Settling in now...

Belle, Sharon and Kate on karaoke night.
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Welcome back to Yokohama. Ok, I'm not actually in Yokohama, I'm in Kozukue. But, I'm not actually in Kozukue, either, which is the train station near my apartment. I use both of these landmarks to tell people where I live but the truth is, I don't exactly know where I am. I feel like this is an integral part of living abroad (life, really)--knowing one's whereabouts--but I couldn't really tell you that yet. I'm hoping that after three months, I will know this information, but I can't be sure. You see, Japan is split up into various sub-sections. First you have the prefectures, then the big cities, then the wards, then the quadrants, then the neighborhoods...oh, who knows after that. So, I know where I am up until my neighborhood, and then I get confused. Then again, I am not about to put my exact address down in an internet posting, right? I'm not that stupid.

My "free hugs" guy in Harajuku park
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So, I feel like I have done well my past few weeks. Everything has run like clockwork. I spent my first weekend dropping cash like P-Diddy in a love hotel-like karaoke room with seven friends where I realized that I am, in fact, a microphone whore with a death grip. Every time Kassandra tried to pry that pristine shaft of metal from my hands, I absolutely was not havin' it. Thus, it's official. I don't just love karaoke...I am in love with it. This was my first night in Tokyo where I voluntarily didn't go to bed until 7 a.m., something I haven't done since my flight over here (or since those lovely beginning stages of a new relationship). On the walk home to my apartment the next morning, I decided to walk through the temple near my place. Water was softly trickling from a steel, open-mouthed dragon fountain into wooden watering cans, all lined up for the day ahead. I took some pictures in the small cemetary within the temple, which I wouldn't have had the guts to do with people around. I was also finally able to enjoy the calm of being in the temple alone, which I hadn't done since my first time there, when Dan so sensitively told me--in the dark temple one night--about how a British english teacher in Tokyo was murdered a month ago after being stalked by her student, only to be found dead in the man's bathtub, which was filled up with sand. Thanks, Dan. Anyway, the temple was lovely. I went home that morning and slept for a few hours before enjoying a sunny day in my hometown.

Thus, it's official. I don't just love karaoke...I am in love with it.

The champion sumos show off before the match.
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The next day, I headed off to Harajuku, one of the biggest parks in Tokyo. Okay, I am probably editorializing here. I don't know if it's the biggest park in Tokyo, but it sure is damn big. It's about the size of Central Park and is absolutely filled to the brim with people. The great thing about the park is how Japan's seemingly oppressed citizens seem to come out en masse to let loose and act like the rest of the world. Oi, perhaps you think I am being harsh, but I assure you, the Japanese could take a lesson or two about passion from India, France or Israel. Every time I think about doing anything the least bit spontaneous--and we're talking small things, like jumping over a street banister, walking on the curb or laughing hysterically at a friend--I hold back. Why? It's not like the Japanese will insult you verbally or call the cops, but you can feel their eyes. And foreigners are often targeted for standing out, even if other Japanese are doing so.

Nothing like a little pomp and circumstance to end the day.
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One of my friends, Bahriye who's from London, has dyed red hair and has been told that she must wear her hair up in a bun all day at work because the color is considered, "punk." One day while she was out, she wanted a smoke. She knew that Japan respected smoking-designated areas only, so she went over to a group of Japanese businessmen who were smoking in a corner of the sidewalk. What happens two minutes later? Bahriye is approached by a shop keeper, who tells her that she is not allowed to smoke there. She asks him why he has told her and not these other men. He just repeats himself. You see? My point exactly. I'm not saying that the Japanese hate foreigners, but as one, I definitely feel the need to squelch most of my innate behaviors. I tell you, it gets real exhausting.

Look at those squats.
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Ok, I am getting off track. So, I went to the park with Kassandra, my friend from Canada. We were well into our rant about being in our upper 20's and already feeling like sad spinsters, as all our friends are getting married and having babies, when one of her friends called her to say that....their mutual friend was getting married to a wealthy Italian man and they would be moving to Paris soon. Mhmmm. So, after we picked our egos up off the neat and tidy Japanese sidewalk, we went over to sit by the bongo drummers. On our way into the park we had already passed the dancing Elvises (men who dress up as Elvis and do a dance for the crowd), a girl whose face was completely covered in colorful barrettes and teens dressed up in theme who were giving out hugs. I went in for the kill, receiving one from a young guy in a top hat. He was holding up a sign reading, "free hugs," and who was I to pass up the love? Also in the park, we walked by a group practicing Tai Kwon Do, another group playing Chinese jump rope, two girls working on their hip hop routine and a Jon Benet Ramsey-style child singer belting out tunes with her guitar. And I am giving you the abridged version. Harajuku park has stuff going on in every corner and most of it is too strange to describe in a blog. We also happened upon an enormous Thai festival on our way out, scoring some cheap Pad Thai.

The Japanese love their little dogs.
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Back to the bongo drummers. We sat ourselves straight across from them so that we could officially be their stalkers. It was fabulous. One guy came up with African tribal scars across his face and every time he hit his drum, it sounded like he was hitting a metal rooftop. Pure perfection. We stared at a hot Tibetan-looking drummer while also watching a hippie mama who had brought her little daughter with her to the jam session. The little girl was fast asleep on her mom's lap as her mom played the drum over her and the drums ruptured all around her. I wish I could sleep like that.

The bongo drummers.
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When we left the park at sundown, I think Kass and I both realized that we had found the holy land. That park is truly a breath of fresh air in Tokyo--the land of overly sexualized girls, feminine men and the material-obsessed. I am beginning to really dislike Tokyo and the people in it. Just this weekend, I went walking around again with another friend and was pretty much sickened at every turn. I swear, if I see another girl walk by wearing hot-pants, knee high black socks and high heels, I'm going to cut off my arm and throw it at someone. Oh, and those black vests on the guys have got to go. Really. George Michael isn't popular anymore for a reason.

So, after last weekend, I was a little pooped. This weekend, I laid low so that I could maximize my day of....SUMO!! It was the best experience of my time here so far, for sure. I find it funny how if one saw these super obese men walking around the beaches of Japan, most people would be horrified, yet when they waltz into the ring wearing a fancy silk diaper, it's okay. But, actually, it is. I didn't so much as cringe at their cellulite. Well, not after the first hour, at least.

I woke up at 4 a.m. to ride into Tokyo and get in line to buy tickets. If you get there early, you can secure the cheap seats for only 20 bucks, whereas the other prices shoot up to 36 and then 49. Although we were in the back, we had a clear view of the guys. And with my camera's big zoom, my pictures give the illusion that I was sitting in the fifth row. Actually, I had heard that we could sit in the front rows until everyone arrived, as sumo is an all-day event and most people don't show up until about 4 p.m. So, from 9 to 10, we watched the "little" guys while sitting in 450 dollar seats. Fab. Then, we grabbed lunch at Denny's (of all places) and went back at 2:00.

I have been to the Cannes Film Festival and have been a gymnastics fan for years, so it was no surprise to see the hero worship involved regarding the sumo wrestlers and their fans. It was rather funny, however, to watch these camera-happy Japanese people chasing after enormous dudes in silk kimonos, wooden clogs and greased back top-knots (they have to wear them when they're out and about) to snap pictures. The men walked into the stadium in between two rows of people who seemed to know them all by sight. Of course, none of our friends knew anyone, but it was fun to get into the excitement and take pictures of people who we could deduce were "important" by the crowd's reaction.

Once inside, the place became packed really quickly. Unlike the morning session, where you could hear a drop of sumo sweat on the wrestling sand, the stadium--like harajuku park--showed elements of a more free and enthusiastic Japan. The crowd really got into it, cheering for their favorite wrestler and laughing when the guys beat their chests in anger when their opponent psyched them out, stopping play for the third or fourth time. In the end, we saw some really exciting matches. One guy fell on a judge, a few fell on their heads, and several fell into the crowd. And let me tell you, when these guys fall, it's not gently. BOOM! Fat rolls everywhere and the ground literally shakes.

Oh, i could go on and on about the day. It was so awesome. They go through this elaborate process of slapping their thigh, stepping out into the ring, then doing a high kick up to their head, followed by a deep, deep squat. Then they proceed on the opposite side before facing their opponent. Then, they each try to psych the other one out, which involves someone doing a false start or asking for a time out. This is when it gets exciting. As I mentioned, the one who gets psyched out gets really pissed off. The more outgoing ones face the crowd, hit their chests a few times and yell angrily. This sends the crowd into hysterics. Then, they throw salt onto the ring (to bless it) very elaborately--one guy actually threw it up to the tent ceiling--and begin the process again. By the third time, everyone is so riled up that the 20 second (or less) match is all the more exciting. Other times it's a letdown for the all the build up you've endured. But, the pros are pros for a reason. Unlike the little guys, who begin the match by throwing themselves into a headbutting contest or engage in girly slap-fests, the good ones move in for a headlock-like hold before pushing all their weight onto their opponent or even swiveling around in a circle and catching them at the tail-end of a 360 turn. The first man down or out of the ring is out. I tell you, I might go again this weekend if I can't find anything else to do.

Well, this entry has gone on long enough. This weekend, I'm going for a nice meal with my friends on Friday and then we will just have to see, shall we? Maybe Kabuki theater or Taiko drumming. I'm still obsessed with maximizing my time here, so I am determined to make each weekend a good one. I've already been here almost an entire month. Crazy.

Signing off....

colette.