Yamachan Trifecta

Yamachan, or as Marlow and I first called it before we could read kana Chicken Stallone's (because the Yamachan guy looks like Sylvester Stallone with chicken wings), is quite possibly the most popular izakaya (bar/restaurant) we've come across so far. Near our old apartment around Sakae there were three Yamachans within a 10-15 minute walk of each other--and we thought that was excessive. Well, we hadn't seen anything yet. Near our new place we came across three Yamachans within a 3 minute walk of each other (no, I'm not exaggerating...I timed it). So, with what seemed like a bounty of Yamachans fairly close to our apartment, we decided to go there for dinner over the weekend. Would you believe that they were all completely full? And all three actually had a line of people waiting outside? Believe it. We were astonished as we hopped from one to the next, all the while confident we would get into one of them--I mean, there were three of them after all. Nope, all full. We underestimated you, Stallone. Keep doin' what you're doin' because it seems to work.

Marlow's Brand-Spankin'-New Camera

About a month and a half ago we moved from the downtown Sakae area, to our new apartment overlooking the train tracks of Nagoya Station. The move itself was great, and went off without a hitch...or at least it seemed to at first. We later realized that we could not find Marlow's fairly new HD camcorder. After searching through everything in our new apartment, and even venturing back to our old apartment to triple-check for anything we had left behind, we finally concluded that it was gone. As upset as he was, Marlow has since moved on and bought a new, superior camera and full HD camcorder, the Canon Rebel T1i Kiss X3. I had bought him an older Canon Rebel for his birthday years ago, which he was very fond of. But with the arrival of the new Rebel his old companion has been put to rest, but not before the two are compared first. My husband has made great videos and taken fantastic pictures with lesser quality cameras, and I look forward to seeing how his new work turns out after he takes the new Rebel for a spin. In the meantime, here is a short video I made (my first, so be gentle) as Marlow unveils his brand new camera.

iPhone Scrabble

As an iPhone scrabble addict, I have collectively passed what seems like countless hours of "in-between time" waiting in line, or on the subway racking my brain, and trying to one-up my arch nemesis: the computer. And as an addict, I've tried some underhanded, and rather sneaky tricks in an attempt to attain the victory I so craved. I would imagine shoving letters together aimlessly and holding my breath as I wait to see if such a word exists within the dictionary would make an orthodox scrabbler shudder, but I can't help it! If I don't get the triple-word score, then IT WILL!!! Confessions aside, since it is a computer it has a vocabulary far superior to mine. There have been words arranged by the computer that, as it stabbed my ego, I have cursed, and swore was not a real word, but secretly accepted. However, a recent match revealed a word that surprised and tickled me so that I am posting it here: since when is "batmen" a real word? I stared at it for a few seconds, thinking I had read "batman". My first instinct linked it to the caped crusader's shooting success over the last century, but it didn't seem right. So, I looked it up and it turns out "batman" is a real word, for which "batmen" is the plural of. Here is the definition according to the New Oxford American Dictionary:

batman

noun( pl. -men) dated

(in the British armed forces) an officer's personal servant.ORIGIN mid 18th cent. (originally denoting an orderly in charge of the bat horse [packhorse] that carried the officer's baggage)
Who knew?

What Did You Say? $100!? For a Melon?!

It's not surprising that Japan, being such a small group of islands, has limited natural resources. Of course, we're all reasoning adults and we can understand that. But when is it acceptable to match the price of groceries with those of electronics? Or designer shoes? Or any other $100 item that may come to mind, other than these melons? Sure, its costs money to import this eency weency container of raspberries, but $15?! Gas prices aren't that high. It is also important to mention that these fruits are specifically given as gifts (notice the fancier packaging that jacks up the price, but rest assured that is the best bubble wrap that money can buy). Be that as it may, I can still think of a gazillion other $100 gifts I would rather have than fruit.

I'm Alive a Quarter of a Century

I like to think of myself as detail-oriented, so much so that for the majority of my life I thought such a quality would work against me one day: I could never have a genuine, scare the-hell-out-of-you surprise party. The attempts of the past were good, some of them really good, but none were without my suspicions...until now. My 25th birthday, and my first in Japan, my good friends and my husband broke the self-inflicted curse I had laid upon myself, and succeeded in really scaring the crap out of me. My husband took me out the entire day--literally for about 9 hours. We went to lunch, then the aquarium, shopping for a gift, dinner, a walk, and cake at the most adorable home made cake shop you have ever seen in your life. Arriving home at close to 10pm, I had no energy to suspect that 5 of my friends were hiding in our pitch-black living room waiting (what probably felt like an eternity) for my arrival. Yuki and our roommate Juan did an amazing job of decorating, and putting everything together! It was an awesome surprise, and definitely one of the best birthdays I have ever had.

Juan also made this cool video, check it out:

Surgery in Japan

Recently, I was quite forced to expose a part of myself that I, until it was unveiled, had not known existed: a myoma (a benign tumor) comparable in size and weight to an average pineapple that had, for years latched on to my poor, unsuspecting uterus. The good news was that I found out about it, and had it removed while living in the great country of Japan, with its glorious and affordable health care program. Had I been back in the US, the 'pineapple' in question might have grown to the size of a watermelon before I might have had the money to pay for surgery to remove it. Three doctor's opinions and a few sleepless nights later, surgery was scheduled. For this type of surgery in the US, you are admitted to the hospital for a period of about 2-3 days, in Japan the same procedure requires patients to stay in the hospital for a period of 10-14 days.

Day one was orientation, which my dear friend Yuki was kind enough to stay for, and translate. For hours we were bombarded with detailed information as to everything I would experience during my time there as doctors, nurses and pharmacists came to tell us about their role in the coming days. I was given my "last meal" at 5pm sharp. The next afternoon, seated in a wheelchair, I was wheeled to the operating room, in front of which the nurse pushing me stopped, and instructed me to get up and go to the operating table. This was a strange and terrifying moment. As a surgery rookie, I had always envisioned other ways of entering an operating room as a patient, usually while lying on a bed with wheels as you are brought to the cutting board. But there was something odd in walking into an operating room, and lying down myself. It all seemed so much more voluntary, and willing than I was ready for. The giant, circular light above me as I was strapped on to the lethal injection-like table, and the countless masked faces staring down at me was all too much for me to bear, and I was unable to hold back the few tears that had begun as a lump in my throat the moment I set foot into the room. Immediately the masked faces produced hands that held mine, and patted my legs, shoulders and arms in attempts to soothe the giant, scared gajin. Sleep rescued me from my fears, and the next thing I remember was waking up in excruciating pain, in my dimly lit hospital room, with my husband's concerned face above mine. The drugs had not yet worn off, and I could not, no matter how hard I tried, focus my swimming eyeballs on anything. Breathing hurt, I could speak no louder than a whisper, and moving so much as an inch was out of the question. Then, one of the worst nights of my life: the pain was terrible, and when sleep was kind enough to grace me with her fickle presence, I was woken up frequently by an automated blood pressure reader, and the nurse's numerous visits in the night. Day 3 in the hospital was Day 1 post-op and it was rough. I could not have imagined being let out of the hospital at this point, or even a day or two later (as it is done in the US), the thought of it just seemed so scary—to be sent home with this giant cut in your abdomen complete with aching staples that has barely even begun to heal is ludicrous. The pain was severe whenever I attempted to move, and I found it difficult and tiring to do anything. But there the nurses were, visiting frequently and asking “Itai des ka? Daijobu?” (“Do you have pain? Are you OK?”). They made every attempt to communicate with me in English, sign language, and even occasional drawings about even the smallest things, like adding antibiotics to my IV, or taking my blood pressure. They also came armed with English-Japanese electronic dictionaries, and took the time to stop and search for a word that would allow me to understand what they were going to do next. On occasion, if there was just too much information, special efforts were made to track down English-speaking staff from all corners of the hospital (who had no other reason for being anywhere near my wing of the hospital) to speak to me. And, without fail, they came in smiling—even those wearing masks came in with crinkling eyes peering at me, all of whom possessed unyielding kindness, sympathy and patience that I had never encountered from complete strangers before. I remember a couple of occasions in which I called the nurse’s station and asking for someone to come to my room—nothing big, I just couldn’t reach the light switch. Moments later, I heard someone running down to hall to get to my room. I didn’t make a habit of calling the nurse’s station too often, however when I did, I only waited longer than about 2 minutes one time. My room was cleaned every day, a fresh pot of hot water replenished daily, and carefully arranged meals (no TV dinners) brought to me like clockwork. And the food was really good! It was nothing shy of what you might find at a restaurant in quality, taste and presentation. The following days crept by rather slowly, with even the smallest tasks requiring the greatest of effort, and I found myself with a genuine appreciation for the amount of work my abdomen does, yet hating it so at the same time. I had instantly become painfully aware of every single move that I made, and was accordingly exhausted after short spurts of movement. But all the while, the nurses were there, still smiling, and monitoring my progress. About a week after surgery my 13 staples were removed by the first and only doctor to handle my incision a little roughly—all the while, Yoshiko, one of my regular nurses, held my hand. The way in which this doctor handled me, made me realize how much of an effort everyone one else had made to be gentle and keep me as comfortable as possible. In many places in Japan, understandably so, I have felt like an outsider, but it was different there. Before and after the surgery, I quickly felt as though I was a member of a team that thrived within these hospital walls. Nurses, doctors, and even the housekeepers raised their fists and softly cried “Gambatte!” (“Do your best, good luck”) in an effort to raise my spirits. 8 days after surgery, able to move around and take care of myself (very slowly, of course) I was released from the hospital, which was actually a little sad. A few of my regular nurses came to see me before I left to say goodbye, and again “Gambatte!” It is really astonishing to think about: these people took phenomenal care of me, yet it is regarded as nothing more than part of their jobs. Everyone gets the same amazing care that I did, and if anything the language barrier made it harder for them to take care of me, yet they still did it with a smile. It was an experience I will never forget, and one that has made my husband and I seriously consider beginning our family here on the other side of the planet, rather than back home.