The Three Dragons

I sighed as I walked into my bathroom. It had been a long day at the mahjong tables. I had spent all afternoon pon-ing, kan-ing, chii-ing and ron-ing, and had returned home with five dollars less than I had upon departure. But I didn't mind. On the contrary, I had walked home with a beaming smile on my face, ecstatic that eight hours of continuously fantastic competition had only cost me five dollars. Mahjong was such a joy to play. The four of us with our green polo shirts and jeans, chain smoking cheap cigarettes while busy strategically arranging out hands, yelping at victory and groaning at defeat. Such was the game that united blue and white-collar workers alike under one roof at the local YMCA. Yes, it had been a good day indeed!

I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower. The steam engulfed me as the hot water streamed over my body. I quickly rubbed myself down and reached for the shampoo. A red dot suddenly appeared on my forearm, and another on my foot. Another burst forth onto my hand, and one more came after that. They kept appearing; another and then another and another, following one anther in a regimented sequence. I smiled and turned my face into the shower stream. My nose was bleeding. I poured shampoo into my hand and went about washing my hair. I let my hands down after a good lather and let the fluffy foam coating them absorb the rogue blood droplets. The crimson soon calmed to a rosy pink and was washed away, its anger assuaged. As I soaped up, more droplets, their impish aura about them, rocketed past my ankles onto the tile, where upon impact they burst into ghosts and chased each other down the drain, their solace to be found in perpetual gridlock with one another amid the copper labyrinth of the underground. I continued my routine. They were no threat to me. These beads of blood, these excited erythrocytes, had long since become something of a neighbor rather than a distant visitor. They came and went as they pleased. And just as one with a visitor must be chained to the entertain in the living room, so I had to be wary of my guests until they left. They bothered me for but a little while, and then, just as abruptly as they came, they were gone. I turned off the water and stepped out of the tub. I dried, dressed, and traipsed off to bed.

All this socializing had tired me out, and it was time to climb into my clean white sheets and dream of rounds in which I could collect nine or more Dragon tiles.

Lighting up the Room

I am writing this entry from a small McDonalds in Japan. The place holds about thirty people of all ages, offering them the same menu available to millions and millions of people around the world. You may ask, “What is the main difference that makes this one worth blogging about?” One deep breath will give you the answer. This McDonalds is not non-smoking. In fact, it is quite filled with smoke, as a quick glance around will tell you. At least five people are puffing away, with a few others tentatively fingering their cigarette packs and lighters on the tables.

Most people in the US would be outraged, with cries of “Second hand smoke!” ringing out across the McFlurrys and double cheeseburgers. I am not worried. Should I be? Second hand smoke is a proven health hazard and, it is true, I don’t smoke myself, so I have every right to be mad. But I am not. Having spent many blissful hours in smoky arcades, I do – to a degree – find smoke comforting. It takes me to a happy place of sorts. The way it lazily curls up in the air, blanketing the ceiling, gives me something to focus on, something to keep my mind from wandering. But, of course, that is not the only reason I do not mind smoke.

The truth is, I like that fact that Japanese society is tolerant to the degree that it allows smoking in a very child-friendly, family restaurant. I like that people are willing to tolerate other peoples' so-called “filthy” habits in order to allow the greatest variety of people to be at the same place, enjoying the same food, at the same time. Simply put, I am willing to put up with smoke in order to facilitate a tolerant society – a society where people feel free to do what they want, where they want. I even go so far as to consider myself considerate of others because of this. So often we want someone to stop something they are doing – in this case lighting up – because it bothers us. I say, “Is the confrontation and undoubtedly hurt feelings of the smoker worth the complaint? They just want to relax the same way you do. Stop believing you are number one for a few minutes of your day and think of those around you." They want to smoke? Let them.

This is very Japanese of me. And, in a country where porn magazines are regularly read openly on trains, ads on the street for sex shops contain nudity, noise pollution laws are non-existent, and truckers openly urinate on the side of the road, it could be argued that smoking in a public restaurant is the least of the Japanese peoples’ worries.

Putting up with cigarette smoke is a small price to pay for the privilege of being in a society where people are forced to interact with each other. In the suburban US it seems that so much of the population goes from their isolated house to their isolated car - very controlled, environments – and rarely have to interact with other people to the degree that city-dwelling denizens do. People matter, smokers matter, and if having a all-smoking restaurant is part of nurturing the wildly diverse society that is present in Tokyo, more power to them.