The love of a good book

Recently, the latest of my hateful forays into the world of postgraduate research has been approaching its end. The reading, research and analysis have been done, and I am at the stage of writing it up. This means that when I am not at the computer, I can’t do it and, thus, can enjoy the luxury of being free to do other things, such as read books. And not books about bloody linguistics either. On the train, in the break between examinees, in the bath, in the office when I should be doing something else, on planes, in hotel rooms in Manhattan and under the duvet with a torch when I can’t sleep, I have greedily consumed a lovely, funny book by David Sedaris, A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian, We Need to Talk About Kevin, Lost Japan and Shalimar the Clown. And I can happily report that they were all wonderful. There is nothing to beat losing yourself in a novel and it’s my firm belief that no matter how stressed you might be, reading can save your sanity. My only regret is that there's not enough time to get through all the books in the world before I snuff it.

Mirror mirror

The Japanese government has unveiled its new strategy to tackle global warming. It is planning to pipe the thousands of tons of carbon dioxide spewed out by factories around the country out into the ocean and pump it 1km beneath the seabed. The powers that be seem to have forgotten about the fact that Japan is situated on the meeting point of some of the most mobile tectonic plates on the globe and that most of the earthquakes these generate have their epicenter some distance under the seabed.

The scheme reminds me of the Blofeld....I mean Bush administration’s plans to tackle global warming via “reflective dust” to block out the sun, or even better, giant space mirrors to reroute the offending energy.

Obviously, a better answer is needed and quick. Thus, in the spirit of solidarity with South Pacific Islanders, stoned people in the Netherlands, and er… the inhabitants of Tokyo, who are about to witness their world as it looks to the angel fish in the local aquarium, I hereby offer the following solutions to the problem of climate change:

• Send Bruce Willis to blow up the sun

• Bury the sun in a reinforced, lead-lined bunker under Chernobyl

• Encase the USA in cling film and watch it roast

• Pipe the hot air expelled by politicians to Jupiter, thus warming it up in preparation for mankind’s arrival and imminent destruction of it

Catching up

I have just had a phone call from my long lost friend from university, who I had not spoken to in three years. I had to ask her questions like “How many kids do you have?” (Answer: 1 more than she did last time I saw her). She confessed that, having got divorced from the totally unsuitable bloke she was married to three years ago, she was now living with another guy but in love with a scientologist who works in the local shop. Bloody ‘ell.

Woof

For my birthday, Timorous Beast took me to the “Wan Nyan” centre, which roughly translates as the “Woof Mieow” centre, a place where one pays to look at, play with and rub the underbellies of, a selection of hairy mutts. In a city where most apartments don’t allow pets, the concept is beyond reproach – make the public happy, make the dogs happy and raise money for the cost of the mutts’ care. But the Japanese are not to be trusted with animals. I reveled in the noise, hair, fishy breath and wet noses, but had doubts about how much the dogs really got from it. Some of them seemed rather stressed, others just depressed. Worst of all, there was scant information about adopting or sponsoring dogs from dog homes, and there were puppies for sale on the way out. All in all, the concept of entertainment took precedence over that animal welfare. I wanted to take all 300 pooches home with me and show them the meaning of love.

Crying in Manhattan

My mother and I walked the length and breadth of Manhattan (except that our length did not include anywhere north of 52nd street). The sun was shining and the wind was icy every day and because in Tokyo I am like a fungus, growing pale and puffy in the dark, I was excited to be out in the sunlight again. We walked through Chinatown, Little Italy, Chelsea, Greenwich Village and, of course, Midtown, stopping to look in shops, ranging from dodgy bag shops in the garment district, to Bloomingdales in Soho. One day we had lunch in a little deli, where a couple of construction workers sat down beside us and cursed their way through their pizzas in accents you could cut cheese with. Even my mother, who doesn’t approve of swearing, was charmed.

We did the obligatory visit to the Empire State Building, Macy’s, a twee revolving restaurant for my mum’s birthday, The Rockefeller Center, Grand Central Station, the Staten Island ferry and a Broadway musical. Musicals are not exactly my cup of tea, but I love Abba (we saw Mamma Mia!), the theatre was beautiful and the show was actually pretty funny. Despite this, I was reduced to tears by it. I have a reputation for being cold-hearted and cynical, and I must admit that this is fair – I find it difficult to muster up sympathy for others and I seldom express strong emotions. But aside from dogs, watching live dancers, singers or musicians is one of the few things that can touch my heart. It’s something about their energy, the joy they put into it, the simple sound of a human being singing.

My mother wanted to see “Ground Zero”. I find the desire to see places where thousands died rather ghoulish and the very name irks me, but it was not my birthday, so I held my tongue and off we went. I visited the WTC some fifteen years ago and remember lying on the hot pavement looking up at the building, which seemed to go on and on and on. I also remember being on the observation deck and not being afraid, whereas now I get scared looking at high buildings on TV. The tiny St. Paul’s chapel, which used to be dwarfed by the twin towers, was full of sentimental tributes to rescue workers and volunteers. My cynical side was disgusted, but I couldn’t help welling up – mind you, as we have seen, my tears are probably not to be trusted.

One of the highlights of the trip was The Staten Island Museum, which is housed in a little clapboard building, is guarded by an old bloke with an extravagant moustache who spends his days reading spy novels and waiting for the occasional visitor, and costs 2 dollars. It was worth 20 dollars just for the eccentricity of the exhibits, which included a Victorian cabinet full of stuffed birds that were just beginning to fester, a pickled star-nosed vole, a matchbox full of rabbit droppings, a large chunk of meteorite and a four-legged chicken.

Wallpaper

As I was browsing The Guardian this morning, I saw this article about Timorous Beasties. Alas, it is not me who has a successful design business, nor could I afford the clever things they sell, but I had heard of these people before. I used to live just round the corner from where their shop now is, and they are friends of another clever designer and blogger in Japan. I wish I had a lamp or two of theirs, and I wish I had a house to put it in. My apartment in Tokyo does not count as a house on the grounds that it is made of chipboard, cardboard and plastic.

Two birds, one stone

I tend to suffer from insomnia, a problem that is, of course, exacerbated by flying through time zones and arriving 15 minutes before I left. My other problem also relates to time travel: I suffer from Petulant Daughter Syndrome, which causes me to revert to being a petulant, self-righteous teenager as soon as I am in the company of my mother. Being as I had done the traveling through time zones in order to take my mother to New York for her birthday, I felt that I really had to make a concerted effort to be nicer this time. And so I decided to kill two birds with one stone. Instead of wasting time counting sheep when I could not sleep, I would recite to myself the following series of mantras:

Day 1, upon waking at 1.30am
The rather general, “I shall be nice to my mother, I shall be nice to my mother, I shall be nice to my mother” and so forth. This proved ineffective and I did not fall asleep again till 5.00am.

Day 2, upon waking at 3.00am
A more specific pledge: “I shall listen politely and not get pissed off when my mother tells me the same story two days running that she has told me at least seventeen times before that, about what sister 1 said to sister 2 on that cruise 3 years ago” (Repeat till fade). This was also ineffective and I did not nod off again until I was seated in the theatre that evening waiting for the show to start.

Day 3, upon waking at 1.00am
“I shall not, with an exasperated rising tone, ask ‘Whating?’ or ‘Very what?’ when my mother says, ‘I was thingumying with Youngest Nephew’s football boots and that when…’ or ‘It was very…y, know…’ ” (Repeat till frustration fades). This mantra turned out to be quite useful, transporting me to the land of Nod by 4.30am.

Day 4, upon waking at 1.30am
“I shall not roll my eyes and sigh when my mother interrupts me mid-sentence, I shall not roll my eyes and sigh when…etc. etc”. Again, this recital did not have the desired effect; I remained awake for the rest of the night and my mother continued to disregard all conversational norms with respect to turn taking.

All in all, I was not as petulant as I have been in the past (possible sign of growing up?), and I think I got away with the few eye rolls behind turned backs that I did indulge in. My mother had a good time and so, indeed, did I. However, for anyone out there suffering from PDS, I would recommend counting sheep and years of self-doubt over self-treatment by midnight mantras.

American Airlines - not quite as bad as Aeroflot

"Pork or seafood?" she asked, which does beg the question, "Pork or seafood what?", but I decided against pursuing the matter, lest I end up with my dinner around my head, and so I gratefully accepted the seafood surprise. Then someone with an orange face came round with the question every traveler loves to hear, “Something to drink with your meal?” He should have added “something non-alcoholic?” because they were charging 5 dollars for the privilege of getting a glass of wine. Savages.