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
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?
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
Monday, August 31--Salvation
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.
Sunday, August 30--Has anybody seen my walker?
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
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.
Friday, August 28--Mt. Fuji, Part One
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 5th 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.
Thursday, August 27--Don't wanna be a fool
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).
Wednesday, August 26--Seriously, you want me to eat that?
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!”
Monday, August 17--Hindsight is 20/20
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
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.
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
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.
Thursday, July 23--Have you driven a Ford lately?
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.
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
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.
Monday, July 13--Parallel Universe
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.
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
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
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.
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
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.?
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
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!
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
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?
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"
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.
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
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.
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
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
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?
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.
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
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!
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.”
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
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.
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
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…
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…
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