I've been in Japan for two weeks now, having arrived a few days after the Tohoku Quake shook the country, the financial markets, the outlook for nuclear energy on Planet Earth, and left the most casual observer with compassion for the displaced and awe for the power of water. Friends and relatives have asked if evacuation was imminent, if the water was safe, if there was food on the shelves, and if I was afraid for my safety. I've learned a good deal about radiation risks (or at least acquired some candidate perspectives).
Mostly what I can report is that life is fairly normal here, if you happen not to reside along the north east coast of Honshu (the main island of Japan). Ibaraki prefecture, where Tsukuba is, is the southernmost neighbor to Fukushima prefecture. The ground here is still shaking with regularity, and there are reminders of the quake (some bareness of shelves, a closed shopping center of some size, disrupted train schedules, gasoline queues, and delays in the return of university students). Prudence dictates attention to news sources that keep one apprised of radiation levels and water safety. So far, the news here is encouraging.
From the perspective of a westerner with scant knowledge of Japanese, however, the main theme is my own illiteracy and the surprises that issue therefrom. This is my eighth entry on three editions of passports, and one thing that no longer surprises is the civility and regard for confused visitors. My string of unsolicited-assistance-in-train-stations remains unbroken. Stand on a train platform in Japan with confusion on your face, and someone will venture assistance.
This being my first visit longer than a week, I am seeing the country with a somewhat different perspective, however. I have to shop. It is a task I loathe under the best of circumstances, though here, it at least takes on the mantle of novelty. Eggs come in tens, not twelves. No packaging glyphs are remotely recognizable. If it isn't see-through, it is opaque in the most profound sense. Even if it *IS* see-though it is mostly opaque. I bought something that looks like cooking oil (I tasted it tentatively when I got it home... think it is). I bought something that looks like dishwashing detergent (yellow plastic squeeze bottle, a lemon icon on the label). I'm not sure. It contains a creamy whitish viscous fluid where I expected a yellowish clear viscous fluid. It may be sensible to abandon any notion of self provisioning and eat all my meals out.
The remote contol for the heating device in my room sometimes behaves predictably, other times leaves one bundled in long underwear and wool socks for the night. The water pot has four buttons, the functions of two of which have become evident. The controls for the toilets (in one hotel, it was also a remote control device) at least have charming icons that give you a clue that you've graduated to a new level of hygiene. No one, not even the Germans, do plumbing this well.
Today, I spent several hours in the care of Fujimoto san, who patiently led me through the bureaucracy of registering as a resident alien, getting a bank account, and paying my rent. I can't imagine having surmounted these challenges alone. Stores, billboards, kids clothing, eateries everywhere have English words in abundance, but it is unusual to find speakers of English. I can ask for directions in Japanese, but rarely can understand the reply (point please!). Still, the enthusiasm and civility that meets my feeble efforts gratifies.
Being illiterate and uncomprehending is intimidating and anxiety provoking, but also sharpens one's awareness, and primes for surprise. Most everything is a surprise. Especially the satisfactions of successfully negotiating a transit connection, an oasis of peaceful quiet in a raucous urban environment, the variety of dehydrated noodle soups for 100 jpy (a dollar or so). So the ground shakes from time to time. I've never felt more safe.
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Mount Fuji from the Shinkansen (Bullet Train, Kyoto to Tokyo at 300 km/hour)
