It's Rainin' Ramen and the Lone Un- Monk Makes another Cameo, Nov 19, 2014

Business Opportunity:  Inquire within

Let's get right to the food. The monk can wait.  Spoiler alert:  I was right about the monk.

Today's breakfast Ramen

You know that food thing that kicks in when you're on vacation and you have a really great meal someplace and instead of continuing to try out other restaurants, you keep going back to the place where you had the really great meal?  For three days in a row, I have eaten at the Ramen stand I discovered on Monday.  But rather than allowing this practice to narrow my options, I have redesigned my day so that I have a Ramen breakfast there, followed by whatever  street food speaks to me whenever I see it.  Today what spoke to me was another bowl of Ramen.  But in a different location.

On the third day, I added meat dumplings to the breakfast menu

It happened, like all things happen here, by accident.  Admittedly, I don't know a lot about Ramen except that everyone swoons when you say it.  I'm not entirely sure that before coming to Tokyo, I had ever really had authentic Ramen, except if you call those styrofoam cups with the dried noodles that used to be 3/$1 "Ramen," then yes, I've had it.  (My friend, Brian B.  the very best cook I know, carries these rattle-y containers with him when we travel together for reasons I am not entirely clear.)

I spent a good part of the early morning researching Ramen on-line.  I even read what Wikipedia had to say about Ramen.  I learned about straight noodles, curly noodles and flat noodles; I read about oily rich, milky-looking pork broth that gets cut with chicken or fish stock and even some history of how those little floating doughy balls we think might be matzo-- but  are always some off-tasting fishy mess --found their way into an otherwise perfectly good bowl of Ramen.   I Googled Ramen + Tokyo and places nearby in so many iterations that I eventually clicked my way out of Ramen restaurant reviews with Google maps and ended up reading recipes on how to make it.

Here's  the real truth of what I was really looking for:  How do you know a Ramen restaurant if you don't read Japanese and they don't have pictures?  So I studied the hiragana (Japanese alphabet) to see if I could teach myself to recognize a sign for "Ramen" that looks like this:  ラーメン.  Good plan.  I love a plan.  Excessive research could also explain why I haven't been leaving the apartment until very late in the morning.

Another Geography Challenge

Knowing I was going back to the Ueno area for the third consecutive day, I also made a deal with myself to see if I could find--also for the third day in a row-- Izuei Honten, the famous 260-year old  eel restaurant that I keep reading about.  Izuei Honten was recommended to me by a friend who had been there a couple years ago and it's always mentioned in every guidebook and food blog  about Tokyo you care to read.  Even though I had the address and a photo of the Google map on my Iphone, I tried everything I knew to locate this restaurant.  I wanted to do it on my own without asking. I walked around those streets, in and out of alley ways, back to where I began, and then did it all over again.  I failed to find Izuei Honten on Monday.  Ditto Tuesday. There's only so much geographical defeat I can stomach each day and trying to find Izuei Honten had gobbled up all of it.

The elusive 260 year old Izuei Honten eel restaurant

Today, a new resolve fueled by a belly full of breakfast Ramen and meat dumplings, I found it!  Nothing is in English and as far as I'm concerned, a Google map for me in Tokyo translates into:  "It's around here somewhere.  Good luck."   The restaurant had not yet opened for the day, so I ventured on.  Also, it's an expensive proposition and if I'm going to shell out a significant amount of money for a meal, I'd rather do it at the end of the day and then go home.  It's been there for 260 years, so I am assuming it will hold on for another couple of weeks.  Still, victory was mine.

Yanaka Cemetery 

Today's walk found me in Tokyo's massive cemetery, a labyrinth of beautiful small gardens within gardens surrounded by marble monuments,  mourners paying their respects, people riding bikes, an Orthodox memorial service with chanting priests and a robed clergyman really good at swinging an incense pot (he didn't hit anyone, though he came mighty close) and cats.  Lots and lots of cats.

Evidently, the area of Tokyo where the cemetery is located is also home to a hell of a lot of cats.  They are everywhere and the merchants in the area capitalize on it by featuring cats in their  stores and their merchandise.  If you want a cat something, go to Yanaka.

On to lunch

Just seemed like a place to go into

No tables.  Just stand and slurp

There is no good explanation for why I picked the little store front restaurant to eat lunch at today, except that I happened to notice that it had no tables,  only shelfs on two walls where people were eating what appeared to be hot, steamy bowls of Ramen. (In San Francisco, think Tu Lan before the remodel, only much, much smaller and not that nice.)   I saw the noodles, so I was pretty certain I was on to something.  In I went.

I looked at the bowls of Ramen that were given out to the three women ahead of me in line and when it came to my turn, I pointed to theirs and said, "That."  One of the cooks seemed to be game for my being there so he took a bowl, deposited a big serving of noodles into the bottom of it, held it up for my inspection and declared, "Soba!"  I nodded.  Then he passed my bowl to the next guy who indicated that I needed to select from one of the tempura toppings in the case in front of me.  They all looked pretty much the same.  Delicately fried cakes of what I think were either fish or vegetables.  I pointed to one that had some green on it, hoping for the best.  The three cooks were clearly excited that I had wandered into their little place and there was a lot of chatting and nodding my direction and what I think were probably exaggerated moves in preparing my lunch.  It arrived within a minute, steamy and delicate, with my tempura floating on top.  Total cost:  300 yen, or a little less than $3.

My new best friends in Tokyo

The three women who had preceded me into the restaurant now motioned for me to set myself up next to them, as they moved in closer to each other to make room at the counter for the newbie.  One of them indicated that I needed to sprinkle my soup with some red spice from a communal shaker.  I sprinkled.  Just about the time I was ready to dig in, two of the men from the other side of the restaurant left and, as if they were a precision drum and bugle corps, all three of the women turned in unison, picked up their bowls and moved to the now vacated spaces.  I have no idea why.  Still don't.   It was inconceivable, evidently, that I would not follow and so when they turned to see me still in my original location, they once again indicated that I should move to their side.  And so I moved.

We tried a little communication but the best I could do was turn on my Japanese translator app and played them the phrase that says, "This is really good."  And then the next one that asks, "What is this called?"  They told me.  Slowly and repeatedly.  Still don't remember and I never was able to pronounce it either.  They were just as tickled as they could be with my translator.  I played some of my greatest hits for them.  "I'm lost.  Can you help me?"  "Could I have a fork?"  "Do you speak English?"  "What do you recommend?"  "Where's the toilet?"  These pre-recorded inquires really crack up the Japanese.  I entertained my Nagomi family with them a couple weeks ago and I believe it was the highlight of the visit.

Today's $3 Ramen lunch

I slurped and Oiishi-ed my way through the whole delicious bowl.  The tempura was, I think, shrimp and onion. It melted lovingly into the broth. One of my lunch mates brought me a glass of water and all of them waited until I had finished so they could show me what to do with my empty bowl.  We all thanked each other amid bows and hand shakes and, to finish out this multi-cultural diorama, I played them my final Japanese translator app that said, "Take care of yourself."  Off they went, a cacophony of giggles.  World peace and understanding may be just an app away.




I knocked around the historical streets of Yananka, looking at the cat merchandise, the old wooden houses and shrines, paused to eat a chocolate mochi and then headed back towards the cemetery and then on to Ueno Park where something interesting is always happening.  Who should I run into along the route but my three new lady friends who couldn't have been more pleased to see me, and I them.

We showed each other things we bought in our bags and I even pulled one of those moves that I am not proud of:  I flashed them a photo of Charley on my Iphone and indicated that some of the things in my bag were for her.  Such a fun day.

The un-monk comes chasing after me.
Then it was back to Ueno Park.  Just as I was climbing the steps to where I had the interaction yesterday with the phoney  monk, I saw him.  I took a closer look at his dress.  He was wearing black, un-monk leather shoes and a pair of black pants beneath his robe that was little more than what we would consider a men's bathrobe.  He was concluding a transaction with a pair of tourists, so I hurried along and continued up another pair of steps to the next level of the park.  Then it hit me:  I should take a picture of him.  So turned, pointed my camera in his direction and waited for him to move from behind a post that was blocking the shot.  So that he wouldn't see me taking his photo, I aimed my camera beyond where he stood,  while waiting for him to reposition himself.  Lots of Japanese people walked by.  He seemed to size them up fairly quickly. Nothing.  He didn't move. He didn't approach them. Finally, I got  tired of waiting so I gave up, turned back toward the stairs and began climbing.  In about 30 seconds, I heard a voice, "Madam.  Oh, Madam.  A moment for peace," he was right behind me!  Clearly I fit the profile he was looking for and even more obvious, he did not remember our encounter of yesterday.  "No thanks,"  I said, as I moved on, thinking about George Bush's fool-me-once dictum in a way I had never thought possible.

With that, I leave you with my own wish for all of you:

Take care of yourself.自分自身の世話をする。

Jibunjishin'no sewa o suru.

The Lone Monk: So much for Family Peace

Five story pagoda

"I wish you and your family much peace," said the burgundy-robed monk  as he approached me outside of the temple grounds.

The Eternal Flame from Nagasaki

A number of beautiful worship complexes lie within the Ueno City Park, home also to the Ueno Zoo and scores of other museums and shrines, including the eternal flame from Nagasaki where I had just spent a few quiet and weepy moments.

Ueno City Park main thoroughfare.

Along with his murmured blessings for familial peace, the monk presented me with a small, flat,  gold, plastic medallion.  I took it, thinking that if it weren't so cheap and crappy looking, I could pass it off to someone as a gift.

Who am I to argue with a monk and who doesn't want family peace?  "What a lovely gesture,"  I thought.  "Here's real street ministry at its finest:  a nice young monk, fresh from a long morning of floor scrubbing and meditation, now out working the crowds in the park to bring peace on earth, one family at a time."

While these lofty ideas swarmed in my head, and just as I was warming up to thank him for his public ministry, a clip board and pen suddenly appeared from beneath his flowing robes.  "Write your name here," he directed, pointing to a sheet of paper with a matrix.  I obeyed.  He was, after all, a monk.  At least he was dressed like one.   Name, [Eileen] Country,[USA]  Blessing, [Peace] Donation [huh?!].  The line above me indicated that Matt,/USA,/Peace had donated 20,000 yen, or about $20. That amount and more generous denominations were neatly itemized in the final rows for everyone on the list.  My turn to ante up.

Trees are lovingly and beautifully maintained

So now I am faced with a pressing dilemma:  is this guy a shake down artist or is this a legitimate spiritual enterprise?   Here he was, wishing my family peace--though I am unaware of any turbulence.  And let the record reflect that I was holding a gold medallion, inarguably new to my possession.  Add to those concerns the possibility that he may have connections to the world of familial unrest.  And what is family peace worth?  What to do?

You know that feeling you get when someone you know and thought of as a friend, invites you over for an evening of what you think is going to be dinner and a dessert that will involve cream cheese and it turns out to be bowls of chips, iced tea and a pitch to join their multi-level marketing group?....

"I'm sorry," I lied to the monk.  "I have nothing to donate."  With that, he reassumed ownership of the clipboard, the pen and, with a practiced economy of motion,  the medallion.

Vindication!  If family unrest arises in the foreseeable future, at least I'll know who to blame.

Meanwhile, I wish you and your family peace.  --E
の平和を願っています。Watashi wa, anata no kazoku no heiwa o negatte imasu.

No gifts, please. Maybe you want to put those pig's feet in the fridge?

Hello everybody.
Minasan konnichiwa.    

If we are lucky, we have among our family and friends someone who is a really good gift-giver.   I am a terrible gift giver.  If I ever start to think otherwise, my children dredge up true tales of birthdays spent weeping and Christmas mornings characterized by perplexity at best  with a layer of raw disappointment the usual order of the day.  Oh, sure, occasionally I'll hit the big time in the same way that a broken clock is right twice a day.  But history aside, it has not stopped me from wandering into the fantasy world of gift giving.

If there were support meetings for bad gift givers as there are for other recoveries, I would be attending one tonight.  I need something to keep me from buying a second suitcase full of things I imagine friends and family would like.  The problem is  that, given the consumer resources this city offers,  I am beginning to fantasize that I could become that really good gift-giver in your life.  My problem is not that I am a bad gift giver, the problem is that, until Tokyo, I've not had the resources commensurate with my dormant, gift giving talents.

It is impossible to explain the intensity of the consumer focus of Tokyo. Every store and stall in the city is one of two types:  retail or food.  The food part is easy.  It's the retail that confounds me.   So I have manufactured a plan and it's this:  when I see something that I am tempted to buy, I take a photo of it and keep on moving.

Here are some of the photos I took today of stuff-I-didn't-buy-but-thought-about.  I leave it to any of you who knows me to to breathe sighs of relief that I did not give into my impulses.

These pugs and tuxedo cat faces are purses.  They are every bit as adorable in real life as they are in this photo.   Surely someone is sorry I passed these up.

(Photo on left)  Although difficult to make out, these are socks.  There is no end to the sock fetish.   Really, winter is almost upon us, who doesn't need a pair of Princess-Whatever-Her-Name-Is socks....?

 Stuffed puppies.  Lots and lots of puppies.  All lined up and dressed up and so adorable with moving parts and little puppy barks.  Better than the real thing.  Who wants some?  A half dozen to start....

T

Back packs.  Needs no explanation.

















I think that should put the gift giving issue to rest.  For those of you harboring delusions along the lines of, "I wonder what Eileen is going to bring me from Japan?" get hold of yourself.  Find a meeting.

On to the Food Scene.  Today I went to Ueno, home to the University of Tokyo, (the Harvard of Japan I've been informed), but also home to an old street market and a number of museums that I wanted to check out.  The market was fabulous.  It was Monday so except for a shrine and the public park, the museums were closed.

Since I'm on a I-didn't-buy-you-this roll, here are a couple photos of food at the market I managed to pass up.  It wasn't dominated by old folks, so they weren't giving out samples either.  Can't figure out the red octopus.  Crabs appeared breaded and deep fried.

But then there's always the lunch challenge.  Today, I scored on that.  I sat myself down at one of those outdoor tables where people were eating hot, steamy bowls of soup.  I assumed it was a Ramen stand so I looked around at what people were eating and this is what I picked.  It was deep, rich and perfectly spiced.  The broth was still bubbling when it arrived.  

Monday's lunch:  a bowl of ramen, I think, at Ueno.  Spicy and satisfying.

Scene from the kitchen with the cooks preparing my bowl of ramen.

I stood at this window for about 10 minutes, watching three cooks in a space about the size of a Victorian closet.  Every bowl of Ramen is prepared individually.  When it comes time to add the noodles, they open a small cellophane-wrapped package of dried noodles.

Stash of ingredients below the window where the cooks were working.  Yes, those are pig's feet and a bag of dough.

With all due respect to the proprietor's casual regard for refrigeration, I am pleased to report that it has been nearly eight hours since I ate at this little bit of Ramen heaven  and am feeling just fine, thank you.  As long as someone is not shooing away flies and vermin with a piece of cardboard, I feel fairly safe going with the street food crowd.

One of the cooks working a pile of chicken parts at the Ramen stand.

Street Food Update
I have begun to reevaluate Japanese street food in a new and discerning light, having had quite a bit of it.  (Ed note:  the Domino's pizza is officially gone. )  On first bite, because the flavors are new--which also makes them exciting--my knee jerk response is to  think that what I'm eating is really good.  Upon reflection, that is not necessarily the case.  Take yesterday.  I took myself over to the Harajuku area of the city where a guidebook mentioned that on Sunday's, the Japanese Rockabillies gather in the park dressed as Elvis, attended by young women wearing what I assume would be trashy Western wear and big hair.  Not so.  At least not yesterday.  So I was adrift in the outskirts of the park, looking for something to eat. There's food everywhere.  It is never a problem to find it.  It's deciding what to eat that's the challenge.  A row of about six stalls, each manned by guys cooking pancakes stuffed with noodles, cabbage and eggs looked, at first glance, very appealing.  (Why do they all sell the very same thing at the same place, right next to each other?  Surely there's a graduate marketing thesis in there somewhere.)  So I got in line--in Tokyo, one learns to tolerate lines-- and did my smiling, pointing, nodding, nodding, nodding ritual that I've pretty much perfected and was rewarded with a pancake weighing about 5 pounds,  painted with a dark sauce, then a festive squirt of mayonnaise, sprinkled with something green and parsley-looking, and, finally a lot of fish flakes: very thin, dried, fishy-smelling flakes of what might be fish scales but probably aren't.  It cost about $5.  A can of Asahi was another $5.  Off I retreated with great happiness to a nearby bench.  One does not walk about eating in Tokyo.  One sits or stands near to where the food or drink was purchased.

Whatever this delicacy was called, it smelled like dried fish and tasted like paste. After about three bites, I'd had enough.   Now here's the problem.  Tokyo does not have trash cans.  When you are finished eating from a stall, you are expected to take your trash back to the stall and hand it over to the proprietor.  They accept it back with good cheer and appreciation.  I didn't want my pancake guy to think that I was not appreciative of his efforts, so I shoved this confection into my backpack and hauled it around for the next 5 hours.  This was not a good idea.  The plastic bags are thin. Chopsticks poke holes.  Mayonnaise runs.  Dried fish does what dried fish does.  If I were a better gift giver, I'd buy myself a new backpack.  (See above photo of backpack display.)

My Monday is already finished and yours is just beginning.  If anyone wants one of those cute purses, let me know by  first thing tomorrow morning.  I'm headed back to Ueno for another bowl of Ramen --if I can find the stall again-- and to put in some serious museum time.  Preview:  The admission cost for adults at the Tokyo Science Center is $6 for adults, $3 for children and, check this out:  Over 65 is free! I love a country that respects its elders.  


See you tomorrow.
Mata, ashita.    

Sugamo: Grannies' Alley and real Gummy Worms. November 15, 2014

Before yesterday, I harbored a dark and lingering fear that once people in Tokyo reach the age of say, 40 or thereabouts, they do away with them.  The average age on the streets of Shibuya is closing in on 25.  Same for most, if not all, of the places I've visited.  Of course there are the occasional 50+-year-olds, but they are usually in a uniform, wearing white gloves and directing traffic in and out of alleyways or garages.  The streets of Tokyo, it seems, are young.  Very, very young.

So I very excited to be redirected by a NYT writer to Sugamo, a part of Tokyo known, among its many names as "Grannies' Alley."  (Thank you, Juliana.)  I've yet to align my previously-held assumptions about the Japanese honoring elders while building and maintaining such dynamic youth cultures.  So on the advice of the writer, off I went to Sugamo, a 30-minute train ride away.

It took a bit of doing, as it always does, to find "Grannies' Alley."  Because I'm never entirely sure that I am where I think I intended to be, I usually visit a place with some skepticism.

But the moment I arrived at Grannies' Alley, I thought, "My people!"   Here were the bargain-hunters, the pensioners, the people-with-time-on-their hands.  Walkers, canes, the arthritic, the cautionary hat-wearers. There were sensible shoes and heavy coats.  Tables with clothes lines overhead hawking unappealing versions of pink long underwear.  Here also were vendors smearing face creams on anyone who looked their way, the ubiquitous fortune teller, tables of every conceivable and imaginable version of sea creatures, dried snakes and turtles if you were running low, and as much vibe and activity as anyone who traveled 12 hours in a plane to get there would ever desire.

 One thing a senior citizen (God, I hate that word)  loves is a free sample.  And so it seems do my fellow pilgrims at Grannies' Alley.



Wherever there was a line, I joined it.  I sampled and gobbled my way through all sorts of things salted, dried, fried, baked, sweet and slimy.  If they were giving it away, I played Saturday-Costco:  lemme have some!  I could not help but notice that when it was my turn, many eyes followed me.  There would be this quick moment of anticipation, followed by a low buzz. I chewed and swallowed and produced as many satisfied faces as I could muster.  I nodded, I bowed, I thanked, I walked away with as much dignity as I could, given that I bought nothing.  It wasn't that I didn't like what I was tasting, I just had no use for a bag of dried mystery.  (Though I was very tempted to buy several, give them to Brian B., then demand that he "do something" with them.  I still might.)

This seems like the appropriate time to bring up the topic of racial profiling.  There were stalls I passed where I was not offered anything, which peeved me in a way I was a bit ashamed of.  And so I decided to right that wrong and show the Grannie's that, despite my obvious Western leanings,  I was not afraid of anything.  In retrospect, I might have chosen a different challenge to take on but here it was:

I stood for a long time at this stall.  I watched many, many Grannies pass it by.  I saw few takers.  However, if you stand at a stall long enough, eventually they will pay attention to you and even you, you rookie, will get offered a taste.  There were several piles of oddities on this table and the one of the right was not what I had myself set on.  There was a harmless enough looking bowl on the far left that appeared black, flat, and seaweedy.  I stared.  The proprietor finally said something that sounded like, "Would you care to taste something you won't feel like spitting out and embarrassing yourself in front of all these people watching us?"  I nodded.  

She fetched a toothpick and rather than going for the seaweed, stabbed straight into this:

Gasps from the Grannies.  Then a hush.  Maybe it was my imagination, but as I delivered it into my mouth,  I think the vendor said, "This should cure you of taking samples you have no intention of buying."

It tasted just like it looks.

I'll leave it to you to put some adjectives around it but here's my only small victory:  I didn't spit it out.  I am certain I lost momentary control of my face and maybe even a bodily function here and there, but when I finally recovered, I offered a weak "Oiishi." (Delicious).  No one was buying it. Before I slunked away, my hostess, ever gracious, presented me with a sizable chunk of what appeared and tasted like a dried shrimp.  She sent me on my way, whispering, "Palate cleanser," into my grateful ear.

 It's very tempting, just to have one.

Dumb Stuff I've Done: November 13, 2014

1.  Leading off the Dumb Stuff list is this:
I have walked into poles, planters, doors (the Japanese really know how to keep glass looking good), several old people, a McDonald's delivery guy in a really big hurry, a Department store candy display that pretty much disintegrated on impact and, today, I walked into a men's bathroom.  I have no defense on anything except for the men's bathroom.

I'm not sure what's going on but I am going to attribute it to my tourist status.  As a tourist, my eyes are always looking someplace else and not directly in front of me;  nor does it seem that my peripheral vision is operating with any working gears. But here's the thing about a smash up with a Japanese person.  They always take the rap.  I am not pleased or happy with this little interpersonal coup d'Etat, but when a stranger in Japan apologizes to you--in Japanese, a language that you do not and will not ever understand--it is a moment to savour and appreciate.  Nobody does it better.  And here's the thing: it takes no time at all but the intensity of there sorrow is a thing of beauty.  There is much bowing--you too will find yourself bowing in return which only serves to elongate the already discomforting exchange at which you are not going to come out ahead in any way you will recognize--and despite your own element of regret, it will be for naught.  So here is my advice:  When in Tokyo, try to pay attention.

The glories, comforts and accessories of Japanese public  restrooms and toilets cannot be overstated.  It is nearly reason enough to relocate here.   There is always one nearby when you need one.  The moment, "I have to pee..." enters your consciousness, a restroom appears, as if by the Emperor's Decree.  They are free, clean, well-stocked with all of the provisions one needs,  and range in design from very basic floor troughs in the public gardens  to department store high tech toilets with heated seats, fake toilet flushing sounds to drown out what you are there to do, and, best of all, a number of water-squirting-finish options, which I won't go into. But I must add that the water-squirting business is such that you can regulate the intensity of the flow and how long it goes on.  This could explain their popularity, which I also won't go into.

I am very familiar with trough toilets from my trip to India.  I am lucky.  I can pee anywhere and into anything, so a trough, while a bit odd, is not the off-putting element that many women from the West find it.   Frankly, I think a trough toilet is great sport.

Today was a beautiful day so I wandered about the neighborhood--which I have been neglecting-- and visited a shrine and a park nearby.  Closing in on the noon hour, I decided to use the restroom and then find a lunch spot.  The shrine was in a lovely park with trails and trees and a water fall and really annoying birds--the kind that are fed by tourists and become a real nuisance rather than an adjunct to the park; but I digress.  The directional sign for the restroom led me down a long path into very dense vegetation and when I finally arrived at the restroom, it struck me how small it was.  And so I assumed that when the sign said "Restroom" and not "Restrooms," they meant it literally.  A unisex facility.  As a former government employee who was raised by Republicans, I understand such economies.

So I walked into the only opening I saw--there are no doors on most public restrooms in parks--though I did pause for moment at the odd lay out.  There were several troughs side by side, no doors; there was one private stall with a "Western Style" label on the door.  This Western Style designation is very common.  Some people like troughs; some people like Western Style.  I'm an American and when there is a choice, I'll take the Western Style.  I let myself into the Western Style stall and proceed to go about my business.  All the while, I am assuming this is a unisex restroom and through I briefly thought that the set up was rather casual, especially for the Japanese,  other pressing  goals swing into play in such a situation.  So imagine the dual surprised faces that appeared when I emerged from my Western Style stall to find a very nice and very embarrassed Japanese man using the trough for its intended purpose.  Oh, dear, I cannot even begin to  describe what followed.  Picture me just beating a hasty dash for the door and not even bothering to hear his apology or try to explain my presence.  I like to think that this story for him will be a tale that he will recite to the everlasting boredom of his wife and children, but will provide him with a lifetime of storytelling.  As for me, this is the last and only time I care to mention it.

I know this entry began with a promise of long list of other dumb stuff I've done and believe me, there is more, but after the retelling of the restroom saga, I find I can't go on.  I worry about my Japanese-trough-man partner and am concerned that he may be experiencing some PTSD as a result of today's encounter.  On the other hand, I'd give nearly anything to get his take on the exchange. The best I can hope for is that, in the end, he thinks I was German.

What I wish I could have said to him:

I hope you don't mind if I leave now.
Excuse me for leaving first.
Watashi wa kore de shitsurei shimasu.    

Anime, Smutty Comic Books and a Culinary Malfunction, November 12, 2014

I'll get to the Anime stuff in a minute, but first, the food tale of the day.  Or, rather, last night....

I am beginning to understand and appreciate the confessional nature of the Catholic Church.  There is something cathartic to admitting ones failures and I had one last night.  The short of it is:  I ordered, ate and enjoyed a Domino's pizza.  I am the first to admit that I did not come to Tokyo to eat Domino's pizza, especially given their politics--which made my failure all the worse-- but sometimes a food just calls out and the past several days the Domino's pizza store about 200 feet from my front door was sending me very special vibes.  I think it's the presence of so much Zen Buddism here.   But before I would completely debase myself  by walking to the storefront window and enduring the awkward ordering process that would involve inelegant pointing accompanied with a surfeit of nodding and fake smiling, I made a deal with myself:  if I could figure out how to order a Domino's pizza on-line from that particular store for pick-up, then I would allow myself the indulgence of a big old pie with lots of pepperoni and hot melty cheese.  Seemed like a plan.  I love plans.

Before I went to the website, I went to my favorite continuing education site:  YouTube.  First up after a little Googling  for Domino's  and Tokyo resulted in a 9 minute and 30 second video of a woman who claims she is going to show you how to order Domino's pizza on line in Tokyo, but what she really does is takes 9 minutes and 30 seconds to lament how small the portions of everything are in Japan, lots of grousing about how expensive pizzas are, and then proceeds to take the viewer through nothing more than a systematic clicking of the on-line menu.  Must tsk-tsk-ing was involved in this excursion.  She did not, as I had hoped, help me figure out which Domino's was 200 feet away, nor did she actually place an order.  I'm not sure, in the end, exactly what the purpose of her YouTube contribution was, but it did not further the cause for how to order pizza in Tokyo on line from Domino's.  I did learn one thing:  an option for a topping in Tokyo is mayonnaise.  I'll let that concept settle in and suggest we move on. (My YouTube guide made an unkind allusion to the French but I am not about to pursue that line of thinking.)

After an inordinate and embarrassing amount of time spent Googling and Google mapping (they don't make it easy), I landed on what I determined was, in fact, My Neighborhood Domino's Pizza store front.  Then there was the registration, the arcane Google translate headings and boxes that kept moving and, to my shock and delight, no request for a credit card or even a PayPal account.  Once I registered with my name, email and [rented] cell phone number, I was presented with a number of  ordering options.

 I would like to say that I understood them all, but that would be a bold face lie.  What I did understand was that if I ordered on-line and selected the "pick-up" option as opposed to home delivery, I qualified for buy-one-get-one-free.  At this point, it would be advisable to look around the room, take a quick inventory of the number of pizza eaters in attendance, and proceed from there.    But I was raised by Mildred.  One does not pass up any opportunity to get anything free and so that is the option I chose.  Pay for a large one-topping pizza and get a large one-topping pizza for nothing!  It's almost America!  I comforted myself with the voice of my YouTube tutor reminding me that indeed, the portions in Japan are smaller than they are in the USA.  I did not take into account that Domino's is a USA-based company and so when I presented myself at the counter for my pick up order, the pizzas are, in fact, LARGE.  There are, however, no X-tra large options.  Large is as big as we go here.  Were it not for the fact that breakfast pizza to me is the equivalent of Holy Communion to the Church, I would have been overwhelmed.  But the fact is, I'm thrilled!  This is such a terrible thing to admit here in the City of Sushi, but this is what it's come to.  Sometimes pizza is the answer.

One final chapter on the pizza before I leave for my trip to Akihabara, the City's Anime and Magna District.  I am still struggling with the money here and ferreting out the correct denominations. Somehow, having foreign currency feels no different than giving someone Monopoly money.  This is a dangerous line of thinking.   On more occasions than I care to admit, I dig all of the coins from my purse and present them in my open hand to a clerk who is always gracious and kind and never rolls so much as a tired eyeball during these exchanges.  Last night, I took what I thought were two 10,000 yen bills with me to pay for my pizza.  (Total cost was 19900 yen or about $20.)  What I actually laid out for the young Domino's counter worker were two 100,000 bills (each one the equivalent of about $100).  Without missing a beat, she handed me back one of them and then proceed to count out my change in new, crisp 10,000 yen notes.  I thought later how quickly she could have pocketed an easy hundred bucks or more but it just was not anything that would even occur to her.  I would like to think that visiting Japanese would get the same treatment in the US, but in the face of a minimum wage worker with a quick mind, it might not go as well.

And now we are at Akihabara, where terminal cuteness, music that sounds like it was recorded by the Chipmonks on speed,  and Maid Cafe's reign.

I always knew that Japan was the primary source of  anime and manga--I have come late but grateful to the shrine of Hayao Miyazaki--but I had no idea of the degree to which anime penetrates Japanese culture, especially among young people.  How, then, to describe the Akihabara area?  Pictures are  essential to capturing the feel of the area.  I cannot do it justice with mere words.  Those of you who have visited Tokyo will have no problem making the cosmic shift to this area, and for those of you who have not been here, all I can say is, "...you gotta go and see it for yourself."

The Maid Cafe's are brokered by young women dressed up as what has been described in the guide book as "French Maids," but that's not even close to being accurate.  My way of describing them would be to say they are young girls dressed as little girls, with short, pouffy dresses, hair ribbons,  lacy ankle socks or thigh-high's.  Their primary job seems to be to get people [men] to come into the store or restaurant where other Maids will gush and fawn over them.  They work the  crowds outside very aggressively either down on the street level or from balconies, calling out to passersby and entreating them to come into the store.  I watched as two young Maids on a second floor balcony exchanged flirty talk and gestures with a really creepy guy down on the street.  Sadly, he seemed to think the young women had an authentic interest in him, or perhaps I've just been away from the male-ego-business for too long.  I have seen the stupid look on his face before:  it's when men are in the presence of beautiful women.   This exchange and set up is supposedly all very innocent and allows even creepy guys like him to be the object of much gushing and fawning from pretty girls.  From a Westerner's eyes, let me just say that I would wonder about a career path for these young girls.  What sort of employer is looking for a potential employee with solid experience as a Maid Cafe hostess?  I tried to take photos of a number of them, but they politely declined the opportunity.  Same for a number of stores with anime characters in their display cases.  I did manage to get some good shots inside bigger stores, but, in the end, I have to admit that I don't understand the appeal.

Walking around the streets of Akihabara ones eyes are assaulted with every imaginable version of visual cuteness  (big eyed girls, some with big boobs, bearing elaborate costumes usually dripping/slipping off them) and everywhere there is a bad sound system playing music that sounds like a song from an unreleased Chipmonk's  album or a girl-garage-band on helium.  I wanted to at least go and check it out and so I did.

 But not before I also checked out one of the stores that featured adult-only comic books.  This is a phenomenon I am unfamiliar with so one of my self-assignments for the day was to go to an adult comic book store and buy a dirty comic book for my friend Steve V.  Even more interesting. I swear that the two guys working the counter at Mandrake's adult-only fourth floor were the exact Japanese equivalent of John Cusack and Jack Black from High Fidelity.   I so wanted to take their photos.  They both waited on me at the check out.  I'm sure an old American woman perusing their collection and then buying something was as much of an oddity to them as it was to me.  But I did score a dirty comic book.  You'll need to check with Steve V if you want a peak.  One was as much as I could bring myself to purchase.  For the record, there are no exploitive men-and-men dirty comic books.  At least not at Mandrake's.   I asked.  Final note:  It's surprisingly easy to communicate about smut between people who do not speak the same language.

I managed to find all of these cultural treasures today thanks to a young woman working in the gift shop of what may or may not have been the Anime Museum.  It took me at least an hour to try to find the building and even when I did, I still wasn't convinced I was in the right place.   When I said that I was there to visit the official Tokyo Anime Museum, she dissuaded me from any such notion, saying it wasn't much to see, was really just a small room and that I was essentially wasting my time.  (It was another lost-leader from my guide book.  When will I ever learn?)  I noticed  as soon as she began speaking English that hers was not the language of a Japanese- English class but straight off the streets of America.  Sure enough.  She was born and raised in LA, and moved with her folks back to Tokyo about three years ago. She is not as enamored with Japan as I am, which I can understand from a 20-year-old's point of view, but I was so tickled to be speaking English with someone without having to parse my vocabulary.  I ended up telling her my Domino's story (an abbreviated version to be sure) and invited her over to help finish it up.  She suggested I come back and visit her if I need more guidance and what I didn't tell her was that there is no way in hell I'd ever find my way back to wherever it was I stumbled on her in the first place.  But I liked her immensely and wish her well.  She seemed lost and sad.  Like one of the anime characters but more modestly dressed.

With that, I will end the day's adventures and look forward to more Tokyo adventures in the upcoming week.  There is still much to explore.  For now,
It's getting late, I must be going now.
Mou osoi node watashi wa kaeri masu.