tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70966616696622880792024-03-05T20:04:37.851-08:00The American Man In Japana Susquehanna University student's blog abroad.Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-25412614051806262252010-12-14T21:06:00.001-08:002014-08-11T09:24:41.815-07:00Matane<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best Time Ever.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tokyo Tower<br />
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...And so ends an era in my life. It's hard to believe it's over. I knew I'd have to wake from the dream eventually, but that does little to relieve the sting. I'd become quite comfortable in Tokyo...to the point where it felt like all I'd ever known. Will I ever be back? I hope so. I now feel such a strong bond with Japan, and there are certain elements I'll never forget.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Studio Ghibli Museum<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Shinjuku</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Mika</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Tokyo Disney w/ Jae<br />
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But through it all, I know I must return to reality, and let this fantasy world become just another part of my life. What breaks my heart most is that the further I get away from it, I'm sure it will feel more and more like a dream...or perhaps just some story I read about or some movie I watched. Though it only took up 4 months, I can safely say it has been the most important experience of my 20 years thus far. Living on my own in a foreign land allowed me to do significant soul-searching, and helped me realize what it is exactly that I want and need in life. It also gave me more self-confidence in all manner of things from surviving unknown regions to dealing with potentially nightmarish public transportation. Thank you, Tokyo, for all that you've given me and shown me, I know for certain that I'm a much older and understanding man than when I left the States.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Journey's End. Back Home.<br />
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Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-63735281476922927002010-12-14T20:56:00.000-08:002016-06-14T20:27:08.929-07:00America vs. Japan: What I Won't Miss<br />
- Endless coins/change jangling & sitting heavy in your pocket because Japan is a cash-based society...very little chance to use cards either.<br />
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- HUGE crowds.<br />
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- Smoking everywhere. Sometimes it can be a bit overwhelming.<br />
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- Being mistaken for a 30-year-old often due to a bit of facial hair.<br />
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- Failing to understand most signs.<br />
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- Failing to walk successfully on sidewalks.<br />
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- Lack of ketchup.<br />
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- Miserable conversion rate of yen with US dollar (at this time). <br />
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- TV only equipped with Japanese channels.<br />
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- Fully-dressed, sneaker-wearing dogs in baby carriages.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOi0al7N7K7zu0oFmyq8fPGPo-1QVXo6LoUBORBinkvTGJBE2cUiKfB95cKqzyxi0y2-TO8hMIMQVunI6XqYtyMCGzpePW2vsk26Ob6oeVWMBz8VLG2eLCdO1esdAvlzq6tA1IwVzunk0/s1600/DSC02059.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOi0al7N7K7zu0oFmyq8fPGPo-1QVXo6LoUBORBinkvTGJBE2cUiKfB95cKqzyxi0y2-TO8hMIMQVunI6XqYtyMCGzpePW2vsk26Ob6oeVWMBz8VLG2eLCdO1esdAvlzq6tA1IwVzunk0/s320/DSC02059.JPG" width="240" /></a><br />
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- Japanese pop & rock music.<br />
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- UFO Arcade games. Addictive, lost lots of money.<br />
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- Automatic doors that are roughly 100x slower than their American counterparts.<br />
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- Japanese street performers. Especially howling ones banging on garbage cans under bridges.<br />
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- Earthquakes.<br />
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- Employees yelling outside for people to enter their shop.<br />
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- Low doorways.<br />
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- Way too many different kinds of pickles. <br />
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- Lack of napkins. The Japanese shouldn't expect foreigners to be as clean as they are.<br />
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- Technically not being allowed to your blow nose in public.<br />
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- Creepy mustaches.<br />
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- Guys with pillows for girlfriends.<br />
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- Stray cats without tails.<br />
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- Large trucks barreling down alleyways barely large enough for pedestrian traffic.<br />
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- Ridiculous haircuts.<br />
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- Not being able to communicate with most people, especially if someone needs help or I simply want to strike up a conversation.<br />
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- A high sense of fashion that I cannot comprehend or afford.<br />
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- Occasional xenophobia (but it's not like the rest of the world doesn't suffer from this too).<br />
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- Tricky extra charges on bills.<br />
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- Japanese businessmen in full black suits, standing unbothered in direct sunlight, casually smoking cigarettes during the dog days of summer...while I whimpered, in gym clothes, sweating profusely, in minimal shade --- waiting for trains.Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-4558768782577302332010-12-14T20:40:00.000-08:002014-08-08T10:16:09.642-07:00America vs. Japan: What I'll MissWell, I figured it was time to chalk up a bit of a comparative list...considering it's more or less the 11th hour at this point, and I've nearly garnered a solid 4 month stint in Tokyo under my belt.<br />
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Here's what I'll certainly miss when I have to fly back to the States -- I'll post another list shortly of what I'll be happy to be rid of....<br />
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Without further ado:<br />
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- Unagi. <span style="font-style: italic;">Friends</span> TV show jokes aside, I'll miss true Japanese eel most when it comes to food, and the fact that it's so easily accessible and fairly cheap will only further fuel my longing for it once I'm back in America.<br />
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- C.C. Lemon. The finest Vitamin C-charged beverage this side of the Pacific Ocean. Cures everything from hangovers to death. Shocked it hasn't made the journey stateside. <i>(UPDATE: IT HAS)</i><br />
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- Nomehoudai. 'All-You-Can-Drink'. A truly beautiful idea. One that will certainly never see the light of day in the West.<br />
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- UDON. Delicious, thick noodles that will never be matched as well (or as cheap) in America.<br />
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- McDonald's being a delicious, respectable eatery, and a place of employment where one isn't sometimes regarded as a failure.<br />
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- Super Potato. A retro paradise situated in Akihabara. Where my childhood heart will forever remain.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">BOSS billboard</td></tr>
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- Takadanobaba Circle. A place where I've seen more amazing, unbelievable sights than I ever will again. Not to mention the gigantic billboard ad of Tommy Lee Jones' face and the word 'BOSS' right above it.<br />
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- Respect (politeness/manners). Honestly, show me a place where people will bow to you after you buy a pack of gum from them, and I'll show you fifty places where they'll give you a blackeye and boot out the door for just showing your face.<br />
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- Arcades. They unfortunately all but died in the 90's out West.<br />
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- No Tipping.<br />
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- Vending Machines. I mean, the overabundance of them. So wonderful.<br />
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- Everyone being Japanese. I mean, it's really wild being used to the American melting pot.<br />
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- Public Drunkenness. The hilarity of it, as well as the surprising acceptance of it by society and police.<br />
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- Roppongi. The sin city of Tokyo where foreigners crawl the streets seeking sustenance. <br />
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- Karaoke. Honestly, you have no idea how great it can be until you try it in Tokyo.<br />
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- Freshness Burger. No idea what they use to make their meat since it's most likely not beef...but, oh boy, is it good.<br />
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- Japanese Children. Not trying to sound creepy, but they're adorable and all so well-behaved (unlike me). <br />
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- Having a beard and automatically being a western celebrity/30 years old.<br />
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- Ken Watanabe & Darth Vader sharing advertisements for a cell phone company.<br />
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- Konbini (convenience stores) at every corner with high-quality/high-speed service.<br />
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- Traditional Garb. It's like falling through time whenever you see a kimono or wooden clogs.<br />
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- Takeshita Street. Pure schoolgirl insanity in Harajuku. Fashion so absurd that it would've made Marie Antoinette volunteer her head for the guillotine.<br />
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- Mustaches. Tend to be the best Japanese men are capable of...everything from creepy little Hitler 'staches to railroad-villain ones.<br />
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- Onsen. Outdoor public baths, mineral water, stone massages. etc.<br />
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- People of all ages and professions playing handheld video game systems together on trains.<br />
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- Gyoza. Onigiri. Kiragi...etc. etc. etc. Japanese food that isn't EVERYWHERE (and cheap) in America.Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-724314629894646442010-12-14T20:29:00.000-08:002014-08-07T13:48:19.662-07:00Bunraku: These Ain't No Regular Puppets<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik_dAyZxi5WmmolKnTz-XwGqueHnd7Yurdi1idp0DHxAWR5AD91gn5-leZTupMtnM4RKYxeQILdD1WT_dNifnGTp_iFxTrUYN2FR8pyB0mhvnIx7z2-u5HAdvE0n1nucVPeFtrqEBS1iU/s1600/DSC03763.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik_dAyZxi5WmmolKnTz-XwGqueHnd7Yurdi1idp0DHxAWR5AD91gn5-leZTupMtnM4RKYxeQILdD1WT_dNifnGTp_iFxTrUYN2FR8pyB0mhvnIx7z2-u5HAdvE0n1nucVPeFtrqEBS1iU/s320/DSC03763.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550762913537402738" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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I figured it was time to get a bit of the arts a try, and knowing Japan had three well-known forms, I decided I’d be a fool to at least not attend one. The three famous forms of theater in Japan are Noh, Kabuki, and Bunraku. Noh plays are traditionally dramatic musicals, known for their intricate masks which distinguish certain characters, as well as denote change in form for certain roles. Kabuki is the dance-drama arm of Japanese theater, and is well-known for its highly-respected costumes and make-up adorning the actors. Lastly, Bunraku, is a dramatic show employing the use of puppets. I managed to catch a Bunraku show at The National Theater of Japan, and you can rest assured, this was not some kid's birthday party puppet show.<br />
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As I entered, I was fortunate enough to snag an English earpiece to help translate the show. Otherwise, I would’ve had to do a whole lot of guessing (plus, it's a 4-hour show). I mean, there’s plenty going on in terms of action, and enough for one to draw their own conclusions without understanding the dialogue, but it just wouldn’t be as enjoyable without a clear hold of what events are unfolding. Once I paid a 1,000-yen deposit on the earpiece (roughly $12), I was led into the main theater, and realized that I was the only non-Japanese person in attendance, out of 200 or so. <br />
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The stage was massive, and a beautiful curtain was spread across it blocking out everything. A little to the side sat another stage, seating two musical performers, who would switch out with two new performers by way of a rotating wall as the show progressed. One would sing the dialogue of every puppet, while the other would strum away on a shamisen (more or less a Japanese banjo). Each musician is introduced before each scene in the play, and it is customary for the audience to applaud after each one is named and bows accordingly.<br />
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The performance I happened to see was 4 hours long, which also had a 30-minute intermission. I was completely unprepared for the length. I managed to snag a coffee and go to the bathroom during intermission, but I didn’t realize that most people gorged themselves over dinner during this period until it was too late. As the show progressed, I struggled to stifle my pangs of hunger. Regardless, the show was well worth the suffering.<br />
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Each standard puppet is carried about the stage by a puppet master completely adorned in a full black ensemble, similar to how I'd imagine a Japanese executioner might dress for their job. The three primary roles in the performance are tremendously complex puppets and require three puppeteers working at all times. The jobs split three ways tend to end up with one maintaining the legs, one controlling an arm and the head/face, and the last one manipulating the other arm and the puppet’s torso. The entire operation is truly awe-inspiring, and if ever given the chance to check out a Bunraku show, please be sure to do so…it’s remarkable - there must be a form of magic these puppeteers employ because at times you honestly forget you are watching puppets on the stage.Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-21299446736770010682010-12-04T09:26:00.000-08:002014-08-07T13:48:43.900-07:00Harajuku Fa-Fa-Fa-Fashion<br />
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If any older Japanese still clinging to pre-war Japan, the world devoid of most western-culture influence, were to stroll down Takeshita Street in Harajuku, you could bet seppuku would cross their minds. This thin road, overpopulated by fashion shops complete with all things bizarre and wholly unnecessary, symbolizes the decline that many elder Japanese believe the youth has embraced. You can find sock stores with strange, hypersexual imagery right next to t-shirt shops with purposely-butchered “Engrish” etched across stereotypically American images like McDonald’s golden arches or the Kellogg's Corn Flakes rooster.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Schoolgirl Stampede.</td></tr>
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Around 3 P.M. the seas of schoolgirls come skirting out of the woodwork, and the alley becomes a sudden game of fording a river full of high socks and short skirts. What makes matters worse (and only further adds to the insanity) is the fact that photographers roam about seeking out the best-dressed for “future modeling jobs”, which they will likely never make good on. And thanks to the American pop star Gwen Stefani's 2003 album with strong influences from Takeshita's culture, you can find tons of bumbling gaijin idiots shuffling about taking as many pictures as possible (certainly not excluding my big, dumb, American self).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">White women are all the rage.</td></tr>
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The rest of Harajuku tends to have sidewalks flooding with higher fashion and shops which require you to pawn off a limb in order to purchase anything. However, this doesn’t stop the Japanese youth from roadblocking in any way they can -- dusting off their very best threads in the meantime. Harajuku certainly is a “cool” place, however it can also be blamed for the trend in Japanese youth consumerism to spend as much as possible on superficial garbage. So, in a way, you can’t completely disagree with the elder Japanese lamenting its existence.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Go ask Alice.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO45ZAGgbGmZ3D61nPagCu2t5Vz_0GVCxRFPY67VdZ2Ct2ohpY-IO2EiTP4XyfyYfDxMmfmpk582qFDPgmXxkem7xmuFYjTZCINvYZhM7Rbl2WeZ0SMaJwUL2s6jDDRgnoAw0gMARxmwQ/s1600/DSC02218.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO45ZAGgbGmZ3D61nPagCu2t5Vz_0GVCxRFPY67VdZ2Ct2ohpY-IO2EiTP4XyfyYfDxMmfmpk582qFDPgmXxkem7xmuFYjTZCINvYZhM7Rbl2WeZ0SMaJwUL2s6jDDRgnoAw0gMARxmwQ/s320/DSC02218.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546874752140905810" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Baseball (yakyu or ‘field ball’ in Japan) was first introduced to Japan in 1878 by Hiroshi Hiraoka, who had become a huge fan of the Boston Red Stockings (the Boston Red Sox later adopted their name from this original Boston baseball team) while studying in Boston. Since it’s inception, it has grown into a rather dominant force, becoming an influential part of the Japanese sports world, and in many ways a strong cultural component shared with the West.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Casually enjoying some yakyu.</td></tr>
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Some believe baseball has evolved into a modern-day vehicle for the samurai code of Bushido to survive, likely due to its original form as a moral discipline and less as a leisure activity. These old school fans view each act by a player as an indicator of their loyalty to their team, and the depth of their sacrifice to it. On the other hand, America tends to have a slew of celebrity players generally worrying more about personal stats and salary than deference to one’s team.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unlike their American counterparts, most servers are cute Japanese girls.</td></tr>
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I attended a game between The Yokohama Bay Stars and The Hanshin Tigers in the middle of October. The Tigers bested the Bay Stars 9-3. I’ve been a lifelong fan and player of baseball, and I try to see at least 2-3 MLB games a year. Watching Japanese baseball in the heart of the Bay Star’s stadium was certainly an unusual experience. American baseball pushes a family-friendly appeal, though, still remains a serious affair to most devout fans. Conversely, Japanese yakyu seems to dial up the family-friendly atmosphere further, with an almost American Triple-A baseball feel, considering the excessive breaks of dancing mascots and t-shirt bazookas between innings. However, in yakyu’s defense, I have a feeling it may be more of a Bay Star tradition because Hanshin Tiger Nation represented an entirely different beast.<br />
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The Bay Star fans (seemed to fill roughly the whole grandstand section and right side of the stadium) seemed to symbolize the average, steady fan; one who will applaud their team for solid play, but is more or less there to enjoy a casual baseball game. Hanshin Tiger Nation represented a fervent, frothing, and fanatic army. Had WW2-era's Empire of Japan had a baseball unit in their military…Tiger Nation would be it.<br />
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To attempt an American baseball parallel, Hanshin Tiger fans would fit right in with the Yankees and Red Sox nations, whereas the Bay Stars would be more in line with any AA or AAA baseball team, where there's competitive play, but the crowd isn't holding their breaths on every pitch. Or any, for that matter.<br />
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I hope to attend another yakyu game in the future, however, I think I’d very much prefer for it to be a Hanshin Tigers or Yomiuri Giants game…team names that are known in America for a reason.<br />
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A ridiculous (sports-car-included) Japanese call-to-the-bullpen below:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzRJtFhZsrgoeUZ3w6EG3UtIffomaw5OT0OTK5ftikthWZMIGa_kytFaTdjjB2VodU-5zrA2T4W4ye1vtnJ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-10420136129618953922010-12-04T08:40:00.000-08:002014-08-07T13:48:58.069-07:00Nikko: Hellooooooooo Nurse!<br />
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A two-hour train ride north from Tokyo will get you to a little place called Nikko. It's situated in the beautiful, idyllic landscapes of Tochigi, and is a common travel spot for tourists and native Japanese alike due to its many religious and astounding natural offerings. Nikko’s National Park contains many notable sites such as the Shinkyō (God Bridge), the Tōshō-gū (most-famous Shinto shrine containing spirit of Tokugawa Ieyasu), Rinnō-ji (gorgeous Buddhist temple complex), and the Taiyū-in Mausoleum, which is the final resting place of Tokugawa Ieyasu's remains.<br />
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Shinkyō (God Bridge)</td></tr>
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The Shinkyō (God Bridge) is truly a magnificent landmark; its vibrant, red color shines in the picturesque nature surrounding it. It was once only accessible by Japanese royalty, however, now for a meager few hundred yen, even stupid American tourists (myself included) may set foot on it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sanzaru (Three Wise Monkeys)</td></tr>
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The Three Wise Monkeys (Sanzaru) are carvings decorating the hallowed stable on the grounds of the Taiyū-in Mausoleum, and they represent the maxim "see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil". They were unfortunately much smaller than I believed they would be, but nonetheless, the condition the stable remains in was more than enough to reverse my initial let-down.<br />
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The Sleeping Cat (Nemuri-neko) is another famous carving in the Tōshō-gū Shrine, which is supposed to symbolize Nikko as the nourishment of body, mind, and spirit. It happened to be even smaller than the monkeys, and I never would’ve even seen the little carving had it not been for the thousands of photographers crawling around it.<br />
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Tokugawa Ieyasu was the founder of the Tokugawa Shogunate, which reigned in Japan from 1600 until the Meiji Restoration in 1868, and his burial shrine is everything you would expect. It sleeps, hidden at the top of scores of steps in the heart of a massive forest. The silence is deafening. Napoleon and all other grand, one-time dictators would certainly be jealous of its grandeur.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMReqGXXoplGHb04epd6QqodTy_c15DQjaVWD265SgFSSu1KNlTL7Lg2WMKKygCO5Gviel50Km1yuw3Xvjezr4nDMka5Hdu3ZMo2-PvJT_A8ZxJtYuuIlLyKAYIUre5iLXmR-vK_PUuGc/s1600/1shrine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMReqGXXoplGHb04epd6QqodTy_c15DQjaVWD265SgFSSu1KNlTL7Lg2WMKKygCO5Gviel50Km1yuw3Xvjezr4nDMka5Hdu3ZMo2-PvJT_A8ZxJtYuuIlLyKAYIUre5iLXmR-vK_PUuGc/s1600/1shrine.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
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Aside from the shrine searching, I also managed to check out Lake Chūzenji and Kegon Falls, which sit at the top of Mt. Nantai. My eyes have never seen anything quite as beautiful as a sunset on Chūzenji. Had I been struck blind immediately after, I think I’d be able to understand it as some form of punishment for the Gods allowing me to briefly glimpse Heaven while on earth. Just standing on that shore sparked a deep, deep desire to retire near it…a feeling I have never before experienced in my slight twenty years of life. Kegon Falls did not disappoint either, and the many eateries situated at the summit surrounding it further proved why I love Japanese cuisine. Flame-broiled squid on a skewer with an ear of grilled corn combined the pleasures of the eyes with the pleasures of the stomach. However, even within all of Kegon’s beauty, there’s a definite sadness inherent in the crashing water because it remains one of Japan’s most popular suicide spots and once housed the fateful suicide note carved into a tree by Misao Fujimura before his own unfortunate jump.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi71Ph7bRr7N8Wwh_bzwB9W9TqJVWfvIFwaM0V1fOI0oNMF-8vf6i6vkwwntf_-C_Bt_Ba1fywhxpUorWoFzvwe7ATXlKBhAs49HwlQIvoeakcfQIoyNzXjVAtBZ-TONwCwcrejzsBXZsk/s1600/DSC02992.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi71Ph7bRr7N8Wwh_bzwB9W9TqJVWfvIFwaM0V1fOI0oNMF-8vf6i6vkwwntf_-C_Bt_Ba1fywhxpUorWoFzvwe7ATXlKBhAs49HwlQIvoeakcfQIoyNzXjVAtBZ-TONwCwcrejzsBXZsk/s320/DSC02992.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546870044653364466" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Chuzenji</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkEd0e-vwdwsIJEsre1AazFdkFkFi0LH_Y_SZO4n5GVv5jUZOdGk85IhHuyvp87JEFhbGwkyRCWYBUrh8J_ko3Mp0HZX7lsS0Kg_Kk008S4KR2xa5tU6rwhQ5AmuoviiOdhfjmxptjAWY/s1600/DSC03013.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkEd0e-vwdwsIJEsre1AazFdkFkFi0LH_Y_SZO4n5GVv5jUZOdGk85IhHuyvp87JEFhbGwkyRCWYBUrh8J_ko3Mp0HZX7lsS0Kg_Kk008S4KR2xa5tU6rwhQ5AmuoviiOdhfjmxptjAWY/s320/DSC03013.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546869570582690834" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kegon Falls</td></tr>
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Nikko proved to be an interesting foil to the hustle and bustle of Tokyo. Upon leaving Nikko Station for the first time, the slower pace and friendlier atmosphere was already present. We puttered about a bit, in search of our hostel, and several different people approached us, elderly Japanese with warm faces and kind eyes, trying to get us to where we needed to go…after understanding a bit about us first, of course. The residents of Nikko seemed to have a much stronger human element; what mattered to them was the happiness of each day, one at a time, and that we had the best experience during our short visit to their homeland. We understood that their survival depended on our tourism; however, it was clearer to us that they cared more about who we were as people and where we were from than what sat in our fat, foreigner wallets. We were recommended fantastic eateries; one such izakaya treated us like kings when we told them which one of their friends had sent us. A round of Kirin on the house, and that was enough to relax our bodies and let the spending spree commence.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbPnpW1qn2KyPF5yvLOwMesaip1ZrS5FqrIj-zA_u_mnAG6lZFkHWVNn460NN-mmmj25HK3P4NFlcL3fs4N3WGvASboTssQopdSHLKw39cIwcG7nw4QrXqspEOdt6_f7Xu-GRnYyaZ-k/s320/DSC03000.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbPnpW1qn2KyPF5yvLOwMesaip1ZrS5FqrIj-zA_u_mnAG6lZFkHWVNn460NN-mmmj25HK3P4NFlcL3fs4N3WGvASboTssQopdSHLKw39cIwcG7nw4QrXqspEOdt6_f7Xu-GRnYyaZ-k/s320/DSC03000.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546869314785023170" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin-top: 0px; width: 320px;" /></a></div>
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I plan on making it back to Japan, possibly to teach English for a few years if I can’t capture a solid enough writing job in New York City after graduation. Nikko is at the top of my list for a place to revisit, and if I ever have a family someday, I plan on scraping together every last nickel and dime together so that they too may experience the sun setting over Lake Chūzenji.</div>
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Something barking in my American heart is telling me to compare stereotypes of New York/California and match them to a very similar relationship between Tokyo/Kyoto. Now, California certainly never had the distinction of once being the capital of its country (a la Kyoto), however it is more or less considered the western capital of America. It seems Kyoto has that friendlier atmosphere and a more-apparent supply of good Samaritans compared to Tokyo, which is especially ironic, due to the tremendous lack of competent English-speakers in Kyoto. Regardless of linguistic walls, five different people came up to my brother and I during our day and a half stay. One helped us with the completely-Japanese train ticket machine…and even though he did not speak a word of English, he still managed to save the day. The other four helped us with maps on city streets, and giving us helpful directional points, and their sign language communications always got us to the destination. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkO8X-hwIJDpeb8z-pme56QvORqbjlWlqh6kXAY25_BrNSH3Q3tPx1M1DMOGFG6_Tzdwd9uVSUrNqBnf4oHnm6cREnvhswqJ_fOvsowdaAf-gAQCmLiBZHuOWS4phOmY3j-GnNwgzNVjM/s1600/DSC03491.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkO8X-hwIJDpeb8z-pme56QvORqbjlWlqh6kXAY25_BrNSH3Q3tPx1M1DMOGFG6_Tzdwd9uVSUrNqBnf4oHnm6cREnvhswqJ_fOvsowdaAf-gAQCmLiBZHuOWS4phOmY3j-GnNwgzNVjM/s320/DSC03491.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540226832516082178" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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I’ve lived in Tokyo for three months now, and only twice did people stop and go out of their way to help me. Both times they saved me while I stood like an idiot in front of a gigantic map near a koban (police terminal). That isn’t to say that Tokyo is an unfriendly place at all, if you ask for help, and find an English speaker, they will never deny you, but it isn’t often that the metropolitan shuffle will halt all movement and come to a silly gaijin’s aid without being approached.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqnudoJCuM2a6BWxNgD7-ieXHWtcqSJGM8CN8axkoYvOvAwxaoOD6S0zph6_Iyt52164obqwRRcUbXexJM5uwwI-NdgW5HYvHcE2qUp9sX7l9nPt3_lX3X5r5jGKEoV7FXacHbtGj-mXY/s1600/DSC03517.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqnudoJCuM2a6BWxNgD7-ieXHWtcqSJGM8CN8axkoYvOvAwxaoOD6S0zph6_Iyt52164obqwRRcUbXexJM5uwwI-NdgW5HYvHcE2qUp9sX7l9nPt3_lX3X5r5jGKEoV7FXacHbtGj-mXY/s320/DSC03517.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540227757711414482" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Another interesting difference I noted was that, unlike in Tokyo, women do not feel the need to wear six pounds of make-up before leaving their homes, nor are they as bound to fashion expectations and clear displays of wealth. Honestly, it makes for a much friendlier atmosphere, and throws the distinct class markers to the wayside. (As you can tell I've dropped the New York/California comparison by now.) It almost made me feel as though school boys would rag on a guy trying to stick out with flashy clothes (excluding school uniforms, of course) or a motorbike, whereas in Tokyo, it's embraced and regarded as almost denoting a difference between being a child and a man. Clearly, in the more high-end sections of Kyoto (Teramachi and Shin Kyogoku arcades, for example) the standard fare of Tokyo is in full attendance, but by no means is it as excessively opulent as in many parts of Tokyo.<br />
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The most obvious difference: Food. The Kansai region is an undisputed gourmet titan when it comes to all things edible. Obviously, Tokyo is by no means a chump when it comes to articles that you put in your mouth and swallow, however, you can’t tell me that an Okonomiyaki isn’t one of the greatest tasting foods you’ve ever had. Yes, even better than Mom’s very finest casserole -- assuming she throws everything from egg to squid to shredded cabbage into it.<br />
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We also found this diamond in the rough, thanks to a New York Times article last Spring, where for 5,000 yen we enjoyed a 10-course meal, which changes periodically to the chef’s liking, and wow, I believe my palate expanded roughly twenty times. I hadn’t even heard of roughly 95% of the foods that I ate, but I can safely say that with some sake and a Kirin draft it all went down smoothly and heavenly.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few rounds of the unreal meal.</td></tr>
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One last point, especially because it combines two factors, happens to be the result of excellent food and the lack of extreme feminine pressure: overweight girls. In Tokyo, to see an obese girl aged 15-30 is more or less a rarity in the “hot spots” (during peak hours) of Tokyo, from Shibuya and Shinjuku, to Harajuku and Roppongi. However, in Kyoto, I saw many, many overweight girls, but I guess the real question is what exactly is “overweight” in Tokyo these days? The most obesity you’ll find in Tokyo is behind the fanny packs of foreigners. My guess is that most of the young folk these days believe if you can’t wrap your hands around a girl’s waist and touch your fingertips she had better go on a diet. Which is unsettling and unhealthy, but if you check out billboards (excluding one strange lottery ad with 3 large, spandex-clad women dancing about) you’ll find the truth. Either way, the fact that the food is so tasty doesn’t exactly help their struggle.<br />
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Regardless, Kyoto makes you fully aware that you’re no longer in Tokyo with their seas of temples and shorter buildings. Ultimately, it's just a slow-paced way of life compared to the rocket-shot urgency of Tokyo.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT3BKy3SKf36IYf4oXNXm7eeR0oWus0OqIXmNMiqSxXydMITXwusqevbIS4SJOKjRiuKLW9EyeF_uGKSFYxoHFrpzwDuL-7BasS6XFytlD3BwJ4fanoGa73pTHB7ndWv7SbXTTW6c9r64/s1600/DSC03506.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT3BKy3SKf36IYf4oXNXm7eeR0oWus0OqIXmNMiqSxXydMITXwusqevbIS4SJOKjRiuKLW9EyeF_uGKSFYxoHFrpzwDuL-7BasS6XFytlD3BwJ4fanoGa73pTHB7ndWv7SbXTTW6c9r64/s320/DSC03506.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540227276713182114" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<br />Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-70495733281037517502010-11-15T06:01:00.001-08:002014-08-13T08:33:21.332-07:00Hiroshima<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjrFoXd-CSzA8xDJQrC4yGeYCgMm0XRnFeNU072fC0dmB-s_cF7CgejBvU7BqQej6IVpwQ_5XN3DIbWdz3js028L2etIXhgHfnbuBHhGqvM4ZTJIGS5Y0g07q5xR5dpqhgA1c3OtBh41I/s1600/DSC03265.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjrFoXd-CSzA8xDJQrC4yGeYCgMm0XRnFeNU072fC0dmB-s_cF7CgejBvU7BqQej6IVpwQ_5XN3DIbWdz3js028L2etIXhgHfnbuBHhGqvM4ZTJIGS5Y0g07q5xR5dpqhgA1c3OtBh41I/s320/DSC03265.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539797273209993890" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhk1jUpuzDDF3wZn6MCwJtbmGN9jz05ebCXo1qzUqYjWv6eWz6LF4528J-KUws7QoZBfIA0QCLbangzkMvUbKDkF2_XNTO4M5fgbHstnwdKKf4TKaaESrqFWdm4uv9gCq-XnKFZkUgM0/s1600/DSC03321.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhk1jUpuzDDF3wZn6MCwJtbmGN9jz05ebCXo1qzUqYjWv6eWz6LF4528J-KUws7QoZBfIA0QCLbangzkMvUbKDkF2_XNTO4M5fgbHstnwdKKf4TKaaESrqFWdm4uv9gCq-XnKFZkUgM0/s320/DSC03321.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539790862551806482" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Never have I been more uncomfortable about a photo-op in all of my life than the moment I stepped into the Hiroshima Peace Park and my eyes fixated on the Genbaku Dōmu (A-Bomb Dome). I was fortunate enough to have an amazing US History AP teacher in high school, and he made sure we were fully aware of the atomic truths -- even though, they're often overlooked for being far too ‘controversial’ or ‘un-American’ to some school districts. I never quite understood how admitting the slaughter of thousands of innocents was in turn ‘American’, judging by that standard, but I digress.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVwcsitGdY8mDHnGAEq1qfY1eY-zu_Khb4ZkAa-s8MeuGMJw7OiNR6mLYiOMKiIjFWyswkncnYTKeLHEoygjHN88eikxkXvwMJiBz66wrlrnHw83aJWn6mmD1F6InMhvzWSiCSwynb8yw/s1600/DSC03283.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVwcsitGdY8mDHnGAEq1qfY1eY-zu_Khb4ZkAa-s8MeuGMJw7OiNR6mLYiOMKiIjFWyswkncnYTKeLHEoygjHN88eikxkXvwMJiBz66wrlrnHw83aJWn6mmD1F6InMhvzWSiCSwynb8yw/s320/DSC03283.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539795887196945538" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtcfRdI8pRVA9NEg9a5lZg_s0ndlrspVrjazzIQ7pVfBLFK-TAdSw_QdlFCozEAU65Gf7KRY9ajWwCgl2tRhuL4WsxkLWK88ZEjDuKUM1nlMXMRCYh_fsFzlljBXo6te5PmX-AvV_19Kc/s1600/DSC03284.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtcfRdI8pRVA9NEg9a5lZg_s0ndlrspVrjazzIQ7pVfBLFK-TAdSw_QdlFCozEAU65Gf7KRY9ajWwCgl2tRhuL4WsxkLWK88ZEjDuKUM1nlMXMRCYh_fsFzlljBXo6te5PmX-AvV_19Kc/s320/DSC03284.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539795289270996674" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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I couldn’t bear to take a photo in front of the only structure still surviving from the August 6, 1945 tragic blast with so many elderly Japanese around…some of which ate their lunch and looked up at it, somberly, between bites, and others who just sat and stared, in between puffs of a cigarette on a work break. There were scores of foreigners around, and yet even still, I felt a heavy weight of phantom guilt set on my shoulders preventing me from taking pictures as they were. Clearly, I wasn’t Harry S. Truman signing off on the order, nor was I a part of the flight team in the Enola Gay. However, just walking around that area, a true location of Hell on Earth just 65 years prior was enough to rattle my bones.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5uo2p8O4Xh4UfyI3s-5IkYU3T0eY8kVz6OYag_IwNa9t_hS2s33eDDgREc8weUJ01rWME-gFpQ-DKHOWul2p1Uu0-SvmfrmRRz7Y9IWY-tkOybGNurgm-yZRwUdk_S2SibDML90llSIo/s1600/DSC03272.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5uo2p8O4Xh4UfyI3s-5IkYU3T0eY8kVz6OYag_IwNa9t_hS2s33eDDgREc8weUJ01rWME-gFpQ-DKHOWul2p1Uu0-SvmfrmRRz7Y9IWY-tkOybGNurgm-yZRwUdk_S2SibDML90llSIo/s320/DSC03272.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539796805777131586" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Tours of Japanese elderly and green hat-clad children puttered through the Peace Park. For every wrinkled face, I couldn’t help believing they had personally lived through the detonation, and for every callow smile, I thought of the youthful innocence lost on that day.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVYvzFioSTvwCsI-aIs7KQLbZCYZ3o16FKVzyWCMEmVoR0uyVSEs1gss8wXMyAmk3ZpdPB1AdelqKsqIw95C6r-_AGTqPbS96j5DL5pAUWonVl3b-MtY98MlP_cBJX2eEXkEqCtiXYQCk/s1600/DSC03288.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVYvzFioSTvwCsI-aIs7KQLbZCYZ3o16FKVzyWCMEmVoR0uyVSEs1gss8wXMyAmk3ZpdPB1AdelqKsqIw95C6r-_AGTqPbS96j5DL5pAUWonVl3b-MtY98MlP_cBJX2eEXkEqCtiXYQCk/s320/DSC03288.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539794869816077618" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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In all honesty, I can’t think of a more awkward location for Americans to take pictures. You know well ahead of time that this is one picture you had better not smile in, but I guess it’s a matter of perspective. I saw plenty of Japanese smiling in photos around the park, but I’m not so sure about being American and following their example. Would it be wrong for a German to smile at Auschwitz’s gates? I’m not any sort of authority to judge, but I feel it is at the top of the list when it comes to most sensitive picture location. I think it’s more the smiling than anything else that throws it off.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqXKJqVTIWu0tbD1PLaKE0X3V2BBcNhToQFy-havpnvmrK4mBZQwfJkrqZxJJGrS4EVa3_SAeGmRA8VyeqNwZA7at69YDdefyQqHTHVI6Lp5wKygynkmauYeFvwVlJ_Jc6Z4W-eEnQxUY/s1600/DSC03291.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqXKJqVTIWu0tbD1PLaKE0X3V2BBcNhToQFy-havpnvmrK4mBZQwfJkrqZxJJGrS4EVa3_SAeGmRA8VyeqNwZA7at69YDdefyQqHTHVI6Lp5wKygynkmauYeFvwVlJ_Jc6Z4W-eEnQxUY/s320/DSC03291.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539793722186413586" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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What is so awe-inspiring about the dome is that there is nothing like it in the world. It is the sole symbol of atomic warfare, a solemn skeleton of a war-torn era not easily forgiven or forgotten. Just realizing that all the rest around it has been completely reconstructed, and that every other monument came many years following Little Boy is both sobering and stunning. The will of Hiroshima’s people to rebuild its city from a heap of ashes, regardless of potential health risks, is so unbelievably remarkable to me.<br />
The various monuments around the park number upwards of fifty and exist to honor diverse losses from children to firemen, and even to the Red Cross relief efforts following the war. When we made our way over to the children’s monument, we witnessed a class of Japanese elementary students among the sea of rainbow-colored peace cranes decorating the stone pillar. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2mfv2lr5JIeQ0C2Xr4igkze6fAq4IiMsulEhYnwzW2QxJ9cXyPFoIwCmd9hyuB884v284JWEVCTMmPXZlZkJ6eltehKRRBpNZ8LRwqGHWw9kJx41gouoc2KF0X-WqM9oK7XbAymscPjM/s1600/DSC03356.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2mfv2lr5JIeQ0C2Xr4igkze6fAq4IiMsulEhYnwzW2QxJ9cXyPFoIwCmd9hyuB884v284JWEVCTMmPXZlZkJ6eltehKRRBpNZ8LRwqGHWw9kJx41gouoc2KF0X-WqM9oK7XbAymscPjM/s320/DSC03356.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539777971008613746" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaQLxuIO_VfwVZzOUdE1TMS0lng-E2bnEBcKO6CnN5TUTMJcQNpaBkwAeeWMpF2SV571zb0A6jNTwS61E8eSeco7SE_FLRawaJj9eXanCDdCZToKFSmBoNZmXYMYs1gp969_2_zka-IPA/s1600/DSC03348.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaQLxuIO_VfwVZzOUdE1TMS0lng-E2bnEBcKO6CnN5TUTMJcQNpaBkwAeeWMpF2SV571zb0A6jNTwS61E8eSeco7SE_FLRawaJj9eXanCDdCZToKFSmBoNZmXYMYs1gp969_2_zka-IPA/s320/DSC03348.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539778213227610578" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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The paper peace cranes symbolize the story of Sadako Sasaki, a 2-year-old girl named Sadako Sasaki who survived the blast. However, she was diagnosed with leukemia due to radiation at the age of 11, though then it was referred to her as the “Atomic Bomb Disease”. An old Japanese belief holds that should someone fold 1,000 paper cranes they will be granted a wish. She believed that if she could fold 1,000 peace cranes in her hospital bed she would be able to beat cancer. Unfortunately, she succumbed to her wounds from the bomb on October 25, 1955 at the age of 12. Every year thousands upon thousands of school children send in paper peace cranes to be exhibited all around the monument.<br />
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As I marveled at the many-colored cranes, the children sang a heart-wrenching song of prayer for those who never even had a chance to grow and have children of their own. The sight forced every eye to tears and every camera to record.<br />
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Now, I don’t consider myself a stone-hearted man, but I also don’t view myself as a man who wears his emotions on his sleeve…However, I can safely say that I either fought back, or let flow tears, several times throughout the day. The children’s song of prayer was enough to make dead men weep, and the museum was where the heart could not deny the history of humanity in the park.<br />
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You learn of Hiroshima’s pre-war history:<br />
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How it grew into a bustling city and the home base of the Military’s 5th Infantry Division (which justified, militarily, its selection as the target).<br />
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How World War II came to be becomes clear, as well as its progression leading up to the birth of atomic weapons research, and finally of America’s plans to put an end to the war before the Soviets had an opportunity to extend their influence in Asia.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxi08eMhXqfL8Dxc7LTyjtaG3kAxC9eD8Kdsf7U3vBz1w-NDet7OyaRtgbdyaaPINGbmdW3vDSTctWbZrvaRrybsnKtjVgNd74X2ujdDBQ5vYVvYHnATK0tu3FgxqpLwWFb9RGHklpYA/s1600/DSC03330.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxi08eMhXqfL8Dxc7LTyjtaG3kAxC9eD8Kdsf7U3vBz1w-NDet7OyaRtgbdyaaPINGbmdW3vDSTctWbZrvaRrybsnKtjVgNd74X2ujdDBQ5vYVvYHnATK0tu3FgxqpLwWFb9RGHklpYA/s320/DSC03330.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539780899961028706" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7b7MAl1UXtPpzkVGSDPoeB87SShPgCMkSFc1MCcYUeYyElkbA4bW39U8PN5czVwusR_f1vIlnPfWF_hAbLOgIRnSnR2WSw2oGOMSLpqwGoITRt5GLsZsxrzNj6LMeKvtcW5fJBCu1OUo/s1600/DSC03332.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7b7MAl1UXtPpzkVGSDPoeB87SShPgCMkSFc1MCcYUeYyElkbA4bW39U8PN5czVwusR_f1vIlnPfWF_hAbLOgIRnSnR2WSw2oGOMSLpqwGoITRt5GLsZsxrzNj6LMeKvtcW5fJBCu1OUo/s320/DSC03332.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539780538980424162" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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On August 6th, 1945, phase one began. Charred bodies, melting flesh, unimaginable obliteration of buildings, lives, everything. The remains of a scorched tricycle were on display: a 3-year-old boy had been riding it down the street when the bomb dropped. The school badges of a 13-year-old girl were preserved: she had been walking home from her radio-dispatching job for the military. When her parents found her they could only recognize her by her voice, the rest of her body was a swollen, scarred monstrosity. She fell into a coma within hours and died overnight because the medical supplies her family had stored away had been destroyed in the blast.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYt6sJkmaOQp22LxcqawPaZ0MT6O5Tz1BaYYVfHfFHKdnQTKNN8ezfONBUQgMcvFKSaLBsd2_oT86p8ndR68n0nJNmyZM3BVh0CEzFh0RKuXtxiRUCt9XVIvdf6EpwSZ-masZTaPgIRS8/s1600/DSC03327.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYt6sJkmaOQp22LxcqawPaZ0MT6O5Tz1BaYYVfHfFHKdnQTKNN8ezfONBUQgMcvFKSaLBsd2_oT86p8ndR68n0nJNmyZM3BVh0CEzFh0RKuXtxiRUCt9XVIvdf6EpwSZ-masZTaPgIRS8/s320/DSC03327.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539790161090271442" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_54HLJp6BIHZIxazymPRIGVGkOl2_OuRFzOHkCJSNnLF9tGat_5eyJYfYlPS_qKbcvmSQ3kftgZQ0yIX_PJnm6gyq5MxgTkY4ApqcEG3RO9gMmSzGC-YTwzX1jqaZ1AGkrt-hDTmgKno/s1600/DSC03329.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_54HLJp6BIHZIxazymPRIGVGkOl2_OuRFzOHkCJSNnLF9tGat_5eyJYfYlPS_qKbcvmSQ3kftgZQ0yIX_PJnm6gyq5MxgTkY4ApqcEG3RO9gMmSzGC-YTwzX1jqaZ1AGkrt-hDTmgKno/s320/DSC03329.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539784449524225090" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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Stories like these hit me with waves of sorrow, guilt, and rage at how something as atrocious as war is able to exist in a society which considers itself civilized; a world where innocent lives are sacrificed for little more than oil, or diamonds, or a slight advantage over the Soviets in post-war talks. It makes everything that actually matters, like life and love, meaningless.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG6hC0A6o1MmyjnaiEfW4WjkotM8m-IawkQlmlTcnghkduEfVPeH8Le3wf0KSgAxkEQaEx3AISS9e3qEGZgzGitcDVoNCzvTsx-gLQcgCV8Tnbgi-D4LUp2GcTKmiaq2tmQT4S5wRkX4c/s1600/DSC03342.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG6hC0A6o1MmyjnaiEfW4WjkotM8m-IawkQlmlTcnghkduEfVPeH8Le3wf0KSgAxkEQaEx3AISS9e3qEGZgzGitcDVoNCzvTsx-gLQcgCV8Tnbgi-D4LUp2GcTKmiaq2tmQT4S5wRkX4c/s320/DSC03342.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539778671333814114" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi80Is1G1u2rQFweaBJqaebdrCYVYWOlZzsEvehXT16-EcUpFdNzsz1GMXgB-uNGbnJwdrAjv5LbPS9lrQZMVoON_3Lii8lBssV3LtJLlbWjwgS_2xqtTrJ5R0FRVL-Fp5n8UcxULqptWU/s1600/DSC03345.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi80Is1G1u2rQFweaBJqaebdrCYVYWOlZzsEvehXT16-EcUpFdNzsz1GMXgB-uNGbnJwdrAjv5LbPS9lrQZMVoON_3Lii8lBssV3LtJLlbWjwgS_2xqtTrJ5R0FRVL-Fp5n8UcxULqptWU/s320/DSC03345.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539778505251289042" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Hiroshima serves the world well as a symbol of international peace & disarmament. As a city, she has seen what humanity is capable of at its worst; the raw power and disregard for innocent human life.<br />
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But, she is also representative of the unrelenting force of the human spirit. When I first stepped off that train and arrived in Hiroshima, there was no lingering scent of atomic radiation. I did not feel as though I had suddenly entered the city of the dead. The sun shone as bright as in any city, the laughter of schoolchildren still rang down the sidewalks, and trees flowered full of life as they swayed in the calm breeze.<br />
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The plaque beneath the cenotaph commemorating those who perished reads:<br />
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“Let all the souls here rest in peace, for we shall not repeat the evil.” <br />
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We must never forget them. If the complete abandonment of nuclear weapons does not become a reality in the near future, we should expect a very short tenure on this earth for our next generation. Like the A-Bomb Dome represents the sole reminder of pre-war Hiroshima, we can expect a pile of bones and tattered cloth to be all that remains of the human race if we do not change our course of fear and war into a movement for world peace.<br />
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Are we so unable to live in harmony, without any thought of color or creed? People seem to believe mankind is nonperishable -- that, by some divine touch or stroke of luck, the ones who are meant to live will always survive. But if one of these devices goes off and sets the world ablaze...who in their right mind would even want to survive?<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibKPm5Wp2fdW7ZD3tpoR2xh0KAQdtOwpg9AyNsd6o8i8GhPBi9Jn37te-EpDsPxNTSzA3ya9lPJHMu0Gl4-0Mo9w1gOuhjD1zA6xZCHVvfo-RPkwUVx0zcYYIn4CbaQ4cmYxK0okwfdms/s1600/1hiro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibKPm5Wp2fdW7ZD3tpoR2xh0KAQdtOwpg9AyNsd6o8i8GhPBi9Jn37te-EpDsPxNTSzA3ya9lPJHMu0Gl4-0Mo9w1gOuhjD1zA6xZCHVvfo-RPkwUVx0zcYYIn4CbaQ4cmYxK0okwfdms/s1600/1hiro.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most uncomfortable photo-op of my life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjji5IvPYcIVA57RkE75SNqe5rZ9XNdj2MD1UGnpIgkzDebERmBVW9POkXqHdjydhJpKaV6Qu2CY2gQW4JC3uciWQjdEwVyxA38IR6SxAkGL3iDZvZWAb_MZd3utYbOezUPuifyUzzvVTY/s1600/DSC03424.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjji5IvPYcIVA57RkE75SNqe5rZ9XNdj2MD1UGnpIgkzDebERmBVW9POkXqHdjydhJpKaV6Qu2CY2gQW4JC3uciWQjdEwVyxA38IR6SxAkGL3iDZvZWAb_MZd3utYbOezUPuifyUzzvVTY/s320/DSC03424.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539777698507346962" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Skeletal Reminder.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-59519875307259131562010-10-24T10:12:00.000-07:002014-08-07T13:12:03.753-07:00Pokyo Poetry<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDJhZu23aUdBCEoc5W0BIC6aa_Mb7SmNqvpf0t_JU24DYbfzgEQZH9ONpWj-bHtxyTlYUvG8FYyo_TN5Sdr0uX-7-BE7oLeOqa8vQujPKEP4bBzjSdVbv5MYy0t3wr4GbzRLmeg9XuE8/s1600/DSC01811.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDJhZu23aUdBCEoc5W0BIC6aa_Mb7SmNqvpf0t_JU24DYbfzgEQZH9ONpWj-bHtxyTlYUvG8FYyo_TN5Sdr0uX-7-BE7oLeOqa8vQujPKEP4bBzjSdVbv5MYy0t3wr4GbzRLmeg9XuE8/s320/DSC01811.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531664284947918770" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Well, considering one of the main reasons I sent my silly self across the seas was for some new source of inspiration, I figured I’d dedicate this binya-binya-polly-blog to a bit of the poetry I’ve written here thus far. Oddly enough, I don’t even have any poetry classes while over here, yet I’ve written probably double what I would’ve produced back in the motherland with a class forcing my hand to write. Obviously, I’m not going to toss them all in here, most of which are meager first drafts, but I’ll throw in a handful that at least have some sort of, well, shall we just say "idea" to them. I will admit they all tend to be stream of consciousness in style, and roughly 95% of them were written on trains during my hour-long commute either to or from class. I s’pose that’s enough listing of excuses to keep you from calling me an outright fool for being a writing major.<br />
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Anyway, here are 6 of the more Japan-oriented (and family-friendly) ones:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIWnUA3JwTrrp2y6uvXxR__HmHZ5URJZDyz1AsSknLWg4YEpzsN4tHbcWw1EtHnUrCx5bqU8Pz9BsPKi828AIi383j3RkbMago8e7ub1XCeQue2OT1x3yNmjW9FWcWCMu1frNJYd11L4U/s1600/1bigbox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIWnUA3JwTrrp2y6uvXxR__HmHZ5URJZDyz1AsSknLWg4YEpzsN4tHbcWw1EtHnUrCx5bqU8Pz9BsPKi828AIi383j3RkbMago8e7ub1XCeQue2OT1x3yNmjW9FWcWCMu1frNJYd11L4U/s1600/1bigbox.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Big Box</span><br />
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Big Box screams out its belligerent glow<br />
ten stories of steel. floor after floor of western appeal.<br />
nothing Japanese-sleek about its design.<br />
one big fissuring concrete clot in the city’s heart.<br />
below hangs teenaged trash, hungering on cemented islands<br />
between right-wheeled automobiles. racing around in mechanic continuity.<br />
these teens doused in cheap beer and refuse rice wine.<br />
initiation, they say, while both genders stagger and stumble,<br />
clutching their tight-jeaned thighs, praying to unseen<br />
Shinto Gods for earthly release of alcohol smothered fluid.<br />
heads swinging as pendulums between knees.<br />
hacking aggressively, nothing mating about their calls.<br />
recommendations in broken, endearing English. ‘yakyu’ or baseball.<br />
‘purikura’ or cute pictures. but I could do without 2,000-yen trips to photo booths for animated garbage. when the dollar is worth less than the hair on my ass.<br />
but, that’s social pressure.<br />
conformity redefined.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibvU9BVrbbeUS8xxYZrlEJA4u3hraGPZvqLAY3TyddZegBkOZ2TKaDa_eh3R6os1SpaSRYI0UA3CX-gFGdRiYT5llv9aYklYjhFejb1aTXEWIxRDlePG7VNggagCA0OWJBX5DgK3IYcOk/s1600/1yeller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibvU9BVrbbeUS8xxYZrlEJA4u3hraGPZvqLAY3TyddZegBkOZ2TKaDa_eh3R6os1SpaSRYI0UA3CX-gFGdRiYT5llv9aYklYjhFejb1aTXEWIxRDlePG7VNggagCA0OWJBX5DgK3IYcOk/s1600/1yeller.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Stray Shouters</span><br />
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Stray Cats, tails stubbed, eyes two golden baubles glittering<br />
tongue wash city grime off forlorn fur under rust motorbikes<br />
mitsubishi, honda. high-end left to scrap in low-end alley.<br />
thin roads fit for feet. bikes and metal monsters barrel down,<br />
braking sharp sputtering crashing past flowerpots vending machine paddies.<br />
shouters, yellers, loudmouthed youth call out deals in mysterious tongues<br />
rolling bodies in for pay. fur trader; bounty hunters in wild east.<br />
lawlessness under close supervision. invisible sheriffs.<br />
outlaws move about unchecked, free at crime, but with every backhanded<br />
move made, an equal yang must produce. if no balance comes, expect the stuck out nail to meet hammer-headed justice.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdT2ZhfvT4U08X-u9zncBe_b0QETyqysuJi7RRkH65dejJJvwsrxbRzR7C9b3sup6335KUZzkdaSs14D6PhKEzymXQrVgRdR76bf182xp0NApHcH_WD6Ls-AmgiD5hos2bxPmJjz6KJD4/s1600/DSC01815.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdT2ZhfvT4U08X-u9zncBe_b0QETyqysuJi7RRkH65dejJJvwsrxbRzR7C9b3sup6335KUZzkdaSs14D6PhKEzymXQrVgRdR76bf182xp0NApHcH_WD6Ls-AmgiD5hos2bxPmJjz6KJD4/s320/DSC01815.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531664726750042834" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Harajuku, Sitting in a Middle-of-the-Road Park</span><br />
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Smiles are cheap and easy.<br />
Multi-national children speak many tongues, but all wear blue & white.<br />
A ponytail requirement for girls, and tanuki grins for boys.<br />
A gentle breeze crawls between buildings for breath,<br />
while suits puff their cigarettes with added pleasure.<br />
Heads and eyes look upward to sparkling signs, flashing ads.<br />
Never toward the paved streets. <br />
They see no future on the ground.<br />
A red bandanan’d golden retriever gazes past the bustle,<br />
while a little blond girl drags a stick across the fence, hitting every rung,<br />
making a natural music, blending with bike bells.<br />
The restless honks of evening traffic are muffled by the sweet sounds.<br />
Lonesome trees rest in cemented pots, surrounded by meager shrubs,<br />
but I’d gladly take root next to them,<br />
and keep them company.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWvGtIZfjdjQ1PVkxyWVkjHLMgHnrRRcRAzbmK4QJ0J8UC5w81g3EZyTorFoZ6nFaYjvoF2fNHAwGEY8WdhJL6RHxrjZrkLF4vzR_J3e6r2RtDz1rosN0nAL7SkYGIcGZLpojoa4jtSQ/s1600/DSC01812.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWvGtIZfjdjQ1PVkxyWVkjHLMgHnrRRcRAzbmK4QJ0J8UC5w81g3EZyTorFoZ6nFaYjvoF2fNHAwGEY8WdhJL6RHxrjZrkLF4vzR_J3e6r2RtDz1rosN0nAL7SkYGIcGZLpojoa4jtSQ/s320/DSC01812.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531664518791887458" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Seeing-Eye Son</span><br />
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Dark-suited blindness, kind-faced.<br />
Feeling cane resting inside lap.<br />
Son by shoulder<br />
speaks softly. Eyes hiding behind<br />
orange reflectors, searching for language<br />
with close proximity face.<br />
Does not seem aloof.<br />
Strange old women,<br />
clutching weathered leather purses. Three.<br />
They appear exited from life long ago.<br />
Checks and bills are only signs of life.<br />
Blind man led from corner seating to platform.<br />
Steps over gap, motioning, descriptions of<br />
colored kanji-covered ads escape him.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4cD4xb5allLfgwcK2JbUiUdtx_Ly6hFTraCy9pwsBwF7CGbRUXuu5Dw9eJNzZENoHDguk_fZt7hDWNi9-REUiVAWcNfDkefRnhhUx8ZVH2RpZyPo6qaXN-7b64h5CEEbN6jXi2ZTeFec/s1600/DSC01066.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4cD4xb5allLfgwcK2JbUiUdtx_Ly6hFTraCy9pwsBwF7CGbRUXuu5Dw9eJNzZENoHDguk_fZt7hDWNi9-REUiVAWcNfDkefRnhhUx8ZVH2RpZyPo6qaXN-7b64h5CEEbN6jXi2ZTeFec/s320/DSC01066.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531663330334431202" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Don’t Wait! Reincarnate!</span><br />
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Love to play the reincarnation game<br />
look at a body and face<br />
see if you can trace back <br />
hundreds of years in the past,<br />
a court official stands suited appropriately<br />
at the cusp of the subway door.<br />
That coolly dude standing watching in the corner, <br />
has military and samurai smoking in his eyes.<br />
That big dominant tank had to have been Emperor,<br />
balancing war and politics with a wise fist.<br />
And that one in the mini-skirt?<br />
Top dollar concubine, of course.<br />
That pant-suited doll-face?<br />
Screams Empress loud in everyone’s ears.<br />
And these young ones lost in between,<br />
based on face and dress isn’t as simple.<br />
Some could fall into all categories, others none.<br />
Hopefully, at least some.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2wo2tGV-0Wc4lgBBl5z_IA4KmcgIreiTeQZPXmdPuAiJsvfUIW7uZs62Bvs7o8EAISdT8B_xJt7R-YVwJdflUsViTX9NWlpW-vTe9X702Zg83vjFvFEw10T_G01vu0w2a2Q7FizxYogs/s1600/1train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2wo2tGV-0Wc4lgBBl5z_IA4KmcgIreiTeQZPXmdPuAiJsvfUIW7uZs62Bvs7o8EAISdT8B_xJt7R-YVwJdflUsViTX9NWlpW-vTe9X702Zg83vjFvFEw10T_G01vu0w2a2Q7FizxYogs/s1600/1train.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Train Bits</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">#1</span><br />
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Don’t take it for granted, little one,<br />
not all of us have the opportunity<br />
To ride city trains with our pappy,<br />
Decked out in baseball gear.<br />
So cherish the moments, little man.<br />
For yourself, your grandfather, <br />
And me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNmVDwh-1j7x6I2582Eoq9E_7T2zMCfTMW1dWQ4SN6bLY6wK9idGFqQzVGCy1xE7-B7_nUWToy43LOCKxXEtT1fjcu3uQUTmcq135msKkALkdEYhcosQizzONXljmqV-kMB9lj66R23TY/s1600/1postoffice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNmVDwh-1j7x6I2582Eoq9E_7T2zMCfTMW1dWQ4SN6bLY6wK9idGFqQzVGCy1xE7-B7_nUWToy43LOCKxXEtT1fjcu3uQUTmcq135msKkALkdEYhcosQizzONXljmqV-kMB9lj66R23TY/s1600/1postoffice.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">#2</span><br />
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Feed me a bowl of slop, I’ll be content.<br />
Just give me a cityscape view<br />
a window on the outside or in<br />
makes no difference.<br />
Let me see the taxis and buses,<br />
rivals dancing around a paved ballroom.<br />
Show me the buildings of your mind.Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-53001858482720955472010-10-20T03:16:00.000-07:002014-08-07T13:43:32.246-07:00Japansanity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzE72tkqCbRxql72yOEzbAtKoFj6fDXEuqPoGf6g98IzYHAKRyQ_9QsGQi-qg2vy7aLr7Xn-dKTNOf4UzFDPvpwY_ZkKsjk2bqS4R5D0Oaj3pespAvTR4-KBH_M55xlfGS7fXRC7aRl3Y/s1600/bikesz.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzE72tkqCbRxql72yOEzbAtKoFj6fDXEuqPoGf6g98IzYHAKRyQ_9QsGQi-qg2vy7aLr7Xn-dKTNOf4UzFDPvpwY_ZkKsjk2bqS4R5D0Oaj3pespAvTR4-KBH_M55xlfGS7fXRC7aRl3Y/s320/bikesz.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530074976259342322" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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I’ve decided it’s time to create a little list of oddities I’ve never before experienced in the States, and which seem to be very commonplace in ol’ Tokyo. I’ll likely have a master list of sorts at the end of my journey, assuming that I keep a running list of other strange sightings -- at least ones which deserve publication in this family-friendly blogaroosky. So, without further ado:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAvetsjb__GTnc2hmJG-MMyJLPxAVG4yoOvSQVtSjpVBEotA3l6V64248pb3A90cOBArhux9lNDiOn9g1ycZigBMNcmgslqxqOctfFxQ5tjVciYIJHLOiMHDNquyAEUbWFndRM9ANAqig/s1600/1taxi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAvetsjb__GTnc2hmJG-MMyJLPxAVG4yoOvSQVtSjpVBEotA3l6V64248pb3A90cOBArhux9lNDiOn9g1ycZigBMNcmgslqxqOctfFxQ5tjVciYIJHLOiMHDNquyAEUbWFndRM9ANAqig/s1600/1taxi.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
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<b>Taxis (takshi)</b><br />
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They have automatic doors, or well, the driver pulls a lever next to his seat, which automatically opens the left door (remember people, they drive on the other side of the road) once he pulls over to receive a customer. Naturally, once the person is more or less settled inside the cab, he pushes the lever back around to shut the door. You may think it’s a bit unnecessary, but oddly enough, it seems to make the whole process significantly easier, especially if you’re some aristocrat bearing the fruits of your ultra-demanding day of labor (i.e. shopping).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik56hCqZXjo2BLof8gEcHQV072sbNbHm0BAL0RdmCNrEdIRDzPN26vfZm65RGw6ZLplG1qk1F6cPKl2W6lmccVGYIrSqF7IL7xm0Rw0YK0UdK6c-iw4cbtq-YFGcW_3WaAwLv-mSwuQNk/s1600/DSC01425.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik56hCqZXjo2BLof8gEcHQV072sbNbHm0BAL0RdmCNrEdIRDzPN26vfZm65RGw6ZLplG1qk1F6cPKl2W6lmccVGYIrSqF7IL7xm0Rw0YK0UdK6c-iw4cbtq-YFGcW_3WaAwLv-mSwuQNk/s320/DSC01425.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530076135939675618" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<b>Unattended Children</b><br />
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Kids of all ages can be spotted walking on their own throughout the city. I guess the kicker is that these students are always either on their way to or from school, but the fact remains that I’ve seen 7-year olds traveling on public transportation without parental supervision. What’s so strange is that Japanese mothers are notorious for their overprotection over their kodomo; however, I assume it’s just a further testament to how safe Tokyo truly is.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiStD3bn2GbwGrDv2tNFP4U-HNfP3xJbhy5olKeJ00MK7OKSJCiScwY76QbiUvvyhXr5ixa3SAZC5RrdO_RQg01Tz3ccVFoIgqtkiivf8wU26actNlL5Rv1bS2rTEMfSdust9LlyBsm440/s1600/father-daughter-work-school.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiStD3bn2GbwGrDv2tNFP4U-HNfP3xJbhy5olKeJ00MK7OKSJCiScwY76QbiUvvyhXr5ixa3SAZC5RrdO_RQg01Tz3ccVFoIgqtkiivf8wU26actNlL5Rv1bS2rTEMfSdust9LlyBsm440/s320/father-daughter-work-school.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530075414815932930" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<b>Bike-bound Businessmen</b><br />
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Men in suits on bicycles. Walk through New York City, or most American cities, I’d gather, and it’s not too often that you’ll be seeing fully-suited businessmen traveling to work on bike. Assuming you don’t travel through the more congested areas, heavy in terms of rush hour foot traffic, chances are that you’ll see several businessmen commuting to work on two wheels instead of two feet. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_jwFhpTNizYDjBymMz1bJU6HWmW3UEUWeiHdT2I9_0lQhzwnq9TvXA5ZoI8qz4cSNkI8BQBOyMfZr2yIdF9womxfsO2j3PYerOomAzk8YqKbIC7u0I56kZDS7F4dTBisCcGZOQjOW7lI/s1600/HAMBAGA.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_jwFhpTNizYDjBymMz1bJU6HWmW3UEUWeiHdT2I9_0lQhzwnq9TvXA5ZoI8qz4cSNkI8BQBOyMfZr2yIdF9womxfsO2j3PYerOomAzk8YqKbIC7u0I56kZDS7F4dTBisCcGZOQjOW7lI/s320/HAMBAGA.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530075566412710738" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMH5xl7BQNV0yUaNub3wMKoOK1_KVLRxITJlASGCR2UHaPh2fXDV68HPjUIhu2xBgnSfqhlYZbo3fljge4Is2QibP2YjQXxYUvTJjiyhjfJE07r4bpNAPOXaph3465LjkUTILrs7tVgNM/s1600/DSC01125.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMH5xl7BQNV0yUaNub3wMKoOK1_KVLRxITJlASGCR2UHaPh2fXDV68HPjUIhu2xBgnSfqhlYZbo3fljge4Is2QibP2YjQXxYUvTJjiyhjfJE07r4bpNAPOXaph3465LjkUTILrs7tVgNM/s320/DSC01125.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530071454024783970" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<b>FAST FOOD</b><br />
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It’s not all rice, seafood, soy sauce, and sake. While the hundreds of Japanese dishes certainly do exist all over the place, you can bet on that fake American charm to creep into some corner establishments as well. KFC’s Colonel Sanders somewhat represents the American symbol of Christmas and Santa Claus in Japan, but Christmas is more of a Valentine’s Day type deal over here anyway…the samurai saw to it that Christianity never secured much of a foothold a few centuries back. McDonald’s has a clear dominance, and is similar to Starbucks in America, in terms of how omnipresent they are. Then again, McDonald's is everywhere in America too, so I've clearly already forgotten what the west is like.<br /><br />Down the street from my dormitory, right near the train station, two large McDonald’s exist a mere block away from each other. Also, McDonald’s seems to have taken over the Starbucks trait of housing numerous students, businessmen, etc. working on all manner of papers and projects…while they gorge on a Big Maku.<br />
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Burger King has a moderate presence, but nowhere near the stranglehold McDonald’s seems to have on Japan, most likely one of the most effective offenders in America’s stereotype of being a nation of obesity. One last point is that Taco Bell and Wendy’s seem to be non-existent, whereas a relatively New England-based pizza chain, Shakey’s, wields power with its numerous establishments throughout Tokyo (their pizza sucks...but they do have all-you-can-eat specials).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTsGAdTKlDJvaZRjFXhyphenhyphenHfWr9336iv3QoWs0AamVNtHTBiBnFmZfYmiiAHgaSRp8HztP8C70Efe4CY8RrjiXCD46Bdgf4VVCoLBsl_PiM_2Dvd4aegC0YnavMeESRI12Hws9DTyP5UQO8/s1600/1ff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTsGAdTKlDJvaZRjFXhyphenhyphenHfWr9336iv3QoWs0AamVNtHTBiBnFmZfYmiiAHgaSRp8HztP8C70Efe4CY8RrjiXCD46Bdgf4VVCoLBsl_PiM_2Dvd4aegC0YnavMeESRI12Hws9DTyP5UQO8/s1600/1ff.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet, sweet ketchup.</td></tr>
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<b>Mayonnaise</b><br />
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You know I’d never lie to you, and trust me when I say this: what ketchup is to America, mayo seems to be Japan’s similar condiment of choice. Ketchup is still fairly widespread -- however, when it comes to a literal spread, mayonnaise floods everything from rice balls to pizza. Personally, I'm not a huge fan of mayo. At times, I’ve been forced to sacrifice many trees worth of napkins. So, before making the plunge to the Far East, I’d either recommend developing a taste for mayo, or I’d recommend learning how to say ‘no mayo’ as-soon-as-possible.<br />
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<i>I would like to end on a serious note: </i><br />
<br />
The Homeless exist, but they’re either far better at hiding than the American homeless population, or they’re simply gathered and put somewhere in Tokyo. It almost seems to be that no matter how far gone these poor souls tend to be, they steer completely clear of the deeper sections of the train stations, never going further than the overpass. But, it is only just turning to autumn, and chances are that once winter comes to pass they’ll become a bit more desperate and bold. I think it would be an interesting anthropological study to examine the American reaction to the homeless as opposed to the Japanese one, especially considering how proud/stoic the Japanese are historically perceived to be…though, obviously that’s just a generalization because I have seen businessmen toss change to the homeless, even those not panhandling.<br />
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Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-54742390881932942522010-10-11T05:01:00.001-07:002014-08-07T14:22:33.830-07:00Akihabara's Electric Town: The American Boy In Japan<br />
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My last update was way too generic, too much of a history lesson than any real legitimate representation of my thoughts while puttering about Tokyo. I aim to make this post far more personal, and just make it more conversational than what seemed like a timeline in my last post. So, without further ado:<br />
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O LAWD, they certainly call it "Electric Town" for a reason. As soon as I stepped off the Yamanote Line's train and into ol’ Aki, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was only 2 P.M. (14:00, if you dare correct me), yet you could already tell how much lit-up fanfare would explode once the sun had fallen behind enough hills. I found myself immediately thrust into the eye of the electrical storm, and everywhere I looked my eyes could see endless avenues full of wires, lights, and cameras.<br />
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The first four shops I came across were selling a myriad of security cameras, complete with creepily-connected televisions set all about, taping my every move for anyone who’d bother to watch mindless footage. Sorry Mr. Warhol, you can’t tell me that’s ‘art’. Just when you’d think the end was near, there would be three other nooks to shimmy down, complete with a slew of vendors on both sides of the path. Anything remotely electric or mechanical was represented; millions and millions of parts were piled into a 3-floor complex, which had once been known as the center of the black market in post-war Tokyo…where primarily banned radios had been sold.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhytHw-cvKw9CVO2WrnOzNqy4PIcmhWHtb-5rYmSDVNR7SBGDk-A5F0XfYJ3Odh3XkUiqOOg6sjEKpWXf_j-8a0pQ-B1Ts6Q65fnNkN-WqnLSJtqXcKTVlrcXZOH2elOB_03ltmGztZTho/s1600/64016_1415594873291_5888970_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhytHw-cvKw9CVO2WrnOzNqy4PIcmhWHtb-5rYmSDVNR7SBGDk-A5F0XfYJ3Odh3XkUiqOOg6sjEKpWXf_j-8a0pQ-B1Ts6Q65fnNkN-WqnLSJtqXcKTVlrcXZOH2elOB_03ltmGztZTho/s1600/64016_1415594873291_5888970_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
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Gazing at the limitless pieces made me think of my grandfather who was a man of tools and machinery, and would probably have had a field day walking through all the acres of profound, tinkering potential. There also seemed to be some sort of antique-auction section on the second floor, where you could find posters from Japan’s 1964 Olympics to the rookie baseball card of Japan’s Baseball National Hero: Sadaharu Oh.<br />
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<u><b>SUPER POTATO FRONTDOOR PIC</b></u><br />
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After wasting enough time in the junkyard metropolis I rolled about in search of my childhood, that is, video game stores which would cater to the old rather than the new. And I happened to find such a wonderful dream store called <b>Super Potato</b> -- not at all sure what the significance could possibly be in title, but, well, it is Japan.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsvgxGb16MzRokAKEKgGorwpo6Er7jRXlOGtKeuDe4HiayCX0g0SOsD98dcdPxWHdjeFNIJGupnReF3XPQieZn8yw88StClpM3ufxTOVTp_TNWAgK7KVkXBfph7ocUyoBHq2Uj1Oi9bVg/s1600/DSC02668.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsvgxGb16MzRokAKEKgGorwpo6Er7jRXlOGtKeuDe4HiayCX0g0SOsD98dcdPxWHdjeFNIJGupnReF3XPQieZn8yw88StClpM3ufxTOVTp_TNWAgK7KVkXBfph7ocUyoBHq2Uj1Oi9bVg/s320/DSC02668.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526761505299796994" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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As soon as I stormed through the door I came across a life-size statue of Super Mario. I figured I’d either entered heaven or someone had slipped something into my drink, but either way, there was no possible way I had entered anything remotely close to reality. It was pure insanity. I mean, to the point of where had I been struck dead upon stepping out of the store, I wouldn’t have any doubts about having lived a full life or not. The feelings of euphoria I experienced within that store could only be compared to holding your newborn child for the first time and winning a brand new car on the Oprah Show. Yeah, it was like that to an old nerd.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJB3jGB1-2Uk9AAgI3FC4yr8MJM5yM3bj3xFM1ez5OeVMKyhlh2TWHupnDZ_X0PzpjNEKHKSphnw6YAZ31RnfoNFnhTpJJqtrHt_HA58RC6oC-z60LCudotsfFTFLwwmHf6fSmUqaEuk/s1600/DSC02650.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJB3jGB1-2Uk9AAgI3FC4yr8MJM5yM3bj3xFM1ez5OeVMKyhlh2TWHupnDZ_X0PzpjNEKHKSphnw6YAZ31RnfoNFnhTpJJqtrHt_HA58RC6oC-z60LCudotsfFTFLwwmHf6fSmUqaEuk/s320/DSC02650.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526761258373088418" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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I soon found out that there were two other floors above the one that I had been crying throughout. So, after spending an hour or so, embracing endless rows of video games as if they had been my long-lost brothers, I soon realized that I’d have to repeat continued shocks of bliss. I spent roughly $60 throughout the adventure, and I came terribly close to spending well over $100. Did I mention that I spent the money on Japanese video games and other related nonsense? I think my justification at the time was that it would help me learn the language, <i>improve my reading skills</i>, so to speak.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Necessary Nerd Fuel<br />
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After this little spending spree, I went over to a promising little eatery, soon realizing that I had ordered a monster of a meal…that could easily feed an entire Japanese family (we’re talking grandparents and extended family too). I ate maybe ¾ of it, but more or less had to be wheel barrowed over to the train station. After getting back to my room and collapsing on my bed, bloated beyond belief by rice and raw egg, and weighed down by unnecessary (but to me, completely necessary) videogame purchases, I napped heavier and more peacefully than I had in a long time. I was reminded of the first reason I wished to even travel to Japan in the first place: Nintendo. I slept like a man empty of regret and full of content.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6jFjIelLKMrVgmYT2a4-sUozX_-naJHOHt6NCxlSkky9JHQgAzfML_8fFgpSJi9qWTfvR-GKesWglCMqmj9gPBelVwLfP5ZjpLYiUnx0ARp8YcSlG4iDkDKmfE6IA6PMXFV5lpWPYeY8/s1600/smrpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6jFjIelLKMrVgmYT2a4-sUozX_-naJHOHt6NCxlSkky9JHQgAzfML_8fFgpSJi9qWTfvR-GKesWglCMqmj9gPBelVwLfP5ZjpLYiUnx0ARp8YcSlG4iDkDKmfE6IA6PMXFV5lpWPYeY8/s1600/smrpg.jpg" height="320" width="234" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love Of My Life.</td></tr>
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Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-53438785859603505982010-10-04T10:22:00.000-07:002014-08-11T12:49:47.329-07:00Mikoshi Festival: Let's Carry Some Shinto Gods<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3HfnnL21c0G3jNr3hZ88wuTIjPED6wbsVIurSvTzB_OdDCB0bSAS9MXwgpxu523Rph9_1fEtIja6oVaMdpc_jfts5Sdhq9X70OOcYy69bcbDGBKDxMR0gNScqCOziUpenctQ8enZdlAI/s1600/DSC_0856_343.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXLZegQgS1_5Z68cVrqPJJjlZVn58bXGkPMQQbIGK4KtZ6R9QGqezOb9oGo-Brcr4RIWgJllHcxEEWia8nu0nIe7alENq9fxAYSPJovxextk3DxAkaBwjtZiHkWecC3kpGUPgyx6vCCo/s1600/1mikoshi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXLZegQgS1_5Z68cVrqPJJjlZVn58bXGkPMQQbIGK4KtZ6R9QGqezOb9oGo-Brcr4RIWgJllHcxEEWia8nu0nIe7alENq9fxAYSPJovxextk3DxAkaBwjtZiHkWecC3kpGUPgyx6vCCo/s1600/1mikoshi.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We had no idea.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0pkzfqB90v5aTQCEJpqp3INI5ClQMwjQz_sEqgg9smvuoXeqjL00zu3YngjHIQMGrZkX_8QDNr-Nbi1Bqf7-lO1SnRlBSe6h8P0wGTGUpqf67YXiLdGYKSzPI4RhL0AQVejkAT5f6mqs/s1600/DSC_0802_289.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0pkzfqB90v5aTQCEJpqp3INI5ClQMwjQz_sEqgg9smvuoXeqjL00zu3YngjHIQMGrZkX_8QDNr-Nbi1Bqf7-lO1SnRlBSe6h8P0wGTGUpqf67YXiLdGYKSzPI4RhL0AQVejkAT5f6mqs/s320/DSC_0802_289.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524242934064266018" style="display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There She Is: MIKOSHI!</td></tr>
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I was fortunate enough to take part in a community festival of sorts recently. The event is known as “Matsuri”, and basically consists of neighborly revelry and prayer, an interesting combination, no doubt. It’s a holy day in the Shinto religion, where all participants dress in traditional garb of robes, bandanas (ours happened to be green), and white linen footpads. The process begins with feasting and drinking of certain beverages that are of a bottled variety, many of which are homemade and contain quite a bit more punch than, say, the standard fare. In other words, I drank some Japanese moonshine.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDX1OpDAjj6jXJoJUeVcnZyCNO5SHyDCIMOGbl6tg7F68WcksEVxZQDBFNo-3uVXdW7LrDW-NKJ24qDC0NBq_ZCHKu3tMKkIMvON9k4PTWjhAmYCE3bUkpf8UXGENXfec3eA0BggFORWc/s1600/DSC_0851_338.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDX1OpDAjj6jXJoJUeVcnZyCNO5SHyDCIMOGbl6tg7F68WcksEVxZQDBFNo-3uVXdW7LrDW-NKJ24qDC0NBq_ZCHKu3tMKkIMvON9k4PTWjhAmYCE3bUkpf8UXGENXfec3eA0BggFORWc/s320/DSC_0851_338.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524245185992462322" style="display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Once all are ready (full in belly, body, and spirit), the Mikoshi (a massive, mobile shrine made of wood, metal, and gold) is slowly carried out and placed in front of the home shrine. A number of prayers are chanted and sung by the religious leaders in the community, and then answered back by the congregation. After a traditional clap sequence, one of the leaders stands atop the wooden beams supporting the Mikoshi, and bangs together two wooden blocks. And like a drummer setting the tempo for a band, the Mikoshi is suddenly torn up from the ground to the sound of loud grunts, all the while, nearly tossing the wood blocker to his death. The Mikoshi is then carried by upwards of 20-30 individuals, most of whom are men aged 20-40 -- though, women and male teenagers do occasionally throw their shoulders under the weight for some aid.<br />
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<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3HfnnL21c0G3jNr3hZ88wuTIjPED6wbsVIurSvTzB_OdDCB0bSAS9MXwgpxu523Rph9_1fEtIja6oVaMdpc_jfts5Sdhq9X70OOcYy69bcbDGBKDxMR0gNScqCOziUpenctQ8enZdlAI/s320/DSC_0856_343.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524245639647911698" style="display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /><br />
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Unfortunately, the weather was beastly hot that day, so most of us happened to be melting throughout the arduous journey. We carried the mikoshi throughout the district of Tamachi, making more noise than clashing war gods. And every road we traveled through was complete with armies of onlookers clapping and dancing around us, from little babies to bent-back elderly folk. Clearly, the event is a magnificent symbol of community unity in Japan, something which is sorely absent from many American neighborhoods.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5lzi3SL_94NPUhXYNss1OQsuwYlcaW5XOZSqW19gXRweAJjoa-yUt4hyphenhyphenT0eEBFjw-Npp9jjRjNRHVoHmCijaDPBA-DZq7kGbiEVpHhyphenhyphenDwtwH-wtJ9QlNjFSensgWbHHsPU0UAe3g_q0/s1600/DSC_0845_332.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5lzi3SL_94NPUhXYNss1OQsuwYlcaW5XOZSqW19gXRweAJjoa-yUt4hyphenhyphenT0eEBFjw-Npp9jjRjNRHVoHmCijaDPBA-DZq7kGbiEVpHhyphenhyphenDwtwH-wtJ9QlNjFSensgWbHHsPU0UAe3g_q0/s320/DSC_0845_332.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524244820690292242" style="display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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The Mikoshi weighs roughly 2 tons, and so understandably, people switch out from time to time. However, the stubborn American that I tend to be made an extra effort to prove myself to all of the Japanese participants and stuck it out through 95% of the Mikoshi-carrying throughout the day. The best part about the journey, aside from the miserable grinding and bruising of your shoulder, is the constant chanting and the almost rhythmic dance required in order to flow with the movement of the Mikoshi properly. If you do not sink and rise with the rest of the Mikoshi-carriers, you can count on lasting mere minutes due to excruciating pain inflicted upon the shoulder. Basically, if you can’t do much knee bending, and crouching, you’re more or less useless when it comes to carrying the Mikoshi.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>GAMEFACE</b></td></tr>
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<br />After about a 2-mile trip, climbing a rather treacherous hill, complete with automobile and pedestrian traffic, we reached our midway point. The midpoint was a minor shrine, which a neighboring district happened to be offering and praying at ahead of us. While waiting for our time slot, we managed to take a much-needed break. The most hilarious image during the entire event happened to be during our breaks when all of the women suddenly appeared with garbage cans and wheelbarrows full of ice water. Within these mobile ice buckets there were limitless bottles of tea…and other questionably hydrating “beverages”. And the best part about it was that there were about a dozen of us who had volunteered, all non-Japanese, and they treated us all like we ourselves were Shinto Gods worthy of worship; truly the most hospitality I’ve ever yet experienced.<br />
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Following numerous "tea" drinking challenges from wildly drunk, infinitely entertaining, Japanese men, we continued onward at the sounds of woodblocks.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSFd7lb4Odqc5KFHoc9JPqPEEja2Q3VHYxKX3Jd65_v_p-PkDTyY9eTjy004vd5VMi3G5MVM6BqLbWoq8mjT0W-GEtIW99YN_D-IbIsOEbSheDxJFR1h4XPiVEvpyqtR6ziFJdJhGZAOc/s1600/DSC_0867_354.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSFd7lb4Odqc5KFHoc9JPqPEEja2Q3VHYxKX3Jd65_v_p-PkDTyY9eTjy004vd5VMi3G5MVM6BqLbWoq8mjT0W-GEtIW99YN_D-IbIsOEbSheDxJFR1h4XPiVEvpyqtR6ziFJdJhGZAOc/s320/DSC_0867_354.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524246232265757538" style="display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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As the sun began to set, we reached our final destination, a rather sizable Shinto shrine, which all 4-area districts met at for the final prayer ceremonies. A traditionally-dressed Shinto priest performed a full prayer service, chanting and dancing in a truly remarkable way; blessing all four of the neighboring Mikoshi. He was dressed in light blue robes, and the way he moved about I could only compare to some sort of avian mating dance. Either way, it was quite moving. Finally, the ceremony ended with a beautiful song of prayer performed by five men, with a stunning solo by a man who must’ve been nearing triple digits in age.<br />
After a quick celebration and lighting of the Mikoshi, we all carried it back throughout the darkened city streets to where the pilgrimage began. From there, the celebrations I took part in were clearly fit for a king.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG64Wl2Inspy3dinqE7TDuzORmuAwz-InxcArtSFJLTJMv9Gab3mZN6Axi2_xoPegdv4AAxbFGAraayBWUk3947TjAovxrGIsOyRxuT91GKl1SX98OlKNPF5bl9dOnJyNwML-TAXeIUKY/s1600/DSC_0914_398.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG64Wl2Inspy3dinqE7TDuzORmuAwz-InxcArtSFJLTJMv9Gab3mZN6Axi2_xoPegdv4AAxbFGAraayBWUk3947TjAovxrGIsOyRxuT91GKl1SX98OlKNPF5bl9dOnJyNwML-TAXeIUKY/s320/DSC_0914_398.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524246901295497858" style="display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gang.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRzoGK-mAXjlGzzdQrdBSDETse-2KOfpFGO7saHyWC-8zRkrqCeWWKfjrSoh86va-RrcH0GNb-sk0Sk7vEJAlDOxHcqeYjWCv9ZU7Tuoi98QQjGTWEzDzT0-2Cb0u_UerItPx49kshgHg/s1600/59998_1502494045818_1338210493_31520302_5925160_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRzoGK-mAXjlGzzdQrdBSDETse-2KOfpFGO7saHyWC-8zRkrqCeWWKfjrSoh86va-RrcH0GNb-sk0Sk7vEJAlDOxHcqeYjWCv9ZU7Tuoi98QQjGTWEzDzT0-2Cb0u_UerItPx49kshgHg/s320/59998_1502494045818_1338210493_31520302_5925160_n.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524247676185543218" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet, sweet tentacle.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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They filled me up with a variety of Japanese foods and drinks I had never even seen in any shops up until that point. To give you a quick idea, I ate a squid tentacle, suction cups and all, and it was delicious (though uncomfortably chewy).<br />
All the grown men I had shared the experience with introduced me to their wives and children…and then subsequently ditched domestic duty and headed for the nearest karaoke bar carrying us in tow...an experience not entirely fit for a blog such as this.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitgywejdl_9y4hvPBPe-ZbDeQZ_XZZmcI4g3LRFWUMixKWGFj2m3L-gjrWqpiCNSfHXOWITjx4TenTOq4yMm9K0VUFwrylCtqHzWRuQJVdM9UkzPL0iijFx2QePRVZ7G49-eaKXdoVlJc/s1600/DSC_0830_317-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitgywejdl_9y4hvPBPe-ZbDeQZ_XZZmcI4g3LRFWUMixKWGFj2m3L-gjrWqpiCNSfHXOWITjx4TenTOq4yMm9K0VUFwrylCtqHzWRuQJVdM9UkzPL0iijFx2QePRVZ7G49-eaKXdoVlJc/s320/DSC_0830_317-1.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524243575530228770" style="display: block; height: 211px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Best.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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All I can say is this:<br />
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Experience every possible opportunity thrust in front of you, and the more foreign it is to you…the better. Leave your fears and preconceptions at the door, and just live.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo9Cm7bOI9fPpX0DRZl5OxhEdoGG87S7WBmKGfvMa2CnS-iS6ppq2cLRAQQj4Ep2eNNNxUYIhlyQJLwcgkT5zqh_i0FUbAFY6I5_K_TVHiOQsZJU7TGMAkl_0yab5C7YZjWis6LTOsRuI/s1600/gameface2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo9Cm7bOI9fPpX0DRZl5OxhEdoGG87S7WBmKGfvMa2CnS-iS6ppq2cLRAQQj4Ep2eNNNxUYIhlyQJLwcgkT5zqh_i0FUbAFY6I5_K_TVHiOQsZJU7TGMAkl_0yab5C7YZjWis6LTOsRuI/s1600/gameface2.jpg" height="277" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Improved Gameface</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-15332274273925790182010-09-26T11:43:00.000-07:002014-08-08T08:17:05.721-07:00Sushi Conveyor Belts: Nom! Nom! Nom!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibl3Rdi4kA-NYDbGdftu9NoffrEtyeSULpUkLBaOfG1sOXOuqKpGLU1wxgj91YbZqfUSyQU7irHT7qmwNZUxLgbaftfQcprwkgTtchgPgUz-S7sywoLf2222alHp0z6JWmJKKlivEtP98/s1600/DSC01960.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibl3Rdi4kA-NYDbGdftu9NoffrEtyeSULpUkLBaOfG1sOXOuqKpGLU1wxgj91YbZqfUSyQU7irHT7qmwNZUxLgbaftfQcprwkgTtchgPgUz-S7sywoLf2222alHp0z6JWmJKKlivEtP98/s320/DSC01960.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521298630137153586" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXywGSfFA7_qNncjX4Zk58dHCudM2kVbiDOFhwDr6l1BhCybkUHIYLGZuPYpjufKvYwx3iXod6BTB3zL_NYjuH03YIF49komYdTN-touGxP7yvYx67udoHcDznZijRAyFE3qAIbbvIl68/s1600/DSC01952.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXywGSfFA7_qNncjX4Zk58dHCudM2kVbiDOFhwDr6l1BhCybkUHIYLGZuPYpjufKvYwx3iXod6BTB3zL_NYjuH03YIF49komYdTN-touGxP7yvYx67udoHcDznZijRAyFE3qAIbbvIl68/s320/DSC01952.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521294956256407874" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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While there are certain wonders which have made the trip out West from Japan to find similar success, it’s clear that in most cases, the Japanese original far surpasses the Western reproduction.<br />
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In this specific case, I am talking of the conveyor belt sushi restaurants, which first appeared in Osaka in 1958 thanks to the wise business mind of Yoshiaki Shiraishi. These special restaurants exist in all parts of the globe; however, their largest concentration is in Tokyo. I visited one in the city of Takadanobaba recently, which is just a short walk from my apartment building.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nLgtELDGcLCMSEMafCL96wwdv7U4x1aRQf5qOf5kbVmQkCfd3miJ1VJhF0DUaKNTQoCwPKqWH345FfXuOd0KnnZvigAJx0zhUypnK4F6_xE736Ht1H-MfCRIMwn7AJtXkw36UG_Ek-4/s1600/DSC01959.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nLgtELDGcLCMSEMafCL96wwdv7U4x1aRQf5qOf5kbVmQkCfd3miJ1VJhF0DUaKNTQoCwPKqWH345FfXuOd0KnnZvigAJx0zhUypnK4F6_xE736Ht1H-MfCRIMwn7AJtXkw36UG_Ek-4/s320/DSC01959.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521295314855402370" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Essentially, you sit at a bar and gaze as endless varieties of sushi rotate in front of you until you can no longer suppress gluttonous desires. Different colored plates serve as indicators of different pricing; certain plates can range from 120 yen to 500 yen (from about $2-$7). Salmon, tuna, eel, squid, and essentially all forms of sushi you will most likely be hungering for are represented on tiny plates hovering temptingly in your periphery.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi56Q1AajlDEQI4180XmzpJhY4V5cvIlwkjpT6uIECl4VweCMoN4EMyoWZr_hst5xIlDhPMuHXhR4kr2T1crQ0tNOnx1mRGuhhUWhVkAzXP_P5U4lbtYEXvo1X7uzl_HeeYH6TGg4SSLeA/s1600/DSC01953.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi56Q1AajlDEQI4180XmzpJhY4V5cvIlwkjpT6uIECl4VweCMoN4EMyoWZr_hst5xIlDhPMuHXhR4kr2T1crQ0tNOnx1mRGuhhUWhVkAzXP_P5U4lbtYEXvo1X7uzl_HeeYH6TGg4SSLeA/s320/DSC01953.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521295130446563890" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Each seat is provided with an electronic touch-screen situated above your seat, and individual ordering can be accomplished for any plate offered, which is often the safest procedure of ordering if one fears how long certain plates have been rotating around. Once you’ve completed your order on the touch-screen, after a few minutes a large, red tray train of sorts will launch down a track and park itself in front of you until you’ve removed your order. Such technology is certainly a beautiful achievement, however, it makes one wonder how long it will be until the employment opportunities of waiting tables becomes completely obsolete. Either way, revel in the pictures and the video of the red train of obesity in operation.<br />
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<b><u><VIDEO OF THE RED TRAIN OF OBESITY></u></b><br />
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<br />Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-87012374281967182722010-09-26T10:59:00.000-07:002014-08-08T08:18:18.368-07:00Tokyo Game Show: Where Videogames Become Religion<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIWr8xX4Ct97ypDbfiYf9q2FPB7oSIimXs0JlH_3pHAxiR4b7wbNxfPKHT8J6nQffFVQH9-HVdQdHbQdwGSpNw-2_xI_ZKlH6m6y7Gcxx8gQOwH3yHRtZdMZ_EsbzJTxEI8Su0-mPsTMM/s1600/DSC02350.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><br /></a>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIWr8xX4Ct97ypDbfiYf9q2FPB7oSIimXs0JlH_3pHAxiR4b7wbNxfPKHT8J6nQffFVQH9-HVdQdHbQdwGSpNw-2_xI_ZKlH6m6y7Gcxx8gQOwH3yHRtZdMZ_EsbzJTxEI8Su0-mPsTMM/s1600/DSC02350.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIWr8xX4Ct97ypDbfiYf9q2FPB7oSIimXs0JlH_3pHAxiR4b7wbNxfPKHT8J6nQffFVQH9-HVdQdHbQdwGSpNw-2_xI_ZKlH6m6y7Gcxx8gQOwH3yHRtZdMZ_EsbzJTxEI8Su0-mPsTMM/s320/DSC02350.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521284307083695218" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not-So-Super Mario</td></tr>
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I recently attended a rather popular event known to the, shall we say, nerd world as The Tokyo Game Show. I figure I’m allowed to label it in such a way because I would more or less consider Super Mario my surrogate, middle-aged, Italian-American friend during my formative years. Honestly, without Nintendo and much of the video game world, I’m going to have to claim that my childhood would have been a failure.<br />
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Fortunately, that was not the case, and my imagination feasted upon the many wonders offered me, in such titles as The Legend of Zelda and Final Fantasy. Throughout these years I was always aware of a grand exhibition of video games located somewhere in Tokyo; an event I assumed I would never be so lucky to attend. But enough about my joystick-juiced past, because what took place in the Makuhari Messe complex in Chiba, Japan, deserves far more attention than such details.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8TMJqvhpqYAqsIY4LQtEOxEcly84Q0jxEnTz9reRn6WTjXx5cktO__4dIbaZ2T8Aw0UygHS-tbyGarEuy_5WH9F2WgRuq_0dwGe9KKLQNksBnDERbTzeEj_mnL26O56RgnLhkNIklWnU/s1600/1tgs3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8TMJqvhpqYAqsIY4LQtEOxEcly84Q0jxEnTz9reRn6WTjXx5cktO__4dIbaZ2T8Aw0UygHS-tbyGarEuy_5WH9F2WgRuq_0dwGe9KKLQNksBnDERbTzeEj_mnL26O56RgnLhkNIklWnU/s1600/1tgs3.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early AM Train</td></tr>
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I snagged an early train on the Yamanote Line with some friends, and after a good half-hour or so, we found ourselves at the highly-publicized Tokyo Game Show. The TGS, as most nerds know it, is a sanctuary for those finding reality a far worse land than can be found within cartridges and disks. It is also a realm where the strangest of obsessions and hobbies are embraced; from assuming the identities of your favorite characters (by way of costume play, hence their label of "cosplayers") to the growing populations of men preferring virtual girlfriends as opposed to the apparently-unfulfilling (or perhaps seemingly unobtainable) human ones.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMHf8ov-zXOTLtm6EAUn9Hz5bjkcmCKBEsJDnUqUrTCy__Tg9xVmL3JbiwbT98ODxEjlFmNNgsyhHU_3lBD3KMCctNjiRANxXfFW-k3KNHt0AjJfRX22EU7crghCfWAb4ozf5QEbDWoYs/s1600/1tgs4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMHf8ov-zXOTLtm6EAUn9Hz5bjkcmCKBEsJDnUqUrTCy__Tg9xVmL3JbiwbT98ODxEjlFmNNgsyhHU_3lBD3KMCctNjiRANxXfFW-k3KNHt0AjJfRX22EU7crghCfWAb4ozf5QEbDWoYs/s1600/1tgs4.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAdE4ZXl2QH_S7aIf8b8rnmjyIyh-zMn86XkUWKvb-TpAFM04oP6sNLl0Cp-9hLBMWP-5YRZC2-8Y1wsIoTIUoFRF57QVZEYTluy8BHr07WPf8UuW8LlQgKufHPNyU2wxTmVbN_XU0oY/s1600/1tgs5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAdE4ZXl2QH_S7aIf8b8rnmjyIyh-zMn86XkUWKvb-TpAFM04oP6sNLl0Cp-9hLBMWP-5YRZC2-8Y1wsIoTIUoFRF57QVZEYTluy8BHr07WPf8UuW8LlQgKufHPNyU2wxTmVbN_XU0oY/s1600/1tgs5.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nintendo Icon Cosplay</td></tr>
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You’ll find the whole circus snug underneath one gargantuan metal roof, and with it comes a flurry of advertisements, light shows, and playable games (if you’re willing to wait for 30-90 minutes, of course). Video game behemoths from SONY to Microsoft are represented with entire legions of representatives, as well as scores of models hired strictly to hold signs or wear shirts (and in some cases, slightly-skimpier clothing) with a video game’s name scrawled across. It’s certainly one of the stranger advertisement schemes; especially considering most TGS attendees seem to be mesmerized by their faces long before they’d even consider bothering to read anything across a shirt (but then again...).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKjFzoxVVS_9N8R8gMTS7ilsrnQzW0qVm3stU2yHb29iZwCHov72mQMLJrMY-hiWtFqF0ohkrzcHyYCaPUK1QEA0ebLCx5apJkX3OlqnAPbZH1aP1iUt26zkSnKB7Vkznbe3bVBuZ3lyw/s1600/DSC02394.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKjFzoxVVS_9N8R8gMTS7ilsrnQzW0qVm3stU2yHb29iZwCHov72mQMLJrMY-hiWtFqF0ohkrzcHyYCaPUK1QEA0ebLCx5apJkX3OlqnAPbZH1aP1iUt26zkSnKB7Vkznbe3bVBuZ3lyw/s320/DSC02394.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521284887831227762" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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After swimming through streams of bodies for hours, I did stick it out with one friend for 35 minutes to play the game Marvel Vs. Capcom 3. I won’t bore you with details about the game, but I will say that I was giggling like a schoolgirl while playing it, and after decisively destroying my friend (well, it was a fighting game), I was convinced that I’d be asking ol’ Santa Claus for something other than money this year.<br />
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But to more easily explain the actual experience, check out some more cosplay pictures:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx-Zjgd0Bu_QlLQEwRrfgO6UDHbT56hJ6ShAcFpLU6IwulDevKpNZJPzneF3M5KL9taB-HIv86hFv28YOVaMtzjBULV9XoTWJCeor69B4DziwQ0wK5Qhi1XS8F6i_bG1xqNUlwi7z39Ok/s1600/1tgs2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx-Zjgd0Bu_QlLQEwRrfgO6UDHbT56hJ6ShAcFpLU6IwulDevKpNZJPzneF3M5KL9taB-HIv86hFv28YOVaMtzjBULV9XoTWJCeor69B4DziwQ0wK5Qhi1XS8F6i_bG1xqNUlwi7z39Ok/s1600/1tgs2.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">FFX's Auron</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DhzVK0gmtA-wuocN7dKhlHfy_UKo1tWrp-434ZeaCMl1eUg-J92_JEnghX6Cr60ujft_TdyXJ52JWnxq3KuDwgFXMDtK56GZdSWSmdXuC86C-5RudnJcI5lHay4QH5UMSe-urDkPwRA/s1600/DSC02386.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DhzVK0gmtA-wuocN7dKhlHfy_UKo1tWrp-434ZeaCMl1eUg-J92_JEnghX6Cr60ujft_TdyXJ52JWnxq3KuDwgFXMDtK56GZdSWSmdXuC86C-5RudnJcI5lHay4QH5UMSe-urDkPwRA/s320/DSC02386.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521284585329523378" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Various FF characters</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3JdDPcwB3zDFM453CwcHF1P4Stly4UXy488RuaVjFolFDNiMj3Vbxj4Z1fS04KNWUeSD01i01AmoUYbX40FY6l-XjpdoHuOunqAjGoDhxAao131j91g2FlGvb5AerYb4XjCgSVjkx51U/s1600/1tgs6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3JdDPcwB3zDFM453CwcHF1P4Stly4UXy488RuaVjFolFDNiMj3Vbxj4Z1fS04KNWUeSD01i01AmoUYbX40FY6l-XjpdoHuOunqAjGoDhxAao131j91g2FlGvb5AerYb4XjCgSVjkx51U/s1600/1tgs6.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MGS's Solid Snake</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHU2cszeguGsv_J72vMk9JMBA37Gn6kk20N4w-imIZcttFAu3JYiyGNelHhvq7KTmGpny4QZmOlyzMVx0CnaO6xKPH3KF0Wnl_R5AcnD9-tVyIQakEY5ocyoywHYmbX99MyqJVpBvnoko/s1600/1tgs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHU2cszeguGsv_J72vMk9JMBA37Gn6kk20N4w-imIZcttFAu3JYiyGNelHhvq7KTmGpny4QZmOlyzMVx0CnaO6xKPH3KF0Wnl_R5AcnD9-tVyIQakEY5ocyoywHYmbX99MyqJVpBvnoko/s1600/1tgs.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">FFVIII's Rinoa & Squall</td></tr>
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Also, take note of the 10-patty monster that I devoured after accepting a bet. American obesity is one stereotype I can't help reinforcing while studying abroad.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSJz8P6HktqhAK0h_Nn6tBPP0dufYR9I9wmKS0EPnOEowzTeZ5wC1Cj71o2yhj53eDHTYHlNzFdZtBtGk3cAFTqmU_OECdniWLk4r-aI4UPro5EdpzPlc81Q8ezpxISoy8XCzcTQt_lI/s1600/DSC02397.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSJz8P6HktqhAK0h_Nn6tBPP0dufYR9I9wmKS0EPnOEowzTeZ5wC1Cj71o2yhj53eDHTYHlNzFdZtBtGk3cAFTqmU_OECdniWLk4r-aI4UPro5EdpzPlc81Q8ezpxISoy8XCzcTQt_lI/s320/DSC02397.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521285023697247202" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nerd Fuel.</td></tr>
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Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-31506799232601605372010-09-14T06:38:00.000-07:002014-08-08T09:06:32.792-07:00Dog Days: Aptly-Named "Land of the Rising Sun"<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqxseuGe5E5nXlYY17Cl4ZJBDcY4JFsS2acAFCwSONNsStasWt1m4b-IKisqE1Qhvj7XHq3Ver9GyuAXNsrFnFTDhgrMjl_v6z9NIdBvR86w4QaVNEc6W5AO61OZXabMUbP1AJOQzzv0/s1600/1hot6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqxseuGe5E5nXlYY17Cl4ZJBDcY4JFsS2acAFCwSONNsStasWt1m4b-IKisqE1Qhvj7XHq3Ver9GyuAXNsrFnFTDhgrMjl_v6z9NIdBvR86w4QaVNEc6W5AO61OZXabMUbP1AJOQzzv0/s1600/1hot6.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Are you man or machine? <b><i>NO SWEAT!?</i></b></td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaHwpzuTkgHrYtE7te69hTbVHjvw3FlCh1ZECmAGuZDCI8tNS0vDJAHZoX8ZR9hXcxyMpMgbWfrWYZadjyMeVvAMKDa69Zc5yG8o3Cv_8Bcsj1Pn_ytsScBtWl1_3pnGjmW6YdBumTiGg/s1600/1hot7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaHwpzuTkgHrYtE7te69hTbVHjvw3FlCh1ZECmAGuZDCI8tNS0vDJAHZoX8ZR9hXcxyMpMgbWfrWYZadjyMeVvAMKDa69Zc5yG8o3Cv_8Bcsj1Pn_ytsScBtWl1_3pnGjmW6YdBumTiGg/s1600/1hot7.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Mighty Bro Young</td></tr>
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<i>Man-Oh-Man! </i><br />
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Tokyo really brings the heat come summertime -- it's so unbearably hot -- and before you make the joke at my pathetic expense...there's no kitchen to get out of...<br />
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Anyway, to justify my complete-lack-of-toughness, there have been some rumors circulating around that this is building to be the hottest summer in Japanese history. I suppose I can’t complain all that much because I’ve only had to deal with the end of August and the beginning of September (and the heat has still been hitting as hard as when I got here). You’d be hard-pressed not to find someone with their bag in one hand, and a sweat rag in the other. Creeping around train stations are all manner of people handing out packets of tissues with their advertisements wrapped around them; the travelers are desperate for comfort, so naturally, businesses are utilizing creativity for more profit. On particularly bright and sun-raging days, you can expect to play chicken with several parasol-wielding ladies…and if you are of standard American height, you should especially fear for your jugular.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI2wti_OifvEVUZ9GV4EMWXqAOGEfjsIgRJV0JpY7z4y6bqv6G70gQVW5eeE3Pw9FjtGkEiBWkQKoSJerQcmMUjc7A5LzeEEHq5QQYuEApPY9feOioJPEDELX7NXOcNRCV6XGzxFvFuBc/s1600/1hot5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI2wti_OifvEVUZ9GV4EMWXqAOGEfjsIgRJV0JpY7z4y6bqv6G70gQVW5eeE3Pw9FjtGkEiBWkQKoSJerQcmMUjc7A5LzeEEHq5QQYuEApPY9feOioJPEDELX7NXOcNRCV6XGzxFvFuBc/s1600/1hot5.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LET ME IN! LET ME IN!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcCQqj2cYEWV2ddmoGErL3W8aD7Ceg3zZunNwkEMJQa3v3QaL4ahqVqhSFqnddsJVRURT0iUdqTyKFWymS7Gva8DO_7PGU5ypkIrhs2lHjtA1GIdJq4jvCr6hlc3ZCARdjrfjqX4FR2bE/s1600/1hot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcCQqj2cYEWV2ddmoGErL3W8aD7Ceg3zZunNwkEMJQa3v3QaL4ahqVqhSFqnddsJVRURT0iUdqTyKFWymS7Gva8DO_7PGU5ypkIrhs2lHjtA1GIdJq4jvCr6hlc3ZCARdjrfjqX4FR2bE/s1600/1hot.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hate you.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
The primary problem with the heat is that the humidity levels are unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I’ve walked through 110-degree weather in Las Vegas, but at least it’s a dry heat. Some days, just walking down a city street feels like you’re attempting some ill-advised stroll upon the sun’s surface. People of all races are just melting straight through all layers; it is no surprise that white seems to be the color of choice. However, through it all, nothing amazes me more than the sararīman (businessman/ salary man). The Japanese businessman seem to be machine-made in their dark suits, because they just stand on train platforms in direct sunlight, puffing away on their cigarettes with complete disregard. And while the rest of us pray to our respective gods on the trains in our limited air-conditioned environment, they just stand there, completely unfazed. They close their eyes for long lengths of time, giving the impression that plants may begin sprouting from them, and always resurrect like clockwork once their station is announced. It’s truly awe-inspiring.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtLRHArsq93mxbfmL67aafWbgKWHIqmq4-ZNxWsVYdHcrF_AAf_9ktUH1i9ZBzW7CTK8de-8GVYuIy5s952Bn-jexsxvEqsLl1kEgQ6EO3VHwvYYqdfW_xueaDJRRs0bn9Fv5HPep4aEA/s1600/1hot3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtLRHArsq93mxbfmL67aafWbgKWHIqmq4-ZNxWsVYdHcrF_AAf_9ktUH1i9ZBzW7CTK8de-8GVYuIy5s952Bn-jexsxvEqsLl1kEgQ6EO3VHwvYYqdfW_xueaDJRRs0bn9Fv5HPep4aEA/s1600/1hot3.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">American Bro Alert</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
A word to the wise: if anyone dares to visit Japan in the muggy months of August and September: please pack appropriate clothing. Fortunately, I had for one reason or another decided to pack some shorts and light shirts for exercising…but now they’ve transformed into my survival gear.<br />
Aside from crying, whining, and complaining about the humidity over here…I can safely say, that it’s really not the biggest deal. Nearly every store charges waves of air-conditioned air out of their doors as you walk by them on the city streets, and the fact that convenience stores seem to account for every other door on a street…there’s plenty of cold air to exist on while you walk. Not to mention my room has a miraculously powerful air-control system, so I’m able experience the sub-zero bliss that I’ve come to love.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixaOmh9YrgdcUt_b-4uKH1ne4VntUZojDxLP_qjKICoaO1gxlSIEvAy06DWiO5p32sZJGZYj-ENlOnISgHqzI6PQn_-3CeSwoNI_UuGte8wUst01s-jy86jRq_n1E9TrrPHYBXXMRLxjA/s1600/1hot2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixaOmh9YrgdcUt_b-4uKH1ne4VntUZojDxLP_qjKICoaO1gxlSIEvAy06DWiO5p32sZJGZYj-ENlOnISgHqzI6PQn_-3CeSwoNI_UuGte8wUst01s-jy86jRq_n1E9TrrPHYBXXMRLxjA/s1600/1hot2.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note the heavenly A/C machine on the wall above my backdoor.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<b>Also, for a bit of fun here are some -- shall we say <i>survival</i> -- tips I’ve picked up after a few weeks here:</b><br />
<br />
- Only wear dark colors if you plan on being buried in them.<br />
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- Walk in the shade. If you see that the sidewalk across the street has more awnings, cross the street.<br />
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- Waiting for the light to change before crossing the street tends to be absolutely miserable.<br />
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- See if there’s a little shop you can pretend to peruse inside for a bit, or search desperately for any scraps of shade you can find.<br />
<br />
- Try to wear clothing that won’t be embarrassingly soaked through when you finally make it to class.<br />
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- Enter subway cars with an average amount of people. If you enter a nearly-empty one, chances are it’s going to be filled up at the next stop, by desperately over-heated people.<br />
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- Hats, Parasols, Fans, Sweat-rags. Arm yourself for war.<br />
<br />
- Socks & shoes could possibly be your destruction. Opt for sandals or breathable footwear whenever possible (and appropriate).<br />
<br />
- Insulated water thermoses that keep water cold are a life-saving investment…especially considering the ice-cold vending machine temptations found on every corner.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIcOa8DrPhIzAB354daK-OmIXA1QqT_jyP3MqUgW5XccRr6msDheN3mCLMBITeMGcuNF1uZ19DS38CW73TG3P7q8jJlgkVDg3_CSUeG9dauWRIK6AD9eSQeTYQ_k5peohPh3DUx8s8W-c/s1600/1hot4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIcOa8DrPhIzAB354daK-OmIXA1QqT_jyP3MqUgW5XccRr6msDheN3mCLMBITeMGcuNF1uZ19DS38CW73TG3P7q8jJlgkVDg3_CSUeG9dauWRIK6AD9eSQeTYQ_k5peohPh3DUx8s8W-c/s1600/1hot4.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet, sweet salvation.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
And my last comment would be for all those who’ve made my evening train experiences hellish:<br />
<br />
<b><u><i>Wear plenty of deodorant.</i></u></b><br />
<b><u><i><br /></i></u></b>
<b><u><i><br /></i></u></b>
<b><u><i><br /></i></u></b>
<b><u><i><br /></i></u></b>
<b><u><i><br /></i></u></b>Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-58687563286011566952010-09-08T06:48:00.001-07:002014-08-08T09:43:22.602-07:00One Small Step For A Man: In Japanese Air, On Japanese Soil<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWDQwvEw6n3A18yEdomf-paE9IT3IMrTyCkEfeAzk3oWvlBG6-thyKNolIWEhm8aE72gZFEA8QkJ_BoPNQRlQpBRdP3N6HDWKUE-zEdEcbvX7VjTIQ-H_XHycAO8xkjUfbvXcftNI6tE8/s1600/1AIR2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWDQwvEw6n3A18yEdomf-paE9IT3IMrTyCkEfeAzk3oWvlBG6-thyKNolIWEhm8aE72gZFEA8QkJ_BoPNQRlQpBRdP3N6HDWKUE-zEdEcbvX7VjTIQ-H_XHycAO8xkjUfbvXcftNI6tE8/s1600/1AIR2.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Japanese Apartment.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At this point I’m pretty much settled in, so I’ll be playing catch-up a bit with posts; however, that should end up being for the best because I’ll always have some material in the bank to post during any dry spells. This post will discuss the 14-hour flight from Newark Airport to Narita Airport, as well as a bit of the journey leading up to my dormitory door.<br />
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Chances are you will be blessed with your own personal video screen on the back of the seat in front of you during the flight to help keep your sanity throughout the 14-hour experience. My recommendation? Watch <span style="font-style: italic;">Gone With The Wind</span>, or any movie that drags itself out for upwards of four hours, because once you’re finished with such a film, you’ll realize a significant chunk of the trip is already under your belt. But as far as <span style="font-style: italic;">GWtW</span> goes, you’ll at least realize that Rhett Butler will cause you to seriously consider 3-piece suits, slicked hair, and a thin mustache that would make Lando Calrissian swoon. As for women, they’ll wish for their men to base theirs live upon Rhett’s model.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-5XkI2YhfiarVRfODRN2rsd3LD-x-HABKA_6LcGrYy2ZvKEZUG8lrEK710nTER35Faxbln3Jew14lnos241qatqRLT2OqhPKAsCUGXTHULX8ueLM3kmPsAiURhHuzUpx43FrEVQAkfQ/s1600/1AIR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-5XkI2YhfiarVRfODRN2rsd3LD-x-HABKA_6LcGrYy2ZvKEZUG8lrEK710nTER35Faxbln3Jew14lnos241qatqRLT2OqhPKAsCUGXTHULX8ueLM3kmPsAiURhHuzUpx43FrEVQAkfQ/s1600/1AIR.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plane sanity in question.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
That’s neither here nor there, but what I can also recommend is that you should definitely bring food onto the plane…that is, unless you enjoy strange "Turkey Dog” snacks, which are certainly an all-time greasy low for airline food. I could best compare them to a rat sandwich, complete with Bubonic plague dressing.<br />
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Sleep. If you can sleep on airplanes, you have the best chance of tackling the lengthy beast. Unfortunately, I was unable to catch a single wink, and as such was absolutely dead upon landing and struggling through all of the nonsense before the dorm. Which would probably be a fine time to discuss…some matters of importance upon leaving the plane:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQZ7S8DkPr4Fj0qit5z5I_GCqB1vTcfws4kR5r42bYF5hcIFACdzXuV5lK0SrU3sBHiVWRNIhXhc0lS9QZTqGR85PF8_xqsWCbO-tkBHotYn8CWdldiUBORz5pkE-1Bk6Nf3gw6D1udjM/s1600/immigration.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQZ7S8DkPr4Fj0qit5z5I_GCqB1vTcfws4kR5r42bYF5hcIFACdzXuV5lK0SrU3sBHiVWRNIhXhc0lS9QZTqGR85PF8_xqsWCbO-tkBHotYn8CWdldiUBORz5pkE-1Bk6Nf3gw6D1udjM/s320/immigration.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514540609175452514" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<br />
- Keep your camera concealed during the immigration process, unless you wish to fight with security guards in Japanese.<br />
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- Be prepared to show all of your necessary paperwork…and then be forced to provide an electronic recording of your headshot and fingerprints. Just in case you were planning on committing any crimes, of course.<br />
<br />
From there, however, it’s like any airport you’ve ever been to (give or take a few million Japanese signs), and there are enough English directions for even the slowest of chaps to feel comfortable.<br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixI540JHaGmWqV6PDrPdkcrkMsZUS8s0WaTJnD8MZ7Mt7ksLNrs4WuUCQUxyP18iN3z0SvbSb5zWRWRVoFYYQ6UP7Wyz7MrPKzLVwqtzUCQDCapBw55exZD-ZFHaQFjpqjZwpG-g6dRuw/s1600/1AIR3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixI540JHaGmWqV6PDrPdkcrkMsZUS8s0WaTJnD8MZ7Mt7ksLNrs4WuUCQUxyP18iN3z0SvbSb5zWRWRVoFYYQ6UP7Wyz7MrPKzLVwqtzUCQDCapBw55exZD-ZFHaQFjpqjZwpG-g6dRuw/s1600/1AIR3.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some familiar faces.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now for a lesson in Japanese culture/social norms:<br />
<br />
At the currency exchange counter, I happened to be at the slot next to an American businessman. Upon collecting his yen, he grabbed his bag and began to walk away from the counter. Unfortunately, he managed to leave his rather significant-looking suitcase behind, and we’re talking bomb-scare status drop-off.<br />
However, roughly five Japanese men and women looked at the bag and then back at the man, and pointed back and forth being unsure of what to do and hesitating to even cough strange noises to catch his attention. I looked to the woman in the booth equipped with a microphone, and even she was caught up in the flurry of pointing, refusing to speak one single “STOP!” into her power-wielding microphone. And so, the big, obnoxious American man that I am, decided to roar out a “YO! SIR!” which managed to catch a grand number of sharp eyes…but, more importantly caught the businessman’s attention and after a quick shuffle back, a thank-you and nod, he was off to his routine yet again. When I looked back at all of the Japanese around me, I noted quiet, reserved acknowledgements… a few bows, and even a few smiles, but again, not a word was uttered. Arriving from New York City, merely a half a day before, I’m sure you could understand my shock at how differently noise is handled in Japan.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh223WB07nSxCV4wX6vsJQ-0pGhQOC6m5MjrxJWIy_QkW1Jcvw58tu_YkWz4qGnakoGK3IJVpjPyLjU_iIh1Yi9TKEWIuqhWhNRvdTw9ZyVoODVOdgUJ7epvuq4iiUL5sOXCV52dWuX36A/s1600/bustohotel.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh223WB07nSxCV4wX6vsJQ-0pGhQOC6m5MjrxJWIy_QkW1Jcvw58tu_YkWz4qGnakoGK3IJVpjPyLjU_iIh1Yi9TKEWIuqhWhNRvdTw9ZyVoODVOdgUJ7epvuq4iiUL5sOXCV52dWuX36A/s320/bustohotel.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514540876775855970" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Speed 3: Featuring Dan.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A scruffy bunch of us crawled over to the bus counter, had a rather miserable conversation of broken Japanese/broken English, and managed to purchase the correct tickets to the university-assigned meeting place. After another 2-hour bus ride, due to some strained traffic, we made it to the sign-in checkpoint…that then led us to a taxi drive headed for our dorm. I was fortunate enough to snag the shotgun seat, which was strange considering it’s on the left side (since the driver is on the right).<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8OPDdPq7HOcI1XNKKvwGmb3cKp-tSbdwAmCRVqH1ghX3LCGyWRXGtS3AX5BRTsoejlTOPHNAWHfVIHTsB4rFR9Ig1j27BPUzjek870QGqVDn2_jsxviK5nkxp8-wShpTaxBKKphReOc/s1600/1AIR4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8OPDdPq7HOcI1XNKKvwGmb3cKp-tSbdwAmCRVqH1ghX3LCGyWRXGtS3AX5BRTsoejlTOPHNAWHfVIHTsB4rFR9Ig1j27BPUzjek870QGqVDn2_jsxviK5nkxp8-wShpTaxBKKphReOc/s1600/1AIR4.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bear Operators?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We were also treated to a bit of comedy during the trip because our taxi was very clearly putt-putting down and around the avenues, and even managed to stall out once. Our driver didn’t speak any English, and we spoke Japanese inadequate even for 4-year olds, but there was certainly an air of understanding in the vehicle…and all the driver could do was grunt and shrug. Upon finally entering our dormitory, the ridiculously named ‘Weekly Mansion Takadanobaba’, we shouldered down our room doors, let fall our luggage wherever it decided to land, and collapsed onto our far-too-big-for-the-room beds.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWFykX35pItcDuANhDxpZFezEP0IXNFezpVald0urVmV1ja98KOMUxS-dbSRrD4eAsRtjy9xh3SS8LVr_GyQeawPL9Psnwoa0oCt8GOYmC7L8p0yGyvDPOrRGdl0yvMtcNTdNaAHzkdBc/s1600/1weeklymansion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWFykX35pItcDuANhDxpZFezEP0IXNFezpVald0urVmV1ja98KOMUxS-dbSRrD4eAsRtjy9xh3SS8LVr_GyQeawPL9Psnwoa0oCt8GOYmC7L8p0yGyvDPOrRGdl0yvMtcNTdNaAHzkdBc/s1600/1weeklymansion.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weekly Mansion Takadanobaba: Home.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-92195449099548803112010-08-29T06:56:00.001-07:002014-08-08T09:45:26.493-07:00Airport Shenanigans; SO CLOSE!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMu1wuflMxHdNNhDZT6iECMum9WYPldgBIF6zH-XfLUT7FFLyFdbSr5S7NQ47RDilwO_o1AeY29yZuSmy-LL1DlJK5u_8jtVtSw2UycGgDn3o41-s21mZyf3sY4POIPcvGUjHIGHil2c/s1600/DSC01025.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMu1wuflMxHdNNhDZT6iECMum9WYPldgBIF6zH-XfLUT7FFLyFdbSr5S7NQ47RDilwO_o1AeY29yZuSmy-LL1DlJK5u_8jtVtSw2UycGgDn3o41-s21mZyf3sY4POIPcvGUjHIGHil2c/s320/DSC01025.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510833629489210562" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ripped Jeans; Dad.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
While waiting to board my flight, and after saying goodbye to my parents at the security checkpoint -- knowing full well I was at the cusp of a surreal time in my life...<br />
<br />I wrote this in my notebook:<br />
<br />
"Never thought I'd make it to this point. It's been an arduous climb, and honestly, I believed my cables would snap before the summit. Fortunately, I've managed to get the necessary papers in, and above all else, I'm sitting in the waiting room at Gate 138. There are less American students than I originally believed would be sitting around here, unless of course I missed the memo on where Americans hide out before taking the plunge. 'Til then I guess I'll have to settle with a whole slew of Japanese people, from an exceptionally effeminate young man wearing a pink Gucci hat, to a dopey looking woman with a zebra print neck rest. And just a few feet to her side? Basically, who I hope to someday become. A fairly well-dressed American man: grey dress shirt, fashionable black leather dress shoes, Tiffany watch, and the kicker? A gorgeous Japanese wife. Well, maybe someday, at least."<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVWYuNq-fS_QZqGt7m5N670u6benxBOB7KevZZSbkX8mcBit44m2TtVwKVBgmsxNNW_Wej0_fvfp5aRvTfkjBPWevwcgCTWPw7fEqPWA_YHrpvupkbz4K4rvOoQ86cpRA7EP0gzT_LjAc/s1600/DSC01028.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVWYuNq-fS_QZqGt7m5N670u6benxBOB7KevZZSbkX8mcBit44m2TtVwKVBgmsxNNW_Wej0_fvfp5aRvTfkjBPWevwcgCTWPw7fEqPWA_YHrpvupkbz4K4rvOoQ86cpRA7EP0gzT_LjAc/s320/DSC01028.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510832380145119090" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Be less thrilled, lady. Geez!<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A short time later, a couple Americans showed up and I recognized them as dudes I'd met at an orientation held at Temple University in Philly a couple months earlier. They surprised me by remembering my name (I embarrassingly forgot theirs, however, I managed to phrase sentences in ways which made it seem like I did). Either way, their names were Mike and Dan, because, yes, I did eventually bite the bullet and respectfully ask for their full names. Seeing these two familiar faces did much for the stress I had been experiencing, and just when I feared my nerves would get the best of me, a quick conversation with these two battled down my inner demons. What had first seemed like storming Normandy Beach alone, suddenly felt more like a harmless school trip to the library.<br />
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What I can say of the stress levels experienced throughout the entire application process until the few moments leading up until stepping onto the airplane is that it won’t completely slap you in the face until roughly two days before departure. Once that line is crossed, the pressures and nerves continuously grind inside, and the best thing to do is just realize the significance it will have on your life in the most positive lens your mind will allow. It’s human to experience the worry, doubt, and blind excitement that swirl around until you hear the click of the seat-belt in your ticketed plane seat. And once the plane is airborne? It feels as though every concern bogging down in your heart was left at the security checkpoint.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A taste of things to come.</td></tr>
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<br />Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096661669662288079.post-25366898235271834022010-08-27T21:40:00.001-07:002014-08-08T09:45:48.385-07:00Hello Moto<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMX7FGOnClqlhYgyzJ8fmf-apa1mRhQbMPxdaUJdq1eyooqKAfZC1yo2fPCop-ylDowUoVhBEa0e-hBgG4JZFGMRxRViCS3-cdlhDO3_DoxiYHsUc8XuzL8fqC1yYj5aNE61EG_Fwq1h4/s1600/DSC01265.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMX7FGOnClqlhYgyzJ8fmf-apa1mRhQbMPxdaUJdq1eyooqKAfZC1yo2fPCop-ylDowUoVhBEa0e-hBgG4JZFGMRxRViCS3-cdlhDO3_DoxiYHsUc8XuzL8fqC1yYj5aNE61EG_Fwq1h4/s320/DSC01265.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510834511497542994" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do as the Japanese do.</td></tr>
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Well, here we are. I suppose the first matter to address before I go about feeding you yarns spun with experiences is the blog’s title: The American Man In Japan. Yes, probably a bit too much as far as titles go. You may think that just because I’ve achieved the formative age of 20 that perhaps I am entitled to consider myself a "man". I’m here to tell you that it was actually a difficult struggle to toss that word into the title, and honestly, I only decided upon it because of the easy flow of the sounds. It gives "a man, a plan, a canal, panama" a real run for its money…though, it can't hold a candle to the aforementioned anagram. Napaj ni nam nacirema eht. Not quite. Looks like something that Jabba the Hutt might chortle out in between a "Solo".<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hm. This is not a fork.</td></tr>
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Anyway, I sought out on this Japanese excursion in the first place because of a few significant factors:<br />
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First, I wished to travel some place not often (and, well, stereotypically) traveled by American college students.<br />
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Second, I wanted to end up studying somewhere I had always wanted to go, and where I would not easily end up in the future.<br />
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Finally, I wanted to go it alone.<br />
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Japan ended up meeting all of the requirements, and most importantly, I figured a lonesome 14 hours floating over Canada and the Pacific would be good for a bit of soul-searching. Why, might you ask? Because if I leave college with anything, (other than a diploma, fingers crossed), I sure hope it’s a strong enough belief in myself that I’m capable of living independently. <br />
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At 20, I certainly don’t consider myself a child any longer -- I’d still say I’m lost enough in limbo to nail it down to anything too specific. "Young man" tends to be a phrase too-easily tossed around, and I’m not about to call myself an "old boy".<br />
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So, my ultimate goal, aside from meeting a couple of geishas, is to land back in the ol’ US of A, not as some college riffraff, but as something resembling a man.<br />
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Whatever that means.<br />
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Scott P.http://www.blogger.com/profile/15991354932710547884noreply@blogger.com0