I'm too big for this place

It was a late Saturday evening with a train full of the usual mix of characters: drunks (myself included), workers on their way home, and people coming back from a day downtown. She stepped onto the train with weary legs and struggled to lift a small, black plastic carry on bag with her left hand while steadying a canvas shopping bag slung over her right shoulder. Her delicate frame stood, perhaps, no more than five feet tall and her shoulders exhibited a slight slouch from osteoporosis, which is a common sight here. She scanned the train for a seat, but they were full of people nodding off in a drunken haze, playing games on their mobiles, or excitedly chatting, still buzzing from the excitement that a night out in Tokyo produces. From my experience on the Tokyo subway, I knew the odds were slim anyone would offer her a seat. So I rose, tapped her on the shoulder and gave her mine. She bowed graciously, her neatly coifed salt and pepper hair bobbing gently as she did.

We didn’t give a second thought to my actions, but about 30 seconds later, she tapsすon the shoulder and hands her a tiny object wrapped in a plastic bag. “Thank you so much,” she says as she bows, “please take this as a token of my appreciation.” Inside the bag is a small juice box container of a special vinegar that’s supposed to promote good health. She had obviously been out shopping for herself, as her bag had other groceries, so we tried to give it back, not wanting to take what she may have needed, but she insisted we have it. She began chatting us up, happy to have conversation and smiling and laughing the entire time. She looked as if she was in her early to mid 60s, so we were surprised to learn that she was 77 years old. The only sign of her age, really, was her hair and the crow’s feet in the corner of her eyes. Her smile was warm and gentle and it was continual as she talked to us and told us about her life. Her husband had died 17 years ago and she’d been alone since. She’s completely self-sufficient, with no nearby family, and works four days a week for a cleaning service, which is where she was that evening. She was extremely “gennki (healthy)” as we say here in Japan, but, then again, there are millions of elderly Japanese like her. The only thing many of them lack is companionship. As we reached Kitami station, we headed off the train. Before we left, she thanked us again and continued bowing and smiling. She helped end our evening on a wonderful note. We felt that we should be the ones thanking her.

Walking home I couldn’t stop thinking about her and how one small act of kindness helped make a person’s day. I’m not writing this looking for any accolades, or to point out how wonderful I am. I’m writing this because I realized that a kind act should be a common occurrence and not a rarity. Kindness seems to be the one thing lacking in the world today, which is sad, because a little goes such a long, long way. If we could all try to perform one kind task every day, the world would be such a better place. At the risk of sounding preachy (you’re saying “too late Nick,” I’m sure) I’m going to try doing my part. I hope some of you will too.  

I haven’t blogged in a few months. Life has become busy. We headed back to the states for a visit, which will be a blog post unto itself, and  I’ve managed to secure a teaching job at Temple University Japan in their Bridge Program and Academic English Program. I’m only teaching a few days a week, but the prep work and reviewing students’ papers is quite time consuming. I’m also teaching an online class for SSU, which takes up some time as well. So my life has morphed into a cycle of work, rest, rinse, repeat.  

I’ve always loved being in the classroom and interacting with young minds. Teaching at SSU was rewarding in the sense that many students were first generation college students, from a wide variety of backgrounds, and/or non-traditional students. Working there was/is extremely rewarding. I love the classroom moment when you see something click in a student’s mind.  When they get it. When all the pieces come together.  There’s nothing quite like it. 

Teaching in Japan is similar, yet completely different to America, if that makes any sense. I still see those moments of realization popping into students’ heads, but the students themselves are very different from American students. They’re much more reserved, quieter, and not quite as freethinking as in America. However, they are all quite sharp. I have a few students who are very young, yet they’ve already achieved a tremendous amount. Some of them speak four or five languages and have lived all over the world, while barely turning 18.  

Since I first traveled to Japan over 12 years ago, I’ve heard about the beauty of the spring sakura season.  Back then I told myself I could imagine what it is like as I had seen plenty of  cherry blossoms in the U.S. I remember walking along the path in front the Sullivan building on North campus and enjoying the blossoms there thinking, “this must be just like Japan.”  I told myself it couldn’t be much different.  I was terribly wrong.  While a handful of spots in the U.S. might have a smattering of trees, nothing compares to Japan. The Japanese love for the sakura runs deep, and they are literally everywhere stretching alongside rivers, roads, and parks as far as the eye can see.  You see them in places you didn’t even realize they were planted as their color bursts forth against the pale blue of the bright spring sky.  

Today, as I walked along the river path near my house, the blossoms were beginning to fade.  Little droplets of pink and white leaves swirled in the air cascading down like confetti; but unlike some random man-made celebration, this was nature’s yearly spectacle bringing with it a feeling of renewal and a galvanization of spirituality.  Igetit now. I understand.

The sakura is the epitome of Japanese life, the understanding of beauty’s impermanence and the awareness that true beauty is not external; rather it is embedded within.  They embody mindfulness, the true spirit of Buddhisim, the belief of living in the moment and enjoying the here and now, not longing for the past nor worrying about the future. Everywhere you look you see families, friends, and lovers huddled on a blanket spread out under a tree, laughing, enjoying a drink, a bite to eat and the warmth of good company, while occasionally looking up smiling basking in nature’s miracle. Enjoying the time now while it lasts for its beauty is fleeting.  

Gyoza

They sit at the kitchen table, three generations sharing name, and the same infectious laugh, telling stories, a drink and joking with one another. One by one, they gather up a small, round flour disc and spoon a dollop of ground pork, garlic, ginger and chives that’s been worked together into a delicious blend of tastes. Carefully, they work the dough, gently folding a series of seams until a tiny pillow of flavor is created. The elders’ finished products demonstrate the labor of love in a task that’s been performed hundreds of times over the decades, while the youngest’s bely an ever-growing education in family tradition. She is slower than her older family members, working at nearly half their speed, but demonstrates an equal amount of love and care. Slowly they work, laughing and making fun of each other’s creations (usually ganging up on the younger of the three) until the stainless-steel bowl containing the pork mixture is emptied and three trays of gyoza (dumplings) are ready for the next step.

A small drop of oil is swirled into an old, cast-iron skillet, and the flame beneath comes to life. After a brief second to allow the oil to heat, the gyoza are gently placed one by one in a circular pattern in the pan. The scent of garlic and chive fills the air, and the slight crackle of the browning skins cuts through the chatter among the three as they watch over the skillet. The younger two break off to set the table with shallow circular dishes, hashi (chopsticks) placed on hashioki (chopstick rests), three plates of various oshinko (pickled vegetables) and three tall beers with glasses for everyone. When the skins are sufficiently browned a small amount of water is added to the pan and a lid is placed to cover them. The eldest stands over and monitors their progress as the water gurgles and bubbles like a classroom of students entering homeroom in the morning, rowdy at first, but slowly settling in to a quiet murmur. When the water has cooked off, the lid is removed and a round dish is placed on top of the skillet. Its entire contents are flipped upside down onto the plate revealing a perfect arrangement of delicious morsels.

It’s all about the people you meet. 

Played my 2nd ever gig tonight here in Tokyo at Riot Beer in Soshigaya. It was a lot of fun. What’s interesting is that although I’ve played hundreds of gigs in my life, this is only the 2nd solo gig I’ve ever done. I have to admit, it’s a little unnerving baring yourself with only you and an acoustic guitar. I have so much respect for my friends Ross Livermore, Molly Pinto Madigan and Nick Consone, who’ve done this forever. There’s a liberating feeling playing solo, but it’s also terrifying. 

Warmth

I remember the first time I met Andi K and his brother Zamir at Firenze Trattoria in Salem. They had such a warm, welcoming demeanor that made each customer feel special, and that vibe was evident throughout the dining room. すand I smiled as we watched Andi greet every customer that entered and then see each one to the door as they were leaving. Zamir was often in the front of the house smiling and talking to customers and making sure everything was good and people were happy. We felt this in many places in the Salem and it’s one of the things we’ve missed. Whether it was Rich, Keith and the crew at Chianti, Michael Mai-Tai at Gourmet Garden, or Sarah-Jane behind the bar at Barrel House, the friends we made at the places we frequented made us feel welcome and at home whenever we were there. We’d been looking for that same atmosphere since we’ve been here in Japan and we’ve managed to make a few connections. The problem is we’re so excited to try everything new that we haven’t had repeat visits to many places! Lol

We have found a couple of places, though, and we’re starting to make friends. Tucked down a narrow alley next to a Jazz café is a place called Manpuku (meaning full in Japanese). We stumbled upon it by chance one night when looking for a place to grab a bite. A small sign pointed down what appeared to be a service alley. We could hear people laughing and joking, but couldn’t figure out how to get in. We peeked in one door, but it was actually the toilet, lol, we then slid open another beat-up, old, wooden door and opened up a portal to another world. The place was bustling with activity. It had an industrial feel with concrete walls, a rough-hewn wooden bar, and exposed metal pipes. The food was amazing and the staff was very nice. On our second visit there, the young kid who was cooking on our first visit was on the floor and smiled as we walked in. He remembered us and started chatting us up, laughing and joking and telling us about his visit to America. It was nice to feel welcome again.

The second place we found is near Kitami station and it’s a family owned-operated izakaya. We still haven’t figured out the name yet! It’s old school Japan with a sliding wooden door that opens into a genkan where you remove your shoes before grabbing a sunken seat at the counter. The master is the patriarch of the family, and his wife, son and daughter all work the restaurant. He stands behind the counter, his hair a light brown dye job belying his age and a growing paunch amplifying his belly laugh, orchestrating the chaos. His wife is always smiling as she greets and serves customers in between laughing at her husband’s jokes or offering suggestions to undecided diners. His son and daughter bounce around from behind the counter making sure people are fed and drinks are full. It has a great, friendly vibe and the master is constantly ribbing, pun intended, the clients to the delight of all. He has a great sense of humor, and his food is delicious.

We found another great yakitori-ya a two-minute walk from Kitami station. We discovered it one-night when our other favorite yakitori place was full. The place is tiny with one four-top on the left as you enter and a bar with about 8 seats. The master is a gruff-looking gentleman in his 50s sporting a perpetual crew cut and a serious demeanor. He’s rather tall and has to constantly crouch over the counter in order to hear his customers. He’s not very chatty, but he’s hard of hearing, which could be the reason why. He works the place all by himself, so he’s constantly moving, either cleaning dishes, cooking, or pouring drinks. His focus on his food never wavers, though, and his passion for it shows. His menu is small with the usual items, liver, hearts, negima, tsukune, but he does do some unique things such as lamb yakitori and chicken sashimi (which was delicious by the way). I was getting a feeling that he didn’t like me much, but on our second visit he started talking to us when he had a quiet moment. He has a deep hearty laugh, and his face lights up when he smiles. His gruff exterior is more a manifestation of the intensity of his focus behind the counter rather than a reflection of his character. He was happy to see us return and to hear us talk about how much we love our new town. We’ll definitely be back to see him.

Lastly, we found another cheap izakaya near Seijogakoenmae station this past Friday that we found extra special. We were going to go to Manpuku but decided to try something different. We heard some chatter coming from a place on Seijo Dori (street) so walked downstairs to check it out. We grabbed a seat at the counter and were pleasantly surprised to see a young girl running the kitchen. In fact, there were mostly women working the place with only two men that we could see. It was a refreshing change hearing her calling out orders and directing the kitchen. It’s a rarity to see a predominately female crew in Japan, but things are changing here, so it was refreshing. The master was great, she had a very pleasant smile and was quick to offer up recommendations. They specialize in sake and had a really good selection, and their sake comes in a pour called a sosogi-koboshi. This style of pour is when the cup is placed inside a wooden box, called a masu, and the sake is poured until it overflows and fills up the box as well. It’s a traditional pouring method meant to make the customer feel good because they think they’re getting more for their yen. It’s a great concept, but it does make it awkward to start drinking lol. The food was wonderful, and they did some different dishes. We’ll definitely go back and support them, especially since they’re empowering young Japanese women!  

It’s Sanma Time!!!

Living in America, we get accustomed to groceries being available to us on a 365-day-a-year basis. Strawberries in February? No problem! Salmon anytime you desire? Sure! Apples in May? We got that! It’s quite a luxury that we take for granted, but it’s not quite the way most of the world works. Especially here in Japan.

America’s size allows it to import massive amounts of goods, Chilean grapes for example, to keep costs lower; however doing so in japan is just not feasible. The country is roughly the size of California with a population that’s less than half of the US. It’s too expensive to source produce from far away. Sure you will find some exotic fruits and vegetables from faraway places, and grocery products from other parts of the world, but they’re typically very expensive.

Here, the availability of produce, meats, and fish is very much tied to the seasons as most of the food is sourced from Japan, neighboring Asian countries, or caught offshore. This seasonal cycle of life causes excitement as people look forward to the seasonal foods. The change transcends the proliferation of pumpkin spice products as different regions of the country get to showcase their wares. For example Nagano, す‘s hometown, is famous for chestnuts (kuri) and apples (lingo), and they are popping up everywhere this time of year. This is also the time of year for the rice harvest, so shinmai, or “new rice” is advertised all over. I’m experiencing this seasonal change for the first time, so it’s all amplified for me. I’m sure most Japanese pay no mind, but to me it’s special, and I’m excited to try new things.

One product that the nation seems to be going crazy for right now is sanma, or Pacific Saury (pictured above). Sanma is a silvery blue fish that is part of the mackerel family. People are going nuts for them here to the point where a seafood company was giving away free grilled sanma at one of Tokyo’s train stations. They handed out over 7,000 fish to a line that snaked around the station all day long. Everywhere you go you see sanma on the menu. Some izakaya are even doing sanma sashimi now, which I’m told is relatively new. I’ve had sanma a few times now both grilled and sashimi and it’s f’n delicious! I picked some up at the store last week to cook and it came out awesome. I threw a little salt on it and popped it in the fish broiler (the picture above is from an izakaya where I ate and got the idea). I grated some daikon radish, squeezed out its liquid, and plated the sanma with the daikon and a couple of lemon wedges. Sanma is an oily fish and grilling it seals in that oil so it comes out creamy, almost buttery, with a flavor infusion of its natural oils.

Kerouac once said “first thought, best thought,” when asked about his philosophy on writing, a quote which helped fuel the belief that he had, indeed, written On the Road, his breakthrough novel, in one sitting fueled by coffee, cigarettes, and bennies.  While it’s true that he did load up his typewriter with a roll of newsprint to write the novel in one manic, three-week burst, the novel was, in fact, written in his head well before then. Before he even sat down at his underwood typewriter Kerouac had the novel all laid out, inspired in part by a 10,000 word letter from his friend Neal Cassady.  So, while the first thought best thought approach was relatively true, his writing process also involved a wealth of intellectual internalization.  

Many people work in this manner.  As the great Professor Jay McHale once mentioned, the gunslinger can already see his bullet piercing the blade of grass before drawing his weapon, the scorer can see the puck hitting the back of the net while the pass is on its way, or the songwriter can see the song’s structure before its completion. I work in a very similar manner.

Before sitting down to write in this blog, I formulate the entry in my mind well beforehand. As I’m experiencing life here, I’m processing what is happening and thinking of how to write about it. As Kerouac also said (and I’m paraphrasing), “your life is the stuff of a great work of literature given the proper treatment.” Now I don’t profess to be a great novelist by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m trying to give my experiences proper treatment. Forgive me if I’m not blogging every day on every bit of minutia; I filter out what I’m experiencing in order to better present things to you, fair reader.  

Sukiyaki -

If you’re lucky, one day you’ll travel to a place where you don’t speak the language, can’t read the signs, or recognize the food. You’ll sit around a thick slab of a table that’s seen years of homework, laughter, tears, and many, many meals. You’ll face a large cast iron pot, or nabe in Japanese, with a small pat of lard in it, listening as it sizzles with the increasing heat, dissolving it into the rich, black iron. A handful of sliced leeks, some napa cabbage, and the freshest mushrooms you can imagine will be added along with some thinly-sliced, perfectly marbled beef. A liquid of soy sauce, mirin, dashi stock and sugar will be poured over the top, and it’ll gurgle away on the table in front of you as it cooks. It will smell delicious, and when the first round is cooked, you’ll stab at the fixings with your chopsticks, dip them into a raw egg that was laid that morning, and taste the goodness that is sukiyaki.

In many parts of the world cooking at the dinner table is a commonplace occurrence. Whether it be fondue in Switzerland, BBQ in Korea, hot pot in China, or numerous dishes in Japan, the concept of cooking raw ingredients at the table on a small burner is a welcome, family undertaking. This method of eating sparks a bond between family and guests as you prepare the meal together, adding little bits of what you like to the communal pot. Conversations grow as you discuss what you enjoy eating, how you like it prepared, and talk about the deliciousness bubbling up before you. You’ll pour each other drinks, keep dipping into the pot over and over until you can no longer stuff yourself, and the conversation will last well into the night.

In America, we don’t quite have anything like this. Sure, the family meal is still cherished in many households, such as the wonderful Sunday dinners at my parents’ house when I was younger, but this idea of cooking at the table is not a common occurrence for many Americans. In fact, when I’ve mentioned to some friends I’ve eaten at Korean or Japanese restaurants where you cook your own food, their response is usually “you mean I have to pay to cook my own food?!” Our idea of food cooked at the table is usually in some “Japanese steak house” with a pseudo-master flipping shrimp into his pocket, tossing knives, and squirting oil on the hot griddle almost burning the place down in a flash of fire.  

There’s a struggle going on in Japan and in true Japanese fashion, it’s contradictory in nature. While the Japanese are very in touch with their history and keeping traditions alive, some aspects of Japanese life are beginning to feel the impact of a continually evolving society. The battle between history and modernity is one that is waged everyday, and I saw the impact of it Saturday night.  

After working during the day on Saturday, we met up with one of す’s university friends in Shinjuku to have a bite to eat and some drinks. Shinjuku is one of the largest areas of Tokyo and offers pretty much anything you could want from the sublime to the ridiculously deviant. It is home to one of the largest, most beautiful parks in Tokyo, Shinjuku Gyoen, as well as thousands of tiny little restaurants and bars crammed into maze-like streets offering just about any type of cuisine imaginable. It’s also the nexus of Tokyo’s sex industry with both “girls” and “boys” bars, strip clubs, soaplands (don’t ask), and pour bars (look it up lol).

We first stopped at a non-descript Izakaya, or Japanese pub, located in the basement of a Shinjuku office tower for a bite to eat and some drinks. The walk to the restaurant was like something out blade runner as we headed down a huge underground walkway lit up with  symmetrical fluorescent lighting stretching for what seemed like forever. It was as modern as modern could be. Our friend chose this particular restaurant because they offered a nomihodai, or all-you-can-drink, menu for ¥1750 (about $15). The food was pretty tasty, and I did manage to behave myself, so it was quite enjoyable. I got my ¥1750 worth and managed to remain coherent.

After finishing up there he wanted to take us to an old school yakitori restaurant. We crossed into Shinjuku near Golden Gai, a tiny alley loaded with little bars and restaurants about the size of postage stamps, and came upon a yakitori place that looked like it had been there since the Meiji era in the 1800s. In fact, the restaurant is about 100 years old. To the left of a dark-stained wooden door wearing years of exposure to the elements stood a charcoal grill and an elderly man standing behind it cooking. The entire grill area was coated in ash from the many orders of yakitori prepared over time.

We walked in and were directed to a narrow staircase wedged into the corner of a tiny room full of people eating. There were perhaps three or four tables with people eating and drinking. Upstairs was more open and not crowded at all. Dark wooden beams framed the dim stucco walls yellowed from years of cigarette smoke. We were seated at a low slung corner booth that surrounded an irori, or hearth, with a large iron kettle hanging from thick wooden arm. There were a couple of pieces of plywood covering the opening of the hearth, and our friend told us when he first started coming there, the hearth was exposed and used to warm food.

The waiter came over with the warmth of a Santarpio’s waiter on a Saturday night when you’re seated at his table right before the start of the 12 am card game. He was on the chubby side with his hair combed forward almost down to his bushy eyebrows. He wore a blue and white rugby shirt with thick horn-rimmed glasses that magnified his dark brown eyes. His shirt was tucked into his jeans which were pulled high above his waist and held up with a weathered brown belt. He grunted a welcome to us, and we ordered a bunch of food and drinks for all. He nodded and walked away then returned to deliver our beers.

He walks down the narrow hallway, his slight frame silhouetted by the light coming through the window at the end of it. He carries a clementine and a cup of water. The fusuma, or sliding panel, makes a low rumble as he works it from left to right. He kicks off his slippers and enters the tatami mat room. In the corner there’s a butsudan, or large mahogany shrine, going from floor to ceiling with a square blue pillow on the floor in front of it. The slotted folding doors of it are open revealing a small blue and white ceramic bowl filled with sand, a box of thin sticks of incense, a small package of thin white tapered candles, and a small brass bell sitting on a tiny cushion of alternating red and green panels with gold stripes in between.

Above those items sits two small color photographs in black frames. One photo is of a serious looking gentleman with gaunt, high cheek bones, ashen skin and dark brown eyes. In the other an older woman with a round face, thinning grey hair, age spots, and a slight smile on her face peers out. She is the spitting image of the man kneeling before her. He places the fruit and the water on the ledge of the altar, lights a stick of incense, and quickly waves it in the air to extinguish the flame. The scent of the smoke fills the room as he picks up his prayer book and beads, then taps the bell. The ping of the bell rings clear and solemn, breaking the silence of the moment as if to alert the spirits of the dead. He breaks into a low, rhythmic chant, slowly reciting from the book. He does this for about a minute before ringing the bell once more as if to say, “ok, I’m done now, ありがとうお母さんとお父さん(thank you mom and dad). 

Tachinomi (Standing Bars)

Tokyo is perhaps the greatest food city on the planet with over 1,000 restaurants for every 100,000 people. There are places to eat jammed into every corner of this place. One of my favorite types, and one not really seen much outside of Japan, or perhaps Asia, is the Tachinomi, or standing bar. Usually, these places can be found in parts of the city with lots of salarymen as they’re meant for you to walk in, stand at a table, or counter, grab a quick bite and a beer and go. You can often find them within a short distance of the train station, or in some cases right inside the station, as in Osaka Station. They’re typically very small, some are about the size of an ATM, but the turnover is high as people constantly move in and out!

Because of the small size of most of these places, the menus tend to be very limited and a lot of places specialize in one particular thing. I’ve been to tachinomi that only serve sake, others that served one type of fish, and yet another that served only kushikatsu, or fried skewers of meats and veggies. But I’ve never been to one quite like I visited Friday night.

My father-in-law was in Tokyo for business, so we met up with him and my brother-in-law for dinner. After dinner, す、大and myself were trying to find a Spanish Tapas standing bar we had visited a few years back. He couldn’t remember where it was, so he took us to one of his regular stops a place called Yaki Hamaguri (やきはまぐり). About a half a block away from the place, I could hear laughing and joking coming from it and knew I was in for a good time. The place was sandwiched between some sort of outside hallway, which you had to go down to get to the bathroom, and another building and it held about ten people.

We walk up and the first thing I see is a peculiar looking character behind a counter consisting of two gas burners with a wire grate stretched between, who’s yelling and joking with everyone who walks in. He has bushy hair, speaks with a bit of a lisp, and wears thick horn-rimmed glasses. His reminds me of a cross between Corey Feldman and Urkel. My brother-in-law is a regular so he immediately starts in on him. Until he sees me which is when he stops and stares at me. He looks at my brother-in-law and says “daredesuka? (who is this guy?)” I introduce myself in Japanese and laughs while telling me I speak Japanese like a little kid. We all start cracking up laughing. He then introduces himself in English, “I am Kyohei, nice to meet you.”

He has a limited menu consisting of a few staples with a slight twist, e.g. anchovy edamame. He also makes a mean French bread pizza. His specialty, however, is hamaguri, a common clam found in the waters of Asia, grilled on a gas burner and topped with a little soy sauce and ginger, or plain if you prefer. You can order pretty much any amount, but a small is typically three clams and the large is about 6-8. We ordered them plain, and they were absolutely delicious, succulent and buttery with the flavor of the sea oozing forth. For drinks, he has beer for ¥450 or if you order lemon sours (lemon and shochu) he’ll reach into a bucket of ice, pull out a 1 litre bottle of lemon sour, and hand it to you with glasses and a bucket of ice. You buy the whole bottle. It’s nice and cold, the clams are delicious, everyone’s laughing and joking and Kyohei is fucking hysterical.

The man is basically onstage when he’s behind the grill. He’s taking and turning out orders, yelling at his assistant, and giving customers crap. He’s like a machine and doesn’t skip a beat. He asks me where I’m from and I tell him the US. Doko (where)? I say Boston. He looks at me with a goofy grin and acts as if he’s never heard of it, “hmm Boston…Microsoft? No. Ummm, Empire State Building? No, ah, Hollywood? No. What’s in Boston?” I’m killing myself.

So I’m suffering a very fascinating condition these days. Seems like I’ll stop and listen to just about any American music I hear, regardless of my taste for the particular song or artist. For example, I’m not a huge Eagles fan, but sitting in a bar and hearing “Take It Easy” causes me to bust out singing harmony. At home the other day I went on a kick listening to Southern Rock blasting The Allman Brothers and 38 Special, two bands I don’t think I’ve ever deliberately listened to in my life. I’m finding this to be really interesting. And I think it’s related to something I call the Jury-Duty Friends Syndrome or JDFS.  

What is JDFS you might ask? It’s the willingness to endure something or someone you wouldn’t normally endure when you’re in a situation that you might think is less than ideal. I came up with this syndrome while sitting in jury duty a few years back. I bumped into an acquaintance from high school to whom I wasn’t particularly close and, in fact, didn’t really like all that much; however, when you’re stuck in the confines of a jury room with nobody to talk to and see someone like that you act as if you’re long lost buddies. It’s like they donated part of their lung to you or something. Hence, a jury-duty friend.  “Who was that guy you said hi to back there? Do you know him?” Nah he’s just a jury-duty friend. 

I’m suffering from this syndrome here when it comes to music. Wherever you go here there may be music playing, but it’s usually cheesy Japanese music, or perhaps weird cover versions of American music. For example, one of the small markets where I shop airs piped in Muzak covers of 80s punk and new wave tunes. They’re so bad they’re great! Sometimes I walk in just to hear what’s playing. I’ve managed to catch such classics as London Calling, Rock Lobster, or Best Friend’s Girl. The songs are exact, note-for-note recreations of the originals with the cheesiest synth sounds playing the melody and harmony parts. They’re pretty f’n funny, and I sometimes bust out laughing much to the chagrin of the obasans (old ladies) on a serious shopping mission!

Aside from that one store most places usually have pseudo-authentic Japanese sounding music playing with lame synthesizer kotos and shamisans, or something equally bad. There’s also another phenomenon I’m finding here in which the more expensive the market is, the more “sophisticated” the music. The pricey supermarkets in Seijo all play classical music, but again, it’s like weird pseudo-classical. There’s never anything I recognize, and it’s almost as if it’s classical sounding, but it’s written and recorded in some NHK studio somewhere. The pretentiousness of it all is rather off-putting, and I’ve even walked out of stores after hearing the music and picking up on that vibe. lol

One of the things I love about japan is the rich culture heritage on display just about every day. The Japanese hold their heritage dear, and the richness of history abounds in all corners of this country. This is especially true during the summer months as traditional festivals fill up the long, sweltering days. Young and old alike come out to celebrate as their ancestors before them did: dressed in yukata with their vibrant colors splashing on the sometimes bleak canvas of Tokyo. The click-clack of traditional wooden getas, or sandals, echoes with hundreds of years of tradition and draws you towards the colorful display. Pride abounds as the community comes together to celebrate its past and present alike.

This was especially evident on Sunday night in Shimokitazawa as we attended the traditional Awa-odori dance festival. This particular festival only began in 1966; however the tradition of the dance dates back hundreds of years to Tokushima prefecture on the island of Shikoku. There are older, larger Awa-odori festivals all over Japan, but Shimokita’s is becoming one of Japan’s most popular with dance troupes coming from all over the Kanto region to participate in the fun!

The awa-odori is Tokushima’s version of the traditional bon-odori, but rather than a more traditional dance, it welcomes back ancestors with what’s called the “dance of fools.” In fact as the groups move through the streets they sometimes stop to break out into songs with lyrics like

“It’s a fool who dances and a fool who watches!

If both are fools, you might as well have fun dancing!”

Dozens of rens, or dance groups, participate in the festival, each one comprised of a variation of male, female and child dancers sometimes broken up into subgroups. The men’s dance is meant to be powerful and strong, while the women’s dance is meant to be elegant and graceful. The women also dance on the tiptoes of their getas displaying immense strength and agility as they move quickly through the streets. Also, there’s often an “all-come” ren open to anyone who wants to join in and dance and some rens will even allow outsiders to join them!

The dancers are accompanied by traditional Japanese instruments such as shamisen, flutes, drums and bells and are led by a dancer swinging a large pole with two takahari, or lanterns, on it announcing the name of the group. The route in Shimokita is broken up into four different segments, and the rens move through each one over the course of the evening. As each one winds through the streets, a lead dancer will occasionally call out “yatto sa!” and the troupe will respond with “a yatto, yatto!” The crowd often joins in with the call and response helping to fuel the party atmosphere.

I’m exhausted. This weekend was a blast! We did a lot, but in the interest of brevity, I’ll save break these posts up.

Friday night I met すin Shimokita after she got out of work and we began exploring. We found a cool, old yakinikku restaurant, and it smelled too good to pass up. Yakinikku restaurants serve beef, pork, or other assorted goodies that come to the table raw, and you cook them at your own pace Usually places like this have some sort of electric griddle built into the table for cooking, but this particular restaurant brought over a little hibachi-like grill with hot coals inside. I had never experienced Yakinikku like this. The food was amazing as the charcoal infused everything with a delicious taste and aroma! We had pork loin, beef tongue, kalbi beef, and mino, which is a form of tripe. We took our time eating and drinking to our heart’s content. We were quite full by the time we finished and decided we needed to walk off dinner.

We strolled around Shimokita a bit and found another funky little bar down off the main drag. There was a sign in the window advertising Aperol spritzes, so we had to pop in. I had a highball with Yamazaki whiskey, a very expensive whiskey and kind of a waste to drink as a highball, but I figured what the hell. すhad an Aperol, but the thing was it didn’t have any prosecco in it. So it was a little disappointing, but good nonetheless. The bartender/owner had a huge vinyl collection and really nice studio monitors built into the wall above the bar. They looked like Westlakes, but I couldn’t make out if they were or not as it was too dark. He was playing some classic American music and at one point he turned the music down because it was getting a little loud. Mind you, there were only us and one other women in the place at the time, so we said, “no don’t turn it down!” He thanked us and turned it back up and asked if we had any requests. So, appropriately enough, I requested some Aretha and we sipped our drinks paying homage to the Queen of Soul from the other side of the world. The place started filling up with older ladies out on the town grabbing a bite to eat, so we decided to finish our drinks and head out and free up our seats.

We continued through the narrow streets of Shimokita looking for another spot to stop. We passed in front of a tiny little Italian restaurant where two girls were standing out front having a cigarette. We were scoping out the place when they said to us “go to downstairs it’s really good. Wine bar!” We have been craving a good glass of wine for a while now, so we decided to check it out. Like a lot of places in Tokyo, the exterior did not do the interior justice.

Cuore Forte, as it’s called, was tiny. There was an all glass, walk-in wine fridge right as you entered the space and adjacent to that, a gorgeous wooden bar with about 10 seats Opposite that was a small wooden counter with about another 6 or 8 seats. The walls were a combination of exposed and painted brick and natural stone. There were cool tunes coming from the stereo. A handful of people were seated at the end of the bar as soon as we walked in, and the place was so tiny they had to get up to allow us to pass. lol

The owner/bartender (a lot of these in Tokyo) was an Italian wine aficionado who had recently gone to Italy and Sicily. We started talking about wines, and he began showing us pictures from his trip. I knew some of the wines he had and was excited to see them there. I had only ever seen them at my brother’s house and here they were in Tokyo! We had a glass of wine or two and chatted with him for a while. He was a really nice guy and gave us suggestions for other restaurants to check out in Shimokita. The food looked amazing, but since we had just eaten we weren’t too hungry. We decided on something light, so we ordered peaches with fresh pecorino and extra virgin olive oil. It went perfectly with the wine. We’ll definitely visit there again and go back for dinner next time.