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Dr Dave, 3 days after Landing, attempting to convey to a befuddled bank clerk that the damn ATM outside refuses to take his US card (conversation transcribed to English for clarity purposes):

“Me… money… want… money… please…”

Ten months and twenty full pages of Japanese phrasebook later: trying to open a bank account in order to cash my first paycheck. After literally half-a-dozen fruitless attempts, I find one bank (みずほ, if you must know) that doesn’t mind the fact that I have: 1) no relatives born within 50 miles of the branch, 2) not been living a few decades on the island, 3) no inkan emblazoned with my kanji name and 4) a suspiciously pale skin color, compared to the local shade in fashion. I am not about to ask if they have multilingual staff on the premises.

In Japan, whenever a foreigner steps into a business asking for service, it is customary for staff to hastily draw straws. Failing that, they seek the one employee who has foreign country’s experience (usually a one-week honeymoon in Thailand). Failing that, they send the youngest trainee with instructions to commit seppuku if things get out of hand.

Two hours, many outdated Japanese-English dictionaries and one slightly rattled employee later, I have a Japanese bank account. It only took us 40 minutes to figure how to spell my name in katakana. It will only take me a few more months to figure out how to withdraw money from it.

Three years later: “Hi, I just lost my cash card in Paris, need to change my two-year out-of-date address, make a bank transfer (without my card) and, oh yea, gimme 50,000 yens in cash, by the way that’s a lovely necklace you got here. kthanx.”

Somehow even ended up with her personal phone number on the back of my checkbook.

This language thing is becoming way too easy, high time to leave the country.

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  • Arrival: Plane is 2 hour late. A dozen obnoxious sunburnt thirty-something, straight from Club Med Pataya, manage to ward 200 people off the whole luggage area thanks to their skillful use of carts and an utter disregard for basic courtesy. Oblivious to the sign reading “Information” hanging over his head, counter guy basically laughs in my face when I show up to ask where bus #305 departs. Finally sends me in the opposite direction. Welcome to France.
  • Caffeine consumption for last 3 days before turning in paper: Regain Black (3 bottles), Black Black chewing gums (2 packs), Red Bull Extra (1 can), Pure Arabica ground coffee (approx. 2 gallons).
  • Monkeys: Of course, aforementioned caffeine dosage made it somewhat difficult to sleep, even after report was finally completed. You wouldn’t believe the sort of useful stuff you learn, watching French TV at 4 in the morning. Did you know that, when you put a baboon in front of a large mirror, said baboon will never tire of attacking or threatening its own reflection, whereas the only other primate, beside Man, able to finally realize it is standing in front of itself, are chimpanzees. These critters are so smart, it’s crazy! Never will I call the POTUS, “chimpy”, ever again: that’s just mean to our brother chimpanzees.
  • Schoolmates from way back then are all finished or finishing with their studies. Most of them have embarked on lucrative careers in finances abroad. Some are getting married. A frightening number has already started investing in real estate. All in all makes me feel like I’m growing old backwards.
  • Picnic: The monastic life ended just in time for a delicious picnic organized by a bunch of French bloggers, blessed by one of the last few days of sunny Parisian weather for the year, and amidst the gorgeous setting of the Parc Floral de Paris. The oddities of my own internal clock, conjugated with the counterblow of two months of frenetic studies suddenly screeching to a halt, made for a rather contemplative, slightly sleepy and altogether not very talkative dr Dave, but it was nice to see the sun again after all this time.
  • Partying did take place. Maybe it was jetlag kicking in, or maybe my body had learnt to metabolize caffeine on its own by then, but I finally regained enough energy for a couple long evenings, busy arguing over world domination plots, drinking champagne and checking out the mind-blowing view of the city from Pierre’s terrace (technically the highest appartement within the limits of Paris, and definitely showing). Some much-needed comforting that Parisian life can be more than grey skies and malcontent cab drivers.
  • Language: Pierre noted that my French was substantially better this time around. Granted, “better” here, is the difference between a masterfully trained foreign spy and an authentic native, but Pierre’s notorious anal-retentiveness toward the French language gives extra importance to such compliment. I hang it on spending my entire month in French textbooks and going additional lengths to stay immersed in the language, so as to avoid some of the distracting back-and-forth that usually goes in my head when I try tackling a Math question in French. It’s a sad reality that, no matter how fluent a language, you will lose it if not practicing daily. Conclusion being that I ought to do something to keep things going in that direction, especially if I’ll be residing there in three months. Expect a special announcement very soon.
  • Airport: I now officially hate Paris CDG airport with a passion. I might even contemplate running over a few employees with my cart, next time I’m there. On the other hand: props to the lovely Cathay Pacific airline employee who did her best to get me on next-day’s flight back, at no cost, and even though they were in no way responsible for the retarded information counter agent who sent me to the wrong terminal on the other side of the airport (a grand total of 80 minutes to get there, realize his mistake and rush back to the correct one: enough to miss my plane).
  • Home sweet home. It’s good to be back in Tokyo. Three more month to come to terms with it and prepare psychologically to move to Paris for a more substantial duration.

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As promised, here is the straight dope on dr. Dave, straight from the mouth of his personal assistant’s best friend’s cousin in law.

Ultrabob started things somewhat abruptly with a simple and direct:

What the fuck?

I see we got the hardball questions out already. No beating around the bush.

Now this is a tough question, I tend to ask this myself at least once a day, if not more. I asked my cat too, with very little results.
Eventually, to such a vast and essential question encompassing all of Man’s struggle for understanding, I could only summon my best jesuitic education, and retort by what is, in my own humble opinion, both the real question and the answer:

Why the fuck not?

Martine then kindly worried about the possible repercussions of this new fad and asked:

why the sudden urge for transparency?

I could probably spout the usual clichés about real personality laying deeper than silly life factoids and the secret Me being safe from cold, information-prying people out to get me… But the truth is I was mildly bored with this blog with no time to offer anything else, and I have already posted pictures of me naked. Call that pushing the boundaries. Or stepping down the dangerous path of addiction.

Seriously though: I am well aware of the bum-biting potential of too much transparency, which is why one of the only rule carved in stone for this blog is that my full name is never used. Anybody with some motivation and a bit of skills could dig it (and a lot of people reading this know it anyway), but as you said, I quite like the comfort of knowing that a tentative employer’s or significant other’s Google search for my name doesn’t yield any of my blog entries about that episode with the three czech hookers and the pound of colombian pure (and the monkey).

For the rest, in the realm of things that have or haven’t been said on this blog, I will actually backtrack and invoke the old cliché: it’s not the things you show, it’s the things you don’t. Or less cryptically and in the words of an author I like: “I’m not overly worried about showing my ass, so long as I don’t have to show my heart”…

Moving on, with a series of down-to-earth questions, by our ever down-to-earth j-ster:

I’d like to know your underwear size, and your favourite number, and the number of different colours your hair has been.

  • 29 (I like them snug), with teddy-bears holding little hearts on it.
  • 8. I think..
  • Ahem, that’s a tough one. Hold on a sec… That’d be eight: blond, platinum, silver, blue, purple, red, orange and of course, every once in a while: natural. Not counting shades and variations thereof, nor highlights (my London years were essentially spent with a blue on silver combination). I think of all them, blue lasted the longest: I probably had it for a good three years…

Neuro asks:

  • what is yhour prefered meal?
  • what is your prefered beer?
  • do you like ice cream?
  • [good] Indian food… Anything not seafood or fish-related.
  • Bière Dodo! Although a nice white Belgian beer…
  • Not a huge fan of the traditional French or Anglo-saxon kind… But I definitely like gelato, and not against some of the more interesting j-flavors (no, not kujira).

Xavier and Junior respectively ask:

Spit or swallow ?

How many licks *does* it take [Dr. Dave] to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Roll Pop?

Both of which I will have to give the same answer:

Dunno, I never made it without biting.

To C, anxious to hear about WPPM: I promise I’ll make a special announcement next week.

Last minute add-on.

Bob is back and asks:

Is it, or is it not true, that your actual full title is:
Dr. Jordan P. Dave, Phd and friend of Captain Solo

I’m sorry Bob, I cannot comment on this: see mention above, about omitting my real name. Beside Han has also made a special request not to be cited by name in these pages (something about Leia googling him a while back and finding a whole recount of what has gone to be known as the “Wookie Nanny” episode).

And now back to extra-navelian blogging.

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Yep. It’s over.

For now.

More or less.

Still a few death throes and other bureaucratic idiosyncrasies to deal with, but for the most part, I’m done with the 10 g. of caffeine + 10 hours of studying per day… On to the next phase of my student career: one I should be enjoying exponentially more. No more mathematics for what I seriously hope to be the rest of my life, and even less physics. Eagerly awaiting results and decisions. Although the eagerness tends to vary with time of day and level of confidence in the positive outcome of said deliberations.

Anyway, let’s make a deal: I promise I won’t bore you with any more of my result anxieties, academic postpartum depression, career interrogations, hatred of the bureaucracy I am forced to deal with, and all sort of stuff that would make great session topics with my shrink, but very poor blogging material… On the other hand: if you know me, will meet me in the near future and value our friendship, you would be well advised to skip the subject altogether. If you are a complete stranger and happen to work in the administration of certain major Parisian university, you may be well advised to simply avoid meeting me, as I am quite certain the possibility of a friendship, however fleeting, would be highly compromised by the irrepressible urge I may have to strangle you with one hand while shoving form paper down your every orifices.

Now that we’ve got this out of the way, a last personal announcement:

I will be in Paris until Tuesday: if I haven’t been getting in touch with you (and I probably haven’t, seeing how I lived the past 3 weeks at the bottom of a very deep and dark cave with weekly bat-carriers as my only way of contact with the outside world), do get in touch with me and let’s try to get together for a beer or ten.

Also: shortly I’ll be posting my answers to our great quizz of the Summer.

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050908_1109~02.JPG

The day I leave has to be the sunniest, shiniest motherfucking day of the month.
Let me take a guess: in Paris, it’s grey, cold and raining. right?

Take care and see you on the other side.

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Alright boys and girls,

In ten minutes I’ll be heading out for Narita with twice the limit in luggage, and the hugest smile I can summon to convince the employee to let me board without supplement (not an option, seeing how it would probably cost the price of a full ticket). Especially hard to smile when you have more grams of caffeine floating in your body than hours of sleep over the past two weeks, but if I can manage to freeze my muscles in the appropriate position, the twitching may complete the illusion.

Although I hear they have internet access in even the most remote Parisian neighbourhoods nowadays, you likely won’t hear from me until next Thursday, if then.

But I promise that, once the bitter taste of defeat and humiliation of having my ignorant ass handed over to me by my professors, subsides, I will be back and regaling you with the wondrous adventures of my final three months in Nipponland.

To keep you busy until then, here is what I have to offer:

Everything You’ve Always Wanted to Know About Dr. Dave, But Were Afraid to Ask…

I am sure all of you, my faithful readers, have many unanswered questions pertaining to the author of this site, sitting somewhere in the dark recesses of your mind while you read these lines…

How old is dr. Dave? What is dr. Dave’s favourite colour? Why the fuck does he keep writing “favour” and “colour”, yet spell it: “organize” ? How many billions sit on dr. Dave’s Cayman Islands bank account? What crème de jour does he use to keep this youthful looks about him, no matter what time of the day? Is he for real? Is he really that full of himself or is this just an elaborate act? What’s the answer to the ultimate question to life, the universe and everything? Mac or PC? Shaved or natural? Boxer or tighty-whities? Heroine or Cocaine? etc. etc.

Crucial existential questions indeed…

Well, wait no more: ask ahead, and in ten days, when I come back, I will personally post my reply to each and every question asked through the comment section or sent through the contact form.

Time for some transparence around here.

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Watching a small online condensate of worldwide TV programs, I stumbled upon a bit of French national news wherein a journalist comments, in French, over footage of flooded NOLA streets.

At one point, the camera stops on a man laying on the ground, zooms in, and we can hear the following voice-over:

Voiceover: “… Un homme a terre, qui dans un souffle parvient à peine à dire à une équipe de reporters…” [“… a man on the ground, barely manages to tell a team of reporters…”]
Offscreen (in English): “Are you alright?”
Man on the ground (in English): “I got a kidney stone…”
Voiceover (allegedly translating from English): “… qu’il est affamé.” [“… that he is starving.”]

Yea… Next time I see somebody with a kidney stone, I’ll just cook them some food, ’cause they must be hungry…

Could they actually hand their reporters a dictionary before they send them abroad?

Dans le “Zapping” d’aujourd’hui: un extrait du Journal Télévisé de France 2 (édition de 20h du Samedi 3 septembre, environ à 13 minutes 25 s.).

On y voit des scènes filmées en Louisiane, après passage de Katrina. Commentaire-bateau sur fond porno-médiatique standard… Puis, la caméra s’arrête et zoom sur un homme au sol, visiblement pas en bonne santé, alors que la voix hors-écran continue:

Voix hors écran: “… Un homme a terre, qui dans un souffle parvient à peine à dire à une équipe de reporters…”
Voix interviewer hors écran: “Are you alright?”
Homme au sol: “I got a kidney stone…”
Voix hors écran: “… qu’il est affamé.”

Est-ce que quelqu’un peut offrir un dictionnaire Anglais-Français aux journalistes de France 2 avant de les envoyer à l’étranger la prochaine fois?

A défaut, s’ils cherchent d’autres volontaires pour scénariser les dialogues de leurs prochains reportages: j’ai plein de supers idées originales…

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Chalk it up to a simple equation involving roughly 2 weeks of time, 50 pages of yet-unwritten report and 500+ pages of reading material… Blogging just hasn’t been a priority round here lately.

What has been a priority, though, was the quest for any combination of chemical aides, likely to make the required 250 hours of studies in 10 days, a technical, if not quite reasonable health-wise, possibility.

Thus, in the spirit of killing two heart-attacks with one stone, and without further ado, the first episode of:

Dr Dave’s Guide to Chemically-Enhanced Studying in Japan

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