hachiko: a love story

Internet, meet Hachiko.
Hachiko, meet Internet.

See, he's a very important dog here in Tokyo. A purebred Akita, his story is one of loyalty and faithfulness. But, back up for a bit.

Hachiko's owner was a professor who worked at the University of Tokyo. Every day Hachiko saw him off at their front door and then made his way to Shibuya Station in downtown Tokyo to meet him at his train and walk him home in the early evening. But one day, the professor never did come home, having had a stroke and died while at the University.

But Hachiko waited at the train station, just like every other day.

However, Hachiko was eventually taken in by another family and you might think that the story ends there.

It doesn't.

Hachiko continually escaped back to his master's old home, purportedly looking for the professor. Realizing that he wasn't there, the dog made his way back to the train station, parking himself at his usual spot, at the usual time, waiting to meet his master at the end of the day. Though he never saw him, this did not deter Hachiko from trying again and again, innocently hoping that his dear friend would come home.

Other commuters recognized Hachiko and remembered the professor fondly and so started bringing treats and food for Hachiko to enjoy during his daily wait.

And this went on for 10 years.

Hachiko never did see his beloved professor on this earth again but I like to think they are reunited in Heaven now.

Sure you can tell me how that is not theologically sound and honestly, that doesn't interest me as much as this sweet love story between a man and his dog; and I think God cares about that enough to maybe bring them back together again.

I get to pass this statue of Hachiko everyday now, going to and from Shibuya Station.

Sweet, loyal Hachiko is an inspiration to us all.
The end.

she's a Martin, but that's not her name.

I have been thinking about this for a while.

Especially while on the road.

And especially when I don't have access to a piano.

People seem to be under the impression that I am very very busy. When in reality, I am not so busy, I just am not around. And there's a big difference.

On a one show day, I work for a total of 3 hours. And then I am done with what is known as bringing home the bacon and can do whatever the heck I please. All this to say, I have time for some other stuff in my life. Time to learn new things, and I want to take advantage of this.

So right. What I have been thinking about is purchasing an instrument that is more mobile than say, my piano that weighs a ton.

And for once, I am using that word literally.

See, as much as I'd love to take my piano on the road, I'd hate to see what the airline would charge me for the overweight fees once I stuffed it into my suitcase. Plus, I already have some necessary things in there. Like clothes. And 100 calorie packs of Cheez-Itz. As well as many other mature things along that same vein. So, really there just isn't room.

Also, some of the music I write has a feel for a guitar rather than a piano and so it'd be nice not to have to go to someone else to play it for me. And by someone else I mean Drew. Or Clyde, my guitar-wiz friend here on tour. Or upon lucky occasion, my talented rocking brother Josh.

Anyway, there is this guitar shop that I pass everyday on my way to work here in Tokyo. I have to admit that the first guitar that stood out to me was purple. And it stood out to me simply because it was purple. So I thought that was the one I wanted.

But then I saw a red one. A deep, rich red that was feminine with an edge. I loved it. Until I heard it, that is. It was tinny, and not nearly as rich or resonant as its color would suggest.

Oh and I guess I should tell you that Clyde was with me. See, when talking over this purchase with Drew, his one caveat was to make sure that it isn't crap. Those were his exact words. And since I am obviously easily seduced by pretty colored guitars, I asked Clyde to come with me and help me make a good solid choice, i.e., a non-crappy choice.

Anyway, the purple guitar was a no go, as was the red. Well shoot, I didn't see anything else that drew me. Until...We were taken up to the 6th floor, also known as the Land of Beautiful Acoustic Guitars, also known as the Land of Guitars That Are Way Too Expensive For Me So Why Am I Even Here?

But.

We got around to a bunch in the center of the room and I noticed a smaller guitar, black as the nighttime sky and beautifully crafted. I also noticed it was on sale and within my price range.

We picked it up. Clyde played it and we both marveled at its tones, the roundness of its high notes, the fullness of its low range.

And then it was my turn to play.

And that was it.

Done and done, sign me up, and do you take Visa?

I love it and I am very excited about this new venture, this new challenge.

Already my fingers hurt and already I have learned one new chord. Also, my dear friend Mindy made me play her a song in the dressing room, which I did, and she kindly acted like she loved it. Have I mentioned how dear and sweet Mindy is? I am pretty sure she would love it if I banged two sticks together and yodeled about sheep. Or at least, she would tell me that she did.

Anyway, here she is (My guitar, that is, not Mindy). She's a Martin, but I won't be calling her Martin, since she's a girl.

So pretty.
And I am so grateful that she is mine.
Now to build up some calluses on these fingers of mine...

baseball halfway across the world.

I just wanted to give you a glimpse of the throngs of people I fight through every day to get to work.

So here it is, Shabuya. Not to be confused with the song, Shabuya Roll Call.

This is basically the Times Square of Tokyo. It's loud, neon, and absolutely packed.

And Japan is crazy about their baseball. So crazy, in fact, that they are in competition with the US as far as who can lay claim to the game. I know, I know, baseball is as American as...well, baseball, but not so, according to the Japanese. I had always heard that the game was invented during the Civil War; that we have documented letters from soldiers who talk about this new game involving four bases, a bat, and a ball. But apparently somewhere in the 1860's the Japanese can tell of the same new game appearing on their scene as well.

What else are they going to claim? Apple Pie?!?!

I don't really know who it was that started it, but I do know that I don't really understand it very well and there are a whole heck of a lot of innings. Nine, to be exact. I had only been to one other baseball game in my life and that was in Denver, Colorado. As far as I can tell, the Rockies Stadium looks pretty much the same as the Jingu Stadium here in Tokyo.
With the exception, of course, of the Rocky Mountains that surround the Rockies Stadium.

It also surprised me that the Japanese teams did not have Japanese names--the two I saw play were simply called The Swallows and The Tigers. Just like they were from Michigan or Ohio or Tennessee. Just like they weren't one of the six teams that Tokyo claims as its own.

Oh, but whenever anything great happened (and I rarely knew what that actual great thing was), the crowd suddenly was covered in pastels as everyone grabbed a miniature umbrella from seemingly out of nowhere and pumped it into the air to the beat of the music. I guess it was their version of the foam finger or something.

And here in Japan, if you go to watch a baseball game you get a fan.

Of course you do.

And I don't know if it was because the sun and the moon were passing each other in their respective journeys, announcing the time between times yet again, the slight breeze that carried the heat away and left you feeling perfect, or just that I was seated on the end of the aisle, able to lose track of any conversation or home run or umbrella pumping that might be going on around me, but I suddenly had the urge to write.

The Muse hit me, so I found an old envelope and a pen and got to it. I wrote two pieces and thoroughly enjoyed myself all the while.

Who knew baseball could be so inspiring?

a little trip to see a big buddha

Kamakura, Japan.

Today we got out of the hustle and bustle of Tokyo, opting for something a little more rustic.

We strolled down some narrow streets, occasionally stopping in small shops and nodding at the shopkeepers. The whole nodding/bowing thing is quite interesting and really could perpetuate itself into a forever long time, not to mention some really tired necks. You bow, they bow, you bow, they bow, you bow, they bow. And so it goes until finally one of you sort of backs up, still bowing, and makes a hasty exit, grateful for the chance to once again keep one's head still.

Although this particular restaurant's advertisement made the food look very tasty,
we, ah, passed.

As soon as we saw this little guy sitting on the chair behind the counter, manning his shop, it became clear why we were told to bring cash to Kamakura.
I am pretty sure pigeons haven't mastered how to run credit card machines.

Once we got to the Great Buddha of Kamakura, there was some water that everybody was ladling out; some were drinking it while others were washing their hands.
I jumped right in, hoping I didn't offend anyone in the process.

And here's what all the buzz is about in this town.
At 755 years old, he's looking quite good for his age, don't you think? Must be all that meditation. And really, 755 years old? That means he was built in the year 1255, before the start of the Hundred Years War between England and France, before King Louis the 14th established a national ballet company, and way before 13 colonies decided to band together and start their own thing, throwing off England's reach from across the pond once and for all.

Which is why I tried to walk softly, to show some deference, because my mom sure taught me to respect my elders.

Especially when they are from the 13th century.

And especially when they are on the grand scale of huge.

another post about food and I don't even cook.

Once I went to Africa.

I had thought that the wildness of the land, the lack of paved roads and street signs, the potential for lions to be licking their large chops around any corner would be exciting.

But once I got there, it was really just scary.

At least for the first few days. Then I got used to it. I learned to trust that the old jalopy that wouldn't pass a test at the DMV if you bribed the attendant with stock in Google from way back when that they used to transport us would not fall apart or fall prey to some of the roaming herds that stood casually in the middle of the dirt roads. I decided that, after the first few days of visiting churches, orphanages, Compassion International, and Bible Colleges and always coming back, chances are that would keep happening: I would keep coming back.

So even when I was whisked off, by myself, to a tiny rustic church in a village that was no bigger than a few of the hallways of this sky rise hotel I'm now in, I just concluded that yeah, I'd come back.

But what I didn't factor in was the meal I'd be expected to share before I came back.

With two men, two pastors, actually. And just me.

They treated me with all the pomp and honor they could afford, though it was probably more like all the pomp and honor that they couldn't afford. They took me to a restaurant and in a country where only one meal a day is standard, they ordered me a meal. And not just a meal, but the works, from what I could tell.

We sat there, and when the first course came, I relaxed. It was bread. BREAD!!! And in my heart I greeted it like an old friend, only I never do eat my friends, old or young, so there was that. But bread I could totally handle. I could eat it anywhere, with the devil himself, if it was necessary.

Though I hope it never is.

I'm sort of counting on that.

We all dug in and have you ever seen a hungry person eat?

I mean someone who is truly famished, who probably hasn't eaten since yesterday, and carries the kind of leanness that has nothing to do with those size 2 jeans and everything to do with a lack of food.

These men ate with gusto. I tried to keep up and honestly I wasn't doing so badly with the bread. The bread that was like an old friend only not because I am not a cannibal and I think Hannibal Lector is one of the most frightening villains ever. Genius, but scary as all get-out.

But then out came the second course and Hannibal Lector himself might have gotten a little weak in the knees at the thought of consuming it. My heart dropped and I asked God for courage. It was a mash of some sort, green in color, mealy in nature and steaming with a smell that had never before presented itself to me.

Which was just fine.

The waiter placed it before each of us, respectively, and I gave my newest nemesis a good stare down. I sized up it's weakness and came up with a plan of action while the men beside me started shoveling the food into their mouths. Devouring it. Like it was the best thing ever. Like it wasn't a mash or green or mealy or smelly.

Oh man.

I picked up my spoon and started to follow suite. Only I had a trick up my sleeve; one rarely survives a house full of three older brothers without making sure to never leave home without one. Or never come home without one, for that matter. See, I vaguely remembered that the taste buds were on the tongue (remember? 3 whole science credits from college!) and I was hoping that they were on the forefront of the tongue.

My whole plan hinged on that, actually.

Cause I just tossed the mash into the back of my throat, bypassing the taste buds and going almost directly down the hatch (yes, hatch is totally the technical term. 3 credits, people, 3 credits!). And it worked. Kind of. Cause slowly but surely the food was disappearing from the bowl.

But not fast enough, I guess, because one of the men paused mid-feasting and asked me pointedly, Are you not hungry?

I thought about who I was talking to. That many of these villages do not have enough food for the people, that many of them live a pretty hungry life and that to be "not hungry" is a luxury that is rarely afforded.

I re-doubled my efforts right after I told them that I was hungry. And I ate that food, that awful food. Because I don't ever want to turn down somebody's kindness. I don't ever want to deprive anyone from the blessing that comes of giving out of nothing.

Nor do I ever want to be somebody who turns down a meal that others would devour.

I guess this came back to me because I went out for Indian food tonight with some friends. Two of these friends were so excited that I had never had it before and therefore wanted to show me the ropes, so to speak.

They ordered dish after dish, putting pieces of this and that on my plate.

And there I was armed with a fork and nothing to lose.

Did I love everything that I tasted?

DO YOU EVEN HAVE TO ASK?

Of course not. Not even close. I could go on and on about the cilantro that seemed to be the Indian version of salt and pepper, it was scattered throughout the dishes so generously; the potato that was (horror of horrors!) mashed and mealy and orange (and no, it wasn't a yam; please, I am not that lucky), the spicy bread that wasn't bread at all because isn't like one of the cardinal rules of bread that it be soft? And before you start telling me about crusty french bread and matzo bread and other hard breads that all you smart people can think of whereas I run out after only listing two, maybe I should rephrase it and say that it's one of my cardinal rules for bread.

That it be soft and IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?

It's not like I'm wanting it served on the tip of a unicorn's horn or anything extravagant like that. Sheesh.

But as I was saying, some of the food was hard to swallow. And that was after the very difficult part of chewing it and tasting it, so my strength was already a bit flagged by the time it came to actually swallowing the stuff.

But.

My friends were just so excited. They wanted to share their knowledge of Indian cuisine with me; they loved it and were happy to see cilantro brighten up my night too.

So I ate it. All of it. There was not one thing that I didn't try.

And we all had a smashing time.

And later on in the night, the waiter brought out some more bread. Soft bread this time. Delicious in all ways and here we go with me telling you how it was like seeing an old friend, unexpectedly.

Only, you know, in this scenario it doesn't end with me eating the old friend.

But I already explained that, I know.

And I guess my point is that sometimes there are just some things that are more important than a certain meal tasting good. Even when you're picky, even when you're me.

Oh, and some of the Indian food really was good; not every bite of it was simply for friendship's sake, if you know what I mean.

oh the food

While doing a publicity event today, I was fed a boxed lunch.

Japanese-style.

As in, a whole bunch of sushi that came in a very big box.

Once again, I tried valiantly to like it, and although this time it wasn't slathered in mayonnaise or secretly hiding a horrible surprise tucked deep inside known as wasabi, it still tasted like a little dead fish that crawled out of the ocean into my mouth.

And unfortunately, there was no soy sauce to drown my sorrows in either.

And here's the thing: yes, I am in a foreign and evocative country and yes, I want to experience everything this country has to offer; but when that includes tastes that make me want to stop chewing and start spitting, then yes, I will go elsewhere. Because I am in a show that involves some energy and hey, a girl's gotta eat. So how terrible would it be if I confessed that I went to KFC today after the whole boxed lunch affair? And how awful would it be if I told you just how much I enjoyed that crispy chicken sandwich that was blessedly devoid of mayonnaise or wasabi or anything that had recently had a P.O. box in the Pacific Ocean?

Because I did.

And another thing, sometimes it's better just not to ask.

We were all feasting on some delicious bread at dinner tonight. The bread was black, but not burnt. It was a little toasty, but soft in the middle. I just assumed that it was made from olives or something and though I don't like olives in the least, I decided to just go with it because like I said, the bread was smashingly good.

So when my friend asked the waiter why the bread was black and he methodically told us squid ink?

I just kept chewing.

That makes up for KFC in a moment of weakness today, right?

the sounds of silence

There's something that I find quite disconcerting, performing here in Tokyo.

It's the silence.

Once we are at places, we are backstage, methodically going through some last minute stretches, turns, props (cause you know, ACL has just so darn many), conversations with each other--and all of this activity is masked by the cacophony of sounds coming from the audience.

They are chatting, situating, finding their seats, popping in some gum before the black out or whatever, the point is they are making some noise. Some blessed noise. And I never even realized how much I find that wall of accidental noise to be comforting. To be evidence of an energized audience, a reason for me to be all dolled up, stretched out, warmed up, lip-sticked and powdered.

But here, they sit silent as the grave. Oh, but surely it changes once you guys start performing, you might think?

Not really.

They sit there, politely smiling and yes, clapping when it absolutely calls for it (as in, you are standing there no longer moving or speaking and the music has stopped), but they rarely laugh.

Yet at our bow, they applaud like crazy, sometimes even standing up which is highly different for the Japanese. It is their custom to only give a standing ovation at a closing performance, and rarely even then. But they gave us one at our opening, which was quite an honor. And once we exit the stage they sit there and clap in unison, even in rhythm, for a long long time, hoping, I suppose for some sort of encore. Little do they know that we are already in robes and crocs and have no intention of stepping back onto the stage. At least not till the next show.

But still, how nice of them to show their appreciation.

It would just go a really long way to get some of that appreciation scattered throughout the entirety of the show. It'd really help to distract from the pain in the feet, the hunger you feel, the fact that maybe we are only in the 2ND number and have a ton to go. It'd really help to know that they are with us as we tell our stories, make our jokes, sing our songs.

And in America, an involved audience MAKES SOME NOISE.

Sigh.

I keep telling myself it's cultural, it's okay, it doesn't mean they don't like the show, but I will be honest and say that it's still pretty hard to get past. It still feels a little like the show is great, we're just ready for an audience. A live audience, for goodness' sake.

But it's actually pretty hilarious to hear the complete silence that follows almost every punch line in the show. And then to hear our own pitiful attempt at filling the silence with laughter; the laughter from people who have heard that joke every day now--sometimes twice!--for a year and a half.

But still, we try.

And on a completely different note, I saw this at a restaurant tonight, listing the different sizes for a particular salad:

Regular: 850 yen

US-Size: 1300 yen

Uh-oh. So now there's the regular size, meaning you know, a healthy normal amount of food to imbibe in one sitting, and...US-Size??? As in, come on over Fatty McButterpants and kid yourself into thinking that you'll "eat light" and "only order a salad," but it will be huge, dripping with dressing, just plain TOO MUCH, and utterly, unequivocally American.

We get it, Japan, we eat too much in America.

One plate from Texas Roadhouse could feed a family for a day.

The irony of the way you define your sizes is not lost here.