy. It can also be read as kegare. Finding the entry, Ozawa spins his dictionary around to show me that kegare means impurity, stain, sin, and disgrace. The other, more common character, 多, pronounced ta, or ôi, means plenty, or many. So, eta, connotes something that is abundantly filthy or impure.

Then it hits me that the eta Nakata is alluding to is yet another word that editors of Japanese-English dictionaries conveniently omit: buraku-min (部落民).

Map indicates “Eta Mura” or the area where the outcasts lived.

Map indicates “Eta Mura” or the area where the outcasts lived.

The Buraku-min (lit. hamlet people) were a class of outcasts in feudal Japan who lived in secluded hamlets outside of populated areas where they engaged in occupations considered to be vitiated with death and impurity such as butchering, leather working, grave-digging, tanning and executions.

For the Shintō who believed that cleanliness was truly next to godliness, those who habitually killed animals or committed otherwise heinous acts were considered to be contaminated by the spiritual filth of their acts and thereby evil themselves. As this impurity was believed to be hereditary, Buraku-min were restricted from living outside their designated hamlets (buraku) and not allowed to marry non-Burakumin. In some cases they were even forced to wear special costumes, footwear, and identifying marks.

The Emancipation Edict of 1871 intended to eradicate the institutionalized discrimination and the former outcasts were formally recognized as citizens. However, thanks to family registries, known as koseki, which are assiduously kept by officials in every Japanese city, town and village, it was easy to identify who was Buraku-min from their ancestral home, and discrimination against them continued.

Shortly after coming to Japan, the wife of a company president once confided to me that she and her husband might be willing let his daughter, God forbid, marry an ethnic Korean, but would never countenance her marrying a Buraku-min. He would never hire one, either.

"Never? Regardless of the person's talent?" I asked.

"The damage to the image of my husband's company would be far greater than any benefit such an employee could ever bring."

And that's how it goes in this sophisticated democracy: you can still be discriminated against just because your great-great-great grandfather had a shitty job.

Today there are some four thousand five hundred Dôwa Chiku, or former Buraku communities that were designated by the government in the late sixties for the so-called assimilation projects. Over the next three decades, housing projects and cultural facilities were constructed, and infrastructure improved in the dowa chiku (assimilation zones) to raise the standard of living of the residents of those areas.

There are an estimated two million descendents of Buraku-min in Japan today, most of whom live in the western part of the country, particularly in the Kansai area around Osaka, and in Fukuoka Prefecture.

"Chiyo’s a Dōwa Chiku," Nakata says. "Crawling with Eta."

"I know," I say.

“You do?” They seem surprised.

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The fact was first brought to my attention many years ago when I was searching for an apartment. A kindly old woman I had just met was all too eager to help me. She pulled out a map of the city from her handbag and, without elaborating, began crossing out "undesirable places", many of them located along the rivers. When I asked why, she said: "Trust me, you don’t want to live there." And so I did, finding a reasonably priced one-room apartment in one of the tonier areas near Ōhori Park.

"Those people are nothing but trouble," Nakata says. "Riffraff the lot of them."

"You’re kidding, right?"

He leans forward, resting his rotund chest against the desk. "There were a lot of Eta in my hometown when I was young. Nothing, but trouble. If you ever got in a fight with one these Eta bastards, the next thing you know, you're surrounded by a group of them. Sneaky guttersnipes."

The thought of Nakata as a chubby little kid in glasses getting the snot beaten out of him by a gang of Buraku boys almost causes a laugh to percolate out of me.

"Surely not all of them?" I say.

"Yes, all of them," Nakata replies and sits back, brushing his wimpy salt and pepper mustache with his fingers.

Ozawa asks if I've heard of the Yamaguchi Gumi.

"The yakuza gang?"

"Yeah. Biggest crime syndicate in Japan. It's mostly comprised of these Eta scum."

"Most yakuza gangs are," says Nakata.

"I had no idea," I say.

"Nothing but trouble," Nakata says again.

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"Say, what's the deal with the girls working the food stalls at the festivals," I ask. "I've heard they're run by the yakuza."

"They are. The girls are Eta bitches," Nakata replies.

"Pretty damn cute bitches," I say.

Dregs of Japanese society or not, quite a few of the young girls working at festivals are knockouts.

After fifteen years, Japan can still be an enigmatic country. One thing I've never been quite able to figure out is why the best-born Japanese girls are so homely. The ugly daughters of good families, I call them.

"Cute they are," says Ozawa snickering. "Cute they are. Every evening in Chiyo you'll see small armies of the chicks all dolled up hopping into taxis. Off to Nakasū. Shoot the breeze with one of them and some yakuza prick will strut on up and start breakin' your balls as if you were hitting on his woman. That's when the badge comes in handy, of course. Hee-hee."

"I wouldn't go near one of those girls with a barge-pole," Nakata pipes in.

As if the man has to beat the girls away with a stick.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you," I say.

"Shoot," says 0zawa.

"A lot of the guys in the joint here, and last week at the jail at the Prefectural Police Headquarters, for that matter, are obviously yakuza."

"Yeah?"

"I don't get it."

"Don't get what?"

"In the States, there is, among so many crime syndicates, the Cosa Nostra, the Sicilian Mafia, right? You know, The Godfather, and all that. Well, these guys used to bend over backwards to deny that the Mafia even existed. Here in Japan, though, the yakuza practically advertise their criminal activity with missing pinkies, lapel pins, and bodies covered in tattoos."

It borders on the absurd. If cops were seriously interested in taking a bite out of crime, the first thing they ought to do is clamp down on these shady characters. The police, of course, will counter that they aren't in the business of preventing crime: they can't make any arrests until a crime had been committed. Which begs the question of why someone like me has to molder away in a stinking cell.

"The ones who strut and swagger," Ozawa says, "are good-for-nothing punks. All bluster and no brawl. They kick up a fuss because they don't have the balls to actually do anything. No, the yakuza you really have to watch out for are the quiet ones, the ones who never raise their voices, or show their tattoos. Those bastards will whack a person at the drop of a hat."

   “Better get a hat with a strap then.”


[1] Eventing is an equestrian event encompassing dressage, show jumping, and so on.

[2] Basashi (馬刺) is thinly sliced raw horse meat, popular in Kumamoto


Thank you for reading. This and other works are, or will be, available in e-book form and paperback at Amazon. Support a starv . . . well, not quite starving, but definitely peckish: buy one of my books. (They’re cheap!) Read it, review it if you like it (hold your tongue if you don’t), and spread the word. I really appreciate it!

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意:この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are (wink, wink) fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

In Japanese History, Life in Fukuoka, Life in Japan, Oddball Tags Horses in Japan, Knackers, George Orwell, Burakumin, 部落民, Yakuza, ヤクザ, 同和地区, Eta, 穢多
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Toru Howaito Moka

February 12, 2021

I've been in Japan for over twenty years and have not only passed the first level of the Nihongo Nôryoku Shiken and a host of other proficiency tests, but also have a masters in the bloody language. Nevertheless, I still have trouble making myself understood from time to time. 

This morning's visit to Starbucks is a case in point.

With about ten minutes before I had to head out to work, I popped into the neighborhood Starbuck's and ordered a "Tall white mocha to go." (O-mochi-kaeri-de, tōru howaito moka)

The girl turned around and started to reach for a mug cup.

"It's to go," I reminded her.

"I'm sorry."

"No worries."

But then, she grabbed a paper cup and filled it with the the house blend.

"Um, I wanted a white mocha," I said, stressing the "ho" in "howaito", which begs the question of why the Japanese insist on pronouncing "white" with a ho. They don't pronounce "what" "howatto", "why" "howai", or "water" "howattah".

"I beg your pardon, sir."

"Quite alright."

But it wasn't really. Every time these incidences of miscommunication happen to me, my confidence in the language takes a hit. 

"That'll be four-hundred and twenty yen," she said. "Your drink will be waiting for you at the red lamp."

"Thank you."

And so I waited by the red lamp.

In the meantime two more customers had come in, ordered their drinks and were now waiting beside me.

Before long, the barista placed a drink on the counter and said, "Starbucks latte."

There were no takers.

"Starbucks latte," he said again.

I looked at the other customers. They looked at me and shrugged. The Starbucks latte remained unclaimed.

The barista then went about making two more drinks which the other two customers took, leaving me and the unclaimed Starbucks latte both feeling stupid.

I asked the latte if this happened to him a lot. "Every now and then," he replied. What do they do with you, I asked. "Sometimes the staff drinks me, but usually they just toss me out. It's awfully humialting." I bet it is, I replied.

After a minute or so, it finally dawned on the barista that something might be wrong. When he looked at me, I suggested, "Ho-white mocha?"

He looked towards the girl who confirmed my order, and with a heavy sigh removed the unclaimed Starbucks latte and busied himself with making my drink.

In Life in Japan Tags Starbucks in Japan, Ordering in Japan, Tall White Mocha, Cognitive Dissonance
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Live and Burn

February 11, 2021

A few months into this expat thang, my friend "Blad" and I went to an izakaya and, equipped with a few phrases and a working knowledge of hiragana and katakana, ordered "Yakitori!"

The waiter made a funny face asked a few questions we couldn't understand, so we said, "Yakitori KUDASAI!" and felt triumphant.

About 40 minutes later, the waiter brought out two skippy skewers of chicken.

"This isn't going to do it," I said to my friend and suggested ordering some more.

He replied, "Let's just go home."

Two months later and now equipped with a few kanji and a few more phrases, we went to a proper yakitori-ya and I'll be damned if we could read even 5% of the menu.

On one of the boards, there was something written in katakana, which HAD to be something western, so we ordered that.

15 minutes later a black, winged animal with a skewer through its head and eyeballs staring back at us was brought to our table.

What the hell is this?!?!

In that great democratic tradition, we jankened to see who would be the jackass who had to eat it.

Blad lost.

As he bit into it, I asked how it tasted.

"Crunchy."

Defeated, we returned home where I consulted my dictionary which informed me that スズメ was not bat as we suspected, but sparrow.

Live and burn.

Despite losing limbs every time I stepped on a landmine like that, I miss the adventure. You learned something every day, or you went home.

In Food, Life in Japan Tags Yakitori-ya
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Head of the Class

February 1, 2021

This was originally posted in the spring of 2013.

With my wife in the hospital suffering from exhaustion (she's fine now) and Grandma out of town, I was left with two options: take the day off or bring my three-year-old son to work. (If a Member of Congress can do it . . .)

Anyways, I sent the above photo to my family and all everyone wanted to know was why the girls were wearing surgical masks. (Now that we are in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic, only red necks would ask a question like that.)

Could be a number of things, I wrote back:

1. They may have a cold and don't want it to spread. (Thoughtful.)

2. They don't want to catch another person's cooties. (Paranoid.)

3. They have hay fever and are trying to keep it from worsening. (Probably too late.)

4. They are trying to avoid breathing in the smog that China exports to us along with other low-cost, high-externality crap. (Understandable, but most likely meaningless.)

5. They have herpes. (Gotcha. Keep the mask on.)

6. Or, they have merely overslept and didn't have time to put their faces on. The girls are too embarrassed to show their face. (Now, you'd think it would be more embarrassing to wear a silly mask like that in public, but what do you know, you silly gaijin?)

 

A few days later, I asked the two girls in the photo why they had been wearing masks that day and learned that it was, as I expected, because they hadn't been wearing make-up. "What's the big deal," I said. "I'm not wearing make-up myself!"

This is a fairly new phenomenon: young women in Japan didn't use to do it, say, five years ago. You may read into that what you like.

In Japanese Women, Life in Japan, Raising Kids in Japan, Teaching Life Tags Mask Wearing in Japan, Why do the Japanese wear masks?
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How to Spend a Penny

January 24, 2021

As graduation season in Japan approaches, I can’t help but ask that age-old question of how Japanese women pee when they are wearing furisode kimono. In a word it’s complicated. Fortunately, the kind people at Ritz Studios have provided a how-to guide.

Step 1: Use a Western-style toilet.

Step 2: Put a handkerchief under your chin so as to not stain the kimono with your make-up or sweat.

Step 2: Put a handkerchief under your chin so as to not stain the kimono with your make-up or sweat.

Step 3: Pull your sleeves up and tuck them into the obi-domé rope-like belt.

Step 3: Pull your sleeves up and tuck them into the obi-domé rope-like belt.

Make sure the obimé knot does not come untied.

Make sure the obimé knot does not come untied.

Step 4: Open up the suso and tuck these up into the obi-domé, too.

Step 4: Open up the suso and tuck these up into the obi-domé, too.

Like this!

Like this!

Step 5: Do the same with the nagajuban.

Step 5: Do the same with the nagajuban.

Step 6: Separate and then fold the hem of the susoyoké.

Step 6: Separate and then fold the hem of the susoyoké.

Step 7: Hike the susoyoké up high over your fanny.

Step 7: Hike the susoyoké up high over your fanny.

Step 8: Tie the ends together and sit down and relieve yourself.

Step 8: Tie the ends together and sit down and relieve yourself.

If that’s too much trouble, just pick up a “Stadium Pal”.

Another glass of bubbly? Thanks, Stadium Pal!

Another glass of bubbly? Thanks, Stadium Pal!

In Fashion, Japanese Women, Life in Japan Tags How to Pee When You Are Wearing a Kimono, Kimono, Furisode Kimono
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Maho Manshon

January 20, 2021

Thermoses in Japan are known as mahōbin (magic bottles). And magic they are! You can put ice cubes and water in one and, hey presto, 24 hours later the ice still hasn’t melted, even in the middle of summer. And vice versa with boiling hot water. So, why can’t I have a mahō manshon; in other words, an apartment that stays warm in winter and cool in summer?

It was a crisp two degrees when I woke this morning and I could see my breath. Mind you, that was, inside our shinshitsu, or the tatami-floored room where my wife, two young sons and I sleep, huddled together for warmth like polar bears. When the alarm went off, I crawled out from beneath three layers of kaké-buton duvet and blankets, pulled on a pair of Heat Tech long-johns, heavy socks, and a sweatshirt to face the harsh elements of my kitchen where I brewed a cup of coffee to help myself thaw out.

About ten years ago, we bought a fan heater that could be connected to the gas main in the kitchen. Let me tell you, I felt like Prometheus! With a flick of a switch, the heater kicked to life and the richest, deepest heat, like hot bath water flowed over me. Now every morning, when my boys wake, they amble two paces out of the shinshitsu and then lie down like cats before the heater, unwilling to budge for the next thirty minutes.

The thing is, no matter how cozy that heater of ours can get the room, as soon as it’s turned off, the warmth dissipates as if the very soul of our living room is being frittered away. 

While the persistent cold is bad enough, my pet peeve is the moisture that forms on the windows overnight. Every morning, my boys—armed with special squeegees that have a receptacle in the handle—scrape the dew off, collecting two, sometimes four, cups worth. I have suggested to my wife that we drink it to re-capture the life-force that is being robbed from us in the dead of the night.

It doesn’t have to be this way, does it? Why a friend of mine in Iceland told me that even when it’s -10℃ outside, he can leave the window open and it will still be a comfortable 25℃ inside. Even a DIY amateur like myself can see that there are simple solutions to these problems. Better insulating, weather-stripping, and double-glazed windows are just a few things that come to mind, but I seldom see them in the wild. So, what gives? Why do the Japanese who are by no means poor, live as if they were?

Whenever I bring these annoyances up with my Japanese friends, they tell me the same thing: “Oh, Crowe-san, but Japanese homes are built for summer, not for winter.” To which I can’t help but shoot back: “You don’t really believe that, do you? Built for summer? Built to trap in the heat and humidity that prevents you from getting a proper night’s sleep for two months of the year? Really? Really?”

Sigh.

What I suspect, though, is that many manshon here are not built to last much longer than forty years or so. Yes, some of the better-built ones today could theoretically continue to be lived in 100 years from now, but all you have to do is look at the condos that were built in the 80s to imagine how today’s ones will look in only thirty years’ time—shabby and cramped, the sun blocked by more modern and taller neighbors. And because they aren’t built to last, corners are cut—mind you, not on safety, because Japanese buildings are some of the safest in the world—but rather on comfort. Why spend extra money on something that’s eventually going to be demolished, seems to be the thinking.

The same is true, if not more so, for houses. Several years ago, there was a fascinating paper published by the Nomura Research Institute (NRI) that has since been quoted by nearly every article written on the Japanese housing market since. (For some reason, the original article no longer exists; it has been bulldozed and scrapped like many older homes in Japan.) The article, summarized in a Freakonomics podcast on Japanese houses, claimed that despite Japan’s shrinking population, the number of new homes built every year was on par with that of the United States, which has three times the population. Per capita, Japan also has triple the number of architects as America and twice as many construction workers. So, what gives?

One reason for this is that houses are for all intents and purposes all-but worthless after only fifteen years according to the NRI paper, and thirty years by more conservative estimates. Again, why use the best materials when you’re just going to smash a wrecking ball into the place within a generation? And so, what you have today are charmless plastic boxes with thin walls and single-paned windows that are for the most part disposable.

I once stayed in an apartment in the hip Trastevere neighborhood of Rome. Inside, it was as comfortable as you could hope, with high ceilings, a rather spacious designer kitchen, and a modern, though somewhat small, bathroom. The building itself was over seven hundred years old and beautiful—700 years!—as were most of the buildings in Trastevere. And no one, but only a heartless real-estate developer perhaps, would ever consider tearing one of those treasures down. And isn’t that what architecture should be, a treasure, something that adds value to the land over the long run rather than being little more than a temporary tenant that will eventually wear out its welcome?

Ah, but I digress and now my coffee has gotten cold and so have I.

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Sources:

              http://freakonomics.com/podcast/why-are-japanese-homes-disposable-a-new-freakonomics-radio-podcast-3/

In Japanese Architecture, Life in Japan, Winter in Japan Tags Cold Japanese Homes, Why Japanese Houses Don't Last, Disposable Homes, Buying a House in Japan, Renting an Apartment, Heating a Japanese Apartment, Mahobin, Japanese Thermos
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Boom Town Nogata

January 19, 2021

Before I tell my story, let me explain a little about my hometown, Nogata City. It is located in Fukuoka Prefecture which is itself on the island of Kyushu in the southwest of Japan. The city has a peculiar history, which is unique in Japan. Thanks to the coalmining business, it enjoyed prosperity for a time when coal was king, and then when the mines closed, the boom was suddenly over. One moment the city was full of life; the next, it was quiet, much like the fireworks in the night of a mid-summer festival.

Despite its small size, the area is geographically diverse. There is Mt. Fukuchi, which is about 3000-feet high, and the Onga, a major river in Japan, which calmly winds its way through the valley and empties into the Sea of Hibiki. The climate is influenced by the basin geography, so it is muggy in summer and bitterly cold in winter.

The size of town is 8,105 acres and the population was about 56,000 in 2020, having peaked in 1985 and steadily declined thereafter. The main industries were small retail and manufacturing subcontracted from the big industrial complexes in Kitakyushu which lies just north of Nogata. With the closing of the mines in the ‘60s and ‘70s due to cheaper imported coal, the local economy suffered and many businesses struggled to stay afloat.

The heyday of Nogata began with the inauguration of the policy “Rich Country, Strong Army” by the government after the Meiji Restoration. The local coal mining business was suddenly in the spotlight and the city became the hub for the transportation of coal out of the region. Boats on the Onga River and trains on the Chikuho Main Railroad played an active part in carrying coal to the Yahata Iron-Works in Kitakyushu. The most prosperous period in Nogata was during the Russo-Japanese and Sino-Japanese Wars in the late 1800s and first half of the 1900s. People came and went, including miners, ferrymen, geisha—who were a highly trained entertainers and prostitutes—yakuza gangsters, and others who hoped to profit from the boom in business. Thanks to unique characters like them, the town’s freewheeling culture took root. There was an atmosphere of sexual freedom and openness that one didn’t find in more respectable places.

It would be remiss of me not to mention the topic of unlicensed prostitutes. The town, which was infested with hooligans and other young troublemakers, reflected the town’s way of life. It is said that there weren’t any bills smaller than the 5-yen note in Nogata at that time, meaning that people didn’t care about small amounts of money and were rather spendthrift. Miners blew all their money in a single night on gambling and women. They made a fortune in the dark mines and had money to burn. This led to liberal attitudes towards sex. Many women who had been sold by their parents in order to help their families make ends meet, were sent to the town to work. Men, who could not contemplate their futures when they risked life and limb every day in the mines came to Nogata to spend their money on pleasure.

In the years just after WWII, Japan was still in chaos, both socially and economically. Steam locomotives still came and went and Nogata was terribly sooty, with the smell of the coal-burning trains hanging heavily all over town. There was a yawning gap between the rich and poor and the sense of right and wrong had been corrupted. Only money prevailed. Those who didn’t have it would do anything to get it; and those who had would do whatever it took to keep it. It was truly a dog-eat-dog world. And it was in this world that I was born in 1948 and where I spent my childhood.

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In Japanese Women, Life in Japan Tags Nogata, Coal Mines of Chikuho, History of Chikuho, Showa Era Japan, Coal Mining
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The Good Levite

January 15, 2021

Got a call from a credit card company, saying that my credit card has been found.

“My card? What card?”

“Your Walmart card.”

Walmart? Do I even have a Walmart card? I rifle through my box of neglected mail and bills and other crap and find an envelope from the credit card company. The card is there in the envelope it came in. But wait! Why do I have two, no, make that three, including a highway ETC card? When did I get that? Why, I don’t even drive. And one of them is only used for processing my rent payment (a Japanese thing).

“And how could I lose the card if I never carry it?” I ask absent-mindedly.

“It was found at the XYZ hotel in Okinawa.”

“Oh . . . And?”

“They turned it over to the police, so if you want it back you have to contact them . . .”

“Okay . . .”

I still can't figure out how on earth I could have lost a card I still have, but . . . Hmm.

After hanging up, I check the number I was given to see if it was legit. Yep, it's the Ishikawa Police Department in the town where our hotel is located.

I think about this for a while and go through my bank books to see if I've been billed for something I didn't buy and . . . Nope. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then it dawns on me that I may have taken an old wallet—which I'm apt to do—that has only a few necessary items in it, such as my gaijin card, insurance card, a cash card, credit card, and so on. The old credit card must have been tucked inside the wallet and fallen out in the safety deposit box or something.

So odd. It just doesn’t add up. A Walmart card?

At first I thought I was being phished, but the woman from the credit card company didn't ask me for any personal information or credit card details. She wouldn't even give me details about the nature of the card (expiration date, etc.) that had been found.

So, I decide to call the cops in Ishikawa on Tuesday to see if my hunch was right.

Several hours later my wife returns home. I tell her about the call.

“Ah! I was wondering what happened to that card!”

I bang my head against the table. Now I understand. She had the credit card made to get points at the local supermarket, which is a subsidiary of Walmart, and used my name but never told me about. (That qualifies as fraud, doesn’t it? Good thing I love her.)

Later, I went online to double check whether the card had been used, but fortunately it hadn’t. Just to be on the safe side, I had the card replaced.

When we called the Ishikawa Police Department on Tuesday, we learned that my wife had lost some 10 cards in total. Most were point cards for supermarkets and so on.

I said to my wife: “You know, if it had been me who lost all those cards and didn’t realize it for three whole months, you would never let me hear the end of it.”

She apologized sheepishly and I let it slide, as I always do.


And speaking of lost and found . . .

During my walk this morning, I found a briefcase behind the hedge of one of my favorite restaurants.

"Someone has lost their bag," I said to my wife who was a few paces ahead of me. Looking inside, I could see that it was full of documents. There was a wallet, too, chockablock with credit cards and other cards. "The wallet's inside, too."

But, so was a belt. Odd, I thought.

"Maybe we should take it to the police box . . .," I suggested.

Then I noticed a pack of cigarettes a yard a way . . . and a necktie . . . clearly it all belonged to a salaryman who must have been blind drunk last night. He'd be up a creek when he woke and discovered that it was missing, I thought. I know how I'd feel . . . And there in the corner, next to the hedge was a huge, wet turd.

"Ah, Christ! The guy took a dump in the corner!"

My wife let out a little yelp. "Gross! Just leave where it is!"

“I’m not touching the poop!”

“Not the poop. The bag! Leave the bag!”

I couldn't help but agree, the Good Samaritan in me shoved away by the Levite.

I put the bag down and started to walk away. On second thought, I went back and wiped down the places I had touched, such that my prints wouldn't be left. Better safe than sorry, right?

So, if you know anyone who is missing his briefcase and is probably hungover. Tell him I know where he can find it and his "noguso".

In Life in Japan, Life in Fukuoka, Japanese Customs Tags Noguso, 野糞, Lost and Found in Japan
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How do you like your mochi?

January 13, 2021

How the shape and preparation of o-mochi varies from region to region in Japan. In the East, it is rectangular and usually grilled. In the West it tends to be round. Half of Kyushu grills their round mochi, while those in Kansai and Chugoku boil theirs.

My wife's family from Kagoshima grills their rectangular mochi in a toaster.

In Japanese Cooking, Life in Japan, Regionalisms Tags mochi, New Year's in Japan, mochi round or square
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Bumped into one of my students last year and got molested by her mother. Seriously.

Bumped into one of my students last year and got molested by her mother. Seriously. The woman pinched my arse.

Coming of Age

January 10, 2021

For someone like me who is fascinated by Japanese traditions and culture, Seijin-no-hi, or Coming-of-Age Day, held on the second Monday of January, is one of the many days to look forward to in Japan. For on that day, you can find many young women, dressed in elaborate kimono, their hair coiffed, make-up and nails perfect—a stunning display of beauty like exotic monocarpic flowers, blooming once after 20 years of growth. Although men, too, occasionally dress in flashy kimono their hair done up in wild pompadours, most of them wear conservative suits more befitting of the occasion. But let’s be honest, I’m much more interested in the women.

The modern version of Seijin-shiki began in Warabi City, Saitama on 22 November 1946. The Pacific War had ended half a year earlier and much of Japan lay in ruins. The ceremony, called Seinensai (青年祭, lit. “Youth Festival”) was held to encourage the young people of that broken country to rise up and dispel the dark mood of the times. Two years later, the ceremony was established as a national holiday originally held on the fifteenth of January. The original date is significant in that before the adoption of the Gregorian Calendar, the full moon fell on the fifteen of every month in Japan, and the fifteenth day of the firstmonth of the year was known as Ko-shōgatsu (小正月, lit. “little New Year”), the day that New Year’s had been traditionally celebrated until the Edo Period. Thanks to the “happy Monday system”, however, the date of Seijin-shiki has been held on the second Monday of January since the year 2000.

While today’s Seijin-shiki has its roots in the immediate post-war years, the rite of passage can actually be traced back to the Nara Period (710-794). In those days, genpuku (元服)—a coming-of-age ceremony modeled, like so many things in that era, after the customs of the Tang Dynasty of China (618~907)—was held for boys between the ages of 10 and 20 (some sources say between 12 and 16). In the genpuku ceremony, which literally means “head” (元) wearing” (服), a boy’s hair was fashioned in the manner of an adult’s, and he no longer wore the clothing of a child (see below). Moreover, his birth name was exchanged for an adult one, or eboshi-na (烏帽子名), and he was given a brimless ceremonial court cap, or kanmuri (冠). The adoption of the new hairstyle and clothing signified the assumption of adult responsibilities. 

Women, on the other hand, would receive a long pleated skirt called a mogi (裳着), to replace the wide-sleeved, unisex hakama-githey wore as children. The timing of a woman’s coming-of-age came typically after menarche, or in her early to late teens, and indicated that she was of marriageable age. While that may seem scandalously young to us in 2021, during the Nara Period, the life expectancy was between 28 and 33, and would get progressively shorter over time rather than longer. In the Muromachi Period (1336~1573), the average life expectancy was a mere blip of 15 years. Imagine that.

In the past, coming-of-age ceremonies were for the most part limited to those in the higher echelons of Japanese society which included the nobility and kugé aristocratic class, and from the Kamakura Period (1185~1333) on, the samurai warrior class, as well.

Children of the court prepared for roles they would assume later on from as young as three or four years of age, studying court ceremonies, Buddhist doctrine, and ethics. Later, they moved on to mastering the skills of calligraphy, which in classical times was indispensable for a courtier. 

In the age of the samurai, from the Kamakura to the Edo Periods (1185~1868), the genpuku ceremony featured the placing of a samurai helmet, rather than a court cap, on the head of the new adult male. During periods of unrest such as the Sengoku Jidai, or Warring States Period, (1467~1615), genpuku was often delayed until a son was full-grown in order to spare the inexperienced warrior the duty to fight, and most likely die, in battle. As peace reigned, however, the age considered appropriate for coming-of-age was lowered in response to pressures to marry and produce heirs, which could not happen until after the ceremony had been performed. In the sixteenth century, the average coming-of-age ceremony for samurai was 15 to 17, and by the 1800s it had dropped to 13 to 15.

Today, both men and women, who will reach the age of adulthood, i.e. twenty, by April 1, take part in the modern-version of Seijin Shiki. The ceremony is held at a venue in the city or town where the new adult resides. There, government officials make speeches and hand out presents. For many of the participants, the day is considered a class reunion of sorts because after the ceremony, they often meet friends from their junior high school at a formal party organized by their former classmates.

Why do women today wear the long-sleeved furisode kimono? 

If my reading of the Japanese is correct, and do correct me if it isn’t, but in the past the furisode that young unmarried women of means wore had much shorter sleeves. Youths, both male and female who were not yet old enough, wore what is known as fudangi, or everyday kimono. As Japan entered the Edo Period, though, the design of furisode gradually came to resemble that of today’s furisode. The longer and more exaggerated the sleeves became, the more impractical they were for everyday use, and eventually came to be reserved as formal attire for unmarried women. By the Shōwa Period, furisode had become established as a costume worn only on special occasions, such as Coming-of-Age Day and weddings. The swinging of the long sleeves of the kimono themselves is said to act as a kind of talisman against evils (魔除け) or drive out evil spirits (厄払い).

This year with the coronavirus pandemic still raging we could use some good luck charms. Unfortunately for those Japanese who have been anticipating the day, many local governments have either cancelled or postponed their planned Coming-of-Age Day ceremonies. As far as I know, Fukuoka City is still going ahead with its event, which will be held at Marine Messe. The ceremony will be shortened and split into two groups in order to prevent the spread of COVID-19. The event will also be live-streamed so that others can attend virtually.

In 2021, there will be 1,240,000 “new adults” or shinseijin (新成人), an increase of 200,000 over last year. For the past 11 years running, the percent of population represented by these new adults has been less than 1%.

The dark navy line indicates the percentage of “new adults” relative the general population. Red is the total number of females—blue, males—who are recognized as adults on the second Monday of January.Note that in 1987, the number of new adults drop…

The dark navy line indicates the percentage of “new adults” relative the general population. Red is the total number of females—blue, males—who are recognized as adults on the second Monday of January.

Note that in 1987, the number of new adults dropped dramatically. The 20-year-olds were born in 1966, or the Year of the Fire Horse (丙午, Hinoe Uma). Due to the belief that people born on this year have a very strong personality, birthrates in Japan tend to see a sharp decline.

This is the same graph as the one above, only focused on the past 20 years.

This is the same graph as the one above, only focused on the past 20 years.

You might be curious to know how much the whole Seijin Shiki kit and caboodle costs. As a parent, I certainly am. In 2020, just under half of the women attending the ceremony rented their furisode kimono; whereas the other half either borrowed one from their mother, elder sister, or other relative, or bought it outright. The percent of those who bought theirs last year was up over 5% over the previous year. 

Rental (orange) 48%, down from 53%; borrowed from “Mama” (gray) 25%, up from 20%; bought (dark blue) 19%, up from 13%; borrowed from a sister or relative (yellow), 6%, down from 7%.

Rental (orange) 48%, down from 53%; borrowed from “Mama” (gray) 25%, up from 20%; bought (dark blue) 19%, up from 13%; borrowed from a sister or relative (yellow), 6%, down from 7%.

As you can see, the percent who rent their kimono (orange) has increased over the years. Those who bought theirs (gray) ticked up last year.

As you can see, the percent who rent their kimono (orange) has increased over the years. Those who bought theirs (gray) ticked up last year.

So, how much will renting a furisode kimono set you back? That depends, of course, on the shops, the services they provide, and the kimono itself. The cheapest rental furisode, made, I believe, cardboard origami and duct tape, go for about ¥40,000, but the going rate is closer to ¥250,000. Yes, you read that correctly. New furisode can cost over ¥300,000 to rent, not buy. The more expensive the rental, the more services will be included—kitsuke (helping the woman get dressed), hair setting, make-up, nails, and all that. Some rental salons will also take your photos which is usually done several months before Coming-of-Age. Over half of women report preparing for the day in the first six to eight months of the year prior to the ceremony.

As we have seen above, buying the furisode kimono is the option 20% of the women choose. But how much does a new kimono for a new-adult cost? Once again, prices vary. A single kimono can run ¥150,000 ~ ¥600,000, depending on the material it’s made from and the tailoring. While much more expensive than renting, the kimono can be used again at the graduation ceremony or at weddings and handed down to younger sisters or even one’s own children in the future, saving you money in the long run. If on the other hand you cannot envision ever wearing the furisode again in the future, then you are better off renting. At any rate, if you have a daughter or two, start saving your “yennies”.

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In recent years, elementary schools have been holdingni-bun-no-ichi seijin-shiki (二分の一成人式) or “Half Coming-of-Age Day Ceremonies” for fourth graders who have become ten years old. Parents are invited to school where their children read letters of thanks to them. This year, like so many events will probably be cancelled or conducted without parents.

In Japanese Festivals, Japanese Customs, Japanese Women, Life in Japan, Winter in Japan Tags Coming-of-Age Day, 成人の日, 成人式, What is Seijin-shiki?, Why do Women Wear Furisode?, Furisode Kimono, Kimono, History of Seijin Shiki, Japanese Holiday, Genpuku, 元服
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How to Get into a Japanese University

January 9, 2021

This time last year I asked some students what the route to enter university was like. Interestingly enough, the first step for those not entering through the suisen, or recommendation system, was to buy a face mask in order to prevent getting sick before the all-too-important entrance exam, which is often make or break.

Mind you, this was pre-COVID.

In Life in Japan, Coronavirus Tags How to Get into a Japanese University, Japanese Education, University, Entrance Exams, Face Masks
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Ebisu Giveth, Ebisu Taketh

January 9, 2021

On Saturday I took my brood to the Tōka Ebisu Festival to pray to Ebisu, the god of wealth, fishermen, fortune, and merchants. (And if that isn't already large enough portfolio for one god, Ebisu is also said to be the guardian of the health of small children.)

As I have written before, one of the highlights of the four-day-long festival is a lucky drawing (福引, fukubiki) for Ebisu goods—calendars, large paper fans, daruma dolls, lucky mallets, giant paper-maché fish, and so on. In past years, I've "won" all sorts of prizes, big and small, but last year my elder son and I arrived too late and missed the drawing altogether. Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, I made sure we left home nice and early Saturday morning, the last day of the festival.

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My son wanders off alone in search of a Kyōryūja mask. (I'll have to write about that one of these days.)

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And finds a lucky drawing stand, instead. There are all kinds of pellet guns on display.

"Lucky drawing! Everyone's a winner. Lucky drawing!"

"I want this one," he says to me.

"This isn't a shop. You don't buy these. You have to buy a raffle ticket."

"I want this one," he says again.

My son has become rather persistent when he wants something. Usually it's junk, overpriced junk, but he wants it all the same, and wants it NOW.

A few weeks back, the two of us popped into a convenience store. As I was withdrawing some money from the ATM, my son wandered about the aisles looking for candy and toys and found an Anpan Man Camera.

“I want this,” he said, placing the toy on the check-out counter.

"What is it?"

"Anpan Man Camera."

"I don't have any money," I said.

"You have money."

"Yes, but not for this," I said, picking the camera up. "How much is it, anyways? A thousand yen! No way!"

"I want it . . ."

With a tantrum threatening to erupt, I scooped the boy up into my arms and headed straight for the door. We were going a German restaurant that was about a twenty-minutes' walk away and I'll be damned if my son did not keep saying, "I want Anpan Man Camera! I want Anpan Man Camera!" the entire distance.

"You have a camera. I nice digital camera."

"It's broken!" 

"It's not broken," I replied. "I fixed it the other day."

The battery had died, but I had since recharged it and emptied the storage. It was working nicely again.

"I don't want Daddy to fix it! I want Anpan Man camera." 

He finally calmed down by the time we reached the German restaurant, but having carried the 20kg kicking and crying boy the entire distance, I was thoroughly exhausted.

Back at the festival, I tell my son, "You don't understand. You have to buy one of these tickets first. If and ONLY if you're lucky will you win the gun." 

The old woman running the stand says, "Everyone's a winner."

"Yeah, right," I shoot back.

"I want this one!"

I ask the woman how much one of the raffle tickets cost.

"Five hundred yen."

"Five hundred yen! Auntie, I think the biggest winner at this stand is you!"

"Yep," she says with toothless grin.

Just then a middle-aged retarded (sorry, Sarah Palin) man walks up to the booth and says he wants a gun, too. His minder tries to hold him back, but the man tries to take one of the guns, saying in Japanese, "I want this one. I want this one." His minder relents and gives the retarded man a five-hundred-yen coin.

I tell my son: "You watch! You'll see, he won't win anything."

Well, as luck would have it, the retarded man ends up winning the very gun my son wants. A second man in his thirties with severe Down's syndrome comes up next and also wins a gun. 

"I want one, too!" my son says.

Now I have no choice but to also give my son a five-hundred-yen coin and let him have a go at the game.

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Maybe it is because it's the last day of the festival and the woman has nothing to gain by cheating us, or maybe it is simply because she doesn't want to make a little boy cry, either way, my son "wins" the gun he wanted.

"What do you say?"

My boy looks up to the woman and very bashfully says, "Thank you."

I tell her thank you, too. "That was awfully decent of you. You didn’t have to do that."

"Lucky drawing! Everyone's a winner! Lucky drawing!"

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By the way, the gun didn't look anything like the photo on the box AND, worse, it broke on our way home on the train. Oh, well.

In Japanese Festivals, Life in Fukuoka, Life in Japan Tags Toka Ebisu Matsuri, 十日えびす祭り, 露店, Shops at Japanese Festivals, 出店, Demise, Japanese Festivals
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Japan, The Beautiful and Concrete

January 4, 2021

Reading Henry Scott Stokes's The Life and Death of Yukio Mishima I came upon the following passage:

“As we left Odawara and reached the coastal expressway beyond, the car passed the first of the succession of big industrial plants which we would see on our return to the capital, still an hour away at least. There was no beach below us, only a dreary series of massive reinforced-concrete tetrapods, intended to break the force of the sea as it hit the mighty wall below us. ‘I believe in culture as form and not as spirit,’ said Mishima, referring to the leprous Khmer monarch Jayavarman III and his building of one of the temples of Angkor Wat, Bayon. He seemed very tired as he talked. ‘I want to keep the Japanese spirit alive,’ he added, as if unaware that he was contradicting himself . . . A few minutes later, he cradled his head in his left arm, leaning back in his seat, and fell fast asleep. The car sped swiftly on toward Tokyo, which we would reach in another half hour . . . From time to time I caught the sight of buildings, new factories, other expressways. As we passed Chigasaki, there was an occasional pine tree to be seen by the road, still standing on what had once been the historic Old Tōkaidō Road to Osaka, three hundred miles to the west. That was all that was left of old Japan, perhaps—a few pine trees.” [1]

It occurred to me that if in the late 60s Japan’s landscape had already become a scorched earth of industry and “modernism”, then it was stupidly naïve of me to embrace the romantic image I’d had of Japan before I actually came almost a quarter of a century ago—the sensitivity devoted to the most mundane of daily items, the beauty of manicured gardens changing with the seasons, quaint Japanese houses with tiled roofs and a zen-like simplicity inside, young pearl drivers lowering their lithe bodies deep into the pristine sea, a respect for nature that exceeded worship . . .

Thirty years after Stokes biography was written, humorist David Sedaris had this to say about Japan:

“Riding the high-speed train—the Shin-kansen—to Hiroshima, I supposed that to the untrained eye, all French cities might look alike, as might all German and American ones. To a Japanese person, Kobe and Osaka might be as different as Santa Fe and Chicago, but I sure don’t see it. To me it’s just concrete, some gray and some bleached a headachy white. Occasionally you’ll pass a tree, but rarely a crowd of them. The Shin-kansen moves so fast you can’t really concentrate on much. It’s all a whoosh, and before you know it one city is behind you and another is coming up.” [2]

Out of fairness to my adopted country, I should note that Japan is seventeenth among nations in the world (and the third industrialized nation, after Finland, 72.9%, and Sweden, 69.2%) for forested area. 68.6% of the land in Japan is covered by forests. It is also one of the few countries in the world where the percentage of forested land is increasing.

The title of this post might not ring any bells for most readers, but this was a play on the title of Yasunari Kawabata's acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize for Literature: "Japan, the Beautiful, and Myself. Kawabata won the prize in 1968, and, four years later, killed himself.


 [1] Stokes, Henry Scott, The Life and Death of Yukio Mishima, New York: Cooper Square Press, 1974, pp.234-35. 

[2] Sedaris, David, When you are Engulphed in Flames, London: Little, Brown, 2008, p.295

In Life in Japan Tags Henry Scott Stokes, David Sedaris, Yukio Mishima, Yasunari Kawabata
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Ringing In The New Year

December 30, 2020

I used to get so depressed after Christmas when I was young. In America, there really wasn’t much to look forward to once King of All Holidays had passed. We had Easter, of course, but you had to first eke your way through six weeks of Lent, which was no easy task in my devoutly Roman Catholic family.

After coming to Japan, though, I haven’t had that problem. Here, there is always something in the offing to look forward to: Ōmisoka, or New Year’s Eve; Gantan or New Year’s Day itself; the first seven or fifteen days of the New Year called Matsunouchi; the Tōka Ebisu Festival held around the 10th of January; Dondoyaki on the 15th; Setsubun at the beginning of February, and so on.

And so, to keep those Christmas Blues in check, we have made it a habit to decorate our home if not as lavishly, then just as festively for the New Year. That involves a trip to one of my favorite florists, Unpas. Every year they make the most wonderful shimenawa and mini kadomatsu.

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This year, in keeping up with the muted mood of the times, we opted for a simple design.

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We may add something to this pine branch to make it a bit more colorful.

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A few days later, we went to the Yanagibashi Shōtengai market, which is always hopping with at the end of the year, picking up New Year’s decorations and ingredients to make traditional New Year’s dishes.

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I think this may be the first time we have ever bought a real kagami-mochi. I think we may have started a new tradition.

What is a kagami mochi you want to know?

Let’s ask Mr. Wiki:

Kagami Mochi (鏡餅, "mirror rice cake"), is a traditional Japanese New Year decoration. It usually consists of two round mochi (rice cakes), the smaller placed atop the larger, and a daidai (a bitter orange) with an attached leaf on top. In addition, it may have a sheet of kombu and a skewer of dried persimmons under the mochi. It sits on a stand called a sanpō (三宝) over a sheet called a shihōbeni (四方紅), which is supposed to ward off fires from the house for the following years.  Sheets of paper called gohei (御幣) folded into lightning shapes similarto those seen on sumo wrestler's belts are also attached.

The kagami mochi first appeared in the Muromachi Period (14th–16th century). The name kagami ("mirror") is said to have originated from its resemblance to an old-fashioned kind of round coppermirror, which also had a religious significance. The reason for it is not clear. Explanations include mochi being a food for special days, the spirit of the rice plant being found in the mochi, and the mochi being a food which gives strength.

The two mochi discs are variously said to symbolize the going and coming years, the human heart, "yin" and "yang", or the moon and the sun. The "daidai", whose name means "generations", is said to symbolize the continuation of a family from generation to generation.

In Japanese Customs, Japanese Festivals, Life in Japan Tags New Year's in Fukuoka, New Year's Decorations, New Year's Traditions, New Year's in Japan, Christmas in Japan
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my+car+my+gawd+mini_cooper-cabrio.jpg

My Car, My Gawd!

December 28, 2020

I don’t even have a driver’s license so this is all academic for me, but even if I did have one, I probably still wouldn’t own a car.

For starters, I really like to drink. The real reason, though, is that I live right smack in the heart of the city and most of the places I want to go to—department stores, restaurants, bars, boutiques, parks—are within walking distance. When I do want to go someplace further, I use public transportation which is often much faster and less nerve-wracking than driving. And, several times a month, for convenience sake I hail a cab.

When people hear about this, they often say something to the effect of, “A taxi? Wow! You must be rolling in the dough!” Mind you, these are often people who own cars.

What I tell them, time and time again, is that for someone like me who lives in the city and works six days a week, taking a taxi every now and then is small change compared to the high cost of buying and maintaining a car. I never had proof to support this assertion until I read an article in Nikkan Gendai which claims that owning a car is “the ultimate waste of money”.

The article says that while having a car enables the owners to go wherever and whenever they like, in reality most “salarymen” are only weekend drivers.

When you think about it, nothing eats through money quite like an automobile. In spite of their claims that cars give them freedom and convenience, most drivers do little more with their cars than go shopping at big box retailers on the weekends. A few may take day trips, but for the most part, their cars just sit in the garage, guzzling resources.

For someone living in the suburbs of Tōkyō, the cost of maintaining a car comes to about ¥30,160 ($295) a month, or ¥380,000 ($3,712) a year. Keep in mind that this does not include the price of the car itself.

Parking: ¥15,000/month (in my neighborhood, parking is about ¥30,000/month)

Gasoline: ¥5,0000/month

Insurance: ¥50,000/year

Car Tax: about ¥40,000/year

Vehicle Inspection: about ¥100,000 every two years

If the owner of a car were to only drive five times a month, he would be spending the equivalent of ¥6,000 per use. Keiichi Kaya, author of the “The Rich Man’s Textbook” blog, writes, “Owners of cars shouldn’t expect to become even moderately wealthy.” The article goes on to say that even if a person were to use taxis and rental cars frequently, it would still be much cheaper than owning a car.

I agree.

Still, I wouldn’t mind owning a Mini.

Note: For my friends who are car crazy, the costs involved in maintaining a car are well worth it.

In Life in Japan Tags Owning a Car in Japan
No+Shogatsu+o-mikuji.jpg

No-Show-Gatsu

December 16, 2020

In recent years, I have been doing the following activity on the first class after the winter break.

I split the class up into teams and, while listening to traditional Japanese music featuring the koto or shamisen, I have the students write on the blackboard as many words as they can in rōmaji related to the Japanese New Year. 

In addition to being kind of fun—not barrels of fun, mind you, but fun enough—this activity can be rather instructive.

For starters, you'll find that many Japanese students, not being proficient in the Hepburn romanization, will write things such as fukubukuro with an "h" rather than an "f" (hukubukuro) or nengajō with a "y" (nengajyo). The reason for this is that many Japanese learn simpler forms of romanization known as kunrei-shiki or Nihon-shiki. For more on this, go here. This is a good chance to briefly re-introduce the students to the Hepburn romanization and encourage them to use it in the future.

A few years back, my second-year English Communication majors came up with the following words:

No+Shogatsu+IMG_3101.jpg

One of the interesting things about this is that while many Japanese students will offer up words like hagoita, a decorative paddle used when playing a game resembling badminton called hanetsuki or even tako-agé (kite-flying), you shouldn't expect to see any of your neighbors playing hanetsuki or flying kites on New Year's Day. (In all my years in Japan, I have never once seen young women in kimono playing this game live as I have in television dramas.)

I then tell the students to ask one another if they had done any of the things on the board.

"Did you eat o-sechi or nana-kusa gayu?"

"Did you decorate your homes with shimenawa and kadomatsu?"

"Did you send any nengajō?"

Of the 23 students who attended that day, twenty had eaten o-sechi, four had a shimenawa at the entrance of their homes, six had gone to the hatsu-uri New Year's sales, eleven had drunk o-toso, and so on. 

No+Shogatsu+IMG_3102.JPG

Erasing those items which few or none of the students had partaken of, we came up with the following significantly pared down list:

No+Shogatsu+IMG_3103.JPG

Where New Year's in Japan was once a very colorful, tradition-laden event, all that remains of it today, or so it seems, is the food, the shopping, and banal TV programs. Less than half of the students visited one Shintō shrine (hatsumōde), let alone three, during the holiday. It's kind of sad when you think about it. 

Now, I'm not suggesting that we need to put the Shintō back in the Shinnen (New Year), like some good Christians back home demand Christ be kept in that pagan celebration of the winter solstice also known as Christmas. But, I find it odd that the Japanese are so lackadaisical when it comes to their own heritage and culture.

In Japanese Customs, Japanese Festivals, Life in Japan Tags New Year's Traditions, Japanese New Year, o-Shogatsu, Shogatsu, Japanese Romanization, Hepburn Romanization, Kunrei Romanization
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Bud Clark, future Mayor of Portland, OR, in the iconic “Expose Yourself” to Art Poster

Bud Clark, future Mayor of Portland, OR, in the iconic “Expose Yourself” to Art Poster

Exposure

December 8, 2020

On Sunday evening we received an email from the kids’ school informing us that one of the cooks in the kitchen had contracted COVID-19. (Uh-oh.) The school assured us parents that the person in question had had no contact with teachers or students. It also said that the remaining cooking staff had been sent home to quarantine for two weeks. What’s more, professional cleaners had been brought in to disinfect the kitchen and related areas over the weekend. As a result of the steps that had been taken, kids would be able to go to school on Monday with only one change: there would be no apple jam in Monday’s school lunch as the infected person had been in charge of it.

I asked my wife why the school would even bother mentioning the jam.

“Because some petty-minded parent would complain,” she replied. “There was no apple jam in my child’s school lunch!”

True. True.

Now, I wouldn’t say we were on pins and needles about this, but still I was checking my email every now and again to see if a cluster would develop at the school.


Well, late Monday night, we got another email from the school. Fortunately it was about a different kind of exposure.

“What is it,” my wife asked, her voice tense.

Just another pervert, I answered.

“Oh, what a relief!”

In Conversations with Wifey, Family, Life in Japan, Married Life Tags Expose Yourself to Art, Bud Clark, Coronavirus, COVID-19, Raising Kids in Japan, Japanese Elementary School
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800x800_Green-Giant-Cut-Green-Beans-14.5-oz.-Can.png

Ho, ho, ho, Green Giant!

November 25, 2020

The other day, I was talking to some students about my high school's annual food drive when I explained that we boys would go canvassing for canned veggies and . . . they all gave me an odd, quizzical look.

Canned vegetables? What are canned vegetables.

So, I googled it and showed them some photos of the kind of thing I was talking about. It was only then that it dawned on me that after all these years in Japan, I don't think I have eaten many vegetables that weren't fresh and/or in season.

Take spinach. Yes, please take it.

Growing up in 'Merica, spinach was a common side dish on many dinner plates, but I don't think I ever saw raw spinach until I came here. It had always been canned or frozen when I was a kid.

0004125094179_1_A1C1_0600.png

Another staple veggie is peas and carrots. I've never had this here. And I thank my lucky stars because of it.

Now, I often grumble that the selection of fruits and vegetables at my local supermarket leaves much to be desired. (I was looking at a wimpy, woebegone pomegranate at the supermarket yesterday that was selling for almost ten bucks and thought nope.) But, what you can find here is fresh, usually locally grown, and of high quality. If only I could find a lime that didn't cost two bucks.

Looks awful.

Looks awful.

In Life in Japan, Life in the US, Japanese Cooking Tags Canned Vegetables, Cooking in the US, Frozen Food
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stks059m092.JPG

Umm

September 9, 2020
unnamed-1.jpg
153898360207801.jpg
images.jpeg
In Life in Japan Tags Japanese Traffic Signals
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京都の犬矢来

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