Merry Christmas!
After a day of Christmas-feast-induced coma (we overindulged on import candy and burritos; nothin' says Merry Christmas like Old El Paso taco seasoning packets, Taco Bell taco sauce, Pace picante salsa and homemade guacamole), we're onto Boxing Day now. Japan has a surprisingly large Aussie population, so Boxing Day is big among the expats. The local Japanese think we're all nuts, but aren't the type to refuse any opportunity to celebrate. (Americans are the same; everybody's Irish on St. Patrick's Day.)
So the Japanese, at least from a marketing perspective, have adopted the trappings of Christmas wholesale--right down to Aaron Neville's beautiful version of "Ave Maria" being pumped thru the stores' sound systems while you shop. Many Japanese genuinely seek for the Christmas spirit, which is to say, they shop like mad and give each other gifts, but they have neither the cultural context nor the religious code to get the season exactly right. What do I mean when I say the Japanese don't do Christmas quite right? Some examples:
EXHIBIT A -- The Christmas Cake. Christmas cakes are immensely popular and a mainstay of the Japanese Christmas Tradition. Therefore, you'll pre-order "Christmas cake" from your favorite bakery or department store sometime in mid-November. These are stunningly beautiful whipped cream, strawberry and white cake mini-cathedrals that would do most wedding planners proud. Yet why Christmas cake? No one could satisfactorily answer my query until I saw a Japanese guy's list of things he associated with Christmas...number three was "fruit cake". The Japanese have taken the traditional European homage to the preservation of the harvest in days before refrigeration -- the nasty brick of fruitcake filled with candied and dried bits of what-at-one-time was fruit -- and broken it down to its components, namely, fruit and cake. They then abandon the need to make the thing taste hideous with the dried and candied goo and replace this with delicate and attractive (if perishable) fresh fruit cakes -- Christmas cake.
EXHIBIT B -- Sexy + Christmas. Wanna know where you can buy Christmas-themed S&M gear? In Tokyo is where. Here, Christmas is more of a couples' holiday, more akin to the US Valentine's Day than anything else. New Year's is the family gift-giving occasion, so for Christmas, one usually finds guys giving their sweethearts jewelry, chocolates, or other fancy knick-knacks. The ladies will give gifts in kind, but some choose to reciprocate in more risque ways.
So while searching for the elusive Christmas tree angel (the Japanese almost exclusively use stars to top their trees here), I had the pleasure of perusing white-fur-trimmed red-velvet thongs with accompanying Santa hat and red fishnet stockings, an array of "Mrs. Claus" satin teddies in festive Christmas prints, bras and corsets in seasonal colors, and, of course, white fur trimmed hand-cuffs. Am I shopping in the Red Light district? No, this is where I go to get my shampoo and diet soda.
(I will, however, admit to this shop, Don Quixote, being a bit skanky. Either through some horrid mis-translation or simply a odd sense of humor on the part of the store management, they group "toys" together, whether they be children's or adult. So you'll be looking at X-men, Power Rangers, and Pink Panther merchandise, then three meters down the same shelf you'll have vibrators, "love oil" and a full range of other "toys" for the pruriently inclined. I've seen this odd grouping of "toys" in at least one other major chain, so I'm inclined to believe that it isn't a malicious attack on the sensibilities of Japanese kids. But I digress....)
Because our timing was off and we hadn't gotten all of our shopping done in time, we broke the sabbath by shopping on Sunday the 24th. God punished us by inspiring all 25 million inhabitants of the Kanto Plain to descend on the shopping area we went to. I understand that shopping on Sundays is atrocious here in Tokyo. Add Christmas crowds and us, and the result was a crush of humanity that somehow formed a very orderly sort of mayhem. Just getting there was difficult. It took us about 45 minutes to move seven kilometers and another half hour to be directed into a parking spot. (No having to look for a spot in Japan; guys in uniforms with walkie talkies directly you exactly to the nearest open parking space and then help you back in safely, as the spaces are generally pretty tight.) Inside were masses of tightly jammed people shuffling to their respective destinations. After missing two downward elevators on account of excess crowds, we went from the seventh floor to the thirteenth, just so we could take that elevator down to the basement. Our efforts did pay off, though. We all had a very nice Christmas. Now if I could only remember where we put the Rolaids....
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Monday, September 04, 2006
Sunday Afternoon in the Sin Den.
It’s Sunday afternoon. I’m not writing, as per usual, from my home, but rather from inside Sin Den. Really. Tokyo has a hair salon called Sin Den, run by westerners using American product and techniques, and therefore, I’m in Sin Den waiting for my wife to finish getting “done.” The salon, BTW, is nothing that the name implies – it is the same type of upscale, well-lit and attractively-stationed salon that my wife has become accustomed to whilst living in the suburbs of NYC (well, lets face it, Fairfield County in Connecticut doesn’t exist outside of it’s relationship with “the City.”) As tattoos in Japan signify association with the Yakuza or other mob elements, there isn’t even interesting body art of any sort to comment about. Except for the topless woman wallpaper in the restroom, Sin Den is about as sinful as Elizabeth Arden or (for the Utahans out there) the Von Curtis Salon in Provo. Not that I advocate any of those places, either.
Anyway, the leeway that this particular non-Japanese establishment has in choosing its rather risqu̩ business name Рsomething that is surely a result of most locals not knowing what the name means Рis emblematic of a peculiar leeway that most non-Japanese individuals have in going about their business without having to abide by Japanese customs, mores, or, to some degree, laws Рsomething that is surely a result of most locals thinking of gaijin as uncultured idiots.
In Tokyo, my experience so far (and remember that “so far” is just over a month) has been that, within reason, gaijin – both male and female – can get away with just about anything. Stand still in the walking lane of the escalator or moving walkway? No problem – I’m a gaijin. Sit in the elderly / handicapped seats on the Metro? No problem – I’m a gaijin. Eat and drink standing up, walking, on the train, practically everywhere and anywhere? No problem – I’m a gaijin. Drive the wrong way on a one-way street while passing a policeman? No problem – I’m a gaijin. (And, yes, I actually did this while renting a car the first week we were in Japan.)
By contrast, there seems to be a rather rigid societal code by which the local Japanese are expected to live, particularly for women. Nothing official – there are no secret police lurking behind the hedges – but expected behaviours are commonly known and enforced by glares and whispers. In Tokyo, men are dominant and women are generally subservient. If the woman is unwilling to accept the subservient/submissive role, she is looked down upon or even, in at least one admittedly extreme case, kicked out of the household.
The societal code is difficult for both men and women – I understand that anti-depressants are the top-selling drug in Japan – but the group most effected seems to be Japanese women returning from a stint overseas. They even have a name for the condition that these women find themselves in – they call it “adjustment disorder,” meaning that Japanese women returning from life overseas have difficulty adjusting from the relative equality and freedom of Western lifestyles to the hierarchy of Tokyo. (I learned of this because the wife of Japan’s Emperor, a Harvard-educated former-diplomat, has suffered this disorder for the last three years, requiring frequent trips to Europe for health reasons, much to the consternation of the conservative court. Hm.)
As sad as this is for the locals, life is GREAT as a gaijin in Tokyo. We enjoy all the benefits of a rigidly-controlled social system, without having to abide with most of the requirements. For one thing, the city is clean beyond all reasonable expectation. The street curbs and gutters of Tokyo are constantly being swept by a huge cadre manic grandmothers with little bamboo brooms and trays. OCD maintenance workers clean practically all surfaces to a shiny polish – they even shut down the escalators and sidewalks in order to get to the “tough spots.” The public swimming pools (there are many) are crazy clean. Here’s how they do it:
When you arrive at the public pool, you buy an entry ticket, at which point you take off your shoes and are given plastic slippers. You then enter either the men’s or women’s locker. After you’ve changed, you head to the showers. You are then expected to scrub down – with soap (provided by the pool). After this, you head out to the pool. Sounds like the YMCA at this point, right? Well, put your towel back in your locker; as you head out to the pool, you must go through a narrow corridor. First, you must walk through about two meters of antiseptic / antibacterial footbath – its actually warm and rather pleasant, once you get over being skeeved out. At the end of the footbath, you walk up steps and trigger an electric eye, which starts the walls and ceiling to give you a mandatory shower that you are forced to walk though to get to the pool – as I said, don’t bring your towel.
The pool itself sparkles. This is because the lifeguards blow a whistle every 15 minutes, at which time everybody evacuates the pool with a speed that makes you think that they’d found a massive turd floating in the water. When the pool emptied, they life guard check the water, add chemicals as needed, and then give the all-clear, at which point everyone hops back in with the same speed with which they’d left. The pool is only open for two hours at a clip, allowing for the staff to clean with their manic zeal in-between. When the pool closes down, everyone showers, uses a double-headed water fountain for an eye-bath to combat Japanese conjunctivitis, and gets dressed. Finally the shoes go back on when you leave the building. As overboard as this may seem, Japanese public pools are the cleanest swimming pools I have ever seen, anywhere, and by a long shot. Though there are procedural hurdles, swimming here is a very pleasant (and surprisingly cheap) experience.
Other great things about Tokyo that giajin benefit from.... All manner of public transportation is on time without fail – you can set your watch by when the Metro trains arrive. The parks are manicured and especially well maintained. Shopping in Tokyo, although staggeringly expensive, is also a very pleasant experience, once you overcome the sticker shock. In terms of food shopping, the fruit is better tasting, the breads softer or flakier, the meats are choicer cuts and fresher, the staff is more courteous and helpful (caveat: our former home was near NYC, where customer service is a dirty word). For non-perishables and consumer goods shopping, in addition to the extraordinarily helpful staff, the selection is usually better and the packages more attractively wrapped than in the U.S., even though the shops are smaller in size. (Don’t know how they do it!)
Anyway, my point is that, for a gaijin, Tokyo is abnormally efficient, clean and beautiful for a city of its population density. Though expensive in all respects (except for above-mentioned public pools), shopping and living in Tokyo is wonderful. Because the city is so homogenous and rigidly controlled from the Japanese perspective, residents have a great sense of safety and security. And, as a gaijin, you don’t have to abide by rigid Japanese customs and rules. Expat life in Tokyo – one of the most agreeable experiences you can have. I recommend it to anybody – unless you’re a woman of Japanese genealogy.
*******
O.K. my wife is done getting "done" now. She looks great. Just now, she related to me how her hair was straightened. Now, getting her hair straightened is nothing particularly strange; she does it all the time; this is simply how my wife likes her hair. She has the stylist process, then cut, then blow dry and straighten with a straightening iron and some gooey products. It results in a very polished, sophisticated and professional look that she feels comfortable with. The difference between the US version and the Japanese is that the Japanese stylists (even in the Sin Den, a western-owned hair salon) don't know when to quit. They have a perfectionist streak that borders on the obsessive.
Normally, the process takes about an hour to an hour-and-a-half, with the styling and straightening taking maybe five to ten minutes. This time the process took two full hours. Apparently, the stylists thought it necessary to straighten every hair. Individually. Which is to say, every single hair, individually straightened. With two stylists, each working concurrently on both sides of my wife's head. Which is fine, but all their efforts are going to swirl down the drain when she takes a shower in the morning.
The haircut cost about a third more than it would in the US, which is in line with everything else around here. But the level of service was substantially better than in the US, which also correlates with our prior Tokyo experience. The point is that life is great here. The Japanese tend to go WAY beyond what most Americans are used to in terms of providing a "perfect" product or experience. But process-driven perfection can lead to silly or wasteful outcomes sometimes; note the over-the-top hair straightening and that the Japanese employees needed to consult a manager to ascertain whether they could hold the pickles on a McDonald's Cheeseburger the other night.
It’s Sunday afternoon. I’m not writing, as per usual, from my home, but rather from inside Sin Den. Really. Tokyo has a hair salon called Sin Den, run by westerners using American product and techniques, and therefore, I’m in Sin Den waiting for my wife to finish getting “done.” The salon, BTW, is nothing that the name implies – it is the same type of upscale, well-lit and attractively-stationed salon that my wife has become accustomed to whilst living in the suburbs of NYC (well, lets face it, Fairfield County in Connecticut doesn’t exist outside of it’s relationship with “the City.”) As tattoos in Japan signify association with the Yakuza or other mob elements, there isn’t even interesting body art of any sort to comment about. Except for the topless woman wallpaper in the restroom, Sin Den is about as sinful as Elizabeth Arden or (for the Utahans out there) the Von Curtis Salon in Provo. Not that I advocate any of those places, either.
Anyway, the leeway that this particular non-Japanese establishment has in choosing its rather risqu̩ business name Рsomething that is surely a result of most locals not knowing what the name means Рis emblematic of a peculiar leeway that most non-Japanese individuals have in going about their business without having to abide by Japanese customs, mores, or, to some degree, laws Рsomething that is surely a result of most locals thinking of gaijin as uncultured idiots.
In Tokyo, my experience so far (and remember that “so far” is just over a month) has been that, within reason, gaijin – both male and female – can get away with just about anything. Stand still in the walking lane of the escalator or moving walkway? No problem – I’m a gaijin. Sit in the elderly / handicapped seats on the Metro? No problem – I’m a gaijin. Eat and drink standing up, walking, on the train, practically everywhere and anywhere? No problem – I’m a gaijin. Drive the wrong way on a one-way street while passing a policeman? No problem – I’m a gaijin. (And, yes, I actually did this while renting a car the first week we were in Japan.)
By contrast, there seems to be a rather rigid societal code by which the local Japanese are expected to live, particularly for women. Nothing official – there are no secret police lurking behind the hedges – but expected behaviours are commonly known and enforced by glares and whispers. In Tokyo, men are dominant and women are generally subservient. If the woman is unwilling to accept the subservient/submissive role, she is looked down upon or even, in at least one admittedly extreme case, kicked out of the household.
The societal code is difficult for both men and women – I understand that anti-depressants are the top-selling drug in Japan – but the group most effected seems to be Japanese women returning from a stint overseas. They even have a name for the condition that these women find themselves in – they call it “adjustment disorder,” meaning that Japanese women returning from life overseas have difficulty adjusting from the relative equality and freedom of Western lifestyles to the hierarchy of Tokyo. (I learned of this because the wife of Japan’s Emperor, a Harvard-educated former-diplomat, has suffered this disorder for the last three years, requiring frequent trips to Europe for health reasons, much to the consternation of the conservative court. Hm.)
As sad as this is for the locals, life is GREAT as a gaijin in Tokyo. We enjoy all the benefits of a rigidly-controlled social system, without having to abide with most of the requirements. For one thing, the city is clean beyond all reasonable expectation. The street curbs and gutters of Tokyo are constantly being swept by a huge cadre manic grandmothers with little bamboo brooms and trays. OCD maintenance workers clean practically all surfaces to a shiny polish – they even shut down the escalators and sidewalks in order to get to the “tough spots.” The public swimming pools (there are many) are crazy clean. Here’s how they do it:
When you arrive at the public pool, you buy an entry ticket, at which point you take off your shoes and are given plastic slippers. You then enter either the men’s or women’s locker. After you’ve changed, you head to the showers. You are then expected to scrub down – with soap (provided by the pool). After this, you head out to the pool. Sounds like the YMCA at this point, right? Well, put your towel back in your locker; as you head out to the pool, you must go through a narrow corridor. First, you must walk through about two meters of antiseptic / antibacterial footbath – its actually warm and rather pleasant, once you get over being skeeved out. At the end of the footbath, you walk up steps and trigger an electric eye, which starts the walls and ceiling to give you a mandatory shower that you are forced to walk though to get to the pool – as I said, don’t bring your towel.
The pool itself sparkles. This is because the lifeguards blow a whistle every 15 minutes, at which time everybody evacuates the pool with a speed that makes you think that they’d found a massive turd floating in the water. When the pool emptied, they life guard check the water, add chemicals as needed, and then give the all-clear, at which point everyone hops back in with the same speed with which they’d left. The pool is only open for two hours at a clip, allowing for the staff to clean with their manic zeal in-between. When the pool closes down, everyone showers, uses a double-headed water fountain for an eye-bath to combat Japanese conjunctivitis, and gets dressed. Finally the shoes go back on when you leave the building. As overboard as this may seem, Japanese public pools are the cleanest swimming pools I have ever seen, anywhere, and by a long shot. Though there are procedural hurdles, swimming here is a very pleasant (and surprisingly cheap) experience.
Other great things about Tokyo that giajin benefit from.... All manner of public transportation is on time without fail – you can set your watch by when the Metro trains arrive. The parks are manicured and especially well maintained. Shopping in Tokyo, although staggeringly expensive, is also a very pleasant experience, once you overcome the sticker shock. In terms of food shopping, the fruit is better tasting, the breads softer or flakier, the meats are choicer cuts and fresher, the staff is more courteous and helpful (caveat: our former home was near NYC, where customer service is a dirty word). For non-perishables and consumer goods shopping, in addition to the extraordinarily helpful staff, the selection is usually better and the packages more attractively wrapped than in the U.S., even though the shops are smaller in size. (Don’t know how they do it!)
Anyway, my point is that, for a gaijin, Tokyo is abnormally efficient, clean and beautiful for a city of its population density. Though expensive in all respects (except for above-mentioned public pools), shopping and living in Tokyo is wonderful. Because the city is so homogenous and rigidly controlled from the Japanese perspective, residents have a great sense of safety and security. And, as a gaijin, you don’t have to abide by rigid Japanese customs and rules. Expat life in Tokyo – one of the most agreeable experiences you can have. I recommend it to anybody – unless you’re a woman of Japanese genealogy.
*******
O.K. my wife is done getting "done" now. She looks great. Just now, she related to me how her hair was straightened. Now, getting her hair straightened is nothing particularly strange; she does it all the time; this is simply how my wife likes her hair. She has the stylist process, then cut, then blow dry and straighten with a straightening iron and some gooey products. It results in a very polished, sophisticated and professional look that she feels comfortable with. The difference between the US version and the Japanese is that the Japanese stylists (even in the Sin Den, a western-owned hair salon) don't know when to quit. They have a perfectionist streak that borders on the obsessive.
Normally, the process takes about an hour to an hour-and-a-half, with the styling and straightening taking maybe five to ten minutes. This time the process took two full hours. Apparently, the stylists thought it necessary to straighten every hair. Individually. Which is to say, every single hair, individually straightened. With two stylists, each working concurrently on both sides of my wife's head. Which is fine, but all their efforts are going to swirl down the drain when she takes a shower in the morning.
The haircut cost about a third more than it would in the US, which is in line with everything else around here. But the level of service was substantially better than in the US, which also correlates with our prior Tokyo experience. The point is that life is great here. The Japanese tend to go WAY beyond what most Americans are used to in terms of providing a "perfect" product or experience. But process-driven perfection can lead to silly or wasteful outcomes sometimes; note the over-the-top hair straightening and that the Japanese employees needed to consult a manager to ascertain whether they could hold the pickles on a McDonald's Cheeseburger the other night.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
It's a Smarr World…
Coming to a foreign country affords one the chance to start anew; to be responsible and make a good name for oneself and one's family in a whole new locale. Without the trappings of the past, you can live a thoughtful, well-planned lifestyle that maximizes resources and boosts future opportunities. Or you can do what we did!
Our biggest "guilty pleasure" since moving to Japan has been the purchase of Annual Passports to the Tokyo Disney Resort. These are not reimburse-able by "the Man" and therefore come straight out of the family coffers, but we like living on Tofu!
We bought the APs using the following tortured logic: 1) With the move, the kids haven't had much of a vacation; 2) Our family vacations typically involve a few days at a Disney Resort (either in CA or FL); 3) The kids, in this completely new environment, should really have some links back to familiar things from the US; 4) My wife and I aren’t crazy about McDonald's; 5) With Tokyo Disney Resort just 55 minutes from home, we can give our kids "Summer Fun" AND link them back to good ol' America; 6) BUT WHY LIMIT THIS TO SUMMER?!? We can give the kids a little slice of the old country ALL YEAR LONG!!!
And thus, gentle reader, the little Family from Connecticut forsook purchasing a motor-car and instead spent the money on APs to Tokyo Disneyland and Tokyo Disney Sea. We've already gone six times. Only 18 more visits 'til we break even… or collapse. Course, that's not including the popcorn. At four bucks per bucket. Times three buckets. Refilled at least twice. I REALLY like my Tofu!
What first clued me in to the fact that our purchase may not have been, say, prudent (aside from the disturbing lack-of-couch in our living room) was an event that occurred on our second trip to the Magic Kingdom. A Disney cast member / indentured servant / serf felt compelled to give one of my darling angels a sticker. In the process, she noticed, dangling from my daughter's neck, the dual-park AP. She goggled. Then she pointed. Then she called her fellow cast member /serf over to verify that what she thought she was seeing was, in fact, what it was. Apparently, these two employees had never actually SEEN a guest with an Annual Passport before. Why? Cuz Japanese mamas don't raise no fools. They know that the average person would rather bathe in honey next to an ant hill rather than bring six-year olds to Disney parks every other week for an entire year. And that's what it'll take just to break even.
And so now I'll leave you with my rendition of the beloved theme song:
M - I - C
("C" you every friggin' weekend!)
K - E - Y
("Y"? Because we're Idiots!)
M - O - U - S - I-n-c.
Coming to a foreign country affords one the chance to start anew; to be responsible and make a good name for oneself and one's family in a whole new locale. Without the trappings of the past, you can live a thoughtful, well-planned lifestyle that maximizes resources and boosts future opportunities. Or you can do what we did!
Our biggest "guilty pleasure" since moving to Japan has been the purchase of Annual Passports to the Tokyo Disney Resort. These are not reimburse-able by "the Man" and therefore come straight out of the family coffers, but we like living on Tofu!
We bought the APs using the following tortured logic: 1) With the move, the kids haven't had much of a vacation; 2) Our family vacations typically involve a few days at a Disney Resort (either in CA or FL); 3) The kids, in this completely new environment, should really have some links back to familiar things from the US; 4) My wife and I aren’t crazy about McDonald's; 5) With Tokyo Disney Resort just 55 minutes from home, we can give our kids "Summer Fun" AND link them back to good ol' America; 6) BUT WHY LIMIT THIS TO SUMMER?!? We can give the kids a little slice of the old country ALL YEAR LONG!!!
And thus, gentle reader, the little Family from Connecticut forsook purchasing a motor-car and instead spent the money on APs to Tokyo Disneyland and Tokyo Disney Sea. We've already gone six times. Only 18 more visits 'til we break even… or collapse. Course, that's not including the popcorn. At four bucks per bucket. Times three buckets. Refilled at least twice. I REALLY like my Tofu!
What first clued me in to the fact that our purchase may not have been, say, prudent (aside from the disturbing lack-of-couch in our living room) was an event that occurred on our second trip to the Magic Kingdom. A Disney cast member / indentured servant / serf felt compelled to give one of my darling angels a sticker. In the process, she noticed, dangling from my daughter's neck, the dual-park AP. She goggled. Then she pointed. Then she called her fellow cast member /serf over to verify that what she thought she was seeing was, in fact, what it was. Apparently, these two employees had never actually SEEN a guest with an Annual Passport before. Why? Cuz Japanese mamas don't raise no fools. They know that the average person would rather bathe in honey next to an ant hill rather than bring six-year olds to Disney parks every other week for an entire year. And that's what it'll take just to break even.
And so now I'll leave you with my rendition of the beloved theme song:
M - I - C
("C" you every friggin' weekend!)
K - E - Y
("Y"? Because we're Idiots!)
M - O - U - S - I-n-c.
Friday, August 18, 2006
It's the education, Stupid!
A host of different opportunities wooed us to Japan. Some were very practical and business oriented -- Joni has a much better shot of making partner here than in the States (once she makes partner, I guess she'll become "the Man," which is something I'd rather not contemplate right now). Other factors in our decision to accept "the Transfer" include a whacked out sense of wanderlust, a desire to expose the kids to different societies and cultures, and marginally improved material circumstances. But the thing that really, REALLY swung the monkey for us was the education benefit.
When multinationals move their minions around the globe, they need to have some way ensuring that the spawn of their globetrotting minions stay on track with their former educational systems. If the companies don't do this, I've heard tell, the average, mild-mannered IT guy is likely to start channelling the spirit of an agitated postal employee. To avoid this potentially ugly scenario, a system of "international schools" has emerged in the places one is likely to find expats -- London, Paris, Geneva, Tokyo, Mumbai, Singapore, Hong Kong, Beijing, Rio, Mexico City -- even NYC. In concept, the "international schools" are merely supposed to provide an equivalent education to what a kid could expect to receive in the home country. But remember that the types of people who get sent on foreign assignments are generally type-A hyper-competitive envelope pushers. Projecting their nuttiness onto their seed, they (and by "they," I explicitly include "we") presume their children to be spectacular and worthy of only the best of the whole freakin' country's educational resources. And the expats are backed up by companies resigned to pay gobs to keep "their People" happy (and semi-automatic-weapon-free).
So, in practice, especially in places like Tokyo, these "international schools" have gone completely beyond the pale in providing "exceptional learning environments" for their charges. The most popular school (and not the one to be blessed with our kids) has facilities to rival a typical American community college -- Olympic pools, performing arts center, a 900-computer lab (for 1100 kids), that kind of thing. Most schools have ski chalets in the Japanese Alps. I still can't figure out what those are for. Anyway, these schools are generally first-rate -- not quite Exeter first-rate, but first-rate enough that it doesn't make much difference.
Since the schools are exclusive, they feel the need to exclude. Consequently, they've created a gruelling application process whereby to winnow away the unconnected, the unskilled, the unbright, and most importantly, the unfunded. Here's how it worked for the girls…
Required Letter of Recommendation from Employer = How connected are you/is your company? Partner X's wife sits on the board of ABC charity. ABC charity employs School Z's students and faculty in several events. Partner Y had kids at school Z and is a major contributor. The letter goes out, appropriate names get dropped. Result: My girls got accepted at School Z, aka, International School of the Sacred Heart, without interviews, no questions asked.
By contrast, Christian didn't have a recommendation letter from the employer, as none was required and we didn't have the foresight to send it along anyway. [An aside to anyone applying to anyplace competitive -- throw in your best stuff, be it connections, work-product, whatever, even if they don’t explicitly ask for it. The reviewer can always ignore the extra info you send, but they can't be impressed by what they do not see.] Anyway, without the employer recommendation, Christian had to rely on the strength of his grades, his teacher recommendations, and coursework -- in other words, his application was completely on merit. He had to be interviewed. We worried. Today, however, we received word that he is accepted to St. Mary's International School.
We got our first choice schools. After nearly three months of effort and worry, all our kids got accepted to what we feel are the most appropriate schools for them. Now enough of me being glib…I've always hoped to be able to send my kids to a top-tier prep school. As an immigrant myself, I've always been keenly aware of the opportunities inherent in "access," specifically, the type of access that a prep school environment affords. Having four kids on a single salary, this has never really been an option for my family. When all is said and done, I am profoundly grateful to "the Man" for providing my children the opportunity to enroll at Sacred Heart and St. Mary's (though my son is still reeling from the shock of going to an all-boys school).
A host of different opportunities wooed us to Japan. Some were very practical and business oriented -- Joni has a much better shot of making partner here than in the States (once she makes partner, I guess she'll become "the Man," which is something I'd rather not contemplate right now). Other factors in our decision to accept "the Transfer" include a whacked out sense of wanderlust, a desire to expose the kids to different societies and cultures, and marginally improved material circumstances. But the thing that really, REALLY swung the monkey for us was the education benefit.
When multinationals move their minions around the globe, they need to have some way ensuring that the spawn of their globetrotting minions stay on track with their former educational systems. If the companies don't do this, I've heard tell, the average, mild-mannered IT guy is likely to start channelling the spirit of an agitated postal employee. To avoid this potentially ugly scenario, a system of "international schools" has emerged in the places one is likely to find expats -- London, Paris, Geneva, Tokyo, Mumbai, Singapore, Hong Kong, Beijing, Rio, Mexico City -- even NYC. In concept, the "international schools" are merely supposed to provide an equivalent education to what a kid could expect to receive in the home country. But remember that the types of people who get sent on foreign assignments are generally type-A hyper-competitive envelope pushers. Projecting their nuttiness onto their seed, they (and by "they," I explicitly include "we") presume their children to be spectacular and worthy of only the best of the whole freakin' country's educational resources. And the expats are backed up by companies resigned to pay gobs to keep "their People" happy (and semi-automatic-weapon-free).
So, in practice, especially in places like Tokyo, these "international schools" have gone completely beyond the pale in providing "exceptional learning environments" for their charges. The most popular school (and not the one to be blessed with our kids) has facilities to rival a typical American community college -- Olympic pools, performing arts center, a 900-computer lab (for 1100 kids), that kind of thing. Most schools have ski chalets in the Japanese Alps. I still can't figure out what those are for. Anyway, these schools are generally first-rate -- not quite Exeter first-rate, but first-rate enough that it doesn't make much difference.
Since the schools are exclusive, they feel the need to exclude. Consequently, they've created a gruelling application process whereby to winnow away the unconnected, the unskilled, the unbright, and most importantly, the unfunded. Here's how it worked for the girls…
Required Letter of Recommendation from Employer = How connected are you/is your company? Partner X's wife sits on the board of ABC charity. ABC charity employs School Z's students and faculty in several events. Partner Y had kids at school Z and is a major contributor. The letter goes out, appropriate names get dropped. Result: My girls got accepted at School Z, aka, International School of the Sacred Heart, without interviews, no questions asked.
By contrast, Christian didn't have a recommendation letter from the employer, as none was required and we didn't have the foresight to send it along anyway. [An aside to anyone applying to anyplace competitive -- throw in your best stuff, be it connections, work-product, whatever, even if they don’t explicitly ask for it. The reviewer can always ignore the extra info you send, but they can't be impressed by what they do not see.] Anyway, without the employer recommendation, Christian had to rely on the strength of his grades, his teacher recommendations, and coursework -- in other words, his application was completely on merit. He had to be interviewed. We worried. Today, however, we received word that he is accepted to St. Mary's International School.
We got our first choice schools. After nearly three months of effort and worry, all our kids got accepted to what we feel are the most appropriate schools for them. Now enough of me being glib…I've always hoped to be able to send my kids to a top-tier prep school. As an immigrant myself, I've always been keenly aware of the opportunities inherent in "access," specifically, the type of access that a prep school environment affords. Having four kids on a single salary, this has never really been an option for my family. When all is said and done, I am profoundly grateful to "the Man" for providing my children the opportunity to enroll at Sacred Heart and St. Mary's (though my son is still reeling from the shock of going to an all-boys school).
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
New arrivals… and miles to go.
After a week of anticipation and back pain, our IKEA mattresses and kitchen fixtures came today. This means that our kitchen is mostly complete -- we're only missing bar stools, more flatware, more tableware, a computer hutch and chair, a computer, a filing cabinet, a mixer, toaster oven, decent knives and a fruit bowl. Oh, yeah, we need placemats, maybe a tablecloth and napkins.
In the four bedrooms, we have mattresses, but are missing dressers, some regular hangers, dress hangers, beds, mirrors, side tables, a decent alarm clock for Joni, writing desks, bookshelves, a comfy chair for me, kids computer, games/toys and holders for said games and toys, lighting and timers. We probably ought to get sheets for the new mattresses, too. Curtains might be nice.
In the bathrooms, we need toilet scrubbers, toilet plungers, a nightlight for the kids, maybe a separate bathroom scale in the kids bathroom, and some more bath towels. The bathrooms are actually in pretty good shape.
The entryway needs shoe racks, a cabinet or table, a mirror and/or decorative piece, a small rug, an umbrella stand, picture frames, and a mail sorter.
Our dining room needs a dining table and chairs. Some art or mirrors might be nice. I'll lump in patio furniture here, though this isn't a must.
Now my favourite part -- the living room. It's pretty much empty. We need two sofas, a coffee table/ottoman and end tables, comfy chairs, a game table and/or game caddy, big TV, universal DVD player/recorder, Sky Perfect TV hook up, surround system, lighting, rug, throws & pillows, wall unit/lowboy for TV, bookshelves, art, uh, I guess that's it.
Did I mention that we've already used up nearly a third of our suggested moving allowance? This might get tricky!
After a week of anticipation and back pain, our IKEA mattresses and kitchen fixtures came today. This means that our kitchen is mostly complete -- we're only missing bar stools, more flatware, more tableware, a computer hutch and chair, a computer, a filing cabinet, a mixer, toaster oven, decent knives and a fruit bowl. Oh, yeah, we need placemats, maybe a tablecloth and napkins.
In the four bedrooms, we have mattresses, but are missing dressers, some regular hangers, dress hangers, beds, mirrors, side tables, a decent alarm clock for Joni, writing desks, bookshelves, a comfy chair for me, kids computer, games/toys and holders for said games and toys, lighting and timers. We probably ought to get sheets for the new mattresses, too. Curtains might be nice.
In the bathrooms, we need toilet scrubbers, toilet plungers, a nightlight for the kids, maybe a separate bathroom scale in the kids bathroom, and some more bath towels. The bathrooms are actually in pretty good shape.
The entryway needs shoe racks, a cabinet or table, a mirror and/or decorative piece, a small rug, an umbrella stand, picture frames, and a mail sorter.
Our dining room needs a dining table and chairs. Some art or mirrors might be nice. I'll lump in patio furniture here, though this isn't a must.
Now my favourite part -- the living room. It's pretty much empty. We need two sofas, a coffee table/ottoman and end tables, comfy chairs, a game table and/or game caddy, big TV, universal DVD player/recorder, Sky Perfect TV hook up, surround system, lighting, rug, throws & pillows, wall unit/lowboy for TV, bookshelves, art, uh, I guess that's it.
Did I mention that we've already used up nearly a third of our suggested moving allowance? This might get tricky!
Backtrack: Temp Housing in Azabu Towers
[Note: These backtrack posts are things I jotted down sometime around the week that we arrived in Tokyo. I had limited access to the internet at the time and therefore these are the posts I meant to write back then, probably with a few embellishments. I'll demark the Backtrack posts with a Green title, for your convenience.]
When we moved to Tokyo on a "package" provided by "the Man," part of the deal was that we would have temporary furnished housing upon our arrival that would allow us to set ourselves up in the new locale. Needless to say, we didn't get "set-up" in the time allotted; Joni went straight to work and I was being run ragged with the kids, so the furniture buying didn't happen quite as we had hoped. Nevertheless, "the Man" actually did right by us here, providing us with housing in one of the more desirable properties in Tokyo -- the Mansions at Azabu Towers. (The term "Mansion" here being used in the Japanese sense to mean any reasonably large Western-style apartment building. We currently reside in a mansion of slightly over 2000 square feet, which might be labelled "cottage" back in Connecticut.)
We lived for a week or so on the eighth floor of this place, and right off the bat, I have to admit that my third favourite place in Tokyo so far has to be the Azabu Towers living room panorama of Central Tokyo at night. Azabu Towers sits on a hilltop with a quiet, residential area below, so the view is significantly better than the eighth floor would otherwise suggest. From our window, we could see an array of Tokyo's more interesting and beautifully lit skyscrapers. More interestingly, the Shuto Expressway -- one of Tokyo's major arteries -- runs as a double-decker freeway, which is in turn elevated above Roppongi-dori, one of Tokyo's smarter avenues.
From the eighth floor of Azabu Towers, watching the serpentine traffic slithering along the expressway in both directions, with the hustle and bustle of the local traffic on the ground level below, I felt as though I was observing an ant farm, Ridley Scott movie or the San Fernando Valley coming off the 405 at night. A very cool start.
The other interesting feature about Azabu Towers was the neighbourhood. The block consisted of three properties: Azabu Towers, which I've already described, the Tokyo American Club -- a snooty little perk that some US companys give their Tokyo expats that lies somewhere at the junction of country club and lonely hearts bar. The third and biggest resident on the block is the Russian Embassy compound in its full Stalinist grandeur. What odd bedfellows the TAC and Russian Embassy must have been during the Cold War. I'm sure there are plenty of great stories there…something I'll have to dig into.
BTW, during our stay, there were always no less than a brigade of Japanese police in full riot gear (the Japanese police busses, no lie, had windows covered with wire mesh).
I asked an officer if there was some unusual risk that warranted the heavy police presence. He looked at me baffled and said in earnest halting English, "No, Russian Embassy." I suppose the Japanese would rather bear the expense of extremely high security costs rather than face the potential embarrassment of having somebody harm the Russians on Japanese soil.
[Note: These backtrack posts are things I jotted down sometime around the week that we arrived in Tokyo. I had limited access to the internet at the time and therefore these are the posts I meant to write back then, probably with a few embellishments. I'll demark the Backtrack posts with a Green title, for your convenience.]
When we moved to Tokyo on a "package" provided by "the Man," part of the deal was that we would have temporary furnished housing upon our arrival that would allow us to set ourselves up in the new locale. Needless to say, we didn't get "set-up" in the time allotted; Joni went straight to work and I was being run ragged with the kids, so the furniture buying didn't happen quite as we had hoped. Nevertheless, "the Man" actually did right by us here, providing us with housing in one of the more desirable properties in Tokyo -- the Mansions at Azabu Towers. (The term "Mansion" here being used in the Japanese sense to mean any reasonably large Western-style apartment building. We currently reside in a mansion of slightly over 2000 square feet, which might be labelled "cottage" back in Connecticut.)
We lived for a week or so on the eighth floor of this place, and right off the bat, I have to admit that my third favourite place in Tokyo so far has to be the Azabu Towers living room panorama of Central Tokyo at night. Azabu Towers sits on a hilltop with a quiet, residential area below, so the view is significantly better than the eighth floor would otherwise suggest. From our window, we could see an array of Tokyo's more interesting and beautifully lit skyscrapers. More interestingly, the Shuto Expressway -- one of Tokyo's major arteries -- runs as a double-decker freeway, which is in turn elevated above Roppongi-dori, one of Tokyo's smarter avenues.
From the eighth floor of Azabu Towers, watching the serpentine traffic slithering along the expressway in both directions, with the hustle and bustle of the local traffic on the ground level below, I felt as though I was observing an ant farm, Ridley Scott movie or the San Fernando Valley coming off the 405 at night. A very cool start.
The other interesting feature about Azabu Towers was the neighbourhood. The block consisted of three properties: Azabu Towers, which I've already described, the Tokyo American Club -- a snooty little perk that some US companys give their Tokyo expats that lies somewhere at the junction of country club and lonely hearts bar. The third and biggest resident on the block is the Russian Embassy compound in its full Stalinist grandeur. What odd bedfellows the TAC and Russian Embassy must have been during the Cold War. I'm sure there are plenty of great stories there…something I'll have to dig into.
BTW, during our stay, there were always no less than a brigade of Japanese police in full riot gear (the Japanese police busses, no lie, had windows covered with wire mesh).
I asked an officer if there was some unusual risk that warranted the heavy police presence. He looked at me baffled and said in earnest halting English, "No, Russian Embassy." I suppose the Japanese would rather bear the expense of extremely high security costs rather than face the potential embarrassment of having somebody harm the Russians on Japanese soil.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Two weeks in Japan...
And no major disasters. Lots of minor ones, though. For instance, earlier this evening, I ran out to the local convenience store to buy milk. This has become something of a nightly ritual because milk is only sold around here in 1000 ml (about a quart) containers. The Japanese don't seem to drink nearly as much milk as Americans drink -- either lactose intolerance or an aversion to cow boobies, I don't know which, but the point is we go through a significantly larger quantity of milk than Japanese families of our size (assuming there actually ARE Japanese families of our size).
Anyway, I'm going out to buy milk at the Community Store, only to discover that the Low Fat brand I usually buy is gone. So I get the slightly more expensive brand that is always next to our old, reliable Low Fat. This milk is in Japanese. I don’t read Japanese. The guy at the counter talks at me, slightly longer than he usually does. As I also don't speak Japanese, I suppose he's just making small talk since he's beginning to recognize me as one of the regulars. I begin to feel like I'm part of the community; I feel good about the progress that I've made living in Japan for two weeks.
I was wrong. I wish I read Japanese. I wish I spoke Japanese. Had I either of these two skills, I would have been alerted to the fact that I was paying six bucks for a particularly hideous two quarts of putrefied yoghurt drink. We discovered my mistake when our eleven-year old tried to sneak a bowl of her mom's very-expensive-you-kids-eat-the-Frosted-Flakes imported Italian granola. The lowest point came a few minutes later, when one of the six-year-olds caught me at the kitchen sink furtively rinsing nasty yoghurt-cheese-milk from increasingly less imported granola. "Mom," she hollers through the house, "Dad's being Dutch again!"
And no major disasters. Lots of minor ones, though. For instance, earlier this evening, I ran out to the local convenience store to buy milk. This has become something of a nightly ritual because milk is only sold around here in 1000 ml (about a quart) containers. The Japanese don't seem to drink nearly as much milk as Americans drink -- either lactose intolerance or an aversion to cow boobies, I don't know which, but the point is we go through a significantly larger quantity of milk than Japanese families of our size (assuming there actually ARE Japanese families of our size).
Anyway, I'm going out to buy milk at the Community Store, only to discover that the Low Fat brand I usually buy is gone. So I get the slightly more expensive brand that is always next to our old, reliable Low Fat. This milk is in Japanese. I don’t read Japanese. The guy at the counter talks at me, slightly longer than he usually does. As I also don't speak Japanese, I suppose he's just making small talk since he's beginning to recognize me as one of the regulars. I begin to feel like I'm part of the community; I feel good about the progress that I've made living in Japan for two weeks.
I was wrong. I wish I read Japanese. I wish I spoke Japanese. Had I either of these two skills, I would have been alerted to the fact that I was paying six bucks for a particularly hideous two quarts of putrefied yoghurt drink. We discovered my mistake when our eleven-year old tried to sneak a bowl of her mom's very-expensive-you-kids-eat-the-Frosted-Flakes imported Italian granola. The lowest point came a few minutes later, when one of the six-year-olds caught me at the kitchen sink furtively rinsing nasty yoghurt-cheese-milk from increasingly less imported granola. "Mom," she hollers through the house, "Dad's being Dutch again!"
Monday, July 17, 2006
You, gentle reader, are perusing the first post on this, the Gai-jin Ghetto blog. To dispel any confusion, this is not going to be an "urban" blog in the hip-hop, Reggeaton, Spike Lee -sense. If you're looking to schnizzle someone's nizzle, you'll do better elsewhere (or at least you'll have to wait a few posts until I decide its OK to get my funky groove on). So what is this blog about if not pop-culture?
Our family of six trembling middle-class Caucasians is being transferred by a large international professional services firm for which my wife happily toils (referred to hereafter as "the Man") directly into the center of the most homogeneous (and expensive) city on the planet: Tokyo. Fortunately for us, the Man is providing us with a "package," which means a) we'll be living an unconscionable higher style of life than local Japanese at our family's level, b) we won't have to sell any of the kids to do so, and c) we'll be living amidst other Americans & foreigners in similar circumstances, and all pretty much in the same few neighborhoods of south-central Tokyo. In short, we're moving into a gai-jin (foreigner's) ghetto (albeit a rather pleasant one, from what the real estate folks tell me).
How do I feel about this? In the words of the unstoppable James Brown, "I feel Good!" But not entirely. We're leaving a picture-postcard town in Connecticut, complete with friendly (or at least unobtrusive) neighbors, fabulous public schools brimming with caring teachers, heaps of good friends, and the best, sniff, sniff, LDS Ward east of the Sierra-Nevada mountain range. Our new home will have approximately the same footage inside, but instead of 1.5 acres overlooking the lake, we have a six square foot patio. The patio overlooks the regional incinerator. Fortunately, the patio has an unobstructed view.
Well, its getting late. There's more packing to be done. My wife, after examining the remaining items on the checklist, is beginning to hyperventilate. So I guess its time to sign off. I'll write again once we're completely packed. Or when we've arrived in Tokyo. Whichever comes first.
Our family of six trembling middle-class Caucasians is being transferred by a large international professional services firm for which my wife happily toils (referred to hereafter as "the Man") directly into the center of the most homogeneous (and expensive) city on the planet: Tokyo. Fortunately for us, the Man is providing us with a "package," which means a) we'll be living an unconscionable higher style of life than local Japanese at our family's level, b) we won't have to sell any of the kids to do so, and c) we'll be living amidst other Americans & foreigners in similar circumstances, and all pretty much in the same few neighborhoods of south-central Tokyo. In short, we're moving into a gai-jin (foreigner's) ghetto (albeit a rather pleasant one, from what the real estate folks tell me).
How do I feel about this? In the words of the unstoppable James Brown, "I feel Good!" But not entirely. We're leaving a picture-postcard town in Connecticut, complete with friendly (or at least unobtrusive) neighbors, fabulous public schools brimming with caring teachers, heaps of good friends, and the best, sniff, sniff, LDS Ward east of the Sierra-Nevada mountain range. Our new home will have approximately the same footage inside, but instead of 1.5 acres overlooking the lake, we have a six square foot patio. The patio overlooks the regional incinerator. Fortunately, the patio has an unobstructed view.
Well, its getting late. There's more packing to be done. My wife, after examining the remaining items on the checklist, is beginning to hyperventilate. So I guess its time to sign off. I'll write again once we're completely packed. Or when we've arrived in Tokyo. Whichever comes first.
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