I have been bad about the Monday postings, but now school is about to start again I guess I'll have to return to my routine. Until then however, I am going to live up the summer.
Last night, B, S, and M and I went to the Tweeter Center to see Sheryl Crow and John Mayer. B scored some tickets from work and called me on Sunday to see if I would want to tag along.
Of course I did:
1) I enjoy music concerts.
2) Had just watched John Mayer on the Today the previous Friday and sung along to "Wonderland," when it played on the easy listening station that was piped into the sushi restaurant ET#2 and I were at on Saturday.
3) I harbor a tween girl crush on John Mayer. (and since he is only 1 year younger than me it is not sooooo icky)
Road trip down to the Tweeter Center in Mansfield. I tried to serenade the car with my rendition of "Daughters," but it was met with a luke warm reception. However, our stop at the Dunkin' Donuts for sausage sandwhiches, doughnuts and bathrooms was very welcomed by all.
At the Tweeter Center parked in our VIP (b/c that is how my homie B rolls) parking space. We entered throught the VIP gate and mulled around with the common folk to eat our hotdogs. MMMMMM carnie food. As we walked towards our seats, I started feeling weird as we got closer, closer, closer to the stage.
HOLY MOLY! B scored us seats 6 rows from the stage dead center. Sheryl Crow opened the show. Her blonde hair flew around as she rocked on her semi-acoustic guitar. She wore a tight white tank top, with tight white pants, and white and gold suspenders. She was cool. She also was not wearing any panties. How do I know? Because our seats were that freakin' close.
John Mayer took the stage in a different manner. He wore his oversized hoodie sweater, over his white t-shirt and khaki cargo pants. His long curly hair was not hot like Sheryl's but kept getting in his eyes. But there is something endearing about that. He reminded me of one of my stoner friends from high school. Like a well-to-do New England white boy, who looked like he rolled out of bed and recite Marley and Dylan lyrics to rebel from his ultra conservative parents.
No, John Mayer is not cool. When he sings or is riffing on his guitar, he looks constipated. But I guess that is his appeal. He is adorable. Someone who seems genuinely excited to play his music, and someone smart enough to know how to amp up the cute not the cool.
I also think he is going through an image crisis. He is no longer the acoustic guitar singer songwriter. He is more bluesy. I was surprised by his ability to jam. The boy can play the guitar.
At one point in the show a girl five rows from me shouted "I love you, John."
And he responded, "I love you too."
Now why didn't I think of doing that? Oh that is right I am 30. Sigh. Maybe I'll scribble in the margins of my lab notebook, I heart John Mayer.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Japanese hillbillies? - Japan Series #12
H was remarkably generous with V and I this summer. He lets us take long weekends to visit places, spends much of his time translating stuff for us, and buys us food. To top it off he took me and V to visit his home town of Takayama.(V writes about our trip in her blog.)
If Hiroshima is the Cleveland of Japan, Takayama is the Morgantown, West Virginia of Japan.
Tucked in the Japan Alps, Takayama is a picturesque small city. It has many preserved buildings from the Edo period, because it was spared WWII bombings. Freshly melted snow, flows down the crystal clear creeks throughout the the town. Of course, the price to pay to get to such a place is a 10 road trip from Hiroshima, which entailed some curvy mountain roads with signs warning of deer, monkey, rabbit, and badger crossings.
Since H had some family business to attend to on Saturday, we were left to the care of his parents and their friend, who speaks a smattering of English. The family friend, Mr. M, took us around to some touristy places that afternoon. It was during the car rides, we learned some interesting facts about Takayama and its people. Most people do not leave Takayama, and if they do they rarely come back to live there. H is hero there, for going to college in Kanazawa, and then going to the US. And the favorite music of its residence is Japanese folk music which Mr. M commented "It is like your country music."
That night H returned from his trip, and we had dinner with H and his parents. After eating our artery-clogging-melt-in-your-mouth Hida beef (the new Kobe beef), we went to H's parent's house. At some time H had called his little brother and told him to buy some fireworks for us. H thought it was weird I had never played with fireworks, but those who know me well understand why my parent tried to keep me away from all flamable and sharp objects.
In their front yard/driveway/street, we started off by lighting some dazzlers. In the picture, you can see V and I with our lit dazzlers and cans of Asahi beer in hand. Somehow I have a sinking feeling that that was not the safest behavior but it was fun.
We left the next day, and I thought about all I learned about Takayama, the people and the town and I could not help but feel some kind of weird kinship to the place I visited so briefly. At the train station, I could not help singing to myself:
Country Roads take me home to the place I belong
Takayama, mountain mama
Take me home Country Roads
If Hiroshima is the Cleveland of Japan, Takayama is the Morgantown, West Virginia of Japan.
Tucked in the Japan Alps, Takayama is a picturesque small city. It has many preserved buildings from the Edo period, because it was spared WWII bombings. Freshly melted snow, flows down the crystal clear creeks throughout the the town. Of course, the price to pay to get to such a place is a 10 road trip from Hiroshima, which entailed some curvy mountain roads with signs warning of deer, monkey, rabbit, and badger crossings.
Since H had some family business to attend to on Saturday, we were left to the care of his parents and their friend, who speaks a smattering of English. The family friend, Mr. M, took us around to some touristy places that afternoon. It was during the car rides, we learned some interesting facts about Takayama and its people. Most people do not leave Takayama, and if they do they rarely come back to live there. H is hero there, for going to college in Kanazawa, and then going to the US. And the favorite music of its residence is Japanese folk music which Mr. M commented "It is like your country music."
That night H returned from his trip, and we had dinner with H and his parents. After eating our artery-clogging-melt-in-your-mouth Hida beef (the new Kobe beef), we went to H's parent's house. At some time H had called his little brother and told him to buy some fireworks for us. H thought it was weird I had never played with fireworks, but those who know me well understand why my parent tried to keep me away from all flamable and sharp objects.
In their front yard/driveway/street, we started off by lighting some dazzlers. In the picture, you can see V and I with our lit dazzlers and cans of Asahi beer in hand. Somehow I have a sinking feeling that that was not the safest behavior but it was fun.We left the next day, and I thought about all I learned about Takayama, the people and the town and I could not help but feel some kind of weird kinship to the place I visited so briefly. At the train station, I could not help singing to myself:
Country Roads take me home to the place I belong
Takayama, mountain mama
Take me home Country Roads
Monday, August 21, 2006
Pottery and alcohol - Japan series #11
I am back in Boston now, but I am still catching up on some posts I left half done while I was in Japan. Nothing much is happening here any way so......
On her first week in Hiroshima, V went out drinking with many people from this research institute. From this outing she was volunteered to participate in many events, including talking in an English class, and joining a Japanese pottery class. Now, the English class thing did not really work out probably because when we met the English teacher he could not understand why Americans would want to practice their English skills. (Obviously, there was some miscommunication.) What did work out was pottery class.
Every Wednesday for five weeks, V and I have been taking a traditional Japanese pottery class being taught at the Hiroshima Minamiku adult learning annex.
Our teacher is a very jolly old man. He is very skinny with a grey beard and big eyes. He wears white wife beaters and sweatpants that hang off of him when he sits crossed legged on alumimun folding chair in the center of the room. He laughs a lot and always talks directly to us, even though he is fully aware we have not the slightest clue what he is saying. He seemed to be tickeld pink to have two Americans visit his class. One of the students is from Austria, so he likes to say over and over again that he has the most international class there. He probably does.
On our first visit there we got to see the finished products of some of the students. The kind of neat thing was then we drank matcha (green tea) out of the recently fired items. "Pottery," sensei said, " was meant to be used."
Afterwards we all went to a local bar in which we ate snacks and drank beer. The class was comprised of a many different kinds of people. 30 something women, housewives, businessmen, all of who just dug pottery. This motely crew were friends and enjoyed going to pottery outings together, where they see other pottery or gather clay. So we drank and laughed and pointed to our phrase book a lot.
Our sensei wanted us to learn real Japanese pottery making and asthetic. All the materials provided were "natural." He dug up his own clay from some local place; he made his own glaze from sand and burnt ash. Beauty is in the imperfections.
So V and I made our own imperfect items. In the following weeks, I made a small cup and dish. We learned about Japanese pottery during class, and culture during our bar sessions. Sensei told us about how the young should be free and happy. K, the woman from the institute that introduced us to this class, taught us about Japanese foods, clothing and rituals.
Although I never got to see my items completed, I have to say the class was one of the highlights of Japan. Thanks V, K and sensei.
On her first week in Hiroshima, V went out drinking with many people from this research institute. From this outing she was volunteered to participate in many events, including talking in an English class, and joining a Japanese pottery class. Now, the English class thing did not really work out probably because when we met the English teacher he could not understand why Americans would want to practice their English skills. (Obviously, there was some miscommunication.) What did work out was pottery class.
Every Wednesday for five weeks, V and I have been taking a traditional Japanese pottery class being taught at the Hiroshima Minamiku adult learning annex.
Our teacher is a very jolly old man. He is very skinny with a grey beard and big eyes. He wears white wife beaters and sweatpants that hang off of him when he sits crossed legged on alumimun folding chair in the center of the room. He laughs a lot and always talks directly to us, even though he is fully aware we have not the slightest clue what he is saying. He seemed to be tickeld pink to have two Americans visit his class. One of the students is from Austria, so he likes to say over and over again that he has the most international class there. He probably does.
On our first visit there we got to see the finished products of some of the students. The kind of neat thing was then we drank matcha (green tea) out of the recently fired items. "Pottery," sensei said, " was meant to be used."
Afterwards we all went to a local bar in which we ate snacks and drank beer. The class was comprised of a many different kinds of people. 30 something women, housewives, businessmen, all of who just dug pottery. This motely crew were friends and enjoyed going to pottery outings together, where they see other pottery or gather clay. So we drank and laughed and pointed to our phrase book a lot.
Our sensei wanted us to learn real Japanese pottery making and asthetic. All the materials provided were "natural." He dug up his own clay from some local place; he made his own glaze from sand and burnt ash. Beauty is in the imperfections.
So V and I made our own imperfect items. In the following weeks, I made a small cup and dish. We learned about Japanese pottery during class, and culture during our bar sessions. Sensei told us about how the young should be free and happy. K, the woman from the institute that introduced us to this class, taught us about Japanese foods, clothing and rituals.
Although I never got to see my items completed, I have to say the class was one of the highlights of Japan. Thanks V, K and sensei.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
A Time to Vent
A bit of back story -- I emailed a client relaying a request from a notoriously fickle government agency that ALWAYS takes its time when reviewing applications. I had previously relayed the agency's request for a simplified drawing that contained only the necessary information to the client. The client refused to give the agency what it wanted, saying that it had already sent the information -- the agency should be able to figure it out by looking through the 20+ drawings we had previously submitted. The govt. agency guy was not happy about this, as a result, he calls to yell at me every so often about how the drawings we provided are not what he asked for. Since he is in a position of power and can screw us over on more than a few projects, I always apologize and never tell him to shove it.
We are meeting with the agency on Thursday. The agency guy called me yesterday and yelled that we need to bring 3 section drawings. I emailed the client passing that request along. Here is a redacted version of an email exchange that we had last night. It has REALLY been bothering me. I am hoping that by posting it, I can get over it and will feel better...
EMAIL #1:
[Evil Twin #2],
I have prepared [a really simple drawing of something that we have on file, but I'm going to make a huge deal about it] for [self-important guy at a super-bureaucratic government agency that has the strongest (insert ethnicity here) accent so it is nearly impossible to figure out what he is saying]. That said, the ONLY reason we offered the entire [property] for the [archaic real property interest] was to expedite the process and avoid precisely the sort of minutia this guy is asking for. With the availability of our entire [property] and SEVENTEEN YEARS to figure out how to use it, why are we doing this? You as our attorney need to convey to the [government agency] our reasoning for offering our entire plaza in return for AVOIDING this sort of stuff! As [client's older brother who is away on vacation and is usually the lead person on the project] pointed out, we can build a smaller building, not combine our lots, and give then NOTHING.
[surly younger brother of main client]
EMAIL #2:
Dear [surly younger brother of main client],
Thank you for preparing the [incredibly simple and easy to create drawing] on such short notice. I have tried to convey your point to [Government Agency bureaucrat that has the power to hold up your project for YEARS if you piss him off] repeatedly. He does not seem to fully grasp it -- most probably because he is used to the [Government Agency] getting its way. Let's hope that this can all be settled at Thursday's meeting.
--[Evil Twin #2]
EMAIL #3:
[Evil Twin #2],
The fact of the matter is that the drawing we already provided have ALL the information necessary to determine if an escalator will fit under our [property]. The drawing I did today and EVERYTHING else he's asked for are completely unnecessary and won't show anything that's not on the previous drawings [which were comprised of 20 sheets of oversized paper, and only 2 of the images from said sheets are actually relevant]. Is he just trying to delay and make extra, unnecessary work for us?
[surly younger brother of main client]
EMAIL #4 (the one I wish that I had sent):
Dear [surly younger brother of main client],
F*ck you. I am not your bitch. Every time you email me, I have to read it and you have to pay the firm $385/hour. If you piss me off, I will stop placating the govt agency guy and your project will be in limbo FOREVER.
Sincerely,
[Evil Twin #2]
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
World's longest distance booty call - Japan series #10
So if you read this post you are a truly dedicated Evil Twins reader as I am making a poor effort to bury this posting.
The weekend before the baseball game, I went to Tokyo again. This time a friend was flying in from Boston on business. Since Tokyo was so far away, I considered blowing him off but H told me that it would be rude not to go. Before G came there was a flurry of e-mails about what to do see, where to eat, what hotels were acceptable etc..
On Friday after work, I hopped on the Shinkansen using the last weekend of my rail pass. G met me at the train platform with a Wall Street Journal and a manilla folder with "Evil Twin #1" scrawled in black sharpie. When I asked what was inside the folder, he showed me train station maps, maps of Tokyo, a train schedule, and a note I had H write in Japanese that said "I am meeting my friend on Shinkansen train#46. Please help me find the correct platform."
We went for a late drink/dinner and navigated our way back to the very western Hilton hotel. It had been a while since I had seen so many gaijin in one place, and it was strangely comforting to hear English all throughout the building. Both of us were exhausted from traveling, (admittedly my journey of 4 and a half hours on a train was a little less arduous than 17 hours on a plane and a 2 hour bus ride).
Saturday morning activities involved going to the Tokyo Dome and picking up baseball tickets for the next night, a visit to Asakusa (ye olde town Tokyo) and Kappabashi dori (for looking at the plastic food). While at the Tokyo Dome, we decided to make a brief stop to the Japanese baseball hall of fame. Now I have never been to Cooperstown, but .... well lets just say at least G had fun and I enjoyed the air conditioning. Off then to the old section of Tokyo, which is a mad house of tourists. It was a big festival day in Asakusa. That night they were going to have one of the largest firework displays in the world.
Even though we were tired and dehydrated, we rallied for a night out on the town. In Japan, a popular night time actvity is to go an izakaya, which serves drinks and the japanese version of tapas. I had not been yet so I suggested we go. G wanted to find something that looked more familiar like an italian cafe. We downed one apertif at one of those cafes, until I convinced G that my way was the right way. Unfortunately, as we entered an izakaya on the fith floor of some building we realized that no one in the establishment spoke english. So we ordered food by pointing to other peoples tables. The nice hostess poured us very large glasses of sake with saucers underneath. The sake was from her home town. Either that or that was the only thing she could say in English.
By 10, we were trashed. What the hell lets go for another. Two bars later, we ended up in weird creepy dark place with stone tables and benches. We looked around realizing we were surrounded by couples everywhere. Uncomfortable silence. G leaned in for a kiss. Making out ensued. I'm not proud, but there are those people in your life with whom you will always be inexplicably blind and stupid. Then he said the most irritating thing. "I want you to know that I am not serious or anything. I am seeing someone in Boston. I want to be honest with you, and I don't want you to come back and thinking you and I are a couple or something."
What irritated me was not what he said, but it is like how my sister calls me the day before my Dad's birthday every year. I'll never get credit for calling becasue she always beats me to the punch. Back to the story: G stole my thunder.
The next day was a more relaxing day. I got over my irritation during my all-you-can-eat gourmet breakfast buffet. Its amazing how quickly fresh figs, papaya, and pig-a-licious bacon can smooth things over with a friend. It is hard to be passive aggressive bitchy with your mouth full. We chatted and laughed a lot after then. I asked him about work and what he was doing in Japan. "Business stuff blah blah blah blah blah. To tell you the truth, I did not have to come to Japan this summer. Didn't you wonder why I'm only working one day? I could have done a conference call. I flew to Japan to see you."
Admittedly, that was the ego boost I needed. But then I thought, who has the time and energy to fly 7000 miles, 12 time zones, and suffer the massive jet lag to see a girl, when he has a girl a phone call away?
Well, all of that aside, we had a good weekend. We went sightseeing some more. G was a good sport about the early morning wake-up call to go see the sights on my Japan itinerary. He even did the cabbage patch with me when we found Hachimangu after getting a little lost (something V and H refused to do with me all summer). I being an insomniac and he being jet lag, we stayed up and watched late night World Cup Soccer and Charlie Chaplin movies. We ate one truly posh french meal over an argument on why the world hates Americans, in which I think we scared our nice waiter because G called me unpatriotic and I called him ignorant in slightly elevated tones.
Guess I know the answer to my question. I am hella fun. Now what do you all think if I go to Anarctica for a summer?
The weekend before the baseball game, I went to Tokyo again. This time a friend was flying in from Boston on business. Since Tokyo was so far away, I considered blowing him off but H told me that it would be rude not to go. Before G came there was a flurry of e-mails about what to do see, where to eat, what hotels were acceptable etc..
On Friday after work, I hopped on the Shinkansen using the last weekend of my rail pass. G met me at the train platform with a Wall Street Journal and a manilla folder with "Evil Twin #1" scrawled in black sharpie. When I asked what was inside the folder, he showed me train station maps, maps of Tokyo, a train schedule, and a note I had H write in Japanese that said "I am meeting my friend on Shinkansen train#46. Please help me find the correct platform."
We went for a late drink/dinner and navigated our way back to the very western Hilton hotel. It had been a while since I had seen so many gaijin in one place, and it was strangely comforting to hear English all throughout the building. Both of us were exhausted from traveling, (admittedly my journey of 4 and a half hours on a train was a little less arduous than 17 hours on a plane and a 2 hour bus ride).
Saturday morning activities involved going to the Tokyo Dome and picking up baseball tickets for the next night, a visit to Asakusa (ye olde town Tokyo) and Kappabashi dori (for looking at the plastic food). While at the Tokyo Dome, we decided to make a brief stop to the Japanese baseball hall of fame. Now I have never been to Cooperstown, but .... well lets just say at least G had fun and I enjoyed the air conditioning. Off then to the old section of Tokyo, which is a mad house of tourists. It was a big festival day in Asakusa. That night they were going to have one of the largest firework displays in the world.
Even though we were tired and dehydrated, we rallied for a night out on the town. In Japan, a popular night time actvity is to go an izakaya, which serves drinks and the japanese version of tapas. I had not been yet so I suggested we go. G wanted to find something that looked more familiar like an italian cafe. We downed one apertif at one of those cafes, until I convinced G that my way was the right way. Unfortunately, as we entered an izakaya on the fith floor of some building we realized that no one in the establishment spoke english. So we ordered food by pointing to other peoples tables. The nice hostess poured us very large glasses of sake with saucers underneath. The sake was from her home town. Either that or that was the only thing she could say in English.
By 10, we were trashed. What the hell lets go for another. Two bars later, we ended up in weird creepy dark place with stone tables and benches. We looked around realizing we were surrounded by couples everywhere. Uncomfortable silence. G leaned in for a kiss. Making out ensued. I'm not proud, but there are those people in your life with whom you will always be inexplicably blind and stupid. Then he said the most irritating thing. "I want you to know that I am not serious or anything. I am seeing someone in Boston. I want to be honest with you, and I don't want you to come back and thinking you and I are a couple or something."
What irritated me was not what he said, but it is like how my sister calls me the day before my Dad's birthday every year. I'll never get credit for calling becasue she always beats me to the punch. Back to the story: G stole my thunder.
The next day was a more relaxing day. I got over my irritation during my all-you-can-eat gourmet breakfast buffet. Its amazing how quickly fresh figs, papaya, and pig-a-licious bacon can smooth things over with a friend. It is hard to be passive aggressive bitchy with your mouth full. We chatted and laughed a lot after then. I asked him about work and what he was doing in Japan. "Business stuff blah blah blah blah blah. To tell you the truth, I did not have to come to Japan this summer. Didn't you wonder why I'm only working one day? I could have done a conference call. I flew to Japan to see you."
Admittedly, that was the ego boost I needed. But then I thought, who has the time and energy to fly 7000 miles, 12 time zones, and suffer the massive jet lag to see a girl, when he has a girl a phone call away?
Well, all of that aside, we had a good weekend. We went sightseeing some more. G was a good sport about the early morning wake-up call to go see the sights on my Japan itinerary. He even did the cabbage patch with me when we found Hachimangu after getting a little lost (something V and H refused to do with me all summer). I being an insomniac and he being jet lag, we stayed up and watched late night World Cup Soccer and Charlie Chaplin movies. We ate one truly posh french meal over an argument on why the world hates Americans, in which I think we scared our nice waiter because G called me unpatriotic and I called him ignorant in slightly elevated tones.
Guess I know the answer to my question. I am hella fun. Now what do you all think if I go to Anarctica for a summer?
Monday, August 07, 2006
Home-u run-u Ma-e-da! - Japan series #9
On August 3rd, we went to the Hiroshima Park to watch a baseball game: the Hiroshima Toyo Carp versus the Yakult Swallows. Even though H arranged the outing pretty last minute, we had a decent turnout out fellow workers, who were will to cut out a little early that night.
The sun was still out when we left the university. The whole day had was hazy as the high humidity and heat made for a potent weather combination. Waiting for H to pull the car around outside, I felt the beads of sweat forming and fallling off my brow, nose, and along my breastbone. The park itself is in the heart of the city. Although the Carp are a popular team, they lack a huge corporate sponsor like all most of the other teams in the league. So the city itself pays for the players salaries and the maintenance of the stadium.
This outdoor stadium seats about 30,000 people although it felt a lot smaller and more like a minor league baseball park. As we walked towards our seats, the smell of curry, hot dogs, and popcorn lingered in the heavy air.
On a slight tangent, I should explain a little bit about Japanese baseball. Baseball has vacilated in popularity in Japan since the 30's. Even with Japan winning the World Baseball Classic this year, soccer has been the more popular Western sport. Yet baseball is so intertwined in Japanese culture now, that it is unlikely it will ever go away. Part of Japanese baseball culture how to conduct oneself at a game. The stadium is divided into home team sections and visiting teams. And the price to pay to sit in the bleachers is you must be prepared to cheer along with everyone else.
Since the seats are open seats, our friend chose a section that was in the visiting team section so that there would be enough seats for all of us even those trickling in a little later. As we sat down, the plastic bags everyone was carrying busted open and fried chicken, edamame, french fries and beer magically appeared.
Because I could not stop sweating, I chose an tea drink and tried to sit really still to watch the game. As the sun went further and further down, the air got warmer. A layer of sticky water lay on my skin. When I scratched a mixture of dirt, humidity and skin made a grey clump under my nails.
On the other side of the bleachers, we could see the Hiroshima Cheer Conductor leading crowds. Cheering is organized in Japan. There are certain songs to be sung, you must enthusiatically either clap or beat together cheering sticks when you team is up to bat. Brass horns lead the songs that say something like "Home-u run-u [insert player name here]." It is so incredibly loud, you feel like you are at a rock concert. Our side of the bleachers had the Carp Ladies, devoted fans armed with pompoms rally our side of the bleachers.
We cheered as best we could, but V and I could not understand what the fans were yelling. It was not until 5th inning did our friends inform us that all the cheers were in English. It was an exciting game, and the two teams were tied at 3 - 3. During the 7th inning stretch, instead of singing take me out to the ballgame you are to release a balloon. So at the top of the 7th, we all started blowing up these large, slightly falic looking baloons. Unfortunately, we never got to release them as we heard a thunder clap. The stadium lights dimmed, and every player except the left fielder, Maeda, left the field. The mascot started to dance for everyone. And then it happened....RAIN.
Summer showers are always violent. This was a downpour. We hid under the some signs hoping it would be brief and the game would resume. That never happened. Our shelter was poor at best and we were now told to leave the stadium. As we tried to make a mad dash down toward the exit, we realized it was futile. There comes a point in which you cannot get wetter, and we were already there. Below is the progression of relatively dry, to slightly wet, to soaked:
The sun was still out when we left the university. The whole day had was hazy as the high humidity and heat made for a potent weather combination. Waiting for H to pull the car around outside, I felt the beads of sweat forming and fallling off my brow, nose, and along my breastbone. The park itself is in the heart of the city. Although the Carp are a popular team, they lack a huge corporate sponsor like all most of the other teams in the league. So the city itself pays for the players salaries and the maintenance of the stadium.
This outdoor stadium seats about 30,000 people although it felt a lot smaller and more like a minor league baseball park. As we walked towards our seats, the smell of curry, hot dogs, and popcorn lingered in the heavy air.
On a slight tangent, I should explain a little bit about Japanese baseball. Baseball has vacilated in popularity in Japan since the 30's. Even with Japan winning the World Baseball Classic this year, soccer has been the more popular Western sport. Yet baseball is so intertwined in Japanese culture now, that it is unlikely it will ever go away. Part of Japanese baseball culture how to conduct oneself at a game. The stadium is divided into home team sections and visiting teams. And the price to pay to sit in the bleachers is you must be prepared to cheer along with everyone else.
Since the seats are open seats, our friend chose a section that was in the visiting team section so that there would be enough seats for all of us even those trickling in a little later. As we sat down, the plastic bags everyone was carrying busted open and fried chicken, edamame, french fries and beer magically appeared.
Because I could not stop sweating, I chose an tea drink and tried to sit really still to watch the game. As the sun went further and further down, the air got warmer. A layer of sticky water lay on my skin. When I scratched a mixture of dirt, humidity and skin made a grey clump under my nails.
On the other side of the bleachers, we could see the Hiroshima Cheer Conductor leading crowds. Cheering is organized in Japan. There are certain songs to be sung, you must enthusiatically either clap or beat together cheering sticks when you team is up to bat. Brass horns lead the songs that say something like "Home-u run-u [insert player name here]." It is so incredibly loud, you feel like you are at a rock concert. Our side of the bleachers had the Carp Ladies, devoted fans armed with pompoms rally our side of the bleachers.
We cheered as best we could, but V and I could not understand what the fans were yelling. It was not until 5th inning did our friends inform us that all the cheers were in English. It was an exciting game, and the two teams were tied at 3 - 3. During the 7th inning stretch, instead of singing take me out to the ballgame you are to release a balloon. So at the top of the 7th, we all started blowing up these large, slightly falic looking baloons. Unfortunately, we never got to release them as we heard a thunder clap. The stadium lights dimmed, and every player except the left fielder, Maeda, left the field. The mascot started to dance for everyone. And then it happened....RAIN.
Summer showers are always violent. This was a downpour. We hid under the some signs hoping it would be brief and the game would resume. That never happened. Our shelter was poor at best and we were now told to leave the stadium. As we tried to make a mad dash down toward the exit, we realized it was futile. There comes a point in which you cannot get wetter, and we were already there. Below is the progression of relatively dry, to slightly wet, to soaked:
Since the game was officially cancelled, no one won the game, although I am sure it was Mother Nature 1 Baseball fans 0.
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