Vending Machines Japanese Style

Most visitors to Japan are not long out of Narita Airport before discovering that among other eye-popping sights greatly visible armies of vending machines stand in squad-like clusters on every other corner. Plain and simple, the Japanese adore vending machines. No question that companies like Georgia (Coca Cola), Kirin and Glico have over the years created a market that is hugely served by a near epidemic of vending machines from one end of Japan to the other, across cities and countryside. When the 100 yen coin was first put into circulation in 1967, vending machine sales skyrocketed overnight. They have been a part of daily Japanese life for so long that it wouldn’t surprise me to hear of Japanese visitors to the US suffering withdrawal symptoms. It may not be an exaggeration to say that many Japanese children learn how to operate a vending machine before learning to tie their shoelaces.

Back when I was still new to Japan, maybe a week or two after my arrival, my first time of using one of several vending machines near where I lived turned out to be a memorable experience. When I dropped a 100 yen coin in the slot, the machine—half the size of a Buick—lit up like a pinball machine and belted out, “WELCOME AND THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING DAIDO!” The enormous thing practically shimmied and I had to walk around to the back to see if a woman was hiding there with a megaphone. There was also in my old neighborhood one vending machine that sold nothing but comic books.

Ice cream, cold drinks, beer, cigarettes and other staples are only the tip of the iceberg in the land that gave us karaoke. Machine contents are often decided in relation to location. Near schools there are more juice, tea and milk products; in front of liquor stores you’ll find machines with alcoholic beverages, cigarettes and soft drinks. Wander into Kabukicho, a Tokyo center of nightlife and you are more likely to find machines selling items of a more adult nature, such as neatly packaged worn, but unwashed panties. Over the years there I saw a range of goods including eggs, oranges, fried food, live lobsters, pornography, sexual lubricants and pot plants.

Whatever they are selling, vending machines in the big cities of Japan are state of the art hi-tech behemoths. For example, to prevent minors from buying cigarettes and alcohol, many machines are now engineered to read ‘proof of age’ cards before dispensing the product. Cell phones can be charged with ‘money’ to allow use with vending machines by swiping the phone across a sensor. An article from CNN today reports installation in some cities of solar powered vending machines operable 24 hours a day.

And the new item for sale in these machines now? Would you believe lettuce?

Last, and by no means least, there were 5.6 million vending machines in Japan in 2008, or one machine for every twenty-three people. You never have to walk far to buy a Coke, a beer, a pair of boxer shorts, or a pair of…

“More coffee?”

Poets will from time to time take themselves and their work too seriously, pulling their readers down by the heaviness of words and lines that scream out, “This is poetry.” Poet Charles Bukowski will very probably never be accused of that. From Bone Palace Ballet: New Poems (1997) — One small sample of Bukowski humor.

COFFEESHOP

she has served me and I am eating. “is everything all right?” she asks.

“yes, thank you…”

“more coffee?”

“all right…”

I am reading the paper and eating. “cream?” she asks.

“no, thanks…”

she pours the coffee. 5 minutes pass. she is back

“is everything all right?”

“yes.”

“more coffee?”

“no.”

“are you going to try one of our desserts?”

“no, thank you…”

“come on, you only live once!”

“yes, I know…”

she leaves again. but not for long.

“you care for more rolls?”

“no, thank you…”

“did you like the turkey?”

“yes.”

“you ought to try our roast beef.”

“you mean now?”

“no, next time.”

she just stands there. “I saw you in here the other day with your daughter.”

“that was my wife.”

“oh, you’re married…”

“yes.”

“more coffee?”

“all right.”

“you take cream?”

“no cream.”

she comes back and pours the coffee. then leaves,

I try it. it’s unbearably strong. they don’t clean the coffee maker.

it’s time to leave, I need the bill. I look for the waitress. I don’t see her anywhere.

I read the paper: mass murderer boils the heads for soup.

the bus boy comes by, picks up my plate, leaves the bad coffee.

then he comes back carrying the coffee container.

“more coffee?”

“no, thanks, have you seen the waitress?”

“no.”

“where is she?”

“I don’t know.” he walks off.

I sit waiting. nobody appears. I get up from the table to go look for the waitress.

I find her just outside the kitchen, she’s smoking a cigarette and talking to the cook.

“waitress,” I ask, “can I have the check?”

“oh yes,” she smiles.

I go back and sit down. she arrives with the check. she’s signed her name at the bottom,

“thanks! Carolyn.” she has drawn a little smiling face.

she puts down the check on top of a wet spot.

“more coffee?”

“no, thanks.”

“was everything all right?”

“yes.”

she walks off. I leave a tip, go to the register, pay the bill.

the owner is behind the register. she takes my money, hands me the change without looking at me. she is an older woman, a bit on the heavy side. still looking at something else in front of her she asks, “was everything all right?”

“yes,” I answer and go out the door and into the street and into the world, never to return there again, not in this life or any life. I find my car, get in, drive away thinking, now if that wasn’t hell then hell isn’t going to be so bad.

Cold Sculpture

Not long after climbing out of bed this morning a new sound muscles its way through the walls. It is the grind and chomp of big machines chewing up the parking lot 500 feet away. There is promise of a new parking lot by the end of this week, a Christmas gift of shiny new surfaces with newly painted lines and numbers. Cold work for the Santas riding those machines, as temperatures continue to slide around between 25 and 39° here on the edge of the water. Cold, though no one can say it’s not beautiful. The view from this hand hammered work table under my elbows is scintillating, as it normally is when the morning light is strong and clear.

But the cold. Following my recently changed custom of exercising later, about an hour after lunch I spend some time walking on the beach. No other person in sight, north or south for a distance of about five miles. Even the bird life is sparse and over the course of miles, the most seen are maybe ten or twelve birds. By now the unexpected has become what could be called the ‘expected unexpected,’ a matter of almost knowing that something along the sandy path will surprise me in an unforeseeable or unpredictable way.

Not long into my windy ramble I come across a bird in the familiar pose of sleep or rest, legs tucked under, breast down on the sand. I think it odd that the bird doesn’t spring up and either fly or scamper away at my approach. But then, how does a frozen bird fly away? Soon after I begin to notice catfish, first one, then another and soon a dozen dead or dying at surf’s edge. A thought comes that maybe for this particular fish the coldness of the water triggered some ancient instinct, telling them to seek warmer, shallower water warmed by sunlight. That might lead to the fish being washed onto dry sand by the surf. Whatever the cause, I notice over a dozen catfish washed up, and only one or two of those carcasses providing a meal for the scant birds on this cold day. What would normally be a feast for the gathered birds is now too much for those remaining.

New to me is the tiredness that comes sooner from walking any distance on a cold beach. The sweater, jacket and hood are fine, but the unceasing wind is a ball and chain on the legs. The press against such wind is wearing, but all around me the wind creates what looks like beautiful bas reliefs in the sand, shapes that resemble powdery temporary sculptures shifting and reshaping themselves by the hour. They are arresting designs perhaps special to this time of year when the wind gusts and swirls in a singular way. Though cold and beginning to drag, the sight of these natural designs adds something extra to this December walk.

Cold Weather Fare

Not sure that I ever imagined temperatures in the low 20s when I decided to live at the beach. Long tired of icy winters in Japan, I figured all that would be behind me once I moved to sunny Florida. Weather here today made me rethink those ideas of a slightly cold, but often warm winter at the beach. 42° as I write this, with the bottom falling out tonight when the forecast is for a 17° drop. Now wait a minute. 25° in mid-December? The forecast for Tokyo is 46°! It’s pretty clear by now that I am not a cold weather person. Talk to me about Chicago and Minneapolis, Green Bay…No, that’s outer space weather and well beyond my travel borders for this time of year. As it is, I’m starting to think Christmas in Aruba might be nice.

While walking on the beach today (sweater, hoodie and lined jacket—wind is strong out there) the thought came to me that this is the perfect day for a big, bubbling pot of chili. And lucky me, that’s one of the eight or nine recipes I can handle with little bother and high hopes. Probably true that there are a dozen or more variations and styles of chili con carne, but one that has proven itself to me over the years is from the old New York Times Cook Book by Craig Claiborne. This is another of those books that has followed me around over the years, always finding a place in the boxes going from one place to another. So, I pulled that down from a kitchen shelf and made a shopping list. This recipe is one that requires three hours of slow cooking, and not the thing for quick dinners. Still, the process is uncomplicated and easy to carry through. And provided you don’t shop for ingredients at Whole Foods or Takashimaya, not too expensive.

CHILI CON CARNE • HERE’S WHAT YOU NEED:

3 tablespoons butter or olive oil

1 large onion, minced

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 pound chopped beef

3 cups water

1⅓ cups canned tomatoes

1 green pepper, minced

½ teaspoon celery seed

¼ teaspoon cumin seed, crushed

1 small bay leaf

2 tablespoons chili powder

½ handful chopped fresh basil

1½ teaspoons salt

PUTTING THE CHILI TOGETHER:

Heat the butter or the olive oil in a skillet, add the onion and garlic and sauté until golden brown. Add the meat and brown. Transfer the meat mixture to a large soup pot and add the remaining ingredients. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat and simmer, uncovered, until the sauce is as thick as desired, or about three hours. A can of kidney beans can be added just before serving, if desired.

When you are ready to serve the chili, prepare a few extras to put on the table. A bowl of chopped raw onion, another of grated cheddar cheese, and a plate of warmed flour tortillas wrapped in a napkin will fill out the chili for those who like to add a little something extra. Saltine crackers are a good alternative for those who don’t want tortillas.

This is a hearty meal that is near perfect on a cold and frosty day. ¡Muy delicioso

Odd Weather

JOURNAL ENTRY: One of those days that don’t count for much. Strong wind blew the Christmas tree over. Bought a box of cards, thought about making a list and didn’t. Odd weather on the beach, or maybe not, since this is my first December here, with no experience of ‘up in the air’ weather days I would call odd elsewhere. At 11:00 this morning I walked a long stretch on the beach wearing shorts and T-shirt. Had I waited two hours jeans and a sweater might have been too little to keep warm.

Work done around the place yesterday stands out in ways I wouldn’t have guessed. Freshly painted surfaces everywhere, trees and plants tidily clipped and groomed, and a welcome freshness about everything. Chances are good that others in the work crew also woke up creaky and sore. Felt good to sit in my reading chair with the new Julia Glass novel, The Widower’s Tale, read a handful of pages and drift into a long nap. I woke to dark clouds and the sound of wind and rain.

Nothing Happened

There are times when the end of a workday is long in coming. Saturday was one of those days and from early morning to late afternoon I was captive to a paint bucket and brush. Community spirit at the beach today. By this point I’ve seen enough green paint and flaking doors to last me awhile. But at least painting somewhere off by oneself allows time for the mind to wander and now and then to dwell on comfortable thoughts. Somewhere between the twenty-third and forty-sixth front door my mind turned to a poem by Barbara Crooker I happened upon earlier this week. It wasn’t the first occasion for me to come back to the poem, since the poet’s lines have been in and out of my thoughts off and on throughout the week. The first time was the day I read the poem to Jewel, my 94 year-old friend. When I read the poem and reached the last line, her immediate comment was, “Why, that’s beautiful!” My guess is that most would agree.

The poem comes from a 2001 collection by Barbara Crooker, “Ordinary Life” and is a plain narrative in unadorned language of the joy that can be found in the prosaic movements of an ordinary day. The poet uses words of daily expression to narrate the uneventful happenings in a day that passes unmarked by anything other than quiet joy and contentment.

Crooker’s book, Ordinary Life is currently unavailable through major booksellers, is out of print and likely hard to find, but the poem “Ordinary Life” is part of the Garrison Keillor compilation, Good Poems for Hard Times.

ORDINARY LIFE

This was a day when nothing happened,

the children went off to school
without a murmur, remembering
their books, lunches, gloves.
All morning, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blended into naptime,
I cleaned out kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that never gets done,
then sat in a circle of sunlight
and drank ginger tea,
watched the birds at the feeder
jostle over lunch's little scraps.
A pheasant strutted from the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jeweled head.
Now a chicken roasts in the pan,
and the children return,
the murmur of their stories dappling the air.
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no bickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa's ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken's diminished to skin & skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard cold knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night.

The Democracy of Nature

Not every walk on the beach holds promise of sights that inspire or elicit praise of nature’s beauty. It is at times a cruel environment that on occasion exhibits a reminder of the axiom, ‘survival of the fittest.’ In these human eyes life at the water’s edge is often viewed through a perspective perhaps a shade romantic and far from the up close reality of the life forms that call it home. In another world our textbooks and politicians talk about democracy, but those words and descriptions bear little resemblance to the true democracy of nature. For here, in the natural world beyond human intervention is real democracy, one that recognizes no distinctions in the turning of its coils, that cares little for weakness, kindness or empathy, and goes about its business as casually as we would swat a fly.

More than once I have written of my enchantment with the pelicans that soar up and down this beach day after day unending. To my eye and my understanding of the concept, their flight exemplifies perfect grace, and there is never a time when I might ignore their overhead passage, or their long low glides over the ocean’s surface.

I have heard that for pelicans aging is especially unkind, that blindness followed by starvation is too often their fate. The daily and countless dives into salt water eventually destroy their vision, leaving them helpless to find fish and feed themselves. But here again is the survival of the fittest.

Today I came upon a recently dead young pelican. From the appearance of the bird, a male, he had died there on the beach no more than four or five hours earlier. The wind was strong and blown sand had layered much of his body, but there was nothing to indicate a frailness or cause of death. As I approached, a vulture, itself sleek and handsome and unlike its ugly cousins elsewhere, was pulling at the pelican. He flew off, but some time later on my return northward, it had come back and called its mate as well, the two of them busy over the pelican’s body.

In his poem “Out, Out—”Robert Frost wrote: ‘No more to build on there. And they since they were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.’ Words that sound unfeeling, but reminding us that in certain things we are helpless.

So I left the pelican to his fate, turning for home.