Nintendo Word Play

Since coming to Japan, I’ve lost around 15% of my pre-Japan weight. That’s enough to feed the survivors of a small plane crash for a few days. And it’s taken me awhile to become accustomed to my new walking weight. When looking at pictures stored away on my computer, there’s this fissure between my former life and this “working holiday” that I call life now, marked physically by the new reflection in the mirror.

You’re probably wondering how a guy that just recently shed the carefree skin of his twenties was able to lose that much weight. Was it a secret Japanese diet or a new workout plan? And my answer is the mix of the two (healthier Japanese portions, accentuated with a heavy dose of sweat from boxing and other sports).

Living outside of America helps me to see the true face of dining out in America. And what I see is a bit alarming. America’s sustenance has been transformed into a great food challenge; A meal at a restaurant turns into a race to get to the bottom of the bowl. The restaurants partake in the equivalent of the cold war arm’s race: Bigger, badder and more firepower (fat). There’s also the notion that we should eat more to save more. In this economic downturn, food economics is an important issue. Why would anyone pay more at the drive-through to get a burger and drink with no fries when you can get the combo for less? Why would you order the medium size entree when the large is only a few bucks more?

People in Japan say that I’m a bit heavy for my weight. Most people back at home would say that I’ve lost too much weight; that’s its not healthy to be this thin. I feel just right. But when I look at the my friends blog post about their latest food conquest, a part of me is envious of the vast varieties of food that can be had. And the other part of me doesn’t want to readjust back to my former weight.

Take care out of there and eat safely.

Time trickles along and the end of a second year is looming near. Two years in Japan, another visit back to America for another good friend’s wedding. Life’s little games playing themselves out.

I’ve turned 29 in this country a couple of months ago. Another year closer to something and by my itinerary, I’ll be careening into thirties while I’m teaching English in the land of rice fields and curry rice.

Before that I participated in my first Japanese semi-traditional dance festival, the Suzume Odori (Sparrow Dance). Suzume Odori is a Sendai tradition that harkens back to the days of Date Masamune and the building of the castles by stonemasons. In their drunken after-parties, they were reported to have pranced around like loony birds, hence the Sparrow Dance. Sendai’s annual event for the dancing festivities is the Aoba Matsuri.

I joined forces with the ladies of Wakuya to partake in the Aoba Matsuri. And at times it was hell. Ruthless practice schedules, language barriers, language-less non-communication issues, and my inability to follow a basic beat reminded me of past failures in other dance routines, but somehow I was able to rise the ranks and become a high flying sparrow in the troupe. And after rain outs, sore ninja-clad feet, legs sore from twirling and walking, livers beaten by after-parties I’m glad I did it. Another nice check-mark on the list of new things to do in Japan.

On the day before my birthday was the last assault on the artistic dignity of the Miyagi area, I sang in a concert in town. It was my first time performing in front of crowd, a lifeless crowd but nevertheless a crowd. And I performed “Falling Slowly”, accompanied by Jane on violin, Takuya on the piano, Hiroko on backup vocals and Endo-lady on the drums (did we really need drums guys?). There’s no video or no pictures yet so you’ll just have to imagine what happened. But I finished, and checked another box off my list.

So here’s to another year as JET and more amusing things to put on my list. Maybe cross-country scooter rides, or moto-cross, or surfing. Who knows, but I know I need to do something to keep thing fresh out here.

I took the 3rd level Japanese proficiency test (日本能力試験) back in December. It was first time that I really seriously studied Japanese, the first time in years that I studied any subject intensely. And it was nice to know that I still had some self-motivation left in my weathered brain. And I passed, a small accomplishment. Perhaps I’m just good at taking multiple choice test, the 25% odds aren’t too bad, give yourself some “Life Lines” with a bit of preemptive studying and you got around 65-85% chance of success.

And what does passing Level 3 of a Japanese proficiency test mean? Well from one friend, it means that I can talk as well as his 5 year old daughter. But small battles here and there, small conversational subjects to add to a growing check list, and another level to prepare for. And if I can pass Level 2 in the near future one of my goals for living in Japan will be accomplished and perhaps the next step in my traveling and being an ex-pat will be a possibility. For now I’ll just try to understand the jokes that thrown at me by the old P.E. teacher at Nonodake JHS.

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Kanji: I like it. It fascinates and baffles. And I enjoy studying it. Recreating the shapes is different from handwriting, its more a creative process of joining lines in the proper order in order to make some recognizable pattern, kinda like drawing Doraemon’s face.

And sometimes I think my zeal for wanting to learn kanji is caused by the French. Vietnam’s colonizer, pillager, and ancient script remover. For there was a time when Vietnamese people had their own written language, something akin to Chinese characters, but it was tragically expelled from the writing system. Because you see, if you can tame a nation’s language, manipulate and control it, then you have an easier means to make the people docile. If you make a language more readable it paves the way for administrative control, smooths the lines for subordinating, and brings familiarity to the conqueror and the ensuing traffic of tourist. Most tourist like a semblance of the familiar when they travel, a notion that their own country is somehow linked with this one, either through borrowed food, tradition or language features.

So in my futile attempt to battle the linguistic wars of the past I will attempt to learn another country’s ancient script and regain a part of me lost in a war of languages and tongues.

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Besides, kanji reminds me of the spellcasting systems in old RPG games. Take an elemental magic, fire 火 and then throw some wood on top of it, 木 and then you got a burning fire spell 焚. Want to create a forest, take some trees 木, add some more and then you have a forest 森. You can make water spells and love spells, spells to build or destroy, its all there in your spellbook of kanji. And the good thing is there’s no MP (magic points) to use up. Its like being a magic user on crack. Zoinks.

I’m old school. I grew up in a time before computers and digital communication dominated the conversation landscape. A time when every teenage fought with his siblings for the right to use the phone, knives brandished and extension cord whips drawn. A time before text messages and chatting made the sound of someone’s voice a luxury.

I use to talk on the phone for hours. Conversations that started after dinner would go on until the sun came around and reminded me that I needed some sleep. (I think my longest conversation was something like 10 hours). Marathon sessions talking about every day events, about dreams and the future, about the hope of a love stronger than words could capture, and about the connections of two individuals disconnected by the distance of geography. Talking was my connection to the soul and I continued these conversations until the digital divide created a fissure in our lives.

Now in Japan, where phone calls are expensive and face to face conversations are precious I’ve relied on chatting and emails to keep me connected to friends at home and those separated by shinkansen tracks. Thank god for Skype or I couldn’t hear the sweet sound of my mother’s voice or the laughter of my friends, instead of the LOL or HAHA’s of instant messaging. Call me, I always want to talk.

Its good to know that some things will always be universal, even in Japanese. Like the word “balls” to describe umm… the very special parts of a man. 玉(たま) hehe (I giggle like a little boy when the kids say they are going to grab my “tama”).

Dear Penpal,

This week started out a little rough. One of those Mondays where no one talked to me so I studied. The new, weird, English didn’t make my schedule so I had no idea what was going and then we jumped right into 1st period with the 3rd grade students. And I didn’t know about it being a short day because the new homeroom teachers had to visit their students house (strange!)

But today was great. Great weather, had two fun classes with the 1st graders who adore me (and I adore all those lovable little kids), played basketball and taught some kids 21 (and yes I beat them at my own game), studied Japanese calligraphy with Sakuma(momma)-sensei (was praised by the teachers for trying), and then ran after school. On the way back I stopped by the park next to my school to admire the decorations, booths and flowers that are all in full force. Bought some yaki-hotate (scallops) and visited the family downstairs. Studied and now I’m calling it a night. Life is good, but it hurts not having money until the 21st.

Festivals all this weekend and next. My little town really feels alive now.

When you going to Kyoto?

Sincerely,
Bob Nguyen
Wakuya ALT

What do I miss the most about home, about the OC in Southern California? What do I yearn for like a baby yearning for sustenance? And what brings my memory back to the place that I use to call home the most? Vietnamese food.

The intoxication of the plethora of scents and taste, of the textures: crispy and soft, crunchy and gooey that makes up a country shaped by so many different influences. The smell of that terribly wondrous fish sauce that every Vietnamese dish can’t live without brings back the memory of walking down the streets of Little Saigon in search of the next meal. Biting into the crunchy sweet combination of carrots and radish that make up Do Chua (that picked stuff you get in banh mi). Or the sweet as your “first girlfriend’s first kiss” taste of cafe sua da that brings back the nostalgia of the warmth of the Vietnamese summer, where you drank your coffee under the canopy of shade and the futile blowing of an electric fan.

I’ve been trying to create a taste of home in Japan. Recreating a makeshift village of food in order to preserve my cultural identity. It started with the making of do chua to eat with Japanese food and to make spring rolls. And the importation of spices and sauces that I can’t live without, Sriracha to name one of the few. Because let’s face it; Japan has a notorious way of bastardizing every ethnic dish to suit their palate and with Vietnamese food they can capture the atmosphere but not the unique flavors and textures that your momma can pour out of her sleeves.

Do chua assembly line sans old cackling Vietnamese grandmas.

I’ve made spring rolls a few times, for my teachers at both of my Junior High School and with the neighbors downstairs. And last weekend I took on the challenge of cooking bun thit nuong (vermicelli noodles with bbq pork), spring rolls, and cafe sua da. It was a labor of love, a long search for rare ingredients in Japan (cilantro) but it turned out great. So with the help of Aki and Nate we chowed down.

All the ingredients ready to be put together.

Fish, Garlic Chili Sauce (Tuong Ut Toi) and “Cock” Sauce.

Bun Thit Nuong.

Aki-chan, modeling with the food.

Enjoying the fine weather.

What’s next in terms of fine Vietnamese dining? Banh Xeo (Vietnamese crepes)? Pho Bo (beef noodle soup)? Its all in the stomachs repressed memories. Bon Appetit!

Its funny how you pick up a book, a book that was given to you by someone special to you, and you decide to read it much later. I don’t know why I decided to read it when I did, there was other options, but I connected with it. I connected with the situations even though they were set fifty years ago. I connected with the writer, his words and his thoughts, sometimes like they were my own. I could see what I could become in my older age. But the line that hooked me goes as follows:

From childhood I had never believed in permanence, and yet I had longed for it. Always I was afraid of losing happiness. This month, next year, Phuong would leave me. If not next year, in three years. Death was the only absolute value in my world. Lose life and one would lose nothing again for ever. I envied those who could believe in a God and I distrusted them. I felt they were keeping their courage up with a fable of the changeless and the permanent. Death was far more certain than God, and with death there would be no longer the daily possibility of love dying. The nightmare of a future of boredom and indifference would lift.

And its true, that’s how I’ve thought since I was a kid. Thats the ethos that guided the way that I deal with people, friends and lovers. Those are the words have driven me crazy and helped me to survive.

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Thanks Phuong.

Took my first few breaks from Pho to go to Mammoth for snowboarding. And I was happy to get to the job of completing Phobruary.

This was a filler station, a place we went after snowboarding. Nestled among the Taiwanese shops of Life Plaza, Tai Nguyen is the sole provide of Vietnamese food. And it was ok. Nothing special. The meat was a bit gangster, with a lot of fat hanging off the sides.
Tai Nguyen: C+

Pros: Cheap with lots of variety of food. Only accessible Vietnamese restaurant in Rowland Heights.

Cons: Meat was a bit gangster. Broth – average.

Tai Nguyen Restaurant
1380 Fullerton Rd # 104
Rowland Heights, CA
(626) 965-3242

Pho Hoa is a franchise. Pho Hoa has a website. Pho Hoa is a machine.

I sat down, ordered and before I could clean my chopsticks, spoon, and prepare the dipping sauce a bowl of pho had already arrived on my table. It was post-lunch so there were a few stragglers and late lunch goers like myself. But the machine, known as Pho Hoa churned out a steaming bowl in minutes. And the pho was good, nothing mind-blowing, but a good quick fix.

The dipping sauce, hoisin sauce and sriracha.

Pho Hoa: B

Pros: Fast service, friendly menu.

Cons: A little too much MSG in the broth. I was hungry as I left the restaurant.

Pho Hoa
9211 Bolsa Ave
Westminster, CA 92683
(714) 899-4886