Japan Lite: Latest Columns

Japan can be a confusing place for tourists, so I would like to take this opportunity to explain some things about Japan that no one has ever attempted to explain before, such as "Why are there so many Ferris wheels in Japan?"

Indeed, Ferris wheels seem to pop up everywhere: on top of lone mountains in the countryside, at ski areas, at boat marinas, and even on the tops of department stores. While most tourists are befuddled by this, I urge them to ask not "Why?" but, "Why not?"

Japan is an amusement park culture. Amusement rides have been around for a long time, starting with the fairground-type movable ones set up along railway lines in the 1920s, to big concrete amusement parks in the '80s, and the theme parks of the '90s. In addition, the bubble economy helped to transform Japan's mere hobbies into full time obsessions.

For those of you too young to remember the "baburu keiki," it was not a new type of cake, unfortunately. It was an era of unfettered spending. From 1986 to 1990, Japan was busy buying up American icons like the Rockefeller Center and much of Australia's Gold Coast. And these were just the purchases by Japan's elementary school children!

Their parents were growing and expanding Japan's companies at home and overseas and buying original Monet paintings to hang in the lobbies of their corporate offices.

Japan had big goals: all dogs in the world would be hanging their heads out of Toyota car windows, all paparazzi would use Nikon cameras and even grandparents would be grooving to tunes on Sony Walkmans. In the meantime, the Japanese citizens at home were fulfilling their moral responsibilities by spending as much as money as possible in a phenomenon called yen appreciation.

People needed places to unload their money. With amusement parks, the concept was similar to a shopping mall — that while everyone has a certain amount of disposable income, to take advantage of it, you have to get them to dispose of it within the same 200,000 sq. meters. Thinking of how to accomplish this, someone came up with the idea of using a combination of centrifugal force and dizzying speeds to develop rides which would help people part with their money. It worked.

Japan's modern geishas, these sexy amusement parks with their lights and enticing popcorn smells sell a fantasy world and an addiction to fun and games. It caters to that basic Japanese desire: entertain me! And it has all the elements to prepare children to be able to move smoothly into pachinko when they get older — flashing lights, noise, games and victory.

That's why you always have a few vendors hanging out selling ice cream and popcorn at the gates to an amusement park. They're there to entice you into this alternative world.

The other day I stumbled upon one of these places by accident while sailing through the Seto Inland Sea. It is not so unusual to find amusement parks hiding underneath vines and weeds in Japan's countryside, reminders of a prosperous past and ominous future.

We had no idea the park was there when we tied up the boat at the dock of one of Hiroshima's "sea stations." But upon taking a walk, we were confronted with a large clam shell fountain. Why the giant clam? Why not?!

This small countryside amusement park was in a dilapidated state, the grass needed cutting, and many features were out of use, yet a dozen or so people were still using the park. They were risking their lives on old rickety rides that looked like they would fall apart at any moment. No wonder the kids were screaming on the roller coaster.

In these uncertain economic times, most people have adopted a wait and see attitude. Perhaps this was the same: wait and see if it derails or not.

But clearly, these rides were still a thrill for these people. They were a reminder that amusement parks were once cash cows and Japan was their pasture.

And for this reason I believe the Ferris wheel continues to be popular. It has long been a symbol of prosperity, representing a churning economy reaching ever greater heights. The Ferris wheel, like the world, keeps going round, and round. It is also a circle that brings you back to where you began.

By Amy Chavez

Japan is the home of concretology. This form of architecture started in the 1960s as a way to use molds, iron bars and rendering to form structures that make people say, "Whoa!"

In other parts of the world, this art form is known as "reinforced concrete." With the onset of concretology, what Japan lacked in land mass, it could now make up for in mammoth structures.

Take, for example, the Kyoto International Conference Center (Kokusai Kaikan). Built in 1966, this monstrosity sits on 156,000 sq. meters of land, has 70 meeting rooms and a giant swan (we'll get back to the swan later). With at least one conference hall with a 19-meter ceiling, the ICC Kyoto must have been aiming to have the first conference center in the world where they can hold meetings for giraffes.

The center claims to have put on more than 16,000 conferences and events. The amazing thing is that during all those events, the center has not beamed itself up into space. Like the futuristic Tokyo International Exhibition Center tower (Tokyo Big Sight) at Odaiba, visually, the ICC Kyoto fits into the class of ready-to-take-off-into-outerspace type of buildings. I'm still not convinced the Japanese won't try to launch it at North Korea should defense become necessary.

The only reason it hasn't launched yet is likely because it is too heavy. Don't despair though, if the seas keep rising like they promise, the ICC Kyoto may save all of us. Not only is it big enough to fit the entire population of Japan, but if we shape the bottom into a hull, it will float. There was a good reason they chose the ICC Kyoto as the site to sign the Kyoto Protocol in 1997.

The inside of the conference center (or, if you prefer, the "global center of intellectual exchange") has myriad levels connected by split level stairways accompanied by slopes such that while you may think you're on the second floor, you're actually not.

"Of course, there is always the problem of people getting lost," confirmed one conference staff member as if this was no big deal. I had to agree with her. I've always thought the experience of being lost was underrated.

Besides, the intention of Sachio Otani, the architect of the ICC Kyoto, was to show an interaction between architecture and art (not people). Despite this, he still managed to cleverly design a building that encourages interaction among people as in, "Excuse me, but do you know where the second floor has gone to?"

And with all the '60s style gigantic art inside the place, you have plenty of landmarks. Go past the cast metal curtain, turn left at the aluminum chandelier, and you'll be near the main Event Hall (where the main event is tripping on subtle, purposefully built undulations in the floor). In addition, there are plenty of canvass paintings sporting vivid colors and pattern combinations particular to the '60s when artists finally discovered geometric shapes.

The ICC Kyoto also offers Japanese entertainment such as the "Shakuhachi frute," and provocative Harry Potter-esque amenities, such as the Annex Hall which offers "the door of exclusive use" and the main Event Hall with the "entrance hole of the exclusive use."

The key concept of concretology is the feeling, or rather insistence, that nature and concrete collaborate. Standing inside a concrete building watching a swan paddling around a rectangular, cement pond outside, for example. Or take the public toilets that have piped in bird chirps and waterfall sounds. These features combine to make you think you're somewhere else, rather than among concrete.

And this is why the large white swan plays such a major role. Without the swan, the building would be trespassing on nature. The swan brings in the nature concept. Why such a large swan? If you're only going to have one swan, it had better be big enough that everyone can see it. And just in case you should miss him, his image can be found emblazoned on the center's coasters and paper coffee cups.

The swan even has a banquet hall named after him. According to the ICC Kyoto Web site, "The 'Swan' seats 250" for a meal. That's one busy swan.

When I was in the Swan banquet hall sipping a glass of white wine, however, the swan himself was out paddling around the pond. I went out and asked him what he thought about his digs. He looked at me thoughtfully, as if he was considering an answer, but ultimately he didn't say anything concrete.

By Amy Chavez

There are many gifted children in the world, but Japan would have to have the highest number. I'd estimate that nearly 100 percent of Japanese children are gifted. It's not hard to be a gifted child in Japan though.

I mean, think about it, since you've been in Japan, how many gifts have you received? A few hundred? A few thousand? Imagine how many a Japanese child receives by the time he is 5. This is because in Japan, where generosity is extreme, people are emphatic gift-givers.

I've received, at last count, 1 million gifts from friends, colleagues and unknown drunks on the street.

Japan must be the world's top country in gift giving. In April this year Japan earmarked $14 billion in aid to developing countries.

So it's no surprise that inside Japan people are tossing around gifts like volleyballs. You give me a gift, I give you one back. I give you a gift, you give two back.

Even the two words, "give" and "gift," sound similar. If someone pointed a gun at you and said, "Gift me all your money!" you'd do just that. It's quite possible that the word gift was formulated from the past tense of "give," which is, of course, "gived."

I express concern for Japan's gifted children because they are at risk of becoming over-gifted. It's no wonder gomi yashiki (trash houses) are a problem here.

Did you ever consider that YOU might be the person gifting someone to the point they must use the great outdoors to store all their stuff? And why should authorities fine those people for having too much junk if they're victims of over-gifting? They should fine the gift-givers instead, or at least put a restraining order on them.

I even wonder if some older people's deaths aren't due to over-gifting. It is said that anything in excess is bad for you, so theoretically, if you've lived long enough, "over-gifted" could be a cause of death.

Which prompts the next question: Do the Japanese people still give gifts to people after they're dead? Are our graves going to become gomi yashiki as gifts pile up around us? And will our relatives be fined for this?

One way to protect ourselves from becoming victims of over-gifting is to enforce some kind of quality control. We've all received gifts that elicit a reaction such as, "Huh?" or "What the . . . ?!" Bauble-headed dolls, knick-knacks and other "thingies" like this should be banned as they are a waste of resources.

Most people will just throw them out after a week — the unofficial statue of limitations on the amount of time you must keep, and display, a gift (or until the next time the gift-giver visits your house, whichever comes first).

My policy is to only give gifts that people can easily get rid of: food. Food produces only one type of waste.

Gifting is closely related to another custom in Japan which I call "favoring." On the principle of "One good turn deserves another," people are constantly returning favors, often in the form of gifts. These simple exchanges do not necessarily end there. The person returning the favor has, in effect, performed another favor, and soon they are engaged in a bout of favoring with no tangible end.

This ensures that both gifting and favoring operate daily at a frenzied pace as both parties attempt to return the other's favor, resulting in a ping-pong effect.

I am currently in one of these bouts with some neighbors, which originated with an invitation to their house for dinner at the beginning of the summer. We've been inviting each other for dinner once or twice a week ever since.

Since there are so many of these bouts, where we exchange gifts frequently with friends and neighbors, another way to avoid becoming over-gifted is to agree on a common gift and exchange the same gift back and forth on all occasions.

For example, my neighbor Kazu-chan and I, who are constantly exchanging gifts, could settle on something nice, like a car. When Kazu-chan wants to return a favor, rather than giving me a gift, she gives me this car. When I want to return her favor, I give her the car back. Along with a full tank and a box of fruit on the front seat.

By Amy Chavez

Hot dogs for breakfast anyone? If you order a "Western breakfast" in Japan, you're likely to get breakfast that includes either hot dogs or salad. This is the image of what foreigners eat. No wonder the Japanese think we're strange.

But the longer I live here the more I understand where this concept of Western breakfast comes from.

Although the classic Japanese breakfast is miso soup with rice, this breakfast is seldom found in the Japanese home these days, possibly because it is far too healthy.

These days people are out to gain a bit of weight, perhaps a reaction to a financial downturn because it makes you feel like you're still doing OK. These days, most Japanese people opt for a breakfast of industrial size toast with butter or cheese, an egg or two and a glass of milk. And this is what they carry with them onto the trains in the mornings and which you will occasionally hear being digested through gurgles from neighboring train passengers.

If you looked into the stomachs of Westerners on the same train, however, you'd find a wide variety of food making its way through the intestines: cereal, fruit, bagels, English muffins, croissants, pancakes, bacon & eggs, etc. I doubt there would be a leaf of lettuce or a hot dog on a bun with mustard passing through.

But still, stereotypes remain. The other morning, I went to visit a foreign guest staying at one of the minshuku on the island. There was a large bowl of boiled cabbage in the middle of the breakfast table. There were sausages (the hot dog effect?) laying on the top of the cabbage with boiled onions in between. It was all arranged in an earthenware nabe pot. Even though the breakfast was just for one guest, there was enough food in the bowl to feed a family of five.

"What's that?" I asked Junko pointing to the cabbage concoction. "Breakfast," she said. "Japanese breakfast?" I presumed. "Western breakfast," she corrected me. "That's what I serve all the gaijin for breakfast," she added proudly while placing a lone empty omelet on a plate in front of the guest. The omelet looked like it had just crossed the finish line of a marathon and had expired right there.

But Junko is an excellent cook. Despite what the food looks like, it really is quite tasty. She uses her own homegrown herbs and is very creative with her mixtures. It's just not what you expect when you hear the term "Western breakfast."

Which is why I prefer to call her food "fusion." East meets west on the plate, the Japanese food identifiable by the soy sauce and blob of wasabi on the side and the Western food identifiable by its . . . uhhh, cowboy hat and holsters.

If you're invited to a Japanese person's home overnight, however, in addition to the toast and eggs, they'll often add a few more foods for breakfast. In this case, be prepared for breakfast deja vu.

Breakfast deja vu is when, at the breakfast table, you suddenly get this funny feeling you've eaten this meal before. "Haven't I seen that asparagus in that same blue patterned bowl before? And look at that fish! I can't remember the name but I never forget a face, especially not this one: mouth gaping, tongue hanging out, eyes glazed over. Aha! I have seen it before — last night on the dinner table. That was the fish I was avoiding. And that asparagus too."

Like all over Asia, the remains of last night's supper are just as eligible for breakfast the next morning. Which is why you may as well eat everything on your dinner plate so as not to be confronted with the same ornery fish or vegetable the next morning. There's no escaping some foods.

The other night I ate dinner with Junko. She had made spaghetti, which she is very proud of. So the next day when I dropped by her house, I wasn't surprised when she offered me the leftovers from the night before. "Take this for lunch," she said, shoving a bag into my hands.

When I got home I opened the bag — spaghetti sandwiches!

This is when it hit me. While foreigners may have a specific concept of what Western food is, the Japanese don't. To them, Western food is quite simply anything that isn't Japanese.