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.)
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
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.
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.
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