The Super Great Car-Finding Saga Extravaganza – Part Two

(The title of this blog is not pretentious at all.)

When we last left off here, I had returned home after getting shafted by the car salesman at Easy Buy Auto Sales. Completely disregarding that, I called him the next day to set up a test drive on the following Monday. My hopes were high and my eyebrows bristled with anticipation.

Monday morning found me at the car lot with two friends, Joe and Danielle. The salesman had nicely offered to bring the Jag down from the lot, and arrived at the lot at 9:15, ten minutes after we had arrived. The Jag needed a quick jump, and then we were on our way. Naturally I drove, and Joe sat next to me and Danielle sat in the back and complained about the loose, dangling headliner. In all fairness to her, it was pretty gross - I mean, who knows how many old peoples’ hair it had touched!?

It’s rather hard to describe the feeling that welled up inside of me when I had both hands on the wheel of a luxury car, my butt firmly in a well-worn seat, driving a smooth in-line V-6 that purrs like a cat next to a hot water bottle. The low growl of the finely tuned engine, still in tip-top shape after all these years, was soon ambient noise as the rolling green hillsides and shady, tree-lined avenues whizzed by. The car handled extremely well, and all the outside lights worked. About five minutes into the test drive, however, I noticed that my speedometer, odometer, and gas gauge weren’t moving. Um, that could be problematic.

I really don’t know how it took me so long to notice that. I guess I was too preoccupied with listening to the engine and transmission, and testing the brakes.

I got us lost on the test drive, and we ended up on the backroads of Chester County for about twenty minutes. When we made it safely and legally back to the dealer, I asked the guy, Doug, about the issue. He said that the car had been sitting on the lot for seven months, but had recently passed inspection. Apparently since then the board controlling the three gauges had failed. That seemed fishy. I told him I would be in contact and left for work.

Once back in familiar surroundings, I started asking people I knew their opinions of my prospective purchase. I learned that the speedo and odo board failing was a common problem in older European luxury cars, and the fix could be as easy as some re-wiring or as expensive as a $400 board replacement. Strike one. My friend Tony, who sells cars for a living, had this bit of advice for me.

“Dann, I sell cars for a living. I don’t try to sell Jags. People actively buy Jags. I never recommend a Jag to anyone. In my opinion they aren’t well made cars, and, in fact, I think an’85 Jag is the worst possible choice for a car for you. The Brits don’t know how to make a dam car. Buy something you can get parts for easily – ideally a Japanese import.”

This sounded like very good advice to me. I decided that pursuing the novelty of owning a Jag was not in my best interest at this time in my life, or possibly ever. It would have been cool to be able to say, “Yeah, my first car was a Jaguar,” but paying through the nose for specialized imported parts would have thrown a wet blanket on that really fast, I feared. The Jag would have to sit on the lot for a bit longer.



Fear not, dear readers, part three is near.

The Super Great Car-Finding Saga Extravaganza – Part One

(The title of this blog is not pretentious at all.)

Since my arrival in the United States a month ago, I have been trying to procure a mode of reliable transportation. My host family has, until now, generously allowed me to use one of their cars, but I did not want to get used to using that and thus have been actively looking for a car over the past month. At first I thought about buying a motorcycle, but then thought about the cold, frigid, and also freezing climate of Pennsylvania during the winter months and decided against certain death brought upon by slick asphalt and two thin wheels. So, a car it is.

I had fairly simple criteria for finding a car. Seeing as I am not rich nor an extravagant spender, nor am I stupid, I had to set a budget, which I decided to be $1-3k. I figured $3000 would get me a good-enough car and, at the same time by only looking above $1000 I would weed out any really crappy cars. My initial criteria were a running car with four doors and less than 100,000 miles. It was pretty simple.

I started my search how any post-teenage boy equipped with a laptop would – by searching online. By making routine searches of four major used-car websites, Cars.com, Autotrader.com, Craigslist Philadelphia, and Ebay.com, I began to compile a list of possible cars to check out, as well as if my criteria were reasonable considering the current market conditions. Based on my research, the $3000-and-under car market seemed to be booming.

My first lead on a car lead me to Easy Buy Auto Sales of Coatesville, PA. They had a 1985 Jaguar XJ6 listed on Cars.com for $2995 with 83k on the odometer and a new alternator (new, direct from Jaguar – not exactly a cheap part to replace). My friend Joe graciously agreed to accompany me to the dealer, so we hopped in the car and drove the 10 miles or so to get there. Below is an actual transcription of our conversation in the house before leaving.

“Hey Joe. Playing Guitar Hero again, I see.”
“Indeed, as it is loads of fun.”
“So I found this 1989 Jaguar online, and it has 150,000 miles on it. Private seller. Two grand.”
“Bangin’.”
“Yes, indeed. But oh, wait, here’s a cooler-looking Jag for $2995 and it’s ten miles away! Lets go!”
“Ok, sure.”

So, just like that, Joe dropped Guitar Hero and we drove to the dealer. We got there around 6:30 and walked around the tiny lot looking for the Jag. This wandering took much longer than it should have, seeing as lot had only one car of each major body style on it and was about as big as some living rooms I’ve had the pleasure of lounging in. We finally resorted to asking the salesman inside the barely-furnished office as to where exactly the car was.

“Oh,” he replied, “it’s up in the other lot we have. It’s right around the corner here. That’s a good car, man. Big strong engine with a smooth tranny in that car. Runs really well. They put airplane engines in those cars, man. It’s amazing!”

He was a little too enthusiastic. His sales pitch wasn't bad until he threw that bit in about the airplane engine. Then I felt like he was trying to sell me a collector’s novelty item instead of a car. Nonetheless, Joe and I decided to go up to the other lot and look at the car. We found it easily enough, and I was disappointed that it looked smaller in real life than in the pictures. No matter, though. Hmmm, cream paint with a red interior. Classy.

The exterior looked decent enough. A few rust spots here and there, and some fading paint. The tires looked under-inflated, but the car had been sitting on the lot for about six months. As Joe and I tried the doors we discovered that the rear passenger side door no longer locked, thus giving us free access to the inside of the car. We of course hopped in and had a look around. The inside was really clean, and, barring a really torn up leather driver’s seat, I was really pleased with what I saw. We couldn't really do any more than sit in it and admire how good we looked in it, so we did that before hopping back into Joe’s car and driving back to the dealer. We got back only to find that the salesman and skedaddled home, leaving us nothing to do but return home ourselves.

We would be back.

Oceans of Confusion

Distant. I feel distant as I sit here in a booth on my former college campus where I am visiting for a day. I feel disconnected from the student body, from people whom I still call friends; from people whom I spent my days with just five months ago as a fellow student. I know their names, their hobbies, their likes and dislikes, yet I feel that we live in two worlds apart. My decision to leave college was not in the least of my own choosing, but I still feel as though I deserted it. I feel like a foreigner in a place that still welcomes me and enjoys my company. In this way I suppose that this institution of higher learning is not unlike anywhere else I have left, whether it be country, city, house, or home. It is not unusual for me to return to places I have left behind, because I find value in unearthing old memories and experiences. Nostalgia can be a lot of fun if done in moderation. Returning to my old college however, is different. My emotions are twisted, and my feelings chaotic.

Coming back here is not nostalgic.

I am not a different person now - I have not changed since I left college. Before, I could take comfort in being able to associate nostalgia with maturing. I could look back and associate a place with a certain maturity level I was at and could chart my progress as a human being by counting how many times I had changed surroundings. This college, however, is still somewhere I want to be. I feel displaced, and unfairly at that. I feel cheated and taunted by fate.
Of course, it was my own decision to return and visit. Nobody dragged me here and made me socialize with these people. Perhaps I return in hopes of staying relevant, in hopes of retaining former relationships, and in hopes of remembering why I am working my fingers to the bone to return to college. I want these relationships, and I want this community. This is a place where I have much more growing yet to do.

All my life I have felt, to one degree or another, unwelcome in a place where I belonged but did not fit into. For the first time, I feel welcome in a place where I fit in but do not belong.

(for the time being)

The Sound of Goodbye

Here I sit on a trans-pacific flight, a tag groggy after a light nap. I am embarking (or perhaps disembarking) on a great adventure. Today finds me leaving my much-loved country of Japan, the land I have called home for as long as I could identify a ‘home’, and the land that has been my actual physical home for fourteen of my twenty years. This departure comes with a feeling of sadness, more aptly described by ‘pang‘ then the ‘tinge’ I have felt so often before when boarding an aircraft for a foreign country. Indeed, sometimes I have felt very little sorrow when leaving Japan, but I was much younger back then, and a lot less wise.

As a missionary kid who is uprooted every at least every four years and forced to adapt to a new environment, I have never been a stranger to change. Most time I faced it with courage, ready to tackle the new challenge ahead with the support of a loving family and a rambunctious younger brother. In truth, change is now so ingrained in me that I find myself feeling uneasy and yearning for a new setting every few years, a change of routine that I can re-accustom myself too. Yes, I have become accommodated to travel - to constantly seek broader horizons and brighter vistas.

So then, in light of that explanation, what set of circumstances have me feeling pangs of sorrow upon what will be my 25th airplane flight in 20 years? The answer is pretty straight forward - every other time, I had plans of returning. This time I embark for the United States unsure of when I will return to Japan, the closest place to a home that I have. I will arrive in America with plans to begin work, purchase vehicular transportation, and launch out on my own. I cannot do this in Japan. Japan, as it stands now, represents a safe place; somewhere too familiar for me to take risks and challenge myself. At this point in my life, I feel that I can do no more growing in Japan. I need a change. And for the first time in my life I have no plans made to return to my parents. I believe this is healthy for me.

But it is not easy. Tearful goodbyes were said to my mother and father. People who are close friends of mine in Japan I shared a last beer with; unsure of when I will see them again.

At the same time, the silver lining is bright. One of the upsides of the missionary-travel lifestyle is that almost everyone you know travels just as much as you do, and therefore you always have an a completely unexpected reunion to look forward too. (Who would have known that you would both happen to be in Tierra del Fuego in October!) A lifetime of traveling has made us flexible, and spontaneous schedule changes cause unexpected meetings. These moments I can look forward too. A goodbye can never be fully accepted, because hope is always present.

This past weekend then I fully packed up my room, loaded my suitcases in the car, and rode with my dad to the airport. Long car rides like that are always so hard. On one hand you want to get as much conversation as possible, with this person whom you are soon to leave, into the ever-diminishing time remaining. On the other hand, conversation is very hard to force. If you genuinely don’t have anything to talk about, you end up waiting for your plane alone, full of manufactured regret. Fortunately, this did not happen to me this time around. The goodbye with my father was of course quite hard. I respect the man so much, and it is hard to part with someone who you know loves you and wants what’s best for you, even if that means you leaving him. Holding back the tears I made my way to the gate.

As I rounded a corner I saw a shop attendant standing in front of her duty-free store with a plate of free samples. “Man, what a boring job,” I thought. Seriously, who wants to stand there all day holding a tray? What was on the tray, however, a complimentary shot of a premium Scotch, was very much appreciated and immediately brought a smile to my face. God bless Japan.

All of the mundane boarding procedures went smoothly, and I soon found myself sitting in a seat with ample legroom. I whipped out a book on Leninism that I had stuck in my briefcase and proceeded to devour chapter one and regurgitate detailed notes, all the while munching on the complimentary, well-packaged pretzels and sipping a can of Sapporo beer. Though there is something very blue-collar and perhaps even proletariat about drinking beer and reading Lenin, they don’t quite go well together.

Also, yay for nice stewardesses. Yay!

I will soon land, get my life in order, and boldly take on whatever challenges come my way, knowing that my family and friends support me from afar. Which, when you think about it, is becoming closer and closer with each day that passes. Far is never too far when your whole life revolves around travel.

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.

Differences Magnified Through Coffee

As I sit here in the Starbucks outside of Tokorozawa station, a Springsteen record barely audible in the background over the hubbub of chatter and small talk, my mind wanders, and I smile at the subtle differences between American and Japanese culture brought into the light when examined in the common setting of a coffee shop. Coffee is such joy for some, a vice for others, and part of the young adult culture as we have come to know it. How we enjoy it, and how it is representative of culture in general, however, varies greatly from country to country.

As I sit here at a bar looking out onto the sidewalk and busy pedestrian traffic, I can’t help but notice just how different and foreign this atmosphere would be to an American in their 20s. This particular Starbucks has seating for about fifty. Most of the tables are set for two, but there is a bar that seats five (where I sit), a group table seating six complete with chill blue lamps, and two sets of armchairs. Items that have become iconic of a Starbucks such as the lamps above the pick-up counter, the checkerboard tables, and the modern abstract art on the walls, are of course present. The clientele, however, is much more varied than at a typical American Starbucks. As I look around I see young girl, maybe 12, sitting with her older brother. There are five college age kids sitting at the group table, a grandma eating a baumkuhen alone, a black (saying 'African American' seems silly here) street vendor ordering coffee, a woman reading a book. People of every age, ethnicity, and color come here. Due to the high recognition of the chain the place often finds itself as a haven for foreigners. The staffs are considered appropriately, and most of the baristas at any Starbucks you enter will speak basic English.

The ‘yuppie’ image, so associated with patrons of Starbucks and other supposedly ‘high end’ coffee shops in America, is non-existent here. Why is that? I believe it is because the famous chain is so accessible here. Starbucks is everywhere, and it offers patrons a place to rest, come in out of the summer heat, and enjoy a good caffeinated beverage. But more importantly, it is seen as just a coffee place. The fact that it may be somewhat expensive is not a factor when you think about the many benefits and relaxing atmosphere that literally wraps itself around you when you enter. So what if I just paid ¥460 for a venti iced caffé latte? I get to sit here for as long as I want, soaking up the ambience of the establishment, sipping my beverage, writing this entry, and smiling at the passersby on the other side of the tinted window. I am in no hurry to go anywhere. Starbucks in Japan is a place for the common person, a place for anyone at any time.

As you can probably now imagine, Starbucks is incredibly popular in Tokyo. Granted, I have no experience with a Starbucks in any major US city, but I would imagine they are not varied to the degree that they are in Tokyo. The one I am currently at has two wings, one on the outside of the station, and one on the inside, offering coffee to people waiting for a train on the platform. The Starbucks in Hiroo, an area of Tokyo known for having quite a few embassies, has a four-story Starbucks. The busiest Starbucks in the world, located at the Hachiko intersection of Shibuya, refuses to offer Short versions of the drinks because of the great volume of people they must serve in a day. The Christian Academy in Japan, my alma mater, has even managed to arrange a nearby Starbucks to cater to special events they have on campus during the school year.

So, what causes the great differences in how Starbucks is perceived in the West versus how it is in the East? Does it have to do with the transportation involved – the car vs. the train? Does it have to do with accessibility? Location? Advertising and product placement? I doubt it.

I believe that it has to do with the stigma surrounding the place; the attitude of the Japanese when patronizing Starbucks. The Japanese simply see it as a place to get coffee. Nothing more. Social class is not an issue. Nobody will think you are stuck up. Starbucks is simply a place for a very busy society to slow down; a place to relax and talk. There’s very little planning involved in going to a Starbucks; it is simply a place to go, a place to be. You, whoever you are, are always welcomed at Starbucks, and it shows in the appreciation and recognition given by the people of Japan.

Finishing thoughts

Now that I have thoroughly cleaned my Macbook keyboard, track pad, and snow-white case with strong ink-remover solvent, it is time to commence with the blogging!

(Note to Apple: That official-looking text printed on the bottom of a Macbook comes right off when attacked with ink-removing solvent.)

Man, that is strong stuff. Officially it’s called hydrolon, but all the guys around me refer to it as gasoline. That’s right - I may be soaking rags in pure gasoline to clean machine parts. It could be kerosene I suppose, or perhaps even pure alcohol, but that doesn’t really make me feel any better. I am at work right now. The machine I am assigned to has run out of ink. As you can imagine, without ink we cannot print, so I am relegated to do nothing and have chosen to take the opportunity to blog. I do this tentatively, never knowing when ink might show up and I will be whisked away to stack palates and change rolls (called ‘webs’ in the industry) of paper.

Summer is coming to an end and, with it, the end of my part-time job here at NLL. It has been a great couple of months spent learning, sweating, smiling, and making friends. Making money was a big part of it too, I suppose.

Despite the repetitive nature of the menial tasks assigned me, I still leave with good memories and having grown up a lot. I was pleasantly surprised by the attitude and work ethic of all of my co-workers. They proved to be very good role models for me; people whom I would do well to emulate.

Mr. A, a twenty-year veteran of the company, is head of the printing division. He is in charge of all four of our machines and covers every aspect of the printing process, from ordering from suppliers to making sure the machines run without a hitch in the course of preparing our product. A well-dressed Indian man, he is extremely organized, knows these multi-million dollar machines in and out, and is very skilled at people management. Any disgruntled employee is paid heed to with grace and understanding.

Mr. S is a diligent printer who has been playing guitar for over twenty years and wishes to become a professional musician. He is nonetheless extremely knowledgeable about printing and takes it upon himself to do any work that he sees needs to be done, whether it is his job or not.

G, the Nigerian man who I mentioned in this post, has learned a lot even since I’ve been here. He perseveres like crazy often staying hours late to fix problems caused by his inexperience. He is eager to learn, and always comes to work with a smile on his face.

Mr. T (who doesn’t even remotely resemble the famous Mohawk-sporting actor) is dedicated almost to a fault. He lives upstairs in one of the dorm rooms like I do, and will often come downstairs even while off shift to help out. He also has made quite a few modifications to the machines including connecting a paper counter to ease packing bundle calculation, and installing a webcam to get a good view of the paper chopper (Short explanation: paper coming out of the machine is folded once, then folded a second time by the chopper. The chopper folds, perforates, and moves the paper along to the conveyor by which it exits the machine. The chopper can be a common point for paper to jam and stop the machine, and must be closely monitored.) He speaks good English, builds his own computers, and prefers Linux.

Mr. M is an extremely quiet man who works well behind the scenes. Extremely quiet is perhaps an understatement – I have never had a conversation with him lasting more than three exchanges. He is I guess what the Japanese people would call an otaku of the printing profession. He is meticulous and calculating, tending to the machine much like a mother duck cares for its ducklings.

Mr. K is a German fellow who has been here fifteen years. He came as a part-time worker for a year but came back the next year and before he knew it was permanent staffer of ten years. He speaks decent English, but very little Japanese. Ironically he is married to a Japanese gal who speaks almost no German– they communicate in English.

These are just a few of the people that I have had the pleasure of working with. I have learned a great deal from them and am very glad that God decided to put me in this environment to spend my summer.


The aforementioned chopper - apparently a ‘hand lubrication chopper’.

Subtlety is key

With about an hour left to go in my shift today, I was asked to take all of the work that we had done and cart it up to the the binding department on the second floor. The newly printed calendars only occupied eight palates or so, and bookbinding in only one floor up.

With the handy elevator by my side, no big deal.

Grabbing a convenient red-colored jack, I proceeded to scoop up the palates two at a time and load them into the elevator, after which the group of us took a nice ride up to the dark and deserted second floor. Then we made out. Ok, not really. It was all very platonic. After I had moved five of the eight palates, I found myself in a pickle; there was not enough floor space for the remaining three palates. The printed and cut paper, only hours ago so tightly wrapped up in a 250kg roll, was going to be separated! By me!

Actually, this is probably not a problem.

I rode the elevator back down and decided to seek out my supervisor, to see what he would advise. A quick search of the premises (ok, so he was right there) and we delved into deeply veiled, very Japanese double talk.

Me: "I have moved all the palates I can at this time." (Translation: "I'm done")
Him: "Are you sure? There are still three palates remaining! Look!" ("You're totally slacking.")
Me: "There are no more spaces on the floor to put any more palates! I have run out of open concrete! ("I am not slacking. I finished, fair and square.")
Him: "You know, seriously, any open space is fine. As long as you don't obstruct a obvious walkway, they can go anywhere!" ("You may actually be done. I will still, however, offer helpful suggestions to possibly save face.")
Me: "I am more than willing to double check upstairs to see if, in my inexperience, I may have overlooked an open space of floor. Shall I go now?" (It would be very difficult for me to do as you ask. However, you are my superior.")
Him: "No, it is ok, do not stress yourself over little details. Finish up and go home!" ("Yay! I saved face and at the same time look considerate!")

After this nice exchange, I proceeded to clean up around my work area, read a bit of a newly printed Bible, pray, and clock out.

Wee! More pictures!

[A Cutter/folder thing]


[ M, K C, and Y colored ink to be loaded]


[The four ink dispensers, one for each color]


[Very large, very heavy paper rolls stacked on top of one another]