Most Auspicious Aficionado of Outdoor Onsen

  



Zenkoji Temple in Nagano

So I descended from the mountainous terrain of rice fields of the northern countryside where my world was pretty much off the radar…. no cell phone or wireless connection and my daily concerns centered around breakfast sencha tea and enjoying the sensation of tiny flakes of snow melting on my nose and forehead while submerged to my neck in the warmth of an outdoor onsen. 
I was a bit surprised to find that I would have limited to no wireless access in the Tokyo area either, but I was also too relaxed to care.  Besides, the paper weight called laptop that fits in my purse is shiny and attractive. 


Osaka Jo Koen


I have a friend, Natsuki , who owns a dance studio in Tokyo and over the weekend I had the opportunity to teach 2 Haitian dance workshops.  There's a community of drummers in the Tokyo area who study Haitian music and they came out to play for the classes.  Watanabe, Gaku-san arranged the class schedule and all of the percussion.  Tanoshikatta!! It was incredibly fun….  There are several kissatens in and around the Tokyo named Caffe Haiti, one is off of Omote-Sando near Harajyuku station.  They serve coffee drinks and Japanese style curry rice, but are adorned with Haitian art and pictures of drums painted with veves.

I don't know what is more shocking, that gas is now cheaper than a can of milk tea from a vending machine or that I came into contact with Manchester United fans on the Yamanote Line the other day.  It's true, there they were with those large soccer scarves that read "UNITED TILL I DIE." Does anyone think that it's a coincidence that I'm here at the same time as the FIFA Club World Cup? (not THE World Cup, but the World Cup of regional club teams)  I nonchalantly moved to another car, not so much to avoid being associated with a rowdy group of foreigners, but more so to avoid anyone getting confused in thinking that I'm a Manchester United fan.   I caught the Man U – Gamba Osaka (love them!) match on TV from an izakaya the other night.  Gamba Osaka lost 5-3, but the match frickin' rocked!

   
 

The Drummers



My Dance Class


 

Greetings from Nihon

 
 

Shibuya Station, Hachiko Mae


Today I`m heading up to the northern Honshu region and I arrived at the top of the stairs on platform 21 in Tokyo station just in time to see the line of train stewards stand at attention and bow as tIhe Shinkansen (bullet train) pulled into the station.  I salute as well, politely bowing as I enter the non~reserved car bound for Urasa Yamato-machi, a village in the mountains of Niigata Prefecture.  This is where my `Okaasan` lives, a dear friend who insists that I`m the daughter that she never had.  I slump into a seat next to the window, completely dehydrated, my head a throbbing mess.  My exhaustion at the moment isn`t only due to jet lag.

I suppose there`s no better way to get some exercise and to re-kindle the fire of dormant language skills than to be given incorrect directions at the airport and to then make an attempt to navigate through Tokyo station rush hour pulling a swollen awkward rolling bag that doubles as a back pack.  Good times....if I weren`t able to read Kanji, I would have ended up on the bullet train to Sendai.  The attendant who gave me the directions gave them to me in perfect English and even went through the extra helpful steps of writing out the needed (incorrect) information on my tickets. I soon realized that I had been given the wrong platform and wrong time for my train.  So I made a sprint through the crowds of commuters and up and then down several platforms in order to prevent being in the predicament of missing that last train to my destination.   Though brutally stressful, I`m still having a hearty laugh on the inside at the extremely polite final round speech contest Japanese that took over and uncoiled form my mouth.


Shinkansen - Bullet Train


As the train builds its momentum, the scenery from my window is an over-stimulating pulse of vibrant color, flashing lights and large scale video images that spread across entire buildings. My palate longs for the bowl of oden that awaits my arrival, a simmering pot of long cooked daikon, noodles and mountain vegetables.  For now, I`m going to have to make do with the onigiri that I have stuffed in my pack; triangle shaped balls of rice filled with salted plum paste and wrapped in a delicate layer of nori.

The train soon speeds into a tunnel for what seems like forever, but in reality is probably 20 minutes.  My ears begin to pop due to the altitude once we surface and the landscape is suddenly majestic and still.  The silhouettes of mountains and trees stand silent against the dark blue night, replacing the vibrant flash of the city on the other side of the tunnel.  I begin to lean my shoulders onto the upper seat arm next to the window, noticing how the car rolls swiftly and smoothly along the rails like silk.  My eyelids suddenly start to become too heavy to keep from sinking, as my physical body lags some 17 hours behind the surrounding night that passes by at 188 mph.  I surrender my head against the thick glass window and slowly fall into a peaceful jet lagged induced slumber...

My Addiction

Soccer is the opiate of the masses....



It’s 6:30am and I’m trying desperately to find a quiet place where I can make a phone call.  I head northeast away from the crowd outside of a restaurant bar and I keep walking until I stop to huddle in a remote alleyway.  I hold my cell phone in my sweaty palm.  I pull up the number for my work, a place where I’ve been employed now for two weeks.  I get ready to press the talk button and then I quickly back down.  I take a deep breath.

            “Okay, I just have to call in….it’s either that or I’ll have to head into work in an hour,” I tell myself. ‘Just do it’, the refrain from so many Nike commercials becomes my mantra.  My mind screams “JUST DO IT!! THIS ONLY HAPPENS ONCE EVERY FOUR YEARS!!”  I press the talk button again and there in a secluded alley in North Beach underneath a perfect blue sky, in my best imitation of a hoarse weary voice that’s ravaged in illness, I lie.

            “Uh, I’ve been up all night with stomach pains and I’m thinking I may have a virus.  I cannot come in today.”

            I then confidently stroll back to the restaurant bar with 40 minutes to go before the U.S. – Ghana match.  Today I will watch soccer freely all day long, 2 matches at once on 5 large screen plasma televisions at my favorite café.  If there is a heaven, it surely must resemble something like this.

            My addiction to soccer began in 1994 when the World Cup was held in the United States.  I innocently followed a more experienced friend of mine who invited me to watch the final, Italy vs. Brazil, with her at Steppes of Rome café in San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood.  Immediately I was completely transfixed by Brazil’s style of play; such grace, such skill, the players passing and dribbling the ball down the pitch in what appeared to be a beautiful choreographed dance, yet at times an explosion of improvisation.  I became engulfed in the undeniable buzz, no doubt the resulting energy of millions of fans around the globe watching every single move and every defensive strategy at the same time.  It seemed quite harmless.  I had no idea what I was getting myself into.  Three years later at a sporting shop in the northern Brazilian city of Salvador, Bahia, I purchased my first soccer jersey:  Number 9 – Ronaldo.

            Now three World Cup’s later, the addiction has reached the point that I’m missing work.

Often.

I have come up with every colorful excuse imaginable as well.

            “Hello, it’s Heather. So, the neighbor broke the key in our gate and I have to wait for our landlady and the locksmith,” I said on day 1, enabling myself to catch the Germany – Costa Rica match.

            “The cable guy is coming by sometime between 8:00 and 12:00, so I should be in no later than 1:00,” I said on day 7 for England vs. Trinidad.

            “I have to pick up my husband after his dental appointment tomorrow, since he won’t be able to drive due to the anesthetics,” was my excuse on day 19 for Brazil vs. Ghana.

            There were also the long lunches.  I would try to time it by going for lunch for an hour to catch the second half of a match.  Well, how can anyone expect lunch to only be an hour when Argentina’s goalie has broken his ribs, the coach has taken Crespo out and the match is tied and going into the second 15 minute overtime?

            It seems that my excuses got the better of me in the end.  The week before the final match, I feel quite ill.  My lungs felt as though they were filled with sand and I was sweating, but freezing at the same time.  I couldn’t sleep at night because my body writhed in constant pain.  What was especially painful is that I had to go to work everyday because I had almost surpassed all of my allotted time off with excuses.  Here it was the weekend of the final match and I had been diagnosed with severe bronchitis.  Fatai, my main soccer buddy and the only person that I know who’s more fanatical than I am, called to lay out our plan for watching the consolidation match on Saturday and the final match on Sunday.

            “Well, I’m really sick.  I’ve been going to work because I have to, but I’ve been climbing into bed the moment I get home,” I explained to him.

            “What do you mean?  What are you saying exactly?” he asked.

            “I may need to stay home in bed and watch the matches here while I recuperate,” I clarified.

            “WHAT!”

            “NO!”

            “We are going out to watch the matches this weekend!!” he demanded.

            “You do whatever you need to do to get well, take all the medicine from your medicine cabinet if you have to!  I’m picking you up Saturday morning,” he insisted.

            “Well, I’m having a hard time even sleeping, because my body is in so much pain,” I tried to explain.

            “Nope. Listen, I will come to your house and pick you up.  Heck, I’ll even prop you up in a chair if I have to!”

            He did.

            On both days Fatai picked me up and took me out to our favorite café to watch the matches.  Kleenex and a warm porcelain bottomless pot of chamomile tea replaced the usual pint and I remained mostly in my chair, cheering quietly between my messy phlegm drenched coughs.

            I can honestly say that I learned a lot during World Cup 2006.  I learned that Hefeweizen with a lemon makes a great breakfast beer.  I learned new soccer related phrases in Spanish after recognizing that the coverage on Univision was undoubtedly superior.  I learned that maybe it isn’t wise to leave Messi on the bench and to take Crespo out after your main goalie has broken his ribs.  You never know when your opponent will score and you’ll be tied going into two 15 minute overtime periods.  Suddenly you may find that you’re battling your opponent in a sudden death penalty shoot out with your substitute goalie.  I learned that sticks and stones may break one’s bones, but words can sometimes warrant a skull rammed into one’s chest and a red-carded end to an immaculate career.  Possibly the biggest lesson that I learned was in respect to karmic retribution as I’m still recovering from my bout with bronchitis.  If I had to come up with a million excuses again in order to watch World Cup soccer matches during the workday, would I do it?  The answer is a resounding YES!  I would definitely do it again, bronchitis and all because it’s only once every four years and it was so worth it to get that glistening fix.

A Side Note:

I’m surprisingly still employed as an analyst with a financial firm in San Francisco, CA.  Eventually, I was pardoned from my boss, who had turned a blind eye to my frequent absences during the euphoric five-week soccer period, finally insisting “Just do whatever it is that you need to do.”  In keeping with her advice, I’m looking forward to World Cup 2010 and currently planning my trip to South Africa to catch the matches live.