Slate eBook Club - Best of 2003

by Slate. com

  (Note to self: Develop proposal for Japanese government, whereby I become minister of street naming. Endeavor to name all streets. Move beyond hackneyed tree and president themes. In first effort, name one neighborhood entirely for teeth. Bicuspid Street, Wisdom Avenue

  , Molar Boulevard

  . Receive mixed reviews. Improve greatly with subsequent efforts. Win over Japanese. Fame, fortune ensue.)

  I'm supposed to meet my friend Professor Ikei at the Meiji Jingu baseball stadium. Keio University, where he teaches, is playing Rikkio University in a college baseball game. I am already six minutes late, because I walked the wrong way coming out of the subway and had to double back. Luckily, Professor Ikei is a wonderful, laid-back guy who seems willing to forgive my idiocy. When I finally meet him outside the gate, he is all smiles, and we head right in to our seats on the first base line. Soon we are chatting about baseball in Japan, trying to make ourselves heard above the din of the university bands and the shrieking male cheerleaders urging on the crowd. Professor Ikei has this great conversational habit that I really want to start emulating. It happens when I ask him a complex, open-ended question, like, "Do you think baseball in Japan has become so popular due to its one-on-one, pitcher vs. batter, samurailike confrontations and the way it lends itself to becoming almost a martial art, or do you think it is more simply a matter of the decadelong U.S. occupation foisting the game upon the Japanese?" In response to this sort of query, Ikei-san will launch into a deep, sustained belly laugh. AHHHHH HAH HAH ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Then the laughter abruptly stops, and he'll nod once, slowly, with a blank look on his face, and say, "Maybe." I love that. I'm already practicing my own version.

  Of course, not all my moments of social un-grace are tolerated so kindly and so smoothly dismissed. The last time I came to Japan, on assignment reporting a story, I had recently started freelance writing and hadn't yet gotten around to making up business cards. And I'd forgotten how important they are here. At my first meeting with several corporate executives, they lined up to hand me their cards, and I sheepishly said that I had none to give them in return. This caused much quick, sharp, audible inhaling, which is Japanese for "you are such a hopeless moron that I am embarrassed for you and for your family." There was murmuring, and then they asked me for my contact information and wrote it down. A young lackey disappeared from the room. Ten minutes later, he returned and handed me a stack of newly printed cards, literally still hot off the press or the printer or whatever, and emblazoned in two colors with my name, number, and e-mail address. I, in turn, handed these new cards immediately back to the executives. And, at my first private moment, smacked myself in the forehead.

  Just a few days ago, I ran up against another protocol incident. I was trying to interview executives from the front office of the Yokohama Baystars baseball team. My friend Sonoda-san felt he had a good connection to set me up with these interviews, going through a friend of his who has connections with the Baystars' ownership group. But then the schedule for the interviews came back, and it showed only one interview. Lasting 10 minutes. With a 22-year-old public relations flack who had no decision-making role with the team.

  OK, first of all, any 10-minute interview is pretty much worthless. Not enough time for real conversation. Add on that this particular interview will necessitate an interpreter, which means that with translation time it turns into a five-minute interview. Factor in the reality that there is nothing this nice young man can tell me that will be of any interest. And then realize that to get to Yokohama will take an hour, and so will getting back, both times accompanied by an interpreter being paid by the hour, and all of this for a worthless 10-minute interview. Sounds like a recipe for canceling the interview, yes? I said as much. But Sonoda-san politely informed me this was not possible. Apparently, me canceling the interview would be so socially inappropriate, and cause such ripples of unrest, that it could threaten the relationship between the Baystars' ownership and the Baystars, between Sonoda-san's friend and the ownership, and even between Sonoda-san and his friend. And so I trudged out to Yokohama and conducted the interview—even though neither the PR flack nor I wanted to be there—and trudged back home. Nobody's fault. Just the way things are here. But believe me, as I think about the societal norms that prompted this, in my head I am sharply and audibly inhaling.

  Sonoda-san's a great guy, and I love my e-mail exchanges with him. It's already tough to imply tone over e-mail, and with the cultural barrier it's even tougher, so I've resorted to adding a few superfluous exclamation points in my e-mails, like "Thanks!" and "I'd be glad to go out to Yokohama for that 10-minute interview!" Sonoda-san has responded by upping the ante, often appending two or even three exclamation points to statements like, "Seth-san, thank you for your kind understanding about the interview with the Baystars!!!" Recently, I have jacked it up to four exclamation points, as in "The interview was not bad!!!!" It's like a war of exclamation points. Pretty soon, if we don't put 12 exclamation points after "Hello," it will seem rude and aloof.

  Do I think this awkward pas de deux says something about the difficult nature of negotiating Japanese societal protocol, and the extent of my vain hopes not to offend within this context? AHHH HAH HAH ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Maybe.

  Japan Cliché No. 4: Capsule Hotels

  Tonight, for no real reason at all, I'm sleeping in a capsule hotel.

  No doubt you've read about these—rabbit warrens for salarymen to stay in when they've missed the last train home. Capsule hotels are a staple of "Those Wacky Japanese" reporting, but I wondered what it would be like to actually stay in one for the night.

  My taxi cruises into Akasaka at a little past midnight on a Saturday. Gangs of sake-fueled office workers wobble through the streets. As I step off the sidewalk and into the hotel lobby, the first thing I see is a cartoon drawing of a bellboy pushing away a shirtless man. Does this sign mean No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service? Closer inspection reveals elaborate tattoos on the shirtless man's back. This is a No Tattoo hotel.

  You'll see this at lots of places—most hotel pools and most public onsen (baths) will have strict no-tattoo rules. I used to think it was some misguided theory that tattoos spread disease through water, but I've since been told that it's a yakuza thing. The yakuza (Japanese mafia) are known for full-body tattoos, and apparently these no-tattoo rules are the best way to deny them service. Why it's such a big deal to keep yakuza out of your hotel, I'm not quite sure. I'd sort of like to meet some yakuza. Ever see that Ridley Scott movie Black Rain? Those yakuza were cool.

  Since I am not a yakuza and have no tattoos, I proceed to the check-in desk. I then turn around and walk right back out, because the clerk is frantically pointing at my shoes, which I'm still wearing. I forgot to take them off before I came in. I do this a lot.

  Now shoeless, I am allowed to check in. It's 4,500 yen for the night (around $40). The clerk hands me a thick, bright yellow plastic bracelet, which has my capsule number written on it, and a key to my clothes locker attached. Clearly, most people who check in here are so stinking, stumbling drunk that it's imperative to put all this stuff in bracelet form. I imagine they often find passed-out guests sprawled across the restroom tiles, at which point the bracelet comes in handy.

  Sadly, I'm not that drunk. Four sober stories up by elevator, I open a door and enter a maze of capsules. Tiptoeing through the rows, I find my number. The only sound I hear is fitful snoring. It feels like a beehive.

  Ah, this one's mine. Home sweet capsule. And actually not so bad. First of all, it's clean, which was my biggest concern coming in. I'd feared vomit-and-who-knows-what-else-stained mattresses and perhaps an unsettling stench. But my fears are misplaced. The capsule is spotless and quite cozy.

  Inside are a mattress, a blanket, a 7-inch television, and a side panel with alarm clock, radio, and TV controls. Set into the ceiling is a tiny reading lamp. How high is this ceiling you may wonder. High enough, I say. I can sit all the way up and still have ample head room. So, d
espite minor claustrophobia, I am comfortable here. It's not a coffin.

  Nothing's on TV (the scrambled channels are no doubt porn, but it's not clear how I'd unscramble them if I wanted to), and I'm sleepy, so I try to nod off. Not happening. The bed is fine, though I just barely fit lengthwise (if you're 6-foot-1 or taller, don't even try it). The problem is all those drunk salarymen wandering in, laughing as they drunkenly locate their capsules. This is the exceedingly rare moment where the Japanese are too damn noisy. Also, there's the snoring. And the guy in the capsule above me is making a weird, percussive sound. If I had to guess, I'd say he's brought a steel mallet and is hammering violently at the walls of his capsule with it. But this seems purposeless and unlikely.

  At 6:15 in the morning the first alarm goes off. Every 10 minutes thereafter another alarm goes off. Each alarm is followed by grunting flatulence and the loud self-extrication of a hungover man from a narrow tube.

  These glassy-eyed, unshaven fellows slowly gather in a downstairs lounge, wearing the green paper, hospital-style robes that the hotel provides. Rows of reclining chairs face a big-screen TV, which plays a sports highlight show. There's a sort of bad-boy camaraderie in the lounge—you likely wouldn't be here unless last night was a real doozy.

  A friend tried out the women's side of the hotel (there is strict separation) and said she loved it. Seems it's a very different vibe from the guys' side. Since Tokyo apartments are too tiny, Japanese girls use the capsule hotels to throw big slumber parties. Many pink pajamas. The women's side has a spa, too, so in the morning, instead of sports TV, it's hanging out in a hot bath.

  I very much doubt I'd stay in a capsule again, at least not by choice. But should I ever miss the last train—and stink of sake—I'll know what to do.

  Returning my yellow bracelet to the desk and retrieving my shoes, I stroll out into the glare of Sunday morning in Akasaka. It's time to go home. I really need some sleep.

  Japan Cliché No. 5: Earthquakes

  I had my first earthquake a few weeks ago. It measured 5.0. A little bit fun, a little bit frightening. I'd always imagined earthquakes were a slow, rolling undulation. Turns out they're more of a sharp, violent jerking.

  When it hit us, all the gaijin in my building stumbled into the hallway looking nervous. Emergency fire walls had slammed shut on every side. I tried to remember if doorway arches were the absolute best place to stand, or the absolute worst place to stand, or neither. Then one gaijin suggested we go to the lobby, so we formed a single-file line and marched swiftly down the stairs.

  When we got to the ground floor, I expected to be met by rescue workers with reflective space blankets. Instead, we saw Japanese people chatting calmly, reading magazines, and seeming not to have noticed the recent, demonic upheaval of the very earth they stood on. Absolutely no acknowledgement of the earthquake. No joke, there were children playing Twister in the lobby, completely unfazed.

  What's the ruling when you're in a precarious Twister position, and then suddenly an earthquake hits and you topple? Do you lose? Or is there an act-of-God provision in the fine print of the Twister rule book?

  Japan Cliché No. 6: Confusing, Incestuous Politics

  The ruling party here is the Liberal Democratic Party. There are two major opposition parties: the Liberal Party and the Democratic Party. If I'm reading the newspapers right, these two opposition parties will soon merge. I don't envy the voters here.

  Japan Cliché No. 7: Xenophobia

  OK, not the most welcoming society for outsiders. And less diverse than a Division III college in Maine. But nearly everyone I've met here has been extremely enlightened and progressive and tolerant and stuff. With two exceptions:

  1) At a party, I met a Japanese man who is a retired sixtysomething former VIP. We got to discussing geopolitical history. At one point in the conversation, he leaned close and, in hushed tones, said, "The Koreans, North and South, are a people entirely without scruples."

  2) There is a famous military shrine here at which Class A war criminals, like Tojo, are buried. The Japanese prime minister is impelled each year, by public sentiment, to visit this shrine and genuflect and such. Not a fantastic thing, in my view, but perhaps understandable.

  Next to this shrine is a military museum. Of all the museums I have visited in Japan, including the A-bomb museum in Hiroshima, this was clearly and easily the best-funded. It expresses a vision of Japanese military history that differs, in certain crucial ways, from our own.

  For instance, I was not aware that the United States had somehow tricked Japan into bombing Pearl Harbor as part of a complex scheme we had been brewing up for years. Also, I was not aware that the Rape of Nanking never happened.

  Interesting thing about this museum: Every World War II battle is extensively examined, mapped, and explained with both graphics and text. Right up until the Battle of Midway. At this point, the displays quickly peter out, and the text boils down to "mistakes were made."

  Outside the museum, ultra-right-wing groups have stationed fleets of big black vans with blaring megaphones. I'm told what they are shouting translates as "Revere the Emperor, Expel the Barbarian." On their roofs, the vans have big plastic replica missiles with the rising sun flag painted on the fins.

  Japan Cliché No. 8: The Land of Cute

  Of course there are all the cute characters like Astro Boy and Hello Kitty and Sirotan and the robot panda. But do you realize how cute the idioms and conversational interjections are? For instance, Japanese people answer the phone by saying "Moshi Moshi!" This is the most fun thing to say ever. I could say this all day. Moshi Moshi!

  Also, when you say something that Japanese people perhaps did not know, but now believe to be true, they will often respond by saying "Ahhh, so-so-so-so-so-so-so-so-so-so-so-so-so-so." Say the sos as fast as you possibly can, and you will approximate this sound. I can't get enough of it.

  Japan Cliché No. 9: Extreme Harmony

  Despite its 14 million people, Tokyo is the quietest city I have ever lived in. In two months, not once have I heard a horn honked in anger or frustration. I'm convinced this is the most culturally foreign aspect of Japanese society. When is the last time you went four minutes in New York without hearing some aggressive honking?

  Only once did I hear a Japanese person raise his voice in the heat of conflict, and this immediately occasioned profuse and deep bowing from everyone around him, embarrassed by his loss of control.

  Japan Cliché No. 10: Incomparable Arcade Games

  I have become addicted to an arcade game here. I'm not sure if it's come to the States yet, but if not, I hope it comes soon. This game consists of a display screen, two large kettle drums, and two pairs of tethered drumsticks. A song plays through speakers, and complex instructions flash on the screen, directing you to play specific beats in time to the song. Sometimes you hit one stick at a time, sometimes you hit both at once, and sometimes you need to hit a rimshot. Sometimes there are drum rolls. Sometimes the song is "Y.M.C.A.," by the Village People. And sometimes, when you play the two-player version, the game offsets your beats so you and your opponent form polyphonic rhythms—beautiful teamwork amid cutthroat competition.

  I am incredibly good at this game. If it didn't cost 200 yen a pop, I would play all day every day, because I am so good that it is a waste of my gift not to play.

  After the first few times I played, a strange new screen began to flash after nearly every game. I could not figure out what this screen was at first, because it was in Japanese. Then I realized: It was the high-score screen. I was setting new high scores every time I played. You could tell because it was asking me to select three kanji characters, and then these would display next to my score at the top of a list. This was deeply satisfying, because it demonstrated how beautiful was my gift. It was also deeply frustrating, however, because I don't know how to write "ASS" in kanji characters.

  Mime Is Money

  My dreadful career as a street performer.

  By Emily Yoffe<
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  Posted Thursday, Oct. 30, 2003, at 5:32 AM PT

  As I put the final touches on my makeup for my debut as a Washington, D.C., street performer, the loving words of my husband echoed in my head: "You look like Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?" He had a point. The combination of pigtails, crow's-feet, and rouged cheeks was so disturbing that I wondered if I could actually go through with standing on a downtown corner and doing my act. I desperately wanted a combination of Xanax for my anxiety and Zantac for my stomach acid. Now, there was drug I could use: Xanzan—the pill for the talentless street performer.

  Becoming a street performer was a challenge posed by a particularly cruel reader of previous installments of Human Guinea Pig—the column in which I explore odd, intriguing, but mostly odd corners of life. The challenge was compounded by the fact that I possess none of the skills that normally persuade passersby to put money in a hat. I play no instruments, and my singing has been compared to the death throes of a moose. So, I decided to go for a more conceptual approach. I would dress up like a mechanical doll and tinkle various toy instruments; enchanted Washingtonians would throw money at my feet.