This is very strange. When was the last time I spent the New Year abroad? I’ve cobbled together seders in Moscow & rummaged for pesadika food in Copenhagen but I can’t remember when I’ve ever not been in synagogue for Rosh Hashanah. It’s funny, too, cuz Mr. Ben & I did spend the morning in temples: Buddhist temples, huge ornate buildings well-situated among ancient trees. The sound of rushing water everywhere reminds me at the very least I ought to tear up some bread and watch it be carried away. Bread being one thing the Japanese haven’t figured out at all — they have one variety, whiter than Wonder –, that would be no loss.

We only have a few more days here, the rest of today in Nikko and then two more days in Tokyo. We got here yesterday having completed our whirlwind weeklong tour of Hokkaido, a huge Northern island that’s essentially the Canada of Japan, not densely populated (comparatively) and full of natural beauty. We are in fact chock full of natural beauty, having been up and down mountains, around lakes, fruit picking in orchards, driving through the rolling hills of endless countryside, and surveying the ocean from rocky cliffs.

Despite the eager rain, which has followed us around and led to two headcolds, and thus much nose-blowing of which we hear the Japanese disapprove (oops), we’ve managed to thoroughly enjoy ourselves. The food can be fantastic. It can also be a salty & mediocre but mostly we’ve been really lucky. The night before last, to bid farewell to the rural, chilly, soggy, lovely, fish-friendly north, we feasted, for only the second time this trip, on Serious Sushi, and we nearly passed out from how good it was.

There isn’t too much English up in Hokkaido; back on the mainland it’s a shock to see words I can read again (though I’ve come to be able to recognize certain Japanese words, very important words, like ‘Ramen’ and ‘Karoke’ and ‘Entrance’ and ‘Exit’ and ‘Food’). To break up the monotony of isolation, we met up with an English-speaking university student in Sapporo who took us around by car with two friends of hers and showed us an amazing, off-the-guidebook time that included a hidden onsen — we bathed outside naked in the rain, the steam rising off of us in sheets.

Otherwise, we’ve been entertaining ourselves, reading aloud to each other and making lists of things to do to make Japanese women die a slow, convulsive death in front of you: 1. Ask them how they are. 2. Tell them they speak English well. 3. Compliment them in any way. 4. Ask them for a recommendation.

Genderwise, this country seems to be stuck in 1962, though technologically it’s 2013. Women, by law, it seems, must wear heels and skirts; they tend to look glamorous in a low-key, well-kept way. The trend is to wear three-quarters length black leggings, and thus, they all wear three-quarter length black leggings if they’re not in uniform.

The men somehow morph from being androgynous skinny punks to suit-wearing automotons, though when this transformation happens is hard to pinpoint.

Generally, people are extraordinarily polite — even, or especially, when they’re being unhelpful. They must always have the last word by ending an exchange with ‘Thank you, respected persons!’ No matter how many times they’ve already chimed it, if you so much as breathe in their direction they will say it again. Best to be silent and smile and go away, or they’ll waste their whole day bowing and saying goodbye.

I will definitely miss it here.

(x-posted from lj)

!!!JAPAN!!! — that’s what it’s like here. lots of exclamation points, neon ones, surrounded by others, and katakana that it takes forever to decode and turns out to mean ‘karaoke.’ Karaoke is the one word I can definitely recognize at this point. we have not tried it yet BUT we have gotten some amazing things done:

1) talked to other foreigners. everywhere, all the time. we have no compunctions about striking up conversations with strangers.

2) the fish market! imagine Reading Terminal Market except three times as big and ten times as confusing, filled with fish carcasses and men with swords and other men smoking cigarettes while racing around on motorized carts and everywhere buckets of smaller fish that aren’t quite dead yet and are thrashing about in a pathetic way. our first morning here we woke up at 5:30 and decided to make the most of it, so we got to see the market in all its wet, bloody glory.

3) fresh sushi for breakfast, post-fish market. this was one of those unforgettable experiences that we just stumbled on, having left the fish market. we saw a line and we queued up, figuring why not? and indeed, we were not disappointed. a chef served us sushi like we’d never had before, sushi that was only Mostly Dead, sushi from his hands to our mouths, sushi that it turned out cost $70 (7000 yen total) which was a problem when it came time to pay because we only had $28, or 3000 yen.

so what did we do? naturally i surrended myself and became a hostage, sitting on a stool in the corner of this tiny sushi bar, trying to be inconspicuous, as poor mr. ben raced around for an hour and twenty minutes trying to find an ATM that took international credit cards. not in japan 24 hours and we already created our own video game!

eventually i was redeemed. it was great.

4) walked. walked walked walked and walked some more. my legs are tired all the way up to my hips. the day before yesterday when mr. ben and i both reached that stage we took a break and got cheap tickets to watch one act of traditional kabuki. because this is how we relax.

5) bought tickets to a japanese baseball game! for someone who is utterly uninterested in sports, i am totomo excited for this-des. that means, I cannot wait.

6) shrines, temples, park with huge lake covered in lotus taller than i am.

7) noticed that japanese women do not wear bright colors. really! no red.

mr. ben and i have now landed in sapporo in the blessedly quieter northern region of the country where, we can only hope, the food will not be quite as salty.

Who knew there would be so much rejection involved?:

Dear sir
It is no room, sorry.
thank you
kikuya ryokan

Dear Sir/Madam Ester
Thank you for your mail.
I am afraid that we have no vacancy for Sep 5 – Sep 6 at all.
Thanks and regards
Nakamuraya Ryokan

Dear & Hello Ester,
Thank you very much for your e-mail inquiry.

Although, we regret to inform you that Taito Ryokan is fully booked out for the nights you have requested. … In a meantime, please have a wonderful day and wish you fulfill your journey in the rising sun country.

Faithfully yours and Sayonara,
Satoshi / Kenichi at Taito Ryokan

We were very happy to receive your e-mail for reservation as below, but to
our great regret
We are very sorry to say but your requested days,we are all of
the rooms fully booked.
We hope that we may be of service to you in the future.

Annex Katsutaro Ryokan

Dear Sir ,
Thank you for your inquiry .
We are terribly sorry that we are full of reservation
on 5th and 6th sep 2007 .
If you have a chance to go to Sapporo ,
please request our hotel again .
Regards ,
Hotel Sapporo Met’s

A veritable sampler of disappointment. But! This is what we get for planning so late. There are some bright spots on the horizon:

Now there are no twin room available on September 6.
We prepare for domitry room.
But it change for the twin room if anyone cancel.
We can prepare for twin room on September 5.

Honeymoon in a twin bed! Well, it’s a start.

Then there’s the poetry of the process:

To: Dear Ms.ester

We are very welcome to your visit in Tokyo.
Thank you very much for your reservation e-mail .
We can accommodate you in Annex Katsutaro(NIPPORI).
If you are satisfied with this accommodation. Please notify.
We believe our Japanese style inn is comfortable and quite in Tokyo

We are delighted to confirm your reservation as follows:
You are requested to send back the confirmation by 29th August 2007 .
In the case when the confirmation is not received by the designated
date, your reservation is not received by the designated date, your
reservation is to become invalid.

The place I was most excited about, a hostel called Potato in a little artisty town called Biei near a fantastic-looking national park, Daisetsuzan, CAN accomodate us in a full-size bed (whahoo!) as can a somewhat-generic but reasonably priced and well-situation small hotel in Tokyo. So we’re making progress, step by step, through the minefield of exceedingly polite rejections. Look what we’re heading towards and tell me it’s not worth it.

We are not, however, making excellent progress on spending our 100 Frivolous Dollars. Mr. Ben’s Uncle gave us this cash with the stipulation that we NOT merely bank it, but blow it on jello shots or bubblegum or the like. Originally we planned on riding it to Splish Splash!, the wateriest water park around, but when that fell through, all we managed to do was have brunch (frivolous for Mr. Ben only). Perhaps we’ll find opportunities near the Potato Hostel …

Standing in the wedding aisle of the Hallmark Gold Crown Store for People who Love Porcelain Figurines and are Suspicious of Imagination Saturday morning, Mr. Ben and I tried to figure out what card to bring along to the celebration we were headed to. Friend wedding, fireman wedding, former Catholic priest wedding …

“Where,” I grumbled, “is the Unofficial Step-Sister-in-Law section?”

The card was for Lizzie, the daughter of the man Mr. Ben’s mom has been with for over a decade. She and her three brothers and Mr. Ben are all basically the same age. Lizzie got married the weekend after we did — awkward enough timing that Mr. Ben and I couldn’t go. We could, however, make it up to her and that side of the family by attending Celebration #2 in the Catskills, hosted by Lizzie’s grandparents for their friends.

We ended up grabbing a blank card with a picture of children pawing at each other on the front, which was really the only respectable choice.

The lakeside community where Lizzie’s grandparents live half the year is only about 90 minutes north of New York City but oh, my friends, it is a different WORLD. The party was held in the upstairs room of the synagogue, the kind usually used for the kiddush after Shabbes services; upon entering, we discovered it filled with 90 senior citizens, Lizzie’s grandparents’ closest friends, all of whom migrate north for summer and south to the same communities in Florida for winter.

At first the party felt pretty low-key. Us kids (the under-40 set) huddled at either ends of the main table, eating potato chips and, once they emerged, cold cuts off of large platters, while the spry oldsters danced to the musical stylings of Hy on the saxophone and another tired-looking fellow on a synthesizer. By 9:30, we were beginning to yawn and wondering privately why we’d been told this event would go til midnight.

Then — oh, mercy, THEN. A synagogue rep got up to introduce the evening’s “entertainment,” a woman named Ricki who bounded forward. The room buzzed with excitement; the kids’ corners buzzed with confusion. Was it possible that the dumpy middle-aged Israeli lady in the synthetic, BeDazzled bell-bottoms and the mullet was going to sing for us?

“Hello, hello, hello!” she crooned, taking the mike and launching into an extraordinary rendition of the “Itsy-Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.” Although she possessed about as much sex appeal as my 9th grade Hebrew teacher, she moved her hips like she was channeling a slow-motion Elvis. Step, step, thrust, thrust, step, thrust, her chained glasses bouncing against her bosom. Mr. Ben and I watched in horror as, to illustrate the song, she described her own bikini line in the air, first on one side, then the other.

Ten minutes later, Ricki had butchered several other standards, including “Non, Je Ne Regret Rien” in the original French, and she had chided guests for getting up and dancing before being invited to. Now, the still-hostile Ricki declared, she was ready for people to dance, starting with the bridge and groom. “Where are Lisa and Greg?” she bellowed. “Come up to here! I need Lisa and Greg!”

Lizzie, being a trooper, went up grinning with her new husband, intended to whisper her correct name. Ricki didn’t give her a chance, either then or after. She took us all back to the glory days of the Borscht Belt with stand up routines made out of bad puns and Jewish jokes. She made us form a congo line (headed by “Lisa,” of course). She reintroduced us to the Electric Slide. “Unchained Melody,” “Runaround Sue,” “Besame Mucho,” and “I Will Survive” all withered and died under the hot sun of her attention. And not ONE of her jokes was funny.

In essence, it was our anti-wedding, cheesier even than any bar mitzvah I can remember, and so thoroughly memorable that had Ricki been GOOD she couldn’t have made the party better. Finally at 11:30, as she was trying to teach Holocaust survivors how to line dance, we slipped out.

We had a great time laughing and doing the Hora and not being the center of attention, although we did have to accept some secondary congratulations for having recently been wed. “So!” boomed out Felix, Mr. Ben’s unofficial step-grandpa. “How does it feel to be Mr. and Mrs. [Ben’s last name]?”

“We aren’t, at the moment,” said Mr. Ben. Then, responding to the confusion on the good man’s face, he hurriedly explained, “I mean, we’re still married, but Ester’s kept her name. She’s Mrs. [Ester’s last name]. I mean, Ms.!”

This was not the answer Felix was expecting. Three hours later, he tracked me down and asked me again, “So! Mrs. [Ben’s last name], how do you feel?” I answered correctly, grinning: “Great.”

in line to enter grove
Originally uploaded by shorterstory.

I swear I’ll get over this wedding thing soon. In the meantime, more pictures here!

However, I can, simultaneously, think about other things, like why I’ll live longer by staying in New York as long as possible and whether Karl Rove’s bizarrely sudden, though long-awaited departure has some hidden shotgun behind it, held perhaps by P. Fitzgerald. And: where should Mr. Ben and I go in Japan now that we’re not limited by the prospect of crushing early August heat? In early- to mid-September, everything’s balmy and welcoming (“yokoso!”).

I don’t have the patience to tap out a whole entry on the joystorm that was this past weekend, The Wedding, but I want to recount one story.

Sunday, at about 1:00 PM, I sat outside the salon where my hair had just been done. Now, I should explain that I had two responsibilities over the course of this weekend: to

(a) look progressively prettier, day by day, until finally my appearance could only be described in the language of the angels;

and (b) not fall down.

In service of (a), I was at the salon to have this crazy headpiece made out of pearls and fake white flowers and silver wire woven into my hair, and frankly, I was apprehensive. It had been last worn by a member of my family in the 1970s, although it also looks like it could do quite well in a regional production of Midsummer Night’s Dream. Hours after I went in, I emerged from the salon, headpiece attached, make up done, as classy as I was ever going to look, and as I sat on a bench wating for my brother to pick me up, I attracted quite a lot of attention from passersby. Trouble is, when people stop and stare at you, you can’t automtically tell whether it’s because you look like a semitic Jackie Onassis or because you look like you wandered out of their last acid trip.

Luckily, one lady didn’t just do a double-take; she actually doubled back to speak to me.

“My GAWD,” she twanged, hand over heart, “you look so beautiful! You look just like I did before MY first marriage!”

And that was how I knew everything was going to be all right.

Everyone keeps telling me how calm I am, which is rather funny, because I feel hyper in a sometimes-sluggish kind of way. I wish I had something to DO — sweaters to knit for soldiers, or a political campaign to manage (ideally one for a Person Of Cleavage). As it is, I just get to play tetherball with my anxiety and answer questions as they are sent from my sainted mother’s Blackberry.

Mr. Ben’s grandmother is somewhat responsible for planting notions of marriage in our heads. She visited our studio and, being at any point no more than fifteen feet from it, couldn’t help but notice the double bed. So! she said, sternly, turning to me. When do you plan on making this legal?

I fended her off as best I could. However, the onslaught continued. A friend of ours proposed to a girl he’d only met four months before and, when we visited, we found him and his fiancee sparring lovingly over who got to sit in the other’s lap during dinner.

THEN a couple Mr. Ben and I knew got engaged — we found out about it via LiveJournal. As a present in lieu of a ring, he bought her a tea set. That really hit a nerve with me, although apparently I wasn’t alone. Several other college friends noted how romantic it would be to receive a tea set of their own.

Still, I tried to tuck these thoughts away. What use would a tea set be, after all, if I didn’t want the three-bedroom two-bath house in suburbia to put it in?

Mr. Ben proposed like an Irish husband, with scarcely a “Brace yourself, Bridget.” I’ve had over a year to get used to the idea of being a “wife.” I’m not quite there yet. I am more comfortable with the idea of being a “bride,” anyway, but that’s largely because my mother has made it easy on me. And now the wedding is in five days. FIVE DAYS!

I go down to DC thursday evening after work. I just have to make it til then.