Infinite Pleasure of the Finite

We were 35,000 feet high but could have been in Purgatory. I don’t know if Dante would agree, but if he suffered the rapid progression of bronchitis trapped in a tube supervised by a pack of passive aggressive women in uniform and surrounded by wincing bodies turned away from you for fear of catching the plague, he might accord me some definitional latitude.

Leaving Europe on a jet plane, Sweat, Tremble and Hack followed me aboard and had a Saturday Social in my body all the way to Tokyo. By the time we landed, they had formed a committee, written a constitution and grew their membership by at least one. Tokyo is one cool town, but it’s hard to see it from a futon. For much of our 5 days in the fashion capital of the world, Lionel and I were holed up with Kleenex and Frosted Flakes, breathing bubbles under the blanket. Our friend Lorne had graciously crashed chez a friend to give us his flat while we were there, so we took advantage of the godsend and rested as much as possible, squeezing out the effort to get out at least a little.

I love cities, I love countries, and I travel for their sake. But I especially love Tokyo, and I especially love Japan. I’m embarrassed saying it, though, because I think it’s a little like saying I love Math when it would sound so much cooler to say I love Buddhist Philosophy or Film Studies. In theory, Japan should be a nightmare for someone who seriously distrusts conformity, but I felt at home there, at least on the surface, which is of course all I know of it.

Getting off the plane, it felt like everyone in the airport was on what Aldous Huxley gave his people in Brave New World. There was convention, order in its purest form, extreme hygiene of public space, and strict adherence to some behaviour code. My nemeses in most situations, but for some reason, I loved it. People all smiled gently when approached, they had the straightest walking patterns I’ve ever seen, they were quiet and light on their feet, and everything – I mean absolutely everything – was exactly where you would expect it. We were searched at the entry point because the dog had singled us out, and I’ve never met two more gentle souls than the custom officers who dealt with us. They greeted and bowed, ever so gingerly pulled a few things out of our bags and requested permission to ask questions. When they were satisfied, they packed everything up exactly as it was, closed our bags tight and apologized for the time it took out of our day. Unbelievable. And in our short time there, I swear that everything was as lovely and hassle-free.

Tokyo is such a massive mound of people and stuff and lights and movement, but it runs like a machine. The sprawling subway system is more user-friendly than a refrigerator, the streets seem completely void of garbage (despite the shortage of bins), most restaurants have colour picture menus, people seem to work around the clock, and the customer service is of a quality I have never, ever seen. Your average Joe, or Nathalie, or Lionel, is absolute royalty in the eyes of the service industry. The overnight buses we took had slippers, blankets, huge spaces between seats that lean all the way down, and a guy holding up a sign at rest stops telling us exactly how long we had. We walked into a travel agency one day and its entire staff stood up and chanted in unison, “Hello, Welcome!” in Japanese, and then repeated it for every person after us. Later that night, a subway attendant wearing white gloves called up the stairs into a microphone with the voice of an auctioneer for anyone who might want to catch the last train out. I’m serious, this guy actually stood there by the open doors for 5 minutes warning people to hurry while clouds of them came dancing down the stairs mightily raising their hands to signal, “Yes, Wait for Me!”

We ate ramen, sushi, steamed dumplings and drank green tea to our heart’s content and made our way back to near health. No better place to do it, I think – I was just glowing in Fukuoka, further south in the country, when sitting on a public bus and I noticed that it actually cut its engine at red lights and bus stops to save gas and the environment.

There were only two reasons we were happy to leave. It is excruciatingly expensive in Japan and leaving it meant we were closer to my little brother.

Dan has been living in South Korea for over 3 years, and there was no way we were going to miss a visit with him while traveling. Coming straight from Japan to Korea is very strange. The underlying form is the same, but where Japan is scrubbed-up and geometric, Korea is disheveled and squiggly. And if I felt at home in Japan, I actually was at home in Korea. I’ve never set foot in that country before, but the mere fact of being with Dan for so many consecutive days made it feel like home in Welland. He slept on the floor so Lionel and I could have his big, beautiful room to kick the last bits of sickness and he did everything under the sun to make us comfortable.

Thankfully, he has an insanely enviable teaching schedule of 16 hours a week and his free time grows on trees, so we were able to spend almost all our time with him. With it, we saw very little of Korea, but we saw reams of “Korea, as interpreted by Dan”, which is exactly the Korea we sought. He introduced us to his favourite bars, friends and Korean filmmakers; we watched movies downloaded from a site created in Seoul for the country’s English teachers to get their fill of Western stock; we watched him work his magic and charisma in the classroom; we took a day trip with one of his students and rode a cable car up a mountain for a beautiful, rugged view; we had a long lunch with another student and his wife, who – without saying too much – taught me something about Korean women; we listened to Dan talk at length about culture in Asia, the study of philosophy, and the hot quotient of Korean girls; we read, we slept, we argued, we ATE… and we DRANK.

If there’s one thing Dan got across crystal clear it’s the culinary attributes of his beloved land. Korean food is nothing short of spectacular. Perfect amount of spice, soup, grilled meat (galbi, my favourite), dumplings, side dishes covering the table – a hedonist’s fantasy. The food & drink of this country is so successful, actually, that it brought Lionel and Dan to their knees… (note: the order of names here is not random). Ah, “The Soju Day”… fond memories of carrying my two favourite guys home.

Soju. It is a shot, a drug, a religion. Koreans, men mostly, swear by this stuff when they’re eating, and especially, if they’re lookin’ for a good time. And let me tell ya, folks, during what was meant to be a ‘quick galbi lunch’ on a Thursday afternoon in the town of Hayang, a good time was certainly had. My father, who visited Korea with my mother a few years ago, had long talked about his own “Soju experience” – a term invented by English teachers in Korea out of respect for one’s first date with this chemical. And then Dan told us countless other Soju stories of fallen soldiers and swallowed pride. So, with all this background info, Lionel, I could see it in his eyes, thought to himself: “Ah, the pansies, this stuff ain’t so bad, I’ll show ‘em.” And although I am so very, very tempted to write paragraphs about what ensued, I’ll paint you a wee watercolour instead and let you fill in the blanks.

Lionel: “Let’s get Soju today.”

Dan: “Ok.”

Me: “Really?”

Lionel and Dan: “Really.”

Lionel kick starts the showdown with a vigorous clink and Dan suits up. They raise, clink and shoot, raise, clink and shoot… and soon, almost exactly when I expect it, Lionel wiggles up from his seated position on the floor onto his knees, leans on the table and asks Dan meaningfully, “Why do you believe in the infinity of life and time?”…

Now, this is a subject Dan would dive into over his morning coffee, but for Lionel to provoke a debate on infinity, I just know the spirit of Soju is among us. They disagree on the topic, Lionel puts Dan’s arguments to the test, Dan struggles (Soju’s finding him too), but he keeps assuring us, we’re simply going to be blown away when we hear his theory. The thing is, though, the theory never comes. We hear: “I’m going to blow your mind with the genius of all this”, and “Oh, you have no idea how clear and brilliant this is…”, but not a word about the theory itself. So, glossy-eyed Lionel splashes a squeaky challenge, “C’mon, man, give it to us, why is everything infinite, bring it on!”… Dan pauses… leans back, puts his hands behind his head, nods slowly, gives us a knowing little chuckle like he’s holding the key to the secret of life, and he says: “I’m so comfortable within my argument for infinity that you’re about to become infinitely uncomfortable…” And then… Nothing. Silence. He just stares into our eyes and… nods.

This is it. I lose it. I go into the ugly laugh so fast and hard that I throw away all pretence of being a lady. But these guys, straight-faced and sure of the depth of this conversation, just stay on course… and I promise you, the course goes round and round, and gets funnier with every lap.

I will fast forward a little here (yes, believe me, this is fast-forwarding) and tell you that we ended up staying there 4 hours while they drank 7 bottles of Soju. They talked about family history, life after death, sibling politics, the existence of matter, the only child syndrome, the complexity of my psychology (a subject I found particularly entertaining), the future of Barak Obama, hot chics, my brother’s two big influences in life (our father and Henry Rawlins, the spoken word artist), and they asked each other big questions like, “What Burns You and What are You Going to Do about It?” and finally made poetic declarations of love to each other.

And I …. remained stone-cold sober. Call it self-sacrifice for the greater good. Because by the end of it, I was the only one who knew the way home.

Home. My brother may not even realize it, but looking through his fridge and cupboards, I saw so many reminders of my parents’ kitchen when we were kids: cheese slices, Thousand Island dressing, a bag of Clementine oranges, Frosted Flakes, Quik chocolate syrup… and then when he told me he’d meant to buy tomato juice before I arrived, I knew exactly why. When I was a kid, I used to eat raw macaroni with salt, pepper and tomato juice. My parents fiercely objected to this habit, so I moved onto cooked macaroni with salt, pepper and tomato juice. So, when my brother said, “I was going to buy you tomato juice”… it was a simple, little comment, but it touched me and flew me back more than a decade. The books around his apartment – some I’ve read, some I’ve been meaning to read, but none of them were neutral to me, they were all familiar in some way. And then glancing over his scribbled notes on the desk (my brother writes profusely in his journal but you’ll also find his thoughts on pieces of paper strewn about), I couldn’t help but recognize the themes. Is it genetic? Is it being raised in the same environment?… I don’t know, but I saw myself in his questions. And finally, his facial expressions. It was the coolest thing, one second he was this little kid I used to know so well, and the next he was this man I’m only beginning to know.

Hmm… Asia was a blast.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, February 14th, 2007 at 11:49 am and is filed under She Said. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site. Add to del.icio.us.