Umeboshi explained

I'm sorry, I was sitting in the internet cafe about to tell you about umeboshi when they started playing Auld Lang Syne which is the general Japanese way of telling you 'you have two minutes to save your files and go away', and so go away I did. Anyway. I went to up to Inuyama last week and texted Iain on the train to tell him when I would get there. I got an odd phone call. "I'm not in the flat, I'm in the flat downstairs... um, it's a bit weird. Hang on, I'll phone you back," so far so ominous. He called me again. "Sorry. The people downstairs are having a party. Well, there's only four of them. But they came and knocked on my door and invited me. I'm in my flat now, but I said we'd go back down again."
"They're having a party? From the way you were talking I thought you'd been burgled."
We went to the flat downstairs and drank whisky while the women fired questions at me. When did you come to Japan? How long have you been here? Where do you come from? When did you meet Iain? How long have you been together? Then came the more difficult cultural questions. What do you think about Japan? How about the food? Have you tried natto?
Natto beans are the foulest substance known to man. They are allegedly healthy since they are fermented soybeans, but they have the flavour of marmite pickled in a sock and the texture of snot. "Yes, I've tried natto. I didn't like it much," and I never wanted it ever again.
"Have you tried umeboshi?" Umeboshi are something of a Japanese delicacy, pickled sour plums eaten with rice.
"Let's try!" They chorused. Mariko (I think her name was) went to her fridge and pulled out a large jar. "My mother made these," she said. In other words, you have to like it. She brought me one on a plate, and I cut a small slice off. I couldn't help making a face when I tried it, I don't think I've ever eaten anything so sour. In a strange way, it was like the first time you eat olives. Even though you can't help making a weird face and you aren't entirely convinced that you like them, you keep eating them because you think you'll like them when you get used to them. So it was with umeboshi. Mariko took though a Japanese recipe book and explained it. "Plums... and washing... and salt. Then press, then more salt. And press for a week. And more salt. Add spices. More salt. Leave for a month, and more salt." I could feel my arteries hardening at the thought.
Then there was some pickled garlic that was much nicer though sadly I've forgotten what its called. I could see them racking their brains for more odd food to inflict on us, but all they had were tortilla chips and salsa, and cake. It was much nicer than umeboshi.

On Tuesday night Iain came to Nagoya and on Wednesday we spent the day chilling out, starting with coffee on the balcony and watching a guy across the road painting his roof. I love watching other people working when it's my day off, it makes me more appreciative of my weekend. We bought bread, salami, cheese and beer at the international supermarket and found an empty park between Higashi Betsuin and Kanimeisu. We'd been heading for the park beside the art gallery which is nothing much to get excited about, a couple of fountains, tonnes of people and a dustbowl in the middle where someone forgot to plant grass. The park we stumbled across was shady with trees and full of flowers. We spent a couple of hours there drinking warm beer and wondering if a taking a knife might have been a good idea after all (since biting off chunks of salami is a bit unpleasant). We also started hatching plans to go work abroad next year. It felt a bit scary when we first started talking about it (it seems like such a long way away) but I got caught up in the idea of it.
After lunch we went to the art gallery (burping salami all the way) and looked at the George Renaud? Russeau? Ruand? Hell, I`ll check for you later, exhibition. I'm always a bit hit and miss with art. I know nothing about it and wish I did. I end up taking a liking or disliking to someone's work for what I feel are superficial reasons. I discovered I don't like Georges Renault Clio. I don't like the religious themes, the colours he used, or the style. And he painted way too much. After a whole room of the life of Jesus I felt like I'd earned the right to say I really don't like it. There were some other good things in the gallery I liked, the names of which escape me. It's always the way.
We thought about going to watch a football game, but what with it getting close to pay day I was horribly skint so instead we went to the bookshop and browsed for a while until Iain saw the new David Mitchell book in hardback and had to be forcibly dragged away babbling, "I don't have to eat until pay day... aah, get me out of here. After pay day, after pay day."