Wanderlust, part deux
Been in Paris for almost two weeks now, holed up on Angela's couch. I've tried macarons and Mariage Frères tea, there are twelve empty bottles of wine resting neatly on a table near me, and I have tons of photos of my trinket from Japan with French monuments:
I traveled here with a friend who left for the States today, which means my time in Paris as a tourist has come to an end. Also, I don't have a return ticket yet, but I intend to bum it for at least another month and a half.
Friends and family back at home continue to hit me up on Facebook, asking for photos, souvenirs or lavish stories about the city of lights and love, or how it was to see Angela for the first time in a year. These are normal requests, but the truth is I don't have much to say about either.
Paris is just the way I remembered it -- like San Francisco, except full of French people -- and every time I see Angela, no matter how long it's been, it feels like no time has gone by at all.
She returned from a work thing a week after I arrived, and when she walked into the apartment with Gael (her dude), I'd just woken up from an afternoon nap. I heard her voice first, then saw her face peer into the living room from the hallway. I met her smile with a smile, and that was it. No squeals, no giant hugs, no tears. Just big smiles. I like this about our friendship.
Outside the Eiffel tower lights up every 15 minutes, men walk by with accordions playing sad little tunes, and I can hear wine-filled laughter coming from the bar on the corner almost every night. But I'm happiest spending my evenings the way we're spending tonight---tapping away on our laptops, sometimes in separate rooms, sometimes together.
So. How's Paris? It's good. It's very, very good.
“We are lucky”
Tomoyo, my old roommate, occasional savior, and most importantly my friend, took me out for a weekend of sightseeing during the Japan sojourn. First we traveled by bullet train to her hometown of Nagahama where we stayed with her family for a night. Their house is traditional; full of dark wood, tatami mats and doors that slide rather than swing. The heavy humid weather forced house cats Chloe and Cha-Cha to seek constant refuge on kitchen tiles or in the dense garden out back. Tomoyo’s father and sister took turns napping on the floor in the spare room, bodies sprawled over mats, comic books draped over stomachs.
Being there after two hectic months in Tokyo (or 25 hectic years in California) was like slowly sinking into a hot bath. I felt calm, relaxed and sleepy. And even though our to-do list following the hometown visit was jam-packed — 1 night’s stay at a legit bathhouse; cliffs overlooking a violent sea; bike rides around Biwa Lake; hokey tourist attractions — the general feeling of peace stayed with me.
There’s this ride I really like at Disney's California Adventure called Soarin’ Over California (I promise this will relate to my trip in a second). It’s basically a flight simulator, so you start off by sitting in what looks like a giant ski lift. Once you’re strapped in and ready the lights go out, your car is lifted high above the ground, a lovely orchestral score starts playing, a “breeze” picks up, and suddenly you’re facing a giant screen displaying California as it would be seen from an extreme hang glider’s point of view. As you pass over orange groves, mini overhead vents release a citrus scent, and when you reach the mountains it smells like evergreen. It might sound a little cheesy but let me tell you, after walking around a giant park filled with screaming children, it's a delicious break. I like it so much I rode it twice during my last Disneyland trip in November.
Exploring Japan gave me the same serene feeling as Soarin’, except it was real. After dinner at the bathhouse Tomoyo and I walked awkwardly in our nemaki and geta (pajama robes and wooden slippers provided by the hotel) through the sticky heat in search of ice cream. We told silly jokes on the way, tripped over decorative cobblestones like uncoordinated little girls and our laughs echoed down the streets. The next day at Eihei-ji Temple we raced barefoot up hardwood stairs scrubbed everyday by inhabiting monks, poked our heads into prayer rooms and stared wonderingly at ceilings covered in painted birds. The whole temple smelled of fresh peaches.
Finally, as if Japan somehow knew what it would do to me, a musician started playing power ballads on a keyboard when we stopped at the famous Tōjinbō cliffs to watch the sunset.
Seriously, who needs Disneyland when you have Japan?
I’ve been home and back to the usual grind for about the same amount of time that I was gone, but life has yet to let up its explosion of new things. When I started this post earlier today I was afraid that so much had happened since my return I wouldn’t be able to remember the way it felt to be surrounded by Tomoyo’s family, or Japan’s lush and welcoming countryside. As it turns out the problem is trying to find the right words to describe how much I remember. The right words to express how much I loved it. How much I felt like a part of the family. How much gratitude I have. How much I can’t wait to go back.
Recently, after guzzling buckets of wine, my friend Arwen and I started reflecting on our lives (the way you usually do after guzzling buckets of wine) when suddenly she said, “We are lucky. There are people in the world who literally have no real friends, or not even fake friends.”
I've been thinking about this statement a lot, especially now that the year is ending. It’s been a particularly textured one, which is just a fancy way of saying that tons of unexpected things happened in the last twelve months and my emotional responses have been all over the board. I guess that’s actually pretty normal, but I feel good for having navigated through it. After all, I spent the couple of years prior feeling half dead and worn out because of the same bullshit, like my entire life was a broken record. 2009 has been both a knock to the head and a breath of fresh air.
I’m beyond grateful for my amazing friends (Tomoyo is just one example of what I'm workin' with here). They've all taken time out of their schedules to stand by me, to buttress the struggle of relearning how to function properly. I couldn’t possibly want more from them.
To top it off, the end of this year has been filled with sweet things: fingers entwined, shoulder kisses and love songs. I’m hesitant, but the outlook is good. In fact, rather than wanting to start fresh in January like I usually do I’m hoping 2010 will be made from 2009 concentrate. Because yeah, I am lucky, and life is really something.
Guess you better go and get your armor
I have this mentor that I may or may not have mentioned at some point on this site. He was one of my teachers in high school and though we related well then, now that I no longer define the end of the world as a fight with my 15 year old boyfriend our thought processes are so in tune that it’s like we were born from the same emo cesspool of baby tears and Converse All Stars.
Nowadays we maintain a pretty tight friendship via e-mail, and when I have a problem or just need to decompress with someone who tolerates my whacked emotions I pull the pen pal card and we have a virtual, life altering conversation. Here’s a bit of the last message he sent:
“I was thinking about ants yesterday. I almost stepped on an ant river crossing a sidewalk. A big one. I would have killed like hundreds at once. They would have scurried around manically for a minute, but would have quickly reestablished their lines and got on with it. They live in an incredibly hostile world. It's the kind of world that would leave most humans curled up in the fetal position. They can't predict when disaster will strike, but it must strike like every day. Hurricane Katrina every day. But, they reestablish their lines and keep going. And, they build amazing things.”
This obvious metaphor was part of his reply to the OH-EM-GEE-WTF-IS-MY-LIFE message I sent towards the end of last month. Basically, since arriving in Japan I’ve been gangbanged by life. That’s right, “gangbanged.” Tokyo has been witness to an influx of various life aspects screwing me in quick succession.
When I first tried to sort out what was going on with my brain it was mid August and my friends from California had just left. It was like 200 degrees and getting up to brush my teeth caused me to sweat so profusely that I considered never brushing my teeth again. Or even moving at all. Honestly, I think I was probably suffering from legit heat stroke and I felt crazy and tired and mean. After being prompted to recheck my attitude I started sifting through photos of my friends’ visit, considered my current sitch, and wondered why I wasn’t as happy as anyone in my position should be. You know, the whole I work online, can go anywhere I want, am spending a ludicrous amount of time in a foreign country rent free thing. Add the fact that I have friends who love me enough to fly halfway around to world just to chill, and I think most would conclude that I should be shitting glitter and rainbows.
Realizing that I wasn’t even close to that really struck me. And when I became aware that my negativity and general dissatisfaction stemmed from sadness rather than what most would pinpoint as anger, I sent a flurry of e-mails to said mentor. Most of them went something like, “DID YOU KNOW, DID YOU KNOW? I’M A SAD PERSON. I’M FULL OF SADNESS. SADDY SAD SAD.”
And do you know what he said? He said, “I know.” It was like a punch to the head:
“I know. You have been for a very long time. I've been waiting for you to recognize this, instead of deflecting your adversity with cynicism, apathy, and anger.”
(Sidenote: I think maybe this is part of what makes a true friend. Someone who sometimes knows you better than you know yourself; someone who will do what they can to help figure out who you are, even if all that means is being around to listen to your crazy thought process; someone who wouldn’t try to force you to understand something before you’re ready for it, or make you someone you’re not.)
I deemed this state “The Sadness” and for 48 hours all I could think about was how I was going to get rid of it. I questioned all of my closest friends, one of whom suggested I was depressed. Admittedly, it would be easy for me to classify my issues as depression, pop a xanax in my nightcap and call it a day, but fuck that. I don’t mean to downplay depression because chemical imbalances are very real and deserve medical assistance when the situation calls for it, but at the same time I think too many people these days confuse depression with plain old consciousness. I have no idea when society added continuous emotional placidity to their definition of happiness, but I think it’s fuckin’ lazy and unrealistic. If I never felt sad or angry or impassioned by anything, life would be stupid.
There is of course, the other extreme, which is just as damaging. Living in a perpetual state of unhappiness is taxing and dangerous, and probably closer to where I’ve been for the last couple of years. Now, in trying to find a balance, there are two pieces of advice from close friends (including mentor dude) that I want to tape to the insides of my eyelids:
- That you care about this at all is a demonstration that you're not embittered; you're critical, and being critical at a moderate level is extremely useful and productive
- I've tried to identify my sad times and mine them and ride them a bit. I find much of the richest parts of my soul are rooted in sadness. I don't want to prevent getting sad anymore because now I recognize its value in my life. However, I don't want to stay there either
They've helped me to established that my poor soul isn't in the shitter and that crapping rainbows and glitter every day isn't necessarily the level of happiness I want to live in. These are the things I contemplate while being gangbanged by The Sadness squad, and though they are extremely comforting and helpful words, they certainly don’t lighten the load. The gangs of bangers keep coming and in fact they’re here as I type this, banging away (I can’t even imagine what kind of mental images this is causing you, but they’re probably fantastic). Their forms have changed; they’ve morphed from mental states to friendships to career decisions to affairs of both the financial and love variety, but they all serve the same purpose of fucking me mentally until I reach the point I did yesterday, which is where I’m so exhausted from tossing my life around in my head that all I can manage to do before I fall into a 17 hour nap is drink sake and watch Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.
[originally this space was full of crazy talk about love, but I took it out because it invited way too much no goodity.]
My final conclusion in this big ranty rant is that I think I’m on my way to a better place than the one I’m in now. It’s like the ants story: after a hurricane of—get ready—GANGBANGERS! I’m quickly trying to realign my insides. At the same time though, I've realized I want to keep things kinda wacky. Remember, that 24/7 emotional placidity thing is just lame. I’m sure whatever I build will be even more amazing if it’s saturated in my own brand of crazy. So I hope you understand me when I say that even though I want it sorted, I hope to never feel like my life is totally “fixed.” In examining my issues and letting others offer their own advice things don’t become better, but they do become clearer. And in being able to see what the fuck is going on I think I’m closer to knowing both what I want and what I don’t want, and how I'm going to get there. Most importantly (and I hope made very evident through drawn out discussions like this one), my drive to move forward is alive and totally drooling. I guess that’s a good start.
Declined
Last week, after realizing that I had successfully cooked a bunch of packaged food with Japanese instructions, my roommate asked timidly, "Are you starting to read Japanese now?"
Guys, I can't even tell you how badly I wanted to answer "yes" to that ridiculous, ridiculous question. Sadly, as far as I know it's impossible to learn a language just by staring at it. Fortunately for me (and my stomach), picture instructions are universally understood. Besides, there's really only one way to cook ramen, right?
Let me tell you, t's not like I'm not trying to get around and communicate...it's just HARD. I thought body language made up the majority of communication, but apparently that only applies to the United States. In Japan, you have to know the language. Otherwise something very, very strange happens to your brain as it tries to switch over to a different atmosphere and is consistently denied access. Out of a crippling appetite for understanding--something! anything!--you start to read colors and photos as you would words, start to notice things you never would at home, like nature. Or the way the nail on your middle finger curves slightly inward on the right side. Your breathing patters. The new pinhead-sized mole on the inside of your ankle. The total number of times you blink per hour.
Even more disturbing is how much you start to love things for the simple fact that you recognize them, like baby cries and *gasp!* numbers.
Internet, I am not a numbers person. I normally loathe them. I loathe them so much in fact, that it took me 4 years to finally take the one math class that was required of me in college. I registered for one every year but ended up dropping it because I didn't vibe well enough with the teacher. Didn't vibe well enough with the teacher! Can you believe that? As if I was in some math class speed-dating adventure.
I am a writer. A talker. A person of words. Communication is my forte and I'm in a land where the language looks like fucking decoration. Can you imagine what that's doing to my mind? To my SOUL? I am, in fact, so starved for the tiniest morsel of something I recognize that when I overhear tourists from English-speaking countries talk, no matter the topic, I get a boner. Srsly, the biggest hard on you ever did see. In every other instance, no matter how wide I open my eyes or which direction I flail my arms, nobody gets what I'm going on about. To everyone else, I just look like a chimp.
So here I am, this stupid foreign chimp, hanging out in a tiny apartment in Tokyo with my roommate from college, who happens to be growing exceedingly tired of having to deal with me and my non-understanding ways. She works all day Mon-Fri (and by all day I mean all day because people in Tokyo do not believe in sleep) and understandably wants nothing on the weekends but uninterrupted loafing time. As a result, my hopes of getting to know this city have been whittled down to a nubbin. I've lightened up severely on the whole "what does that say?" bit out of the fear that she's going to turn around and punch me, and when her non-English speaking boyfriend turns to me and vomits up an entire speech or question in Japanese, I blink several times and quietly wish for a hole to curl up and die in.
I feel bad about it, really. There's nothing like going from being an independent, social butterfly to a non-communicative, twitchy primate that needs to be babysat. And so, in a desperate attempt to prove my worthiness as a temporary member of the Japanese society to my fed-up roommate, I decided to cook her dinner.
One day while she was at work, I gathered up every ounce of bravery I had and walked, alone, to the nearest grocery store. Throw into this pathetic sounding equation my non-existent sense of direction, Tokyo's TINY, jam-packed-with-everything-you-can-think-of streets, and the absence of actual street signs (NOT THAT I'D UNDERSTAND THEM ANYWAY) and suddenly it's like, whoa, Chelsi, how did you survive such a breakneck adventure?!
No clue, but somehow I arrived at the store without getting lost or kidnapped by some band of rampant, magical anime characters. This accomplishment felt like that scene in Castaway where Tom Hanks manages to procure a tiny wisp of smoke from two sticks and is like, I AM MAN. I MADE FIRE. It didn't bother me that I didn't understand any of the food I was looking at, or that I stood in an aisle for at least 5 minutes, unsure if the bottle I was holding was full of mayonnaise or baby formula. I had gotten to the store and that meant I could SURVIVE.
That is, until I got to the checkout counter and my credit card was declined. The clerk turned the register screen around to show me the big black "!" all dark and scary like a death omen, and to further illustrate the problem made a big "X" with her arms while repeating the word "sagarime" over and over again. Even though it was pretty obvious what she was saying, I googled the word anyway. It's defined as "eyes slanting downward" and "decline." I feel a racist joke coming on; a racist joke that I think would be totally excusable because I myself am a product of slanty-eyed people, but I'm going to pass.
Anyhoo--PROTIP: If you're going to travel to foreign lands, make sure you tell your credit card company beforehand. You know, unless you *want* to feel utterly alone even though you're surrounded by more people you've ever been in your entire life and broke to boot.
Tragic, isn't it?
In closing, I just want to point out that I'm aware that I'm not giving Japan the credit it deserves. I only talk about the terrible things, much like people do when they're in a relationship. Heh. Truth is, Tokyo isn't that bad of a boyfriend. I mean, he hasn't put out yet, but that's cool, I ain't no hussy.
In other words, a post on the good things is coming soon. Promise, promise.
No panty machines just yet
I’ve been lucky enough to visit a handful of major cities in my lifetime. Paris and London are exaggerated in the media; London isn’t comprised solely of pubs and the Queen, and I didn’t see a single woman with visible armpit hair when I was in France. San Francisco’s a little different--having lived there for six years I think it’s fair to say that I’m somewhat of an authority on the city, but it’s one of those places that changes so often it’s impossible to ever really know it. The few constants I can think of: It’s cold, foggy and miserable in the loveliest way. One week of sunshine makes an appearance annually, usually around October. Cable cars? Really not that great. Bums take up most sidewalks, and if you have a car it will probably get stolen. Or broken into. Or shot at. In spite of it all, the culture cocktail is delicious, the nooks and crannies of the underbelly are the best I’ve ever experienced and should you ever go, you will most certainly leave your heart there.
I expected my general ideas about Tokyo to be squashed as well, but at this point (one week in) I’m pretty sure everything you’ve ever heard about this crazy city is completely true. There are ZILLIONS of people, everywhere, all the time. Tokyo is much like the way I imagine the subway system in New York City to be (way too crowded and rush rush rush), except you can’t talk on your cell phone without being looked at like you’re some crazy rude barbarian, and instead of thousands of dudes in suits, there are thousands upon thousands of girls who all appear to have the same morning routine: Bleach hair. Slather on fake tanner. Glue on fake eyelids. Get dressed in dark.
And while it may seem like I’m being negative about it, it’s actually pretty fantastic. At home, people watching is primarily made up of making fun of the drunk folk. Throw in some out and proud people, a bit of nudity, a hippie or two and at least one street fight and or protest, and that’s a wrap. But here? Man, my pupils ache from marveling at the one thing all young Tokoyoites seem to have in common: to look as batshit crazy as possible. They do an excellent job.
Surprisingly, the thing that strikes me as the strangest is not all the nutso getup, but the fact that it’s worn in silence. With the exception of the numerous retail workers standing in front of their shops, screaming MERCILESSLY into the crowd about whatever sale they’ve got going on, Tokyo peeps keep a pretty low profile.
This whole looking crazy without acting it concept is totally new to me. I mean, where’s the fun in that? Sure, it’s gracious and probably a better idea in many respects NOT to act a fool in public, but the thing about Tokyo is that even though people are endlessly apologetic and far too considerate, I get the vibe that every single person here is suppressing so much rage that they’ve practically become a human bomb. I’ve decided this is why they apologize a minimum of ten thousand times for even the tiniest of mishaps. For example, if someone bumps into you on the train, you’re going to get flooded with apologies because that person is thinking, OH SHIT. PLEASE DON’T EXPLODE. PLEASE DON’T RELEASE ALL OF YOUR PENT-UP ANGER CAUSED BY ENDLESS EFFORTS TO CONFORM TO SOCIETAL NORMS ON ME. PLEASE, ANYTHING BUT THAT. I DON’T WANT TO DIE.
Of course, not speaking the language could be fucking with my ability to read this kind of stuff right. In fact, the whole lost in translation thing has been so unnerving that I’m going to save it for another post.
For now, some bulleted cool things about Japan so you don’t think I hate it:
- My skin feels amazing. For the first 48 hours I was certain this humidity was going to kill me, but now that I’m getting accustomed to it I’m outrageously stoked about my entire body being baby butt status.
- So far, no lewd cat calls from strangers.
- Rain is random and warm. The door to the balcony of the apartment I’m staying in never closes and I like that I can hang out near it and listen to or watch the showers without freezing my arse off.
- It is amazingly efficient. Just before I left the U.S. a friend of mine who’d spent a couple years here said, “I think you can get anything you want in Tokyo, and you can get it fast.” So far he’s right.
- Izakaya. These establishments are like bars without the actual bar. People come here primarily to drink, but you do it at a fairly private table and the food menu is extensive. I’m not sure if this kind of joint would be successful in the social haven that is California, but for people like me who loathe talking to strangers, it’s pretty awesome. Plus, you can smoke inside. HUZZAH.
- Despite my whole people-are-all-burning-with-rage-inside theory, I feel safer than I’ve ever felt here. Who knew you could walk around such a large city at 3 AM without the need for pepper spray on your keychain and a machete in your boot?
- Holy shit, it’s JAPAN.