So this is a blog entry about Home, and there are some positive developments here to report; just some. My apartment is pretty cool. Or rather, it’s cool when I have the AC on. While in Seoul, considerate of carbon footprints and all, I’d turned it off. This was only a bad idea because, just before my South Korea trip, buddy Jeff Passan had sent a care package containing several fire-log hunks of Vermont cheddar cheese. During my absence, this stockpile of cheese sat on the kitchen counter — in a smoldering apartment. And evidently, based on posthumous evidence, the cheese must have spent several days baking in its own heat. And I suspect it must have swelled. And swelled some more. And swelled some more, until at last mass deformities of molten cheese goop pushed through the wax encasement. And then the goop turned into actual liquid, maybe even making threatening popping sounds. And at some point — again, speculating — there was, perhaps, an actual cheese explosion. And magma fired everywhere. And the oily mixture of chedder and wax spread across the countertop and floor, dripping into the oven and dishwasher, finally hardening as a yellowish film.
Needless to say, it was a fragrant homecoming. I spent a good 45 minutes cleaning, fighting the oil but hopeless against the reek. My apartment smelled like a Cheez-It box.
Or it did, until the very next day. That’s when I received delivery of the furniture/kitchen supplies/clothing that I’d shipped (by sea) from Washington, D.C. before this whole move. Just to illustrate the underwhelming advances in transoceanic speeds since the Santa Maria era, I should note that I signed away these belongings to the moving company on May 27. Among other items, my sofa, several hundred books and CDs, and a panini press spent the entire summer on the high seas. And a summer at sea —I speak now from experience — has a way of making even the sleekest stainless steel panini press smell like a pair of gym socks.
Hmm… anybody want a grilled cheese sandwich?
I should reserve this paragraph, by the way, to express some gratitude. Seriously, God bless that unique Japanese gift for discretion. I’m talking, in particular, about the two gentlemen who lugged the 13 sea-weary corrugated boxes from their moving van into my apartment. They worked like champions, slicing at the duct tape, removing the various items, disposing of the bubble wrap, decompressing the emptied boxes into 2-D, and ultimately, introducing a second ungodly smell into what quickly became a 700-square-foot olfactory boxing ring. In this corner: Mildewed Gym Sock. In that corner: Molten 94-Month Aged Cheddar.
But here’s the amazing thing: The moving men, God bless them, they said nothing. Even the nonverbal cues — nothing. Pure valor. They finished with the whole unpacking job after about 90 minutes, and just before departing, they thanked me again and again — maybe ritualistic, yes, but there were at least five thank-yous. I could have donated a kidney and not gotten more sincere gratitude. When I finally closed my apartment door, I kind of hoped they at least had a good laugh in the elevator.
But now for the serious part of this blog entry. Because here’s the truth: Since that moment when those two fellows closed my apartment door, I’ve spent way too much time in the company of two smells and zero fellow humans. For three days this week — and this is painful to admit — I don’t think I had a single human encounter that didn’t involve work. Sure, I had a few of those 12-word interactions with baristas. And I said hello to the people at my apartment building front desk. And just to practice multisyllabic conversation, I conducted a few interviews via Skype with North Korea experts based in Seoul.
But this week it became quite clear to me that I still lack a social life here. I need to work at it. Hopefully, I can stay in Tokyo for at least another week or two and gain some momentum. The good news is, I had a fun weekend, and I spent some time with quality people. But the overall theme of this week, for me, was isolation: Isolation, coupled with all of its resulting neurosis. Without an office/bureau, helpless without the language, life can fast turn into a tiny echo chamber, and let me tell you, some ugly things can happen to the thoughts I deposit there: A sense of self-loathing, a sense of failure, a sense of being overwhelmed, and did I mention a sense of failure? I think, in part, these are rational thoughts: I am overwhelmed by my job. And it’s OK to be scared by it; indeed, fear is a potent motivator. But I’ve let these thoughts grow too large. Especially given the size of my apartment.
This morning, in a bold bid to avoid an honorary subscription to the Hikikomori Association Newsletter, I exited my apartment and went on a run. I followed a canal for about 8 miles, and though it was steamy outside I had lots of energy. In fact, I kind of felt terrific. I let my mind wander, and started thinking of goals — maybe a race in September or October. (I picture a two-hour road trip and a mountain. Now I just need to find the race, the mountain, and the language skills to locate either via Google.jp search.)
Anyway, just less than halfway through the run, I came across a baseball diamond. Two teams. Kids, maybe 8 or 9. The team in the field wore blue uniforms and called itself the “Rainbows.” Every child wore stirrups that stopped halfway up the leg, like mid-80s big leaguers. The Rainbows had at least seven coaches, stirrups similarly cropped, stationed along the foul lines and behind the backstop. Naturally, I paused my run and watched; you can’t pass this stuff up, a sniff of Home at “Home.” Five minutes turned into 10, and 10 turned into 20. I saw the Rainbows take two turns in the field. They looked pretty competent. The team fielding percentage, I’d guess, was around .640.
Just before I resumed my run, though, something sort of memorable happened. A batter scorched a ball between short and third. It skipped toward the left fielder — I was standing just behind the left field wall — and the poor left fielder, who’d been pantomiming his pitching wind-up for several minutes, let the ball roll past him. He had to chase it to the fence — a single turned into a triple.
And what happened next? Well, the poor kid, head down, heard his name called out by one of the coaches. And then — I swear, this never happened in Mt. Lebanon Little League — the left-fielder was pulled off the field. Replaced mid-inning. Tongue-lashed, with a firm lesson on keeping your glove to the ground, while some other kid stole his job.
At that point, I resumed my run. It was an out-and-back route, so after hitting the landmark bridge and U-turning again in the direction of my apartment, I passed the baseball field one final time. The chided left-fielder was back as his spot, to my relief, and I called to him, “Gambatte” (頑張って) — or, roughly translated, “Try your best.”
It was, I think, advice for both of us.
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