Susan Jackson

You could have fooled me. There are plenty of signs in characters I can’t read, items I can’t recognize (the sting of rubbing soap into my face, thinking it was moisturizer comes to mind), and things I can’t understand (the obedience of Japanese pedestrians to the crossing sign, for example… There are no cars in sight, just go!). But, I’ve more often felt like I’m in a subdued version of New York or Boston rather than in a bustling metropolis of the Far East. Where are the crowds of people swarming the streets and pouring down into the subways? (Where is that Storm Trooper?) What about the handlers responsible for pushing people into crowded subway cars? Or gigantic neon light displays bathing wildly costumed young Japanese in flashing reds, blues, and yellows?

It’s only been a couple of days, weekend days at that, but I haven’t been overwhelmed by anything but jetlag. Culture shock is nonexistent. All travelers have expectations, dare I say, stereotypes, and in not yet encountering the items I’ve just listed, I’m admitting my own. Instead of the untamed masses, I’ve encountered a calm sensibility, impeccably clean streets, and far fewer clusters of gleaming skyscrapers than I’d expect to see in a major capital city. When I traveled to China, I immediately felt its full onslaught of culture. Japan so far feels more like a place you could comfortably, inconspicuously, and quickly ease into.

Small things bring me to this fast conclusion. I’m told that the raised, textured line drawn down the middle of sidewalks here is to help the blind navigate. People wear surgical masks in public — yes, those of bird flu fame — but as (I hope) most of us Westerners know already, they wear them when they have colds to prevent spreading their own germs. In the United States we’re encouraged to wash our hands frequently in a defensive effort to prevent sickness. Here, people take responsibility to protect others from their illness, not just themselves.

We’re visiting Waseda University today, which means my second trip on the subway here. And after that, free time, probably spent shopping for bitchin’ sneakers. So, many more opportunities to seek out what I expected to find here. Or, just be pleasantly wrong about those expectations as I comfortably, inconspicuously, and quickly ease into my week in Tokyo.

Welcome to my first experience with lost luggage. Technically it’s not “lost,” they tell me, but rather, still in Washington D.C.

Did I mention I’m in Tokyo?

It’s a considerable distance from Washington D.C. as the crow flies, and even as a Boeing 777 flies. Specifically, the one that I hope is in the air by now with my bag. One United flight from Dulles per day means I’m relaxing in what could easily be considered a pair of pajamas for the next 12 hours. These pajamas, of course, being the same articles of clothing I’ve had on since boarding a plane in Boston 35 hours ago. Dressier than the starchy yukata, or bathrobe, folded neatly in my hotel room drawer, sure. But, no match for the more formal dress I’ve learned Tokyoites prefer. And, are likely decked out in right now outside the safety of my pajama-friendly hotel room.

Fortunately, as a former Umass athlete, I’ve had plenty of experience wearing pajamas in public. While the sweats I’m sporting don’t identify me as a field hockey player on her way to practice, it’s probably already obvious that I’m not from around here. Let’s hope this also means that my fashion gaffe is forgivable.

Wish me luck as I test this assumption.

Hey blog readers! (aka, Dad!) Nice to be in touch with all of you again. (Hi to you, too, Mom!)

When I left you, it was because I’d just left China, and my first adventure in Asia had come to a close. I come back to you know on the eve of another Asian adventure. This time, to Japan. For two weeks I’ll be touring around as the secretariat for the US-Japan Postgraduate Journalism Fellowship. On the itinerary: Tokyo, Kyoto, Kobe, and Okinawa. But first, last-minute packing!

Talk to you again about 24 hours and 10,000 miles from now. (Not looking forward to direction #26)

At the Laoshan cycling cluster, my knowledge of track cycling, BMX, and mountain biking changed from theoretical to first-hand. I went from reading about each discipline to seeing the world’s top athletes compete in them. The Brits dominated on the track, the United States didn’t quite pull off a BMX sweep, and a French guy ran away (or pedaled, I suppose) with the Mens Mountain Bike gold. I sacrificed my bucket hat to an athlete from the Netherlands who looked like she was about to die of heat exhaustion after coming off the mountain bike course. I used the (not so) stylish lid as a pillow filled with ice water to help cool her until the medics arrived.

I collected dozens of pins, a few business cards, and a cadre of new friends—friends I may never see again, but who were a major part of my experience and understanding of China. Especially the realization that I never will fully understand China.

They walk slowly and follow the rules; they are afraid of the rules; they don’t question the rules. They giggle like children over silly things; they’ve seen families in poverty who can’t eat everyday or attend school—one was only one generation away from this. They taught me how to say “delicious” and “I’m hungry”; I taught them how to say “What I mean is…” and “Internet cable.” Their English names are Pony, Johnson, and Joy; their English names are French—Portia and Yvonne. They ask if Beijing is like New York City. They’d like to study in America, but fear the GMAT, the cost, and U.S. Customs. They hang charms from their cell phones; they eat black eggs and processed chicken meat in stick form for breakfast. They have surprise in their eyes when I insist that I am able to walk to the subway alone—they didn’t believe I knew where I was going, seven weeks later.

They made my experience. They gave me gifts of chopsticks, bookmarks, and silk bags. They opened up to me over time, admitting that the volunteer experience wasn’t all they were promised it would be during their year of training. In doing so, they quietly spoke out against the rules. They trusted me enough to do this. They surprise me with their depth, even seven weeks later. I’d been in their ranks and changed their lines a little, and they changed me as well.

They cried when I left them on the last day of competition.

I cried too.

Dad’s pants? I haven’t posted in a month after being banned the Chinese government and the title of this one is Dad’s Pants? It was the Olympics, not the tailor shop (which, I incidentally visited multiple times). But, anyway, while I toil away on getting you all up to speed, enjoy these photos of the new China Central Television tower, lovingly referred to by some Beijingers as Dad’s Pants. Along with the Bird’s Nest and the Water Cube, the building is one of the city’s favorite new architectural gems, and I nearly broke my neck staring at it each time I passed it in a taxi. Since its construction isn’t quite complete and it isn’t yet lit up like a Christmas tree (or Chinese lantern), the building is barely distinguishable from the dark, smoggy sky around it in the evenings. It therefore looms in the night sky, and illogically made me think that it was about to fire a laser or tractor beam at any minute, that is how modern, unusual, and huge it is. Or, that is just how weird my thought process is. It’s up to you.