The two men and single woman sitting at the end of the bar to my right had a point, I thought. After all, I had eaten many strange things in my line of travel work – semi-poisonous blowfish, octopus with mayonnaise and fried batter, the smelly durian of Thailand – but had yet to encounter one of the true tests for the seafood connoisseur: the eyeballs. Morishita-san looked at me with anticipation, standing beside the somewhat ignorant trio and probably half expecting me to act like the foreigners she must have read about in Manga, who gag on tako, avoid sushi bars like the plague, and never try to expand their palette when it comes to ordering omakase from a seasoned chef.

Not wanting to disappoint my audience, I raised the chopsticks with my right hand, the small grey dish with my left, and popped in the fish eye without a second to lose. Delicious.

…

“Little Tokyo, Los Angeles”, josewolff

I didn’t really frequent sushi shops during my years in Japan. For some newbies to the land of the rising sun, this may hardly be surprising. After all, the average “foreigner out of water” tends to stick to comfortable foods, and thinks of raw fish on rice as something exotic reserved for the natives.

When I was living in New Zealand and running on fumes as far as my Japanese experience was concerned, I poured over texts on expats teaching English with the JET Program, which eventually led me to a reference to Trevor Corson, author of The Story of Sushi and quite the authority when it came to obtaining that most coveted of experiences (for sushi connoisseurs, anyway): an authentic Japanese omakase (”please decide for me”) meal from a Japanese sushi chef, with the nigiri packed loosely and the soy sauce tucked away, completely unnecessary for this direction in dining.

So what would you do if you learned of an author whose book you liked? Naturally, you’d Google him, discover his Twitter account, and send him a message letting him know your appreciation of his fine research, and how it has affected your life for the better. This I did. And also, I started eating sushi. Lots of sushi. From Blue Fish in Dallas to Tanuki’s Cave in Auckland, I learned to see the different styles of sushi chefs, notice the quality of the fish they brought in, and determine who could provide the best dining experience for me as a quasi-Japanese eater. Corson was spot on about the most important thing: you can spot a good sushi chef by how clean he keeps his station (no other bits of food getting mixed in with the fish or rice).

But despite everywhere I ate, no place could live up to the promise of what Corson said was available to the average American willing to shell out a few bucks: good Japanese sushi as the chef decides. Enter Little Tokyo, a district in Los Angeles that is probably the closest one can get to Japan without flying into Narita: sushi bars, grocery stores… I understand they even have a few decent hostess bars, though it’s perfectly understandable them not wanting to advertise to the general public (what layman would believe beautiful Japanese girls are only available for conversation?) Combine that with a business trip out west, and I had my solution to the penultimate sushi problem; I would contact Corson for recommendations on the best, most authentic, sushi restaurant run by Japanese in Little Tokyo, have my omakase night, and leave with my stomach swimming with sake (酒) and sake (鮭).

Sushi Go 55 is owned and operated by the Morishita family, who have been running sushi establishments in LA since the 1950’s. Amazing; only ten years after Japanese-Americans were being held in work camps following World War II, some Morishita in Japan was planning to move to the states to start a business. The chef I spoke with at Sushi Go 55 has been in the US for thirty years.

But I digress: THE OMAKASE. I navigated my way through downtown LA to arrive… in what appeared to be a regular shopping mall at the outskirts of Little Tokyo. No mistake; Sushi Go 55 was just two short escalator rides and one noren curtain away. Having never been there or met anyone in person, I responded with my best Japanese to the hostess:

“Morishita-san ga imas ka?”
“Ohhh, she may have gone home for the night. Please wait a moment.”

Ohhh, I sure hope she didn’t. I had had to contact Corson to put me in touch with Eji Morishita, son of the owners, and arrange a time to meet this Tuesday night. If she didn’t show, I would have to explain to the chef exactly what kind of omakase I wanted, and I certainly didn’t trust my fading Japanese skills to that level. Not to mention apologizing to Eji for failing to meet his mother and enjoy the sushi she was offering to arrange. No siree.

No worries, though, as she appeared from the kitchen after only a minute or so. Going through the formal introductions (giving her one of my few remaining genuine meishi), we made small talk about why I wanted such good sushi, and how I was willing to try whatever she would throw my way. Here it is, my experience, dish by dish:

“Salmon Belly Sashimi!”, Noeluap

Sake
Your standard-issue salmon sashimi, although, even in my excited state, I swear this fish was more delicious than any other salmon I had eaten. Merely an appetizer.

Cooked Uni and Mussels
I’ve had uni (sea urchin). I really don’t care for it. It’s still not my favorite, but cooking or searing it makes it far more desirable in my book.

Sashimi Platter: Toro, Maguro, Tai
Ahhh…. toro. The fatty bluefin tuna. The most expensive and delicious fish of them all. Toro is usually listed in sushi restaurants next to the letters “MP”, meaning “market price”. If you have to ask, you won’t want to spend it. Even an order of two toro nigiri can be over $20.

Chawanmushi
An egg dish filled with vegetables. I seldom ate chawanmushi in Japan (or eggs, for that matter), but found this little dish to be surprisingly tasty.

Tamago
Eggs are usually a good test of a sushi chef’s cooking ability; sure, many can cut fish properly, but prepare tamago to the epitome of sweetness and filling? That takes skill.

Hamachi Nigiri
My first stage of nigiri after nigiri began with yellowtail with a dash of salt and seasoned with lemon juice; both accentuated the flavor perfectly.

I wasn’t exactly sure of the proper etiquette between dishes in an omakase order: should I ask for the next dish, or would that make me appear rushed and greedy? Any sushi bar worth its weight will present you with a geta, the wooden platform on which to place ginger and wasabi to use with the piece of sushi. Thereupon the chef will lower dish after dish until you declare “ippai!”

Saba Nigiri
Ahhh, the mackerel. I didn’t know what this was at first, and my stomach was already bulging from the 15+ pieces of delectable fish.

Tai Nigiri
Red snapper with hot mustard.

…

I think that brings us back to the eyeballs. Appropriately after such a large serving, I declared I was too full to continue, requested the okanjou, and devoured the palette-cleansing pickled plum. The end of meals in American-based Japanese-run sushi restaurants has always been confusing for me: should I tip? These are Japanese people, therefore tipping is annoying and insulting. But…. these are Japanese people working on American wages, which require tips, so therefore tipping must be welcome. Well, the latter is correct, but I didn’t discover that until Morishita-san “reminded” me with a friendly verbal nudge.

And overall? A great Japanese experience in the heart of Los Angeles. Sushi Go 55 is the way to go. Check out Sai’s review too.

Total Price Tag: $70 + tip

- Talked to two models, who happened to enjoy late night blackjack almost as much as me (one of whom posed for Playboy).
- Had a meaningful discussion with Chuck Yeager, the man to first break the sound barrier
- Watched Tom Selleck buy an Alaskan hunting knife, while his bodyguards warded off potential photographers
- Woke up to snowy morning runs
- Worked 12-hour shifts for five days with no breaks for lunch… or anything else
- Got paid a considerable amount, with lodging, meals, and travel included in expense

“Sands Convention Center @ CES 2008″, TigerDirect.com

How exactly did this happen? Well, as many of you know, I am now back stateside after my travels in New Zealand looking for work. I was staying with the family for a few days after the holidays ended, doing my typical web searches in favor of writing travel articles for Vagabondish, Matador, and Iloho (yeah, I really should play catchup; I have about ten unfinished files just sitting on my desktop): Craigslist gigs in Dallas, Craigslist jobs in Austin, and Gaijinpot jobs in Japan. The usual gigs popped up: tutoring opportunities, moving jobs, and one ad written in all caps, requesting labor to help set up a booth at the Dallas Safari Club convention. Surprisingly, there was no email address, just a contact number. Half expecting it to be a scam, I called the number on Skype, left a message, and didn’t hear from them for a week.

Long story short, I was called the day before to pick someone up at the airport, set up a jewelry booth at the Dallas Convention Center, worked sales at the event for three days, broke down the booth, and was called to fly into LA, drive their supplies to Reno, and stay in a casino hotel for a week for one of the biggest conventions in the country, the Safari Club International.

Jobs like these, that allow one to travel from show to show, are not exactly rare, but usually restricted to certain kinds of people: women who are attractive enough to work as tradeshow models, the businesses themselves, and local talent (which usually means no traveling). The fact that I’ve been lucky enough to land a position and see the western US on someone else’s dime is pretty sweet, but I have to admit, I’m feeling that I’m working harder, not smarter…

The pay is decent ($1200 last show, about $15/hr with meals, lodging and gas included), but I was working incredibly hard and not moving around as much as I’d have liked. As strange as it sounds, I’d rather have a little less money for a lot more activity, so I don’t feel so full of pent up energy at the end of a workday. Running before and afterwards helps, but it’s just not enough. I bet I’m still gaining weight (enough to keep me out of the league of those Playboy models ), and to top it off, my boss is walking a fine line between obsessive and pure evil.

Still, these shows are an interesting choice for the traveler looking to rake in a little dough. As I’ve discovered, you can pocket a bit more if the company advances you for lodging and you choose to stay with Couchsurfers.

Off to Tucson for a big gem show, then back to Texas for a bit. Peace.

As always, my job search in the US begins (and usually ends) with Craigslist. This one ad caught me completely off guard, a seemingly perfect match:

Swim with the dolphins. Cliff dive in Costa Rica. See the Great Wall of China. Zipline through the Amazon. Taste kiwi in New Zealand. See the Glaciers of Alaska. You no longer have to sit in a cubicle at work and stare at a computer screen to see pictures of exotic places. Come play with us and make a living, well… living.

A FEW REQUIREMENTS:
If $750,000 in annual income after two years sounds “unrealistic”, this is not the company for you. If you do not like hard work and lack a desire to help people or sense of humor, our company is not for you. If you know you can sell like nobody’s business, are well-liked by others, want to retire earlier and travel to earn a living, we want to hear from you.

Sounds great, right? A chance to work in a moderately stable position, earn money, and stay in the travel industry.

Maybe it was my ignorance in sales. Maybe I’ve just been out of the working world for too long. Either way, I was not prepared for when I arrived at the designated interview time and place, sports coat snug on my shoulders, hiking boots on my feet instead of loafers, and arrived to a single man using the stereotypical 80’s sales voice and spouting rehearsed line after rehearsed line extolling the virtues of World Ventures.

At first glance, it all sounded pretty good: put in the hours, develop your sales’ skills, receive benefits including free travel. The only problem? World Ventures is nothing more than a glorified pyramid scheme. Ok, maybe not in the strictest sense: the income isn’t solely based on me getting friends and family to sign up for the same system and pay a fee, but also on selling travel packages. Still, the rep in Austin couldn’t have been a better salesman for such a lousy product, the whole time expressing the urgency of me signing up to sell for them ($100 one time fee plus $10/month… for ME to work). Even told me if I waited a few hours, it would be money lost. What a crock.

Here’s how this would have worked. Sign up. Pay money. Become an official representative of World Ventures. Now spend the rest of your days convincing others to sign up to be a part of the program. Let me be clear: not selling vacation deals. Getting others to sign up for the program.

Strike one for applying to travel jobs. I’ll be reporting on some conventions I’m working around the midwest soon. Stay tuned.

“Blackjack!”, banspy

I have an addictive personality, no doubt about that. When I see one episode of a TV show I love (or am even moderately interested in) for the first time, I feel compelled to see every episode every created, then wait for the new ones to come out. If I have 24 Dr. Peppers in my apartment, you can rest assured they won’t last the night; as a corollary, if I only have one, I don’t really feel the need to rush out and buy more… if they’re there, I’ll drink them, if not, I’m satisfied with what I have. And if there is a casino nearby, I don’t know when to walk away. Not until my bank account is drained and I’m left with twitching hands and this empty feeling in my soul, as though I knew doing something so stupid would come back to bite me, and I have no one to blame but myself.

About seven months after I turned 21, a friend of my brother offered to take me as his guest to the Consumer Electronic Show in Las Vegas. Of course I was thrilled to have the chance to see the city and actually try blackjack in casino play. Brought $200 with me for spending money and none of it came back. Of course, I really didn’t know what I was doing.

Over the course of a few years, I’ve made trips to Lake Charles, Louisiana, one of the closest places to gamble from Austin. I can clearly remember my birthday/graduation/friend’s wedding celebration there… had two $1000 chips (bigger and orange, btw) for the first time in my life after splitting aces on an $80 bet, and told myself around 2 AM “you know, I really should just go to sleep and keep my winnings. But, for some unknown reason, I’m going to stay and ‘have fun.’” Of course it sounds stupid, but to the gambler, it makes perfect sense. Why else do perfectly rational people riffle through their pockets for another $20 to throw out and make up for the lost $650? And when that’s gone, they keep looking for more.

Weekends in Auckland, with its Skycity Casino, just make things more interesting. I lost about $560 in Queenstown between the Skycity Casino and Wharf Casino over two nights. When my parents flew out of Auckland they gave me the last few Kiwi dollars they had on hand, which, of course, I used over at the blackjack table without thinking twice. $40 somehow became $1800.

How is that? Well, besides the obvious luck, New Zealand casinos have a really good side bet for blackjack: perfect pairs. Say you place a $10 bet and a six of diamonds and six of hearts come down. A lousy hand to hit 21, but a pair payout of 12 to 1: $120. Had they been two six of diamonds… 25 to 1. Colored pairs, mixed pairs, and perfect pairs. My secret weapon, whatever that means.

I had about $1400 from my winnings that weekend (spend on food and such, no loss) when I returned to Auckland to hear the Dalai Lama speak. All that quickly went up to $4600 Friday night with the right combination of perfect pairs and dealer busts: a fun night, filled with drinks, encouragement around the table, and praise for my “skill”. Yeah, right. I may know what I’m doing, but 99% of it is luck.

Let me be clear: all this cash was in my pocket from 2 AM – 3:30 PM Sunday. If the banks were open, I could have simply wired it. But no… such an opportunity was not to be missed. Two hours before my bus leaves, and I decide to head back in to shore up my winnings with another few thousands. For a time, I was right: $4600 became $5800… then my greed got the best of me and I returned to $400. Just like that. Gone, taken piece by piece out of my pocket. I missed my bus, had to pay for another one, and ended up being dropped off in the rain and dark. Granted, that still might have happened even if I had been holding $6000 in my pocket, but somehow, the environment seemed to echo my own feelings.

Even though I have just as much money (in fact, a bit more) as that when I started, I feel almost hollow. It’s not like I simply went in and earned a hundred dollars. I won thousands… and lost thousands. So why do I feel as though I’m worse off that I was?

I felt like talking to the monks when I returned, and brought up the issue of gambling. The Buddha abhorred gamblers, and considered getting out of debt to be a very noble pursuit. The monk told me it was good that I had lost big, because had I won and stayed ahead, it would just have reinforced the idea that gambling is a reliable source of income; winning would encourage me to lose more in the future. This certainly was the case in April, when I returned with a few thousand dollars from the Skycity Casino, only to lose most of it in Indian Casinos across the Oklahoma border. And why? Because I thought I could get more, because I wasn’t satisfied with what I had.

I hear from many travelers who supplement their income or even support their travels with online gambling… any stories from readers?

“Shibuya in Action”, digika

Of course I had outings with Americans, Kiwis, English, Aussies, Canadians, even the occasional Jamaican… but 90% of the time, the Japanese language was my sole source of communication with others. I can just imagine my typical evening after AEON hours:

1. Finish my office paperwork and bid coworkers farewell with the customary “otsu kare sama deshita“. Emerge from the building on a cold winter’s night, just opposite a gas station.

2. I might pass a student, a kid, or a random passerby. Perhaps a friendly “konbanwa“.

3. Lawson convenience store for my usual turkey and pasta bento, with a heated bottle of green tea. Do I want it heated? Hai, shite kudasai. Any chopsticks with that? Hai, ippun o kudasai. Arigatou gozaimasu.

4. Finish the walk to my apartment building. I’ll probably catch another tenant in the elevator:

“Ahhh… Kimura-san. Ogenki desu ka?”
(I’m fine, Turner-san. How are you?)
“Genki des yo. Oyasumi nasai.”

Only when I’m back in my cramped 6-tatami mat quarters do I truly relax. After all, the internet is language neutral, though I’m sure most would agree English dominates. And this is a light, carefree evening. Imagine a full day of all Japanese. Now imagine a week. A month. A year. Five years…

There’s more to living abroad than embracing a different culture and being comfortable with your changing environment; the pressure of communicating in a foreign language builds up inside your brain without any realization. After all, you’re in Japan! An amazing, exciting experience! Who wouldn’t trade places with you?

I love Japan and I love traveling, but I get tired. There are long stretches when I wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else on the planet, but there are also plenty of times when I would give my heart and soul to be surrounded by countrymen who understand my words, my upbringing, my way of thinking. How did I combat this in Japan, once I had learned to live well?

GetHiroshima Classifieds and Events

Hiroshima doesn’t exactly have the largest population of foreign residents in Japan, but there is a sizable number… enough to warrant the publication of a online resource for expats: GetHiroshima. Culture salons, 10Ks, Japanese wanting friends… I even got replies for a Texas Hold ‘Em group; we were soon meeting once a month for a nice cash game.

Nightclubs and Bars

I admit it, I went downtown many Saturday nights in effort not to hook up with random Japanese girls, but just to sit at the bar of an Irish pub and listen to background conversations… in English. Call me a language whore.

Blog Searches

By using Google Blogsearch, I was able to find many expats in my general area, and learn a great deal about them and their travel experience. You never know who’s reading.

I followed these same techniques in Kagoshima, and found the prefecture’s JET participants had a decent Facebook page; without that, I never would have ended up volunteering at an orphanage in Aira or cycling all the way around Sakurajima for the first time.

Everyone has their own ways of coping with this pressure of feeling like you’re the only one on the planet. Lost in Translation was such a success for showing this through film. Sometimes you do have to travel halfway around the planet… to come full circle.

I know, I know: you’d think by this point, my studies on Buddhism would have alerted me to the fact that the path to enlightenment and true happiness lies not in indulging in sensual pleasure or depriving yourself to the point of an ascetic, but rather finding the middle path. Well, it has… but it has yet to hit home for me.

“GLUTTONY (Seven Deadly Sins)”, Eloquence and Decadence

I understand the Buddhist reasoning behind this belief, I really do, but the thing is… well…

I like the thrill of doubling down on an 8 when the dealer is showing a 7 and hoping for that 10 card. I like throwing my last $20 on the table; when you’ve got nothing to lose, why not risk it to gain everything?

I like to stop and smell the roses.

Gluttony, avarice, wrath, sloth, lust, pride, envy… which is most prominent in you?

“Vibram Fivefingers”, EricByers

I was so lazy this past weekend in Auckland and didn’t even find the details for the Human Race (why didn’t they post the starting time/place?) Also been oversleeping for morning runs a lot lately. My body is still getting used to all the physical activity required as the caretaker of a forest monastery – weeding, construction, heavy lifting, hiking – and I’m torn between getting up early and running on an empty stomach or heading out immediately after my shift when my body is worn out and dehydrated.

Still, with my weekly total at zero on a Thursday, I felt compelled to go for a long run. Setting the goal of obtaining a coveted Bundaberg ginger beer in Bombay certainly helped. I was literally past the point of no return from the moment I slipped on my Vibram Fivefingers and began the ascent to Paparata Road.

What a day. My legs were heavy, but more in a pleasantly-used sense rather than worn out. The wind was incredible and against me as I set out towards the setting sun. I love the sensation of barefoot running – in fact, I caught myself landing on the balls of my feet (as opposed to the heel, with shoes) as I dashed around downtown Auckland on Saturday looking for a friend. I know it’s better for form and endurance – burns fat, not carbs – but every now and then along the paved road I’ll let a rock slip under the arch of my foot and make me consider the virtues of “normal” running shoes. Still, the fact that I am writing this at my starting point with a cup of green tea and weary yet perfectly comfortable legs suggests I might be on to something with the Fivefingers.

In any case, the thought of drinking an ice-cold beverage is my driving force as I edge onto the side of the road for car after car. The wind is rustling the trees so loudly I can’t hear anything approaching until it’s right on top of me, but drivers in this area are pretty observant; well, I’m still alive, anyway…

The 3k mark at the T-junction gives me pause… I hadn’t gone past 6k for a few weeks, and although I knew I could just run one way for another few kilometers and hitchhike back, the smarter part of me knew I could never let myself get that close to the finish without pulling through.

The hill at the 4k doesn’t even change my heart rate – a good sign; I must be in better shape than I had thought. A quasi-vegetarian diet and seven hours’ physical labor every day will do that, even if both your legs aren’t off the ground. But now the challenge begins: a big dip to the 5k mark at the turnoff to the Simunovich Olive Estate and from there it’s all uphill for 2-3k. I’ve tried to make the trek over to the store along this route before, only to get winded about 500 meters into the uphill. Not today. Not with ginger beer, chocolate, and a good story at stake. I shift to the left side to take advantage of the sunshine, and try my best to keep pace with the changing grade: 1%, 3%… as the final stretch looms, I can see it’s at least a 5-6% grade, mocking me, daring me to conquer it with my feet. Not so easy after all. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way while running: CHALLENGED.

And I see, I remember that these moments in training or in races are the only parts worth running for, when you’re really not sure if you have the ability to keep going, but will tear yourself apart to find out. One foot in front of the other…

After that little test of humanity, I’m free and clear, a gentle coasting 2k to the convenience store, where I happen to catch the latest headline: someone is training to run the Taupo Ironman wearing a full Darth Vader costume? Craziness. Oh, and if you don’t believe in karma, I should point out it took a full two minutes for a familiar face to give me a lift back to the monastery.

That which is impenetrable to us really exists. Behind the secrets of nature remains something subtle, intangible, and inexplicable. Veneration for this force beyond anything we can comprehend is my religion.
- Albert Einstein

After going head-to-head with a commenter of Can Christianity Be Rescued From Fundamentalist Christians? and tweeting a lot on my latest Dawkins’ read, I thought I’d give this topic a shot. Excuse me if I’m not too eloquent this evening; I’d be happy to clear up anything left unmentioned in the comments.

“Tree of Truth”, h.koppdelaney

In the time before time before time – well, as far back as age 4, anyway – I attended Canyon Creek Day School, attached to Canyon Creek Presbyterian Church in Plano, Texas. Naturally, my memories from this period aren’t the most reliable, but I clearly recall the importance my parents placed on me coming to church every Sunday. As for myself, I found myself less interested in what the minister was saying and more focused on the end of the service, when the kids would be allowed to get first grabs at the leftover communion bread (always after the carbs, I know). I guess Christ would probably have felt like tearing himself into pieces if he could have seen what we did to his “body” without any regard for the significance. Come to think of it, I wonder why the church even allowed this… While the adults seemed to focus on talk of being a good Christian and the history in the Bible, I couldn’t have cared less – what kid would? My favorite way to pass the time with “grown up talk” was to take one of the offering pencils and write on the back of the donation envelopes; my parents eventually caught onto this little distraction and started taking the pencils away, but I couldn’t help myself: what was the big deal, the big secret? What was so important my parents make sure I know every Sunday morning?

I know I was born into a privileged life. My mother and father weren’t rich, but they made sure I had the best education possible: a private, nondenominational, co-ed school in suburban Dallas. By 2nd grade, my views on religion were pretty much in line with my parents’, though lacking a certain depth: going to church is just something you have to do… other than that, they weren’t over the top with talks of “fire and brimstone” when I misbehaved, nor the delights of heaven as a reward for my smiley face sticker on my writing exercises. Again, I was only 8 years old; I believed whatever my parents told me as reality, and thus far, they had yet to fill in the blanks on a lot of religious questions. Still, if you had asked me back then, I probably would have affirmed the existence of God and following his path as the only means to salvation. Although the idea of heaven sounded… well, heavenly, I can remember feeling a little uncertain about the afterlife, what it meant to die – after all, if I died, I’d just go to heaven, right? So why not just kill myself (unfamiliar with the suicide clause)? Surely heaven is better than here? Good thing I decided to stick around.

So, one late morning in my usual social studies class, I was first introduced to the idea of evolution. The first contradiction I had ever heard to religious doctrine (other than a few logical questions surrounding the existence of God). And how exactly did this come about?

Teacher: …now, I know what you’re thinking: you read the Bible, and God made men and women. No, no, no. You see, all of us came from apes…

Much of this is pieced from memories, but the “no, no, no” stands out; that’s exactly how my 2nd grade teacher discounted religious history, throwing it from his mind as if it were nonsense.

I guess that really was where it all started for me. My teacher provided logical answers to my questions. The Bible provided confusion, uncertainty. Guess which one I chose? Several years later, and I was posting quotes on my bedroom door for my parents to read before they woke me for church, quotes highlighting the evils of forced religious beliefs – though I wasn’t an atheist, I knew I didn’t want to be told what to believe, and being told to go to church was tantamount to that. If you had asked me, I probably would have said I was an atheist, if only to rebel. In my heart of hearts, I probably still believed in a higher power, but going against the fold is what every normal teenager aspires to do.

In the case of religion, however, I saw where my “beliefs” were taking me: isolation. My school was probably 2/3rds Jewish, the rest a smattering of Christians, Muslims, Hindus (didn’t really come up, but I can see it now). Talks of anything anti-religion just resulted in a shouting match with my father, and looks of pity from my mother, so I learned to keep my mouth shut. Fake it. Go to church when the situation called for it. Not say a word. If I had spoken out enough, I probably wouldn’t have been in the Boy Scouts to reach the Eagle rank: atheists, or even non-Christians, are generally not allowed (sidenote: I know there are plenty of Jewish scouts and those of other faiths, but Scouting essentially established itself as a private organization based on Christian beliefs; try getting the “God and Country” insignia as a Muslim).

As a rule, I probably kept this silent behavior up the longest; for some reason, people don’t like it when you poke holes in the logic of their sacred books. It’s better to just smile and nod rather than disagree, keep your opinion to yourself when it comes to something so polarized. After all, you can’t change the minds of some people. Even in the face of overwhelming evidence or painfully simple reasoning, they just won’t listen. If I were to have a public debate with a Christian fundamentalist, my opening statement would be something like:

“Welcome. I should point out, if you wish to continue, that at any point during these talks, I’m willing to admit everything I’ve ever known and believed in is wrong, should you convince me with proper reasoning and evidence. Can you say the same?”

What fundamentalist could?

“We believe in evolution because the evidence supports it, and we would abandon it overnight if new evidence arose to disprove it. No real fundamentalist would ever say anything like that.”
The God Delusion, Richard Dawkins

Though all this talk is very much anti-religion, I have to point out that I’m probably not an atheist by Dawkins’ standards. I couldn’t really think of any appropriate label until I started reading up on Einstein’s take on religion, as well as those of American’s founding fathers. All had to maintain a semblance of established religious beliefs in a world that wasn’t ready to hear otherwise, I guess that still isn’t ready (we may have elected an African-American president, but would you have voted for an atheist? Oh, the horror!)

For me, following the ideas in established religious texts like the Bible, the Koran, the Book of Mormon, etc, is a complete and total waste of time. Moderates pick and choose which stories to consider in forming a foundation of morality, and fundamentalists’ virtues are so screwed up by following the texts literally they have become the subject of ridicule and pity by the mainstream (thank God, so to speak): e.g. murdering workers at abortion clinics, starting holy wars, suicide bombers, attacking homosexuals. Keeping an open mind is a fair choice, but unlike Dawkins, I don’t believe everything should be confined to what we can see and hear, what we can base on scientific findings. I do like the “prime mover” argument: like it or not, something started the universe. Maybe it was God. Maybe it wasn’t. But I can tell you right now, no one has a clue one way or the other, nor are we likely to anytime soon. In that respect, I believe that there may have been something or someone to jump-start existence; I don’t believe it is a man in a white beard listening to everyone’s thoughts and tallying their actions to be judged after death. Death is just as big a mystery, one, again, we are not any closer to solving.

I know I’m leaving more questions than statements, but that’s entirely the point. My religion is about the power of the mind, just as Einstein’s was. Leaving a part of the universe open to mystery and interpretation. Having everything so quantifiable, as Dawkins suggests, really takes the poetry out of life. So I suppose no western religion really fits that criteria. As Sam Harris said in The End of Faith, just try to find something in the Bible comparable to the Buddha’s teachings… impossible. Buddhism and most eastern religions utilize the oldest tool available for study: the mind, and how best to reach its potential. Although I live on a traditional Theravada monastery in New Zealand, I don’t bow to the Buddha statue as a believer would to an idol. Nor do I follow all the tenets of the monastic code. But I am here academically, studying the words of the Buddha and how he believes one can become aware of past lives and escaping rebirth.

Is this the only answer, Buddhism? Hardly. But it fits the bill better than anything I have yet encountered. I’m all for expanding scientific knowledge and looking for “the meaning of everything”, but I believe (there’s that word again) that the pursuit of such things is in itself more valuable than the answers. Maybe there really is a human soul, something we will into existence by consciousness alone; maybe there is a kind of “God”, who snapped her fingers to create the universe; maybe this is all a dream in the mind of a really fat kid, and once he wakes up, we’ll no longer exist, and he’ll have a craving for ice cream.

Your thoughts?

I’ll say it again: Japanese culture is stalking me. Not only was I able to find a cherry blossom festival in the heart of New Zealand, but my next destination was, unknown to me, the site of most of the filming of The Last Samurai. I know what you’re thinking… Japanese stars, based in Japan, why not just film over there? Well, they did a little:

- Katsumoto’s temple is in fact the Shoshazan Engyoji Temple in Himeji
- The fake Imperial Palace is the Chionin Temple in Kyoto

But by and large, the the majority of scenes were shot in New Plymouth in the Taranaki region, the so-called “Texas of New Zealand” by Lonely Planet for its rich oil deposits. I think I’ll just stick with the local expression and call it “Naki.” Much more concise, don’t you think?

I arrived alone in a dark alley to walk the 2.5 kilometers to my Couchsurfing host’s flat north of town. Although Ryan and his mates were very hospitable once I knocked on their door, I wish I had dragged my feet a little… they were in the middle of a Patrick Swayze movie tribute, and I have to say Point Break really, really sucks. Nevertheless, after my days and nights spent with organic hippie WWOOFers and a few female Couchsurfers, it felt great to hang around guys my own age again, a breath of fresh air. I also learned that one of their flatmates was none other than Jason Eaton, a great All Blacks rugby player whom I would meet the next day.

Sooo… the Naki…. New Plymouth is hardly the center of nightlife for the Taranaki region, but I must admit I was impressed with the walkabouts available to me: climbing Mt. Taranaki (snow-capped at the time), taking a run along the Coastal Walkway into town (trail runs about 10 km), and hiking to the top of Paritutu hillock, nicknamed “Mt. Suicide” for its extremely sheer rock facing the sea. Probably the best place next to Mt. Taranaki to get a decent shot of the city.

Back to The Last Samurai – the “battle in the fog” scenes were filmed in Mangamahoe Forest north of town, but in Pukekura Sports Ground of Pukekura Park, you can see where Tom Cruise ordered a Japanese soldier in training to shoot him. Mt. Taranaki acted on behalf of Mt. Fuji, and was paid $87 million, which it used as fertilizer.

I have to say this excursion was more of an experience in Couchsurfing than in seeing New Plymouth. Although I enjoyed the city and the local mineral pools…

…I was confined to the flat after it rained for a solid two days. Nothing but internet and watching Jason play rugby… on Playstation. Funny stuff, if you think about it. The guys were really sweet as, taking me boarding along the walkway as the sun set, introducing me to the Naki Burger at the Crowded House pub: a dish so large I doubt given the biggest loudmouth on the planet could get his chompers around it. Beef, bread, cheese, tomato, onion, egg, bacon, lettuce, dressing… I’m sure I’m missing something.

If you do surf with Ryan, take your country’s flag with you and he’ll raise it on his flagpole. I only wish I had had one of Texas to donate to their cause, but I settled for teaching them Texas Hold ‘Em over bowls of kava… sweet as. Kava, to those of you unfamiliar with the exploits of J. Maarten Troost, is a drink common to the south Pacific islands, a root traditional chewed by young boys, mixed with their saliva, and added to a little water and spice. Think of a hallucinogen with a lot more ooomph; Troost was out of it for two days when he tried his first bowl. As ours was powdered and imported, I only got the sense of it numbing my senses slightly… and tasting like really dirty water. Worth the experience, though – maybe if you drink more something will happen. And you can always, I mean always, say to the pretty girl next to you: “Maybe it’s kava talking, sweetheart, but I think…”

Kava bowl, by ANZ Cluster Munition Coalition

In the states, you can get spicy mustard, spinach leaves, and several kinds of cheese (not to mention the meatball subs). The restaurants are as far reaching as Praesidio, Texas.

In Japan, the bread is cut a little more neatly, the dressings added in precise proportions, and the servings of chocolate chip cookies and drinks surprisingly small (but adequate); Subway is one of the few places in Nippon where one can enjoy decent turkey.

Subway in Japan, nata2

So when I first arrived in Palmerston North (Palmy as it is known around NZ), it came as no surprise that Kiwis would offer the meat they have in abundances in the greatest sandwich chain to traverse the globe: lamb. Lamb subs… still sounds classy.

Furthermore, stores and even major restaurants in New Zealand towns tend to shut down rather early by US standards; if you’re arriving after 5:30, it’s a safe bet every door will be closed, and it’s unlikely you could even find a coffee shop to enjoy some free wifi. Maybe that’s another reason Americans gain so much weight – we have late night drive-thrus, restaurants open until 11 or 12, and food carts greeting us after a crazy time clubbing. As of yet, I have seen no such food carts in Kiwi territory. Subway in Palmy, as an apparent exception to the rule, keeps its reputation as the place to go after the pubs kick you out: they close at 3 AM, but Subway stays open until 4.

In any case, my main motivation for heading to Palmy wasn’t sandwiches but sakura, the Japanese cherry blossoms. I had been WWOOFing with a great family in Wanganui when a friendly Twitterer informed me that one of my favorite pastimes – eating meat on a stick with pretty girls in kimono looking at cherry blossom trees – would be available in Palmerston North, only about an hour away. Of course I had to partake, especially when I talked my attractive tell-it-like-it-is Couchsuring host into joining me. I’ll say it again: I think I’m destined to be with a Kiwi girl. I love their attitudes and accents.

The Sakura Festival was held at the International Pacific College (IPC) just outside of town. I was expecting the crowd to be mostly Japanese, surprised to find most in attendance were Chinese and Korean. No complaints, however, as the trees were in few bloom, only a few past their prime. The festival included traditional Japanese classes like calligraphy, tea ceremony (and Pokemon), but there were also rooms showcasing Thai, Indian, Russian, Chinese, Taiwanese, Korean, and New Zealand culture: a room full of All Blacks merchandise and pictures of Kiwi birds… nice.

Walking under the falling pedals of the blossoms did bring back some happy memories of my time on Yoshinoyama, but the ambience in Palmy just didn’t do it for me; I suggested to my host that we move on after a few hours, and she already had a few ideas in the works…

Woodville is the windmill capital of New Zealand, or so the sign on the north side of town would have you believe. Te Apiti, the wind farm itself, is atop a range overlooking Palmy. Despite the wind (well… duh), cold weather, and promise of rain, there were a few other onlookers who had driven the distance to pray none of those huge blades come loose and strike them dead… hey, you try standing underneath one of those things and see if you can think of anything but the elephant.

Overall impressions? Palmy seems to be a town with boy racers on the square at all hours, a few decent pubs like The Grand and the Celtic Inn, and not much else. Best to hold out hope for a festival or just chill at the bar drinking JD and Coke. One note: Palmys do tend to take their bicycle security seriously:

Your English lesson for the day:

• British, pavement
• Kiwi, footpath
• American, sidewalk