Reverse Culture Shock: When does it end?

So we know about all the little things that startle you when you come home after a long time abroad. But for me there's been a sneakier side to reverse culture shock. It started one day several weeks ago when I realized that at some point while I was wrestling with New York, I had taken that last stumbling step out of my life in Tokyo. After months of knowing intellectually that my time there was over, I finally felt it to be true.  

And you'd fuckin hope so, right? Good lord, my friends, it is March of 2012. It's almost the anniversary of the earthquake! I got on that plane nine months ago. Tokyo is long behind me. I have a new city and new friends and new jobs. I don't even look the same. I've moved on.

So what's weird about it? I hate these four words, but: it's hard to explain. First of all, just because I've moved on from Tokyo doesn't mean that I've found a place here. I haven't. I've had a hard time in New York, a really ugly streak of bad luck after what was already an unusually queasy year, and I don't think I've ever had such a terrible attitude in my life. This might make you sick, but I've always  felt that I have a pretty good relationship with the universe -- that my hardships are always balanced out by the countless amusements and possibilities scattered all around me every day. That's the truth! I admit it! 

But lately I've started wondering if that's just because I've spent my life in the Northwest and abroad. Because yeah, it's easy to feel like the universe is on my side when I'm skipping along the river eating huckleberries in the Siletz Gorge, or when a bad night means throwing on a killer outfit and going out to smoke cigarettes and sulk under a billion neon lights and soulful gaze of a cheesy pop idol... 

...but that sense of cosmic benevolence doesn't shine as bright when strangers shriek IDIOT! at me on the street. Or when volatile drunks throw their arms around me outside my workplace. Or when a dark liquid from somewhere up above splatters against my cheek on 33rd St. And these are just the publishable calamities! The effect on my superstitious soul, already wearied by the whole homecoming saga, has been disastrous. I mean, one night I sat in pee on the train. I don't think I've ever felt my sense of humor under so much strain! I can take a lot, but that's some heavy lifting, right? 

So here's the point. Yeah, I've moved on from Tokyo. I can reminisce and start to miss it, but I don't die over it every day. I want to live in America right now. No question. BUT: if I went back it would be so. easy. One night recently my nerves were shot again, and I was thinking like, who is this person? What is this attitude? This is terrible! And it occurred to me that if I flew back to Tokyo tomorrow, I'd know exactly what I was doing. I'd get off the plane and onto the train like a breeze. I'd be surefooted in the stations, I'd know what to have for a snack at 7/11, I'd send a hundred texts and I'd have someone to meet by the time I got to the city. I'd have places to sleep and people to call for jobs. I'd know the good places in the right hoods and I'd probably have a few orgasms within the first day.  

You know what I mean? Tokyo's behind me, but that doesn't mean I know where the fuck anything else is. I'm still wary of my foothold. And sometimes, when I get a little tired of the long-haul process of settling in, I think of how easy it would be to run back to Japan and know just what to do. And that is rough. That kind of thinking is harder than the loud voices, the close-talkers, the subway circus, the aggressive strangers -- by far!

I have enough sense to recognize this as part of the process, for me and for many, many others. It's a theatrical ultimatum: stop or go, back or forward, fold or gamble. And you know what, I Googled this shit -- and I read a whole lot of words by people who, after 9 or 10 or 12 months back home, just said fuck it! and started making plans to go expat again.

I respect that, but it's not gonna be happening here. I'm over that shit! Rats don't scare me. Pee on the subway bench can't stop me. Recession, whatever. I'm here now and I'm gonna do this thing. So, wish me luck! And I wish you luck, too, if you're in these shoes. You know, being a foreigner in your own country for awhile is as worthy an adventure as anything -- and making a life for yourself is as rewarding and enlightening an accomplishment there as anywhere. No matter what you decide, please enjoy this advice my mom gave me when I was at critical mass last Monday: Don't forget to enjoy what's good where you are right now -- so even if you decide to leave next week, make sure this week is awesome. Hang in there, baby! Tomorrow can be brilliant! 

xoxo

NOW I'M IN NEW YORK

I didn't know how to break it to you, but I did leave Japan.

Oh, man, it was hard. I can't tell you how hard it was. That's probably why I haven't been near this blog in so long. I mean that was an awful process, leaving Tokyo. I had so much to love there. I cried all the way to LAX. By the time I got to Portland, I felt fine. It wasn't the shock I expected. It was quieter and it took me awhile to realize, like I realize now, that my heart is still aching.

What is wrong with me? That's what I was thinking in those last few weeks. Why would I come to this place and work so hard to find these people I love so much and this life where I can do anything I want? Why would I do that and then force myself to leave it? Why am I hittin' myself? Why'm I hittin' myself?

I don't know why! I was so weary and grateful and devastated during those last days. On my date of departure, I drank coffee in Koenji with someone I cared about very much. When that person left the shop, my Tokyo life was over. There were no more friends to see and I was just waiting for my flight to leave. I couldn't stand that feeling, so I wiped my nose, cleared my table, picked up my bag, and walked across the street to get on the train.

And I'd go to Oregon and be with my family and my dog and my rivers and trees and bay, and I'd have a beautiful summer and I wouldn't cry for that other life much at all.

And a few months later it would be September and I'd be in New York and feeling lost. Here's now, and it's a strange moment to be in. I love being back in America. But nothing can take away this ache in my heart for the streets I walked, the trains I rode, the drinks I drank, the friends I loved, the city where I once said "I found myself in the white-hot nucleus of my youth!" Haha. Oh, Tokyo. You'll forget me and I can't help it, but I will remember our love forever.

Well, anyway. Now I'm in New York. Stay in touch and check back with my new blog here and/or on tumblr. Let's do it.

Abridged Version

I woke up the other day in my kimono with screaming blisters on the tops of my feet.

Learn from my mistakes! Tatami-burn = 10x worse than rug-burn.

Hanako was sleeping on the kitchen floor, which I can't stop apologizing for. How appalling!

Plus, this road construction barrier was in my bed. I still haven't put it back because I'm not exactly sure where it came from. Is this gonna get me deported?

Sunset Over Panties

You're WELCOME.

THE FUTURE

Holidays in Japan blow! My Japanese friends always go back to their hometowns, leaving me to drum my fingers against my lips in peace for about two seconds before I dive for tights and mascara and head out on my own. Danger danger danger.

Good thing Amanda's in town this time. As you probably know, New Year's in Japan is for hanging with the fam. Well! New Year's in our world will always only ever mean disco makeup and party girl behavior. After a shopping trip, a few hours of Gaga and half a bottle of liquid liner, we were on the train.

Everything is closed in Japan around New Year's, especially the kind of bars I like, but my favorite place was somehow open. Unfortunately, as soon as we settled in with drinks and started grooving, this army of meatheads lumbered in and ordered a round of Jaegerbombs.

We barely had the chance to snicker any bitchy remarks before they sent drinks over. A minute later one of the guys swaggered over with a bra on his head (that's weird, someone must have left it on the ceiling last time she was here). Before long they'd worked themselves to a fever pitch and Bra-man was tearing his boxer shorts into pieces, pulling them out of his pants and shoving them down my dress.

Believe me, friends, this all lasted much longer than it was funny, and we spent the next couple of hours ducking and dodging. Amanda ended up passing out, and I ended up followed into a bathroom stall. Dude, I am not in the habit of turning down free service, but these people were really too much. I may vaguely remember drunkenly patting/shoving his face and bellowing, "NO NO YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, you CAN'T HAVE A GIRL LIKE ME, I'm TOO FILTHY and AWESOME!"

Thus Amanda once again wins the evening's prize for dignity. She held this elegant pose for nearly 5 hours! Brava. I shoved ice cream in her face for awhile as I fended off my drunken suitors, and that was basically my New Year's! We left Shibuya around 8AM, our hair and makeup impressively intact.

When we got up around 5PM, I pulled out of my dress a scrap of flannel, a note saying "YOU NAME IT, I'LL DELIVER," and a post-it with some girl's email address -- containing the word "bizkit." Yuck. But anyway -- It's 2010! I'm 24! I live in Tokyo. These days it's miniskirts, music, drinks and cigarettes, boys, blogs and breakdowns, poetry, pick-ups, parties, walks in parks, hotel rooms and hosts, waking up at 2 and getting dressed at 9, a few brilliant friendships, good books and a lot of long hours thinking scary thoughts. I don't think I'm wasting time.

Men/Boys/Girls #1

Remember when I was always complaining about being broke, and then I didn't complain about it anymore? Did you notice?
A sugar daddy is a rich guy who showers a younger girl with money and gifts in return for companionship. My sugar daddy "hired" me as an "English teacher," which meant he wanted me to look pretty and meet him twice a week to walk around arm-in-arm, go to the movies and have fancy dinners. He paid me a fixed amount every time we met, sometimes extra, and usually brought me flowers and gifts. I never so much as kissed him and I got about 120,000JPY/month. For like a month.

Sugar Daddy was a Japanese CEO in his 60s. He was handsome enough, fit, and he wore good suits. Not my favorite suits, but tailored and Brooks Brothersish. I love suits and read GQ and critique them on trains, but I can't say what a suit says about a man. Every older man I have ever known who wore a suit all the time was boring or an asshole, usually both. Foreshadowing.

It was the hardest job I have ever had. We had nothing to talk about but he wanted me to talk the whole time. He was always acting mildly displeased by random things I said. I mentioned that I did taekwondo and he said "I don't know about such a strong womans!" I said I liked art and he gave a strained smile like he knew my kind. He liked Mariah Carey and romantic comedies. If I couldn't think of anything to say fast enough he would lean back, look at me critically, and ask, "Bess, are you tired?" I'd have to smile big and cry, "No! Just relaxed!"

The outfit and face I wore the first time we met (I know, brillz)

He spoke English well, but the gap between his speaking and listening skills was incredible. I've been doing classroom and private lessons for a long time now but it was enough to put me at a loss. Every single thing I said had to be repeated so many times. Once on the train I almost cried because he made me say something like "I ate pizza there" in a loud voice for almost five minutes. But he never wanted anything that would actually help his English.

He was always suggesting shopping trips and gifts for me. It's unbelievable, but I didn't take advantage. His money saved me, but gifts, I couldn't deal. Once he took me to an amazing stationery store and told me to pick anything I liked for me and my friends. I was so uncomfortable, but he started acting irritated that I wasn't picking anything, so I took two cards. He was pissy for like ten minutes and wouldn't stop asking why I don't like gifts.

Don't just say it with flowers!

One night over blowfish he asked me what he should give me for Christmas. As always I got super awkward. Under pressure, I finally confessed that I like art supplies. He decided that because I'm a writer, I need a fountain pen. I have no use for a fountain pen. I tried to explain that I am the kind of "writer" who scrawls 50 pages in cheap notebooks every night (then sobs "NO GOOD, NO GOOD, NOT A GENIUS" and goes to bed), and the pen would waste ink and soak through the paper. But he just got really patronizing and said I didn't understand the value of nice things.

I decorate bars with nice things.

The next time we met, he took me to Tokyu Hands. I was done for. The thought of him buying me gifts was nauseating until the gifts were art supplies. So I picked a sketchbook, and then I went to pastels and started choosing colors I needed.

His reaction was crazy. "Bess! What's this? Why you want such a things? It's such a small things." What?! I was confused by his irritation so I quit with two colors. He asked "How about pencil?" I didn't realize he meant pen, so I was like, sweet, graphite pencils. But of course he was even more disgusted by those. Finally he steered me to the pen case and basically bullied me into this 17,000yen Waterman fountain pen. Then he bought me a leather case. He spent so much money on me but he just wanted to buy what he wanted to buy for me, whether I was interested or not. I imagine that's how it often is with sugar daddies.

(Not that I wasn't happy with that bag of stuff once I got on the train, and the pen is very pretty and I bragged to my friends, but I never use it. Then there are the bears)

Sugar Daddy worked me to my last nerve. I was always waiting for the Moment. On our second date he couldn't find the restaurant and when we went down a street with a few love hotels I almost had a heart attack. He had a habit of starting sentences with "So, Bess..." followed by a long pause and my stomach dropped to my heels every time. It's not that the thought of sex for money freaks me out that bad, but not knowing what I was in for made me anxious.

Still, he was generally civil and polite to me and supported me when I was down to my last 1000 yen and rent was due, so I did my best. I never gave up on trying to get to know him, looking for things we could talk about. And after the pen, I was even thinking I could try to roll with some more shopping.

Then, one day, Sugar Daddy tried make a date with me a few hours in advance. I don't do same-day meetings because at any moment I might be passed out in a bed across town next to my dead phone. By the time I caught up with my messages, he had called me twice, left messages, texted, and sent two emails. The last email said, "Beth, do you live in the Mars? How can I reach you quickly?" UM, TRIPLE MY PAY IF YOU WANT ME ON CALL, IDK. I was really soothing though and wrote him that I can't always get my calls right away and that's why I don't do same-day appointments and I'm really sorry blah blah, and suggested a meeting the next day. He replied, "Sorry, I'm busy. Maybe another time." I wrote him another apology and never heard back. That was the end.

I was mad and offended, which is how I can make such a shameless post! I think he was unreasonable and unprofessional. He offered me a long-term arrangement and then dumped me when I didn't answer the phone fast enough. One more jerk in a suit!

Clearly I am not cut out for the Sugar Daddy business which is a great disappointment. I always wanted to try it and thought my dream had come true, but it turns out I can't cooperate with it. I tried so hard and it was frustrating. How difficult can it be to let someone buy you things? Does anyone want a pen for 5000 yen? Because I'm broke.

I Went to a Host Club

It was inevitable. I've always been intrigued by hosts, but I never really cared to go to one of their clubs. I love all things shady and beyond the fringe, but the thought of paying boys for attention never sat well with me because I am vain and uptight. Plus, I wasn't confident with my Japanese, so I thought I'd say something wrong and buy a $20,000 bottle of champagne or something. Anyway I ended up dating and befriending so many hosts and former hosts that after awhile there didn't seem to be any point.

Buuut I knew I had to go at least once. So the other night, a friend and I got dressed up and set out for the part of Kabukicho where the hosts prowl. We sauntered around conspicuously, making eyes in all directions. The first few advances came in broken English and dissolved into quick retreats. Whatever, wimps. Still, it didn't take long before a boy from Club Joker spotted us. He was the only one who came on energetically and checked our Japanese. Once he realized we could communicate, he turned on the charm full force and we followed him back to his lair. We were super nervous but he kept us talking and laughing with quick, flirty conversation and smooth moves. By the time we got to Club Joker we had gone from "We're just doing this to get it over with," to "OMG and after this one we can go to ANOTHER ONE!"

I'm wearing a kimono, writhing in the name-cards I received from hosts. It's like THUG LIFE translated to GIRL IN TOKYO. Hahaha. Anyway, for two hours we sat in a cushioned corner while a couple dozen boys came two or three at a time to entertain us. Apart from the first ten minutes with a couple of totally incompetent, presumably newbie guys who barely said anything to us, our experience there was flawlessly fun. It didn't feel phony or weird at all -- it felt like a fabulous party with extremely witty, glamorous hosts whose only concern was to keep us in the best mood possible. And now, in those terms, I completely understand the appeal of host clubs.

The most interesting part was seeing each host's angle. Some boys were lighthearted and cute -- one had a medley of perfectly honed adorable faces and poses just to make us go AWWW! Some were all jokes and wicked grins and kept us laughing. Some flirted and flattered and swooned over our beauty and charm. Some were just clever, friendly and easy conversationalists. They knew how to work together, too, and I think their chemistry and familiarity was largely what kept the atmosphere from feeling phony. I hadn't expected that. My favorite host was a blond who sat down near the end. As soon as I met his deep, concentrated gaze, my very tested and reliable instincts said this guy is sooo in love with me... The magic of hosts!

The best part was the bill. Host clubs always have a first-time special, usually 3,000 - 10,000JPY for 1-2 hours depending on the club. We thought we were paying 3,000 each for a two-hour, all-you-can-drink visit, but in the end, that was the cost for both of us! For the price of one expensive cocktail, I spent two hours guzzling booze with a bevvy of pretty boys bending over backwards to entertain me. Best deal ever?

IN CONCLUSION, I think host clubs are fab. I love that there's a place catering to female vice/desire that's clearly way more awesome than the sports bars, strip clubs, etc. that men have for refuge/comfort. If you speak at least conversational Japanese and are not a lonely person with an addictive personality, you should go to a host club. I'm pretty sure you can dig it.

Self-Portraits

Okay, kids, your turn.

Great job!

Wow!

Geez!

Okay!

The Battle of the Fangs

This is my younger brother Tommy

and when he sends books he doesn't fuck around.

I'm way, way thankful for my family. No kiddin.

I'm Thankful for Yakitori

Amanda and I grew up in the same small town, but were a couple years apart and only became friends while working the same summer job when we were 18 and 20. We attended the same university and had the same friends, and were a pretty tight team for awhile. She graduated and moved to Japan a few months ago. It's so weird. We got together in Oregon this summer, and then I came back to Japan and she was here just like, "Hey." So weird! But awesome. She came up this weekend for early Thanksgiving.

Ayabean and I even got pumpkin pie at our favorite kissaten while Amanda had green tea cheesecake or something and tried to make up for the horrible photos she always takes of me. In retrospect midnight military confetti and leopard print tights were not the most harmonious pair. Winter gets me all confused.

Aya, how's the pie?

Amanda and I decided that she and Yusuke should covertly follow me on an evening in Shinjuku. It only lasted a half hour but it was classic. I want to try it again...

Hahaha!

Where do we go?

So recently I've learned that a lot of people don't believe Axl Rose was ever hot. ARE YOU KIDDING ME.



The guitar solo? Watch that fucker move! If you can get through the entire second half of this video without hanging up your hipster cred long enough to call a fine piece of ass when you see it, WELLLL HAVE FUN IN LIFE, DICKHEAD!

P.S. A few weeks ago I got home from an early-morning shift feeling all punk rock and decided to stick it to the man by having a salad and a whole bottle of wine for brunch. I was blowing tunes into an empty bottle by noon, and then I started watching Guns N' Roses videos and getting really worked up, at which point I wrote this entry and saved it as a draft (probably on accident) and totally forgot about it until just now. Hahaha. That was a great day.

Again With the Gyaruo

Gyaruo in Asakusa, photo by Whitney.

(Japanese friend: "Why are they at a TEMPLE? Are they even INTERESTED?")

My gyaruo fixation is no secret. My friends here generally grimace at my mad respect for gyaruo (and gyaru). But gyaruo have made their own world and they're SO over everything else. They don't care that everyone thinks they're gross and stupid. They've got their tans and pointy boots and air-headed slang and trance music and nanpa and they always look totally satisfied with themselves. I have been all about gyaruo since I moved to Japan. Sometimes I go to the 109-2 in Shibuya to plan my own dream gyaruo makeover and flirt with the clerks. True story.

Oh, don't be so judgmental. You know who hates gyaruo? Anyone in Japan who isn't a gyaruo. It's nuts. So of course once I realized that I got all loud about it and stuck my fingers in my friends' faces and went "THAT'S CLASS DISCRIMINATION!" or whatever and made it my mission to make gyaruo friends. Easier said than done. I have dated my share at this point but so far they have lived up to every ridiculous stereotype. But I can't quit yet, or I'll be left with all my hipster friends going "Didn't we tell you?"

I'll show you all. Somewhere between me and gyaruo there has to be a connection. Somehow we will transcend the cologne/trance music/cheesy date ideas/horrible summer fashion and form a bond between our worlds. Then I'll introduce my gyaruo friends to my non-gyaruo friends and buy the world a coke.

A lot of people find my blog while looking for information on gyaruo, which I respect very much, and the only reason I haven't posted about gyaruo before is that it's so hard not to ramble on and on. I AM LEAVING SO MUCH OUT!