hide and seek

I walked past the park by my apartment the other day and saw something that caught me dumbfounded. A child was crouching in the bushes, another behind a tree trunk, a third held himself up behind a small wooden sign. One kid leaned his face into a flagpole and covered his eyes. This scene was at first surreal and I could find no possible motives for the actions of these children. Then the boy leaning against the flagpole shouted something, uncovered his eyes and began to survey the park. It occurred to me then what I was seeing. The explanation was so simple I could have kicked myself for the previous moments of mental struggle. They were playing hide and seek. The realization came at a most appropriate time as I had just come from the shopping mall.

Unlike the what I saw in the park shopping malls do not fill me with playful wonderment. They do not make me long for the carefree days of my childhood. Rather they remind me of the few things I hate about getting older.

For the most part I do like the process of aging. I like that I have a command and familiarity of my body. I enjoy responsibility and I am glad I have experiences to draw on as I try to juggle my responsibilities. I like shaving and I like knowing more than teenagers. I don't however like the fact being an adult means I have to adhere to the idea that life is not a game. I try very hard most days to reject such thinking.

In order to do this I try to think about my daily duties in terms of games rather than chores. When I clean the kitchen I try to stack the dishes in different and progressively more precarious ways. In sweeping the floor I imagine a game of shuffleboard. Squeegeeing windows and mirrors is a game and bliss all unto itself. Shopping is like playing hide and seek with the universe. The universe hides the things that I need and I go out and try to find them.

If the game is hide and seek, then these days I am the seeker and cultural discrepancies are the hiders. Japan has proven to be a suitable arena for this game because everything is new and particularly fun, even if it is relatively easy. Just like in hide and seek, it is always more fun if that which is sought after can find a really good hiding place. It is more fun for the hider and the seeker. Shopping malls reject this way of thinking entirely.

Shopping malls are like doing a crossword puzzle with the answers printed upside down next to the puzzle. They make the game so easy that it is hardly a game at all. It is for this reason that I don't often go shopping malls.

However shopping malls do not require that you shop, so that day I had chosen the shopping mall to play cultural hide and seek. I discovered that this shopping mall was not totally unlike the upscale shopping malls in America. It was neatly laid out and labeled.

There was a food court 

and several clothing stores that I would never find myself eating or shopping in. There was an arcade and there were people shopping.

I did, however, notice a few obvious differences. The arcade for instance is not like those that struggle to survive in America. 

The arcade in this particular mall bustles and strives. It is takes up about half of a floor 

and has easily two hundred video games. It also has a bowling alley and a carousel. It has a scale model German village. The village was distinctly German not just from the architecture but from all of the shop signs and billboards. You can pay 100 yen to control one of many trains that run through and around it.

The arcade is also home to several high-tech photo booths that make me question the ideas being imparted on the Japanese youth of today.

The mall also contains a full scale grocery store. It is like any other grocery store I have been to since my arrival. It has a large produce section with even larger prices. Yes the rumors are true, cantaloupe in Japan can run upwards of fifty bucks. Next to the grocery store, but not inside of it, was another surprising addition to the shopping mall conglomeration, a liquor store. Beyond the liquor store were two things I didn't expect to see in a shopping mall, especially in close vicinity to one another; a place for mothers to nurse their babies and a smoking section.

My favorite difference is one that took me by surprise, or rather it nearly scared my bowels loose. I was walking through the mall trying to take in all of the little details and as usual was lost in thought. (This happens a lot to me, just today I was thinking so hard about my experience being panhandled by a middle aged business man that I walked into a tree branch and nearly lost an eye). I passed the edge of a department store when I almost ran into a little kid. Actually I only thought it was a little kid but when I turned back to apologize I realized it was a mannequin. It was then that I almost shat my pants. I would like to describe what I saw in words. Words, I am afraid, will fall short of the sight that lay before me, so I lay it before you.  

Ultimately the shopping mall proved a good destination for the experience I desired. However in terms of shopping, malls are like playing hide and seek in an open field. They are kids who got allowances without having to mow the yard. They are dudes that get fit at the gym then struggle to pour concrete. They are the prefabricated rips on the jeans of people who fret when they tear their pants. Shopping malls are adults worn down by daily life who prefer convenience and conformity to experience and character. They are safe, warm, well lit and, if used for their intended purpose, they are very little fun.

The Sea and the Boat

Winter is the slowest season. In attempt to conserve energy animals move slowly across frozen landscapes or huddle deep in burrows asleep and unmoving. The human animal, due to the inconsiderate nature of the modern world, is not always allowed the luxury of such a slow pace. For the human the slowness of winter comes with the passing of time. February, though the shortest of months, is also the slowest. It strikes in the middle of this grey and sluggish season. Like days pass on a ship in the middle of a cross-atlantic voyage February comes as no surprise and shows no signs of relief. What February may lack in days it makes up for in dread and stillness.

It is winter in Gifu. As a result I find that much of my time is being spent indoors. Being stuck inside in a foreign country is almost the same as being stuck inside in your hometown. It is almost the same but it is also a lot better because when the weather lets up enough to let you out the world outside is twice as exciting. Exciting because it is not the room you have come to spend all of your time in and exciting because it is not the place you have spent your life.

I have learned from my days inside that all I need to satisfy my sense of adventure is to go outside. That the only thing that separates me from a strange new world is a door. I realize that depending on your perspective this could be true for anyone in any context, however it is a feeling much more accesible in a place so obviously different and new.

I often think of the scene in Pulp Fiction when Vincent tells Jules that the difference between America and Europe are the 'little things'; that the big differences are found in subtle details. Certainly there are subtle differences between America and Japan, details that parallel the observations Vincent had. For instance in Japan they don't call it a Big Mac, they call it a Grand Canyon Burger and it comes topped with a fried egg and teriyaki sauce (later this month the release of the Las Vegas burger is scheduled).

If one can only see the differences in the subtle details I am afraid they are trying too hard.

The differences are obvious and abound. Cars drive on the opposite side of the road, everything is written in kana and kanji, nobody speaks English and everybody is Japanese. Soup is eaten with chopsticks and egg is typically served raw. There are shrines and temples around every corner and smoking is still allowed in bars and restaurants. People hold umbrellas while they ride their bikes. Beer and hot coffee in a can can be bought in vending machines on any street. There are so many differences that anytime the weather lets up enough for me to escape my tiny apartment I am overwhelmed and overjoyed. I don't even have to think about what to do, I simply start walking and before I know it I am having an experience I couldn't have planned for or dreamed of.

A few days ago I woke up to yet another dark grey sky. I spent the morning eating breakfast slowly and perusing the internet. My hips began to ache. The lack of chairs in my apartment means I spend most of my time sitting on floor. As a person accustomed to chairs this ache can quickly become pain. I stood and opened the curtains to remind myself why I was sitting on the floor reading banal facebook posts. To my surprise and relief I couldn't find any reason. The sky was clear and the sun shone proudly, proving to the wet sidewalks who was boss. 

I gave a quick thumbs up to the sun, put on my boots and hit the street.

Outside the air was cold and the wind fierce, but the sun shone and it was dry. I continued on my way. I walked aimlessly, as I do on walks like this. I walk aimlessly because I have nothing to aim at. I haven't money to go shopping, I haven't destinations I feel I must see. I came to Japan to be in Japan and experience it for what it had to offer. I find the best way to do this is to simply immerse myself in it and let it offer to me what it will.

What it had to offer that day was long, winding residential streets. I found great pleasure in looking at architecture that is uncommon to me and that was only vaguely self similar. I had the feeling that I could pass a thousand houses and find a sense of newness in each one, so I did. Details that stick out to me now; tiled exterior walls, bonsai gardens, wilted prickly pear cactus. One of my favorite sites that day was the side of two story apartment building that faced a vacant lot. The lot was obviously not always vacant as the wall was stained with the silhouette of a pitched roof and wall. I wondered how it came to be vacant. If the house that was no longer there because it had been torn down or if it had gotten restless and left for greener pastures. Snow began to fall fall through the sunny air and I continued walking, hoping to find greener pastures myself. I imagined a me shaped stain stuck to the side of such a building

The landscape of Gifu is such that where there is development it is very flat. Where the development ends there are hills and even mountains. It is not predictable as to when the development will end and the hills will begin. I turned a corner and was presented with a choice between a hill or more developed flatland. Having seen much of the developed option I decided to investigate the hill. I crossed a muddy field via its snow covered edges and found a cobbled path that led up the hill into the woods. Signs and benches indicated that I had found a public park. It was unlike the parks that I am used to in the states and I was content to muddy my boots in exploration. I followed the path about half way up the hill until I came to a lookout point. There was a small picnic shelter and an incredible view of the snow covered city. There was also an old man doing yoga on a bench. He was either oblivious to my presence or was ignoring it in hopes that I wouldn't disrupt him. Either way I felt the urge to back away slowly and quietly. I was only half way up the hill anyway and figured I would find another vista that I could enjoy without being a nuisance. I quietly backed away from the man and headed up another path.

Signs and benches indicated that I had found a public park. It was unlike the parks that I am used to in the states and I was content to muddy my boots in exploration. I followed the path about half way up the hill until I came to a lookout point. There was a small picnic shelter and an incredible view of the snow covered city. There was also an old man doing yoga on a bench. He was either oblivious to my presence or was ignoring it in hopes that I wouldn't disrupt him. Either way I felt the urge to back away slowly and quietly. I was only half way up the hill anyway and figured I would find another vista that I could enjoy without being a nuisance. I quietly backed away from the man and headed up another path.

This path led up a steeper incline into tall trees. The wet soles of my boots slipped on the wet cobble steps. I walked slowly. The trees grew thicker and my hopes of finding another place to view the city were replaced by a desire to explore the woods. I kept climbing feeling more elated with each step.

As the hill got steeper the path became a series of switchbacks. My view of what to come, appropriately, was very limited. My excitement to see what was waiting for me increased, but still my feet found little traction on the wet ground and I was forced to walk slowly. This was not to my dismay as it gave me a chance to soak in my surroundings. They were so different than where I had been only twenty minutes before. A line from a poem crept into my thoughts, 'how different from the sea is the boat'. It was such a nice turn of phrase and despite the context of the poem it seemed appropriate. I repeated it aloud, 'how different from the sea is the boat'.

I turned two more switch backs before I caught a glimpse of something through the trees. It was the pitch of a roof patched with snow. I thought maybe it was another picnic shelter like the one I had passed a little earlier so I continued in its direction. It was not a picnic shelter, but rather a small shrine, abandoned and boarded up.
I stood looking up at the shrine from the bottom of a steep staircase. I wondered how it was a shrine came to be abandoned. If it was just too inconvenient to visit regularly or if it was in honor of something that nobody believed in any longer. I imagined a future where all churches and wal-marts were boarded up because the belief in their usefulness had dissipated from society. It seemed a bright future to me despite the macabre feeling of the shrine I was looking at. From the shrine there led a path down the other side of the hill. Not being one to like backtracking I chose this as my way down. I made it only a few steps before I was forced to stop walking and simply look on in awe. Down below the path I saw a small cemetery and surrounding it were tall pine and bamboo trees. The sun broke through the canopy above and wind pushed snow down and around the tree trunks. I would say that it was beautiful, but this seems like too simple a description, so instead I suggest you just see for yourself.
I stood and watched this subtle spectacle until the cold found its way into my bones. I followed the path down and out of the woods. Back on the street I found the sun fighting a losing battle against a mean gang of clouds and the wind throwing around some pretty nasty words. It seemed that the only thing quick about winter was the speed in which it reminds us of its presence. I bought a hot can of coffee from a vending machine, and used it to warm my hands and belly as I made the walk back home.

At home I was, as always, confronted by the front door. It was the same door it always is, but I was glad to see it. My numb fingers fumbled with my keys as I unlocked and opened it. They cracked a little as I turned the handle. How different from the sea is the boat I thought as I removed my shoes and entered the apartment, and how different from the boat is the sea. Small and confining she is a sea worthy vessel. Cold and indifferent she is a vessel worthy sea.

Remembering and Remembrance

When I was a baby, I am told, that it was not uncommon for me to strip myself of my clothes, and run unaccompanied down the street to the local pool. Taking advantage of my lack of height I would run, unseen, beneath the turnstile, towards the pool and jump into the deep end. Invariably the life guards would fish me out, wrap me in a towel and call my parents. Throughout my formative years, and to little avail, my parents have tried to expunge this tendency from me. In recent years they have become more accepting, and even supportive, of this desire to dive headlong into situations that I am not entirely prepared for. 

When I was nineteen I attempted to move to Mexico. I had saved up little money and left my home and job in Albuquerque. The plan was to first stop in the Gila Valley in southern New Mexico to visit a friend, and from there continue south. I did not, however, continue south. 

Instead I came to the harsh realization that, due to my lack of preparation and planning, I was not going to be able to continue south. Having made such a stink about doing that, I felt I couldn't return to my home in Albuquerque either. I was, figuratively, naked and floundering in the deep end. Literally I was cold and alone in the woods with very little I could do for myself. 

I was in desperate need of a life line. I called my sister and explained to her my situation and desperation. She suggested I stay with my dad in Iowa for a time, until I got back on my feet. I accepted that what she had said had merit and that I had few other options to choose from. So with little enthusiasm I made arrangements to move back home. My brother kindly drove a few long hours to the Gila, picked me up, and drove me back to Albuquerque. After a few days, of trying their patience, my brother and sister wished me well and put me on a bus to Iowa.
 I was a very unhappy nineteen year old, debilitated by self pity and unaware that life is subject to improve, if allowed. I had lost faith in myself, causing my courage to dive into uncharted waters to disappear. It was in Iowa with this mindset that I spent the few months preceding my second trip to Japan.

My first trip to Japan was as a young child, maybe eight or nine years old. The impetus for travel was my brother Seth, who at the time was teaching English on a small island called Oki. In the interim of my trips Seth had continued to live primarily in Japan, with short bouts in San Diego, California and Florence, Italy. Deciding his place was in Japan he had returned, married a Japanese woman, Hisako, and had a child, Tofu. It was shortly before Tofu was born that I boarded the bus to Iowa.

A dreadlock discovered.

Upon arrival in Iowa I was a complete and total wreck; an absolute pessimist and a perpetual pain in the ass. I had given in to uncertainty and neglect. Uncertainty of my actions and neglect of my mental and physical health. I lived in never ending gloom and allowed my hair to grow long, greasy, and tangled. It was my habit then to wear the patience down of anyone in my proximity. It seemed to continue in this way would alienate me completely from the world and those who cared for me. I could have cared less, the better for everybody to just leave me alone. Thankfully, however, my dad felt differently and had the means to help. 

Early on a cold March morning my dad woke me with an abrupt shake and an announcement. He said, "Tickets to Japan are four hundred dollars round trip. Get your hair cut and promise to wear your pants around your waist while we are there and I will buy you one". Without a second thought I agreed to his terms. He left me laying in bed and I tried to return to sleep. Sleep being, at this point, my only escape from the world I felt so poorly about. 

Yet I couldn't get back to sleep that morning, and I didn't feel so poorly about the world. I thought it was the excitement of international travel that was keeping me up, but it turned out to be much more than this. I wasn't just shaken awake that morning, I was shaken from a deep and muddy slump. It wasn't just the idea of travel, but the thought that somebody, namely my dad, had enough conviction in me and the world to propose such an extreme reintroduction. 

In agreeing to my dad's terms I had unconsciously sparked something in myself I had all but forgotten. It was that spark I had felt as a child, the spark that caused me to strip and head for the swimming pool. The spark that told me not to worry, not to think too hard. It was the impulse to do for the sake of experience and it was being reinforced by my father, a person I trusted and trusted not to understand such impulses. I cut my hair, bought a belt and in a few quick weeks my dad and I were on a plane to Japan. 

I remember this trip much like I remember dreams, with little control. As with dreams, when I do try to exert control the memories become vaguer and less tangible. They simply slip away. One memory I have from this trip, however, that remains clear is something Seth told me. He said, "I some times feel that if I can't remember something it means it isn't important, so I don't worry about forgetting and later, if and when, I remember something I have forgotten it means it is significant in that moment". 

Rather than detailed memories I came home with a changed perspective and a few souvenirs. I had gained perspective that was very much in emulation of Seth's. An outlook that gave credence to optimism, bravery, and an overall enjoyment of life. This new, or renewed, way of seeing the world came as a great relief. It taught me that the best I can do with experiences and memories is allow them to come to me enjoy them for as long as they last. I didn't know how well this lesson would serve me. 
Less than a year later, tragedy struck. Seth had died. 

At the time, and still, it is an incredibly painful shock to my family and those that had known Seth. Seth was by all accounts an amazing human being and his passing came entirely too soon. However tragedy is worth nothing if it can not be used to improve the lives of those so affected, and as it was with Seth's passing. My immediate family, my parents, brothers, and sisters were faced with a reality that has only brought us closer together. 

Each of us have been taught the preciousness of life and the importance of living that life while the chance is there. It is impossible to say what exactly Seth has taught us, or what exactly it was that set him apart from other people. I believe it has something to do with his rejection of the idea that fear is debilitating. 

In terms of his artwork Seth approached this by developing his shortcomings rather than his inherent skills. In life he did this by roaming the streets of Tokyo naked as a means of overcome his fear of embarrassment. Anytime he was halted by fear he forced himself to find a way to overcome that fear. Anything that stood in his way he would attempt to jump over or break through. It was his desire to live and understand life that caused him to dismiss convention at all costs; specifically the cost of comfort. Seth's rejection of fear led to courage; a courage that is rare and contagious. A courage that allowed him to explore  himself unabashedly and encouraged others to do the same.  

"I want to explore my own mind until I find something
so hidden that it shocks even me"
-seth fisher
A Beautiful Mind

I am now in Japan for the third time and, though indirectly, it has everything to do with Seth. In September my girlfriend, Maggie, accepted a job teaching English in Japan. As chance would have it the job has her living in Gifu City, only a few train stops from Nagoya, the city Seth last lived in, and Seto where Hisako and Tofu currently live. These convenient coincidences and a series of strange and unpredictable events furthered my reasons and means of traveling to Japan. I bought a plane ticket with the return trip leaving three months from the day I arrived. I had spent most of my money on the ticket and still have no jobs lined up. I am, once again a happy naked toddler floundering in the deep end of life.

The day I arrived was a week ago last Saturday. Being in no real hurry to see the country, Maggie and I spent the weekend settling into our apartment. On Monday we had errands to run in Nagoya. The intent of our trip was solely practical. Maggie had to work early the next day, and as we have at least three months ahead of us, were not concerned with rushing to see the sites. The plan was simply to run our errands, get a quick bite to eat, then return to Gifu at a reasonable hour. The evening turned out to entail much more than this.

Our errands led us to Fashion Avenue, a bright and expensive stretch in downtown Nagoya. Nagoya is something of a fashion center and Fashion Avenue feels like a posh, Japanese, version of Times Square. The kind of place that makes you wonder how people can afford to live the way they do. A place with shops that emphasize their high prices by their lack of inventory. 

Where stores do better when left nameless. 

Where Goodwill doesn't mean second hand or second rate.

We finished our errands and headed away from Fashion Avenue with due haste. The streets were getting crowded, the night was getting cold, and hunger was creeping in. We left the bright lights and Maggie led me to a part of town where we could find cheaper eats called Osu. She assured me that this area would be more to my liking.

Osu is a semi outdoor shopping district; consisting of long covered corridors lined with shops and restaurants. A place with graffiti scrawled on walls and skateboards on the sidewalks. It was definitely more to my liking.  As we got close I was overcome with the sense that I knew this place. That this was where I had spent much of my time during my last visit. I expressed this to Maggie and she asked what I remembered. 

I explained that my memories were vague and that the only clear memory I had was a record shop. I remembered the shop because I had copied its slogan on to a piece of paper that Seth then wrote onto a hat. I had purchased this hat in what I was realizing was Osu.

Years ago I had worn the hat for years. Then I lost it was passed from friend to friend and I lost track of it. A few months ago while visiting Iowa the hat was returned to me. Despite having recently reclaimed the hat, I only vaguely remembered what was written on it. Something like, "we are covered with ideal society, I don't find myself. I find music...".  
We passed a record shop and Maggie asked if this was the one I had been to before. I told her it wasn't but it caused me to remember the name; Banana Records. Maggie said that there was a Banana Records in Gifu and this assured my memory was serving me well. We walked less then a hundred yards before we found it.

Standing in front of Banana Records I was overcome with memories I had thought long lost. As I looked around the littlest details began to spark the most vivid recollections. Excited, I took Maggie by the hand and asked her to follow me. We took off like detectives hot on a case. 

We turned a corner off the street into a covered corridor. I wasn't sure if I was guessing or remembering, but regardless I led the way with confidence. As we passed along shops and restaurants another detail came to mind; wedding gowns. I remembered clearly a store in a corridor much like the one we were in that sold second hand wedding gowns. Within moments we were confronted by a shop with a rack of wedding gowns in front. I still can't say if it was the same one, but it didn't seem to matter.

This memory led me to another; one of snake oils and vitality drinks sold in a vending machine. A few steps further we passed one, but I was sure that this was not the same machine. No less enchanted we continued on down memory lane. I pulled Maggie down one corridor and through another until we came to the end of a third. 

As we walked out from the bright florescent lights into the dark night we saw a large red and black temple. I knew that I had seen this temple. 

I looked to the left and sure enough there was the vending machine, still stocked with snake oils.  Around the corner from the vending machine was an unlit alley way. I pulled at Maggie's hand.

We walked down the alley until I saw a small cafe that I was sure I had been to. Past the cafe was a large street and to the right an even larger street. I knew I knew this street. We walked up to the larger street and a hundred meters down I saw a pedestrian bridge that went up and over the street. I had been on this bridge too.

We crossed the pedestrian bridge as I rambled to Maggie the memories that were exploding like fireworks in my head. I described the neighborhood that Seth had lived in. How it was an industrial flower district and many of the buildings were lined with garage doors that would open in the morning, revealing thousands of flowers. goose in the air. My actions were being dictated by instinct, and though I knew I was looking for something specifically, I couldn't say just what. 
I looked at the sidewalk across from where we stood and had a  clear vision of falling off of my skateboard. I remembered how Hisako had turned white and how I had told Seth to tell her to relax. Seth had told me that it wasn't so simple. That being her guest in the country anything that befell me, any injury I endured, even of my own doing, she would take  responsibility for. 

Then I saw it and I knew that this is where the path ended. We stopped in front of a modest apartment building. Nondescript in everyday except the ground level and  familiarity. 

On the ground floor was a small cafe, a stairwell, and a beauty salon. Every part of me, despite my complete lack of evidence, told me that this is where I had stayed. This was Seth's building. 

We looked around at the various signs posted on the building trying to discern which was an address. Thankfully Maggie has learned to read katakana and hiragana and was able to make an educated guess. She pointed to a sign and said this was probably the name of the building. I quickly scribbled it down to the best of my ability. For a few minutes we stood and I stared at the building. I tried to conjure up any other memories but was at a loss. Or, rather, I had found enough and knew I would have to be content to process this series of events. Maggie and I then found a restaurant and took the train home to Gifu. There Maggie translated the characters, I had scribbled, to romaji and I emailed our findings to Hisako who confirmed that this was indeed the place. 

Monday marks the sixth anniversary of Seth's passing. It seems like it was both a life time ago and only yesterday that I was an unpleasant teenager in desperate need of Seth's particular brand of quizzical and considerate wisdom. That in the years that have since passed I have not been with out my eldest brother, but rather I have been imbibed with his positivity. I have learned from Seth, and am reminded by his passing, that we cannot know what is to come, but this is not reason to resist it. Rather it is more than enough reason to be excited by our ignorance. It is by acknowledging ignorance that allows education to take place. The map can only get bigger if you are willing to go beyond the charted territory.
My family commemorates January 30th as Flowering Nose Day in loving memory of Seth and we invite all those who wish to embrace this day to please do so. Celebrating Flowering Nose Day can mean any number of things. I urge you to use your imagination. The more ways a thing can be done, the more ways it should be done. Celebrate diversity and seek it out. Celebrate enthusiasm and reveal in it. Celebrate kindness and embrace it. Celebrate fear and overcome it. Celebrate life and, for everybody's sake, live it. 

Seth Fisher
July 22, 1972-January 30, 2006
www.floweringnose.com

Packaging

It is true and often said that a book cannot be judged by its cover. The same is true of an egg and its shell. It seems that these truisms, no matter how often repeated, are often overlooked. Especially in a day and age when packaging is so common place. A bag of chips for example is packaged so that the consumer need only recognize a logo and color. A major brand like Doritos has this down to a science. Blue bags suggest the cool flavor of ranch, whereas a red bag indicates the spicy flavor of its contents. Even in a place where one does not speak the language this can be tried and proven true. 

Here is a snack I purchased today at a Japanese convenience store. From the packaging I was able to quickly deduce that the contents would be a crunchy, corn based snack. I was able to infer by the shape of the product displayed that the snack would be something like Cheetos, with a Japanese slant of course. With only a limited knowledge of Japanese customs and traditions I was able to deduce that the package was a limited edition designed specifically for release around the new year. I knew this because on Sunday I visited a shrine that sold good luck charms that looked very similar to the design of the bag (note the fake string ribbon and faux embroidery kanji). 

Upon opening the package I found that my assumptions were correct. The snacks were in fact very much like Cheetos but the flavor of cheese, though delicious, was a bit off from the flavor of cheese snacks I am accustomed too. 

The ease of packaging can, however, lead us astray if we do not apply critical thinking and astute observation. Early today I was reminded of this when I attempted to buy a hot can of coffee from a vending machine. I looked over the machine and decided I wanted coffee with milk, conveniently labeled in English characters as Cafe Au Lait, and colored to look like milky coffee. I inserted my yen and pressed the appropriate button. I know I pressed the correct button as I have purchased several of these since my arrival. From the dispenser I removed a beige can and felt its warmth against my skin. With out examining the can I opened it and took a sip. The sweet flavor I tasted at first seemed to agree with my memory of this product. However with in moments I noticed that the flavor was far too savory, almost like sweet corn. In fact it was sweet corn. The machine, despite my proper operation, had dispensed a can of hot corn pottage.With a chuckle and no witnesses to feel embarrassed by I drank the corn soup and rather enjoyed it. It was a personal error with little consequence. 

Earlier this week I narrowly avoided a potentially more embarrassing situation for almost exactly the same reasons. I was having dinner with Maggie in Nagoya. I had ordered a dinner set that included a bowl of hot noodles, a cup of dumpling soup, a small salad, and, what I assumed was a boiled egg. When the food came it looked exactly as it had on the menu, with the exception of the dish that the egg was served in. The egg was served on a small metal dish that sat above a small soup bowl. I thought it was for the sake of aesthetic and being hungry and still overwhelmed by being in a foreign country, I appreciated the aesthetic. I did not apply critical thinking, nor astute observation. Had I would have recognized the small metal dish for what it was. Instead I judged the book by its cover, or as was the case, the egg by its shell. After tasting the rest of my dinner I set to eating the egg. The first step, naturally, was to crack the shell, and then peel. I gave the egg a good whack on the table top and as luck would have it the shell cracked only a little. A small piece of shell flecked off but the outer shell membrane remained in tact. Still thinking the egg was boiled I picked at the revealed membrane. To my surprise removing the membrane gave way to a hollow space. 

The egg was certainly raw. Dumb luck had it that I narrowly avoided smashing a raw egg on the restaurant table. As I began to understand what I was doing I realized that the small metal dish was nothing more than a simple yolk strainer. A device I had used daily when I was baker. 

The moral of the story I suppose is obvious, but because we live in a world that has, apparently, been so conveniently packaged I feel it should be stated in clear simple terms. Don't mistake the map for the territory, don't eat the menu, and never judge an egg by its shell. 

Shanghai

Fourteen hours on a plane that left on a Thursday morning and arrived on a Friday evening. I don't feel like I missed a day, just sat until I couldn't perceive time passing. Arrival was quick, I didn't even feel the wheels hit the tarmac. At customs they were a little baffled that I didn't have a printed itinerary or any idea of the flight number for my plane leaving the next day. 

They stamped my passport with a twenty-four hour pass anyway.  I was waved through customs with out a second look and soon found myself in the Shanghai airport. It was very modern.

I loaded up a pushcart with my luggage and realized I was very tired. The excitement I had had for a fifteen hour layover in a foreign airport was gone. So, taking the advice of an unexpected sign I decided to get a hotel and good nights sleep.

Like most international airports, this one had a few hotel representatives standing behind a desk and barking offers at passersby. I approached them and first they showed me a brochure for a four star hotel. I told them my price range and they suggested I might want a no star hotel. I agreed with no harm done to my pride.

Fifty bucks got me a ride to and from the airport, a suitable room and breakfast. They told me it would be a Chinese breakfast and I told them I expected nothing less, considering we were in China. They took my money, wrote out a receipt and pawned me off on a guy they said was airport staff. I was hesitant as it seemed like a pretty good setup for a scheme, but went along with it. 

Before I knew it I was sitting in the front seat of a little van rushing sixty miles an hour through Shanghai Airport traffic. The driver honked rather than signalling and I just let the experience wash over me. I was struck most by the amount of mopeds speeding through the dark and rainy streets with out a light or helmet.

In little less than fifteen minutes we pulled up to a very modest business hotel. A man walked out of the hotel and greeted us. He was exactly what I had hoped for. His age was indeterminable, some where between forty and sixty-five. His smile was wide and full of crooked yellow teeth; between his fingers was a meticulously crushed cigarette filter and the ash remains of an entire cigarette. He placed the cigarette between his lips and miraculously pulled a full drag from the nothing of a cigarette without displacing any ash at all.
With no English and little ado they gave me a key card and instructed me on how to find my room. I took my bags to the fourth floor and unlocked door number 8408. Inside I flipped the light switch and nothing happened. Standing in the dark I tried another switch, but it wasn't a switch at all, just a hard plastic fixture mounted on the wall. I opened the door to shed some light on the situation. In doing so I noticed some writing on the plastic fixture. It read, "insert key for power" so I did and tried the light switch again.

This time it worked and I was confronted with a very basic room. A bed, a TV, a water cooker, some tea bags and tea cups, an ashtray, and some matches. I filled the water cooker and plugged it in. I sat at the desk and lit matches as I waited for the water to boil. I was not surprised as only one in three matches caught and lit. As I did this I heard what sounded like a long and fast succession of gunshots. I pulled the curtains back from the window and saw fireworks exploding over the city skyline. Real Chinese fireworks, I had truly arrived on the orient. 

After a cup of tea I peeled my clothes off and stepped behind the sliding glass bathroom door. I took a hot shower and admired the tile work.
After the shower I flipped through the channels and found that even in a place as exotic and exciting as Shanghai, television is as boring as ever. I slept well on the concrete stiff sheets and woke rested in the morning.
Breakfast was provided and, as promised, was very Chinese. It consisted of steamed white buns and some sort of soup that I didn't think I could stomach. I ate a few of the buns and was then packed into another, smaller van. We arrived the airport and before I knew it I was on a flight to Nagoya, Japan. Where the layover lasted all night, the flight took a little less than two hours.