Dogs are the best people

Emma and I are partial to a daily early morning constitutional, such as the philosopher Kant liked to take through the streets of Konigsberg back in the day. On Wednesday morning, we hadn't even travelled 100 metres from our front door when we're greeted with the following sight. One of the locals was standing in the middle of the road while her dog was, you know, going about its business. "It had to see a man about a dog," as the saying goes. Anyway, there she was with a handful of tissue, about to do her civic duty, we thought, by scooping up the evidence when the dog was finished. Well, she scooped it up, and put it in the bag, and that, we thought, was that.

But no. That wasn't that.

After depositing the droppings in the plastic bag she carried with her (what do they do with that stuff when they get it home, I wonder?), she then took a wad of tissue in one hand, lifted Fido's tail with the other, and proceeded to wipe its bum. I shit you not. I mean, this is a country in which you're not allowed to use your phone on the buses and trains. You can't hold a conversation in public above a barely audible whisper. If you have a touch of the flu or the common cold, they don't want you using a tissue. But taking that same tissue and using it to clean the stinking, fetid detritus from a dog's anus--that's OK.

I mean, what was this woman worried about? Hasn't millions of years of evolution taken care of this anal hygiene problem? Or was she worried that, in the absence of grassy lawns such as we have in Australia, Fido was going to wipe his bum on the tatami mat?

Club Pure Feb 2007

Club Pure . . . yes, well, the less said, the better. There's a Charlie Brown cartoon where he wakes up one day and all his friends are telling him what a great time he had the night before--he even got to dance with the red-haired chick he has a thing for--only he can't for the life of him remember it. That about describes my second visit to Club Pure (sans the red-haired chick, of course). Apparently we went to Club Pure, and somehow made our way from there to karaoke. And while I'm buggered if I recall the events of that evening, we have photographic evidence (most of which we'll eventually get around to Facebooking) that suggests they did indeed transpire. Weird, huh? Anyway, I'll let the slideshow below tell the story.

(Click image for slideshow)

Note to self: while the cocktails at Club Pure are watered down to the potency of weak cordial, the vodka shots aren't.

(P.S. Don't get the wrong idea: we had a fantastic time with our friends as always, and Wendy and Aimee were kind enough to put on a great nabe the following day. Emma was a little worse for wear--though it was nothing to do with the nabe, I hasten to add.)

Chūka man: Japan's answer to the meat pie?

The Australian Meat Pie: A shell of baked pastry, filled with any of the following: beef, buffalo, camel, cattle, deer, goat, hare, pig, poultry, rabbit and sheep. The manufacturers will make a special point of telling you if the meat involved is beef; otherwise it's just a "meat" pie. "Meat" can include snouts, ears, tongue roots, tendons and blood vessels. Manufacturers are obliged to tell you if they use offal (but noses and ears are OK). Meat pies are usually served with a sachet of "dead horse" (that's tomato sauce to you), and can be purchased at just about any deli, office canteen, supermarket, tavern or servo.

Chūka man: A steamed bun, (usually) filled with pork mince (sorry--I don't know anything more specific than that) and vegetables, and accompanied by a sachet of very hot mustard. You'll find these in just about any convenience store, and also in many supermarkets. I don't know if you can get them at the service stations over here, but, like the meat pie, they can also be purchased cold and whacked in the microwave.

After re-reading what I wrote above about the Aussie meat pie, I think it's safe to say that I'm off meat pies from here on in--and I'm sure many of you are as well. (You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, but you can, evidently, make a meat pie. Even so, you can't make me eat it.) Chūka man, on the other hand, are absolutely fantastic. Especially at the end of a night on the tiles (kebabs are rare in Japan), which makes me regret not getting one last Saturday night. If there's anything I should know about the mince, please keep it to yourself and don't spoil this for me.

(P.S. For some reason I've been calling these things gyōza.)

169

(That's the number of kanji characters Emma has memorised. Matt has not been nearly as diligent.)

Just a brief update on what we've been up to . . .

• Making preparations for when our parents visit in about three weeks. (Yes, both sets are coming. No, they won't be here simultaneously.)
• Being re-contracted as ALTs for a second year.
• Introducing Kobe Takatsuka students to Australian slang. They are now familiar with the terms "dropkick," "bogan" and "goon." My English Speaking Society girls have also been apprised of what "Goon of Fortune" entails (and no--I didn't give them a demonstration. What you must think of me!)
• Learning a new card game from Goran and Dan K that should keep us happy on long train journeys.
• Not remembering a good portion of Saturday night's journey to Club Pure and karaoke in Osaka--which is probably for the best.
  

Now, for the necrophages among you, see if you can guess which extraterrestrial organism's brain this Japanese delicacy is made from:

A spot at high school

Imagine, you are fourteen. You have been brought up hearing the tragedies of the Hanshin-Awaji earthquake. Your parents tell you of the screams and the flames and the fear. You’ve resolved to be prepared, to be trained.

Now, at your junior school you hear of a high school that specializes in teaching youngsters these very skills. You are very excited. No longer will school be the painful drudgery of a prison, it will be the ship carrying you to your fulfilling adult life. Unfortunately, this ship only has place for 40 passengers, so you will have to earn your passage. With three of your like-minded junior school friends, you set about studying every night. Each night the hours roll past and your eyes grow heavy, but you are determined.

The exam day arrives. You are prepared. 69 other students sit around you in the high school’s examination hall. There are only 40 places. Their pens swiftly move from one question to the next. Their ease makes you uneasy. You go home worried that your efforts, your ability, will not suffice. For 4 days you worry.

Finally, today you will know. You arrive at school, frazzled: excited and nervous every time the clock’s rotation brings the minute hand closer to lunchtime. In your teacher’s car with your three classmates, you make your way back the examination hall. You stand in the courtyard before the building. Icy winds lash your bare legs, you are hardly able to clutch onto your examination number. Parents and teachers watch from the side, watch you and the other hopefuls huddle, exposed, in the centre of the courtyard. With the stress, anticipation and tiredness you start to sob. Try to look up at the second floor balcony. Try to blink those tears away before the numbers are revealed. Try to breath.

This story has one of two outcomes, either your number appears and you drop to the floor in a fit of free-flowing ebullient tears, or stoically you dry your eyes on your sleeve, bow your head and quietly leave the courtyard. Unfortunately, for 40 of the students the latter was their outcome. Unfortunately, for one girl as her three classmates cried with joy, she left the courtyard alone.

I hear mental illness and suicide is a problem here in Japan.

The Japanese Room

Ever heard of the Chinese Room Argument? It’s a thought experiment by the philosopher John Searle, who wanted to argue against what he called “strong AI”, which is the idea that, if programmed sufficiently, a computer can think and understand. This is related to the Turing Test, in which a computer is deemed intelligent if it can sustain a conversation with you without you realising that you’re speaking with a computer. Here’s how Searle painted the scenario:

Imagine a native English speaker who knows no Chinese locked in a room full of boxes of Chinese symbols (a data base) together with a book of instructions for manipulating the symbols (the program). Imagine that people outside the room send in other Chinese symbols which, unknown to the person in the room, are questions in Chinese (the input). And imagine that by following the instructions in the program the man in the room is able to pass out Chinese symbols which are correct answers to the questions (the output). The program enables the person in the room to pass the Turing Test for understanding Chinese but he does not understand a word of Chinese. [ . . . ] The point of the argument is this: if the man in the room does not understand Chinese on the basis of implementing the appropriate program for understanding Chinese then neither does any other digital computer solely on that basis because no computer, qua computer, has anything the man does not have.

I feel like the man in the Chinese room. I keep blitzing these Japanese Language Course tests, but I still feel no more fluent in Japanese than I was when I first arrived here.

Of Snow and Snowmen

Without doubt, the sense most excited by snow is touch. From the gelid air tickling our exposed noses to the frosted ground seeking warmth through the souls of our shoes, the experience of snowy weather is a winter treat. At least this is what Amanda, Matt and I thought on Sunday when we reached the top of the Mt Rokko Sanyo Cable Car station and were greeted with freshly falling snow. However, this awe did wane a little later when our toes started to smart as blood retreated to our torso in an attempt to protect the organs vital for living.

Yet what really surprised me was the way snow affected each of my senses. Unlike touch which is stimulated by the presence of extreme cold, snow engages the senses of smell and sound by their absence (at least in my limited experience). By way of an example, Matt and I ventured up Mt Rokko last summer. The wretched air hung thick around us; our curry lunch stinking in the putrid heat; our sweat habitually wiped in attempts to disguise the odours (best left undescribed) emitted from our pores. And, the cries of children, distressed by their discomfort, the only complement to the day’s cacophony. In contrast, a snowy winter’s day on the mountain side was bereft of such things. All smells (and sweats) concealed beneath a delicate layer of snow, my sushi keep fresh and odourless by the cool temperature and the only sound—silent snowflakes waltzing to rest on the mountain’s edge.

Then there is sight. The sense that had brought us to the mountain. Kobe city holds an annual ice sculpture competition: huge chunks of ice are hauled from the Japan Sea and plonked on the mountain for skilled ice sculptors to have their way with them. Some were truly magnificent, as you can see in the slideshow. Also, you might notice our own attempt at snow sculpture—bringing our past and present together in the form of the snowman koala.
(Click image for slideshow)

Finally, arguably the most important sense of all, taste. I enjoyed many a tasty snow cone in my childhood, those shaved chunks of ice flavoured with sugary red raspberry and green coola cordial, but that’s not what I’m referring to here. While enjoying our bento lunch, Amanda and I watched this little boy pick up soft fluffy snow and lick it from his fingers for 5 minutes straight. Not quite brave enough to get that in touch with snow (as the snow was covering the pathways I had no way of knowing what had been tredding on it), I settled for eating this snowman. I’ve been eying him off for a week in the shop window and decided today was the day to take the plunge and taste a “snowman.” He was a delicious little fellow made out of bread, filled with regular and chocolate custard, and covered with white chocolate and icing. I especially appreciated his smile which he kept even as I brained him with my teeth!