PCS Japan 2008-2011

Saturday, March 12--My heart is breaking

2011-03-12T09:17:00.001+09:00

Friday, March 11-Part 2--Our world has been rocked

2011-03-11T23:52:00.003+09:00

Soon after returning to our Hong Kong hotel room, I logged on to check my email and found three messages of increasing urgency from the Yokosuka City Disaster Prevention Information Email Service sent at 3:01, 3:37, and 4:15 p.m. JST. The last one, whose subject line was “Large-scale tidal wave warning,” ordered anyone near the coast to evacuate to higher ground immediately. This is not the first time I’ve received a tidal wave warning—one was issued in February of last year when Chile was rocked by a M8.8 earthquake. The resulting tsunami, by the time it finally reached Japan, was only 20 cm (7.87 in) high, and probably would not have been noticed by the average Joe had it not been so widely publicized. So my mind was weighing that fact against the urgent tone of the city’s last email when I turned on the TV to find out what Pacific country had experienced an earthquake today large enough to trigger a tsunami.

Oh sh*t.

The earthquake was in Japan.

And it was a huge one--M8.9.

Looks like the epicenter was well north of Yokosuka, yet the news is showing buildings on fire in Tokyo, which is only an hour away from our house. I am scared…Alina is home alone. Did anything fall on her? Is the house okay? Is the power on? Was there a tsunami in our area (our house is on a hill so should be safe, but the base could be very vulnerable)? What about Jim’s coworkers, my students, our friends…. I have sent an email to my friend Yumiko on her cell phone. If there is cell phone service, she will reply quickly and let us know what is really going on around home.

Friday, March 11-Part 1--Don't puke on the poker chips

2011-03-11T23:48:00.001+09:00

Hee hee hee! Another stamp in my passport today, thanks to a one-hour ferry ride over to Macau. I thought, since they were stamping my passport, that Macau was its own country, but really it’s not. It is a “special administrative region” of the People’s Republic of China, just like Hong Kong (which I also thought was its own country until I looked it up online). Originally a Portuguese colony, Macau was handed over to China in 1999, and will enjoy being essentially autonomous until 2049. China is responsible for Macau’s defense and foreign affairs, but the territory is free of the socialist reign of the mainland, maintaining its own legal system, police force, monetary system, and immigration policy. According to our tour guide, although 94% of the population is ethnically Chinese, they do not want to be called Chinese—they prefer to be called Macanese. It sounded like less a matter of national pride than a desire to distance themselves from stigma, real or perceived.

Macau is probably best known for being the Las Vegas of Asia—there are more than 30 casinos on the island. We weren’t necessarily there to donate money to the casinos, although Jim had been hoping to play some poker, so we opted instead to bow to the pressure of a tour operator who stopped us as we came through immigration at the ferry terminal. He was offering a van tour of the key cultural, historical, and touristy sites, as well as a final stop at the casino of our choice--a key selling point for Jim. Since Jim was suffering from some kind of terrible stomach illness and in no condition to strike out on a self-guided walking tour, we negotiated a price and jumped into the van. The driver/guide was of Portuguese descent, and very knowledgeable about the history of the island as well current happenings. Cruising by the casinos, he enlightened us about the feng shui (ancient Chinese practice of balancing the energy of a space to attract good fortune) of each, noting especially the bad karma of the MGM. Entering the casino, with its gigantic lion sculpture out front, is like passing through the mouth of the lion, making the gambler nothing more than dim sum (a popular Chinese snack). We stopped at the ultra-modern Macau tower, where Jim’s illness was a blessing in disguise, saving me from having to make a 233-meter tandem jump off the edge—he’d been gung-ho to take the plunge since seeing the all-stars do it on The Amazing Race in 2007. We drove through parts of town that looked like pictures I’ve seen of Spain—old European-style architecture, Mediterranean color palette, cobblestone streets. Then there’d be dozens of signs in complicated Chinese characters on the next block, advertising restaurants, laundries, and pharmacies. A very strange combination of cultures.

When we finished the sightseeing loop around 5 p.m., Jim's stomach had not improved, so we decided to skip the much-anticipated poker stop and grab the next available ferry so he could get back to the hotel and rest. As it was a bigger boat than the one we’d arrived on, I was expecting a smooth, nap-inducing trip back to Hong Kong. Turns out we had a crazy roller-coaster ride across swells that I couldn’t see in the dark, but felt as big as the Bering Sea waves I’ve seen on Deadliest Catch. Normally a lover of boat rides, I was longing for the seat belt I’d joked about on the morning ferry (strangely absent on this larger boat), and noting the location of both life vests and seasickness bags. Luckily neither were necessary, as things smoothed out and we docked safely in Hong Kong, anxious for a hot shower and the firmly grounded stability of our hotel bed. Who knew that the wild ferry ride was merely a hint of the rocking that was about to hit our world…

Tuesday, February 15--Prepared for anything

2011-02-15T21:44:00.000+09:00

Ahh, the sun did come out today! Good thing, since I saw neither hide nor hair of a snow plow. I did see my neighbors, though, early this morning, dutifully shoveling snow and slush from the section of the roadway directly in front of their houses, and piling it at their curbs. I was not so amazed at this organized community response to Mother Nature. The biannual neighborhood leaf cleanup has demonstrated just how willing individuals are to work together for the common good. No, what truly surprised me was how many people own a shovel! Why in the world do my Japanese neighbors need shovels? Not one of them has a yard more than 24 inches wide. They aren’t using shovels to relocate dumptruck loads of landscaping materials from the driveway out front to flowerbeds in the back forty, because there are neither flowerbeds nor a back forty. Any planting they do is generally in a flower box and can be accomplished with a garden trowel, or probably an old tablespoon. They have no room to dig a grave for the beloved family pet, or any need to dig holes for fences or mailbox posts. They can’t be using them to whack vermin—if they tried to swing a shovel overhead, they’d put it through the neighbor’s window. And despite the evidence on the street this morning, this area does not normally accumulating snowfalls. So why all the shovels?

Alas, all of our shovels are in storage somewhere in Virginia, so my section of street remained a slushy mess for the junior high students trekking to school and the housewives schlepping non-burnables and PET bottles to the gomi pile. Luckily the sun quickly removed all indications of my inability to be a team player—by noon the only snow left on the whole block was what my industrious neighbors had piled up with their shovels this morning.

Monday, February 14--Valentine surprise

2011-02-15T21:02:00.000+09:00

Today’s forecast was for a 40% chance of rain. Temperatures were supposed to go no lower than 39ºF, although the wind chill would make it feel like 28ºF. So what exactly is going on here? It is 11:00 p.m., and it has been snowing to beat the band for the past four hours. For the second time in four days, in an area of Japan that is not supposed to get any measurable snow, the roads are covered in white stuff--about 2 1/2 inches at the moment. Does the town of Zushi even own a snow plow? I am certainly not equipped for this mess—I have an ice scraper and a dust pan in my snow removal arsenal. No shovel, no snow tires, no tire chains, no salt, no sand. Hope the sun is gonna come out tomorrow!

Wednesday, November 3--Tenderfoot

2010-11-03T21:12:00.000+09:00

Do you think feet can suffer from PTSD? Today I laced up my hiking shoes, the same ones I wore on my Mt. Fuji trek, for a casual four-hour tour around Kamakura. There was a fair amount of street walking, some steep but easy hiking up and down wooded trails, and plenty of stair climbing, because everything in Kamakura is on a hill. By the time I got on the train to come home, my feet were screaming. I’m talking pain in every joint between my tarsals, metatarsals, and phalanges, pre-blisters between my toes and all along my soles, and bone-deep bruises on my Fuji toes (second toe on each foot). This pain is totally out of proportion with the amount of walking I did. I’ve comfortably worn these hiking shoes on several occasions since climbing Mt. Fuji, so I can’t believe that my Merrells are suddenly devices of torture. However, it is the first time I’ve worn them for anything other than pavement pounding since sliding, stumbling, and limping down the mountain, and I’m really wondering if today’s rocky trails and numerous steps triggered podiatric flashbacks of giant blisters and dead toenails. So now I’ve got a dilemma. I’m supposed to go on a walking tour around Tokyo on Friday, and I was planning to wear these same hiking shoes, because frankly most of the shoes I own weren’t made for walkin’. There shouldn’t be any off-roading, and I expect the terrain to be relatively flat, so theoretically, my feet won’t be exposed to any reminders of past trauma. Maybe I can further insulate them from emotional distress with a pair of Dr. Scholls’ inserts.

Sunday, October 31, 2010--Pardon the interruption

2010-10-31T20:03:00.002+09:00

Okay, this is ridiculous. I am behind on my blog entries. I am way behind on my blog entries. I have been behind for about 18 months. It’s not because Japan suddenly became uninteresting. Just the opposite. I’ve been too involved in day-to-day life and Japanese adventures to sit down regularly to write. Once I got behind, I started putting off posting new entries until I’d filled in the old entries, because I wanted to keep everything in time order. But I have recently figured out how to post-date entries (technological genius that I am), in order to insert them in the correct place on the timeline, regardless of when I write them. So, I’m going to jump in with current entries, and will fill in the gaps from the past year as I get around to them (I have lots of notes and promise not to leave this project unfinished). For anyone who hasn’t completely given up on me, and cares enough to go back to old entries, make a note of October 24, 2009. Everything up to that point is complete, so new entries will periodically appear between that date and the present. Sorry to make life difficult, and thanks to anyone who is still reading!

Monday, September 6--If you can't stand the heat...

2010-09-06T20:04:00.001+09:00

As the hottest summer on record continues, our English-language newspaper, The Daily Yomiuri, reports that it’s not just humans who are suffering. Veterinarians have treated twice the usual number of canine heatstroke victims. Farm animals are keeling over at an alarming rate—so far nearly 1,200 cows have succumbed to heat-related illnesses, as have 657 pigs, 289,000 broiler chickens, and 136,000 egg-laying hens. The agricultural ministry has instructed local officials to ensure that farmers are taking appropriate action, such as putting heat shields on the walls and roofs of barns and installing fans. Hmmm. That sounds like the assembly instructions for a convection oven to me. Roast beef anyone?

Saturday, October 24--Demise of the Fuji toe

2009-10-24T18:34:00.002+09:00

At last! Tonight I was enjoying a hot soak in our deep tub, giving my feet a much-needed exfoliating scrub, and lo and behold the nail finally came off one of my Fuji toes (the other one is still firmly attached). Contrary to most people’s experiences, the climb down Fuji killed the nail on the second toe of both feet, rather than the big toes. For two months, I’ve been walking around with ugly blackish-purple nails sticking out of my sandals, yearning for the start of closed-toe shoe season to hide those freakish toes. Now that I have a naked, nail-less toe, I’m afraid to put on socks and shoes!

Sunday, October 18--Two left feet

2009-10-18T15:59:00.000+09:00

This evening’s outing was the culmination of a misunderstanding that began nearly two years ago. When I first started meeting Yumiko for English lessons, she told me one of her hobbies was b------ dancing. At the time, I wasn’t sure if she was a ballet, belly, or berry dancer (although I was 99% sure the last option wasn’t really a style of dance). It took a few months, and some pictures of a recent performance, for me to conclude that she was taking Bali dance lessons. I told her I’d love to attend one of her performances, and finally got that chance tonight.

Yumiko and her fellow dancers were performing at an Indonesian restaurant within walking distance of the base, so I had her make dinner reservations for Patrick, Rudy, and me (Jim is off on another trip). While we enjoyed delicious Indonesian food (the first time for me), we were treated to three different Balinese dances. The women wore beautiful, brightly colored costumes for each dance, crowned with elaborate golden headpieces. The graceful, fluid motions of their arms and hips, accented by complex eye movements, finger arrangements, and foot positions, told a story. Though it is one of the more subdued forms of dance I have seen—there is no rush from pose to pose—it looked all the more difficult for its subtlety. To my horror, Patrick and I got to personally find out just how difficult, as the dancers pulled up members of the audience for a mini-lesson after the final number. Not only did I feel like I had two left feet, it seemed I had two left everything. Now I understand why Balinese girls start learning this form of dance when they are elementary school age—it would take years of practice to become proficient enough to perform in public, which they do regularly at temple festivals in their villages.

I’m so glad I finally got to see Yumiko perform, and grateful to have escaped with only a couple embarrassing photos of my attempts at Bali (not berry) style dancing.

Saturday, October 10--Where's the fish?

2009-10-10T13:51:00.000+09:00

Well, that didn’t exactly go as planned.

Even though Jim is gone on a business trip, I decided to take part in the ITT tour to Tsukiji fish market today. I knew this was not the early morning tour, so I would not be able to see the 5:00 a.m. tuna auction, but I figured at a market where approximately 2000 metric tons of seafood are bought and sold each day, there would be enough other stuff going on to justify the $27 tour cost.

Once the tour departed from the base, the guide informed us that he had not been originally scheduled for this trip, and was a last-minute replacement. He rattled off the details of our itinerary, as well as some facts about each stop of the tour, like guides have done on previous trips we’d been on, so I was not really concerned about his commitment to this outing. It wasn’t until we actually arrived at Tsukiji that his level of enthusiasm for this trip became evident. We got off the bus and stood on a bustling street corner, where our guide handed us a very general map of the area. Our fearless leader then raised his arm, pointed vaguely to the southeast, told us the market was down there, and warned us the bus would be leaving for the next stop in exactly two hours. Uhh, okay, but I thought the point of this tour was to be TAKEN to the market. If I wanted the confusion of trying to find it on my own, I’d have come by train.

To make a long story short, I spent most of my allotted two hours wandering around in a maze of stalls that ring the outside of the actual fish market, wading through throngs of people, trying not to lose my bearings among the endless look-alike rows of vegetable vendors and ramen hawkers. By the time I accidentally stumbled upon the entrance to the fish market (cleverly disguised as an active loading dock), I had less than 30 minutes left to explore. I carefully wove my way through buyers and delivery men maniacally trying to load and dispatch the morning’s purchases and finally ended up on the outskirts of an endless sea of wooden tables and water-filled tanks meant to display the unlucky creatures available for purchase. As I stepped from the alley into the shade of the auction area, it quickly became clear that the day was already over. In a few stalls, men were still packing up fish in Styrofoam coolers, but for the most part, workers clad in heavy rubber aprons and knee-high rubber boots were hosing down tables and scrubbing scales from the concrete floors. A few who had already finished the day’s chores were sitting around on crates slurping ramen noodles. Dejected and irritated, I made my way back to the bus and oohed over the digital pictures an acquaintance had taken of huge tuna being hacked into manageable pieces by a gleaming machete. Now that’s what I expected to see when I set off on this adventure. Guess I’ll have to try again another time.

Thursday, October 8--Melor fizzles

2009-10-08T17:58:00.002+09:00

Another typhoon today…Typhoon Melor. They’ve been talking this one up for days, going through the different TCCOR (Tropical Cyclone Condition of Readiness) levels on the base as the storm got closer and closer to Japan. Today the base was locked down—only essential personnel could get on or off, stores were closed, schools were closed, no one was allowed out of their quarters. Many train lines were shut down, whether to prevent trains from blowing off the tracks or in anticipation of power outages, I'm not sure.

But again, just like all the other typhoons since we’ve been here, the storm proved to be nothing but a few heavy rain showers and some gusty winds. We’ve actually had stronger winds on sunny, non-typhoon days. But better safe than sorry, I guess. It got me almost a full day off—all but one of my lessons was canceled today.

Saturday, October 3--Presents from the dairy fairy

2009-10-03T14:24:00.000+09:00

A few days ago, when Jim was home sick and napping on the couch, the doorbell rang. By the time he dragged himself to the front door, no one was waiting there, but he saw the “dairy fairy” flitting from house to house, dropping off product samples. I’m not sure if that’s actually the name of the Meiji dairy company’s home-delivery service (I thought I heard a solicitor say “dairy fairy” when she rang my doorbell last year, but it could have been a trick of my ears straining for something familiar in the rapid-fire Japanese she hurled at me), but it sounds cute and comes to mind every time I see their truck in the neighborhood.

Anyway, today we finally got around to investigating the samples, one in a tiny plastic container, and the rest in miniature glass bottles. Since they were all labeled only in Japanese, we were forced to guess what they might contain. The small plastic cup was an easy guess—looked like a kid’s yogurt container—and sure enough, when we tasted it, that’s what it was. The bottles we lined up by color, from whitest to yellowest, thinking the first might be milk and the last could possibly be buttermilk. A taste test confirmed our theory that the whitest liquid was milk, but the yellowest was not buttermilk. It smelled kind of like yogurt, as did the other two mystery samples. They all also tasted like yogurt, from very mild to quite tangy.

I had to do some research to figure out what was in those three bottles. The one with the blue label was Bulgarian-style yogurt (some marketing genius decided it was not very macho for men to eat yogurt from little plastic cups, so they’ve bottled it as a power drink instead). The green-labeled sample was a probiotic yogurt drink purported to improve gastric health. The yellowish liquid in the red-labeled bottle was a drink fortified with glucosamine, probably aimed at runners and other active types who are worried about maintaining joint health.

As convenient as it would be to have milk delivered right to the house, I don’t think my erratic schedule is very conducive to such an arrangement. For now, I’ll continue buying the six-week shelf-life, ultra-pasteurized, “real California milk” from the commissary.

Saturday, September 19--Silver Week

2009-09-19T13:41:00.004+09:00

Today marks the beginning of “Silver Week,” a rare but welcome occurrence in Japan. Monday is a holiday, Respect for the Aged Day. Wednesday is also a holiday, the Autumnal Equinox. By Japanese law, if there is only one non-holiday day between two national holidays, then that day becomes a holiday as well, called kokumin no kyūjitsu or “citizens’ holiday.” (Just for the record, if a holiday falls on a weekend, then the next non-holiday weekday becomes a kokumin no kyūjitsu so that they don’t get gypped of a day off work.) Sweet—I like the way they think! So, counting this weekend, the Japanese have five consecutive days off from work, hence the “week” part of the Silver Week nomenclature. The “silver” part comes from the fact that this holiday period is slightly inferior to the Golden Week period of late April/early May (usually seven to ten days off, depending how the holidays fall within the week, and the company’s policies about shutting down on the two non-holidays within the period). Silver Week won’t occur again until 2015—next year Respect for the Aged Day falls on Monday, but the Autumnal Equinox isn’t until Thursday, so there will be no kokumin no kyūjitsu.

What does Silver Week mean for me? Just like Golden Week, it means don’t try to go anywhere by car. The highways will be jammed with people taking advantage of not only the time off, but also the reduced toll rates in effect on national holidays. Don’t try to visit any popular sightseeing spots, including, but not limited to, shopping malls, onsen, Tokyo DisneyLand, and the countryside. It is, however, a good time to visit downtown Tokyo, as all of the city folks have made a mass exodus and there won’t be a suffocating crush of humanity on the trains or subways. It also means a better than average chance of seeing Mt. Fuji, since the humid haze of summer and the normal workday smog of Tokyo should both be dissipating.

Saturday, September 19--Victorious

2009-09-19T13:06:00.000+09:00

It’s true that Jim has won cash and prizes as champion of several Texas Hold ‘Em tournaments, but let it be known that I am the one who has secured not one, but two, trophies for his office. Improving on last year’s third place finish, today I captured first place in the women’s division of the CFAY Captain’s Cup Poker Tournament. (Wild cheering and applause from the peanut gallery…) We won’t mention that there were only three women registered in the tournament to begin with, or that I didn’t have a single winning hand all tournament, or that Jim gallantly knocked both of the other women out so that I could claim victory… A trophy’s a trophy, right?

Monday, September 14--Random thoughts

2009-09-14T01:08:00.000+09:00

Riding on the train to Tokyo today, I saw a man wearing penny loafers. Having nothing better to do than stare at his footwear, I thought back to my high school days, when those wine-colored shoes were fairly popular. That got me thinking about the kids who actually put pennies in the slots on the front of the shoes. Since there are no pennies in Japan, what do they call this style of shoe? Yen loafers? Do people put lucky five-yen coins in the slot?

Thursday, September 10--Settling up, Part 2

2009-09-10T17:44:00.000+09:00

Finally had time to return to the post office today. Tomorrow is the seventh and final day of my grace period, and as the week has progressed I have been getting more and more anxious about my unpaid speeding ticket. Even though I had every intention of paying before the deadline, just the thought of being hunted down and hauled off to jail made me break out into a cold sweat.

Once again, I ashamedly produced the ticket and some yen at the information desk, and the clerk pointed me to the bank counter in the center of the post office. The teller there handed me a form to fill in, then took it, the ticket, and the cash off for processing. I was pointed to a chair to wait while the paperwork was completed. When she came back, she presented me with an official receipt, and what I assume to be a paid stamp on the ticket. All of this with no look of censure or finger-pointing. I know I am not the first person in Japan, or even the first foreigner, to get a speeding ticket, but for some reason I feel like a big scarlet S has been branded in my forehead for all the world to see. It’s not even my most grievous speeding ticket (78 in a 55 back home), so the shame and guilt are totally out of proportion to the crime. What’s wrong with me? Guess I wanted to be a counter-example to the common stereotype that Americans are fat, lazy, loud, outlaw-types.

I took the ticket home and put it in the pile of other mementos I’ve collected for a scrapbook. I’m hopeful that someday I’ll be able to look at this as just one more unique experience in Japan without feeling like an axe-murderer.

Saturday, September 5--Settling up, part 1

2009-09-05T14:57:00.000+09:00

I couldn’t understand why I had to go to the post office to pay my speeding ticket. Wouldn’t the police station, or courthouse, or even city hall make more sense? Apparently, Japan’s post office includes a bank. Not exactly sure how or why it has been set up like this, but at least the reason I’m going there makes a little more sense now.

Anyway, after asking around, I found the location and hours of the Yokosuka branch of the post office, and made Jim agree to lunch at a restaurant near there today so I wouldn’t have to go by myself to pay my ticket. (In case you’re wondering, I confessed to the ticket last night as soon as he walked in the door. Not that I would have tried to hide it anyway, but I certainly wanted him to hear it from me before his boss gets a copy and says something about it.)

Walked up to what appeared to be an information desk in the post office, and with a hang-dog look showed the clerk my ticket and some yen. He informed me that you can’t pay a ticket on Saturday, only Monday through Friday when the bank portion of the post office is open.

Darn. Now I’ll have to go back during the week without reinforcements.

Friday, September 4--Safety driving

2009-09-04T14:14:00.000+09:00

It was bound to happen.

Frankly, I’m a little surprised it took this long, given the fact that I inherited my dad’s lead foot, and the fact that unless you’re on the highway, Japan is basically one huge school zone. The speed limit on most surface roads is 40 kilometers per hour—for those of you who are metrically challenged, that’s 25 mph.

It started as such a good day. The soreness from the Fuji climb is finally gone, so I went to the base to have lunch with Jim and run the errands I’d put off all week on account of my hobbling. I was in my own little world on the drive home, thinking thoughts of nothing, just enjoying the sunshine and a (finally) recognizable song on the Japanese radio station. There were cars a couple blocks up ahead of me, and thanks to getting caught at one of the many stoplights, I was the right-lane co-leader of a pack of several more cars. We were all traveling at about the same speed—I was not closing the gap on the cars ahead, nor was I pulling away from those following me. Nevertheless, as I was about to exit a tunnel, I heard the whoop of a siren and looked up to see a motorcycle cop behind me. Ever since we moved here, I’d been wondering about the police. They always seem to be driving around with their red lights flashing, so how would a person know if he was in trouble and should pull over? Now I know. Slowing down and easing off to the right, I was praying he just wanted to pass me. No such luck. He indicated that he wanted me to follow him to a suitable place to pull over. Damn.

We pulled off into a bus stop, with the motorcycle parked in front of me. That would never happen in the U.S.—some lunatic would just run the cop over and keep going. He got off his bike in his blue janitor uniform and shiny white helmet, took off his shades and gloves, and came back to my car to ask if I spoke Japanese. I told him not so much, so he was going to have to use his English. I was really hoping he’d decide it wasn’t worth the trouble to try to communicate with me and let me off with a warning (this hope was bolstered by the fact that he hadn’t automatically come to my car with his ticket book). He sternly told me what the speed limit on the road was, and pointed up to the radar display on his bike, which showed I had been going 58 kph. I kept apologizing as he kept repeating “safety driving,” then asked for my driver’s license. When he walked back to his bike with my license, with other cars whizzing by fast enough to rock his motorcycle, I was still hoping he’d run my info in his little computer, see I had no other violations and really was a fairly “safety driver,” and go after a more deserving target. Apparently, all he was getting from his little computer was a printout of my speed, which he brought back to my car taped to a ticket. I had to fill in my info, initial the speed printout as proof that he had not attached a bogus slip, and sign the ticket, a copy of which he said would be forwarded to my husband’s command (office) on base. With more admonishments of “safety driving,” he gave me an instruction sheet in English that informed me I had to go to the post office within seven days to pay my fine or be hauled off to jail.

Being pissed off that he actually gave me the ticket when everyone else was going just as fast as I was, and that he couldn’t cut a gaijin a little slack, and that the fine was ¥12,000 (over $120!), and that they were soon going to tattle on me to Jim’s office, I just barely repressed the urge to give him my business card for English lessons when he issued his final warning about “safety driving.” It’s “SAFE driving” you heartless jerk! Yet in the end, I was left feeling like the jerk when he bowed before walking past his bike and into the road to usher me safely back into the flow of traffic in that infinitely (and in this case, infuriatingly) polite way the Japanese have of doing everything. Something about that bow made me feel more shame than the entirety of his stern lecture. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt quite so small in my life.

Monday, August 31--Salvation

2009-08-31T16:58:00.000+09:00

Early last week, even before the expected consequences of our climb became reality, I’d decided to skip my normal 6:00 a.m. swimming this morning. So I slept a couple hours later than usual and woke to dark, gloomy skies and rain slapping against the windows. Not a big fan of rainy days when I have places to go and things to do, I was even more depressed knowing that today’s schedule meant walking to the train station for this afternoon’s lesson in Tokyo. On a good day, it’s a 15-minute hike down a steep hill, but factoring in my post-Fuji pace and the wind-whipped rain, I was figuring today’s trek could potentially be a full, miserable hour.

Someone was taking pity on me. When I checked my email before hauling myself off to the shower, I found a note canceling my morning lesson due to the typhoon. Typhoon? Really? Not just a rainy day? Didn’t seem that bad out, but I certainly was not going to argue. I could only hope that the folks in Tokyo would also rather be safe than sorry. After a few anxious hours of endlessly refreshing my email inbox, hope vanishing as I watched the rain outside the window diminish to a drizzle, I finally got word that the afternoon’s lesson was canceled. Hallelujah!! Thank you Mother Nature! Since two groups had now used the typhoon as an excuse, I only felt slightly guilty when I emailed my final student of the day and told her I was canceling the evening's lesson due to the weather. Ahh, a full day's reprieve before I have to hobble out into the world.

Sunday, August 30--Has anybody seen my walker?

2009-08-30T16:53:00.000+09:00

Just as I suspected, even my complete exhaustion could not guarantee a good night’s sleep. I woke myself up at least a dozen times last night whimpering in pain as I tried to roll over. Apparently, I have muscles that were not mentioned in my anatomy classes, and every single one of them is screaming, and I mean SCREAMING. If that weren’t bad enough, despite my many Band-aids, the sheets kept bumping against my “Fuji toes.” The bottoms of both big toes have fat, juicy, quarter-sized blisters, and the nails of the toes next door are both damaged. The one on the left is all purple and bruised, and the one on the right lifts up like a car hood. Friends had warned us that toenails would suffer on the descent, so I had followed their suggestion and trimmed mine as short as I dared. Guess I should have been more daring and trimmed them to the quick.

So, needless to say, today has not been such a productive day. I’m proud to say I did manage to get down the stairs for breakfast, and back up again for a hot shower. Jim, who is just a little sore, has found my condition to be quite hilarious, and if it wouldn’t take me five minutes to cross the room, I’d clobber him with a pillow. To be fair, when he’s not doubled over laughing or mimicking my groaning, robotic gait, he has been quite considerate about bringing me things so I don’t have to get up so often. In the hopes that movement would help to work out some of the soreness, I even gamely agreed when he asked if I wanted to meet Pat and Angela for dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant, even though it meant negotiating three flights of stairs between the parking lot and our booth, both going and coming. At this point, I really don’t see much improvement, and I hope I haven’t aggravated the problem…from experience the second day after strenuous exercise is usually even worse than the first, so getting to tomorrow’s lessons could be an exercise in sheer determination.

Saturday, August 29--Mt. Fuji, Part Two

2009-08-29T14:12:00.000+09:00

The hut operators provide a 2:30 a.m. wakeup call each day so hikers can heave themselves up the rest of the mountain in time to see the sunrise. However, between the hard bunk, the banging of the bathroom door outside, the arrival of new guests, and the endless parade of overnight hikers stomping past the hut, sleep proved elusive for most of us. We finally gave up the charade a little after 1 a.m. and after waking Aaron from a sound sleep, we bundled up in layers, laced up our boots, strapped on our headlamps, and slipped out into the cold to merge with the masses headed up the trail. The climb was rockier and steeper than the day before, and the path was narrower, usually with just enough room for two people to walk side by side. The crowd actually worked to my advantage; it was like bumper to bumper rush hour traffic on I-95, so we were forced to stop every few meters. I could catch my breath without slowing anyone down. The trail got narrower still, forcing us to go single file in some sections. All of the switchbacks made it seem like we were in line for a ride at some particularly sadistic theme park. This was especially frustrating for Jim, who had energy to spare and desperately wanted to pass the large Japanese tour groups clogging up the path. I simply enjoyed the chance to breathe and look back down the hill at the endless undulating snake of headlamps bobbing in the dark. As time continued to tick away, the increasing strength of the frigid wind and the first hints of brightening skies in the east added an urgency to our efforts to reach the top.

Nearly two and a half hours after leaving the “hotel,” we finally passed through the torii gate marking the shrine perched on the summit of Mt. Fuji. Victory!! All around us were hordes of people milling about, stomping frozen feet, slurping Cup Noodles, and prepping their cameras to catch the perfect shot of the sun’s first peek above the horizon. All I cared about was finding the person who could brand an authentic sunrise stamp into my stick, thereby confirming that I had in fact completed this monumental undertaking. I stood in line behind scores of other people with Fuji sticks, not to get a brand, but a disappointing series of kanji characters made by whacking a henna-covered stamp into the side of my stick with a hammer (an admittedly much faster process than branding, which I can kind of understand given the ever-growing line of customers). It left a wet impression that I was warned not to touch (despite the fact that it was placed precisely where I’d been gripping the stick for the entire climb), and looked nothing like the sunrise brand I could have purchased down by the 7^th station. Arrggghhh!!

Being fairly drained by the bitter cold winds buffeting us on top of Mt. Fuji, we chose not to take the hour-long walk around the crater rim, therefore missing the actual highest point (directly opposite where we were standing), the weather station, souvenir shops, and Japan’s highest post office. In fact, after a short consultation in which Aaron with his fancy camera was the only dissenting vote, we decided that goraiko, the coming of the light, would be just as impressive from the descending trail as from the summit. So at 4:55 a.m., thirteen minutes shy of the official sunrise, Jim and I got our picture taken at the summit, then turned around and made for the exit.

Initially, I was grateful that the descending trail was not the same as the ascending trail—I was not looking forward to scrambling down all those viciously sharp rocks I had just climbed up. The trail started out as a wide, gently sloping path blanketed in thick volcanic dust. Messy but soft, and the easiest way to proceed was just to jog down. I stopped to get pictures of the sunrise along the way, keeping Jim in my sights ahead of me and Aaron behind me. Before long, the dusty trail became littered with lava rocks, much like you’d find in the bottom of a barbecue grill or lining flower beds (shocking to find lava rocks on a volcano, I know) and jogging became less of a viable option. A few rocks scattered half-buried in the dust turned quickly into endless mounds of unstable, shifting, rolling, sliding deathtraps, just waiting for an unsuspecting hiker to make a misstep. Well, before long I did, and down I went, landing flat on my back, my surgically repaired knee bent so my foot touched my butt for the first time in two years, and my camera catching most of my weight on the right side. After verifying that no limbs were broken, I tucked the now useless camera in my backpack, slurped a calming drink of water from the rapidly dwindling supply in my Camelback, and cautiously made my way down around the next bend where I found Jim waiting. After learning of my fall, he stayed closer to me on the increasingly steep zigzagging descent. Physically, I had to stop way more often than he would have liked, because my legs just weren’t going to hold me up another step. I ate peanuts, beef jerky, and M&Ms, hoping to get enough of a protein/sugar rush to calm the uncontrollable shaking in my legs. An hour or so into the descent, with nothing in front of us but an infinite number of switchbacks covered in treacherous rocks, and an increasingly warm sun blazing overhead, I had drunk all of my water (no one told us there would be nowhere to buy water on the downhill side, or I would have gladly paid $6 a bottle to restock before leaving Fujisan Hotel). Two more falls marked the end of my emotional stamina, and I had to take yet another break on the side of the trail, crying miserably.

Getting no sympathy from Jim, and noticing that he was becoming increasingly upset with my frequent stops, I urged him to just go on down the hill and meet me at the bottom. He refused, and since Fuji showed no signs of an imminent eruption to put a fiery end to my misery, I was left with no alternative but to suck it up and try to manage a steadier pace. I can’t say the speed improved much over the next hour, but despite some graceless, lunging slips, there were no more falls, which slightly improved my emotional state. After a call from Patrick (yes, DOCOMO cell phones work on Fuji), who had already reached the bottom and was waiting with Pat and Angela at the 5^th station, we determined that we were about an hour from being done with this whole mess. Increasingly thirsty and trembly, each downward step was sheer agony, and the Fuji stick was finally put to good use. With Jim supporting me on one side, and the Fuji stick on the other, we made it to the point where the ascending and descending trails merge, and scenery began to look familiar—almost there. We passed the horses we’d seen on the way up (I refused to pay $120 to ride one the rest of the way down), where we received another call from Patrick wondering where we were. Apparently still about 30 minutes away, so I begged him to please buy us bottled water and Aquarius to have the second we walked off the trail. He also mentioned that Aaron had made it to the bottom. Really? He didn’t pass us. Hmm. Unfortunately, he had taken the wrong fork in the descending trail, and ended up on the other side of the mountain. Not wanting to embark on a three hour drive to pick him up, Pat told him to find the train station, and we’d see him at home.

Remember I mentioned when we started our climb yesterday that we were initially going downhill? I thought going back up that section would really suck on the return trip, hikers being tired and all. Never in my life have I been so glad to walk uphill. The gradual incline took the pressure off the screaming muscles in my thighs and calves, my toes were no longer jammed up against the inside of my boots, and as I saw the corner of the 5^th station buildings peeking over the treetops ahead of us, I was able to hobble faster to the end of this miserable journey. We passed dozens of people who were just starting out, looking fresh and clean, and as excited as we had been yesterday—I figured seeing my bedraggled condition would discourage some of them, but they continued happily on their way. Finally catching sight of Patrick walking toward us with dewy bottles of water in his hands brought a fresh round of tears, this time a combination of exhaustion, gratitude, relief, pain, and even a bit of elation at having conquered Mt. Fuji. After a short rest and guzzling two bottles of much-needed liquid, the five remaining members of our party struck out for the parking lot and the waiting van which would carry us off that blasted mountain. Save for a revitalizing stop at McDonalds, the ride home was decidedly more quiet than yesterday’s journey.

Back at home, we rolled out of the van and went inside to face the menacing staircase separating us from the hot shower that we hoped would soothe aching muscles and wash off the gritty film of volcanic dust. Afterwards, a nap and cocktail of Advil and Tylenol didn’t do much to ease the soreness, so I endured an agonizing climb back down the stairs to soak in the tub. Still not finding much relief, I resigned myself to another night with little rest.

Before succumbing to sleep, Jim and I rehashed our Fuji adventure once again--the good, the bad, and the ugly. Despite the agony, I am happy (or will be) that I did not miss the opportunity to climb Mt. Fuji while we were in Japan. I don't think I'll be tackling Everest, and I have certainly abandoned our hare-brained, pre-climb scheme to go back to Fuji next year and start from the very bottom. If they ever offer cable car or helicopter rides down from the summit, I might be convinced to climb Mt. Fuji again (after all, I never did get my coveted sunrise stamp), but the devil will be wearing a fur-lined parka before I ever agree to walk/slide/fall back down that hellacious pile of rock.

Friday, August 28--Mt. Fuji, Part One

2009-08-28T21:44:00.000+09:00

Having been told to expect a three- to four-hour, traffic-snarled drive, we left home in a rented van at 4 a.m. this morning. Only having had about three hours of sleep, all six of us should have been groggy and grumpy, yet there was lots of joking and excited chatter as we drove through the brightening dawn towards Mt. Fuji. Even with stops to capture photos of our destination looming in the distance, we made the trip in under two hours. The drive from the base of the mountain to the 5^th station, the traditional starting point for climbers, which we were warned would be bumper to bumper, was actually deserted. This meant when we encountered a giant eighth note painted in the middle of the asphalt, we were free to drive the recommended 50 km per hour over the grooved pavement to hear a lovely tune created by the van’s tires.

At last we were directed to park in a fairly empty lot where everyone piled out of the van, slathered on sunscreen, and slung on backpacks. A 10-minute, slightly uphill walk brought us to the famed 5^th station of the Kawaguchiko Route, where we took advantage of the foul-smelling, but possibly only, Western-style toilet on the mountain before heading into the gift shop to purchase the requisite Fuji stick. This stick is an octagonal wooden staff, probably worth about $2, but sold for $15. I chose one capped by a flag printed with a map of the trail we were about to climb, but opted not to grab one with bells attached (said to scare away evil spirits along the trail, but more likely to drive the hiker carrying the stick completely insane). The purpose of this stick is not so much to assist climbers over volcanic rocks as it is to offer proof of the journey. At various huts (rest stops) along the trail, the stick can be marked with a red-hot brand for about $3 a pop, with the goal (or at least my goal) being the coveted sunrise stamp at the summit. I know all this because Jim has a branded stick (with bells!?) from his first ascent of Fuji-san. Since that stick is currently in storage, he decided to purchase a regular aluminum hiking pole from a sporting goods store for this second climb. After safely tucking my Fuji-map flag in my backpack so it wouldn’t be ruined by sweaty hands and blowing volcanic dust, I gathered with the rest of the group for a pre-climb photo taken by an obliging Japanese climber. Looking at the photo in the display window of my camera, we are all smiling, the sky is blue, life couldn’t be better….

As we started out, I was puzzled by the downward slope of the first twenty minutes of hiking. I thought we were climbing up Mt. Fuji? When the path finally became a noticeable, but not unpleasant, incline we passed by some tired but sturdy looking horses and guides offering $120 rides up the trail. I was lulled into thinking if a horse could go up this trail with a rider on its back, then it should be no problem for me. Fast forward about four hours…The moderate incline has become increasingly steep and I have been climbing as fast as my aching legs will carry me, yet strangely I find myself alone. The rest of the group has deserted me. The gazelles, Patrick, Pat, and Angela, left me in the dust within the first hour. Jim stayed by my side for a (little) while longer, then started hiking ahead and waiting for me to catch up at the next hut. Eventually, between the frequent pauses to catch my breath (not really winded from the altitude, just the hard work) and stops to purchase brands for my stick, he gave up and just went on ahead. Aaron was nearby for a longer time, as he was stopping often to take pictures. At some point, I also fell significantly behind him. I was left leap-frogging up the mountain with a Japanese family hiking with their young son, all of us being passed at regular intervals by boisterous twenty-somethings and determined senior citizens.

The Kawaguchiko Route up Mt. Fuji started at an elevation of 2305 m. The path was an interminable series of switchbacks, zigzagging up the mountain. Some sections were wide and covered in soft dust, while other areas were steep, treacherous piles of volcanic boulders that required the help of both hands (notice I did not say Fuji stick) to scale. In some places where the lava from the last eruption cooled too steep and smooth to find a foothold, steps had been carved in the rock. What I didn’t understand was why the rise on each step was between 18 and 24 inches high—that’s a quad-challenging stretch for American-size legs, and must be exceptionally frustrating for the more vertically challenged Japanese. At various points along the trail were randomly spaced “huts” where hikers could rest, purchase drinks and snacks (the price increased with the altitude, but my $2 banana was absolutely delicious), use the toilet for a dollar, and get stamps on their sticks. Our goal for the day was the Fujisan Hotel at the 8^th station and 3360 m—and though that was only three stations past our start point, it did not mean my hike was over when I reached the third hut. There were random collections of two to eight huts between each station, and it quickly became depressing trying to figure out how many more huts I needed to pass to reach my goal. No matter how much I climbed, anytime I looked up I only saw more mountain. I finally took some Tylenol to ease the burning in my legs, then just put my head down, put one foot in front of the other, and plodded towards the next hut and its unique stamp—I’m not sure what I would have done without the incentive of filling up my hiking stick with those stamps. I was so determined to have a complete set of stamps (well, minus the one from the unmanned 6^th station), in order, that I was outraged when I found out one of the huts around the 7^th station was selling the sunrise stamp, and refused to get it because it wouldn’t be authentic unless it was burned into my stick on the summit.

Finally, after about seven and a half hours, I saw a tiny figure waving to me from high above, at what I could only hope was the Fujisan Hotel. It still took another twenty minutes of dragging myself uphill to recognize the figure as Jim. As I stopped once again to catch my breath, he made his way down the path to escort me the last few meters (consisting of about twenty of those monstrous, quad-punishing lava steps). To my bewilderment, I found myself choking back tears, I guess a result of the tremendous physical and emotional relief of knowing I was finally there.

The Fujisan Hotel was actually nothing more than a large uninsulated wooden shed, with a U-shaped two-tiered bunk layout able to accommodate at least two hundred people stacked like cordwood, but it looked like the Ritz to me. I gladly climbed to my assigned sleeping bag on the top tier bunk, stowed my backpack on a hook, swallowed two more tablets of what would become a long, alternating regimen of Advil and Tylenol, and eased back for a well-deserved rest. Soon dinner was served on a low Japanese table, and I climbed down to my cushion on the floor where I attacked the curry, rice, and hamburger patty with abandon. I was ready to plow through the miniature hot dogs as well, but the first fish-flavored bite brought me sputtering to a halt. After enjoying a $4 hot chocolate served in a 4-ounce Dixie cup, we played some Uno and eavesdropped on the tales of the other hikers who had straggled in. When our tired legs couldn’t stand sitting on the hard floor any longer, we climbed back up to the bunk, stowed the bento breakfasts that were included in our lodging fees, and settled in to get some rest. As I struggled to find a comfortable position for my aching body on the hard bunk, I consoled myself with the fact that I had climbed 1471 vertical meters, and only had 416 to go….

Thursday, August 27--Don't wanna be a fool

2009-08-27T18:59:00.000+09:00

An old Japanese saying goes, “A wise man climbs Mt. Fuji once. Only a fool does it twice.” (The axiom does not mention women because they were forbidden to climb it until 1868.) Given a choice, I’d always prefer to be wise than a fool, so we have made plans to hike to the 12,388-foot summit on this, the last official weekend of the 2009 climbing season. Hoping to beat at least some of the crowd, Jim, Pat, Angela, Aaron, and Patrick all took a day off from work so we can climb most of the way tomorrow, spend the night on the mountain, then see the sunrise and descend on Saturday (when, we hope, the majority of the foot traffic will be headed up).

A little background info on Mt. Fuji. This nearly symmetrical volcanic cone is the tallest peak in Japan at 3776 meters (12,388 ft), on a circular base 126 km (78.5 miles) in circumference. It is only open for climbing during July and August, because that is when the weather is the least forbidding (although we are still prepared for the possibility of gale-force winds, torrential downpours, icy fog, and freezing temperatures at the top). The mountain has always been considered sacred among the Japanese, especially to those who practice Shintoism, yet only about 1% of the population ever climbs to the summit. (Guess that means many of the 200,000 people who climb each year are crazy gaijin [foreigners] like us.) Fuji-san is a dormant volcano, which last erupted in 1707, spreading 4-6 inches of ash over Tokyo, some 60 miles away as the crow flies.

We’ve talked to many people who have made it to the top of Mt. Fuji and lived to tell the tale (in fact, Jim is one of them, although I didn’t want to broadcast that too widely since this weekend’s trip will officially land him in the “fool” category). I’ve been critically comparing their physical fitness levels to my own so-so status, factoring in my always unpredictable rheumatoid arthritis, weighing the stability of my surgically-repaired knee, and praying my determination to say, “I did it” will outweigh any physical shortcomings I may have. I’m excited and nervous at the same time, and almost have that giddy night-before-Christmas feeling of anticipation.

The whole gang is coming over for a carb-loading spaghetti dinner this evening, and we’ll discuss final preparations for our adventure—what clothes we’re taking, how much water to bring, what snacks will travel well. After dinner, Jim and I will charge the camera, raid the pantry for granola bars, beef jerky, peanuts, and M&Ms, lay out our clothes, load up the essential gear in our backpacks, then try to catch a couple hours sleep before our early morning departure.

Wednesday, August 26--Seriously, you want me to eat that?

2009-08-26T18:48:00.000+09:00

Two of Jim’s most outgoing and sociable office mates are leaving Japan this week, so they arranged a farewell dinner for themselves at the Officers’ Club. Somehow they convinced the management and chefs to offer an Escoffier Dinner smack dab in the middle of the week, on the condition that enough of their coworkers made reservations to make the endeavor worthwhile for the chefs. These sorts of things are normally reserved for the weekend, since each course is paired with a suitable wine, which could make getting up for work the next day difficult for some people. (Normally, I would fall into this category, but since I am the designated driver this evening, the point is moot.)

For those of you not familiar with this type of meal, “Escoffier” is French for “gross things people wouldn’t normally eat if we called them by their English names.” The chefs prepare elaborate dishes of amazingly tiny proportions, combining ingredients that are aisles apart in the grocery store for a very good reason. In the past, Escoffier dinners at the O Club have been chock full of seafood, making them an automatic pass for Jim. Tonight’s menu was light on seafood, but ingredients in four of the seven courses still worried me. Amazingly, Mikey’s words of advice from the Life cereal commercials were very appropriate this evening—“Try it, you’ll like it!”

I like salmon, but am not a big fan of smoked salmon, so I had my doubts about the appetizer, a “satiny-smooth mixture” of smoked salmon and gelled consommé. The taste was not bad; the texture was a bit weird, and probably not something I’d order again on my own. You can’t go wrong with the second course, a salad, unless of course you add foie gras to it. In my book, there is nothing you can do to liver—blend it up and mold it in a pretty shape, add exotic spices, give it a fancy French name—that will make it palatable. I wasn’t holding out much hope for the soup course, either, a chilled watermelon soup garnished with goat cheese and basil. Never in a million years would I have thought to mix those three items together, but the combination was surprisingly delicious, and something I probably would order again.

The first entrée, and the fourth worrisome dish, was quail with soba noodles and asparagus. I've only seen quail on the hoof in my grandparents' yard, never on a dinner plate, and I was taken aback by just how small a bird it is under those feathers. It should have been served with a scalpel and forceps, because trying to get the meat off tiny fragile little quail bones with a traditional knife and fork caused unspeakable carnage. Maybe it was meant to be eaten with your fingers, but that just seemed wrong for what could have been a meal served in a five-star restaurant. Guess I’ll have to see what Google says about quail-eating-etiquette.

A palate cleanser of mikan (Japanese tangerine) sorbet was served next, and I gladly would have eaten a bucket of it. Not only because it was so refreshing and delicious, but because every course so far had been so small. I realize that you can’t have full American-size servings of every dish when you are eating a seven-course meal, but with only two courses to go, I was planning a McDonald’s drive-thru run.

Just from the description on the menu, the second entrée initially held the most promise for me as most likely to be liked. The seared beef tenderloin with shiitake lived up to my expectations, and I even got to snitch the uneaten mushrooms from Jim’s plate. However, with about three bites to go, everything we had eaten so far finally caught up with me, and I began scaling down my McDonald’s order. And by the time I finished my dessert of grilled pound cake covered with vanilla yogurt and fresh peaches, I hadn’t room for even a single Chicken McNugget.

As a culinary adventure, this was certainly a memorable night. As a farewell dinner, it left a little to be desired since there was no time between courses to mingle with the guests of honor. Nevertheless, thank you Adam and Brenda for the opportunity to expand my gastronomic repertoire. Your willingness to try new things, and your encouragement for others to join you in such adventures will be missed!

Monday, August 17--Hindsight is 20/20

2009-08-17T16:51:00.000+09:00

Dragging out our trip until the last possible moment seemed like a good idea at the time. Since we’d been in Japan a year, we wanted to spend as much time as possible with friends and family, not knowing when our next trip home will be. Kind of rethinking that decision this morning as we drag ourselves through the normal Monday routine. Even though we left the States on Saturday, we didn’t get back to our house in Japan until late yesterday evening. The few hours we had before bedtime were filled with trying not to step on the cat (who was sure we had abandoned her forever) weaving around our feet, unpacking suitcases and doing laundry, taking stock of the grocery situation, and laying out clean clothes and other paraphernalia for work this morning. No time for overcoming jet lag or easing back into the daily routine. Will remember today’s unpleasantness when planning the next trip…

Thursday-Tuesday, August 6-11--This is the life for me

2009-08-11T16:36:00.001+09:00

So much to do on this visit to the States. After two weeks of somewhat frenetic activity, including cross-country visits to friends and relatives, doctor’s appointments, a class for Jim, and marathon shopping for me, we spent five gloriously relaxing days in the cool mountains of North Carolina. With not a single obligation, no schedule, and only spotty internet service, we were able to enjoy some much-needed down time.

If you ever need a place to get away from it all—traffic, phone calls, summer heat and humidity, kitchen duty, whatever—I highly recommend the Cataloochee Ranch in Maggie Valley, NC. For 75 years, the Alexander family has welcomed guests to the ranch and treated them like family—at least one member of the family sits down with guests as the host at every meal. We rented one of the ranch’s twelve cabins, The Pond House, named for its proximity to the trout pond (whose residents were intentionally well-fed to dampen their enthusiasm for baited fishhooks), and only a short walk from the main ranch house and its home-cooked meals.

Our days started with a huge country breakfast of eggs, meat, oatmeal, biscuits and fruit. Then we headed out on whatever adventure we had chosen for the day—hiking, horseback riding, a ride on the Great Smokey Mountains Railroad, a trip down the mountain into town (don’t waste your time or money visiting “Ghost Town in the Sky”—its days as a B-grade Wild West-themed amusement park are numbered). Then back to the ranch for an afternoon nap before a just-like-Grandma-used-to-make dinner. After dinner, there was usually a campfire where we could enjoy the cool evening air and chat with other guests, some of whom had been coming to the ranch every summer for thirty years or more.

I dread this morning’s final mountain descent, and the ensuing return to the real world, where the humidity is high, the temperatures are higher, the dentist awaits, a 14-hour flight back to Japan looms on the calendar, and there are no good smells coming from the kitchen.

Friday, July 24--Goodbye Granddad, I Love You

2009-07-24T14:20:00.000+09:00

Today we said a final farewell to my grandfather. Having served as a sergeant in the U.S. Army during WWII, he was eligible to have his ashes inurned in the Columbarium at Arlington National Cemetery. When we were kids, Granddad never talked about the army, or the time he spent in Africa during the war. When we got older and he showed us the pictures he had kept from that time, although he could name all of the soldiers whose faces looked out at us from the faded black and whites, he had very few stories to share. I’m not sure if he thought we wouldn’t be interested, or if he just chose not to recall the details of that period of his life.

The stories my grandfather did tell were anecdotes from Arlington National Cemetery. That place was alternately his pride and joy and his greatest burden. You see, he worked for twelve years as the Facilities Manager at ANC, which meant any time someone needed preparations for an upcoming event or a solution for a middle-of-the-night crisis, Granddad got the call. His responsibilities were varied, from maintaining roads, to fixing electrical glitches, to supervising movie crews, to planning new construction (including the Columbarium in which his ashes now rest). Once during a torrential summer rainstorm, Granddad had to go relight the eternal flame at the Kennedy gravesite—the call to report its outage had come all the way from Japan! (Granddad figured a Japanese tourist noticed it and called home to tell friends and relatives, “You’ll never believe what I just saw.…”)

In my heart, I believe it was his service to the cemetery and not his service to our country during the war that prompted Granddad’s wishes to be buried in Arlington. He could have still received military honors had he chosen to be buried in the family cemetery on the Eastern Shore. But for twelve years, Arlington was his family, demanding his time, his energy, his attention and his affection, just like a child. Looking through the pillars of the Columbarium, across the endless rows of pristine white headstones while the bugler played Taps, the riflemen fired their 21-gun salute, and the chaplain presented the folded flag to Granddad’s wife, I felt Arlington open its arms to welcome my grandfather and return all the love he had invested there. Granddad has gone home.

Thursday, July 23--Have you driven a Ford lately?

2009-07-23T12:51:00.000+09:00

If I hadn’t been so tired when we arrived yesterday, I would have refused to even take the keys from the rental car agent. What the heck were they thinking, giving a pull-me-over red Ford Mustang to a sleep-deprived, lead-footed, been-gone-for-a-year driver who isn’t even sure which side of the car to get in? Never mind the fact that I have no proof of insurance to show police should the need arise, since my only coverage is provided by the credit card I used for the rental. Might as well just put a big sign on the roof asking the cops to pull me over.

After having dinner with Jenny and Mike, I drove VERY carefully behind Jim’s rental car as we negotiated our way from the Chinese restaurant, through the shopping center parking lot, towards the highway that would lead us to Mom’s house. I may have been tired, but I knew I wasn’t breaking any traffic laws at that point. So when the whoop of a siren made me look back to see flashing blue lights in the rear-view mirror, I thought my moo goo gai pan was going to make a return appearance right there. “You have got to be kidding me. What in the name of Pete could I have possibly done wrong in this parking lot!? Jim, wait…don’t leave me!!!”

Thankfully, the cop drove around me, and pulled in behind Jim’s car, with a second cruiser close behind. “Well, sheesh, what did Jim do?” Turns out, neither of us were their intended targets. They went on around both of us and screeched to a stop outside a jewelry store a little farther up in the shopping center. That was too close for comfort, and there was no way I could handle the pressure of driving that Mustang for three weeks. Before lunch today, we found the Hertz closest to Mom’s house, and exchanged the attention-grabbing muscle car for a less conspicuous Honda Accord.

Wednesday, July 22--Homeward Bound

2009-07-22T12:50:00.000+09:00

Just nine days shy of the one-year anniversary of our arrival in Japan, we are headed back to the States for three weeks. My grandfather’s inurnment at Arlington National Cemetery and a class Jim must attend are the over-riding reasons for our trip, but I admit I have other priorities. Seeing our moms; catching up with friends; bass fishing in our favorite pond (and slurping down a strawberry slushie when we’re done); shopping for American-size clothes; and chowing down at Chick-Fil-A and Cracker Barrel. Other things I am looking forward to are reading roadside billboards, walking into an unfamiliar restaurant and being confident that I am not ordering a dish that contains unidentifiable fish parts (a real hazard here when you can’t read Japanese), and chatting with the cashiers when I go shopping. While I haven’t felt really homesick since we’ve been here, there are lots of little things I took for granted in the States that I miss and will be glad to experience again.

Things I am not looking forward to…the fourteen hour plane ride and learning again how to drive on the right-hand side of the road.

Monday, July 13--Parallel Universe

2009-07-13T21:56:00.000+09:00

It dawned on me today that I haven’t seen anyone I know in almost two months. No, I haven’t become a hermit—I see my students each week, my friends on the weekends, and sleep next to Jim every night that he's in town.

When we first arrived in Japan, I saw someone from home everywhere I looked. Obviously it wasn’t really someone from home, but hairstyles, clothing, gaits, and mannerisms all combined to play tricks on my mind. I saw the twins of former students, college roommates, coworkers, and family members, including my grandfather who had passed away nearly twenty years ago. I assume this phenomenon was some kind of coping mechanism to make the culture shock less jarring. Apparently, the shock has subsided, and my sub-conscious has decided I can handle unadulterated reality now.

It’ll be interesting to see whether the twins reappear after our upcoming trip to the States.

Saturday, July 4--It's Just Not the Same

2009-07-04T16:26:00.001+09:00

No smells of hot dogs and hamburgers sizzling on the grill. No rousing patriotic songs blaring from the radio. No squealing bottle rockets being lit by the teenagers down the block. No bunting flapping in the breeze from the neighbor’s porch. The Fourth of July outside of the United States just ain’t the same. I wouldn’t say I actively celebrate the holiday, but I definitely felt the loss of all the traditional goings-on in this, my first Independence Day out of America. The base, to its credit, did try to recreate that hometown atmosphere, with a 5K run, games for the kids, BBQ ribs, and a first-rate fireworks show. Driving off the base, dodging the crowds of Japanese who had come to see the fireworks, ended the illusion of being at home. And it was completely surreal to go to bed in silence, with no random bursts of firecrackers in the street to jolt me back from the edge of sleep.

Thursday, July 2--Wait, something's missing

2009-07-02T16:52:00.001+09:00

As I was driving to a lesson this afternoon, I saw a young Japanese woman walking down the street and immediately I thought something was completely out of whack. As I continued down the road, glancing at her retreating form in my rearview mirror, my mind was trying to piece together the facts to determine what’s wrong with this picture. She was a couple inches taller than the average Japanese woman, but not tall enough to be considered unusual. So what was it?

A couple kilometers further up the road, after passing several “normal” Japanese pedestrians, it clicked. That woman wasn’t carrying anything. Nothing. Not a purse, or a messenger bag, or a backpack, or a kid. No groceries, no coffee in a can, no flowers. No appointment book, no iPod, no cell phone (gasp!). She didn’t have a dog leash in her hand or an umbrella on her arm. This woman was completely “naked.” It dawned on me that in eleven months of living here, I have not seen a single person—man, woman, or child, young or old—who was not carrying something. How very, very strange.

Thursday, July 2--Singing the praises of JMSDF

2009-07-02T16:49:00.000+09:00

I know I talk a lot about JMSDF, but it’s really hard not to. Working there has been such an incredible experience, probably one of the things that will always stick out in my mind once we eventually leave Japan.

Today, the three students I had from the SAPO class amazed me yet again. The topic for today’s conversation lesson was music. After we talked about their favorite artists, favorite songs, and musical experiences, I wanted them to hear one of my favorite songs. It’s by the country artist Bucky Covington, and I explained that the reason I liked it and wanted to share it with them was because it could have been written about my own childhood. Titled “A Different World,” the song brings back lots of good memories and creates a vivid image of the life of an American child about thirty years ago.

To make it more of an educational activity, I printed off the lyrics after replacing several of the song’s nouns with blanks. I wanted the students to listen and try to fill in the blanks, a challenging task anyway, but made even more difficult by Bucky’s strong country accent. After listening once, the guys had managed to fill in about half of the blanks, so we talked about the rest of the missing words and what the song meant. Then I played it again so they could read along with the completed lyrics, and darned if all three of them didn’t sing the entire song out loud.

Getting my third graders, who were supposed to be young and uninhibited, to sing a song they knew was like pulling teeth, yet here were three twenty-something Japanese sailors, whom I would expect to be reserved and self-conscious, singing a song they’d never heard before, in a language that is not their own. Their participation far exceeded my expectations—I was so thrilled I could have hugged them.

Have I mentioned it will be difficult to go back to teaching elementary school in the U.S.?

Friday, June 19--Meigetsu-in

2009-06-19T16:36:00.000+09:00

After hearing rave reviews, I ventured out to Meigetsu-in this morning. Also known as the Ajisai Dera, or Hydrangea Temple, Meigetsu-in attracts thousands of visitors each June when the hydrangeas are in bloom. I was advised to go on a weekday, preferably early in the morning, to avoid the crowds. Apparently “early in the morning” did not mean one hour after the temple opened. I should have been there waiting when they unlocked the gates at 8:30. By the time I got there, the place was mobbed by school children and tour groups of old men (each group was identified by a different brightly colored bandana tied around the neck). So, as in other sightseeing endeavors, I found myself sucked into the crowd, and propelled along with no real say in my direction of travel.

Now, I don’t know a whole lot about hydrangeas, but from my travels around town in the past few weeks, I knew that they came in a variety of colors. That’s what I expected when I walked through the grounds of the temple. I was disappointed to see that about ninety percent of the blooms were blue. I was hoping for more purples, pinks, wines, and pale yellows. (Did you know that there is an old Japanese legend that says pink hydrangeas are colored by the blood of an old man or old woman buried in the ground below?) When I mentioned the temple’s limited palette to a friend, she told me she thought hydrangea colors depended on the pH of the soil. I looked it up on Google, and sure enough, the pH and amounts of certain elements such as aluminum affect the flowers’ color. Lends some credibility to that old Japanese legend!

Thursday, June 11--Bad hair season begins

2009-06-11T16:32:00.000+09:00

Oh yippee. The rainy season officially began yesterday. Ironically, yesterday was the sunniest day we’ve had in a week (not counting today), so I asked some of my students why yesterday was chosen as the beginning of the season. They all looked at me with puzzled expressions, and speaking to me like I was mentally challenged said, “Because the meteorology department said so.” Of course. How silly of me.

Turns out it doesn’t rain every day during the rainy season. The season lasts about six weeks, but on average only about a dozen of those days are total washouts. However the potential is always there. The humidity is up around 80 percent or so (so high you wish it would just rain already), and it’s a crapshoot whether the clouds that are constantly forming will let loose a deluge or drift off and break up.

Umbrellas are always close at hand, scooter riders are clad in rubber suits, and an amazing rainbow of galoshes and Crocs has appeared on the feet of my fellow train-riders. I have been looking in vain for Japanese who are having as bad a hair day (…week…month…) as I am. How is it they all have hair that looks perfect in the rain or in a gale or after a sweaty hike to the train station while mine resembles a Brillo pad inserted into a light socket?

Friday, June 5--"The Way of Tea"

2009-06-05T16:08:00.000+09:00

Tea was first introduced to Japan in the 9th century, but it wasn’t until the 13th century that the tea ceremony began to evolve. These somber rituals, influenced by many aspects of Buddhism, remained primarily a pastime of the wealthy until the 16th century. By that time, tea was being regularly enjoyed by all levels of society, and a prominent figure in the history of the tea ceremony, Sen no Rikyu set forth four principles that are still key to the “way of tea” today—harmony, respect, purity, and tranquility. The most important tenet of the tea ceremony (or any aspect of your life, for that matter) is “ichi-go, ichi-e,” which means that each moment is a once in a lifetime occurrence unable to be replicated, and therefore must be treasured.

The staff of JMSDF arranged for the American instructors to experience the “way of tea” this morning. We only got an introductory course to this important cultural ritual, rather than the full four-hour ceremony (much to my great relief—I was worried about having to sit Japanese-style for so long). In a demonstration, we learned the importance of simplicity of the room (the only decorations are a single scroll and an ikebana flower arrangement in an alcove) and how the design of the tea tools is to be admired and appreciated. We saw how the guests enter the tea room, how the hostess welcomes guests, and how she makes and serves the tea. Everything about the ceremony is learned through years of instruction—each movement is carefully choreographed, and many are too subtle to be noticed by an untrained eye. You can see some of this graceful action in this short video.

After observing the ceremony, we were taken to the dining room where half of us became hosts and were taught to make tea to serve to the “guest” sitting across the table from us. The tea used in the ceremony is powdered green tea, or matcha, which we carefully measured out from a lacquer container into a bowl using a bamboo scoop. Hot water was added, and then the mixture was whisked with a bamboo whisk until it was foamy. While the tea was being prepared, the guest ate a small sweet to cut down on the bitterness of the tea that was to come. The host passed the tea bowl across to the guest, who rotated it so as not to drink from the front. The tea was sipped (only about three sips-worth in the bowl), then the bowl was rotated back to its original position and returned to the host. We then switched roles, and hosts became guests. As a host, I felt like all thumbs as I was trying to handle the tea tools gracefully—I see why it takes years of practice to become proficient at this. As a guest, I was pleasantly surprised by the sweetness of the sweet (most Japanese sweets do not live up to the title), and how effectively it cut the bitterness of the tea. I was perplexed, however, by the front of the tea bowl—I saw nothing to distinguish the front from the back or the sides. Turns out you have to pay attention to the way the host presents it to you. The side facing you when she passes it automatically becomes the front, and you must remember how far you turn it before drinking, so you can restore it to its original position before handing it back.

I enjoyed this taste of Japanese culture, but I don’t think I’m up for the entire four-hour ritual. It is supposed to be a calming experience, but I would be stressed trying to figure out all of the nuances of the ceremony.

Sunday, May 24--You win some, you lose some

2009-05-24T16:40:00.000+09:00

Hmm, maybe all the luck drained out of those shirts because the embroidery machine poked too many holes. Whatever the reason, the poker gods were NOT smiling on us last night. We both walked out with lighter wallets and heavy hearts.

Today was a new day though, and we weren’t going to let our defeat bring us down. We decided to go down to Jogashima, a small island off the tip of Miura peninsula. Supposed to be nice walking trails, a lighthouse, and good beachcombing. It turned out to be as nice as we’d heard, even though we didn’t find the lighthouse. There was a beautiful park (full of some very calm, but very mangy-looking feral cats), with trails that led down the cliffs to the beach. The beachcombing was great. The shore was rocky in many places, so there were lots of tide pools to investigate (not sure whether the little kid or the scientist in me was more intrigued). In the sandy areas between the rocks, there were huge deposits of sea “stuff.” Broken china, beautiful shells, and more sea glass than I’d ever seen. I’ve collected sea glass for a while, but at my favorite beach in North Carolina, it’s not that abundant. We went to Cape Charles, Virginia, before coming to Japan last summer, and I had more luck there, but this was like striking the mother lode. The mayor of Cape Charles had been lamenting some new beach cleaning operation that would make finding sea glass nearly impossible. This was devastating for her, because she created and sold artwork made of the stuff. I’m thinking of writing her a letter and offering to collect and ship her authentic Japanese sea glass. Nothing like a 20-pound box of broken glass to make the customs inspectors scratch their heads.

Saturday, May 23--You may as well just give us your money now

2009-05-23T16:26:00.000+09:00

While Jim was away on his last trip, he found a man who would make custom-embroidered T-shirts, so he ordered each of us our own lucky poker shirts. His has four aces adorned with a scorpion and the slogan, “Feel the Sting.” Mine has a royal flush in a rifle sight with my nickname, “The Silent Assassin” underneath. Tonight, the pair of us will be unstoppable—we have donned the shirts and are prepared to have our best night of Texas Hold ‘Em ever. Look out Daniel Negreanu, Phil Helmuth, and the rest of the WSOP field—the Bayli are coming!

Tuesday, May 19--Dinner Denied

2009-05-19T15:12:00.000+09:00

The first section of my Tuesday night class in Atsugi has ended, and I have two weeks off before the next session begins. Tuesday happens to be Mongolian BBQ (basically build your own stir-fry) night at the Officers’ Club, and I have been seriously craving dinner there since class started in November. My arms have finally stopped aching enough that I think I can hold chopsticks without disgracing myself, so Jim and I made plans to meet at the club when he got off work. I even skimped on lunch so I’d be plenty hungry come dinner time. Jim arrived with two coworkers from out of town, and another couple was planning to meet us as well, so it was shaping up to be a very festive evening. Good company, good food—a perfect mid-week outing. So I actually felt myself deflate like a balloon when I walked into the club’s lobby to find a large sign declaring that the dining room was closed for some kind of conference. I hope they are prepared for me to raise a huge ruckus if they pull the same stunt next week, as I won’t have another chance for Mongolian BBQ until the next class ends in six months. I don't know if my taste buds can hold out that long.

Saturday, May 16--Who knew it'd be so tough?

2009-05-16T14:00:00.000+09:00

I can hardly move my arms enough to type this.

It seems that there is a shortage of women from Jim’s office willing to play in the Captain’s Cup sporting events, so I got drafted to play co-ed water polo today. Not just water polo, but inner tube water polo. You sit in an inner tube and try to throw a ball into a net. Figured it couldn’t be too hard, so I suited up and headed to the pool.

Well, it might not be a difficult game if you have a full team. As it was, we were one woman short of having enough players, so five of us tried to do the work of six. There is a definite learning curve, and we lost the first game badly. We immediately had to play another team, but managed to pull out a victory this time. Being only three teams in a double elimination tournament, we ended up having to play each team again, for a total of four back-to-back games. At the end, even the most fit among us was exhausted. You wouldn’t think it’d be so tiring, sitting in an inner tube the whole time, but the only way to propel yourself around the pool is by paddling backwards with your arms. And if a lot of points are being scored, that means retreating to your side then sprinting back to the middle for the face-off a whole lot of times. I found shoulder muscles I didn’t know I had, and every one of them was screaming by the time the last whistle blew on our second defeat.

After posing for photos with the second place trophy and our sporty water polo headgear, I headed to the locker room for the hottest shower I could stand. It didn’t help my throbbing shoulders near enough, and I left the gym with my wet hair in a ponytail because I couldn’t hold the blow dryer up. At least I didn’t have to carry the trophy.

Wednesday-Sunday, May 6-10--Globetrotting

2009-05-10T12:44:00.001+09:00

Whoo hoo! A new stamp added to my passport! That makes four, if you count the Bahamas and Jamaica, though for some reason I feel like I’m cheating when I claim them as international travel. Anyway, five of us wives from Jim’s office took off on a four-day sightseeing/shopping trip to Seoul.

The first thing I noticed was that Korean people are physically VERY pushy. This started as soon as we hit the runway an Incheon Airport—people in the back of the plane were grabbing items from the overhead bins and scurrying up the aisles before the plane had even taxied to the gate. In fact, my seatmate leapt over me to be one of the first to deplane. This lack of consideration continued anywhere there were crowds of Koreans—at the baggage claim, on the subway, in the mall, in the line for a taxi. In Japan, people stand patiently in orderly lines, wait for others to get off the train before making their way on, and are extremely apologetic when they bump into you. Even Americans have more respect for order and personal space than the Koreans.

That’s not to say the Koreans aren’t friendly. Everyone we encountered was very pleasant. In fact, they are more outgoing than the Japanese, especially the young people. On our sightseeing jaunts, we encountered groups of school kids, and they all enthusiastically said, “Hi,” with many waves and big smiles. A few wanted to ask us questions, just to practice their English.

The sightseeing was good—except that it highlighted just how little I know about world history. We toured a temple, two palaces, a museum, and the DMZ. From the tour guides’ descriptions, it seems that for much of its history, Korea has been involved in conflict—with the Chinese, with the Japanese, with the Americans, with itself. It seemed to me a country that is always on edge, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. The people of Seoul go about their daily lives, oblivious to the soldiers patrolling the capital city (every man must complete two years of compulsory military service after high school, so there is no shortage of soldiers). The river whose course we followed on the drive to the DMZ was bordered by miles of barbed wire punctuated by armed guard towers—just in case the North Koreans float down and try to enter South Korea by climbing up the river banks. So while the South Koreans technically live in freedom, I personally felt shackled by the necessary precautions they are forced to take against the “what-ifs” created by their northern neighbor.

Shopping is great in Seoul, if you are looking for designer (not) goods, especially bags and purses. I’m not really into Coach and Yves St. Laurent and Dolce & Gabbana, so I wasn’t interested in seeing the “A quality” goods in the special room upstairs. But it was fun to listen to other shoppers trying to strike a bargain—some shop owners were eager to make the sale, while others could have cared less. I walked away from the street vendors with two “mink” blankets for $20 apiece. They will be invaluable in our less-than-cozy Japanese house next winter! As for a bag, I waited till we returned to our hotel on the U.S. army base, and bought a large Kate Spade tote at the boutique there (not because of the name, but because it is the perfect size for carrying stuff to and from my English lessons—I’m tired of trying to wrangle the backpack on the train). Since it was purchased on base, I am positive it is the genuine thing (despite paying only $26), and would have sworn as much to the inspector had I been stopped at customs for trying to enter Japan with counterfeit goods!

Tuesday, April 28--Career Validation

2009-04-28T20:32:00.000+09:00

All of my teacher friends are going to be sooooo jealous!

I have been teaching a Tuesday evening class at a factory in Hon-Atsugi. The class is scheduled to end in a couple weeks, and I have to create an end-of-course assessment. The test must consist of both a written and oral evaluation, and I have to submit it to my boss for approval beforehand. No sweat—teaching third grade gave me plenty of practice creating tests. But never have I ever been paid extra for this. I was stunned to find out that in addition to my regular pay and transportation costs, I will be compensated ¥2000 for making the end-of-course assessment. If it had been April 1, I would have sworn it was some kind of April Fool’s joke.

I don’t know how Japanese teachers are treated here, but the respect and appreciation I have experienced as a foreign instructor have been amazing, and a little overwhelming. And it’s not just in the form of monetary compensation. It’s the bow at the beginning and end of each class at JMSDF. It’s the heartfelt thank you students give at the end of each private lesson. It’s the smiles of gratitude from the mothers of the little ones in my children’s group. It’s the look of admiration I get when I tell a Japanese person my occupation. There were certainly some appreciative students and parents when I was teaching in the States, but overall I didn’t feel my efforts, or those of my fellow teachers, were truly valued, which was hard on the self-esteem. For the first time since earning my teaching certificate, I feel satisfied with, and even proud of, of my choice of profession.

Sunday, April 26--This Part Sucks

2009-04-26T17:20:00.000+09:00

Well, today highlights the major drawback of living 6,772 miles from home. I woke up this morning to an email from my mom that my 89-year-old grandfather had passed away. Unfortunately, it will be too difficult and too costly to get home for Tuesday’s memorial service at his church in Florida. As a veteran of World War II, Granddad will be inurned in Arlington National Cemetery, in one of the columbaria he helped to design during his twelve years of service there as Facilities Manager. I know the funeral schedule is, unfortunately, very busy at Arlington, so it could be several weeks before his inurnment service. I hope that I will have enough notice of the date to make arrangements to go home and pay my respects.

Though I feel bad about not being able to attend Granddad’s memorial service, I feel worse about being so far away from my mom at this time. Historically, April has not been a kind month to our family, and I feel like I’ve abandoned her to deal with this latest emotional blow alone. I can call and talk to her on the phone, but it’s just not the same as being there to provide a real ear to bend and a real shoulder to cry on. In the past, she has proven that she is like a Timex—she can take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’, but I was always close enough before to see her resilience with my own eyes. I don’t like relying on a long-distance phone connection to judge whether she’s really doing okay or whether she’s trying to sound upbeat so I won’t worry. This part of living abroad sucks.

Sunday, April 19--Giddyup

2009-04-19T18:31:00.000+09:00

Imagine flying down a 255-meter track on the back of a galloping horse, holding on with nothing but your knees, trying to impress the gods by shooting an arrow into the heart of each of three targets spaced 70 meters apart along the path. It is as dangerous and as impressive as it sounds, and I spent three hours watching this annual display of horseback archery, or yabusame, today.

Yabusame is a ceremony, not a sport, which was first performed for the shogun Minamoto no Yoritomo in 1187. It was developed as a way for samurai warriors to practice the skills needed both for hunting and for engaging the enemy, but it was also hoped that the demonstration of skill and concentration would please the gods, therefore encouraging their blessings for prosperity. Today, there are only two schools that train archers to perform yabusame, and a minimum of five years of training is required before an archer is invited to participate in a ceremony. As times change, and it becomes more difficult to interest new generations in preserving the traditions of the past, women who wish to learn yabusame are now accepted into the formerly male-only training program.

When I arrived at Tsurugaoka Hachimangu Shrine in Kamakura this afternoon, the archers were just beginning their warm up rides. Unfortunately, the practice runs did not go well for two riders, whose horses bucked them off near the first target. Even though an ambulance did arrive to take the second rider to the hospital, neither one appeared seriously injured. After the practice runs, horses and riders alike went “behind the scenes” to change into their formal costumes. The horses emerged wearing colorful tassels, and the men were attired in Edo Period hunting garb, featuring deer-hide chaps, lacquered caps of woven bamboo (the curled-up style of which influenced the future design of cowboy hats), and one-armed jackets bearing a gold-embroidered mon, or family crest.

The starter used a huge fan to signal when the course was ready for each rider. The archer urged his horse to a full gallop and fired off three blunt-tipped arrows in quick succession, finishing the run in about fifteen seconds. If he hit a target, a white flag was waved, and the crowd applauded in appreciation. Once all of the riders had completed the run, they returned solemnly in a single-file procession to the start, retrieving their arrows with a bow at each target. Targets were changed throughout the ceremony, from a colorful paper bulls-eye, to a square wooden plank, to a small piece of clay shaped like a bowl. The rides were repeated over the course of about an hour, and I expected the best archer’s efforts to be celebrated at the end of the ceremony, but I never did hear a winner declared.

There will be another display of horseback archery on the beach in Zushi at the beginning of November, and I learned a few things today that will hopefully help me get better photos then. First, a front-row seat near the starting line means you have to stay seated the entire time so as not to block the view of those seated behind you—which ensures that the ropes marking the course bisect each and every photo. Being near the starting line means you get some great still shots as the riders prepare to launch, but action shots are pretty much limited to the horse’s rump as the rider aims at the first target. Forget having any view whatsoever of the second or third targets, since you can’t stand up. The police keep a vigilant eye on the crowd, to prevent flash photography or standing—as a result, they are prominent features in the foreground of my otherwise appealing photos. So, next time I am prepared to arrive early to secure a good spot around the center of the course, to spend several hours standing near the back of the crowd (being tall means I can shoot photos over the heads of most Japanese), and to evade the police as much as possible. Check back in November to see if my plan works.

Sunday, April 5--Japan for the NC-17 Crowd

2009-04-05T14:39:00.000+09:00

Spring is the season of new life—flowers bloom, baby birds hatch, weeds sprout between the bricks of my front porch…. What better way to mark this season of renewal than a fertility festival? We had heard talk of these fertility festivals from some of Jim’s coworkers who had attended one in March, and the descriptions sounded a little far-fetched for the seemingly prim and proper Japanese. Yet the base had gone so far as to ban anyone under 18 from its tour buses bound for the festival, so we decided we had to check this out for ourselves. Well, it seems the Japanese are not quite as prim and proper as they appear.

The Kanamara Matsuri was held at a small shrine in Kawasaki. The directions by train were very easy, but we feared like many previous excursions the “short walk” from the station to the shrine would turn into an epic journey of frustration. No worries this time…all we had to do was follow the hordes of gaijin (foreigners) who had also come to witness this spectacle. Did I mention the shrine was small? The grounds couldn’t have been more than half a football field in area, and were cluttered with the shrine itself, several smaller buildings, stone lanterns, gardens, vendor stalls, and a few thousand camera-toting visitors, many with their young children. Not even on a Tokyo train at rush hour have I felt so claustrophobic. Once you waded into the sea of people, you lost all control and were forced to follow wherever the tide took you. It was impossible to see what the vendors were selling or to get near enough to anything to take a decent picture.

So what exactly were all these people crammed in to see? Well, literally translated, the Kanamara Matsuri means “Iron Phallus Festival.” Large replicas of the male anatomy, including one made of steel, were sheltered lovingly in mikoshi (portable shrines), which were eventually carried through the streets of Kawasaki on the shoulders of beaming young couples and vibrantly attired transvestites. There was a giant, hand-carved wooden phallus around which hundreds of people were waiting their turn to “ride” and be photographed. The vendors were all hawking penile themed goods (which we only saw outside the shrine when people unwrapped their purchases to show to friends), from headbands to keychains to candles to lollipops. Let me just say, there is nothing quite so shocking as seeing a wide-eyed three year old sucking on a candy penis.

Now before you get to thinking that the Japanese are a bunch of perverts, let me explain the origins of this festival, which has been held each April since the Edo period (1603-1868). It began all those years ago after a local blacksmith carved an iron phallus to protect a local girl from a demon that had murdered her first two husbands on their wedding nights. The blacksmith was honored with Kanamara shrine. Later, prostitutes began coming to the shrine to ask for protection from STDs. Now, worshippers come to pray for harmonious marriages and healthy pregnancies. The annual festival is also a huge draw for the gay community, as it raises money for HIV and AIDS research.

Although we usually really enjoy the excitement and entertainment of Japanese matsuri, the crush of humanity at this festival was just too much for us and we headed back to the train pretty early. The view of the cherry blossoms from the train windows was much more rewarding than being crushed between busty, blond-wigged trannies. We’ll chalk this adventure up to “been there, done that, don’t need to do it again.”

Sunday, March 29--Rites of Spring

2009-03-29T17:23:00.000+09:00

Today we took part in a favorite Japanese springtime ritual—the hanami party. As you know, Japan is famous for its sakura, or cherry blossoms, and the natives are as anxious for their appearance as American kids are for Santa Claus. As winter turns to spring, people eagerly await the forecasters' most up-to-date predictions about the blossoms’ peak so they can plan their cherry blossom viewing (hanami) parties. I’m not sure whether the blossoms themselves are the big draw (although around each tree you will see dozens of cell phones raised high in the air to capture an obligatory photo of the fragile blooms) or whether it’s the chance to be outdoors in the sunshine and the fresh air, drinking sake with your friends, after a long, cold winter.

The party we attended was hosted by the staff and students at JMSDF, and though the sun was bright and the air was fresh, there was still a winter nip in the breeze. In fact, it has been so cool the past couple of weeks that only a handful of brave blossoms had opened on the cherry trees at the school. Nevertheless, the festivities went on as planned. There were speeches and toasts as we enjoyed a picnic lunch of curry, tempura, sausages, and fruit. Afterwards, there were games for young and old alike. I noticed that as the children played musical chairs, not a single Japanese kid pouted or cried or threw a fit if he didn’t get a seat, even if he technically got there first and an American brat pushed him off. Times like that make me feel embarrassed about our country’s increasingly bad manners and poor sportsmanship. (I realize that I am painting all Americans with the same brush here, and that not everyone acts this way, but after living eight months in a country where courtesy and respect are so prevalent, misbehavior becomes glaringly obvious. Anytime we have witnessed a scene here, an American has been at the center of it.)

Turns out the Japanese have found a way to improve upon the classic American church-hall game, BINGO. Rather than fussing with special daubers or plastic chips to cover the numbers, the Japanese have BINGO punch cards. Each number is perforated on three sides, so when it is called, the player can poke the numbered flap through to the back side. No mess, no chips to keep track of, and players can be mobile during the game (which was played for about 20 minutes on the same card—this lowers the cost for supplies and provides ample opportunities for winners). As mentioned above, the Japanese are unfailingly courteous, so when a player needs just one more number for BINGO, he shouts, “Reach,” to let the other participants know they are about to lose. Unfortunately, a “reach” does not guarantee a BINGO, and after ten minutes of needing I-20, the game ended with me one number away from a spectacular assortment of prizes.

Monday, February 2--Thar She Blows

2009-02-02T19:56:00.000+09:00

When Jim left for the States two weeks ago, he parked his car at work and caught the shuttle to the airport. On Friday, I decided his car was probably due for a little exercise, so I swapped my car for his when I was on base running errands. (Okay, that was only part of my motivation—my car needed gas, and I didn’t feel like standing in the pouring rain to fill it up.) The plan was to drive Jim’s car around over the weekend, and swap back today.

When I walked out of the house this morning to get in Jim’s car, I found it was covered roof to wheels in a uniform layer of very fine dust. Immediately I thought, “Crap, now I have to wash his car before he gets home.” As I started the engine, my brain started flipping through possible origins of this strange dust. The very first idea that came to me was volcanic ash—since I have absolutely zero experience with volcanic ash, it must have been some flashback to the lessons about Pompeii I taught to my third graders—but just as quickly I decided that if I announced that theory out loud, people would think I’d lost my mind. So, the wanna-be CSI in me started examining alternative explanations. It couldn’t be ash from a wood fire because a) it was too uniform in size and coverage, and b) I don’t think anyone in Japan burns wood. Diagonally across the street, a house is being repainted, but even if they are sanding the exterior (which they are not), the entire house is shrouded in a protective net that would prevent dust from floating through the neighborhood. So what could it be??

At Jim’s office, I parked his dusty car, and unlocked my dusty car. Huh? My car was covered in the same dust as his. As a matter of fact, so were all the other cars in the lot. Definitely rules out a wood fire or the painters as culprits. Okay, so what about dried salt spray from the ocean? The base is right on a peninsula, and there was a very stiff onshore breeze (gale) yesterday causing good-sized waves to pound against the shore. My car was parked on base all weekend, and I drove Jim’s car over for a few hours yesterday, so it could have gotten covered as well. That must be it. Except I had used the wipers to clean Jim’s windshield on the way home last night, and it was sparkling clean when I parked the car in the driveway. So, that theory was blown, too.

Fresh out of ideas, I let the mystery drop, filled up my car with gas, and turned up the radio for the ride home. I half-listened to one song before it was time for the news, and I tried to pay attention so I could hear just how badly the dollar was doing against the yen today. Imagine my surprise when the newscaster announced the minor eruption this morning of Mt. Asama, a volcano about 90 miles northwest of Tokyo. The eruption caused no damage, but spewed a cloud of ash into the atmosphere to be carried southeast by the prevailing winds—directly over our town. AHA!!! I am not crazy! My first hunch was correct—but how in the world did I know what volcanic ash looked like? The third grade lessons on Pompeii weren’t that specific…

Tuesday, January 13--Dress Like a Local

2009-01-13T12:52:00.000+09:00

I now understand why kimonos have fallen out of favor as daily attire for Japanese women. It takes way too long to get dressed, and I’m not convinced it is something you could do by yourself. Jenny and I got to dress in kimonos today during a class offered by the base. The instructor brought all of the paraphernalia we would need and basically dressed us like we were children.

First we had to take off our shoes and socks and put on special socks that reminded me of camels’ hooves. They were split at the toe into two sections, like mittens for your feet—your big toe goes in one section and the other four toes go in the larger part. Then the instructor did up the hook and eye closures in the back to keep the socks on our feet (they are not knit like normal socks, so they do not conform to your foot).

Next came the “underwear” layer, which was a plain, muslin-colored kimono. Even though the very edge of the neckline is all that will be seen of this layer, it must be properly arranged because you’ll never get to it to fix it once you start adding other layers. All layers of the kimono must be lapped the same direction, left over right (they lap it right over left when they dress your body for your funeral). The back of the kimono must also be pulled away from the nape of the neck. This part of the anatomy is considered sexy, and since it is just about the only skin visible when wearing a kimono, it’s important not to overlook this detail. Once it was all arranged just so, the underwear layer was tied tightly at the waist with a plain cord.

The instructor then dressed us in the actual kimono, and explained that the fabric, colors, and decorations are all indicators of the importance of the occasion and the wearer’s status. Remarkably, there was a kimono long enough for me in the teacher’s collection, and she carefully arranged it to land just at my ankles. She used another plain cord tied at my waist to hold everything in place.

The obi came next, and covered the cord holding the kimono together. A shaped board was stuffed into the front of the obi to make our profile appear as flat as possible—the ideal Japanese figure has no bust and no hips. The obi is also symbolic, showing wealth by its color and pattern, and marital status by the way it is tied. Married women only wear a simple box-style knot, but single women have more elegant choices like bows and butterflies (I got to have a bow today since we were dressing to look elegant for photos). The knot of the obi is in the back, making this the part of getting dressed I’m not sure you could manage alone. In fact, many single women these days book an appointment at a kimono shop to get assistance if they are planning to wear a kimono for a special occasion. A silk scarf gets tied over top of the obi, and a silk cord is added on top of that. The nice thing about all of these accessories is that none has to color- coordinate with the kimono—you could get dressed in the dark and no one would complain that your colors don’t match. Once everything was all wrapped and tied, it was difficult to take a deep breath, much less bend over.

The final touch was a pair of slippery, ill-fitting, wedge-heeled flip flops, which explains why the women I’ve seen around town in traditional dress move so awkwardly. I was a little disappointed to find out the instructor was not going to put our hair up in a traditional style for the photos, but nevertheless I tottered over to have my picture taken, posing gamely with an antique-looking fan and umbrella. It was fun to dress up in the local style, and now that I know what is involved, I have a greater appreciation for the graceful beauty of a Japanese woman in a kimono.

Sunday, Janurary 11--The National Sport of Japan

2009-01-11T16:50:00.000+09:00

There’s no better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than watching thousands of pounds of human flesh flying around a dirt ring. Courtesy of yet another ITT tour, we attended the opening day of the Winter Grand Sumo Tournament in Tokyo today.

Outside the stadium, banners bearing the names of the wrestlers were flapping in the breeze and fans without tickets were lined up to watch the big guys arrive for their matches. Inside the arena, we found that the seats were arranged on two levels, facing the north, south, east and west sides of the dohyo, or ring. The upper level seats, where we were sitting, are the cheap seats and resemble theater seats. The box seats on the lower level go for about $100 each, and are actually cushions on the floor, clustered in groups of four per box. While sitting on the floor for nine hours holds no appeal for me, it does apparently come with benefits--the price of a floor seat includes a bento (box lunch) and souvenirs. Hanging from the rafters above the second floor seats are portraits of the champions of the past 32 sumo tournaments.

All of the action takes place in the dohyo, which is situated on a raised platform, and is bordered by rice bags. The object of the sport is to either force an opponent past the rice bag boundary or make him touch the ground with some part of his body other than the soles of his feet, using one of the 82 official techniques recognized by the sumo association. Sumo is a full-contact sport, and involves pushing, shoving, and even the occasional slap as each wrestler tries to get a hold on the other’s belt (found out if the belt comes off and the wrestler is left standing in his birthday suit, he automatically loses the match). The matches frequently last only a few seconds, especially if one wrestler sidesteps a charging opponent—the laws of physics mean its difficult to stop the momentum of an object of such considerable mass, and the aggressor simply falls on his face.

A wrestler moves up through the ranks of sumo by consistently winning matches. While promotions are often difficult to achieve, demotions can occur with only one losing tournament. The lower-ranked wrestlers face off early in the day, and more important matches are scheduled for the afternoon. These matches draw the largest crowds, as well as television coverage. As a result, some of the wrestlers have numerous sponsors, which boosts the financial reward for the winner of that wrestler’s match.

Sumo is known as the national sport of Japan, but is somewhat less popular today than in the past. One reason for this is the increasing domination of foreign wrestlers—the Japanese have fewer local wrestlers to cheer for. Currently there are only two yokozuna (highest ranking wrestlers) and they are both Mongolian. Some of the more prominent wrestlers have also been behaving badly, with scandals ranging from inappropriate comments to the media to drug use to the beating death of a lower-ranked wrestler by his higher-ranking stablemates. Sumo is a very ritualistic sport, with a long history of honor, respect, and obedience among its wrestlers. Recent scandals are very offensive to long-standing fans of the sport. In spite of all this, the stadium was sold out today.

The Winter Grand Sumo Tournament will continue for another fourteen days, and the wrestler with the best record at the end of that time will be the champion. Since we don’t get Japanese TV at the house, I’ll have to keep up with the results in the newspaper. There are five more Grand Sumo Tournaments during the year, with the next one in Tokyo scheduled for May. By the time we buy our tickets for that one, I will have a favorite wrestler and will be able to cheer his name right along with his Japanese fans.

Saturday, January 10--Chillin' Monkeys and Chilly Castles

2009-01-10T13:55:00.000+09:00

We got up at oh-dark-thirty this morning to make it on time to the pick-up location for our trip to Nagano (site of the 1998 Winter Olympics). Factoring in rest stops, the bus ride to the prefecture northwest of Tokyo was scheduled to take about five hours. Heavy traffic and snow squalls slowed us down, though, so it was nearly 11:30 when we reached our first stop, Jigokudani Monkey Park.

Jigokudani is located in the mountains of central Japan, and because its elevation is 850 m, there is snow cover for nearly one-third of the year. Fresh snow was falling today, adding to the twelve inches or so that were already on the ground. We had a 1.6 km (1 mile) walk from the bus parking area to the park entrance, which took us well over half an hour, partly because of the snowy and somewhat treacherous path, but mostly because we paused so often to take in the beauty and peaceful silence of the snow-blanketed landscape.

Near the park’s entrance we began to see steam rising from numerous vents and hot springs, which helped to give the area its name, “Hell Valley.” Wild snow monkeys (Japanese macaques) live in the surrounding forest, living on the abundant leaves and fruits found there. In the winter, however, they have difficulty finding enough food, and come to the valley to forage. Their visits are encouraged by park rangers who provide regular feedings of grain throughout the winter. The monkeys come out of the woods each morning, and spend the day in the park, eating and relaxing in the hot springs, then return to the woods in the late afternoon to bed down for the night. They walk unobstructed through the grounds of the park, paying absolutely no attention to the humans who have come to watch them bathing in the onsen. Visitors are warned not to bring any food into the park, not to try to touch the monkeys, and not to make eye contact with the monkeys (this is seen as a challenge to the social hierarchy, and the monkeys will attack), but are otherwise free to mingle freely with the macaques. As you can imagine, being so close to wild monkeys, especially monkeys bathing in a hot spring in the middle of a beautiful, snow-covered valley, turns everyone into a photographer, and it’s sometimes hard to get a clear shot of the monkeys without capturing someone else’s camera lens in the background. You can see what I mean if you check out the park’s live cam—a photo is taken every hour from the park’s opening at 0800 until its close at 1600. In the menu on the left side of the page, click on the numbers in the far left column to see today’s hourly photos—the numbers in the right-hand column are yesterday’s photos.

After communing with the monkeys, we returned to the bus to travel across the prefecture to Matsumoto Castle. Because we were behind schedule, we didn’t have as much time as we would have liked at this 400-year-old national treasure. Most structures of the castle, including the residences, are gone, but the tenshu (donjon, or main fortified, tower) has been preserved. From the outside, it looks to be five stories tall, but the hidden third floor actually gives it six stories on the inside. We were required to remove our boots and don ill-fitting slippers before entering the frigid tower to explore all six floors. Signs in English pointed out various features of the tower, all designed to help warriors protect the castle from enemy attacks. Windows were specially constructed depending on the type of weapon to be used at that location, be it stones, arrows, or firearms. Wide hallways allowed samurai in full armor to run throughout the tower, but I am baffled by the staircases they used to get from one floor to another. They are the narrowest and steepest stairs I have ever tried to climb. Combine the trip hazard of the slippers we were wearing with low-hung solid wood beams and the polished, slicker-than-ice bamboo handrails we had to hold while juggling cameras and bags containing our boots, and you have a recipe for a good old American lawsuit. I don’t know how armor-clad samurai navigated these stairways with any speed at all—if I’d been defending the castle, the enemy would have time to swim the moat, tear down the gates, and burn the whole place to the ground before I got from the staging room on the second floor to the stone-dropping windows of the first floor.

As luck would have it, we were able to close out our evening at the castle just as the warriors did in times of peace; standing in moon-viewing wing of the tower, watching the full moon rise over the mountains to the east.

Friday, January 9--Rain on Our Parade

2009-01-09T22:28:00.000+09:00

We couldn’t have picked an uglier day to go to Tokyo Disney. A big Disney fan, Jenny really wanted to go to the theme park while she was here. Since the park often sells out (they limit the number of guests they admit each day) and you could be turned away at the gate if you wait to buy tickets when you arrive, we purchased tickets in advance to guarantee we would be able to get in. The drawback to purchasing advance tickets is that you are locked into visiting on that specific day or forfeiting your tickets. So even though today was cloudy, cold, and rainy, we gamely bundled up and headed to the Magic Kingdom (which is located right on Tokyo Bay, so the sea breeze did nothing to improve our comfort level).

Now, I admit that it has been a LONG time since I’ve been to Disney (we went to Disney World in Florida before EPCOT was built), and my opinion of the park may have been influenced by my size and perspective all those years ago, but Tokyo Disney is very little. There are very few rides for adults…I don’t know about kids’ rides because we didn’t venture through that section of the park. The good news about the weather…lines for rides were very short! Guess what, Mom? I made it through the whole “Haunted House” without crying (maybe it was less scary narrated in Japanese?), and not once did I get down into the floor of the boat when we went through “Pirates of the Caribbean” (even though I did yelp when the cannonball hit the water right next to me). The one ride I truly wanted to experience in Japan’s version of Disney, “It’s a Small World,” was closed for renovations. I don’t know how to explain why I wanted to go on that ride…I guess it’s the idea of being halfway around the world and finding something familiar from home. Proof that it is indeed a small world.

We did witness something at Tokyo Disney that I am fairly certain would never happen in the U.S. parks. Any time there was a break in the rain, an army would emerge to remove all traces of the bad weather. Squeegee-wielding maintenance workers chased all of the puddles from the sidewalks, while jovial, poncho-clad employees dried every slat of every bench with chamois cloths. Since many of the benches were under rain-laden trees, I truly expected to see individual leaves being dried as well. Inevitably, the rain would start again, and the army would retreat from whence it came, but as soon as there was another break, the troops began their assault anew.

We had intended to stay and close the park (at the very family-friendly hour of 7 p.m.) but by four o’clock we were numb with cold and soggy to the bone, and had really run out of things to do, so we gave up and headed back to the train station. We did miss the electric light parade, or whatever they call it these days, but for all I know it would have been cancelled anyway lest Mickey and Minnie be electrocuted in the rain.

Wednesday, January 7--Seven Gods of Kamakura

2009-01-07T19:56:00.000+09:00

Another sight-seeing tour to Kamakura today. I signed Jenny and myself up for a free tour offered by Fleet and Family Services on base. I figured it would entail visits to the tourist “hotspots” Jim and I had already seen, including Hachimangu Shrine and the Great Buddha (Daibutsu), but thought it would be good to have an experienced Japanese guide to explain things we had overlooked on our previous visit. Turns out this is a monthly tour, with an ever-changing itinerary. Because it is the beginning of the New Year, our guide informed us that today’s tour would be a pilgrimage to the Seven Gods of Good Fortune. Hopefully by visiting all seven gods at their respective shrines and temples around Kamakura, we will guarantee ourselves a year full of good fortune. I, for one, will take all the help I can get.

Ebisu, the god of fishermen, is also known as the god of prosperous commerce among merchants.
Jurōjin is the god of longevity.
Bishamon, the god of war, conquers evildoers with his spear.
Benten is the only female deity of the seven, and bestows eloquence and wisdom.
Daikoku, the god of wealth, has a large bag of treasures slung over his left shoulder.
Fukurokuju is the god of wealth and longevity (I guess he’s there in case Jurōjin and Daikoku can’t get the job done).
Hotei is the god of contentment and happiness, and everyone wants to rub his bare belly.

To prove (to ourselves? to friends? to family? to the gods?) that we had indeed visited all seven, we each purchased a shikishi board specifically designed for this pilgrimage (¥500) at the first shrine. We then had a monk at each stop stamp the board with his shrine or temple’s seal and write the date next to it in calligraphy (¥300 each). By the end of the tour, we both had a board suitable for framing (the stamps and calligraphy are beautiful) that can be displayed for the rest of the year. (Apparently any good fortune you get from making this pilgrimage expires at the end of the year, and you’ll have to do the whole thing over again next January.) So our free tour ended up costing Jenny and me each about $50 when we added up train fares to three stops in Kamakura, shrine admission fees, and stamp charges. I’m not too upset though—we were told that the money will be returned to us many times over this year now that we’ve paid homage to the Seven Gods of Good Fortune. I picked up a potential new English student on the tour…is that the beginning of my good fortune??

Monday, January 5--Yokohama

2009-01-05T19:49:00.000+09:00

Another city too large to conquer in one day, we picked out three attractions in Yokohama that we hoped would provide a good cultural cross-section of Japan.

We decided to start out at Sankeien Garden, where many buildings of historic importance from around Japan have been relocated and preserved, including a pagoda, which was on Jenny’s list of things-to-see-while-in-Japan. I thought we could easily find this garden—after all, it is 175000 square meters (that’s a lot of surface area in Japan), and you can see for yourself how clearly it stands out on the brochure map. Plus we had directions, and I was eager to show off my new bus-riding skills. Things fell apart when we got off the bus, though. When the directions said, “walk to the Garden (7 minutes),” I assumed there would be signs pointing the way. Well, if there were, they weren’t in English. After walking 30 minutes in the wrong direction, we finally found a gas company employee with a street map, who spent another 10 minutes trying to pinpoint our present location in the well-worn atlas before plotting our course to the Garden. Turns out it is cleverly hidden in a maze of residential streets, which are not indicated on the brochure map. When we finally arrived, we were just in time for a guided tour of the former residence of Sankei Hara, the Garden’s founder. Not surprisingly, the tour was conducted entirely in Japanese, and though we were given fact sheet about the history of the house in English, we missed a lot of the interesting details the guide provided about the unique construction of the house. (We could tell they were interesting because of the oohs and aahs and vigorous nodding of the Japanese tourists.) After escaping from the house, we wandered the rest of the grounds admiring the other buildings. We finally got to see the pagoda, a three-storied specimen relocated from a temple in Kyoto, which was originally built in 1457 (that makes it 552 years old, in case you were wondering). Unfortunately, at this time of year, the only notable flora were the manicured evergreen trees and shrubs. I would really like to return when the gardens are in bloom, but I don’t have a lot of faith that I’d be any more successful finding the Garden a second time.

Next stop, Landmark Plaza, a five-story shopping mall, which is connected to Landmark Tower, the tallest building in Japan. The Sky Garden, the highest observatory in Japan, is on the 69th floor of the tower, at a height of 273 m. We got up there by taking the fastest elevator in Japan, arriving in only 40 seconds. The 360-degree view from the observatory was pretty amazing. We could look out over all of Yokohama, and well beyond the city. Although the day was sunny, it was somewhat hazy, so we could not see all the way to Mt. Fuji. Looking down on the city, trying to pick out interesting features (like a rooftop Putt-Putt course) reminded me of The Amazing Race when contestants in a sky-scraper were tasked with searching out Travelocity gnomes hidden on nearby buildings. The zoom on my camera gave me a pretty good view of a several block radius, but I would have loved to have had binoculars. Next time we go to the Sky Garden, we will go after dark and enjoy a cocktail while admiring the city lights.

We intentionally hit our last destination at dinner time so we could sample the exhibits of the Ramen Museum. The museum itself was pretty small. The first floor had displays of instant ramen from around the world, ramen shop accessories, and a timeline of ramen history. All of the explanations were in Japanese, so this floor was of limited interest. The bottom floor, however, made the price of admission worthwhile. The entire basement was constructed to look like the streets of 1950s Tokyo. While it was fun to look at the old apartments (with aerial antennae on the roofs and laundry on the balconies), the bars (with neon signs above the doors), and the advertising billboards, the main attractions were the ramen shops. Nine shops offer different ramen recipes from nine regions of Japan. One drawback to the set-up is that you must eat your ramen in the shop where you ordered it—there is no central food-court-type seating area. So unless you want to eat alone, all members of your party need to agree on a single ramen shop. Honestly, I think it’s just a clever ploy to get you to return at a later date to try a different shop! I’ll definitely return, but the ramen at shop number 4 was so amazing, I’m not sure I could be convinced to try another.

Sunday, January 4--Tokyo Highlights

2009-01-04T21:42:00.000+09:00

On this, the first day of Jenny’s visit, we wanted to show her Tokyo. Now we know from experience that you can’t see all of Tokyo in a day, so we narrowed it down to a couple areas we thought would make the most lasting impression. We chose to make the hour-long train journey to Harajuku for several reasons. First of all, it is home to the largest shrine in Tokyo, Meiji Shrine. I knew that all shrines and temples would be mobbed at the beginning of January as worshippers came to pray for blessings of good fortune in the New Year. However, I naively believed the numerous sources that said this all took place during the first three days of the New Year. I thought we’d encounter close-to-normal crowds, being as we were going on the fourth day. NOPE. The place was a mob scene. We could do nothing but wade into the sea of people and let the tide carry us around the grounds of the shrine. We occasionally pulled ourselves out for a few photos, but were soon drawn back into the crowd as if by an undertow.

When the waves of humanity finally carried us to the exit of the shrine, we headed across the bridge near the train station, hoping to spot the second reason we’d come to Harajuku—the “freaks.” On Sundays, this area of Tokyo has become a gathering place for eccentrically-dressed young Japanese. Some congregate around the bridge dressed as punk rockers, anime characters, maids, or animals, while others wander Takeshita-dori (a narrow street full of shops catering to young people) in poodle skirts and 50s greaser attire. It seems the number of “freaks” has declined in recent years, ever since a once-pedestrian street was opened to vehicle traffic, but we still found several photo opportunities today.

Last stop in Harajuku was the Oriental Bazaar, billed as the best souvenir shop in Tokyo. They did have an impressive selection of gift items, at very reasonable prices for Tokyo, as well as two floor of interesting antiques. (Side note: Remember our trip to Ueno Zoo with Rudy in October, and the fruitless search of Shinjuku for Shakey’s Pizza? Well, we found it on the way to the Oriental Bazaar—too bad we had just finished a huge lunch of tonkatsu. Its location has been duly noted, though, and we vow to return with Rudy to partake of their lunch buffet.)

Exploring Harajuku took up most of the day, but we wanted Jenny to see Akihabara, Tokyo’s electronics district. The streets are nothing but wall-to-wall electronics shops, and are closed to vehicle traffic on the weekends. Thousands of people wander up and down searching for the best deals on TVs, iPods, cameras, appliances, computers, and video games. We arrived after dusk, so got to experience the dazzling displays of lights shining from the highest buildings, advertising Sony, Dell, Sanyo, and countless other electronics manufacturers.

Jim and I had been to Harajuku and Akihabara last summer, so I knew what to expect, but by the time the three of us dragged our weary selves back onto the train this evening, my head was still spinning. Watching all of those people, hearing the street vendors yelling over the drone of innumerable conversations, smelling yakitori and crepes and curry, feeling strangers brush by you in the crowded streets—Tokyo assaults all of your senses, and it takes your brain hours to process everything it has experienced.

Wednesday, December 31--Out With the Old, In With the New

2008-12-31T12:07:00.001+09:00

There is no question in my mind that we are not in the States. It is New Year’s Eve and every last trace of Christmas is gone. Well, at least from Japanese houses and stores. The Americans are lagging behind. The Japanese are now focused on the New Year, and decorations of evergreen boughs, dried grasses, and oranges adorn the entrances of homes and shops. 2009 will be the Year of the Ox, and everywhere you look there are cows (someone decided cows are cuter than oxen)—cards, stuffed animals, Starbucks coffee mugs, cell phone charms, ceramic figurines.

The past week has been a flurry of activity in the neighborhood, as it is tradition to do a thorough cleaning of the home at the end of the year. All the work is to be completed by December 31—no one is supposed to do work on January 1. Windows have been washed, futons have been aired, rugs have been beaten, floors have been waxed, closets have been purged. Many houses have even gotten a new coat of paint (I think there must have been a group discount one street up from us…seems like every other house was repainted).

For the next few days we will stay away from shrines and temples, since many Japanese flock there during the first three days of January to pray for good fortune in the coming year (several MILLION visit Tokyo’s Meiji Shrine alone). They turn in last year’s good luck charms at special booths erected at the shrines and purchase new ones to guard against misfortune. It is supposed to be a time of happiness and joy, free of stress and anger.

One Japanese tradition that I know would never work in the U.S. is the sending of New Year’s cards. They serve the same purpose as our Christmas cards…to inform friends and family about the events of the past year and to extend best wishes for the coming year. However, no matter when they are deposited in the mailbox, New Year’s cards are saved and sorted by the post office, and ALL are delivered on New Year’s Day (the envelopes or postcards are marked with a special symbol signifying they are New Year’s cards). I just can’t picture the USPS successfully stockpiling that much mail for days or weeks, then delivering it all to the correct addresses on a single day.

We have no big plans for New Year’s Eve or Day. Tonight we will go over to Jim’s coworker’s house for games and food. It will be strange not to have Dick Clark help us usher in the New Year from Times Square (since we are 14 hours ahead of New York). Tomorrow I’ll finish cleaning the house in preparation for Jenny’s arrival on Saturday. I know—if I’d followed Japanese traditions, the house would already be clean, and I could put my feet up!

Thursday, December 25--We Wish You a Merry Christmas

2008-12-25T11:33:00.001+09:00

Make a Smilebox greeting

Monday, December 22--'Tis the Season

2008-12-22T11:19:00.000+09:00

In a country where only 1% of the population is Christian, I haven’t really been expecting a Christmas season like back home. However, I’m happy to report that the Japanese have fully embraced the festive spirit of the holiday season, if not its religious background.

Not having Thanksgiving to mark an acceptable beginning to the holiday season, stores started decorating right after Halloween. Signs appeared wishing shoppers an enthusiastic “Happy Merry Christmas” and carols drifted from the sound system (not once did I hear “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer”). Christmas trees of every imaginable color were erected in mall lobbies—I can kind of understand a white tree (think snow-covered), but neon pink and black? That just screams, “Ho, ho, ho,” and I’m not talking about Santa’s laugh! I have seen a few “thrones” where Santa would normally sit and listen to children’s wishes while parents take photos, but they are always vacant. I know they do have mall Santas in Japan, because the newscaster on the radio said they were being required to attend Santa classes to learn how to hold children on their knees properly to prevent injury. (If this country has a motto, it is definitely “Safety First.”)

Breaking News: Americans have not cornered the market on tacky outdoor decorations. Clark Griswold would be proud of the Japanese. I learned from my students that families usually decorate the house when the children are young, but once they have grown up and moved away from home, the decorating usually stops. This seems to be true of most of the decorated houses in our neighborhood…younger children live there. The exception is the holiday-loving neighbor across the street, whose youngest child is in his mid-20s! Up and down the streets, lights hang from eaves, drape over bushes, and drip from balconies. The Japanese are especially fond of pre-formed lighted displays, from Santa in his sleigh being pulled across the side of the house by a single reindeer, to “Merry Xmas” wired to the front gate. Apparently yards are too small to properly display the animated, pre-lit white deer that have become all the rage in the past few years, yet somehow they have found room for inflatable lawn ornaments. Each evening, the compressor is turned on, and blow-up Santas and snowmen rise from the ground like ghosts from a horror movie graveyard.

The most pervasive symbol of the Christmas season in Japan is Colonel Sanders. Huh? What does Colonel Sanders have to do with Christmas? It seems that Kentucky Fried Chicken is the meal of choice for Christmas Day. To remind customers to place their orders early, every store (at least one in every town) dresses its Colonel Sanders statue (yes, every store has one) in a red Santa suit and places a banner behind him that reads “Have a Kentucky Christmas.” I bet the Colonel never imagined his 11 herbs and spices would come to embody the spirit of Christmas in a nation of Buddhists and Shintoists.

Saturday, December 20--Return to Kamakura

2008-12-20T22:50:00.000+09:00

We made our second sight-seeing trip to Kamakura today, to explore a few more of the famous landmarks. We transferred from the main JR line to the smaller Enoden train, which kind of feels like riding on the electric train set in someone’s basement. It rambles along on a single track, literally inches from people’s back doors. At Hase station, we got off and followed the signs to Hase-Dera Temple, which is one of the more beautiful ones we’ve seen. The various halls of the temple are situated on a hillside, and climbing to each one gives an ever-expanding view of Kamakura Beach (there is an observation platform with picnic tables at the top, where you can enjoy lunch if you can avoid the diving seahawks). The grounds are beautifully maintained, even in winter, and I can only imagine how stunning they must be when the trees and flowers are blooming. The main attraction at the temple is the 30 foot statue of Kannon, which is usually translated in English as “the Buddhist Goddess of Mercy,” even though it is technically neither male or female. The statue, which was supposedly carved from half of a camphor tree in 721, has eleven heads surrounding the main one, each with a different expression, meaning the deity listens to the wishes of all types of people. The statue is entirely covered in gold leaf--applied in 1342! The age of some of these Japanese cultural treasures really reinforces just how young the United States is, and what a short amount of time our country’s history spans.

After wandering the temple grounds, and eyeballing the various mysterious snacks offered in the gift shop, we walked a bit further up the street to finally see what everyone has been talking about since we arrived in July—the Great Buddha. Known as Daibutsu, this enormous bronze statue of Buddha is the second largest in Japan. It was cast in 1252 to replace the wooden image of 1243 that was damaged by a storm. Over the years, three temple halls were built to protect statue, but each one was destroyed by storms…a fourth temple was washed away by a tidal wave in 1498. Finally, they gave up the idea of a shelter, and the Buddha now sits serenely outside in the open air. Earthquakes have also been troublesome to the statue--in the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923, the base was destroyed. The most recent repairs in 1960-61 strengthened Buddha’s neck and allow the statue to now move freely on its base in case of another severe earthquake. The 44 foot, 93 ton statue is hollow inside, and it is said that homeless and gamblers once lived inside. Now, for ¥20, tourists can go inside Buddha’s belly and look all the way up through his neck to his head.

We chose a great day for sight-seeing, and the clear blue sky made a fantastic back-drop for our photos of the temple and of Buddha. We understand now why so many people talk about these two locations in Kamakura, and we’ll definitely add them to our list of places to take visitors (and I KNOW we are going to have visitors—ya’ll promised).

Monday, December 8--Rainy Days and Mondays

2008-12-08T19:10:00.000+09:00

It rains a lot here. Or maybe I just notice it more since I walk more than I drive. I go by train to most of my teaching jobs, which means a 15 minute walk to the train station, rain or shine. December is actually one of the driest months of the year, as far as rain accumulation. I believe May and June are the rainy season—before then I will have to get a “real” umbrella. The compact variety that Americans prefer just doesn’t cut it here. The diameter of a Totes purse-size model makes it suitable for nothing more than the typical American rain experience--a quick dash across the Walmart parking lot. Here in Japan, if the wind is not blowing, it might serve to keep my head and shoulders dry, but everything south of that suffers from a combination of raindrops from the heavens and big splats falling from the edge of the umbrella. We won’t even talk about the chillingly soggy results of a strong breeze—or the struggle to keep the surprisingly flimsy umbrella from turning inside out. (Working on the theory that you get what you pay for, on our last trip to the outlet mall before leaving the U.S. I chose the $20 compact purse-size umbrella over the old-fashioned suitcase-size $7.99 model, assuming for that price it would withstand at least a Category 2 hurricane. What a waste of $12.)

The Japanese take the rain in stride. If rain breaks forth from a sky that was cloudless and blue just moments before, umbrellas (the sturdy Mary Poppins type) miraculously appear, as it seems no citizen leaves home without one. If one happens to be caught without an umbrella, every store from the high-end boutique to the corner convenience mart sells them. When the skies open up, sidewalks immediately become a sea of bobbing umbrellas. From above, I imagine it looks like the health class videos of red blood cells streaming through your veins—moving with purpose and direction, speedier individuals brushing past slower ones, with some groups occasionally branching off from the main stream to pursue a different path. The Japanese are very aware of the space their umbrellas take up, and they raise, lower, dip, and turn them fluidly to avoid colliding with other umbrellas or pedestrians. I am willing to bet that no Japanese hospital has treated a patient for an eye injury sustained from a poke by a stranger’s umbrella.

With all those drippy umbrellas, you’d think that any public place would be a soggy, slippery mess. In reality, the only place that ever shows the ravages of a rainy day is the train. If they don’t already have a permanent umbrella stand outside the front door, most stores and restaurants roll out an umbrella station as soon as the first drops fall. This station might be a large rack where patrons deposit their umbrellas before entering and pick them up when leaving. (I know! This would never work in the U.S.—someone would come by and pilfer the whole lot of them to sell later on eBay.) Other stations are stocked with a supply of long, slender plastic bags—slip the wet umbrella inside the bag and carry it with you. Both you and the store remain dry. The community center where I meet one of my students on Monday nights takes the prize for the most high-tech umbrella station—it has an electric dryer that blows off all the excess water in a matter of seconds, allowing you to skip the plastic bags and carry your dry umbrella with you. Unfortunately, it is designed for sturdy, Mary Poppins style umbrellas, not my Totes compact purse-size $20 model.

Saturday, December 6--Gone to the Dogs

2008-12-06T16:02:00.000+09:00

When I die, I want to come back as a dog in Japan, preferably something small like a miniature daschund or a Yorkie. I have never seen a population as a whole more devoted to their dogs. I knew the Japanese cared about their pets, just by observing the rituals of the neighbors’ daily dog-walking routines. After each walk, the lady across the street lovingly wipes her dog’s paws before he goes back into the house. While taking out the trash, I have seen countless pooches dressed in sweaters on chilly days. I even saw a golden retriever in full rain gear, including yellow slicker, matching hat, and boots, although quite frankly he did look extremely embarrassed. But I did not understand the true depth of the Japanese people’s devotion to man’s best friend until we went to Grandberry Mall this weekend.

First of all, the mall (an outdoor type, like many of the outlet malls back home) was teeming with dogs of every size shape and color. It reminded me of a car show on four legs—the owners cruising around, showing off their pride and joy, hoping to see and be seen. When we stopped for coffee at Starbuck’s, we had to wade through a swarm of Yorkies, reminiscent of a (well-groomed) biker gang congregating at the local bar. Dogs were sitting in chairs at many tables, and those who found themselves without a seat had warm, cozy blankets to cushion the hard ground. Many of the pooches were dressed better than we were, in skirts with matching sweaters or designer jeans and leather jackets.

If the only dog accessory shopping you have ever done is at PetSmart, boy, are you missing out. Grandberry Mall had several stores catering to four-legged customers, but the most impressive by far was Joker (see photos in A Dog’s Life album). The first thing we noticed when we walked in was the wall of glass on the left which looked into the nurseries. I guess it’s hard to sell $2300 puppies if they are behind bars in individual cages—they had to up the cute factor. Each nursery held about half a dozen puppies, some napping in cribs while others were romping around on the floor with the nanny, chasing toys under the table, trying to climb up the dresser, or learning how to sit for treats. After oohing and ahhing over the babies, we ventured through aisles and aisles of doggy clothing, ranging from traditional kimonos to ultra-modern rhinestone-studded evening wear—there were even 50s-style poodle skirts! And since it would be a shame to take an outfit home only to find it didn’t fit, or looked better on the rack, there was a fitting room so furry customers could try on potential purchases. (And yes, there was a line of canines waiting to eye their new outfits in the three-way mirror.)

After acquainting ourselves with the latest in doggy fashion, we moved toward the back of the store, passing the beauty salon (groomer) and health spa along the way. Once we had forged through the aisles of every imaginable dog toy, we came upon the most magnificent display of cakes, cookies, and pastries we had seen since coming to Japan. Never one to pass up a cookie, Jim was starting to seriously contemplate his many options when we realized they were not meant for human consumption. But if Fido were having a birthday party, there was a perfectly frosted layer cake just waiting to be inscribed with his name.

People say “it’s a dog’s life” when times are tough or they are faced with an unpleasant task. Obviously the person who invented that phrase hasn’t lived a day in the life of a Japanese dog.

Tuesday, December 2--Victory!

2008-12-02T21:43:00.000+09:00

I’m happy to report that I survived my first solo trip to my teaching job in Honatsugi. I feel like a gladiator who has slain the lion. Who knew one successful bus ride could inspire such a feeling of power? I found the correct bus stop at the train station, and almost got off at the right stop. Actually, I disembarked one stop early (about a block away from the factory—I could see the sign up ahead) just for a chance to stretch my legs after being on the train for an hour and a half. The return ride to the station was uneventful—after nervously looking out the windows for landmarks leading up to my stop, I found out that the train station is the end of the line. This means I don’t really have to pay much attention during the ride. When everyone else starts shuffling their belongings, that is my cue to dig out my 170 yen and prepare to exit. Pretty soon, I’m going to look like a pro at this bus thing!

Monday, December 1--The Strangeness of Fall

2008-12-01T21:29:00.000+09:00

Fall, and the whole leaf-changing experience, are far different here than what I expected. Since the weather in Japan is quite similar to that of the Washington, D.C. area, I expected to see a blaze of fall colors on the hillsides beginning in mid- to late-October, just like at home. I guess I didn’t take into account the different flora, but even the familiar trees, like the Japanese maple, are on a different schedule here. A few trees turned golden and dropped their leaves last month. The maples are just now starting to turn, though, as are the ginkgos. There is a really strange tree behind our house…a few random leaves have turned yellow and dropped off, but the rest of the tree appears to be in full summer foliage. I guess there are a lot more types of evergreens in Japan than I’ve encountered anywhere else.

I swear there are leaf elves that come out at night to sweep up the fallen leaves. When you walk around, you will rarely see a leaf on the ground. I will occasionally see a neighbor out cleaning off her driveway, but who is clearing all the leaves off of the streets and out of the parks? When Jim and I drove out of the neighborhood early Saturday morning, there were scores of bags of leaves piled along the sides of the road—bags that were not there the night before. I’m telling you—elves. Part of me expects to look up one day and see one clinging to the trunk of a tree, reaching out to snatch the falling leaves out of mid-air before they even have a chance to hit the ground.

Saturday, November 29--Destination: Hakone

2008-11-29T21:09:00.000+09:00

Still not being overly confident in our ability to make a successful road trip, but unwilling to waste precious weekend time sitting at home, we headed to Hakone today as part of one of the Navy MWR (Morale, Welfare, and Recreation) office’s organized tours. About two hours southwest of us by bus, Hakone is situated in the mountains near Mt. Fuji and is known for its numerous hot springs as well as its handcrafted wooden puzzle boxes. We’d heard nothing but good things about the town, so were eager to check it out for ourselves.

The tour turned out to be a great way to get a taste of a new town. The first benefit was the bus ride itself. Because we didn’t have to worry about driving, or following directions, or reading maps, we could really enjoy the scenery as we made our way along the coast towards the mountains. Even the stop at the rest area was educational, as our tour guide was able to explain some of the foods offered at the snack stand! Another plus was the structure of the tour itself. This was not one of those follow-behind-the-guide-like-ducklings tours. We had an itinerary with scheduled stops, but we had the freedom to do as much or as little exploring at each stop as we chose. The tour guide briefed us on each stop before our arrival, told us when to be back at the bus for departure, then pretty much left us to our own devices. She flitted around each location, answering questions, providing information, and pointing out interesting sights, but was very unobtrusive.

Our first stop was the Hakone Open Air Museum, where sculptures by famous international artists including Rodin and Picasso were displayed in, well, the open air. Each sculpture was situated outside in a way to take advantage of the beauty of the surrounding environment. What artist could ask for a better backdrop than mountains and trees adorned in fall colors? Several of the displays were interactive, making it fun for kids of all ages—we personally tried out the slide, but I really wanted to bounce on the yolk of the fried egg sculpture. The coolest work of art was the tower made of stained glass. It was hard to appreciate from the outside, but once I stepped inside and was surrounded by the colored light streaming through the thousands of pieces of glass, it took my breath away. We could climb to the top of the tower on a spiral staircase, then look out over the countryside. Too bad it was a cloudy day—I bet the view of Mt. Fuji would have been spectacular. After climbing back down to the ground we had just enough time to enjoy the foot onsen (mini hot spring for soaking your tired feet) before heading back to the bus.

Our next stop was a cable car ride up a volcanic mountain and over Owakudani, or the Valley of Greater Boiling. Below, the barren landscape was dotted with plumes of steam escaping from the bowels of the earth and piles of yellow sulfur. Once off the cable car, we were able to hike up the side of the volcano to a stand selling eggs boiled in one of the hot springs. The eggs, or onsen tamago, are black because of the sulfur in the water, but eating one is said to add seven years to your life. Neither Jim nor I are fans of hard-boiled eggs, but both of us ate one and had to admit it was the best-tasting egg we’d ever had. That sulfur must be magic!

After lunch we boarded a ferry designed like a pirate ship to cross Lake Ashi for a little shopping before our final stop. Unfortunately, the shops we went to were designed for tourists, and the wooden puzzle boxes we were hoping to see were all mass-produced. The last stop was Hakone Shrine, and here our guide was very informative, explaining the ritual cleansing of hands and mouth before entering the shrine, as well as the custom of making an offering (usually a 5 yen coin) before sending up a prayer for good fortune. She showed us the shrine stamps we could collect at every shrine or temple we visited, and clarified the meaning of the wooden plaques hanging at every shrine (handwritten wishes for good luck) and the white pieces of paper tied to tree limbs and special racks throughout the grounds. Contrary to information we had gotten before, they are fortunes, purchased at the shrine for a small fee. If the buyer likes his fortune, he takes it home, but if he does not, he leaves it at the shrine so misfortune can be averted.

The tour was a great introduction to a neat town. We are already talking about a return trip to explore more of the area (we have to find those puzzle boxes!), as well as booking future tours to other destinations.

Thursday, November 27--Thanksgiving...Again

2008-11-27T20:07:00.000+09:00

Happy Turkey Day! It’s very strange to be a minority population celebrating a holiday while the world around you marches on, oblivious to the occasion.

At least for this year, I decided not to tackle the logistics of preparing a traditional Thanksgiving dinner in my mini kitchen, so I made reservations for six of us at the Officer’s Club’s Thanksgiving buffet. The drive to the base was surreal. Everywhere, Japanese were carrying out business as usual. People were running to get to the train station on time, delivery trucks were making their daily produce drops at the local stores, restaurants were full, postal workers were making their rounds on their scooters. So different from the U.S., when most everything shuts down on the fourth Thursday in November--you’re lucky to even find a gas station that is open on Thanksgiving Day. Entering the gates of the base was like crossing some huge cultural chasm. We went from normal hustle and bustle to ghost town in the time it took to scan our ID cards. Very few cars were driving the streets, the parking lots of the exchange and commissary were deserted, and only a handful of people were walking around—a scene we’d normally expect to encounter on Thanksgiving, but such a drastic change from what we’d just driven through only seconds before.

Dinner turned out to be wonderful. All of the foods you could possibly crave for Thanksgiving were beautifully prepared and presented, and we were free to stuff ourselves to bursting. Unfortunately, there were lots of people waiting for the privilege to do the same, so our grazing time was cut short. After a little more than an hour, while some of us were contemplating thirds or fourths, the host interrupted our conversation and informed us that we could only stay another fifteen minutes--our table was needed for another party. I can’t complain too much—the abrupt exit ensured I did not fill a plate with more food I would later regret, plus there was the satisfaction of knowing I did not have to spend the next couple of hours washing the dishes that normally accompany such a huge feast. We simply paid the bill, crossed back over that cultural chasm, and continued the Thanksgiving celebration at our house with a game of poker!

Tuesday, November 25--B-Day--The Dreaded Bus

2008-11-25T19:08:00.000+09:00

Today was my first day of work at my new job in Honatsugi. Last week I finished looking over the textbooks, came up with an introduction/ice breaker activity, and planned a grammar lesson. Yesterday I committed the names of my five students to memory, gathered all the materials I would need, and went over my lesson plan half a dozen times. You might think I was nervous about my first day of class. To the contrary, I just wanted to be prepared. What was actually giving me butterflies was the thought of getting to the job! Last night, every time I dozed off, I dreamt I was on a bus, driving endlessly around Japan, looking for my stop, unable to tell the driver where I was trying to go.

Reality (as is usually the case) turned out to be not so bad, and all my worry was for nothing. The class's previous teacher met me at the train station, took me to the bus stop, rode with me to the correct stop, showed me where to pick up my visitor's badge at the factory gate, walked me to the classroom, and sat through my class before riding with me back to the train station. The bus seemed easy enough, but of course I was with someone who knew where she was going and could read the kanji on the board which announces the next stop. While trying to carry on a conversation with her about the class, I was struggling to see out the windows (we had to stand because the bus was crowded) to look for landmarks so I'd know when to push the button to let the driver know I wanted to get off at the next stop. Now the test will be whether I was able to absorb enough information about my surroundings to be able to replicate the process on my own next week!

Thursday, November 20--The First Thanksgiving

2008-11-20T19:03:00.000+09:00

If you think about it, there really is no reason for the Japanese people to even know about Thanksgiving, much less have an interest in celebrating it. It is, after all, a uniquely American holiday. However, the students at the JMSDF 2MSS are so eager to learn about American traditions and culture that each year the American instructors prepare a Thanksgiving feast for the school. Leading up to the big day, we spent several class sessions discussing the holiday, its origins, traditional foods, and contemporary customs. I was surprised to find out that my Japanese students already knew the first Thanksgiving lasted for three days (a fact that I didn’t know until I read it on one of the worksheets I used to give my third grade students), though they didn’t really understand who the Indians were. It boggled my mind that they had never eaten turkey (they don’t have turkeys in Japan), and you should have seen the looks of disgust on their faces when I tried to explain stuffing (cubes of soggy bread with celery, onions, and spices—even I had to admit the description was not very appetizing). We talked about why the holiday causes so much stress for some people (hours of cooking, forced contact with irritating family members) and is so anticipated by others (hours of pigging out, followed by hours of watching the pigskin move up and down the football field).

Today was the big feast, and I got to see firsthand what my face must look like when confronted with a table full of unfamiliar Japanese food and hosts urging me to try everything. The students eyed the tables piled with all kinds of Thanksgiving dishes with curiosity and trepidation as each instructor explained the dish he or she had prepared. There were, of course, the traditional favorites--turkey (two, actually—one pre-carved for convenience, and one whole for a carving demonstration), stuffing, mashed potatoes (we had to demonstrate how to make a well for the gravy), gravy (or gravy sauce as the Japanese call it), and sweet potatoes. We also provided rolls, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, and corn (the Japanese LOVE corn, and we figured if we brought that, at least there’d be something they liked). After introducing all the foods, we urged the students to dig in. Apparently, we should have explained the concept of a buffet line, because with only one or two exceptions, each student took a plate, took a serving of a single food, then stood right there and ate it before moving on to the next dish. Only a couple people loaded their plates and moved to the side to eat. The favorite foods turned out to be the turkey, the mashed potatoes, and the cranberry sauce.

Dessert also proved interesting. It seems that the Japanese are not big dessert eaters, and when they do, their desserts are not as sweet as ours. They were okay with the pumpkin pie, but you would have thought we were trying to poison them with the pecan pie and the Oreo cheesecakes! Sugar overload, I guess. The students were quite intrigued by the whipped cream in a can—keep in mind that most of them are playful guys in their twenties or early thirties, and the fascination will be understandable. Instructors had to step in a couple of times to retrieve the weapons when a whipped cream war seemed imminent.

All in all, I’d say the big meal was a success. Unfortunately, the students had a full class schedule in the afternoon, so we had to warn them to fight the effects of the tryptophan in the turkey they had just consumed. A group of students asked me later what tryptophan was, why it made you sleepy, and where you could buy it. They were extremely disappointed when I told them you couldn’t buy it, so I can only assume that as a practical joke they were plotting to spike someone’s food and induce a long nap!

Tuesday, November 18--Adventures in Parking

2008-11-18T13:38:00.000+09:00

Due to a time crunch between my Japanese class and an English lesson this afternoon, I had to park for the first time in a public parking lot at the train station. Sometimes new things can be stressful, especially if you are tackling something outside your comfort level, but you wouldn't think something as simple as parking could cause so much anxiety, or require so many TUMS. Unfortunately, I have two shortcomings that come into play here. One, the only part of my driving test I failed (in the U.S. and Japan) was backing into a parking spot. Two, I do not read or speak Japanese (yet). It will soon become obvious why these two hurdles loomed so large before me today.

I never really thought of a parking place as a luxury before. It’s just one of those things I always took for granted. I had a dry, spacious garage at home. At work, there was a large parking lot with wide aisles and wide spaces. When I went shopping, each store had its own lot, and my choice of parking spot depended on how many steps I wanted to log on my pedometer. I imagine that the Japanese would be appalled by all the acreage we Americans devote to parking. There is no such wastefulness here!

We have one parking spot in front of our home, which requires superb parallel parking skills so as not to scrape the brick walls surrounding three sides of the slot. Jim parks here, since he drives to work each day. Because I take the train more often than driving, I park in a rented space about three blocks from the house—the yearly rent is about double that of my first apartment. (The lot contains about 20 spaces—you do the math. Whoever owns that little corner of the neighborhood must be laughing all the way to the bank.)

As for parking anywhere else…don’t count on it. Only the largest stores actually have parking lots. The mall has a parking garage, but they charge you to park there. If you’d like to patronize the local shops found up and down nearly every street in Japan, you’re either going to have to walk there, or fork out some serious cash for a space in a public parking lot. Time out…I know the mental picture you have of a public parking lot. You are thinking about those massive commuter lots we have in the States, or at least something the size of the Walmart lot (which doesn’t seem that big until you have to park in the last row on a crowded Saturday afternoon). Scale down. Further. Keep going. Despite the huge billboards, and the giant colorful “P” signs (some abbreviations are universal), most public lots in our area have around 10 parking spots. The first time I saw all that advertising, I drove by expecting a lot the size of a couple football fields. I had to drive by twice before I actually saw the lot, which was more the size of a tennis court. Whoa. Reality check. The secret to making lots that small…micro parking spaces and aisles that are only one and a half times the width (not length!) of a car. The only way you’ll ever get your car out of the lot is if you back into the space when you get there. If you pull into the slot, you’ll have to wait for every other car to leave to have a chance of escaping.

The Japanese are marvels of ingenuity, and their parking lots are no exception. Aside from the engineering involved in designing a lot whose layout does not exceed the physical steering capabilities of today’s automobiles, they have figured out a way to keep drivers honest. There is no feeding of the parking meter here. You can’t mooch off of anyone else’s leftover time, or overstay your quarter’s worth and hope the meter maid doesn’t catch you. You pay for the time you used the spot, or you can’t leave! When you back into your chosen spot, your tires cross over a metal speed bump-like contraption in the middle of the parking space. Within three or four minutes (they do give you time to adjust if you didn’t back in straight--remember, I failed this part of the driving test, so rest assured that I used almost all of my wiggle time) the speed bump thing rises until it touches the undercarriage of your car. Now you are trapped, unless you’re willing to risk ripping the back axle off. The only way to get out is to pay the machine (no parking lot attendants). When you are done running errands and return to the lot, you punch your space number into the machine, it calculates your arrival and departure times, and charges you accordingly (a cheap lot gives you 20 minutes for 100 yen). Once you have put your yen in the machine, it will lower the speed bump under your car, and you are free to go. Quite clever, really. My issue here is that my native language is English, and even though the machine's buttons are clearly marked and a pleasant voice guides you through each step of the process, she speaks only Japanese. I was not at all confident that I would be able to push the buttons in the correct sequence to pay my car's bail. Once I found the start button though (just keep pushing buttons, one will eventually do something), flashing lights guided me through the rest of the process, I paid my 700 yen, and Squeakers was free to leave.

So now my next question is this…is there a backup generator in case of a power outage? It could get very expensive if you have to wait for the power to be restored before you can retrieve your car...

Wednesday, November 12, 2008 (part 2)--You're Hired!

2008-11-12T12:53:00.001+09:00

Good news! I got the job teaching at the factory in Honatsugi. I start on November 25, and the class runs through mid-May. Somewhat troubling is the fact that I am going to have to take a bus from the train station to the factory. Except for the school bus and a Greyhound, I've never taken a public bus in my life. It'd be intimidating enough the first time in English, but I have to do it in Japanese. Unlike the trains, there are no English signs on buses, and if there are no passengers waiting, the driver doesn’t pull up to every stop. You have to push a button to signal that you need to get off at the next stop. Not only do I not know where my stop is, I don’t know what to look for right before it comes up so I can push the button…guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. In the meantime, I’ll wait for the textbooks that are supposed to arrive in the mail this week and start planning an introductory lesson for my five students.

Wednesday, November 12--The Legacy Continues

2008-11-12T12:28:00.000+09:00

I have the power. What I did to get it, I’m not sure, but it was officially bestowed upon me today.
Several weeks ago, I was told I’d be among the three teachers meeting Admiral Takeguchi, head of the JMSDF 2nd Service (English Language) School (2MSS) today. I thought it was just going to be a formal introduction of the three newest American instructors after the day’s lessons. I made sure to dress professionally, practiced bowing, and honestly figured we’d be done with the introductions in about 30 seconds. I was unaware that we would be taking part in a brief, but very official, Authority Ceremony. As soon as we finished our lessons, the three of us were quickly ushered into a room where we met the admiral and several other important people whose names, ranks, and official duties did not stick with me. Admiral Takeguchi then presented each of us with a Certificate of Authority, read aloud in Japanese and English, which states that we have “satisfied the requirements for training” (Really? I must’ve missed that part) and are “entrusted with the responsibilities of English language instruction at the 2nd Service School.”

After posing for a round of official photographs, we all drank tea and made polite conversation through an interpreter. The admiral thanked us for our service to the school and spoke of the long relationship between 2MSS and the American instructors, important not just for bringing students an opportunity for English conversation, but for fostering goodwill between Japanese and Americans. The admiral pointed out that I am the 524th American instructor hired in the school’s fifty-year history. He mentioned several past instructors by name, talked about their participation in the school’s activities (he did not have with him the photo albums where the instructors’ interactions with the students are preserved for posterity), and was curious whether we knew any of them.

As quickly as it began, the ceremony ended, and we were efficiently ushered down to the picture studio where formal photos were taken for the teacher’s wall of the lounge and for our ID badges. So, for better or for worse, I am now a documented part of the history of 2MSS. Years from now, new teachers will drink tea with the admiral and might be asked if they know teacher #524.

Friday, November 7--Tell Me About Yourself

2008-11-07T14:51:00.000+09:00

Today I had my first Japanese job interview. A company that matches English teachers with prospective employers contacted me about the possibility of teaching a company class at a factory about an hour and a half from home. Before agreeing to the interview, Jim and I weighed the long commute against the pay, and we decided that since this job could lead to other opportunities, I should just look at the long train ride as an opportunity to plan other lessons, catch up on reading, or write letters (I nixed the idea of napping on the train, as I have no doubt I would sleep through my stop). So today I printed out my resume, got dressed up, tamped down the butterflies in my stomach (not for the actual interview, but for successfully finding the prearranged interview location) and met the company representative at a hotel coffee shop just outside the train station in Yokohama.

I had read that Japanese job interviews could be quite different than American interviews. Apparently the Japanese can and do come right out and ask all the nosy questions that American employers are prohibited from asking—how old are you, are you married, do you have kids, do you drink, how much do you weigh? So I was ready for anything, but the interview was very informal, and actually more like meeting someone for the first time at a social function. Over a $10 cup of tea, I answered questions about my education and teaching experience, and learned about the factory I would work for and the placement company’s contract, all cleverly disguised as polite conversation. The only clue that this was indeed a job interview came from the disconcerting notes she wrote in Japanese on what I assume was an interview checklist. For all I know, she was writing that I was a sloppy ignoramus with an ineffective teaching philosophy who must’ve gotten her teaching license from a Cracker Jack box! In spite of those cryptic notes, I feel that the interview went well, and I have a good chance of landing this job. There is one more interview to be conducted on Tuesday, and I should know their final decision on Wednesday. Stay tuned for results.

Monday, November 3--What the Hell Is Beeping??

2008-11-03T14:26:00.000+09:00

Beep. Beep. Beep beep beep. Everything in this house beeps. Push a button, any button, beep. Dial a phone number, beep. Turn down the fan speed on the air conditioner, beep. Set the water level on the washer, beep. Lower the temperature on the stove so the spaghetti doesn’t boil over, beep. Turn on the fanny washer feature of the high-tech toilet, beep.

As if that weren’t maddening enough, all of the appliances also beep to let me know when they are done. And since every beep from every appliance is the exact same tone, with no discernible difference in length or pitch, I have to count the number of beeps to know which appliance wants my attention. Five beeps--oven, eight beeps—dryer, ten beep—washer. I have to be on constant alert on days when I am multi-tasking. If I am really absorbed in Oprah when I am ironing and only the last two or three beeps of some appliance’s cry for attention penetrate my consciousness, then I don’t know whether it is time to put the banana bread in the oven or time to take the towels out of the dryer.

And don’t think I can escape the beeping by leaving the house. As soon as I put the car in reverse, it, too, starts beeping! Every Japanese car does this—not as a warning to anyone standing near the car that you are about to back up, as it cannot be heard outside the car. No, it is a special beeping designed to warn the driver inside the car that he is about to back up (not sure how he would not know this already, since the big R on the gearshift tends to be a big hint). In my case, it is just a powerful incentive to learn how to back up quickly and efficiently. Once the car is in drive, there is finally peace. At least until I turn up the fan speed on the air conditioner, or turn down the volume on the radio…

Saturday, November 1--Halloween: What Went Wrong?

2008-11-01T15:10:00.000+09:00

The Japanese have imported several American holidays, including Halloween, with enthusiasm. Well, they have at least imported the overall idea of the holiday, if not the horror. Decorations have been going up for weeks, consisting of happy little ghosts, smiling witches, dancing skeletons, and grinning spiders. I have not seen a single bloody corpse or snarling ghoul. More than anything, there is a sense of anticipation surrounding the possible loot of American candy.

I heard that on-base residents could expect thousands of trick-or-treaters, American and Japanese, to descend on the housing units, with most residents running out of candy within half an hour. I heard that even living off-base, we could expect several waves of trick-or-treaters. I also heard that the hundreds of cases of Halloween candy lining every available aisle of the commissary starting in August would be sold out within a couple weeks, so I bought three bags in early September. (I am happy to report that all three bags remained unopened until I poured them into the Halloween bowl Thursday.)

In anticipation of cute little Japanese trick-or-treaters, I turned on the gate and front porch lights last night at the first hint of dusk (about 4:30). I planned a low-maintenance dinner that would survive numerous interruptions by the doorbell. Jim resisted his usual routine of immediately showering and putting on pajamas when arriving home after work. For several hours we remained downstairs, listening to groups of kids moving up and down the street outside. Not a single ring of the doorbell, though, so we eventually headed upstairs to work in the office. No sooner had I logged into my email than the doorbell rang. Yay! I raced downstairs, eager to load down Japanese children with handfuls of American candy, and found Jim’s coworker Rudy at the door. Dressed in chains and a Hannibal Lechter mask, he gamely cried, “Trick or treat!” so I doled out handfuls of Snickers, Twix, M&Ms, Starburst, Skittles, and Twizzlers. He left happy with his loot, and I returned to the office. Seconds after sitting at my desk, the doorbell rang again, and I was convinced the Japanese had seen Rudy come to the door and now knew we were handing out candy. Nope. It was Rudy again, wanting to know if there were other American families in the neighborhood handing out candy.

After talking to people today who have been in Japan for previous Halloweens, I learned that to attract trick-or-treaters you have to first decorate the outside of your house as a sign that you have candy and are open to the idea of giving it away (porch lights are meaningless). You also have to stand outside with your bowl, and literally flag down passing children in order to give them the candy, until word gets around that you are participating in the festivities.

We will know better next year. In the meantime, Jim will go to work Monday with a huge bag of Halloween candy to put on his desk for his coworkers to grab. Not the chocolate, though—I am keeping the good stuff close to home.

Tuesday, October 28--Pit Stop

2008-10-28T14:20:00.000+09:00

Okay, it is time to talk toilets. I have been avoiding the subject because, well, it isn’t necessarily the most polite topic of conversation. But remembering the toilet I saw at the shrine in Kamakura over the weekend, I feel obligated to expose the truth. Not all toilets in Japan are models of Japanese engineers’ superior technological expertise and ingenuity. There is not a Captain Kirk toilet in every house and public restroom stall. In fact, only in the finest hotels and the VIP lounge of the airport will you find a gleaming porcelain bowl crowned with a heated seat and fanny washer. In the majority of locations, you will be lucky to even encounter the porcelain bowl. By American standards, the traditional Japanese bathroom is quite crude. While there does seem to be running water in every restroom, a true Japanese toilet is less comfortable to use than a good ol’ American outhouse.

The first thing you notice when walking into a public restroom is the fact that the stall doors run floor to ceiling. Most doors also have a red-colored plate that lets you know when the stall is occupied, which I originally thought was just a clever accessory. Only after thinking about the American way of determining if a stall is occupied—looking under the door for feet—and realizing it wouldn’t be feet you’d see in a Japanese bathroom if you looked under the door, did I understand that the full-length doors and colored plates were necessary equipment to protect privacy, not added conveniences. If you are extremely lucky, you will find one of these full-length doors sporting a picture of a Western toilet. If the call of nature isn’t a frantic scream at this point, I highly recommend waiting until this stall is vacant. If you can’t hold it another moment (or if your husband is waiting impatiently for you to emerge from the ladies’ room), you’re going to have to suck it up and go Japanese-style.

IMPORTANT!! When you walk in the stall, immediately check for toilet paper!! Only recently has this item been added to many Japanese bathrooms—if there is none, dig a tissue out of your purse before you hang it on the stall door hook. (When you walk down the streets of Japan, there are always salespeople shoving small packs of tissues at you. It doesn’t matter whether the hawker is advertising cell phones or exotic dancers. Take the tissues! They are worth their weight in gold.)

Forget about reading a magazine or answering the cell phone while you’re in here. Unless you have the thigh muscles of a Major League baseball catcher, you won’t have the stamina for extracurricular activities while in the bathroom. You don’t sit on a Japanese toilet…you squat above it. (Now do you understand the full-length doors?) The toilet is basically a porcelain trough in the floor. The front end has a hood and the pipes—make sure you face this direction! Some bathrooms even have special tiles on the floor to help you find the correct placement for your feet, so that everything will line up properly. The hard part is figuring out how to arrange your clothing so nothing gets dirty. While you want to pull your pants down as far as possible so you don’t accidentally dribble on them, you don’t want them puddling on the floor around your ankles, because I don’t think that’s water you’re standing in. You must also be mindful of long shirt tails and coat tails hanging below the waist—hold them up out of the splash zone. With your hands full of clothing, you have no means of maintaining your balance as you lower yourself into a squatting position over the toilet, so you'll want to descend slowly and carefully, making no sudden movements. Not that there is anything to grab onto anyway if you begin to lose your balance—you’d have to make a split-second decision about which would be the most sanitary thing to touch on your way down…the wall, the floor, the hood of the toilet, or the trash bin, if one is present. Shudder. Check out this website for full instructions on how to use a Japanese toilet (warning: there is an explicit description of what happens if you lose your balance, so hide the kids’ eyes). Please note that the author actually meant toilet bowl not bowel, even though the error adds to the hilarity of the whole experience.

After you emerge from the stall, you are going to have a strong desire to wash your hands (if not take a shower). At the sinks you are going to find plenty of running water—often from faucets of the motion-sensor variety—but oddly you won’t often find soap. This is so strange to me, in a country that is hyper-aware of spreading germs (during cold season, scores of Japanese wear surgical masks so as not to contaminate the rest of the population). Even rarer than soap are paper towels or electric hand dryers. You are expected to have a small towel with you at all times with which to dry your hands, wipe sweat from your brow, mop up spilled coffee, etc.

I used my first Japanese toilet at Ueno Zoo several weeks ago. It took longer than a normal pit stop should have, but I emerged feeling quite proud of myself. My jeans and my sneakers were dry, I didn’t have to grab onto anything to keep my balance, and I had my little towel with me to dry my hands when I was finished. I felt like a potty expert! It was only when we arrived at the train station and I pulled my PASMO card (train pass) out of my back pocket that I realized I might need some more practice. In the process of squatting over my strategically pulled-down jeans, I squashed the daylights out of my PASMO card—quite an accomplishment since it is made of the same plastic as a credit card. It still works in the scanner, but the creases will constantly remind me not to overlook any small detail in a public restroom!

Saturday, October 25--Kamakura on a Day of Celebrations

2008-10-25T20:08:00.000+09:00

We ventured into Kamakura today (two train stops from home), which is a great place to experience some of “old” Japan. The town is full of shrines and temples (just look at the map), still has some traditional style houses, and is home to the second largest statue of Buddha in Japan (we didn’t see him today—will head out that direction another time).

Today we tackled the main street, which runs from Hachimangu Shrine at one end to Yuigahama Beach at the other. This Shinto shrine is the most important one in Kamakura, and was built in the 1100s. The street leading to the shrine is lined on either side with countless shops and restaurants, and is spanned in three locations by tremendous torii gates. Near the train station, about 10 minutes walk from the shrine, the street becomes divided by a large median which is actually a pedestrian pathway bordered by cherry trees (this will be gorgeous in the spring). The path is always busy, but was especially so today because of the Shichi-Go-San (Seven-Five-Three) ceremony being held at the shrine. This is a special day of prayer for the healthy growth of young children, specifically for girls who are 3 or 7 years old, and boys who are 3 or 5 years old. Though traditionally held on November 15, it is not a national holiday, so ceremonies are often held on the nearest weekend. We just happened to be in the right place at the right time! The children usually dress in formal kimonos and their proud parents snap lots of photos. After the ceremony, where prayers for health and long life are offered by priests, parents often purchase “chitose-ame” or thousand-year candy for the child. This long red and white candy comes in a bag which may be decorated with plum, bamboo, turtles, and cranes, all symbols of health, good luck, and long life.

Many Japanese couples get married in the fall, and we were lucky enough to see two traditional Shinto wedding ceremonies being performed on the grounds of the shrine today. Each bride was beautiful in her shiromuku (ceremonial white kimono), and the nervous grooms wore montsuki haori hakama. The guests were clad either in kimonos or their best Western-style clothing. We couldn’t really hear (not that we would have understood anyway) the actual ceremony, but it was apparent that everything, right down to the sake drinking, was precisely choreographed.

Stay tuned for future trips to this delightful city. There is so much to see and do here—a definite tour stop for those of you planning to come visit us in Japan!

Friday, October 24--I give up

2008-10-24T20:58:00.000+09:00

Maybe you can help me out here. This sign is hanging, larger than life, on the side of the local mall. What does “Heartful Autumn” mean exactly? What do hippos sitting on a tree limb holding a lantern have to do with autumn? And what in the world are those wormy things with hands sitting beside the hippos?

Wednesday, October 22--Musings on Adventure

2008-10-22T20:21:00.000+09:00

For the past couple of days I’ve been thinking about the single folks in Jim’s office who have come overseas, especially those on their first tour. It must be intimidating to leave all that is familiar, and go to a new country, where you don’t know a soul, don’t speak the language, and don’t have a clue where to find anything. Nevertheless, it’s a remarkable opportunity for people in their early twenties to explore the world before they have a family to worry about. I admire their independent spirits, their sense of adventure, and their willingness to confront the unknown singlehandedly. I remember those days, even though I personally didn’t get past the dreaming of adventure stage when I was in my twenties. Only $4000 stood between me and a two-week vacation on a Montana ranch. I was a single phone call away from signing up for a one-year contract as a catch-monitoring biologist onboard Alaskan deep sea fishing boats. I ended up postponing my adventures till later.

The biggest benefit to waiting to embark on my adventures is that now I have someone to share them with. Not that I wouldn’t have had fun on my own—each experience is what you make it. And I could have shared what I did with family and friends back home. But I find that half the fun now is being able to talk to Jim each day about what we’ve seen and done. Sometimes when we’ve gone out somewhere new on the weekend, we see different things in the same places and compare notes. Other times we both saw the same thing, but have different ideas about what exactly it was or what it meant. Then there are the things we see when we are out on our own, that we talk about in the evenings. For example, on my way back from teaching today, I saw a hearse. Those of you who are thinking, “My, what stimulating dinner table conversation a hearse would make,” have obviously never seen a Japanese hearse. We are talking a shrine on four wheels. They make the shrines from Sunday’s mikoshi parade look like an 8-year-old assembled them from popsicle sticks and mom’s leftover craft supplies.

I imagine that if I had been able to travel overseas for a job when I was still single, I would have made friends in the new location. I could have gone sightseeing and exploring with those new friends, and we could have compared our individual adventures around the water cooler at work. I could have called home to try to describe everything in my new country to my family. But I think I would have ended up feeling lonely. Having Jim to share everything with each night makes me want to experience more of all Japan has to offer and makes me less homesick.

Sunday, October 19--Mikoshi Parade

2008-10-19T18:17:00.000+09:00

Today was the 32nd Annual Mikoshi Parade in Yokosuka. We were up late last night playing poker, so we got a slow start this morning. By the time we got up and indulged in brunch on base, we missed the beginning of the parade. What we did see was incredible, and I will make sure to catch the whole thing next year.

A mikoshi is a portable Shinto shrine, which is traditionally believed to carry part of a deity which will be taken to a special place to be released by a priest. (This parade was just a reenactment—no deities were contained in the shrines.) Each mikoshi is beautifully decorated with ribbons, lanterns, paintings, and plants. There are bells and knockers on the sides to wake the sleeping deity inside. Each of the 74 shrines in this year’s parade was carried well over a mile, from city hall downtown onto the base itself, on the shoulders of nearly 9,000 participants. No small feat, considering these things are made of solid wood beams and can weigh up to two tons.

Each mikoshi has a team of “handlers.” The shrine is led by a couple people carrying lanterns. Then there are several people pulling on ropes attached to the mikoshi, helping to guide the rest of the team down the parade route. The shrine itself is carried on the shoulders of dozens of Japanese, fueled (I’m told) by vast quantities of sake, who are moving in a sort of march/dance. They shake the mikoshi to rattle the bells, and sometimes even squat down repeatedly to dip the shrine. This is all done in perfect harmony, thanks to the rhythmic knocking on the sides of the shrine and the chanting of the carriers. It all looks professionally choreographed. The shrines are accompanied by scores of alternate carriers, ready to take the place of anyone who needs to step out from under the weight of the shrine for a break. Some members of the team are guides—they push and pull with all their might on the shrine to make sure it stays on course, and does not ram the shrine ahead (or drift backwards into the one behind). Each shrine is followed by a pit crew, for lack of a better term. They push along a cart on which the mikoshi can be rested if the parade stalls. (However, most carts today were being used to transport vast quantities of pizza—the Japanese love American pizza, and buy dozens of them whenever they have an opportunity to come on base.)

The mikoshi carriers almost defy description. Their energy is amazing, boundless, and infectious. Despite the enormous burden they carry, they smile and laugh, their faces only occasionally showing the strain of what they are doing. Both men and women participate, old and young, tall and short. I would add fat and thin, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat to be seen anywhere. And believe me, it was easy to assess, thanks to the traditional dress of the participants. Some of the men stuck to the purely traditional dress, which consists of a short robe called a happi coat and a type of thong undergarment. Bare chests and bare buns were frequently visible. The majority of the participants, however, opted for a more modest approach, wearing the happi coat over a t-shirt, and sporting white bike-shorts called zubon-shita. All wore odori tabi, which are vinyl-soled socks, split at the big toe, so sandals can easily be worn. (Traditionally, the Japanese participated in festivals such as this bare-footed—these socks offer some protection from the rough asphalt.)

I took lots of pictures during the parade (see link at right), but they just don’t capture the spirit of the event. There was so much to take in, between the costumes, the chanting, the pounding, the bells, the dancing, the beauty of the shrines, and good old-fashioned people watching. You can get a better feel for the festive atmosphere by watching the short video clips below.

Saturday, October 18--The Birds

2008-10-18T20:58:00.000+09:00

When we woke up this morning, it was a bit breezy, but the sun was shining brightly—great weather for the office picnic scheduled at noon. I threw on jeans and a t-shirt and Jim donned shorts and a t-shirt. Luckily we both tossed fleece jackets in the car, because when we arrived at the picnic area’s pavilion (which is right by the seawall) the sun was gone, the skies were full of leaden clouds, and the wind was howling. Reminded me of the nor’easters that blew through while I was living in New Hampshire.

The grill was fired up, though, and lots of good food was coming from it. Brats, hot dogs, hamburgers, ribs…the works. We couldn’t load up our plates with sides, because everything was blowing off the plate before we could eat it. So there was a lot of back and forth—I’ll have a hot dog this trip, then I’ll go back for some pasta salad, then I’ll get a brownie, oh and those pickles look good, hey wait…are those spring rolls? Homemade Vietnamese spring rolls, with the pork and the rice noodles and the shrimp inside, just like we used to get at Pho Saigon in Fredericksburg. Even had the dipping sauce! Ah, the spring rolls. Delicious. But dangerous.

By the time I got to the spring roll, I had given up on trying to hold a plate in the wind. Finger food all the way now. I took a couple bites, then decided to walk out of the pavilion, munching on the rest, to where Jim was chatting with some guys from work. Earlier, I had noticed a dozen or so seahawks circling around, riding the wind, eyeballing the food on the grill and the small children on the playground. Now if you’ve never seen a seahawk, they are large, beautiful birds of prey, about two-thirds the size of an eagle. For weeks, I had been admiring their almost regal appearance as they soared around the base, screaming their seahawk battle cries. But I honestly didn’t give them much thought today—figured they were opportunists, like seagulls, waiting for food to hit the ground. Couldn’t have been more wrong. About six steps out of the pavilion, spring roll to my mouth, and there was a whoosh of feathers and a sudden gust of wind, unrelated to the storm brewing at sea, as a seahawk swooped in front of me. That was apparently his reconnaissance mission, because I barely had time to register, “Hey that bird was close,” before he was back again, this time making a grab for the spring roll dangling from my lips. Missed the spring roll, but he hooked my nose. In shock, I could hear Jim laughing hysterically in the background as the spring roll and I beat a hasty retreat back to the pavilion. They ought to have signs nailed to every flat surface of every pavilion warning unsuspecting picnic-goers of the aggressive nature of the resident seahawks.

The damage to my nose was minimal—just a very small cut which, barring some hideous seahawk-induced infection, will heal in a couple days. I’m grateful it wasn’t my eye he hooked. The psychological damage, however…let’s just say I won’t be watching the Alfred Hitchcock classic any time soon.

Tuesday, October 14--There's Ten Weeks of This?

2008-10-14T09:39:00.000+09:00

Today I began a ten-week Japanese language course. It is a free class, offered by Fleet and Family Services, which meets for 90 minutes once a week. I didn’t walk into class expecting to be fluent in Japanese by the time it ends in December, but I figured it was a good starting point. After the first lesson…I am not so sure.

The class seemed like total chaos to me. There was an American there helping to run the class—she teaches the Getting Started Teaching English class and runs the English Teachers’ Networking Group—and she did not let the Japanese instructor do much. There were two or three kids at the back table being chatty (was today some sort of school holiday that I missed?). Many of the other students have already had one or more Japanese classes, and they were intent on showing how much they knew. So while I was desperately straining to hear the Japanese instructor pronounce common greetings, all these other people were talking over her. It was extremely frustrating.

Adding to my confusion and frustration were the photocopied pages from the textbook we were supposed to get for the class. The local bookstore did not carry the book, so I had to order a copy from Amazon last week—it is on its way, but did not arrive in time for today’s class. Luckily the instructors knew we were having difficulties obtaining books, and made copies of the pages we’d need for today. Imagine my surprise when I looked at the pages and they are all in hiragana (one of the three Japanese writing systems)! I was expecting to see the Japanese word for house spelled out in English letters, like in a Japanese-English dictionary or phrase book. Looking at those pages, it finally clicked with me why learning Japanese is such a huge undertaking. It’s not just using flashcards to memorize some new words. It’s learning a whole new language from the alphabet up. I’m starting to feel like that old dog trying to learn a new trick.

Sunday, October 5--Don't Feed the Monkeys

2008-10-05T14:20:00.000+09:00

Off to Tokyo today, on a combined adventure. I wanted to go to the zoo, and Jim and Rudy had been plotting for days to find Shakey’s Pizza. First, to the Ueno Zoo. I visited the zoo when we were here last summer, and thought it would be a nice place to take Jim and Rudy now that the weather has turned cooler. Didn’t know till we had been walking around the zoo for nearly three hours that Jim isn’t a huge fan of zoos—if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Oops. Duly noted.

I enjoyed it though, and since my camera battery died right after taking pictures of the giant panda (first exhibit when you enter the zoo) last summer, I was glad to get a second walk-through. Good thing I got those panda photos last year…the zoo’s only panda died this past April. See this year’s pictures in the Ueno Zoo photo album (link on right).

Now starving, we got back on the train and went to Shibuya (another district of Tokyo) where Rudy swore a Shakey’s Pizza was located (he’d seen it on a previous trip to the city, and thought he had committed its location to memory). We walked half a dozen blocks out of each of the train station’s four exits and could not find it. We finally found some other Americans on the crowded sidewalk and asked them if they had any idea where it was. They excitedly said, “Yes, we just ate there—if you hurry you can still make the buffet!” Elated, we asked where it was—only to find out it wasn’t in this part of town. We’d have to get back on the train and go up another stop. Too hungry to continue the hunt, we retreated to the train station and settled for tonkatsu (a battered and fried pork cutlet, served on a huge bed of shredded cabbage, with sides of steamed rice and miso soup). I’m not sure anything ever tasted so delicious!

Rudy promises to do more research on the exact location of Shakey’s and take us there on our next trip to Tokyo.

Saturday, October 4--The Sake Flows

2008-10-04T13:26:00.000+09:00

A busy day today. We started out at JMSDF, where I teach, as guests at the Second Service School’s 50th Anniversary celebration. The ceremony was held in the mess hall, where tables were laid out with amazing displays of food and drink. The Japanese officers and staff of the school, as well as the American instructors and their spouses, stood attentively as speeches were given. Unfortunately we could not understand the speeches, and I felt sort of left out as the rest of the audience laughed appreciatively at some joke delivered by the speaker. It was also quite startling at the end of the speech, when, with the exception of the American contingency, the entire audience bowed as one. Japanese customs and traditions are so complex, yet performed so innately—everyone always seems to be on the same page and knows exactly what is expected in each situation. I know they are taught these customs from childhood, and it is unreasonable to think I can walk in and know everything within two months, but feel like I am being disrespectful by trying to learn as I go along.

After the speeches, there was a traditional opening of sake casks. I think it was more of a photo opportunity (guess who went without a camera?) than a real opening of the casks, because the lids split perfectly when hit with wooden mallets. Once the casks were opened, sake was distributed in square wooden boxes (how do you drink out of a wooden box? From the side? From the corner?) and toasts were made. Then the feasting began, and everyone made a beeline for the sushi table (students at the school are well-fed and regularly get many of the other types of food that were available today, but the cooks never fix sushi for them). I tried many foods, including yakisoba, tempura (shrimp, shitake mushroom, and green bean), yakitori, and even a piece of sushi (I chose one that appeared to have no fish). We quickly learned that we had to keep a plate with some small piece of food in our hands at all times, otherwise someone would run up to us with a full plate and insist we eat more. Everyone was extremely attentive to the Americans, never leaving us without food, drink, or conversation.

At the end of the event, there was more toasting, I assume to the continued success of the school in the future. There was a ritual for leaving the building which involved letting the most important guests leave first, and bowing along a type of receiving line. As we exited the mess hall, we were given a gift, which consisted of aerial photos of the school, a commemorative sake box imprinted with the school logo, and a badge holder. All in all, we enjoyed ourselves immensely, and were very happy to have been included in the celebration, considering I have only taught there two days!

This afternoon we browsed through the annual Fall Bazaar which takes up one entire parking garage on base. Vendors offer furniture, artwork, gift items, china, kimonos, wooden screens, toys, antiques, and assorted junk from all over Asia. I was hoping to find a tansu (step) chest, but nothing jumped out at me. Today was our scouting mission—we’ll try to go back tomorrow to take a second look and do any purchasing (supposedly the closer to closing time we shop, the better the deals are).

Saturday, September 27--Dinner Party

2008-09-27T18:58:00.000+09:00

We’d been looking forward to today for a couple of weeks now. Not the wading through a bunch of junk and asking, “Where in the world is this gonna go?” Although we are secretly enjoying that too, because it means we finally have our own stuff again. No, Yasuko, the friendly neighbor across the street had arranged a dinner party in her home for us and the two other American families who live on our street. It was our first chance to go into a Japanese home, eat home-cooked Japanese food, and visit with our new neighbors.

We were scheduled to arrive at the neighbor’s at 4:00 p.m., but just as we were getting ready to put our shoes on, she called and asked us to wait until 4:30 because she wasn’t done cooking yet. So, after another 30 minutes of shuffling stuff from one room to another, we walked across the street to her house. She ushered us into the living room, where we were told to have a seat on the couch. Our host produced icy cans of Japanese beer (gulp—neither of us are beer drinkers, but we didn’t want to be impolite, so we cracked them open. I nursed mine for the next five hours and finally finished it off…Jim gave his to Aaron.) On the coffee table in front of us was an absolute feast, so beautifully prepared and presented it should have been featured in a magazine. There were nine of us there (two American couples, a single American, and two Japanese couples), and food enough for three times that many. I don’t know the names of everything she prepared, but I tried everything I was offered (Mom, you’d be so proud of me!). There were fried pork rolls, cups of rice topped with shredded beef or shrimp, an egg and potato casserole, shrimp and green bean tempura, edamame (young soybeans boiled in the pod), potato salad, sausage-stuffed eggplants, marinated mackerel and cucumbers, homemade bread, and a fresh fruit salad with Japanese pears, grapes, and persimmons. We had second helpings of many of the dishes, and even thirds of a few.

The evening’s conversation was interesting. There were the expected mini-conversations in English between the Americans and in Japanese between our hosts and the other Japanese couple, but for the most part we tried very hard to communicate across cultures. One of the other Americans had just begun Japanese lessons, so he was eager to try out what he had learned (he brought his dictionary along to help), and Yasuko was a great translator. Her husband, who claimed not to speak English, is in fact very capable, and told many stories of his job as a financial reporter (his English is just a bit rusty because he uses it far less often now that he is retired). The other Japanese couple spoke less English, but seemed to understand a great deal. They had questions for us about America, and we had questions for them about Japan. It was a great learning experience, and we Americans are already talking about hosting a dinner of our own to reciprocate. I hope that we can continue to build our relationships with the neighbors, and possibly develop friendships that will endure even after we return to the States.

Friday, September 26--Move In--Part 2

2008-09-26T18:05:00.000+09:00

Yesterday, they came and removed all of our temporary furniture, with the exception of the bed, to make room for today’s delivery of our VERY OWN STUFF!! Any of you who have experienced a move in the States will not believe me when I tell you the movers were in and out in four hours. Yes, FOUR HOURS. The Pegasus moving company’s crew of three arrived right around 8:30 a.m., took a quick tour of the house, then began opening crates and unwrapping our possessions. As they flew by me in the entryway, they called out the number from the sticker so I could check it against the inventory, and hustled the item to its correct room. They manhandled the over-sized sofa and loveseat down the Japanese-sized hallway, around the corner, and into the living room without touching a single wall. The movers who packed us out in the States were fairly competent, but I guarantee they’d have gouged the wallpaper on at least three walls trying to get that furniture in there. They assembled the kitchen table and queen-sized sleigh bed in a matter of minutes. I’ve lived with both those items for three years and know what they are supposed to look like when assembled, and I still don’t think I could have done it as quickly as they did, sight unseen (the bed, especially, was in a lot of pieces!).

Once everything was off-loaded from the truck, we began opening boxes so that the movers could take the boxes and packing material with them when they left. Jim and I helped with this part, and in under an hour, every single thing we brought with us was unpacked, and all of the boxes and papers were bundled up and back on the truck. Holy whirlwind, Batman! At 12:30, the three-man Pegasus crew was back in the truck and pulling out of our street. Of course, the house looks like a bomb went off, so to preserve our sanity and to fuel up for the job ahead, Jim mandated an off-site lunch break before we jump into the clean-up operation. About an hour after we returned, the doorbell rang—it was the inspector from the housing office who comes during a move-in to make sure everything is going smoothly. He was very disconcerted to find out he was about three hours too late!! He’s been doing this for years, and even he was surprised by the speediness of our crew.

Now, the real fun begins. When we packed out, we were separating belongings to go with us or go in storage, not necessarily leaving them in the rooms they should go in. So now we have clothes in the living room, DVDs in the bedroom, and shoes in every room of the house. It will take me much longer than four hours to get everything sorted and the house in living condition. First order of business…find the sheets and make the bed, because I am going to need a soft place to fall this evening!

Thursday, September 25--An Observation Leads to a Job

2008-09-25T17:42:00.000+09:00

Today, I went with a friend to sit in on her conversational English lessons at JMSDF (Japan Maritime Self Defense Force). She teaches mostly officers who will, at some point, either work with the UN or go to America to study. They get intensive English training from Japanese instructors, and as a result, read and write English very well. The school hires spouses from the US Navy base to assist the students in building their speaking confidence. Each week, a new topic is assigned, and the teacher facilitates discussions accordingly. It could be a question and answer session, a role-playing scenario, or a discussion of traditions. Regardless of the format or the topic, the students are active participants and ask tons of questions.

By the end of her two fifty-minute classes, I was filling out a form to be included on the school’s substitute teacher list. Before we walked out the door, I was booked for two days of classes of my own! Of course, I got role-playing topics—my least favorite form of instruction—for both days…at a housing agency and at a rental car company. I’ll have to make a good effort to be really enthusiastic so they will ask me to work again in the future!

Wednesday, September 24--Getting the Ball Rolling

2008-09-24T09:58:00.000+09:00

Well, folks are not beating down my door for English lessons, but I have picked up my first groups of students from a Navy wife who is leaving next month. I went with her to the lessons this afternoon, to meet the students and to get a feel for how she teaches. The two groups meet back to back--each one for thirty minutes, two times a month.

The Kitty Cat group has five students, aged three to six. The girls are all very sweet and cute, and the one boy is the class clown. They are learning shapes, colors, and numbers. Unfortunately, they don’t know enough English to follow directions for activities and games, so one of the mothers has to translate everything into Japanese. Basically, this seems to be a “repeat what I say” class, with little comprehension--due to the ages of the kids. They are still learning Japanese at this age (just like American preschoolers are learning English), so anything extra they can pick up in English is pretty amazing to me. It’ll be interesting to see how far I can take this group.

The Kite group is made up of 3 older boys, aged seven to eleven. They are typical, energetic boys, and it will be a challenge to keep their interest. It was hard to gauge exactly what their English level was. They definitely had a larger vocabulary than the younger group, but spent most of their time talking amongst themselves in Japanese. Today’s lesson was not a normal lesson, because it was the last day for the teacher they’d had for nearly two years—they played a game, had cupcakes, and exchanged gifts. I’ll get a better feel for things next time I see them—would like to challenge them to not use any Japanese for the thirty minutes they are with me, but they may not be ready for that.

Even though this was only an hour of teaching, I was pretty well worn out by the end. Guess summer break was too long, and I forgot how much energy is required to keep up with kids! These may be the only two children’s groups I take on…we’ll see how I do with adults. Tomorrow I am scheduled to go with a friend to a Japanese military school to sit in on her class. She teaches English conversation class to officers. If I enjoy it, I can sign up to be a substitute there. Stay tuned…

Sunday, September 21--DIS101-Intro to Natural Disasters

2008-09-21T18:51:00.004+09:00

We got to experience two of the most common natural disasters in Japan this weekend. Fortunately, both were extremely mild examples, and neither one required us to evacuate or even break out the flashlight from the emergency kit.

The weekend kicked off with a visit from TS15, also known as Tropical Storm Sinlaku. We'd been watching this on-again/off-again typhoon for over a week as it ambled northeast across the Pacific. After several days' delayed arrival, forecasts finally called for rain to begin Friday night and last through Saturday afternoon, with total accumulations of 250mm (almost 10 inches for all you non-metric folks). Winds were forecast to increase throughout the night and end up sustained at 45 mph with gusts to 65 mph. Well, the weather forecasters here are nearly as accurate as the ones in the States. About all they got right was the time the inclement weather would start. Rain was steady, but light--significantly less than 250mm. It was accompanied by three bolts of lightning, one of which knocked out power for about two minutes. There was a stiff breeze, with a few stronger gusts--not even powerful enough to pull the dead blooms off the hibiscus tree. The whole thing was over and done by about 3 a.m. By the time we got up Saturday morning, the sun was out! I've seen worse thunderstorms in Virginia.

Our second encounter with Mother Nature’s grumpy side came at 7:17 a.m. this morning. We were still sleeping, since earlier in the week Jim had declared Sunday a day of rest (he was tired from his trip last week, and had no chance to catch up this week due to a hectic schedule). I was in the middle of a dream when my body started trembling. As I was coming to consciousness, my first thought was that Jim was having some sort of convulsions, causing the bed to shake. Then he raised himself up and the shaking continued, so I thought I was having some sort of convulsions. Finally it clicked that we were having an earthquake. By the time I asked Jim, “Are we having an earthquake?” it was over. It wasn’t even strong enough to make the dishes rattle in the cabinets. We went back to sleep, and later in the morning I checked the internet for details. The magnitude 4.8 quake was a 3 on the shindo scale (measures the degree of shaking) at its epicenter near Tokyo, and what we felt was only a shindo 1. Japan averages 1500 earthquakes a year (there have been 5 so far today alone), so it seems inevitable that we will experience many more during our time here. Let's hope they are all as mild as today's quake.

Saturday, September 20--Shuffle Up and Deal

2008-09-20T18:25:00.000+09:00

Move over World Series of Poker. The ultimate in high-stakes poker, the Captain's Cup Texas Hold 'Em Tournament, sponsored by MWR (Morale, Welfare, and Recreation), took place at 1000 this morning. The Captain's Cup is a series of "sports" events, including softball, tennis, ping pong, and poker, that take place throughout the year. A command earns points by winning events. In addition to being recognized as the champion of a particular event, at the end of the year, the command that has earned the most points wins the overall Captain's Cup. One of Jim's coworkers is determined that their office will be represented on the Captain's Cup Wall of Fame. As a result, eight of us mustered at 0930 to secure our places at the poker tables. At the previous day's strategy meeting, it was decided that we would all sit at different tables (so as not to eliminate each other) and a side pot was established for the team member who lasted longest in the tournament (incentive to be patient and play good cards).

The tournament started with about 50 players, and within 30 seconds there was an all-in moment. I figured that was a pretty good indication we'd be able to hang for a while. In fact, four of us stuck around to the final two tables, Jim and myself included. I went out ahead of Jim, having only played two hands the whole tournament, and winning none. However, I managed to win third place in the women's division with that pitiful performance, earning a trophy and points toward the Captain's Cup! Jim went out right after me, but since there were still about 16 men left, no trophy or points for him.

At the end of the tournament, our team walked away with two trophies (also got 2nd place in the women's division--she was the side pot winner as well) which will be proudly displayed in the office's trophy case--as soon as someone gets around to building it.

Wednesday, September 17--Say What?

2008-09-17T12:02:00.000+09:00

It is not my personal philosophy, but if I were on a debate team, I could make the argument that knowing a little bit of a foreign language is worse than knowing none at all. Let me give you an example.

Today, I was out in the front “yard” pulling weeds. I heard footsteps, then some scrabbling out in the street and looked through the reed fence to see a man in a white hardhat and blue coverall setting up a barricade around the telephone pole on our property. He then shuffled off to the gate and rang the doorbell, so I made my way around the house to see what he wanted. When he saw me approaching, he said, “Konnichiwa,” which I know—it is the middle-of-the-day greeting. I replied, “Konnichiwa,” and I cannot even describe the look of immediate relief that passed over his face. It was like a thousand-pound weight had been lifted from him. This gaijin speaks Japanese! So he immediately launched into what I assume was an explanation for his being there. He looked toward the pole, and I think I heard the word “telephone,” so I gathered he was doing something with the phone. Given that he was in work clothes and I had seen him setting up the barricade around the pole, I didn’t think he was in trouble and wanted to use my telephone. But that was about all I could rule out. He could have been telling me that he was going to work on the telephone, so it would be out of order for a while, or he could have been saying please don’t use your telephone while I am working because you’ll electrocute me. Heck, for all I know he was warning me that he was going to be climbing the telephone pole, so I shouldn’t run around naked upstairs because he’d be able to see in the windows. Obviously, I need to work on my “I don’t understand a word you’re saying” look, because he seemed perfectly satisfied that I knew why he was there and what he was doing and took off to the next house.

Luckily, this was not an emergency situation, where it was critical that I understood what was being said. But what about next time? This small encounter just drove home the point that I need to get serious about studying Japanese. Three years is a long time to live somewhere and not be able to communicate. It’s a very isolating feeling to know that you don’t understand the language and cannot be understood in return. In a country with 125 million people it would be unlikely to find yourself completely alone, but the language issue could make it very easy to be lonely.

Saturday, September 13--Mystery Solved

2008-09-13T10:05:00.003+09:00

If you remember, we have a good deal of unidentified flora in our front "yard." Did a little research while waiting for the exterminator to arrive, and have concluded that the tree with the pretty white flowers is a hibiscus. The blooms are gorgeous, but last only one day. Then they curl up tightly, drop off, and stick like glue to my windshield. I try to remember to pick them off by hand before leaving, because if I use the wipers to scrape them off, everyone thinks that the dumb American still can't remember which side the turn signal lever is on!

Thursday, September 11--To the left, to the left

2008-09-11T12:36:00.000+09:00

To get to our house from the base, you turn right out of the main gate. We have never, in the six weeks we’ve been here, turned left out of the gate. To the left lies an unexplored world, full of mysteries, and if the rumor is true, shopping! Today I vowed to venture forth into the Left, to conquer my fear of the unknown, and to return with a recycling bin that will accommodate as many different types of trash as possible.

Armed with a full tank of gas (the journey is supposed to be around 5 km—less than 3 miles), some vague directions, and emergency rations of water and granola bars, I bravely headed out. The drive, short as it was, was actually through a very pretty area. The road runs along the coast, and there are large palm trees along the median. There was a feeling of more space, even though stores were still closely packed and high rises towered alongside the road. Not sure what the difference was—maybe being able to see the ocean and an actual horizon to my left?

The two stores I went to were adventures in themselves. It seems that most stores of any size around here are divided into multiple floors, and it is difficult to locate specific items, or remember where it was you found something. The stores today were on one level (I don’t know how this happened—it must seem like a colossal waste of space to many Japanese), and reminded me of the big-box stores from home. Ave was kind of like a Walmart, having a little bit of everything. A lot of the products are American (Dove soap, Pantene shampoo, Hanes t-shirts), but packaged for Japanese tastes. There is also a supermarket within the store, but I did not explore that today. Home’s (I know that is not the correct use of an apostrophe, but that’s the name of the store) is a Target meets Lowes superstore. Lots of familiar hardware, lumber, and gardening supplies here. The most noticeable difference between Home’s and Lowes—there were not half a dozen aisles devoted to paint. There was a single section filled with paint cans (I don’t remember seeing any color swatches), brushes, and rollers that took up only one side of one aisle. Guess if everything is wall-papered, there isn’t much demand for paint. (I can understand with the humidity here, paint must take weeks to dry, but by the same token, I do not understand how the wallpaper stays on the wall. I’d think the paste would stay gummy, and the paper would just slide down the wall to puddle on the floor.)

Overall, the voyage into the Left went quite well, and I’m very pleased with myself (Rocky theme playing in the background here). I was even able to get out of the parking garage by reading the exit signs which were only written in Japanese! (Yeah, okay, it’s true. If you showed me those signs in a different context, there’s a really good chance I wouldn’t have a clue what they were. Just let me pretend for a minute I’m making progress with this new language!) By the way, I did find a recycle bin, that when combined with our regular trash can (if it ever arrives), will handle most of our sorting needs.

Sunday, September 7--Jail Break

2008-09-07T15:47:00.001+09:00

The crime wasn’t hers, but Alina did the time.

Japan is a rabies-free country, so they have some very stringent animal import laws to keep it that way. There is a very rigid protocol that must be followed in order to bring a pet from the States into Japan (unless you happen to live in Hawaii, which is also rabies-free). The whole process takes a minimum of 180 days, but closer to 210 days—which we didn’t have between finding out we were going to Japan and actually getting on the airplane.

First, your pet must be microchipped (thankfully done by the SPCA before I adopted Alina). Then the animal must have two rabies shots, at least 30 days apart. After the second rabies shot, blood must be drawn for a rabies antibody titer test (which can only be performed at two labs in the entire U.S.A.). From the day of the blood test, the pet must undergo 180 days of quarantine in the home country before being allowed to enter Japan. I still don’t get that part—there are absolutely no guidelines about the conditions of the quarantine. No one in Japan knew that I had a strictly indoor cat—for all they knew, I let her run free in the woods with rabid foxes and raccoons.

I followed every step of the import procedure, including filling out about 16 different forms and getting half of them stamped by the USDA, but we could not meet the 180 days of quarantine before we left. Instead of leaving Alina behind to be shipped over as cargo later (she may have done very well with this, but the thought of it gave me an anxiety attack), we brought her with us and arranged for her to finish out her quarantine at the kennel on base. For 34 days she stayed in kitty prison, listening to other cats meowing and small dogs yelping incessantly.

On Thursday, I paid her bail, and Alina got out of jail. She happily climbed into her carrier for the ride home, but was confused when she had to sit on the “wrong” side of the car. Once home, I showed her where her food and litter box were, then she seemed content to explore the rest of her new surroundings on her own. I thought she was adjusting pretty well, but she prowled around and cried most of the night. The next morning, I found her curled up in my sink in the bathroom. Today, when I went upstairs to make the bed, she had crawled down under the comforter, all the way to the foot of the bed. She’s having a hard time finding her comfort zone—at home it was under our bed, often in one of the duffel bags we kept stored under there (she wouldn’t go anywhere near the comfy kitty bed we put under there for her). Hopefully, once our stuff arrives, things will seem more familiar and she will settle down (like the rest of us).

Wednesday, September 3--No Green Thumb Required

2008-09-03T15:10:00.000+09:00

For anyone who heard me complain about the size of lots in neighborhoods we visited in the States, I take it all back. Here, you are lucky if you even have a lot. Since the entire population of Japan (127 million) lives in only 19% of the country’s land area, there are a lot of high-rise apartment dwellers. For those fortunate enough to live in a house in the suburbs (like us), you better like your neighbors. There is literally less than 10 feet between our house and our neighbors’ homes. This means that if you are outside or have your windows open, you can hear your neighbors talking, rattling dishes, playing the piano, closing cabinet doors (remember there is no insulation in the walls to help with sound-muffling).

This also means that yard work is a snap. Our yard does not have the first blade of grass in it! Not because grass won’t grow (the weeds do quite well) but because there’s absolutely no way you could cut it, short of getting on your hands and knees with a pair of scissors. Our yard is about 40 inches deep on the sides, and less than that in the back. You might be able to make a single pass with a small lawnmower (if it weren’t for all of the strange miniature manhole-type covers stuck up everywhere) but you’d never be able to turn the corner from the side of the house to the back. Even if you tried to cut the grass with a weed-whacker, you’d end up slicing off your feet at the ankles trying to maneuver in that small space. Consequently, our “yard” is gravel around the sides and back. The only maintenance required is weed-removal. The house had been vacant for several months when we moved in, so there were quite a few weeds, yet pulling every last one by hand today only took me about 45 minutes. Now that’s the kind of yard work I can handle!

The front “yard” is larger—possibly close to six feet deep. But there is no grass here either. Instead, it is full of trees and bushes, selected to give as much privacy from the street as possible. I recognize a crepe myrtle and several azaleas, but everything else is a mystery. Once Jim gets home with the camera (yes, I foolishly put mine in the pile of stuff to arrive via ship instead of carrying it with me) I will post pictures and y’all can help me try to figure out what else is out there. I feel like I should recognize some of them…especially the tree that is flowering now, with pretty white blooms that close up tight then drop off. Except for pulling weeds, there's nothing for me to do in this part of the yard either. A gardener comes twice a year, I assume to trim the precisely shaped shrubs--what else could he possibly do? If I want to exercise my own horticultural skills, I'm going to have to either create some container gardens for the front entrance or start collecting house plants again.

Saturday, August 30--Potty Mouth

2008-08-30T15:43:00.000+09:00

With Jim out of town, I took the opportunity to sort and organize the owner’s manuals that I found stuffed in a drawer in the kitchen when we moved in. There are the typical manuals you’d expect to find in any home—stove, refrigerator, dishwasher, A/C units, water heater, etc. The one that caught me off guard was the tome for the operation of the TOILET. There is absolutely no reason any human being should need operating instructions for a toilet. However…once you see our toilets, you will understand the necessity for an instruction book of this size. Both our upstairs and downstairs toilets are high-tech, but the one upstairs is definitely the high-end model.

Jim calls it the Captain Kirk toilet, because it has at least as many buttons and knobs as the Starship Enterprise. It’s quite possible that we can actually fire phasers from this toilet, although we’ll never figure it out because all of the buttons are labeled in Kanji.

Even without the instructions, I can tell just by sitting on it that our toilet has a heated seat (in the States, a heated seat only happens when the person before you has been in there WAY too long--EWWW). But after studying the book, I determined that not only can we adjust the temperature of the seat, we can program it to come on and go off at set times during the day (why waste the electricity if you're at work all day?). Also just by sitting, I can activate the built-in fan—this is the desmell feature, according to the book. After more study (again, someone took pity on the Americans and added a few English words to the diagrams), it appears that our toilet has a built-in bidet, fanny-washer, and air-dryer. Using various buttons and knobs, you can adjust the direction, volume, and temperature of the water spray for the bidet and fanny-washer, as well as the temperature of the air-dryer. There is also a massage function to the fanny-washer and/or bidet. Excuse me, what exactly are we massaging here???

Now here is where the upstairs toilet takes a drastic leap ahead of the technology of the downstairs toilet. It comes with a REMOTE CONTROL. Why in heaven’s name do you need a remote control for a toilet? Where else are you going to possibly be when you need your fanny washed? It’s not like being too lazy to get up from the couch to change the TV channel. You are already sitting on top of the fanny-washer! The on button is right beside you!! Why the remote?!? What exactly is the range on this remote? I’d hate to be in there when Jim is in the mood to be a jokester. I think I will remove the batteries and hide the remote, just in case….

Friday, August 29--Trash Talkin'

2008-08-29T15:12:00.000+09:00

The other day someone told me the reason they moved out of their house and back to the base was because of the trash. What? What about the trash? Now I know…

The Japanese are very concerned about the environment and conservation, partly because their country is a small series of islands, and they realize resources are limited. As a result, they have implemented measures to protect the environment, reduce pollution, and conserve resources. Hence, the trash. We knew from our trip to Tokyo last summer that trash was sorted—at McDonald’s your drink cup went in one can and the lid and straw went in another. At the zoo, there were several different garbage cans, although I couldn’t read them. Okay, not entirely true—several said PET, and I thought it was extremely strange they would have so many cans for dog poo, when pets weren’t allowed in the zoo. Turns out PET is a specific type of recyclable plastic (water bottles—they have a little 1 in the triangle on the bottom). Duh.

That is only the tip of the iceberg. Our housing agent gave us an eight-page packet of directions for the trash. Oh crap. Trash must be sorted into five different categories for pick-up during the week—burnable, non-burnable, PET bottles, other plastics, and bottles/cans. Each type of trash must be placed in a clear plastic bag and carried on its assigned day to the garbage station at the end of the street. If your trash is not sorted appropriately, the trash men will slap a huge yellow sticker on your bag and leave it at the pickup station (it could be worse…in neighborhoods where they pick up garbage at the curb, they will carry the offending bag with its yellow sticker right to your door and leave it for all the neighbors to see). If your bag is stickered, you must take it home, open it up, figure out what you did wrong, and resort it. Ahhh, the pressure! Not to mention the valuable floor space in my kitchen is being overrun with trash bags/cans!

But wait. We aren’t done sorting yet. There are six different categories for pickup on Saturday! Newspapers, magazines, cardboard boxes, drink cartons, mixed papers, and clothing/rugs. These items must be bundled and left in specific spots on your driveway for pickup.

What about bulky waste? Items more than 30 cm in length cannot be put out with the regular trash. You must call the Environment Clean Center to arrange a date, time, and location for pickup, then go to a convenience store to purchase a Bulky Waste Collection Sticker, write your name clearly on the sticker, affix it to the front of the waste, and put the waste out on the prearranged date. Each item must have its own sticker, and has its own fee for collection (rice cooker ¥250, Buddhist altar ¥750).

I won’t even get into hazardous waste (batteries, paint, cleaners) or old appliances, TVs, and computers… I plan to ship all of that back to the States when our tour is up and get rid of it there!

Thursday, August 28--Meeting the Neighbors

2008-08-28T14:28:00.000+09:00

It is customary when you move into a new house in Japan to take small gifts to your neighbors. This is to apologize for stirring up dust and disturbing them while you are moving in. Gifts don’t have to be extravagant—something from your hometown, a hand towel or soap (to clean up all that dirt you’ve stirred up), American chocolate, homemade treats. It’s more the thought that counts. So, in preparation for this day, I made fudge and peanut butter candy, and packaged it all up neatly in gift bags. I have been as nervous about delivering these gifts as I was about taking the driving test! I know exactly three Japanese sentences appropriate for meeting people, I am not sure about the bowing tradition, and the last thing I want to do is offend the people we will be living among for the next three years! Adding to the stress is the whole setup of the house. You don’t go to the front door to ring the doorbell. Each house has a gate at the street, and the doorbell is located at the gate. Inside the house is an intercom with a camera, where the homeowner can ascertain who exactly is ringing the bell. If the person inside speaks only Japanese, and the person outside speaks only English, this could be a very awkward situation. Luckily, Jim had his wits about him and had a great plan.

The very first day we had come to look at the house—before we even had keys to get inside—one of the ladies from across the street came over to introduce herself. She speaks English, and though she is technically not a neighbor (the houses straight across and on either side are your neighbors), Jim felt we should include her in the gift giving because she made the effort to introduce herself that first day. He also had the foresight to suggest we take her gift over first—probably because we knew she spoke English and that would be an easy first stop. It didn’t turn out as easy as planned—when we rang the bell at the gate, her husband, who speaks very little English, came on the intercom speaking rapid Japanese. Jim managed to say konbanwa (good evening), but then we both stood there opening and closing our mouths like fish out of water. For what seemed like hours, but was actually less than a minute, we stood there gaping and fidgeting while the husband continued to try to figure out in Japanese what we wanted. Finally, Yasuko came out the door full of apologies, and we breathed a huge sigh of relief. She came to the gate to chat and accepted her gift, then (HALLELUJAH!!) offered to go with us to the other houses. Thank you, thank you, thank you!! She took charge, rang the bell at each house, then explained in Japanese to the voice coming from the intercom why we were there. Turns out, the occupants of the three houses across the street all speak English to some extent, so introductions went pretty smoothly. Only one of the houses beside ours is occupied at the moment, and that family does not speak English, so Yasuko’s willingness to translate was especially appreciated.

Once all of the gifts were delivered, we retreated to our kitchen to make dinner and revel in the successful completion of our task (I for one was nearly giddy with relief— like a huge weight had been lifted). Not fifteen minutes later, our doorbell rang, and our camera showed it was Yasuko standing at the gate. Skipping the whole intercom ordeal, I went straight outside to find that she had drawn a map of the homes we had visited, and had labeled each house with the names of the neighbors (obviously she picked up on the fact that I was not processing or storing information very well during the introductions). I can already see that this woman’s kindness and willingness to help are going to be invaluable during our stay in this neighborhood.

Tuesday, August 26--You Learn Something New Every Day

2008-08-26T13:49:00.000+09:00

In an effort to learn as much as possible about our new home and how to take care of it properly, I signed up for a class entitled (appropriately) “Your Japanese Home.” A Japanese native taught the class, and helped to alleviate some fears while inspiring some new ones. Apparently, it is not a matter of if your home will mold or mildew, it is a matter of when. In an effort to stave off the inevitable for as long as possible, we learned about all kinds of dehumidifiers, electric and otherwise.

The tatami room is the one room in a house where Americans have the potential to cause the most costly damage. Between the tatami (grass) mats on the floor, the shoji screens in front of the sliding door, and the fusama room dividers, I am especially grateful that we have no small children or large dogs!

We learned about the proper way to use the bathroom—you should have separate slippers outside of the toilet room so as not to contaminate your house slippers. If you want to take a bath in the tub (which can be automatically filled for you either by a switch in the kitchen or by setting a timer so it will be ready when you come in from a long day at work), you must first take a shower. To take a proper Japanese shower, you should sit on a small plastic upside-down bucket, so as not to splash your dirty water into the clean water of the tub (the shower is not enclosed, and is right next to the tub). When you are done in the tub (soaking only, no bubble bath or soap lest you cause thousands of yen in damage to the recirculation system), leave the water for the next person. With a simple touch of another button, the water in the tub will be reheated in preparation for the next person in line. I’m not sure how much sharing of the bathwater there will be in this house, but I can guarantee during the cold winter, I will be reheating my own water and spending hours in the tub!

After the classroom instruction, we went on a field trip to the Daiei, which is a local shopping mall. We were shown many Japanese products that will be useful to keeping our home clean, comfortable, and smelling great (don’t confuse the room air freshener with the one meant specifically for the bathroom, or your Japanese guests will laugh at you). It’s interesting to notice the difference in packaging of Japanese products compared to similar American products. For example, bug spray (either for spraying the house/yard or for spraying bodies) in Japan comes in cans with colors we normally associate with babies—pale blue and green. Big contrast from American bug spray in its black, red, yellow, dark green, or orange packaging.

Dinner tonight turned out to be a very pleasant surprise. The Officer’s Club had been closed for renovations since we arrived, and had its grand reopening this past weekend. We decided to try it out for dinner tonight, and walked in on Mongolian BBQ night. We’d heard of this in the States, but neither of us had ever tried it before—boy, were we missing out! Basically, you create your own meal from the ingredients laid out before you—tons of vegetables, every kind of meat you can imagine, a dozen spices, and twice that many sauces. You pile everything you want into a big bowl, and they whisk it off to the kitchen to cook it up for you. Mine turned out delicious, if I do say so myself. Unfortunately, I have no idea what I put in it, so there’s no way I’ll ever recreate it!

Sunday, August 24--Maybe We Won't Starve Afterall

2008-08-24T22:49:00.000+09:00

Jim’s birthday was Tuesday, and since we were still in the hotel, the best dessert I could manage was a chocolate pudding pie. Not the same as a birthday cake. So this morning I set out to conquer the Japanese oven. We lucked out and got a model that is large enough to hold a 9” X 13” pan, perfect for making a cake. This oven is like nothing I’ve ever seen before—and I’m not just talking about the size. It is a convection oven/broiler/microwave combination, and you’ve got to push the right combination of buttons to get the function you want. Plus, like everything else outside of the United States, it’s metric—the temperature setting is in Celsius. Luckily, someone had taped a conversion chart next to the temperature knob. I spent 30 minutes studying the instruction manual, with its cartoon-like pictures and sporadic English words handwritten by someone who had taken pity on the American folks who cycle through this house. Finally, I got the temperature set and the oven turned on to preheat, but apparently there is no way to turn off the convection fan. I remember horror stories about Grandma Walker trying to make peanut butter brownies in the convection oven at the school and blowing the batter all out of the pans, so I didn’t have a really good feeling about the outcome of this endeavor.

Once the oven was preheated, I put the pan in and set the timer for the 32 minutes recommended on the cake mix box. I was worried about the fan, so in five minutes I planned to turn the pan around so the batter would blow evenly back to the other side. Well, the oven fits a 9” X 13” pan, but there is no extra room for reaching in with potholders to grab the hot pan. I tried sliding out the rack, but it is not on a fixed track like American ovens—pull it out too far and the whole thing tips forward and crashes onto the open door. Luckily it only had about two inches to fall and I was able to keep the cake pan from careening off onto the floor. After about five minutes of finagling (and letting all of the heat out of the oven), I got the pan turned and was back in business. I checked again in another five minutes to see if I needed to turn the pan once more to keep the cake level, and the top was already looking like a cake that had been baking for half an hour! A frantic run to the internet to look up “baking cakes in a convection oven” and I discovered that I should have reduced the temperature 25-50 degrees from what the box recommended. I turned down the temperature and in an attempt not to have the top of the cake become charcoal, covered the whole thing with foil. I paced nervously back and forth, pulling the cake out about every ten minutes to check for doneness, and finally after about 70 minutes, the knife came out clean. The cake looked more or less like it was supposed to, only a little less fluffy, and a bit lopsided. Once it was cooled and frosted, it even tasted more or less like it was supposed to. The only trouble is, I have no idea how long it really takes to bake a cake in a convection oven. Did it take so long because I reduced the temperature, or because I was constantly opening the door and letting all of the heat out? I don’t see it going any differently next time—I will still have to turn the pan so the batter doesn’t all blow to one side, and I will still be constantly checking to see if it’s done. Will I ever know how long it takes to bake a cake?

A glutton for punishment, I broiled steaks for dinner. Turned out to be much less stressful than the cake baking. The broiler/convection combination is actually a great idea, and the steaks came out perfectly cooked and amazingly tender. Maybe this cooking thing won’t be so bad….

Saturday, August 23--The Great Escape

2008-08-23T11:32:00.000+09:00

We did it! After 38 days, we are done living in hotels! We officially checked out this morning, and headed to our new house to await delivery of the desks we purchased this week at the NEX. We are very excited about these desks—not only were they very reasonably priced, but they will fit perfectly in the room we have designated as the office (previously believed to be the 6’ X 9’ room on the floor plan, it is actually closer to 10’ X 10’). Our excitement did dim somewhat when we opened the boxes and saw how many pieces they contained. We knew these desks required some assembly, but imagine our surprise when we pulled out piece AA! That doesn’t even include the gazillion screws, fasteners, drawer slides, and other assorted hardware. Now I understand why the desks were so reasonably priced!! But we are nothing if not persistent, and six hours and several choice words later, we have two fully assembled, fully functional desks!

We finished our building project just in time to clean up and head out for our first official poker game in Japan. It was a smallish game—only eight of us, and made me miss the gang back home. It will take a while to break in this new crowd and get used to how they play. Looking forward to hosting a game once our stuff gets here…only we’re not sure where everyone is going to park….

Friday, August 22--Move In, Part I

2008-08-22T19:38:00.000+09:00

Japanese movers are models of efficiency. Granted, they were only bringing us limited quantities of loaner furniture, but they were in and out within 45 minutes. Queen-size bed (frame assembled, mattress and box spring in place), dresser, 2 nightstands, couch, 2 chairs, 2 end tables, coffee table, lamps, kitchen table with 4 chairs, washer and dryer. They would have even had the washer and dryer hooked up and ready to use if the drain in the laundry room hadn’t been running slow (yes, they tested that before hooking up the washer). All this while sidestepping the men who were running all over the inside and outside of the house hooking up the phone and the internet. Also keep in mind that every time they entered the house they took off their shoes, and every time they went back out to the truck, they put their shoes back on. It will be interesting to see how they do when they deliver and unpack our stuff. I am sure the wads of paper and rolls of tape that were used during the packing will slow them down a bit, but I expect it to be a totally organized and fairly speedy process.

There wasn’t much for us to do after the movers left except rearrange some of the stuff we’d brought over from the hotel earlier in the week. We waited around for the housing agent to come over with the plumber to fix the drain in the laundry room (have to order a part), then went on a grocery run. Once the fridge was stocked, and the dry goods were stored in the floor (another ingenious use of space—storage lockers in the floor, where it is cool), it was back to the hotel to finish packing up our stuff—moving out tomorrow!!