Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Completely, hopelessly, bewilderingly lost in translation
I am typing in this opulent cybercafe in the insane electronics district of Tokyo, Akihabara, and have only just figured out how to make the letters stop coming up japanese, which was driving me nuts. Turns out you have to not hit this little button
right next to the shrunken spacebar. I have no idea where I am right now.
It--oh, my God, wheres the apostrophe? Oh, there it is, above the 7. Of
course. It's not just that I can't speak this language. It's that I have
never not been able to do anything with quite the same thoroughness and brilliance with which I cannot
do this. I'm totally on my own during the day here, with only
this impressively useless pamphlet-map to help me. I mean, I don't have a
prayer in Chinese, but there I have the excuse that it's the most
fucked-in-the-head language ever (maybe Arabic, too), whereas Japanese kind of
makes sense. And they want so badly for you to understand them, and then they
feel bad. Or at least they seem like they do. All I can say is Thank you,
Asshole and Beer. And beer you can just get in vending machines.
<>It occurred to me on the line snaking out of the gate at JFK, with a hundred-odd Japanese and Hong Kong people milling around: I'm the tallest motherfucker in the room. Now I wish I'd brought a basketball or something.
<>They weren't kidding about the vending machines. Ubiquitous is too equivocating a word. When they say everywhere, they mean EVERYWHERE. The darkest, creepiest alley is still illuminated by the bright blue Pocari Sweat vending machine gleaming proudly in an alcove.
<>They really are polite. Not only have I seen people bow deferentially getting on an elevator, to say nothing of the construction worker who, last night, bowed deeply as we passed a very obvious construction site, warning us that we should not fall in (I nearly shit my pants at that--I mean, can you imagine? Possibly the single starkest moment of culture shock of my life), and when you leave a restaurant, they pretty much holler after you, THANK YOU COME AGAIN. Or that's what I assume it means. And last night, not only was the waiter Kay and I had in this little underground place in Akasaka the most polite, engaging waiter I've ever seen (I mean, I was astonished), but he actually KNELT at the table. Up and down, up and down. It was awesome. I want all waiters to do that.
<>Japanese men have got to be perverts. The porn situation here is insane.
<>It's not that expensive. Food certainly isn't (nowhere near as dear as dirty Dublin). But then again, at no time do I have any idea, any at all, what I'm putting in my mouth. Last night I went the safe route with some glorious soba buckwheat noodles and what I think was duck, but Kay had a salad that, hand to God, looked like deliquescent onion skins over red onions. That or pencil shavings. It turned out to be dried fish skin, but I tasted it, and I'm sticking with the pencil shavings. They also had their own riff on Xiao lun bao, the Shanghainese soup dumplings, which were okay, except they left out the soup. I think we ordered it more for the sake of comparison. This morning I had the same, more or less, only I was on my own, and there was this machine you put your order into. It gives you a card, which you present to the very affable cook. It did not give you your options in English, or even transliteration. It was point and shoot. I chose something that looked promising for ￥480, and it turned out to be Soba, sticky rice and this gorgeous tempura chicken, which blasted KFC out of the water. Excellent.
<>I love the white gloves. I just adore them. Everyone official should wear white gloves. One is so much more inclined to be pleasant to someone wearing them.
<>Crashed on Shaan Hathiramani's floor last night. He and Raj are staying in Kay's building, and Kay's hours, 6am to 8pm, so punishing that it was easier for me to stay chez Shaan, who is not working, having just finished a program in the sticks somewhere. Small apartment, though, and that's one hard floor. I'm buying a pillow today, damn the expense.
<>Mahler is good for the electronics district, don't ask me why.
<>I really don't feel 6700 miles away from home. That's the problem with travel. You can't get your head around the fact that you're not at home, and that furthermore, these people are actually different. That's the jarring thing, I think, the realization that the Japanese are not the same people Americans are. I'm just having a little trouble wrapping my head around it.
<>We are so not in Kansas anymore.
right next to the shrunken spacebar. I have no idea where I am right now.
It--oh, my God, wheres the apostrophe? Oh, there it is, above the 7. Of
course. It's not just that I can't speak this language. It's that I have
never not been able to do anything with quite the same thoroughness and brilliance with which I cannot
do this. I'm totally on my own during the day here, with only
this impressively useless pamphlet-map to help me. I mean, I don't have a
prayer in Chinese, but there I have the excuse that it's the most
fucked-in-the-head language ever (maybe Arabic, too), whereas Japanese kind of
makes sense. And they want so badly for you to understand them, and then they
feel bad. Or at least they seem like they do. All I can say is Thank you,
Asshole and Beer. And beer you can just get in vending machines.
<>It occurred to me on the line snaking out of the gate at JFK, with a hundred-odd Japanese and Hong Kong people milling around: I'm the tallest motherfucker in the room. Now I wish I'd brought a basketball or something.
<>They weren't kidding about the vending machines. Ubiquitous is too equivocating a word. When they say everywhere, they mean EVERYWHERE. The darkest, creepiest alley is still illuminated by the bright blue Pocari Sweat vending machine gleaming proudly in an alcove.
<>They really are polite. Not only have I seen people bow deferentially getting on an elevator, to say nothing of the construction worker who, last night, bowed deeply as we passed a very obvious construction site, warning us that we should not fall in (I nearly shit my pants at that--I mean, can you imagine? Possibly the single starkest moment of culture shock of my life), and when you leave a restaurant, they pretty much holler after you, THANK YOU COME AGAIN. Or that's what I assume it means. And last night, not only was the waiter Kay and I had in this little underground place in Akasaka the most polite, engaging waiter I've ever seen (I mean, I was astonished), but he actually KNELT at the table. Up and down, up and down. It was awesome. I want all waiters to do that.
<>Japanese men have got to be perverts. The porn situation here is insane.
<>It's not that expensive. Food certainly isn't (nowhere near as dear as dirty Dublin). But then again, at no time do I have any idea, any at all, what I'm putting in my mouth. Last night I went the safe route with some glorious soba buckwheat noodles and what I think was duck, but Kay had a salad that, hand to God, looked like deliquescent onion skins over red onions. That or pencil shavings. It turned out to be dried fish skin, but I tasted it, and I'm sticking with the pencil shavings. They also had their own riff on Xiao lun bao, the Shanghainese soup dumplings, which were okay, except they left out the soup. I think we ordered it more for the sake of comparison. This morning I had the same, more or less, only I was on my own, and there was this machine you put your order into. It gives you a card, which you present to the very affable cook. It did not give you your options in English, or even transliteration. It was point and shoot. I chose something that looked promising for ￥480, and it turned out to be Soba, sticky rice and this gorgeous tempura chicken, which blasted KFC out of the water. Excellent.
<>I love the white gloves. I just adore them. Everyone official should wear white gloves. One is so much more inclined to be pleasant to someone wearing them.
<>Crashed on Shaan Hathiramani's floor last night. He and Raj are staying in Kay's building, and Kay's hours, 6am to 8pm, so punishing that it was easier for me to stay chez Shaan, who is not working, having just finished a program in the sticks somewhere. Small apartment, though, and that's one hard floor. I'm buying a pillow today, damn the expense.
<>Mahler is good for the electronics district, don't ask me why.
<>I really don't feel 6700 miles away from home. That's the problem with travel. You can't get your head around the fact that you're not at home, and that furthermore, these people are actually different. That's the jarring thing, I think, the realization that the Japanese are not the same people Americans are. I'm just having a little trouble wrapping my head around it.
<>We are so not in Kansas anymore.
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