If you need glasses, and you remove them walking around a city at night, it’s kind of like that. Everything takes on this pleasantly dramatic air and you feel a little dreamy. It’s something that people with perfect eyesight miss, and I’ll take it as balance for the trouble of not being able to see my glasses when I lose them on a brown surface.

I did that tonight, at any rate, and I walked from school to the train (a 15-20 minute walk depending on route and speed and lights and such) with no glasses, letting the world slip by out of focus, and I got on the train. Standing maybe one or two people away (it was a crowded rush hour train — one only needs to google images “tokyo rush hour” to get a sense of what that’s like. The most ridiculous looking pictures are the most accurate ones.) was a gentleman who, I’d guess, was probably a young businessman going home from work. I’d put his age between 25-30, and I noticed, despite my poor vision, that he kept looking at me.

I peered back a couple times, and I saw his eyes move from my face to the hand clearly holding my glasses and then back to my face, where I assume he picked up (as people with glasses can do) on that look in a vision-impaired person’s eye that says “I am not entirely sure what’s going on right now.”  I smiled, and kept looking out the window, obviously enjoying the view of the blurry city going by, and after several minutes and a couple stops of occasionally inspecting me as if I was in the process of cheerily growing an extra arm and no one else could see it, he did something I didn’t expect.

He leaned against the door, looked at me, looked out the window, and removed his glasses, tucking them into the inner pocket of his coat. I stole quick glances at his reflection in the dark glass, which looked alternately back at me and out into the night. I couldn’t help smiling, and he clearly smirked a bit when when my eyes met his reflection’s. Another stop down, he was wincing slightly, not used to it, and just before we reached Kamata, (where I switch train lines) he retrieved his glasses and, blinking, put them back on. The train stopped and the doors opened, and as he stepped off just a second before I did, I wanted to be able to speak fluent Japanese more than any other time since I’ve been here.

Little background: There are 46 Japanese syllables, each consisting of either one of the 5 big vowel sounds (Ah, Ee, Ooh, Eh, Oh) on its own, or one of them with a consonant sound attached before it. (Also an “n” on its own, but that’s not so important.) I don’t know much about Chinese, but in Japanese, there is no “l” sound. Or there is no “r” sound, really it depends on who you ask. Generally in romaji (Japanese sounds written out with English letters) that consonant is represented with an “r” but some people insist that it’s an “l” attached to each of the 5 big vowel sounds. Usually it’s easy enough to understand the meaning, and the r/l switch doesn’t get in the way of communication, but then there are instances like the time I had in my Communication and Culture class recently.

The teacher is native Japanese, fluent in English but with a pretty heavy accent and a tendency to break into Japlish at random. She was explaining why the original name “Yoya” of a train station was changed to “Yotsuya” for reasons ONLY relating to how it sounded — there is no meaning of the tsu in the middle, it just makes it sound better. She compared the sound modification to an English construction.

“It’s like a lime.” She said.
She was met with confused stares from the class.
“You know,” she tried to get across to us, “a lime?” To emphasize the point, she wrote L-I-M-E on the board.
More confused stares.
“Like in poetry, they sound the same?”
“…Rhyme?” I threw out. Relieved looks of recognition abounded. We related how to spell it.
“Exactly,” she said, correcting the word on the board, ”lime.”

This teacher is also responsible for quotes like another from the same class in which she commented on men’s fasion in Tokyo, “We have different kinds of of fashion here in Tokyo. One of them is really gay.”

No one disagreed, but that’s another story I’ll probably go into later.

As you all well know by now, today is one of my favorite days of the year. It’s Valentine’s day, and I’m terribly sad to be so very far away from the reason I like this day so much.

The Massacre.

I know that on Valentines Day, most people are concerned primarily with sweets and hallmark cards and either what they have to do, or what they haven’t the opportunity to do, depending on whether or not they are attached.

I am not concerned with these things — what I am concerned with every year on February 14th is the spectacular gangland slaying that occured on this date in 1929 in a North Chicago warehouse between the two (arguably) biggest mobsters in American history. It was 80 years ago on this very morning.

It was in this age of only the most dapper organized crime that our story begins — “Bugs” Moran and Al Capone were the most powerful gang leaders of the prohibition era and ceaseless in their aggression against each other. North Chicago had seen a lot of bloodshed, but nothing like this had ever happened before. Much mystery surrounds the circumstances and events of this day, and I come to you to tell the story as well as it is known.

Moran had made some vicious attempts on Capone’s gang, and Capone’s plan was to wipe Moran for good in the SMC Cartage warehouse that stood on North Clark Street. He set the bait: the promise of a large shipment of bootleg whiskey for a price that seemed (and was) too good to be true. Moran and his men couldn’t pass it up. Capone’s gang was then set to disguise themselves as police officers and kill Moran and his men after they entered the warehouse.

It was 10:30 AM and a light snow was falling on the quiet street as seven of Moran’s men stood in the cold, smoking and waiting for the shipment. Peter and Frank Gusenberg, brothers and thugs for Moran’s gang, Albert Kachellek, Moran’s second in command, Adam Heyer, bookkeeper and business manager, Albert Weinshank, who managed cleaning and dyeing operations and physically resembled Moran, John May, not a gang member but a car mechanic for the gang, and Reinhart Shwimmer, an optician who abandoned his practice for the gambling and the thrill of hanging around gang members — not much of a member himself, but more of a groupie.

Moran himself was not present when the two cars pulled up outfitted to appear as Chicago police detective sedans. Some say he saw the cop cars and fled before he met the men and other say he was simply late to show up that morning. Two men got out of the first car dressed in police uniforms, spurred by the presence of Weinshank and not knowing that Moran had failed to appear. They began to fake a bust on the deal, and Moran’s men cooperated willingly enough, thinking that the men were legitimate cops and busting them for good publicity for the Chicago police department.

When Capone’s fake cops had Moran’s men all lined up against one of the brick walls of the SMC Cartage building, they let in the two men in streetclothes from the other car, and the four of them blasted the quiet morning wide open with a volley of seventy machine gun bullets and two shotgun shells. Moran’s men had been slaughtered in a murder unprecedented in American history, all dead but one.

The fake cops led the men in plain clothes out of the building as if making an arrest to show that the situation was under control — this way, no local residents would feel that there was any need for alarm. A dog chained up nearby began to bark.

It was the dog, trapped beneath a crate, that got the real police’s attention, and led them into the warehouse to discover the carnage. Frank Gusenberg was still hanging on to the last shreds of life at the time, though he refused to speak and died a half hour later.

The investigation was long and extensive, naming almost every notable mobster of the day at one time or another. No one was technically convicted, as there was insufficient evidence to pin the crime on Capone. Despite his connections to the men involved and the grudges held, Capone himself was in Florida at the time of the massacre. When questioned, he said “The only man who kills like that is Bugs Moran.” Moran claimed at the same time, “Only Capone kills guys like that.”

It is said that the massacre was a failure — not only did Capone fail to wipe out Bugs Moran, it can be argued that the unwanted attention garnered to Capone by the investigation was his eventual downfall.

Chicago memorialized the event in its own way and allowed the building to become a tourist spot. The building was transformed first into a furniture store and then into a club where the original bricks were used in the men’s room. The 417 bricks were stored and eventually sold after the club closed down and the pattern seemed to be that anyone who bought or stole a brick found a fair deal of bad luck afterward, leading to the assumption that the bricks are cursed.

The massacre led to the establishment of the first crime detection laboratory in the USA, who cleared the Chicago Police using ballistics and firearms comparisons pioneered by Calvin Goddard, who then received funding to open the first independent crime laboratory at Northwestern University, where ballistics, fingerprinting, blood analysis, and trace evidence were brought together for the first time.

(Written with help from a number of history and mystery websites and of course my beloved wikipedia — I like to try and find new details every year and there’s always more out there!)

Happy Valentines Day

I’ve got an alarm clock program on my computer that allows me to wake up to the theme song from The Office, something that I plan to continue doing after I return because it’s so much more pleasant than a conventional alarm clock.
~
One of the guys found an absolutely phenomenal bar about 20 minutes train ride away from here (which is more or less the absolute minimum time spent on trains to get almost anywhere but that’s fine, since I just can’t say enough about how clean and comfortable and punctual the public transportation is) called Izakaya. I haven’t been going out drinking much since depsite being of age here, I’ve found alcohol to be prohibitively expensive, but I think Izakaya has me wrapped around their little finger. The atmosphere is so comfortable and welcoming, and the staff seems boundlessly friendly and personable. When we were leaving, not only did the entire kitchen staff (who you can see behind a partition) thank us and wish us goodnight, but our waitress ran outside after us to wish us goodnight about 19 more times before we could walk away.
~
One thing I’m finding unbelievably pleasant is the fact that there are two grocery stores on the way home from the train station. JusCo is the bigger one, but Ozeki has some very good produce and meat. What that allows me to do, though, is to go grocery shopping every few days. If I’m tired, I’ll microwave something frozen or heat up some soup for dinner, but if I want to cook, I don’t really buy anything at all in advance — I’ll decide on a whim on the way home that I want to do stir fry or whatever and I’ll get everything on the way home, so everything is about as fresh as it can be without me slaughtering the cow myself. That’s pretty much how it’s done here — you can see that in the fact that there are no big carts at the stores, just baskets, and everything’s sold in small portions. The obsession with fresh food is a Japanese attitude I’ve assimilated with pleasure.
~
By far the most interesting class I’m taking this semester is called Japanese Communication and Culture. Taking Japanese as a language is one thing, and very useful, but when it comes to actually communicating with Japanese people and understanding the social pragmatics, it’s very easy for a westerner to be at a loss. It’s no surprise that most people don’t know that when you’re at someone’s house and they say “Oh, it’s time for dinner, would you like to dine with us?” what they mean is “It’s late, go home” and the proper response to it is “I’m not terribly hungry, it’s getting late, I’ll be on my way” or some such.
Many things that are taboo topics of discussion here are common introductory questions in the US — “Where did you go to university” or “What does your husband do for a living” are somewhat impolite to ask here.

But the main thing that’s sticking with me almost more than they should are the things with no easy translation. Every language has them. I am a strong believer that words have meanings, and they are important — of course most words, especially descriptive ones, have synonyms, but only by the dictionary. Beyond the simplest of definitions, words are all different. They have a personal and cultural significance that might lead you to choose one synonym over another, they have connotations, and every language has these things, which makes translation much more complicated than it seems on the surface. Idioms are the most blantant example, not meaning sum of their words, but something very culturally specific.

Every language has them, but Japanese seems to have them in such abundance, to where the language seems almost like code, with every phrase having more meaning than the sum of its words. As I learn idioms and words and phrases with very specific histories and connotations, I begin to use them in my own thoughts because the personal significance and feeling that the words and phrases signify fit the experience I’m having or describing better than the closest English translation.

The result? Thinking in Japanese from time to time.

The plan was this: Get the guys down the hall and a girl from another dorm. Go out to a place in Shibuya that we were tipped off had a great deal for all-night karaoke (11PM-5AM) with free soft drinks and slushees. (MELON slushees no less. God bless the Japanese and their melon flavored everything.) Stay out, sing stuff, take a train home around 5 AM and crash.

We deviated from the plan in two important respects.

1. We took a wrong turn out of Shibuya station and went to THE ONLY BURGER KING IN JAPAN, (we think) mostly by accident, ’cause we realized we’d taken a wrong turn and were hungry. Burger king crowns were acquired. This is important. One of the guys is already pretty convivial, but under the influence, he becomes utterly gregarious — sometimes crossing the line into obnoxious, but always in hilarious ways.

He wore his burger king crown with pride, attracting attention and making friends in the hallway of the karaoke place while we got our room. (Note that he speaks almost no Japanese at all.) But it did not end there. Under the influence, he began to shout “ORE WA KINGU DESU” repeatedly – which for those of you who do not speak japanese, but can probably guess, is a rather arrogant and self-inflating way of saying “I AM THE KING.” The only way you WOULD say it, I guess.

2. Shouting this in the hallway while he smoked got the attention of some guys wandering around who were actually singing in the room next to ours. I think it was two japanese guys, one french guy, and two french girls. The other girl, Missy, and I followed him out into the hallway and started speaking broken japlish with them. The one guy kept showing off pictures of his girlfriend who I have to admit was pretty adorable.

There was much wandering between rooms until about an hour before the night ended, at which point everyone… EVERYONE… migrated to our room. (Note, these rooms are TINY. Smaller than the dorm bedrooms. Smaller than some walk-in closets.) Once the two japanese guys finished diving onto people’s, we somehow all ended up standing on the benches around the edges of the room, arms around each other’s shoulders in a giant line-dance-thing, jumping and yelling and singing. I believe some phone numbers were exchanged, but I don’t have a phone.

I was able to communicate with the waitress when she told us we only had 10 minutes left, and we finished with Take On Me, which was the perfect end to a rather perfect night.

Picture time!

Here’s a link to an ad for it featuring one of my favorite Japanese actors:

http://jp.youtube.com/watch?v=t7Wf5Ya9ark

Only in Japan?

Kampai~

In one week, I have recovered from jet-lag.
In one week, my ability to speak and read Japanese has improved. I have begun recognizing kanji I didn’t remember before.
In one week, I’ve learned the essentials of how to get around on one of the most complex train systems in the world. I have already been subject to a jumper holding up my train, and I have a commuter pass that allows me to go to and from school for three months for one up-front price of around $200 U.S. Sounds like a lot but it’s a really amazing deal.
In one week I have become a registered alien living in Japan and joined the national health insurance system.
In one week I have forged connections already that will, I think, stick with me.
In one week I have re-entered the atmosphere of school and classes and homework.
In one week I have started adjusting to local styles and customs, and learned some of the little signs and signals that can put others around me more at ease, despite my gaijin status.

It’s only been one week and as much as I miss people from home, I think that I’d bawl if someone came to me and said “you have to go back to Philadelphia and you can never return.”

I had two pretty sweet classes today: “Culture and Psychopathology” and “Shattered Brains”. They’re about what they sound like, and the second one all the Marauders are in as well.

An easy day, though after the purchase of a commuter pass, I’m now dead broke. :-\