Heavy petting on the CBC

Almost immediately after I wrote about my trip to an Osaka cat cafe, I got an email from a senior producer at CBC News asking for permission to post my story on their website.

I was so flattered and excited I said "yes" right away. My story was posted on the CBC's Citizen Bytes website earlier today.

It's only been up for a few hours and I already have hate mail from a rabid dog-lover!

And as if being featured on the CBC's website wasn't awesome enough, the editor of an online cat magazine also emailed me to see if I'd be interested in contributing an article for the next issue. Who knew writing about cats would be so rewarding?

It was a great confidence booster. It makes me think that maybe, maybe I could make a serious attempt at freelance writing. Or maybe I should move back to Canada and open a cat cafe.

One hour of heavy petting

I went to a cat cafe in Osaka yesterday. Although, describing it as a "cafe" is somewhat misleading. It's more of a cat brothel than a cat cafe.

It's hidden inside a nondescript office building. An elevator discreetly whisks you up to the third floor. The elevator opens into a small hallway where you must remove your shoes and put on a pair of slippers.


You then open a sliding door to enter the cafe but before you can go any further, you are instructed to hold out your hands, palms up, while an employee sprays them with disinfectant.

You are then directed to the counter to pay in advance. Six hundred yen (about $5) gets you all the cats you can stroke for an hour. A few hundred yen extra gets you a drink to quench your thirst after all of the heavy petting is over.

After you have removed your shoes, sterilized your hands and paid your money, it's time to get down on your knees and play with the cat of your choice.


The cafe is called Neko no Jikan 猫の時間 (or "Cat Time" in English). The 20 cats that work here have free range of the place, sitting and sleeping wherever they like.

The cafe consists of two large rooms. There is the cafe area, which is exactly what it sounds like. There are couches and small tables where you can sip a cup of coffee while a cat sleeps on your lap or at your feet. It is a cozy space with soft lighting and classical music playing quietly in the background.



The other room, attached to the cafe, is best described as a cat playroom. No drinks are allowed in this room. You can play with the cats or just sit on one of the many couches and watch all of the four-legged loving go down.


The cafe was busy but not crowded. The vast majority of customers were women. There were a few men but they had all come on the arms of their girlfriends. The most enthusiastic customer was a middle-aged man with a 1950s rock-and-roll pompadour. He made a point of talking to all of the cats, clucking and cooing over their every move.

"Oh look at you! You sure like to sleep don't you? Oh, yes you do. Yes you do. You cute little sleeper you."

(I am translating this from Japanese so that might not be exactly what he said but the meaning behind his words was clear.)

Of course, cats being cats, it was somewhat difficult to seduce them into spending time with you. They would sit in your lap for about a minute before squirming out of your embrace.

If you wanted a cat to play with you, you were better off buying some tuna from the cafe in order to lure them in. These ladies bought some tuna and they were instantly the most popular people in the room.


The woman with the pink cell phone on her lap could tell I was feeling a bit left out so she handed me a piece of her tuna. As soon as I started waving the tuna around, I had no shortage of cats wanting to sit on my lap. But once the tuna was gone, so were they.

Everyone was pouring out love to these cats but the cats weren't giving much back. Cats do not love openly and blindly like dogs. Cats can be affectionate and playful but they are also independent and solitary (or stubborn and uncooperative, depending on your viewpoint). I was happy enough just to be near them.


I had never heard of cat cafes before coming to Japan and I'm surprised the trend hasn't caught on in the rest of the world. Cat cafes are a great idea, especially for people whose landlords won't allow pets in their buildings. Or for people who can't have a cat because they live with an allergic partner.

It's a brilliant concept. If I can find a cat cafe in Kyoto, I'm going to go at least once a month.

If you are in the Osaka area and want to visit Neko no Jikan, you can find a map here. There is no English spoken and no English menus so be sure to learn some basic Japanese before you go. Of course, that's just to communicate with the staff. You only need to speak the language of love with the cats.

Surgical masks and safety glasses

My eyes have been unbearably itchy for the past few weeks and I had no idea why until I found out that it's hay fever season. Yes, hay fever in February.

Apparently, the cedar trees are to blame. Or, more accurately, the Japanese government is to blame for planting so many of the damn things in order to resupply the country with timber after the war.

But it turns out replanting the country with fast-growing cedar only ended up creating a nation of allergy sufferers. Oops.

If you walk into any drugstore in Japan right now you will see special displays devoted to fighting the effects of cedar pollen. Allergy sufferers have an arsenal of weapons to choose from. The most popular products? Surgical masks and safety glasses.



Almost everyone who is sick (or is trying to avoid getting sick) wears a surgical mask in Japan. It's very normal. It's also very considerate. Sick people wear a mask to avoid infecting others. Healthy people wear a mask to avoid getting sick. Of course, I didn't know any of that the first time I saw someone wearing a surgical mask. I thought they had SARS or Ebola or something. It was very disconcerting.

And while everyone wears masks, I have yet to see a single person wearing safety glasses. I have seen the glasses for sale but I have never seen anyone buy them.

My eyes are unbearably itchy but I just can't bring myself to wear protective glasses and a surgical mask in public. My western vanity won't allow it. Plus, I'm not convinced the glasses are all that effective.

I think you'd need an airtight seal in order to keep the pollen from irritating your eyes. You'd probably be better off wearing swim goggles or a gas mask (which I have actually seen someone wearing in public . . . in Vancouver, of course).

Adventures in Japanese cooking: Part II

Remember how I said one of the things I wanted to do while living in Japan was learn how to cook Japanese food? Well, I never did progress beyond gomoku gohan before the Japanese cookbook I borrowed was due back at the library.

That was more than three months ago. Since then, I've done little more than let my desire to delve into the world of Japanese cuisine simmer on the backburner.

I realized it was stupid to try to teach myself how to master the art of sushi in the very country where sushi was invented. Why struggle through complicated recipes on my own when I am surrounded by experts who can teach me everything I need to know?

So I decided to sign up for a sushi-making class in Kyoto. For something so beautiful and delicate looking, sushi is surprisingly easy to make.

You just cook up some rice, cut in some vinegar, lay a sheet of nori on a bamboo rolling mat, slap some vinegared rice on it, throw in some fillings, roll the whole thing up and chop it into pieces. Easy!

I decided to fill mine with avocado, cucumber and raw tuna.


Laying it out was easy. Shaping it into a tight, cylindrical roll was difficult. I just couldn't get it right. My sushi was constantly falling apart at the seams. These two deformed specimens ended up on the cutting room floor.


They may not have been attractive enough for the group tray but they still tasted damn good. (The best thing about taking a cooking class is that you get to eat everything in sight.)

Here is a photo of the finished product. I'd probably ask for a refund if someone served this sloppy-looking sushi to me at a real restaurant. But still. Not bad for a group of first-timers!


My only complaint was that the class was a bit too social for my liking. I was paired up with a young Japanese guy whose idea of a conversation consisted of firing question after question at me. I was convinced there was no one on earth who could ask more questions than my dad but Kenji proved me wrong.

Kenji's never-ending questions were meant to show off his vast knowledge of all things non-Japanese. (He was clearly an English conversation enthusiast -- just not the most socially skilled person in the room).

Most of his sentences stated with "I hear" and ended with "is that true?"

For example:

"I hear people in Canada don't eat squid or octopus. Is that true?"

"I hear people in Canada call octopus devil fish. Is that true?"

"I hear people in Canada don't eat rice. Is that true?"

"I hear grownups in Canada don't read comics. Is that true?"

"I hear there is only one week of summer in Canada. Is that true?"

(Was this kid for real? I know he was just trying to be friendly, but come on!)

It went on and on and on like that for most of the night. I spent more time clearing up Kenji's misconceptions than I did learning how to make sushi.

At one point, I managed to escape to the other side of the room. But it didn't take long before Kenji was glued to my side again.

"Can you use chopsticks?" he asked, while I was holding a pair of chopsticks and shoving a piece of sushi into my mouth.

I was completely exhausted by the end of the night. Not from making sushi but from answering Kenji's questions.

It was fun, though. And I took pictures of absolutely everything so I now know exactly what to buy at the grocery store when I attempt to make sushi on my own.

I'm glad I'm finally learning how to cook Japanese food. My goal is to take one cooking class per month. Next on the menu? Okonomiyaki!

Maybe I spoke too soon?

My warm and fuzzy feelings about living in Japan have turned cold and prickly thanks to a dreaded houseguest who showed up unannounced on my doorstep last night.

He somehow managed to break into my apartment while I was out. He sat alone in the dark, waiting for me to come home. I turned the key in the lock, opened the door, flicked on the light and there he was. Right there in the entranceway. A big, brown cockroach.

He didn't even try to scurry away. It was as if he was patiently awaiting my return.

"Oh, hi. Welcome home. What's for dinner?"

I don't think so! I let out a primal scream and crushed him under my shoe, grinding him into an unrecognizable pulp.

Dammit. I knew I should have cleaned up the cereal I spilled all over the kitchen floor before leaving for the day. The cockroach's antennae probably picked up the delicious scent of All Bran (or "o-ru buran" as it's called in Japan) wafting out the front door.

I didn't bother to clean up the mess because I thought I was safe. Cockroach season isn't supposed to start until April. Cockroaches in February? Unheard of!

So much for the respite. Time to go back to living in a near constant state of paranoia. Checking the tub for cockroaches before I have a shower. Jumping back in fear after I open the kitchen cupboards. Scanning the ceiling for cockroaches before I fall asleep.

When I wrote about maybe staying in Kyoto forever, I hadn't seen a cockroach in three months. Now that they're back, I'm ready to board the next plane back to Canada.

I just can't deal with this alone. I either need professional help to get over my cockroach phobia or a live-in boyfriend to fill the role of primary bug killer.

Seriously. I will marry the first guy who tells me he crushes cockroaches with his bare fists.

I am from a cold, northern country. I am not afraid of grizzly bears, cougars or coyotes. But I simply cannot deal with Japan's cockroaches, poisonous centipedes and geji geji.

I am where I belong. I'm not where I belong.

I am where I belong

I feel like I finally, truly know what I want to do with my life. I want to be a student. Forever.

Getting paid to study Japanese at Kyoto University is the best job I have ever had. I don't want it to end. I love going to class. I love learning new things. I love Japan.

I am doing exactly what I want to be doing. And I am getting paid to do it. It doesn't get much better than that.

Going to school on the government's dime is so much better than working in an office. There are no cubicles. No office politics. No stress. I feel like I'm on vacation.

Yes, I have tests and exams and reports and presentations. Learning Japanese is hard work. But it is a labour of love. I enjoy going to school all day and studying all night.

Learning a new language is good for your brain. It keeps your mind sharp. My brain feels all strong and muscley. Not smart, mind you. Just mentally fit.

The good news is that I can continue studying Japanese at Kyoto University throughout my 18-month scholarship. I thought it was just going to be a six-month language course but my advisor told me I could take higher level classes for free while carrying out my research.

The even better news is that I can extend my scholarship for five years and do a PhD if I want. I don’t have to make up my mind until November so I'm not going to think about it until then. It's tempting to stay in Kyoto indefinitely. It really is one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

I could see myself living in an old house in the mountains, drinking green tea and reading Murakami in the original. I'd have a couple of cats and a vegetable garden. I could learn karate and practice catching flies with chopsticks. It would be a good life.

I was never really happy as a journalist -- a job that requires you to be extroverted, confrontational and aggressive. I am none of those things.

What I am is curious. I am interested in absolutely everything (well, except maybe hockey. And cars. And golf.). I suppose my curiosity is what drew me to journalism in the first place. I wanted a job where I could do something different every day. Journalism was good for that. One day I'd be sitting in a courtroom covering a murder trial. The next day I'd be standing in a potato field interviewing drought-stricken farmers.

But I never really wanted a career in journalism or public relations. I just wanted to learn new things. That's all I've ever wanted to do. And I am now getting paid to do exactly that. I finally feel like I am where I belong.

I want to be a student. Forever.

Japanese Jehovah's Witnesses

A strange thing happened on my way to school the other morning.

I was walking along a busy road, listening to my iPod. My body was in Kyoto but my head was somewhere else. I didn't notice that a well-dressed, middle-aged Japanese woman had sidled up beside me, matching my stride, step for step.

"Hello. Hello. Hello? Konnichiwa. Hello," she said, jogging ahead of me and twisting her body so that her face suddenly appeared in front of mine.

Startled, I pulled my headphones out of my ears and apologized for not noticing her right away.

"How are you?" she asked in perfect English.

I told her I was fine, thanks. I thought maybe she was going to ask me for directions or maybe she just wanted to practice her English with a foreigner (which happens surprisingly often).

"Sorry to bother you," she said with a polite bow and a smile. "I'm a volunteer in this area."

Okay, she's not lost. Not looking for directions. Maybe she wants me to join some sort of neighbourhood clean-up crew?

"I'm a Jehovah's Witness," she said.

A Jehovah's Witness? They have Jehovah's Witnesses in Japan? Not just Jehovah's Witnesses but Japanese Jehovah's Witnesses?

"I'm a Jehovah's Witness" was the last thing I expected her to say.

I was so surprised I think I just said something like, "Oh." I was intrigued and annoyed at the same time.

"Have you seen these before?" she asked, handing me a copies of The Watchtower and Awake magazines.

I told her that I hadn't and that I'd be happy to take a look at them. She seemed relived that I was such an easy sell. I told her I was running late for class (I was) and didn't have time to talk (I didn't). She smiled and bowed some more and told me she hoped to see me again.

I spent the rest of the day puzzling over our brief encounter. I had no idea there were Jehovah's Witnesses in Japan. When did they get here and how did they manage to brainwash the locals? I mean, this is Japan. A country that doesn't exactly welcome foreign religions with open arms. They used to persecute Christians not too long ago.

I asked my classmates if Japanese Jehovah's Witnesses had ever approached any of them.

"Are you kidding?" said Seema. "All the time!"

Apparently, I was the last foreigner in Kyoto to have been accosted by Jehovah's minions. I was a little insulted. Why did they wait so long before approaching me? Don't I look like I'm in need of salvation too?

To be honest, I know absolutely nothing about Jehovah's Witnesses and what they believe in. So I decided to flip through the magazines before I threw them in the garbage.

The Watchtower was full of all kinds of simplistic crap like, "God's Kingdom, which is a real government in heaven, will soon bring an end to all wickedness and transform the earth into a paradise."

Thanks but no thanks. I think the Jehovah's Witnesses and I probably have different ideas of what "paradise" would look like. For example, my vision of paradise is a world without religious lunatics forcing their crazy brainwashed bullshit on other people.

Anyway, there's no real point to this story. I'm just making a random observation. I had no idea there were Jehovah's Witnesses in Japan.

What a rainy Friday night in Osaka looks like

Cycling with fatalistic abandon

One of my favourite things about Japan also happens to be one of my least favourite things about Japan. Yes, it's a contradiction but so too is the double-edged nature of Japan's bicycle culture, which manages to be both inspiring and frustrating at the same time.

On the upside, cycling is a very mainstream form of transportation in Japan. Almost everyone rides a bike. You will see grandmothers with baskets full of groceries, mothers with kids in tow, salarymen in business suits, stylish women in skirts and stilettos, and teenagers in school uniforms. All of them on bikes.

The bikes themselves are cheap and simple. They are one-speed, no-nonsense steel workhorses that come equipped with fenders, a kickstand, a light and a steel-mesh basket. They are absolutely everywhere. As a result, there are strict rules governing what you can and can't do while riding a bike.

For example, it is against the law to ride a bike in Japan while listening to music, holding an umbrella or talking on a cell phone. It is also illegal to ride on the sidewalk or ride a bike after drinking alcohol. There is a ban on text messaging while riding. It is even against the law to ring your bell repeatedly.

But you'd be forgiven for not knowing any of these things are illegal based on the sheer number of people who do all of the above on a daily basis.

The only law people seem to obey is the one about not ringing their bells repeatedly. Not only do they not ring their bells repeatedly, they don't ring them at all. Instead, they silently ride up behind unsuspecting pedestrians and screech their rusty brakes at the last second to avoid mowing them down.

Almost everyone rides a bike. But almost everyone rides with fatalistic abandon.

No one wears a helmet. Everyone talks on their cell phone or holds an umbrella while steering with one hand (actually, riding a bike while holding an umbrella is not as difficult or dangerous as it sounds. Especially if you use one of those ubiquitous transparent umbrellas that allow you to see what's in front of you).

Even though it's illegal to ride on the sidewalk, everyone does. Some sidewalks have bike lanes but most people ignore them.

And while cars are forced to drive on the left side of the road, the same rule doesn't seem to apply to cyclists. Riding a bike in Japan means you're constantly swerving to avoid a head-on collision with other cyclists. And those other cyclists are usually only steering with one hand because they're either sending a text message or holding an umbrella.

Cyclists in Japan are also fond of riding out into intersections without looking, running red lights and riding the wrong way at night without lights.

But the thing that bugs me the most is riding on the sidewalk. This is a tough one, though. On the one hand, I completely understand and sympathize with cyclists who feel they have no option but to ride on the sidewalk. On the other hand, I think sidewalks should be strictly for pedestrians, and that bikes are just as valid a means of transportation as cars and should be given space on the road to accommodate them.

Unfortunately, most of the roads in Kyoto are way too dangerous for bikes. They are choked with cars traveling at high speeds and any cyclist daring to venture out onto them would be given no room or respect.

I've always felt perfectly comfortable riding on city streets in Canada, even on roads without designated bike lanes. But it's a different story out here.

I would never, ever ride on a busy road in Kyoto. It is simply far too dangerous. So I ride on the sidewalk with everyone else. But I ride slowly and carefully and keep an eye out for the old people who tend to careen all over the sidewalk without looking.

Unfortunately, I'm in the minority. Most cyclists zip past pedestrians at high speeds on crowded sidewalks. Whenever I walk on certain sidewalks, I feel like I'm taking my life in my hands.

Being a pedestrian in Japan is a stressful experience. You have to be constantly on alert otherwise you will be run down by reckless cyclists who are going way too fast and paying far too little attention.

There are times I want to scream, "Slow down!!!" or "Use some oil before I go deaf from your stupid brakes!!!" But this is Japan and publicly expressing your true feelings just isn't done.

Every time I see two cyclists about to collide, no one shakes their fist or mutters something about the other's stupidity. They just screech their brakes, change course and either bow their heads in silent apology or simply avert their eyes and pretend it never happened. Not one insult is exchanged.

Kyoto somehow manages to be both bicycle friendly and bicycle unfriendly at the same time.

Bikes are everywhere but there is no impetus to get them off the sidewalk and on the road. Everyone rides a bike but they do so with reckless abandon. There are laws but no one follows them.

And so I am caught between alternately loving and loathing Japan's bicycle culture. It is both inspiring and frustrating.

Ketchup-flavoured rice and other delicacies

What's the first thing that springs to mind when you think of Japanese food? Raw fish, white rice and miso soup perhaps?

These are certainly the staples of any Japanese restaurant outside Japan. But it's a different story inside Japan, where the menu offers up so much more than just sashimi, sushi and tempura.

There is a whole style of Japanese cuisine that you will rarely find in North America. It's called yoshoku and it's a thousand times more popular than the stuff on offer at Japanese restaurants back home.

The word yoshoku literally translates as "Western food." But make no mistake: There is nothing Western about yoshoku. It is thoroughly Japanese. It is Western food taken apart and put back together to suit local tastes.

It includes dishes like spaghetti stir-fried in ketchup, curry devoid of spices, deep-fried pork cutlet sandwiches and omelets stuffed with ketchup-flavoured rice. It is Western food with a Japanese twist. And it is just as an integral part of Japanese cuisine as rice and fish.

The most ubiquitous yoshoku dish is Japanized pizza. The most popular toppings are squid, corn, potatoes and mayonnaise. Even the Western chains know that in order to sell pizza in Japan they have to beef up their menus with yoshoku. Want proof? Check out the flyer from Domino's that arrived in my mailbox the other day.


It's called "fondue pizza" and it's topped with Camembert cheese, ham, shrimp, broccoli and potato. None of this is at all weird.


I've been to a few yoshoku restaurants in Japan and I've found the experience akin to entering a parallel universe. Everything on the menu is familiar and foreign at the same time.

Personally, I find most yoshoku dishes to be a little too junky for my liking. Too much fat and not enough nutrition. I'll take the tuna sashimi and leave the fondue pizza for the Japanese.

Mi love it bad!

By the time I leave Japan, I will be fluent in not one but two new languages. That's right. I'm studying Japanese by day and Jamaican by night.

One of my classmates and good friends out here is from Kingston, Jamaica. She has been teaching me all kinds of Jamaican slang. And not the stuff you hear in the movies. Oneika assures me that absolutely no one outside of Ocho Rios would be caught dead saying "Ayrie, mon" or "No problem, mon." That's strictly for tourists.

Here are a few of my new favourite expressions, which I use on a daily basis here in Japan. Confusing the locals is fun!

1. Mi 'ungry bad! (I'm very hungry)

2. Dat ting deh tuff! (That [thing] is wicked awesome)

3. Mi buss (I'm full, my stomach is about to burst)

4. Mi love it bad! (I love it very much)

And my all-time personal favourite?

5. Bumboclaat (motherf*cker)

Learning Jamaican is way more fun than learning Japanese. Mi love it bad!

Breakfast in Toronto, lunch in Amsterdam, dinner in Kyoto

Life lesson #475: If something can go wrong, it probably will. Especially when planes, trains and boats are involved.

I have terrible luck when it comes to travelling. Let's review the evidence:

1. I was trapped on a boat in the middle of the China Sea for 53 hours during a typhoon. The waters were so rough we were forced to stay below deck the entire time with no escape from the stench of group vomit.

2. I was stranded in Siberia after the train I was on left without me during a shorter-than-expected stop. I then endured a white-knuckle taxi ride across the Russian countryside in order to beat the train to the next stop almost 200 kilometres away.

3. I attempted to fly from Osaka to Toronto during a massive snowstorm, got stuck in Detroit after my connecting flight was cancelled, spent seven hours on a bus in whiteout conditions and lost my luggage.

4. I was stranded in Toronto and rerouted to Amsterdam on my way back to Osaka after the pilot called in sick at the last minute.

I thought I had gotten my streak of bad luck out of the way with the miserable trip to Toronto. But it turned out the return flight to Japan was just as epic.

I showed up at the Toronto airport on Sunday only to find out my flight had been canceled after the pilot called in sick. The airline was scrambling to rebook everyone on different flights. But all of the planes were full and tempers were rising.

I watched the guy in line ahead of me scream at the attendants after they told him the best they could do was put him on standby for an evening flight.

"NO! I HAVE TO GET TO JAPAN IMMEDIATELY!" he yelled. "THIS IS THE WORST AIRLINE EVER!"

He was giving the woman behind the counter so much grief she had to call for backup. A male employee took over and she moved to an empty counter. Since I was next in line, she called me over to her counter.

Now, I was just as pissed off as everyone else. But I was smart enough to keep my anger under control. I approached her with a smile. I told her I knew the flight had been cancelled and hoped she could rebook me on another flight leaving the same day. I was polite, calm and friendly.

She punched a few keys on her computer and produced a ticket about 30 seconds later.

"There's a flight going to Osaka tonight but you have to connect through Amsterdam first," she said. "There's only one seat left and it's in business class. I booked it for you because you're nice. But don't tell anyone."

The guy with anger management issues was still screaming at the next counter. He had no idea I had just been booked in business class on the same flight he was on standby for. Idiot.

Life lesson #476: Don't be an asshole. Especially to people who work in the public service industry.

Although I was annoyed that I would be arriving in Japan a day later than originally scheduled, I was excited about flying business class for the first time.

I was literally going to peak behind the curtain that separates the masses from the elites. My interest in flying business class was strictly anthropological. I've always thought flying business class would be kind of embarrassing. Paying thousands of dollars for a few hours of special treatment and attention seems slightly ridiculous.

But since I was being upgraded for free, I could enjoy business class without shame and guilt.

The business-class experience started the moment I checked in. I was separated from the masses before I even boarded the plane. I was ushered to a private lounge where there were no screaming kids and cranky parents. Just calm people with posh British accents.

The lounge had leather couches and free computers. There was an open bar and free food (I helped myself to some water and a banana).

When it was time to board the plane, we bypassed the lineup and went straight to our seats. I felt self-conscious about walking past hundreds of people waiting to board the plane. They turned their heads to look at me.

Please don't judge me, I silently begged them. I'm not rich. I'm not famous. I'm nobody. I'm the kind of person who thinks spending $8,000 to avoid sitting in an uncomfortable seat for eight hours is a ridiculous waste of money.

When the flight attendant checked my ticket and saw that I had the window seat in the first row, he exclaimed, "Oooh. That's the queen seat."

He wasn't kidding. My seat was had so much legroom that if an NBA player had been sitting there, he could have stretched his legs all the way out and wiggled his toes with room to spare. My seatmate and I were sharing the equivalent amount of space that nine people would be crammed into in economy class.

Flying economy class is a miserable experience. But it's a different world in the front of the plane.

A flight attendant served us champagne on a silver platter while we waited for the masses to finish boarding.

We enjoyed four-course meals served on china with real silverware and a choice of wines. We were given down pillows and fleece blankets. We had large personal TV screens with a good selection of movies, which we watched with special noise-canceling headphones. We converted our seats into lie-flat beds when we were tired. We were given silk eye masks, socks and earplugs to help us sleep.

There was something infantilizing about the whole experience. The seats, with their foot rests and tables that fold out across your lap, made me think of highchairs. Maybe that's the point. People in business-class are paying to be babied and coddled and fussed over. They are swaddled in so many layers of comfort they are buffered from the grim reality of air travel.

I got a break from all of the warm nuts, complimentary glasses of wine and free slippers during an eight-hour stopover in Amsterdam. I decided to throw my carry-on luggage in a locker and take a train downtown.


I only spent a couple of hours walking around but I think I hit all of the highlights -- I saw people smoking pot in various coffee shops and half-naked women advertising their goods in storefront windows.

And then it was back to the airport, back to the first-class lounge and then back on board business class all the way to Osaka. By then, the shine had worn off a little bit. Business class or not, an 11-hour flight is still an 11-hour flight. You can sit in economy class where the tray table will smash your kneecaps when the person ahead of you reclines their seat or you can lie down in business class and attempt to sleep while your seatmate snores like a chainsaw.

Life lesson #477: You can put lipstick on a pig, but it's still a pig.

Modern art through the eyes of a security guard

I went to the Art Gallery of Ontario on Saturday. It was educational, eye-opening and enlightening. But not in the way the art gallery intended.

I was wandering around on the fourth floor of the art gallery, where the works of contemporary art are on display. At one point, I found myself standing in front of five identical canvases hanging on one of the walls. Each canvas was painted completely white except for a small square of beige in each corner.

Mistaking my jet lag for stupefaction, a security guard decided to approach me.

"Can I ask you a question?" he said.

"Of course," I replied.

"What do you think about that?" he said, pointing to the five white canvases in front of us.

His question took me by surprise. I wasn't sure how to answer it. I didn't know whether to give him the "right" answer or an honest answer. The truth was that I didn't think much of the paintings at all. I didn't like them. But I didn't dislike them either.

I wasn't sure if he was a passionate art lover looking for an lively discussion or just genuinely curious to know what I thought.

"Um . . ." I said, stalling. "Um . . ."

I couldn't think of anything intelligent to say so I just decided to tell him the truth.

"Well, modern art isn't really my thing. So I don't know."

He loudly kissed his teeth to signify his disapproval.

"I don't like this stuff," he said.

He told me he wanted to paint a tiny black dot on a canvas and call it a car in a snowstorm.

"They'd probably hang it up in here," he said with a laugh.

He told me he hated patrolling the fourth floor. The second floor is where it's at. He said he likes the older stuff because it gives you a real glimpse into history. He told me he never gets bored when he's working on the second floor. But the fourth floor? Pure torture.

"Have you seen the sink?" he asked.

I told him I hadn't.

"Okay," he said. "Come with me."

He led me through a few rooms and stopped in front of a huge canvas with an actual bathroom sink glued to it.

"There you go!" he said.

The mere sight of it inspired another round of teeth kissing and eye rolling.

He took me around to see a few other works of art that he particularly despised. It was my own private tour of the art gallery. With a security guard. Who hated modern art. It was like the anti-tour tour.

It was educational, eye-opening and enlightening. But probably not in the way the art gallery intended.

Home for the holidays

Greetings from the city formerly known as Toronto. That's right. Toronto has a new name and it's "Snowmageddon." (Or at least that's what the scientists at Environment Canada are calling it.)

And while it's easy to dismiss this sort of thing as over-exaggerated hype, it really did feel like I was flying into some sort of apocalyptic nightmare on Friday. I was on my way from Osaka to Detroit, where a huge winter storm was whipping up winds and dumping snow across the region.

Now, hearing people scream is disconcerting at the best of times. But hearing people scream on an airplane is downright terrifying. Severe turbulence was shaking the plane like it was a pop can in an earthquake. At one point, the plane suddenly dropped about 20 feet. We were lifted out of our seats. You could actually hear all of the overhead luggage rise and then thump back down. It was so bad that people were screaming.

I wanted to hold someone's hand but I was sitting in the dreaded middle seat, sandwiched between a half-drunk elderly Japanese man on my left and an aspiring rock star working on a concept album about underwater robots on my right. I didn't think either one of them would appreciate me whimpering in their laps.

Despite the ice pellets, howling winds and thick fog, we managed to land safely in Detroit. I was supposed to catch a connecting flight to Snowmageddon but it was being walloped by an even worse winter storm. As a result, my 2 p.m. flight was cancelled and I was rebooked on the 5:30 flight out of Detroit.

So I wandered around the Detroit airport for a bit. Had a bean burrito at Taco Bell (my first burrito in three months! It was surprisingly delicious). Just before 5 p.m., they cancelled my second flight and rebooked me on the 9:30 p.m. flight.

So I wandered around the Detroit airport some more. Ate some sushi (it felt like I had been in Detroit for months and was feeling nostalgic for Japanese food. It was surprisingly terrible). I made some American friends. We talked mostly about the weather and our cancelled flights.

Just before 8 p.m., they cancelled my third flight. I lined up for an hour only to be told there were no more flights going to Snowmageddon that night and that the earliest flight they could book me on was the one leaving at 9:30 . . . the next night!!

There was no way in hell I was spending 26 hours at the Detroit airport. Not after a 12-hour flight from Japan. Not after spending eight hours at the Detroit airport. Not after not sleeping for 24 hours. Screw that and screw them.

I got the last seat on the last bus leaving Detroit for Snowmageddon. Due to the severe weather conditions, it took almost seven hours of painfully slow driving to get to Toronto. But I finally arrived. At 3:15 a.m. on Saturday. More than 35 hours after leaving my apartment in Kyoto.

I arrived in Snowmageddon but my luggage did not. It is being held hostage at the Detroit airport. It may arrive. It may not arrive. If it doesn't get here before Christmas, there will be no Hello Kitty-themed presents under the tree.

In the meantime, there is snow to shovel, gingerbread men to eat and parties to attend (in the same clothes I've been wearing for the past three days). Blogging will be light to non-existent over the next two weeks. So until then, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Me on the BBC

For those of you (okay, all of you) who don't live in South America, you can listen to my interview on BBC Radio Ecuador thanks to the magic of the internet.

The following clip features me on the BBC talking about my pilgrimage to Obama, Japan. I think I did okay. Except for the part where I said "buenos dias" when I should have said "buenas tardes." (Oh, yeah. I'm sooooo international.)

The interview runs about eight minutes. The questions are translated into English and my answers are translated into Spanish. There is a lot of translating going on. So I really only get about four minutes of airtime.

Enjoy! Or don't enjoy! It's up to you.