Free Candy Giveaway

Between December 28, 2011 and January 16, 2012, I took a trip to Japan and Vietnam with my girlfriend.  During this trip I kept a journal (which is totally more sophisticated and cool than a diary) to record my adventures in those foreign lands.  Over the coming days, I will be posting my journal entries from that trip.

January 2, 2012

Over the past few days I have seen a prettier side of Japanese culture than was on display in the bizarro playboy mansion baths in Shimoda.  Since we got back to Tokyo on New Year’s Eve, we have been doing a lot of traditional New Year things.  Most of it has been pretty low-key, as the New Year in Japan seems like more of a religious/cultural event than it is in America (though this distinction might not make much sense if you consider binge drinking in a crowded bar/lame party while you worry that you should be having more fun a critical part of American culture).

As a product of a northeast liberal arts education, I typically hate to make value judgments about cultures, but I think Japanese New Year is better than the overhyped overpriced let down of American New Year.  Just to be clear to future generations that will likely unearth this journal and study its contents, favoring the more subdued Japanese New Year makes me cultured and sophisticated.  It does NOT make me old and lame.  Let me break it down by comparing what I imagine would have been my New Year experience alone in New York had I not joined Eriko in Japan with my actual New Year in Tokyo.

Most Likely New Year’s Eve in New York

After hoping somebody would invite me to do something fun for New Year’s Eve and doing absolutely no proactive planning on my own, New Year’s Eve arrived and I still had no plans.  Faced with the self-image destroying prospect of sitting in my apartment alone tonight I searched through the contact list in my phone for any friends who would probably be going out and wouldn’t mind me tagging along.  However, a wave of panic swept over me as I realized that most the friends who in the past I would’ve called to see if they wanted to hang out and make poor decisions had already made the ultimate poor decision by getting married and/or moving out of New York City.  I knew this meant that even if they were around they would probably be either sitting at home watching their kid(s) or at adult dinner parties for married people, at which I wouldn’t be welcomed without a significant other, a wedding band and a willingness to discuss the programming on Home & Garden Television.

Luckily, I found one old friend who is still single and said it was cool for me to tag along with him to a party at a bar on the Upper East Side.  Unluckily, when I got to the bar at 11 pm, they charged me a $100 cover for an “open bar” that took forever to order a drink and provided a choice of small plastic cups of either Coors Light or mixed drinks with a 10 to 1 ratio of mixer to drink.  Knowing nobody at the party except for my friend, I decided to camp out at the bar and pay extra for shots until I had enough nerve to talk to other people.  Once I started to walk around the room, I realized that everybody around was so much younger than me that they probably thought Justin Timberlake was an actor, not a pop musician.  This made me depressed so after midnight I got in a cab and went home.

Actual New Year’s Eve in Tokyo

Dinner tonight was actually cooked!  And it contained many pieces of delicious beef!  My heart did sink for minute when I saw that we would be dipping the meat in raw egg and thought “dear God, can Japanese people go through one meal without eating anything raw?”  But my mood quickly recovered when Eriko’s father — Suzuki-san — sensed my trepidation and said “don’t worry, eggs here ok to eat raw.  Only American eggs have salmonella.”  His laughter made me think that he had no scientific basis for such a claim but, whatever, beef dipped in raw egg is actually very tasty.

After dinner at Eriko’s parents’ house, Eriko and I decided not to go out because we were both still exhausted from jet lag.  Also, because I am incredibly cosmopolitan, I wanted to participate in what (I assume) is an ancient tradition and watch television with Eriko’s parents.  On Japanese television, none of the housewives appeared to be desperate and I didn’t see New Gingrich’s fat head once, but I was entertained nonetheless.  We watched a competition more quintessentially Japanese than sumo wrestling — a karaoke sing-off.  In this show, a regular person would sing a hit Japanese song from the 70s or 80s.  Then, the actual singer, typically a one-hit wonder, would appear and sing the same song.  The karaoke machine, represented by a cartoon microphone with eyes and mouth, would then decide who sung the song better.  This show needs to come to the United States.  I could also absolutely demolish Mr. Big with my rendition of “To Be With You” and would love to do so on television.

I also particularly liked watching television with Suzuki-san because he made noises at the television while he was watching.  From what I can tell, a low “hhhhhrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmm” sound indicated he agreed with what had just been said on television.  The slightly higher-pitched “hhhhhuuuuuuummmmmm” sound (I think) meant that he was surprised, or at least learning something new.

Shortly before midnight, we started watching Japan’s largest television network, NHK, which had cameras at old Buddhist temples throughout Japan showing monks in various states of prayer.  There was something very peaceful about it.  Ok, I will say it, it was very Zen.  At midnight, the Buddhist temples rang their bells 108 times, which I was told by Eriko’s mother was to get rid of the 108 problems that Japanese people have.  I thought about suggesting that Japanese people should listen to more Jay-Z because he only has 99 problems, but didn’t want to interrupt such a nice moment.  (I was also curious which nine problems the Japanese people have that Jay-Z has been able to overcome.  I’m guessing a “bitch” is one problem that the Japanese still grapple with that Mr. Z has overcome, but that still leaves eight more problems).

Most Likely New Year’s Day in New York

I woke up today at noon with a crippling hangover and proceeded to spend most of the day laying on my couch making this sound:  “aaaaaaaaooooooooooowwwwwwww.”  Because of the hangover and freezing weather, I didn’t leave my house and the only food I found was half a box of spaghetti and an egg that has only been expired for a few days.  I haven’t had any other food to eat.

Actual New Year’s Day in Tokyo

We had a big traditional breakfast.  Much of it was uncooked fish, some of which were still fully intact and looking back at me.  It was delicious.  Before we ate breakfast, we offered sake to Eriko’s deceased grandparents on a little shrine in the house.  I love the idea of offering alcohol to ancestors.  I swear if my descendants offer me anything less than single malt scotch, I will come back and haunt the shit out of them.  If my grandchildren are reading this journal right now and haven’t been offering me any scotch lately, to answer your question, those sounds you hear at night are not the house settling.  It is me walking around and giving your kids bad dreams nightmares so they wake you up and want to sleep with you.  Also, the milk has tasted bad lately because I have been pissing my nasty ghost urine into it.

Anyway, during the afternoon we went to a Buddhist temple and prayed.  Actually, I tried to say a prayer but it was crowded and I kept getting shoved by little old ladies.  Old Japanese women are surprisingly strong and apparently have stopped trying to walk around people who are in their way.  If the US deployed an army of elderly Japanese ladies in Afghanistan, the Taliban would surrender in about three days.  Every time I tried to focus and say a prayer for peace and happiness in the New Year, I felt a hard jolt around my kidney and looked up in time to see the top of a little-old lady hair-do scurrying away.  If I start pissing blood tonight, I would not be shocked.

Most Likely Day After New Year’s Day in New York

Jesus, how the fuck am I still hungover?!

Actual Day After New Year’s Day in Tokyo

Apparently every year on January 2nd the Emperor opens up part of the palace grounds to the public, appears with his family and makes a short speech three times during the morning.  Eriko’s parents took Eriko and me to see the Emperor, who looks like the sweetest grandfather ever, make his speech.  As the Emperor appeared with the royal family and made his speech from a covered second-story porch in his palace, many people in the crowd started waving Japanese flags and screaming “boonnnzaaiii!”  If anybody reading this has the ability to travel back in time and happens to see my grandparents circa 1942, please do not read them the previous sentence because it will probably make them throw up their breakfasts.  Or, if you do, tell them it’s cool because the Japanese are more interested in selling us practical cars and watching pornographic cartoons these days than fighting over remote Pacific islands.

At night, we went out to eat at a nice restaurant in the Ginza district of Tokyo.  Suzuki-san ordered a wooden boat filled with different kinds of sashimi for the table.  The centerpiece of the boat was a full red snapper.  The fish’s head and tail were curled up into the air, connected by its still intact spine.  Sitting on top of its spine was red snapper sashimi, sliced up and ready to eat.  Shortly after the boat arrived, Suzuki-san picked up the sake bottle we had ordered and started to pour a little of sake into the red snapper’s upturned open mouth.  “Eriko, Rob, look,” he said.  The fish’s head and tail started to twitch like it was still alive.

“Ewww gross, stop it,” Eriko said, as she shielded her eyes.

Suzuki-san was only more encouraged.  “Awww, come on Eriko, look.  It is twitching.  That means it is verrrryy fresh.”

I will admit, I laughed and poured a little sake into the red snapper’s mouth myself.  Does this make me a bad person because I was getting joy out of torturing both my girlfriend and a fish?  Quite possibly.  Was a drunken twitching fish a great way to end the day after New Year’s Day?  It most certainly was.

Between December 28, 2011 and January 16, 2012, I took a trip to Japan and Vietnam with my girlfriend.  During this trip I kept a journal (which is totally more sophisticated and cool than a diary) to record my adventures in those foreign lands.  Over the coming days, I will be posting my journal entries from that trip.

December 31, 2011

It did not take long for Japanese culture to prove itself a worthy adversary.  Yesterday, Eriko’s family — including her father, mother and brother — and I took the train from Tokyo to Shimoda, which is a small sea-side town a few hours south of Tokyo.  We went to Shimoda because it sits atop natural hot springs and there are several hotels in town that have baths where you can soak in the hot water.  Naturally, I was excited because I like hot tubs as much as your average Jersey Shore cast member (though, unlike them, I prefer not to share my hot tub with STD-delivery-systems masquerading as humans).  But I had an inkling that this might be different from your average American resort when Eriko told me before we left Tokyo that there was no need to pack a bathing suit.

My American mind was put at ease though when Eriko’s dad — who I’ll refer to as Suzuki-san — bought everybody beer and salty snacks at the train station, the ultimate balm for any homesickness.  My guard came further down when Suzuki-san jokingly suggested that Eriko’s mother was going to make a poop anytime she left our sight for more than 30 seconds.  Even under normal circumstances I am a sucker for cheap poop jokes, but such jokes are pushed to new comedic level when made in a thick Japanese accent by a middle-aged bald guy with glasses, such as Suzuki-san.

When we arrived at the hotel in the afternoon, however, any sense of comfort from the beer and poop jokes started to disappear.  The hotel we stayed at was a traditional Japanese hotel, referred to as a “ryokan,” which meant that our room was just that — a single large room for the entire family.  This meant that we would all be sleeping on mattresses on the floor, mere feet away from each other.

But before my mind had a chance to fully reckon with all the various noises my body makes when it is sleeping, Eriko’s family started putting on traditional robes, or yukata, that the hotel provided in the room’s closet.  This was actually good as far as I was concerned because I feel at home in any culture that embraces robes, or any pants-less outfit, in polite company.  I liked the robes even more because none of the ones in our closet fit me because I was too tall, so the staff had to get me a special large white-person robe.  This made me feel fucking huge and invincible.  I imagined that the Japanese had a size beyond XL simply called “Godzilla” that they kept in a safe place just for honored six-foot foreign guests like me.

As I put on the robe, which is made out of a lightweight cotton, I began to wonder how the hell Japanese people were talked into giving up this outfit for all but special occasions.  When the first person said “hey, guys, I know that we have been wearing this unbelievably comfortable outfit that keeps our balls cool and free to move as they please, doesn’t reveal how fat you’ve become and shows just the right amount of chest hair up top, but let’s try wearing these outfits that some dudes with round eyes I just met were wearing that will look completely unflattering when we gain weight, hide our chest hair and make our genitals feels like they have been put in prison,” how did the townspeople fail to form an angry mob and, at the very least, beat the shit out of the guy?  In fact, I wouldn’t blame the Japanese if they decided to isolate themselves from the West until the nineteenth century just to keep out idiotic European clothing.  And how did any Westerners who visited Japan in the nineteenth century not return home and say “hey, guys, I have this new idea for clothing that will allow us to be comfortable.  There are no heavy metal buckles or anything.”  Surely, the world embracing Western clothing while giving up all sorts of way more comfortable clothing that other cultures wore (or still wear) has to be one of the dumbest things humanity has done.  It is right up there with the Kardashians on the list of things that make no fucking sense to me.

Anyway, once we were all fully ensconced in our robes and relaxing with green tea, Suzuki-san announced something in Japanese to everybody in the room, which Eriko translated as:  “My Dad is going to take a bath and wants to know if you want to join.”

“How many baths are there?”  I asked.

“Just two, one for females and one for males.  They are communal baths,” Eriko responded.

“Wait, but you told me that I didn’t need a bathing suit….” I said, trailing off as I realized that Suzuki-san was inviting me to sit nude with him in a large hot bath.

I was in a bind.  If I said yes, then I would have to hang out buck-naked with my girlfriend’s father, who I barely know (not that knowing him better would necessarily make a difference, but still).  What if the freedom and warm water combined with nerves caused me to somehow get an erection?  Would he be checking me out to see if I was worthy enough to perhaps someday father healthy grandchildren?  Maybe he would look at me and think “yes, there’s a man who is well-bred, with a nice gait and good proportions, who is lean but does not look like he is so vain that he has to work out more than a couple of times a week.”  And that would be the best case scenario.

What about the walk from the locker room, where we disrobed, to the bath?  Should I put a hand over my private parts and risk looking ashamed or strut around without any covering and risk looking like I am too comfortable with nudity?  He will think that I must be used to being naked all the time.  And once we get into the bath, what is the etiquette there?  Surely, it will look rude if I don’t sit near him, but perhaps it will look pervy if I follow him too closely.

I’m also not sure if I could hold down a conversation in such a compromised position.  I know its prudish, but I can never get comfortable around naked males.  The wrinkly bodies of old men especially make me sad.  Their butts usually look like deflated balloons, like they were once proud asses but now the party’s over.  I know it is only a matter of time before that’s exactly what I will look like and it makes me kind of depressed.

On the other hand, I didn’t want to risk insulting the guy by refusing his offer to join him in the bath.  Suzuki-san had been generous enough to book this nice trip and invite me along.  Refusing to sit nude with him could look ungrateful.  He would probably think that I wasn’t interested in learning about Japanese culture or even getting to know him better.  Suzuki-san might also wonder “what is this guy hiding?  Does he not want me to see that he has noticeable herpes all over his genitals?”  I irrationally worried that there could be an ancient Japanese proverb warning that, “a man who won’t show you his penis is unworthy to date your daughter, as he is a man who hides many other things.”  On the bright-side, as we undressed, I could probably make the generic joke, “gee, you didn’t even buy me dinner,” and he might think I was being completely original, because maybe that joke has never been made in Japan before.

I was just about to grudgingly agree to go with him, when Eriko’s brother, Chu, said to me in English, “I never go to those baths.  I don’t need to see a bunch of naked old dudes.  But they are serving free beer right outside the baths on the same floor if you want to come.”

I immediately grabbed his lifeline.  “I don’t think I will have a bath today, but thank you for the offer, Suzuki-san.  I will go and have a beer with Chu instead.”  I figured with this compromise I couldn’t be accused of not wanting to get to know the family better.  And if Chu wasn’t thrilled with communal bathing, then I figured I could turn down the opportunity as well.

“I don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to take a bath with me,” Suzuki-san said, to nobody in particular.

“Because it’s weird,” Eriko replied.   “And besides,” Eriko turned to me and said, “the old men will probably think it is funny that there is white guy around and will come up to you and say things in English like ‘sank you berry much.'”

Satisfied that I was making a sound decision to forego naked time with Eriko’s father, Chu and I went to the bath area for our free beers, and he showed me around the male locker room in case I wanted to take a bath later.  It looked pretty nice and I thought I might try to have a soak another time, when there were only strange naked men around and not Suzuki-san.

This morning, owing to jet lag, I woke up at 5:30 AM.  I love jet lag that wakes me up early because it makes me feel like one of those fit people who get up first thing in the morning to do healthy things like run or drink orange juice.  I figured it would be a great time to have a bath because there probably wouldn’t be many people awake at such an early hour.  Also, Eriko’s family was still asleep and I didn’t feel like sitting in the dark.

I got up, threw on my ridiculously comfortable robe and headed to the baths.  After getting off the elevator, I walked to the room where Chu and I had beers yesterday.  The entrances to both the male and female locker rooms, through which you reached the baths, were off of this room.  As I walked into the room, I turned right, towards the locker room that Chu had shown me yesterday.  Right before I crossed the threshold, I noticed that there was a red cloth hanging down in front of the doorway.  “Wasn’t there a blue cloth hanging here yesterday?” I thought, as I paused and took a step back.  I looked across the room and saw that the blue cloth was now in front of the door to the other locker room on the opposite side of the room.  I took a step back.  I was sure that the locker room to the right, the one with the red cloth, was the one I went into yesterday with Chu, and there were definitely men in the locker room then, but what if the rooms had switched?  “Why would they do that?” I thought.  I then noticed that next to the doorway to the right, there was a silhouette of a male figure, and next to the doorway to the left across the room, there was a silhouette of a female.  “Ok, the room on the right is definitely for males,” I thought.  “I saw men in there yesterday, Chu told me that it was the male locker room and it has the male sign next to it.  The cloths must be hung up randomly from day to day.  Stop being paranoid and just walk in.”

Gathering up my confidence, I stepped through the red cloth and into the locker room to the right.  I tentatively took about two steps into the room before hearing a high-pitched voice across the locker room.  “Holy shit!! I think that was a female voice!”  I thought, frozen in a panic.  “Run you moron before somebody sees you, thinks you are white perv who likes to watch Asian ladies changing and you get dumped by Eriko faster than they can lock you up in Japanese prison,” I thought.  I turned around and burst through the red cloth and back into the room.

At that point, unsure whether I heard a ladies’ voice but half expecting screaming women to come running out after me, I decided to grab a seat on a chair in the beer-room and wait for somebody else to walk into or out of one of the locker rooms, so I could determine what the fuck was going on.  About ten minutes later, a woman came and went through the red cloth and into the locker room on the right.  I had been in the ladies locker room after all.

“Well played, Japanese culture,” I muttered to myself.  “I’m not sure why it is ok to randomly switch the male and female baths, but it is an inspired tactic to keep the barbarians like me on edge.”  I then got up, went into the locker room to the left, took off my robe and strutted confidently — and nude — to the male bath.  I had passed the first test.