If today had a theme song, it would have to be 19-2000 by the Gorillaz. The day made about as much sense as the song, and I--weakened as I was by a taxing week and a sudden cold snap--rode along on the wave of oddities with a permanently lost expression, much like the Gorillaz' dead-eyed animated representatives.
If that reference was lost on any of you, apologies--a quick dip into Youtube should clear it right up.
I mentioned the cold snap. Winter came late this year, but it seems to be making up for it now. The whole world is covered by constantly drifting snow, and when I woke up this morning the roads were all sheeted in ice so thick, it could only mean one of two things: either I boarded the wrong plane and have actually been teaching in Siberia this whole time, or Iide does not have a single snowplow to its name. Or a bag of salt.
As I drove along this morning--late, but nevertheless maintaining a sober speed--I soon came to a yellow light. "Stopping would be prudent," some corner of my mind mentioned (when I get tired enough, my mind calls forth my little mental custodian, who chimes in periodically with stuffy, unexcited tips and sounds exactly like Alan Rickman). "Sound advice, little guy," I acknowledged, tapping my brakes.
I am experienced with winter driving.
Just so you know.
But my little custodian and I watched, unified in mutual disapproval, as my disobedient car slid gracefully into the middle of the intersection. It glided under the now reddish light at a Blue Danube pace and executed a shuddering turn at my insistence, finally righting itself in the correct lane of the correct road. All's well that ends well.
I made it to school without further incident, taught my lessons, gathered my chopsticks and ate my lunch with the fourth graders. The were remarkably well-behaved for such young kids. Occasionally they would show off their near-native English skills for my appreciative oohs and aahs, but the majority of the lunch was spent in companionable silence and calm. It didn't prepare me at all for what came next.
The meal finished, I tucked my chopsticks into their carrying case and looked up to find myself inexplicably the center of a storm of children. Not just the fourth graders, but students from the younger classes as well, shoving their way around each other, thrusting pens at me with the constant refrain, "Sign, sign!" Notebooks, plain sheets of paper, glasses cases, plastic folders, the students' own nametags, pencil cases--all of them branded with my hasty and increasingly illegible signature in embarrassingly permanent ink. One boy had me sign at least 5 pages of his notebook in quick succession, and had me sign at least 7 other things as well. And this entire time the children were petting me, shoving little drawings and stickers into my shirt, and generally clinging to all available limbs. I was fighting the urge to think of them as a horde, with motives as nonsensical as they were flattering--I mean, these kids see me once a week. It's not as though they were suffering a Jessica drought that led to this riot. In the end I managed to not trip over the little hands wrapped around my legs or elbow the little heads resting against my hips, and everyone got enough signatures to set them up on Ebay for life if only my scrawls were worth anything. Their objective attained, the horde dispersed as quietly and mild-manneredly as they had come.
After a little clothes-straightening/de-stickering and hair-combing I was ready to drive to the next school. The sun had come out by then and melted the roads back to a manageable state, so I was speeding along when I noticed a truck that had pulled off to the side of the road next to a rice field. I know it had pulled off to the side of the road because its hazard lights were on, and because I could see the long, slimy mud tracks showing where it had slid right off the side of the road, down a hill, and into the rice paddy's deep trenches. It sat there, clearly resigned to its fate, tipped on one side and blinking its lights at no one in particular. If I say the truck itself seemed unconcerned, it is only because it was clear that no one else was either. There was no sign of the owner, a tow truck, or indeed any sign of distress whatsoever. "Oh, don't mind me. No one does. Got myself into a bit of a pickle, but what are you going to do?" the truck seemed to say, with a self-deprecating chuckle.
"Hmm," I replied to this imaginary exchange. I gave the truck a respectful nod because I do that to everything these days--as soon as something enters my line of sight my head is already bobbing, ready in case the something turns out to be a person and I need to execute a full bow. Meanwhile my custodian shook his head slowly and mumbled to himself something about "all's well that ends in insurance," and we drove onwards into the noon.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Star-Gazing
Iide-machi is home to a handful of 7-11’s, a bakery, and a solitary grocery store too small to house a meat section. I recently discovered, however, that Iide is also the proud home of a miniature but fully functional observatory that is barely taller than the buildings surrounding it, and easy to miss. I can vouch for this, having continually missed it dozens of times as I’ve driven past it. But during a brief few weeks when the skies were clear, a friend took me there to see Jupiter (or the Heaven Star in Japanese).
It was a crisp night and my coat was too thin for it, but it seemed appropriate to feel the cold biting me as I peered through the telescope at the harshest environment mankind has encountered. Space was too dark for comfort; my eyes kept straining to pick out even a hint of depth or distance in all the ink. My eyes were beginning to water from the effort when the astronomers present mercifully adjusted the telescope, and then there was only the harsh beauty of the planets and stars themselves. From the moment I saw them—or at least, a reflection of a reflection of them, viewed awkwardly through a tiny tube—I felt myself drawn in and overwhelmed, like there was a massive gravity acting on my mind instead of my body.
The astronomers knew me by name (it is, as I’ve mentioned, a rather small town) and were lenient, so I remained glued to the lens until the unrelenting light made my eyes water anew. I studied the face of the full moon and the rabbit that Japanese fables have placed there; but of course the real event was gazing at Jupiter. The planet was ringed by four of its moons—Io, Ganymede, Callisto, and Europa—in almost perfect alignment, like a string of diamond chips leading to the giant. I could just make out the rusty swirls marking Jupiter’s eternal storms. Seeing it, I recognized the temptation poets and writers must sometimes feel to produce lengthy, sappy odes to the stars over and over again, while the enduring audience rolls their eyes at the inadequate results and groans at the clichés. My experience, holed up in that tiny concrete cylinder with an expensive lens practically glued to my face, was no less cliché...and absolutely, mind-bogglingly, brilliantly, painfully inspiring.
It was a crisp night and my coat was too thin for it, but it seemed appropriate to feel the cold biting me as I peered through the telescope at the harshest environment mankind has encountered. Space was too dark for comfort; my eyes kept straining to pick out even a hint of depth or distance in all the ink. My eyes were beginning to water from the effort when the astronomers present mercifully adjusted the telescope, and then there was only the harsh beauty of the planets and stars themselves. From the moment I saw them—or at least, a reflection of a reflection of them, viewed awkwardly through a tiny tube—I felt myself drawn in and overwhelmed, like there was a massive gravity acting on my mind instead of my body.
The astronomers knew me by name (it is, as I’ve mentioned, a rather small town) and were lenient, so I remained glued to the lens until the unrelenting light made my eyes water anew. I studied the face of the full moon and the rabbit that Japanese fables have placed there; but of course the real event was gazing at Jupiter. The planet was ringed by four of its moons—Io, Ganymede, Callisto, and Europa—in almost perfect alignment, like a string of diamond chips leading to the giant. I could just make out the rusty swirls marking Jupiter’s eternal storms. Seeing it, I recognized the temptation poets and writers must sometimes feel to produce lengthy, sappy odes to the stars over and over again, while the enduring audience rolls their eyes at the inadequate results and groans at the clichés. My experience, holed up in that tiny concrete cylinder with an expensive lens practically glued to my face, was no less cliché...and absolutely, mind-bogglingly, brilliantly, painfully inspiring.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Chillin' with the Chilluns
I was informed that today is the last day I will be teaching grades 1-4, at least at one of my schools. This saddened me greatly, as no one is so easily entertained or so enthusiastic to participate as a tiny Japanese child presented with a foreigner. So it goes without saying that I was determined to enjoy my time with them to the fullest, and fortunately that included eating lunch with them. They started the experience off with a bang, all showing up with hot pink mouths thanks to a plaque test they'd had earlier. And it only got better, I assure you.
I had thought I'd gotten used to the little "surprises" that sometimes show up in Japanese lunches, but it turns out I haven't earned that distinction quite yet. For dessert today we had a bowl of yogurt mixed with mandarin oranges and small, clear cubes of what looked like gelatin. I discovered it most certainly was not gelatin when I tried to chew it and was unsuccessful the first, second, and third tries. I soon realized the kids had never encountered it before either, when I noticed dozens of Barbie-pink mouths framed in grimaces as the kids tried valiantly to divide the tough cubes with their front teeth--rookie mistake--while also preventing yogurt and fruit juices from escaping their busy mouths. It looked as though their lips were all bobbing up and down to the same music--once, twice, four times, until finally! Sweet relief, and another spoonful.
It was one of the most delightfully awkward scenes I've ever witnessed, and I laughed out loud until several children turned their neon bright pouts towards me and asked, "What are you laughing at?"
What indeed.
I had thought I'd gotten used to the little "surprises" that sometimes show up in Japanese lunches, but it turns out I haven't earned that distinction quite yet. For dessert today we had a bowl of yogurt mixed with mandarin oranges and small, clear cubes of what looked like gelatin. I discovered it most certainly was not gelatin when I tried to chew it and was unsuccessful the first, second, and third tries. I soon realized the kids had never encountered it before either, when I noticed dozens of Barbie-pink mouths framed in grimaces as the kids tried valiantly to divide the tough cubes with their front teeth--rookie mistake--while also preventing yogurt and fruit juices from escaping their busy mouths. It looked as though their lips were all bobbing up and down to the same music--once, twice, four times, until finally! Sweet relief, and another spoonful.
It was one of the most delightfully awkward scenes I've ever witnessed, and I laughed out loud until several children turned their neon bright pouts towards me and asked, "What are you laughing at?"
What indeed.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Dating
I read somewhere that Japanese people think of single women as Christmas fruit cakes: after the 25th (birthday, that is), no one wants them. Not a perfect analogy--in my experience few people want a fruit cake in the first place—but apparently an accurate one: lately the people around me have started encouraging me to take the plunge and get myself a Japanese man before my own dreaded 25th.
It all started in a kindergarten, of all places. The principal of this kindergarten was the first brave enough to ask whether I was single, and she initiated a conversation so eerily similar to many conversations I would participate in later that I often wonder if there is some handbook for this sort of thing. The pattern is as follows:
1. Initiate discussion about age. Express surprise at Jessica's age.
2. Ask if Jessica is married, often mistaking the ring she wears on her middle finger for a wedding band. Express great shock when she answers in the negative.
3. Immediately ask, “How about….Japanese Men?” (They all say it that way: the pause, the emphasis on Japanese Men)
4. (Here I explain that I like Japanese men as well as any men, but that not being fluent in Japanese makes dating a practical impossibility)
5. Wave away concerns about language barriers.
6. Offer list of available men in surrounding area, regardless of age or lack of interest expressed by either (most often both) parties.
7. Continue urging Jessica into action until she becomes dangerously red with embarrassment or flees the scene.
This kindergarten principal, I should emphasize, is an extraordinarily kind woman. Every time I work with her she makes sure I have a hot cocoa break, and I always leave with a bag stuffed with rice crackers and chocolates of all descriptions. She is never pushy or disappointed when I refuse her offers to introduce me to her sons (one of whom is a fireman, she tells me with a wink), and she only laughs when I tell her I can’t speak Japanese very well, saying that I am pretty enough to date without the aid of conversation. Besides, let’s face it: there is a great deal of hazing I will put up with from anyone who enables my chocolate addiction.
One day as I was warming my hands around a cup of cocoa, the principal gazed contemplatively out of the window at a man working in his garden and said, “Why don’t you date him? He’s single.”
Noting her mischievous smile, I joined her at the window and watched the toiling stranger: A man who was wall-eyed, sun worn, profoundly bald…but most importantly, at least twice my age. “Ah, no…no thanks,” I blustered, trying to think of the politest refusal I was capable of.
“Why not?” the principal urged, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
Finally I was forced to mutter, “He’s too old,”—a terribly blunt, un-Japanese answer--and the entire officeful of ladies erupted in laughter as I blushed. I was quick to point at another teacher and suggest that she date him instead, but she just held up her wedding ring like a get-out-of-jail-free card and everyone laughed harder.
What I’m saying is, being single here means you’re free game, no matter your age or description. But—and I type this with one hand on a Bible and the other holding a needle to my eye (and yes that is rather difficult to manage)—Utah was still far worse. ^__~
It all started in a kindergarten, of all places. The principal of this kindergarten was the first brave enough to ask whether I was single, and she initiated a conversation so eerily similar to many conversations I would participate in later that I often wonder if there is some handbook for this sort of thing. The pattern is as follows:
1. Initiate discussion about age. Express surprise at Jessica's age.
2. Ask if Jessica is married, often mistaking the ring she wears on her middle finger for a wedding band. Express great shock when she answers in the negative.
3. Immediately ask, “How about….Japanese Men?” (They all say it that way: the pause, the emphasis on Japanese Men)
4. (Here I explain that I like Japanese men as well as any men, but that not being fluent in Japanese makes dating a practical impossibility)
5. Wave away concerns about language barriers.
6. Offer list of available men in surrounding area, regardless of age or lack of interest expressed by either (most often both) parties.
7. Continue urging Jessica into action until she becomes dangerously red with embarrassment or flees the scene.
This kindergarten principal, I should emphasize, is an extraordinarily kind woman. Every time I work with her she makes sure I have a hot cocoa break, and I always leave with a bag stuffed with rice crackers and chocolates of all descriptions. She is never pushy or disappointed when I refuse her offers to introduce me to her sons (one of whom is a fireman, she tells me with a wink), and she only laughs when I tell her I can’t speak Japanese very well, saying that I am pretty enough to date without the aid of conversation. Besides, let’s face it: there is a great deal of hazing I will put up with from anyone who enables my chocolate addiction.
One day as I was warming my hands around a cup of cocoa, the principal gazed contemplatively out of the window at a man working in his garden and said, “Why don’t you date him? He’s single.”
Noting her mischievous smile, I joined her at the window and watched the toiling stranger: A man who was wall-eyed, sun worn, profoundly bald…but most importantly, at least twice my age. “Ah, no…no thanks,” I blustered, trying to think of the politest refusal I was capable of.
“Why not?” the principal urged, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
Finally I was forced to mutter, “He’s too old,”—a terribly blunt, un-Japanese answer--and the entire officeful of ladies erupted in laughter as I blushed. I was quick to point at another teacher and suggest that she date him instead, but she just held up her wedding ring like a get-out-of-jail-free card and everyone laughed harder.
What I’m saying is, being single here means you’re free game, no matter your age or description. But—and I type this with one hand on a Bible and the other holding a needle to my eye (and yes that is rather difficult to manage)—Utah was still far worse. ^__~
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Bear Troubles
This morning dawned bright and unseasonably warmly. The work load was light and gave me ample time to cheer for my students as they ran relays, accompanied by upbeat classical songs like the overtures from William Tell and the Marriage of Figaro blasted over the outdoor speakers.
"That music is such a good idea," I commented to no one in particular while indulging in a little aimless hand waving and finger tapping.
"Yes," a teacher agreed. "It's to keep the kuma away."
"Good idea!" I enthused, by now entirely lost in my imaginary orchestra conducting. Meanwhile in my head the word "kuma" sifted lazily through my translation filters until it finally nudged the word "bear" and stuck fast. "Wait....what?"
I watched the children playing outside with somewhat more focus while the teachers filled me in. Apparently our little area has had several shaggy, clawed visitors lately. Earlier this week one surprised an elderly couple, breaking the wife's ankle and raking half of the husband's face away. Early yesterday morning another--or the same one, who knows?--broke a window and climbed into a nearby junior high school. Then today another (NOT the same one, as the last one was shot in the school) was spotted in the middle of the afternoon ambling around the middle of town. The parents have all become busy mockeries of the "green movement", with their cars constantly roaring to life only to be quieted a block or sometimes two later, where they drop off their kids and promise to pick them up any time they call, no matter how inconvenient. Then the night comes, and few people leave their houses at all.
"But," said Mogi-san, ever practical, "at least bear meat is delicious."
"That music is such a good idea," I commented to no one in particular while indulging in a little aimless hand waving and finger tapping.
"Yes," a teacher agreed. "It's to keep the kuma away."
"Good idea!" I enthused, by now entirely lost in my imaginary orchestra conducting. Meanwhile in my head the word "kuma" sifted lazily through my translation filters until it finally nudged the word "bear" and stuck fast. "Wait....what?"
I watched the children playing outside with somewhat more focus while the teachers filled me in. Apparently our little area has had several shaggy, clawed visitors lately. Earlier this week one surprised an elderly couple, breaking the wife's ankle and raking half of the husband's face away. Early yesterday morning another--or the same one, who knows?--broke a window and climbed into a nearby junior high school. Then today another (NOT the same one, as the last one was shot in the school) was spotted in the middle of the afternoon ambling around the middle of town. The parents have all become busy mockeries of the "green movement", with their cars constantly roaring to life only to be quieted a block or sometimes two later, where they drop off their kids and promise to pick them up any time they call, no matter how inconvenient. Then the night comes, and few people leave their houses at all.
"But," said Mogi-san, ever practical, "at least bear meat is delicious."
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Kendo & Kyudo
I've never been fond of spiders--are any of you surprised? But when I say I'm "not fond" of spiders, I mean that I will leap inhuman distances to avoid their paths. When the kids at school ask me what I like I respond with things like snakes, rain, and frogs; but when they ask me what I don't like I simply make a scuttling motion with my hands and shudder. Words fail me.
Unfortunately for me, Japan is full of spiders, and the only trait they all have in common is that they will not take "shoo" for an answer. There are the microscopic ones that fill my bathtub with invisible threads whenever I don't use it for a few days; the fat ones that hang just above my head when I open the apartment door; and the dark ones that lurk in the branches of the trees. But Friday I noticed a new kind as I drove home from school. Oh yes, you read that right: these spiders are big enough to be viewed from a moving vehicle. They are bright acid green and they have built correspondingly huge webs that stretch across power lines. What does a spider need with a power line?? For all I know they bide their time catching and devouring birds while they impatiently wait for someone to walk beneath so they can plunge down from above like terrible green avengers.
So you can see why my only recourse was to embrace the white-kid-in-Japan stereotype and start taking martial arts classes.
I signed up for both kendo (sword-fighting) and kyudo (archery) and went to both classes for the first time yesterday. Both my teachers are men with the patience of saints, and we quickly established a predictable pattern of me dropping something (swords, arrows, gloves--you name it, I dropped it), staring at the offending article for a bitter moment, and finally stooping to pick it up with a, "Sumimasen" ("excuse me"). Meanwhile both teachers nodded kindly and told me I was doing fine--by the end they were doing it so often they looked like bobble heads.
Both kendo and kyudo are very artistic. Everything matters; you must constantly be aware of where your eyes are, where your fingers are, which foot is in front and how far in front it is. When the teachers perform they make it all look simple and fluid and somehow still deadly. My attempts, on the other hand, are predictably labored and choppy. I imagine that if I actually had to use these skills in any sort of battle the inner monologue would run something like this:
"Alright, I've got this. K. Hold the arrow in the left hand, pause, look at target. Wait, dang, are my fingers at the right height?? NO! DANGIT! Wait..wait, okay, got it we're good. Whew. Draw right hand into position on the bowstring. Wait, is my posture correct? Make a circle with your arms, girl! Why do you always forget the circle!!! K. Look at target. Raise arms and bow above head...and....oh shoot just dropped the arrow again!! Oh no wait...there it is! Funny, I don't remember aiming at my own chest...Oh."
Luckily in kyudo all the other students are kind and sparing with their laughter. Even more luckily, in kendo I get to practice with the kids, which gives me an excuse to gallop around yelling, "Kyaaaaaaaah!" with them like an overgrown Karate Kid reject. The kids are only too willing to laugh at my mistakes, but it's impossible to take anything offensively from a 3-foot-tall stranger shrouded in formal kendo armor, nothing showing but a head of spiky hair and huge dark eyes over an impish grin. It also helps that they are exuberantly inclusive; clearly it doesn't matter to them how well I do something, as long as I just do. And that makes it very fun.
Soon I may be able to do actual bodily harm, but in the meantime I am capable of very intimidating charge and some fancy bow-holding. Look out, world!
Unfortunately for me, Japan is full of spiders, and the only trait they all have in common is that they will not take "shoo" for an answer. There are the microscopic ones that fill my bathtub with invisible threads whenever I don't use it for a few days; the fat ones that hang just above my head when I open the apartment door; and the dark ones that lurk in the branches of the trees. But Friday I noticed a new kind as I drove home from school. Oh yes, you read that right: these spiders are big enough to be viewed from a moving vehicle. They are bright acid green and they have built correspondingly huge webs that stretch across power lines. What does a spider need with a power line?? For all I know they bide their time catching and devouring birds while they impatiently wait for someone to walk beneath so they can plunge down from above like terrible green avengers.
So you can see why my only recourse was to embrace the white-kid-in-Japan stereotype and start taking martial arts classes.
I signed up for both kendo (sword-fighting) and kyudo (archery) and went to both classes for the first time yesterday. Both my teachers are men with the patience of saints, and we quickly established a predictable pattern of me dropping something (swords, arrows, gloves--you name it, I dropped it), staring at the offending article for a bitter moment, and finally stooping to pick it up with a, "Sumimasen" ("excuse me"). Meanwhile both teachers nodded kindly and told me I was doing fine--by the end they were doing it so often they looked like bobble heads.
Both kendo and kyudo are very artistic. Everything matters; you must constantly be aware of where your eyes are, where your fingers are, which foot is in front and how far in front it is. When the teachers perform they make it all look simple and fluid and somehow still deadly. My attempts, on the other hand, are predictably labored and choppy. I imagine that if I actually had to use these skills in any sort of battle the inner monologue would run something like this:
"Alright, I've got this. K. Hold the arrow in the left hand, pause, look at target. Wait, dang, are my fingers at the right height?? NO! DANGIT! Wait..wait, okay, got it we're good. Whew. Draw right hand into position on the bowstring. Wait, is my posture correct? Make a circle with your arms, girl! Why do you always forget the circle!!! K. Look at target. Raise arms and bow above head...and....oh shoot just dropped the arrow again!! Oh no wait...there it is! Funny, I don't remember aiming at my own chest...Oh."
Luckily in kyudo all the other students are kind and sparing with their laughter. Even more luckily, in kendo I get to practice with the kids, which gives me an excuse to gallop around yelling, "Kyaaaaaaaah!" with them like an overgrown Karate Kid reject. The kids are only too willing to laugh at my mistakes, but it's impossible to take anything offensively from a 3-foot-tall stranger shrouded in formal kendo armor, nothing showing but a head of spiky hair and huge dark eyes over an impish grin. It also helps that they are exuberantly inclusive; clearly it doesn't matter to them how well I do something, as long as I just do. And that makes it very fun.
Soon I may be able to do actual bodily harm, but in the meantime I am capable of very intimidating charge and some fancy bow-holding. Look out, world!
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Party Weekend
The nice thing about living in the middle of nowhere in a country where you don't speak the language is that it is ridiculously easy to fall into new experiences. For instance, you might hear your coworkers mention "dance" and "festival" in the same conversation, and all you would have to do is ask if there was a festival nearby and they would take care of the rest--meaning that they would volunteer you to dance in said festival, in front of hundreds of people, with no prior practice with the dance itself.
That's how I ended up in a tiny room, struggling into a yukata (it takes a LOT of work to wear something that is basically just a cotton robe). The problems began with my feet: they were significantly bigger than anyone else's and wouldn't fit into the required decorative slippers (zori). Luckily I'd foreseen this and brought my own geta (wooden clogs of a sort). However, this meant that while everyone else was padding along on thick pieces of foam I was clunking around in big blocks of wood tied loosely onto my toes. The yukata itself doesn't encourage much movement by binding your legs tighter than a sleeping bag, and the wide sash around the waist (obi) is reinforced with cardboard so you can forget about bending any part of your midsection. And this was my dancing uniform.
Luckily the dance was easy; I was able to get it relatively down after a few repetitions, even without any practice. It was all mostly in the hands: in one hand I held a fan, which I was supposed to move in graceful patterns while shuffling my feet forward. The fans had little numbers on them and at the end of the dance our numbers were part of a lottery; I won a box full of absolutely massive purple grapes (and yes, I do intend to eat the skins). It was incredibly fun. I love the Japanese attitude towards celebrations; that is, that everyone should participate regardless of age, status, or skill.
And that attitude was never more fully demonstrated than the next morning, when I went to a sports festival (undokai) at my smallest school. The school only has 8 students total, so the school invited the entire community to take part in the festival. Toothless grandmas and grandpas, bent nearly double from years of toiling in rice fields, ran sprightly relays around the track. Teachers, devoid of their usual suits and somber expressions, pitted their strengths against each other in huge tug-of-wars. The kids showed off their tumbling and unicycle skills. It was nice to be able just joke around and bond with the kids, and the shy ones started to open up as we cheered on their family members and talked about sundry things in a mixture of Japanese and English.
After that I visited the castle in Kaminoyama. It was like all the other castles I've seen in Japan: a single white tower. The rest of the structure is almost always destroyed, whether by paranoid shogun or the ravages of fires and earthquakes. Even the tower is typically a reconstruction. Still--and this should come as a surprise to none of you--the gardens are always superb. I sat at the edge of their pond and watched the obese fish struggle by until the sinking sun and a noisy group of teenagers finally drove me away.
A good weekend all around. :)
That's how I ended up in a tiny room, struggling into a yukata (it takes a LOT of work to wear something that is basically just a cotton robe). The problems began with my feet: they were significantly bigger than anyone else's and wouldn't fit into the required decorative slippers (zori). Luckily I'd foreseen this and brought my own geta (wooden clogs of a sort). However, this meant that while everyone else was padding along on thick pieces of foam I was clunking around in big blocks of wood tied loosely onto my toes. The yukata itself doesn't encourage much movement by binding your legs tighter than a sleeping bag, and the wide sash around the waist (obi) is reinforced with cardboard so you can forget about bending any part of your midsection. And this was my dancing uniform.
Luckily the dance was easy; I was able to get it relatively down after a few repetitions, even without any practice. It was all mostly in the hands: in one hand I held a fan, which I was supposed to move in graceful patterns while shuffling my feet forward. The fans had little numbers on them and at the end of the dance our numbers were part of a lottery; I won a box full of absolutely massive purple grapes (and yes, I do intend to eat the skins). It was incredibly fun. I love the Japanese attitude towards celebrations; that is, that everyone should participate regardless of age, status, or skill.
And that attitude was never more fully demonstrated than the next morning, when I went to a sports festival (undokai) at my smallest school. The school only has 8 students total, so the school invited the entire community to take part in the festival. Toothless grandmas and grandpas, bent nearly double from years of toiling in rice fields, ran sprightly relays around the track. Teachers, devoid of their usual suits and somber expressions, pitted their strengths against each other in huge tug-of-wars. The kids showed off their tumbling and unicycle skills. It was nice to be able just joke around and bond with the kids, and the shy ones started to open up as we cheered on their family members and talked about sundry things in a mixture of Japanese and English.
After that I visited the castle in Kaminoyama. It was like all the other castles I've seen in Japan: a single white tower. The rest of the structure is almost always destroyed, whether by paranoid shogun or the ravages of fires and earthquakes. Even the tower is typically a reconstruction. Still--and this should come as a surprise to none of you--the gardens are always superb. I sat at the edge of their pond and watched the obese fish struggle by until the sinking sun and a noisy group of teenagers finally drove me away.
A good weekend all around. :)
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
And I Don't Peel My Potatoes, Either.
Today I had to give a demonstration class in one of the schools, to show myself off like a shiny appliance with all sorts of newfangled features and hope the result is that the school decides to keep me around (at least until the warranty expires). It was set up just like an normal day in class, but the teachers played the parts of the students. I played the part of the enthusiastic cheerleader, and we were off on a whirlwind adventure of classroom games and stilted English (mostly on my part. Go figure). It felt exactly like a roller coaster experience: terrifying and entirely unsettling...until the ride stops and you're suddenly flooded with a surge of exhilaration that convinces you that that was F-U-N.
As a reward, the principal gave me some muscat grapes. K, not really, everyone got them, but I wanted them most so I think that counts. I devoured them as quickly as I could with both hands because it was (yet again) brutally hot and these were FRIDGE grapes, cool enough to savor if I could just get them into my mouth before the sunlight and humid air had time to settle on them. But even in the height my grape-snatching frenzy I couldn't help but notice that the principal was not eating the whole grape: he was delicately separating fruit from skin, leaving a pile of discarded green flesh on his plate. He noticed my own indiscriminate tastes at the same time, and good-naturedly informed me that I was the odd one in this scenario. Then he called in his vice-principal and in Japanese told her, "Look, she eats the skins!" Looking amused, they proceeded to ask me if Americans also devour the shells along with our nuts. "Of course not!" I replied. But then I sort of ruined the effect by letting them know that I used to try to eat their soy beans (edamame) by gnawing through the furry outer pod.
Lasting Impression Tally:
Nifty Teacher: 0
Manic Foreigner with the Table Manners of a Squirrel: 1
As a reward, the principal gave me some muscat grapes. K, not really, everyone got them, but I wanted them most so I think that counts. I devoured them as quickly as I could with both hands because it was (yet again) brutally hot and these were FRIDGE grapes, cool enough to savor if I could just get them into my mouth before the sunlight and humid air had time to settle on them. But even in the height my grape-snatching frenzy I couldn't help but notice that the principal was not eating the whole grape: he was delicately separating fruit from skin, leaving a pile of discarded green flesh on his plate. He noticed my own indiscriminate tastes at the same time, and good-naturedly informed me that I was the odd one in this scenario. Then he called in his vice-principal and in Japanese told her, "Look, she eats the skins!" Looking amused, they proceeded to ask me if Americans also devour the shells along with our nuts. "Of course not!" I replied. But then I sort of ruined the effect by letting them know that I used to try to eat their soy beans (edamame) by gnawing through the furry outer pod.
Lasting Impression Tally:
Nifty Teacher: 0
Manic Foreigner with the Table Manners of a Squirrel: 1
Trip Recap
Kanazawa
One of the most delightful aspects of Kanazawa is its dedication to preserving historical areas in the middle of the city, so visitors can easily walk from a posh shopping district straight into narrow, walled streets of samurai houses, several of which are still lived in. A few souvenir shops sprinkle the area, selling sweets with gold in them. A few of the houses are open to the public, and it is well worth it to see the gardens. The inner rooms of Japanese buildings are all predictably similar, whether you're viewing a humble soldier's home or a lord's: tatami mats, sliding doors, displayed instruments, and a family shrine or two. The true indication of a family's status is the loving care that has been put into the garden; and boy, is it worth seeing! Meticulously landscaped streams, banks rich with green moss and old sculptures, miniature trees and blissfully over-fed koi fish that have to struggle just to edge themselves under the tiny foot bridges. Even now, the same level of care is maintained in Kanazawa's public gardens; as I learned when I visited Kenrokuen and saw the caretakers shrouded from chin to toe to ward off sunburns after spending almost an hour hunched over the same patch of moss.
I also got to walk around a geisha house, which looked just like the samurai house but with more instruments and fewer suits of armor. In the geisha district they specialize in making delicate, sculptured sweets out of a sort of gumpaste. They are glorious to behold and not so much to taste.
I also visited a temple that was full of secret passageways and 2 whole floors that were invisible from the outside of the building. The lord of the area, fearing an attack on the castle, fortified the outer temples with hidden weapons and samurai, who could watch the visitors to the temple from behind dark bamboo slats in the doors of closets that were angled to work like one-way mirrors. Even the collection box was a trap; it had no bottom, only a steep plunge into the basement awaiting anyone who was unfortunate enough to be pushed over the edge while making a charitable offering. And, if all should go wrong, it also had a suicide chamber with 4 tatami mats (4 being the number of death) and a self-locking door that would prevent cowards from changing their minds and fleeing once they were inside the room.
None of these enhancements were noticeable at first glance, and I think that goal was furthered by the enormous, attention-stealing gold altar in the center. It was very reminiscent of the displays you can find in any catholic church, and I was just musing on the similarities between religions worldwide when my eyes settled on the offering plates, stacked high with boxes of Ritz crackers and Pocky candy (biscuit sticks covered in chocolate). So alright, maybe not that similar, but I like their style! ^__^
Osaka
In Osaka, everything’s bigger. The food. The ferris wheels. The aquariums—2,000 tons of seawater bigger, to be exact, and housing several otters, porpoises, and two whale sharks whose wide, placid grins occupied me for hours. And while I wasn’t staring at ginormous fish, I was bathing in a mosque or sinking my arms deep into a stone urn full of green, medicinal mud in Bali—or at least appeared to be, thanks to the interior designers at Spa World.
I took daytrips out from the city, as well. I saw an art museum in Kobe displaying the works of the artist responsible for Gegege no Kitaro; he had to learn to re-draw everything after losing his dominant arm and it was amazing to see the intricacy of his ink illustrations. In Kyoto I saw Kinkakuji, the temple entirely plated in gold leaf, which draws so many tourists during this season that the garden overlooking the temple becomes a sea of sticky flesh. It is every bit as unappealing as it sounds--the tourist aspect, that is. The temple itself was lovely. And in Koka, a little village with only a small train station to advertise its existence, I saw one of the last remaining ninja houses. Evidently they have few problems with vandalism or theft, since I was allowed to climb through secret attics and examine self-locking windows that could only be opened with a slip of paper, revolvers hidden in short knife handles, and rotating walls. I even tried my hand at throwing the shuriken (ninja stars), and failed at hitting the target so epically that the man who trained me could only laugh.
And now, a sidenote:
Japanese sweets are, more often than not, nothing more than a trap for the Western tourist. The Japanese have perfected the aesthetic quality of their desserts and even the simplest ones are like works of art, with delicate colors, textures, and patterns. However, if you should try one of these enticing beauties, you will find the taste (and calorie content) to be akin to that of a plain sheet of paper. The Japanese have no appreciation for butter or even the crowning ingredient itself: sugar. So what happens when America gets its feisty capitalist fingers into the Osaka pie?
One of the most delightful aspects of Kanazawa is its dedication to preserving historical areas in the middle of the city, so visitors can easily walk from a posh shopping district straight into narrow, walled streets of samurai houses, several of which are still lived in. A few souvenir shops sprinkle the area, selling sweets with gold in them. A few of the houses are open to the public, and it is well worth it to see the gardens. The inner rooms of Japanese buildings are all predictably similar, whether you're viewing a humble soldier's home or a lord's: tatami mats, sliding doors, displayed instruments, and a family shrine or two. The true indication of a family's status is the loving care that has been put into the garden; and boy, is it worth seeing! Meticulously landscaped streams, banks rich with green moss and old sculptures, miniature trees and blissfully over-fed koi fish that have to struggle just to edge themselves under the tiny foot bridges. Even now, the same level of care is maintained in Kanazawa's public gardens; as I learned when I visited Kenrokuen and saw the caretakers shrouded from chin to toe to ward off sunburns after spending almost an hour hunched over the same patch of moss.
I challenge you to look at that picture and NOT be reminded of those dancing mushrooms from Disney's Fantasia.
And what were they doing? Picking up leaves and other debris from the ground so the moss could be viewed in its naked glory. Wow.
I also visited a temple that was full of secret passageways and 2 whole floors that were invisible from the outside of the building. The lord of the area, fearing an attack on the castle, fortified the outer temples with hidden weapons and samurai, who could watch the visitors to the temple from behind dark bamboo slats in the doors of closets that were angled to work like one-way mirrors. Even the collection box was a trap; it had no bottom, only a steep plunge into the basement awaiting anyone who was unfortunate enough to be pushed over the edge while making a charitable offering. And, if all should go wrong, it also had a suicide chamber with 4 tatami mats (4 being the number of death) and a self-locking door that would prevent cowards from changing their minds and fleeing once they were inside the room.
None of these enhancements were noticeable at first glance, and I think that goal was furthered by the enormous, attention-stealing gold altar in the center. It was very reminiscent of the displays you can find in any catholic church, and I was just musing on the similarities between religions worldwide when my eyes settled on the offering plates, stacked high with boxes of Ritz crackers and Pocky candy (biscuit sticks covered in chocolate). So alright, maybe not that similar, but I like their style! ^__^
Osaka
In Osaka, everything’s bigger. The food. The ferris wheels. The aquariums—2,000 tons of seawater bigger, to be exact, and housing several otters, porpoises, and two whale sharks whose wide, placid grins occupied me for hours. And while I wasn’t staring at ginormous fish, I was bathing in a mosque or sinking my arms deep into a stone urn full of green, medicinal mud in Bali—or at least appeared to be, thanks to the interior designers at Spa World.
I took daytrips out from the city, as well. I saw an art museum in Kobe displaying the works of the artist responsible for Gegege no Kitaro; he had to learn to re-draw everything after losing his dominant arm and it was amazing to see the intricacy of his ink illustrations. In Kyoto I saw Kinkakuji, the temple entirely plated in gold leaf, which draws so many tourists during this season that the garden overlooking the temple becomes a sea of sticky flesh. It is every bit as unappealing as it sounds--the tourist aspect, that is. The temple itself was lovely. And in Koka, a little village with only a small train station to advertise its existence, I saw one of the last remaining ninja houses. Evidently they have few problems with vandalism or theft, since I was allowed to climb through secret attics and examine self-locking windows that could only be opened with a slip of paper, revolvers hidden in short knife handles, and rotating walls. I even tried my hand at throwing the shuriken (ninja stars), and failed at hitting the target so epically that the man who trained me could only laugh.
The End
And now, a sidenote:
Japanese sweets are, more often than not, nothing more than a trap for the Western tourist. The Japanese have perfected the aesthetic quality of their desserts and even the simplest ones are like works of art, with delicate colors, textures, and patterns. However, if you should try one of these enticing beauties, you will find the taste (and calorie content) to be akin to that of a plain sheet of paper. The Japanese have no appreciation for butter or even the crowning ingredient itself: sugar. So what happens when America gets its feisty capitalist fingers into the Osaka pie?
 | |
| This. This is what happens. Yes, that man is there specifically to stop the line from rioting. No, there's not a special sale or anything. I checked. And now, a bonus sidenote: Japan has some of the biggest bugs I've ever SEEN. They are both illogically huge and clearly mentally stunted, even for bugs.  I found this guy lying on the sidewalk, buzzing furiously on his back. When I nudged him with my foot, he clung to it for dear life--even after I gave him a severe poke with my reprimanding finger. Then a bicycle passed us and he fell back to the ground, once more prostrate on his back from shock at the noise. ...In case you were wondering, I left him there that time. Some things just need to be weeded out of the gene pool. |
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Sado Island
Blogging on the open road this time, off on my madcap adventure from one side of Japan to the other--thanks to a 3-week break in work that will inevitably result in a pitiful paycheck, a multi-layer sunburn, and some fantastic experiences.
Starting with Sado island.
Sado is on the west side of Japan; it took me about 6 hours to get here by train. However, this is mostly due to the fact that I refused to take the shinkansen and stuck to small, local trains instead. Say what you will about the value of time and convenience, but there is something particularly stress-free about the smaller train stations, where the only question to ask is whether your next train arrives on platform 1 or 2. And besides, with 3 weeks to go, I've got plenty of time to spare taking the scenic route.
After the trains it was time to board a ferry. They called it a ferry, but it was really more like a cruise ship, complete with multiple levels and cabins. As one of the commoners who refused to dish out extra cash for a cabin, I was relegated to a hold area with all the other cabinless passengers. It hardly mattered, since I spent all of my time on the deck, staring into the sea--I thought the people at Home Depot were lying when they called that paint chip "ocean blue"--and watching flying fish. Primary conclusions: I am definitely not in Kansas anymore.
Sado is known for producing a staggering amount of gold--whole mountains have been ripped in half and left that way once their gold supply had been drained. I visited an old mine with a French couple, Mark & Julie, and our reward for enduring the unsettling robots meant to represent miners was soft-serve ice cream with gold flakes on top. I tried again and again to taste the gold, but any flavor it might have had was easily overwhelmed by the vanilla in the ice cream. Still, it felt ridiculously decadent and I can't think of a better way to say "vacation" than, "I did something pointless and strange and I really enjoyed it."
Another thing Sado is known for is the taraibune. Sado is surrounded by volcanic rocks in all sorts of odd formations, which make navigation with a normal boat almost impossible. So the locals pragmatically substituted barrels, cut in half and augmented by a small oar strapped to the front of the barrel, which experts (and only experts, it seems) can use by laboriously wiggling them back and forth. This is the taraibune: the most awkward sea vessel in existence. Julie, Mark, and I enlisted a guide, Takayuki, to lead us to taraibune. We got to take a ride in them and even attempt to steer them, which was about as successful as you might expect steering a tub with a stick to be. But way more enjoyable.
Takayuki was also responsible for introducing us to a restaurant in a bus. He said, "If you're hungry, I'll take you somewhere interesting." And interesting it certainly was. He introduced us to a man who converted his junker van/bus into a curry restaurant, barely big enough to fit the four of us and smelling of fried eggs, Japanese curry, and pickled radish. And since I'm sure you're all dying to know: the food was delicious!
Next we went to Akadomari, a port town with a unique tradition: floating sumo wrestling. They set up a large floating arena in the middle of the port, complete with a judge dressed in official robes, and allow volunteers to try their luck against each other.
Well, really....What did you think I was going to do?
I volunteered immediately, and I dragged Julie along. Equipped with just our swimsuits and those fantastically awkward sumo diaper thongs, we waited for the men to finish throwing, tripping, and rolling each other into the water so we could have our turn. We were told there were only 3 lady contestants, us and one Japanese woman. Even with my less-than-athletic physique, I thought I stood a chance: Julie is slim and petite, and Japanese woman are hardly known for being overbearing presences. But my hopes were dashed almost before they had a chance to grow. Julie, it turns out, excelled in Greek wrestling in school (what kind of things are they teaching in France??) and the Japanese woman, Fuji, was intimidatingly muscular and simply bulldozed all opponents into the water without changing her dour expression once. In the end Fuji was the champion, which sat well with the locals and sat pretty well with Julie & me too, since it meant we got to take refreshing dips in the water (albeit at high velocities).
Starting with Sado island.
Sado is on the west side of Japan; it took me about 6 hours to get here by train. However, this is mostly due to the fact that I refused to take the shinkansen and stuck to small, local trains instead. Say what you will about the value of time and convenience, but there is something particularly stress-free about the smaller train stations, where the only question to ask is whether your next train arrives on platform 1 or 2. And besides, with 3 weeks to go, I've got plenty of time to spare taking the scenic route.
After the trains it was time to board a ferry. They called it a ferry, but it was really more like a cruise ship, complete with multiple levels and cabins. As one of the commoners who refused to dish out extra cash for a cabin, I was relegated to a hold area with all the other cabinless passengers. It hardly mattered, since I spent all of my time on the deck, staring into the sea--I thought the people at Home Depot were lying when they called that paint chip "ocean blue"--and watching flying fish. Primary conclusions: I am definitely not in Kansas anymore.
Sado is known for producing a staggering amount of gold--whole mountains have been ripped in half and left that way once their gold supply had been drained. I visited an old mine with a French couple, Mark & Julie, and our reward for enduring the unsettling robots meant to represent miners was soft-serve ice cream with gold flakes on top. I tried again and again to taste the gold, but any flavor it might have had was easily overwhelmed by the vanilla in the ice cream. Still, it felt ridiculously decadent and I can't think of a better way to say "vacation" than, "I did something pointless and strange and I really enjoyed it."
Another thing Sado is known for is the taraibune. Sado is surrounded by volcanic rocks in all sorts of odd formations, which make navigation with a normal boat almost impossible. So the locals pragmatically substituted barrels, cut in half and augmented by a small oar strapped to the front of the barrel, which experts (and only experts, it seems) can use by laboriously wiggling them back and forth. This is the taraibune: the most awkward sea vessel in existence. Julie, Mark, and I enlisted a guide, Takayuki, to lead us to taraibune. We got to take a ride in them and even attempt to steer them, which was about as successful as you might expect steering a tub with a stick to be. But way more enjoyable.
Takayuki was also responsible for introducing us to a restaurant in a bus. He said, "If you're hungry, I'll take you somewhere interesting." And interesting it certainly was. He introduced us to a man who converted his junker van/bus into a curry restaurant, barely big enough to fit the four of us and smelling of fried eggs, Japanese curry, and pickled radish. And since I'm sure you're all dying to know: the food was delicious!
Next we went to Akadomari, a port town with a unique tradition: floating sumo wrestling. They set up a large floating arena in the middle of the port, complete with a judge dressed in official robes, and allow volunteers to try their luck against each other.
Well, really....What did you think I was going to do?
I volunteered immediately, and I dragged Julie along. Equipped with just our swimsuits and those fantastically awkward sumo diaper thongs, we waited for the men to finish throwing, tripping, and rolling each other into the water so we could have our turn. We were told there were only 3 lady contestants, us and one Japanese woman. Even with my less-than-athletic physique, I thought I stood a chance: Julie is slim and petite, and Japanese woman are hardly known for being overbearing presences. But my hopes were dashed almost before they had a chance to grow. Julie, it turns out, excelled in Greek wrestling in school (what kind of things are they teaching in France??) and the Japanese woman, Fuji, was intimidatingly muscular and simply bulldozed all opponents into the water without changing her dour expression once. In the end Fuji was the champion, which sat well with the locals and sat pretty well with Julie & me too, since it meant we got to take refreshing dips in the water (albeit at high velocities).
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Truck Stop Temple
The rainy season (tsuyu) has well and truly begun here. I listen to the storms all night, one right after the other, sometimes accompanied by the slight rolling throughout the apartment that means a minor earthquake just made itself known.
Today I went exploring in the rain, which is really to say that I went driving in the rain, which is really to say that I didn't do much exploring at all. In fact I ended up at a truck stop for tourists on their way to grander places. Tourism is as tourism does; I guess I felt like blending in with the other tourists for a bit so I ate the greasy truck stop food and wandered around the kitschy shops. And nothing much happened.
Until I left.
On the way to the car I noticed some steps leading up into the mountain. Mossy, crooked stone steps, right out of a fairytale (or, alternatively, a cautionary story about mountain bakemono). The top of the steps was hidden by the trees.
I might have mentioned this before, but if you ever want to see something beautiful in Japan, look for the trees. The Japanese, in their enduring reverence for the ancient plants, never fail to build something serene and breathtaking to keep them company. So I climbed the steps, which got progressively mossier, through patches of blue flowers and crumbling stone figures until I reached the top. There I found a huge field with (of all things) a giant slide made from poured concrete in the middle. It was useless as a slide; too rough by far--but I couldn't see what else it could be. Everything around it was eerily still and untouched. I felt certain someone would rush out at me and chase me away from the forbidden field but no one appeared, even when I discovered the little temple off to the side and rang the giant gong hanging above its lattice door three times. There were paper cranes hanging everywhere; thousands of them, definitely enough for several wishes. And statues and wooden carvings of temple guardians, all as mossy and forgotten as the steps had been, all mine to examine at leisure. I wandered around them, all curious eyes and fingers, until the rain finally drove me back to the car.
If I could give you all one experience of Japan--draw all of its variety and charming strangeness into a simple account--it would be this: the day I discovered the secret temple and its playground watching over a truck stop.
Today I went exploring in the rain, which is really to say that I went driving in the rain, which is really to say that I didn't do much exploring at all. In fact I ended up at a truck stop for tourists on their way to grander places. Tourism is as tourism does; I guess I felt like blending in with the other tourists for a bit so I ate the greasy truck stop food and wandered around the kitschy shops. And nothing much happened.
Until I left.
On the way to the car I noticed some steps leading up into the mountain. Mossy, crooked stone steps, right out of a fairytale (or, alternatively, a cautionary story about mountain bakemono). The top of the steps was hidden by the trees.
I might have mentioned this before, but if you ever want to see something beautiful in Japan, look for the trees. The Japanese, in their enduring reverence for the ancient plants, never fail to build something serene and breathtaking to keep them company. So I climbed the steps, which got progressively mossier, through patches of blue flowers and crumbling stone figures until I reached the top. There I found a huge field with (of all things) a giant slide made from poured concrete in the middle. It was useless as a slide; too rough by far--but I couldn't see what else it could be. Everything around it was eerily still and untouched. I felt certain someone would rush out at me and chase me away from the forbidden field but no one appeared, even when I discovered the little temple off to the side and rang the giant gong hanging above its lattice door three times. There were paper cranes hanging everywhere; thousands of them, definitely enough for several wishes. And statues and wooden carvings of temple guardians, all as mossy and forgotten as the steps had been, all mine to examine at leisure. I wandered around them, all curious eyes and fingers, until the rain finally drove me back to the car.
If I could give you all one experience of Japan--draw all of its variety and charming strangeness into a simple account--it would be this: the day I discovered the secret temple and its playground watching over a truck stop.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Terminator
Today I worked in a junior high and we had the kids write down what their dreams were. I walked around, helping kids with translation problems and getting to know them a little better; I was surprised by how tame their dreams were. The most common jobs included hospice worker, factory worker, and florist--all respectable professions without a doubt, but not exactly the sort of ambitions you expect from young kids. Then I got to one student who had written only three lines. Three amazing lines.
1. I want to be a robot maker.
2. I want to make better robots.
3. I want to send them to the past.
"Really??" I asked, excited. "You want to send them to the past? Terminator?"
The kid just nodded and looked at the ground, but there was the faintest hint of a smile on his face, and that smile just confirmed what I already knew: this kid is going places. :)
1. I want to be a robot maker.
2. I want to make better robots.
3. I want to send them to the past.
"Really??" I asked, excited. "You want to send them to the past? Terminator?"
The kid just nodded and looked at the ground, but there was the faintest hint of a smile on his face, and that smile just confirmed what I already knew: this kid is going places. :)
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Some more Folklore for y'all
There isn't much to say in this post; just a few minor points of interest.
1. I got to save a snake! It had gotten itself tangled up in a plastic net in Mogi-san's yard, and both her and her husband hate snakes. She said they were both secretly hoping it would die before they had to deal with it, but they called me because they know I like snakes. When I got there we thought it had died; it wasn't moving. I kept poking it, though--looks like childish persistence pays off once in a while, because I discovered it wasn't dead after all. I held it while Mr. Mogi cut away at the netting. The snake was obviously worn out but still really strong; it wrapped itself all the way around my ankle and squeezed, startling me into almost dropping the whole bundle with its head still trapped inside. The process was long and difficult because most of the plastic was wrapped tightly around the snake, so we had to pull the plastic away with our fingernails before we could safely cut it. Eventually we freed it, and it was so cool! It was light gray/green, and as docile as could be. I carried it over to a field with two hands--it must have been at least 4 feet long--and released it there. Now Mogi-san tells the story at the schools and someone called me "hebi onna," the "snake woman" (which happens to be one of those charming bakemono I mentioned before).
2. I learned about another Japanese tradition today. When they eat "hatsumono," the first fruits of the growing season, they are supposed to eat while facing the east and laugh. Today one of the teachers gave me some beautiful cherries (Yamagata Prefecture is famous for them) so Mogi-san and I laughed towards the east, right there in the teachers' room. Apparently it's a way of thanking the gods. Pretty cool deities, in my opinion, if they take laughter for thanks.
1. I got to save a snake! It had gotten itself tangled up in a plastic net in Mogi-san's yard, and both her and her husband hate snakes. She said they were both secretly hoping it would die before they had to deal with it, but they called me because they know I like snakes. When I got there we thought it had died; it wasn't moving. I kept poking it, though--looks like childish persistence pays off once in a while, because I discovered it wasn't dead after all. I held it while Mr. Mogi cut away at the netting. The snake was obviously worn out but still really strong; it wrapped itself all the way around my ankle and squeezed, startling me into almost dropping the whole bundle with its head still trapped inside. The process was long and difficult because most of the plastic was wrapped tightly around the snake, so we had to pull the plastic away with our fingernails before we could safely cut it. Eventually we freed it, and it was so cool! It was light gray/green, and as docile as could be. I carried it over to a field with two hands--it must have been at least 4 feet long--and released it there. Now Mogi-san tells the story at the schools and someone called me "hebi onna," the "snake woman" (which happens to be one of those charming bakemono I mentioned before).
2. I learned about another Japanese tradition today. When they eat "hatsumono," the first fruits of the growing season, they are supposed to eat while facing the east and laugh. Today one of the teachers gave me some beautiful cherries (Yamagata Prefecture is famous for them) so Mogi-san and I laughed towards the east, right there in the teachers' room. Apparently it's a way of thanking the gods. Pretty cool deities, in my opinion, if they take laughter for thanks.
Monday, June 7, 2010
What is IN this water...?
Somebody pinch me; I think I've gone off the deep end. Maybe I've accidentally been drinking drugged apple water (that's the closest thing to juice here. Weep.)
Last weekend we had a mandatory training meeting. I dreaded it because I expected it to be less than useless--and I was right--but it also gave me a chance to compare myself with other Interac employees. Favorably. Don't look at me like that! Stop it!!
Anyway, most of the other employees don't speak Japanese at all, and they are struggling to integrate themselves into the communities. Well, scratch that; they feel so opposed to trying Japanese that they are alienating themselves from the communities. It made me feel really lucky and...well okay let's just be honest here...a little too proud. I can't hold a coherent conversation but I can muster the interaction skills of a 5-year-old, and I'll be danged if that small accomplishment doesn't make me feel like a champion each and every time. My conversations usually go something like this (translated for your convenience!):
Kind Japanese Person : "How are you doing? Do you need anything? Do you like it here?"
Me: "Oh! Uh! It's pretty! And you are nice! ...Um. Um. UM. ....I like snakes!"
KJP: "...Oh, really? That's interesting! haha"
Me: "Do you like movies? UM. I like movies. I like Johnny Depp! Everyone likes Johnny Depp! Um...mm...He's cool!"
KJP: "Right! Let's go eat something!" (followed by something I can't understand that probably translates to, "...so your mouth will be too full to keep flapping like that of a over-stimulated chimp."
Me: *claps with over-stimulated glee and throws in a few "Um!"'s for good measure*
So clearly we're not talking about award-winning language skills here. And yet I flush with pleasure after even the most mundane attempts at communication--and I've used those minor skills to make a few friends, whereas most of the other employees are more comfortable interacting with English-speakers only. On top of that, none of them seem all that pleased with teaching as a job. A lot of them feel disinterested and upset because the pay is less than they would be making in a more permanent career. Over on the other side of the fence, I'm making more money than I ever have--not that that means much--and I love teaching and interacting with the kids. In short, I am starting to feel like I have a place in this crazy corner of the world. I've been here long enough for people to recognize me; kids wave hello on their way to and from school and occasionally a teacher will invite me to their home to meet their family. It's nice to feel a part of Iide, even though I'm more of a pet than a capable citizen. And I'm starting to have more fun with the kids, too. Today I taught them how to fist bump (all it earned me was a lot of confused looks but I enjoyed myself regardless). But as fun as the community is, I have just as much fun interacting with perfect strangers.
...that may be the creepiest, most misleading sentence my fingers have ever crafted, on the internet no less...
Let me attempt to explain. As I've mentioned before, Japanese people are gorgeous. Their flawless skin and endlessly versatile hair gives them the power to pull off ethereal fashions or hard-core David Bowie-style dandelion mullets without a hitch. I imagine that, next to them, I come off looking like a wide-eyed turnip girl: roundish and bumpy in odd places, and pale except for random blotches of red and purple on my cheeks and arms (thanks, Irish/English heritage. What the HECK, Evolution? You owe me.). You wouldn't think that would be a good thing, but it turns out to be pretty useful: I can stare at everyone with wild abandon while they are distracted by my oddness. Rendered equals and instant comrades by the power of curiosity, we can safely approach each other and have a baby-talk session without preamble. The social codes don't apply as strongly to me, so nobody thinks it's creepy or annoying if I approach them in the mall and ask where they bought their shoes or how they get their hair to have so much lift. They just blush furiously and stammer, and I blush furiously and stammer, and eventually we both realize how inadequate our language skills are and just laugh instead. Then we part ways, no harm done. It's pretty intoxicating, finding that people are just as interested in you as you are in them, and especially so when they are beautiful enough to shame Angelina Jolie into changing her name and making a designer, eco-friendly paper bag to wear over her face.
I just can't get enough of it! But I just know that eventually people are going to realize that it is rather odd for a grown woman to act so enthusiastic, even if she is an odd specimen from the West, and then I will have to re-learn how to be mature. Dang.
Last weekend we had a mandatory training meeting. I dreaded it because I expected it to be less than useless--and I was right--but it also gave me a chance to compare myself with other Interac employees. Favorably. Don't look at me like that! Stop it!!
Anyway, most of the other employees don't speak Japanese at all, and they are struggling to integrate themselves into the communities. Well, scratch that; they feel so opposed to trying Japanese that they are alienating themselves from the communities. It made me feel really lucky and...well okay let's just be honest here...a little too proud. I can't hold a coherent conversation but I can muster the interaction skills of a 5-year-old, and I'll be danged if that small accomplishment doesn't make me feel like a champion each and every time. My conversations usually go something like this (translated for your convenience!):
Kind Japanese Person : "How are you doing? Do you need anything? Do you like it here?"
Me: "Oh! Uh! It's pretty! And you are nice! ...Um. Um. UM. ....I like snakes!"
KJP: "...Oh, really? That's interesting! haha"
Me: "Do you like movies? UM. I like movies. I like Johnny Depp! Everyone likes Johnny Depp! Um...mm...He's cool!"
KJP: "Right! Let's go eat something!" (followed by something I can't understand that probably translates to, "...so your mouth will be too full to keep flapping like that of a over-stimulated chimp."
Me: *claps with over-stimulated glee and throws in a few "Um!"'s for good measure*
So clearly we're not talking about award-winning language skills here. And yet I flush with pleasure after even the most mundane attempts at communication--and I've used those minor skills to make a few friends, whereas most of the other employees are more comfortable interacting with English-speakers only. On top of that, none of them seem all that pleased with teaching as a job. A lot of them feel disinterested and upset because the pay is less than they would be making in a more permanent career. Over on the other side of the fence, I'm making more money than I ever have--not that that means much--and I love teaching and interacting with the kids. In short, I am starting to feel like I have a place in this crazy corner of the world. I've been here long enough for people to recognize me; kids wave hello on their way to and from school and occasionally a teacher will invite me to their home to meet their family. It's nice to feel a part of Iide, even though I'm more of a pet than a capable citizen. And I'm starting to have more fun with the kids, too. Today I taught them how to fist bump (all it earned me was a lot of confused looks but I enjoyed myself regardless). But as fun as the community is, I have just as much fun interacting with perfect strangers.
...that may be the creepiest, most misleading sentence my fingers have ever crafted, on the internet no less...
Let me attempt to explain. As I've mentioned before, Japanese people are gorgeous. Their flawless skin and endlessly versatile hair gives them the power to pull off ethereal fashions or hard-core David Bowie-style dandelion mullets without a hitch. I imagine that, next to them, I come off looking like a wide-eyed turnip girl: roundish and bumpy in odd places, and pale except for random blotches of red and purple on my cheeks and arms (thanks, Irish/English heritage. What the HECK, Evolution? You owe me.). You wouldn't think that would be a good thing, but it turns out to be pretty useful: I can stare at everyone with wild abandon while they are distracted by my oddness. Rendered equals and instant comrades by the power of curiosity, we can safely approach each other and have a baby-talk session without preamble. The social codes don't apply as strongly to me, so nobody thinks it's creepy or annoying if I approach them in the mall and ask where they bought their shoes or how they get their hair to have so much lift. They just blush furiously and stammer, and I blush furiously and stammer, and eventually we both realize how inadequate our language skills are and just laugh instead. Then we part ways, no harm done. It's pretty intoxicating, finding that people are just as interested in you as you are in them, and especially so when they are beautiful enough to shame Angelina Jolie into changing her name and making a designer, eco-friendly paper bag to wear over her face.
I just can't get enough of it! But I just know that eventually people are going to realize that it is rather odd for a grown woman to act so enthusiastic, even if she is an odd specimen from the West, and then I will have to re-learn how to be mature. Dang.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Thoughts on the Homeland
Sorry everyone, but I just have to get this out. I know you all know this already, but I just need to express it. Blame it on all the Coke I've been drinking (incidentally, if our nation had a flavor it would be fructose syrup and caffeinated soda water).
Has anyone else noticed how we aren't expected to like our own country anymore? Like the way everyone seems to reduce our country's worth to a string of corrupt/ineffectual politicians and bad reality shows? The constant reliving, re-regretting, and re-damning over old wars?
Little stuff, but constant. When I went to the U.K., everyone advised me and my fellow travelers to pretend to be Canadian for our own good. And we just accepted it; of course we shouldn't advertise where we're from. It's just not good manners, being American. I've noticed it in other American travelers; the automatic self-abasement, like mocking our country might keep other people from beating us to the punch. Not that I have a problem with the mocking; anyone who knows me should know that there is very little I will refuse to mock. It's the constant assumption that America is irredeemable that gets me--that even Americans would be stupid to be proud of their own country. Other countries have done horrible things and made huge comebacks and their citizens carry their heads high, but for some reason a lot of us don't; a lot of us repeatedly apologize for things that weren't even part of our lifetimes. It bothers me.
Today Mogi-san and I were having a relaxed chat about Japan's politics with a car dealership owner while he looked over my car, and I was overwhelmed with the familiarity of it all. Japan's laws and customs are so different from ours, and yet we all worry about the exact same things, in the exact same ways. Taxes. Our leaders. Health care. Education. I felt like I might have had the same conversation right at home in my living room. Mogi-san wasn't ashamed because Japan's prices are high or because it's difficult to make changes. Why should I be ashamed because America is that way?
I feel like we can (and will) build and re-build every time something goes wrong. It's what people do. It's what the Japanese do, and the Ecuadorians, and the French, and the Austrians. For all the cliches about the darkness in the human soul, it cannot be denied that the human soul also fosters a relentless drive towards happiness. Americans are no different. We can trust ourselves to move forward. We should.
Has anyone else noticed how we aren't expected to like our own country anymore? Like the way everyone seems to reduce our country's worth to a string of corrupt/ineffectual politicians and bad reality shows? The constant reliving, re-regretting, and re-damning over old wars?
Little stuff, but constant. When I went to the U.K., everyone advised me and my fellow travelers to pretend to be Canadian for our own good. And we just accepted it; of course we shouldn't advertise where we're from. It's just not good manners, being American. I've noticed it in other American travelers; the automatic self-abasement, like mocking our country might keep other people from beating us to the punch. Not that I have a problem with the mocking; anyone who knows me should know that there is very little I will refuse to mock. It's the constant assumption that America is irredeemable that gets me--that even Americans would be stupid to be proud of their own country. Other countries have done horrible things and made huge comebacks and their citizens carry their heads high, but for some reason a lot of us don't; a lot of us repeatedly apologize for things that weren't even part of our lifetimes. It bothers me.
Today Mogi-san and I were having a relaxed chat about Japan's politics with a car dealership owner while he looked over my car, and I was overwhelmed with the familiarity of it all. Japan's laws and customs are so different from ours, and yet we all worry about the exact same things, in the exact same ways. Taxes. Our leaders. Health care. Education. I felt like I might have had the same conversation right at home in my living room. Mogi-san wasn't ashamed because Japan's prices are high or because it's difficult to make changes. Why should I be ashamed because America is that way?
I feel like we can (and will) build and re-build every time something goes wrong. It's what people do. It's what the Japanese do, and the Ecuadorians, and the French, and the Austrians. For all the cliches about the darkness in the human soul, it cannot be denied that the human soul also fosters a relentless drive towards happiness. Americans are no different. We can trust ourselves to move forward. We should.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Iwate
Jeff had his birthday today, so a few of us ALT's spent the weekend celebrating with him in a ryokan. A ryokan is a traditional Japanese hotel, usually situated near some onsen (hot springs) so guests can lounge around in yukata (like kimono but much less fancy) and soak in the onsen all day. The onsen are supposed to have mysterious health benefits, ranging from the standard claims of better circulation to the more incredible claims of cured cancer.
The onsen range in temperature, too, from lukewarm to scalding. The hottest ones are painful, but they can be endured as long as you slip into the water as quickly as possible and then not budge an inch afterwards. Your body actually cools the water around you, forming a protective layer; but once you move and bring the fresh water your way, it's almost unbearable.
The ryokan was so far up into the mountains that we had to leave the outdoor onsen at night because there were bears and monkeys and poisonous snakes around. And, of course, there was plenty of mysterious mountain cuisine to be had, including whole baby octopi and steamed bamboo shoots--you'd think either of those things would be soft, but that would be a mistake.
The onsen range in temperature, too, from lukewarm to scalding. The hottest ones are painful, but they can be endured as long as you slip into the water as quickly as possible and then not budge an inch afterwards. Your body actually cools the water around you, forming a protective layer; but once you move and bring the fresh water your way, it's almost unbearable.
The ryokan was so far up into the mountains that we had to leave the outdoor onsen at night because there were bears and monkeys and poisonous snakes around. And, of course, there was plenty of mysterious mountain cuisine to be had, including whole baby octopi and steamed bamboo shoots--you'd think either of those things would be soft, but that would be a mistake.
Friday, May 28, 2010
More Kindergarten and an Undokai
Went to another kindergarten a few days ago. In this one they mercifully separated the age groups and only made me teach the older kids, which made the whole process much easier and more productive. After I finished my short lesson on colors, the kids started dragging me all over the place. I had at least three kids attached to each hand at any moment, and the kids had absolutely no qualms about jabbering away in Japanese even when I was clearly baffled. It made me wonder if part of the reason kids learn languages so much more easily is because they have no fear.
After I'd played several games with the older kids, a teacher asked if I'd like to see the babies. She made them sound like a zoo exhibit, and when I saw them, I realized that was a pretty accurate description. There were about seven babies, all corralled together in one room, and the teachers were only too willing to let them run around each other without any interference. It was so funny to watch the babies moving; they were all enormously chubby, with adult heads of hair on their little heads. I watched as two children, tired out, simply stopped walking and crumpled to the floor with their faces mushed into the carpet and stayed that way until they felt recharged. I have to admit I took selfish pleasure in this approach to child-tending; I was free to cuddle any kid I could get my hands on, even if they cried at the sight of me.
At the elementary schools they are preparing for the undokai, or sports festivals. I haven't seen one yet but they sound like a lot of fun; every student participates in competitions like running or kendo (Japanese sword-fighting) or other sports, and they all cheer each other on. Right now, before the festivals begin, the kids are focusing on getting ready & excited. They have assemblies where they sing the school song and yell chants as loud as they can, drawing the sound up from the very pits of their stomachs, because that gets their spiriits going.
I ate lunch with this class that day, and it was even weirder than Japanese lunches USUALLY are: curry on rice, yogurt, and bacon-wrapped asparagus. That's right; something that sounds like an appetizer at a art gallery opening (or, more likely, a bad joke about eating healthy) was something we ate for school lunch--well, SOME of us ate it. I made a student eat mine for me. During that lunch one of the boys dropped a large blob of yogurt on his shirt, then sat there and stared at it morosely while I laughed. Finally he lifted his shirt to his lips and sucked the yogurt off like a human vacuum, which only made me laugh more until he leaned over to me with a finger to his lips and a very serious expression. I love these kids--they are crazy crazy. :)
After I'd played several games with the older kids, a teacher asked if I'd like to see the babies. She made them sound like a zoo exhibit, and when I saw them, I realized that was a pretty accurate description. There were about seven babies, all corralled together in one room, and the teachers were only too willing to let them run around each other without any interference. It was so funny to watch the babies moving; they were all enormously chubby, with adult heads of hair on their little heads. I watched as two children, tired out, simply stopped walking and crumpled to the floor with their faces mushed into the carpet and stayed that way until they felt recharged. I have to admit I took selfish pleasure in this approach to child-tending; I was free to cuddle any kid I could get my hands on, even if they cried at the sight of me.
At the elementary schools they are preparing for the undokai, or sports festivals. I haven't seen one yet but they sound like a lot of fun; every student participates in competitions like running or kendo (Japanese sword-fighting) or other sports, and they all cheer each other on. Right now, before the festivals begin, the kids are focusing on getting ready & excited. They have assemblies where they sing the school song and yell chants as loud as they can, drawing the sound up from the very pits of their stomachs, because that gets their spiriits going.
I ate lunch with this class that day, and it was even weirder than Japanese lunches USUALLY are: curry on rice, yogurt, and bacon-wrapped asparagus. That's right; something that sounds like an appetizer at a art gallery opening (or, more likely, a bad joke about eating healthy) was something we ate for school lunch--well, SOME of us ate it. I made a student eat mine for me. During that lunch one of the boys dropped a large blob of yogurt on his shirt, then sat there and stared at it morosely while I laughed. Finally he lifted his shirt to his lips and sucked the yogurt off like a human vacuum, which only made me laugh more until he leaned over to me with a finger to his lips and a very serious expression. I love these kids--they are crazy crazy. :)
Friday, May 21, 2010
Enkai & Kindergarten
Last night I inadvertently joined the local taiko team.
This. Is. Taiko.
How did I manage that? Mogi-san told me to bring some money and show up at a restaurant at a certain time, and I did not come to Japan to ask questions. To celebrate the new year and the additional members, the team held an enkai; a welcome feast. It consisted of a whole lot of raw things and a whole LOT of beer. I stuck to vegetables mostly; there were reddish-purplish tubers that seemed pretty safe, though they tasted odd. When I mentioned this to Jeff, Robyn's boyfriend, he said, "That's because they're squid." Well played, Japan. Well played.
We start practice next week. I'll let you know what happens.
Today was my first day in a kindergarten. There were around 70 kids there, ranging in age from 2 to 5, staring up at me with huge eyes and scattering in all directions whenever I approached. I played outside with them, and when they found out I like frogs they showed me their collection: at least 20 frogs, caught and kept in cups and canteens and tonka trucks. The kids were not very gentle with the poor things; I watched one boy gather several frogs into his hand and then roll them all together like a popcorn ball with stray limbs kicking the air. I ended up sneaking several of the frogs away and releasing them out of pity.
As the kids got used to me they lost their shyness and started asking all sorts of weird questions. One girl tried to get me to eat leaves off an apple tree; another patted my stomach and asked if I was pregnant while her friend poked me square in the chest and said, "What's that?" They wanted me to hold all their hands, water plants with them, swing with them, crawl through tunnels with them, make sand cakes with them and show a proper degree of enthusiasm for everything they did. It was fun, but by the end I was wishing I had a "nap time" too.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Japan cares about your future
http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/2970177/Bra-that-grows-your-own-grub.html
I expect these would be a big hit in the LDS food storage classes.
I expect these would be a big hit in the LDS food storage classes.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Bakemono
Mogi-san recently gave me some hand-me-down dishes, and one of the bowls has quickly become my favorite thing in the entire house. It's light blue and it has a picture of an eyeball with arms and legs running away from a pair of chopsticks. I don't know why, but from the moment I saw that thing it tickled my fancy and I laugh every time I look at it. But when I first saw it I had no idea what it was supposed to be.
A few internet searches later I discovered that my favorite eyeball was a character from an anime called "Gegege no Kitaro." It started in the '50's, but has been so incredibly popular that it is re-made every 10 years or so. It's the story of a young demon/ghost boy named Kitaro who hunts classic Japanese monsters, aided by his dead father--who possesses an eyeball, rides around in Kitaro's head, and leaves the socket at will to run around. The sheer crazy charm of it all got me thinking about Japanese monsters, so I did a little research into them too. And now I can't stop. So indulge me for a bit.
I guess when I read our stories I generally get the message, "Do right and you'll get out of this." When I read Japanese stories, all I hear is, "Don't touch anything, don't trust anyone, and for goodness' sake don't open your mouth. If you're lucky, you might make it long enough to die in the next famine."
A few internet searches later I discovered that my favorite eyeball was a character from an anime called "Gegege no Kitaro." It started in the '50's, but has been so incredibly popular that it is re-made every 10 years or so. It's the story of a young demon/ghost boy named Kitaro who hunts classic Japanese monsters, aided by his dead father--who possesses an eyeball, rides around in Kitaro's head, and leaves the socket at will to run around. The sheer crazy charm of it all got me thinking about Japanese monsters, so I did a little research into them too. And now I can't stop. So indulge me for a bit.
So first off, the Japanese lump all their monsters together under the term "bakemono", which literally translates to "things that change" and, in practical terms, means "things that you should never mess with." Whereas Western fairytales/ghost stories are pretty specific about what sort of monster you're up against--complete with identifying characteristics and weaknesses unique to each class--the Japanese legends don't seem to put much stock in specifications. A bakemono can be a ghost, a "bad spirit" (a non-Christian equivalent of a demon, I suppose), an ogre, a nature spirit, a shapeshifter, a witch, or even (my personal favorite) a household item that has gained sentience on its 100th birthday. Oh yes. We're talking umbrellas and sandals that suddenly snap to life, endowed with menacing eyes and teeth and a wicked score to settle for all those years spent shrouded in dust in the garage. To this day, some people still hold ceremonies with prayers and offerings to appease their mistreated belongings.
Among the bakemono there are also demons who can stretch their necks to impossible lengths or even detach their own heads...for some reason. They're still scary because they're also cannibals, but I fail to see how the neck thing helps them achieve that aim. Seems like it would just make them more vulnerable; making your jugular an easy target has never seemed like a good plan to me. There's also a classic Japanese response to anorexia: if a woman starves herself, she develops a giant mouth on the back of her head and her hair starts dragging everything in reach towards the gaping maw in an effort to end the relentless hunger. And, another one of my favorites, the kappa: a turtle with a hole in his head that he must keep filled with water at all times or die. They are meant to be mischevious and deadly, of course--luring people into the water and drowning them--but I can't help but find them sort of adorable, especially in plush form:
Aww! I'd go swimming with you ANY day!
Another blatant difference I've noticed between Western tales and Japanese ones is that Western stories always have some moral or lesson, however horrible it might be. Don't accept anything from crones. Don't eat giant confectionery domiciles. That sort of thing. Japanese stories, on the other hand, have no rhyme or reason that I can determine. Quick! You find a baby alone in the woods, crying. What do you do?
a) Poke it with a stick to see if it stops crying.
b) Take it into town with you.
c) Leave that poor sucker in the cold and beat it; you've got more important things to do than value human life.
Let's hope you picked c, because otherwise you were just crushed to death by a crazy shape-shifting hag. Care to try again? Okay, you're a blind musician who's been playing in a fancy court for a while now. Everyone praises your singing and seems excited to see you each night. Then you find out that these are not actually people; they're spirits and you've been playing in a graveyard this whole time. What do you do?
a) Keep playing for them. For dead guys, they seem pretty cool.
b) Politely decline their next invitation and leave some nice offerings for them instead.
c) Trust some Buddhist priests who paint prayers all over your body except your ears and then tell you not to speak for 24 hours.
Who knows what would have happened with a or b, but the guy in the story chose c and ended up having his ears ripped off because they were left vulnerable. Still, the priest who was responsible for that oversight explained the musician should feel lucky; if he had kept making those ghosts happy, they would have rewarded him by tearing him to shreds.
I guess when I read our stories I generally get the message, "Do right and you'll get out of this." When I read Japanese stories, all I hear is, "Don't touch anything, don't trust anyone, and for goodness' sake don't open your mouth. If you're lucky, you might make it long enough to die in the next famine."
Oh, and as a final note: if you're a guy I'd think twice before getting married in Japan. Apparently there's a 90% chance you'll wind up wed to a snow spirit, raccoon, or fox. Ladies don't face those odds in the legends, but they do have to put up with husbands who refuse to let them speak and commit ritualistic suicide at the drop of a hat. You win some, you lose some I guess.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Showa Day
Yesterday was Showa Day, a national holiday that commemorates the birthday of the Emperor during the Showa period. Traditionally Japan tracks years according to periods, rather than the standard B.C. - A.D. method. So I was born in the 62nd year of Showa, rather than 1987. According to Wikipedia, "the purpose of the holiday is to encourage public reflection on the turbulent 63 years of Hirohito's reign," but everyone I asked had no clue what the holiday was for (besides a welcome break from work).
Robyn, a fellow ALT, asked if I would like to go on a walk with her for the holiday. She said we'd have a long walk which would end at an onsen (hot spring) and have dinner and then go home. It sounded better than lurking in the apartment all day so I immediately agreed.
The walk started off very pleasantly; there were about 60 people, including elderly folk and small children. We all trotted in a line across the rice fields, enjoying the warm weather and the early signs of spring. It was all like the plot of a children's film, right down to the man who played "Hey, Let's Go" from My Neighbor Totoro on an ocarina.
.
Pretty soon we left civilization and started hiking up into the base of the mountains. I hadn't expected that, but I'd worn good shoes and if there's one form of exercise I've done fairly regularly in Utah, it's hiking. In fact, I was looking forward to it. It would be nice to stretch my legs and see the Japanese mountains up close.
Robyn, a fellow ALT, asked if I would like to go on a walk with her for the holiday. She said we'd have a long walk which would end at an onsen (hot spring) and have dinner and then go home. It sounded better than lurking in the apartment all day so I immediately agreed.
The walk started off very pleasantly; there were about 60 people, including elderly folk and small children. We all trotted in a line across the rice fields, enjoying the warm weather and the early signs of spring. It was all like the plot of a children's film, right down to the man who played "Hey, Let's Go" from My Neighbor Totoro on an ocarina.
.
Little did I know that I would be seeing several of them up close.
After we'd been hiking for a while--I estimated 2 hours or so--and had reached the top of the mountain, I asked Robyn how much farther we were planning to go.
"Oh, we've still got about 10-15 miles," she replied.
Whoa whoa whoa, hold the phone. This is not what I signed up for. It's one thing to go on a long walk; it's quite another to embark on a quest into Mordor. And what the heck were the young kids and old people doing here? Didn't they know you should only exercise this much if you're escaping a Siberian work camp? But it was far too late to turn back, so I kept plodging. Soon it started to rain and everyone whipped out umbrellas so we looked like a train of bobbing mushrooms. We stopped for lunch and sat on plastic shopping bags on the gooshy mud while huddling under the umbrellas, but by then I was too fatigued to be hungry. I settled for sucking on an orange. I laboriously dug off the peel--my fingers were too cold to be much use--and finally prised off a section and crammed the whole thing into my mouth.
*munch much* "This orange is disgusting." *munch munch*
Robyn looked over, momentarily indulging my misery. "That's because it's a grapefruit," she said. So I gave it to her.
The rain continued for the rest of the trek and by the end at least one of the kids was in tears. We had crossed four mountains and two baby mountains over approximately 20 miles, in approximately 8 hours of constant motion, sustained along the way by communal snacks like mayonnaise-flavored seaweed and lemon salt drops. By the time we reached our destination, Nanyo, I was incapable of lifting my knees and was forced to progress in a zombie-like stagger. My legs had long ago given up protesting through pain and had settled into a dull ache of resignation. I was sure that soon the muscles would give up entirely and I would be forced to lift and place my feet with my hands. But I was wrong; we all made it to the onsen in the hotel and got to soak for a while before going downstairs for a drinking party to celebrate our fortitude (I drank orange juice. A LOT of orange juice.).
Mercifully, we managed to catch a train home. Most of our number were drunk by then but they kept drinking, sharing whiskey and sake on the train itself. They called the conductor the "superman" and demanded that he take pictures with them. They giggled like little girls when I told them I didn't drink and dropped their paper cups of alcohol all over the train seats and slurred out nonsensical sentences while grasping my hands like I was the source of all their fondest hopes. Finally we reached our stop and we all fell out of the train--whether due to drunkenness or sore muscles--and went our separate ways. I spent the next few hours in a scalding bath and curled up beside a space heater before falling into a blessed sleep, vowing to never accept any invitation to go on a "walk" again.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Schools
Today was my first official day of teaching! I had to teach 5 classes, from 4th grade to 6th, at two different schools. I don't understand how anyone is comfortable doing this job with no understanding of Japanese. Not that I am all that capable; to the contrary, I sound like a monkey stringing syllables together. But at least I can manage to figure out what the teachers want from me, and they all want very different things. Some turned the class entirely over to me, while others wanted to teach jointly, and one just wanted me to parrot pronunciations.
The lessons themselves were not nearly as intimidating as I expected, thanks entirely to the kids themselves. They were all shy, but immediately responded when I taught them games and used funny voices or gave them high fives when they did well. At one school the teachers had me read "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?" by Eric Carle. It was perfect because I made all the animal sounds we grow up with in English (woof, ribbit, neigh, etc.) and the kids thought it was the most ridiculous thing they'd ever heard. In Japan, apparently dogs say "wan," frogs say "garro" and horses say "heehee." I considered myself a success when, at recess, a crowd of kids asked me to play kick the can with them. It was more fun than I've had with some people my own age.
The only significant challenge so far is the way the classes are integrated: kids with learning disabilities are mixed in the classes, with no indication of their unique needs. I've worked with kids like that in high school and never had a problem engaging them, but it's really sad when you call on a kid who starts crying from fear at the mere thought of speaking English (that happened today) and the other kids are just waiting for you to move on to the next game. And these kids are COMPETITIVE. It works to my advantage most of the time; if I ever sense their attention beginning to drift, I just have to turn the activity into a contest. I just have to make sure they don't exclude the less confident kids in the process.
All in all, I don't know what the teachers or other staff members think of me, but I'm relatively sure the kids like me. And they're way fun. :)
The lessons themselves were not nearly as intimidating as I expected, thanks entirely to the kids themselves. They were all shy, but immediately responded when I taught them games and used funny voices or gave them high fives when they did well. At one school the teachers had me read "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?" by Eric Carle. It was perfect because I made all the animal sounds we grow up with in English (woof, ribbit, neigh, etc.) and the kids thought it was the most ridiculous thing they'd ever heard. In Japan, apparently dogs say "wan," frogs say "garro" and horses say "heehee." I considered myself a success when, at recess, a crowd of kids asked me to play kick the can with them. It was more fun than I've had with some people my own age.
The only significant challenge so far is the way the classes are integrated: kids with learning disabilities are mixed in the classes, with no indication of their unique needs. I've worked with kids like that in high school and never had a problem engaging them, but it's really sad when you call on a kid who starts crying from fear at the mere thought of speaking English (that happened today) and the other kids are just waiting for you to move on to the next game. And these kids are COMPETITIVE. It works to my advantage most of the time; if I ever sense their attention beginning to drift, I just have to turn the activity into a contest. I just have to make sure they don't exclude the less confident kids in the process.
All in all, I don't know what the teachers or other staff members think of me, but I'm relatively sure the kids like me. And they're way fun. :)
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The BOE
I officially started work this week, which so far has entailed sitting in the Board of Education office and staving off boredom by surreptitiously reading Freakonomics for 6 hours a day.
Don't look at me like that. My lessons are already planned for the rest of the month.
Not that anyone at the BOE seems to mind. Most of them don't speak English at all, so beyond some friendly greetings they rarely interact with me. They have done their best to help me, however. They even sat down with me to go over my schedule and present me with a map of the schools I'll be visiting. A map that is as big as I am. I doubt I'll be able to use it in the car, unless I use it to wallpaper the windshield and cut two small holes to watch the road through. I finally settled for tacking it to the wall in my apartment in the hopes that its enormous presence would somehow make me more familiar with the area, perhaps through osmosis.
Continuing in this helpful vein, my coworkers took me to lunch at a traditional restaurant and considerately ordered on my behalf. As I've mentioned, this practice has led to some interesting meals, like the little white fish (which Mogi-san now presents to me all the time, because she thinks my reaction is funny). I know enough Japanese to ask for considerably tamer options; but I'm afraid that if I'm honest about my tastes I'll offend everyone in the vicinity, because traditional Japanese food always includes my worst fear: meat-that-looks-like-what-it-used-to-be.
You all know that feeling when the sight of something wrenches your guts into a knot, however irrationally. For some people it's blood or heights; for me, it's meat that has failed, through some egregious error, to be beaten beyond recognition. If I can look at something and see a general outline of its original form or--God forbid--a limb, it's all over. I blame my mother for informing me how to prepare lobsters (I think it's cruel and morbid, even for what is essentially a sea cockroach). Now whenever I see meat I can hear the anthropormorphized wails of Flounders and Bambis and Wilburs--at least until they're thinly sliced and hidden between two slices of bread and a little barbecue sauce quiets my conscience until the next encounter.
So you can all imagine my woe when the waiter brought me a very large, very intact shrimp. I know; I can hear all of you scoffing at my wimpishness (I was almost in tears, by the way). But "large" does not do this thing justice. It was the length of my forearm, from elbow to fingertips. I imagine it could have been frolicking around with Godzilla for eons before some Japanese fisherman dragged it from the frigid depths just so it could be deep-fried and presented to the last person on earth who would want to eat it. Its head--HEAD. HEAD. HEAD.--was as large as my palm, sparing my eyes not the slightest detail, from bulging translucent eyes to individual whiskers. I put off the encounter for as long as I could, delicately munching some "ice plant" (a mountain fern with unique skin that makes it look like it's constantly shrouded in crystalline dewdrops) one leaf at a time. Eventually, however, I had to face the beast; and enthusiastically, too, or the nice people surrounding me would feel bad. At least the main body was shrouded in tempura, I thought. But my rudimentary skills with chopsticks were no match for the massive creature; it kept slipping into the dipping sauce and all the tempura began to slide off, leaving me no choice but to outmaneuver the deteriorating batter by shoveling the whole thing into my mouth in 3 bites. An ungainly victory was mine, and all that remained was to smile and say, "Oiishikatta"--"It was delicious."
Don't look at me like that. My lessons are already planned for the rest of the month.
Not that anyone at the BOE seems to mind. Most of them don't speak English at all, so beyond some friendly greetings they rarely interact with me. They have done their best to help me, however. They even sat down with me to go over my schedule and present me with a map of the schools I'll be visiting. A map that is as big as I am. I doubt I'll be able to use it in the car, unless I use it to wallpaper the windshield and cut two small holes to watch the road through. I finally settled for tacking it to the wall in my apartment in the hopes that its enormous presence would somehow make me more familiar with the area, perhaps through osmosis.
Continuing in this helpful vein, my coworkers took me to lunch at a traditional restaurant and considerately ordered on my behalf. As I've mentioned, this practice has led to some interesting meals, like the little white fish (which Mogi-san now presents to me all the time, because she thinks my reaction is funny). I know enough Japanese to ask for considerably tamer options; but I'm afraid that if I'm honest about my tastes I'll offend everyone in the vicinity, because traditional Japanese food always includes my worst fear: meat-that-looks-like-what-it-used-to-be.
You all know that feeling when the sight of something wrenches your guts into a knot, however irrationally. For some people it's blood or heights; for me, it's meat that has failed, through some egregious error, to be beaten beyond recognition. If I can look at something and see a general outline of its original form or--God forbid--a limb, it's all over. I blame my mother for informing me how to prepare lobsters (I think it's cruel and morbid, even for what is essentially a sea cockroach). Now whenever I see meat I can hear the anthropormorphized wails of Flounders and Bambis and Wilburs--at least until they're thinly sliced and hidden between two slices of bread and a little barbecue sauce quiets my conscience until the next encounter.
So you can all imagine my woe when the waiter brought me a very large, very intact shrimp. I know; I can hear all of you scoffing at my wimpishness (I was almost in tears, by the way). But "large" does not do this thing justice. It was the length of my forearm, from elbow to fingertips. I imagine it could have been frolicking around with Godzilla for eons before some Japanese fisherman dragged it from the frigid depths just so it could be deep-fried and presented to the last person on earth who would want to eat it. Its head--HEAD. HEAD. HEAD.--was as large as my palm, sparing my eyes not the slightest detail, from bulging translucent eyes to individual whiskers. I put off the encounter for as long as I could, delicately munching some "ice plant" (a mountain fern with unique skin that makes it look like it's constantly shrouded in crystalline dewdrops) one leaf at a time. Eventually, however, I had to face the beast; and enthusiastically, too, or the nice people surrounding me would feel bad. At least the main body was shrouded in tempura, I thought. But my rudimentary skills with chopsticks were no match for the massive creature; it kept slipping into the dipping sauce and all the tempura began to slide off, leaving me no choice but to outmaneuver the deteriorating batter by shoveling the whole thing into my mouth in 3 bites. An ungainly victory was mine, and all that remained was to smile and say, "Oiishikatta"--"It was delicious."
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
New Friends
For the next week or so the Board of Education has me working from home, planning lessons and crafting props. It is a pretty sweet deal but, it must be said, excruciatingly dull. So Mogi-san showed me where the library was, so I can at least change the atmosphere once in a while. I met the staff and they were all extremely friendly (my mouth hurt afterward from smiling too much); the boss tried to set me up with a mortified single employee and mentioned that the way they say my last name, "Hen-daah" sounds exactly like the phrase, "Hen da" (she's strange). Everybody laughed, and I prided myself on the fact that I needed no translation for that part of the conversation. I may not know how to pay my own utility bills, but at least I know when I'm being teased!
In the library yard, there were a bunch of oddly-shaped benches. Mogi-san told me they're for exercise; doing push-ups and back-bends, etc. I wonder if there are many people who enjoy doing back-bends over a cold, wooden bench--but then again, these are the same people who sleep on the ground and use squat toilets, so I suppose comfort isn't a huge priority.
The next day, after I'd finished work and settled down to watch Terminator and The Magnificent Seven (what's more American than that, I ask you?), I got a call from Terumi, one of the workers at the library. She invited me out to dinner with her friends, Shizuka and Yuriko, all of whom speak a little English. They spoke the perfect amount, as it turned out: they got to practice English while I got to practice Japanese, with no crippling communication issues. At the restaurant, they kindly ordered all the courses so I didn't have to worry about deciphering the menu at all. We ate a salad with crunchy white things on top, which I assumed to be noodles until I noticed that they had eyes. They were actually very tiny, white fish that are often used as a topping here. I braved onward, determined not to offend anyone, but it was especially difficult when one of the heads fell of the plate and lay right in front of me, gazing up with glassy indignation.
The girls were all very curious about American food and asked if I knew how to cook, and when I said yes, they jumped on the opportunity to ask me to teach them how to make something they'd been longing for: oatmeal cookies. Apparently they tried to make them with just oatmeal, flour, and oil--a little bland, they told me. I promised to make some with them, and of course now the only trick is finding oatmeal out here...
In the library yard, there were a bunch of oddly-shaped benches. Mogi-san told me they're for exercise; doing push-ups and back-bends, etc. I wonder if there are many people who enjoy doing back-bends over a cold, wooden bench--but then again, these are the same people who sleep on the ground and use squat toilets, so I suppose comfort isn't a huge priority.
The next day, after I'd finished work and settled down to watch Terminator and The Magnificent Seven (what's more American than that, I ask you?), I got a call from Terumi, one of the workers at the library. She invited me out to dinner with her friends, Shizuka and Yuriko, all of whom speak a little English. They spoke the perfect amount, as it turned out: they got to practice English while I got to practice Japanese, with no crippling communication issues. At the restaurant, they kindly ordered all the courses so I didn't have to worry about deciphering the menu at all. We ate a salad with crunchy white things on top, which I assumed to be noodles until I noticed that they had eyes. They were actually very tiny, white fish that are often used as a topping here. I braved onward, determined not to offend anyone, but it was especially difficult when one of the heads fell of the plate and lay right in front of me, gazing up with glassy indignation.
The girls were all very curious about American food and asked if I knew how to cook, and when I said yes, they jumped on the opportunity to ask me to teach them how to make something they'd been longing for: oatmeal cookies. Apparently they tried to make them with just oatmeal, flour, and oil--a little bland, they told me. I promised to make some with them, and of course now the only trick is finding oatmeal out here...
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The panic is beginning to set in...
It all started with a bill.
At least, I thought it was a bill. It certainly looked official, and it had my name on it. When I opened it, the only part I could make out was the 97,400 clearly displayed. When I asked a friend to translate for me, all he could manage in his limited English was a knowing, "Ah, yes. Insurance."
I spent the next day in a panic, pacing my living room and playing out all sorts of bizarre worst-case scenarios in my mind. If that number was a fee, there was no way I could afford it--especially if it was a monthly one. How had insurance gotten so expensive in a country with social health care, anyway? Weren't all those Japanese businessmen supposed to foot the bills for those of us who couldn't afford regular baths? I imagined informing Interac that I couldn't pay and then facing some unknown enemy (the company, or the government, or...why not?...the Yakuza!) who would inexplicably force me to pay for insurance I did not want by weeding rice paddies and clearing mountainsides of bamboo. And then I'd have to smuggle myself out of the country and when people asked what happened to my big plans to teach in Japan I would have to explain that I could never go back because I was wanted by the government, and not even for anything exciting either.
Then Mogi-san looked at it and laughed, telling me that it had nothing to do with me. It was just some detail of the coverage plan; not a fee at all.
This kind of stress is to be expected when you're living in a foreign country, but that doesn't make it any easier on your poor, adrenaline-riddled heart. Luckily I've found a way to cope: vending machines.
Like the time I tried to refill my gas tank. The gas stations are full-service here, which would be very luxurious if you weren't the girl who rolled into the station with no idea which side your gas tank is on or how to pay--much less how to say "gas tank" and "should I pay inside?"--and can now only blush furiously and throw money at the employee while repeating, "Gomen...gomen...gomen nasai" ("I'm sorry...I'm sorry...So sorry..."). Luckily the employee was unbelievably friendly (are you sensing a pattern?) and tolerated my laughable attempt with a broad smile and a promise to study English so she could help me in the future. I was grateful and comforted by her silly promise (as if it was her fault I couldn't handle daily tasks), but the minute my tank was full I sped of for my rendezvous with a strawberry milk.
When I got lost and ended up in an unfamiliar supermarket, I left room in the budget for Calpis.
When I wandered into a local farmers' market, I headed straight for the canned peach juice.
When I got lost again, I beelined for the drinkable yogurt.
At first I tried to wean myself off the dependence, but I finally caved and justified it by claiming that an occasional 100 or 150 yen was not so much to invest in my mental health. The machines' contents are like a grab bag of magic elixirs: one sip and I'm no longer the bumbling American who mistakenly thought she could grasp this language and is now paying the price in installments of humble pie.
I'm the fun-loving, quirky American whose only concern is whether to try a cold drink or a hot one next.
At least, I thought it was a bill. It certainly looked official, and it had my name on it. When I opened it, the only part I could make out was the 97,400 clearly displayed. When I asked a friend to translate for me, all he could manage in his limited English was a knowing, "Ah, yes. Insurance."
I spent the next day in a panic, pacing my living room and playing out all sorts of bizarre worst-case scenarios in my mind. If that number was a fee, there was no way I could afford it--especially if it was a monthly one. How had insurance gotten so expensive in a country with social health care, anyway? Weren't all those Japanese businessmen supposed to foot the bills for those of us who couldn't afford regular baths? I imagined informing Interac that I couldn't pay and then facing some unknown enemy (the company, or the government, or...why not?...the Yakuza!) who would inexplicably force me to pay for insurance I did not want by weeding rice paddies and clearing mountainsides of bamboo. And then I'd have to smuggle myself out of the country and when people asked what happened to my big plans to teach in Japan I would have to explain that I could never go back because I was wanted by the government, and not even for anything exciting either.
Then Mogi-san looked at it and laughed, telling me that it had nothing to do with me. It was just some detail of the coverage plan; not a fee at all.
This kind of stress is to be expected when you're living in a foreign country, but that doesn't make it any easier on your poor, adrenaline-riddled heart. Luckily I've found a way to cope: vending machines.
I got the white one with cow spots!
I've mentioned them before, but then they were just a passing curiosity. Now they've become little life rafts of sanity. Whenever a situation suddenly vaults itself into the realm of way-too-much-to-handle, I dart to one of these machines. You can find one literally anywhere; they're more common than pets. So I dart to one of these and take a breather, considering all my beverage options in a nonchalant way that I hope conveys a message: "What, you thought I was here to integrate myself with your culture? Silly. Clearly I am here to experience your unique beverages, that's all. I got an apartment because it was a convenient distance from these machines. I got a car to take me to the less convenient machines. I'm only working here to fund this habit and am not at all invested in my own performance or concerned about my capabilities. Obviously."Like the time I tried to refill my gas tank. The gas stations are full-service here, which would be very luxurious if you weren't the girl who rolled into the station with no idea which side your gas tank is on or how to pay--much less how to say "gas tank" and "should I pay inside?"--and can now only blush furiously and throw money at the employee while repeating, "Gomen...gomen...gomen nasai" ("I'm sorry...I'm sorry...So sorry..."). Luckily the employee was unbelievably friendly (are you sensing a pattern?) and tolerated my laughable attempt with a broad smile and a promise to study English so she could help me in the future. I was grateful and comforted by her silly promise (as if it was her fault I couldn't handle daily tasks), but the minute my tank was full I sped of for my rendezvous with a strawberry milk.
When I got lost and ended up in an unfamiliar supermarket, I left room in the budget for Calpis.
When I wandered into a local farmers' market, I headed straight for the canned peach juice.
When I got lost again, I beelined for the drinkable yogurt.
At first I tried to wean myself off the dependence, but I finally caved and justified it by claiming that an occasional 100 or 150 yen was not so much to invest in my mental health. The machines' contents are like a grab bag of magic elixirs: one sip and I'm no longer the bumbling American who mistakenly thought she could grasp this language and is now paying the price in installments of humble pie.
I'm the fun-loving, quirky American whose only concern is whether to try a cold drink or a hot one next.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Excerpts from the last few days
As you can imagine, not much has been happening in the last few days that would interest anyone. However, in my compulsive need to garner attention, I offer the following:
I tried cocoa from the vending machines. It was cold and it tasted like bog sludge, but I kept trying it to see if that might have changed in the last 2 minutes.
I met my bosses at the Board of Education and, in attempting to explain the concept of having two families (consisting of a mother & stepfather and a father & stepmother) I ended up convincing them that I have two mothers and two fathers all living together in a communal home. Oh, and that I'm not allowed to drink anything--at all--because of my religion. No need to thank me, LDS missionaries stationed in Japan! Just doing my part to make sure the people of this country know we're perfectly sane!
My forays into the world of cooking have so far been disastrous. I was already an abysmal cook, but without even the comfort of English recipes on the backs of packages I've been reduced to adding ingredients until the consistency looks somewhat familiar. So far this has resulted in "cabbage chowder," and I think you can all draw your own conclusions from that.
Yesterday all the other ALT's in the area kindly invited me to go out to an all-you-can-eat buffet with them. Never have I felt so distinctly like a foreigner than I did in that restaurant, shamelessly loading up my fourth plate while all the Japanese around me hesitated to even take second servings of anything.
After dinner we went bowling, but it was too expensive so I sat out. It turned out to be a wise decision because it gave me plenty of time to watch Japanese music videos that were broadcast next to our scores. If you've never seen a Japanese teenager singing mournfully with eyes shut while surrounded by a bride, a cowgirl, and a Vegas showgirl on motorcycles, then you haven't lived.
A few guys brought along a truly disturbing little beer called "Slat" (I have photographic evidence of this) that had fruit bits floating around in it (my gag reflex would not permit me to gather photographic evidence of this). Imbued with fruity confidence, some guys started making plans to go to a bar later with some Japanese girls. "What girls?" I asked. "You haven't talked to any Japanese people all night....oh, what, you mean THOSE girls?" I looked across the length of the bowling alley at a group of girls who looked firmly entrenched in the "underage" camp. Of course, that may have just been because they're Japanese and they ALL look underage.
"Have you even TALKED to those girls?" I couldn't stop myself from asking.
"No," said one of the guys, grinning. "But it's like a game! You lose sometimes, but sometimes you win!"
I watched incredulously as the guys marched over to the girls and boldly told them to accompany them to a bar--and were promptly shot down by the girls, who were neither interested nor drowning in Slat.
"Oh well we lost that one," the guys informed me on their return. Better luck next time, fellas.
I tried cocoa from the vending machines. It was cold and it tasted like bog sludge, but I kept trying it to see if that might have changed in the last 2 minutes.
I met my bosses at the Board of Education and, in attempting to explain the concept of having two families (consisting of a mother & stepfather and a father & stepmother) I ended up convincing them that I have two mothers and two fathers all living together in a communal home. Oh, and that I'm not allowed to drink anything--at all--because of my religion. No need to thank me, LDS missionaries stationed in Japan! Just doing my part to make sure the people of this country know we're perfectly sane!
My forays into the world of cooking have so far been disastrous. I was already an abysmal cook, but without even the comfort of English recipes on the backs of packages I've been reduced to adding ingredients until the consistency looks somewhat familiar. So far this has resulted in "cabbage chowder," and I think you can all draw your own conclusions from that.
Yesterday all the other ALT's in the area kindly invited me to go out to an all-you-can-eat buffet with them. Never have I felt so distinctly like a foreigner than I did in that restaurant, shamelessly loading up my fourth plate while all the Japanese around me hesitated to even take second servings of anything.
After dinner we went bowling, but it was too expensive so I sat out. It turned out to be a wise decision because it gave me plenty of time to watch Japanese music videos that were broadcast next to our scores. If you've never seen a Japanese teenager singing mournfully with eyes shut while surrounded by a bride, a cowgirl, and a Vegas showgirl on motorcycles, then you haven't lived.
A few guys brought along a truly disturbing little beer called "Slat" (I have photographic evidence of this) that had fruit bits floating around in it (my gag reflex would not permit me to gather photographic evidence of this). Imbued with fruity confidence, some guys started making plans to go to a bar later with some Japanese girls. "What girls?" I asked. "You haven't talked to any Japanese people all night....oh, what, you mean THOSE girls?" I looked across the length of the bowling alley at a group of girls who looked firmly entrenched in the "underage" camp. Of course, that may have just been because they're Japanese and they ALL look underage.
"Have you even TALKED to those girls?" I couldn't stop myself from asking.
"No," said one of the guys, grinning. "But it's like a game! You lose sometimes, but sometimes you win!"
I watched incredulously as the guys marched over to the girls and boldly told them to accompany them to a bar--and were promptly shot down by the girls, who were neither interested nor drowning in Slat.
"Oh well we lost that one," the guys informed me on their return. Better luck next time, fellas.
Don't do Slat, kids. Stay in school.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Adventures Doing Stuff that would be Ho-Hum if I weren't Inept
This is my car, Touto. He is also my ticket to freedom in this small town--too bad I'm terrified of him.
It's not just the riding on the other side of the road that terrifies me, it's also the fact that Japan is very, very easy to get lost in. Almost none of the streets have numbers or names posted, so if you're receiving directions, you have to be able to identify landmarks instead. Given that I consistently found myself lost in Utah, with its neat grid pattern of streets, I think my fear of driving in Japan is justified. But on the other hand, there's only so long that you can sit in an apartment and contemplate your future before scaring yourself insane. This is how unabombers and 50-hour Call of Duty marathoners happen, people.
So yesterday I went out shopping. A Japanese girl who stopped at a light next to me nudged her friend and they both stared at me until the light changed; Mogi-san says they hardly ever seen foreigners here. I soon returned the favor in the market, where I stood in the middle of aisles and waited for someone to buy something so I could watch how they did it. I guess supermarkets are similar the world over, but there were some differences, for instance, they're very green here so you don't use bags for your veggies and you should bring canvas bags for your groceries. You also don't hand the money to the cashier; you put it in a little plate and push it towards them. Things aren't pricey until you try to get things that require livestock, like dairy or meat. Because Japan has so little free land, raising livestock is expensive.
~~ Speaking of green, they have you separate all your trash into "burnable," "non-burnable," and plastic. And then you have to write your name on your trash bags so if your trash is incorrectly organized your neighbors can bring it back to your doorstep as a public censure. Yeesh. ~~
After the grocery store I found a hyaku-en shop, the equivalent of our dollar stores only infinitely cooler. Everything there is 100 yen, which is about $1. I got soup mixes and dishes and towels, all for around $7. Needless to say, I know where I'm going to be spending most of my shopping days.
After that I got lost. I'm worried about any of you who didn't see that coming. Luckily I had nothing to do, so I just kept driving in concentric circles (NOT making that up) until I saw something familiar and could make my way back from there. Whew. I feel like a mouse, making swift forays into the world only to dart back to safety at the first sign of wind or a big shadow. And I have to admit, I miss the stereotypical "American" diet. Gone are the days when I barely had to step outside before I had a hamburger in hand. :) But no worries; today Mogi-san introduced me to a restaurant where you can pay 250 yen and get as many drinks as you like (and the food is reasonable, too). Needless to say, I will be staying there as much as possible. While we were there I tried "Calpis", a soda with a milky color. Mogi-san says it has cultures in it for health benefits--trust the Japanese to make soda healthier and slightly unsettling!
Monday, March 29, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Iide at last...
As I write this I am curled under a kotatsu, which is arguably the best Japanese invention of all time: a table with several layers of blankets around the sides and a heater underneath. I am also sitting, for the very first time in my life, in an apartment that I can call my own. And, also for the first time, watching snow pile up on the rice paddies of a very, very small Japanese town.
This morning all the ALT's said their goodbyes. You'd be surprised by how sentimental some of us became; some even cried. But there was none of that coerced sentimentality the springs up from "character-building" camps or self-help seminars--this was the real deal, a sense of togetherness strengthened by the heady cocktail of homesickness and crippling fears of inadequacies we were all battling. Sleep-deprivation and hang-overs probably played significant roles, as well.
After a few hours of train-riding I ended up in small city where Mogi-san, my hired handler, was waiting for me. Her English is flawless, but she intersperses it with Japanese on purpose to give me a chance to practice. She immediately took me to a ramen restaurant, which won my heart to her side--but if that wasn't enough, she also stayed with me the whole day to help me arrange things, gave me several essentials (towels, etc.) from her home, and showed me a cake shop around the corner from my apartment. After today, I can dispel 2 myths about Japan: the food is not all that expensive, at least in the sticks (a lot of it was actually cheaper), and I will NOT be losing much weight here.
My apartment is spectacular; far better than I imagined. It's relatively new, but built in a traditional Japanese style, with tatami mats on the floor and (as I've already mentioned) a kotatsu in the living room. I also found that the previous ALT's who lived here left an incredible amount of stuff, from furniture to space heaters to a hair straightener and even skis. Most impressive, however, was the sheer amount of school supplies they left: a huge storage bin full of things, and extras turning up in odd places all the time. There are so many things in here that I actually have to ask Mogi-san to get rid of some things for me or help me put them in storage for the next ALT.
The town is every bit as tiny as Google Earth made it out to be. The entire area is covered by rice paddies (now little more than muddy patches); even houses are relatively rare. I found out I also have a bike (as well as my itty bitty square car), so I'm excited to ride around town when the weather gets nicer.
Mogi-san invited me home with her for dinner, and I got another great surprise: she lives in a Buddhist temple. Her husband is a priest, so they live in a section of the very traditional building, complete with paper doors and silk cushions for followers to sit on. I've always wanted to know more about Buddhism, and now I have the perfect in! And you will all be proud to know that I ate (and enjoyed!) a Japanese meal, which included raw salmon and something that looked like a flesh cheerio, which Mogi-san described as "some part of a fish." First I conquer my fear of seafood; next, the world!
This morning all the ALT's said their goodbyes. You'd be surprised by how sentimental some of us became; some even cried. But there was none of that coerced sentimentality the springs up from "character-building" camps or self-help seminars--this was the real deal, a sense of togetherness strengthened by the heady cocktail of homesickness and crippling fears of inadequacies we were all battling. Sleep-deprivation and hang-overs probably played significant roles, as well.
After a few hours of train-riding I ended up in small city where Mogi-san, my hired handler, was waiting for me. Her English is flawless, but she intersperses it with Japanese on purpose to give me a chance to practice. She immediately took me to a ramen restaurant, which won my heart to her side--but if that wasn't enough, she also stayed with me the whole day to help me arrange things, gave me several essentials (towels, etc.) from her home, and showed me a cake shop around the corner from my apartment. After today, I can dispel 2 myths about Japan: the food is not all that expensive, at least in the sticks (a lot of it was actually cheaper), and I will NOT be losing much weight here.
My apartment is spectacular; far better than I imagined. It's relatively new, but built in a traditional Japanese style, with tatami mats on the floor and (as I've already mentioned) a kotatsu in the living room. I also found that the previous ALT's who lived here left an incredible amount of stuff, from furniture to space heaters to a hair straightener and even skis. Most impressive, however, was the sheer amount of school supplies they left: a huge storage bin full of things, and extras turning up in odd places all the time. There are so many things in here that I actually have to ask Mogi-san to get rid of some things for me or help me put them in storage for the next ALT.
The town is every bit as tiny as Google Earth made it out to be. The entire area is covered by rice paddies (now little more than muddy patches); even houses are relatively rare. I found out I also have a bike (as well as my itty bitty square car), so I'm excited to ride around town when the weather gets nicer.
Mogi-san invited me home with her for dinner, and I got another great surprise: she lives in a Buddhist temple. Her husband is a priest, so they live in a section of the very traditional building, complete with paper doors and silk cushions for followers to sit on. I've always wanted to know more about Buddhism, and now I have the perfect in! And you will all be proud to know that I ate (and enjoyed!) a Japanese meal, which included raw salmon and something that looked like a flesh cheerio, which Mogi-san described as "some part of a fish." First I conquer my fear of seafood; next, the world!
Friday, March 26, 2010
Drums keep poundin' a rhythm to my brain
I know you're all dying to hear what exciting hi-jinks I got up to for my birthday yesterday, and I hope the anticipation was worth it, because I started off the day brilliantly: with 5 hours of training followed by 2 hours of health exams. People found out it was my birthday somehow (I'm sure it had nothing to do with my undercurrent of murmured, "It's my birthday" 's) and reacted in shockingly kind ways. My Irish roomie and all her friends dug around in their pockets and purses to make me a grab bag of presents, from a pencil and lip gloss to a card written on a piece of a cigarette carton. Later, one of our bosses made the whole group of teachers sing "Happy Birthday" to me--while I held my urine sample in something called a "pee pole" (I am NOT making that up) for the health check. And after the thorough health check (urine, height, weight, eye test, blood pressure, breathing test, echo cardiogram, blood draw, and chest x-ray)it was off to the pub.
I know, I know. A pub? I spent months' worth of salary to go to Japan so I could sit in a faux Irish pub?
I have no excuses, really, except that all the other teachers have a tradition of going there after training and it's really nice to lounge in the semi-dark atmosphere. Anyway, I was sitting in the pub surrounded by people I hardly knew, but liked--really, who can dislike anyone who digs around in their pocket trash to make you feel better on your birthday? And they again sprang "Happy Birthday" on me. They toasted me (another nice guy bought me a coke) and I found a piece of Japanese cake that we all shared, and we had the best time just sitting around and laughing. We might as well have been friends for years instead of days.
Today was our last day of training, and the day we had to pore through all our contracts. I found out one of my zone leaders is LDS, purely because he came up to me directly and said, "Are you LDS? You're from Utah, so I thought you were. I am too!" He then offered to help me find a ward/branch out here. I keep getting lucky like that with the people I meet; a day or so ago I met an English guy who lived in my prefecture for several years. He said he loved it there, and his enthusiasm fed my own until I hardly felt scared anymore. Still, today was so draining that by the end of it all I barely had enough spirit in me to even go to the pub, which is just as pathetic as it sounds. It was slow at the pub, too; I spent a while listening to a friend from Galway explain how he just came for a laugh and fully expects to be fired or to have quit within a week, which doesn't bother him in the slightest. His carefree attitude infects everyone around him, and even though his accent is tough to understand sometimes, he's always surrounded by people 'cus of that.
Everything changed when the pub started a dance party in the lower level, though. One supervisor made it his goal to get all of us on the dance floor, and if you knew how persuasive he could be you wouldn't even question whether he succeeded. Within minutes we were all dancing, most of us with very little skill but no shame to force us to hold ourselves in check. Immediately all barriers formed by language, culture, and rank were annihilated. We were bumping our hips with our supervisors one side and Japanese strangers on the other. We all cheered each other on, we all mimicked each others' moves, we all sang to the best songs. It was a mass of frenetic joy and I don't think a single one of us felt shy--the best send-off imaginable. For fun I started doing the dorkiest move I could think of: the one where you put one hand behind your head, forming a triangle with your arm, and lift the other leg up so your other hand holds on to your ankle and jerk your leg towards and away from your chest like some poor half-formed bird. I'm sure you've all seen it, but no one there had, and it was my ticket to 15 minutes of fame. Our supervisor started doing it, and a well-dressed Japanese couple started doing it, giggling and urging each other on like teenagers. I loved it. I loved every second of it. They made sure I was watching and cheering them on, and when they were done the gentleman led me in an impromptu ballroom-style dance, holding only the tips of my fingers. I was able to follow him alright (thank you, Social Dance 101) and at the end he even gave me an light hug that was more like a brush of collarbones.
Tomorrow I head out to Iide-machi to set up my apartment and begin the real work. If it's anything near as fun as training was, I don't think I'll ever want to stop.
I know, I know. A pub? I spent months' worth of salary to go to Japan so I could sit in a faux Irish pub?
I have no excuses, really, except that all the other teachers have a tradition of going there after training and it's really nice to lounge in the semi-dark atmosphere. Anyway, I was sitting in the pub surrounded by people I hardly knew, but liked--really, who can dislike anyone who digs around in their pocket trash to make you feel better on your birthday? And they again sprang "Happy Birthday" on me. They toasted me (another nice guy bought me a coke) and I found a piece of Japanese cake that we all shared, and we had the best time just sitting around and laughing. We might as well have been friends for years instead of days.
Today was our last day of training, and the day we had to pore through all our contracts. I found out one of my zone leaders is LDS, purely because he came up to me directly and said, "Are you LDS? You're from Utah, so I thought you were. I am too!" He then offered to help me find a ward/branch out here. I keep getting lucky like that with the people I meet; a day or so ago I met an English guy who lived in my prefecture for several years. He said he loved it there, and his enthusiasm fed my own until I hardly felt scared anymore. Still, today was so draining that by the end of it all I barely had enough spirit in me to even go to the pub, which is just as pathetic as it sounds. It was slow at the pub, too; I spent a while listening to a friend from Galway explain how he just came for a laugh and fully expects to be fired or to have quit within a week, which doesn't bother him in the slightest. His carefree attitude infects everyone around him, and even though his accent is tough to understand sometimes, he's always surrounded by people 'cus of that.
Everything changed when the pub started a dance party in the lower level, though. One supervisor made it his goal to get all of us on the dance floor, and if you knew how persuasive he could be you wouldn't even question whether he succeeded. Within minutes we were all dancing, most of us with very little skill but no shame to force us to hold ourselves in check. Immediately all barriers formed by language, culture, and rank were annihilated. We were bumping our hips with our supervisors one side and Japanese strangers on the other. We all cheered each other on, we all mimicked each others' moves, we all sang to the best songs. It was a mass of frenetic joy and I don't think a single one of us felt shy--the best send-off imaginable. For fun I started doing the dorkiest move I could think of: the one where you put one hand behind your head, forming a triangle with your arm, and lift the other leg up so your other hand holds on to your ankle and jerk your leg towards and away from your chest like some poor half-formed bird. I'm sure you've all seen it, but no one there had, and it was my ticket to 15 minutes of fame. Our supervisor started doing it, and a well-dressed Japanese couple started doing it, giggling and urging each other on like teenagers. I loved it. I loved every second of it. They made sure I was watching and cheering them on, and when they were done the gentleman led me in an impromptu ballroom-style dance, holding only the tips of my fingers. I was able to follow him alright (thank you, Social Dance 101) and at the end he even gave me an light hug that was more like a brush of collarbones.
Tomorrow I head out to Iide-machi to set up my apartment and begin the real work. If it's anything near as fun as training was, I don't think I'll ever want to stop.
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