Smells Like Happy

Progress

Whenever I come back from a trip outside the U.S., I'm always struck by details of American life that I hadn't much noticed before. Yesterday, on my way to meet The Mouse for lunch in D.C.'s Chinatown, I realized that skyscrapers block the sun. BLOCK THE SUN. Not to get all John Muir on you, but isn't that sort of odd? Blocking large swaths of land from the sun and covering them with concrete means that nothing will grow there. For much of human history, if nothing would grow on the land, there would be nothing for people to eat. And if there were nothing for people to eat, they would starve and die. But instead, we grew really big brains and used them to build really big buildings, transport crops from elsewhere, and otherwise conquer the Earth and all of the limitations it imposed. Progress.

This all stands in contrast to my experiences of the last two weeks. Down in tiny Samara, on the Pacific side of Costa Rica, we spent two very slow and quiet weeks living as the Earth dictated. We slathered on lotion to block the sun's rays. We napped in the hottest part of the day when it was too hot to do anything else. We swam during high tide. Swatted flies that competed for our lunch, grew accustomed to the ants that crawled in our room. Awoke with the birds and slept when the sun set. Initially, the change-up of my normally self-directed routine made me restless. But in the end, I fell into step with nature's constant -- and often inconvenient -- rhythm. For us, it was a step back to a simpler time that existed many, many generations ago in our own homeland.

Three years ago, a friend spent a summer in Samara teaching English. When I told him today that two American car rental companies have set up offices in Samara, he was shocked. Pablo, the Costa Rican man who took us to a nearby island for snorkeling last week, told us that Samara did not have any white people roaming its streets five to ten years ago. "It's good and it's bad," he said. "The tourism is good for our economy and it gives us jobs, but it also introduces our children to new people with new ideas and new ways of thinking. That's not always good."

We could see the wariness on locals' faces. Not resentment so much as resignation -- an understanding that their conflicting feelings don't even matter because the change they're witnessing is inevitable. It's an unstoppable process that has already been thrust into motion. Italians, Americans, Germans, Canadians -- they're all snapping up property and building roomy houses and comfy motels to hold more of their kind. They hire locals to cook and clean and transport and guard, thus providing jobs to fuel the local economy. But they also drive up prices. And as Pablo told us, "People here were getting along just fine before tourism."

Samara is still relatively unknown to tourists. But as vacationers seek out spots that are quieter and less touristy than Tamarindo or Jaco, they'll trickle into Samara with increasing regularity. And to accommodate those tourists, Samara may grow to resemble the very areas that those travelers are trying to avoid. And then one day, when Samara perhaps has a Burger King and a Subway and a giant, all-inclusive resort, travelers will move on to the next beach town that is purer, less contaminated with the world they are trying to escape. They may leave behind a town that attracts only tourists who are less interested in cultural exchange than in packaged experiences that sample fragments of local life but never push them out of their comfort zones. A town that has changed irreversibly.

I love visiting other countries and cultures. It challenges my own ways of thinking and shakes up my routines and notions about the world. It makes me a better global citizen. But as much as we gain from our sojourns into other worlds, we leave behind traces of our own societies' values. We show up in our fashionable clothing with our ultra-portable laptops, shiny cameras and North Face gear, and we impart our ideas of progress. But is progress equal to to having more money to acquire more things? Is it the ability to buy a Coca-Cola on every corner? Is progress an ethic that values work more than leisure? The existence of farming conglomerates that grow, distribute and sell produce for lower prices?

Or are we merely teaching, by example, how to live in fruitless pursuit of the material happiness that is marketed to us? Are we, in effect, telling people who are happy and self-sufficient that they're measuring themselves by the wrong standards? That they're actually unhappy and poor and didn't even know it?

I don't know the answer. Maybe these changes are uncomfortable only for the one generation that lives to see life clearly on both sides of such progress -- the before and the after. Maybe the dark and the light of human nature -- the greed and the beautiful desire to achieve for achievement's sake -- conspire to make such change inevitable.

I know it's not black and white. But I think that exploring the shades of grey would make all travelers a little more aware of the exchange we take part in with every border we cross. And wouldn't that be progress?

The Honeymooners

We made a decision last Monday: to go on a vacation. By Tuesday we had chosen the Sundance Film Festival, found two sets of friends who could offer us lodging to cover our dates, and scoped out airfare. By Thursday we had begun to second-guess our destination. Movies? Love! Celebrities and celebrity-seeking crowds? Booo. Cold? Had enough, thanks. Skiing? Don't know how, somewhat averse to idea of death by high-impact collision with tree.

By Friday evening, we had found the World's Cheapest Tickets to Costa Rica, booked flights and lodging, and begun looking up terms like "two-toed sloth" and "Dengue fever" in the index of our Lonely Planet guidebook.

We went to Costa Rica in 2003, and on first consideration the idea of going someplace we've already visited doesn't wholly indulge our wanderlust. But our 2003 trip was spent volunteering in central Costa Rica, me in an orphanage and he in a nursing home. There was lots of crying and journaling and personal fulfillment, very little time spent thinking anything other than WHY, WHY IS LIFE SO UNFAIR. This time, in a different kind of demonstration of life's unfairness, we're heading straight to the coast for some surfing and diving and biking and hiking. We're leaving Saturday.

(Have you seen that commercial where the woman walks into the office and says to her coworker, "How's it goin', Frank?" And he parrots back, in a disdainfully mocking tone, "HOW'S IT GOIN', FRANK??" and sets off a chain of ugly behavior? If I don't take a vacation, I will be Frank. Thus is this vacation a form of volunteerism. I volunteer to subject myself to many days of sunny, salty pleasure so I may return to the States and answer all inquiries as to how things are going with, "WONDERFUL, and don't YOU look fine today!" and set off a chain of lovely, kissy kindness. It will eventually reach you; you're welcome.)

In preparation, I scoured my wardrobe for beach-appropriate clothing and discovered that I have none. In fact, it appears that I do not step outside between the months of May and October. So I went to Target and discovered what millions of people discovered about a billion years ago: oh my god, what a steal. I got some cute summery clothes and a pair of sunglasses that I could lose on a bus and not think about twice. I'm going to take only items that I won't mind dirtying with sunscreen lotion, salt water, mud and the dripping juices of giant, luscious Costa Rican fruit with which I will daily stuff my face. (See? Life = unfair.)

Except for my computer. Yes, I will be taking a laptop because I have work to do. And you thought I was being sarcastic when I said that life is so unfair. Aren't you cute.

I leave you with two photos from our previous trip to this lovely country. Once again, we'll do our best to avoid the most touristy, least authentic spots. I've read that more and more strip malls are popping up around the country, complete with Burger Kings and coffee shops that sell American atrocities such as iced mocha latte coolers. That just makes me sad, because it doesn't have to be the inevitable result of tourism.

Hello from... Boston.

When I look back on our Chicago-to-Boston move, I feel warm and fuzzy. The movers were so nice! And helpful. And punctual! Communicative. Even our San Francisco-to-Chicago move in 2004 -- the one in which some 20 boxes came open and spilled their contents throughout the moving truck -- was a dream compared to this move to D.C.

I'll spare you the play by play. Boring! Complicated! Instead, I'll share some pieces of wisdom that I have learned over the last week.

1. When the movers arrive six hours late -- and quite possibly drunk -- and toothless quite possibly because, well, meth will do that to you -- and you have only five hours to empty your apartment of all items, you will smile and remind yourself that they are only possessions, only things. You will be as kind to the movers as possible, force a laugh when they tell you how much money your items "will fetch on the auction block," and decide that if your prized, ergonomic desk shows up in one piece, that will be really nice.

2. When you buy a car, you must not buy it from a private party. Just don't, 'kay? And if you do, you must not attempt to buy it immediately prior to moving to a new state and immediately prior to the date when the seller will move to another country. Just don't. You'll find yourself back in the city you just left five days prior, in the middle of a logistical and bureaucratic mess. STOP ASKING QUESTIONS. Just buy from the dealer and enjoy your life.

3. Two days after your move, when your husband suddenly loses the ability to walk and develops a blazing hot knee -- not, like, sexy (although his knees are lovely), but hot to the touch -- and all signs point to a repeat of the the time he wound up in the hospital with MRSA, you must take him to the E.R. right away. Yes, even if this happens during the tiniest of windows when he happens to be without health insurance. And after two doctors spend 30 minutes jamming very large needles into his knee joint in unsuccessful attempts to extract some material for testing, you must be at the ready with the Vicodin. Everything you say will be the wrong thing and he will think that having to hear words or say words or think in words is going to make him die just a little faster than he is already dying, and that's what he will mean when he says JUST GIVE ME THE GODDAMNED FUCKING PILLS NOOOOW.

He'll apologize later and you'll say hey, no problem, you had large needles in your joint, and someday when I am pregnant and laboring with contractions, you will be repaid in full.

4. Stop wearing button-up shirts. They're either perfectly sized in the chest and too big everywhere else, or too tight in the chest and perfectly sized everywhere else. You will not like the feeling you get when you look down at the end of the day and see that the all-important boob button has relieved itself of its burden. But at least you will have solved the mystery of why the 15-year-old boy in the drive through ogled you as though you were a Big Mac.

5. Stop sitting under trees. The United Association of Birds has obviously released a memo to all members advising that your head needs fertilization.

There! Have we all learned something of value?

Tomorrow night (if all goes well), I'll be driving back to D.C. for the second time in a week, but this time to stay. And this time behind the wheel of our first big purchase together. And then I'll spend the weekend writing 10 corporate web pages and a 1000-word article and unpacking a billion boxes. I'll battle with the moving company over our final cost and bug my husband to remember to take his antibiotics. But most of all, I'll be glad. Because... well, why not?

For Those of You Who Like Your Sugar Extra-Sweet

On a cold January day in 1995, when I was 18 years old, I reported to the first day of Philosophy 102: Logic and Reasoning. The teacher called through the names on her list of registered students. One name caught my attention because it was so unusual, and I turned to see who it belonged to.

He was a tall man with broad shoulders. A round-eyed boy with a mop of dark hair.

In the coming weeks, when the teacher split our class into groups of four, this tall boy and I sat across from each other, our desks nose to nose. We did group assignments. He accused me of sailing through class on his effort. I accused him of sailing through class on my effort. Every third word from his mouth was a joke wrapped in serious packaging. He drove me crazy.

One day after class, as we walked the long, diagonal sidewalk that dissected the quad, he asked me my birthday. When I told him it was June 26, I knew what this joker would say.

"No way. So is mine."

I rolled my eyes, but he insisted. And then he produced a driver's license to prove it.

It was several years before we found ourselves in the same city on the other side of the country and decided to become more than friends, more than acquaintances who shared the same birthday and the same alma mater. We both must have needed those years to grow up, to experience more of life and figure out what it was we really wanted out of this 80-or-so-year journey we get to take on Earth. To find each other again and build a mutual history, to decide that we want a mutual future, too.

And so yesterday, on my 31st birthday and his 33rd birthday, and in the city where our relationship really began, we officially signed up for this mutual future. We got married in San Francisco!

 

 

 

 

It was romantic and fun and funny and weird and wonderful, and we both got for our birthday exactly what we wanted.

I have about five or six million more things to say about this process of getting married, but I have only about five or six more days in San Francisco. So I'm afraid this wonderful city takes priority over my philosophical blathering. Plus, my husband (OH MY GOD OH MY GOD MY WHAT?!?) is waiting to take me to lunch.

I'm having lunch with my husband.

My wife has an inner ear infection.

How long does it take to get accustomed to saying such delicious things?

(And now that we're married, it seems a fine time to admit, here in a public forum, that YES, MOUSE, YOU DID GET A BETTER GRADE THAN I DID IN PHILOSOPHY. But only because I taught you so much and turned you into a logic-and-reasoning monster.)

Talk to you all soon!

Communing With Chlorophyll

The Mouse and I are currently in Illinois visiting our families for a week. And you know what that means for me: 26.6 Kbps, baby. That's some brutally narrow bandwidth, and it's causing me to miss out on any and all exciting developments in the lives of my favorite bloggers. And everything else happening in the world.

But it also means lovely weather, peace and quiet, and lots of green stuff springing up from the ground. Coming from the concrete jungle as I now do, I forget that much of the earth is covered with green things, and I'm pleased to rediscover that many are very pretty and sometimes quite soft. Also alive.

There are other alive things here, and many of them like bird seed. Birds are in the bird feeders, deer are hitting the bird feeders -- in fact, the only thing not taking advantage of the bird feeders are the squirrels, and that's only because my mom has taken to putting crushed red pepper flakes in the bird seed to break the squirrels of their raiding ways. Apparently, squirrels do not like red pepper flakes and birds don't mind them. To make up for any burning of squirrel tongues and squirrel insides, my mom has made it known that the squirrels are welcome to get a sip of relief from the nearby bird bath. After all, this is the woman who once placed bowls of food and water under her desk for the mice in her office whom everyone else was trying so desperately to kill. I've no idea why she doesn't belong to PETA.

All of which makes it very interesting that we were wondering today whether it would be possible to make sweaters out of the excess hair on these alive things:

No fluffy white dogs would be hurt during the making of said sweaters, so don't be throwing a pie in my face the next time I'm on a red carpet.

New York Wrap-Up (And Two Cheeks You Will Want to Keeese)

Every time I go to New York, I'm amazed at how invigorating the city is. When you're someone like me -- someone who has all kinds of ideas and ambitions but a touch of the laziness about her -- being in a slow, uninspiring place for a long time can douse the ol' fire. But when I'm in New York, my brain and body want to stay in motion. Of course, they also want to eat lots of rice pudding, so it's perhaps a good thing that I don't live in New York.

We had a marvelous weekend, which is to say that all article writing and bad news watching was replaced with food eating and wine drinking and play watching and street walking. The weather was agreeable and the street walking was such a stimulating way to get around that I had to wonder why street walking has garnered such a negative reputation. Ideas? No? Baffles all around, then.

We saw Inherit the Wind, a remarkable play based on the Scopes Monkey Trial of 1925 in which a Tennessee school teacher was tried for violating a law that prohibited the teaching of theories that contradicted the story of divine creation as told in the Bible. In other words, he talked about evolution. Unfortunately, the issues raised by the 1925 trial and the 1955 writing of the play are very much relevant today.

Fortunately, the leads in the play were Christopher Plummer and Brian Dennehy. It took me a few moments to get over the fact that I was mere feet from Captain von Trapp and would I melt into a salty puddle if he held my hand and sang Edelweiss? and how do you solve a problem like being in love with a 77-year-old actor? But only a very few moments. Because Christopher Plummer is one of those actors who makes it seem okay to revere actors. He's just that believable. And it didn't hurt that his character exhibited honor and strength and bravery and all of those other qualities that I tend to prize in the male species.

Speaking of Broadway: I just finished Wicked, which was a very impressive and engrossing novel, and that got me thinking about Wicked the musical. I've heard people say it's fantastic, but I just can't imagine it after reading the book. It seems to me that Elphaba would have detested all of that frivolous singing. Has anybody out there read the book and seen the musical? Please advise.

Finally, the highlight of my weekend was lunch with Alise, a Very Precious Infant who makes occasional guest appearances on this blog when she has something important to say. I had the farfalle, she had the linguini. We discussed carbon emission caps; for the record, she is in favor. (She would have written "favour" -- she's going through a funny phase in which she prefers British English spellings over American English spellings, and I don't correct her because she has no sense of humour about it.) And I have to say that of all of New York's man-made wonders, she was certainly the most wondrous.

 

Hi! I'm on a bus! (No, really. Like, right now.)

I dragged myself out of bed 20 minutes late this morning, which meant that I had to bite my tongue to refrain from verbally flogging my cab driver about driving too slowly on my way to my destination. (Instead, I politely but firmly URGED him to drive like a real cab driver -- lead foot, reckless abandon for rules of the road, all those commendable habits -- and then tipped him rather handsomely for tolerating me.)

But now, people, NOW I am on a bus. My feet are elevated on some kind of cushiony foot-evelation thing that would make United first-class passengers envious. I just stepped out of a spacious, vanilla-scented bathroom containing fresh flowers and a full-length mirror. (And I mean real vanilla, by the way, not Wal-Mart candle-scented vanilla. It's like fairies spritzed the toilet with pure vanilla extract.) My laptop is plugged in to a 110-volt outlet and charging. And in a few minutes, after I finish blabbing about how cool this all is, I will click "post" and this post will POST, baby.

I'm on my way to New York for a spring girls' weekend with one of my bestest friends, Courtney (whose book you should buy if you know any preteen or teen girls, by the way), who is coming in from California. I decided to try this bus service because it's cheaper than Amtrak and offers free Wi-Fi the whole way. There was some likelihood that I would leave for New York with work to do, and that was the case when I rushed out of the house this morning. But never fear! I put the finishing touches on a most absorbing article on IT automation (HEY. WAKE UP. Stay with me here.) and sent it off to the editor way back in, like, Framingham. Piece o' cake.

This is nonetheless a bus, though, which means it's bumpy and headache-inducing after too much reading. And there are no seatbelts, which is normal for a bus but always makes me slightly nervous. (That's what happens when you grow up with an EMT for a mother. She doesn't take any shit where seatbelt wearing is concerned.)

But blogging on Route 95! Fun!

I've read my blogs, I've browsed the news, I've checked the weather. I've sent some email. And now I'm going to curl up next to this sunny window and read my book. Just because I can dawdle online for four hours doesn't mean I have to.

Happy weekend, people. I hope the tulips are in bloom wherever you are.

Dispatch from Asia #6: The Awakening Will Be Rude. And Dogmatic.

Japanese people are disconcertingly polite and proper. Time after time, The Mouse and I have looked at each other, jaws agape, marveling at how we clearly hail from a society of brutes. Because what they call common courtesy and respect in Japan are in no way common in America.

After I ordered a tea in a Tokyo train station, the woman walked out from around the counter with a pretty shopping bag that held my tea -- secured in a no-spill tray and plugged with a tiny little stopper -- and a smaller cup for holding my discarded tea bag. She explained to me, in Japanese, what each item was for. Then she handed me the bag with two hands, bowed and thanked me thrice for coming.

This was in a Starbucks.

I don't think I have to explain to you how this experience contrasts with the American Starbucks experience, but let's just say that one involves lots of bowing and the other involves lots of shouting.

When we drove up to a gas station, the attendant opened the driver's side door, bowed and greeted us, and asked us if we might like him to dispose of any trash in the car. He accepted the trash with two hands and a bow. After dispensing the gas and handing over the receipt, with yet another bow, the attendant stepped into the street to stop traffic for our exit.

Those examples relate to customer service, but it's not just service. And it's not just because we're tourists; everywhere we go, people are bowing to each other and gently arguing over who gets the privilege of being inconvenienced by the other. A sense of respect and common sense permeate Japanese society.

Public garbage cans are few and far between, but you won't find litter. The country is immaculate. People carry their trash for hours, if necessary, until they come across a suitable place to dispose of it -- and most public garbage cans are set up for recycling.

When people aren't feeling well, they wear white surgical masks to prevent their germs from spreading. It's like an implicit social contract.

And the trust! I was waiting for the bathroom in a cafe the other day, and I saw a table with no person but a pile of personal items. Sitting out in the open, for any thug to swipe, were a briefcase, a book, an MP3 player with headphones, a pair of glasses, an umbrella, and a jacket. The owner just left them there while he went to the restroom, apparently without considering the possibility that they might be stolen. Because they wouldn't be stolen.

One thing that I find most interesting about this constant display of respect and ethical behavior is that it exists in a country that is, generally, composed of nonreligious people. Yes, its people incorporate plenty of Buddhist teachings into their lives and many would actually call themselves Buddhist, but their views do not include any sort of dogma or omniscient, omnipotent Judeo-Christian God. The country's political and social systems are very secular. The majority of people do not worship or pray, nor -- and here's the kicker -- are they encouraged to or assumed to by their government or peers. Our Japanese friends told us that public officials are generally frowned on if they make their religious beliefs a part of their political platforms. Contrast this with the States, where nearly anyone running for office must invoke a god just to get elected.

Many religious conservatives argue that positive values and social morés would disintegrate without religion (Christianity, in particular) playing a strong role in people's lives. I would be one of the first people to argue against the notion that religious belief is a necessary cornerstone of an ethical society, so I'm not at all surprised by what I've seen in Japan. But coming from a country that professes to keep its hands out of its citizens' personal beliefs and nonbeliefs but whose church and state are increasingly intertwined, I completely relished observing a society that works in the way I'd like more societies to work.

So now I get to return to a country where the service is poor, someone will swipe my wallet if given half the chance, and James Dobson can get headlines by pressuring politicians to profess religious faith. Oh -- and where's it's SNOWING in Boston in APRIL. The 15-degree wind chill is making me cry sad, freezing tears as I flip through photos of pink cherry blossoms.

Oh, stop. I love America! We have delivery pizza and the Grand Canyon and American's Next Top Model! Besides, I would be a fish out of water in Japan. I mean, have you SEEN the Japanese squat toilets? I just realized that I was peeing backwards the whole time. And my Japanese is terrible! Do you know what I said when I spilled the bottle of sake in front of the Japanese vice governor and scrambled to wipe it up with my socks? The only thing I knew how to say: "Thank you! What's up?! Thank you! What's up?!"

Note to self: Learn to say "I'm sorry" and "Please pardon my idiocy" in local language before next trip.

Full Disclosure

I'm home. I'm more jet-lagged than I've ever been, since you could practically switch a.m. and p.m. to alternate between the time it is in Boston and the time my body thinks it is. I'm not fighting it very well, either, because when you start to trip over your own feet and when blinking your eyes once takes more than two seconds, the billowy down comforter on your bed looks like a soft cloud of paradise no matter what time of day it is.

Also, lack of sl ee p mmmm...... zzzzzzz....

What? Ahem. Sorry. I'm trying, really, I am.

Also, lack of sleep makes me dumb. Yesterday, I had this conversation with a client:

Me: Yeah, I just got home. I'm so jet-lagged. And I got a bug, so--

Client: Oh no! You're sick, too?

Me: Yeah. Sick.

Client: So not only are you tired, but you're sick.

Me: Yeah. Plus, I'm, like... jet-lagged? So it's, like... a triple whammy. Because I'm tired and sick and... jet-lagged.

The moral of that story is yours, and it's this: Please don't schedule conference calls with me when I've just returned from a different continent. You will force me to embarrass myself, and that's not very nice of you.

Anyway, I still have a few dispatches to post and I'm going to keep calling them "Dispatch from Asia" because I wrote them over there. And although that cute little box in my sidebar says I'm in Tokyo, I'm not. I'm sitting in my Boston apartment, where life is a lot less interesting, watching SNOW fall from the sky and trying to decide when it's OK to go back to bed. (Is a 2 p.m. - 6 p.m. afternoon nap excessive?) I'm just too damned tired to figure out what to replace the graphic with. And too tired to figure out how to write lots of sentences that make, like, sense. And stuff.

Dispatch from Asia #5: I Imagine This Is What Would Happen If My Uptight Copy Editors Were to Get High

Sure, Mt. Fuji is majestic. Yes, the flashing, neon lights of Tokyo's Shinjuku district are dizzying. But you can find some of the best sight-seeing in Japan in the creative and awkward attempts at English on T-shirts, signs and advertisements everywhere. This is what is known, politically incorrectly, as "Engrish," a made-up word that exploits the difficulty that Japanese speakers have in differentiating between the sounds of the English "L" and the English "R." (In fact, Engrish.com has made a hilarious web site, updated daily, full of English flubs straight out of Japan.)

Sometimes the translations are full of mistakes. Sometimes they're unintentionally inappropriate, resulting in people wearing shirts that say things they probably don't understand, like "A Recent Girl Is Easy and Likes Cute Shape!" Other times, they just lack the flow of a native English speaker's words. They're often funny and sometimes confusing, but almost always oddly inspiring. First, you feel a sort of shocked delight at seeing, in print, phrases that would have gotten you flunked out of seventh grade or fired from your last copy editing job -- phrases that someone actually paid to have printed on signs and T-shirts. But then you realize that the Japanese, with their free-wheeling English, are communicating just fine.

Take this sign, for example, which was posted inside a fine karaoke establishment:

Initially, it makes no sense. None. But when you read it a second time and dispense with the restrictive grammar and construction rules of the English language, you start to feel its vibe. Songs! Delicious dishes! Dance it all together, yes! Fun! If that doesn't make you want to belt out "Material Girl" while you shake your hiney in a room full of people you barely know, and then stuff your face on soba noodles, then WHAT WILL IT TAKE FOR YOU? The Japanese are begging you to live a little.

This one was posted at a railway tour in the mountains near Hakone, where sulfuric gas spews out of the ground in white vapor clouds:

You'd never see that on a sign in the States, but why not? You understand what it means, although the things themselves aren't full of doubt, and its essence forms a most important rule to live by, right after "Never get involved in a land war in Asia." If this reminder against touching doubtful things were posted in public places, think of all the germs that would be denied access to your mucous membranes! If only I'd seen this sign seven days ago, I perhaps would not have had to sniffle and sneeze my way through the last six. The Japanese are concerned about your health and safety.

Kids' clothes in Japan are rife with goofy English. I noted a couple of young girls wearing clothing that proclaimed them students of "Cutie University, University of Cutie Girls." And you know what? If there were a Cutie University and I were on the admissions board, I would totally admit them. Especially that giggling toddler in the denim dress, because her round, rosy cheeks suggested that she has loads of potential.

I saw a clear-faced teenage schoolgirl on a train in Tokyo, dressed in a plaid, pleated skirt with white cotton blouse, navy blazer, navy knee-highs and brown penny loafers. She was the picture of academic rigour, except for her darling heart-shaped key chain that proclaimed, in a sweet, girly font, "I LOVE SATAN."

But one of my favorites was a T-shirt I saw on a young girl, maybe 5 years old, in a Hiroshima train station. I laughed at the words initially, but on second thought I couldn't deny its truth:

Daily Lover
Aloha!
Let us find the happy rainbow?

And really, when you think about it, isn't that what we're all after? The daily lover! And the happy rainbow! The Japanese want that for you. So stop laughing and show some gratitude.

But then go visit Engrish.com and resume laughing. I especially recommend the Clothing category.