Tuesday, January 30
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Banking Part Two
I tried calling the bank today. After several attempts, all of them ended in "This number is no longer in service." I even called the operator for instructions.
Finally I realized that the number I was given was 03 as the area code, but after researching, Tokyo's area code is just 3. I called trying that using one of those 10 10 dialing out discount phone services and got a young Japanese woman answer the phone. Her greeting was probably about 15 seconds long to which I said "Eigo ga Hanasemas ka?" (Do you speak English). She said "Mushi Mushi" and then hung up. Of course it wasn't clear that she hung up so I was talking to air for awhile.
Either very harsh or she couldn't hear me. It's probably the latter, so my advice is to not use 10-10-719, Startec, it sucks.
I tried just using the conventional 011 81 area code + phone number and I got the same person again. This time I said my sentence very loudly in case she couldn't hear me last time. She replied "Iie." I was waiting and hoping for her to append "Chotto matte Kudasai" (Please wait a moment). But there was nothing but silence. I filled it with disappointment: "uhhhhhhhh oooohhhkay. No one?" She replied "Hai." I hung up. I will try again in one hour.
Update I'm beginning to believe no one at the bank will speak english well enough to confidently perform a wire transaction for me over the phone or explain to me how I can verify myself. I will either need someone who can speak Japanese or write a letter. The letter will go something like, "Please help me. I need to have my money...."
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Monday, January 29
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No money
I fucked myself. I made an ASS out of U and ME. I assumed that when I signed banking paperwork during my last month at Nova I was signing over permission for them to mail me my last pay check and the rest of my account. The reality was I only signed over permission for them to mail me my last pay check.
Now all my money sits in a steel vault in Tokyo and unless I can hire Ocean's 11, I am going to have a hard time getting my money.
Nova did all the paperwork so I don't even know where my branch is. I never use my bank book so that was trashed. I don't know my account number. I even lost my bank card during my flight back over here (my friends in Japan could have used it to withdraw money for me if I gave them my PIN).
I went to the SMBC (the bank I used) Toronto branch office but found out that they only deal with domestic corporations and it was not a personal banking branch office. The man was very nice, but I could only tell him my name and ask for my money. I was bascially, "My name is Joseph. How can I get my money while giving you no other information?" And yes, he asked all the things I didn't have answers for. He even asked me if I knew how much money was in the bank and I gave him a really nasty ballpark figure. I never paid attention to that sort of thing because I wanted to surprise myself with how much I saved.
I am pretty surprised.
I then went to Nova in Toronto and they told me that the branch was almost always shinjuku, but they have nothing to do with my banking except for setting it up and depositing money there. They suggest I contact Nova head office for further advice, which is the stage I'm at now.
I asked if I could apply for a new card or an international card, but I was told, not if I'm in Canada.
Any advice?
UPDATE: Nova Head office cannot help me. They did however give me the telephone number for my SMBC bank with the disclaimer that their English is very poor. My father suggested I book an appointment with my bank manager here in Canada and have him arrange a wire transfer with SMBC. Maybe bank language is universal. However, before I do that, I at least need my account number, which is what I'm now gunning for.
Once I get the account number I have a decision to make. Do I try the tricky way or the striaght forward way. The tricky way is that I apply for a new bank card and have it sent to my address (SMBC does not know I moved back to Canada) and have my roomate (who I trust) use it to withdraw my funds, put it in his account and then write me a check. Or do I call SMBC and just explain my hopeless situation. If I call, I may be voiding my opportunity to do the new card tricky way, because once I explain my situation, they will flag anyone trying to withdraw or ask why I want a card sent to an address I no longer live at.
UPDATE 2 I've gotten all my Japanese banking information. I've gotten all my Canadian banking information. Tonight, morning in Japan, I will call and ask for a wire transfer. I hope all they will need is for me to fax my signature or copy of my passport.
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Sunday, January 28
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It was only a dream
Yesterday I dreamt that I was fat, but then I realized it was only an allergic reaction.
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Thursday, January 25
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Home Cooked Meals
My friend Tommy once told me if his mother passed away, the thing he'd miss most is her food. At the time I thought this was a thankless thing to say about someone who gave birth and raised you. After coming back from Japan and revisiting my mother's food, I've realized that maybe it wasn't, maybe food to our generation (and I say our generation, because it's something lost nowadays) meant more than just taste.
Granted, if the food doesn't taste good, no one is going to fondly remember their mother's cooking, but food only makes up so much. There's the preperation, the sit down dinner and the clean-up. Thinking about eating the food gets snugly wrapped inside quality family time, which as mentioned, is grinding to extinction. I bet even for the people who had home cooked meals, but did not make it a family event do not have as strong a feeling towards their mother's cooking.
I remember, from as long as I can remember, my mother piling more and more of her food (particularly greens) onto my plate, blowing hot soup from a smoking spoon, refilling my milk glass when I wasn't looking. This was motherly affection and the food was her expression of it.
Rich people shower you with gifts, nerds with attention, my mother with food. So I too will miss most my mother's food, but that is to say I will miss how much she cared for me.
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Tuesday, January 16
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I will Gamble on You
Tom Lukcas. The name likely holds no significance to anyone who reads this and if your name is Tom Lukcas, you, sir, are in the minority, and I stand corrected.To me, the name is of a guy I knew in high school. He was a tall, lanky fellow with freckles and glasses. A nervous demeanor made it seem like his eyes always had somewhere to go. He had straight brown hair and parted it down the middle, not so different from Alpha Alpha of Rascals fame. Until a week ago this description along with three memories was to me Tom Lukcas.
Memory one: Tom Lukcas took up smoking so he could have an excuse to have conversations with Debbie, a punky good looking Italian girl.
Memory two: Tom Lukcas could own you in Street Fighter as he had perfected the punch-jab-uppercut combo. Ken or Ryu? It didn't matter foo.
Memory three: Tom Lukcas had something horrible happen to him recently, so says a friend of a friend. Perhaps he was hospitalized for being beat up or shat on. Something or another.
Come a week ago, Andrew, my friend and Tom Lukcas' close high school friend, told me that Tom, the same street fighting, smoker Tom, is now a professional poker player. For me, Tom had suddenly gone up in my books and in everyone else's down. Tom wasn't just 3 memories any longer, but he was someone I knew, someone who punch-jab-uppercutted me to death, who is something I want to be. Thank you. Thank you Tom Lukcas for gambling.
Tack on the fourth.
Memory four: Tom Lukcas, professional gambler.
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Tuesday, January 9
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From what I understand, I'm home.
 Goodbye Japan. I will miss never understanding you.
I remember my first week in Japan and how I couldn't understand what anyone said. Oh my! What a difference a year makes! Now, I still don't understand what anyone says -- but I'm accustomed to it. It's something I just accept like how everyone has that one crazy uncle, except it's like having all your uncles crazy.
Not knowing has almost become a language itself. I feel that I can walk into any store and although I would not understand anything being said, I'd be able to speak English and have them not understand me as well, yet... understand me. Do you understand me? Understand? To me using the context combined with their facial expressions was a game to hypothesize the most likely meanings. For example if entering a restaurant and I'm greeted with something, I'll just assume it means "How many?" and if presented with another string of sentences I'll just assume it means "Smoking or non-smoking." One time, eating at a curry restaurant, with our faces sweating and our glasses empty, as the waiter came with a large jug of cool refreshing water, he said something just before refilling our cups. His outstretched arm was about to tilt as we both nodded eagerly, smiled and answered yes to his question, then the waiter, after hearing our answer, retracted the jug, the near fallen water droplet vacuumed back into the jug, and he courteously walked away. We never figured out what he could have possibly said ("Would you like me to not refill your glass?" "Do you enjoy having no water with spicy food?") It's a fun game most of the time, but the understanding is on a superficial level and one could never make a good friend from this, which is something I'll look forward to in Canada.
Most of the time, I'm mistakened for Japanese because of my face and this assumption often overrides the fact that nothing out of my mouth is ever in Japanese. My roomate has been studying Japanese for months and he's getting good enough to know survival phrases, good enough for directing a taxi driver to our house. Although he addresses the taxi driver, telling him where we live and what to do, the taxi driver would answer back to me, making eye contact with me, not him -- the white gaijin speaking Japanese. The taxi driver would look and listen to my housemate and then turn his head to me to respond. I usually try to put on a stern japanese salaryman face and nod very slowly and knowingly as though I understand everything, but I'm letting my peon white man servant speak for me because I can't be bothered. In retrospect, I should have snapped my fingers each time before my roomate spoke as though I was training him to speak for me.
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