How to Live a Long, Happy Life

I intend on living a long, happy life.

It would be cool to be a great-grandparent, for instance. I’ve also got many things I want to do. Write books, learn new things, start businesses and non-profits, help my community. So many plans, so little time.

Age is not the limiting factor. Health is.

So how can I live a long and happy life? Dan Buettner, a National Geographic writer, believes he knows the answer. He founded the organization Quest Network, Inc. to conduct a study of “Blue Zones” – regions of the world where there are sizable populations that live active lives past one hundred years of age.

There are currently five known Blue Zones in the world:

• Sardina, Italy
• Okinawa, Japan
• Loma Linda, CA, USA
• Nicoya Peninsula, Costa Rica
• Icaria, Greece

Buettner and his organization studied these regions and discovered four key traits that all share, regardless of geography, culture, religion, or other factors.

1. Move Naturally
2. Right Outlook
3. Eat Wisely
4. Connect

Move Naturally

People living in Blue Zones don’t run marathons or lift heavy weights in gyms. They don’t sit in front of the TV or computers a lot either. Instead, they take a lot of walks. They climb up stairs. They hike up mountains. They even tend gardens, which require daily manual labor.

The Sardinians live on hillsides. So to get around, many walk up and down these hills all the time, even those in their eighties. Many Okinawans maintain personal gardens that they cultivate with pride. It’s not uncommon to see elders plowing and raking and pulling out weeds.

The trick is to do something active every day that you enjoy. That way, being active isn’t a chore; it is something you look forward to. And that’s why it works.

If you love doing cardio at the gym, then more power to you. Otherwise, take a walk around the block. Walk to the local grocery store instead of driving. Use the stairs instead of the elevator. Take a parking spot further away from the entrance of the mall so you have to walk a bit. Play sports with friends. Play the Nintendo Wii. Do something active everyday.

Right Outlook

Blue Zone inhabitants maintain a healthy perspective on life. They take time to slow down and relax from their hectic schedules. They use healthy outlets to vent their stress. They take problems in stride.

It’s not that they live boring, unexciting lives. Loma Linda is the home of a large medical university and medical community. Being a doctor is far from relaxing. The majority of these residents – those that regularly live long, active lives, at least – are also Seventh-day Adventists, a Christian denomination. Their religion aids in their ability to find peace with their frustrations.

Aside from mechanisms to dispel stress, Blue Zone inhabitants also deeply believe they have a purpose in life. That purpose could be as small as the Okinawan fisherman who sees his purpose is to fish so he can feed his family, or the Okinawan grandmother who knows her purpose is to care for her great-great-grandchildren. Religion also imbues a deep sense of purpose to Seventh-day Adventists.

Many don’t retire. They keep on doing what they enjoy doing, because they believe it is their purpose, their reason to get up every day.

Look for healthy outlets for your stress. Some use exercise, some take walks, and some create art to find relief. For others, it’s spirituality, religion, or their family and community.

A sense of purpose is also equally important. If you don’t have a reason to wake up every day and stay healthy, then find one. Spirituality and religion fill this hole for many. Family and community fill this for others. Still others find their purpose in their work or art. And sometimes your purpose isn’t bestowed upon you; it is something you go out and determine for yourself.

Eat Wisely

Those in Blue Zones eat healthy food in moderation. By healthy food, I mean their diets include a lot of vegetables and little processed food. Seventh-day Adventists are vegetarians. Okinawans eat lots of fresh fish. Sardinians consume homemade food. Each community has a different meal mix, though all contain a lot of vegetables and little processed food.

By moderation, I mean they don’t overeat. They don’t serve huge, American-sized portions. The Okinawans even eat from small plates as a means to minimize overeating. Others take breaks between servings. Since it takes several minutes before the feeling of satiation hits your stomach, taking a break can curb the amount you eat.

Include more vegetables in your diet. Decrease the amount of processed food and fast food from your daily intake as much as possible, or remove it altogether. You don’t need vitamin supplements as long as you eat a wide variety of vegetables, grains, and meats.

And perhaps even more importantly, reduce your portion sizes. Eat from small bowls. Take breaks between servings. You may find yourself feeling full without the usual volume you consume.

Connect

The last common aspect of all Blue Zone elders is their sense of family and community. To them, family comes first. Grandparents aren’t shut away in nursing homes. Respect increases with age, so the eldest are given the most respect.

They also feel a sense of belonging within their communities. Friendships endure throughout lifetimes. A person can count on a friend in time of need, and give selflessly when that friend is in need. You’ve got my back, I’ve got your back.

These tight bonds are formed with people of similar values as well. Everyone in a particular community shares the same core values of enjoyable activities (walks, hikes, etc), a healthy outlook (able to vent with each other, a feeling of purpose), healthy diets (natural foods in moderation), and a sense of belonging.

If you’ve been estranged from your family, consider making amends. Be the bigger person and take the first step at healing that bond. In cases where that’s totally impossible, foster the friendships you have, especially with those that share the same values. Consider being a part of a healthy tight-knit community, such as an activity group, special interest group, religious group, etc.

Is This Possible?

For some, this news is obvious to you. But for others, this may seem entirely impossible. How such a lifestyle can be followed in today’s society? I hear you. I know it’s not easy.

I don’t think it’s impossible either. It just takes some extra effort and a lot of discipline. Moving naturally and eating wisely are the easiest ones to do first, since they involve changes in behavior. The tough part is sticking to the new behavior long enough for it to become habit.

Having the right outlook and connecting to others are much tougher. The first involves changing a mental model that’s been ingrained for years. The second involves both behavioral and mental changes.

Part of having the right outlook is having healthy outlets for stress. This can include exercising, talking to trusted friends, or creating art. There are numerous self-help websites and books you can turn to for more ideas as well.

The other part of the right outlook is a sense of purpose. If you can’t find an easy answer, you are probably waiting for that purpose to come to you. Let me correct that misconception: that is not going to happen. Not everyone is lucky enough to be given their purpose. You need to go out and find your purpose. Create one. Look for something you believe in, whether it is a family member, a vocation, or a cause. As long as it allows you to follow these other traits and doesn’t harm others, embrace it as the reason you get up every morning.

Finding a community that accepts you is probably the toughest one to achieve. If you weren’t born into a tight-knit family or community, you will have to work hard to become a part of a healthy community. However, it’s worth the effort. Once you are in a good community, a sense of purpose will almost certainly come to you.

How do you find such a community? Church groups are an obvious source. Activity groups and special interest groups are another, though not all will give you an encompassing sense of community. Some people join such groups just to do the activity, then return to their own communities without further involvement in the group.

Neighborhood-based communities are also a good source. There are “gated communities” (a set of houses enclosed within gates) that try to engender such a sense of belonging, not only for goodwill, but for protection too (crime is less common in such neighborhoods).

For some, their work can also provide a viable community, though like activity and special interest groups, not all of the members may be willing to put in the same level of commitment as you. To them, it’s just a job, not a community.

I am lucky that I follow and have a lot of these traits. Hopefully I can continue to foster them throughout my long, happy life, and vice versa. For many, I had to work hard to create them. But once they’ve become engrained in my life, following them is as easy as eating and breathing.

Want to see more? You can watch Buettner’s talk at a TEDxTC conference on September 2009 about his study of Blue Zones. It’s a fascinating talk.

Now go live long and prosper. And talk a walk around the block while you’re at it.

View Comments

Go Out and Travel the World

Everyone should travel to another country at least once in their lives. More, if they’re lucky.

I know that many cannot realistically do this. Financial reasons, family obligations, schedule restrictions, health considerations. For some, these limitations are insurmountable.

For those where such limitations don’t exist: travel. Go visit another country. Learn enough of their language to say, “hello,” “good bye,” “thank you,” “excuse me,” “check please,” and “where is the bathroom?” Read about their customs, traditions, and beliefs. Strive to understand them, even for a little.

To be fair, simply flying to another country and visiting their main tourist attractions isn’t enough. But for many, it is perhaps better than nothing. For a while, you are enveloped in another world. Even that taste can help.

For a true learning experience, you have to talk to the locals. Walk off the beaten path. Eat something different. Observe the general populace. Behave as they do, within bounds. And above all, be respectful of their culture.

The benefit of traveling is the opening of your mind. You learn how another whole society lives, day in and day out. It helps you to understand, if even just for a little while, how a fellow human being lives. The world shrinks, if even just for a little bit. Prejudices shrivel. Preconceptions wither. Generalizations splinter.

The more you travel, the more your mind opens, and the more the world shrinks.

I remember a time when taking the train out of my home town was scary. My little suburban town was all I knew. Taking the train into the city was a huge event. It meant going someplace far, foreign, even frightening.

But once I did it, the city became part of my world. What I knew expanded while the world shrunk. No longer was it someplace far and foreign. It was just another place to go.

I remember a time when taking the plane from the East Coast to the West Coast was disconcerting. My coast was all I knew. The other coast was practically a foreign country with a different temperament, disposition, and even attitude.

Then I moved there. Both coasts became my world. Temperaments, dispositions, and attitudes were more similar than I thought. The world shrunk a little more.

I remember a time when another country was totally alien. My country was all I knew. Other countries weren’t just foreign; they were so different that it was easy to generalize their populations as charactertures of their cultures.

Then I visited one country. And another. And another. The diversity of the people in each was just as diverse as a New Yorker is from a Texan and an Alaskan and a Californian and a Hawaiian. There are more similarities than there are differences. The world shrunk even more.

Every country has its poor and homeless, its rich and aristocracy, its kind-hearted and selfless, its fools and racists, its leaders and managers, its good parents and bad parents, and its bad drivers.

Cultures and traditions may differ. Foods and languages may differ. Religions and skin color may differ. But everyone feels happy, feels sad, and gets pissed off like everyone else. While there may be cultural differences that underlie a group of people, exceptions abound.

Prejudice may have an evolutionary benefit, but it can also be harmful to you and other people. It can close your mind to opportunities. Traveling the world shatters many of those misconceptions. Or at least, it makes you think twice before categorizing someone or some idea.

So go out and travel the world. Watch it shrink. Experience and understand another culture. Eat different foods, speak foreign languages, and talk to someone new. Do that, and the world is yours.

View Comments

The Trip to Vietnam

“Oh my goodness, let me tell you this story,” began the barber. His electric shaver sheared my sides as he started.

“I was flying back to Vietnam. I have not been there in years. Many, many years. It has been so long that I did not remember if I needed a Visa or not.”

He shook his head and frowned. “A friend told me I did not because I am Vietnamese. I believed him. So I packed up all of my bags and went to the airport. And guess what?”

“What?” I asked.

He took a step back from my hair and examined it. Narrowed his eyes. Then he looked at me. “When I got to the gate, they rejected me. They told me I needed a Visa. Can you believe it? I listened to my friend. I believed my friend. And here I was, at the airport, with all of my luggage, and I was told I could not get on the plane.”

“Daaaaaamn,” I murmured. “So what did you do?”

“I had to go all the way back home, get online, and look up information on how to get my Visa.” He snipped some hair and shook his head again. “Normally, it takes only ten dollars and a few weeks to get the Visa. But because I needed it right away, I had to pay… guess how much?”

“Fifty bucks?”

“No, more.”

“Hundred bucks?”

“Yes! Hundred bucks! A little more than a hundred bucks, actually. I had to call up my cousins in Vietnam to help rush it too. It was such an ordeal. I finally got it in an email, printed it out, and called the airline to book another flight. But then…”

His voice trailed off. I couldn’t tell if he was lost in the shears, or in the story. I decided not to push him and let him finish my sides.

“…and then,” he finally continued, “they told me all the flights were booked. I had to wait next week for the next available flight! I was so angry. I only had a week of vacation and already took a few days off. I could not wait a week!”

“Daaaaaamn,” I murmured again.

“So my brother, he travels a lot. He called up the airline and talked to them. Somehow, he got them to give me a flight in two days. I was so happy”

“Uh huh,” I concurred without trying to nod my head.

“I flew from Los Angeles to San Francisco. Then from San Francisco to Shanghai. Then from Shanghai to Vietnam. Oh, and while at Shanghai, there’s more to this story…”

“There’s more?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes! These things always happen to me. I don’t know why.” He rolled his eyes. “When I got to Shanghai, they told me I had to get my luggage from luggage claim and check it in again for my flight to Vietnam. I told them No, it should be transferred automatically. But they kept saying No, I need to pick it up myself and check it back in again. Such an ordeal. So I went to luggage claim. And guess what?”

“What? Your luggage was missing?”

“Yes! My luggage was missing! Can you believe it? I talked to the airline and they told me it was still in San Francisco. So I had to call San Francisco airport, and they told me they did not have my luggage, that it was on the airplane.”

“Daaaaaamn,” I murmured again.

“I know! I was so angry. So I called my brother and he checked it for me. They told him my luggage was on its way to Vietnam already. So I got on the plane and flew to Vietnam. And guess what?”

“You didn’t find your luggage.”

“Yes! I didn’t find my luggage!”

This guy’s story is either one huge exaggeration, or the poor fellah really does have horrible things happening to him all the time. Either way, the story was enticing. I listened with intense interest.

“I called my brother again,” he continued. “The airline told him my luggage was in Vietnam. But the airport in Vietnam said they did not have my luggage. I was on the phone all day, calling Shanghai, San Francisco, my brother… such an ordeal. Finally, someone told me to check the luggage counter. I did, and there was my luggage.”

He let out a long sigh and shook his head.

“Daaaaaamn.”

“Everything in my luggage was broken. The luggage itself was okay. Nothing was missing. But all of my stuff inside the luggage was broken. I had to buy all new things.”

“Daaaaaamn.” Well, at least you finally made it to Vietnam.”

“Yes. I finally did.” His face hinted at a momentary smile, then it vanished. “But there’s more.”

“More?”

“More.”

“Haven’t you had enough already?”

He laughed. “Yes, I have. These things always happen to me. My sister asks me why these things always happen to me. She doesn’t believe me that they always do, but they do.”

Another long sigh. Then he continued.

“While in Vietnam, sister made me a delicious dessert with coconut. She doesn’t know that I get sick with coconut, unfortunately. I ate it and started to feel sick. I didn’t know why. I asked her, ‘What is in this dessert?’ She said, ‘coconut.’ I ran to the bathroom and had such stomach pains. My goodness I was in such pain.”

I grimaced. He noticed the expression on my face and nodded.

“Yes. I had bad diarrhea. It was such pain. I even had to go to the hospital because I could not stand it. The doctor examined me and said there was nothing he could do. I just had to wait it out. But I kept telling him I was in a lot of pain, tremendous pain. He finally gave me some medicine, but it didn’t help. I just sat in the bathroom for a long, long time, in such pain.”

“Daaaaaamn,” I murmured.

He snipped my hair, looked at it in the mirror, and snipped again. I waited silently to hear more, but he just kept cutting my hair. After a moment, I asked, “How did the rest of the trip go?”

“Oh, it was okay. I saw my family, then flew home without any more problems. Getting there was such an ordeal. But coming home was great. I was so happy to come home.”

That was so not the answer I was expecting. A part of me almost hoped to hear more horrible ordeals. I dunno why. Something about watching a train wreck, that kind of thing.

“My mother,” he started up again. “She wants me to go back again this year. I told her No. I had such a horrible trip, I do not want to go back again so soon.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Yes. Such an ordeal. Such an ordeal.”

Fortunately, he cut my hair without incident. No lost scissors or explosive diarrhea marred my haircut experience. But stories like that sure have a way of capturing one’s attention. Everybody loves a good, horrible ordeal, especially when it’s someone else’s.

View Comments

A Nasty Story from a Hospital in China

“You want to hear a really nasty story?” asked Christina. We all leaned in close. She noted our silence and continued.

“One day, this young teenage girl comes into the hospital. She’s a peasant from a village outside the city. I could tell she grew up on a farm because she had a dark tan and tattered clothes. She was maybe only fourteen or fifteen years old.

“She complained of nausea and dizziness. So I put her through a bunch of tests. At first, I thought maybe she was malnourished, but she seems healthy enough. Well, relatively healthy for a poor peasant girl. Then I thought maybe she has some kind of virus or bacteria infection, since villagers aren’t known for their hygiene. But she looks okay.”

“Maybe she has SARS!” Ben chuckled.

“No…” Christina waved him off impatiently. “This happened several years ago. SARS hadn’t gotten around yet.”

Ben grabbed his beer and stared at it.

“So anyways,” continued Christina, “this girl checks out with every test we gave her. No viral or bacterial infections. There wasn’t anything drastically wrong with her that would give her this nausea and dizziness. As I continued asking her questions, I began to get suspicious about her condition.”

“Aren’t you supposed to ask questions first?” asked Eric.

“Well, of course. I was asking them all along. But some villagers are afraid of doctors and don’t say very much. So I just go right into tests while asking questions.”

“Oh, okay, that makes sense.”

“I ask the little girl about what time of day she has this nausea, how frequent it is, stuff like that. She tells me it’s usually in the morning and that she sometimes gets really hungry and eats all kinds of food, but doesn’t know why.”

“Oh shit,” I muttered. “She’s pregnant?”

“Yes!” Christina slapped the table. “She’s pregnant! So I ask her if she has a boyfriend and she says she doesn’t. I ask her if she’s ever slept with a boy and she says she hasn’t. I ask her if maybe her father or an uncle ever did anything uncomfortable with her. She says they haven’t.”

“Um, so then how did she get pregnant?” asked Eric.

“That’s what I was wondering too. So I keep on asking her questions like this. I tell her it’s okay to tell me and that I won’t tell her parents if she doesn’t want me to. I tell her that she can trust me. She’s shy and scared, but also seems really confused about all this. She insists that she’s never slept with a boy before.

“Then, and here comes the nasty part, I suddenly realize what happened. Get this: since her family is so poor, all of her siblings sleep in one bed. She has a bunch of brothers. She’s the only girl in the family. So all of her brothers sleep in the same bed as her. And—”

“Oh no!” we shouted.

“Right! So apparently her brothers will sometimes ‘play around’ in bed. She had no idea what sex was or what they were doing. But in their playing, they would essentially have sex with her!”

“Daaaaaamn!” All of us cringed and grimaced. A collective groan shook our table. “That IS nasty!”

“I told you! You wanted to hear it!”

We nodded solemnly. We asked for it. We sat back in our chairs, turned to our beers, and tried to drown the story with alcohol.

Christina took a sip of her beer and regarded the foam. She looked around the table at our dour faces. She took another sip. Then she cleared her throat. “Do you guys want to hear another nasty story?”

We all leaned in close again.

Do you have any nasty stories?

View Comments

The Japanese Maid Cafe

“What’s up with this fascination for Japanese girls in maid outfits?” Kim asked.

Masako laughed. “In the maid cafes, the girls will treat you like a king. The Japanese businessmen love them. When you go inside, the girls will say, ‘Welcome home, Master’ in Japanese, then dote on you the entire time you’re there.”

“Do they do, um, anything else?” I wondered.

“NO Mike. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“What? What?” I shrugged. “I was just wondering. Here are these girls dressed up in maid outfits with short skirts, calling you Master and all that. And I know how kinky some of these Japanese men are…” I winked.

“Hehe, that’s true. You’ve got a point there.”

“Would you guys like to try out a maid cafe?” Pavan asked.

Kim and I looked at each other. “Sure!”

Masako smirked at Pavan, then turned to us. “We can find Japanese girls in maid outfits standing on the street, handing out flyers for their maid cafe.”

We walked a few blocks in Akihabara without seeing any Japanese maids. We did see lots of anime (and its dirty cousin, hentai) shops though.

“Maybe we should try looking online,” Masako suggested. Pavan took out his mobile phone and began a search. She spoke to him in Japanese as they tried to find a nearby place.

“Kinky,” I muttered as I peeped into a nearby hentai shop.

“This stuff is so weird,” said Kim. She was also peeping in.

Masako joined us. “Yea. There are some strange fetishes in the Japanese culture, all right.”

“Kinky,” I repeated.

“Found one.” Pavan pointed down the street. “Follow me. This way.”

We walked down a maze of streets and backtracked a few times. Finding places in Tokyo can be really tough. Many streets aren’t labeled; many buildings aren’t numbered. Addresses give you only a general idea of where the place is located. Even the Japanese locals have a hard time finding specific locations.

Eventually we found one. It was hidden in an alley and up a narrow flight of stairs. I couldn’t help wondering if we were about to be kidnapped and have our kidneys stolen.

“I think this is it!” Pavan declared. At the end of a narrow hallway was a door with a red light glowing behind it.

“Um, this is just a maid cafe, right?” asked Kim. “They just serve drinks and stuff, right? Nothing else?”

Masako laughed. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing to worry about! They just try to be discreet because these kinds of place aren’t openly socially accepted.”

“Okay,” Kim said hesitantly. She trailed behind us. I was towards the front.

Pavan opened the door. A young Japanese girl, who looked to be barely legal and dressed in a maid outfit, greeted us enthusiastically. She bowed and bid us to follow her. We did as we were told.

Once inside, it looked like a dimly lit dive bar, only much cleaner. The place was tiny. There were three men at the bar and four empty tables behind them. We took one of tables.

Another Japanese maid came by and handed us menus. She looked a little older, just about legal. She also had on what looked like cat ears.

I looked at the bar. The bartender was another barely legal teen with the shortest maid outfit amongst the girls, plus another pair of cat ears.

“Um, what’s up with the cat ears?” I asked.

Masako laughed. “Funny you should notice that. Some Japanese people find those cute. These girls will sometimes wear cat or bunny ears.”

“Kinky.”

“What do you want to drink?” Pavan asked.

“Beer for me,” I answered.

“I’ll take a beer too, I guess,” Kim added.

“Masako?”

“Maybe just some tea.”

Pavan ordered three beers and a tea. The Japanese maid bowed eagerly and scurried off. I watched her cat ears bob up and down.

“So what happens now?” I asked. “Do they start dancing or getting nekkid or anything?”

“Mike!” Masako’s eyes flared.

Pavan laughed. “Unfortunately, it’s not that kind of place.”

Kim adjusted herself uneasily in her seat.

“Okay, seriously. Like, what’s the appeal of a place like this? We get to see girls with maid outfits and cat ears. What else?”

“Well, it’s mostly about the attention the girls give to their patrons,” Masako explained.

Pavan added, “If just you and I came here, they would be hanging around with us, talking to us, and acting all cutesy.”

“And that’s about it?”

“Yup. That’s it.”

“Huh.”

“Mike, you sound disappointed,” Masako noticed.

I laughed. “Nah, just surprised. This sounds a lot like Hooters in America, basically. Mixed with a Korean club. Only a lot harder to find and with kinky cat ears.”

“I think you were expecting something really raunchy and dirty, weren’t you?”

I smirked and watched the bartender lean forward while talking to a patron. “I suppose, after a long day’s work, some guys just want to kick back and live in a fantasy world for a bit.”

“Are a lot of these men married?” Kim asked.

“Oh sure, many of them,” Pavan answered. “This is a form of ‘safe’ entertainment, if you will. They’re not openly cheating on their wives, even though they’re enjoying the company of another woman. It’s not a huge thing in Tokyo, but there’s certainly a sub-culture that likes it.”

“And now we got to see it,” I said. “Gosh, I feel so… dirty.”

“No Mike,” Masako corrected. “If we went to a place like you were expecting, THEN you’d feel dirty.”

Have you ever been to a Japanese maid cafe?

View Comments

Hong Kong’s Domestic Helpers

“Is it strange having her live with you guys?”

Ray shook his head. “We have a small guest room. Much bigger than what other families give to their domestic helpers.”

I scratched my chin. “A friend told me that sometimes all they’re given is a plank on a washing machine to sleep on.”

Ray laughed. “I’ve never heard of that, but I don’t doubt it’s true.”

“It seems hella cruel.”

“One of my neighbors makes his domestic helper wash his car every day. Every single day. Even when it’s raining. I sometimes see her outside in the rain, and I’ll ask her, ‘Why are you washing the car in the rain? Why don’t you just wait until the rain stops?’ She said, ‘I can’t. I need to wash the car every day at this time, no matter what.’”

I sat up. “Now that is hella cruel! And just crazy and dumb… not to mention, inefficient!”

“Yup. Many families don’t treat their domestic helpers well. They treat them like slaves.”

I shook my head. “Hella cruel…”

We both looked out the window at the Hong Kong skyline for a moment. City lights were sprinkled like Christmas lights everywhere.

“However,” Ray continued. “Did you know that many of these domestic helpers can return to the Philippines and retire? After about thirty years of service, some of them will have saved up enough money to retire and never have to work again. I wish I could do that here in Hong Kong.”

“Wow. Yea, I wish I could do that in the US too.”

“You and I, we’ll have to work much more than that. Forty, fifty, sixty years. Who knows?”

“I guess the standard of living in the Philippines is that low, huh?”

“Yes, very low.” Ray shook his head. “I’m not saying they’ll be living like kings and queens. It’s just that, for their standard of living, the amount of money they make here is a lot more than what they could make in their own country.”

“Almost sounds like a sweat shop.”

“Maybe. If you look at how some of them are treated, that could be the case. From a US point of view, it sounds cruel. From a Filipino point of view, it’s working for a better life. It’s all relative.”

I stared out the window. The night sky seemed alive with beads of light. All sorts of colors filled the skyline.

“Oh, have you heard about the Filipino gatherings in Central on Sundays?” Ray asked.

“I have! Too bad I won’t be here long enough to see it.”

“It’s quite a sight. The first time I saw it, I had no idea what was going on. There are sooo many Filipino domestic helpers in Hong Kong. It’s unbelievable.”

“A friend told me the place is flooded on Sundays.”

“It is! It’s quite a sight.”

Ray’s domestic helper appeared behind us. She asked him something in Cantonese. He replied and motioned toward the kitchen table. She smiled and shook her head. Then she walked off to the guest room.

“You just offered her some food, right?”

Ray smiled. “Ah, your Cantonese is getting better.”

“Yea, I’ve picked up a bit more since I’ve been here.”

“Yup. I offered her some desserts, but she didn’t want any. There’s no more work to do for today, so she’s going to sleep now.”

I patted Ray on the back. “There’s certainly no sweat shop in the Ray household. You’re good peoples, Ray. She’s going to retire and tell great stories about you back in the Philippines.”

Ray laughed as we walked from the window. “Let me make you some tea.”

Do you have a domestic helper?

View Comments

The Tsukiji Fish Market

There were fish guts on my pants. But I didn’t mind. Just watching the fishermen slice up those large tuna was worth smelling like one.

It was 6:30am. Kim and I were wandering around the Tsukiji Fish Market. Japanese fishermen rushed about their work without a care for gawking gaijin like us.

Except for that one lady who started screaming at us in Japanese. She sounded angry, though she could have been telling us about a painful bunion on her foot, for all we knew.

We got up early so we could experience this rare sight. According to our friends, this fish market is going to be moved someplace else someday. For cost reasons, I believe. So we wanted to see it while it was still in Tsukiji. Plus, everyone and their grandmother and neighbor and talking pet toad told us to go and eat the extremely fresh sushi and sashimi here.

“You have GOT to go to Tsukiji and eat the fresh sushi there!” they exclaimed. So we had to go. If anything, just to get them to stop exclaiming that.

The market was frantic. Fishermen scurried around by foot or on motorized carts that would run you over if you were stupid enough to get in the way. The tuna were enormous. About the size of small children. The fisherman eagerly hacked away at the fish, carving them with electric saws and slicing them with large knives. The raw fish meat was bright red, as were the guts and blood that spilled onto the floor.

What appeared to be administrators or managers sat inside booths next to each section of fishermen. They were generally old ladies with glasses. I think it was one of them that screamed about her foot bunion to us. Sorry about your foot bunion, lady. I’m sure there’s cream for that.

Like Pacman in a maze, Kim and I gobbled up imaginary pellets as we wandered around the market, trying to take in as many sights as possible. We took pictures of everything. National Geographic could make a comprehensive documentary with our photos.

And if we were Pacman (Pacmen?), then the motorized carts were the ghosts. They moved surprisingly fast, even with their piles of frozen tuna. We saw other tourists there too. One guy was almost sideswiped by a cart. Another got splashed as the cart ran through a puddle.

I think the fishermen actually got a kick out of us being there. They probably have a competition amongst themselves: every time you splash a gaijin, you get a free tuna.

None of them seemed to mind us photographing them either. Maybe they got a kick out of that too. “Look Ma, some gaijin took a picture of me and now I’m on National Geographic!”

The morning culminated in a breakfast of fresh fish. Our friends directed us to building six, where a long line of locals and gaijin waited outside one of the sushi bars. Well, the line wasn’t that long. Just ten or so people. Kim’s been here before, and in her previous visit, there were hundreds of people.

The sushi bar was tiny but the fish was WOW. Like, utterly, WOW. Heavenly. I think my sashimi was still flipping around and gasping for air, so fresh it was.

Normally, I can’t stand uni (sea urchin). It has a stony, fishy taste with a grainy, buttery texture. It’s an acquired taste, especially for Westerners. But fresh uni is different. It’s less fishy. This one was so fresh it just tasted like stones.

The toro (fatty tuna) was so smooth it was like biting into a bar of butter. Same for every other piece of sashimi. The shrimp was still wet from being freed from its shell and washed.

Sushi chefs here hand you each piece by hand and you’re supposed to eat each piece by hand too. With fish this fresh, eating a slice of ginger between each sashimi is also important, so you can cleanse your palette and enjoy its full flavor.

I expect the locals here, who probably see fresh fish every day, to be sick of fish. But the sushi bar was full of them too. You could hear Japanese, English, German, Italian, and all sorts of languages here.

We left Tsukiji full and content. “This place ruins me,” Kim stated. “I can’t eat sushi again for a whole year.”

I nodded. What an experience. We saw large tuna being chopped into bits, survived the motorized carts, and ate fish that was swimming just hours ago. We got back onto the subway with fish guts on our pants and smiles on our faces.

Have you ever been to the Tsukiji Fish Market?

View Comments

Tokyo’s Subway System

I stepped out of the Airport Express and into an ant colony. Only they weren’t ants, they were Japanese commuters. And it wasn’t an ant colony, it was Shinjuku station.

But if you were to look at us from ten stories above, we’d probably look like a teeming mass of ants. What would seem like aimless rushing would really be targeted traveling at high speeds.

I’m convinced that somewhere in Shinjuku station is a queen. Why else would so many Japanese commuters be in a mad rush like this, if not to build out their colony and feed their queen?

A few times, I made the foolish mistake of stopping to read a sign or figure out where I was going. What a fool. Commuters swarmed around me and I drowned in Japanese.

Fortunately, the Japanese are too polite to knock me over. Whenever someone bumped into me, he or she would bow and apologize before melting back into the swarm.

Another thing that amazed me is how well Japanese commuters understand Tokyo’s subway system. To an outsider, it’s daunting at first. After a week, I started to get the hang of it. And I’m sure if I stayed there longer, I’d be target traveling at high speeds like them too. But still, for the uninitiated, it’s pretty crazy.

Overview

There are three main train systems in Tokyo, all of which are generally color-coded:

1. The JR (Japan Rail) lines
2. The inner Tokyo subway lines
3. The outer Tokyo subway lines

To get into a train line, you need to stick your ticket into a machine when entering and exiting a station. This is similar to London, Hong Kong, and other European cities, though New Yorkers may find this confusing at first.

The JR lines have their own ticketing system. The inner and outer Tokyo subway lines have their own ticketing system too. Unfortunately, these two ticketing systems aren’t compatible and travelers will need to get two separate tickets.

However, if you’re only staying a few days and will be using the trains often, you can purchase a Tokyo Combination Ticket Day Pass. This allows you to ride on any of these lines, as well as buses. Otherwise, it’s cheaper to buy tickets separately.

The JR lines

The JR lines are above ground and are marked with a large “JR” in their signs.

If you purchase a JR Pass, which some travelers do if they want to go outside of Tokyo (like to Kyoto or Osaka), then you can ride anywhere along the JR lines without having to buy more tickets. Many travelers just get one of these, because the most popular JR line—the Yamanote line (also known as the Yamanote Loop in some guide books) —circles Tokyo and provides access to most of the city’s attractions.

With a JR Pass, you don’t have to stick your ticket through any machines. You can just show it to the station attendant that sits in a booth next to the entry and exit machines. He’ll wave you right through, easy as pie.

A few key attractions, like those at the Harajuku, Roppongi, and Tsukiji stations, aren’t on the Yamanote line, however. But those can be the few exceptions where you can purchase subway tickets.

The inner & outer Tokyo subway lines

The inner and outer Tokyo subway lines are underground. They are marked by the names of their lines. The direction the subway is going is marked by the station at the end of the line, or by the next few major stations.

Traveling within the subway lines can be done by purchasing individual tickets for each trip, or a ticket with a set amount. Each trip varies in price, depending on how far you go. There are somewhat complicated maps above ticketing machines that indicate how much each ticket will cost. Usually, there’s a map in Japanese and a separate map in English.

The ticket with a set amount, unfortunately, isn’t rechargeable. If you have some money on it, but not enough for your trip, you’ll have to purchase a new ticket. Thankfully, you can use that left over money to apply to the new ticket. These are called adjustment fee tickets and can be purchased on adjustment fee ticketing machines.

Got that? Good.

Daunting, huh?

Subway maps are a complex network of lines too. Imagine trying to figure that out, while remembering which tickets you can use, all with swarms of commuters rushing around you. It can get pretty daunting for newcomers to Tokyo.

The ticketing systems get easier once you’re used to them, of course. There are also rechargeable cards called Suica cards. I don’t think they’re easy to get though, unlike Hong Kong’s Octopus cards. Suica cards are like credit cards. They can also be used in shops, but require an application process. Bummer.

Don’t let this frighten you though. All the important directional signs and announcements have English counterparts. But as a Tokyo virgin, the crowds are going to be like jumping into ice cold water on a hot day—quite a shock at first, but you’ll get used to it. Hopefully this helps a little.

Also, if you find the queen in Shinjuku station, let me know. I know she’s hiding in there somewhere.

Have you ever used Tokyo’s subway system?

View Comments

The Hong Kong Streets

Every Hong Kong street has walking signals. Just like any big city. Unlike New York City though, the pedestrians wait until the signal is green to cross.

This I didn’t expect. I thought Hong Kong would be more like New York City — and that pedestrians wouldn’t wait for no stupid signal and just walk whenever they wanted to.

“Why is that?” I asked Wendy. “People are just standing there. There are no cars coming. Why don’t they cross?”

“For their safety,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Drivers don’t stop for pedestrians like they do in the States. They’ll just keep on driving. You never know when a car might suddenly turn the corner and come towards you.”

“Whoa, really? In the States, pedestrians have the right of way. If they’re on the street, a car always has to stop for them.”

“Really? That’s nice. Drivers won’t stop for you in Hong Kong though.”

I made a mental note of that and made sure to cross only on greens.

I also noted that there are an abundance of Mercedes in Hong Kong. More than any other brand of car. Audi, BMW, and Lexus were also common, as well as a few Toyotas. But nowhere near as abundant as Mercedes.

“That’s because Hong Kong people like status symbols,” Ray told me. “German cars are especially high status symbols.”

“But the traffic is horrible here. Why would they want a car?”

“Exactly. This is not a good city for owning a car. Not only is the traffic horrible, but there’s hardly any place to park. So owning a Mercedes is that much more of a status symbol.”

I counted five Mercedes as he told me that.

“Oh, by the way, buckle up.”

We were in a taxi and I was in the front seat. The taxi driver sped down the street without regard for pedestrians or other cars, it seemed. I wasn’t even sure he paid attention to the stop lights.

Then he screeched to a halt at a red light. Whew. They DO pay attention.

I subconsciously scanned around for a passenger-side airbag, but didn’t see one. So I held onto the seat belt with both hands.

This, I also noted, is exactly why pedestrians don’t cross unless the walking signal is green.

Have you ever been on Hong Kong’s streets?

View Comments

Welcome to Hong Kong

Walking out of customs and into the arrival area, I was met with scores of eager families with signs in Chinese. Most probably names of their loved ones. Little kids ran up to uncles and aunts. Friends waved at friends. Boyfriends hugged and kissed girlfriends.

I smiled at the sight and walked on by. I wondered if any of them has SARS. Then I walked a little faster.

There were more signs in the airport. All had English counterparts, which was lucky for me because I can’t read Chinese. They were a typographical meeting of East and West. I followed the directions over to the Airport Shuttle, the subway line that would take me to my hotel.

The terminal was surprisingly crowded. I maneuvered through the masses and found a subway ticketing machine. My aunt had given me her Octopus card — an extremely useful card for traveling through the subways. It’s a magnetized card that you just have to wave over a reader; you don’t even have to take it out of your wallet or purse. Even better, some stores accept payment via Octopus too.

I shuffled through the coins in my pocket. Not being familiar with the coins’ values, I had to carefully pick and choose the ones I wanted. In my hands were a sea of silver, copper, and gold. I took a mental snapshot of each one to commit it to memory.

After I added money to the card, I walked over to the subway platform. A glass wall separated the subway tracks from the platform. To protect people from falling in, I guessed. Like a big subway condom. The glass doors only opened when a subway train was present. Like… um, nevermind, there’s no good analogy for that.

The train was clean and well lit. There was a diagram showing the subway’s stops, including an arrow showing which direction we were headed. A television embedded in the wall showed commercials in Cantonese and English. Print ads were in both languages too.

A guy in a business suit sat in front of me. I heard him speak fluent Cantonese and French on his mobile phone. Then he took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and fell asleep. I wondered what Cantonese sounded like with a French accent.

Since it was late in the evening, I didn’t see much outside the window. We stayed underground for a bit then emerged to a few lighted signs in Chinese and English. The world around me looked urban; there were lots of industrial-looking buildings along around us.

I don’t remember how long the ride was, but it was quite some time. I might have fallen asleep too, had I not been so excited about my trip. We finally arrived at the last stop and I hustled out with the crowd.

It was hot outside. Very hot. Tall buildings surrounded me, like in New York City. I looked up and marveled at the skyscrapers, then looked down to make sure there were no rats or cockroaches around me. There weren’t. Whew.

A street full of speeding cars whizzed by me. They drove on the left side of the street, same as in the UK. A stream of red taxis raced out of the subway station, full of sleepy passengers.

Then I took a deep breath. And promptly started coughing. Bad idea. The air was full of exhaust, pollution, and who knows what else. I wondered if there was going to be any air pollution warnings while I was here this week.

A family walked by. I heard the mother speaking to her kids in Cantonese. I caught bits and pieces of what they were saying and strained to understand the rest.

“Welcome to Hong Kong” I told myself. I was finally here. Then I smiled and began walking towards my hotel.

Have you ever been to Hong Kong?

View Comments