For the next issue or two I may comment about my current travels. I’m with my partner in Tokyo at the moment and cold. Our apartment is about 55 degrees with the kerosene heater on and no heat at all in the toilet and separate shower room. Whatever we do, we do it fast.
Speaking Japanese is always an adventure. In the fruit shop yesterday I forgot the teeny accent on the second syllable of kaki thus ordering an oyster instead of a persimmon. How we (they) laughed.
My Japanese, while understandable, is an endless source of amusement. For my part, I get a kick out of the young people’s fashions. Trust me, they are wild beyond belief. Google: fashion japan gothic lolita. Also try: fashion japan guys. Your jaw will drop. I especially like the ball gown with the leather jacket and the huge, white, Marie Antoinette wig towering over a goth painted face. Remember, this is street wear; not a costume party. The guys’ outfits are equally over-the-top, notably the “hosts” who work in special bars where they are paid to drink, chat and flirt (sometime more) with older women. They won’t admit it, but they have men customers also. Imagine!
I found a change in what used to be my rush-hour subway ride. Thirty years ago, midst the rib-cracking crush of young businessmen, I was constantly man-handled (if you catch my drift). It was terrible. During yesterday’s ride, I was completely untouched. It was terrible.
Visitor overstay
What fun it is when old friends arrive for “a few days.” Almost every sentence begins, “Remember when …” Soon, however, things slow down with the oft repeated tales of their retirement in Nebraska. Then the reports of precious kitty Pupu’s demise at barely 18 and their Christian duty at the hospice soon lower your fun meter. They, however, love San Diego and its sun, surf and Hillcrest’s gay openness. Soon you hear, “Why should we go back to the sleet, snow and tea-baggers?” You think, “Why? Because you are driving me CRAAAZY, dear.” But instead, you sweetly hint from the kitchen, “Do you want to see me work on this stack of dishes?” The reply, “Just fine here, thanks. How about another beer and making some more popcorn.” As the visit drags on, cyanide and axes worm their way into your reverie. What to do?
First, switch to TV dinners with only the briefest, cheery comments about their convenience and good taste. Then insist on watching an obscure sporting event followed by a political discussion and then slam dunk with Honey Boo Boo. If that doesn’t get them to the airport, send them off for a fun day in Tijuana and neglect to tell them to take their passport. Don’t worry, they will eventually be kicked back over the border and surely ready to leave. No luck? OK, this means them or you; you have no choice but to resort to the ultimate strategy; babysitting a couple of kids – the younger, noisier and brattier, the better.
If you still find them in the bathroom, give up. It is time to head for Nebraska and a house swap.
