Apologies and Magic Hands

 Let's get right to it. Before I begin my next story, I need to make an apology. While I think most of it was mistranslation, I have offended some of the people that I went to Izakaya with (as detailed in my second blog post.) You guys are amazing people, and you made my night enjoyable. Your company during those hours was priceless, and I wish you nothing but happiness. I hope you could sense how grateful I was and am. I was exhausted beyond belief, so I understand why you would imagine that I had a bad time, but my tired face sat in front of a full soul, and you were part of the source of that fullness. Rock on.

* * * * * * *

I haven't written in a while. I think the immensity of this trip is the reason. There is too much to write about, and when I sit down to hash out my thoughts, I get overwhelmed and am unable to pick a topic to speak about. So today I am forcing myself to write (outside of my script!). And so, as I walked out of my first hair-cut appointment, I knew exactly what to say...

My hair was long. Not my grade-seven-flow-down-to-my-shoulders long, but long nonetheless. Summer is here, and when that expression is used by someone living in Japan, think of it as them saying “Hitler has been reincarnated and not only does he still hate Jews, but also everyone else in the world so go inside and never come out.” It's hot here. Mushiatsui. Humid. I take cold showers. The nob doesn't sit nestled closely to “hot”: it dodges that middle grey area completely, too. It is turned completely over to “cold.” My skin sticks to itself... to the air. “July is the killer month”, everyone says. Wait, then what was June?

It's not unbearable (what is?), and one can still enjoy themselves. It's just hot. So the hair had to go. After booking a second interview that will spill over into the multiple-of-hours category for tomorrow, I needed to make sure that my forehead was rid of that nasty layer of hair sweat. I remembered a place that I pass every day on the route I take for my jogs. It looked nice. Like the people who worked there might have gone to hair dressing school. So, after walking to the post-office (the Japanese word for this is fun to say -- “Yuu-bin-kyou-ku”) to withdraw money from the only ATM that is compatible with my debit card, I travelled on over.

The inside was red. Lots of red. There were two people getting their hair cut – one by a woman, and one by a I'm-not-sure-if-that's-a-man-or-a-woman. So there's a clientele. Good. I knew the next part was going to be tough. Be confident. You've been studying like a mad-man, just use all the words you know. You know the word for appointment, so start there.
“Konnichiwa!”
“Oh, uh, hi!” Japanese, idiot! Use Japanese!
I did know the word for appointment, but of course under pressure, it eluded me. “Um... do I need an appointment?”
The lady cocked her head like everyone here does when they don't understand. It's such an innocent, polite gesture, it's impossible to get frustrated. Usually, they also repeat the last word of your sentence as a question.

“Appointment?” she asked.

“Yeah... do I need one, or can I just walk in?” Woooww, Cody. Easy on the English.
“Katto?” (cut?)

“Hai! Hai! Katto!” (yes, yes, cut!)
We worked through things. It would just be a few minute wait. There was a lot of nodding and writing to reach a point of understanding. I asked her how much. Forty-seven dollars. Whoa. I wasn't expecting any less, but she could see the slight shock on my face.
“Daijoubu?” (There's such an amazing inside joke behind this word and an Italian friend of mine. In this context it means “is that okay?”) I paused. I had to be honest with myself. No, no that is not daijoubu. I've really taken pride in my budgeting skills while here and unemployed. Outside of my rent, I've been living on just over 10 bucks a day. That's food, transportation, entertainment, etc. Not easy to do in Japan. So, I had to ask myself: am I willing to spend almost 5 days worth of money on a haircut? I went with my gut.

“Daijoubu desu.” Yes. Yes, that is okay.

The not androgynous stylist brought me to a chair in the back. She sat me down and put a plastic sheet over my body, and then draped a towel over my chest, and the wrapped my neck in a damp cloth. I was ready to be crowned pope.

Now, I should point out that when we established a price, she specifically said “just cut.” So I was assuming that meant... just a cut. No shampoo, no styling, etc.

“Shampuu, daijoubu deska?” (Is shampoo okay?) I didn't know what to say. I had fifteen pounds of fabric sitting on me, and she seemed really eager to lather my hair, so I couldn't refuse. We went ahead with it. It felt good: the water was cold, which I was hoping for. What a good feeling to be refreshed! Even with our language barrier, the woman still tried to make that ubiquitous hair-salon-small-talk. She asked me where I was from, and I successfully answered. You have no idea how happy that makes me. We stumbled through some other questions, and it was here that my weakness became apparent: I am much better at recognizing words/understanding what someone is saying than I am at speaking. In fact, there are times when I know exactly what someone has said, but I am unable to answer or add something to the conversation. If I can form a sentence, it takes me too long to be called anything other than embarrassing. It's such an odd and frustrating feeling. “I understand what you are saying, but I can only sit here and nod because I don't know how to say anything back!!”

We went to the cutting chair. I just made that phrase up... it sounds really cool. I have always found it awkward looking at myself while someone cuts my hair. I usually avert my stare. A different lady unsheathed her scissors: they sat on her waist in a proper holster. A villain brandishing a weapon; an artist guiding their tool. She asked me something that I couldn't understand. I figured it had to do with my hair, so I pulled out a picture that vaguely captured what I was going for. She nodded. The small talk came again, but this time I understood much less. We got through my favourite food, what I studied in school, but then she lost me.

Holy crap she's shaving my head. Well, nothing I can do now. It was just the sides, anyways. As the cutting progressed, I could see my hair becoming very Asian-like. Instead of it fading from short on the sides to long on the top, there was a sudden jump. Short, and then long. Lots of guys my age have that there, and in North America, too, but a bit different. I'm not a fan.
“Sumimesen...” (excuse me...)

“Hai? Daijoubu desu?” (Yes? Everything okay? (I swear, you could get by here just knowing 'daijoubu'.))

Oh boy, this is going to be tough. The words for “short” and “long” are in my study notes, but I couldn't recall them. There was a lot of pointing to get to my point. I started using my fingers as hair to show it going from short to long. Finally it clicked. Daijoubu desu.

The woman was professional. So much so that she had assistants. This wasn't a one-man deal. Another woman stood maybe four feet behind us at a cart full of supplies. The stylist would say a word quietly, and then be handed something immediately. It was like a surgery. Her eyes were resolute and unwavering. My head was her canvas. It was both odd and intriguing. As much as I've been on stage and at times can be a show-off, I don't like being the center of attention in unfamiliar places. Her assistant knew more English than her (a few dozen words as opposed to a few), so she would occasionally tell me what the stylist was trying to say. We established that Hayao Miyazaki is my favourite director. I'm glad they were able to understand that, because he's a really cool dude. We talked about other anime, but I'm not really a big fan, so it was short-lived. Everyone in the studio knew what Gantz was, though, which made me happy. A lot of people assume that because I am North American and came to Japan that I have an undying love for anime. There are particular shows and movies that are brilliant, but for the most part I find the plots in anime to absolutely absurd. (For those of you at home during the summer with some free time, Berserk, Serial Experiments Lain, My Neighbour Totoro, Castle in The Sky, Grave of the Fireflies, and Ponyo are all fantastic series/movies.)

The cut took about twenty minutes. Another assistant (the guy who looked like not a guy) would occasionally walk over and brush off loose hair. It was so funny seeing three people do a job that is done by one in Canada! This wasn't a matter of being lazy, though. The two assistants would always be doing something (whether it be tending to me or not.) It was a matter of allowing the stylist to be totally focused on me. There is never anything implemented in this country that sacrifices quality. If you get something from Japan, or something done in Japan, it will be well done. And that's it.

The cut was over. The she-man asked me to stand. He brought me over to the shampoo chair again. I instantly thought about the price. I don't think I should say yes again... I couldn't say no. He washed my hair again, this time with warmer water. And then he put the shampoo in. Lord have mercy. There was no way I was hiding how I felt. He started massaging my head in the most... perfect way possible. I have never gotten a massage on any part of my body. This is now changing. I can't even describe it. It was like... I can't even! A couple minutes in, while he was doing something with my ears, he leaned over.

“Daijoubu?” I didn't really hear him.

“Hm?”

“Dai-”

“- Ah, daijoubu, daijoubu.” I slipped back into paradise.

And then it was over. We went back into the cutting chair.

“Massage?” He asked me.

“Ah, sugonatta! Arigato.” (Ah, it was amazing. Thank you.)

“Mmm.. Ima?” (Umm, now?) He motioned with his hands. Another one!? YES!

“Hai!”

So this time it was my shoulders and neck. Remember how I was here to get a haircut? The attendants whistled by this way and that, brushing my face, straightening my apron. They spoke to each other in quick, content sentences. Everyone is happy. The guy wrapped my arms around the back of the chair. It was odd at first, but then whatever he did to my biceps made me not care that I looked like a fool.

And finally, the style. I quickly thought about the price, and how it entailed “just cut”, but I didn't care. I was hypnotized. The stylist asked me if I had wax. Then she showed me how to do my hair. “Put this down. Put this up, please.” She spoke as if they were requests. “This is my work, so treat it respectfully.” It was cool to see the pride she had in her work. Finally I was asked to stand from the chair. All the staff (about 6 people) shouted something in unison, I'm guessing to congratulate me on finishing my haircut. I went to the front, ready to pay. The same price that was agreed upon at the beginning sat at the bottom of the bill. 47 dollars. “Just cut” it is said on the side. No mention of the two shampooings or back-to-back massages. Just a cut. But this is Japan for you. I payed, and they thanked me in unison again. I thanked them many times and then walked out. All six of them followed me, shouting thanks as I walked down the street. They stood outside their shop until I was out of their view.

As I turned the corner, I was greeted with the always-welcome smell of the small, ma-and-pa restaurants. Smoke billowed out into the streets, carrying with it the sweet smell of teriyaki, meats, and spices. A firetruck flew past me on the street. It made me think of what it would be like to be a firefighter in Tokyo. An already stressful job, now in a city where not a single street continues at the same angle from more than a 100 meters. The smell caught my attention again. Maybe I'll go inside one of the restaurants, order “just a steak”, and see where that gets me. 

Izakaya, A Festival, a Beautiful Promise and Love.

I hope to focus on just two events in this entry. They deserve as much attention as they can get. Knowing me though, I will ramble and somehow find myself talking about how I spent 18 dollars on a movie ticket. Oh wait. Anyways, I will start with my first trip to a true Izakaya restaurant.

For those who don't know (and I would imagine that would be most – I hardly knew what it was before I came here), Izakaya is not a type of food. Rather, the word speaks to the dinner experience as a whole. Firstly, there are no large portions. Think of it as a dinner made up of an endless supply of appetizers. That's not to say it is all you can eat. Each snack is payed for individually. I only ordered one, and I think it was 500 yen (about 5 dollars), I might be wrong though.

I am not explaining this at all coherently. Let me try this again. Jake told me that he was going out to dinner with his friends from work. He asked me if I wanted to come, but assumed I wouldn't because I would have no idea what was being said (I was under the assumption that no one spoke English.) Before I came to this country, though, I made a promise to myself. That if it was possible, I would do anything I was asked to do. No saying no. Besides, a dinner out is probably the least threatening outing I can think of. So of course I said yes. Before we were set to meet for dinner, we caught a movie. I struggled to stay awake. Those who know me well enough should be surprised to hear this. Even movies I don't like usually have no problem grabbing my attention. I'm so enraptured by story-telling. But jet-lag is a marvelous thing. Just in case I forget what it was like to experienced it in its glorious fullness, I will describe it here. The first three days were constant nausea. A pounding headache set in immediately when I woke up every morning. I couldn't drink enough water. Even when I drank what would usually be more than sufficient, my body screamed for more. I ached everywhere. It's funny that I am saying all of this is past tense as if it is over. I am much better now, but I am still met with exhaustion at 6pm every night. I expect this to pass in the next few days. I digress. After the film, I was certain I could not attend this dinner. The symptoms I explained above were setting in quickly, and my mind was fried. My Toronto friends (especially Michael, I would think) know what I mean when I say I was the drunk kind of over-tired-Cody. But the people were expecting me, and even in North American culture, it is at least odd not to show up to somewhere you are expected. And so, against every desire, I went.

It was a small building. It was raining outside, and literally everyone carries an umbrella when it rains. It's a really cool site to see. And so, on rainy days, stores have these odd contraptions at their entrances that you slip your umbrella into in order to cover it in a light plastic casing. It catches the water and prevents the store's floors from becoming soaked. So we covered our umbrellas and took off our shoes. There was about nine of us. I forget their names, except Rika (only because of Erika, of course) and Masa. We exchanged those awkward 'we-can't-understand-eachother-but-let's-still-be-nice' greetings. Everyone was beautiful, of course. I feel like to work at any clothing store you have to be stunningly attractive.

We made our way to our table, which was more like a room. A sliding door separated us from the hallways and the other parties. The table was on the ground. Like, where my feet were. I tried to hide how unimpressed I was. I am so not down for this right now. My head hurt so badly, and I just wanted water and a bed. I noticed a sizable hole underneath the table. Everyone crouched and then shuffled their feet into the opening. It is difficult for me to explain. Once everyone was sitting, it looked like we were sitting at a regular table, except we were on the floor. It was an odd sensation. Everyone passed out the menus. More jokes were made about my tattoo. The joke is getting ancient, but I expected this to happen. Every time someone comments on it, Jake laughs along with them and then immediately explains to them that I wrote a 600 page script and I eventually want to make games. Even though I know, every time he does this I ask him what he said. “Nothing, it's okay,” he'll answer. This is how I know he's proud of me. He brags about me but then is too shy to say it.

They talked, I listened when I felt like it. I was being a Debra. A huge Debra. I wanted to go home. I ordered something to keep Jake off my back. I don't even remember what it was. I felt like vomiting. Smoking is allowed in restaurants, and there is nothing that makes me more nauseous than the smell of cigarette smoke. I excused myself for a moment until the one guy finished his smoke. The food arrived. Jake handed me a dish. “That's not what I ordered.” He told me to take it. “Who's is it?”

“It's anyone's, you can have it!”

“But I didn't order it.”

He took some of whatever it was and put it on my plate. “Just try it.” he said. He explained that people order what they want to have, but it gets passed around to everyone to try. This is such an odd practice to me. I don't think I even got to eat one of whatever I ordered. I remember it had something to do with cheese so I was looking forward to it. It didn't look that appetizing so I searched the table for something that did. In front of me looked like a dish of chicken-bites. I ate one. It was really crunchy. Not like the deep-fried breading was crunchy, but the inside was crunchy. The breading, and what I could taste of the chicken was really good, so I thought that one just had a bone in it. I remembered their rule about spitting things out, so I chewed it until I could swallow. That took some time. I ate a second one. The same thing, except this time there was a bigger bone. What the heck!? A third one. The same thing. I turned to Jake, frustrated.

“There's bones in these, can I spit them out?”

He laughed. “It's deep-fried chicken bones.”

...

Okay then. Debra wasn't happy. (Okay, this can be my first “note to readers.” 'Debra' is what you call someone who is being a downer/unhappy. This was me.)

He handed me a skewer. “This is chicken.”

Finally! I didn't even study it, I just instantly took a bite. I chewed. And chewed. Panic set in. This isn't chicken. This isn't chicken. What the heck is this? Holy crap, holy crap. Okay, calm down. Mind over matter. It doesn't taste that bad. But it's not chicken, so what could it be? No, no, no, don't think like that. It's chicken. It's chicken, it's just, you know, a part I've never had. Maybe neck or something. I made a rule to myself. I will not ask anyone what this is until I swallow it. It took a while. Gulp. Down it went.

“Jake. What was that?” He pointed to his chest. “Heart?” Mine dropped.

“Not heart, but similar.” Shit.

“Lung?”

“I don't know, I forget the word.” Maybe that's better for both of us.

I don't remember eating anything else. Maybe I had a piece of sushi. The guy who smoked came and sat beside me. He spoke to me in very good English. I spoke to him earlier as if he didn't speak a word. “HELLO. MY – NAME – IS – CODY.” Dear Lord, I probably look like such an idiot right now. I don't even remember what we talked about. The dinner went on. Another guy came and sat by me. He struggled more with his English, but he was still very competent. We opened the conversation with my tattoo of course.

“Jake says you want to make games,” he said. I smiled. Of course he did. We talked about Final Fantasy. His favourite is VII, I skipped the fact that I think it's overrated. The conversation stumbled along. There were awkward pauses, but eventually it somehow led to his girlfriend. From Oregon.

“Oregon!? As in, west coast America Oregon?” I was in disbelief. He laughed and nodded. My interest was peaked.

And so the telling of the story began. Two years ago, he saw a beautiful blonde American on the Tokyo subway. He was too shy to approach her directly, so he decided to sit beside her and pull out his English text book from college (what a sly move.) He pretended to study. Elisabeth noticed and asked him if he spoke English. The answer was actually a no, but he couldn't say that. He had to fake it. So yes, he spoke English. She was relieved, and explained that she was a little bit lost. She didn't know how to get back to the place where she was staying. He asked where it was. It just so happened that she had to get off at the same stop as him. There are 290 stops on the Tokyo Metro subway system. He walked her home, and they exchanged addresses. She was only in Japan for two months. They fell in love. But, America was her home.

Get this. For two years, texting and Skypeing was their only way to communicate. Part way through those two years, it became too hard for Elisabeth. She found a boy at her college. They began to go on dates, and they liked each other. They eventually made it official.

“Were you heart broken?” I asked Masa.

“No,” he explained. “I was disappointed, but there is nothing I can do. She is free.” I assume by that he meant 'she can make her own choices.' I continued to listen, completely enraptured.

Only a short time into her new relationship, Elisabeth broke it off with her new boy. She told Masa that whenever she was with her boyfriend, she was thinking of him. No one else could cover it up. A beautiful cliche. And so, she waited for him. And after two years of being apart, Masa finally made his way to America. He told me that this is how he learned English. By living there for two months. I wouldn't say he is fluent, but he told this story to me with clarity and little difficulty. Anyways, they were reunited. He said they cried in each other's arms at the airport. No kidding. He met her family. They are very Catholic, he explained. During their first dinner together, Masa explained to me that Elisabeth's father placed his hand on his arm, looked him in the eyes and said “Masa. Please do not have sex with my daughter.” He assumed this was North American culture. I debunked that rumour as fast as I could. I thought that only happened in the movies.

I asked him if he was Catholic as well. “I don't have a religion,” he explained. “But I believe it.” This was confusing to me, so I asked him what he meant. “I have to believe it. Why would she do something so big if it was a lie?” I encouraged him to learn more about it, and think about becoming involved. I told him how it changed me.

Masa is a beautiful man, and a beautiful person. I doubt I will see him ever again, but I will never in my entire life forget the time we spent together. Masa, if you somehow ever read this, I pray for complete happiness and success for you and Elisabeth, and that you feel God's love and comfort wherever you go.

The dinner was over. People were beginning to leave. I began to realize what was happening. The bill was being split evenly. Crap. It cost me 3000 yen (30 bucks!) for a couple of chicken bones and an unidentified organ. That's why Jake kept telling me to order more! It was being split 10 ways! I was the sucker that night.

I thought I would have enough time to write about my trip to a festival and about the friendships I have made in my traveler's house, but I have already written too much. I will include it in my next post. This country is incredible.  

Japan: My Adventure: Days 1 and 2

I am moving to Japan for a year. Even now, I'm not sure if that statement has settled. While I consider myself reliable and good with commitment, I understand that this will be a busy trip. I still hope to update this blog (I am hoping this turns into something more of a diary; frank, candid, private) frequently, though. Possibly weekly. I am hoping that the distance between me and the people I love will help me speak about things that I normally wouldn't if I had frequent contact with them. I am writing this blog for me. It will give me something to look back on in the years to come. And so, I will include things that are utterly personal. I am hoping for the courage (despite knowing that others will be reading my words) to include everything I experience. If you decide to take this journey with me, I thank you. Don't be offended by the fact that this diary will probably not be written towards you. I am happy to share these things, but they are for me to remember, and for you to find amusement or amazement in, if you so choose. Here goes nothing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The flight was long. Or rather, the three flights were long. Detroit to Chicago (I remember joking to Nicole “I could run there.”), Chicago to LAX, LAX to Tokyo. I intentionally didn't sleep the night before I left so I could waste the flight away in hibernation. How proactive I can be. The flight to Tokyo began with sleeplessness, though. I watched Mama, the only film starring Jessica Chastain that I hadn't seen. It was underwhelming. A french film followed. It was french. For the last hour I turned my television to the “flight plan” channel. It was sort of an interactive GPS that showed our altitude, our speed, our distance to Narita. I just stared at the miniature air plane that inched its way to Japan. A thrilling way to spend 60 minutes, I know. But I couldn't bring myself to spend it any other way. The window offered me nothing other than a stale view of the Pacific ocean, and even though I was not nearly as nervous as I should have been, sleep had left me all together.

As Japan came into view, I felt the same. I suppose my prayers for a stress-free journey were being answered, but it made me feel odd. It's funny – we all so desperately wish for lives without stress, but then when we achieve it, life comes off as boring. The coast of Japan wasn't like what I envisioned it to be (I would imagine most countries would instantly defy our expectations.) The skyline was flat. Buildings were sparse and small. What I did notice was how numerous boats peppered the calm ocean. Tankers made up most of them, but I assume the others were mostly fishing boats. It was beautiful. We descended to a height that allowed a proper surveillance of the land and I was instantly enamoured. I got to see the rice fields. While the idea of big cities, bustling traffic, and rhythmic chaos is undeniably appealing to me, the thing I was most excited to see was the countryside. The rice fields. This dream of course spawned from my countless views of Japanese animation legend Hayao Miyazaki's My Neighbour Totoro.

And then we were on the ground. I thought of applauding but then I realized I was probably the only one who thought of doing so. I refrained. A man grabbing his luggage commented on my PlayStation tattoo. We shared a laugh, but it was more than that. It was hugely encouraging, offering a sense of security. We understood each other. (I forgot to mention that I ran into a high-school acquaintance at the Detroit airport. We hadn't seen each other since graduation, and it was so obviously a sign of comfort. Life is full of blessings, and Jessaline, if you are reading this for whatever reason, I wish you nothing but happiness in your life.)

I stepped off the plane. I'm sure there is a word for the hallway that leads you into the airport, but I don't know it. It was here that I began to make observations about the country, and about travel in its entirety. It was eye-opening to realize how desensitized (maybe this is not the proper word) we become to our world. I looked at things I would never look at otherwise. An advertisement for Visa was enthralling. A garbage can was interesting. I studied everything. It demanded it. There is nothing that is more attention-grabbing than difference.

And then my environment. It was quiet. It didn't bother me, or even strike me until I thought about it. It wasn't an uneasy silence, but a peaceful one. I equate airports with bustling noise and stress. Here, everyone was calm, collected, and direct. People rarely spoke. It was hard for me not to think of this as odd. After all, that's not “normal.” Why do we so adamantly fill our lives with noise? I don't know the answer to that, and I am certainly in no position to say which is superior. Even the officers, employees, and inspectors spoke to me in a quiet, reserved hum. They always smiled. Everyone here smiles. “Can I see your passport?” Those words are never said comfortingly, but the women who said them to me made me want to snuggle up with her and tell her all my problems. She thanked me, and asked me to look into a machine's eyes and place my hands at its bottom. It was to take my picture and store my finger prints. It took me three times to do it right. Within a few seconds a plastic card was ejected from the machine. She handed it to me: “check for mistake?” It took me a while to realize I was looking at my Japanese citizen card. Cody Virag, February 18^th, 1993, yeah, yeah, yeah. Everything was fine. I smiled back. “Wow,” was all I could say. She nodded me through.

Maybe I am writing too much. I really do want to remember it all, though. Anyways, I went to the baggage claim where my luggage was already off the conveyer belt and organized alphabetically with everyone else's. That's good service. The air port was virtually empty; no party for my arrival. Once I left the arrivals area and into the main terminal it was much more busy. Despite all the people, the volume was mostly the same. Quiet. Advertisements broke up the silence with their outlandish imagery. Mothers and sons stepped out of the arrivals dock to see their families. They would smile and laugh, but never hug. I saw a father pat his son's back, but that was the most intimate contact I witnessed. (I do not want to judge this behaviour. I hope that while reading this back, I do not sound judgemental. This is just what I saw. I don't like hugs anyway.)

I turned around. Two men, one with a camera, and a women. Smiling. A microphone in my face. “Uhh... hi.”

“Konnichiwa!!!!! You do interview!?”

I stuttered. “I... uh, I don't speak Japanese.” Wait, I could have said that in Japanese.

“We translate, it's okay!” The women waved from behind the man, “she speak English!”

It sounds like you do, too. “Oh, sure!” I didn't even ask questions! That's what I wish I had done, at least so I could watch it later. I still have no idea what the purpose of the interview was. They asked me where I was from, how long I was staying, if it was my first visit. Maybe this is for a news program? But then the questions got odd.

“What are your hobbies!?” It's like they didn't even realize the question is somehow intrusive.

“Uh... video games.” They smiled. The man holding the microphone yelled and pointed at my tattoo of the face buttons on a DualShock controller. “Yeah,” I smiled.

“PlayStation!!” They yelled. They asked me about my cross tattoo. I just held up my necklace, and they smiled, nodded. Next, my tattoo of Horizon. I explained. They were so interested in everything I said. It was genuine. It wasn't like they were interviewing me because their boss asked them to. They weren't just completing a job, they were so, so interested in me. They asked me about making games.

“I'm learning!” I explained more. Self-teaching, making progress. They asked if I had any games I could show them in my luggage. “Not yet, maybe in a few years.” This is great promotion. I told them I was waiting for Jake. They were so enamoured with me, they asked permission to wait around until he came so that they could interview him as well. I said yes, but they ended up leaving before he arrived.

Then I saw him. He was calling me, but I ignored it and ran up to him instead. We hugged, kissed. It was an outlandish greeting considering the country we're in. Some people looked.

It took an hour on the train to get home. It was a beautiful trip through the countryside. I loved it, Jake hated it. A city kid. More rice fields. Once we reached more urbanized areas, the first thing I noticed was how small the streets are. The buildings are placed like Legos: placed almost haphazardly. It's beautiful. Everything here is beautiful.

The train stopped. I got off. It wasn't as busy as I thought it would be. The sidewalk had these weird yellow grooves in them that made rolling my bag really tough. Apparently they are there for the blind. They are everywhere. Straight lines tell them that they are going straight (obviously), and dots tell them that they are nearing an intersection. It's a huge investment into courtesy.

(I am writing this jet-lagged out of my mind. I hope I am not brushing over things. I also feel like I'm using words improperly. Oh well.) We made it to our place. It's a traveller’s house that accommodates roughly 35 people. There's no elevator so we carried all my luggage up four floors. I didn't meet anyone on the way up the stairs, thank God. He showed me to our room. It is small, but clean, and fancy. Cheap doesn't mean low quality here. There was something rolled up in the corner.

“It's another bed,” he explained. Jake hates being crowded, so he'll sleep on the floor. (I asked him if we could sleep together on the first night. I missed him a lot. He agreed, but I woke up to him curled up on the floor. I guess he over-heats.) I unpacked a little bit, but not too much. We are moving to the first floor in a couple weeks. The room is a little bit bigger.

The end of my first day is a little bit foggy. Just like now, I was so tired. My body was used to sleeping at that time, as it is now. We ate at a family diner for like eight bucks. It felt so weird not leaving a tip.

I did some grocery shopping. A litre of milk is 1.50$. A very small carton of grapes is 4$. Overall, food is cheaper here. Imported fruits are the most expensive.

Back in the house I met four of my house-mates. Jamie from Korea (I wish they used their real names), Kerry from Taiwan. I forget the other two. There is a girl from France who seems nice, but closed off. She speaks fluent English, so I hope we get along.

Jake's friend came to visit us. I met her in Toronto (she came to Canada for 4 days... I still can't believe how much of a waste that is.) We talked about learning languages, with Jake translating the entire time. She is a beautiful person.

My first night I experienced one of the oddest dreams ever. Maybe a month or two ago, I remember reading excerpts from a book that were first hand accounts from people who had died, but then came back to life. What struck me was the universal account of their soul being pulled by a force. They could all feel wind against their bodies as they were pulled away from Earth and through the cosmos. Of course, I believe this to be their spiritual journey into the after-life. My first night, I think I might have died. Yes, I am the master of hyperbole, but I experienced the same thing these people spoke of. Never have I had such a dream so vivid, that is for sure. It didn't even feel like a dream. I still remember the wind against my sides. I remember thinking “no! I don't want to be dead.” It wasn't like in the movies where the person has to question it. I knew I was dead. My soul was pulled from me and, like a magnet, was pulled towards another force. I didn't wake up from the dream. Rather it seemed to slowly dissipate, until I was no longer dreaming (or dead), but asleep. I'm sure this is encouraging for my mother.

I am getting really tired. I am in my second day now. We went to Harajuku (a shopping district.) A Buddhist temple proved interesting and mind-expanding. I am rather ignorant when it comes to their beliefs. I wrote a prayer in their prayer box, asking them to direct it to Jesus rather than their deities. Maybe that was a cruel joke. And now I am sitting in McDonalds writing this diary entry. There are many things I forgot to include, so I will do so below in point form.

Things I forgot:

• People take any opportunity they can to sleep. In the park, on the subway. There is no place that is not okay to catch a nap.
• I would say anywhere from 5%-10% of people wear a surgical mask. The air smells fresh and clean to me. I think it's a cultural thing.
• I was asked by many people where my 'house shoes' were. It's usually not okay to walk around in socks. Floors are seen as really dirty, so everyone has a pair of sandals (or something similar) to wear in the house.
• I bought a pair of house shoes for a dollar. They only had size 8 because “that's the normal size.” I found that funny.
• Despite being reserved, everyone is always friendly. Especially people at work (cashiers, etc.) I have yet to encounter a grouchy worker.
• I totally believe in all that “vibe” crap. This city has an overwhelmingly safe vibe. I feel so, so safe here. It's really cool.

There will be more. And I am so excited to find it.