High Pressure Low

Phu Quoc, day 14, possibly.

Tomorrow we move on to the final leg of our great trip, after 6 days of sun, sea and relaxation. Except, as I hinted in my recent text about Saigon, this trip has had it’s share of experiences. And even though there are plenty of things I miss, like potable tap water and stores that refridgerate their milk, and plenty of things I won’t miss, like my plank-like bed and getting honked at by every single motor vehicle, it is with a kind of heavy heart that I write this blog.

This island has, after all, been where I got the closest to some kind of half-imagined real Vietnam. It all started on Sunday, when we stopped by two of the Swedish-owned places on the island. At the second, a bar called Chinaskis, we had a few drinks and ended up getting invited to dinner the next day, a bunch of people were going to a local place in town. We kind of worried about it on and off, if it was a scam or not, stuff like that. But we ended up going with them, and it was just about the best choice we’ve made so far.

So it’s the two of us, the bartender, an older swedish couple that has a house on the island, and an assortment of expats and backpackers. We take a taxi past the touristy parts of the central town, and into the “local” parts. Looking out the window I was reminded of Hanoi, to my delight. After a short drive we’re there, at 343. We’re shown to some tables, and given chairs, chairs that would be marketed as “for children” in Sweden. Then the food comes in, a beef salad that swiftly knocked Propaganda’s noodles with tofu off the “best food eaten so far in this trip” post. Following that, they brought in hotpots, a delicious fish called “Black Kingfish”, another salad with mango and squid, and probably something more that I’m forgetting. We had ordered a lot of beers that needed drinking (Saigon Red for life).

But more than great food, it was also a great experience, being surrounded by locals and eating what they were eating like they were eating it. And, thanks to the swedish couple we met there, we got in touch with a driver that took us around a few days later. Although we were shown several touristy places, getting to them took us by plenty of tiny fishing villages, no more than a collection of huts. As more and more resorts are starting construction, one wonders how long the fishermen can keep plying their trade. How long until Sao Beach is all hotels with private beachfronts? How long until this piece of vietnamese countryside is transformed into the new Phuket? And, I think most distressing of all, would that necessarily be a bad thing? If an influx of tourist money allows the island to improve its infrastructure and lets parents send their kids to school, and so on, is that not a good thing? But is it worth sacrificing the nature and culture of the island to achieve? I honestly don’t know, but I know exploitation is on the horizon, wether anyone wants it or not.

Continued in Vientiane, Laos. Day 15-ish.

Having left the island now, Vietnam already feels far away. But it does allow me to do a kind of retrospect of the last two weeks. So many things have happened, most of them good. It somehow managed to be just like I envisioned it, and nothing like it at all. As is often the case with trips. But in the end, I liked Vietnam. Starting in Hanoi provided the baptism of fire that I needed to get used to the chaos I worried over. I did also go through my regular series of revelations, first I wanted to write a book about the country after being there just a few days. Another week in, I realised I knew nothing and that there was too much to say, anyway.

In the end, our lazy stay on Phu Quoc ended up being kind of perfect, in the scope of the trip. Some time to catch up, while also experiencing new things. It makes little sense, but it was just what I needed. And Vietnam has left me with a lot of good memories, some already covered by the fog of nostalgia. Truly the country of contrasts.

A design for life

Phu Quoc, lost track of days.

So our Saigon stay is at an end. It was rather unremarkable. I had gotten a good deal on a hotel, which turned out to be kind of out of the way, 4 kilometers or sofrom the city centre. But it was a nice hotel none the less, providing me with a comfortable bed and a breakfast menu that wasn’t concocted by a schizophrenic person. Saigon itself, however, proved very underwhelming. As it is the largest city in Vietnam, with around 9 million inhabitants in the “metropolitan area”, it has managed to trade away all the charm of Hanoi for something slightly more “civilized”, but lost most of it’s soul in doing so. The crowded old quarters, the big avenues lined with impossibly large jungle trees and, well, the feeling of life itself, is nowhere near as present in the Saigon city centre.

Hanoi might actually be the most “alive” city I’ve ever visited. In the sense that life is messy, vaguely dangerous and features a lot of viscera. Saigon, at least the parts I saw, lacked all of this. In exhange, all it had gained were wide avenues, convenience stores (okay, no lie, that part I liked) and sidewalks untroubled by storefronts and banh mi-carts. It wasn’t even alive in the sense of Stockholm or Tokyo, where you at times become less than yourself in order to be part of something greater. Rusing around in great crowds reminiscent of blood moving through something’s veins.

And while you could probably make a case for Ho Chi Minh City’s veins being its arteries, every moped a single red blood cell, it lacked a sense of… nourishment. Somewhere for the blood to end up. To feed. Instead, my 45 minute walks along either of two large avenues just had me witness great crowds of people going into and out of the centre, but it reminded me more of the laboured breathing of a slowly dying thing. Essentially, the closeness to Death in Hanoi made it feel more alive. The stark reminder of sheltered western life, where meat is bought in a store, far removed from the actual, living being.

But yes, Ho Chi Minh. As the city lacked attractions, we booked a tour of the Mekong delta instead. I kinda wanted to go to the Cu Chi tunnels, not in the least because you’d get to shoot an AK-47 as part of the tour. But we chose nature over war, as we were still all warred out after the museums of Hanoi. It was a nice trip, we saw a lot of nature. It din’t, however, lead to any further Big and Important Thoughts.

Before departing on this trip, I thought Phu Quoc would be the impressionless sea of calm, flanked on either side by mainland Vietnam and Laos and Cambodia. But I’m starting to wonder if it wasn’t Saigon that proved the most relaxing, at least mentally. This island paradise has proved to be more of an experience than I initially suspected. But more about that later, probably.

Also, my friend and co-traveler is blogging in Swedish here. He instagrams here. Relatedly, I instagram here.

I don’t want to live with the bourgeoisie no more

Ho Chi Minh City, day 6?

Things have happened since last time. we’ve eaten at an old, fancy hotel, we’ve been to a fancy mall, and we’ve walked through the old quarter several times. And we’ve changed our scene to Ho Chi Minh City, leaving a hotel with a very peculiar and anxious sense of theoretical luxury, that kind of bottomed out in a lot of missing details and very awkward service.

Back to the beginning, eating a really good hamburger at the Sofitel Hotel felt really strange, especially after reading the story of colonial life in Hoa Lo prison. The hotel was built around the turn of the century, and it was a popular place among the rich colonials. The hotel kept the look, and it really oozed old style. Roger Moore had drank martinis there, and now, so have I. But, coming from the old quarter, and having spend most of my time in its tight alleys, it felt surreal to suddenly sit in a clean and pristine hotel restaurant. It kind of made me feel like a colonist myself, enjoying the extravagant luxury while people just a short walk away were cooking food in communal pots over an open fire. I don’t think I’ve ever felt the privilege of being part of the global one per cent that viscerally ever before.

The mall we visited the next day caused a similar crisis, as it was filled with upscale stores with a price level so far from everything else (The Gap was expensive even by Swedish standards, not to mention the Dior et. al. stores) in Hanoi that it felt, again, really disconnected from the outside world. An oasis for the rich far away, conceptually, from the “real” world while just a short walk away in real life. A reminder I really shouldn’t need by now.

Following the shopping excursion, we went north again, through the old quarters. Getting further from the I guess more touristy part where we lived, I somehow felt closer to the “real” Hanoi. But it wasn’t until we were going back, having visited a pagoda that boasted a tree taken from the original tree that the original buddha meditated under, that I felt the closest to this imagined “realness” I have so far. Going through some less traveled roads heading back to the main road, we passed by five people occupying the entire sidewalk with their project, the cutting up of half of a pig’s carcass. A few minutes later, we saw some people kill a chicken (they put it head first in a bucket, which had the benefit of making the killing a bit more abstracted, to me). Lastly, as a crowning monument to the possibility of authenticity, I spotted a roasted dog. Just kind of a stall with different meats, similar to several ones I’ve seen before that and since, but this one had a dog in it, instead of some chickens, or some pig’s trotters. But maybe my imagined finding of something real is just that, imagined. I almost feel arrogant, almost racist, to entertain the thought of finding any kind of “realness” after a short 5 days in a city, or a country.

Do what you will with this information, as impossibly self-indulgent as it is. I’m mostly using it to process my thoughts.

Searching for a former clarity

Hanoi, Vietnam. Day three.

So far, we have done several things, in several places. Two days ago, we went to the army museum, had a stroll past the Ho Chi Minh mausoleum, got double-scammed in a taxi trip to a closed museum. Following that, we went on a night time rain time walk through the Old Quarters of Hanoi.

Yesterday, we put our walking shoes on, and went on an expedition. First to a nearby temple in a lake, and then on to Hoa Lo prison, followed by the Vietnamese Museum of Fine Arts, the Literature Temple and then, once more, to the Ho Chi Minh mausoleum, to try and find a way to get inside. Spoiler alert: we didn’t, but we did see the One Pillar Pagoda. After that, we went back home, having walked at least 10 kilometers.

We’ve also gone from slowly and scaredly crossing the streets to basically flinging ourselves into traffic, following the advice I was given by my cousin before leaving Sweden. So it seems as if I’m getting used to the chaos after all.

Now, one of the most interesting things about the museums we’ve visited, especially the Army Museum and the Hoa Lo prison, is that it is the story of a post-colonial people told by themselves. I was also surprised at just how long the colonial reign of France lasted, and how close to the modern time it took place. And while I’m sure there’s a degree of propagandism in the stories the museums tell, it is still a very interesting story to follow. As a companion piece, the fine arts museum was also interesting, showing just how deeply the struggle against the colonial powers (and later, the U.S.) affected the cultural life through the years. I might  come back to this topic later, as I’m still struggling with how to juggle my thoughts on the subject.

I have also affirmed my fondness of the brutalistic architecture style, and large monuments on a whole. And visiting the visually impressive mausoleum might have made me want to reinstall Minecraft and build a replica, similar to that time a few of us built a life-size Chichen Itza. Looking forward to seeing if, for example, Angkor Wat will give me a similar reaction. Because, after all, I am the most horrible nerd.

Dethink to survive

So, long time no blog. Since we last parted ways, I’ve gotten some kind of degree in Economics. Nothing really worth writing about, in other words. BUT NOW I am in Hanoi, the first leg of a trip with several legs. Like an insect. Or a spider. So I figured I’d commit A Blog Post or several, depending on if anything worthy of writing about happens.

So, several hours ago (18, or thereabouts) I left Stockholm for Bangkok. A fairly nondescript trip that mostly saw me listening to music, reading the first book of the trip (Stewart Lee’s “How I Escaped My Certain Fate”, it’s great) and having stilted conversations with the two people next to me. They seemed kind of incoherent, and said that my book looked dull. Then again, I can be both of those things myself, so it might not explicitly be their problem.

Flying is kind of meditative for me, and I tend to spend long parts of flights looking out the window, especially if it’s a redeye. It was also a welcome change of scenery, as the only thing you get to watch when flying to Japan is Siberia. This time I was served a rather interesting, if almost purely theoretical, tour of Kazakhstan, Afghanistan, Pakistan and India. My essential point is this: I enjoy looking at pretty lights far away. Possibly with a side of considering how different the lives of the people below are, compared to mine. By different I probably mean worse, as I am a white male from Europe.

After a smooth landing in Bangkok, I went on to discover the airport. I didn’t much feel like it, but for some reason the gate my connecting flight left from was on the other side of the airport. Being forced to walk past the same stores what felt like a dozen times, the same stores that somehow seem to be in every airport ever, was kind of a hassle, as was the frantic search for the correct wifi network (there were approximately 5 of them, all named “FREE AIRPORT WIFI”).

An hour or so later, I was on the next plane, bound for Hanoi. After a rather intimidating encounter at the passport control (The officer looked off into the distance, scowled, looked at his computer, tapped some keys, scowled, looked at me, scowled, stamped my passport and, with a final scowl, handed it back to me) and a long wait for my luggage, I was on my way in a taxi. Getting only slightly scammed (still cheaper than the hotel arranging a car for me), I had my first experience with Vietnamese traffic. It seems the rumors were true, and chaotic is just the start of it.

Hopefully, however, I will be able to get used to the chaos, take it with a stride and widen my horizons. Either that or this will slowly become the ramblings of a madman, as the frail edges of my mind with ever-increasing speed wither away. Either way, it’ll hopefully be interesting for you, my dear readers.

Japan revisited: part 3: Doing things and being cool

So, where was I? Right-o.

On Sunday afternoon I hopped on the Yamanote and went south a few stops, to Shibuya, to walk around, take pictures and remember cool and fun things. I found a shop I’d been to with The Americans, I found some clubs that I’d gotten drunk at, and I found the tiny basement bar where I had my first umeshu. I also bought a poster, a mug and a cell-phone holder, as well as a really neat magazine about JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, and its creator, Araki. Because that’s just how big of a nerd I am.

Later in the evening, I went and had some katsu karee, and had a stroll around the block, because walking around Tokyo after dark is something that I’ll probably never get tired of, and doing it in mostly small back-alleys just makes the feeling that much more… special. Maybe it’s a privacy thing? The feeling that almost anything I can concieve of can be found, somewhere in this cosmopolis of a town, but right now it’s just me, the alley and the night, and that’s all I really need.

The next day, I got up fairly early and was ready to go on a trip down memory lane. I waited until half past 10, to miss the big morning rushes, put on my shoes and went for a walk. At first, down Yasukuni dori, until I noticed that it was Yasukuni dori. That’s when I switched roads and took Shinjuku dori instead, because Shinjuku dori goes straight to Yotsuya, where I used to live, back when I started this blog.

It’s about an hour’s walk from Shinjuku to Yotsuya, and just as I left the building it started to rain, but after a quick elevator ride back up, I had my umbrella and I was ready to remember. I saw a few things I recognised, like the small shrine that I photographed late one night, almost exactly 2 years ago, and that the neat little luxury foods boutique, that I went into maybe twice, had closed down. I saw the fancy pizzeria that I never ate at, I saw the 100 yen shop that I also never really went to. I saw the Lawson’s right by our house, where we’d go to get late-night snacks. I saw the small sake store where I once bought a huge bottle of umeshu had closed down. And then I saw the house where I’d lived for four years. I didn’t take any pictures of it, and all the blinds were down, so I couldn’t see anything inside it, but it was still there. As was the grocery store on the other side of the bridge, where we went to buy food, and the small park lining the way to work looked just the same as it used to do. As did the house I used to work in, although I didn’t check inside to see if the people were still there.

After checking my old work, I went to the Ichigaya station, and back onto Yasukuni dori, because that’s where I was headed next, the Yasukuni shrine. Very controversial, but because of this also very interesting. It’s just big enough to feel proper, while still small enough to not feel empty. I gave the kami of the shrine 50 yen, and asked them to make sure I could return to Japan again in the future, and knowing that I have the spirits of several war-criminals on my side makes me feel just that much more secure. After walking around the grounds a bit, and a quick nip into the musem to look at their restored Mitsubishi Zero-fighter, I solemnly walked out of the shrine, and went back towards Ichigaya station. I had one last straw to pick with my old life, and I wasn’t about to let it go unpicked.

You see, dear reader, I love Japanese curry. I love eating it, I love making it, I love smelling it, and so on so forth. And across the street from Ichigaya is a karee no ousama from where I got many, many of my lunches while working. So I went in, ordered an oomori karakuchi roosu katsu karee, and it was just as good at I rememembered.

After this, I hopped on the Chuo-Sobu line at Yotsuya (as I had done so many times before), and went back home. After about an hour, I met up with my gracious host, and after that we went to Harajuku on for an almost sex-and-the-cityesque shopping spree. At least the one of us that had money did. All-in-all, I got to see some fancy clothing stores, agonize over not being able to afford the really cool shirt they had at Bape and discuss how great a name for a store “Kojima Genes” is.

After this, I got to cross off another entry on my “things I need to do in Japan”-list, as we went to the Hub for dinner and drinks. The food was unsatisfying, as it tends to be at the Hub, but then you buy a pint of Long Island Ice Tea for less than a beer in Sweden and you realise that there are much, much worse things in life. So after getting our happy hour on for a few hours, we went back home and shortly thereafter I collapsed on my bed, tired from a long day of adventuring.

This, of course, led to not the greatest sleep ever, but the middle of the night is made for reading twitter, so things worked themselves out nicely. I spent the morning reading some internet and just ever so slightly suffering for the joys of the day before. After lunch I headed out for another pilgrimage, this one to Akihabara, land of video games, technology and more cartoon breasts than you can shake a stick at. It turned out that they’d demolished the mall I used to shop at, to my great despair, so I ended up walking all over Akiba, looking for Cool Stuff to Buy. Nothing Cool enough presented itself, but I’ve not given up on the place yet. After the tour of the nerd heaven that Akihabara is, I got on the Yamanote and went to SHINBASHI! SHINBASH! SHINBASH! Ahem, sorry, something must’ve gotten over me.

Anyway, At Shinbashi I got on the Yurikamome monorail and went across the Rainow Bridge, to one of my favourite places in the world, Daiba. You see, Daiba is located on the  artificial island in Tokyo bay, and has an amazing view of the Tokyo skyline. I got there just as the sun had set, and could see a thousand small lights all over Tokyo bay. I mentioned my love of Tokyo at night, and this place just cements that very fact. To feel the ever so slightly salty sea breeze in my face as I look out across the water and at the man-made mountain range that is the Tokyo skyline, it’s just a feeling I will never be able to even hope to express in words. It’s peaceful, almost serene, yet humbling in the same way that looking up at a starry sky is, and I love it.

Japan, revisited: part two: what happened since I got here

My last post was about the 10-ish hour flight that got me here, so I suppose I should tell y’all about what I’ve been up to since. After touching Japanese soil for the first time in almost 2 years, I went through customs and took the airport-train from Narita to Tokyo, and then the Chuo line from Tokyo to Shinjuku, where my gracious host met me. After dropping off my stuff at his apartment, a quick shower and a change of clothes, we went out for lunch. I insisted on Yoshinoya, because I love me some cheap, delicious gyuunabedon with a raw egg serving as gravy. It wasn’t quite as appreciated by my host, but that’s what you get when dealing with upper-class people.

After that we went home for a nap, as we were both kind of shattered, In the evening, we met up with our Swedish friend JoJo, and his girlfriend, and had food and later on, drinks. (I had some katsukaree, which was pretty amazing)

Yesterday, the rain was pouring down and I, as the gifted young man I am, put on my Converse and went to the park in Ueno. This was a great idea and I totally didn’t get soaked from head to toe. I did, however, buy a fortune-telling thing that I couldn’t read, and lit a candle for my father in a small buddhist temple. I also went to the Ueno Toshogu, which was nice, but far from as impressive as the “real” Toshogu. At this point my feet were wet enough to make me worry about getting trench-foot, so I took my kawaii umbrella with pandas on it and got on the yamanote line back home, incidentally completing a full circuit of the yamanote in a day, which is kind of an achievement of its own.

When I got home, I ate a late brunch consisting of some egg-ham sandwiches and a bottle of Pocari Sweat. It was just as great as I remembered. In the evening, we once again met up with JoJo and girlfriend and went down to Shibuya, to a neat little restaurant called Mobomoga, after either the great Mobomoga Ieyasu or his predecessor, Oda Mobomoga, we couldn’t decide. I had a Humberg with cheese, bacon and a fried egg, which was great. To it, I drank a “choko coke”, which was… interesting. For dessert, I had a cream soda, which was surprisingly good! Something about the melon soda and vanilla ice cream worked a lot better than I thought it would.

After this we took the train back to Shinjuku, and went to a tiny bar in Shinjuku Sanchome called Mukuteki Mario, or Matchless Mario in English. As you might’ve guessed, it’s a video game-themed bar, and it was amazing. Lots of small Mario and Mario-related figurines, three drinks named after Mario, Peach and Koopa/Bowser respectively, and they had a Wii set up that you could play a bunch of old games on. It turns out I’m spectacularly bad at old games, as I got my butt handed to me in both Mario Kart 64, Super Street Fighter 2 and Bomberman 4. But the drinks were good and the atmosphere even better, so it was Okay. After that, we got some late night ramen and gyoza, which was by far some of the best drunk-time-hungry food I’ve had in ages.

Anyway, this thing is long enough as it is already, so I’ll hold off with telling y’all what I did today for now. 

Japan, revisited. Part one, the flightening

Dateline 18 o’clock Swedish time. Somewhere above Siberia. I’ve just eaten parts of the world’s smallest chicken and some extremely inoffensive Danish cheese. I’m drinking some surprisingly non-disgusting red wine and listening to the Hardcore History podcast. I’m on my way back. Back home? Back to Japan? Back, at the very least. I’m not sure I’ve actually realised it yet, Japan has become this almost abstract place of greatness that I created after getting back home to Stockholm. Or is it? Will it live up to the standards I’ve created for it, or will it be unable to live up to it? Will all the nostalgia I’ve created lead to a great disappointment, or will everything be as great as I’ve imagined? Does this even matter? Do I really miss Japan, or do I miss the entire social situation I was in as a gaijin? The friends I made? A chimera of all these, and more?

I’m visiting one of my best friends, and we’ve both tasted and reflected on the greatness of GLORIOUS NIPPON, so there is hope there. We share interests to a staggering level and we’re both good people. Now I’m tired of writing on my phone, so I’ll take a break for now, to continue sometime later.

An hour and a half later, past the Ural Mountains and crossing the Western Siberian Lowland.

WHAT IN THE NAME OF FUCK TURNS THE LIGHT ON DURING A REDEYE FLIGHT. AND WHY IS IT SITTING BEHIND ME. WHY.

Half an hour later, same geographic area.

OH MY GOD SHUT UP OR FUCK ALREADY OR SOMETHING. LITERALLY EVERYONE ELSE WANTS TO SLEEP. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS. Also I’ve lost all sensation in my butt. Woo flying economy class.

20 minutes later, won’t sleep for now. Outside the window I can see tiny specks of light. Wonder who lives there, why and how their lives are. Like a starry sky, almost. Interesting.

Half past eight, far north of Novosibirsk. They are still talking, it’s amazing.

Ten to eleven, Siberian-Manchurian border.

YES TURN THE LIGHT ON AND OPEN A BOTTLE OF RED WINE AND KEEP TALKING YOU GODDAMNED CRETINS. THIS IS GREAT.

Ten to midnight, possibly over Manchuria if Manchuria is Russian? Near Khabarovsk

Finally they shut up and turn off the light. and then someone opens a blind and LOOK IT’S THE DAWN MOTHERFUCKERS. Looks like it’ll be lots of coffee for me tonight. Also surprisingly hungry? Possibly.

Quarter past one, over the sea of Japan. Breakfast was lacking, the coffee tasted of ascorbic acid like a motherfucker. Slept 20 minutes, tops, thanks to idiot fuckers sitting behind me. Feet will touch Japanese ground in less than 90 minutes. Excitement palatable.

Addendum: looking out the window I can see Mount Fuji towering over the otherwise flat Japanese countryside, its white peak fading into the azure sky as the rice fields rush past below us. They should’ve sent a poet.

Japan, post script

Today it’s exactly a year since I left Sweden for the great adventure. In 10 days it was 8 months since I came home. Yet Japan still haunts me, and it probably will for a long time. For starters, when I left it was partially because I thought I was done with Japan, I had studied the language for a year and then I’d lived there for 4 months. I didn’t feel like I was doing anything special at work anyway, so I might as well go home, right?

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. I’d have to invent a new language just to be able to put to text just how wrong I was. All the things I mentioned in my last post I miss. I miss Shibuya, I miss Roppongi, I miss Shinjuku, I miss Akihabara, I miss my roommates, I miss the daily comments on whatever food I was having for lunch (curry, more often than not). I miss my Swedish boss, and I miss our Norwegian/Japanese boss. I miss getting shitfaced in the weekends and karaokeing horribly. I miss the people on the street. Stockholm is just so empty. I miss there barely being breathing room on the trains. I miss the sense of camraderie and… togetherness I had with my friends.

And no matter how much I try or want to, there are a million “what ifs” I just can’t stop repeating in my head, over and over. Even now, as I just started studying again, I can’t keep myself from comparing my film studies to my earlier Japanese ones. Not to mention the fact that 95% of my interesting stories and amusing anecdotes now come from Japan, and prefacing all of them with “like the time I was in Japan,” just gets old really fast. I now almost find myself planning my post-movie studies studies after whatever’s the most likely to get me back to Japan, or to some other far-off part of the world. Archaeology and going to a dig somewhere? Chef and go be a chef somewhere? and so on, so forth.

One of the things I was wondering before I left, and as I was going home was how I’d be changed by Japan, and I have. One of my favourite examples is when my cousin and his girlfriend graduated, just a few days after I got home. After the family dinner and stuff we went out for a drink or two. To the Sky Bar at the SAS Hotel by the central station. Now, in Tokyo, the sky bars are at the 45th floor, maybe. This one was on the 9th. What the fuck, Sweden? Before I left, I thought Stockholm had a good size, it wasn’t too big and not too small. Now, let me tell you, Stockholm so tiny it’s not even funny. And all the bars close too early and the alcohol is expensive and you can’t buy it at corner stores and there’s  no karaoke places and it’s way too hard to find Japanese rice and there’s no yakiniku sauce and the thinnest slice of meat is too thick for proper yakiniku anyway and  the list goes on.

But at the same time, I know that it won’t ever be the same when/if I go back. None of my friends are left and, well, everything would just not be the same. Too much have changed, people have gotten on with their lives. Except me, partially because of a documented emotional breakdown in February/March that led to me having doctor’s orders to take it easy for a bit. But it is in nostalgia that the problem lies. Going back would never be the same, and I’m not sure that going somewhere else would equate, either. And that’s the thing with experiences, maybe I shouldn’t go back at all, maybe I should but just as a vacation, or maybe I should find my way into living there again. Maybe I should go somewhere else, like the UK or the US or Australia or somewhere else entirely. The most important thing though, for me right now, is that I should stop reliving those few nights in my head, over and over, I should stop asking myself “what if” or “why didn’t I”, I should stop scolding myself for every thing I did that I in hindsight shouldn’t have done and I should stop longing for a time that by all accounts is over and done with. Maybe I’ll see some of the people I got to know over there again, maybe I won’t.

The only thing I know is, we’ll always have Japan.

The End is just another beginning

As I write this, I’m sitting at Narita airport, waiting to board my flight to Copenhagen.

After eating a breakfast consisting of some tuna sushi and a glass of Umeshu on the rocks (I’m addicted, so what), I got kind of… thoughtful. I’ve been in Japan for over four months, the next-longest I’ve ever lived somewhere, and I’ve met some great people while being here.

Like the Americans I met when I went to the Tokyo Game Show, the people that ruined my ability to generalise about all Americans being like the stereotype. The only bad thing I can say about them is that they suck when it comes to responding to messages. And that their extreme sense of “you’re my guest, I can’t make you pay for this” is really uncomfortable for someone who’s from a country where, if someone’s having a party, you bring your own drink, and whatever you’ve brought, that’s what you’re drinking.

Like the Dane me and my Norwegian room mate randomly met while walking home from Roppongi, and whom proved that there are cool people from south of the Swedish border as well.

Like the Finnish girl I karaoked my heart out with to the tune of the Smiths, just two days ago. The fact that noone else even knew what song we were singing just made it better. Now all that remains is the question of how much of our Indie Cred we still have left.

Like the Dutch guy who trashtalked my APM, and whose friends looked like pork scratchings on a towel. (stealing jokes from accomplished comedians make me look funny)

Like my Norwegian/Japanese boss who’d worked in the US for a while, swore like a sailor whenever his computer did something bad and got pissed off by Sigur Rós’ singer’s voice.

Like the women at the office, who commented on my food every day, often to the tune of some giggling.

Like my Swedish boss, that made it possible for me to go here, and was great company both during work days and when we went out.

Like the Swedish girl everyone but her and I thought either were or should be dating. Let’s just say it gets kind of awkward when a guy twice your age tries who you’ve just met tries to talk you up to a girl the same age as yourself. Not to mention the Australian guy who… I think told her how great my penis was. (for the record, the Australian had no information or experience of my genitalia.)

These people have practically been my family while I’ve been here, because if there’s one thing we all had in common, it’s that we all were alone in a big, strange city filled with tiny people. They probably meant more to me than I’ve yet to realise, but what I do know is that I’m going to miss all of them a whole lot.

As I wrote the above, I started thinking about what Japan has meant for me. To start with the halcyon days of studying Japanese at Stockholm University, fresh out of Upper Secondary School and a great love of Japanese comics and cartoons. Back when Japan was nothing more than a country far away where everyone totally acted like in the comics and everyone were a huge nerd. Back then, I didn’t really know a lot about anything. After studying Japanese for a year, and getting some new, good, friends, I got a new perspective, both on life and on Japan. Now, Japan seemed more comical, with most things we were told sounding like hyperbole and jokes, wrapped up with a smidge of truth. I started to look more critically at the cartoons I watched, realising that a lot of it lacked in both substance and plot.

Then, I got the mail saying that I had been accepted to work as an intern at the company I left a few days ago. When I took the bus into Town, I was struck by how much it looked like I thought it would, the clutter of two-story buildings, with power lines running all over the place. I realised how true-to-life some of the, well, scenery-porn comics I’d read was.
Another thing, possibly the most telling change, is that I’ve had to become a lot more social. Because when you start out on your own in a new town, you have to get to know new people, you don’t have your old social security net to fall back on. I’ve also come to appreciate, oh hey, I have to get on the aeroplane now. I’ll continue later.
So, where was I? It’s now a while later, I’m on the plane and I’ve watched The Expendables and Fargo. I also discovered that there’s a power socket for my computer built into my chair, so that’s nice.

I just put on the song “Things will never be the same again” by the favourite band of all the indie kids from Gothenburg born in ’92, jj, and I think the title is a nice summary of my being in Japan, or just life in general. But mostly Japan. Because no matter how I look back on how I was and how I now am, I was very… different back then. And even though I can still be awkward and all that stuff, I have found truth in the words of my Upper Secondary class coach/teacher, “fake it ’til you make it” does work. Because if you’re not confident enough to do something, the only way to get confident enough to do it is by doing it anyway. Of course, I’m still the big awkward weirdo on the inside, but that’s a whole different story.

As I’m approaching home, I also start thinking about how Sweden will be like. I do know for sure that I’ll do a quick bow and say “Sumimasen” more times than I should, and I wonder if I’ll stare in amazement at all the gaijin everywhere. Will I be shocked by how tiny it is, or will like being able to sit down on trains again? Will I indulge in Stockholm’s night life, or will I miss the days of nomihoudai and tone-deaf karaoke?
The things I do know I’ve been missing, though, is my friends, everyone from my brother from another mother to my fellow daigakuseis. And everyone in between. I have also been looking forward, no-life geek as I am, to finally playing the bunch of games I’ve missed out on completly while being in Japan. Although I can’t help but wonder if they’ll have the same hook to them after all the time I’ve spent not playing them.

The guy I’m sitting next to asked me what my favourite memory from Japan was, and that really got me thinking. The most unique one was definately when I slept at the US Army base, but picking the best one is harder. Was it being at Zojoji when the clock struck 12 on New Year’s Eve? Was it getting comfortably lost in Ikebukuro? Was it going to Comic Market and instantly becoming the envy of a large part of the self-named otakus of the world? Was it one of the dinners we had with our landlady, where we got to eat some of the best food I’ve ever eaten? Was it showing my mother Tokyo, and going to Mount Fuji and Nikko? Was it that thing that happened to my friend that I can’t tell you about, no matter how much I want to? I’ll probably never be able to tell for sure, but that is also my point. Japan has had some lows, some things that have made me put on The Smiths and just feel like Morrisey’s singing about me. But it has also had some amazing highs, when I’ve felt like James Murphy is telling me to dance myself clean. And as far as I consider it, the good times have outnumbered the bad times, and hopefully that’s not just nostalgia speaking.

I’ve now taken a bit of a nap, and thought about another strange occurrence. My season-clock is all wrong. You see, when I left Sweden, it was September, temperatures were around 15 degrees centigrade and cold winds were blowing. When I then get to a surprisingly sweltering Japan, I realise the for me unseasonal heat, but I still manage to keep it in my head that it’s autumn. Once the temperature started dropping in October-November, I was reminded of Winter’s approach back home. And I did write a number of smug statements on the line of “oh my 15 degrees centigrade sure is cold, isn’t it?”. The thing is, though, that it never got below 5 degrees, and it was usually in the early teens even. I even played Badminton on the roof on Christmas Eve. So I feel like I’ve lost out on some biting cold, some massive public transport delays and some magnificent blizzards. I also feel like it’s somehow still September, and would probably be even more convinced if it weren’t for having just celebrated New Year’s Eve. I’ve been harsly reminded of how ingrained cold weather is in my very being, and I’m not sure how comfortable I am with that fact. But in the end, I guess it’s inevitable. Deep down, I’m just a cold-hearted guy.

Last addition: I’ve now been in Sweden for 18 hours, and have also come to realise that I’ve missed the darkness. I don’t even know why, but when I was flying in over Stockholm yesterday I just felt like something clicked, and that was the darkness.