Yesterday, I walked past a flower shop which smelt strangely neutral. Half an hour later, I walked past another. Still no smell. I looked closer. Fake. The entire shop, fake. Fake roses, fake daisies, fake orchids. Amazingly realistic fakes, but fake nonetheless. Japanese restaurants also specialise in fake mock-ups of what you'll be eating inside - again, remarkably realistic, so much so that they have to put signs on them warning off opportunists like us.
That night,there was to be free pizza at our gaijin house that night - manna from heaven for we poor unemployed. But the details were sketchy. Why free? We didn't find out till we got home. As it turned out, the free pizza was in payment for us featuring on Japanese television. Our fourth day in the country, and already one of my goals in sight - appear on some bizarre game show. This was a quiz show, but still bizarre. The clock hit ten pm and a hot young man walked in the door, toting some serious attitude and an aging sidekick with permanent acne and a small digital camera. This young man was more than hot, it must be said. He was HOT. His jeans had holes in their knees so large that he'd been compelled to wear khaki leggings underneath. His hair had been whisked into a bleached froth, restrained by a yellow bandanna (there are more hairdressers in Japan than any other place on Earth I've seen). I can't muster words for what he was covering his top half with. In short, he was the shit. But for a TV crew, they seemed underdone. If he was the star, where were the pamperers? The danglers of microphones? The lighting guys? The clock ticked, time passed slowly on empty stomachs, and finally it was our turn in the sun. Our lounge had been transformed into a couch paradise, and we filed in slowly. All we had to say was 'no' to the camera, and make a stupid face. But it was my first time in the spotlight and I was nervous; I muffed my line and cut off the presenter. The presenter was not the hot young man (a mere camera-jockey) but a girl in red, presumably the face which launched a thousand commercials (she looked vaguely, advertisingly, familiar) and the segment consisted of this. We were the foreign residents of Osaka English House and when asked in Japanese if we spoke Japanese, we would reply 'no', quite forcibly. Then (and here's the kicker), the Japanese residents of our house would enter and in turn be asked if they spoke Japanese. And they'd say 'no' too! Oh, lordy. To finish the shot, the HYM pivoted around and pinned us under the camera while the presenter (in a breathy, unbelieving voice) wondered aloud what we did speak. Could it possibly be English, she ventured, to which all of us return a resounding YES!
It was badly hilarious and also wonderful. Less reality tv than unreality tv. Anyway, tune in March 3rd, Channel 10, 8'o clock if you're anywhere in Japan (yep, national tv). Otherwise, please feel jealous.
After that we were loaded with pizza. Eggplant pizza. Korean pizza. Pizza the likes of which I have never seen nor tasted nor smelt before. I can't recommend it highly enough.
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We live with nerds. Big nerds. Sit around the main table playing LAN Diablo kind of nerds. Sweet nerds, in a chase-Japanese-girls-down-the-hallway kinda way. But also the kind of people you wouldn't trust with a high school and a semi-automatic rifle. They'll probably read this and kill me. I wasn't talking about you.
-------
Rowan and I opened a bank account, with the aid of a helpful interpreter from our house. It took forever and is quite uninteresting, except for the use of the inkan. An inkan is like a personal chop or signature, something which the Japanese use to sign important documents. The young woman behind the counter was a practiced wielder of the inkan. With a fluid grace, she spun my application around, deftly plucking a large stamp from a rack with her left hand, stamping it down and - at the same time - conjuring up her inkan with her right hand, rubbing it in a neat hole left by the first stamp before singlehandedly recapping it and hiding it somewhere on her person. Two more stamps followed in quick succession; the whole process was counter-bound ballet. Wow.
I've been feeling like shit for a little while, hiding in my room and taking refuge in my cold/flu/tummy upset, resisting Ro's coaxing. But then we were called upon to help some of the long termers move house, a delightful odd couple, a Dutch and an Indian female, and it was a crisp night, beautiful and we walked a futon down the narrow streets balanced on our heads and all was suitably bizarre and I felt fine.
That night,there was to be free pizza at our gaijin house that night - manna from heaven for we poor unemployed. But the details were sketchy. Why free? We didn't find out till we got home. As it turned out, the free pizza was in payment for us featuring on Japanese television. Our fourth day in the country, and already one of my goals in sight - appear on some bizarre game show. This was a quiz show, but still bizarre. The clock hit ten pm and a hot young man walked in the door, toting some serious attitude and an aging sidekick with permanent acne and a small digital camera. This young man was more than hot, it must be said. He was HOT. His jeans had holes in their knees so large that he'd been compelled to wear khaki leggings underneath. His hair had been whisked into a bleached froth, restrained by a yellow bandanna (there are more hairdressers in Japan than any other place on Earth I've seen). I can't muster words for what he was covering his top half with. In short, he was the shit. But for a TV crew, they seemed underdone. If he was the star, where were the pamperers? The danglers of microphones? The lighting guys? The clock ticked, time passed slowly on empty stomachs, and finally it was our turn in the sun. Our lounge had been transformed into a couch paradise, and we filed in slowly. All we had to say was 'no' to the camera, and make a stupid face. But it was my first time in the spotlight and I was nervous; I muffed my line and cut off the presenter. The presenter was not the hot young man (a mere camera-jockey) but a girl in red, presumably the face which launched a thousand commercials (she looked vaguely, advertisingly, familiar) and the segment consisted of this. We were the foreign residents of Osaka English House and when asked in Japanese if we spoke Japanese, we would reply 'no', quite forcibly. Then (and here's the kicker), the Japanese residents of our house would enter and in turn be asked if they spoke Japanese. And they'd say 'no' too! Oh, lordy. To finish the shot, the HYM pivoted around and pinned us under the camera while the presenter (in a breathy, unbelieving voice) wondered aloud what we did speak. Could it possibly be English, she ventured, to which all of us return a resounding YES!
It was badly hilarious and also wonderful. Less reality tv than unreality tv. Anyway, tune in March 3rd, Channel 10, 8'o clock if you're anywhere in Japan (yep, national tv). Otherwise, please feel jealous.
After that we were loaded with pizza. Eggplant pizza. Korean pizza. Pizza the likes of which I have never seen nor tasted nor smelt before. I can't recommend it highly enough.
-------
We live with nerds. Big nerds. Sit around the main table playing LAN Diablo kind of nerds. Sweet nerds, in a chase-Japanese-girls-down-the-hallway kinda way. But also the kind of people you wouldn't trust with a high school and a semi-automatic rifle. They'll probably read this and kill me. I wasn't talking about you.
-------
Rowan and I opened a bank account, with the aid of a helpful interpreter from our house. It took forever and is quite uninteresting, except for the use of the inkan. An inkan is like a personal chop or signature, something which the Japanese use to sign important documents. The young woman behind the counter was a practiced wielder of the inkan. With a fluid grace, she spun my application around, deftly plucking a large stamp from a rack with her left hand, stamping it down and - at the same time - conjuring up her inkan with her right hand, rubbing it in a neat hole left by the first stamp before singlehandedly recapping it and hiding it somewhere on her person. Two more stamps followed in quick succession; the whole process was counter-bound ballet. Wow.
I've been feeling like shit for a little while, hiding in my room and taking refuge in my cold/flu/tummy upset, resisting Ro's coaxing. But then we were called upon to help some of the long termers move house, a delightful odd couple, a Dutch and an Indian female, and it was a crisp night, beautiful and we walked a futon down the narrow streets balanced on our heads and all was suitably bizarre and I felt fine.
posted by Doug @ 2/23/2005 09:40:00 pm
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