streamlights asked: When you go to Japan, is the food as good as it looks? :O

It depends on where you go and what you like. It’s very hard to answer such a general question in such a general mannor, but I can say that I like the Japanese kitchen, that which is available to me. I don’t eat any animal extracts on the other hand, so my selection in a country such as Japan is quite limited, mainly because the Japanese don’t understand that concept rather than there not being any food available for people with such a specific diet as I have. The chefs I’ve encountered that did understand me have cooked me wonderful, wonderful food. I would rank the Japanese kitchen very tasty.

10 months ago  /  0 notes

Where am I going with this?

10 years we travel back in time: I had recently moved to Japan to pursue a rather foggy dream with no real goal in mind more than to know Japan, the Japanese people and the Japanese language better. It was also to get away, far away from home. I needed that back then and I still have that urge hanging above my head, teasing me to leave my country behind to live… elsewhere. But that’s another story.

Before I moved, I made sure to get one Japanese friend and went to a homepage to find one (can’t for my life remember the name of it, but it was one of those “Western-meet-Japanese” sites that was out there. I’m sure there were quite a few of those back then, probably still are), and from that site I got to know Mutsumi Sakashita. While in Japan, I started to hang out with this guy named Patrick Sullivan, I was sort of his side-kick at the time, and after a while I introduced them to each other. 5-6 years later Mutsumi got pregnant and Patrick asked her to marry him. She said yes. It was to take place during the summer in Boston.

I was recovering from being emotionally burnt out (bathrobe, coffee and cigarettes - standard initial method of recovery) and had already made one 6 week trip to the states (traveling cures most illnesses in the mind, at least temporarily). This marriage that was about to take place gave me a reason to go back there, so I bought a new one way ticket (and booked a return ticket, which I did not use. You see, the first time I went I was hit in the face with the fact that I can’t go to the states without a return ticket (I had to spend 24 hours at Arlanda to book a second ticket and get on the next plane to Canada, which was my first stop before going to the states) and acted accordingly. The system is so easy to bypass that a booked - not bought - ticket gets you there without a problem and you can then wait for when you want to get home to get your ticket instead of having a set day to return, as long as you don’t let your tourist visa expire and officially become an illegal immigrant. That’s how I prefer to travel if given the chance). I packed my bags the day before and stood and looked at the bags to try and think of what I could possibly have forgotten to bring, something I seem to always do before a trip. I did bring everything, except for one little, little - kinda necessary - little book. The passport. I did not realize this until I had to check in and after some minor panicking went to the airport police department to get myself an emergency passport. The process to get the passport took about 15 minutes, which is all that I had. Getting a passport, emergency or ordinary, is so easy for a Swede. I do like that, I do. Anyway, off I went.

What happened on that trip is rather irrelevant in this story: Patrick and Mutsumi became Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan, I was the best man, I traveled around the states and ended up in Seattle, where I spent my time as a homeless, living under bridges and doing street performance for money. What is relevant is that I met up with this dude (he went under the pseudonym “Doughboy”) who - after about a month of traveling together - took most of my stuff when I was performing (he was “guarding” it) and disappeared out of my life forever. Among all that stuff was my passport. Poop, I’m in the states and I don’t have a passport. Again. But you know what? Swedes have such an easy time getting passports. I went to the Swedish embassy in Seattle and got a new emergency passport within a couple of days and not long after returned home.

Back home, my original passport was waiting for me and I have used it on several trips in Europe after all this. No more passport troubles, I chanted and smiled. And I will never, ever forget my passport again and hopefully not trust ex-cons as easily in the future, at least not for backpack guarding. I like being intentionally gullible otherwise and will probably be in the future as well. It creates adventures, and I like that. I do.

The year is 2010 and I decided that it is time to revisit my old second home town Tokyo and hopefully befriend other Japanese cities while being in Japan, as well as meet up with some folks from the past, which led me to buy a round trip to the aforementioned place. I have things to do in Sweden, so the nomad-without-any-plans type of trip was out of question. I had to compromise and decide that one month would have to suffice for now. Another thing I’ve learned through the years is to be VERY specific when ordering plane tickets about my vegan life style in order to get anything to eat, so while in the process of ticket ordering I added a description of what vegans eat and hoped that I for the first time would get decent food on the plane, something that is more or less needed if you’re in the air for many long hours. 5 months passed by and what I will write about now happened just the other day.

The time had come. Japan, here I come. Tokyo, we’ll see each other soon. I stood in my bedroom and looked at the bag and the stuff I intended to pack it with. Where is my passport!? I search the very messy apartment of mine (a friend was moving in at the time and there were things everywhere) and found it after 20-30 minutes. What a relief! During my search I did the modern thing and updated my Facebook status to let the world know I didn’t know where it was and also a comment on that later when I had found it. A close friend replied “Snap, could have ended badly”. Ain’t that the truth…

I didn’t sleep much that night; it is something I never do before I go on such long trips. It is partly because there is a bigger chance I’ll sleep the more part of the trip on my way there and partly to completely confuse the body and not get a jet lag. The latter works like a charm; the former not so much, but I still try. I mean, I have problem sleeping in my own damn bed usually, so what are the chances I’ll get a good sleep in an economy class seat on a huge plane with a massive amount of people in it and flight attendances knocking on your shoulder to ask if you want tea and announcements shouted out in the speakers (“It seems like we’re going to have nice weather all the way to the intended destination, so we might even land 10 minutes prior to our original estimation of arrival” and the people rejoiced) every now and then? Slim to none, I tell you. But I’m used to it, both the lack of sleep and flying across the world.

So, fairly tired and newly fed (thanks for the sandwiches, Mom) I go to the airport (thanks for the ride, Dad) and get checked in. First stop Moscow, then transfer to Tokyo. The flight to Moscow is fairly short so food is not included. In Moscow I stopped by “T.G.I. Friday’s” for a pint of lager and a big bowl of popcorn. Just in case they forgot about my vegan order. I mean, I was pretty thorough, but anything can happen. Right? Right. Mmmm, beer and popcorn. The waiting was long enough to have that snack and short enough not to get bored on the airport. So far, so good. During the last 30 minutes of waiting I read the book “I don’t want to die, I just don’t want to live” (original title: “Jag vill inte dö, jag vill bara inte leva”) by Ann Heberlein. A good read.
(It seems like the only time I sit down to read a book is when I’m out traveling.)

I’m on the plane to Japan. I seat myself where I’m supposed to be seated and make myself as comfortable as I can, turn on some Swedish folk music (Frifot) and continue to read the book. After a while, all the text floats together and I can’t focus on anything really, which was the cue for me to try and get some well-needed sleep. I put on my hoodie the wrong way around and pull up the hood to cover my face, still listening to Frifot. A well tested method to cut out the light and not show a stupid sleeping facial expression to the other passengers and the staff on board. I end up sleeping… kinda. I was more in that twilight zone state when you’re not fully asleep but can’t be accused of being awake either. Before long I get disturbed by a smiling flight attendee that wishes to say that I can get food if I want to. Food. That really sounds like a good idea. Albeit the sandwiches from my mom was really nice and I had that bowl of popcorn between the two flights, neither was really that much and the first meal was several hours ago and its nutritional value had already been distributed and for the most part been used up. “Fish or chicken”, she kindly asked. “I’m vegan” I replied. She kept on smiling, but frowned on the inside as she looked through the “special food” list in hopes to find me there. I was not on the list. She already knew that. But she checked again. And again. And finally asked my if my name was… Schmuckenbergeler (whatever). I reply that I’m not. So, they missed that they had a vegan on-board. It amazes me every time. After all and everyone had been served, she came to me with a box of rice and one with a green salad. She was also kind to inform me that if I need special food I have to tell the company at least 48 hours in advance. I replied that I had, 5 months ago. She smiled. You know, that “this is embarrassing” smile. No real food until I get to Japan, then. Oh well, I’ll manage. I’m good at that. Managing. For the rest of the trip I could not sleep and when they served me for the second time (that’s how long it takes; you get two meals on the same flight) it was about as interesting as the first time, but it was something. Suffice to say, I felt that the energy level was a bit low from all that sleep deprivation and lack of actual meals. But it does not matter. Soon I’ll be in Japan and there I can get food and sleep and what not. Right? Right.

Before we land I make sure to have all my things gathered, so when we are actually allowed to leave our seats, I can be quick about it and not get stuck between all the people that are putting on their shoes, reaching for their bags and picking up after themselves, clogging up the way to the exit. I’m even a bit too eager for the attendees’ taste and get asked to sit down again. I tap the seat with my behind to once again reach for the exit before anyone else gets there. I half-succeed (had to wait for the first-class seat passengers to get out) and quickly make my way to the passport control. I’m the first one there. Soon, freedom shall be mine! Honey, I’m home!
Honey, also known as Japan, grabbed my nuts and made a twist. I did not get past the passport control. Instead, they sent me to a waiting room without any explanation and asked me to sit down. Curious as anyone would have been in the situation I soon ask what the matter is and the none-too pleasant reply was that my passport was reported stolen and thus invalid. Invalid? Stolen? What the mahogany? I try to clear out the situation by simply telling them the story about the stolen emergency passport and hope for it to settle things. It does not. I sit there for hours (Sleep, food, I wants. I wants it now! The floor is moving around on its own? Great place to start hallucinating, great situation to start hallucinating.), waiting for something to happen (besides the minor hallucinations), waiting for the Swedish embassy to call the immigration office and confirm either story (the passport is reported invalid, what do you think they will say?).

Finally something happens. Not something I would like to happen, but we’re making some sort of progress, which is better than nothing. I get handed papers to fill in with question about myself. Why don’t you have a valid passport? Where are you staying? What are you plans for this trip? What relatives do you have in your mother country? What do you do for a living? Who do you know in Japan? (always include occupation, sex, addresses and phone numbers when applicable). There were a lot of question, many to which I could not give a straight answer. I’m supposed to stay with an acquaintance from my previous visits to Japan, but I didn’t know her address and I got her phone number in my Facebook inbox, which they wouldn’t help me reach. No intarwebz for me to help me make up new stories with, no, no (or whatever their paranoia with the Internet was about). I couldn’t really tell them what my plans was either as I have no concrete plans. What I work with? Erm… I defined it as precise as “Freelancer”, that was really the best I could do there and then. Yeah, that does not at all seem suspicious to them. And in my current state (Foodz, I say. Sleep, I shout! I haz no moar will to linger energyless with m’hallucinations. Argh, I speak like druggie) I was not very good at smooth-operating the whole situation.

When I was done writing the forms I handed them to some seemingly random immigration office worker. He looked at them, circled around for a minute and then asked me, in Japanese, to come with him for an interview. I guess the good part about this is that I understood what he said even if my Japanese has been dormant for literally ages. He showed me to another waiting room and asked me to sit down and wait. So I sat down and waited. My tics were getting worse. My eyes where bloodshot. And I waited.

The man that led me to the waiting room came back after what seemed like an eternity and he brought a friend (a translator), someone to help him out with the interview and I was led to a room close by. The interview started and I was asked to elaborate on most of the answers I had given. I felt rather uncomfortable not really having much to say, at least stuff they would like to hear to not give me such a hard time. Why I decided to go back to Japan? Because I wanted to revisit Japan. It’s not much deeper than that. No, I still don’t know more about my acquaintance than her name as long as I can’t go out on the Internet. No, I had no idea my passport was invalid. Actually, if I had known, I woudn’t have come with it in the first place. I mean, getting a passport as a Swede is really easy, after all. And I had to tell them the whole story about Patrick and Mutsumi and Doughboy and everything regarding the emergency passports. I couldn’t help but to laugh while I was telling them about it as I found the connection between the different stories to be humorous and hard to foresee. Laughing while sitting in that situation might not have been the best thing, though. I did nothing right, had not the right answers nor the attitude and the looks (dreads, tattoos and piercings do not send out the right signals to uptight Japanese immigration office workers), to be trusted. And how bothersome that was. They didn’t know who I was and were not given a very good impression and it felt so unfair (I know life isn’t). I don’t cause trouble (don’t look at me that way). They asked me to go back to the waiting room again. So I did. And I waited. And I waited. I twitched. I waited and tried to remain sane, or rather cling to the little sanity I had left. There was not much left.

Both of them reentered the room. They still wanted the phone number to my host and I finally got to use the translator’s cell phone to connect to my Facebook account where I could retrieve the phone number. My host was called. The forms I had filled in said that she was Japanese and her name is Japanese, so they were quite surprised when she had a hard time understanding and speaking Japanese. I remember thinking “Great, even more on the table to make me look like BSer”. Thankfully, the problem was sorted out rather quickly (she grew up in England; she is a non-native Japanese person with a Japanese name and Japanese parents). And from this point on, the story gets better. They did like the information that she works for the Japan Times. A quick talk with a Swede from the Swedish embassy sorted out how we’ll fix the issue: We’ll just make me a new passport. It’s not that hard if you’re a Swede. After everyone had been informed that the situation could and would be solved without having to send me back home (which the immigration officers originally had hoped for, I noticed (“The easiest option is if you go home. Would you consider doing that?”. The answer was of course a big phat no)) I was left to wait for some papers to be filled out and some stamp to be used on those to make it official and what not, but that wasn’t too bad. The problem seemed to have been solved, after all.

So, 6 hours delayed, I left them and thanked them for their patience (who had to be patient again?) and gathered my stuff, went through a rather exhaustive search through all my gear, took a train ride that seemed to last forever and finally got reunited with Shibuya, a place I had spent a lot of time in in the past.
I guess the story ends here. At least for this time. What’s left to tell of that day includes even more of the exhaustiveness I felt before and more waiting. And who wants to read about the very pleasant time I had with my host? That I finally got some food in m’belly and a surprisingly good sleep? Nah.

The moral of the story? Maybe that would be that it takes the Japanese to catch an American screw up. ;]

That’s it for this time. Maybe there’ll be another time. Maybe not.

(If you read this, I admire your patience. Either that, or you read it the wrong way.)

1 year ago  /  4 notes