Adventures in the women's restroom

Others have written about the cutthroat business of using the ladies' loo in Japan (her blog's title is even an homage to restroom etiquette), but I got to experience some of the prime high quality drama myself this morning. I think women's kaisha toilets must be near the pinnacle for volume of unwritten rules in toileting.

I got to work about 20 minutes early, and not wanting to go up and settle into the grim-faced, blinds-drawn office quite yet, I ducked into the first floor lav, usually deserted as there are no offices at the lobby level. One of the stalls was occupied - not a problem for me.

The toilets in my office building are kept scrupulously clean, and are the most so first thing in the morning after the cleaning crew has hit them but before the worker drones descend on the building and the daily christening begins. I'm telling you so you can put your mind at ease, but I don't actually care that much if you think I'm gross. In fact, as the doors and walls go all the way down to the floor, they are often used by energy-sapped salarynerds for naps disguised as post-lunch bowel movements.

I went into one of the vacant stalls to take a few minutes to collect myself, wipe my sweaty brow, apply eyeliner that I'm too frazzled to apply at home, and finish up a few rounds of Words with Friends on my phone.

But. My next stall neighbor wasn't happy. She clearly wanted the place to herself - nay, felt entitled to it. First she tried to wait me out, hoping that I would be on my way quickly. But I was in no hurry. F-A-X-E-R. Triple word score! As it became clear I wasn't leaving, the passive-aggressive drama began. Oh! the throat clearing! The sighing! The audible pouting! The put-out petulance! After awhile of this, she exited her stall and stamped around in front of the sinks for a bit. A-G-R-E-E. Hm. Only a double letter on that one. I could hear a lot of hair flipping and turning on and off of the taps. I still had ten minutes to kill. Z-I-L-C-H. Ha! Z on a triple letter! Take that, mom! Finally, with a big huffy sigh, she flounced out. I feel certain that were it not a swinging door, she would have slammed it. Crap. Only Is and Os left. I checked my watch, tacked an I onto the X, fished my key card out of my bag, and went to catch the elevator.

Well that makes me mad.

You're tempted, right? I know I am. All these fancy phones that do everything except make you breakfast. Oh wait, you already have one? Yeah, ok. I'm not so quick about buying new gadgets. Half the time I see people around me buying them, getting sick of them, and moving on before they've even gotten their money's worth out of the often quite dear doodads.

(pancakes and photo by my friend Angela)

Anyhoo, I've been eyeing the 'droids because my phone is about six years old and holds a battery charge like poo. (I inquired about getting a new battery from the provider - they give them to you free if the battery goes in the first year or two. It was already too long.) And also because my phone is so relatively ancient that it's going to be phased out in a year and the company is offering me some kind of discount-because-you-don't-have-a-choice on a new model (sound familiar?).

I'm certainly long winded! Getting to the point already... my brother got a 'droid and switched to docomo, because his phone bills were astronomical and they had better all-you-can-use deals along with a new member signup discount. I went with him to cancel his au phone, because it was on my family plan and under my name umbrella. He's had the phone for two years eight months... well long enough to have fulfilled the two year contract commitment. Or so I thought.

Nope, it turns out that they automatically sign you up for a new contract every two years. So every two years, you have one month to cancel your contract. If you don't cancel it within that month (difficult to find in my phone bill, squished in the fine print and only discernible after some light math), it's renewed... and you have to pay a ¥9975 cancellation fee.

That seems pretty rude to me! I don't understand how they get away with this stuff. The culture of "you pay me to renew your contract so that you can continue to give me money" that we have here in Japan seems usurious, to put it gently.

We've recently had some legislation in the States to keep companies like the credit card giants from doing just this kind of thing. We're still far from keeping companies from exploiting people who don't pay laser-eyed attention to every line item on their bills. Can anyone tell me about consumer advocacy movements in Japan? The mobile phone companies, real estate agencies, key-money-grubbing landlords, and clubs with astronomical entrance fees that give you little in return could sure use a spanking.

What I mean to say, in the most roundabout way possible, is watch your renewal times on your phone bill if you're thinking of switching companies. 

The Battle of Takkyubin

Brrrr! It's cold up in this piece! Blast these barely-insulated un-centrally-heated Japanese houses. I'm having trouble getting out of bed.

Speaking of which, the takkyubin man came to the door this morning. I suppose I didn't hear his first few knocks, being burrowed deep into the covers, because suddenly someone's in the genkan and SHOUTING, "GOOD MORNING! DELIVERY! WATERFALLRIVER-SAN, DELIVERY!" 

Well! He had woken me up, and it wasn't a scheduled delivery, and I was in my underwear. I wasn't about to go scrambling around, bleary eyed, to try to get down there and face an INTRUDER in my house.

It may be the neighborhood, but a lot of these people DON'T KNOCK. They just barge right in. This has happened on several occasions. Maybe I'm not home, maybe I'm in the shower or some other compromising position, maybe I JUST DON'T FEEL LIKE ANSWERING THE DOOR.

Oops. This post is getting a bit shouty. Sorry about that.

Anyway, he left with a great deal of muttering and cursing. Right back atcha, dude.

If I am home and available, I will answer the door, even though it's frequently someone trying to sell me a newspaper that I don't want to (and can barely) read, or the milkman trying to get me to sign up for a weekly delivery (this still exists?!?)(he also repeatedly asked me if my parents were home, fuck off), or some Jehovah's witnesses who exclaim about my gaijin-ness before going into their sales pitch. And if I have scheduled a delivery, I will certainly answer the door. Other that than, bugger off!

foreigners like you

Sorry for the silence! I've been hanging out on the couch, going to brunch, taking walks among the pine trees, listening to the geese everywhere, and chilling with the beagles.

My uncle just posted this picture of my grandpa with my mom and her siblings, I love it. It was taken in Buenos Aires when they were stationed there.

ew

The guy standing next to me on the Denento-shitty line （thanks to Saki for coining that name) just picked his nose and ate a gooey booger. Twice.

All you people in my way,

walking while talking on your mobile,
walking while reading,
standing in the middle of the sidewalk playing your DS,
mounting stairs at a maddeningly slow pace while texting, during rush hour,
practicing your golf swing with your umbrella on a busy train platform,

I have a near-uncontrollable impulse to body check you or trip you with my umbrella. My resistance thus far has been valiant but might not last. Be warned.

geezer gawk

Ice cream eating, beverage sippin', and kicking it on the curb: it's an excellent season for people watching.

Of course, sitting out amidst the stream of vain and fashionable humanity makes you a target for the more brave and brazen to strike up a conversation. And unfortunately, it's usually the people I least want to talk to that approach.

Last night PJ and I were observing the parade. 'Fabulous hair!" "Is that a dress or a shirt?" "It's adorable when drunk boys hold hands!"

A guy rocked up to us wearing sweatpants and a mesh vest, a green-accented can of beer in his pocket. He pointed to PJ and exclaimed, "Malaysia!"

PJ's not Malaysian.

He was about 50 or 60, wiry, tan. He nattered at us for a bit and I bemusedly fielded his questions. He stopped to shake my hand every sixty seconds. Yoroshiku, ne!

After ascertaining our nationalities and length of stay in Japan (prerequisite information for any conversation with a foreigner, I think it's written in the law), he started insisting that PJ certainly looked like "Michael's" daughter. In fact, was she not actually related to him??

We told him that she was not.

He persisted. But everyone says that, right? Can you moonwalk? He did a little demonstration.

No, in fact, it was the first time she'd heard about this likeness.

Ah, he said knowingly, I've got a good eye. 

He then segued into cadging a free English lesson off me.

"This is a pen!"dayo! I learned it in school! これはぺんですよ、ね。

Then,
"very good", what does it mean?
and,
"come on baby", って、何の意味？

We finally escaped him after ten or so minutes. It was okay for the first few minutes, but then he started repeating himself and the MJ references got tiresome.

Is it too much to ask that some interesting, non-drunk and crazy people would stop and chat once in awhile? As amusing as a geezer moonwalk is.

wiggly fingers

Sunday morning,  Den-en-toshi line, first train. After a night of birthday partying, darts, billiards, and roaming the streets with the other poor tired fuckers at 4 a.m., we finally secured some sweet corner seats on the slow local ride home and fell into a lazy doze as the train chugged its way west and south.

I woke up, confused, five or six stops later. I couldn't figure out why, for a second, then I felt something touching the outside of my thigh. Still sleepy, eyes closed, I wondered what was happening. A few seconds later, it couldn't be denied: I was being felt up by a chikan, a pervert.

After a few seconds of making sure and getting my bearings, I opened my eyes, turned to him, and loudly said,

"NO. DON'T DO THAT. DAME!!!"

Bordering on shouting.

Freaked out, frazzled, he nodded meekly and then stumbled out of the train car, dropping his wallet on the way and fumbling to retrieve it as he retreated. He was young, early twenties, maybe 23.

This is my second time being felt up on the Den-en-toshi line, which, I'm told, is full of hentai, along with the Chuo line. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to deck him, rip off his nipples, or haul his ass to the station police, but in my vulnerable confused state, it was all I could do to shout at him. In that state of mind, I couldn't even summon more than basic Japanese and yelled at him in English. My  message was clear, but it's easy to talk about what you would do when you're not in the situation.

Next time. Next time there will be a man with severe damage to his family jewels.

Do I get a prize at the end of this? I'm exhausted.

Him: Indian?
Me: Nope.
H: Afghani?
M: Uh-uh.
H: Pakistani?
M: Nah.
H: Spanish?
M: (yawn)
H: BUT WHAT ARE YOU?

Otherwise:

American or Canadian Guy in the hall outside the bathroom:
YOU ARE VERY PRETTY!
Girl coming out of the toilet: Ah, thank you very much! I have relax time!
AoCGithotb: OW! (As I hit him in the shoulder with the door.)

Serves me right for going to a place where people are wearing green jerseys and Guinness balloons tied around their necks.

Softbank was very unhelpful. (Rant alert.)

I'm mad at Softbank. They may be hip, with their dead-eyes Cameron Diaz ads and their Smappery, but their customer service sux big nutz.

I bought a prepaid phone when I first came to Japan. At the time, the service was operated by Vodafone. Prepaid phones are more expensive per minute than phones with plans, but no contract is necessary. I just needed a phone number and didn't use it that much so wasn't too bothered by the high usage fees.

(crap vodafone phone)

After awhile, I settled in and got a phone with a plan. I chose au because some of my family already used that carrier, and you get discounts when calling family. But I kept the prepaid around, because it's handy to have one when overseas visitors come to town.

(crap au phone)

I used it like that on and off for a couple more years. Then, a year or two ago, Softbank bought out Vodafone and took over service. Fine. Didn't seem to affect me much, I didn't pay attention.

After awhile, I started getting notices that Softbank was switching to an all 3G network. My phone being 2G, I was going to have to upgrade my phone. Yes, okay. I kept getting these postcards with notices saying that 2G service was going to completely stop at the end of March 2010. The postcards came with ad campaigns that promised discounts on the new model I was going to have to buy.

Today I finally went in to my local Softbank shop to do the obligatory phone upgrade. My plan was to get the cheapest English-able model that they had. I don't use it much, but my out of town visitors generally wouldn't be able to cope with a Japanese-only model. I brought the phone, the postcard, ID...

The first shop told me that they couldn't help me. They didn't, they said, have any of those phones.

What the hell??

I asked the clerk where I was supposed to go. He muttered something about Omotesando as he ushered me to the door.

I live in Machida. It's going to take me almost an hour to get to Omotesando from here. How fucking stupid.

As soon as I got out of there, I called the customer service line. There's a three digit number you can dial from the mobile, a sort of hotline to service. I pushed all the necessary menu buttons, then when it asked me to press "2" for English, I did so.

The phone went dead.

I tried again. Again, requesting English cuts the line. Nice. So I did the same thing, but instead in Japanese. I got through to recordings but no humans. I tried to call the 0800 number, but it wasn't allowed from a mobile. So I went to a payphone and dialed the free number again.

The guy on the other end told me to call another number.

I called the number. Repeat the above experience.

I called back, this time determined to keep someone on the line. I told the agent my problem, and asked him where I should go to replace the phone. (All the human transactions are taking place in Japanese. Although there seems to be some sort of English option available in theory, in practice they just spit in your face.) He gave me the numbers and locations of two more Softbank shops in the Machida area.

I hoofed over to the next nearest one. I went in and took a number, and someone asked me what I would need when I got to the counter. I told him, and showed him the postcard. He said, "oh no, we can't do that." I told him that the customer service rep had instructed me to go to this shop. He went in the back to check, then told me that there was one phone and I would have to pay about 9,000 yen. Fine. More than I really wanted to pay, but. I took my number and sat down. And waited. For 45 minutes.

Finally my number was called, the phone was presented. But the person I was dealing with went on to tell me that there were no SIM cards for prepaid phones in the shop, and so they couldn't actually give me the phone. He said that though there was a week left on the "campaign", they probably wouldn't be able to get anything in for me before the campaign and the offer expired. I explained that I didn't particularly care what model I got, just that I wanted to switch my phone because, well, I HAD to. He said that there were only the three models available, except none of them were actually available.

He then recommended that I try again next month, for there would probably be another campaign.

Fabulous. What a fucking waste of two hours. Way to insist that I get a new phone, not have any available, give me the runaround, and treat me like gutter trash along the way.

I learned a new word, though.

たらい回し。(taraimawashi)
Musical chairs, washing machine... getting the runaround.

here nor there

I got to talking to a coworker the other day, a teacher that I don't often see because he works at different locations and on different days. We were rapping about the usual jabber, and it came up that I am a part-timer, and not going to school. The question of my visa was raised, at which point I mentioned that I'm half-Japanese, which removes some of the visa hoops that other folks have to jump through.

"No way!" said my co-worker. "You don't look it at all! You're NOT Japanese."
Yeah, well. I am.
"But you have such big eyes!"
Uh-huh.
"And your English is so good! Your intonation is so natural."
DUDE, I am a native English speaker.


On the flight over to PDX, I did the unsteady tiptoe to the back of the plane to go to the toilet. The galley was stuffed with half a dozen guys shooting the shit, (alchoholic) beverages in hand. Waiting for the w.c. to become free, I stood next to a middle-aged geezer (MAG for short) of the type that you might find in Venice, CA, or Eugene, OR: shoulder length grey hair, overbaked skin, cargo shorts, bullshit life philosophy studded with gems like "It is what it is".
Trying to inhabit as little space as possible (a skill that I've perfected living in Japan), I squeezed myself into a corner, eyes fixed on the red-lit "occupied" sign. MAG, seeing me there, began performing a series of tipsy antics that he dubbed "stretching". At first, I tried to be a good sport, joining in for a simple spine stretch that I needed anyway after six hours stuffed into an overbooked flight next to an arm-rest hogging seatmate. MAG contorted himself into a jerky, rabid downward dog, arms and legs akimbo, face red and shirt flapping. He righted himself, sloshing coffee, and went in to woo me.
"Are you Israeli?"
Nope, I'm not.
"You're not American."
Yes, actually, I am.
"No way. You're not American. What could you be?"
DUDE, I was born in San Antonio. (I seem to have a propensity for using DUDE with these geniuses, these men among men.)
"But you don't look American. And Mexican doesn't quite fit either."
Yeah, okay.

I didn't have the patience to argue with him. What do you say to people who insist on telling you, in their infinite wisdom, what you are not? I am what I am. And it is what it is.

coin drop

My favorite thing about going to Tokaichiba, the rural-ish town I work in once a week, is the farm outlet produce packing warehouse with a ghost of a storefront. It has just a few baskets of fresh, cheap produce out front, and a jar with a coin slot tied to a string for honor-system payment. I stop in and grab some naganegi or a bunch of greens whenever I get the chance. I rarely pay more than a hundred yen. This summer, I got big bunches of basil there for ¥100 per bag and I made a big batch of pesto.

I was listening to Top 40 on the radio the other day and I heard that Sean Kingston song, Face Drop. I don't really know anything about him, but I kinda like this song, because he says
"'Cause you always try to fill me with doubt
Sayin' that I'd look better if I was thinner
Don't you know you shoulda loved me for my inner
When I left you, yo, I came out a winner"
And I think, though there are lots of songs with females talking about battling body image crap (TLC's Unpretty comes to mind, and India Arie's Video), with the possible exception of some obscure punk/indie stuff, boys don't talk about body image very much. It seems like there's a taboo about guys talking about their body insecurities; it's like they're not supposed to have them. But I have at least one guy friend who's struggled with anorexia, and know plenty of other guys who have body issues. (And I really like the rainbows coming out of Sean's chest in the video.)

I'm pretty tired of hearing about fat Americans and fat in general all the time. It's true that, as a country, we eat a lot of junk food and fast food and should take better care of ourselves. But I'm sick of the way, in Japan, it seems even more acceptable to make disparaging comments about people who aren't crazy skinny. I was reading about some Japanese model the other day who said that she weighed in at 97 pounds during her teenage modeling years, and she was called a fat cow by the other girls. That's just CRAZY talk.

I thought I had outgrown body insecurity a long time ago, but being in this country and some stupid boys have brought it back a little.

gatecrashing

This morning on the train a chimpira-ish boy made eye contact as we were heading toward the stairs. I didn't think much of it, but right as we approached the ticket gate, he paused, hung back, and then went through right in front of me. He touched his wallet to the Pasmo sensor. It flashed red, and the gate slammed shut, but he squeezed through the slim space and booked it, leaving me stuck and seemingly redhanded.

Fluke? I went through a functioning gate and continued my transfer to the subway, just a few paces behind him. He did it again entering the underground. The station agent didn't blink as the buzzer went off and the gate turned red, but just pushed a button and the gate went back to regular function.

Mostly I'm laughing to myself, because, what a punkass! But I'm a little miffed on two counts.

First, I think the little fucker set me up, looking to shift the blame.

Second, when I pulled that kind of crap in my miscreant youth, the gate guards almost always pursued me.

I am feeling just a tad oppressed. Fight the power.

You flatter me.

"You're almost as pretty as her."

"My dream girl is a green-eyed redhead."

"I think you're pretty, even if no one else does."

"You have knuckles like E.T."

"I showed my friend your picture, and he thinks I'm crazy for liking you."

Thanks guys.
(Exes, of course.)

He looked deep into my eyes...

and said, "You need to clean your contacts."

Unsolicited backhanded compliment

Hmm. Why did you choose this picture? You're cuter in real life than in this picture.

(Dammit, I *liked* that picture. Jerk.)

let me just erase your identity a little

Tonight, my old classmate Iiming* visited Japanese class.

I haven't seen her for about two years, but we studied together for more than a year. At the time, she was a middle school student. She's from China and she's a total tomboy. She loves sports and has short hair and always wears track pants and looks kind of like Crayon Shin-chan.


While giving us an update on her life (she's a second year high school student now), she casually mentioned that she had changed her name.

What? exclaimed our Teacher.

Oh yeah! she says. When I started high school, I stopped going by Iiming. Now I'm Yuki. Yuki Ito*.

Does that make things easier? asked Teacher.

Yeah, everything's so much easier now! In middle school, they used to make fun of me, but now they don't bother me as much.

And then blithely moved on to talking about soccer.

I didn't say anything because it's not my place to second guess someone else's choices about something so personal as a name. But it makes me mad that she changed it and it makes me more mad that she felt like she had to change it, that changing it would make her life better.

I'm pissed at the students that made her feel that way and I'm super pissed at the teachers who made her feel that way.

Another one of our former classmates, also a middle school student originally from China, had teachers berate her and call her stupid for being Chinese. I've had my own Japanese language teachers (in the States, not my dear Teacher here) tell me that I wasn't Japanese, but American.

Fuck them and their tiny little boxes. I'm so mad that these kind of people are allowed to teach, are allowed to be in charge of teaching children.
/rant

*I've changed her name here to protect her identity, not to erase it. But it's similar to this one.

bad train

There are about 6,535,342 things that you can do wrong on the train: eat, drink, listen to music, sneeze, fart, breathe, exist.

One thing that's considered rude is crossing your legs. It makes your foot stick out, and the dirt on your foot might touch someone else. And I get that. On a crowded train, it's important to make yourself as compact and inconspicuous as possible, because a lot of people need to inhabit that space.

Riding the subway home from work the other day, the train was half empty. Most of the seats were taken, but a few seats were vacant, and almost no one was standing, except me at the end of the car. A bench seat stretched out in front of me, 70% occupied with the usual suspects, including an older-middle aged lady (60s) dozing with her legs crossed. A middle aged man (50s) in casual clothes got on at the door closest to me and made his way down the aisle.

As he passed the snoozing lady, he looked down and gave her foot a swift, hard, kick. And kept walking. She woke up, startled and befuddled, and quickly righted herself and uncrossed her legs.

Now, some people get their panties all in a bunch about perceived rudeness. Some even take it upon themselves to correct others. This guy though, this prince among men, did all of the above... with his mobile phone glued to his ear.

What. A. Dick.

I glared at him, and he saw my glare. I hope he felt bad at least for getting caught, but he probably didn't.

My crappy boss told my co-worker not to cross her legs during class, because it's rude.

Be that as it may, considering the number of upskirt views I've been subjected to on the train, I think I'll stick to my culture's version of politeness. I've already had my ass grabbed on a crowded subway; I don't need some perv checking out my undies as well.

Censorship all around

What the hell? We all can look at nekkid girls til the cows come home, but post a (limp) dick and people start freaking the fuck out.

This isn't even porn, people. There's nothing dirty or wrong or even sexy about it.

Talk about a double standard.