Friday, November 27, 2009

Good news: It's a spa! Bad News: You go commando!

We are in the tip of the Kyushu island at this very special sand spa resort where my bro and I just got buried in 55 dgree (Celsius) sand. Anyone got a calculator convertor? But before we get to that, let's talk about the Japanese onsen, or, soaks. Japanese people love a good soak. You can tell that by the bathtubs they make which are more deep than they are long and prevalent in many Japanese households. You can find onsen houses all over Tokyo, but in the island of Kyushu which is dotted with active volcanoes everywhere, the onsen spa is driven by natural hot springs. As it turns out, the tour my awesome mom booked for us is the 100% pe-ru-cent-u spa tour, and for the past three nights we have stayed in the top hot spring spas all over Kyushu.

When my mom read the itinerary to me (did I mention - this entire thing is in Mandarin) she told me that no clothing or swimsuits are allowed in the onsens. I packed my bathing suit anyway holding out for hope, but sure enough, the Japanese were not kidding. You really go into these things 100% naked-o. The men and the women are separated, of course, but other than that one needs to be ready to sit in a steaming sulfur laden piping hot pool of water with a bunch of old Japanese soakers. If you're me, that's old Japanese ladies who have no problems walking around baring their boobs and butts and fellow tour buddies who pretend they don't know you.

There's a whole art to this. First, you must wear a traditional yukata from your room (worn the correct way of course, because if you cross your lapels wrong you will be considered a dead person) as well as slippers, both of which are provided.



The sense of security provided when they instruct you to bring your large towel and small towel is soon proven false, when you are told that you will be leaving the large towel alongside your yukata and undies in a basket in the changing area. Luckily, you are allowed to bring the small towel. But I am getting ahead of myself. So you go into the ladies section (the men's section if you are male), where the first room is the changing area, but is essentially a locker room but with baskets instead of lockers. If anyone goes to the gym in the states, it's a fairly similar scene - unabashed women walk around swinging their jugs like there's no tomorrow except here everyone's asian and also, you have no choice but to follow suit. Next, it's the removal of all your clothing - every stitch - and along with your small towel (which is the size of approximately 3 face towels in the states) you walk into the room with the onsen - the hot pool.

At this point, the concern turns towards hygiene. Don't worry, the Japanese are way ahead of us here. There are rows of little shower stalls with tiny benches, a bucket, and hand held shower nozzle and a vast array of soap and shampoo products with which one is to vigorously scrub every lick of loose hair follicle and skin cell off oneself before entering a pool. The Japanese will squeeze a huge dollop of liquid soap into the small towel and rub it so that it produces a huge, rich lather. The more soaping and scrubbing that is evident, the more comfortable everyone feels. Once this is done, you can finally enter any one of the pools. Many women who are shy, such as me, will hold the puny towel up to their bodies, and if you haven't spent the last few days stuffing your face with tempura and pork katsu, the towel should just about cover up your privates - on one side. Of course, you can't put the towel into the water, so there's a few minutes of awkward splashing around and stumbling into the water while adeptly raising the towel so as to maximize coverage while not breaking any etiquette covenants. Once you're in, you're more or less safe, as the water is cloudy with sulfur particles, and who are we kidding - the Japanese aren't there to look at body parts they've seen all their lives anyway.

The onsens we have gone to have typically had at least an inside pool and an outside one. We went to a beautiful outside one in the morning, when no one else was around. The birds where chirping (and some ravens were cawing) and the sun was rising and aside from the idea that I was naked in a hot pool with my mom, that the night before a bunch of guys had been naked in, it was really peaceful and relaxing. The first evening, we were at an onsen that was right by the onsen park near Obama (haha, no for real, it's called Obama!) and so we were right at the center of all the sulfur action where there was steam rising from the ground every where you turned.


The next evening, we went further south and were by a river, and this evening, we came all the way to the tip of the island to a very special resort that does sand baths. I believe this is the only place in the world that does this, "this" being, you lie in a patch of sand which they rake over you and you bake in it for 15 minutes and get your blood pumping. As you can imagine, it would be unideal to get sand all up in your privates, so this is one treatment that you do wearing your yukata, and because everyone is clothed, it is not gender segregated. It kind of looks like they're farming people; my more morbid tour compatriots said it looked like they were burying us, either way, there is a slightly creepy element to it, but it turns out it was really nice. The 55 degrees didn't feel so bad at all, and my brother and I were contemplating staying in until we were kicked out. The Japanese are so polite though, they would never do such a thing, so once 15 minutes were up we got out.

Anyway, we're really not allowed to bring cameras to any of these things, so here's a picture of my brother and me posing by the pool. FULLY CLOTHED, you PERVERTS!


Anyway, the thought of the impending naked bath was definitely unnerving, but I have to admit I got over it pretty quickly. Not too many people from our tour group went into the baths, and the rest of the women in there were old Asian ladies I didn't know anyway. Plus, people are pretty discreet and polite, and our tour guide was right - no one really cares to look at your goods anyway. In general though, it really just wasn't a crowded affair so the whole experience is relatively private. My brother though, still isn't that into it. Something about not like being in naked guy soup. I guess I wouldn't really want to imagine what it's like going to a guy version of this...

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Konichiwa, oshitashi washi!

The first word means hello, the second one means - I don't know. I made it up.Our trip to Tokyo started off pretty much without a hitch. Not too much turbulence - and I can't believe we slept almost the whole 14 hours. Japan Airlines rock - with their little footrest, their adjustable side supporting head rests and faux marble bathroom floor tile. Class A all the way.







The flight attendant politely asked me to buckle my purse in.

It took forever to get into Tokyo proper, but once we did, we washed our faces to make a quick turnaround back out to the Tokyo nightlife. Our first stop was the restaurant Cunn (or Kun), which was insisted upon to me by my boss. It was easy enough to get to the general area by subway (we were in the women only car which seems to be open to anyone during non-rush hour) but once we got out at the Asakasa it was really tough to find. Basically we were in some random side street, relying upon a map that our gracious concierge had printed up for us - but was all in hiragana. After walking back and forth on the same street for about 10 minutes, I got frustrated and said we should ask the nearby hotel for directions. Imagine my confusion when we walked inside and found no hotel desk clerk. I looked around and saw this huge panel of pictures of rooms and soon realized that we had found ourselves in a "love hotel"! as it turns out, there is a desk clerk but she is hidden discreetly behind this mesh curtain.

My brother furtively took a picture while I tried asking here where the restaurant was. She spoke no English, and I believe, was a bit perturbed by the indiscreet nature of, well, us. Kind of flustered, she couldn't decipher the map and as I spied a couple coming in and hiding behind a wall, I just said thanks and good bye and motioned my brother to leave. I took care not to look at the couple who was coming in so as to preserve their dignity, for who am I but a heavy footed American tourist to embarrass a couple of locals about their rambuctious affair?

So we left the joint and proceeded to walk back and forth on that random side street until I pestered a local woman walking home with a big bag of toilet paper on where we were. Of course, the map was of no use to her either. Kindly she walked us around the bend and onto a cul-de-sac, whereby she too gave up and called the number of the restaurant. We were finally rescued by our host, Kuma-san, who materialized out of his clandestine, basement level restaurant and escorted us into his establishment.

The restaurant consists of just a bar that seats maybe 10 peoeple, and one more side table. There were two other sets of patrons there, and we were seated next to a big stuffed teddy bear sporting a panama hat. Over the course of the next two hours, Kumasan and his wonderful wife proceeded to feed us delectable dishes paired with the finest and most complementary drinks. It was truly special and remarkable.


Keiji salmon, maguro and toro paired with Japanese draft beer.


Thinly sliced mullet fish roe with sake.


Sendai beef with wasabi, soy bean paste and smoked soy sauce and 1780 madeira wine.




They have been all around the world and are good friends with my boss; they make their own branded smoked olive oil, salts, pepper and nuts, and will soon be serving their line of cuisine aboard Nippon Airlines for those fortunate enough to ride business class.

Afterwards, we tried to meet up with our friend M-dog, but were too tired to go clubbing in Roppongi so headed back to our hotel. We got caught in the closing of the subway as it was past midnight. Tokyo has very well dressed subway employees who wear hats and gloves and run around telling everyone on the platform that this is the last train to ensure that no one is left in a lurch. Of course, that last train was going to other way, so my brother and I were forced to take a very expensive taxi. Basically, it starts at 710 yen (which is about $8).

(ok blogger sucks I'll fix these pics later)

Friday, November 6, 2009

We always laughed a lot

january, 1983

Me & my best friend Audrey Lee, circa 1991

Audrey: Have you seen the Ozzy Osbourne/Lita Ford video?
Me: There's a trial?
Audrey: The video.
Me: Oh, I know Lita Ford wants the song on her album and now she's suing Ozzy for it?
Audrey: No. The song was on Lita Ford's track.
Me: Oh. So what about the trial?
Audrey: There's no trial. Do you know they made a video for that song?
Me: Oh, yeah I guess so.
Audrey: Well, have you seen the Motley Crue video?
Me: No.
Audrey: Well, you know how in the Ozzy Osbourne video he's pushing the columns?
Me: Oh, yeah.
Audrey: Well they do that in the Motley Crue Without You video.
Me: Oh.
Audrey: And they've also copied some of the Tears for Fears video. Have you seen it?
Me: Well, some of it.
Audrey: Well, you know where they have all those things flying around?
Me: Oh, yeah...
Audrey: They copied that. Man, they copy everyone.
Me: Oh, yeah.

(pause. I have a confused look on my face)

Audrey: Have you seen the Motley Crue video?
Me: No.
Audrey: Have you seen the Ozzy video?
Me: No.
Audrey: Have you seen the video for Tears for Fears?
Me: Well, some.
Audrey: Oh, well then you don't know what I'm talking about. Well, Motley Crue just copied everyone!
Me: Oh.

(pause.)

Me: Is there a trial?

we laugh....