Three Choices with Japanese Medicine: Health, Death or Intensive Kanji Course

2008-05-11T17:52:00Z

When I was younger, I was the coolest kid on the planet. Aside from rocking a bowl cut in elementary school and wearing stirrup pants until sixth grade, I was obsessed with anime. For those of you who've never heard of it—and are, therefore, Amish (and using a computer)—that's Japanese animation. My friends were just as devoted as I. Any money we earned fed directly into our habit.

One day, my friend Cristina and I got some high-quality stuff from our supplier in Flint. The name of the anime escapes me, but I distinctly remember that, at one point, two characters were parting for the night.

"Don't catch a cold!" one said to the other. At least that's what the subtitles said.

We laughed so hard. Why would someone wish for someone else to stay well? That wasn't the way to say goodbye, and we, as culturally-savvy American teenagers, knew that. For the next couple years, saying "Don't catch a cold" before hanging up the phone or leaving school became one of our bigger inside jokes.

Eventually, like my other obsessions, anime faded from my daily routine, then life altogether, and I looked back with chagrin at the hundreds of dollars I'd spent catering to my addiction. It was easy to forget how much fun I'd had. It was even easier to forget the special goodbye.

I remembered it after moving to Japan, though. Not catching a cold is essential for a happy life, and it has nothing to do with good health.

The cold medicine is absolutely disgusting.

First, let me say that I'm not put off by much. I love Japanese food—sashimi, wagashi, okonomiyaki, ika (squid, complete with little squid faces)—and I've gone to the onsen (Japanese bath houses), stripped to my skin along with forty or so other women and walked around completely starkers. I've even been leered at, and serenaded by, some of the creepiest guys alive (a detailed Creep Report is coming soon).

Nothing, however, compares to the revolting product that I can purchase at my local Japanese pharmacy for ¥1270.

Before I continue, I'll elucidate. My friend Gabby and I went to Tokyo for Earth Day 2008. More specifically, we went to a suburb of Tokyo called Harajuku, where people dress up with Halloween-like devotion on a daily basis. There were fishnet stockings and lace and big, poofy dresses. On occasion, I could see faces under the fake eyelashes and layers of make-up. It's the Promised Land for high school goths. Anyway, Earth Day in Harajuku is another post entirely.

That night, Gabby and I went to her place to crash. I'd felt a little ill at dinner, but I wasn't worried. I rarely got sick back home, and, when I did, it wasn't too bad and didn't last long. I'd thought that the Universe and I had an understanding. Then I crossed The International Dateline and found out that the Universe was just sadistic.

By midnight, I had a raging fever—the kind that clamps every cell in a vice. I passed out at some point, and my dreams brought me the closest to an LSD trip that I'll ever be. (One dream dealt with a circle of hand towels that I watched from above, from my cloud throne. I was angry because, even though the towels were my friends, they wouldn't get into a line.) At about 6 AM the next morning, I realized I needed to get home, but an hour-long trip by myself seemed impossible. I couldn't even get my hand towels to line up, for God's sake.

A few hours later, my fever hurricane had quelled into a fever drizzle, and Gabby took me to the drug store. I wore my sunglasses inside, knowing that I'd turn some innocent patron or employee into stone should he chance to look at me. After wandering to the cold care section, I grabbed a bottle of Echinacea and turned to the wall of boxes covered in kanji. Hiragana? Fine. Katakana? No problem. I'm even cool with about 50 remedial kanji—but not the thousands that towered before me.

I can't decide whether it was my wanting knowledge of kanji or my fever-induced desperation that sealed my fate. All I knew was that, in English, one box said: "FEVER REDUCER, COUGH, SNEEZING AND A SORE THROAT."

Sold.

In spite of Gabby's protests, I felt okay enough to make the trip home by myself. I ended up getting on the wrong platform and two wrong trains, but I finally got back to Kasukabe, where I tore into my box of medicine. Growing up in America, I'd come to expect something like DayQuil gelcaps. I wasn't expecting a small packet of powder with the color and textural consistency of ground-up sulfur. Now, I've never eaten sulfur, but I'm sure it's better than the watery mixture I tried to choke down. I can't even describe the taste. I accidentally ate naato (fermented soybean) sushi once and that wasn't nearly as bad. For the next two days, I had stare-downs with the glasses of medicine before taking them like shots—with ripe strawberries as chasers.

Once I was healthy enough to work, I asked my co-worker about it. She said that the Japanese believe if medicine tastes bad, it's good for you. But what about my coddling American meds? My Flintstone chewable vitamins? While I'm in Japan, there's only one solution as simple in suggestion as it is difficult in attempt:

Don't catch a cold.

Nomadic Amazon

Three Choices with Japanese Medicine: Health, Death or Intensive Kanji Course