On Eating French Fries in Japan | フライドポテトがたべマス

Sometime during the three months I have been in Japan, my pants got too big.

The legend of the Japanese diet is so widespread that no one doubted that I would lose weight. There were a number of theories as to why, mostly involving chopsticks: It’s harder to eat with chopsticks, so people eat less. Everything is in smaller portions to fit on chopsticks. All the food is sticky so it will be more filling, etc.

So, as someone who has come to Japan and fulfilled the weight-loss prophecy, here’s a few observations about eating in Japan.

Eating is Everything
Food is a centerpiece of life in Japan. There are holidays celebrating the day a child first chooses its own meal. Rice – and farming – form a number of the basic pictographs in the Kanji system. A look at any Japanese lunch box, from a kid’s to an adult’s at lunch break, reveals the intricate nature of designing a meal. Meanwhile, the government sponsors “traditional” Japanese farming methods, keeping the cost of rice somewhat extravagant through trade barriers and agricultural protectionism. One of its largest international disputes is about food: Particularly, hunting and eating whale.

Japan is serious about food. That brings with it a certain air of respectability. Even in an ice cream chain, you’ll find people taking real pride in their work. Eating out is a social experience, and every shop specializes in one group of food with a handful of varieties – an omelette shop, an udon shop, a sushi shop. This raises a culture of foodies who eat for taste and flavor and not the endless ulterior motives we have for eating in America.

The American Stomach
American food is kind of disgusting. It is heaping mounds of greasy deep-fried protein that leaves everyone queasy 20 minutes after swallowing. The grease is served with some sort of side, such as a deep-fried starch, which is the size of a Japanese meal. Couple this with an appetizer – another Japanese-sized meal, usually involving a greasy, deep-fried variation on the main course – and you have, in a single meal, two day’s worth of Japanese meals, before dessert.

Of course, all of this shit is delicious, and some recent research suggests that these combinations of fat, sugar and salt can be literally addictive.

So, how did I lose weight in Japan? It wasn’t with a shred of exercise, since my daily walk to work was cut in half. I didn’t work out and I haven’t deprived myself of anything. Nonetheless, here’s my attempt at reverse-engineering my new dietary habits.

1. Portions.
Portions are smaller here, unless the food has nearly no caloric content. For example, you will get a pile of delicious shredded cabbage as a salad and tons of broth in the Udon. The noodles are just enough – in America, they’d rise above the bowl, I think. Here, nothing overflows.

It’s still filling. Rice is filling, noodles are filling, etc. The protein is about the same size as the salad. And you eat all of it at once, switching tastes between bites. The centerpieces are highly satisfying and low-calorie – one cup of udon noodles is 115 calories.

I ordered french fries at a kaitenzushi place and discovered that the caloric value of a standard, small french-fry was about a third of the meal’s total. One group of four split the small fry between them, making the fries calorically balanced on the food-to-shit ratio.

(Having calories on the menu, by the way, is a great motivator to eat healthy).

2. Fresh Food
Food in Japan is almost neurotically fresh. At the end of the night, any prepared food at the convenience store or supermarket is thrown into the trash in an orgiastic display of capricious wealth. The upside to this is that you get everything half-priced or more after 9 p.m. The other upside is that the food is always fresh.

Every convenience store has fresh salads ready around the clock for its healthy, cabbage-loving children, but at the cost of literally 19 million tons of wasted food on an annual basis.

On the micro-level, though, it’s remarkable to go to a gas station and find a fresh salad, fish, rice and sliced vegetables, because once I could only get day-old hot dogs, cookie-filled pastries and entire pies disguised as “snacks.” Restaurants do it the same way – an udon shop gives us their leftovers at the end of the night in exchange for showing up.

If a small bowl of shredded cabbage, corn and sesame seed dressing sounds like a shitty lunch, it’s because you live in America. You are visualizing brown iceberg lettuce mixed with bland, tasteless vegetables. There is a world beyond this, America.

3. Desserts
Desserts in Japan range from the basic mochi (rice beat into a glutinous shell surrounding a bean paste) to the American-sized sundae behemoth (imagine ice cream, corn flakes, hot chocolate syrup, a full kit-kat, and as a topping, a soft-serve ice cream cone and a peanut butter cup).

Of course, the more common route here is the mochi – or a banana. Banana-as-dessert explains the difference between American and Japanese attitudes toward food. America says; “This is 1200 calories, so it’s bad for me – I’ll eat it after I finish eating.” Japan says; “This is sweet, so I’ll eat it after I finish eating.” Therefore, Americans eat fried peanut butter cups topped with ice cream while Japanese eat congealed rice wrapped around beans.

The Lifestyle
I have another theory about losing weight in Japan: Social engineering.

Bringing endless green tea (no sugar, no milk) to patrons reduces the odds that they will ingest half of their day’s calories through soda. Eating food hot – often boiling hot – and slurping noodles to cool them increases the heat in your stomach, causing you to feel full faster (rice also expands after being swallowed).

Also, the entire meal is served at once, in tiny dishes. Everything is a side dish. Having food laid out in front of you reduces the sense that you need to “finish” a part of the meal to “progress” to the “real” meal. You don’t feel like you have to eat all your potato skins to get to the hamburger.

Instead, it’s presented as a single, beautiful display of food, where each bite is presented to be savored (in turn slowing down your eating and increasing the amount you digest in the same time span, filling you up faster). Savoring the bite is the silver bullet. You eat slower and get full faster.

Adapting in America
I haven’t lost weight because of willpower, exercise, or any effort. I lost weight because I am surrounded by a culture of healthful eating. A diet of context.

I’ve been haunted by the idea of returning home and eating massive cream-cheese covered bagels and pastries for breakfast, pizza slices for lunch and then a dinner of gigantic, gravy-and-sugar-covered fried fats. It is easy to fall prey to normalized overeating in America, where portions are double the size you need and where corn syrup makes you hungry every time you’re thirsty.

It’s a shared delusion of American culture. Breaking out of cycles of horrific eating habits is an act of cultural liberation. Not only do you have to stop buying into “the system,” you also have to envision and realize an alternative method of surviving.

I’ll start by learning how to make udon.

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On Dining Out in Japan | 外食と義理

When it came time to ask for the bill, I couldn’t do it. I sat, and I waited. And then, 10 minutes into waiting, it hit me: I will never stop being American.

“Sumimasen.”
In the United States, courtesy means letting the waiter do the enormous backlog of shit that they have to get done during their shift. You trust that the server will come when they are ready, check in, ask how the meal is and if you need anything. You respect them by saying, “Hey, we’re both just people trying to get by, I’m in no hurry, so do what you have to do, within certain limits.”

In Japan, in contrast, you shout “Excuse me!” (sumimasen) when you need something.

On the plus side, waiters never interrupt a patron’s punchline to ask if anyone needs refills. They hang out in the kitchen. You also pay when you’re ready – just take the bill to the front register. In a sense, the system is ideal for the patrons and the waiters. The waiter gets to chill out. Patrons get what they want when they need it.

Ordering food in a Japanese restaurant is pretty straightforward. But for certain kinds of Americans – passive, laid back apologists who don’t talk on trains and over think to nearly catastrophic degrees (i.e., “wimps”)(i.e., “me”) – that curry comes with a cultural crisis.

There was no good reason for me to wait so long for the bill. I knew it was just one “Sumimasen!” away. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to shout for an absent, unseen waiter. I didn’t want to interrupt him. So I waited until he came out to serve someone else and then hesitantly nodded.

That’s how I asked for everything that day. As a result, I spent 2 and a half hours in a restaurant.

Giri
Oddly enough, this whole experience also illustrated a natively Japanese concept: Giri, or “the proper way of things, the morals which guide personal and social conduct, that which must be done in social relationships.”

Giri is a big deal in Japan – a central part of wa, or social harmony. Giri is social duty – or as explained in the Nov. 19, 1986 episode of The Transformers, it is the burden hardest to bear“. It’s doing what you don’t feel like doing because you don’t have a choice.*

A waiter is obligated to serve patrons. It’s the job. And she expects, when she shows up to work, that she will do that job. The waitress has a role. This is how customer-server relationships work in Japan. You have your personality, but you sublimate it into the goal of your work.

Notably, Japanese waiters don’t tell you their names. And leaving a tip is a faux pas.

Ninjo
Ninjo is the opposite of Giri. It’s when human emotions conflict with social obligations. Ninjo is calling in sick because you want to sleep late. It’s quitting your job because ‘you don’t feel fulfilled’. In other words, it’s America.

In Japan, ninjo complements giri. There’s a struggle between individual wants and social needs. As an American in a Japanese restaurant, I am so infused with ninjo over giri that I can’t bring myself to call the waiter. I am paralyzed by the cultural baggage of individualism: The need to recognize waiters, bus drivers, convenience store clerks and students as people.

I try to be polite. America defines politeness in certain terms: “Don’t shout at the waiter. They are people, too.” And when that imperative value to respect individuality and reject hierarchy meets the imperative value to allow someone the honor of performing their social obligation, there’s a crisis. I want to be polite. Social obligation requires me to be – subjectively – rude.

Something about a precious snowflake
The ingrained, live-with-myself problem of shouting for a waiter or waitress exists solely in my skull. For everyone else, it’s just what happens, every day, hundreds of times. No one shouts angrily. They just shout. Shouting doesn’t come with American connotations of shortness, impatience, demand. It’s just louder talking. They need to hear you, after all.

But culture sneaks inside of us. We build personalities in reaction to cultural practices so early that we forget that it was all constructed in the first place. We mistake architecture for instinct.

It isn’t all bad – no one should feel guilty about rejecting 14-year-old prostitutes in Thailand, or genital mutilation of young African girls. We ought to instinctively revile certain social architectures. But even in the most cosmopolitan and enlightened minds, tiny details can spawn paralysis.

What you thought was a self-made individual is in fact molded by arbitrary practices that just happened to surround you at birth. Your brain runs certain programs on American software and you are rendered deeply incompatible with other systems.

And you think about all of this for 20 minutes or so before you hold up a finger and nod with a trembling and half-hearted, “sumimasen.”

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On Taking a Bath in Japan | お風呂

If you are hot, or cold, go soak in a tub.

Sitting in a cold bath with a 2 liter of Polcari Sweat after days of suits, airports and 92-degree humidity is euphoric. Now, the cicadas are all dead, the breeze is crisp and the water, 50 degrees C and steaming, is divine.

Bathing in Japan predates any concern for modern sanitation. People did it because it felt good, and they do it so often that it has influenced architecture: You will rarely see (ie, I have literally never seen) a Japanese home where the toilet is in the same room as the bath. And you will rarely see a shower and a bath in the same space – usually, they’re next to each other, in their own room, next to a room for the sink/toothbrush/makeup.

The bath tub has a dashboard in the kitchen: Wake up, get the coffee going and hit a button to start the water running in the bath. There’s even a timing mechanism. Tell the bath what time you want to come home, and there will be a full tub of water waiting for you at whatever temperature you want.

This isn’t so sophisticated everywhere in Japan. Some people hand crank water and light a gas grill underneath a water pipe. I’ve heard stories of apartments where occupants had to boil water manually on the stove, but I suspect these people have been placed in barbarian housing.

Regardless of the squalor, the tub exists for reasons unrelated to getting clean.

Everyday Rituals
In Shinto, purification rituals typically involve fire, salt, or water. If you mix these things, you get soup or a bath. (Bathing salts aren’t built into the system, but they’re sold in the “Bath and Relaxation” sections of department stores).

When bathing at home or in public, you shower first, soap down and wash your hair. The goal of the bath isn’t to get physically clean, it’s to soak.

Most Japanese people probably wouldn’t say they like baths for religious reasons. But the public bath as a purification ritual – and the bathing instinct distinct to Japanese culture – has Shinto roots.

Outside of every Shinto shrine is a ceremonial stone fountain with fresh, running water. Before you enter the shrine, you use a bamboo ladle to rinse your hands of impurities. Some Shinto diehards also sip and spit the water out. It’s a purification ritual.

Impurity, in the Shinto sense, isn’t sin. Rather, impurity is more akin to “distractions,” as in the poem of Shen-hsiu, a famous Chinese monk, about dust on a mirror. Shen-hsiu’s poem, like a lot of things in Japan, bridges Shinto and Zen Buddhism: It’s said that the human mind should simply absorb and reflect the light of the world, such as it is, and not be distracted by its own projections. Water symbolizes a cleaning of the mirror and a restoration to a natural, open, flexible peace with the world.

And so, the bath is a kind of accidental meditation, a cleaning of the mirror. Tubs are small, so you sit still, staring at steam as it rises from your body. The waterline ebbs and flows visibly with every breath. The outer contours of your flesh blurs in the water. You stop knowing precisely where your body ends.

The result is that the bath becomes a rejuvenating moment of simply being.

The tub is also a little small – I’m not much taller than the Japanese average, and most of the time my legs are forced into a cross-legged pose similar to the lotus position of Buddhist meditation, only I’m floating. To expand on the new-age cliche, I usually set up some incense.

If a pure mind washed clean of all distractions sounds too boring, there are plenty of distractions for sale in department stores. These range from egg-shaped, weighted lights that sink to the bottom of the tub to project waves across the room, to waterproofed floating iPod cases, to small lanterns that project the night sky or Aurora Borealis onto the ceiling.

Baths are one of my favorite habits that I’ve picked up in Japan – that and the habit of never walking while eating or drinking. A handful of companies offer Japanese baths in the States at prices they don’t seem to advertise, but any old bath tub will probably be fine.

Posted in Shinto, Shrines | 6 Comments

On TV in Japan, Part 1

The TV show started out as some sort of dog melodrama.

There’s a really adorable grandmother scooping up a new, tiny dog with gigantic eyes and hugging it with a face so filled with love that the cameraman shows it for a full minute.

The date is typed on the screen with the sound of machine gun fire. Scene: The dog comes into the house. Grandma scoops it up, her face full of love, but then: The gnashing of teeth. The dog has bitten the woman’s ear. It’s bleeding, says her son.

“Ie, ie,” says the grandmother – it’s nothing! She loves that dog.

Machine gun fire shows the date. It’s the next day. Grandmother is coughing, struggling to walk with her friends. She dismisses her illness.

Machine gun fire. Three days later. A concerned daughter stares as grandmother shakes a thermometer. Later that night, two women in kimonos scream at grandmother as she’s passed out on the floor.

Machine gun fire. She’s in the hospital. Her face is purple. A doctor draws blood. Microscopic disease fills the screen, superimposed over adorable dogs and a single tabby cat. The music becomes cinematic, orchestral. A scientist stares through a telescope. Behind him, a doctor shakes his head. A corgi is chewing a bone. The grandmother is lying in a hospital bed. The music intensifies. A cat paws at a camera.

Images: The gnashing of nippy dog teeth. Blood on the ear. A computer animated infection. The music swells to a frenzy. The disease has infected her brain.

It’s spinal meningitis! Commercial.

Back. All the same stuff happens, but faster. Old lady is making tea now. A poodle in a pink shirt. Another dog with a bow.

TWIST: This is a TALK SHOW. A freeze-frame dissolves to show a host on stage with 5 people and their tiny dogs. Now, out of a shiny pod, a man in a suit emerges. The Kanji for “Old River” is shown. He’s a veterinarian!

TWIST 2: This is a GAME SHOW. The veterinarian answers questions that the five tiny dog people have guessed on, probably about a half an hour ago. He answers the questions, then the dog people’s answers are revealed. Are they the right answers? I don’t know!

ALSO: Why no monkeys? Surely someone in Japan has been infected with spinal meningitis from a monkey.*

The answers come from a close up of a dog and a thought bubble. Some Kanji comes up, and everyone cheers.

Answer: No, do not kiss your stupid dog on the mouth, because you will get a horrible debilitating disease. Is your shaved Corgi in a raincoat sleeping in your bed at night? Too bad, now you’ve got spinal meningitis. Also, if your golden retriever keeps drawing blood when it bites you, stop fussing with it and send it away.

Round up of how many points everyone has. For obvious reasons a Corgi’s head is superimposed on all of them and then a burst of flame covers the screen.

Now it’s all about training a basset hound to stop drooling, which is too disgusting for me to watch.

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On Teaching English as an Out of Body Experience | 英語は儚いです.

Language exists inside of our skulls and escapes through the tongue: What Nabokov called “A fat sleek seal flopping so happily among the familiar rocks.” It’s a chunk of flesh that helps us push ideas out from our squishy insides and appease that primal urge to exude ourselves.

We are understood primarily by the sounds we make with our mouths. And so, standing in front of a classroom of bleary-eyed Japanese high school kids reading numbers for 50 minutes is bewildering on a fundamental, almost religiously loaded level. It’s like staring at a mirror and repeating your name.

In the classroom, language – my language, my “native tongue” – isn’t a vessel loaded by my complicated, deep thoughts and secret understanding of German poets. My ship is packed by a book telling me that today is phone number day and that I will instruct the students on how phone numbers sound in America, a topic I never noticed or cared about:

The first three digits are read as single numbers, as are the following three: four-oh-three, two-seven-one. The last four are doubled up as pairs: “Forty-one-seventeen.”

Do this stuff enough and you change. You hear dropped particles so often you make plans with “what time we do it?” You wonder whether an appointment really is a promise.

In the real world, words cut up the environment. They change things, accomplish goals, order a cup of coffee. Words plant themselves in other people’s ears and for a minute, you grow a little forest of meaning that you can both live in or argue about. (In Japanese, the word for I – – translates literally as “my part of our shared space.”)

But sometimes, teaching English in Japan feels like planting seeds in concrete.

“Hi how are you going?”
Consider the tragedy of carrying on a conversation only to realize that it is, literally, a memorized script. Students memorize long passages from the textbook and recite them to me in stumbling but clear English with no idea about what the words mean. And daily life has all sorts of moments where the proper words get stripped of any connection to real meanings:

Student: “Hello!”
Me: “Hello!”
Student: “Thank you for asking!” (bright smile and a wave).

Of course, some students communicate something of their inner lives in English. I’m not asking for poems about the triumph of human spirit. I’m happy when they can tell me about their favorite bands or ask me what movies I’ve seen. They talk about food because we can all understand what food is. They say they like onigiri, too, and we’ve connected.

That’s all you really need to remember that words can connect the content trapped inside of two skulls.

Erasing the board
And even teaching, it’s not so bad. I’ve been liberated by the realization that I am in the classroom but that I am not in the classroom. I’m an empty vessel: A signal without content, a radio tower broadcasting static, a guy making noises that students repeat with the intention of repeating them later to other English speakers to make a transaction.

Sometimes I move to the back of the room and look at what I wrote on the board as if I can’t understand it. With fluency, it’s almost impossible to forget that “four” means “four.” But teaching EFL with empathy means stopping yourself from knowing. And if you practice it, you can do it: Suddenly, you are outside of the black board, outside of your inner monologue, outside of everything, thinking about it as nothing more than sounds and pencil marks. And then you disappear for a second.

“Securely, for the chance!”
I realize, in those moments, the reason for all those inexplicable Japanese T-shirts, those billboards that don’t make any sense. It’s because the English language – obviously – lacks specific referral power in Japan. It’s a series of scripts and vocabulary words that are never really used to produce meaning.

Japanese, in Japan, is the language of poetry and novels, dense and rich and alive. English – and, because I speak it, me – we’re thrown out there for entertainment and foreign allure but never expected to mean anything real. *

As a teacher of a language, it’s tempting to think that you are that real thing – that the students, finally, will be able to speak to you. But it’s not that – it’s America, and entrance exams, and TV shows and Justin Bieber. You, you’re just the ship that gets them there.

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Posted in Culture Shock, Teaching, Thinking, Uncategorized | 3 Comments

Video/Audio: Nakasu Festival, Taiko Calligraphy

Went to the Nakasu Festival this weekend in a district of Fukuoka usually known more for its hostess bars and seedier elements. The festival centers around a group of 50 women carrying a shrine on their shoulders through the city. They carry it a bit, stop, some sort of performance is held and then the women lift the statue again to carry it to the next site.

Getting large groups together to carry heavy objects is a pretty common festival theme here. Near Nakasu in Hakata, there’s a Yamakasa Festival, where naked men (save for a thong) wake up at 3 a.m. to run a 2km race through the city carrying a 1-ton statue to a shrine. The winning statue remains at the shrine for the rest of the year.

In Nakasu, 6 women stand on top of the beams carrying the statue, leading the chant in a call-and-response to the carriers. I was going to upload some audio, but no one wants to hear the 2 and a half minutes of 50 women chanting “Seya!”

So instead here’s an mp3 of another Taiko performance by the same guys in the video:

10 9 2010 8 39 PM – Taiko Drummers by onigiripod

Posted in Audio, Fukuoka, Video | 1 Comment