brown bread ice cream

Farewell, Maria -- We'll Miss You

2006-07-22T04:32:00.000+09:00

It's been almost a month since we moved into our cozy little hotel room and, sadly, our stay is coming to an end: We finally found an apartment. Some might hate the transiency of it all, or feel that a hotel room could not possibly ever feel like home, but I beg to differ. Hell, if my husband's company had offered to pay for a longer stay, I would have happily prolonged our search. The bed is big and so comfy, they put out a basket of the best cookies at the front desk in the evenings, and then there's Maria, of course. Maria always makes sure I've got enough coffee, microwave popcorn, and kitchen paper towels. I love kitchen paper towels; I find them incredibly extravagant--not that I go crazy and abuse my unlimited access to the paper towels in an environmentally unfriendly manner, of course.

In any case, my husband's company gave us exactly a month to find a place. Thus, in the end, we were kind of forced to settle. The place we're moving into is way WAAAAAY too expensive. It's one storey above a busy eight-lane thoroughfare. And...there are these weird clouds of flies that permanently hang out in the lobby. My husband mocks me for objecting to the flies. They're just flies, he says. Okay, no, they are not "just flies." Flies are ordinarily drawn to garbage and things like that, right? But these flies--these massive dark thunderclouds of flies--just hover in the air, in a very scene-out-of-a-Stephen-King-novel-made-into-an-HBO-made-for-television-movie kind of way. Seriously. It's ominous and plain freaky. What do they want?

All that aside, really I should be very grateful that we found anything at all. Palo Alto shop people might be nice about dogs but the apartments people are not. And, hey, after the dog pee at Macy's incident, I can't say I blame them for not wanting all the potential hassles.

Also, I had forgotten how crazy Americans are about the whole "credit history" thing. Which is unfortunate--since my husband and I don't have any! We actually had our apartment application rejected initially. Totally humiliating experience. One second, the leasing agent was all but clasping me to her pillowy bosom, crying, "Welcome home!" (seriously), and the next, I was getting ear frostbite after an extremely chilly phone call informing me that our credit check had come back with unsatisfactory results. Duh, woman, we just moved here from Japan.

Not to get into the nitty-gritties, but eventually, we were rescued by a real estate company that will act as a guarantor of sorts--for a small fee, of course. Which we very gratefully agreed to pay. Makes me wonder though how other foreigners deal. AT-&-Bloody-T refused to give me a stinkin' phone line because I didn't have a social security number or a driver's license--one or the other; no substitutes. And Verizon demanded a $400 deposit from my husband for cell phone service, after another of those pesky credit checks came back with not much to show. I'm telling you, I was practically holding my breath when I called the electricity company, wondering if they'd actually grant us impudent aliens a little light in our new home. Thankfully, they were nice, so at least I won't have to head over to Wal-mart for candles.

Somewhat Unreal

2006-07-14T04:27:00.000+09:00

Sorry, sorry. Everyone now thinks I'm in San Francisco because of my last post and and then my lack of follow-up for weeks. Remember that evil editing project that was sucking the life out of me right before the move? Hmm, maybe I was being too life-sucked to even blog about it. Well, it was taking up my time and it has continued to take up my time, since I got here. Which is why I haven't been as free to blog and, oh, say, search for a place to live as I should have been.

Anyhow, we're not in San Francisco, but close. Well, 45-minutes-ish close. Palo Alto? You know, Stanford University, Google, Silicon Valley, etc. So, we've been here almost three weeks now and will probably be here for three years, at least. Then back to Japan.

Perhaps it's because I'm living in a hotel. Or because I'm coming from a place that is so radically different, but Palo Alto feels...unreal. Not in a good or bad way. It's just... Take the weather: flawless blue skies and blinding sunshine, all day, every day, until about 8pm at night, when the sun finally begins a very languid descent. And it doesn't change ever, we've been told, except for like a month of scattered clouds and drizzles in December. Unreal. Also, with this kind of weather, you'd think the place would be nothing but scorched earth (I, myself, am in fear that a few more months of walking under this unrelenting sun and I'm going to bear a striking resemblance to Clint Eastwood). But no, everywhere you look, there are the lushest, sweetest-green lawns you could imagine. You know the movie "Toys" with Robin Williams? Sometimes this place reminds me of the outdoor scenes for that movie (remember the giant toy elephant perched in the grass, blowing soap bubbles out of its trunk?).

Right now, we're searching for a home, but we haven't had much luck. As I mentioned, we've been staying at a hotel, one that accepts dogs, and life is pretty luxurious at the moment: heated pool (if you don't mind that it's permanently roiling with wee noisy munchkins on summer vacation and, combined with that, is permanently heated to a disturbingly warm temperature), free breakfast, and a very nice lady named Maria who cleans our room. We like Maria, my husband especially. He's always pointing out to me Maria's exemplary cleaning habits: "Look at the way Maria organizes the shampoo and conditioner bottles," he says, eyes glowing with approval. And, "Ahh, it's so nice to come back to a clean house. I wish we could live here forever." I try to point out how exhausted poor Maria looks some days, but that part doesn't seem to register with him. Maria has one other problem: She's scared of Edward. It doesn't help that he squeals and struggles in my arms like a rabid pig to get to Maria so that he can get some lovin', but, essentially, I have to keep Edward out of the room while she's cleaning. Unfortunately, Maria always comes at the hottest time of the afternoon, and so a walk is impossible. Edward and I have thus taken to hanging out in the deserted hotel dining area, me working at my laptop, Edward stretched out under the table while furtively lapping up crumbs embedded in the carpet.

This is another unreal thing about Palo Alto: You can take your dog just about anywhere. We recently visited the Stanford Shopping Center with Edward in tow, and were peering through the window of the Pottery Barn, when another couple cooly strolled inside with their dog. Another time, a security guard actually asked me to come into the store when he spotted Edward and me waiting outside for my husband.

How nice, right? But then...

Recently, still smiling at the sight of a bull terrier trotting through Macy's with its owner, I walked over to a counter and stepped right in a huge, sloshy puddle--though it was more like a small lake; no, a sea; the Parting of the Yellow Sea is what it quite literally felt like--of said bull terrier's pee. Needless to say, it was totally gross. And so I now fully understand the pros and cons of a pet-friendly society.

Welcome to California

2006-07-12T09:18:00.000+09:00

Well, we made it to and through San Francisco International Airport, Edward and I. My husband headed out separately, commanded by the head of the US division of his company to go to New York, say hello, grovel a bit for this grand opportunity bestowed upon him, and then turn around and come back to California. It's an old-fashioned kinda company.

The part I was most worried about--flying with Edward--turned out to be a breeze. Because it was a nine-hour trip from Tokyo, I didn't want the little guy in cargo but I stressed a bit about the idea of him being stuck in his carrier bag for all that time. Thankfully, he's small and quiet, and I don't think the flight crew even noticed he was tucked under the seat in front of me...so, I made quite a few bathroom trips, lugging a rather large "totebag" with me each time. I wonder if I looked a tad suspicious to my fellow travellers. Ah well, at least Edward got to stretch his legs every few hours in the little airplane lavatory. It was quite funny, just seeing him there.

Going through US customs with Edward was also ridiculously easy. They asked me if I had any dog food, I said I did, they took it away from me, and then they told me I could go. I was like, "Don't you even want to see my dog? Or his health certificate?" And they were like, "No. Hey, say congratulations to Bob, here. He just got a promotion." Congratulations, Bob.

One Week to Go

2006-06-26T11:30:00.000+09:00

Looks like I won't be able to blog at length until I get to California, and it has nothing to do with being busy preparing for the move and everything to do with a cruel, unsympathetic colleague who's putting preposterous work demands upon me before I leave Japan.

Quick summation: mad daily deadlines aside, we're pretty much all set, thanks to my wonderful husband, who has had to handle almost all the arrangements. As payback, he says I have to handle everything once we're on English-speaking soil again. He's taking advantage of my currently apologetic state. And I feel bad enough to let him.

Last week: Got Edward microchipped. To enter Japan, your dog must have a microchip that's ISO 11784 or 11785 compliant (in case anyone's confused, we had to get this done in preparation of our return to Japan in a few years). Got a bit worried the night before the chipping, but a quick online search reassured me that it's nothing worse than getting a vaccine and most dogs don't seem to mind. Then we got to the vet and she started saying things about big needles, blood, and it being best if I stayed out in the waiting lounge while they inserted the microchip. After an increasingly tense 45-minute wait, the vet, face strangely flushed, finally stumbled through a door and ushered me into one of the rooms. My eyes instantly fell upon Edward, who lay in a defeated slump on the examination table. (His normal response to those tables is to climb the nearest available person to get off it or simply take a flying leap, never mind that for his height, that must be the equivalent of a free-fall off the Brooklyn Bridge.) Another nurse was pressing some gauze to a spot near his shoulders and it came away bright with blood. Then I saw the needle itself. It was big--2mm wide, the vet said. I think Edward thought so too and tried his best to protest--hence, the red-faced vet. We then had to wait another hour, back in the lounge, with Edward collapsed on the couch beside me like a deflated soup dumpling. When a fat corgi waddled in and Edward's ears didn't even prick, I almost thought they'd drugged him. He remained in this shell-shocked state the rest of the day.

When I took a break from work in the evening, I turned to find Edward huddled against the couch
and finally had to launch a vulture hand puppet (one of his toys) attack, to coax him out of the Land of the Impossibly Betrayed.

He's fine now. And he beeps, like an item getting price-checked at Walmart, when you hold a microchip scanner over his back. It's rather funny in a totally exploitive way.

2006-06-08T23:39:00.000+09:00

I promise that the next post will be about the move to California. Unfortunately, I'm going to be up yet again (see previous post) at 5am tomorrow, this time for an interview to get my American visa, so I have to finish up my work and try for at least four hours of sleep tonight. Since there's no barium involved, I'm almost looking forward to getting grilled.

What Happened with the Barium

2006-06-08T21:28:00.000+09:00

I wanted to blog about what happened with the barium-drinking yesterday after I got home, but was totally monopolized by work. Okay, I was also monopolized by the couch for a while, because I'd woken up at 5:30 that morning in order to walk Edward and then get to the clinic in time for the health check. Which meant I'd only had two hours of sleep, half of which I lost to in-bed agonizing.

I was slightly comforted when Edward and I stepped outside to discover the most gorgeous weather in full bloom. Although I'm never awake to enjoy it, I love the slow, private feeling of early morning. I decided then and there to make a habit of waking up at 5am after I turn 60.

The hour-long train ride brought all the stress right back. I was with my husband, whose "Don't be a baby" pep talks only confirmed that I'd be getting no assistance from his corner. I hunkered down, feeling tense, alone, and really quite thirsty since I'd been told not to drink anything after nine the night before. I waffled for a little bit, telling myself there had to be some way out of this, then trying to talk myself into accepting that I had to do it. But inexorably, my fear gained firm and total control. The barium-water suspension (in a now Super Big Gulp sized tankard) I kept trying to picture myself swallowing had morphed from the consistency of milkshake to plaster of paris. I'd once made a mask of someone's face with plaster of paris and I remember how fast it set. I imagined the barium congealing halfway down my throat.

I could do this. I had to do it. But then I thought: No, I bloody well do not have to do it. People have died from refusing blood transfusions and chemotherapy, and maybe refusing was the wrong choice, but it was their choice to make. Suddenly the expression "pick your battles" popped into my head and, worthy or not, I picked: There'd be no drinking of barium for me today.

A dozen scenarios played in my head as I tested out my limited Japanese, trying to formulate the most articulate, effective argument I could present to the staff at the clinic. I quickly nixed the idea of sobbing out a heartrending plea and prostrating myself before a stony nurse. (I don't know why, but all the nurses I've ever encountered in Japan have been stony, both in heart and facial expression, which utterly baffles me since why would an uncaring person choose a line of work in which it's practically your job to care?) I tried out calm, lucid, and reasonable, but found it difficult to maintain this facade when my only defense was: "I can't swallow thick, creamy drinks." Eventually, I stopped rehearsing and just told myself I'd stick to my guns, no matter what. I wouldn't worry about being polite and accommodating for once. I would stand up for myself.

Finally we were exiting the train, me all grim-faced determination. And then, after a short wait in the clinic reception area, my moment arrived, my battle, and I made myself squarely face the nurse holding my chart.

Me: [Pleasant but firm] Excuse me, is the part of the exam that requires drinking barium absolutely necessary?

Nurse: No.

Husband: [Surprised, almost disappointed at my reprieve, the stinker] Really?

Nurse: Totally up to you.

Of course since the nurse was speaking in formal Japanese, her response took several pages longer to get out. But the above was the essence of it. God, you would not believe the relief that just about caused my chest to cave in at that moment. Admittedly, as far as battles went, it was a pretty pitiful one. Not even sure one could call it a "battle." But I'd won. I wouldn't have to choke down, or puke up, barium. I was the happiest girl in the whole world.

Rescue Me

2006-06-06T12:55:00.000+09:00

I'll be leaving Japan at the end of this month and living in California for a few years. Husband's getting transferred. Before anyone starts screaming "Why didn't you tell me before?"--we were only informed about the move last week. And it's been a bit 'o madness around here, what with procuring all the necessary documents, sorting out our apartment, deciphering animal import/export regulations, and everything else.

That news out of the way, all I can say is: I don't want to drink barium! (Just so you know how upset I am about this, I almost put three exclamation marks at the end of the previous sentence.) I've never liked my husband's company for all sorts of reasons, but I've, as much as possible, withheld my opinions because he gets rather sensitive when I defame that hallowed establishment. Well, this time they go too far. I honestly do not understand why--since I sure as hell am not one of theirs--but they are insisting that I get a full health check before we move, and this health check includes a Barium Swallow. Without knowing much at all about the procedure, all my life, I've felt this is something that I would avoid at all costs. Now that I have to do it (tomorrow), I've of course tortured myself by reading everything I can find on the ordeal.

My husband--and probably many of you, upon reading this post--thinks I'm being a sniveling, wussy cocktail wiener. What he doesn't realize is that this isn't me being what he categorizes as typically contrary, noisy, and difficult. This is me trying my best to tamp down full-blown terror.

I can, in fact, quietly and calmly withstand a fair amount, in terms of medical tests: needles, invasive procedures, all that good stuff. I'm also unfussy where food is concerned. But what I cannot handle is drinking thick, creamy substances. It isn't just the gag factor, the roiling nausea; the thought of it actually makes my innards squidge and my throat close up in a serious panic. Insects, animal entrails, heads, hoofs, claws--fine, serve me up a plate. But mayonnaise, banana smoothies, creamy yogurt--*shudder*. And still, if I took it a teaspoon at a time, I could manage to down those things.

But tomorrow's x-ray is going to require fast gulping of large quantities (two to three cups) of barium mixed with water to a dense, "milkshake-like consistency," some of it done while lying down.

I can't do it! All of a sudden, I'm recalling those fluoride treatments at the dentist that used to make me all but hyperventilate with fear as a child. The dentist would insist that I bite down "harder" on the trays filled with creamy, sweet fluoride, and when I obeyed, the fluoride would gush over the sides and start filling my mouth, flowing toward the back of my throat. Breathe. Deep breaths.

This must be a phobia, right? I mean, if I step back from the situation, I can see that my reaction is verging on extreme. But, A phobia of what?, you might be wondering with some derision: Too much sour cream with my borscht? Strawberry malts? As unappealing as such things are to me, it's more... a fear of being choked, of drowing in viscous substances. It's a phobia--it's not supposed to be logical.

Why, why do I have to have a health check, I ask you? If the company is worried about liability, I'll happily sign a release form, promising I won't cause them any trouble if I fall sick and/or die while overseas. Why am I even their responsibility? I'm just a wife, and a non-Japanese one at that. Who gives a damn about my esophagus and intestines? If I start screaming when the nurse advances on me with a large tumbler of barium, will the doctor put a big red X on my report, deny me permission to leave Japan? For the love of god, this seems so antiquated--surely they could come up with less-crude methods. Well, obviously not in time to save me from tomorrow.

I'm Soooo Over Air Supply. I Am!

2006-05-27T00:21:00.000+09:00

Oh dear bouncing baby Moses, would someone pul-leez take You Tube away from me? I've been repeatedly listening--and singing along!--to Goodbye by Air Supply, a band I thought I'd outgrown when I turned nine, but obviously NOT, since I can't seem to stop hitting "Replay this Video," even though I really cannot stand the squeaky voice of the little dark-haired guy. Okay, am I talking crazy here or do short guys tend to have squeaky voices? What's up with that? Have you ever heard horse jockeys talking? Like little munchkins, every one. But then I'm short and I don't think I sound squeaky. Crap...do I?

You know, for the longest time, I swore the words to Goodbye were:

I don't wanna play you out
I only wanna lead you on

But then, I was nine, so what did I know?

You! Would never ask me waaaahy...

Vietnam Photos: Halong Bay

2006-05-26T23:31:00.000+09:00

I finally got around to sorting through all 28,600 of the photos one of my camera-happy friends uploaded to Snapfish of our trip to Vietnam. Here are a few of Halong Bay, which is a three-hour drive from Hanoi and supposedly a UNESCO World Heritage site. Sadly, the bay is inundated by tour boats (just like the one we stayed on overnight *wince*), nobody seems to be doing much in terms of preservation, and there was a lot of garbage floating in the bay's trademark milky green waters.

As idyllic as this picture appears, I'm fairly certain this woman brings her children out to pose in front of the tour boats on a regular basis, since the minute my friend took this shot, the woman was paddling over to ask for money.

Polluted as it was, Halong Bay--whose name, by the way, in Vietnamese sounds nothing like any way you might attempt to pronounce it--is however quite a photogenic thing, and thus I am sharing these few shots (all of which were taken by my friend, who I'd give credit to, except that I don't know if she'd really want her name posted and, thus, connected with this blog. Of course I could just ask, but I'm too lazy. This is why for the most part I've refrained from using other peoples' pictures on my blog, even when I see something extremely post-worthy. I just don't feel confident of the whole Fair Use doctrine, though my blog is undoubtedly for my own personal, non-for-profit use. I can still see someone having a major hissy fit, and I do believe in asking permission before using someone's work. But in this case, since it's a friend and all that. This parenthesized aside has gotten completely out of hand, so I'll stop now.).

One of the nice tour boats clogging up the bay.

Maddened by Rain and Orange Blossoms

2006-05-19T18:39:00.000+09:00

Early this evening, a warm, gusty wind blew in out of nowhere and cleared away a patch of cloud canopy, and can I just say how damn good it felt to see that stretch of blue sky lit by the setting sun (it's the rainy season, for anyone who missed my last post)? So good I sank to my knees, groceries clutched in both hands, and sobbed right there on the sidewalk beside my neighbor's hedge with the orange tree on the other side that's frothed with the most unbelievable-smelling blossoms.

Oh! Ha! I'm just kidding of course I'm just kidding. I didn't do that. Sink to my knees and sob, that is. Though maybe I saw myself doing that--it really felt like a release to see that glowing blue patch of sky. But I really am stalking my neighbor's orange tree. God, I'm turning into a junkie, a flower junkie, an Orange Blossom Junkie--man, that sounds lame. I was actually contemplating flower theft today, so that I can smell that orange-blossom goodness at home, any time I ~~need~~ like.

At first, I thought: orange-blossom sugar?--like the way you make vanilla sugar. But, no, it's too perfumey. I once tried a chocolate truffle with rose-infused cream and I was not won over. The whole food-smelling-like-bath-soap concept...nuh uh.

So what about orange-blossom-infused alcohol for... sniffing... and stuff?

Well, that would still require the poaching of the neighbor's tree. But there are so many flowers! I mean, would it be so bad? Could I get arrested?

* * * *
119 [911 equivalent in Japan] operator: Ye-es?

Neighbor with orange tree: Help me. Oh my god, you have to help me.

Operator: Ma'am, please calm down and tell me what's up.

Neighbor: That girl... with the short-legged dog... She's back. And she's doing it again.

Operator: Doing what?

Neighbor: Sniffing! For god's sake, please make her stop. She's sucking up all the pollen, leaving nothing for the bees, screwing up the pollination process, ruining next year's orange harvest. [I know nothing about growing things, so give me a break.]

Operator: Holy balls. Okay, whatever you do, do not approach her. She sounds weird. We'll send someone over right away. Don't worry, Ma'am, we will put a stop to this sick, sick girl.

Edward with Orange Blossom

2006-05-17T20:14:00.000+09:00

The rainy season began this week and will last about two months. And that's all I'm going to say about that because I've done more than enough complaining on this blog. One nice thing about these wet pair of months is that they seem to draw out all the beautiful flowers. My favorite right now are the sturdy little orange blossoms, one of which Edward very kindly agreed to model for us. They're fairly plain in form but they smell scrumptious, especially in this moist, heavy air. And I'm talking seriously scrumptious--like "standing in the sidewalk and snuffling your neighbor's hedge for five minutes because there's an orange tree on the other side sending out heady wafts of orange blossom perfume" scrumptious.

What Was Eliot Going on About?

2006-05-15T20:57:00.000+09:00

Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
-- TS Eliot, from Burnt Norton

Back in high school, I hated English lit. The classics, and their characters, seemed constipated. Symbolism and hidden meanings flew by me without even a tickle. Deconstructing text did nothing but break my concentration and cause my thoughts to flitter elsewhere. For me, reading was purely about escapism, and harping on why Teresa really liked to paint yellow pumpkins was not the way to get lost in a story.

Unfortunately, the passage above came up in conversation yesterday and is now driving me nuts. I spent a good hour searching online for a nice, straightfoward answer, but no one seems able to agree on what Eliot really meant.

Won't someone shed some light on my illiterate soul?

Wedding Invitation (the One I Didn't Get)

2006-05-15T17:55:00.000+09:00

Sorry about the previous, overwrought post--though I do enjoy pounding those out, from time to time. I'm relieved to announce that the employment floodgates have opened and I'm now booked to my eyeballs in enough jobs that I should be unable to complain or loll about for a good four months. Hahhh.

Now that I'm feeling a little more magnanimous, I should expound upon the wedding invitation situation. No, I was not mistaken: I'm not invited. If your name ain't on the card...

According to my husband, it's a matter of economics. Having a wedding anywhere in the world is expensive. The more people you invite, the larger a reception hall you'll have to rent--and, to put it baldly, my husband's friends can't afford a bigger reception hall. And while each guest is expected to "help out" by toting along a wedding gift of around 30,000 yen, a couple might only pay 40,000 to 50,000 between them. Not such a good deal.

There's always a casual party following the reception, where even the wives are allowed to show their lowly faces, and where I've chatted with many good friends of the bride and groom who, without any apparent resentment, volunteered that they had not been invited to the wedding either. So I guess I have no right to get huffy. It's just that, before enduring my own typical, torturous Asian wedding years ago, where everyone and my father's client's underaged girlfriend were invited, I was subjected to months of unrelenting ~~brainwashing~~ instruction regarding proper wedding etiquette. I guess some conditioned part of my brain was... triggered when I learned I hadn't been invited. Again.

I do wonder though whether in Japan, things aren't a little influenced by older traditions. In a shinto wedding, from what I understand, there'd be extremely limited guest seating--something like 10 people per bride and groom. And due to a very strict invitation hierarchy, guests would be made up of relatives for the most part. And maybe your boss. I've heard of times where a sibling might even get left out, for lack of space. Though I doubt that happens nowadays.

I Just Need to Vent

2006-05-11T13:24:00.000+09:00

I don't know if other freelancers have this problem, but people seem to enjoy the assumption that my lack of commitment to one company means I instead exist to be at their beck and call, merely idling in the background until a crooked finger sends me scurrying forward, eager to serve. Excuse my language, please, but fuck that.

What makes me so incensed my eyeballs are twitching is that, for the past few days, I have been forced to do just that: wait. Since I've been back in Japan, I've contacted my various job sources, let them know I'm available, been offered work, and then been told, "Please wait. Indefinitely." Or, better still, "We've got a job for you," and then dead silence for DAYS. Urgh, now my butt is twitching in irritation as well. I despise these periods of work limbo. I know that if I'm patient, I'll soon be busy again, and probably whining about it like a little girl. But this, this is infinitely worse. Sitting around baking muffins (albeit pretty darn tasty ones) while I wait to be summoned does nothing but excite that squeaky-voiced, largely ignored sliver of me that isn't altogether satisfied with my peripheral life.

What is it about myself that reassures people: Go ahead and string her along! Really--she loves it! It's like a radiating aura that wraps around a person's conscience like swaddling and numbs them from feeling compunction. Summer vacation, after my second year in college, I was told over the phone by an editor of a magazine I badly wanted to intern with: "Please, come over to New York. We'd love to have you." Flew there and turned out what she meant to say was, "We've already chosen an intern, but we thought we'd hold you with false promises, as backup, just in case." This, people, is how I ended up subletting a small couch that literally filled the entire living room space of a miniature one-bedroom Chinatown apartment already occupied by two other people and found myself walking every inch of the city, begging for a waitressing job.

After days of rejections, I was mercifully taken in by a little Italian restaurant that served things like veal Parmesan, was entirely staffed by foreigners like myself (yes, of course we all had proper working visas), and was owned by a taciturn, older Italian gentleman, whose impromptu visits tended to send our manager into a bit of a pale-faced tizzy: "Quick! Get Mr. Calzone* his usual drink!" Hey, I wasn't going to examine the boss, who could instill terror simply by quietly eating pasta at a corner table, or the place's hiring policy too closely. I was just relieved as hell that someone had accepted my lightly tinkered resume (I wasn't 100-percent certain I'd wow them with my candy striping at Lynn Valley Home for the Elderly nor the instant mashed potato-scooping skills I'd honed while working at the college cafeteria) and was going to let me make some money--even if it would be solely from tips; no pay for the alien workers.

Although there's nothing scarier than a red-faced patron who blames you for the cook getting your clearly written order slip confused, it wasn't a bad job. When people got what they ordered, when they enjoyed the food, it was a pleasure hearing their compliments, even if I had nothing to do with it directly. There were four Ecuadorian cooks in the kitchen and they were surprisingly sweet to me, considering they acted like they didn't see or interact with women very often. I was fed plates of the best French fries I've ever had, fresh out of the fryer and so hot and crisp they sizzled as they made contact with your tongue. And at the end of the night, I walked home with my tips weighing down my pockets in a manner that at least reassured, even if it could not soothe the sharp panic that an entire summer of resume-building opportunity was being squandered.

Twinkling memories and my current joblessness aside, the weather has been depressing the hell out of me. Dirty-white skies that make you squint. Oozing, streaking rain. A neither-here-nor-there temperature that has me sweating in my pajamas and thus forcing me to adopt an in-house attire of knee socks, my husband's board shorts (which have a soothing "support" netting that's supposed to hold a guy in place, and seems to work the same way for my thighs, so that's nice), a camisole, and cardigan--all of which looks as stupid as it sounds; just ask the construction worker dude dangling outside my window who gets the best view of my latest ensembles.

Oh, did I forget to mention that? They've been upgrading the outer facade of our apartment building for months. This means scads of construction workers running about, drilling things, appearing suddenly on my balcony by way of the jungle gym of scaffolding wrapped around the building. Best of all is the magical white netting stretched across the crisscrossing metal frames. It lets in the rain but blocks out all light. This means, for months, my home has been steeped in eternal darkness--I can't even tell without running outside whether the day is sunny or cloudy, although with the weather lately being the bitch that it is, one can most usually guess.

I could actually live with the lack of privacy (reference: dangling construction workers outside window), the early-morning screeching and scratching, and the grey dust that hangs in the air and coats every surface. But I need my light. And can I just say that it sucks in an elephantitis way when one is cut off from one's own balcony and is thus forced to hang all of one's wet laundry inside one's dark, dank little apartment to--ha!--dry.

The final cherry of course is the man who roused me out of bed this morning to tell me that our place was dirtier, older, and more decrepit than they'd anticipated and all this sprucing up is going to stretch on an additional month--minimum.

Oh, wait, let's not forget the sprinkles on the sundae: I think my computer is dying. If I open more than one window at a time, my CPU usage suddenly shoots up to 100% and the hard drive starts humming, whining, and churning, louder and louder, like a vacuum cleaner whose bag is overfull and about to explode. It's doing it right now. It's extremely distracting. And annoying. If it doesn't break soon, I might have to take matters into my own hands.

But where would we be in life without a little extra chocolate sauce: My husband just received a wedding invitation from the friend who was best man at our wedding... But, wait. Where's my name? Yes, that's right, my babies. I'm not invited. Not that I give a bloody damn about attending some wedding for a guy that I don't know or really care about, but it's the principle of the thing. I'm the wife, for god's sake, not some girlfriend who might not last until the wedding day. And you know what else? This is--I swear--like the fifteenth wedding invitation from one of my husband's friends over the past few years that has excluded me. It's totally insulting or something. Or maybe I'm just irate become of my stinking moaning computer. And the lack of vitamin D from insufficient sunlight. And all that other stuff.

Okay, I swear I'm done. And if anything else annoying happens in my life, I'll spare you the details.

*This person's name has been changed to protect... someone.

Pineapple Tarts

2006-05-08T17:34:00.000+09:00

These are certainly not the most exquisite-looking pineapple tarts around, but it is this imperfection in form that, in fact, speaks in their favor. First of all, they're obviously homemade (not by me)--not sleek, mass-produced medallions. Second, if the pastry hadn't cracked and crumbled in the prissy, delicate way that it did, then these wouldn't be real pineapple tarts, in my opinion--they did go through a long flight from Singapore to Tokyo in my backpack.

I'm not going to share my own recipe or anything like that (although I've provided a link to one, below). I just feel like these things are so good, they should be getting more exposure. I'm positively mystified that after all these years, an appalling percentage of the Earth's population still has not heard the word, been touched by the golden light, tasted of The Pineapple Tart.

Let's break these babies down. Pineapple tarts come in two forms, open-faced circlets (as in the picture above) or enclosed parcels. They're always little bite-sized things; you'll never see one great big honkin', nine-inch pineapple tart. Perhaps because of their shape, size, and snackable quality, some might want to label them cookies; however, "tart" rings truer in my mind, perhaps because the pale, buttery base or casing is somewhat like a savory shortcrust pastry. (Quick interjection: Throughout this post, "in my opinion" will be implicit in my pronouncements of what characterizes a "real" pineapple tart; dissenters are expected.) As you might be able to see from the photos, the pineapple tart's pastry is very fine and tender... and, strangely, dry--it is not in the least greasy, nor crunchy or cake-like. These qualities are the perfect match for the moist, sweet-tart filling, which is made from fresh pineapple that has been chopped and cooked down with sugar until it is a caramelized, amber color and firm enough to roll into little balls.

When you bite into a pineapple tart, the pastry instantly begins to disintegrate in a rich, buttery crumble that perfectly balances the sweetness of the dense, almost chewy pineapple filling. For this reason, one should be wary of pineapple tarts with gigantuan balls of filling all but swallowing up the pastry, because these will be much too sweet. It's all about finding the perfect balance.

Although this might raise a flurry of protests, I feel compelled to share the following tip: For the ultimate pineapple tart experience, nuke a couple of tarts in the microwave and then top the hot tarts with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I cannot overemphasize how good this tastes, with the aromas of butter and caramelized pineapple heightened, and the contrasting textures and temperatures... Orgh.

Now for a quick history lesson. Ahem. Pineapple tarts seem to be claimed by the Peranakans, the descendents of Chinese immigrants that settled in the Malay Archipelago hundreds of years ago. However, although I couldn't find anything online to confirm the fact, it's possible the recipe may have Portuguese influences as well, due to colonists who settled in Malaysia.

I searched around and found a truckload of pineapple tart recipes, but many of them either sounded wrong or the pictures included with the recipe looked, well, bad (in this example, the filling looks pale and insipid and the pastry is so brown and glossy I can practically smell the cooked egg wash). The most promising recipe I could find came from the blog Pinkcocoa Tabetai, using what she calls the "creaming method." I do wonder if the addition of sugar is truly necessary for the pastry though. Also, you should definitely heed her advice and skip the canned pineapple, which is too sweet, juicy, and mushy to achieve the right consistency for the filling. Since I haven't tried the recipe myself though, I'm not sure how it would compare to my idea of the perfect pineapple tart. But her tarts in the pictures look very nice.

Hanoi, Morning

2006-04-27T21:13:00.000+09:00

This is the very first shot I took of Hanoi, our first morning there, just as we stepped out of our hotel. If it isn't clear, those are bundles of lilies loaded onto the back of the woman's bicycle.

Unfortunately, what few remaining pictures I managed to snap before my cell phone battery died did not turn out very well--mostly due to insufficient lighting.

The End, Sort Of

2006-04-27T19:26:00.000+09:00

As I stepped off the very last train today, so my three-week-long journey finally came to an end. And as I tugged my trolley bag down the narrow road home, I was welcomed back with the scent of yaki tori hanging in the air and a grin of recognition from the big guy who works at the corner fruit and vegetable shop.

I already miss the heat terribly and am only realizing that cold weather makes me sluggish. Whereas the warmth beckons me to race outside, almost antsy to enjoy the day (I've even been known to skip), even a slight chill in the air has me reaching for my pajamas and glancing longingly at the bed and its thick covers. It's funny but not only does my body--my muscles, my movements--grow somnolent, even my thought processes seem to be motoring through molasses. Or maybe I'm just tired from the flight, though it was only seven hours, and I hope I haven't become that much of a wimp.

I came home to the apartment looking neat as a pin--thanks to my fastidious husband. I do wonder if he doesn't relish these prolonged absences of mine, even a little, if only for the relief of being able to enter the front door after a long day and know that the place won't look as if it's been ransacked by desperate criminals. As I'm still in the midst of unpacking, that's exactly how the place appears right now. My poor, tidy husband.

To ensure a warm welcome, I saved exactly half of the space in my travel bag solely for twelve bak chang, which are these pyramids of sticky rice stuffed with seasoned pork and steamed in banana leaves. My husband is crazy for bak chang and it's the only thing he requests when I visit Singapore. Unfortunately, one leaf-bound package is about the approximate size and weight of a mini boulder, and twelve of them adds up to a freakin' heavy bag. One of these days, I'm positive immigration is going to demand to know what those things are and then promptly whisk them away. I mean, if even beef jerky isn't allowed through anymore...

Damn, was supposed to go to the supermarket and pick up some things for dinner. But that 10-minute walk in the cold darkness is impossible in my current slack-limbed, pajama-ed state. I guess I'll just have to go hungry. Or curl up in bed and go to sleep. But no! I must first clean up the explosion that is my clothes and toiletries littered all over the floor. Okay, better get to it.

Still on Holiday

2006-04-20T18:25:00.000+09:00

I'm "in transit" in Singapore for a few days, before I fly back to Japan. Am feeling utterly relaxed right now, lulled by the delicious tropical air that my skin, funnily enough, always responds happily toward. It must be the residual Singaporean in my blood. Yet, if I were a true Singaporean, I'd be frowning ferociously and bitching about the heat and the humidity, but, weirdest of all, wearing jeans regardless. I really noticed that, this time round: Southeast Asians somehow find donning long pants on a juicy, 35'C day tolerable. I have no problem with juicy, 35'C days, but the whole joy of this kind of weather is the freedom to shed all those cloying layers, to rejoice in Le Summer Wardrobe.

Ah well, whatever makes you happy.

The battery in my trusty cell phone died and refuses to be recharged, so I've been forced to borrow my mother's super-duper camera, which is so damn good, I swear to god, when I took a picture of a leaf and blew it up on screen, I actually witnessed photosynthesis taking place. So any inferior pictures in this post are entirely due to my own preposterous photography skills and Hello's (or Blogger's) refusal to allow too high a resolution of images to be uploaded (they blurred my photos, damn them!).

These lush jungle shots are actually just of the sturdy plants sprouting from a narrow string of dirt on my parents' balcony. Add a little breeze and sparkling sunshine, and I can practically hear the coconuts thudding to the ground and the ocean swooshing in the background. Unfortunately, my pseudo tropical vacation has been marred by the fact that it's rained every single day since I got here. "We live in a catchment area," my dad explains, and I have no clue what that means, except that any more of this water and the whole apartment is going to one day let out a horrible creak like Noah's ark, uproot, and drift away. Hell, today it was actually sunny and blue-skied, and it still rained. It's like that episode of the My Little Pony cartoon that featured a cursed leprechaun who walked around with a fat little rain cloud permanently hovering over his head--I've come to imagine being in a catchment area to mean something similar.

My Singapore post would not be complete without a little food review, and so I give you: Hock Lam Street Popular Beef Kway Teow (since 1921)!

Okay, here's what you're looking at in this picture (above): The blue thing at the top is just a Chinese spoon. To the left are beef balls, and, just like fishballs or meatballs, they have nothing to do with testicles, although whenever there's ground-up meat involved, I guess one can never be too certain. Well, beef balls are really tasty, so, whatever. There's also a little bit of sliced beef on the right. The white-ish squiggly thing on top of the sliced beef is a salty pickle called kiam chai. And underneath the beefy brown sauce--mmmm, delicious--is your noodles.

There are about six or eight choices of beef kway teow to choose from, and you can have yours "dry" (the one in all these pictures is "dry") or in "soup." You can also substitute the ribbon-like kway teow with a round-stranded rice noodle, as can be seen below:

If you order dry, you'll still get a little bowl of the consommé-ish (in consistency but much richer flavor-wise) beef soup, and I always ladle a few spoonfuls into my noodles to lighten up the sauce a little. I also add a good dose of chilli sauce and a spoonful of cincaluk, which is a soupy, fermented prawn sauce that is a bit tangy and maybe a little scary smelling/looking for first-timers:

Those black specks are the little prawns' eyes.

Hanoi Report

2006-04-13T18:18:00.000+09:00

Our time in Vietnam, too soon, came to an end, but I'm happy to report that it was a near-perfect vacation: no fights, fuss, or puking. In a week, we visited Hanoi, Halong Bay, and Mai Chau, but my favorite was definitely vibrant Hanoi. Mai Chau, with its stilt houses and sharp-green paddy fields, was a close second. And Halong Bay, while not what I imagined, must surely be the most languid, serene overnight trip I've ever had (maybe a little too languid and serene).

I feel guilty admitting this, but one joy of being in Hanoi was how cheap everything was, which fit my tight budget very neatly. We stayed at Classic Street hotel on Hang Be street at just $24 a night, and I thought it was wonderful: clean, air conditioned rooms, really nice people, and great location in the Old Quarter. Of course they put us in what felt like the imprisoned princess's chamber at the top of an impossibly tall tower... Okay, it was only the sixth floor, but throw in a spring-tight spiral staircase, and suddenly the whole world begins to revolve, as you climb round and up, winding endlessly higher and higher and hi-- I almost tripped and broke my neck a few times.

While Hanoi is supposed to be the most quiet and restrained of the main Vietnamese cities, I found it a seriously intense thrill for all the senses. The mere act of walking requires absolute alertness, as you zigzag between sidewalk and road, dodging squatting vendors, walking vendors, racing children, people digging into bowls of noodles while perched on tiny plastic stools in the middle of the pavement, and of course the endless tide of motorbikes and scooters quite literally moving in every direction--sometimes cutting straight across the sidewalk and coming to a stop inside a shop--with all the order of ants pouring out of a stomped-on ant hill.

Almost as numerous as the bikers are the street vendors--all of them female--from the girl dozing on a step with a little aluminum steamer (for buns, was my guess) at her feet to the old woman deftly butchering different cuts of pork on a wooden slab a foot off the ground (raw meats are commonly peddled all day long without refrigeration or ice). Then there are the ubiquitous women with the conical hats, distinct lope, and shouldered wooden pole from either end of which dangles a large platter-like basket. In Hanoi, you can't respectably sell a product unless you've got it in a humongous quantity that can be precariously stacked up, and these wandering vendors are no exception: fresh crusty bread, bitterly sour green plums (to be dunked in salt or pure MSG crystals and perhaps chased with squinty sips of home-brewed rice wine), bags of peeled pineapples and fresh water chestnuts, any of these things will you see heaped up in those flat baskets and artfully balanced on a pole, as the women wend their way through the streets and surging traffic. Hoping to make a little extra cash through a photo opportunity, one vendor pounced on me and I suddenly found myself wearing her cone hat and pinned down by the enormous weight of two baskets laden with pineapples. I was told that some of these women walk as far as 20km a day with their burdens and come home at night to pass out in a tiny room on a bed shared by as many as eight women.

Though we scarcely had more than a few days in Hanoi, we managed to squeeze in a lot of the obligatory cultural sights. But, as always when I travel, what I enjoyed most was simply wandering around (particularly where food was being sold), maybe staring a little goggle-eyed, sampling a lot of new foods, and trying out the few Vietnamese words I'd been practicing, and not being understood by anybody. Sometimes the response would be impatient or exasperated, but at other times, a smiling crowd would begin to form around us as everyone tried to guess what in the lord's name we were trying to say, adding to the overall noise and confusion--I liked that.

First Night in Hanoi

2006-04-08T00:56:00.000+09:00

I'm in Hanoi and blogging... but maybe not for longer than a few more minutes, since it appears my hotel is closing down for the night. Well, it was nice enough of them to supply guests with a computer with Internet access, so one should not complain. Okay, the front door is now shuttered but it seems the front desk guy will be staying up with me for a while longer, at least.

So far, I like it here! When our plane touched down, it was 5pm and the sky was black as pitch from a combination of dark clouds and thick haze. The area surrounding the airport is largely farmlands, so there was not a flicker of light on either side of the highway, and the land seemed rather lonely. But we're now happily settled in the Old Quarter and the place is positively boiling with life. The streets in this neighborhood are closely crowded by two and three-storey buildings on all sides and clotted with pedestrians, scooters, motorcycles, and the odd car.

What we instantly noticed is that honking your car or motorcyle horn in Hanoi seems more the result of restlessly twitching fingers than any truly useful purpose. Garbage is casually and liberally tossed into the gutters lining the roads and other people actually come along to sweep it all up... occasionally.

One thing about walking in Hanoi--or in the Old Quarter, at least--is that you have to remain alert at all times. No dreamy meandering or gawking about like a tourist when you've got garbage and murky gutters to sidestep and motorcycles to dodge. I already have an (invisible) battle wound from a passing scooter whose handle bashed me in the arm as he squeezed/sped past along a particularly narrow road. I'm afraid my ability to yell profanities in Vietnamese is still a little nonexistent. And I get the feeling that cursing every bad driver in this city is going to be a waste of breath.

We were starving after we arrived at our hotel, so we instantly headed out in search of our first meal.

And I'm afraid my tale must come to a halt because Front Desk Guy seems ready to call it a night. Okay, more to come later!

In Training

2006-03-28T03:00:00.000+09:00

A while back, I officially put myself on a strict muscle-training program. For my bladder, that is. Yes, yes, I know I go on way too much about toilet-related subjects for someone who doesn't have a baby. But chalk it up to spending much of the first half of my childhood with two brothers, two half brothers, and one father with a particularly juvenile sense of humor who I did my best to impress.

Anyhow, this bladder training is in fact serious business because I'll be--happy dance--traveling to Vietnam soon and I do not want to be spending half my trip searching for toilets. Sure, it's easy for all you camel-like Water Retainers to be snide and superior. But my whole life, it's been this way: what drink goes in almost immediately demands to come out, which leaves me feeling perpetually dehydrated, and so I tend to guzzle beverages like there's no tomorrow... and the uncomfortable cycle goes on. Due to this inferior holding capacity, whenever I move some place new, I always work quickly to hone an insider's knowledge of as many accessible public toilets as possible. I even once contemplated starting a pocket guidebook series of public loos for all the major cities of the world.

Here would be my proposal to the publishers: Lots of detailed maps marking hidden side entrances into establishments, etc., but also invaluable tips that will get that user into the nearest white-tiled haven ASAP. For example, "There is a key for customers, nestled in a basket next to the cash register and closely watched by the dark harpy presiding over the coffee bar. But it is possible to slip off with the key when she turns to froth milk for her cappuccinos (which are dreadful and should not be bought in exchange for toilet privileges--it would be far better to take deep, calming breaths and wait until she's distracted)."

But when I go traveling, it's like being thrown to the lions. I don't know what to expect, who to turn to, and where my bladder might inopportunely rear it's annoyingly little head. Which is why I wish someone else would take my toilet guidebook idea and just run with it already. Note to my idea thief: Start with Hanoi. And hurry.

Obi Hanging in Shop Window

2006-03-25T21:38:00.000+09:00

A Bit Off

2006-03-23T01:57:00.000+09:00

I was saving my blog template when my computer went berzerk, and the next thing I knew, half my template had simply disappeared. So I've had to use an old backup version. This means that there might be slight... differences. I can't really recall what I've added or changed in the past few months. But I know my sidebar and the links are not up to date. So if anyone finds themselves suddenly missing from my blogroll, not to fear, you have not been banished from the blog for making a goofy comment. I apologize and will try to figure out what needs fixing.

Blood Orange Stink

2006-03-22T18:42:00.000+09:00

Is it just me or does anyone else think that blood oranges smell like verging-on-rotten regular oranges?

Staying Perfectly Still

2006-03-18T13:25:00.000+09:00

There's a recurring conversation between my husband and myself that has become as familiar as a song, and which we sing with perhaps more levity than some might deem appropriate. And it always begins with me: "If you die first." We're not morbid people. We don't consider this subject with relish.

But look at this. My husband works 17-hour days, smokes over the screechy protests of his asthmatic lungs, rarely has time to eat anything but convenience store food, and of course has a high-stress job. I wake up to my bran flakes cereal and fresh fruits, walk the dog, do somewhat domestic stuff, then work till my husband comes home--I'm like the freakin' poster child for an overly long life, I tell you. The most stressful thing that happens to me is when the dog steps in his own pee or I insert a wooden skewer into my baking cake after an hour and fifteen minutes and it comes away coated in raw batter.

Of course I know that anything could happen. I could write the book on not making long-term plans for anything, even death. But my life right now has a way of lulling me into complacency, making me believe that I'll float right through the years without feeling more than a few lapping waves. And that's when that stubborn song pops back into my head, "If you die first."

It's actually a pretty short song, most often ending with "I'll pack up and move to Africa" or "I'll be really mad at you." But there are times, like this morning, when I wake up and I do allow it to weigh more heavily than usual. I once wrote that I'm good at settling in foreign places, at not missing what I left behind, at accepting new and different. But the truth is that it was so easy for me because I wasn't settling. After high school, for a really long time, it seemed I never stopped moving. I may have paused for breath for a year or two, but it was always me who left; I was never the one left behind.

But now that I've been in Japan for about five years--an eternity, to me--I'm realizing that I have to stop living like a transient, but I simply do not know how. Always at the back of my mind is the belief that I'll be moving on eventually. Before Japan, I never accumulated more than would fit into two big suitcases, because who the hell else was going to help me carry my belongings into my new life, onto trains, off buses, and up and down a million flights of stairs until my hands were chaffed and shaking from the strain? When I was living in Brooklyn, a call from a friend who'd spotted an abandoned couch outside her apartment had my roommate and I running over and, with the help of a homeless man, dragging that baby elephant (Why are couches so blood heavy?) all the way home. We then ended up circling it suspiciously for days, wondering why the hell someone would throw away a perfectly good couch. Unless it had fleas or something. But we eventually settled into it. And when I left New York, I didn't spare that couch a single thought. But now my husband and I have furniture that we actually paid for with our own money. I have more things than will fit into my two suitcases.

My concerns about tangible goods aside, there's that little problem regarding human relationships. There are people who need a lot of friends and others who are content with just a few really good ones. I fall into the latter category and have been this way since I was a little girl. This suited my migratory lifestyle because it meant fewer good-byes, but it also means that I've gotten increasingly good at forgetting people who were once important to me. And I'm beginning to get tired of finding replacements.

Although I've tried making friends with Japanese people, when your command of the language is as limited as mine, honest to god there's only so much you can talk about and only so far that the relationship can go. I also notice that I'm firmly placed in the "foreign friends" group, held apart from the "Japanese friends" group, the inner circle. On the other hand, to be perfectly cold, befriending foreigners is pointless because I've yet to meet a single foreigner who actually means to stay in this country. They're here for work or they're here for "the experience." Foreigners are not here because they love it and never want to leave. At first I took what I could get, which mostly meant short-term agreements and saying farewell a lot. But I can't be bothered to keep this up.

So now I'm down to a fistful of friends who I see less than seldom. And I have my husband. This is where the alarm bells start sounding. To calm them, all I have are my feeble survival plans. If he dies first, I shall get mad or I will pack up my things and move--probably, I will have to do both. I couldn't stay in Japan, because as much as I love it here, I don't think I'd love it half as much without him. And there's no where to go home to--I've somehow seen to that. Not Singapore, not Vancouver, not Des Moines, nor any place else I've stopped in between then and now. I'm even thinking of taking out that string of towns at the top of my blog because I'm realizing that those places were nothing more than pitstops in my wandering. They are not a part of who I am. I can scarcely remember anything about them now, in fact, because that is how a person like me moves on.