Happy Holidays!

As this is my first Hanukkah/X-mas/New Year's living abroad, I should think it understandable that after I got home from work and logged onto the other job, one of my co-workers dutifully reminded me that some people will not be working Monday (this was in reply to an email where I provided Monday as an estimated completion time for a task I'm working on). Christmas is not a holiday here in Japan, and though I won't be teaching on Monday, that is only because my weekends are Sundays and Mondays.

My last class today ended on a surreal and distinctly Japanese note, evoking a feeling sort of similar to that when I rode homeward tandem after a late night party. It was one of my group classes, a class I get along with very well, even though they are one of my least advanced groups. Our rapport has nothing to do with the fact they were all girls, aged 18-30 (usually the class is a group of 7, six girls, one very obviously gay guy, but today a few people didn't show). Right, nothing at all.

We decided not to work too hard because it was their last class of the year, so we chatted as best we could for an hour (as I subtly fed them new vocabulary) and studied for ten minutes. After class, like in most of my classes for the last week, I thanked everyone for a good year, wished them a safe and happy holiday, and said that I'd see them again next year. Then something new happened: at once, they all said thank you and subsequently bowed. Usually I'm flattered when a student decides to call me Andrew-sensei, because the term implies a certain amount of respect (as I understand it, anyhow, based on the students who have opted to do as such). This was something entirely different, maybe even fulfilling in a way?

I know I'm not cut out to be a programmer for the rest of my life, and I don't think I'm slated to be a teacher, but maybe I'm getting closer to figuring out whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing.

Postscript: Call me Andrew-sensei and you will taste the cold, dark steel of ninja death. I have that power now.

This Old Hag

Every week my problem student gets worse (if you forgot or didn't read about her, see subsequent blog). Her daughter's due date is becoming increasingly imminent, and since they're currently cohabitating and she *hates* it, I can maybe understand if she's a little stressed. But she doesn't need to be such a snippy irascible old hagfish, not in my classroom anyhow.

Hagfish: ...like I know in your country kids dress up in bumble-bee costumes and sell lemonade.
Me: Eh... I'm sorry?
Hagfish: I saw on the tv program, she dressed up and sold lemonade. On Full House.

[Right then, I lifted her up using the sheer force of incredulity, and tossed her through the glass window onto the cold, unforgiving street, reveling in the symphony of her pain. In my mind.]

Me: Ah well, you know, you can't really judge American culture based on what you see on Full House.
Hagfish: So which program can you? Family Ties? Growing Pains?
Me: Well, I don't think you can generalize America based on a tv show.
Hagfish: Why not?
Me: Well, tv programs are formulaic, they follow a system. Usually at the start of the program, they'll be presented with a problem, and then 25 minutes and one commercial break later it will be solved and everyone will be happy. Life isn't like that.

I then spent several minutes explaining how west coast culture differs from east culture and there could be some remote possibility of a west coast bumble-bee-costume-wearing-phenomenon that I'm not aware of, but I had never seen it. Ever. And with that remark, she gave the trademark "ah soo," as if she had learned I can crap chocolate cupcakes and pee rainbow sprinkles. You know, she uses English words and applies English grammar, but she certainly isn't speaking English.

Of course I mentioned her increasing indignation to the managers after class, and after a few laughs, one of them said, "Well, tomorrow is another day." I taught her that expression a few weeks ago. At least someone's learning.

Down with pants!

Down with pants!

It's days like the other day when I'm grateful for my appreciation for the absurd. Adam Sandler, Matt Groening, crazy mumbling vagrant at UPenn who used to talk into his shoe as if it were a phone... I salute you! You have all made my life that much easier.

My most difficult student is also one of my most advanced, so I don't so much teach her as talk to her (it's a group lesson of two, but she tends to dominate). During that 70-minute argument often misconstrued as a class, we're supposed to discuss a different article every week. Usually the article gets about five minutes of our collective attention.

The problem student is a habitual complainer. She's a grandmother and her daughter, who is pregnant, will be giving birth in a month. I don't understand why, but her daughter, son-in-law, and their 1-year-old will all be spending the next two months at the student's house. This causes her no end of displeasure, and she has no reservations about telling us about it ad nauseam. Please bear in mind that this is the same student who, with a straight face, attempted to persuade me that "child abuse originated in America."

Last week we were talking about who knows what, when we ventured into the topic of whaling, which I know very little about. My student complained that America unfairly exerts its will on Japan by preventing them from whaling. Her argument was that, "It's not fair for them to protect the whales just because they think they're cute and cuddly." She was, of course, dead serious.

"Well, I believe they're an endangered species, so there are only so many left. If Japan were given the freedom to kill whales as it wanted, there would be no more whales." But I wasn't 100% sure of their status, so, leery of launching into an argument I couldn't adequately defend, I promised to look it up. I then discussed a recent article I had read in the daily paper about how the world needs to cut back on harvesting tuna, to which she immediately was able to relate.

So the other day, after looking it up, I was able to tell her with reasonable assurance that many whale species, if not all of them, are endangered.

"Who says they're endangered?"
"What? I looked it up. A wildlife organization."
"Really? Show me the website."
"I'd be happy to!"
"Well I don't think they're endangered."
"But... there have been studies -- there are only so many whales left. If you continue whaling, they will all die."
"I think they're wrong."
"Ok, but that doesn't matter [yes, I got a little snippy]. I imagine it's possible for there to be some sort of conspiracy, but it wouldn't make sense. There are only so many whales left, and if you keep killing them, there will be no more."
"Ok, forget it," she said, waving her hand.

For about thirty seconds, I couldn't believe the sheer idiocy of this woman. Sure, all of the studies and surveys could have been faked. Yes, 99.9% of the whales could be playing pachinko in an underwater resort, and will sometime in the next few years emerge, rub the sleep from their eyes, and say, "Oh crap, what day is it? I gotta get to work!" But this was 10 minutes into a 70 minute lesson so I shook it off and continued. After class, I mentioned it to Mrs. Eh, trying to curtail any damage in case a complaint were to be lodged, and I told her I was afraid that the student didn't much care for me. Mrs. Eh told me that all of the teachers have had problems with her, and she thought the student was actually fond of me. Sometimes, she said, the student comes in during the afternoon just to chat and she and her co-administrator get very nervous because the lady's just that unpredictable.

Some things here just don't make sense.

Another thing: the skirts. Almost all students from grade school through high school are required to wear a uniform. For girls, this means skirts, even in the dead of winter. It's looks pretty darn cold to me, even if they do sometimes opt for tights (many of them don't, and opt instead for shortening their skirts to be more slu... fashionable). I wholeheartedly believe that the skirts are a major contributing factor to the rank lolita-ism prevalent in adult Japanese males. It's like the Catholic schoolgirls fetish in the US, minus the Catholic, and it's ALL of them. So I figured: "Remove the skirts, remove the problem." And then I realized that the entirety of the straight Japanese male population would love that plan. Maybe just a skirt-pants swap is in order.

And another thing: misguided first impressions. Big O, who I initially thought would be a major character, is a flake, and has strange political notions, not to mention his social habits. And I've discovered that Two-Face, despite my absolute loathing of her mannerisms and seemingly constant patronizing, may in fact be an ok person. It's really hard to tell. Oh well, naught to do but continue learning.

And now for something completely illustrated.

Some long overdue pictures of a martial arts festival, a trip out to the country to see the pampas grass, a trip to Arima, and two trips to Kyoto. I like about ten of them (not fishing for praise/contradiction), but unfortunately no time to caption.

Teaching

What I teach and how I teach have been the subject of some speculation. Generally it goes like this: I shoot the breeze for the first 2/3 of the class and then we work from the book for the last 1/3 (it is, after all, a conversation school). There are some classes where this format is impossible, for example, in those classes where the students just don't want to talk, the student (I'm thinking of one) is strung tighter than wound up Japanese fish guts, or I'm just plain tired.

All told I teach about 60 students in lessons both private and group, the latter ranging from two to seven people. Many of my students are a ton of fun, and the misunderstandings are always a riot. Today, one of my beginner-ish students told me that she bought some books on WWII (in Japanese, of course), so we were talking about them and somehow made our way to US immigration policy. I spent about five minutes talking and illustrating (I use the white board excessively) to her about the Cuban Refugee Adjustment Act and the sad state of Cuban immigration practices. Then she tried explaining something about American soldiers, but unable to find the right word, she said "American octopus." Good times.

The same student told me a few weeks ago that she will soon be vacationing in Hawaii. "Where in Hawaii will you be going?" I asked.

"Oahu. Most Japanese go to Oahu," she said, explaining that there are many Japanese-speaking people who live there so it's easy to visit. Wondering if that would be her only vacation spot, I asked, "Maui?"

"No, I'm single," she said. Give it two seconds if it didn't hit you (it took me a few to figure out at the time). "Married," she thought I said.

Problems arise with a disparate phonemic register. The Japanese don't have a "see" sound, so they use "shi" as the closest approximation when they speak and when they listen. Problems arise when they think you are talking about a "pussy-person."

One of my students is practicing for the interview portion of the TOEFL exam, which she will likely take sometime late next year. For part of the interview portion, the applicant is given a minute to answer a question like, "Tell me who you most admire and why." Today I introduced a new question: "If you could live at any time in history, when and where would it be and why?" I gave her three minutes and was standing by to answer any questions she might have had (she's not ready for the real deal yet), but she seemed to be ok. After three minutes, I asked her to start. She began, "I would choose the future." A few seconds after my head hit the desk and I repeated the question, she understood.

In one of my group lessons, we read novels. The novel they read before I started teaching was Passage to India. Not a good idea to try teaching Passage to India to those who are learning English, let alone those who are studying it. I chose Italo Calvino's Marcovaldo with very positive results. I am now, in fact, the foremost expert on Italo Calvino for... I'd say about 1500 miles. Japanese professorship, here I come!

I've taught about Lost and Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure. I've taught about the tooth fairy and politics. I've spent time discussing the relationships in Beverly Hills 90210 (older American shows, as well as current ones, are popular here, and they're *obsessed* with 24) and I've taught the fundamentals of Judaism. Basically I teach whatever the heck I feel like. If you have suggested topics, I'm all for them. If there's anything you want to learn, I can find that out too. (E.g., when Japanese lose their lower teeth, they throw them on the roof; when they lose their upper teeth, they bury them or throw them at the ground or chuck them under the house -- answers varied).

It's a different world from where I come from. No comments expounding on cultural relativism please.

It goes both ways

I shouldn't have learned to curse. Before I came to Japan, before I even took my intro Japanese course, I could already curse in Japanese. For who knows what reason, that's always the most enticing part of a language to learn at the outset. I arrived armed with a cavalry of curses, ready to fling them at any wayward Japanese person who might utter a please, thank you, or 1000 pardons (because, aside from the hoodlums, it doesn't get much worse than that). This vocabulary, however, proved to be a double-edged sword.

In most of my classes, the first 20 minutes or so are spent chatting about whatever's going on in my students' lives. Some students try to get away with saying "nothing special," but I won't tolerate it. If they have to make something up, so be it -- this is a conversation school. Sometimes I make them tell me stories.

This week, one of my students was talking about yuzu, a fruit my dictionary generously translates as... yuzu. Yuzu is a citrus fruit with, it seems, no western counterpart. It's something like a lemon, doesn't taste good on its own, and can be made into decent jam or tea. This student has a relative who has a yuzu tree. When she finished talking, I gave her mock homework, as I often do: she had to bring us all kuso the following week. Yuzu was a new word for me, kuso was not. I mistakenly asked her to bring us all "shit" next week. I burst out laughing, as did everyone else, and I was red for a good two minutes. Freakin' kuso.

My students do more than their share of fumbling, however. I have some very advanced students, some of whom are English teachers themselves (which often speaks poorly for Japanese English instruction). One of them, a woman of about 45, was telling the class about how a festival procession stopped in her yard. Her Ls and Rs are generally good, but Rs can take three positions: initial, medial, and final. Sadly, she still hasn't mastered medial Rs, and offered us the following commentary: "I was so excited, I crapped!"

I can laugh at my mistakes, but if I laugh at a student, I could very well be harangued with a "thank you."

A surprise, a record, and a large pot of food

One of my students, a man of about 60, runs the camera shop across the street from my school. His lessons are particularly frustrating for me because his English is about as good as my Japanese, and I think he'd prefer conversation to book study. Usually he brings in photos (he's not an amazing photographer, but every so often he comes up with a top notch picture), so we spend most of the time talking about them, the city they were taken in, and any tangents I'm lucky enough to ride.

Difficult as that class may be to teach, he's very nice, and a couple weeks ago invited me to dinner at the restaurant next to his shop as soon as our schedules converged. That was about two hours ago, and several beers later and a stomach full of octopus, egg, tofu, cabbage, and whatever else was in the Oden, I'm sitting back contentedly listening to some music while I digest both food and thought (read: procrastinating taking my clothes in from the line and ironing).

Maybe the most exciting thing to happen in the last two weeks was a flu shot (one of my students is a nurse, hurrah), hence the lack of update. That and I've been otherwise very busy, trying to maintain two jobs, some semblance of a social life, and learn Japanese. But tonight proved interesting after a fashion.

The Oden restaurant was, all told, about half the size of my US bedroom. It featured nine seats and a very large pot of food in broth that had been cooking since about 2pm. There was barely room enough to pull the chair out to sit, which, of course, is less a problem for a person of typical Japanese stature.

As per usual, I was a subject of interest for the few patrons there partaking in a meal, and, as per usual, English was a scarcity. The man to my left, however, had recently been to New York and Washington, DC and was able to communicate a mite better than anyone else in the place. After about half a beer in a glass no bigger than a small can of Hunts brand tomato paste, my host was bright red. And then after about three plates of various food items soaked in a delicious broth, I was through.

- Are you ready for more?
- Oh no, I'm stuffed.

This elicited a laugh and a friendly pat on my crotch. Wait a second, did he just pat my crotch? My host was then immersed in conversation with the fellows farthest down the bar so I made a quick glance at my shirt to see if it was, perhaps, deceiving as to where stomach ended and crotch began. I was, in fact, wearing a shirt a little longer than normal but no, no there could be no mistake. Less than two months into my Japanese adventure, a man definitely copped a quick feel. Since I teach 95% women, this particular violation came as a complete surprise.

For an English teacher in Japan, that may be a record... for longevity. It is well documented that that Japanese adolescents are fascinated with foreign penis, often going to great lengths (no pun intended) to explore their foreign counterparts (again). A friend tells me that his friend, a teacher in a middle school, had a student that managed to unzip his pants and grab his junk all in one swift, time-bending moment, faster than the image of the event transpiring could even register in his vision.

Even more curious than this, though, is something strange I discovered in my dictionary. The Japanese word for penis is apparently penisu. Vagina has its own distinct Japanese word, but penis is penisu. Did penises not exist until they were introduced by English speaking foreigners? It would explain the fascination, anyhow.

- Let's grab foreign penis for studying of socials.
- Yes, we'll do well for social studies!
- Penis, hoooo!

You look like stupid

Some of my students are great. Working in a school is just like working in an office: there are some people with whom you will strike an easy rhythm and have an enjoyable time; some people will drive you up the wall. Of course I have a healthy mix of both.

Many Japanese women fit the shy stereotype that tv and movies have led us to expect, though the younger generations are exhibiting this less and less. One of the students, in particular, I find simply intolerable. Her English is for crap and her laugh is a nauseating high-pitched twitter she unleashes without the slightest provocation.

There are several bookshelves right outside my classroom. When she walked in for the first time she started up with her laugh, she wouldn't look anywhere near me and, I kid you not, moved hand to hand and foot to foot as if the only way to enter my classroom were to shuffle across the ledge of the 40th story of a Manhattan high rise. Most students lose the majority of their qualms after the first lesson. She scaled her way back into the second. To top it off, she's 30-something, unmarried, lives off her parents, thinks laughing is a permissible response to any English question, and is in serious need of a punch to the bracket.

Some of my students with whom I'm willing to hang out with ask me how my classes are, so I give them an honest answer.

- Oh, you know, some are a lot of fun, some are pretty tough, mostly because it's hard to teach the students who don't really want to learn or don't have any goals.
- [Is that so?] (Often they reply in Japanese... it's sort of like a conversation between Han Solo and Chewbacca, except I occasionally throw in some Wookie of my own)
- ...but your class is by far the worst.
- [You're lying!] (shock and exasperation painted across the face)
- No, I really can't stand it.
- [Really?!]
- No... no, not really.
- [Thank god! (~close approximation)] (huge sigh of relief)

It's as if the sarcasm ship docked right outside of Himeji and I'm the first person to offload any of the cargo. You know the overdone "look over there" routine you see in many movies (the better of which follow it up with a swift kick to the groin)? Some of my students fall for that.
I could probably play "got your nose" with them all day if someone hadn't already taken them all. Hello, yes, Hell Airlines? I'd prefer an aisle seat, preferably in hand-basket class.

Some days, I get called "Prince Andrew" by a 70-year-old woman in that creepy tv-grandma sort of way where she waves and smiles a coy little smile as she walks out the door, face last, to the "Ooooooo" of the live audience followed immediately by laughter. This particular student wants only to talk about her late husband (of 30 years) and her medical problems. She met him when she was 13. He was 23 at the time. Most of her days she spends at home, writing poetry about him and she insists he's constantly perched behind her shoulder. She is a walking cry for attention.

I have another student who's a Jehovah's witness. We haven't started talking about religion yet (it's coming, I've been plenty warned of that), but at the end of the last class she said, "I hear you like animals." This comes as no surprise because I showed her pictures from my Galapagos trip the week prior. "I thought you might like to look at this," she said, handing me a pamphlet with some brightly colored animals entitled something or other about Creation. "I'm sorry, did you mistaken me for a weak-minded fool who will succumb to your laughable religious arguments? I speak some Wookie, damn it! This one's strong with the force!"

One of my advanced students is a very nice woman in her mid-fifties who I enjoy talking with in spite of (or maybe because of) her very strange ideas. We were discussing the judicial system and politics and how a politician might want to try a convicted criminal with a life sentence in his own jurisdiction for attention and political gain. "I don't understand American politics." I read the Japanese paper every day. Every day I read stories about scandal and corruption. She's not so much wearing blinders as she just has her own hands over her eyes. "Child abuse came from America." I'm sorry, what?! "The term 'child abuse' may have originated or identified in America, I don't know, but child abuse has been happening for thousands of years all across the world."

And then Nao, one of my students (with a car) that I hang out with frequently, is a riot. Yesterday after a very satisfying meal of yakiniku, I slumped down in my seat, eyes droopy, content as all could be. "You look like stupid," she said. I laughed for a good five minutes, assuring her it wasn't at her expense and that I understood what she was saying, but that the grammar was slightly askew. I dutifully explained "you look adjective" or "you look like a/an [noun]" and she took it in stride. It goes both ways though, as she frequently laughs at my Japanese, but for the other reason -- my Japanese sometimes sounds like native Japanese. This makes for an annoying predicament, as sometimes they'll forget I don't speak the language and they'll go on and on and I won't have a clue. Family Guy illustrated this best:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TklFxYN44CU

Rites of passage in a day-trip town

There are several things one must do to try to assimilate oneself with Japanese culture, even though assimilation for a foreigner is impossible: an outsider will never be treated as Japanese. Even some insiders, because of their blood, are never wholly welcomed into society -- it can be pretty complicated. But for those who wish to try to understand Japan, there are several initiation rites that one should undergo:

1) Get a bike

My students are very giving people. Their charity usually extends to edible omiyage, which tend to be shared among teachers and students at the school. I've been gifted with candy and I've been gifted with movie tickets. I've been gifted with a fan bearing calligraphy spelling out who knows what (most Japanese cannot read Japanese calligraphy unless they've been trained, and even then styles can be vastly different and confusing). And I've also been gifted with a loaner-bike. It's nothing state-of-the-art, but it managed to hold up for a 14km round-trip excursion a few weekends ago.

2) Live without a washing machine, clothes dryer, oven, and central air

Wah.

3) Sleep on the floor

A student actually has an extra bed that she said I could borrow, but I think that would be a little much to ask. And I'm actually pretty comfortable on my futon (apartment pictures).

4) Ride tandem on a single-seat bike

Several weeks ago after a long night of eating and drinking at Big O's apartment, though I was offered the couch, I decided I'd rather wake up cotton-mouthed in my own place. So at about four in the morning I headed home (in Japan this is generally pretty safe). Another dinner guest (with a bike) also took off, so instead of walking 25 minutes, I rode and she clutched from behind. There was something very romantic about this in a distinctly Japanese way, not a sexual way (she's married), and as we climbed an overpass and I was pumping away at the pedals on the one-speed bike, she said, "Gambatte!" (In Japan, they have a much-used verb that translates to: "do your best") and something rang very true about the moment.

5) Look at naked Japanese man-ass

Onsens are public hot spring baths much-frequented by the Japanese, who take their bathing very seriously. Some have multiple pools of different sizes and temperatures. You must wash with soap and shampoo before you enter the hot springs. And you must be naked. Thankfully, I've lost most all of my naked-shame so my first Onsen experience was very relaxing.

6) Experience an earthquake

On the morning of Sept. 26 I was convinced that my room was shaking and that I was experiencing a minor earthquake. I asked about it at the school and no one else felt it, so I checked an online seismic monitor. Nothing. I have no idea what caused my room to shake or if it was just a vivid dream, but soon, I'm sure, I will experience an earthquake. Then my checklist will be complete, which is a shame, because I need more to do.

There is nothing to do in Himeji. Yes, there's Himeji Castle, which takes all of two hours to explore (the castle is relatively uninteresting, though its grounds and neighboring garden are beautiful). 7km away there's also Mount Shosha, a peaceful little mountain where part of The Last Samurai was filmed. I visited both of them several weeks ago (some crappy pictures I took), and that pretty much exhausted Himeji's tourist options. As such, I have no typical weekend, no day-off routine, and will likely venture farther and farther as the days go by.

Last weekend I went back to Kokoen (the garden beside the castle, more crappy pictures) to experience my first Japanese tea ceremony. Tea ceremony is inordinately complex, each skillful motion made by the kimono-laden hosts was delicate and easy though heavy with meaning. I took cues from the people next to me and discovered my part was as follows: bow, bow, eat, bow, drink, bow, bow, bow. You'd think it pretty easy, but no, I had to sit "seiza" style. After 20 minutes of that, pins and needles became swords and daggers, and for the subsequent 10 minutes walking around was an exercise in futility. Even some of the Japanese have trouble with it (ok, she was like 65 and stumbled once, but still...).

Last weekend I also went to Izushi (even more crappy pictures), which is famous for its soba (buckwheat) noodles, Harimaya, which is famous for its rice crackers (curry, seaweed, etc) and sweet-bean restaurant, a no-name Onsen, and more karaoke. It's good to have students with cars.

You are what you eat and sadly I smell it

I practice good oral hygiene. I brush at least three times a day: my teeth, my tongue, the roof of my mouth. I floss, I use a fluoride mouthwash, and I have my own dental pick and scalar. I am hyper-aware of halitosis and I do what I can to offset it. My teeth aren't perfect, but in Japan I've received several compliments about how beautiful and clean they appear. Thus, there is a stark contrast between my teeth and Chicken Hamburger's, which are about the color of dead toe skin. I assumed his death-dealing mouth-farts were a result of a poor dental regimen -- I suspected he brushed with a paste made from a mixture of expired meat puree and the sweat of fat junior high schoolers who tried (but failed) to run "the mile." But the other day I was twice shocked.

I returned from lunch and saw something frightening, amazing, and downright disturbing. Chicken Hamburger was brushing his teeth! He brings an electric toothbrush to work so that he can clean up after his meal. So why oh why does his breath cause hamsters to curdle? (If you've never seen a hamster curdle, consider yourself lucky.) It didn't make sense! I had to know, so I lingered around the office for a few more moments to await "Shock Number Two: The Elucidator." After he finished brushing, he rinsed his mouth out with coffee. He rinsed... his mouth out... with coffee. May as well brush with chocolate syrup and sleep with a night guard filled with vanilla frosting. There's no explanation for that oral transgression. It's not like he picked up some newfangled brown bottled water from the store: It's New! It's Brown! It cleans your mouth! He shouldn't be making that kind of mistake.

But I have every excuse. One of the problems with learning to live in Japan is the written language. There are three alphabets: one phonetic alphabet for Japanese words, one phonetic alphabet for foreign words, and Kanji, which are derived from Chinese letters. The latter is not phonetic and must be memorized, and many of the characters have several meanings by themselves, when they're grouped, when you wake up facing east and the wind blows south at less than five knots.

My first week in Japan, I bought the wrong kind of milk. That's not to say I couldn't drink it, but because I couldn't read it, I didn't realize until I started eating my cereal that I had purchased coffee-flavored soy milk. Other than that (and the dreaded one-ply twelve-pack incident), I've done ok.

For breakfast, I usually eat a banana, muesli (with milk), and a piece of toast with peanut butter or jam. This past week I upped my toast ante to two pieces, because the more I eat for breakfast, the less starved I am during my crazy 11:50 - 9pm hours. For lunch, standard fare comes cheaply at the local grocery store, Bon Marche. I can get several pieces of fish, some vegetables, and other assorted buffet items, along with a container of rice and miso soup, for under $5. Pretty good deal and it beats having to pack a lunch every day. Dinner, when I don't go out, is usually pasta, curry, or stew along with chopped fruit in yogurt. If I could find a gym that catered to my hours (almost all Japanese gyms go from 10am to 10pm) I would be the healthiest kid in town. If I had an oven, I'd be champion of the world. Alas.

Today's blog was brought to you by the letter A, which stands for both absurd and arbitrary. It was made possible by contributions to your PBS station from viewers like you.

A cultural entree with a side of uncertain death

* Long entry warning. If you want to skip to the illustrated version, go to http://www.bunker89.com/japan/matsuri; if you want to skip to one of the only two pictures I think is worth its salt go to http://www.bunker89.com/japan/matsuri/Untitled-39.jpg *

What better way to celebrate my one month anniversary in Japan than finally to step foot on a Japanese train. No, wait. What better way to celebrate my one month anniversary in Japan than to drink sake and beer for breakfast! Er, hang on a second. What better way to celebrate my one month anniversary in Japan than to be nearly trampled by a hundred drunk Japanese men lugging a 4-ton portable shrine (mikoshi). Yeah, that's the one, the portable shrine one.

Big O cautioned me early on that Sachiko and Nao, two of my students, would probably invite me to do something every other weekend. He was right, but while he didn't take to the warm welcome, I'm happy with my free cultural immersion. October 15 was the Autumn Festival in Houshi, Sachiko's town. The largest Autumn Festival in this area (in Nada, also on the 15th this year) brings in nearly 100,000 people, I'm told, and reserving a good seat/vantage point can cost around one million yen. The festival in Houshi maybe brought in a few thousand. They still like to claim theirs is bigger though.

There are various Autumn Festivals all throughout the Kansai area, starting in early October and ending a few weeks later. The festivals are most famous for their portable shrines. Basically, large groups of drunk men (I'm told 100, but it looked more like 50) run into each other carrying shrines weighing a few tons. It's like a cross between football and the "World's Strongest" competition on ESPN2 -- you know, the one with Magnus von Magnusson that's always on and somehow always entertaining -- except the spectators are all in the way. People sometimes get hurt, but it's a rare occasion when someone dies. I didn't.

Sachiko invited me and Nao to her mother's house for a traditional breakfast and I didn't hesitate to accept her invitation. Not heeding their warnings of the immensity of the meal, I expected a medium-large breakfast for the three of us that would take me a few extra minutes to polish off -- I do loves to eat. After a 15-minute walk from the train station, however, we entered her family's home to be greeted first by Sachiko's mother, whom we appropriately gifted, and then a gray head that poked around a corner in a meerkat sort of fashion that greeted me with a "Herro! Nice-oo to meet-oo you!" and I knew I was in for something different.

Arranged around a large table were about 13 men, all in similarly styled navy blue track suits. Sachiko's father has a reunion every year on the day of the Autumn Festival with friends and friends of friends from his school days. They alternate which house hosts, and this year fortune smiled on me as one of my students was able to invite me. Though they were dressed to play, I later learned that the only activity they'd be participating in would be drinking. All day. Many of the men had been there since about 7am. Some, however, were more able to hold their liquor than others. And of the men only the meerkat (aka Karate-san) knew more than ten words of English. He maybe knew 50.

Soon after I sat down and was offered drink, I was bestowed with my festival regalia: a rented happy-coat (that's what they called it, though I could easily have misheard) with a large character "North" written on the back to show our area, and a hachimaki that could be worn around the head as a headband or around the neck as a whatever. The latter I got to keep, so it's now up on my wall. I was thrilled that Sachiko's family had gone out of their way to include me, while it seemed that several of the men around the table would've been just as happy (maybe happier) had I and my students not been there at all.

"Andyyyyy!" Andrew was too hard for Drunk-san (he was the drunkest by several fathoms) to say. Truth be told, Andrew causes some of my students trouble as well, and often emerges as it's written in Japanese: An-do-ryu. But this particular sake-jockey was beyond phonetic futility. "Rokko oroshi! Preeeease sing!" The Hanshin Tigers is one of the major league Japanese baseball teams and he wanted me to perform their fight song. I didn't know it, so Drunk-san, halfway down the lengthy table, enlisted Sachiko who was sitting at my left (performing much like a geisha one of the men commented). She started up and eventually they were all singing, save for one, who likes a rival team so left the room until they were done.

Drunk-san was momentarily appeased, so I turned my attentions to Karate-san on my right. Like all drunk men, Karate-san wished to demonstrate his physical prowess, despite his diminutive size, or, perhaps, because of it. He had us feel his middle knuckle on his right hand. Or rather, he had us feel his total lack thereof. He's been using that fist to punch so much that the knuckle has completely worn away. The word for that, I believe, is "gross." Also, all of his top front teeth are false because they were punched out.

I've noticed a direct correlation between urban living and oral hygiene. Country-folk (we were just a stone's throw away from Hicksville) tend to be lacking in good dental care. Himeji isn't a big city -- 500,000 is about a step above village --, but they're definitely better here. Seated around the table, there was probably a visible half set of teeth missing, though I wouldn't be surprised if in actuality it was four times that. But whatever state their teeth were in, it didn't stop the group from breakfasting on sake, beer, fish, meat, and who knows what else I had.

Drunk-san got drunker and soon called me over to chat and drink. I couldn't understand a single word he said, so he called Nao (who gave a "who me?!" look) and eventually Sachiko. Sachiko's English is not very good and she was having trouble translating so Drunk-san gave her an audible smack on the top of the head. I don't know how rare this is, or what the correlation is between head-smacking and bumpkin-folk, but Sachiko did not take kindly and silently stormed out of the room where quiet tears were shed. Sachiko's mother entered and, curiously, said to me and Drunk-san "tempura" to which, being a good-mannered guest, I replied in Japanese: "oishii" [delicious].

Turns out, though Sachiko's mom can't speak a single sentence in English, she was trying both to placate Drunk-san by telling him tempura was on the way (it wasn't really) and to explain to me that Sachiko has a bit of a temper. I realized this about five seconds after I said "delicious" in response to "temper," and this was confirmed to me several hours later. Sadly. it was no surprise that instead of the incident that this would cause in the west, Sachiko's father didn't so much as blink. Japan's gender roles are still grossly misbalanced, but at least there are distinct signs of progress. Just not that day.

Soon the men left and Sachiko, Nao, and I were treated to yet more food from her mother (who prepared all of it, starting the previous day) and then we were off to the first part of the festivities. We arrived at what looked like any carnival with a few generic water games and a slew of different types of food from hot dogs to sweet bean paste. Sachiko's sister manned a candy vendor so slipped us a few things on the sly. We then walked to the temple to check out the portable shrines.

I expressed to several of my students the week before that I wanted to help carry a portable shrine, having no real concept, at the time, of what a portable shrine was. Aside from the danger, I was told that most shrine groups are very exclusive and you have to be a high-ranking member of the village or area to have a shot. I also told my students I wanted to wear mawashi, which are similar to what you see sumo wrestlers wear. Usually that elicits a pretty good laugh, but I would've liked to, just for a day. It's a comfort thing.

So I didn't get to play dueling shrines, but I did pop open a can of cool and refreshing Gaijin-Awesome (tm) and was invited into one of the shrines for a couple pictures. Nao and Sachiko were shocked, as it's apparently a rarity for a total stranger to be granted such privilege. I'm not sure women are even allowed to touch the shrines, so they immediately wanted to see a picture of the inside.

After a quick trip to the grocery store for a lesson in how-not-to-buy-coffee-flavored-milk-again (future blog), we returned to the temple for the shishi-mai (a ritual dance with a lion's mask). And we waited. And we waited some more. And then the procession began and we waited even longer because we were toward the end of the procession and the lions moved about five feet every five minutes (to say one foot a minute would be inaccurate -- every five minutes they moved about five feet). By the time the mawashi-wearing troupe reached us, all the men smelled like fermented ass-beans, and they looked tired as all get-out, having had to carry one another on and off for a very long time, inebriated, no less. But it was still beautiful and I can hear echoes of the eerie flute music with which each group accompanied their lion.

After the procession, we returned to Sachiko's house for yet more food and Sachiko's mother explained to me (through Nao) that Drunk-san is the only member of the group that isn't married. "Sabishii?" [lonely] I asked. Probably, and pretty persistent when he gets drunk. They told me I had been a good sport. Actually I told them I had been a good sport, because its what they intended to say so I doled out another free English lesson (these are always well-received -- I wouldn't bother if ever it were perceived to be offensive).

And then we walked back to the main event where the shrines progressed slowly into an area a few hundred feet by a few hundred feet. "What happens if they can't lift one?" I asked, because most of the men had been drinking all day. "Then they drag it in," I was told. Finally it began and with a large crack, two shrines collided. Our shrine broke and it took about 45 minutes to get a replacement beam installed. "Do they repair them every year?" "No." "Really?" "Oh, actually... yes, probably."

Though our shrine was temporarily out of commission, the other shrines didn't waste any time. Or rather, they wasted a ton of time, but they were really freakin' heavy so I don't blame them. The shrine groups would rock the shrine back and forth until it dipped enough on one side to hoist up the other side and then they'd all try to rise. Most of the time they couldn't, but when they finally lifted up and momentum took over, you moved or you got squashed. It was absolutely reckless and I loved it. In Nada it's a lot more active, maybe because it's more popular so the shrine bashers are more motivated (who knows, maybe they drink less too), but it's harder to find a place to watch and there's no room to maneuver away from an incoming shrine so you're at the mercy of the mass.

And that was it. The shrine-bashing went on for about 4 hours, and then they moved to a point right near the train station where they'd continue on into the night as a show of manliness. I was done after about the first hour, but after being treated as such an honored guest, the only complaint I'd utter was that I'm really hungry, which is always good for a laugh because I'm always really hungry.

If you want to read more about festivals, go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matsuri

My friend Sugi is the best Japanese teacher I know

I hate Two-face. I've observed an interesting phenomenon (one of many) exhibited by some bilingual Japanese. They don't so much speak English as they wear it. Two-face is a horrible caricature of an American. She speaks without an accent and overall her English is good, save for the occasional spoonerism or malapropism or, I suppose, the rare outright error (the other day she asked for someone's "birth of date" and later discussed allergies and "pollens"). But she does it with the patronizing enthusiasm of a clown hepped up on coke. Pop your favorite Ravi Shankar collection on the record player at 45. Sounds pretty nice. Now crank it up to 72. Her laugh is a disgusting parody, a harsh, grating squeal as forced and horrible as a Star Wars prequel. And to top it all off, she's not a very good teacher.

The first week, I sat in several of her and Big O's respective classes. Big O mostly dealt with conversation, so teaching was not a priority. Two-Face teaches more beginners, so often is stuck with grammar and vocabulary on a regular basis. In one of her group classes, she spent a solid five minutes trying to coax a single word out of a single person to create a single sentence. Pardon me, I know she has 20-years experience, but it all amounts to crap if that's how she's going to waste her students' time.

I've picked up a thing or two about teaching and learning in my mere month here. I enrolled in a local Japanese language course which I have subsequently dropped. My intro course in America was a breeze and I scored the top grade on the exam. Our teacher, from Japan, spoke English very well and the class moved at a reasonable pace, if not too slowly. The course I started here is Intro B, but the teacher speaks only Japanese and the class uses a book that moves at twice the speed as my first one. Not only did I have to learn the current chapter, but I also had scores of catching up to do. It didn't make sense to continue, so I quit. It was ~$30 for 10 lessons, so no big loss there, considering each lesson in the states cost about the same as the whole course here.

Sitting in class, understanding one out of every 10 words (on a good day) was frustrating and didn't impart much. I've discovered that learning words is often a three step process. First is the recognition of a word and its accompanying pronunciation. Second is the association with the meaning. Finally is the transition to permastore (?) memory through protracted use and association, a sort of paving of the neural pathway. Likewise is the recognition of people. Trying to learn my students names has been taxing. First I have to remember the face (psychology books will tell you that distinguishing the facial features of a foreign race is much more difficult that distinguishing those among your own). Then is the association with a name. And finally, the constant hammering of the association into my tired brain. Listening in my Japanese class was like watching all 130 million Japanese people run a marathon, knowing they all have names and faces, but not recognizing more than 10.

I study every day. I'm drowning in vocabulary and sentence patterns, but I have more motivation and determination than I know what to do with. Today an elderly woman struck up a "conversation" with me at the grocery store and I actually understood about half of what she said. Granted, she was probably using baby Japanese, but it's a big improvement over where I was a month ago.

The key to my success? My friend Sugi. Sugi knows.

tsugi (no) - next

I make associations for everything I can't remember, and when I use a word enough, it finally crosses some mental threshold that makes it mine. When I forget how to say "next" I think, "Sugi knows!" and there it is: tsugi (no).

jitensha - bicycle

Some of my associations are visual. I had trouble remembering that bike, in Japanese, is jitensha, so I imagined a large G on the front wheel of a bicycle. After the G, the rest rolls off my tongue.

kotae - answer

This one was also visual, but I just remembered the shape of the Japanese characters. After recalling it enough times, I no longer had to visualize.

asobimasu - (v) having fun, enjoying oneself

Some of my associations are hilarious (to me), which makes them easy to remember. I think Asobi sounds like asshole bean. I don't know what an asshole bean is (I've decided that it's definitely not a dingleberry), but I assume it's fun. Thus, asobimasu is having fun.

hatarakimasu - (v) work

What happens when you're swamped at work? You have a hot rocky mess (if you are a geologist and you work in a volcano).

tsukaremashita - I/You/He/She was/were tired

Then, there are the really weird ones. This sounds to me like the carrot master. I don't know who he is, but I bet he's pretty tired.

shinakerebanaranai - I must do

And finally there are those that I just have to say over and over and over again until they finally stick. Not a good time, but useful. For example, knowing shinakerebanaranai, I can now say tabenakerebanaranai - I must eat. That’s not really useful, I don’t think, but still good to know. Sentaku o shinakerebanaranai may have a little more value – I must do the laundry.

And so continues the association game. Sugi is also applicable in several other associations, hence the title. And yes, I've disabled comments for the time being. Feel free to email.

This is Little African's World

There's an oft-used expression I've found to be regularly appropriate here, one that can be exercised in most every situation one might encounter during one's daily routine: "Japan is fucking crazy." Actually, it's a local expression, so I wouldn't be surprised if you've never heard it before. Actually, it's really local, generally only expressed by myself when I'm ironing my underwear.

I iron my underwear. I iron my socks, bedsheets, and everything under the sun (ha). I have to dry my clothes on a clothesline outside on my balcony and you never know what kind of bugs might've decided to take a siesta in a comfortable 85% cotton, 15% polyester. And you certainly don't want to find out halfway into a 2-hour class when the bugs wake up and explore their new surroundings. So my theory is that the iron kills bugs and I'm sticking to it, if only to placate any insect related anxieties.

In a country where phones can do everything from send videos to pay for train tickets (and, if you can believe it, make regular calls), where the forefront of robotics is ushering in a new age of convenience, where cars are parked in giant automated towers to take advantage of the tiny spaces between buildings, I find convenience lacking. I have no dryer. I have no garbage disposal. I have neither oven nor central air. When I want to use my stove, I have to switch on the gas. When I want to use my bath or washing machine, I have to switch on the hot water. Japan, I say, is fucking crazy.

The other day I went to an imported goods store that's called, you'll never guess, Japan. Best I can tell, most of the goods are imported from Osaka (an hour or so away). The store carries everything from electronics to dried goods. It has candy and it has tupperware. It has beer and it has children's toys. In the same aisle. Yes, right across from the Kirin and Sapporo (types of Japanese beer) you can find the latest model of Power Ranger and Transformer and whatever the kids are playing with these days. Maybe Japan has it right, not sheltering their children from adult vices, exposing them to alcohol and building a safe and healthy understanding from their youth. You can, after all, buy beer at many streetside vending machines. So maybe Japan has taken a logical and sensible approach. Or maybe Japan is fucking crazy.

My walk to work takes about 10 minutes and it's a straight shot down one road (which is good, because few streets have names). I have to cross several intersections, about half of which have pedestrian crossing signals. By the time I leave work, it's around 9:15, and the roads are usually fairly empty. And yet, if there's not a car in sight and the crossing signal is red, almost all Japanese people will wait. They will wait until it changes, few daring to anticipate the switch and start moving prematurely. The two or three times I've ventured to cross against the light, the locals looked at me as if I had just dropped my pants and started to urinate in the middle of the road (which, I'm told, is perfectly legal, though I'm not fully confident in my source). So now I only cross against the light when I'm in an extreme rush or when there's no one else around. After all, I don't want to risk offending a local who is almost assuredly Japanese, and, consequently, fucking crazy.

I spoke to one of my students about religion and tradition the other day. Many Japanese go to church to get married, practice Buddhist rituals during funerals, and perform a slew of other religious-inspired traditions. "Do you know anything about Buddhism?" Nope. "How about Shinto?" Not really. "That doesn't seem weird to you?" Of course not, because she grew up with it. I suppose that makes sense. She also told me she loves Korean food and tv, but hates Koreans. The Japanese, she says, are very superficial. The way I see it, however, the Japanese are very fucking crazy.

I study pretty much every day. I rarely watch tv (I can't understand it) and I've given up on reading in favor of force-feeding myself vocabulary in my spare moments. I am driven to learn the language. Whether or not that's feasible, I have no idea, but language aside, I don't think I will ever understand the people. After all, Japan is fucking crazy.

Comment Round-up I

What the heck is a toilet hood?

The toilet hood covers the toilet lid, obv.

How's the food?

Delicious... every single thing I've had so far has been better than all the other things combined.

What the heck is a tatami?

Traditional Japanese flooring (click)

How is sleeping on the floor?

Surprisingly comfortable!

How's the all-you-can-eat sushi?

That doesn't seem to exist here unless you swoop into a restaurant garbed in ninja gear and steal from all the paying customers (after which, of course, they will all thank you profusely and apologize for not having provided more).

How much longer will Big O be there?

A year or so.

Is the brand of potty a Toto?

Yes! Aunty Em would be proud.

Octopus does have something in common with spiders, don't you think?

Sadly, yes, and spiders are in abundance here. One lived above my mailbox for a good (?!) week and a half until it "mysteriously" disappeared.

"Cool" wa nihongo de nan to imasu ka?

Sugoi desu ne. Literally a Japanese idiom for "too much" but it's used for cool, wow, super, etc.

A Big O Story

Big O, also 27 years old, does not like to be tied down. His near-year at the school, for example, is the longest single job he's ever held. He lives with his wife in an apartment they rent independently of the school, so he has no school-related obligations or debts. At work, Big O dressed as casually as possible within the constraints of the contract, which dictates that a tie, button-down shirt, pants, shoes, etc. be worn. His pants were nearly cargo style, his top button was unbuttoned, and his ties were simple, narrow, and unprofessional (not a slight, just an observation).

When they first moved here, they borrowed some furniture from the school (reluctantly, I'm sure, but everyone likes a chair or two). Once they had accrued enough of their own furniture through donations and purchases, Big O let Sakura know and Chicken Hamburger came to pick it up.

Trash collection in Japan is a world of complications. I still don't have a good grasp on it, though it doesn't help any that the instruction booklet (yes, there's a whole booklet) is written in Japanese. Anyway, Big O's friend needed a place to dump his trash for whatever reason so Big O let him unload his trash bags in front of his place.

Chicken Hamburger, in his stunted English, expressed his disapproval about the location of the trash in the frequently indirect way that most Japanese approach points of contention -- passive aggressive tendencies abound here. Big O said that it was out of the way and not a big deal since it's his apartment. Chicken Hamburger persisted, claiming that it was ugly, and things began to heat up until Big O had enough and, with an emphatic wave of his arm, said, "Get the fuck out of here!" They never spoke again through all the months Big O worked here. (This actually surprised me because Big O and his wife are very laid back -- in a year or two they will be traveling to India to try to obtain Yoga licenses.)

Big O tells me, "You know, if we were westerners, a few weeks later we'd talk about it, have a good laugh, and apologize, and then soon after be drinking at the pub. But this is Japan." I can't remember if it was after this altercation or another, but the boss-peoples were pretty mad and asked every student if Big O was doing a good job. Big O is charismatic, and at a conversation school, that goes a long way, so the verdict was made unanimously, and no action was taken.

The week I started "teaching," Mrs. Eh and Two-Face sat me down with Chicken Hamburger to explain to me the apartment rules. I can't remember what they were, probably because they were pretty innocuous. When they concluded, Mrs. Eh asked the two if there was anything else, and Chicken Hamburger said to them in Japanese (making accompanying gestures) that I should wear my tie tight with my shirt buttoned to the top. Apparently once Big O broke rank, I guess they lost the reins, so I can only assume Chicken Hamburger is trying to break in the new horse. Though I resent the inherent meaning in the self-imposed analogy, I won't let it get in the way of doing a good job and cross him out of spite. But if Chicken Hamburger gets out of line, it's gaijin-smashing time.

Really, aside from breath that causes the hair on my arms to wilt and perpetual sweat-mopping with a large hand-towel, he's not bad. Yesterday he installed some new curtains in my apartment (while I, with my innate Western paranoia, stood by and lent a hand) so the morning light doesn't blind me through the rice paper screens. I believe, for now, Chicken Hamburger is tolerable, but I thank Big O for clueing me in to the bigger picture.

Eight-legged misconceptions make for a strange slices

I would kill for a decent pizza. Thin crust, thick crust, spicy, plain, topping-overloaded, anything. Several nights ago I split a paper thin pizza decked with mozzarella and blue cheese. It wasn't anything I'd ordinarily call pizza, save for that it was round, had some sort of sauce, and aforementioned cheese. This was not, however, "Japanese pizza." Like most things in Japan, loose interpretations abound. Japanese pizza has neither tomato sauce nor cheese. It is made in a stove, not on an oven. And sometimes, Japanese pizza has octopus. It's called okonomiyaki. Really, the only thing it has in common with regular pizza is that it's round and delicious. I'm quickly learning that all expectations are best left by the wayside.

So when I arrived at the Going Away/Welcome party for the old teacher (Big O)/new teacher (yours truly), I was struck by an incisive observation: 99% of my students are women. Why are they mostly women? Because my school is not so much a school as it is a place for bored housewives to ogle a foreigner. I am a foreign English-speaking man-whore. This is not the type of eikaiwa (English conversation school) I was expecting.

Big O explains to me that for many students my school is the only place they will ever speak English. There's one woman who's been going nearly 20 years and her English is fantastic, but she doesn't do anything with it -- it's just a hobby for which she shells out ~$50/week. There are some students who genuinely want to learn, as, I believe, there are some schools that have a fairer gender balance. But for the most part? My job is to entertain.

It's no surprise that at the restaurant, I was asked my age, my blood type (in Japan, that's like asking one's sign), and was told that I had beautiful teeth. This frightening girl who reminded me of Sloth from Goonies immediately started hitting on me. You know that feeling you get when you think it's possible that a spider has crawled up your pants and could be mere seconds from biting something vitally important to your future and possibly the future of mankind? Roll with the punches, Japandrew -- for the most part, she was harmless.

No sooner had Big O delivered a speech than I was asked to give one of my own ("...if you'd like to but you don't have to so really it's ok" -- ah, Japanese subtlety, I know thee well). "Kampai!" (cheers) I yelled, eliciting a laugh. That's about all that most of them understood and about all I remember having said, but I think I winged it ok.

I made the rounds and met most of the students that attended the party, and then we were out the door, preparing to go home, when Sloth jumped up behind me and I practically sucked out my fillings. "Where do you live?" I give a broad answer. "I live close to there... let's go!" (Turns out "close" meant "other direction.") I hemmed and hawed until Big O came to the rescue and asked me to stick around for a few minutes. Eventually the flotsam drifted away and we found ourselves at a karaoke place.

Big O's wife, Free Spirit, immediately identified me as a former choir boy: "you have an amazing voice!" She also pegged me as a Robert Deniro lookalike, a similarity I'm hearing often these days. I don't know if everyone recognizes him in me or if it's just the incestuous nature of the Japanese to make public all information about everything. The first day I arrived and Mrs. Eh was showing me around my apartment, she asked if I liked coffee to which I said no. When I arrived at school the next day, several colleagues hit me with, "Oh, so you don't like coffee, I hear."

A couple hours, many songs, and a drink or two later, the night was through and I, still jet-lagged and preparing to face my first foreign hangover, went home and slept for hours.

Karaoke Pictures. (Ok, ok, I know I look really angry in a couple shots, but I was asked to join in a song with a register entirely out of my range.)

I love my potty faucet.

My Japanese toilet cannot check the internet. It doesn't spray my nether regions with a variegated jet and finish with an air dry, it won't play music when I raise the lid, and it won't warm my winters with the latest seat-heating technology. Unlike many Japanese toilets, there's no need to plug my toilet into the wall. What it does have, however, is a faucet.

Of the three Japanese toilets I've used beyond the airport, all of them have shared this common feature. Instead of filling from the bottom of the tank, the water is channeled through a spigot at the top and enters through a hole in a depression in the tank cover, giving the potty-goer a decent flush's window to wash his hands or have a sip or what have you. It's like the circle of life. I've discovered the essence of wabisabi and Japanese harmony. I can go home now.

Day two, however, I woke up to light pouring through my rice paper doors like some goliath paper lantern and home seemed very far away. I dressed slowly, surveying my new quarters, ate some of the food Mrs. Eh and Chicken Hamburger left for me in the fridge, learned my new shower, and walked over to the school in a tie and clean shirt. It was too hot for anything but shorts and I didn't like it, but as I'd soon learn, I wasn't about to get away with much else in the clothing department.

The school is a straight shot about seven blocks from my apartment. Direct is good, because few streets in my city have names (I've seen only two so far). I have no idea how the postal service works, but I seem to be getting mail. In Costa Rica, I was told that addresses are often based on landmarks, so a destination could be anything from "city hall" to "150 meters southwest of the large tree that fell last year." In Japan there seems to be some sort of system -- I just haven't figured it out yet.

I arrived at the school and immediately started meeting the rest of the cast and crew: Two-Face, the head teacher whose English is nearly flawless, as she studied some in the states; McCool, who does administrative work and offers up any help I need; and Big O, a laid-back, benevolent globetrekker who is the outbound English teacher. He's helped made my transition smooth as butter and is thus far the only one in my city I'd dare call friend.

I met a few of the students when Mrs. Eh introduced me as "atarashii sensei, new teach-ah" and I greeted them in English or Japanese. Those that experienced the latter seemed shocked, as all Japanese will, whenever a foreigner attempts their tongue. "His pronounciation, so good... sugoi ne!" Well of course it is, I'm imitating your accent. Hey, want to hear my Hindi?

After a walk around Himeji Castle with Big O, I was content to stick around the school and tap their internet connection, but Two-Face and Mrs. Eh suggested that I go home and take a nap. The Japanese are rarely, if ever, direct, so it's often impossible to determine whether a suggestion is a suggestion or an outright mandate. In this case, I figured they wanted me out of their hair for a few hours so they could get on with their classes, so I took that nap and then returned at around 9 when I went with McCool, Two-Face, and two of the very few male students to a bar for a beer and some pretty good food.

All in all, a pretty relaxed day. Next stop, karaoke-machine choir-boy Deniro.

A brush with Engrish

I had my first major communication breakdown yesterday. Most conversations I've engaged in thus far have been fully understood, understood after some major stutters, or not understood at all, but today I had my first wild miscommunication; it was hard not to laugh. For the whole day. One of my co-workers (not an English teacher -- he does administrative and computer work) was driving me to City Hall to get my Alien Registration Card. He's not much of a conversationalist, so I decided to try to milk him for some information to ease my transition into the far east. "Do you know where I can find a voltage converter?" He looked at me, confusion apparent on his brow. "[Um]... chicken hamburger?"

And that's about as good as it gets... if you're looking for a comedic interlude, maybe hold tight for a future entry because now I'm going to relate stuff prior to that point. I'm actually not too keen about writing right now, but I was informed that my internet connection might not be available for another month so I'm typing this up at the apartment and posting it through the school's connection. One more thing before you X-out this window and find the latest youtube video of someone finding yet another place to stick wasabi: I have an address. Please feel free to send me postal love (email me for the address).

Somewhere 37,000 miles above the Pacific ocean, I began to think the same thoughts that, I assume, plague all those newly ordained globetrekkers who have dropped everything in favor of the unknown: "Holy crap, what the hell am I doing?" It was a smooth flight, possibly the best turbulence to distance ratio I've ever experienced. The food was top notch for an airplane, the movie selection was great (Nacho Libre!), and I was extremely lucky in that not only did my $99 economy plus upgrade grant me an aisle seat, but the window seat next to me was also vacant. However, when you're struck with a rough case of the holy-craps halfway between elsewhere and nowhere, you want someone to talk to. But most everyone was sleeping, so instead I watched movies, tried to sleep (unsuccessfully), and reminded myself that in a few weeks, once my routine becomes established, all doubts would be assuaged.

Bleary-eyed, I mindlessly followed the throng off the plane, claimed my baggage, found my bus, and I was off on the dark road to the unknown city I discovered only when researching a lost cause. And when I say dark I mean dark. It would seem that between Japanese cities, street lights do not exist, and between the mountains, the light pollution is practically nil. On a bus full of Japanese, heading into a void, knowing no one in my new world, I felt very alone, more so than on the plane where at the very least I could bother a flight attendant. And then the darkness gave way, the lights revealing my new home, and I emerged to be greeted by a tiny shell of a woman with awful teeth who asked, "Andrew-san?" Welcome to Japan.

As you can see, I've left out my city name. Actually, who cares, it's Himeji, Hyogo. But for people, I'm going to need code-names, I think, because I already know I'm going to have to vent about a number of characters. So, we'll call this woman Mrs. Eh because she responds to everything I say as if I had just handed her a treasure map leading to a big X right beneath a tatami in her bedroom: "EhhhHHHH?" Her husband is Chicken-Hamburger. They're very nice, no major complaints.

They drove me to my apartment and we took the elevator up to the top floor of the seven-story building. I surveyed the place and observed through one of the windows a sign advertising a Japanese company called Fukyo.

Fukyo. That's about what I felt. Mrs. Eh and Chicken-Hamburger gave me a whirlwind tour of the place, explaining gas, hot water, stove-with-fish-cooker, A/C, and the works. They offered me dinner, but I was too tired, so I declined and quickly went to bed. On the floor. That's where I sleep.

The apartment, against all odds, is too large. I have an eight-tatami bedroom, a kitchen/dining room, an entry way, a bath/shower room, a toilet room (replete with mickey mouse toilet mat and toilet slippers and toilet paper cover and toilet seat hood), and this other room that has only a table. I have no idea what to do with that room. I'm thinking about buying a small rug and using it for working out because gyms here go 10am-10pm and my hours are 11:50am-9pm. Or maybe I'll sublet it to a family of 25, who knows.

So before I passed out on that first night, still suffering from the what-the-craps, I thought to myself, what would Maslow do? 'I have a place to sleep and enough money to get me through a few weeks. Seems like a good enough start.' That (coupled with being awake for 26 straight hours) was enough to send me off to dreamland. Less than 48 hours later, I was drinking beer and singing karaoke, but that's for another time.