Year of the Rooster

“Do you want to go to Yokohama on Saturday?”

I received this text message from Jan, and the implication was a total departure from our usual Tokyo-mandatory Saturday policy.  As the second largest city in Japan, I figured it was a good bet.

I did a quick Google search to see if there were any events going on or certain areas of Yokohama worth checking out.  Come to find out, Yokohama is home to one of the biggest Chinatown districts in the world, and double come to find out, SATURDAY WAS FREAKING CHINESE NEW YEAR.  Jan swears he didn’t plan this and it was a coincidence but he is a liar and not to be trusted.  There’s no way we just randomly decided to go to the biggest Chinatown during the biggest Chinese New Year celebration outside of China.  But we did.

The festivities started at around 4pm, which kicked off what is known as the Lion Dance, which is really difficult to describe.  The idea behind it is blessing businesses and homes with good luck in the New Year.  I will describe our experience, and try not to completely rain sacrilege all over the tradition, but cut me a break because I’m new to this.

We arrived to Chinatown with the awkward, timid approach that you took to sitting down at a lunch table on the first day of high school.  There was so much activity, and we were not privy to the importance of any of it.  What’s the cool table?  Where do the nerds sit?  WHERE DO WE GO?

Then it happened.  We could hear it in the distance… boom, boom, boom, clang clang, boom.  We look at each other and Jan says, “dude, that is the most metal drum beat I’ve ever heard.”

Like a moth to a flame, we followed the drums.  Perhaps this is an appropriate time to mention that Jan first won my affection by giving me like a dozen CDs full of drum & bass which rocked my world.  I’ve since come to love him for other reasons, but until that point he was just that guy in my poli-sci class with the weird name.  I owe my marriage to drum and and bass.  We like drums.  We like bass.  

We saw a group of people with cameras held high, trying to get a capture of The Lion, surrounded by pounding drum beats.  This was an interesting experience.

First, the police officers rope off the immediate area.  They were shouting things at people but the only words I understood were “sumimasen” and “kudesai” which mean “excuse me” and “please” so they were like, the most polite riot police I’ve ever encountered.  Then a group of a half a dozen young men start banging on drums and cymbals in such a way that I seriously wanted to just crush a beer can on my head and RAGE.  Then I looked to my left to find that my husband was on the same page and had already done exactly that.  We were rocking OUT.

Then, no big deal, a few guys beneath a costume of a giant lion with frilly things and sparkly things all over it just started LITERALLY TWERKING but like, OG twerking (get out of here, Miley, you are not original), and dancing and then The Lion went into this business and shook its fanny for the staff inside and then accepted 3 bottles of Asahi and apparently blessed the business for the year to come.  It was AWESOME.  I mean, really awesome.  I pretty much had to physically restrain Jan from starting a mosh pit. 

Did I mention while all of this was happening, there were fireworks going off everywhere?  Just boxes full of noisemakers to your left and your right.  It was completely ridiculous non-mayhem mayhem.  I’m not done yet.  Then the whole Twerking Lion and Bitching-Ass Drum Band just moves one door down and does THE SAME DAMN THING!  Hella banging drums!  Crazy-ass dancing lion thing!  Over and over again!   Through all of Chinatown!   AND NO ONE IS EVEN ON DRUGS (allegedly)!

Okay, I’m only writing about this now from my living room but I literally just had to step away from the computer and take a deep breath, because that shit was intense.  Chinese New Year is pretty much my new favorite holiday.  Hey America, you think you party your ass off on New Years?  That’s adorable.  Chinese New Year will melt your face.

So after popping into a side alley to reevaluate our life choices, we realized we were so hungry that we might die.  We walked around the corner and saw a sign that just said “CHINESE RESTAURANT”.  In English.  Yup, sign me up.  I ain’t even gonna Yelp that first.  I am HUNGRY.

Now this was an odd experience.  We walked in, and we got some shade thrown at us because we’re westerners which we’ve become accustomed to.  We sat down, started to drink our water and look over the menu, and all of a sudden an old man in a suit motioned for us to follow him to the elevator.

Am I going to die? I wonder to myself as I grab my purse and jacket and shimmy myself into the rickety-ass elevator like a subservient lackey.  On the second floor, we encounter an empty dining room which completely mirrors the one we were just sitting in.  Don’t ask me questions, I’m as confused as you.

We ordered some chicken Szechuan dish, and some delicious looking crab fried rice.  While I was hungry before, by the time the server took my menu away I was eating my napkin.  The smells of the kitchen were unreal.  We decided not to order any drinks because “saving money” or some dumb shit like that, so we were just stuck with each other and our rapidly oppressing hunger.  Finally, she came out with the Szechuan chicken.  Fanciful Moses, it smelled godly.  We assumed that the rice would be next out and we refused to touch the chicken until then because we were raised in Murica, and in Murica, you take that Chinese-style chicken and you roll it in the rice and then you dump the sauce in the rice and it is a PARTY.  The chicken and the rice are not your aunt Jean and uncle Patrick.  They do not sleep in separate bedrooms steeped in resentment because Uncle Pat got fired for imbezzlement and Jean really let herself go after Friends went off the air.  No – chicken and rice, they need to be together.  They love each other.

We sat there and stared at a glorious looking plate of chicken for twenty minutes, wondering if our rice would ever come.  We had no way of asking the waitress, “excuse me, is our rice coming soon?” because we ordered by pointing at pictures on a menu like petulant children.  Through some sort of non-lingual human witchcraft, she picked up on our anxiety.  She picked up the phone to downstairs, and bitched out someone.  I don’t know who, but someone.  5 minutes later, our rice was on the table.  It was absolutely amazing.  My gold standard of Chinese food was General Tsao from Safeway or Fafa Gourmet off SR500 and Fourth Plain in Vancouver.  The new standard has been set.

Chinese New Year in Chinatown cannot be summed up in one word so I’m going to give myself four – absolutely f*&%ing crazy.  It was such an awesome experience.

Last night, we ushered in the year of the fire rooster.  The year of the rooster is marked by loyalty, commitment, and hard work.  I was born in the year of the Ox, and my horoscope is this: “For an Ox, Work may be challenging but rewarding, family life can be quite harmonious, and Oxen are recognized for their hard work and valuable contributions.

Your 2017 Ox Horoscope shows that you can expect a festive and fun year, a continuation of the good fortune from the previous Monkey year, although Rooster’s influence requires Ox to work harder and contribute more. Accomplish all you can this year and smartly pursue all opportunities because the next two years will be a rest period until you begin a new cycle in Ox year 2020.”

Bring it ON.  Those beating drums and fireworks and explosive performances have shoved me forward.  It’s going to be a good year.

Alone in Shinjuku

I wrote a brief blog entry last week about our trip to Ikebukuro, in which I talked about how we ate the most delicious Wendy’s meal of all time while watching a man in a suit endure a very important-sounding job interview over fries and garlic mayo on the third floor of an American fast food restaurant.  The whole experience was simultaneously a taste of home, and a reminder that we are far from it.

I usually write my blog on Sunday, during what we’ve dubbed the Tokyo Hangover.  See, Japan is full of beautiful, peaceful, introspective places.  We have been to, uh…. One of them.  We are Tokyo junkies, and every Saturday we put our shoes on, get on the train, and then 12 hours later limp through the front door, Jan’s got a piece of toro stuck to his jeans, and somehow my hair is in Sailor Moon buns and my pupils are dilated.  Sunday, we wake up in a daze and detox from Tokyo.  I edit the photos I took and write my blog, and by the time I’m done I pass out in bed, with visions of nigiri and LED robots dancing in my head, and another week starts again.  Rinse, repeat.

Last weekend threw off my Qi.  I woke up in my usual post-Tokyo daze, but this was no normal Sunday when I would typically liquefy my bones so I could literally melt my way down the stairs using gravity rather than any actual physical effort.  But last Sunday, I had plans and they were equal parts terrifying and exciting.  I was taking the train all the way to Roppongi BY MY SELF to see my friend, Natsuki, who I hadn’t seen in years.

Let me make one thing clear, I need Google Maps to get from my bathroom to my kitchen.  I have absolutely no sense of direction and can only successfully point west if I’m standing on the beach in Oregon.  Jan on the other hand is a human compass.  When we go into Tokyo, I literally hold on to his shirt and follow blindly.  I am woman, hear me roar, but when it comes to navigation… I need my husband.  He knows this too… when I managed to get to Shinjuku Station and was attempting to find my transfer line which is mad chaos you cannot imagine, I texted him “Fuck this shit.”  His response: “My stock is rising.”

Shinjuku Station is the busiest transportation hub in the WORLD.  Nearly 4 million people access it per DAY.  It has 53 platforms, 17 of which are accessed at adjacent stations that you get to without ever even seeing daylight, and more than 200 exits.  And there I was, alone, looking for the Oedo Line and trying not to swallow my tongue.  Shinjuku station is absolute madness and I’m struggling to provide an adequate comparison.  The best I can do is, imagine every Walmart in America sandwiched together in 6 different underground levels.  On Black Friday.  But instead of discount TVs there are Places To Be, and everyone has one.  Oh, and there are people there to help you but none of them speak English.  

It took me 40 minutes to find my platform, and I went the wrong way twice which involved me swiping my Pasmo card, so I literally had to pay money to be lost.  I finally made it to the line, 6 floors underground.  When I got on the right train, I crumpled into a heap in the corner and sang myself lullabies while sucking my thumb.  Then I had to transfer again, to get on the same line but on a different platform.  Don’t try to make sense of it.  I tried to, and I got ulcerative colitis.  

Luckily my friend Natsuki had told me exactly what exit to take when I got to Roppongi station, and compared to the dumpster fire that was Shinjuku station, Roppongi station was relative easy to navigate through.  I made it up the stairs into Roppongi, an area Jan and I passed through on a marathon day of walking when we logged 15 miles on foot.  I looked around and didn’t see Natsuki, so I stepped aside and pulled out my phone to text her.  They, like a glowing angel in a fluffy white jacket and some fierce shoes, she came running over towards me with outstretched arms.  Public displays of affection are rare and considered improprietous here in Japan, but we hugged for like a solid two minutes in the middle of the sidewalk while I said, “hisashiburi!!” and was delighted when she understood.  That means, “long time, no see” in Japanese.

 

Natsuki is Japanese, from Saitama which is north of Tokyo.  I met her years ago when she moved to Portland with Jan’s cousin, Marek, who had met her when he was working in Japan.  Their relationship ended and she moved back home, to my devastation because I never thought I’d see her again and she is freaking wonderful.  She speaks great English and is pretty much just a ray of sunshine.  And I’m not just saying that because the first place she took me in Roppongi after our prolonged embrace was a fucking AUTHENTIC MEXICAN RESTAURANT.  I finally ate a burrito, for the first time since moving to Japan.  It was perfect except for a little too salty because I was weeping with joy and apparently tears are salty.

 

After licking the guac and sour cream off my hands, we headed to an izakaya.  Jan and I are nervous about venturing into izakayas because they are typically not really geared for westerners.  We’ve actually been turned away by a couple because they value service here, and if they don’t feel they can provide you good service, they’d rather not serve you at all.  It was pretty strange at first.  Anyways, Natsuki took charge – ordered us a table full of delicious treats and we munched on them over more whiskey highballs than I would care to admit.  Almost four hours later, we finally parted ways with a promise to get together again soon.  One that I’ll be keeping.

Tokyo is a big city.  The biggest in the world, actually.  But it can be very lonely.  I don’t speak the language.  I can’t even properly thank the cashier at 7/11 without stumbling over my pronunciation.  My family and friends are asleep when I’m awake and vice-versa.  I both live and work within barbed-wire fences.  To journey out into the madness all on my own, and to see a face I never thought I’d see again was such a gift.   My challenge to you – right now, grab your phone, and text a friend you haven’t seen in awhile and make plans with them.  You are taking their proximity to you for granted.  Do it.

So that is my incredibly longwinded way of explaining why it took me all week to write this.  I do my best work when I’m under the throes of a Tokyo Hangover, and my Sunday with Natsuki – while amazing – threw me off my game.  But in a way, it put me on my game in a different way.  It made me realize how much I had been letting the days and months and years click by without spending enough time with my friends and family, or even checking up with them.  Or telling them I love them.  On Monday, I got some awful news about a family friend who is my age and suddenly passed away.  It really shook me up, thinking about the fragility of life.  How much we take each other for granted.

All of you reading this, you’re my friends.  I would kill to share a drink and conversation with you face-to-face now that I can’t.  When I had the chance, one of us usually rain-checked.  Or we got busy and never made plans.  Or we promised “next week.”  When that opportunity disappears, you realize how valuable it was.  

I think the most alone I’ve felt so far since moving to Japan was standing in the middle of Shinjuku station, by myself, terrified, lost, with no way to communicate with any of the millions (literally) of people around me.  That feeling was countered so dramatically by seeing a familiar face from years ago, which I didn’t think I’d ever see again.  From being a tiny, indistinguishable peon in an unmatchable surge of people, to being embraced by a friend on the other side of the world from anyone else I know.  It was an emotional slingshot. 

Pick up your phone.  Make plans with someone you love.  You have no idea how much you’ll miss the opportunity when it’s gone.