8:10 a.m. - 2006-11-28
Still Turning Japanese
We were given three Japanese hotel parties during our week as Cultural Ambassadors in Japan. Each event featured much food and drink and many many many speeches, and each lasted two hours exactly. Each was a uniquely bizarre experience.
The first party thrown in our (Cultural Ambassadors) honor was at the hotel by the airport, a couple hours after our plane landed. We were given just enough time to check into our rooms and change and refresh ourselves before meeting in the big hotel ballroom and being welcomed by our various hosts. We had known about this gathering well before we had left for Japan, so it wasn't as though it came as a surprise. The surprise, for me, was that it was a pretty formal affair. I had expected a quick, perfunctory meet & greet with a couple of photo ops with local officials and maybe the awarding of a plaque or two, low pressure, informal, and not too time-consuming, so that we travel-weary yankees could retire to our quarters in a timely manner and get down to the REAL business of the trip: lots and lots of baffling Japanese television.
Our hosts had other plans, of course. We were ushered into the big, lavishly appointed ballroom full of people wearing suits and dresses and such and shown to our spots at big round tables with name cards indicating where we were to sit. Since they wanted us available for mingling, they split up Yid Vicious among several tables, which I found oddly distressing. We were so far from home, how could they split us up? It felt like we were a pack of orphaned siblings being sent to live in abject squalor in different foster homes. Except instead of foster homes were being sent to different tables in the same big room. And instead of abject squalor we were shown a sumptious buffet. In any case, at least Kia and I got to be at the same table.
Soon it became apparent that we were sharing tables with, among others, our host families, which was a surprise, since we hadn't planned on meeting them so soon. There were introductions and we began the first of many halting, incomplete conversations with Mrs Tokazaki, during which it became clear that she spoke very little English and had perhaps hoped that we would turn out to speak a little more Japanese than we did (none). There were several women with yellow polo shirts walking around the reception who would turn out to be our handler/guides throughout the week, and one of these were summoned to our table by Japan Mom for what appeared to be a slightly heated exchange, involving (I assumed) her disappointment with her dull, non-Japanese-speaking houseguests. The yellow shirt lady assured Japan Mom that she was stuck with us, that nothing was to be done, and walked off. Japan Mom was visibly disappointed, but seemed resolved to fulfill her hostly duties, dull and unattractive though her guests may be.
This was all vaguely uncomfortable, but Japan Mom seemed nice, and anyway, we were in Japan, which seemed too fantastical to be real. Plus, we were being wined and dined as though we were members of Liz Taylor's entourage. Nothing could dampen our enthusiasm at this point. When we were in the buffet line, I told Kia that no one would ever treat us this well again in our whole lives, that we should soak it all up. And soak we did.
The second hotel party was at a hotel in Katori City, the town in which our host families live. Of the three parties, this would prove to be the strangest and hottest. We arrived shortly after our triumphant rice warehouse concert, two days into the trip. First, there was much negotiating of narrow hallways and fumbling about with our instruments, with several hotel people and handlers giving us instructions all at once, a process that would seem commonplace by the end of the week. After a while, having successfully stowed our things, we were shown to a tiny room several steps up from the floor we were on. Here, all us Americans would be fitted into our robe things with the belt with the fancy bow. (They're not kimonos, they're called something else, I don't remember what.) This was fun, getting all dressed up all Japanese-like. One of the two or three people dressing us was a young flautist from the area, and as he selected the proper robe for each of us, matched a belt, and tied the bow, his excitement was genuine and infectious. The youngest member of the group, Ariella the ten-year-old pianist, seemed to be enjoying it the most. Positively beaming, she was.
So, we were all dressed up and eventually were herded back into the ballroom for the festivities. Immediately it became apparent to all: the robe things, while fun and attractive, were a little HOT. It didn't much help that the room we were in was low-ceilinged and apparently unventilated. Hot or not, we gradually got down to business: buffet, drinks, and many many many speeches. At some point all of us American robe people (only the Americans were be-robed; none of the Japanese. We being the guests of honor, you understand) were summoned to the front of the room for the presentation of gifts (little cactuses)(?) and photos. We stood for a long time in a big row, holding our cactuses, being photographed, standing under flourescent lights, feeling too hot. It was at this point that my brain started telling me: MUST GET OUT OF HERE, MUST LEAVE NOW, HAVE TO LEAVE, NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW!!!! For the first time on the trip, I was freaking out.
After the interminable posing for the cactus photos, I found Kia and asked her to stand out in the hallway with me away from the crowd. Once in the hall, I just stood there feeling shaky. Kia asked, did I feel okay, did I want to go outside for air? and I just stood there a while and finally responded no, just standing in the hall away from the party was all I needed, unless I was dying of some digestive thing related to the ridiculous amounts of food I'd eaten earlier in the day. Kia said I probably wasn't dying. We stood in the hall for a couple more minutes and I continued freaking out. Eventually a young woman who worked in the hotel walked down the hall, passing us. She could nary suppress her laughter when she noticed the big schlubby Americans all decked out in traditional Japanese garb. This made me feel better, for some reason. We soon rejoined the party.
There were more activities: a round of bingo, the presentation of more gifts (we each got a hui!), speeches, speeches, city workers doing karaoke, the young flautist guy playing, a lady playing a Japanese mouth organ thing, milling about, eating, drinking, conferring with band members on various topics, and soon enough it was over. We were ignominiously stripped of our robes and sent back to our host families. We needed our rest: the next day we'd be sent to school.
BURRITO NIGHT
Nov 13: Cancun
This is a newer place on the west side of town where all the bad yuppies live. Kia ordered the burrito de la mesa, with chicken. I ordered the burrito Mexicano, with pork. Both were adequate. The guacamole was the weird artificial looking kind.
Nov 20: Taco City
A fast food taco place that shares space with a Rocky Racocco. We had time constraints, so we got a couple of deluxe chicken burritos to go. We had low expectations. To our surprise, the chicken burritos we ordered turned out to made of beef. Also to our surprise, they were pretty good, much better than you would expect from a fast food place. The guacamole was way better than at Cancun.
Nov 27: our house
Again, owing to time constraints. For years, Kia and I have dreamed of eating a lamb burrito. Last night we made our dream come true, succulently!
Finally, about the COMMENTS:
Much as I love it when people leave comments for Stevergo, I'm going to be losing the comments feature soon. They charge for it every three to six months and it's kind of a hassle and lately all these spammers have been using one of the comments pages to post their weird, creepy spam. So soon there won't be any more comments pages, so while there ARE still comments pages, feel free to make the most of them. And thanks again for using Stevergo!
