Woodland Creatures, aka My Foray into Japanese Fabrics and Indoor Mall Things

The fashion here is pretty great. I really like the aesthetic, if it is a tinge too girly for my tastes.

Not feminine. Girly.

Ruffles. On. EVERYTHING.

One fad in particular that I really like are the long skirts. Lovely tea-length numbers that had two major problems: elastic waistbands (unattractive crinkle and painful, nothing good there) and the aforementioned ruffles.

But I wanted one. And then it occurred to me to make one. As this thought sank in, I got excited with the prospect of using Japanese fabrics, having heard so much about them and seeing the brilliant parades of kimono and yukata plastered across anything having to do with Japan ever.

I headed over to the Main City shopping center (one of a chain of mini-mall-type-things) and went to the sewing section of the department store.

Quick note about many malls in Japan: they don't have walls to separate the stores. Just wider aisles. Like a big open-air yet indoor market that makes you want to wander forever. I love it.

Anyway, -

OH AND I TOOK THE BUS THERE! I rode the bus all by myself without using any English and got off at the right stop and everything and it was glorious.

I found the fabric section. It had nifty maps on the shelves to show you where in Japan the fabrics had come from. Hokkaido, Aomori, even Okinawa - they were arranged by color and pattern and were all sorts of neat.

Even in a small department store-sized section, my head was swimming in all of the bright colors. And the colors here are intense. Like, just-looked-directly-at-the-sun-for-a-second-now-the-visible-spectrum-is-wonky bright. I already have plans for some of the beautiful fabrics I saw there. If I have to live in a house filled with throw pillows, I am willing to make that sacrifice.

And just try to stop me from making a bright yellow Power Rangers-patterned party dress when I get hold of a pattern. Go ahead.

One thing I can say, though: the Japanese are so not afraid of prints.

No, not you. 

I found this linen-y blend printed with woodland animals like deer, squirrels, birds, and rabbits. And it was my favorite colors. I had to have it.

It took me all of a few hours to whip up (I used an old pattern with some heavy modifications like HUGE POCKETS), but here it is. My Woodland Creatures Tea Skirt.

Worn a couple of ways. Photos sans dog.

Click for a better view of the awesomely adorable print.

And now my head is swimming with all the sewing I want to do. Especially with Japanese fabric - it's either super gorgeous or cartoonishly great, both of which suit me just fine.

Moral of the story: after I get a job, maybe go buy a sewing machine. Even a small one.

Oh, and put pockets in everything.

An unexpected time warp

Living here is so bizarre in a way I wasn't even thinking about.

Our apartment is fairly new and modern. All the sinks stretch out on hoses. The floor is hardwood, and the A/C is built in. Our toilet has not one, but two different kinds of bidet, and neither HP nor I can tell the difference.

Super modern, right? What you'd expect in Japan.

Except being here is like being teleported back to 1962. I'm not even kidding.

You hear a lot about how Okinawa is Americanized, especially after the war. But what no one tells you is that the "americanized" bits (language excepted) look like shots straight out of Blue Hawaii.

I seriously expect to see this every day.

Tropical prints are everywhere, and hibiscus grows wild in every city, town, and roadside. Chains like A+W and Mister Donut are all over the place, resistant to their stateside collapse and thriving in this post-war time capsule.

I've heard more Elvis and the Beach Boys than I ever did sitting at a Johnny Rockets' (that is to say, near-constantly), and there are times where I swear the world is yellow-tinted and I have to rub my eyes and squint for things to turn back to normal. And somewhere, in the distance, a radio is blasting the Ronettes.

I went to a yakitori restaurant last night with Yoshio and Kiyomi, and the place was covered in 50s and 60s americana, from the labels of model planes to Crackerjack boxes and rubber chickens. Instead of curtains, they hung tropical print dresses and shirts from clotheslines between tables, the outermost of which were tatami and the inner of which were wooden picnic tables like you'd find at a beachside campsite. The corrugated sheet metal walls (also covered in retro memorabilia) were artfully torn and burned, leading up to a traditional Okinawan red terracotta ceiling that had been transplanted inside (facing inward, oddly enough, covering the outer tables like an awning) and guarded by a couple of clay Shiisa. I almost laughed out of the strange feeling in my stomach - like all of a sudden the Tardis would show up and the Doctor would pop out, apologizing for the mix-up wherein he smashed two time periods together in altogether the wrong place.

"Sorry! This entire island is pretty much my fault."

Aside from the constant fear that someone will start following me around while playing the ukelele, it's absolutely fascinating.

Know what it's like? It's like how a 1960s housewife expects her honeymoon to look. And I'm not complaining.

After all, I always said I was born in the wrong era.