(Literal) missed connections

"The flight to Jacksonville has left."

Given the time, this wasn't a surprising statement but I had hoped that my connecting flight had also had been delayed due to the weather in Chicago. Quite how a storm in Illinois came to be my problem on a Buffalo to Florida flight is anyone's guess. However, it was apparently due to this that my first flight had been late departing, causing me to miss my connection at Washington Dulles. At 10 pm, I knew there wasn't going to be another flight that day and I trudged off resignedly in the direction of the United Airlines customer service counter. 

To be fair to them, United were making an attempt to sort everyone out. I had expected to be told that weather was considered 'an act of God' and I was responsible for my own arrangements until the next flight out of Dulles. Instead, I found out that I had been automatically rebooked on a flight the following morning and could have a complimentary a hotel room .... except there were no hotel rooms left.

Slightly strangely, the fact I qualified for a hotel voucher was due to not being a US resident. While I wasn't going to object, I couldn't see why my situation as a Canadian resident was worse than anyone else who had flown in from Buffalo. They couldn't exactly nip home for the night either. Perhaps it was due to a believe that nowhere outside the US had exciting buildings such as hotels so foreigners would be flummoxed. Or maybe it was merely that Americans should be responsible for their own weather system.

Either way, Canadian, American or British, there was no room at the inn so it was rather academic. They did provide everyone in the queue with a $15 meal voucher. The person next to me in the line looked at this coupon before asking;

"Where is the nearest restaurant?"

"Behind you," he was told. "But it's closed."

I was preparing myself for an uncomfortable, hungry night in the airport lounge when a woman in front of me asked about taxi vouchers to take us into Washington DC. Dulles airport is about 30 miles outside the city, so a cab ride wouldn't be an incidental expense, coming to around $60 each way. Her idea was there might be hotels there with free rooms. My idea was that there was a friend there with a free couch. Surprisingly, United bought into this idea. Possibly the line of irate passengers was becoming annoying and sending them to get lost in the city sounded like a great plan.

It's perhaps not conventional to visit someone between 12 and 5 in the morning, but my friend took it well. I rolled into his apartment in the middle of the night and was out before the dawn to catch an early morning flight. Really, when you look at it, these were highly questionable actions. I blame United and that's all I have to say on the matter.

It's now 7:30 am and I'm waiting at the gate. Sadly, I'm now going to miss a friend's thesis defence which is this morning but I'll be there by the time everyone's moved onto the party. And really, I'm far more in it for the after party than the astrophysics in any case.

Kawaii

As my time in Canada was now drawing to a close, my advisor invited our research group over to his house for a BBQ. Among the guests was a Japanese friend of mine who brought along his three year old son. Feeling this was the perfect victim on which to try out my very basic-level Japanese language skills, I approached him holding my advisor's kitten.

"これは小さいねこです。かわいいですね。"
This is a small cat. It's cute, isn't it?

"かわいくないです。”
It's not cute.

"....."

Where does one even go from there?

Too stupid for eggs with toys

While passing through the US border control can be infuriating, it goes without saying that the guards are there to protect us all from something much worse. It is quite understandable that the American government would want to monitor imports such as animals, food that might not conform to US safety regulations, drugs that could be sold on the black market, firearms, suitcases collected from strangers in Japan belonging to someone whom the carrier met on the internet^[*], expensive items such as alcohol whose sale could damage the economy and, above all....

Kinder surprise eggs.

These small chocolate eggs that contain a toy are loved by children in both Europe and Canada (a snack, a surprise and a toy; 3 treats in 1!). However, I learnt tonight that the US border control guards are under orders to seize and destroy any kinder eggs that pass through their gates. Apparently, American children CHOKE on the toy and DIE INSTANTLY. ALL OF THEM.

There is really only one word that springs to mind at this news:

Darwinism.

--
[*] If you don't know .... don't ask.

Licensed to travel

The United States of America is a nation of immigrants. The concept goes that anyone from anywhere can make it in New World and for centuries, people have entered the country searching for their own 'American dream'. There are many good reasons for this but let me assure you none of them involve visa applications.

To be strictly fair, getting your US visa is not so much hard as long, tedious and expensive. Once you have received your work papers from your employer, you must make an appointment with the US embassy.

In your country of citizenship.

It is impossible to apply for a US visa from inside the US. Technically, you can go to a different, randomly chosen country that might have good margaritas, but the documentation warns that this increases your chances of refusal. The idea being that if you can't stand even a week with your parents, perhaps you'll conveniently forget to leave America once your visa expires.

To make an appointment at the embassy, you have to call their premium rate telephone number. This call must be made up to a month in advance of your desired appointment and ....

.... also from within your country of citizenship.

Because it is charged at the inflated rate of £1 per minute (or equivalent), you can't use skype and it must be from a national land line. The last two times I had to get a visa, I was living in the US so I had to ask my Mum to call on my behalf. It occurred to me recently I probably owe her dinner at the Ritz as a thank you.

After this you receive an appointment letter in the mail with dire warnings about being turned away if you are late. Despite this, pretty much everyone has the same appointment time. You all queue up outside high wire fences and watch the only guys armed with guns in the UK prowl the outside. The documents you must be equipped with include your current passport plus any past passports that contain stamps from the US, a receipt for several hundred dollars worth of fees, a pre-paid recorded-mail envelope for return of your passport and an application form that lists every instance you've passed through US border control.

... Did I mention I was living in the US during two of these applications? That list was somewhat long.

Amusingly, my American friends who have moved to the UK tell me that the fees for a British visa match the ones for the US equivalent to the last cent. The Brits, however, don't bother actually seeing you. You just mail in the money stuffed in your passport like some form of documented bribe. Fair's fair, after all.

Once done with the queue, it's through the metal detectors where laptops, phones and anything fun that might play 'angry birds' is removed from your possession. You end up in a room that resembles an airport lounge and has a ticketing system like a fresh food counter. In one corner there is a small kiosk selling muffins and coffee. It may seem unexciting, but after a five hour wait that snack counter is where it's at. 

Finally, there is a couple of two minute interviews, a finger print scan and you get to leave with a note saying that your passport will be mailed to you in roughly two weeks, barring any unforeseen circumstances such as concern over your second cousin Osma or the playstation IV being released.


It was therefore with a sense of resigned apprehension that I went into Toronto to get my visa for Japan. Japan, in contrast to America, is perceived as a mono-ethnic society so their immigration process had every reason to be difficult.

The embassy building was two blocks away from the bus station. I was there and back in time to get the same bus and driver back to Hamilton.

No appointment was necessary, the paper work was a single page that accompanied my work papers and my passport can be collected on Wednesday in exchange for $35. Where does one even go from here?

Oh right. Japan.

It's cool to be 20

So here's the thing Canada; I feel you're undervaluing the 20s. The positive 20s in centigrade I mean; I know you got the negative ones covered. Weather for you is all about extremes and I've noticed that your year seems to go something like this:

Snow, snow, snow, too cold for snow, snow, snow, frozen snow on ground, thaw, bigger thaw, snow cleared, surprise! snowpocalypse!, thaw.

This is typically followed by two weeks over which the same volume of snow is dropped on us again but in the form of water.

Then KA-BAM! It's the mid-30s and I have to hide in the dark coolness of my basement as if 'Twilight' was my favourite novel. In truth, Canada, I preferred the Harry Potter books and the wizards got to go outside all the time. All. The. Time.

What I am trying to tell you, Canada, is just because I am going to be 31 this year, you don't have to beat me. Perhaps you feel intimidated by the USA working in Fahrenheit? Is Buffalo laughing at you, saying that temperatures over there are reaching 100 and you can't even get mid-way to triple figures? You shouldn't feel bad, Canada. Remember, they have to pay to get their sunburn treated.

So next time you wonder how much water can be extracted through the skin of an average Canadian resident, pause a moment. You don't have to always stay on a trend to the very top; it's cool to be 20.

Late spring

Woman on the bus to a couple of random children: "Are you enjoying the summer?"

Small child #1: "It's not the summer. It's late spring."

Smaller child #2: "Summer doesn't begin until the 21st."

Woman: "Oh my god, you're absolutely right! I was completely wrong."

So all of you get your facts right out there. It may be hot and sunny, but it is still LATE SPRING.

Everybody look at me coz I'm ridin on a segway

"What are those lights between my legs?"

This unfortunate choice of wording was underlined by my friend having to clutch the handle of her own illuminated machine as she doubled over with laughter. Our tour guide made a brave attempt to answer my question straight-faced.

"They tell you the segway is activated."

Yes, I was on a segway. One of those electric two wheeled mobiles that look somewhere between a scooter and a circus act. It was one of the multiple options I had for taking a tour of Chicago; bus, boat, bike or segway. Sorry, did I say this was a choice? Who wouldn't take a segway?!

Segways are operated by touch sensitive pads under your feet. Move your weight onto your toes and you will accelerate, lean back and you slow down. Lean too far back and you reverse; not a good thing. Pulling the handlebars straight to the left or right causes you to turn. After a brief instruction, we were set free to wheel around a small square in Millennium Park. Forwards, backwards, round and round and ... okay, I was good to go!

Our tour guide explained to us that our route would involve many hills and dips and a few road crossings. By the time he had explained what we had to do to handle each of these events (lean forward, back, speed up slight to go over bumps) I was less good to go. Actually, I was quite sure I was going to die.

Myself and a long-standing friend were the only two people taking this particular tour. This situation (me feeling death was imminent while my friend wondered where the turbo-boost button was located) had been mirrored multiple times throughout our childhood. It perhaps didn't help that I had been reminded of a certain horse riding incident from when we were about eight twenty minutes previously. Currently, I was concerned about how I'd explain what a segway was to Saint Peter at heaven's pearly gates.

Evidently, my anxiety regarding this near-future conversation must have shown on my face. Our tour guide kindly suggested I went behind him in our line and my friend behind me. As we reached the road, he put a hand on my segway to ensure I survived the crossing, or at least had company into the afterlife.

After a short distance, I gained more confidence and zipped off after our guide around Chicago's parks. A typical segway has a maximum speed of 12 mph and when switched on, cannot be over-turned. The police, incidentally, have suped-up segways that can travel up to 30 mph, go down stairs and can be over-turned so the riding officer can jump over the segway's handle to bring down a suspect. I tried to show enthusiasm for this information while feeling secretly grateful my segway could do no such thing.

The paths we travelled along where largely very smooth, making it ideal segway conditions. Occasionally, we did go over a bump large enough to warrant me holding onto the segway's handle pretty firmly but the large wheels meant they weren't a real problem.

"Boing." I helpfully supplemented as we went over a particularly big crack.

We saw the Chicago Planetarium, the Buckingham Memorial Fountain (which is one of the largest in the world and is bizarrely operated by controls in Georgia), the spot where Barack Obama gave his acceptance speech for president, the four-story presidential suit on top of the Hilton Hotel (complete with helicopter pad), the building that looks more like a vagina than a penis (apparently an intentional move by the female architect) and the outside of the aquarium and Field Museum where Sue the most complete (and male) Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton is housed.

Our tour guide greeted people cheerfully as we moved around the pavements. This had the combined effect of being good publicity and preventing people from getting annoyed at the more unpredictable driving of the people following him. As we drew level with a runner, our tour guide glanced at the computer on his segway and said casually, "You're going at about 8 mph." He then glanced back at us and shrugged. "I thought he might want to know!"

Finally, we headed back to the rental shop. As we roller over a few cracks in the street, our guide turned to me, looking slightly exasperated;

"Thanks to you, all I can think of is 'boing!' everytime we go over a crack."

My work here was done.

The bordinator

"Nationality?" the humourless US border guard demanded, staring at the cover of my British passport.

".... British."

"Purpose for your visit to the United States?"

"I'm visiting a friend in Chicago."

"What is in Chicago?"

".... my friend."

Ever noticed how my conversations at the US border are highly circular? The guard flicked through my passport, pausing as usual at the two expired US visas.

"You were a student here or something?"

"Yeah, a few years ago."

This was true, but in fact both the visas in my current passport were for research jobs after I'd graduated. I contemplated whether this was going to matter but apparently it went unnoticed.

"I have a recent stamp," I pointed out. "On the back page from April."

The guard continued to look at the centre of my passport. "These are old," he declared.

"Yes, my visas have long expired."

Through the tinted glass, I saw him put my passport in a tube to send it across to the main office.

"Hey, excuse me! I have a recent stamp! I don't need to stop."

I was ignored.

"Excuse me!!"

It was 8 am and my flight was at 10. Technically, I had time to stop if I was forced to go in and get a new visitor visa and passport stamp. The problem was that a delay could cause me to run smack into rush-hour traffic in Buffalo. I also wouldn't put it past the border office to take more than an hour to write out the necessary small green slip.

It is rare to meet a border guard with any care for humanity. This guy was no exception and, should I sound too irritable, I was quite confident would pipe my passport away out of perversity, setting it alight as it flew down the tube.

The guard paused. "It's from April," he said curtly, still holding the dispatch tube like a pipe bomb. "It's expired."

"No, I got it in April," I protested quickly. "It's good to July. Would you let me show you?"

Admire my politeness in the face of obnoxious sadistic border guards. There was more superfluous flicking through the passport. Then a long pause.

Cake or death?

The passport was handed back to me. "I found it," he said expressionlessly.

"Thank you." I flashed him a charming smile. He returned it with a look that made me confident he was the precursor model for the Terminator.  I accelerated hurriedly and scooted off over the bridge.

Zoom.

How to impress a female squirrel

Spring has finally arrived in Ontario and the squirrel mating season has begun. But how does a young gray-tailed lady know that the black tree rodent posing for her attention on the front porch is worthy of being her mate? The answer apparently comes down to one rather unfortunate challenge:

Who can terrorize my cat the most?

This particular black squirrel has long been a major source of entertainment / annoying itch / enemy who will one day be vanquished (delete as appropriate) for Tallis. It was clear from an early stage that he didn't give a jot about the fact a carnivorous feline was pressed up against the window a mere foot from where he was hanging from my deck rail. Still, until this morning, the squirrel's main objective had been to raid the seeds in my bird feeder and the frenzy my cat blew into was no more than a passingly interesting side-effect.

Today was different. The bird feeder was completely ignored and instead the squirrel danced in front of the window while the newly arrived gray squirrel looked on from on top of the dustbin. Tallis watched, nonplussed, from where she was sitting on my desk. The gray squirrel looked equally unimpressed. Evidently, this was not demonstrating the required quantity of bravado.

Our black friend then leapt onto the wall and ran around the outside of the window frame. Tallis had now moved to her window seat, but couldn't see the squirrel when he was above her. Feeling that his presence needed to be fully marked, the squirrel scuttled down the side of the house and leapt across onto the bug screen attached to the outside of the window pane.

Yoo hoo!

A dance was then performed across the window, complete with a nut clamped in the squirrel's mouth. The addition of the food was quite blatantly to emphasize that while the squirrel had breakfast, my poor cat would be forever without the snack she desired. That didn't stop her trying to chew the squirrel straight through the glass.

In the end, however, the torment was too much. Tallis retreated to sulk in the middle of the room and the squirrel was left still clinging to the window. At length it dropped down and I've not seen it or Miss Gray since. Assuming this bold act of daring was accepted as a feat worthy of a father, this summer could be a tough one for Tallis. We may just have to draw the curtains.

Does whatever a spider cat does

There comes a time in everybody's life when it is desirable to make your cat radioactive.

For many, it is a feeling that a remake of the 'spiderman' movies could be a real hit with one obvious improvement. For others, it stems from a dream to get even with the neighbour's newspaper-chewing dog. For one of my friends, the source was his cat developing an over-active thyroid.

Ramses --known as 'Sir Ramses' by the people who cared for him over Christmas and 'pussy' by his family's newest addition-- had developed hyperthyrodism; a condition caused by tumours (not necessary malignant) on the thyroid gland which leads to an overproduction of hormone. To emphasise his displeasure at this condition, Ramses underlined the inconvenience by having an allergic reaction to every medication designed to treat the problem and ended up in the veterinary hospital. The suggested solution was a dose of radioactive iodine which is absorbed by the thyroid and kills off the excess cells. It only needs to be performed once for a permanent cure. 

There is no mention in the veterinary guidelines of a treated cat morphing into a immensely powerful super villain but, hey, I was optimistic. Especially since said cat was not living in my house. (Though if he appeared at the door, my Tallis could totally take him -- it's what she's been preparing for all these years.)

The 'make your own glow in the dark cat' procedure took place at a hospital 90 minutes drive away. Sick people went in the front, cats were wheeled on a trolley through the back. The nurse who appeared to collect Ramses eyed my car with disapproval.

"When you collect your cat, you shouldn't bring the baby," she informed us, nodding at my smallest passenger who had come along to say goodbye to 'pussy'. "He'll still have quite a high radiation count and that is a very confined space."

Woman, size isn't everything! I covered my car's wing mirrors so it could not hear such comments.

Iodine has a half-life of eight days. Since Ramses ended up staying at the hospital two weeks, he was down to roughly a quarter of his original radiation level by the time we collected him in a baby-free car. Had he been human, there would have been no further guidelines concerning his health. As a cat, however, there was a list of rules that included storing his kitty litter for a further week. Apparently, the radiation levels were still high enough to trigger the alarms at the rubbish dump.

It was after dropping the cat off at the hospital that we all visited the large cats at Killman Zoo. It's good to be prepared.

Bugs in bugs

"This is a front wheel drive?"

"Mmmhmm."

Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. I watched dispiritedly as the front half of my car was lifted into position behind the tow truck. Resignedly, I noted that this trip was not going to end in a hockey game as originally planned.

I had only driven about ten minutes when the problem started; a juddering from the engine that shook the car. My engine warning light came on and started flashing. I didn't actually know that light could flash but, under the circumstances, I felt a conservative translation would be 'STOP OR YOU WILL DIE'. I bounced into a parking lot and optimistically tried shutting everything down and then turning it back on. Hey, I was a Microsoft Windows user too once. The resulting vibration might have been a seat feature if the car felt remotely safe to drive.

I called the CAA.

I rode with the tow truck across town to the VW garage, resentfully eyeing all the other vehicles around us.

"If we see another yellow beetle, could we just stop and switch them over?" I asked sadly as I spotted a grey bug parked by the curb.

"No problem. I know a guy who'll get you a set of keys for it for $150."

.... all in all, it was probably a good thing we didn't spot car like mine. I wasn't sure what my bill from the garage was going to be, but I was fairly certain it wasn't going to fall below $150.

The price of the repair was a particular concern. In all likelihood, I would be selling the car by the autumn and, at 10 years old, it wasn't going to be worth all that much. An added complication was that I had brought it into the country on a temporary import, so it would be preferable to sell it back in the USA rather than pay tax and duty on it in Canada. That meant that it had to be able to reach the border. I didn't like the idea of pushing.

I sat anxiously at the garage while I debated what my cut-off sum was; the amount at which I run from the room, denying all knowledge of having ever owned a car or evening knowing how to drive. I decided it was somewhere close to $1000. Around the price a serious engine malfunction would probably cost. I knotted my shoe laces tighter.

Miraculously, it turned out to be the ignition coil. Not cheap to fix, but not $1000 either. What was more, the garage had one in stock and fixed it within the hour. I had been hesitant about going to the VW dealership; as a general rule they are more expensive that a generic garage. The fact they were open until 8pm, looked at my car immediately and fixed it on the spot made it all worth while. The only bad news they gave me was that my spark plugs and wires also were showing wear and the oxygen sensor (emissions detector thingo) also needed replacing 'in the next few months'.

I'm pretty confident that'll mean after September.

Meow

There are several surprising things about Killman Zoo.

Firstly, it is home to one of the largest collections of big cats in Ontario.

Secondly, despite this first point, it has almost no signposting. My GPS unit point blank didn't believe it existed and tried taking us to a school instead; the only location of note it could detect in the rural fields around Hamilton's tiny airport. Google maps did acknowledge the zoo's existence and took us down a rough gravel track where we eventually saw a small square sign directly opposite its entrance. The website for the zoo describes it as "truly one of Ontario's best-kept secrets". Evidently, they're completely serious about that.

Thirdly, several of the cages contained two cats of different species. A female lion and tiger shared a run and a cougar with a lion. Everyone seemed okay with this....

Finally, it has possibly the most unfortunate name for a place containing large carnivorous animals. Since its founder was a man named Murry Killman, the origin of said name is understandable, but I think in such a circumstance I might have changed my name to Willnotkillman.

The animals are housed in cages that look like they've been cobbled together out of salvaged wood. In fact, the whole area has the feel of a animal rescue centre, except for the fact the pens contained GIANT MAN EATING CATS rather than, you know, raccoons. On the other hand, maybe Hamilton is frequently plagued by wild jaguars and the zoo is just very good at rounding them up. It would explain why the local Canadian football team is known as the Tiger-cats.

In addition to lions, tigers, cougars, jaguars and panthers, the zoo is home to a bear, emus, pigs, turkeys and a whole bunch of bunny rabbits. Evidently, there had been some concern for the fate of said fluffy bunnies, since there were large signs all around the zoo stating 'we do not use live prey'. Since there was one pen that was labelled 'African porcupine' but now seemed to consist only of rabbits, this precaution might have been introduced for the reverse reason than most would presume. 

The cages themselves appeared not to be terribly big which left you with the mixed feelings of pleasure at being so close to the animals mingled with concern for their welfare. However, a closer inspection showed that the cages interlinked to give a more respectable sized run, and each cage had a door into one of the large open areas that were alternately occupied by the zoo's inhabitants. Nevertheless, the website indicates that not everyone is satisfied with this solution since it lists warnings to PETA and Zoo Check that Killman Zoo is private property.  To me, the cats looked healthy and one suspects if they were very unhappy, those cages wouldn't hold them for long. Undoubtedly though, any such containment is a hard moral call.

With me on this trip were a couple of friends and their eight-month old son. While we all admired the cats, the baby's all time favourite site was .... a tree. This was likely due to the meanness of his parents in not letting him stroke the large tiger. With one hand on the tree bark, he looked at me and grinned.'

"Mu-mu-muuuummm."

 I raised an eyebrow. I see the logic kiddo, but your generalisation is too great.

Demon brides

"Is the hat traditional?"

It was amazingly lucky that we had chosen to visit the Hokkaido Jingu Shinto Shrine just as a wedding was taking place. Seated just inside the shrine itself, the bride and groom were being photographed with their close family. I hesitated before taking a picture, not wanting to invade the scene, but since other visitors had no such scruples I tacked on behind them.

One of the major shrines in Sapporo, the Hokkaido Jingu was established on September 1, 1869 by decree of the Meiji Emperor. It is set in a large park which, while not at its most attractive while winter was only reluctantly releasing its grip before spring, was lovely to walk through away from the main city streets. There were several small shrines around the grounds but the wedding was held at the main site.

Like with most western weddings, the bride was dressed in white, but she wore a large semi-circular hat that dropped down over her ears and almost entirely obscured her dark hair. I assumed it was an alternative to a veil, but in fact I was wrong.

"It's to cover her horns." I was told matter of factly.

".... horns?" Was this another part of the traditional wedding dress for Shinto services? If so, I was sorry that the hat had to hide such .... unique .... adornments.

"When they were going out," my friend gestured at the married couple. "Everything was nice between them. But now the woman is a wife, she will become like a demon and will grow horns."

Well, there you have it. There is a refreshingly honest look at marriage in Japan that even the ceremony traditions embrace. 

Red pill or the blue pill

It was the moment of choice.

I couldn't leave the cubicle without flushing the toilet, yet if I pressed the wrong button I might be surrounded by half the store's emergency staff. Even aside from the embarrassment, I obviously wasn't very well so the risk of being carted off to hospital before I was able to offer any explanation seemed dangerously high.

It occurred to me just then that I still couldn't differentiate the sound for the Japanese for hospital (byouin) from that for hair salon (byoin). Unlikely to be relevant, but it added to the annoyance of the moment.

Looking wildly around for some form of guidance (English directions, alternative flush button, Japanese-English dictionary...) I suddenly spotted a large red button mounted on the wall behind the toilet. This was marked in both English and Japanese with 'Emergency'. So if that was the emergency call button, than neither of the other push buttons could be for that purpose. In which case, surely it didn't matter which I hit ....

I pushed one.

A flushing sound filled the cubicle. It would have been even more wonderful if it had been accompanied by water actually going down the toilet bowl. I looked back down at the row of buttons mounted by the toilet itself. Most toilets in Japan are accompanied by a button for creating a fake flushing sound; they were introduced because the too-modest Japanese woman would flush the toilet needlessly to cover up any bodily sounds, causing a significant waste of water. However, they are usually depicted by a music note and situated along the side of the seat. Indeed, this toilet was no exception. The button was there which is why it hadn't occurred to me that the larger button mounted on the wall would also have this result. Clearly, the department store had felt that one button was simply not enough and what was required was some kind of surround sound experience where both noise options could be engaged. Perhaps customers like to feel that they themselves were being flushed through the plumbing in some strange variation of the 3D movie experience.

Shaking my head slightly, I hit the second button. The toilet cleaned itself. I could go.

Return of the toiletator

WHY is it that everytime I have a stomach upset in Japan, the only restrooms I can find have the traditional Japanese hole-in-the-floor style toilets?

The potential for this had seemed amusing as I attempted not to bowl over every department store shopper while making for the restrooms. When actually confronted with three empty cubicles containing floor troughs, the entertainment value dropped by roughly a third for each convenience. The forth and final door in the restroom had a small sign on it marked 'western'. It was occupied.

I swallowed. Did I go with the squat pot and deal with the fact I might be crouched down and unable to move for quite a while? Or did I wait for the western-style toilet to become free with all the discomfort that delay entailed?

I really did need to sit. Casually, I lent against the tiled wall, trying to conceal the fact I was surreptitiously doubling over. At the basins beside me, two Japanese women were washing their hands. I felt a stab of regret I wasn't moving to use the traditional ammenities. No doubt I was confirming every stereotype regarding inflexible foreigners right there. However, there are times to worry about impressions. And there are times to worry about not soiling your clothes. Broadly speaking, they are mutually exclusive.

The door to the occupied cubical swung open. I tried not to nose dive through it. Taking only the moment needed to confirm that no western toilet had this many buttons, I collapsed with relief onto the seat.

Beside me on the wall was a button marked 'push'. Undoubtedly, this was the flush... Unless that was the second button directly above it, also marked 'push'. This upper button had a further description of what said impression would instigate, but it was all in Japanese. The only action I could think of was that one of these choices was an emergency help button, a fact made more likely by the necessity of a disabled customer to use this cubicle. So, if I pressed the correct button, the toilet cleaned itself and I was free to go. Press the wrong button, and the store alarm would sound bringing twenty paramedics into my cubicle.

Was it going to be the red pill .... or the blue pill?

Later, I was to acknowledge there were times when Japan was a bit too exciting.

Here's looking at you, kid

"You can really eat the whole thing?" It was a question worth asking. One day, I am sure people will lie to me.

A dinner out in Japan is a sociable affair. Rather than each individual selecting his or her own dish, you gather as a group around a table to share sushi, hot pots, savoury pancakes or some other form of fare. Not only is this fun, it also guards against over-indulgence from a desire to finish your entire plate. Of course, this does require everyone to agree on the type of food and it helps not to be a fussy eater. The fact I was not a fussy eater was about to be put to a whole new level of testing.

Uo-isshin (whose name is possibly poorly recalled due to google being in denial) is a seafood restaurant with a specialty in crab. Hairy crab. It was originally described to me as 'furry' but since said fur sticks in your fingers like a fine-combed porcupine, I fail to find that description accurate. Still, since I helped devour its interior and than drank sake from its dessicated carcass, I guess I had my revenge.

The crab was served alongside a large plate of sashimi which included large king prawns with all body parts attached. Rather to my relief, since these were raw, the heads and tails were removed before eating. This complacency was short-lived since a short while later a plate of just prawn heads was produced, cooked and ready to be eaten; eyes, front legs and all. A basic rule I learned was that pretty much anything is edible if you fry it.

"The Japanese do not like waste," I was told by the students who were clearly having far too much fun at my expense. Admittedly, my memories of having to sort garbage in Tokyo into half a dozen different piles made me sympathise with this philosophy. I bit into the head. Crunchy.

The shrimp heads were followed by a grilled flounder. This looked totally delicious and I watched as one of the students carefully lifted the bones away from the white flesh.

"Don't throw out the bone!" The call came from down the table. "I want to eat it!"

I studied the fish skeleton. It consisted of almost nothing beside the delicate array of hair-like bones, held together only by the grilled membrane of skin. People were reaching forward, snapping pieces off and popping them into their mouths. I'm pretty sure this contradicted everything I had been taught about eating fish as a child: remove the bones or else THEY WILL CHOKE YOU AND YOU WILL DIE. Apparently, the secret was just to chew them first.

It was maybe a good thing that this meal was served with sake.

From the flounder we moved onto entire individual fish that were eaten like candy sticks. Roughly the size of a sardine, these fish were pencil-long silver lengths that you chewed your way down. I watched to make sure people really did eat the heads and tails, then bit. They were extremely good once you got over looking your dinner in the eye.

A huge salmon complete with extra roe concluded the meal along with a surprise; two pieces of cold flounder sushi for the gaijin to try (that's me, folks!). They tasted of lemon with a firmer, thicker texture than tuna. There was also a pickle-like vegetable that looks like pineapple triangles and humongous squid served in their shells. We drank sake from the shells too. It seems that it looked big enough to be a threat, it was worth toasting your victory by drinking from its remains. 

As we walked back to the station, I was told that other westerners had not liked to try so much of the seafood.

"You are very brave." I was told.

Why, yes. Yes I am.

Nasty Children

"That is a place for nasty children."

"Nasty children?!" I looked in surprise at the innocuous low-rise building. Could there really be a detention centre for young offenders on the corner of Hokkaido University campus?

"Yes. They are very small."

Well, it wasn't that I didn't agree with the sentiment. Small children were indeed often downright obnoxious. Still, it seemed a surprising comment to come from someone who I knew had a son.

"Do you say 'kindergarten'?" One of the students had noticed my confusion. "No, that's German."

"It is German but we sometimes use that for a school for young...." I made the connection. "Nursery children."

"Ahh, nursery children."

I think I should have left that uncorrected at 'nasty'. Far more accurate.

The hand that rocks the cradle

It had to be asked.

We had covered teaching duties, computer resources, research grants, the hiring of students and language requirements. It was quite likely this final point would never be an issue, but for completeness it really ought to be queried when discussing a permanent position.

"How do maternity benefits work in Japan?"

"Matern....?"

The person I was discussing the job details with was a senior male professor. His English was good, but not fluent and this was probably a topic that didn't come up too often in places where he would use the language. Like at conferences on galaxy formation.

"If I were to have a baby....?" I made a hand gesture of show a swollen stomach. Either I would be understood, or it would be assumed I was concerned about sudden and chronic obesity from over indulgence in sushi. The latter was possibly a risk, so finding the solution to that too would be no bad thing.

"Ahh, so you...?"

"No! Not now!" I hastened to clarify my current state of being. "But possibly in the future. Maybe." I stretched my arms out to indicate vast amounts of time passing. I received a gratifying nod of understanding.

"My wife was a graduate student when she had our son. She had six weeks off."

Six weeks?! Did she drop the baby, rock the baby and declare it ready for school? The Japanese education system is notoriously hard core, so this was almost plausible.

"But that was twenty years ago. Now, the Japanese Government wants more women employed, so it may have changed."

Hmm. Note to self: look into getting birth control in Japan. I smiled, "Well, this will probably never be an issue."

However, this produced quick reassurance that such a move would be a positive thing:

"Please, do find husband and have babies."

Well... let's not contract that in quite yet.


--
[As a side-note, this professor very kindly went to find what the current maternity leave protocol was and told me this afternoon that is was 8 weeks (I think...) full pay and up to one year on reduced pay.]

Ace serve

There are some situations that are just going to be awkward. Finding yourself opposite a dozen wide-eyes students who are all clearly anxious about having to speak English to this prospective British faculty member is bound to be one of them. I nodded, smiled encouragingly and wished I could help out by discussing my research in Japanese but ... well, I couldn't.

"What does your favourite character in Harry Potter teach?"

The question wasn't put to me but to a master's student who gulped audibly. The idea was a great one; start a conversation about an incredibly popular British-based franchise to kick off the conversation. The problem was that the professor who poised the question hadn't read the books himself and didn't realise that the answer was unlikely to be in a list of common English vocabulary:

'Apple... chair... book... school... transfiguration...' No, I couldn't see it.

Fortunately, this was an idea I could use but with a small twist.

"I like Japanese anime," I volunteered.

"Ah! Which ones?" came back an enthusiastic question.

"Prince of tennis?" I paused. "Tenisu no Oujisama?"

"Tenisu no Oujisama! Mada mada dane!" The response rang down the table from every student.

Problem solved. Ore-sama no bigi ni yoi na.,

--
("Mada mada dane" is the catch phrase of the anime series' progenitor, Echizen Ryoma. It obnoxiously means "You still have a long way to go". "Ore-sama no bigi ni yoi na" is said by one of the rival team members, translating to "Be awed at the sight of my prowess".)

Please don't flush your sanitary thing down the toilet

My first night back in Tokyo, I slept in a coffin.

Capsule hotels are Japan's answer to cheap accommodation for business men who just want somewhere to sleep. Stacked together in the same room, the enclosed beds have just enough space for you to stretch out lengthways and --in the luxurious versions-- enough height for you to sit up. The pictures I had seen resembled coffins in a morgue but with doors that could be opened from the inside and an internal TV in case the afterlife got boring. Due to the close proximity of the guests, capsule hotels are usually male-only, so I had to hunt around to try out this quintessential modern Japanese experience.

With the help of a couple of friends, I found the Ace Inn; a capsule hotel in Shinjuku, one of the major districts in downtown Tokyo. This place had both mixed and separate floors for men and women with shared bathroom facilities in the basement. Frankly, after being promised a claustrophobic night, buried alive with zombie-fied neighbours, it was disappointingly nice. The capsules resembled enclosed wooden bunk-beds with curtains over an opening in the side. Everyone had a locker for their belongings, but it was a narrow affair which was fine for my valuables, but wouldn't have taken a suitcase. The downstairs showers required a 100 Yen (~$1) coin to operate, apparently to limit the time and ensure everyone has a fighting chance to get clean in the morning. Clearly, some people must have been extremely smelly since I showered and finished before my 100 Yen had run out.

Despite it being 'Hanami' in Tokyo, the traditional weekend to view the cherry blossoms, the capsule hotel was nearly empty. There was a sign pinned up inside the elevator in English thanking visitors for coming to Tokyo during this difficult time and asking them to pass on the message that Tokyo was safe to visit. There is evident concern that the drop in tourism may succeed where the tsunami has not, and drive smaller businesses into bankruptcy.

That particular notice was written in almost perfect English, but elsewhere in the hotel the signs were more entertaining. My personal favourite was the note in the women's toilet stalls saying "Please don't flush your sanitary thing down the toilet". Although, I must say the prospect promised by "If you want to have fun, go to Roppongi or Shibuya!! You can have a hot night there." made me wonder if I should reconsider going to see the cherry blossoms.

There was an earthquake during my brief stay. A 4.3 magnitude shortly after I arrived at the hotel that vibrated the building. Earthquakes are never rare in Japan and the infrastructure has little problem coping with the vast majority of them. There is no doubt though, that the ringing of Japan's main island is a reminder of the all too recent tragedy. As night fell, the usually dazzling lights of one of the world's largest cities appeared at half-mast, both due to the saving of power in the wake of Fukushima's reactor problems and out of sympathy for the huge numbers of Japanese who had lost their homes further north.

In practical terms, the power shortage caused few inconveniences. The express train service running from the airport wasn't operating during the afternoons, but there was a direct bus that took the same amount of time, so it was a non-issue. Even the lack of lights at night was only dark by Tokyo standards; the city still shone with activity. I therefore echo my hotel's sentiments: if you are planning a trip to Tokyo, go. Take a camera. It's going to be great.