Still lost in totally no translation

To resume the situation for the folks who are not paying attention, I was in Numata, Japan, unleashed in the town by myself for the first time, and not having too much success communicating with the natives (despite two absolutely grueling Japanese lessons.)

I had made it to the Tenkeiji Temple through a random act of kindness, but, after a bit of fearless exploring, I needed to find my way back to the house of Ross.

The familiar sight of garden gnomes reassured me a little. A common denominator! Even the Japanese were victims of tasteless decor, how about that?

Soon, I discovered just how cosmopolitan Numata really was…

I considered having Itarian (sic) food at the Itarian restaurant.

But then how tempting was the burg at My Burg since 1997!

I settled on hot Tommy Lee Jones coffee. He was a graduate from St. Mark’s School of Texas where I shoot quite a lot (not when he was there. I must have been not born yet.) Anyway, drinking his coffee made me feel very macho and courageous and hyper for the rest of my journey at the heart of Numata.

I even found a French boutique! The problem with all this cosmopolitanism is that it all remains very Japanese-speaking. It may be an Itarian restaurant but they do not speak a lick of Itarian. Ditto for My Burg. Ditto for the French. Quick on cashing in my hard-earned yens, but a bit short on lexicon help.

So I kept on walking and walking and having another Tommy Lee Jones coffee and walking and walking…

I noticed a barber pole. If I may, I will tell you about barber poles. At a time when barbers were also surgeons (bad surgeons but surgeons nonetheless), one of their principal duties was bloodletting. The two spiral ribbons on the pole represent two bandages, one twisted around the arm before the bleeding and the other to bind it afterward.  As I walked by, I peeked, and pretty much, this is what I saw…

Crocodile Dundee san cutting the extremely blue hair of a man. Fabulous, no? Of course, I had to stop and “ask” them for permission to photograph them.

He was all embarrassed but the mama san made him do it. She was laughing her head off looking at her husband posing. She showed me a cup and I understood I was invited for coffee. Many things should have prompted a polite refusal. First, I was wired from all the Tommy Lee Jones coffee. Second, what would we be discussing? Third, there was another client waiting and he, too, was wearing a large hat. I had landed at the hairdresser for weird people!

Well, of course, I stayed. I told them about going to Nikko and Takaragawa while sipping my milkless coffee (another hazard of the language barrier) and in turn they told me stuff too. There was no understanding whatsoever on either side but it was jovial and I ended up spending more than an hour with them, having a jolly good time.

The arrival of a second client brought great excitement to my hosts. They made me understand that he spoke English. Well, that was one big exaggeration! He spoke English as well as I Japanese. He was totally busted in front of his friends! I felt a bit bad for him.

Eventually all good things come to an end and I still had to make it to the house.

The mama san and the non-English speaking dude waived goodbye at the door and hop, I was back on the sidewalk.

I observed many people working in open areas with their back to the street (which is totally bad for photography.) I walked and walked…

When I came across the familiar site of small rented houses, I knew I was finally on the right track.

I also recognized the poster of Prime Minister Yasuo Fukuda who had announced his resignation a few weeks prior to my trip. I was finally nearing my destination.

Finally, the corner 7/11, rendered famous by Ross’ continuous milk shortage and his understanding of 7/11 food as the ultimate basic food group, came in view. I don’t know about you, but the closest 7/11 from my house does in no way resemble this one.  Mine looks like this:

Sad, isn’t it?

Anyway, I had made it back to the point of origin and I was ready for some 7/11 lunch. I generally come back from trips all enriched by other people’s visions and life experience, but in Japan, my conversations being limited to sumi masen, sumi masen, I settled for the warmth and the sense of hospitality of absolute strangers. Upon my return to Texas, I also got rid of all the Japanese language CDs. First, they sucked, and second, if I can get around Japan with sumi masen, I am obviously as well-versed as I need to be.

Lost in totally no translation

Numata, Japan, 2008. Ross is a kind man and a fabulous guide but eventually Ross had to go back to work. That meant I was about to face Japan solo, armed with nothing but good disposition and a map. Before my trip, I had had time to take two Japanese lessons, just enough to learn how to say with aplomb: “Do you speak English?” and hope for the best. The best did not happen, but in a way, it did.

I picked a destination at random, the Tenkeiji Temple on Zaimokusho-Dori, and I have to say that based on the map, it looked ultra-simple. Ross had warned me that the map was really old but he had not mentioned that 75% of the streets were not represented nor that the name of the streets would not be written with the Latin alphabet. Roads with no subtitles.

Five minutes into my walk and I was already completely lost. I spotted what seemed to be a nice gentleman weeding his driveway, and I approached him with a smile and the absolute confidence that, within the next five minutes, a meaningful exchange of information would take place.

With my best Japanese accent (which, by that time, was infused with a bit of a Canadian flavor), I asked: “Do you speak English?” The man looked at me as if I had come from Mars. Maybe he was suffering from a hearing impediment. I repeated my well-rehearsed sentence more slowly and louder, taking great care in mouthing the words exaggeratedly so he could read my lips. No response. A blank stare.

Well, my valiant effort would not be in vain: I pointed at my camera and made eyes like interrogation points (that’s really big eyes with little nods) and he seemed to say okay. He immediately lowered his head so that I could take a really good picture of his hat.

I continued on my road to nowhere or God knows where. When I saw a real estate agency, I thought for sure they would speak my kind of Japanese. I went in. A man was in polite conversation with, I think, a lady client (I’m sure about the lady part.) Again, with a confidence only slightly dented, I asked: “do you speak Japanese?” They both looked at each other, then back at me. Boy! My two Japanese lessons really sucked. I pointed at the map. They began to speak Japanese to me and I realized I was really in trouble in this country. I made little respectful bows, sumi masen, sumi masen (you can say sumi masen for any occasions, really. One can never go wrong with sumi masen. Hello, good bye, sorry: all sumi masen!) and exited the building.

Five minutes later, a car slowed down next to me, and the driver, the lady client from the real estate agency, made gestures that I should get into her car. I hope that’s what she meant otherwise she must have been really surprised when I hopped in. She drove me to the temple in her mini-car 66-99.

Kazumi turned out to be very very cool in a non-communicative sort of way and she posed for me in the gardens of Tenkeiji. Having heard numerous tales of Japanese not liking foreigners (gaijin), I was amazed at the kindness of this woman.

When she was gone, I started exploring. The temple appeared closed (no shoes lined up in front of the door) but the surroundings were beautiful.

There were some very strange  Mizuko Jizo. It seemed someone had stuffed their mouth with fruit. A bit disturbing and not appetizing at all.

I then knew why their clothes always looked like bibs. I simply had never witnessed the results of feeding time. A little further, I found mini God statues.

I think the one on the left is a God and I think the one on the right is the butler, but this is pure conjecture on my part. I’ve probably committed sacrilege and insulted the God of cleanliness and purity.

Another God-looking statue in the middle of the spring flowers of September, and of course, the tour would not be complete without my favorite: the tombs!

Except they may not be tombs after all, but prayer stones. If these were tombstones, the people would have to be very small and skinny to fit. So probably, prayer stones… On the other side of the path, a small water way.

These mini-rivers run all around town. It’s very charming. Numata is the little Venice of Japan. Without the Gondolas.

The problem with being driven somewhere is that you generally do not pay attention to the road. There I was, at Tenkeiji Temple, with the mission to go back to the house, a little blue dot on an archaic map. I just needed to find another good soul to drive me home. I put on my pathetic face and headed out toward a road…

iPhun

Afflicted with what could only be described as a camera obsessive compulsive disorder, I shoot anything in sight. Obsessively. Compulsively. Anything. My only saving grace (and perhaps downfall too) is my reluctance to carry around the four pounds of equipment necessary to take a picture… But recently, to my friends’ greatest dismay, I discovered the camera on my iPhone. A few ounces that unleashed the OCD beast in me. I blame it on Steve Jobs.

The iPhone now accompanies me every day on my bike ride and makes me stop every five minutes to take pictures of ducks (no offense Jason). It totally breaks my cycling momentum.

It went with me to the Nasher Sculpture Center where I photographed my friends Robby and Greg, very Abbey Roadishy.

It came out of my pocket at the Dallas Museum of Art, and I did not even get caught. Hee, Hee!

Greg and Robby had to pose for me under the water because I do not take no for an answer. By solidarity, I stayed under the water too because that’s just the kind of person I am. Kind, that is.

When my friend Dorin bribed me with a Happy Meal to operate as her bodyguard during a Craig’s list transaction, I downloaded an app called CameraBag and played with it in the car. Incidentally, Dorin asked me to post a good picture to balance this embarrassing selection, so I’m sending you back to a post I had written about her previously, bless her little heart.

The app is quite fun and allows you to alter your image in the phone: you have a choice of infrared, Helga, fisheye, 1962, etc. The image format is greatly reduced but it’s entertaining.

Dorin berated me for taking photographs instead of being social and making conversation with her. I reminded her I was there as her bodyguard, not as her entertainer, and that she had not provided the promised Happy Meal yet, and why the hell not? I feel pretty sure I cannot  exercise my guarde du corps duties to their full potential on an empty stomach.

I’m leaving you with a picture of my mantel which seems to have taken a turn for the worse lately. I’m going to need a second fireplace soon.

I think my iPhone addiction is now in its declining phase. I’m planning to reserve its use for car accident, stupid pictures of Monsieur Shinn at Starbucks, and blackmail opportunities. It was iPhun while it lasted, but I’m iPhinished.

Not Quite Done with You Lot…

“Hee! Hee!” say I most sheepishly. If I may, I have very good reasons for sheepishness. While your help in selecting the photographs for my children brochure proved in-va-lu-a-ble, said brochure has yet to see the light of day. Furthermore, if I still may, additional sheepishity derives from my audacity to hope for your help in new selections. Grin, grin, wink, pretty please… 

This time, I’m tackling another kind of beast. The hairy kind. I need to pick four animal prints for display and, as usual, I feel undecided, confused, frustrated, baffled, inadequate, and a tad unfulfilled. Not necessarily in that order. I fear that if you help me not, bitterness will prevail.

So ’nuff said, go to work! Please select the four pet prints you would pick if you were pathetic little old me. All the pets must be different.

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

Et voila! The last one has chickens in it, I know. I don’t think they really qualify as pets but I like the photograph anyway.

Please, help me out! Do your blogger duty. You’ll feel better afterwards. I’m thriving on making you guys feel good about yourselves. I aim to please… And also, Happy Valentine’s Day!!!

I fell in love with the pig…

And the lazy bastard had to open a store. I have decided a long time ago that I was much more talented at encouraging (harassing) others to promote themselves than to do it for myself. I’m not even trying anymore and I ran out of business cards four months ago. I’m pathetic.

When I saw a drawing of a planet with a pig Cochon and a little man foraging for truffles on the blog of Sir planetross, I told him I wanted a pig shirt. Much prodding ensued.

“Get off the couch and go work on these drawings. Canadians will still be playing hockey tomorrow!”

“Don’t let Kelly Pettit’s idea of a good time interfere with your work!”

“Do you think graphics for tee-shirts grow in rice fields?!”  (Monsieur planetross lives in Japan in the middle of mountains, hot water springs where men bathe all naked and a lot of rice fields)

Et voila le travail! The store is now officially opened!!!

A difficult delivery (breech if you will) but a full line of tee-shirts, mugs, and other stuff too

We had our fair share of artistic differences. When planetross sent me this graphic:

I questioned his good judgment. Would people ever buy a shirt with a little boy who peed his pants (even if they weren’t his)? Apparently yes. Monsieur Shinn was the first one to say he totally wanted one! So I caved in.

And I got my pig shirt too!

The “cochon tres tres chic” line looks adorable on wee kids.

Even our President decided that the inspirational messages on the shirts were quite appropriate for the campaign trail:

“Maybe the light at the end of the tunnel is just the entrance to a lighted tunnel.”

The shirts transcend time…

Buster Keaton sporting his favorite Kelly Pettit Unplugged shirt.

Many famous actors are hopping on the bandwagon (or whatever that expression is) and are adopting planetross’ sense of fashion (I’d never thought I’d say that in a million years, trust me!)

Marlon Brando and his special optimism method acting in Streetcar Named Desire”

All the graphics are declined in women’s, men’s, children’s tee shirts, mugs and mouse pads (except for the “coffee mugging” line which is only for mugs and therefore not really a line to be exact.)

“cochon pour le bacon” shows planetross’ patriotic fiber (the man is a Canuck)

Why buy a regular boring mouse pad when you could buy a beauty like this one?

Also, the lines are quite sporty as evidenced by this shot taken at some kind of golf event.

Generally I’m not one much in favor of red and yellow together but I think it works rather well here.

In summary, it’s all in good fun, the items make splendid gifts, and please go buy something otherwise the boy will never get off his lazy bum again and he will tell me “I told you so” ad nauseam, and I’ll have to eat crow for months at the time, and you would not want that for me now, would you?