Closing Curtains

It's a little late to be writing farewells, but it feels wrong to leave this blog hanging open-ended.

I left Japan on August 9th, 2011, after 1 year and 4 months of the most incredible adventure I've ever had. I cried buckets and lugged home a suitcase stuffed with gifts and little else (literally--I had to abandon all my clothes in a Japanese thrift store to make room).  I went to endless goodbye parties with friends and fellow teachers that only made me less and less willing to leave.  I witnessed two weddings, a friends' movie premiere, and spent my last day in Tokyo Disney Sea. I never once felt ready to go. But it was my time.

I had to go because I am starting my Master's program in Leeds, England, this fall. I really wanted to put it off but when it came down to it, I just couldn't shake the feeling that this was my window of opportunity and if I ignored it it would close. And now that I'm here, I feel ready. Japan taught me to be.

My one regret is that I never met my successor, or got his/her contact information. I did my best to leave things in order for him/her, and I hope he/she finds this blog and that is helps him/her to know what to expect. Most of all, I hope he/she takes very good care of Iide-Machi and all its people. They are the most incredible in all the world.

...Though I may be biased.

Journey

This week I was scheduled to work in the junior high school for the first time in four months, thanks to a teacher shuffle and a series of testing periods. After so many changes and marathon studying sessions, the teacher thought the kids could use a bit of relaxation so she asked me to structure an entire lesson around something that would encourage the kids to believe in themselves. Namely, the first episode of Glee.

GLEE!

I went out and rented the DVD on my lunch break and spent my afternoon in the board of education, surrounded by people in suits, watching Glee with the sound muted on my laptop. I had to pre-watch it and determine which clips would be appropriate to show in school; I wasn't exactly looking for an opportunity to explain to a bunch of Japanese 15-year-olds why one of the characters was planting pot in a locker and why someone else was faking a pregnancy. I was proud of the results:  I managed to pare the episode neatly down to only its essential, cheesily inspiring bits. You know what I mean...the parts that really make it worthy of its name.

I introduced the lesson by explaining some characteristics of American high schools that the kids might find strange, such as Spanish classes and the lax dress code. Then I asked what the kids thought of when they imagined American schools, and every student replied with the same word: "freedom."

We started the show. It got a few laughs out of some of the class clowns, but most of the students were silent all the way through the hijinks and musical numbers. As the last, "DON'T STOP!!" of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" rolled over the classroom and I turned off the TV, I looked out over their impassive expressions and felt a little resigned. I knew better than to expect much of a reaction, having witnessed many times the strange effect junior high can have on once energetic kids--especially when they were in their last year, like these ones, and could already feel high school breathing down their necks. But I feel like the effect is especially marked in Japanese schools. Some of these kids are as tightly contained as those little novelty towel pills, and I just wish I knew what water would make them gasp and expand.

I don't know anyone who actually uses these once they stop looking like antibiotics from Hell. The "towels" feel like recycled cardboard.

That effect was even more obvious when we asked the kids to write down something that they would believe in. We told them writing in Japanese was fine and I gave them an example (my persistently recurring belief that I will speak Japanese well someday, despite the 7+ unsuccessful years of studying that beg to differ), but when it was time for the kids to try it most just stared at us. My co-teacher explained, "I don't think they've ever been asked to think of something like that before." The class time ran out and the kids handed in their papers, all blank. I made an aimless apology to the teacher afterward, she said she was sure the kids had fun even if none of them showed it, and I left.

I returned two days later to teach a different lesson to the first years. That went much better. The kids all knew me from their last year in elementary school, and they clapped and cheered when I entered the class. Then they followed me around afterwards, asking me to teach them dances like the macarena and constantly demanding I recite their names and distinguishing characteristics just to make sure I hadn't forgotten them in the four months we'd been apart. Just like old times. We ate lunch together in the classroom while listening to music on the intercom, and I had been expecting to hear the familiar (that is, overplayed) AKB48:

CAUTION: Do NOT play this if you are not prepared to witness some painfully gratuitous fan service. Usher the children out of the room, shut the blinds, don't answer the phones.

But instead I got:

I was so excited I started singing along and playing a mean air guitar. I was rocking so hard some kids graciously edged their desks away to give me more room and stared at the ceiling because they knew intuitively that I am very shy. And I know that we all know that they knew that I knew (and appreciated) what they were trying to do when I flung my hands out to them and belted, "DOOON'T STOP. BELIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEVIN'," with extra panache and squinty rock-star eyes.

After my lunch performance I laughed all the way back to the teacher's room, where I met my co-teacher and asked if she'd requested the Journey song. 

"No," she said, grinning. "The 3rd year students brought the CD with them and asked us to play it."

Look Ma, Famous!

Someone made this commercial for our beloved Zao mountain to encourage tourists to brave the northern areas of Japan. I was there at that firework festival with all the ALT's and, consequently, in the video at the end...juuuust off to the left, where the camera's view ends. ;)

Ishinomaki

Yesterday I went to the disaster area. I feel like I ought to pay great attention to detail in this entry, crafting each word to convey…all of THAT. The sight. The smell.  But each of my attempts is more awkward than the last; the more skillfully I try to paint a picture, the further from the truth it becomes. Simply, there are no words.

Some friends invited me to volunteer in a shelter in Ishinomaki, one of the towns badly hit by the tsunami. Those made homeless by the quake and the flood have taken shelter in a local school, living in the gym. Their physical needs are well-provided for thanks to donations and to organizations like the Red Cross, but the refugees are beginning to feel the effects of a long departure from life as they knew it. So volunteers visit as often as possible to play with the kids and help in any way they can.

It was a long drive—six hours one-way—and the whole time I kept my eyes trained on the passing scenery, waiting for the first signs of disaster.  They were surprisingly long in coming; I saw a few cracked buildings and passing army trucks after about five hours on the road.  Then we passed through a tunnel, identical in every way to the countless others we had driven through except slightly grimier. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I realized that the grime was thick and streaked with evidence of water lines and debris.  When we exited into the afternoon light on the other side, there was no mistaking that we had reached our destination: we were looking down on a town that was literally awash with broken wood and garbage and twisted metal.
Some houses still stood with only broken windows and 5-foot-high muddy water marks to show what they’d been through.  Other buildings sagged in on themselves, completely gutted by the cars and other large debris that had punched through them. Materials seemed all wrong everywhere I looked: metal and wood drooped like wet silk; whole roofs lay flopped over like sad pancakes.  The air was full of the smell of rotting plants and garbage.  Fish lay caked in mud in the gutters where they had been left behind when the wave retreated.  We passed a gas station that was nothing more than a hanging roof, with the entire roof and upper portion of a house resting beneath it.  The road at least was clear and safe; nevertheless I had to navigate around jutting mountains of decimated appliances, glass, and vehicles.

The school, surprisingly, was relatively unaffected.  And the children themselves were just as energetic as any of my own students. To be honest, I’m not sure our visit was all that helpful; the kids were more than capable of entertaining themselves with the cards, games, and books that had either been salvaged from the school or donated.  But they were happy to let me watch them play magic monster card games and to share their watermelon-flavored gum with me, provided I kept my picture-taking to a minimum.  One girl, Ami, introduced me to her sisters and brother and let me read comics with her. The only time I saw the children become somber was when they told me about their own ALT, an American girl who was killed by the tsunami.   The kids liked her. She had been trying to learn Japanese.

The adults, meanwhile, had constructed little pens out of blankets and bags on the floor for their families, and spent most of the time napping within. When snack time rolled around everyone patiently waited to receive their rice balls and little pieces of chocolate while Red Cross workers and international relief forces milled around in bright neon vests, seeing to everyone’s needs.

When it was time for us to go we walked out onto the playground and watched some  kids jump from the swings, only to rush right back and yell, “Push me! Push me!” A teenage girl leaned against the jungle gym, avidly texting and faking nonchalance in the face of her boyfriend’s advances.  A group of boys played soccer, right in the middle of another group of boys in the middle of a baseball game. It could have been any school day, anywhere, except for the pile of wrecked cars leaning against the slide and the gutted house just beyond. And then we drove away, dodging wreckages on the way, through that tunnel again into the eerie normalcy on the other side.

Cabin Fever

Only two days have passed so far since the gasoline shortage imposed a kind of house arrest on us all. And it only took me the first 15 minutes of the first day to completely abandon all attempts at productivity and set up permanent camp on my couch. My water is stored, my canned goods stacked, my milk already completely binged and replaced with tea.  A rental car arrived this morning, but its one tank of gas is all I expect to see for a while so I'm saving it in case I have a chance to do some rescuing. The trains aren't running so I am restricted to the places I can walk to.

This morning we had a brief scare when it appeared that the wind might blow some radiation from the plants in our direction. Everyone was ordered to stay indoors and avoid the ominous rain at all costs.  Of course later we found out the wind hadn't blown anything our way at all, and even if it had, the radiation would only be a fraction of the strength we'd encounter in a standard x-ray. But that didn't stem the tide of e-mails from fellow ALTs, all practically shouting homegrown wisdom in a bid for authority over our little force of couch potatoes.

Apparently, all we need to know about disaster preparedness we learned from watching zombie movies.

A bright spot came later, when I'd given up on connecting with the outside world and turned to drama shows instead. A friend, Yuriko, braved the outdoors to bring me an early birthday gift: a name stamp, some Gegege no Kitaro postcards, a few tins of canned salmon, eggs, and rice.

Now it just comes down to waiting.

The Event

I always used to watch the news footage of natural disasters with a feeling of impotence, nestled safely within Utah's mountains, far away from the actual scene of the tragedy. But today, sitting just 2 hours away from the epicenter of Japan's biggest earthquake, I find myself just as ineffective as ever.

The day has been a long string of surreality. I worked at the board of education--a guaranteed long, dull day of studying Japanese and trying to maintain a productive facade. When lunchtime finally rolled around I drove to a grocery store. In the few minutes it took me to select and pay for some snacks, the sky had filled with fat flakes and the roads were thick with slush. As I made my way back to the board, I came upon a mail delivery truck parked in the road.  Japanese roads often don't have shoulders, so the cars will just pull over as far as possible (which isn't far), and put on their hazards. It happens all the time; I'm used to it. So I pulled into the opposite lane to pass the truck...and my wheels got caught in the slush, forcing me towards the sidewalk. I corrected, only mildly startled; but then my rear wheels hit a patch of ice and swung out around me,  ploughing the nose of my car straight into the delivery truck's gas tank.  I immediately jumped out and made profuse, bilingual apologies as the gas tank started leaking all over the road. I expected to endure rage and abuse from my victim (and frankly felt that I deserved it), but the driver calmly stepped over to the side of the road and began a barrage of phone calls to the police, fire station, my company, and the board of education. Then he wordlessly folded up a spare towel from his truck and laid it gently across my head, to shelter me from the driving snow.

Soon the area was flooded with people and my story was repeated several times, but never with the stern disapproval I expected.  Everyone was sympathetic, no blame was placed, messes were tidied and reports were filed. Several co-workers flocked to the area, navigating the thick snow in high heels and business suits; and when all the work was finished they brought me back to the board and let me sit awhile with a hot cup of water.I had barely finished it when the alarms started.


Everyone's cell phones were suddenly going berserk, even the ones that had been set to silent mode. I flipped mine open and just had time to read the screen--"Earthquake"--before I felt the first rolling pitch. Earthquakes don't feel like I expected, or at least this one didn't. I expected shaking and rattling, the earth cracking at my feet and chunks of ceiling raining down. Instead I felt like the concrete had transformed into a restless ocean, heaving unexpectedly. It immediately made me feel sick to my stomach, like when you step off a treadmill too quickly and your body can't adjust to the sudden lack of movement--only I guess this was the reverse.  Everyone took it pretty lightly at first. We're used to tiny quakes that last 2-3 seconds and do nothing worse than make us reconsider lunch. But this time the rolling lasted 2-3 minutes, and everyone quickly evacuated the building.  We ended up evacuating several times, always lured back to the warmth of the building only to feel the ground reeling under our feet yet again--there were countless aftershocks.  But we went inside long enough to turn on the news and saw that what was just a tremble for us was a devastating collapse for others. We saw the tsunami, the debris, the floating houses (some on fire). The waves of cars, tumbling over each other. The roaring oil refinery, burning like the pits of hell.

Sendai, Iwate, and Chiba. The areas that, for some reason, received the full fury of the earthquake and its resulting tsunami. The areas with reported death tolls mounting hourly, well into the hundreds by now. The areas that are all flame and debris. Areas within driving distance of me.

Despite all my traveling, I have not made all that many friends throughout Japan. My close ones are just that, emotionally AND physically: close enough that the downed phone lines are no obstacle when we check on each other. But through some quirk of fate--one of those twisted moments when reality reminds you how much it loves to mess around--I happen to have two close friends who are not within my reach.

Because they are in Sendai and Chiba.

Winter

There’s so much to say and so little time to say it—I don’t think I’ve been this busy since finals week in college.  I’d imagined that my social calendar would lighten during the winter, leaving me plenty of time for internet surfing and dubious crafting projects. But the people of this area, fortified by sweetened boiled sake and roasted rice balls, have put on a parade of festivals that have been frankly unbeatable!

Kaminoyama’s Kasedori Festival

Once a year, to thank the nature gods for preventing fires and to encourage them to keep it up, the residents of nearby Kaminoyama get together to dance naked in the snow. 

Well, that’s not strictly accurate: they actually get together to wear massive straw cones that cover them from head to knees (with small eye slits and arm holes as half-hearted nods to practicality), then dance in the snow while people throw ice water at them. A fellow ALT, Isaac, took part and grinned enthusiastically the whole way through the one-footed hopping, partner-whirling, and rhythmic shouting of, “KA! KA! KA!” The rest of us watched just as enthusiastically from the sides, noting the taped man-nipples (to protect from the very real danger of straw chafing) and cheering on Miss Kaminoyama, the chief iced water dispenser.  We sampled some of the aforementioned sweet sake and posed with some samurai, and tried to work out how the traditional straw getups might have practical in any sense. They made their wearers look like the animated brooms from “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” portion of Fantasia, if those brooms had liked to hop in unison and shake water off on the unwary.

"Ka! Ka! Cankles!"

The Snow Monsters

There is a mountain nearby called Zao, famous for its resorts and sheer immenseness. But it’s most famous for a unique phenomenon, termed the “snow monsters.” 

Zao gets a lot of wind and a lot a lot of snow. The combination sheaths the trees in a thick coating of snow, obscuring their original shape completely. The results resemble titanic sea anemones, crouched over a barren sea floor.  I first saw them as my friends and I rode a gondola to the peak.  It was such a cold night that we had to scrape the windows with our nails every few minutes to free them from frost.  The gondola swayed in the constant wind, and again I was struck by how cold and darkness transform a landscape into a world as inhospitable as the black spaces between stars. It was impossible to look anywhere but down, and my only comfort was that if we fell I would probably die by knocking myself out on the ceiling long before the gondola finished the long descent to the ground below. My sense of alienation only increased when I saw the first snow monster, lit up from below by white and blue lights; but the fear gave way to fascination.  

There was nothing all that spectacular about the details of that single snow monster—other than the fact that I’d never seen such a tall, tubular snow formation before. But the cumulative effect of all of them was something else entirely. They were glaring white, casting rainbows across their own shadows in a natural prismatic effect.  And they were EVERYWHERE, rising in colonies all across the mountain. If they had really been monsters or animals I would have been terrified at the sheer number; even knowing that they were only frozen evergreens did nothing to diminish the slightly sinister effect of their hunched shapes.  We weren’t allowed to walk through them, restricted to taking pictures from the fringes. But I imagine a stroll through the snow monsters’ ranks would have felt something like walking on a different planet, surrounded by a strange and glaring beauty.

Nakatsugawa Snow Festival

Nakatsugawa is a small village, tucked away in the mountains at the end of a jade river and a slender road. I teach at their combined elementary/middle school, composed of a grand total of 8 students in all.  The people of this village are full of the most “fighting spirit” I’ve yet encountered. During the summer sports festival I watched grandmas in their 80’s run relays. That would have been amazing enough, but these were country women, the end results of lifetimes of hard labor. This meant they were running with their backs at 90 degree angles ; it was easier for them to watch the dirt passing their feet than it was to crane their necks to see where they were going—and yet I am not ashamed to say I think I would have lost to them, had I participated.

As you may have guessed, winter has not fazed these people in the slightest. For their snow festival they constructed five sculptures entirely from snow, each at least 10 feet tall: a shishi (remember the lion/dragon thing from the summer festivals?), a trio of characters from a popular kids show, a rabbit, a temple, and a bear with a fish in its mouth.  Not satisfied with that, they also built a 15-25 ft. tall snow palace and a stage, where my kids performed a traditional dance and all the teachers did a comedy routine (which somehow involved Bill and Hillary Clinton, a song  and dance, and a copious amount of cross-dressing).  There was also a pyramid stocked with giant black tubes for sledding ,and a sacrificial tree strapped with bundles of straw that  later went up in flames as we danced around it. At every turn there was something that have I have never seen before nor ever expect to see again! 

But my favorite part by far was also the least expected: the paper lanterns. These were not the small, practical kind meant to light our way. These were miniature hot air balloons, meant to rise into the sky and drift across the country—and they were made of nothing but heavy paper and glue. The paper had been decorated by my students and fellow teachers. There were tributes to the rabbit (this year’s zodiac) and several bakemono, including Gegege no Kitaro and the kappa. The sheer skill and beauty of it all was breathtaking—that my students, none of which are above 15 years old, were able to create such beautiful art on such a giant scale and then fashion an airtight, viable balloon from the paper is a thought that still leaves me reeling.

The launching was a spectacle I’ll never forget. Some villagers would hold the paper bag carefully while others attached some sort of burning orb to a wire harness at the bottom. The paper slowly bulged with hot air until it was finally released, rising erratically into the night sky until its impressive glow was reduced to a firefly’s.  Lantern after lantern was sent into the rising wind, forming a long string of blazing lights twisting over the snow-covered rice fields. I couldn’t take my eyes from them; I would have not have missed a second of that spectacle for anything. But even as I basked in one of the most blissful states I’ve ever achieved, I was haunted by a recurring thought.

How can I ever leave this?

Wedding

Two of my friends here, Terumi and Tsuyoshi, just got married recently.

...Well, I say "recently" but I'm honestly not sure. I've only managed to hang out with them 3 or 4 times in the space of the 9 months I've been here: once we had dinner, once Tsuyoshi offered to help me find Iide's tiny gym (composed of 4 exercise bikes and a rock climbing wall), and one of those times Terumi told me that she and Tsuyoshi had gotten married. But maybe the tenses got mixed up and she meant, "We are going to get married."

Either way, it wasn't until tonight that a mutual friend called me and invited me to "a dinner to celebrate the wedding" in a local family-style Italian restaurant. I know the restaurant well since it's one of only two that Iide has to offer: it's a nice, clean place that serves crunchy pizza and spaghetti with prawns on top--not champagne and filet mignon.

So I dressed accordingly: a casual black sweater and black pants, complemented by bright pink fuzzy socks stuffed into oversized (but practical, in this weather) tromping boots. I picked up two friends bundled in coats and we arrived early, only to witness a shocking transformation. Someone had carved niches out of the snow walls along the path to the door and put hundreds of candles in them. Inside, the tables were laid with linens and more candles; the silverware was real silver and propped up on elegant little holders; there were champagne glasses and roses! It was beginning to dawn on me that I had made a very grievous error in judgment, and the impression only doubled in strength when my friends removed their coats to show off their cocktail dresses and casually informed me that admission to the event would cost more than a day at Disneyland.

I had thought I was a casual friend, warranting an invite to small celebratory night out. Yet here I was, at the fancy reception!

In tromping boots.

Luckily we were still early, so I raced home alone and threw clothes all around my room in a film-worthy fit of despair. How, I ask you, did I manage to come to Japan with no less than 4 skirts but no complementing long-sleeve shirts?  And the only full-length dress I had was short-sleeve as well--but this is where my lifelong habit of hoarding gothic accessories FINALLY came in handy. I supplemented the dress with long black stockings, lacy black arm-warmers, and boots (tasteful ones, this time). It was all a bit "Jane Eyre on a night out," but it was the best I could do. I made it back to the party just in time to watch the happy couple in their stately walk to the tune of "Happy Birthday," with the words changed to, "Happy Weh-ding you two, Happy Weh-ding you two...".  Everyone was seated and ready, after the march, to begin the night with a toast. And clearly, the best pick for this honored duty was the local pet--the last to arrive, the non-native speaker. The girl wearing lacy socks on her hands. I heard myself being introduced and then the microphone materialized in my mitts, and all I could do was blush furiously, apologize to everyone for not being able to manage a toast in Japanese, and deliver one in English instead. Luckily both the bride and groom speak it very well, and the guests were no less enthusiastic for having no clue what I was saying.

Dinner was 5 courses and 2 desserts, as well as a special treat the happy couple handed out personally: Ritz crackers with custard and a strawberry on top....yup. One guest performed "Over the Rainbow" with a crown and sparkling wand, and 3 others played clarinets while wearing wrestling masks. There were other, more elegant toasts, and lots of mingling. Everyone was enthusiastic about everything, and it hardly mattered whether I had known the bride and groom a few months or since kindergarten (like everyone else). We were all celebrating the union with all our energy--and not a few glasses of wine--and Terumi and Tsuyoshi's joy was equally ours.

Snow

It's time to talk about an issue which I've been diligently avoiding:

...I'm talking about snow here, people.

 I've been avoiding the issue because I know no one's going to believe me. When I say that I went to bed one night, unconcerned, only to wake to a world of blizzards and snowdrifts as high as my head, I know all of you will think, "Oh, she must be exaggerating."

But I'm not. REALLY. This:

 

And this:

 

AND THIS:

...all happened in the space of a few days.

In case you weren't paying close enough attention to the last photo, that wall of snow is taller than the car. I just know that one sunny day, at least one of the glacial walls that frame every road on the way to every school I visit will start to buckle and suddenly envelop me  completely. But when that day comes, I don't want you to worry about me; I'm pretty sure I'm going to find Narnia under there.

Christmas

A lot of people have been asking what I did for Christmas here. Unfortunately, the answer is, "Not much." But don't pull out your hankies and start shedding tears of pity just yet--it was a great holiday nevertheless.

For those of you who don't already know, Japan's Christian population is very small. Christmas is celebrated here, but mostly as a commercial holiday. Kids get toys, families eat cake together, some of the older kids go to parties, and that's about it.

As for me, I actually celebrated Christmas during the wee hours of Boxing Day, since that would put me in line with Christmas in the States (thanks to a hefty time difference). I prepared for the big day by decorating my living room and buying a miniature potted pine tree from a grocery store--and as any of you who know me well are no doubt wondering, I would like to mention that he IS still alive, thank you very much.  My very own Christmas miracle.

The weather played its part as well, perhaps too enthusiastically. It stormed constantly for days before Christmas, giving me the perfect opportunity to nestle under the kotatsu in my adult footie pajamas without even a tremor of shame or fear of being witnessed (except, as it turned out, by the mail woman, who dutifully delivered my family's care packages even on the great day itself).

Thanks to the wonders of technology I got to open my presents in front of my family, so to speak, through a webcam. I think it transmitted my shrieks of joy with crystal clarity, to the detriment of the general population's health.

My loved ones certainly took care of me this year, taking pains to send gifts across the great divide in spite of outrageous shipping costs. And though it may be uncouth, the pirate in me can't help but brag a little about the booty: an ungodly number of thick socks, baking supplies, and clothes. All of which are in very short supply here (at least for a woman of hippy dimensions and sugar-rich tastes), and very much appreciated.

After all the calls and cams and expressions of love flung far and wide through the webosphere, I settled in for a long sleep, recouping from the kind of  sugar rush that only an overabundance of American sweets can bring.  My Christmas wasn't exactly what you might call an eventful day, but it was full to the brim of everything that makes this holiday worth celebrating: Adult Footie Pajamas.

Oh, and you know...that "love" stuff too.

An Odd Day

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.

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.

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.

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. ^__~

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."

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!

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. :)

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

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 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 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.

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.

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).