Night, Elie Wiesel; Atonement, Ian McEwan; The Road, Cormac McCarthy

Uncannily, the three books I picked at random this February all feature arduous treks along which the characters’ livelihoods are at the mercy of some despised, faceless enemy. The tragedy behind each of these stories serves as a reminder of all that we have to cherish, and how short life really is. Strange coincidence, for sure, since all the while I am pondering my own dogged march for the past eight years and when I may finally be able to step off the track, fall out of step with my comrades and explore what lies in neighboring woods and inland lakes just beyond my current reach. 

Night, by Elie Wiesel 

This little dagger of a memoir has the power to gouge into your gut with a twist of its blunt edge. I never heard of Elie Wiesel before Amazon.com listed this book as one of my recommended reads. I learned quickly in the preface that “Night” was published decades ago in longer form and is a rather famous Holocaust memoir. This recently released version, however, is a new translation by Wiesel’s wife, Marion Wiesel, and edited down from the original. In short, the memoir recounts Wiesel’s trek as a young child from his hometown to Auschwitz. Separated from his two sisters and is mother, Wiesel endures the unimaginable with his father by his side. 

What I found most touching, besides the obvious father and son storyline, was the horror that Wiesel describes when witnessing his own humanity shrinking in fear. When your shaken soul cowers in the battered shell of your body, you find within yourself thoughts and actions you never thought you could be capable of. Makes you wonder how you much dignity you could preserve when reduced to a naked, shivering waif by so-called fellow humans. 

Atonement, by Ian McEwan 

Despite raging reviews and the whole Oscar nomination thing, I was not that impressed with this one. The writing is elegant, sure, and the characters all have their eccentricities, but I failed to find resonance in the stories unfolding through parts I, II or III. Maybe it is because I could not get Keira Knightley’s face out of my head from way too much media bombardment. Given the intricacies of the story, I found myself mostly unable to believe that “that just happened”. Something about it was forced. Or maybe it was I who felt coerced, obliged to plod on and on until the final kaboom. 

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy 

The style of this post-apocalyptic account brings you right back to the high school Eng. Lit. stalwart, The Old Man and the Sea. Throughout his methodically sparse storytelling, McCarthy chooses to go with character names of “the man” and “the boy”, seating the reader squarely in the mezzanine section of the third party observatory. At the same time, however, you find yourself leaning forward in the creaky velvet seats, drawn into a story that is much more personal than the prose lets on. In the event of some global nuclear disaster, “the man” could very well be you, and “the boy” your son. 

As in the other two February picks above, resounding themes include courage in the face of extreme adversity, humanity fraying at the seams, and the primal instinct to survive. Somehow though, where Atonement’s extensive imagery and lengthy character studies lacks a certain degree of soul, The Road’s simplistic depiction guides you straight into the heart of humanity under attack. Definitely a book I would recommend for the uniqueness of its style, subject, and characterizations.

Annette Vallon, by James Tipton

It’s funny how context and history change perception. Before I read Annette Vallon, William Wordsworth was simply a poet that I loved for his affinity to Nature, for the unrestrained passion pouring into his verse. After reading this historic fiction, carefully told by Tipton, I cannot help but notice a constriction in Wordsworth’s verses that I never noticed before, a catch in the throat that checks a person from speaking straight from the heart, and a slightly querulous limp in his laments of foregone Youth.

The heroine, on the other hand, shines in the novel against the wider backdrop of the French Revolution. Of course, it’s important to bear in mind that Tipton’s storytelling, although compelling, has woven a version of reality from selected phrases in letters, fragments of history, and faded parchments of verse, with the hypersensitive imagination of a researcher trawling the stacks in a university library. In actuality, not much is known about Mme Annette Vallon except that she was Wordsworth’s French lover with whom he had a little girl named Caroline Wordsworth. The English Channel and repeated wars separated the two, and a decade later, Wordsworth went on to Mary, a Mary Hutchinson he wed in 1802.

Tipton’s portrayal of the puritan influence of Wordsworth’s cherished sister, Dorothy, leaves a sour taste of cowardice and lack of will in the character of the celebrated poet. The frightful anecdotes of the French Revolution also impress upon me just how horrific Robespierre’s Reign of Terror was. The valor with which Annette Vallon survived the perpetual separation from Wordsworth and faced the French Revolution endears this mysterious figure to the heart. And when you reach the final page, you may very well feel impelled to launch into a close reading of Wordsworth’s works in attempts to discern a reference here or a line there alluding to this love he left behind.

“Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind.”

- Ode ‘There was a time’, lines 180-183, W. Wordsworth

my first snow day in shanghai

Inclement weather conditions have taken over all of China. Okay, so maybe that's an exaggeration, but not a huge one, given that even Hong Kong is at nine degrees Celsius now. Kids in Guangzhou are apparently hanging out of their open crotched pants in the freezing cold. We've been snowed under for the past week in Shanghai and lugging around our space heaters from bedroom to bathroom, bathroom to living room, and full circle back to the bedroom in desperate attempts to stay warm. My furry Russian beehive of a hat has been a big hit - what once may have looked silly now looks perfectly well-suited collecting snowflakes on the top of my head.

En Route - a fragment

Dreaming of home, I passed grove after grove of naked trees, calm and dignified after yesterday's light snow. In the dead of winter, these man-made forests, measuring 50ft deep on either embankment of Beijing's airport expressway, stood as candid reminders of the pre-Olympic make-over that began years ago. Every so often we would whiz by a lone nest, dark and thickly wedged amongst bone-grey branches, indicating that these groves did not merely constitute a carefully planted backdrop for incoming and outbound travelers, but were a transplant of Nature itself in its delicate simplicity. A home, after all, for the feathered inhabitants scanning the dusklit skies above, akin to the humans peering out of frosted windows below.

Days have passed, and this particular human, having returned to home's dreamlike existence, has found herself back along that highway often, hanging amongst those tall boughs, swaying ragged in the dry winter winds, fate uncertain. Not because of anything lacking at home, far from it in fact, but a feeling of general displacement during that daily trek to and from the nest, gathering worms, acorns and what have you. I like to call this journey "work". Finding the gusto to run up and down the ice-cold tree trunks laden with worms a-squirm has taken more joules than two servings of oatmeal every morning have to offer. Sure, I find plenty of fascination in gathering acorns and worms and other fruits of the forest, but knowing myself, I could likely find something fascinating about almost anything.

Thing is, I'm not sure that this is all that new of a state. Winter's glacier-like crawl has surely played its part in overall weariness of the mind, but perhaps I've been this way to a certain degree since the summer of '99 when I took that fateful first job and nestled myself in the fat, wrinkled underbelly of investment banking. The topic's getting as old as that belly, surely. I consider myself a decisive person but my husband kindly points out evidence to the contrary: "maybe I should quit, maybe I should stay, maybe I am meant for the corporate world, maybe I'm not..." Get a grip already.

So when does it all come together? I suppose it does when you allow it to. I suppose it does when the hunger edges out the fear. I suppose it does when the crystal is all sold out and there's nothing left before you except the rolling dunes of soft sand calling your name and a hot, hot sun standing by. But will your limbs and joints be too gnarled from decades of minding the shop to outmaneuver the desert and make it to the first oasis? And then the next?

It seems my worldview has become even more idealistic and risk averse as time wears on. Waking up in the nest beside my husband every morning, I feel like there's nothing impossible for us, nothing out of reach. In the afternoon during a midday caffeine injection I feel as if I'm not even reaching. Do I take a leap and thrust off this paycheck parachute, see where I land? Or do I let the plane get closer to the tarmac and tuck and roll to safety? I don't have the answer, and much to the dismay of those in audible range, I may just have to keep batting back and forth until either the plane nosedives into the runway or I get booted out the hatch en route.

The Historian, by Elizabeth Kostova

Kostova’s tale of vampiric legend and intrigue overflows with deliciously researched details much like a Dan Brown mystery yet delights with the polished prose of an author who can actually write. Descriptions deep and lush draw you into the shadows of Central Europe, rickety carriage rides through lands and mountains with names like Wallachia and Les Pyrenees-Orientales. Different perspectives are told through letters ancient and new, illustrating how black ink continues to link the past with the present despite the harried hand of time.

Even more notable than the above is the ingenuous narrative of the main character. Neither a weathered Tom Hanks nor an “o”-mouthed Audrey Tautou, the young protagonist is propelled to the forefront of this adventure by curiosity and daughterly devotion alone. There are definitely portions of the 704 page novel that seem tedious and off-track, but as a whole, a wonderful way to pass hours of air-time en route from one city to another.

Catching the Big Fish, by David Lynch

This was an ideal way to kickstart 2008. I read this in one sitting on the afternoon of January 2^nd, soaking in wintry rays that slanted through the living room window and the charming eccentricity of David Lynch. In eighty-three mini-chapters, he contemplates a random assortment of facts and opinions and Muses that have shaped his life, including, of course, his dedication to Transcendental Meditation. What’s funny about David Lynch is, the more you get to know his films and the more you catch those occasional glimpses of his personality, the more you realize that it just doesn’t do to put him on a pedestal. He’s more like the guy at a diner you casually strike up a conversation with and recognize midstream you never want it to end. 

Just the other night, Levi and I finished our annual January Twin Peaks marathon, starting with the pilot and ending with the film. The first time I saw Twin Peaks, I remember being freaked out by the strange images and inexplicable plot twists. This time, entering the town of 51,201 was like a familiar homecoming, or, better yet, like revisiting a funhouse where you’ve already seen it with all the lights on. Nothing to be afraid of, the protective ego lies back and lets the rest of you climb aboard the ride to enjoy the sights and sounds for all their mystifying beauty. 

For all those Lynchian fans out there, I’d venture that this book is a must read. Much like having a conversation with an old friend over a piece of cherry pie.

Prep, by Curtis Sittenfeld

It has been a long time since my last book review. The subject of the last was James Frey’s ‘non’-memoir, which was bashed to a million pieces in America’s openly Oprah-rific forum. Looking back years later, I still don’t feel like a helpless victim of Frey’s treacherous memoir con. That’s probably because I find as much truth in fiction as in reality, so am not that fussed about mixing the two. Anyhow, enough with the passé Frey defense, this is about ‘Prep’.

I first picked up ‘Prep’ a few months ago, but I did not choose to read it until this past week as I traveled to visit my father back home. From its opening line, ‘Prep’ hooks into the shreds of high school trauma still left inside you and cinches them out one by one for re-examination. I spent the latter hours of my journey captivated by the novel. Uncannily, when I arrived at my father’s, my high school yearbook, which I haven’t seen in at least a decade, was lying on the coffee table, unearthed during his recent move.

‘Prep’ is narrated in the first person by Lee Fiora (who, by the way, should have been cool just because of her kick-ass name), who applies and enrolls herself into boarding school at fourteen. The messy details of her four years at “Ault” remind you why even your most loathed enemies should never have to go through high school again. The only more brutal form of torture that comes to mind right now is that ball-breaker scene in Casino Royale, but I digress.

The title of the book caught my eye immediately since I went to a college preparatory school for 7 years that was literally (and perhaps a bit unimaginatively) called “Prep”. It was a day school, though, rather than a boarding school. My “boarding school” days were the subsequent four years of college for which I was ironically not prepared for at all. As you can imagine, Sittenfeld’s debut novel dug up queasy memories of my personal 11 year nightmare and was an unexpected exhumation of the awkward, acne-d adolescent self that I’d interred long ago.

Just as Lee does at Ault, I felt like an outsider all throughout high school, and after that, all throughout college. Never quite fit in anywhere, and always aware of it. Sittenfeld drums up these feelings well in her first person portrayal of Lee. The daily self-immolation through embarrassment, shame, confusion, or insecurity (often in rotation) burning in your cheeks. The hyper-self-awareness of how “being cool” was always just out of your reach. The trying on of outfits and facades and characters to see if any fit. Through all this mental distillation, the essence of who you are hardens, crystallizes, and burrows deep inside you, to be mined years later when you are finally ready to appreciate its value.

As much as the details of Lee’s narrative strike dissonant chords, the perspective from which she narrates wrenches even deeper. Sittenfeld not only chooses the first person, but a retrospective first person as well, as if Lee is re-telling the story a decade later. At once you are not simply back in high school, but you are in your late twenties, shoveling knee-deep in the graveyard of past personas. “Don’t go there,” the townsfolk cry! Sittenfeld’s narrative is tinged with an aged bitterness that bleeds off the pages, and you can’t help but squint at your own mordant memories through her vinegar fumes.

Some look back fondly on the yesteryears of young adulthood. I am not one of these people, and clearly, neither is Curtis/Lee. I’d like to think that I’ve moved completely past the bitterness of then and am able to look positively upon those years as the ‘preparatory’ period for who I am now, or better yet, for recognizing who I have always been. After all, surely the phases define the journey. But even so, as I dusted off my old yearbook and thumbed through its glossy pages, the familiar twinge that returned in my gut was a bit sharper than I’d like to admit. Funny, that of all the personas, the outsider is the hardest to decompose.

A Sketched Presence – a fragment *20&29may07*

Today is a day of thought bubbles overcrowding the space between the outlines of my sketched presence and the bold square framing this moment of my cartoonish existence. As of late, I have had better control of these overlapping bubbles, an ability to focus the synapses into maybe five separate highways instead of twenty crossed paths, but today is just one of those interwoven days. Could be from reading a couple of very disparate perspectives this afternoon, the dizzying whirl of Kurt Vonnegut mixed with the reassuring glow of Mitch Albom. Truly an odd couple.

Vonnegut is a satirical, bumpy roadtrip where the signs are in another language and the roads angle in boomerang fashion, taking you first in this direction and sending you spinning into the opposite with no warning. Cat’s Cradle: no cat, no cradle, where the meaninglessness of life is captured within a web as simple and complicated as a cat’s cradle itself, threads twisting and repeating one upon another. For One More Day: hand upon your arm, Albom gently guides you through another rite of passage experienced by protagonists and narrators who are close, always close, to the whispered wisdom of the dying and the dead. Where the meaning of life is captured between prologue and epilogue, always found within the pages if you care to look, manifesting as graceful dancers tiptoeing across the tense tightropes that connect you to those that you love. The cynic and the optimist, and I sandwiched in between, all within the fading in and fading out of a sunny afternoon.

It has been forever since anything landed from my mind onto paper. Funny how the hours shoved aside by days and replaced by months are so hard to slow once you get into a groove. Especially when the groove is double-etched with happiness by the hand of the partner in your life, and when daily problems seem to bounce right off the protective force field that activates when Wonder Twins unite and transform into something else entirely. Thoughts swan-diving just past the edge of the blank page to be forever forgotten, crumbling on impact into ashes around the page. A kind of collateral damage that happens when there is not enough time to sit and reflect, record and translate the language of the synapses flickering a personal Morse code in your mind.

[break]

As I pick up this fragment from where I left off more than a week ago, the visual of my sketched presence surrounded by grey ashes of forgotten thoughts still lingers. More than a week has zipped by, nine days plummeting deep into the archives of my existence as I whirl around, hands desperately groping into the indigo deep, but alas, Cher’s made it more than abundantly clear that one cannot “turn back time”. Ashes are piling up around the frames. Personal life, work life, and personal life at work have formed a cat’s cradle of overlapping lines. I can only thank the myriad of gods, lords and heavens above that I have my husband’s constant bass tempering the pace of these frames reeling past. The metronome’s tick, tock, tick patiently separating one sketch from another to form some recognizable linear storyline across the projection screen.

Yesterday we began his birthday celebrations as we count down to his thirtieth in nine days time. Although some may consider the thirties to be a good pivotal age for the separation between the child and adult in us all, we are much more the type whose stubborn fists refuse to release the naiveté, the wonder, the hope and the promise of remaining just a kid. Just a kid skipping along into another decade of inspiration and experimentation. I am so looking forward to what this next volume has to offer, now that sidekicks have finally joined paths, psyched and ready to face the trail ahead. Wizards and warlocks? Alien bounty hunters and never-dying one-armed dudes called Krycek? Smurfs and Oompa Loompas? What is waiting to be sketched into the shared frames of our existence? And more importantly, do we truly have any control over the hand of the Artist? Or are we talking about frames that have already been drafted and only await the livening touch of the watercolor brush?

A or B, it really doesn’t matter, does it? Our linear perception demands our reverence to seconds ticking one after another, skipping along as you hasten to keep up. This slice of reality electrified as the watercolor spreads across the plane, overtaking the monochrome skeletal frames, opening, expanding and soaking different wavelengths into the very fabric of our souls. Whether we are choosing each color now, or have mapped them out before in a color-by-number fashion, from this limited perspective it seems to make more sense to join hands and wonder at the spectacle of colors unfolding right before our eyes, rather than firing synapses into the why’s of what has been and what is to come. Hopeful to discover the meaning in the present frame, naïve to the rigidity of frames long established, and wise enough to enjoy each stroke of color for the singular beauty it represents.

Document1 - a fragment

In moments of sheer ennui the one thing I always have to turn to is the vast potential of the as yet untarnished white expanse of "Document1". I can't quite explain the nature of my languor. The nature is no doubt just as boring as the boredom itself. Hmm...what does that even mean? I don't really think it is even boredom...a quick Shift+F7 is giving me "world-weariness" and I think that's closer to what I'm feeling.

I just took a walk around the building and it was not the most soul-sating experience, although I did like the brief sun-baking. It's not that I'm not working or don't have work to do; it's just this inexplicable lack of motivation to do more than what's necessary to get through the day. I don't understand it, it's strange. I just downed a tall non-fat mocha like it was a tall glass of something special, but even it failed to hit the spot.

Let's turn away from my inexplicable insouciance and wind the reel backwards. I took a new route to work today. The junction of madness had a flashing red man denying passage and instead of standing with the rest of the herd I looked ahead and noticed another pathway that would eliminate one unpredictable stoplight out of my two stoplight commute. I headed down the sidewalk towards the elevated walkway arcing above the busy avenue below and felt a new energy surging through me. I sucked my belly in and reveled in the extra exercise of two winding flights of stairs, one up and one down. Whew! Funny I hadn't thought of this path before.

During this new and improved walk I reflected upon the past year, paging quickly through the incredible material covered since December. Let's see: renounced hope in male/female relationships; decided it'd be okay to live alone for the rest of my life and adopt only if that maternal itch got too unbearable; went to a place far, far away; met the love of my life (a man, wow!); moved to a country still rising with the crimson tide; agreed on the general approach to curtains; proposed to twice; married once; migrated to a new position at my job; and erm...what else?...right - moved a second time. Weave into this general plotline trips to Beijing, Hong Kong, Chengdu, L.A., Oakland, Beijing, back to L.A., San Francisco, Denver, Chicago, Hong Kong again, London, Edinburgh, Paris, Devon, Singapore, Chongqing, in that order. Then just to throw in a bit more "spice" add the love of my life alternating between Beijing and Shanghai every week, with side trips to New York and Inner Mongolia. So as I was saying, an uneventful seven months.

It's all whizzed by so quickly. I find myself now happily married and anxious to hang out with my husband on those wonder-filled days when the Fates graciously weave us both into the same city. I actually have a full year calendar tracking the days we are in the same city and the current forecast has us together 52% of 2006's 365. No joke. I am not sure what's sadder, the percentage itself or the fact that I came up with a percentage at all. Ah well, now's not the time to examine my slight obsession with the wonders of Excel (for the record though, Sheet1 can be just as enticing as Document1 depending on the particular demands of the day, oh and don't get me started on cell A1...ah, the possibilities!).

I'm not completely sure what I'm trying to get at here. I rarely have a plan when I open up a Document1, the trip-hop of words/random thoughts forms its own rhythm on the page. But I have a sneaking suspicion today's fragment has something to do with the fact that life is just speeding full throttle ahead and at times I'm the one strapped into the passenger seat, braced against the armrests, my right foot grinding through the carpet as I slam on the imaginary brakes - reminiscent of my mom when I was learning how to drive. Ah, the exhilarating memories of those first left turns into oncoming traffic.

I still have ultimate control of the steering wheel, but more often than before obligations and responsibilities force a warpspeed auto-pilot I'm not accustomed to. Not only are there my own responsibilities, but now those of my other half as well. The Technicolor has become even richer than I'd ever imagined it could be, but along with it comes the occasional blur of white as the reel motors on with you in tow.

So perhaps this inexplicable ennui is in fact not languor or boredom or world weariness at all, but a kind of wide-eyed Rothko of white. White whooshing by as I struggle to grasp the reel and slow it down enough for the technicolors to separate and form actual images. This leads me to think...perhaps at this very moment my way of slowing the wheel is taking the time to send these thoughts skipping across the expanse of white that used to be Document1. Hmm...a Rothko overcome by typewritten text, row after row laying claim to the white expanse - a strangely satisfying image.

A Walk in the Clouds - a fragment

I walk to work every morning these days. When my husband is in town, he walks me the ten to fifteen minutes it takes from our apartment to my office building, and we talk about our morning to come or various random observations. Otherwise, I walk alone. On the days that I walk alone, lack of conversation turns my energy outwards and my surroundings come into full view. Just today as I was walking in the clouds of exhaust and emission I could not help but admire just how intricate the human species is. Everywhere I looked there was a myriad of details involving the human beings coursing in waves around me.

Before I proceed, let me reinforce the fact that I now live in Shanghai – a metropolis teeming with humans that overflow from the gaping portals of subway stations and tumble from buses sighing and jerking along wide and narrow streets. There is this one large avenue that I cross every morning that particularly amuses me. The thoroughfare has three to four (cannot remember exactly, though I cross it everyday!) lanes going each way, and I cross at a T-intersection that leads into another fairly large three lane street. With each switch of the stoplight, the number of bicycles that pile up, biting at the reins to continue along the arm of the T or turn left into the leg of the T, never ceases to amaze me. When the light switches green, a whole army of bicycles are set in motion, along with the humans who then make their way across the zebra path in a massive horde. Bicycles and humans weaving in and out and around each other and somehow managing (most of the time) to avoid collision.

Amongst this throng I am in closest contact with my immediate neighbors, local Shanghainese people with a spattering of expats. It is an interesting feeling, to be so close to one another that you notice the fraying seam upon a blouse or the blossoming of sweat beads along a neckline. I find myself wondering what the lady with the ruffly yellow lace blouse matching a paisley green skirt is thinking on this Thursday morning as she carries on in pink kitten-heeled shoes to whatever workplace she is headed towards. Or the concerns of a delivery man sporting an offwhite towel and grayish-white vest, displaying an incredible strength of the thighs as he manages to ride with five mattresses in tow, stacked atop one another on the rickety cart tied to the back of his bicycle. I wonder if individual cows contemplate the thoughts of other cows as they are herded by angry looking traffic patrol "officers", in this case played by barking women wearing reflective vests over everyday clothing. These crazy ladies have a fondness for loud whistling and yelling at pedestrians to keep their feet off the streets and onto the sidewalks.

Today I saw a man, shirt tucked in the back but flapping defiantly in the front, who deliberately crossed the street in diagonal fashion without any noticeable concern for the cars and bikes about to run him over. When accosted by one crazy traffic whistler, he proceeded to yell at her unintelligibly (well, to me, since I do not understand Shanghainese. Judging from the traffic lady's expression I think she understood him loud and clear) and gesturing towards his diagonal destination as if to say, "I am going here, you idiot! Why would I cross one street, and then another, if I can cross diagonally?!" From an efficiency standpoint he is totally right, the hypotenuse is the way to go (details) but it was his attitude that struck me. Although he was obviously in the wrong, he yelled at the traffic cop as if she was mistreating him. I have noticed this general attitude often here, like when a taxi driver abandons his passengers in the middle of nowhere, yelling at them for not knowing the way, since of course, that is not his job. "Does it look like I have a map of Shanghai stored in this brain?!?" Um, no. He is right, what were they thinking? Silly passengers.

Other random Shanghai moments flock to the forefront. A crowd surrounding an accident scene, just looking, but not helping. Marketing folks sweating in subway stations that try to force business cards on you, and when denied, surreptitiously stuff them into your bags. Throngs of child beggars outside nightclubs, pulling at you to buy a single rose for 10RMB at three in the morning, led by women who are obviously not their mothers that you end up wanting to shake violently by the shoulders. "What the heck are you doing? Take these kids home! Put them in bed, you evil mother impersonator!" Strange land, I tell you.

I feel like a foreigner here, because I am. Do not let the Chinese face fool you. I am distinctly not Mainland Chinese. Distinctly not Shanghainese. Communicating is tiring here. Invariably taxi drivers have no idea what I am saying until I have said the same thing pronounced the same way six or seven times in crescendo. With waiters and waitresses, even if I know how to say the dishes in Mandarin, I find that it is easier and more efficient to just point at the right item on the menu. I learned that one from my husband, who has been here a few years and knows the Shanghai way. In fact, relying on elementary Japanese in Tokyo is much less stressful than speaking "intermediate" Mandarin in Shanghai.

It is funny, I started writing today thinking about the wonders of being in close proximity with humans that you may never have any contact with again. How humans manage to flow in hordes without running each other over, for the most part. How each of these humans around me represent an individual separate entity with a separate brain full of separate synapses firing at varying speeds, every single one teeming with his or her own throngs of thoughts and emotions and senses, coursing through the avenues of his or her body, feeding and nourishing the soul. And yet, I am only truly privy to my own set of entity/brain/synapse/thoughts/emotions/senses/soul. The closest I will ever get to most of these other sets is a brush of yellow lace.

But then one random thought of some rude guy and a traffic officer launched a whole trainful of negative Shanghai observations steaming fullspeed ahead into Shanghai-bashing land. Funny how the mind works. Well, this particular one at least.

Ode To The Turtlebug - Divine Delirium

Divine delirium, yes that's the only way I can describe it, the way you make me feel, the way 'we' make me feel, the way our coming together in this improbable world makes me feel. The way I can be completely exhausted and entirely replete with newborn energy humming along the delicate undersides of my skin, every inch buzzing along a single bass line written by you, improbable you, inevitable you. Yes, yes, that is it, that is how I feel, the whole of me awhir, awake and aware of your soul lying sweetly alongside mine. As if every step I have taken, sure and faltering, have conspired all along to lead me to this moment: two weary but ever-spirited travelers stumbling upon one another in a wide meadow of possibilities waving gently. They face one another on either side of a hammock strung between two trees swaying gently. Opposing hands reach out, hesitate, and in a blissful second, fingertips meet, senses reel in a current of pure joy as both realize that the other, facing, is real, not merely an apparition called forth by the stewards of hope and imagination. That blissful second stretching into an infinity of seconds as Time pirouettes and curtsies to a halt.

A Million Little Pieces - James Frey

I read James Frey's uncompromising account of his drug rehabilitation on December 31st, in two separate sittings, the first on the way from Honolulu to Tokyo, and the second from Tokyo to Hong Kong. Would have probably read it in one if it wasn't for the layover. I was taken in by his unyielding stream of consciousness that opens a window to the world of Addicts and their Addictions. Frey's prose does not use standard phrasing and plants you smack dab in the pilot seat as he relives his nightmare. He does not even use any quotation marks to offset the dialogue outside of his head from the monologue within, which is at first confusing but you catch on pretty quick.

The details of drug addiction and the insight into the world of drug use are both fascinating and shocking, oftentimes invoking the reader's morbid curiosity. You learn specifics about crack and cocaine and meth use, as well as the ravages of those drugs on your mind and organs. Most heartwrenching is the extent to which Addicts degrade themselves when in need of a fix. But most captivating of all is how mercilessly Frey sizes himself up within the memoir, placing the responsibility squarely upon his own shoulders. His self-awareness and honesty are inspiring. Addicts or ex-addicts or not, everyone has something to learn from reading this memoir. Perfect read to end 2005. :) 

Oh, and a big Happy New Year hug to you all, here's to an incredible 2006 filled with love and inspiration! =D

Mister Candid – Jules Hardy

Amazing read…I couldn’t put this book down. The very hilarious husband of a friend of mine recommended it to me about a year ago and I just got around to picking it up via Amazon.com. Jules Hardy, first of all, is a female author, which I did not realize until well into the 406 pg novel. Most of the characters in the book are male and I assumed incorrectly that ‘Sheila was a man’ due to her succinct and to the point characterization of these men.

The book evokes a range of emotions in the reader, from horror and disbelief during more macabre scenes to curiosity and revulsion regarding sexual taboos. The way Hardy approaches both the sick and the gruesome is neutral and in a way without judgment, so that the reader himself is left with the scales and the decision to weigh or not weigh.

Morality is a funny thing. We all must have our own sense of right or wrong, but when it comes down to matching societal mores, what if our intuition goes against the guidelines set by the world around us? I have always intuitively been against the death penalty. To me, it is just wrong for any system to make a judgment on whether a person lives or dies. I have always felt that the higher powers that be make that decision for us, and courts should not intervene. That seems so intuitively right to me. And in terms of a person taking the life of another…I always abhorred the slight flitter of contentment I would feel when an evil character in a movie finally dies at the hand of the hero protagonist. Who are we to make decisions on the life or death of our fellow human beings?

Mister Candid challenged these views for me. As the back cover will reveal, the story is about a serial killer who rids society of its depraved offenders, namely rapists and child molesters. The title character, I hesitate to type “protagonist” but in a sense that is who he is, makes a career out of this societal “cleansing”, and I found myself rooting for his success in the end. After all, he is killing the vermin that have themselves killed and tortured before, so it is poetic justice, isn’t it? But who is to judge who should or should not be “cleansed” from society? Where do the lines blur before we evoke another Hitler extreme into our midst?

The story follows how Chum Kane, aka Mister Candid, became the serial killer that he is, and is paralleled by the soul-searching of Flanagan, a cop who wants to find Mister Candid and decide for himself which is the better way, to hand over the depraved to the justice (and often injustice) of the courts, or to enforce judgment upon them by pulling the trigger himself. I found myself closely relating to Flanagan’s moral struggle and when I set down the book reluctantly after the 406th page I found myself at a bit of a loss. Rooting for a serial killer. Hmm…

This novel is extremely well-written in a blunt, matter-of-fact style, and will keep you on the edge of your seat and your principles. If I were to point out any criticism, it would be that the ending seems a bit truncated, almost rushed. But perhaps that’s only because I just want to keep following Chum Kane until he finds redemption. Perhaps.

The Four Agreements: A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom - Don Miguel Ruiz

This book was gifted to me this Christmas by a incredible, sensitive soul in Vancouver whom I love…she knows who she is! This is an extremely short read, almost like a quick guide to finding happiness, but much more inspired than the many “self-help in a nutshell” guides you find in the Personal Well-being section of the bookstore these days. I am pretty much open minded to any of these “guides” and usually end up reading both fundamentally soul soothing books as well as the Velveeta ordained ones that just recycle a bunch of known “truths” in a jumbled and inarticulately cheesy mess.

So why is this one particularly good? I think it’s in the simplicity of what these agreements are trying to help the reader focus on. Also, as with all of these guides, the timing of when you read it and your readiness to receive the information within all plays into the effectiveness of the guide. For me, it seemed to reinforce things that I have been pondering recently, including the paradigms set by your parents early on in your life, thus creating walls of approval and disapproval that you eventually must break down yourself. There are no walls but those that you erect yourself. The only approval required is your own. How simple these concepts but at the same time it is this seeking of approval that results in the deep-rooted insecurities that plague even the most headstrong.

The book focuses on four tenets: impeccability to your word, don’t take things personally, don’t make assumptions, and do your best in everything that you do. I think the one that was most jolting for me was “don’t take things personally”. People’s actions germinate from their own motives and purposes, and even when they seem directed at you, the true instigator is within them. Thus, it doesn’t make sense to take things personally because it’s never about you. In the same way, your own thoughts and actions stem from within and there is no one else to blame for the feelings and emotions you experience except you. Being rather sensitive in general, I think this is one of those tenets that really made me find freedom in the recent past. I realized my sensitive reactions to other people’s actions were misguided and unnecessary, and that I was enslaving myself to guilt and blame. Once you divorce yourself from those two harbingers of pain and self-doubt, there’s this sense of liberation, of bindings slipped off, of tethers untied, and you begin to soar on your own terms.

A big thank you to the beautiful woman who sent this book to me…sending virtual hugs from Hawaii.

A Place Far, Far Away - Kona, Hawaii - a fragment

There’s just an hour and a half left to Christmas Day…Merry Christmas to you all out there in different corners of the earth. My Christmas has been awesome so far. Christmas Eve stretched out to the wee hours of the morning and by the time I woke up for Christmas it was already four in the afternoon. My kinda holiday. I am currently listening to one of my wonderful presents, Sounds from the Verve Hi-Fi album, compiled by Thievery Corporation. Very chill stuff for a very chilled vacation.

This past week in Hawaii has been unbelievable. I feel so utterly removed from my daily life in Hong Kong, in a way it almost feels like I could just remain here in this Hawaiian bubble forever. My first five days in the Rainbow State were spent in a place far, far away from everything, nestled up in the hills of Kona on the Big Island. So removed is this place, in fact, that it is self-sufficient in terms of water (collected from the rain), power (generated by solar panels), and telecom (networked via satellite). Just knowing that makes you feel even more isolated, tucked away in your own little haven that could run without any intrusion from the world beyond the drystone walls.

The simplicity of life up there struck me immediately when I woke up the first morning to a peaceful quiet. The stillness up there is infectious. Even my own typically whirring mind was coaxed into silence. The usual drivel was held at bay and the only thoughts I really had were…hmm…gosh, did I even have any thoughts at all? I think for a moment there I even forgot what I did for a living. I may have even ignored my Blackberry for more than 48 consecutive hours. Just awesome. My buddies and I talked about music, constellations, old memories, recent memories, music and more music. We laughed, and laughed, and laughed incessantly, tickling the silence with our chuckles and guffaws.

Under the stars and in front of the fire (yes, believe it or not it was COLD in Hawai’i!) I got to know an amazing gathering of people, some of whom I knew before and some just recently acquainted. If you were to examine each of us on an individual level, you may think, wow, how did this random bunch get together? An unlikely assortment of backgrounds, ages, and professions. But there were such good vibes radiating from each person and within the group, it was obvious we were all meant to cross paths.

In the stillness, it was as if I could hear the pieces falling into place. A perfect culmination to 2005. 2005 was the year for finding strength and how we apply that strength in 2006 and beyond is completely up to us. It’s exhilarating to know that we have within us all that it takes to realize whatever dream we may hold in our hearts. Some of us may be selling crystal right now before traversing the desert to find our true calling, but selling crystal is part of this amazing process and not to be scoffed at. As long as we keep our hearts wide open we will hear the signs from the universe conspiring to help us towards where we are meant to be (unabashed references to Coehlo’s Alchemist as some of you may know ;), and if you don’t know, go to the nearest bookstore and hook yourself up!).

In that very stillness, it was as if I could hear my soul quietly mending, the tranquil up and down motions of a needle joining the formerly fragile fragments together, each patient stitch adhering strength to the seams, the seams together safeguarding the verve of my soul. Mele Kalikimaka, everyone. :)

In Transition - Yahoo! Cafe, Narita Airport - a fragment

Just yesterday I'd been complaining about how there's absolutely nothing to do at Narita Airport, and today I discover that there's actually a Yahoo! cafe in Terminal 2 where you can log on for free! Sweet! Not only that, had an excellent 20 minute massage and a bowl of kitsune udon that just hit the spot. Now there's just half an hour before I board my flight to Honolulu, a perfect slot to contain some of the thought-streams that have been go-karting around in my mind for the past few weeks.

Suffice to say that the past year has just been incredible. Full of ups and downs and all sorts of madness that makes life unbelievable. As the velvet curtain begins to draw on 2005, I find myself eagerly anticipating what the curtains will reveal in 2006. This last quarter of the year has been exceptionally enlightening...old patterns have been revealed and rooted to a common seed in the past, relationships have been redefined in my head and heart, or rather than redefined, perhaps it's more accurate to say that they have been 'updated' to my current reality, and strengths and weaknesses have been acknowledged and accepted, figuratively shown the welcome mat to my inner courts where previously they'd been weighed and judged. There's been a shift in me. One could call it a paradigm shift, as my buddy did, whereby unexpectedly, the world around me just seems a bit more in focus, and more importantly, the 'me' inside me has survived the harsh light of chronic criticism and somehow survived even more whole than before.

It feels as if all the minor adjustments that I've been making throughout the years have found a harmonious chord and things just feel right. Sometimes I'd look around me and felt as if I'd been treading water for ages, not making any actual progress and still in the same place, but now I realize that treading water just builds up those muscles for the long journey ahead. I guess now I feel like I've set off...the part of my journey for honing those muscles is coming to a close and now I am moving forward, not only within, but without as well. It's an exciting feeling, this sense that I am ready for anything that's to come. A few of my thirty-something friends have commented that they went through this transformation of sorts in their late twenties, and now that they are in their thirties, their sense of self is more secure and their need for approval has subsided. The only approval required is the approval you give yourself. Such a simple concept, really, but the implications are profound.

So in a sense I feel as if I am in transition, except this time there is no destination in particular. Sure, right at this moment my mind is on dropping my heavy laptop bag in relief when I finally arrive in Kona, but I find the beauty is in the transition. Every moment in our life is transitional, when it comes down to it. Focusing on the 'goal' gives you determination in a way, but better yet, why not focus on improving every moment in this ever transitioning life we lead? We never know what to expect tomorrow, yes yes, so cliched I know, but so very true. So rather than ask ourselves what we are transitioning to and where the destination is, I find for now I'd like to just relish in transition itself. The purity of your soul remains constant, but you can always define what part of your soul you would like to experience at any given moment.

Speaking of transitions, my layover is quickly coming to an end and if I don't 'transition' myself out of here soon I'll miss my flight to Honolulu...more to come later and in the meanwhile, happy transitions to all of those in my circle whom I know are going through changes, some major and some minor, in their lives right now. This journey is what it's all about, and as 'journey' signifies movement and change, let's make the most of these transitions together. ALOHA!!!

Mood: Cornflower - playlist

about to dash off to kona and honolulu for my soul vacation...so much to write about lately but no time just yet...will have to let the music do the talking...big aloha hugs and happy holidays to all you all out there... =D

1. Honey and the Moon – Joseph Arthur
2. Angeles – Elliott Smith
3. Scratch – Kendall Payne
4. A Lack of Color – Death Cab For Cutie
5. To Be Alone With You – Sufjan Stevens
6. Pocketful of Money – Jens Lekman
7. Cannonball – Damien Rice
8. They Weren’t There – Missy Higgins
9. How to Be Dead – Snow Patrol
10. For the Widows in Paradise – Sufjan Stevens
11. Between the Bars – Elliott Smith
12. Songs for a Blue Guitar – Red House Painters
13. The Sound of White – Missy Higgins
14. I Saw Her In The Anti War Demonstration – Jens Lekman
15. Details of the War – Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!
16. Love and Some Verses – Iron and Wine
17. On My Bones – Kendall Payne
18. Silent Sea – KT Tunstall
19. Saturday Sun – Nick Drake

John Banville - The Sea

I don’t know what possessed me to pick up this book in the first place, as I’d never heard of Banville before. Perhaps it was the simplicity of the title and the Magritte-esque cover, and of course, that stamp of approval on the bottom right hand corner: “Shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize 2005”.

What struck me most through reading this book was Banville’s prose…extremely elegant and at times esoteric as well. He uses words that I have never even seen before. “Blench” for example. I stupidly have always thought it was spelled “blanche”. Parboiled, leporine, lummox, costiveness, anthropic, polyp, vulgate, apercus. Words I’ve seen but forgotten: recreant, traduced, crapulent…so many, sometimes you feel like Banville’s choice of words is an angry onslaught to catch the reader offguard. You can almost imagine him spitting each distinct syllable of these foreign words at his ignobly ignorant readers, of which I am one. He demands an exercise of the brain and I like that.

Another distinction with his prose…he has no chapters. Just a part I and a part II. He slides in and out of scenes, memories, time periods, point of views in a quick turn of the pen and you feel securely seatbelted behind his mind’s eye, as it takes you for a ride. There are surprising moments, catches in his plot, points where you draw a sharp intake of breath as the twist dawns upon you, but it’s not the plot that keeps you going, but rather, the meandering vein of his prose.

The storyline circles around the grieving process of Max Morden, who has just lost his wife to cancer. Yet in grieving for his Anna, Max finds himself wandering through his childhood and past griefs. The intertwining of his adulthood and childhood forms a unique perspective as you trace the outlines of his mind. Unexpectedly, anger will boil up to the forefront, prompting him to address the dead Anna directly with foul epithets you wouldn’t think Max Morden could be capable of.

One particular passage that struck a chord for me…there is a moment when Max’s anger erupts in an all too familiar question that once ran through my mind during my early stages of grief. He demands of Anna, “Why have you not come back to haunt me? It is the least I would have expected from you. Why this silence, day after day, night after interminable night?…Send back your ghost. Torment me, if you like. Rattle your chains, drag your cerements across the floor, keen like a banshee, anything. I would have a ghost.”

All in all, the man has a succinct an elegant style that makes you keep reading. His perspectives are wide-ranging, sometimes you are deep in his neuroses, other times reading what seems to be just a straightforward, subjective account of a summer’s day. Which is so indicative of how one’s mind usually works…completely randomly. Deep one minute, then fixated on some superfluous detail in the next. He commands your attention by the very power of his prose and you follow, mesmerized in this alternate reality he weaves.

I Heart Hong Kong - a fragment

(obvious SATC reference, for those who are fans…)

I’ve been living in Las Vegas for a good part of this past weekend. I can’t say I’m proud to admit it, but it’s true and it’s been a helluva good time. I’ve been a semi-hermit this past weekend because I was supposed to be packing and performing a serious purging session, a colonic of sorts for the clutter that fills my apartment for no good reason. Old clothes I haven’t looked at for years, trinkets from xyz restaurants and abc vacation resorts that don’t really add much to my general “décor”, things I own that I don’t even know about, things of other people that I need to return…a one by one bagging of all the “stuff” that is just that…stuff. Not so much definition 2 found on http://www.dictionary.com/: “The essential substance or elements". But more like definition 3.c: “Worthless objects”. It's imperative that I start this purging as soon as possible, since my move is in less than a week, but...I just couldn’t do it.

So instead I retired to Las Vegas, the world of Ed Deline and Danny McCoy, ah Danny…now’s there’s a fine specimen of a man there. In between episodes I contemplated all that I had left to throw out and then proceeded to push the stuff out of my mind once the titles began playing again on the next mind-numbing episode of LV. Finally, the Sunday evening of a weekend that was earmarked for productive expulsion is drawing to a close, and I wonder to myself…why the heck have I been procrastinating so much? What’s keeping me from chucking out the first unnecessary item in my over-cluttered life? And then I realized…I’m suffering from DIP…Denial Induced Paralysis. Yes, that’s a medical term and you may want to go out and get the latest edition if your copy of Black’s Medical doesn’t have it.

I love Hong Kong. I love my little apartment on Mosque Junction, tucked behind the more boisterous Robinson Road and atop a beautiful little area us Hong Kong people call Soho, even though it really isn’t much like the New York equivalent it’s named after. But hey, in HK, we take what we can get. We have spatial limitations here but we make the most of the horizontal limits by extending vertically. Way vertically. I am sitting by my window looking out over my beloved city and I realize how goddam high up I am in my 17th story pad, which is considered not very high up in the HK scheme of things. I look out across the way to my neighbor’s flat 30 ft away from me, so close I can see the bubbles rising in the violet fishtank beside their window, behind the silhouette of, randomly, a row of four of five Chinese vases. Palpable, the humanity across 30 ft of thin air. Their light is still on and well, there’s my anonymous neighbor, HK style. 7 million of us stacked up like legos across this town, lit up at all hours, the constant inhale and exhale of 7 million souls fueling this little energy grid we live in.

My day began perfectly today. I left Las Vegas to cool in my DVD player and took to the streets. First, breakfast with my friend Victoria’s extremely impressive and accomplished father (who climbed Kilimanjaro at age 62 last year) at the newly erected Four Seasons hotel. Another incredible steel and glass structure adorning Hong Kong’s renowned skyline. Service with a smile trained into waiters, bellboys, and valets, alike; an immaculate and stylishly streamlined décor; a menu offering a range of international breakfast alternatives; basically everything you’d expect from the most recent addition to Hong Kong’s upscale hoteliers. From the lap of luxury I meandered through the many covered overpasses of the Central district that shield millions of suited executives from the sun and rain during the weekdays and shelter thousands of Filipina maids (aka “helpers” of these aforementioned executives) on Sundays. Funny how the day of the week can change the atmosphere along those walkways so dramatically. With the kind assistance of a random passerby I found a little shop in an alleyway that alters watchbands while you watch for a mere HKD20. Minutes later I left the crowded lane with two perfectly fitted watches. Ah, the satisfaction of small errands efficiently executed.

Up several lengths of the Mid-levels escalator and I run into a brand new café advertising San Francisco coffee, perfect place to get through the final chapters of the book I’m trying to finish. An hour and a few SMS’s later I meet a friend for a second breakfast at a little café in Soho. Brilliant use of space – we end up in the back “patio” section of the café, technically en plen air dining, but in reality a square of space completely enclosed by apartment buildings on each side, offering the very familiar and priceless sight of undergarments and mops dripping from laundry lines above. A visit to my favorite leather goods store, Lianca on Graham St., lightens my mood and my wallet. Then a bit of pampering at a hair salon on Wellington, whose second floor perch allows a direct view into the gym across the street, where a whole squadron of gym bunnies are sweating it out on a row of treadmills. All this, and it’s only 5pm when I meet an out-of-towner for a slice of French apple pie at Portobello’s on Staunton St. 7pm, take-out from Chicken on the Run and back to the comforts of my couch and the action on the Strip.

The simple details of my day feel so perfect that I realize that I must be a bit lovesick for Hong Kong, lovesick for the life I lead here. I feel so at home in my little flat, so comfortable in this little city with its cocktail of cosmopolitan accents cut with the ever-present dry and guttural local dialect. I’m spoiled by the ease of my Mid-level life, trudging up and down the escalators, to and fro in this microcosm. And speaking of bubbles, it’s 2am and my neighbors are still up but the violet bubbles have ceased their ascent. Ah…even fish need to sleep.

You’re probably wondering about the relevance of these details to the DIP I mentioned before. Simple, really. When you love where you live, it’s tough to take those first little steps of disassociation. The beginning of the colonic signifies the start of my move, and although my due date looms close I am still reluctant to acknowledge its ineluctability. Just one day more of simple comforts. There’s always tomorrow for the purging to begin. Now, to join the fish...

Sleep-deprived in Tokyo - a fragment

Don’t know if that’s even an apt title…”super sleep-deprived” is more like it. And I’m not really “in Tokyo” anymore per se, since I’m an hour away from landing in Hong Kong. Details. My mind is relatively blank as physical sensations vie for my attention. My spine’s whimpering from being scrunched up in seat D row 45. I’ve got that dull eyeball headache that comes from stress and a cigar hangover. My nose is raw and my allergies relentless, or perhaps I should just admit to the possibility that I’ve caught some flu from my colleague. The kind stewardess felt sorry for me mid-flight and gave me an entire box of tissues.

This week has been utterly exhausting, but there have been some very good moments, as always is the case when you find yourself in Tokyo. Last night was hilarious…ended up at a quaint cigar bar in Akasaka in the company of three great guys, a mini-goblet of Grand Marnier and a Montecristo No. 5. These three dudes are all married with kids and more than a decade my senior, but such a riot to hang out with. It’s so funny how people in totally different stages of life can just get along…sense of humor is the best common denominator. General grounded-ness comes in second, and rounding third is a shared love of chocolate – Japan’s got its chocolate culture down pat. That place has THE best chocolate in the world. Even in a cigar bar you get these little plates of exquisite chocolate coming your way non-stop. Okay, tangent. But like I was saying, it’s great to have a chance to hang up your labcoats once in awhile and hang out with the characters underneath, brings a lot more humanity into the workplace.

Tokyo is awesome, and even better in the fall. The crisp, dry air didn’t agree with my allergies but it was rejuvenating to breathe it in anyway. Scarves and trenchcoats are out and about and there’s nothing like a warm sake to stave off the chill after a stressful day of work madness. Work is absolutely insane and I’m dizzy just trying to keep track of all the balls in the air. We never seem to do things in a straightforward way, the pioneering company that we are, and I’m always finding myself deep in the brush and way off the beaten path. Tiring but exhilarating all at once. But you can’t complain about a job that takes you to Tokyo every so often to practice your elementary Japanese.

I could definitely live in Tokyo someday, would be so great to buckle down and learn the language with the locals, but seems my number’s being called in Shanghai, so Tokyo will have to wait. Not to mention, would kind of hate working in Tokyo because it really is annoying being a woman in the workplace here. There’s also such an abnormal degree of fronting that goes on day in and day out that I don’t know if I’d have the patience to keep up such a super-evolved workface…forget it man. I’ll live in Tokyo when I can just be a bum and hang out at the pachinko parlors…scary, scary prospect, that. Oh yeah, and there’s still Europe to do after China…ah well.

Things are so quaint in Tokyo, even the convenience stores have an elegance to them and you feel like you can eat off of any surface, everything is so psychotically clean! The word “clean” doesn’t even do justice to the level of hygiene these people keep up on a minute by minute basis. Amazing. You can pick any random place to walk into and it’ll be immaculate and the food will be good.

Most likely it will cost you as well, because Tokyo is also psychotically expensive. Our ride from the airport in a taxi cost over US$200. I know, I know, you’re thinking, what the hell were you doing taking a taxi from Narita into Tokyo, but exhaustion messes with your sensibilities and when you put three exhausted colleagues together after a long workday and a few hours breathing in stale plane air, a taxi seems like a really swell idea. We cited “economies of scale” as our excuse. Of course, still cost us twice as much per person as it would have to take a limousine bus or the Narita Express, but whatever…details. And what is up with those limousine buses anyway? I’ve heard that the Narita Express is purposefully kept from going any faster so that these limousine buses can stay in business and take their sweet time (give or take 2 friggin’ hours) to get you to and from the airport. Makes you really appreciate the speed and no-nonsense efficiency of the Hong Kong Airport Express…23 minutes into Central, trains every 12 minutes - it’s a beautiful thing, man.

We had a splendid listing anniversary cocktail at the Grand Hyatt at Roppongi Hills, the Lost in Translation hotel. This, after a wearing day of “lost in translation” sessions with an assortment of advisors. “Lost in translation” is a big recurring theme when you’re in Tokyo. Ask for two bowls using sign language of a) peace sign aka “two”, and b) cupped hands aka “bowls”, and they give you a stack of four little plates. Ask what the squidgy, lima-bean sized morsels in your free side dish are and get the answer “sperm”. I mean what in heavens name has sperm the size of lima-beans?? Hmm…forget I asked. Ask your advisors how many shares for blah blah blah and get a nod. “No, no, hooow…maaa-ny…shaaa-res,” you lengthen your syllables and make some totally unrelated hand gestures, thinking that somehow this will make them magically comprehend English. And without a hitch, you get the same exact response: a nod and an affirmative “mm” followed by an uncertain smile and silence. Perhaps that was Japanese sign/body language for “twenty-five thousand and six hundred shares”. Sigh.

I don’t want to imagine how much more lost I’d be without the few elementary phrases that I do know, e.g. “turn right at the next corner”, “I need to eat please”, “how much is that sea-foam green couch”…and my most recently acquired ancient Japanese proverb: “For desserts there is another stomach entirely”. "Amaimono wa betsu bara." Now I’m definitely all set and ready to roll.

Looking forward to getting into my own bed tonight. If you happen to be really lucky, Japanese hotel-rooms sometimes feature two twin beds circa Lucy and Desi era and of course they assign these rooms to one guest who will have so much use for TWO twin beds. Very, very strange. Also, be very wary when you see a row of buttons right next to your toilet seat. Can be more of a surprise than you can handle when you accidentally press a button at 1 am in the morning. Clean freak culture, I tell you.

I’ve also been toting around my yoga mat and practicing by myself in the mornings, which is great, except for my having no clue what I am doing - am looking forward to having an actual class tomorrow. Need to sweat out these stale stress fumes wading around in my mind and clogging up my veins...or is it residual Montecristo smoke? Uh oh, better close up, seems we’re descending into Hong Kong International Airport. Till next time, then, Tokyo.