Taken by the Wind » Culture Shock

Help! I Was Born in the Wrong Country!

Reannon Muth — Sat, 20 Nov 2010 23:05:01 +0000

Flag Girl by Brittany Randolf

”The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.”
– Maya Angelou

Since I wrote that post about personality types and their corresponding countries, a lot of you have found this site through google-searching “Where in the world do I belong?” or “My country doesn’t match my personality type.”

Apparently, there are quite a number of you who feel as though the stork got lost while on his way to say, Fiji and dropped you off in Finland or France or Fallujah instead. Well, that sucks. And I hear ya. I’ve often wondered if a country like Spain (with it’s siestas and 36-day of yearly paid vacation time) wouldn’t perhaps have been a better cultural fit for my vagabond ways than my motherland (Land of the Free, Home of the Work-Enslaved).

The author of the book Geography of Bliss: One Grumps Search for the Happiest Places in the World, Eric Weiner, has a term for this. He refers to people who’ve found a better cultural fit in a country other than their birth-place, ‘hedonic refugees’. As he explains, hedonic refugees are “not political refugees, escaping a repressive regime, nor economic refugees, crossing a border in search of a better-paying job. They are hedonic refugees, moving to a new land, a new culture, because they are happier there. Usually, hedonic refugees have an epiphany, a moment of great clarity when they realize, beyond a doubt, that they were born in the wrong country.”

For me, that epiphany came when I was 15. I’d just returned from spending a summer studying abroad in Chiba, Japan and although I knew that Japan wasn’t where I was meant to spend the rest of my life, I knew without a doubt that the US wasn’t either. While my peers were busy plotting what they’d wear to prom, I was in the school library pouring over the encyclopedia and plotting future trips to Paris and Peru. ‘Operation: Move Abroad and Live Happily Ever After’ was in full-swing and now, 30 countries and 13 years later, it’s nowhere near completion. I still haven’t found a country to call ’home’ and I’m beginning to think that I never will. Which, perhaps, at least according to Eric Weiner, isn’t such a bad thing.

“What to do with this information?” He asks after detailing the phenomenon of ‘cultural fit’. “Should we administer cultural-compatibility tests to high school students, the way we used to test for career compatibility? I can imagine the phone call from the school guidance counselor. “Hi, Mrs. Williams, we’ve tested little Johnnie and determined that he would fit in perfectly in Albania. He’d really be much happier there. A flight leaves at 7:00 p.m. Should I go ahead and make that booking for you?

Of course not. Just because the culture fits doesn’t mean we should wear it, and, besides, every society needs its cultural misfits. It is these people – those who are partially though not completely alienated from their own culture – who produce great art and science. Einstein, a German Jew, was a cultural misfit. We all benefit from Einstein’s work…”

He has a point. I imagine that if I ever did manage to find a country filled with people identical in personality to me, I probably wouldn’t want to live there. If such a country existed, I’d imagine that it probably wouldn’t fare too well for the simple fact that there’d never be anyone there to run-it. At any given time, half of the country’s population would probably be sitting in a park somewhere in London or Los Angeles and on every restaurant or storefront window would read the sign: “Gone on a vacation break. Be back in 5-10 days”.

I guess the point I’m trying to make is that you could devote your entire life to traveling the world to find that soul-mate of cities or that country you were destined to spend happily ever after with and maybe you’ll luck out and find it. Author David Sedaris (an American in Paris) did. As did Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Madonna, Johnny Depp, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Pamela Anderson.

Or…

You could save yourself the trouble and devote your energy to learning to love the country you’re in. Embrace your outsider status. And let that freak flag fly.

For more information on hedonic refugees, read an interview with Eric Weiner on World Hum.

Dating When You’re A Broad: It Ain’t Easy!

Reannon Muth — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 20:08:03 +0000

A Couple in the Dark by Carlo Nicora

I don’t write about my dating life on this blog much (or at all, really). When you write about your life on the Internet, you gotta draw the line somewhere and I guess that line for me is discussing details of Relationships Past, Present or Future. I think it’s important to respect people’s privacy, which is why I don’t write about my friends or family much either (other than the occasional, casual mention). That, and most people I know aren’t as comfortable sharing their lives with faceless strangers from the Internet.

Fair enough. Sometimes I’m not even sure I’m comfortable with it, especially when I’m applying for jobs and some of my most personal thoughts and feelings are only a Google-search away from a prospective employer’s eyes. It’s an odd feeling to walk into a job interview and wonder if the manager seated before you has read about that time you set off the fire alarm in the shower or the time James Franco almost fell in love with you. It’s situations like that that make me wonder if I’d be better off blogging anonymously.

Especially when I get concerned phone calls from my parents that begin with: “I read your blog today…about how you got into a fight with the photocopy machine again….” And end with: “Reannon, are you sure you’re okay?”

Recently I broke my vow of silence though and submitted a piece to Vagabondish about how tough it was being single in Tokyo. I actually wrote the piece over a year ago, while I was still living in Japan and submitted it to a few Japan-based magazines and webzines and was told (and I quote) “We get pitched this idea too often.” While it was reassuring to know that I wasn’t the only one who found the dating prospects in Japan to be well, limited to say the least, it was also perplexing. If there were other women writing about how they had trouble finding a date in Tokyo, why wasn’t anyone publishing anything about it?

Well, if you were like I was a year ago, a single girl in Japan suffering through both Valentine’s Day (and the equally offensive White Day) with only your boyfriend pillow for company, well you can rest assured that at least there were – and still are – others suffering along side you.

Like one of my favorite bloggers, Sarah Marchildon of The Hollywood North Report, for example. She writes about her dating pitfalls in Japan far better than I ever could (they’re equal parts hilarious and depressing) and provides details that I’d be far too embarrassed to have splashed on the Internet. I’m grateful that she had the courage to include them. My favorite posts of hers were Man Hunt and Man Hunt: Part II.

And then there’s my article: No Sex in the City: What it’s like to be Female and Foreign in Japan.

It’s ironic that some of the qualities that make it possible for western women to move to a foreign country by themselves to begin with (their strength and independence, for instance) are the same qualities that damn them to lives of celibacy once they get there. My male friends have claimed that I’m stereotyping men everywhere with this theory, so you’ll have to let me know what you think. But it’s my opinion that the reason women have trouble dating (locals and foreigners alike) while abroad is that men (in general) are intimidated and threatened by women who are independent and emotionally strong enough to pack up and ship off half way across the world alone.

I could be wrong (and I seriously hope I am, because being right would mean that I’m never going to find a boyfriend ever again) but this article about which sports men find sexiest, certainly suggests that I could be onto something. According to a poll of 6,000 people, which was conducted by Sam Murphy and Richard Wiseman (a fitness expert and a professor from the UK), men ranked aerobics, pilates, ‘going to the gym’ and running as the sexiest female sports. Women, on the other hand, found rock-climbing to be the physical activity they found most attractive on men (an activity that unlike ‘going to the gym’ is an actual sport). Professor Wiseman’s theory for the difference in gender-preferences was this:

“Women’s choices appear to reflect the type of psychological qualities that they find attractive – such as bravery and a willingness to take on challenges – whilst men are more shallow, looking for a woman who is physically fit but not challenging their ego by being overly strong.”

So brave men who read this blog, what do you think? Do you find women who live (or have lived) abroad ‘challenging to your ego’ or is this all a bunch of feminist BS?

The 999th Reason Why I Hate Kanji

Reannon Muth — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 09:58:00 +0000

I woke up this morning at seven, stepped into the shower, and sleepily pushed the button that turns on the hot water heater.

Or so I thought.

Suddenly the bathroom erupted into chaos. Sirens blared, an automated computer voice started shouting instructions at me through the vent over the bathtub and I screamed in terror.

Apparently the button located near the hot water heater wasn’t outlined in pink because it symbolized ‘heat’, but because it was the emergency call button. I’d just unwittingly notified the doorman, the receptionist and possibly the police, that I was having a heart attack in the bathtub.

Niiice

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, But Reannon, how could you have not known that was the kanji for ‘call’?

I know. I know. It’s so obviously a picture of a one-legged man holding a baby and hopping away from an erupting volcano. I mean, clearly. I don’t know how I ever misinterpreted that to be anything other than ‘call for help.’

The only thing I can in say my defense was that I was still half asleep, which is also really the only logical explanation for what happened next.

I could hear the intercom buzzing so I grabbed a towel and dashed towards the front door and was confronted with a flashing, beeping, vibrating intercom system with no less than 10 buttons, all of which were labeled in kanji.

Damn.

I did what I normally do in these types of situations and I panicked. I punched every button, pausing for a second after each one to shout: ‘moshi moshi!’ into the microphone.

I like to think that if I’d been more awake or less frantic I would have stopped before hitting the bright orange button baring this symbol:

It’s a man with an afro standing next to a tee pee…and they’re both on fire!

But as it happened, I wasn’t and so I didn’t.

Yes, I set off the fire alarm.

Cue an intense moment of cursing as I stood in my bath towel and noted the sprinkler system and the sea of fancy electronic equipment below it. A flat screen TV, a Mac laptop, a DVD player and a playstation. And none of them belonged to me because this wasn’t my apartment. I’d been entrusted with the responsibility of safe-guarding my friend’s bazillion dollar Roppongi mansion with explicit instructions to ‘not set the place on fire’…and I was about to do quite the opposite; drown it in a flood of water.

“Moshi, moshi! I yelled into the intercom. “It was a mistake!”

Damn. I forgot the Japanese word for mistake. “Misutaiku!” I yelled, pronouncing the English word with a Japanese accent.

“Chotto Matte (Just a moment),” came the reply. And then the line went dead. And two minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

I only had enough time to quickly rearrange my towel back into place before I watched in horror as the front door clicked open and in walked a police officer.

Talk about embarrassing. Not only do I have to be ‘that idiot gajin who can’t read’ but I have to be caught wearing nothing but a towel with sopping wet hair and ugly mascara tracks running down my cheeks.

Funnily enough, this has happened to me twice before. I once hit the emergency call button while looking for the ‘flush’ button in a subway station bathroom and I hit it another time while looking for the ‘open’ button to release the automatic door in a restaurant bathroom. I blame those experiences for why I’m now ueber paranoid about using public toilets.

After both incidences, I swore that I’d never make that same mistake again…and I went home that night, looked up the kanji characters in my textbook and committed them to memory.

Or…so I thought.

Flower Girl

Reannon Muth — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 01:58:00 +0000

There’s a new celebrity in town and her name is Sakura. She’s tiny, delicate, a pale shade of pink and every one’s clamoring for a chance to be photographed with her. She’s the new Paris Hilton and she’s got this country so love-struck, one could say it’s bordering on obsessive. People travel thousands of miles and camp out overnight in freezing temperatures, all just for the chance to spend a single day in her presence.

For weeks, I’ve known she was coming. Everyone from my boss to my Japanese language school have been sending me emails, waxing poetically about her beauty or else theorizing when she’d make her first appearance in Tokyo. The morning news has offered daily reports on Sakura sightings; where she’d been spotted last and educated guesses on where she’d be headed next.

I chalked it all up to yet another Japanese fad, akin to the Banana Diet of ’08 and didn’t give it much thought.

“What’s the big deal?” I said every time I clicked on the “not attending” icon to yet another ‘Sakura party’ or picnic invite on Facebook that one of my sakura-obsessed friends was hosting. “The only Sakura fans are old people,” I said in an attempt to reassure myself that I wasn’t missing out. “She’s not THAT pretty.”

But then last weekend in Kyoto, I grudgingly agreed to accompany a friend to a Sakura photoshoot. Sakura was doing a week-only special appearance in the Zen garden of a famous temple. It was agreed by most that the beauty of the peaceful, majestic and meticulously groomed Zen garden would be the best spot to photograph her. Green, yellow and blue spotlights had been set up with this in mind, and as the sun began to set, crowds of tourists descended upon the temple in eager anticipation.

“I feel like I’m in Disneyland”, I said as well paid the US $8 entrance fee and joined the throng of tourists waiting in line at the entrance.

“Shh!” my friends said, as we slipped off our shoes and followed the crowd who’s excited chatter had fallen to a hushed quiet. We tiptoed barefoot across the cold wooden temple floors and then around a corner…and there she was.

I gasped.

“Wow, oh wow,” I said, awed. “She’s like…Cinderella.” Flashbulbs went off all around us as peope pushed forward leaning over the barricade in order to get a good shot.

She stood, rooted in spot, her hair falling in long, soft tendrils across her face. It was the color and texture of soft, fluffy, pink cotton candy and was so long it nearly touched the ground. The spotlights illuminated her hair, casting the rest of her in dark shadows. The stars above her head seemed to twinkle like dainty diamond-crusted barrettes. She was gorgeous.

And I fell in love…hard. It was like that Justin Timberlake song:

“Those flashing lights seem to cause a glare
The way they hit her I just stop and stare
She’s got me love stoned from everywhere
She’s bad and she knows
I think that she knows…”

I’ve spent the last few days in this sort of love-stoned bubble of happiness. It’s true what they say, Tokyo looks a thousand times more beautiful when Sakura is around. I wander around the streets smiling like a mad-woman, sharing my sakura-spotting story with my roommates and co-workers and with the random old ladies I meet at Lawsons.

But you know what? It doesn’t even matter…because everyone around me has been bitten by the love bug as well. They understand.

In fact, Sakura has inspired…

Wedding themes…

And Fashion trends…

Even Starbucks and The Body Shop have jumped on the trend…

And you know you’ve made it when drag queens write you tribute songs…

Sakura, I heart you…

She’s a Super Freak

Reannon Muth — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 03:01:00 +0000

'A Not Unsual Tokyo Subway Scene' by Aurelio.Asian.

Two months ago, a mentally-unstable man that I met on the train in Saitama, took one look at me and announced in a loud, prophetic voice: “You are too young to be in Japan.”

Once I got over the shock of being addressed in this manner (in English!) I laughed it off, saying “Buddy, I’m a quarter of a century old!” And most days, that’s exactly how I feel; old and incredibly jaded.

But then there are other days (like today) where I feel like I’m just an insecure kid playing pretend at being this competent and capable adult. I feel like I’m at the emotional level of a 14-year -ld and that 14-ear-old is horrified at the thought that she alone is responsible for making so many important life choices. Right now, she’s staring numbly at the the myriad of flight itineraries looming on the screen before her and saying, “You want me to do WHAT? Make a decision that could potentially ruin my life? Shouldn’t you be asking a grown-up this? Why don’t you just call the guidance counselor?”

Japan seems to have a funny way of bringing that painfully self-conscious, frightened teenager out in me.

I think it’s because I feel like I’m being judged here for not conforming and for not being perfect, or even close to it. There are just so many unspoken rules. Don’t eat while walking, don’t put on makeup on the train, don’t speak what’s on your mind, don’t jaywalk, (even when it’s 3am and there isn’t a car in sight).

Everything must be done the correct way, the proper way, “the Japanese Way”. There’s a proper way to write, a proper way to hold your chopsticks, a proper way sip tea and stand in line. There’s a proper way to clean, eat, cook, arrange flowers, take a bath and even walk.

It’s like high school all over again. If your behavior doesn’t fit in with what “all the cool kids doing” you’re an ostracized freak of nature. And sometimes I feel like the biggest freak of them all.

I’m especially conscious of this fact when I’m running late to work, which happens, like, every day. I’ll be tearing down the sidewalk towards the train station, bumping into people and bicycles and construction workers as they all travel in neatly ordered rows, like giant schools of fish, all completely in sync. Then I’ll reach the station, a sweaty, disheveled mess, only to find that I’ve once again misplaced my train pass. So I’ll dump out the contents of my bag onto the ground in front of the turnstile and bouncy balls, pieces of chalk, 50 dollars worth of coins and tiny animal magnets will scatter everywhere. People will slow down to watch as I frantically search for that tiny plastic card and I’ll feel the magnitude of their negative, critical thoughts which radiate off of them, like, “Ha. What’s that girl doing? What a Frrrreeeeaaak.”

Then I’ll get on the train and I’ll get these side-long glances. Quick, yet assessing. And I’ll do an appearance check: How do I look from a Japanese person’s perspective? And I’ll notice the mis-matched socks, the white-out and glue stains on my black pants, and the scuffed shoes with the holes in the souls which are taped up with masking tape.

And then I’ll look around at the other women, dressed in perfectly pressed designer label suits with faces made-up like runway models, and every exquisitely highlighted strand of hair neatly styled into place. And I’m reminded once again of just how much I don’t belong here.

My friends insist that this is all in my head. That if people do look at me, it’s only out of a passing curiosity. They aren’t critiquing or criticizing me. While they’re probably right, this feeling of self-consciousness, of not measuring up to their standards, is a hard one shake. Especially when most days I feel like a mildly-retarded illiterate with a permanent seat on the “short bus”.

Take today, for example. I got into a dramatic, drawn-out, hysterical cat fight with a photo-copy machine. It stubornly refused to cut me any slack for not being able to read kanji. So I cursed it out, pushing all of it’s buttons until it completely shut down and refused to talk to me.

I felt guilty afterwards so I tried to reach some sort of mutual compromise. I brought out my

kanji book and spent the next hour peering over the little screen and carefully counting each of the microscopic, intersecting lines that made up each Chinese character. I then patiently scanned the index of my kanji book, searching for something that even slightly resembled one of the scribble-scrabble hieroglyphics on the screen, but had no such luck.

I cried, cursing the evil bastards who decided to make the copy machine gaijin-proof and the Chinese person responsible for bringing his impossibly difficult written language to this island in the first place.

Later, the owner of the cram school gave me the polite, Japanese version of “What the Hell did you do to my copy machine?” And like a 14-year- old caught cutting gym class, I mumbled, red-faced: “Um. Well. You see…There were a bunch of buttons…and the Kanji…Well.”

As I type this, I’m sitting in my icebox of an apartment, shivering in a coat, gloves, ski hat and scarf, because I can’t figure out how to work the heater. My roommate has gone AWOL and I’ve tried to google the kanji character for ‘heat’, ‘heater’ and ‘hot’ but can’t find anything that matches the symbols on the remote.

I explained some of these frustrations to my mom the other day over the phone. “Reannon, why do you continually do this to yourself?” was her exasperated response. “Why do you have to make your life so hard?”

Hmm…good question. I have no idea. I just consulted the 14-year-old on that but she just rolled her eyes and said that my mom doesn’t know what she’s talking about.