So, after spending a whole five days back in my exciting Kansai countryside, I was on my way to Tokyo again on Friday night, this time to fulfill a very specific (and lovely) calendar imperative.

This 48 hour stint in Tokyo was much more compact than last week’s but we still managed to fit a couple funandhappythings.

Saturday, Ken and Shizu drove us to Design Festa where we spent the afternoon looking for those elusive two or three pearls of awesome/weird/crazy, usually lost in a sea of homemade flea-market t-shirts and Tokyu Hands-style jewelry (hey, starving art students need to eat too). To be honest, nothing mind-blowing (and not even that much of the usual WTF shock stock that people tend to expect from Design Festa)… but some entertaining live shows:
Dora video played drums while random bits of video samples (including at some point, a strident Japanese CM for toilet air freshener) played in the back. The result sounded at times not quite unlike a Death Metal band, from which you’d remove everyone save for the drummer: loud, energetic and quite funny.
Somewhere on the main stage, three butt-naked guys covered in gold paint and sporting massive fully-erect fake penises (also covered in gold) were executing some sort of butoh-like contemporary dance involving a chain and the music from William Tell overture. Somehow, Design Festa always seem to feature a few naked guys doing strange contemporary dances. Never twice the same guys.
The last act we caught before leaving, Crazy Angel Company wasn’t breaking new grounds, comparatively, but did a nice job of livening the venue a bit with their energetic Japanese-style brass band music and accompanying choreography. They closed with their own rendition of the Soran Bushi, a famous Japanese folk classic with an infectious back-and-forth chorus, of which H. eventually grew very tired, after a weekend of constant humming from my part.

On the way back and after running a couple errands for the following day, we lucked out in grabbing a table at Chacha Yufudachi on a saturday night with no reservation (strange, I know, to be going to a Kyoto-cuisine place while on a trip to Tokyo, but both Chacha branches are among my favourite restaurants in Shinjuku, both for the food and the atmosphere). We capped the night with a few drinks at Albatross’ brand new extension in Golden Gai: in fact, merely the first floor of their previous location, which has been added as a semi-independent branch to the second-floor’s bar. Same familiar faces and friendly crowd as usual, although we unfortunately had to make it home for last train in order to be fresh and rested for the next day.

And next day was awesome, indeed: lovely people, gorgeous groom and bride, delicious food, excellent wine (of course) and charming surroundings… But I won’t bore you with the details of my gorgeous friends’ happiness: after all, if you are of those who care, you were probably there (and if you weren’t, you know where to find much better reports than my own very incomplete remembrances of that wonderful day).

One (short) night and a nozomi ride later, I am back at plotting world domination, one DNA strand at a time… Which reminds me I might finally get to that piece about the why’s and how’s of Bioinformatics this week, if I can escape the tempting embrace of procrastination long enough…

Last week was Golden Week: a string of bank holidays eagerly awaited by every last Japanese salaryman. Four or five days usually spent busy sitting in massive traffic jams in order to reach one of Japan’s perennial vacationing spots, presumably amidst a few million other people intent on same.

Yes, it doesn’t take a genius to realise that you are better off staying at home during Golden Week and wait until pretty much any of the remaining 51 weeks in the year to take your vacation at half the price and half the crowds.

Unfortunately, things being what they are (and my days off being what they are), Golden Week vacation or no vacation, were my only options.

After securing two extra days to make it an actual week (Golden it may be, but that “week” ends on a Wednesday night), I took a rest from the deadly boring lovely Kansai countryside and headed back for my hometown: Tokyo.

Although I would have been just happy sharing my time between sitting on the grass in Yoyogi and drinking under the bar in Shinjuku, relationship diplomacy dictated that a compromise be found with the traditional holiday activities and a 2-day trip to nearby Choshi was on the program. Considering its proximity to Tokyo (about 2h by train from Tokyo station), Choshi peninsula is a pleasant enough destination for a weekend, provided you do not stay anywhere close to the main city (your usual ugly mix of generic concrete jungle and urban decay that make 99.9% of all Japanese cities in rural areas) and head out for the smaller villages along the coast. Although the sea still wasn’t warm enough for bathing, we kept busy with a couple walks around the coast (cue obligatory lighthouse, seaside temples etc.) as well as inland crossing through countless patches of cabbage (a local specialty, apparently). Among the locales accessed through the picturesque Choshi Dentetsu railway line, Choshi boasts of Inubō, a station whose name literrally means “Woof” (or, in a less vivid translation, “Dog’s Bark”).

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Hanami season is officially on.

Yesterday was the day I chose to take care of all official administrative duties required by my new occupation and place of residence. Since I am not one to spread the pain, I went the all-inclusive package road and decided to do in one fell swoop: Foreigner Registration, National Health Insurance and Postal Savings Account (required, since the Monbukagakushō won’t give me my money on any other type of account)…

A delightful half-day excursion into the darkest recesses of Uji’s city hall and its – luckily adjacent – post office, made only more fun by the foreshadowing brought upon by close to five years living in Japan and nearly as many trips to a local city-hall…

First, was the usual cursing-under-my-breath of my parents’ screwed-up sense of humour whimsical inspiration, while trying to explain a frightened counter guy that, really, I could do with only two of my five given names and that anyway, the form would never fit them all. All in vain, of course, as the 500-pages form-validation manual for employees is very clear on that: [all] given names must be filled-in. Unfortunately said manual did not indicate how to deal with printer limitation on field size leading to half the names being left out of the printed version. But it only took another couple breaks of cold sweat and a dozen trips to various superiors to be settled by manual use of a ballpoint pen.

Then, I must be becoming really jaded (or I have done this too many times), but the only question on my mind while filling my slightly unusual (yet technically EU territory) place of birth was not: “will they take it as is” but: “how long before they come back to the counter with their world atlas in hand”.

I was wrong.

The employee who came back 10 minutes later, was carrying Wikipedia printouts. Times, my friend: they’re a-changing.

Incidentally, my current home address, not counting name and apartment number, is:
京都府宇治市五ヵ庄三番割官有地
京都大学国際交流会館おうばく分館.

Do you know how many kanji there are in there?

I do.

After filling out by hand eight different forms requiring my address, I. most. certainly. do.

And for the record: don’t even think of abbreviating 京都大学 to 京大 to save two kanji, because she’ll catch you and make you correct it like the naughty schoolboy that you are.

I just can’t wait to do it all again in six months when I move cities.

When I first arrived to Tokyo, I noticed that, come the end of winter, weather forecast screens (in trains, on TV, wherever…) would start adding an extra line under the main sun/cloud/water-drop pictograms. Since the new icons usually depicted lovely little pink flowers or trees blowing in the wind, I naively assumed that this had something to do with upcoming sakura blossom (which wasn’t completely far off, considering most local newscast do have an official daily progress report around sakura season).

It is only a couple years later that I finally understood what this seasonal indicator actually referred to. The infinitely less enjoyable season of eye-puffing, nostril-irritating, headache-inducing, Japanese hay fever. The main reason behind these infamous surgical masks you see people wearing in every damn last “Nippon culture” TV reports.

However, it wasn’t until I moved to the Kansai countryside last month, that I started experiencing for myself what it might feel like. Apparently, my city-dwelling organism was sufficiently immune to Tokyo’s own brand of pollution-laden pollen to go through Kafunshō season unharmed, but much less happy about living in the middle of the woods. Woods no doubt entirely planted with deadly cypress and cedar.

If you happen to be walking in the hilly area surrounding Kyodai’s research campus in Ōbaku, these days, and spot a gaijin with puffy red eyes on the verge of tears, rest assured it does not [yet] have anything to do with feelings of sadness or elation at living more than 20 minutes away from the closest place selling proper balsamic vinegar or non-ersatz chocolate, it’s just the damn neighbouring conifers trying to copulate with my mucous membranes.

When leaving the residence, this morning, I found a note in my mailbox.

Under a delightful MS-Word Clipart-esque depiction of what your mum’s 60’s medicine cabinet might have looked like, sat an ominous “Urgent Warning” about the evils of (illegal) drugs, in big bold red letters. Promising resident researchers somewhat decreased health and much decreased freedom of movement, should they choose to ignore said warning during their stay in Japan.

The thoughts going through my head were, in that order:

1. “What’s so ‘urgent’ about that warning? drugs are bad? Quick, somebody gets the message to Syd Barrett and Janis Joplin before it’s too late.”
2. “You mean there are drugs within a 300 mile radius from here?”
3. “Wait, what is this note doing in my mailbox. OH MY GOD THEY ARE ONTO ME!!!”
4. “No, seriously, where are the drugs? And how come nobody’s told me anything?”

a.k.a. The Long Overdue Life-Update

The three people still reading this blog on a regular basis (two of which possibly paid by the Chinese government after some bizarre translation mix-up convinced them I was a dangerous political dissident to be monitored) might have noticed the lack of substantial news on this blog for quite a long time. OK: even less substantial content than usual.

I also realise that the lack of proper context as to my whereabouts made a lot of past blog entries somewhat puzzling. If this can make you feel any better, I am pretty sure that my own genitors have had only the faintest sense of my exact location, occupation or plans, ever since I was last sighted, putting a finishing touch to my grand World Domination Plot Master Thesis.

In fact, it took all that time for the plan set in motion nearly a year ago to finally reach its final stage (tonight).

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Maybe I’m the last Japanese student on earth to discover that, but learning the Japanese etymology of the English word “tycoon” today felt like a mini-epiphany.

It was both rather unexpected and yet blindingly obvious in retrospect: 大君 ['taikun'] was the title used by the Shogun in his relations with foreign dignitaries.

As a funny sidenote: 「君」['kun'], which I believe used to be a term of honour (”Master” etc.) is nowadays mostly used in Japanese to address young schoolboys (come to think of it, exactly as the English word ‘master’). Which would make the literal meaning of 大君 to be “Big boy”… Not quite the most imposing title you could find.

This morning, upon hearing Pet Shop Boys’ cover of Go West playing on the stereo:

H.: Hey, I’ve heard that song before, it’s a famous soccer game anthem, innit…

Dave: Yea, funny that… considering it’s probably the gayest song ever recorded…

H.: Ehh?

Dave: The song is inviting young guys to move to sexually liberated San Francisco of the late 70’s in order to live peacefully their gay lifestyle.. The only way it could have been more openly gay is by including the phone number for a few bathhouses in the Castro.

H.: You don’t say? Who sings that song?

Dave: Well, this version is a cover by the Pet Shop Boys who are quite gay, but the original was sung by the Village People…

H. Oh yea, I’ve heard of them!

Dave: And you know they weren’t exactly playing for the ladies themselves, right?

H.: Huh?

Dave: C’mon now… They were nothing if not one long drawn-out joke on gay stereotypes.

H.: Woa… I didn’t know that…

I guess, considering the Japanese’s rather confused approach to western gay iconography, one might easily be forgiven on that one…

Still: gotta love the unintended irony that brings some of the least gay-friendly people on earth to belt out such a song with recurring enthusiasm.

The nice thing about moving in just a couple weeks before fiscal year end?

Sensei: About your work machine… basically, pick anything you’d like and let me know. You have an unlimited budget.

Dave: …

Sensei: Mmn. Actually… It would be better if you stay under a million yen.

Dave: For one laptop…?

Sensei: Yes.

I wonder if Apple offers a diamond-incrusted version of its latest 17″.

Furthering the spirit of language studies through movie-watching, what I have learnt so far on proper spoken kansai-ben:

1. Replace every ‘ない‘ by ‘へん‘.

2. Don’t say ‘とても‘, ‘ほんとう‘ or ‘ちがう‘, but: ‘めっちゃ‘, ‘ほんま‘ and ‘あかん‘…

3. Throw in loud ‘ほら‘ (with a throaty roll of the ‘r’) at random intervals in your conversation.

I’m totally ready for my move to the countryside.

Watching some old Kurosawa and realising that I understand the female characters’ dainty Japanese expressions ten times better than Toshirō Mifune’s manly man samurai-talk…

This year, I purchased and brought back a couple Muji 「 クリスマスへクセンハウス」 (no idea what “へクセン” might be, but I’m sure it’s delicious*) for everybody to enjoy… As it turns out, my dear little brothers out there in Canada had a hard time reading cooking instructions (sure: they’re written in Japanese. so what). Here is therefore the detailed recount of my own attempt at building a biscuit house, for their sake and yours.

Should you attempt to follow, it will help if you have the same awesome Muji kit handy, but an inventive and resourceful person could do without (none of the ingredients are that hard to find, and the schematics can probably be figured out from scratch with limited engineering skills). Also, this is not a completely faithful translation of the original instructions: I have added a couple personal touches as well as skipped the more obvious advices (be careful with the knife, do not stick your tongue in the oven etc.).

Anyway, off we go:

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After all these years traveling, I finally completed my first ever round-the-world trip (eastward). Did not encounter any edge-of-the-world cliff anywhere. Oh well, there goes my membership to the Flat Earth Believers Association.

For one month, I lived in a house whose mere living room covered about four times the entirety of some of my previous places (ten times, if you count some of the smaller Japanese guesthouse rooms I’ve occupied in a long distant backpacker past).

Rekindled with the joys of the quasi-permanent guestlisting and realised that a VIP booth and free-flowing booze make even the least appealing parties considerably more fun.

Had one of my classiest moments, ever, documented on camera: wearing punk red wig and Bowie-inspired make-up, downing Kettle One straight from the bottle. Retrospectively explained a lot about next day’s crushing hangover.

Realised why California (/the US) was so awesome: nearly everything being illegal therefore provides endless occasions for cheap thrills to the sheltered bourgeois crowd. Walking into a banal SOMA-warehouse-turned-illegal-afterhour-club turns as exciting as entering a prohibition-era speakeasy with Al Capone.

Stuffed myself on the cheapest, bestest Indian food available outside of India on a near-daily basis. And then Suraj’s über-delicious homemade dosas.

Ate at a very hippy restaurant but couldn’t bring myself to actually ask aloud for the “I am Beautiful” dish, nor the “I am Elated”, “I am Joyful” or any of the other mushy, chakra-enhancing, tree-sodomising, touchy-feely-named items on the menu.

Partied on a luxury cruise boat with Sarah Palin and two olympic beach volleyball athletes.

Smoked hookahs on a rooftop overlooking the Embarcadero waterfront.

Spent a night of unrestrained exhilarating fun celebrating Obama’s victory. Those many bar-special “freedom shots” (aka Jameson) with Lauren and Desi: a more discutable choice. That hangover the following morning definitely didn’t taste like freedom.

Did the beer and patio thing with friends at Zeitgeist.

Sat in Dolores Park for a warm, sun-filled, November afternoon. Smoking bowls and eating baked goods from Tartine nearby.

Tried attending the premiere screening of Milk at the Castro theater, only to get turned down at the door once it appeared that way too many entrance passes had been handed out. Found solace in that people who got in before us had probably been queuing for the entire day.

Attended a house party wearing suit & French cuffs, went to a fancy James Bond-themed club event wearing flip-flops.

Visited a Moroccan whorehouse, faithfully reconstructed in our basement.

Balanced all the deliciously greasy egg-n-bacon brunches with healthy and equally delicious foods of all horizons. Had pretty damn good ceviche at La Mar, but even better one at Desi’s Poleng Lounge. Poleng became my favourite eatery in the city (get yourself there right this minute and order their lightly grilled, sea-salt edamame: you’ll never look at edamame the same way ever again).

Missed a flight (fucking iCal and its retarded handling of time zones) and decided to change my travel plans altogether.

Saw the icy blue Water Cube and the fiery red Bird Nest glowing in the chilly night.

Ate spicy bullfrog on the lakefront near Hou Hai, which incidentally tasted just like spicy chicken, only much, much harder to eat with chopsticks (small bones every-freakin-where).

Stood under the lukewarm Winter sun, watching Tien An Men square unfold to near-infinity in every direction under the watchful eye of Mao.

Wondered if China had awakened yet, as giant snappy red flags atop the mausoleum floated in a spotless blue sky.

Played some strange card game with the locals in Tian Tan park. Also that dice game I learned a couple years back in Chengdu.

Totally kawaii-ed out on a bunch of furry Chinese stray cats lounging on the outskirts of the park.

Barely contained my excitement upon speaking my first real sentences in Mandarin since I took that one class last year. Peed my pants upon realising I coud understand and answer up to three generic questions about my country of origin and occupation, to locals who ostensibly did not even know the English word for “China”. Somewhat regained composure when it appeared I could only further extend the conversation with a polite “Sorry, I don’t understand”.

Stumbled upon that plane you rode in when you went to visit your aunt in Africa, 30 years ago… the one with 4 seats on each row and a single-channel radio that you could listen to through headphones that looked like stethoscopes: China Air bought it and uses it daily for their Beijin-Tokyo flight.

Smuggled two pandas (names: ペキン and シャンハイ) to Japan, at the risk of triggering an unprecedented international crisis.

Finally realised some of my (limited) infatuation with japan subconsciously took root in a secret nerdy obsession of mine: intricacies of urban planning and transit optimisation. Just watch how most train connections in japan consist of: walking out one train, across a platform, onto a waiting and immediately departing train… and you will be wondering, as I am, if Japanese public transit planners have somehow figured the secret of NP-completeness problem-solving (Western ones certainly haven’t).

Attended a Japanese burlesque show. Really liked the cool Asian-styled choreography on some of the acts (Japanese schoolgirls doing the dragon walk, for the win). Nearly more so than all the pasty twirling and gravity-defying patriotic C-string (complete with shiny Hinomaru).

Strolled down Todai campus’ alleys: filled with little grandmas way past studying age, busy capturing the essence of bichromic autumn trees (ginkos, I believe) on watercolor. The campus cafeteria also serves a pretty mean agedashi tofu and a whole selection of hallal dishes.

Rode the Tokaido shinkansen on a two-day return trip to Kyoto for the third time in six months and started wondering about frequent riders discounts.

Saw few ducks on the banks of Ducky River, but lots of pigeons.

Wondered how the guy who could barely get his way out of valence calculations ten years ago, ended up standing in front of Kyoto University’s Graduate Scool of Biochemistry and Pharmaceuticals‘ finest, in a bid to join their rank…

Wore suits (for work or for fun) more often in 2 months than in all of the past 2 years.

Did the clubbing and morning ramen thing with friends in Shibuya.

Had one quick drink at Albatross in Omoide Yokochou and a few more in Golden Gai.

Saw photography exhibits and strolled along the river in Meguro.

Spent a day rummaging stores from Kichijoji to Harajuku and from Shibuya to Shinjuku, hunting for christmas gifts.

Came to the conclusion that Russian TV comedy is essentially centered around fat hairy men in cheap drag singing Russian covers of disco classics with funny lyrics.

Bought two bottles of Русский Стандарт and also some of that vodka that makes you go blind if you drink more than one glass at a time: gotta plan for new year’s ahead of time.

Landed in Paris and realised it was the coldest-motherfuckin-freezing place I had been to, so far this year.

…

I am currently lodged firmly under a goose-feather conforter with freshly imported Swiss chocolate at arm’s reach and not planning to move until the end of Winter.

Location: Hair of the Dog, Golden Gai’s one and only true punk bar.

Yi and I having a heavily inebriated wednesday evening night out, group of young Japanese boys discussing their band’s next club night on the other side of the bar, 時計じかけのオレンジ projecting to the tiny corner screen, random punk score blaring through the speakers…

Barmaid: [handing a menu-like list of all-time punk records] Please pick anything you would like to hear from that list.

Dave: Huh… let’s see… I don’t know… how about Japanese punk…?

Yi: [showing rather random entry in the list] Hey! that Japanese punk band’s called So-Do-Mu!!! Tee hee hee…

Dave: Yay for Sodomu…

Yi: Tee hee hee…

Dave: [to the barmaid] How about playing some “Sodomu”…

Barmaid: Sure, Right on its way…

[couple minutes of fumbling around the mp3 collection on the computer, then finally the track changes...]

Yi: Hey! that doesn’t sound so bad actually…

Dave: Yea, I’m not sure that part is really their own… Probably an intro of sorts…

[Young japanese guys mumbling things about ongoing music in their corner]

Young Japanese Guy #1: Blahblahblah, right?

Young Japanese Guy #2: Blahblahblah… No, I don’t think so, this must
be Chopin…

Young Japanese Guy #3: Chopin? Mmmnnn… Blahblahblah…

Dave: Actually, that’s Beethoven… Moonlight sonata.

Young Japanese Guy #1: Really? Oh… maybe…

Young Japanese Guy #2: Oh yea! of course…

Young Japanese Guy #3: Definitely Beethoven!

[All three guys: swooning to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata's first movement, Adagio Sostenuto]

Dave: …

Dave: So yea… this is one of Tokyo’s most hardcore punk bar.

Dave: …