I want to talk about a small campus in Kentucky. Established in 1780, its one of the oldest universities in the United States. Transylvania taught me how to not only have a voice, but also how to use it effectively. The professors engaged me in every subject, as it is a liberal arts institution, and so I became more aware and open minded than I’d ever hoped to become.
See, when I say engaged, I don’t mean they simply lectured and forgot about the students. I regularly talked with professors outside of my classroom. My friends at other colleges and universities complained they never saw their advisers or professors. Meanwhile, I constantly had access to both.
I talked with Anthony Vital for hours about how Wordsworth was an absolute traitor to the Romantic cause, and that’s why Byron was obviously the superior Romantic writer, if only in spirit.
I discussed with Scott Whiddon about the rhetoric of, not joking, dating sites and the whole language of advertisements in conjunction with selling a romantic narrative.
Martha Gehringer believed that I wasn’t a serious writer, but she supported my efforts in writing none-the-less, and thanks to her I knew about Strunk’s “Elements of Style” and “The Handmaids Tale.”
Elizabeth Corsun taught me to see through narrative structure, to read between the lines and see the history behind the words in a sentence.
From the Registrar to the whole Financial Aid Office to Herr Weber to Tay Fizdale to Mike Vetter (sorry I still became an English Major, sir) to President Shearer himself, I could pen a hundred different love letters to so many people on that campus. I even became a part of a Love Letter in a project helmed by Professor Kremena Todorova and Kurt Gohde. The love and support on that campus makes it one of the best places to learn in the country.
Every single moment I spent on that campus made me a better person, and I felt secure there to become that person.
And even outside of the classrooms, the staff were like family. I knew Miss Erika and Marcia from Jazzmans, the same Erika who is now also a hero. I got coffee and a lot of great advice from both of them, as they helped me through some tough study sessions in the cafe. When I heard that Miss Erika picked up a chair to wield off an attacker, I felt too proud for words. She was quoted saying, “These students are our babies. Nobody’s going to hurt one of them without a fight.”
I cried when I read that line, because I know she means it. She and Marcia are there for every student who needs them, in the good times and the bad. They are amazing women, and they are a part of what Transylvania so great, what makes it feel like a home and not just some dorms and old buildings.
I applaud Joy Henderson, how she stayed with the stabbing victim from the attack, holding the wounds until paramedics arrived. It takes a strong person to go into the fray to stay and help in an ongoing attack, not to mention courage. Her fortitude amazes me, as well as her caring so much for someone in need of dire help.
Campus security men and women are dedicated to helping students. You call them and they are there. These same people would drive me to my dorm in the dark of the night from campus parking and start my car if my battery died to go home for winter break. They tackled the attacker after entering the coffee shop, refusing to let him harm any more of the students.
To top it all off, President Seamus Carey assisted in the take down. Humbly omitting that fact from his letter to the campus, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelming pride that my alma mater chose this man to represent us. A man who values the students more than his pride and ego is exactly what Transylvania is all about.
I am so unbelievably proud of my alma mater. I know that perhaps current students might not feel that way, with maybe their sense of security gone. Yet, the swift response from the staff to security to the administration all coming together to stop this senseless act of violence is astounding. I have to respect the actions taken by all of the people involved, and also recognize that these people were heroes long before this news hit.
Many will want to talk about the attacker, feed into a vicious news cycle that wants to give more focus on the violence than the school. I refuse to be a part of that cycle. Call him terrorist or by name, no one should be given fame for doing something so horrific. I would rather focus my narrative on the people who mean the most to me, and the ones who deserve recognition.
Everyday, Transylvania University endeavors to be the best place for its students to learn. From the classrooms to the cafes to the offices, this university is built on foundations of compassion as well as liberal education ideals. Not all people have felt as secure as I did, or as welcome. Every institution will have its faults, but I can honestly say that Transylvania was the best choice I could’ve ever made. Even years later, I’m proud to say I’m a Pioneer.
As you are probably all well aware, I’m very much interested in LGBTQ rights, and as such I’m a part of the drag community in Tokyo. I’ve just recently been promoted from “that girl hanging out and doing stuff backstage all the time” to official position of Production Manager. Moral of the story kids, do enough free work for your friends and you’ll get a job (volunteer work of course).
Kara, the creator of the YouTube channel “Wherever With You,” decided to come to Tokyo Closet Ball to interview people about their performances. I ended up getting interviewed as well!
If you like it, give it a thumbs up, and go subscribe to Kara on YouTube. Her videos are fantastic!
The American Cheery Pie specialty drink from Starbucks Japan is in high demand. People love it, as in love it. When I went to the bustling Starbucks on the 2nd floor of Shinjuku station, most people in line wanted the drink. The line stretched down the hall, crowding in front of a store or two.
I just wanted something cold to drink on my way back home, so I opted to finally give the American Cherry Pie a chance. According to a little graph written in faux-chalk board writing, this sugar rush has about five layers to it. The first is a pie dome, which is fastened securely with a ton of whipped cream to stay in place underneath. Then, there is the cherry compote layer, made from real cherries. Under that was a layer of just milk (or in my case soy milk). And finally, at the bottom was more cherry compote.
I actually got this drink pretty quick despite the long line. I sat off the side. Aesthetically speaking, the drink looked exactly like the picture, which meant it looked delicious. I stuck my straw through the pie crust and swirled it around. And there’s where problems start.
See, the soy milk and cherry compote are fine. The mixture of the two together tasted very much like a cherry milkshake, and I was fine with it. But the pie crust, even if you break it up as much as I did, got stuck inside the straw every two or three sips. Honestly, the drink could be a choking hazard with those pie bits, I coughed a few times. It’s a shame, because honestly the actual drink part was perfectly fine on its own.
I noticed other people were having the same issues. At the bottom of everyone’s cups was a mess of pie crust some left over drink. One girl complained to her boyfriend that she should’ve just gotten the tea she usually ordered. A guy off to the side sighed and gave up halfway through, tossing most of it in the garbage.
However, I noticed a group of junior high school girls managed to outsmart all of us dumb adults. Inside of breaking the pie crust and mixing it in, they set the crusts off. As they drank it, they would munch on the pie crust like a cookie. I thought that was the most genius thing ever, and felt a bit ashamed that I didn’t think of it.
As I said before, the cheery drink part in and of itself is fine. More than passable as a sort of milkshake like beverage, but honestly not the best drink I’ve ever had in Japan (that without even thinking too hard probably goes to the cinnamon roll latte in MiuMiu in Shin-Okubo). The pie crust shouldn’t be crunched up with the drink, it’ll just clog up the straws, so eat it separately instead. Honestly, for a specialty it looks really neat, but in the end with the pie crust issue and the so-so OK taste, I would say it’s a bit overly beloved for what it is.
But then again, to each their own. As someone who isn’t exactly a die hard Starbucks fan, for me this was a one time try-out, so I’ll never drink it again. I would say I recommend this kind of drink to fanatic cherry lovers, yet at the same time I guess I could also recommend it to people who want something fruity and cold on a hot day. Otherwise, it’s not something I’d say go run and get right now! I’d just say be prepared for an alright experience, but not one worth repeating.
A few days ago, I called the police for the first time in Japan. An older gentlemen at the train station didn’t respond to an attendant’s questions. They were simple ones, too.
“Sir,” the attendant asked in Japanese, “do you have 160 yen? If you don’t, you can’t get on the train.”
I could tell the man was in his 70’s, that age where most people assume he’s a typical yoparai oji-san, someone too drunk to really deal with except to send him home or throw him in jail to sleep it off. I watched carefully, alarm bells ringing in my head. Drunk guys love to talk, whether young or old, they try to joke or shout and just in general be annoying.
He wasn’t doing any of that. He kept putting up one arm, but his other arm stayed at his side. He said something nonsensical, something along the lines of, “I’m trying to find the way.” The train attendant didn’t seem amused, and told him curtly the same line again.
I noticed that the older man’s smile was asymmetrical, his right eye wasn’t opened all the way. I stayed out off to the side, because maybe the train attendant will do something. Instead, he just blocked the way, told the man gently and politely to leave.
The old man started shuffling onto the road. I kept my eye on him, noticing a bunch of bad signs. He wasn’t walking properly at all. His left leg was working fine, but his right leg wasn’t mobile at all, he was lugging it with him like a prop stick. All the facts together made me think he’s either having a stroke, or was the victim of a bad one in the past.
People with strokes can have serious mental issues years after, forgetfulness and confusion in the top two. He couldn’t speak well, another symptom. I wanted to be really sure, so I went up to talk to him.
“Hello,” I said in Japanese, “are you alright?”
It took him a long time to respond, “No, I’m not.” His face contorted, but only the left side. His right eye and the right side of his mouth didn’t move in concert with everything else.
“Where do you need to go?” I was perfectly willing to call a taxi for him, get him to a hospital.
He lunged back and forth, teeter-tottering, obviously upset. He said, “Morisaki!”
“Morisaki?” I got closer. He didn’t smell of alcohol at all, just that musty smell of someone who’d been out and about in the heat all day. I checked for Morisaki on maps in my phone. It was an hour away! Way too far to give him a taxi there. It would clean me out.
“Where are you going?!” He suddenly yelled. I stared at him, befuddled.
“Uh, over there,” I pointed towards down the road. My apartment was a good ten, fifteen minute walk down and around.
“I don’t understand!” He shouted, gurgled more like. His face was a grimace, he reached towards me.
I backed up and shook my head. “Sorry, excuse me.” I turned around and started walking away. I didn’t want him to get so distraught in his confusion that he hurt me.
I dialed 110 after I got to a place not far off and safe. The police picked up and immediately asked me if I was in danger.
“Uh, no,” I said in Japanese, “I am a foreigner, so I need English services, please.” [Ano, chotto, watashi wa gaikokujin desu. Soshite, eigo no saabisu ga hoshii desu.]
“Oh! Ok, thank you for calling. Please wait while I get an English speaker on the line.” He said, in a bit of keigo, the formal language I’ve yet to master.
The English translator was fast, “Hello! Please tell your emergency.”
“Hi yes,” I explained the situation with the man, keeping it short and to the point. I finished with, “I believe the old man is having a stroke.”
They asked me a few questions, where he was and where I was. I told them the road and the location he was heading towards. The translator would translate my words into Japanese after every two sentences. The cop on the other end figured out pretty quickly what I was talking about and where he was needed.
In less than five minutes, they were dispatching an officer to the scene. I sighed in relief.
“Thank you so much, ma’am! We appreciate this call.” They told me in English and Japanese. I thanked them for being so fast and cordial, and hung up the phone.
I had to help. I couldn’t just leave him alone. I knew how it felt to need help and be all alone. See, while that was the first time I ever called the police, I have called emergency services before.
Two years ago, I was sick as a dog, vomiting and things going wrong the other way too (long story involving problems with my I.B.S.). Over the period of a day, I was constantly sick. By the time the twelve hour mark rolled around, and I was too weak to move out of bed, I called 119.
At the time, I didn’t know that you could request English services. I was not entirely lucid, so I said all of this in Japanese badly, “I need an ambulance. I’m at (AREA) in (THIS CITY) on the second floor. I’m very sick.” [Kyūkyūsha ga hitsuyōdesu. (BASHO) ni (SHI) nikai desu. Watashi wa hontōni byōkidesu.]
The lady understood, told me they were sending an ambulance right away. She stayed with me, asked questions about what building and the color. I gave her the best answers I could, but everything got a bit fuzzy at that point. The ambulance arrived in about seven minutes. I got inside after stumbling down stairs. The ambulance staff set me up on the gurney and took me to a nearby hospital.
I was absolutely distraught, because I’m American. I assumed that ambulances in Japan functioned like in the United States, charging up to $1,000 for a ride. Imagine my relief when I discovered that it was free, and that the whole hospital stay only cost about $300 (45,000 yen). I was shocked and just so grateful.
Some foreigners dislike the emergency services in Japan. Frequently, the complaints come from having to deal with everything in Japanese. I feared that as well. When I got to my hospital, though, one nurse knew conversational level English. Also, other staff members used smartphones or tablets to communicate with me.
The only problem I had was my doctor, as he seemed completely apathetic. He told me my colon was extremely inflamed, he was giving me this medicine, I’d be discharged in a few days. And then he left, and I never saw him again. I stayed for three days and that five minute conversation was all I had as “comforting” from my doctor.
I was worried. Did he actually bother to look at my x-rays? What kind of medicine was he giving me? What were the side effects? Was I going to have problems after this? Would I just end up calling another ambulance later? I had so many questions, but none of the nurses could answer them, because they weren’t my doctor.
I’m not the only one who suffered from this problem, as seen in various news articles and surveys. Generally, foreigners have a hard time with Japanese doctors, men usually who are used to simply throwing down a judgement and not being questioned about it. I ended up turning out fine, but sometimes that is simply not the case, leaving foreigners high and dry without a way to fight for better healthcare.
What I know now, after the fact, is that the American Embassy actually has translators. I could’ve called for one to come and help me, but since I didn’t know about it I just went home to recover. Also, there are also online medical translator volunteers who specialize in helping foreigners. And to have hope for the future, the hospitals in Japan want to have at least one translator per hospital before 2020, but we’ll see how that goes.
Anyways, that helpless and lost feeling was awful. Knowing you’re sick and in pain, but unable to communicate what you need, I understood all of that when I saw the old man. I hope he was treated better by a doctor, I hope the police made sure he got home. I wish someone could’ve been there to help me out when I really needed it. Being alone in Japan is usually fine, but when things go horribly awry it can feel like you’re stuck in a horror movie for a time.
I hope that I’ll never have to call the emergency numbers again, but it helps to be prepared if I have to do it. Eigo no saabisu onegaishimasu are the key words to get an English translator on the phone (the easy way), always remembering 110 for police (警察 keisatsu) but 119 for ambulances (救急車 kyūkyūsha) and firefighters (消防士 shōbō-shi), and having an in person translator service number. I always keep my medical insurance cards on me, too.
As my mom would say, “Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.” Definitely words to live by when living alone in a foreign country.
If you liked this post, please like it and share it! Put down in the comments what you want me to write about next.
I’ll start this off by saying that the first year on JET was full of highs, like super highs. I got to travel to places most people only ever saw in travel brochures, and one of those places was Hokkaido. I never imagined I’d end up in those places, and getting to see them was wonderful in ways that I can’t ever explain fully. I traveled with mostly like-minded first year ex-pats, people who also felt the awe of what we were doing.
What follows is a mostly truthful account about the February of 2012, but I left something out back then because I was too asheamed to talk about it. Even today as I’m writing the post, I feel like I shouldn’t talk about it. Mainly, the words that prevent it is the idea that “it wasn’t that big of a deal.” As if feeling like I did was just a hiccup in an otherwise fine month.
Depression has become a sort of easier to talk about thing than before, but I still suffer from the words of my old fashioned thinking people back home. Most of the time when I try to explain it, they tell me to just change how I think, “Be positive!” which just makes me always feel worse because I can’t. Not when it gets bad, not when I want to die, but all too often I will get scoffed at and told to just eat something or get over it.
I think part of the problem is when people meet me and talk to me, I don’t appear like that stereotypical depressed person you’d see on TV or read in books. I am what my therapist back in high school would call “functionally depressed,” as in I don’t need daily medication and I don’t usually need to keep up with a psychologist. Usually being the key word, though. I go out and see friends, I make plans, I travel to distant lands and smile in all the photos, I date on occasion, so it’s hard for people to blend together those preconceived notions of what it means to be depressed and who I am.
So let’s start with the good stuff, the thing I posted, what I usually do with my “public face.”
THRICE DAMNED FLU SEASON, HOKKAIDO, AND VALENTINES DAY
Posted on April 10, 2012 under Working and Living in Japan
February was an exciting month for me. I planned on starting it off with this epic adventure to Hokkaido. I’d been excited about this trip for months. I paid for it in December, and I was all kinds of happy. I was going to be around JET friends I don’t get to see very often, ski and/or snowboard, eat crab, buy a whole bunch of souvenirs, and take too many pictures.
However, a few days before my quest began, my body decided that was the perfect time to catch the flu. I will admit, the first day I was in complete denial. I went to work, struggling the whole way through, but I could claim it was “just a cold.” The next day, I wanted somebody to shoot me in the face, but I still went to work. My teachers were looking at me like I was insane and there were some polite suggestions about taking ninkyuu and going home. However, I forced myself to keep going.
On Friday, I’m fairly certain I was close to dying. My temperature got over 38°C at one point and I vaguely recall thinking I needed to go to the hospital. Instead of doing that, I went to the clinic and waited patiently for the doctor. Sure enough, I tested positive for the flu. He gave me some inhaling medicine I’d never seen before, and told me to drink fluids and rest. When I got home, I wondered how I could possibly turn this around. I did everything I could possibly do. I drank tea like crazy, took a crazy mixture of medicine that also should’ve probably killed me, and slept for about eleven hours.
The next day, I felt bad, but not awful. I figured that was close enough and I got on board with the vacation plan again. I met a couple of friends at the bus station and we headed off to the airport. I slept on the bus and on the airplane so that I could feel less of a zombie by the time we landed in Hokkaido.
I like to push myself, because sometimes that’s good for me. After all, who doesn’t like to travel? But it’s easy for me to forget that by pushing myself I have a 50/50 shot of brining on a depressive state. I figured that I was going to be just fine, because how could good stress hurt me? I liked all these people, I was going to enjoy the trip, so I’d be fine. I kept telling it to myself all three days of the trip, over and over, ignoring the tightness of my chest and the soft tears I’d cry in the bathroom where no one could see me.
I was all kinds of happy when I saw the vast acres of snow. I was surprised to realize how much I had missed the cold, white stuff. I’m not really a big fan, but I guess in my head it’s just not winter if there’s no snow. I took so many pictures of the landscape.
It’s just like the ink paintings!
We went to Niseko, a ski resort. We split into groups and stayed at two cabins that were drowning in snow. It was so cool! Ha, get it? Yeah, I suck at humor. Deal with it.
There were so many bugs. No one warned me that Hokkaido was full of stink bugs, bugs you can’t smash without releasing a foul stench into the air that would’ve lingered forever. Grooooosss!
On arrival day, people went off to go buy stuff at the grocery store. I stayed in reading the Hunger Games (By the way, it was a good read and I recommend it to you all). The next day was spent running around with my friend Jason at various shopping places and discovering an Irish Bar (that I never got to drink in, and I still regret it). I found myself a new pair of boots that are awesome. That night we ate Genghis Khan, a lamb barbeque dish.
We checked out in the morning to move onto Sapporo. I finally got around to skiing. I went ahead and bought two hours with a skiing instructor. It was my first time so I know I wasn’t very good. I fell three times and felt really freakin’ tired by the end of my session. However, my teacher, Gordie, told me that I caught on fast and next time just go. No more instruction needed. I felt proud of myself, but I wonder if he was just being nice.
After my session, it was time to hop on the bus to Sapporo. At Sapporo, I saw the Yuki Matsuri (Snow Festival, in English). Basically, it’s a huge event wherein people compete in a snow sculpting competition. These things can be huge!
It’s a recreation of a temple done as an ice sculpture. They put lights in front and behind to create this effect with the ice.
I can’t remember if this was supposed to be Osaka Castle or the Emperor’s Castle, but I believe it was the later.
I really had a good time. However, by the end of it I was completely prepared to go back to Itako and get away from the snow. I can only take this stuff in small doses.
As luck would have it, the snow followed me home! Itako had its second snowfall for the winter when I got back. I grumbled about it, but I lived. Besides, it was time to work on Valentines Day! February 14th was just around the corner. I bought construction paper, pens, and stamps. I was determined to show my love and make a Valentines Day card for every single student at both of my schools.
By the time I was done with the Valentines Day cards, my hand hurt like hell, but I managed to complete my task. I made OVER 300 of those little things! I have vowed to never, ever pull this stunt ever again. Next time, I will buy them all or do something creative after I printed out the message. My hatred for the sight of red and pink has not wavered since that day.
The kids seemed to like them, but the boys kept shouting over and over again, “Why no choco?!” I explained, “That’s a Japanese tradition and I’m not Japanese.” Of course, that’s not entirely the reason. I kind of bought a lot of chocolates for them at Christmas time and that stuff was expensive. Also, I need special permission to bring in food to class. I just decided this time that I would just do cards, and maybe next year I’ll figure something out with my JTE and principal in advance.
I surprised the teachers at both my schools with small cards and Kit Kats. They seemed to like it, and now at random times I’ll find chocolates on my desk. It makes me so happy!
And that’s pretty much the big events of February. I’ll update again pretty soon.
As of writing this post, I only ever told one person about how bad I fell into despression after the Hokkaido trip. I fell hard, the whole nine yards of bad: fatigue so deep set I couldn’t get out of bed, crying fits that lasted for hours, followed by numbness, and finally just the demeaning thoughts about myself. Insidious little poisonous thoughts like, “Look at how weak you are. Can’t you just be happy? How can you be so ungrateful about your life? You don’t deserve it. Why don’t you just do everyone favor? You’re so hard to love, you know that, you’re awful. You’re useless, just lie down and die.”
I spent two or three days holed up in my apartment, not eating much of anything, staying away from social media, usually curled up under my kotatsu waiting for it to pass. I managed to make the Valentines Day cards on the third day, like a robot. It’s ironic in hindsight that I was making all these cards out of love for my students, but all the while hating myself so intensely. I stopped at one point when I wondered if the blade of my scissors were sharp enough to cut skin. Then I put it all away and headed to bed, watched a few bad horror movies to make me forget how screwed up I was for awhile.
When I returned to work, I just put on my game face and did what needed to be done. But when I finished work, I would just get into bed and stare at a wall, or fall asleep, or watch movies. I didn’t eat much, some snacks and hot chocolate mostly. I didn’t feel comfortable talking to anyone, I don’t even think there was a psychologist or therapist in my town. I heard rumors that people got fired and kicked out of JET for being depressed, so you never talked about it with people at school. I lived in such a small town that everyone knew everyone, so I knew there wasn’t anyone I could safely talk to without it getting back to my employers.
Then, I felt like I couldn’t reach out to my friends either. How unappreciative would it sound to say something like, “Hey, so my awesome vacation kind of broke me, and I feel shattered, so can I talk about that?” My mother is a great mom, but I didn’t want her to worry about me where she couldn’t reach me. I boxed myself in with all these thoughts, isolated myself, because that’s what depression does: it ruins your ability to make good choices.
After about two weeks of persistent suicidal and self-harming thoughts, I managed to finally tell one friend from university how I was feeling. She and I had an hours long chat, but looking back I know I downplayed it, made it seem like I was just having a bad time adjusting. She didn’t tell me to suck it up, she just listened, and reminded me that writing can be good confessional material when people weren’t around. I’m glad I talked to her, because it helped. It wasn’t an instant cure, but as time rolled on into March I got to feeling better.
I still have these moments, but nothing since then has been so intensely hateful towards myself. Sometimes it’s a few days of numbness, sometimes it’s a month of fighting through lethargy, and sometimes it’s just a lingering malice towards how better I should be but I’m not. I’m able to now talk with people, I have a better support network made because if that incident to work through my problems, but no medication. Medication would be something I would love to try out someday when I’m not in such a transitory lifestyle, but for now it’s just me and my people.
I know there are ex-pats out there doing the same thing I did, keeping their diagnosis a secret and fighting their battles basically on their own. There are others out there suffering, because they don’t see a way to get help. I felt it was important to write this post for them, even if only a few people see it. It’s fine if you’re feeling bad and awful sometimes, humans aren’t built to be purely happy. We’re complex emotional beings, and some of us have chemical imbalances that make emotions harder to regulate than the average person. That doesn’t mean you’re useless, you deserve what you’ve worked hard for, and you’re worthy of the love your family and friends feel for you. I know it’s difficult to remember that sometimes, but try to keep that close when you fall hard like I did.
Also, there are options available. I discovered TELL Japan not long after that, it’s a wonderful service that helps people find counseling services that work for them, and it’s all English friendly too. As just an easy shortcut, if you’re worried about people in your town or your employer finding out about your diagnosis, pay out of pocket for medical and mental health services in the nearest big city close to you. Most of the time, paying out of pocket isn’t nearly as expensive as America, but for Europeans I’ve heard the charges can seem too high, so get an estimate before you arrange appointments. But finally, don’t be afraid to reach out to the people who love and support you back home. Tell them your problems, not everything has to be perfect just because you’re living somewhere cool and new.
I hope that this helps someone to read, or at the very least helps people realize that depression doesn’t mean people who are just sad all the time. People with depression go on vacation, they go to work, they smile and hand out Valentines Day cards, they push through sickness to make great memories, they live abroad, and all the while they’re dealing with an invisible illness trying to break them down.
I’m always going to be fighting with depression, even if people don’t see it, and I’m not going to keep it a secret anymore.
The day started out fun and sunny when Gina and I left the art show. We had just watched a woman have the most stylisticly amazing breakdown via dark comedy and shadow puppet space hippos, so I assumed (as one would in that situation) I had reached peak awesome for my week. Boy howdy, was I wrong.
Gina’s girlfriend had told her about this retro-arcade, which I figured meant sweet Pacman and Galaga. We figured we’d check it out, if it was good we’d spread the word and maybe have friends come see it with us later. I expected to just have a few cool old games, maybe get some nice nostalgic moments, and that’s about it.
And then I turned the corner.
This impressive five story structure immediately made me wonder what exactly I was walking into, because even though I was still down to play games, I didnt want to get into a high priced themed thing. We went through the entrance, but no cover charge or bouncers to be found. Instead, I got a very distinct horror movie vibe. Red lighting casted shadows along walls with faux aged posters citing the “dangers” of the warehouse.
I loved it, as any fan of scary films would. If you like Halloween, amusement haunted houses, this arcade is for you. It’s got the creepy vibe down pat. And the games are retro, which was oddly enough like a nice bonus to the cool atmosphere.
I got to play a game I hadn’t in years, the Silent Hill Arcade Game , and man was that fun. I hadn’t shot monsters and Pyramid Head with a gun controler in so long. It was the cherry on top of this spooky sundae.
Racing games were tucked away into dark enclosures, between sets of “food vendors” with plastic dead rats. On the third floor, you could see faux apartment balconies set in dystopia.
But not everything was creepy, there were older versions of DDR in a more well lit area on the second floor, as well as typical crane games in every Japan game site. The top floor hosted the gambling areana, as well as funnily enough an area to play Pacman and Mrs. Pacman. A little something for everyone, I suppose.
Eventually we had to leave of course – we lost hours intheresomehow– andleaving held a new experience for us. The back exit was through a low tunnel, that led into a radioactive looking moat. I had to step over “stones” to get out.
I adore little kind of unknown places like Kawasaki Warehouse, places that are so finely detailed to set the mood, and this mood is taking you into Resident Evil territory. If I could have a house like this entertainment venue, I would, it’s that kind of love for me. I also enjoyed that even though we went on a Sunday, the place wasn’t packed, and we could play games pretty quickly after only a short wait maybe once or twice.
For sure check it out if you’re in the Kawasaki area, it’s only about a ten minute walk from the station. You won’t regret it!
My friends (Kei and Liz) and I head off to the “David Bowie Is” art exhibit and interactive gallery. We all get lost in that emotional labyrinth of an art show, and highly recommend you go see it. It’s open until April 9th!