Notes on Self-discovery
I am pretty good at:
• Volleyball
• Basketball
• Ping-pong (emphasis on this one)
• Sound effects
• Walking into doors (not entirely my fault, as the Japanese prefer glass sliding doors to the swinging ones I’m used to)
• Polite manners
• Solitude
• Riding a bicycle in a skirt
• Finding my way home
• Involuntarily drawing attention
• Using chopsticks (thank you Jake Hacker)
• Reading in the wind
I am not so good at:
• Baseball
• Acting normal
• Keeping composure while people stare
• Not yelling “B*TCH, PLEASE!” at cars in the bike lane
• Riding a bicycle in a skirt against a typhoon
• Spotting glass doors
• Keeping track of time
• Falling asleep
• Waking up
• Brushing my hair
• Remembering to hang my laundry
• Being understood
• Coloring inside the lines
• Eating competitions
• Having enough leg-room
Other random facts:
• Kids like me
• Spiders don’t scare me
• No matter how many times I eat a tomato, I still very much dislike their taste
• I’ll try just about anything once
• It is possible to fall in love with someone’s personality with zero history of communication
• Sitting down and staring at a wall is a luxury, not a bore
• I carry my camera around when I people watch so that when the victims get suspicious, I have the equipment to quickly look the other way and pretend I am occupied with something else
• When people stop me for my picture, my face almost always turns bright red
• If I laugh long and hard enough, everyone around will start laughing too
• The walls and ceiling of my bedroom are covered with glow-in-the-dark stars (too much time has passed that this has not been shared)
• One Piece rules
Monday, October 18, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
October 10, 2010
It’s hard for me to write now because this feels more like a diary than a travel guide, as it used to. I’ve never really kept a diary. I’ve started several, though. From what I remember, they aren’t meant to be shared. It’s Sunday night and my favorite Japanese drama comes on in 15 minutes, at which point one of my kids will barge into my room and drag me away from whatever I am occupied by, and we’ll watch “Ryoma, The Hope” together. Sometimes Aiko will fall asleep with her thumb in her mouth and either Junko or I will have to carry her to bed. And sometimes Junko San will cry and I’ll have to pretend that I didn’t notice. I keep busy with school and Japanese studies and an unhealthy sum of reading. I sleep hard. I bike often. Many quiet weeknights I get out of school just as the sun is setting, and I start biking towards it. And it doesn’t matter where it is taking me because if I pedal hard enough, I know I’ll catch it. That’s all that really matters. I used to keep track in my head of where I turned, so I could find my way back, but I don’t anymore. Somehow here, when I’m lost, it’s never for long. I still don’t know my way around town because I take a different route just about every day. And I don’t stop until I’m satisfied with my view of the sky. And it really does feel like I’m closer to the sun, though I know that’s silly.
All this weekend we’ve been celebrating the Buddhist gods. There’s a huge festival, starting 200 meters away from my window, with food and games and entertainment and just about everything else you could ask for in a day. Beating drums woke me up Saturday morning to a near empty house. Most of my family left town to commemorate the fourth anniversary of the death of Junko San’s husband and the kids’ father. I left because I needed new shoes, and because I couldn’t handle such a still, silent room. I figured I could do my Japanese homework at the mall, since people watching tends to consequent productivity. I don’t know how that makes any sense. I’ve just accepted it. That didn’t happen though, because when I sat down in the food court and started to take out my notebook, I looked up to see eight white guys eating udon noodles a few tables over. At first I didn’t know how to react to such an unusual occurrence. In a way I felt it somewhat of an intrusion—that whole “this town ain’t big enough for the both of us” kind of thing. After creepily peering at them from behind my notebook for a few minutes, I decided that I should probably take the initiative to find out their intentions with my town. I walked up to their table and said something that came out a little more offensive than I’d anticipated. But I quickly discovered that they were very friendly and were, in fact, not trying to take over Izumo by contaminating it with culturally numb Americans. We spent a good portion of the day together, and I even took them to the roof for what I think to be an especially impressive view of the city. I figured this was okay because they would only be here for another week and therefore didn’t have the time to corrupt my top-secret thinking spot with another human’s presence.
I spent most of the rest of this weekend at the festival, going with different people, taking pictures, losing and eventually recovering children. I missed dinner tonight because I got lost chasing the sun again, hit a curb in the dark, fell on the pavement and laughed until my knee stopped throbbing. My family was worried because no matter how long I’m gone or how lost I’ve been, I always seem to make it home right before dinner. I took a shower and walked out wrapped in a towel, as usual. There is only one shower in my house, as most Japanese homes have, and it happens to be downstairs by the kitchen. The stairs, leading to my room and the living space of the house, pass right by the kendo shop. This has never been a problem until tonight, when Ito San had company in the shop. So I’m standing in the kitchen in a towel, waiting for the voices to cease in the kendo shop so I can get to my room without old Japanese men seeing my bare shoulders and dripping hair. My host moms, still doing dishes, and Aiko couldn’t relieve the predicament while laughing hysterically at me. I’m thinking that maybe I could sneak up the stairs subtly, but that’s near impossible because the stairs are obnoxiously creaky and are stationed conveniently obvious to the store and its contents. It really wasn’t funny; I don’t know why everyone was laughing so hard. Finally Aiko takes my hand and leads me through the kitchen and past the tearoom and everything else I thought existed of the downstairs. Apparently not though, because we came to this room I’d never seen in the two months I’ve lived here, and up these stairs that I think were spiral, but I can’t be sure because I couldn’t even make out my hand intertwined with Aiko’s in the relentless dark. The whole time she was whispering to me like we were set out on a secret mission—a Japanese underground railroad where the purpose was far less momentous but the concealment just as vital. Anyway, we came out on the roof underneath my hanging laundry. It was rather thrilling. I walked past Isamu and he screamed, “Sarah-chyan’s naked!” and I countered, “Am not!” reinstating another strike of laughter downstairs.
So that’s the past 2 hours and the highlights of yesterday.
There’s no way I could describe each detail of my life here in Japan. In a lot of ways it’s just like anybody else’s. I still hit the snooze button twice on my alarm clock, the rain doesn’t wait for my clothes to dry, I’m constantly losing things, and everyday I’m reminded that bad things happen to really great people. Last week there was one day where a really intense storm hovered over Izumo. It rained all day and saturated my clothes on the bike ride home from school. I’ve biked in the rain plenty of times here, but not like this. The droplets were heavy and cold and stung like BB pellets. I couldn’t stop shivering and tried to take my mind somewhere away from the bitterness of the weather. I started thinking of everything inside my body, beneath my skin, how warm it would be and how every organ was still mechanically performing regardless of the external. And I felt holy, like my body was offering itself as a sanctuary and everything I was meant something more than a breathing being. I don’t know how else to say it; I’m not even religious… I’m sorry this makes little sense. I don’t ever make any sense anymore. The point is, all you can really ask for is the recognition that you are alive with a purpose, and that we have the choice and the power to fight what dies inside us while we live.
What really bothers me is how no one really understands each other. No one really knows anyone until they know themselves. That kills me.
I have to sleep now before I keep trying to force nonsense into words.
It’s hard for me to write now because this feels more like a diary than a travel guide, as it used to. I’ve never really kept a diary. I’ve started several, though. From what I remember, they aren’t meant to be shared. It’s Sunday night and my favorite Japanese drama comes on in 15 minutes, at which point one of my kids will barge into my room and drag me away from whatever I am occupied by, and we’ll watch “Ryoma, The Hope” together. Sometimes Aiko will fall asleep with her thumb in her mouth and either Junko or I will have to carry her to bed. And sometimes Junko San will cry and I’ll have to pretend that I didn’t notice. I keep busy with school and Japanese studies and an unhealthy sum of reading. I sleep hard. I bike often. Many quiet weeknights I get out of school just as the sun is setting, and I start biking towards it. And it doesn’t matter where it is taking me because if I pedal hard enough, I know I’ll catch it. That’s all that really matters. I used to keep track in my head of where I turned, so I could find my way back, but I don’t anymore. Somehow here, when I’m lost, it’s never for long. I still don’t know my way around town because I take a different route just about every day. And I don’t stop until I’m satisfied with my view of the sky. And it really does feel like I’m closer to the sun, though I know that’s silly.
All this weekend we’ve been celebrating the Buddhist gods. There’s a huge festival, starting 200 meters away from my window, with food and games and entertainment and just about everything else you could ask for in a day. Beating drums woke me up Saturday morning to a near empty house. Most of my family left town to commemorate the fourth anniversary of the death of Junko San’s husband and the kids’ father. I left because I needed new shoes, and because I couldn’t handle such a still, silent room. I figured I could do my Japanese homework at the mall, since people watching tends to consequent productivity. I don’t know how that makes any sense. I’ve just accepted it. That didn’t happen though, because when I sat down in the food court and started to take out my notebook, I looked up to see eight white guys eating udon noodles a few tables over. At first I didn’t know how to react to such an unusual occurrence. In a way I felt it somewhat of an intrusion—that whole “this town ain’t big enough for the both of us” kind of thing. After creepily peering at them from behind my notebook for a few minutes, I decided that I should probably take the initiative to find out their intentions with my town. I walked up to their table and said something that came out a little more offensive than I’d anticipated. But I quickly discovered that they were very friendly and were, in fact, not trying to take over Izumo by contaminating it with culturally numb Americans. We spent a good portion of the day together, and I even took them to the roof for what I think to be an especially impressive view of the city. I figured this was okay because they would only be here for another week and therefore didn’t have the time to corrupt my top-secret thinking spot with another human’s presence.
I spent most of the rest of this weekend at the festival, going with different people, taking pictures, losing and eventually recovering children. I missed dinner tonight because I got lost chasing the sun again, hit a curb in the dark, fell on the pavement and laughed until my knee stopped throbbing. My family was worried because no matter how long I’m gone or how lost I’ve been, I always seem to make it home right before dinner. I took a shower and walked out wrapped in a towel, as usual. There is only one shower in my house, as most Japanese homes have, and it happens to be downstairs by the kitchen. The stairs, leading to my room and the living space of the house, pass right by the kendo shop. This has never been a problem until tonight, when Ito San had company in the shop. So I’m standing in the kitchen in a towel, waiting for the voices to cease in the kendo shop so I can get to my room without old Japanese men seeing my bare shoulders and dripping hair. My host moms, still doing dishes, and Aiko couldn’t relieve the predicament while laughing hysterically at me. I’m thinking that maybe I could sneak up the stairs subtly, but that’s near impossible because the stairs are obnoxiously creaky and are stationed conveniently obvious to the store and its contents. It really wasn’t funny; I don’t know why everyone was laughing so hard. Finally Aiko takes my hand and leads me through the kitchen and past the tearoom and everything else I thought existed of the downstairs. Apparently not though, because we came to this room I’d never seen in the two months I’ve lived here, and up these stairs that I think were spiral, but I can’t be sure because I couldn’t even make out my hand intertwined with Aiko’s in the relentless dark. The whole time she was whispering to me like we were set out on a secret mission—a Japanese underground railroad where the purpose was far less momentous but the concealment just as vital. Anyway, we came out on the roof underneath my hanging laundry. It was rather thrilling. I walked past Isamu and he screamed, “Sarah-chyan’s naked!” and I countered, “Am not!” reinstating another strike of laughter downstairs.
So that’s the past 2 hours and the highlights of yesterday.
There’s no way I could describe each detail of my life here in Japan. In a lot of ways it’s just like anybody else’s. I still hit the snooze button twice on my alarm clock, the rain doesn’t wait for my clothes to dry, I’m constantly losing things, and everyday I’m reminded that bad things happen to really great people. Last week there was one day where a really intense storm hovered over Izumo. It rained all day and saturated my clothes on the bike ride home from school. I’ve biked in the rain plenty of times here, but not like this. The droplets were heavy and cold and stung like BB pellets. I couldn’t stop shivering and tried to take my mind somewhere away from the bitterness of the weather. I started thinking of everything inside my body, beneath my skin, how warm it would be and how every organ was still mechanically performing regardless of the external. And I felt holy, like my body was offering itself as a sanctuary and everything I was meant something more than a breathing being. I don’t know how else to say it; I’m not even religious… I’m sorry this makes little sense. I don’t ever make any sense anymore. The point is, all you can really ask for is the recognition that you are alive with a purpose, and that we have the choice and the power to fight what dies inside us while we live.
What really bothers me is how no one really understands each other. No one really knows anyone until they know themselves. That kills me.
I have to sleep now before I keep trying to force nonsense into words.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
September 21, 2010
Day 1 with the Australians. There are 15 of them.
There is really no need for background information here, I’ve decided.
From now on, my words will mirror my thoughts (censored).
So I meet them at lunch, where we make noodles together and they seem pretty cool and their accents rule. We eat and they tell me about Australia and I tell them about Japan, surprising myself with how much I knew. Then they are introduced to my class and that was okay too; I translated as well as I could and felt nice because everyone was impressed. After an hour of introductions the Australians had planned excursions to JA, which is The Japan Agriculture Company, and then to meet the mayor at City Hall. I was invited to join the group, which everyone seemed happy about. My counselor came too, who is one of my 3 English teachers. I will refer to him as Sensei (teacher) because I can’t spell his name. Sensei has one of those ‘I’m-only-doing-this-because-it’s-my-duty’ attitudes, with everything, but foreigners especially. I would say that he hasn’t quite warmed up to me yet, but he honestly hasn’t warmed up to anyone. Anyhow, his dismay towards the Australians and his task as their translator was rather obvious to me.
So we’re walking to the bus and these kids are trying to speak Japanese to me, and I’m thinking, bro, stop trying to show off your 4-7 years of Japanese language study in conversation with an American girl while PRONOUNCING YOUR WORDS WRONG. We arrive at the conference room in JA and we’re sitting in a large rectangle waiting for the president of the company to greet us. So I start looking around at all these Australian kids, I mean really looking. And this one girl’s got on black eyeliner, heavy and smeared with paint-chipped blue nail polish. This other kid looks like he hasn’t showered in weeks, and the girl next to him is wearing a napkin disguised as a skirt and silver snake earrings twisting along her jaw line. Then we’ve got 2 nose rings, 1 beanie, and 18 elbows resting the table. Finally the president arrives and he tells us about JA. Sensei translates. The students ask questions. Sensei translates. This routine repeats itself for another 15 minutes until the president gifts us with 2,000-yen coupons to a department store across the street, and we part.
We’re standing in the parking lot and Sensei announces to everyone that we must meet back here at 4:10, when we will walk to City Hall and meet the Mayor, giving us 1 hour to shop with our coupons. I look around the store for a while, and then realize I don’t need anything from a department/grocery store. I decide that 2,000-yen (about 20 dollars) would be better spent by Junko San and that I would just give it to her when I got home. So for the majority of this hour, I explain to the Australians what things are and answer questions like, “Sarah, how much does this cost?” by remaining silent and pointing to the price tag, the whole time thinking, I DIDN’T MAKE THAT WALLET. I HAD NO PART IS IT’S MANUFACTURE OR IT’S PRICING. I CAN READ NUMBERS JUST AS WELL AS YOU CAN. HOW WOULD I KNOW ANY BETTER THAN YOU HOW MUCH IT COSTS? READ THE PRICE TAG. I DON’T CARE HOW CUTE YOU OR YOUR ACCENT IS, YOU ARE DUMB. Eventually I buy some cookies with my own money because I’m hungry, and I sit next to Sensei, who’s watching the department store television. It is showing sumo wrestling. He actually talks to me, which I was very alarmed and happy about. He is not one to do that. But he asked me if I was homesick, and I said I wasn’t. Because I’m not. And he told me that last year this one Australian got really homesick on the third day and wouldn’t stop crying and she had to talk to her parents on the phone for about an hour. A pay phone. A public pay phone in this very store. So I told him that a few minutes ago, one of the girls asked me if I knew where the calling cards were. I asked her why she needed one because I was curious, and she said so she could call her parents—which I knew already, I just felt like being the obnoxious one for once. But I was really wondering why she would need to talk to her parents in the first 24 hours of being in Japan. It's strange to me, that's all.
At 4:05 we leave the sumo and go to the meeting spot in the parking lot. No one is there. At 4:08 Sensei returns to the store to round up the students. 4:10 comes around—no one is there. At 4:15 I see about half of the group meandering across the lot, in no hurry to be anywhere but in their own material conversation. At 4:18 Sensei returns, with a few more students, though 2 are still missing. The whole time I’m thinking, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? DON’T YOU KNOW THAT IN JAPAN, ‘BE HERE AT 4:10’ CLEARLY MEANS 4:05? MAYBE THIS IS OKAY IF YOU ARE GOING TO A PARTY IN AUSTRALIA, BUT IT IS NOT OKAY WHEN YOU ARE A GUEST IN A FOREIGN CITY WHO’S MAYOR YOU ARE LATE TO MEET. UGH. By this time, Sensei is just about to explode with frustration. He’s even clenching both hands at the roots of his thick, dark hair. This universally means business.
Finally everyone’s here, 10 minutes after expected, and we start heading toward City Hall not far across the street. Some girl asks me in Japanese if my cookie tastes good, and I’m thinking, IT’S A COOKIE. IT’S A FREAKING CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE AND I’M ON MY LAST BITE. OF COURSE IT TASTES GOOD. So I answer, “Umm, yeah,” and I suppose my speech filter caused her to doubt my understanding, so she says, “I mean, is it yummy?” And I’m like, GIRL I KNOW WHAT YOU SAID. So I say, “I know.” Sensei and I are leading, and as we’re crossing the street the green walking sign starts blinking, and I yell, “Everyone make this light!” No one makes the light. Opposite from the Australians, I start laughing and Sensei is shaking his head in irritation saying, “I knew it. I knew it.”
Then we’re waiting for the elevator inside City Hall to take us to the 3rd floor, where the Mayor’s, among many other important offices, are located. Sensei is tapping his foot and keeps jamming the already lit arrow pointing up, and I see Junko San out of the corner of my eye. She’s almost running towards me in excitement and I won’t lie; I have never in my life been happier to see a tiny Japanese person. I’m thinking, OH MY GOD FINALLY, A CIVILIZED NATIVE. We exchange quick words, mostly about why she’s in City Hall, and then she sees the look on Sensei’s face and knows to leave as the elevator arrives. So we’re walking down the hallway on the third floor just brimming with esteemed people, and these kids are talking SO LOUD. I’m shhsh-ing them and doing the whole elevator-arms motion that is supposed to communicate, KEEP IT DOWN, but it only worked half as well as I’d hoped. We sit down in another rectangle and, thank you mother of Jesus, the Mayor is delayed. What happened next I can hardly believe. And as it pains me to write, I tell you in shame of my own skin color that these kids actually start eating the candy they bought at the store IN THE MAYOR’S CONFERENCE ROOM. ARE YOU SERIOUS? So I hide my face in my hands, because it seemed to be the obvious thing to do at such a grave time, and this guy next to me starts laughing. I look up and realize that I’ve never seen him before, and he introduces himself as the Mayor’s personal Irish college-student translator, or something along those lines. He was nice.
We were asked to briefly introduce ourselves once the Mayor was seated, so we did. I was last, because I am clearly best. The Mayor smiled a lot when I spoke said something I couldn’t understand once finished. I think he liked me though, mostly because I was wearing a school uniform, and because I’m not an idiot. Before heading to another room for a group picture, we were all presented with the most beautiful pair of chopsticks I have ever seen, which I am still rather excited about. This may be the worst part yet, though you well know it has competition: after the group picture, two of the Australian girls whom I hadn’t officially met stood on either side of the Mayor of Izumo, making visible clothing contact with his suit, while one reached her arm out and took a picture. I think I almost died, thinking, I KNOW YOU DID NOT JUST TAKE A MYSPACE PICTURE WITH THE MAYOR. THIS CANNOT BE REAL LIFE. Sensei didn’t see this, but I assume he really would have died.
Relieved to be out of such a distressful environment, we board the bus making way back to the school. While thinking there can’t possibly be any more rumpus from now on, the girl next to me sticks her head out of the window and starts yelling at this woman in the car next to us. “KONNICHIWA. OGENKI DESU KA.” And this poor young woman looks afraid the girl might actually jump out through the window and into her car, shaking her head vigorously and forcing a grin. I brush off the annoyance and divert my attention to some other students. But soon I hear it again, “KONNICHIWA!” This time her hand is out too, and she’s wholeheartedly waving it at an elderly Japanese woman. OH MY GOD WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING? DON’T YOU KNOW THAT OLDER JAPANESE WOMEN DESERVE BUDDHA’S LEVEL OF RESPECT? WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO HER? WHY ARE YOU MAKING EYE CONTACT?? Near tears, I lowered my head and remained silent for the short trip back to school.
The funny thing is, I really like these Australian kids. They are very nice and rather interesting, and I feel like we would probably become fast friends if we were in, say, Australia or America. But since we are not, I will have to either look past their severely lacking knowledge of Japanese customs, or teach them, neither of which I’m fond of doing.
After leaving the Australians for the night, Sensei and I talked all the way back to our transportation mechanisms (his car, my bike). I’m fairly certain that if Sensei doesn’t like me by the end of today, he at least sincerely appreciates me.
On the bike ride home, just as I was passing City Hall and recapping what had happened there, I saw this strange looking guy on this strange looking bike. And while we passed each other he said this strange word to me and I said it back. I kept biking until we had each gone another 50 meters, making our distance 100m, and then realized the word was ‘hey,’ and he was a black man on a basket-less bicycle. And that these were 3 things I had not encountered in a month. Without thought, I turned around and started biking his direction, clearing ground as fast as I felt—half-wind, half-wolf. I didn’t really know what I would say when I caught up to him, or how I would get him to stop, but it didn’t matter because I was stalled by the light and lost his track. I really wish I would have immediately acknowledged his marvel.
I talked all through dinner about my day and my family and I laughed about it for quite a while after that and I was so happy to just be. And I still am. So that’s that.
Day 1 with the Australians. There are 15 of them.
There is really no need for background information here, I’ve decided.
From now on, my words will mirror my thoughts (censored).
So I meet them at lunch, where we make noodles together and they seem pretty cool and their accents rule. We eat and they tell me about Australia and I tell them about Japan, surprising myself with how much I knew. Then they are introduced to my class and that was okay too; I translated as well as I could and felt nice because everyone was impressed. After an hour of introductions the Australians had planned excursions to JA, which is The Japan Agriculture Company, and then to meet the mayor at City Hall. I was invited to join the group, which everyone seemed happy about. My counselor came too, who is one of my 3 English teachers. I will refer to him as Sensei (teacher) because I can’t spell his name. Sensei has one of those ‘I’m-only-doing-this-because-it’s-my-duty’ attitudes, with everything, but foreigners especially. I would say that he hasn’t quite warmed up to me yet, but he honestly hasn’t warmed up to anyone. Anyhow, his dismay towards the Australians and his task as their translator was rather obvious to me.
So we’re walking to the bus and these kids are trying to speak Japanese to me, and I’m thinking, bro, stop trying to show off your 4-7 years of Japanese language study in conversation with an American girl while PRONOUNCING YOUR WORDS WRONG. We arrive at the conference room in JA and we’re sitting in a large rectangle waiting for the president of the company to greet us. So I start looking around at all these Australian kids, I mean really looking. And this one girl’s got on black eyeliner, heavy and smeared with paint-chipped blue nail polish. This other kid looks like he hasn’t showered in weeks, and the girl next to him is wearing a napkin disguised as a skirt and silver snake earrings twisting along her jaw line. Then we’ve got 2 nose rings, 1 beanie, and 18 elbows resting the table. Finally the president arrives and he tells us about JA. Sensei translates. The students ask questions. Sensei translates. This routine repeats itself for another 15 minutes until the president gifts us with 2,000-yen coupons to a department store across the street, and we part.
We’re standing in the parking lot and Sensei announces to everyone that we must meet back here at 4:10, when we will walk to City Hall and meet the Mayor, giving us 1 hour to shop with our coupons. I look around the store for a while, and then realize I don’t need anything from a department/grocery store. I decide that 2,000-yen (about 20 dollars) would be better spent by Junko San and that I would just give it to her when I got home. So for the majority of this hour, I explain to the Australians what things are and answer questions like, “Sarah, how much does this cost?” by remaining silent and pointing to the price tag, the whole time thinking, I DIDN’T MAKE THAT WALLET. I HAD NO PART IS IT’S MANUFACTURE OR IT’S PRICING. I CAN READ NUMBERS JUST AS WELL AS YOU CAN. HOW WOULD I KNOW ANY BETTER THAN YOU HOW MUCH IT COSTS? READ THE PRICE TAG. I DON’T CARE HOW CUTE YOU OR YOUR ACCENT IS, YOU ARE DUMB. Eventually I buy some cookies with my own money because I’m hungry, and I sit next to Sensei, who’s watching the department store television. It is showing sumo wrestling. He actually talks to me, which I was very alarmed and happy about. He is not one to do that. But he asked me if I was homesick, and I said I wasn’t. Because I’m not. And he told me that last year this one Australian got really homesick on the third day and wouldn’t stop crying and she had to talk to her parents on the phone for about an hour. A pay phone. A public pay phone in this very store. So I told him that a few minutes ago, one of the girls asked me if I knew where the calling cards were. I asked her why she needed one because I was curious, and she said so she could call her parents—which I knew already, I just felt like being the obnoxious one for once. But I was really wondering why she would need to talk to her parents in the first 24 hours of being in Japan. It's strange to me, that's all.
At 4:05 we leave the sumo and go to the meeting spot in the parking lot. No one is there. At 4:08 Sensei returns to the store to round up the students. 4:10 comes around—no one is there. At 4:15 I see about half of the group meandering across the lot, in no hurry to be anywhere but in their own material conversation. At 4:18 Sensei returns, with a few more students, though 2 are still missing. The whole time I’m thinking, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? DON’T YOU KNOW THAT IN JAPAN, ‘BE HERE AT 4:10’ CLEARLY MEANS 4:05? MAYBE THIS IS OKAY IF YOU ARE GOING TO A PARTY IN AUSTRALIA, BUT IT IS NOT OKAY WHEN YOU ARE A GUEST IN A FOREIGN CITY WHO’S MAYOR YOU ARE LATE TO MEET. UGH. By this time, Sensei is just about to explode with frustration. He’s even clenching both hands at the roots of his thick, dark hair. This universally means business.
Finally everyone’s here, 10 minutes after expected, and we start heading toward City Hall not far across the street. Some girl asks me in Japanese if my cookie tastes good, and I’m thinking, IT’S A COOKIE. IT’S A FREAKING CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE AND I’M ON MY LAST BITE. OF COURSE IT TASTES GOOD. So I answer, “Umm, yeah,” and I suppose my speech filter caused her to doubt my understanding, so she says, “I mean, is it yummy?” And I’m like, GIRL I KNOW WHAT YOU SAID. So I say, “I know.” Sensei and I are leading, and as we’re crossing the street the green walking sign starts blinking, and I yell, “Everyone make this light!” No one makes the light. Opposite from the Australians, I start laughing and Sensei is shaking his head in irritation saying, “I knew it. I knew it.”
Then we’re waiting for the elevator inside City Hall to take us to the 3rd floor, where the Mayor’s, among many other important offices, are located. Sensei is tapping his foot and keeps jamming the already lit arrow pointing up, and I see Junko San out of the corner of my eye. She’s almost running towards me in excitement and I won’t lie; I have never in my life been happier to see a tiny Japanese person. I’m thinking, OH MY GOD FINALLY, A CIVILIZED NATIVE. We exchange quick words, mostly about why she’s in City Hall, and then she sees the look on Sensei’s face and knows to leave as the elevator arrives. So we’re walking down the hallway on the third floor just brimming with esteemed people, and these kids are talking SO LOUD. I’m shhsh-ing them and doing the whole elevator-arms motion that is supposed to communicate, KEEP IT DOWN, but it only worked half as well as I’d hoped. We sit down in another rectangle and, thank you mother of Jesus, the Mayor is delayed. What happened next I can hardly believe. And as it pains me to write, I tell you in shame of my own skin color that these kids actually start eating the candy they bought at the store IN THE MAYOR’S CONFERENCE ROOM. ARE YOU SERIOUS? So I hide my face in my hands, because it seemed to be the obvious thing to do at such a grave time, and this guy next to me starts laughing. I look up and realize that I’ve never seen him before, and he introduces himself as the Mayor’s personal Irish college-student translator, or something along those lines. He was nice.
We were asked to briefly introduce ourselves once the Mayor was seated, so we did. I was last, because I am clearly best. The Mayor smiled a lot when I spoke said something I couldn’t understand once finished. I think he liked me though, mostly because I was wearing a school uniform, and because I’m not an idiot. Before heading to another room for a group picture, we were all presented with the most beautiful pair of chopsticks I have ever seen, which I am still rather excited about. This may be the worst part yet, though you well know it has competition: after the group picture, two of the Australian girls whom I hadn’t officially met stood on either side of the Mayor of Izumo, making visible clothing contact with his suit, while one reached her arm out and took a picture. I think I almost died, thinking, I KNOW YOU DID NOT JUST TAKE A MYSPACE PICTURE WITH THE MAYOR. THIS CANNOT BE REAL LIFE. Sensei didn’t see this, but I assume he really would have died.
Relieved to be out of such a distressful environment, we board the bus making way back to the school. While thinking there can’t possibly be any more rumpus from now on, the girl next to me sticks her head out of the window and starts yelling at this woman in the car next to us. “KONNICHIWA. OGENKI DESU KA.” And this poor young woman looks afraid the girl might actually jump out through the window and into her car, shaking her head vigorously and forcing a grin. I brush off the annoyance and divert my attention to some other students. But soon I hear it again, “KONNICHIWA!” This time her hand is out too, and she’s wholeheartedly waving it at an elderly Japanese woman. OH MY GOD WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING? DON’T YOU KNOW THAT OLDER JAPANESE WOMEN DESERVE BUDDHA’S LEVEL OF RESPECT? WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO HER? WHY ARE YOU MAKING EYE CONTACT?? Near tears, I lowered my head and remained silent for the short trip back to school.
The funny thing is, I really like these Australian kids. They are very nice and rather interesting, and I feel like we would probably become fast friends if we were in, say, Australia or America. But since we are not, I will have to either look past their severely lacking knowledge of Japanese customs, or teach them, neither of which I’m fond of doing.
After leaving the Australians for the night, Sensei and I talked all the way back to our transportation mechanisms (his car, my bike). I’m fairly certain that if Sensei doesn’t like me by the end of today, he at least sincerely appreciates me.
On the bike ride home, just as I was passing City Hall and recapping what had happened there, I saw this strange looking guy on this strange looking bike. And while we passed each other he said this strange word to me and I said it back. I kept biking until we had each gone another 50 meters, making our distance 100m, and then realized the word was ‘hey,’ and he was a black man on a basket-less bicycle. And that these were 3 things I had not encountered in a month. Without thought, I turned around and started biking his direction, clearing ground as fast as I felt—half-wind, half-wolf. I didn’t really know what I would say when I caught up to him, or how I would get him to stop, but it didn’t matter because I was stalled by the light and lost his track. I really wish I would have immediately acknowledged his marvel.
I talked all through dinner about my day and my family and I laughed about it for quite a while after that and I was so happy to just be. And I still am. So that’s that.
Monday, September 20, 2010
- The Best of Me by The Starting Line is the theme song to a Japanese Disney anime show.
- English teacher: Sarah, have you heard of the movie Oceans?
Sarah: No, but I know the movie Oceans 11.
English teacher: Oceans…?
Sarah: E-le-ven. Oceans 11.
English teacher: Oceans a-lovin?
Sarah: No. Eleven. The number. Eleven. Ju-ichi (Japanese). Eleven.
English teacher: Ah, I see. Ok. Oceans A-lovin.
- English teacher: Sarah, please give the class example sentences using these words. (Points to words written on the board.) They will repeat each word after you, to practice pronunciation, and then the whole sentence.
Sarah: (Nervous, can’t think of sentences quick enough—starts playing with tunnel in ear. Accidently pushes tunnel out of loose lobe and it soars across the room.)
Oops.
Class: Oops.
September 17, 2010
Aiko wore a sky-blue satin dress; a small lock of her hair was braided and tied back to the side with the rest of it. She added a pearl necklace at the last minute. Isamu wore a button-up shirt, dress shorts, and a tie—a real one—with hiking boots and striped socks. They looked very nice. I spent an hour getting ready this night. This was mostly because I seem to have forgotten how to put on makeup and had to start over numerous times, wet-naps at disposal. I practiced my speech all day. ALL DAY. Biking to school, I spoke it out loud. During P.E., I muttered it repetitively in between setting and spiking and bumping and serving. Friends edited it over and over. I said it in the mirror as I put on mascara…I HAD IT DOWN. I SWEAR TO YOU, I HAD IT DOWN. It is vital I get this point across. So I wrote it on a small piece of paper so I could continue practicing up until the very second of my execution. I walked out of my room with two different shoes on. Fortunately, my family noticed, and then proceeded to argue which one better suited my outfit. I went with the girls’ choice; Isamu has a lot to learn.
When we arrived at the hotel, a very informal tea ceremony was held in the lobby. Japanese cake and Japanese green tea (which is nothing like the American sorts) was served by pretty women dressed in kimonos. After tea, my attendance was requested to an exclusive men’s meeting in a separate room. I don’t know why they invite me to these things. It’s not like I can offer much in a room of elderly Japanese men. So I sat with my legs crossed at the ankles, never the knee, and I practiced my speech, and I wondered if Aiko’s nose had stopped bleeding while she and the rest of the family waited in the lobby. (Apparently the excitement of an event to dress up for was intense enough to initiate a nosebleed.) They sang the Rotary song, just like the Tallahassee Sunrise Rotary Club, with the significant exception of shockingly impressive voices. I’m pretty sure you have to pass some sort of singing test to obtain Japanese citizenship. I’ll have to look into it. But the whole room fills with deep voices that bounce off the walls in all the right directions. And the floor vibrates and you look down at your feet and can almost see the pulse crawl up your legs to your spine, launching goose bumps and residing in your eardrums long after the song is ended. I really don’t think anything in the world sounds like a singing group of elderly Japanese men, except for a singing group of elderly Japanese men. Aiko’s nosebleed hadn’t given up. Half of a tissue was crammed in her tiny nostril for another 20 minutes.
The speech was rolled up in my sweating palm, dampness fading my lead handwriting. I was so afraid to lose it. Even though I knew the lines by heart, holding onto something real is much more comforting. I think that is why people write. Eventually I shoved it beneath the strap of my watch, held between that and my wrist, though continued to check its safety every minute. I was hoping for a podium to lean on and maybe steady myself from falling. Also so I could flatten the crinkled paper and peer down at it for reference when I froze. That did not happen. In fact, quite the opposite. Upon entrance to the dining hall, I noticed I would be put on stage with a microphone and a spotlight. That way, if such distress was too overwhelming, my vomit would be illuminate and radiating for the audience’s viewing pleasure.
Each 18 round tables in the dining hall sat 6. As usual, the women and family of the Rotarians were seated at separate tables, making the entire room segregated by sex—except for me. My foreign name card was placed among men. The man to my right was the principal of my school. Being already rather familiar with him, I introduced myself to the man to my left, whom I’d never seen. I was relieved to hear he spoke some English. He told me he practiced kendo, which is cool, since that’s the only traditional Japanese sport I know anything about, and that he had two kids: an 18 year old boy who is in his last year of high school, and a daughter who is in college and moved out. He then added, to my discomfort, “So my house has one empty bedroom.” This addition was confusing to me at first, but directly after such an awkward implication, a familiar Rotarian came up to my table and unknowingly clarified. Standing in-between the man and I, he elatedly told me that the man I was talking to would most likely be my next host father.
I don’t really know what to say, because I can’t describe how this made me feel. At the least I was unprepared. Since I have been here, changing host families has not once crossed my mind. I understand it is part of the process and what every exchange student experiences, I just hadn’t thought about it. So as these two men attentively waited to catch a hint of recognition upon my face, I just kind of stared blankly across the room for what seemed like minutes, imperceptibly panicking and trying not to wince at the needles jabbing my insides. This long moment of adaption passed and I gave them a big smile—a real one—because, once settled, this news was really quite alright.
However, being the over-analyzer that I have recently accepted I am, I can’t say I wouldn’t have appreciated such an alarming report to have waited maybe 10 minutes to be broken—when my speech was said and done. Obviously this was not the case, and my head swarmed with completely unnecessary doubts about the quantity of nightlights in my next family’s house as I stepped on stage. It was not particularly what I wanted to be consuming such a large apartment in my brain at such a critical time.
As predicted, I was defeated by the crowd and forgot most everything under the spotlight. I had to read most of my speech from that crinkled scrap of paper, yet kept my composure and somehow got compliments from half the room on my pronunciation and flawless grammar. I wouldn’t dare question how these things fall into place, though I am grateful.
After dinner there was a skit preformed by some Rotarians. You definitely did not need to understand Japanese to laugh at this. The president was a fully costumed Gandhi and the Secretary was dressed in a speedo, flippers, and a shark hat. There was also someone in an army suit holding a Japanese fan, and a man dressed as a geisha, make-up and all. There really isn’t anything more to say about that. Unfortunately, I was too amused to pick up my camera and capture such a ridiculous affair. Sorry.
Oh, there were also dancers. They did a silly dance, but they did it very well. And I wondered how so without laughing, recognizing that I wouldn’t have been able to. Then I noticed one dancer who was exceptionally precise, and he seemed so sure of himself and his silly dance. He looked at the audience dead on, conquering every doubt, and so I realized that you can pull of anything if you think you can.
I later found out that it was a group of mentally disabled dancers. I had suspected nothing.
I had coffee for dessert and couldn’t sleep for hours.
September 20, 2010
I went to an art museum in Matsue and saw some art. It was nice art. Some I recognized, thanks to Mrs. Hobbs. Some was photography and made me want use my camera towards something creative. Some was rather disturbing sculpture and reminded me of friends back home. And then there was a view overlooking a lake, which was my favorite.
1) Failed attempt at serious face. Had to look away so I wouldn't laugh.
2) Yes, that is an FSU shirt. Yes, this is real life.
3, 4, 5) Matsue view.
6) Matsue Lake
7) Me on sculpture.
- English teacher: Sarah, have you heard of the movie Oceans?
Sarah: No, but I know the movie Oceans 11.
English teacher: Oceans…?
Sarah: E-le-ven. Oceans 11.
English teacher: Oceans a-lovin?
Sarah: No. Eleven. The number. Eleven. Ju-ichi (Japanese). Eleven.
English teacher: Ah, I see. Ok. Oceans A-lovin.
- English teacher: Sarah, please give the class example sentences using these words. (Points to words written on the board.) They will repeat each word after you, to practice pronunciation, and then the whole sentence.
Sarah: (Nervous, can’t think of sentences quick enough—starts playing with tunnel in ear. Accidently pushes tunnel out of loose lobe and it soars across the room.)
Oops.
Class: Oops.
September 17, 2010
Aiko wore a sky-blue satin dress; a small lock of her hair was braided and tied back to the side with the rest of it. She added a pearl necklace at the last minute. Isamu wore a button-up shirt, dress shorts, and a tie—a real one—with hiking boots and striped socks. They looked very nice. I spent an hour getting ready this night. This was mostly because I seem to have forgotten how to put on makeup and had to start over numerous times, wet-naps at disposal. I practiced my speech all day. ALL DAY. Biking to school, I spoke it out loud. During P.E., I muttered it repetitively in between setting and spiking and bumping and serving. Friends edited it over and over. I said it in the mirror as I put on mascara…I HAD IT DOWN. I SWEAR TO YOU, I HAD IT DOWN. It is vital I get this point across. So I wrote it on a small piece of paper so I could continue practicing up until the very second of my execution. I walked out of my room with two different shoes on. Fortunately, my family noticed, and then proceeded to argue which one better suited my outfit. I went with the girls’ choice; Isamu has a lot to learn.
When we arrived at the hotel, a very informal tea ceremony was held in the lobby. Japanese cake and Japanese green tea (which is nothing like the American sorts) was served by pretty women dressed in kimonos. After tea, my attendance was requested to an exclusive men’s meeting in a separate room. I don’t know why they invite me to these things. It’s not like I can offer much in a room of elderly Japanese men. So I sat with my legs crossed at the ankles, never the knee, and I practiced my speech, and I wondered if Aiko’s nose had stopped bleeding while she and the rest of the family waited in the lobby. (Apparently the excitement of an event to dress up for was intense enough to initiate a nosebleed.) They sang the Rotary song, just like the Tallahassee Sunrise Rotary Club, with the significant exception of shockingly impressive voices. I’m pretty sure you have to pass some sort of singing test to obtain Japanese citizenship. I’ll have to look into it. But the whole room fills with deep voices that bounce off the walls in all the right directions. And the floor vibrates and you look down at your feet and can almost see the pulse crawl up your legs to your spine, launching goose bumps and residing in your eardrums long after the song is ended. I really don’t think anything in the world sounds like a singing group of elderly Japanese men, except for a singing group of elderly Japanese men. Aiko’s nosebleed hadn’t given up. Half of a tissue was crammed in her tiny nostril for another 20 minutes.
The speech was rolled up in my sweating palm, dampness fading my lead handwriting. I was so afraid to lose it. Even though I knew the lines by heart, holding onto something real is much more comforting. I think that is why people write. Eventually I shoved it beneath the strap of my watch, held between that and my wrist, though continued to check its safety every minute. I was hoping for a podium to lean on and maybe steady myself from falling. Also so I could flatten the crinkled paper and peer down at it for reference when I froze. That did not happen. In fact, quite the opposite. Upon entrance to the dining hall, I noticed I would be put on stage with a microphone and a spotlight. That way, if such distress was too overwhelming, my vomit would be illuminate and radiating for the audience’s viewing pleasure.
Each 18 round tables in the dining hall sat 6. As usual, the women and family of the Rotarians were seated at separate tables, making the entire room segregated by sex—except for me. My foreign name card was placed among men. The man to my right was the principal of my school. Being already rather familiar with him, I introduced myself to the man to my left, whom I’d never seen. I was relieved to hear he spoke some English. He told me he practiced kendo, which is cool, since that’s the only traditional Japanese sport I know anything about, and that he had two kids: an 18 year old boy who is in his last year of high school, and a daughter who is in college and moved out. He then added, to my discomfort, “So my house has one empty bedroom.” This addition was confusing to me at first, but directly after such an awkward implication, a familiar Rotarian came up to my table and unknowingly clarified. Standing in-between the man and I, he elatedly told me that the man I was talking to would most likely be my next host father.
I don’t really know what to say, because I can’t describe how this made me feel. At the least I was unprepared. Since I have been here, changing host families has not once crossed my mind. I understand it is part of the process and what every exchange student experiences, I just hadn’t thought about it. So as these two men attentively waited to catch a hint of recognition upon my face, I just kind of stared blankly across the room for what seemed like minutes, imperceptibly panicking and trying not to wince at the needles jabbing my insides. This long moment of adaption passed and I gave them a big smile—a real one—because, once settled, this news was really quite alright.
However, being the over-analyzer that I have recently accepted I am, I can’t say I wouldn’t have appreciated such an alarming report to have waited maybe 10 minutes to be broken—when my speech was said and done. Obviously this was not the case, and my head swarmed with completely unnecessary doubts about the quantity of nightlights in my next family’s house as I stepped on stage. It was not particularly what I wanted to be consuming such a large apartment in my brain at such a critical time.
As predicted, I was defeated by the crowd and forgot most everything under the spotlight. I had to read most of my speech from that crinkled scrap of paper, yet kept my composure and somehow got compliments from half the room on my pronunciation and flawless grammar. I wouldn’t dare question how these things fall into place, though I am grateful.
After dinner there was a skit preformed by some Rotarians. You definitely did not need to understand Japanese to laugh at this. The president was a fully costumed Gandhi and the Secretary was dressed in a speedo, flippers, and a shark hat. There was also someone in an army suit holding a Japanese fan, and a man dressed as a geisha, make-up and all. There really isn’t anything more to say about that. Unfortunately, I was too amused to pick up my camera and capture such a ridiculous affair. Sorry.
Oh, there were also dancers. They did a silly dance, but they did it very well. And I wondered how so without laughing, recognizing that I wouldn’t have been able to. Then I noticed one dancer who was exceptionally precise, and he seemed so sure of himself and his silly dance. He looked at the audience dead on, conquering every doubt, and so I realized that you can pull of anything if you think you can.
I later found out that it was a group of mentally disabled dancers. I had suspected nothing.
I had coffee for dessert and couldn’t sleep for hours.
September 20, 2010
I went to an art museum in Matsue and saw some art. It was nice art. Some I recognized, thanks to Mrs. Hobbs. Some was photography and made me want use my camera towards something creative. Some was rather disturbing sculpture and reminded me of friends back home. And then there was a view overlooking a lake, which was my favorite.
1) Failed attempt at serious face. Had to look away so I wouldn't laugh.
2) Yes, that is an FSU shirt. Yes, this is real life.
3, 4, 5) Matsue view.
6) Matsue Lake
7) Me on sculpture.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
September 10, 2010
I have figured out the Japanese High School male population and their activity affiliation:
Tan + Athletic build + Self-satisfied = Baseball
Pale + Athletic build + Self-satisfied = Basketball
Tan + Athletic build + Timid = Tennis
Pale + Scrawny + Self-satisfied = Table tennis/Ping-pong
Tan + Scrawny + Timid = Marching Band
Pale + Scrawny + Timid = Art Club
* Few exceptions
* There are no fat Japanese boys. They are either skinny with muscles, or sticks.
WHERE DO I FIT IN!!???
September 12, 2010
Yesterday afternoon, after a lovely skype date with Bailey Glazer and Amy Murray, I embarked on a long and treacherous exploration of biking to the Izumo mall in search for stargazing/cocktail attire. Now, I had been to the “you me” mall once before, but it had been moneyless and only for a brief time between classes. My exploration began by scouting out the route. This entails climbing on the 3rd floor roof of my house and locating the massive hot-pink cube that rests on the 4th floor roof of the “you me” mall. It wasn’t hard to spot, but getting there once on ground level proved to be more of a nuisance.
This mall is nothing like any other mall I’ve seen. There is a Wal-Mart sized grocery store on only half of the first floor, and the stores are not enclosed by walls, nor do they have official entrances. They are more just open spaces outlined by the walkways. Each of these stores plays music very loudly, and since they are all open, walking into the mall is like walking through the fairgrounds—hundreds of attractions constantly competing for your attention. The first artists I recognized playing were Motion City Soundtrack and Joanna Newsom. Katy Perry is also pretty prevalent. I probably paced each story of the mall about 4 times before actually finding where I wanted to go. Buying things in Japan hasn’t been much trouble thus far. Employees are overly courteous, very much unlike the ones I’m used to who seem too absorbed in their own self-interests to even meet your glare. When you walk into a Japanese store, an employee will immediately thank you just for considering the store and offer any help you might need. When you feel the need to try something on, you barely have the time to lift your head in search for the fitting room before someone is at your side, taking your clothes and loading you with more gratitude. Of course, you remove your shoes before entering the fitting room, and there are even face covers provided which you slip on in case…actually I don’t really know why you would want to cover your face when trying on clothes—maybe to keep your makeup flawless or something. I wore one for the thrill of putting a translucent bag over my head. When you are ready to make your purchase, the staff will usually give a slight bow and further thanks upon your approach to the counter. To pay, you generally put your yen or credit card in the money tray, which is a definite companion to every register in Japan. The register member will always hand your card back with two hands. Always. And will probably give another slight bow as well.
I had never had trouble making a purchase in Japan until my last one yesterday evening. For some reason, there was a question about my card that could neither be delivered nor received with my little knowledge of Japanese and the staff’s completely absent knowledge of English. After what seemed forever of both parties embarrassingly apologizing for the communication troubles, the customer in line behind offered to do her best to translate.
*Note: The difference between Americans and Japanese—While an American employee would be clearly aggravated by a foreigner’s attempt to buy something without speaking the native language, a Japanese employee embarrassingly regrets that he/she does not know the foreign language, and relieves the situation with excessive apologies.
Final result: Employees speaks to the customer/translator behind me for a good 15 seconds, passing on what she means to ask me. Customer/translator looks at me, points to the card, and says, “One, or two?” I look around at each of the staff members, eagerly leaning over the counter and hopefully awaiting a clear answer. Still no trace of what subject is being numerically questioned, I say one. Thankfully, the moment I respond, simultaneous sighs of relief break from each participant, and the transaction is finally complete. I don’t think I will ever know the significance of the bizarre things that were never communicated at that store.
Aiko just tried to teach me to make an Origami crane. I failed, but followed it with a tadpole, which I am quite fond of.
I have figured out the Japanese High School male population and their activity affiliation:
Tan + Athletic build + Self-satisfied = Baseball
Pale + Athletic build + Self-satisfied = Basketball
Tan + Athletic build + Timid = Tennis
Pale + Scrawny + Self-satisfied = Table tennis/Ping-pong
Tan + Scrawny + Timid = Marching Band
Pale + Scrawny + Timid = Art Club
* Few exceptions
* There are no fat Japanese boys. They are either skinny with muscles, or sticks.
WHERE DO I FIT IN!!???
September 12, 2010
Yesterday afternoon, after a lovely skype date with Bailey Glazer and Amy Murray, I embarked on a long and treacherous exploration of biking to the Izumo mall in search for stargazing/cocktail attire. Now, I had been to the “you me” mall once before, but it had been moneyless and only for a brief time between classes. My exploration began by scouting out the route. This entails climbing on the 3rd floor roof of my house and locating the massive hot-pink cube that rests on the 4th floor roof of the “you me” mall. It wasn’t hard to spot, but getting there once on ground level proved to be more of a nuisance.
This mall is nothing like any other mall I’ve seen. There is a Wal-Mart sized grocery store on only half of the first floor, and the stores are not enclosed by walls, nor do they have official entrances. They are more just open spaces outlined by the walkways. Each of these stores plays music very loudly, and since they are all open, walking into the mall is like walking through the fairgrounds—hundreds of attractions constantly competing for your attention. The first artists I recognized playing were Motion City Soundtrack and Joanna Newsom. Katy Perry is also pretty prevalent. I probably paced each story of the mall about 4 times before actually finding where I wanted to go. Buying things in Japan hasn’t been much trouble thus far. Employees are overly courteous, very much unlike the ones I’m used to who seem too absorbed in their own self-interests to even meet your glare. When you walk into a Japanese store, an employee will immediately thank you just for considering the store and offer any help you might need. When you feel the need to try something on, you barely have the time to lift your head in search for the fitting room before someone is at your side, taking your clothes and loading you with more gratitude. Of course, you remove your shoes before entering the fitting room, and there are even face covers provided which you slip on in case…actually I don’t really know why you would want to cover your face when trying on clothes—maybe to keep your makeup flawless or something. I wore one for the thrill of putting a translucent bag over my head. When you are ready to make your purchase, the staff will usually give a slight bow and further thanks upon your approach to the counter. To pay, you generally put your yen or credit card in the money tray, which is a definite companion to every register in Japan. The register member will always hand your card back with two hands. Always. And will probably give another slight bow as well.
I had never had trouble making a purchase in Japan until my last one yesterday evening. For some reason, there was a question about my card that could neither be delivered nor received with my little knowledge of Japanese and the staff’s completely absent knowledge of English. After what seemed forever of both parties embarrassingly apologizing for the communication troubles, the customer in line behind offered to do her best to translate.
*Note: The difference between Americans and Japanese—While an American employee would be clearly aggravated by a foreigner’s attempt to buy something without speaking the native language, a Japanese employee embarrassingly regrets that he/she does not know the foreign language, and relieves the situation with excessive apologies.
Final result: Employees speaks to the customer/translator behind me for a good 15 seconds, passing on what she means to ask me. Customer/translator looks at me, points to the card, and says, “One, or two?” I look around at each of the staff members, eagerly leaning over the counter and hopefully awaiting a clear answer. Still no trace of what subject is being numerically questioned, I say one. Thankfully, the moment I respond, simultaneous sighs of relief break from each participant, and the transaction is finally complete. I don’t think I will ever know the significance of the bizarre things that were never communicated at that store.
Aiko just tried to teach me to make an Origami crane. I failed, but followed it with a tadpole, which I am quite fond of.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
September 4, 2010
You know when you live a day, and it’s a really great one, and your cheeks are sore from smiling so big for so long, but you can’t help but to keep smiling? This morning Junko San, the kids and I went to this gallery featuring an artist who bases her cartoons off the Japanese concept ‘mo-tai-nai.’ (I'm not sure how to spell it. I believe it is 'mottainai.' But it's not 'Mott' like the applesauce, it's 'Moe' like "Welcome to Moe's!") Mottainai can’t really be explained in English, but it’s kind of like when you’re younger and your mother puts dinner in front of you. So you immediately devour all of the good stuff and end up being too full to finish your vegetables. Then you say “Onaka ippaii! Gochisosamadeshita,” and excuse yourself from the table, but your mother looks at your plate and starts irately ranting about the starving children in Africa, and how you won’t even eat the healthy food that this family is so blessed with. OR when you’re brushing your teeth at the sink, and you keep the water running the whole time, so your mom reaches over and turns the faucet off, saying “Save some for the fishes!”I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s easier if you have a gallery full of comic strips to play it out in pictures. But this concept that I can’t spell is what you have in excess that you gratefully take because it is there, and because you are aware that it’s not there for everybody else. So in addition to the comics, the artist drew children from a bunch of different countries. She showed some of the unfortunate things these kids were born into. Like having to walk miles carrying pails of water on their shoulders just to boil some rice, or a boy learning to operate an AK47 before learning how to read. It’s one of those things that you are reminded about every once in a while, and each time you want to cry. Cry and then change the world. But something discourages you and makes you put off changing the world—at least until next time. That’s how it is for me anyway.
I went to a Japanese garden today as well. Whoever attempts to describe in words a Japanese garden is either an arrogant disillusion or Tolkien. I am neither. (I don’t really know about the Tolkien part. I only said that because that’s what is recently familiar and I could think of nothing better.)
- In Japan, you can get just about anything on a pizza. There is a fish egg pizza, as well as a fruit salad pizza and a pumpkin-tuna pizza. I regret not photographing the menu.
- I never, never ever wanted to fall in love until I met my host parents. That is all.
One fine morning I was biking to school and, unlike any other day, I saw a student from my school (distinguishable by the uniform) ahead of me. I carried on my route as normal, and watched him turn down a tunneled alley. I immediately assumed he knew of a shortcut, as he was, in fact, Japanese and had probably be going to this school for years over my 2 weeks. So I followed him. This could be a really long story, but I think you should just know that I was almost killed several times, and I’m confident that the student I followed, and anyone he will ever strike conversation with in the next month, thinks I’m a total creep. Quite the adventure.
September 7, 2010
Reasons Japan is superior to America:
1) Pyramid shaped tea bags
2) The metric system
3) School uniforms
4) Biker friendly streets
5) Mary Poppins baskets on every bike
6) Chopsticks
7) The rice cooker: add rice, add water, press start. Genius.
8) Ubiquitous refreshing shower sheets
9) Overall better hair and hair styles
10) Student-school cleaning system
11) Sliding doors
12) Ping-pong (table tennis) as a national school sport
13) Vending machines with better beverage varieties
September 9, 2010
There are 3 English classes at my school: English Reading (M, W, and F), English Grammar (T, R), and Conversational English (R). I am the teacher’s assistant in all three. In the short time I have been attending Hokuryo High School, I still can’t pronounce its name. But I also have completely lost any southern accent that might have existed prior to exchange, have attained patience that had not existed prior to exchange, and acquired abs as a result of laughing uncontrollably, near every day, that definitely did not exist a month ago.
Today, my English reading teacher told the class, “It is better to have loved and died than to have never died at all.” Seriously fell out of my chair. I am aware that is what people say when they laugh really hard, and they don’t literally mean they fell out of their chair. This is not one of those cases. In fact, I am still laughing as I type this. (I don’t want to make her look bad; she happens to be fantastic at English. I assume it was just a slip up, as she corrected her mistake once the chaos thinned.)
Little things like that kill me. Like when this super animated kid stands up in front of the class and yells with more enthusiasm than necessary, “I am so exciting!” Or when I tell them to correct a sentence written on the board and a student alters it further flawed than originally. It’s great. And then I feel like an idiot for laughing because I know my Japanese is substantially worse than their English.
You know when you live a day, and it’s a really great one, and your cheeks are sore from smiling so big for so long, but you can’t help but to keep smiling? This morning Junko San, the kids and I went to this gallery featuring an artist who bases her cartoons off the Japanese concept ‘mo-tai-nai.’ (I'm not sure how to spell it. I believe it is 'mottainai.' But it's not 'Mott' like the applesauce, it's 'Moe' like "Welcome to Moe's!") Mottainai can’t really be explained in English, but it’s kind of like when you’re younger and your mother puts dinner in front of you. So you immediately devour all of the good stuff and end up being too full to finish your vegetables. Then you say “Onaka ippaii! Gochisosamadeshita,” and excuse yourself from the table, but your mother looks at your plate and starts irately ranting about the starving children in Africa, and how you won’t even eat the healthy food that this family is so blessed with. OR when you’re brushing your teeth at the sink, and you keep the water running the whole time, so your mom reaches over and turns the faucet off, saying “Save some for the fishes!”I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s easier if you have a gallery full of comic strips to play it out in pictures. But this concept that I can’t spell is what you have in excess that you gratefully take because it is there, and because you are aware that it’s not there for everybody else. So in addition to the comics, the artist drew children from a bunch of different countries. She showed some of the unfortunate things these kids were born into. Like having to walk miles carrying pails of water on their shoulders just to boil some rice, or a boy learning to operate an AK47 before learning how to read. It’s one of those things that you are reminded about every once in a while, and each time you want to cry. Cry and then change the world. But something discourages you and makes you put off changing the world—at least until next time. That’s how it is for me anyway.
I went to a Japanese garden today as well. Whoever attempts to describe in words a Japanese garden is either an arrogant disillusion or Tolkien. I am neither. (I don’t really know about the Tolkien part. I only said that because that’s what is recently familiar and I could think of nothing better.)
- In Japan, you can get just about anything on a pizza. There is a fish egg pizza, as well as a fruit salad pizza and a pumpkin-tuna pizza. I regret not photographing the menu.
- I never, never ever wanted to fall in love until I met my host parents. That is all.
One fine morning I was biking to school and, unlike any other day, I saw a student from my school (distinguishable by the uniform) ahead of me. I carried on my route as normal, and watched him turn down a tunneled alley. I immediately assumed he knew of a shortcut, as he was, in fact, Japanese and had probably be going to this school for years over my 2 weeks. So I followed him. This could be a really long story, but I think you should just know that I was almost killed several times, and I’m confident that the student I followed, and anyone he will ever strike conversation with in the next month, thinks I’m a total creep. Quite the adventure.
September 7, 2010
Reasons Japan is superior to America:
1) Pyramid shaped tea bags
2) The metric system
3) School uniforms
4) Biker friendly streets
5) Mary Poppins baskets on every bike
6) Chopsticks
7) The rice cooker: add rice, add water, press start. Genius.
8) Ubiquitous refreshing shower sheets
9) Overall better hair and hair styles
10) Student-school cleaning system
11) Sliding doors
12) Ping-pong (table tennis) as a national school sport
13) Vending machines with better beverage varieties
September 9, 2010
There are 3 English classes at my school: English Reading (M, W, and F), English Grammar (T, R), and Conversational English (R). I am the teacher’s assistant in all three. In the short time I have been attending Hokuryo High School, I still can’t pronounce its name. But I also have completely lost any southern accent that might have existed prior to exchange, have attained patience that had not existed prior to exchange, and acquired abs as a result of laughing uncontrollably, near every day, that definitely did not exist a month ago.
Today, my English reading teacher told the class, “It is better to have loved and died than to have never died at all.” Seriously fell out of my chair. I am aware that is what people say when they laugh really hard, and they don’t literally mean they fell out of their chair. This is not one of those cases. In fact, I am still laughing as I type this. (I don’t want to make her look bad; she happens to be fantastic at English. I assume it was just a slip up, as she corrected her mistake once the chaos thinned.)
Little things like that kill me. Like when this super animated kid stands up in front of the class and yells with more enthusiasm than necessary, “I am so exciting!” Or when I tell them to correct a sentence written on the board and a student alters it further flawed than originally. It’s great. And then I feel like an idiot for laughing because I know my Japanese is substantially worse than their English.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
August 29, 2010
- Isamu would fall over backwards if he saw a Nerf gun. I’m thinking the Tommy 20, if you know what’s up.
- My quality of life increased by 43% when I discovered the bell on my bike.
- Japanese sodas are energy drinks incognito. The 4oz bottle should have been a warning.
- American 1 dollar store < Japanese 100 yen store
I don’t know why the US wasn’t first to discover that rubber ax murder masks and fake eyelashes are perfectly complemented by a concrete nude woman statue spewing water from her mouth. And we wonder why people wear pajamas to the Dollar General.
- You should know that until the Japanese reach a certain age, they look at least 10 years younger than they actually are. Once they reach that certain age, they look ancient. As far as I can tell, this is an overnight metamorphosis.
Takashi is my host father. I don’t know how old he is, but he has 2 children who are almost 40. He looks 55. We’ve never actually spoken, because he doesn’t speak a stitch of English, and all I really have to say to him is Thank you (arigato gozaimasu), which generally doesn’t require much of a reply. Somehow, I give more respect to Takashi Ito than I have given to any one person in my entire life. I have no idea why this is. But everything I do well, I do in hope he notices. And the not-so-good things, I avoid, in acknowledgement he might notice. It’s like one of those “I JUST WANT YOU TO LOVE ME” father-daughter relationships. Except only one sided, because he seems to rather enjoy my company, even when I’ve just woken up and don’t have the energy to be anyone but myself. Also, he doesn’t work late hours or carry a briefcase.
My brother just ran across the living room naked, right arm stretched above his head, pointing a plastic pistol to the ceiling.
Have I mentioned that I love my host family?
I love my host family.
August 31, 2010
I will now describe my day in terms of sweat.
The bedrooms and the living room are the only air-conditioned spaces in my house. This is normal. During this hot season, artificial air is a sensitive ecstasy in Japan. Doors and windows are left open throughout the house, meaning the summer heat from outside is also celebrated inside. After waking up, I go to the sink to wash my face; an uncomfortable clammy perspiration veils my skin. I return to the chill of my room and it disappears. I pull on jeans and a sleeved shirt, as my private school requires until my uniform arrives. Breakfast in the living room, all is well. I watch the news in the Kendo shop with Takashi San until 8am; the glisten grows. Just as the news is over I leave the house on my 1-geared bike for a 3-mile ride.
Sometimes I feel as if I’ve made the sun angry, and I’m metaphorically beaten for such misbehavior. This thought came to me when I remembered the commonly personified phrase—“beating sun”, and combined it with my recent interest in the Buddhist sun god.
As many bikers know, the day’s heat isn’t yet insufferable until you’ve stopped biking. The wheels cease to turn and that personal wind of yours ceases to blow. In my jeans and often cardigan, I park my bike and walk into a stuffy classroom filled with students in the exact same situation. I hate when people try to lighten a bad circumstance by pointing out that they get the same treatment. “If it makes you feel any better, I bike to school too, and I agree, this weather sucks!” NO! THAT DOES NOT MAKE ME FEEL BETTER. I STILL COULD NOT PEEL OFF MY JEANS IF I TRIED. I will never again start a sentence with “If it makes you feel any better.” In fact, I’m putting it in the same boat as “No offence.” It will not make me feel any better, and it will definitely offend me.
Anyway, since the students turn on the AC when we get there, and it takes about an hour to actually make the room a reasonable temperature, the whole class is sweating and frantically fanning themselves through 1st period. Then, just before I’ve remembered not to take 2nd period for granted, comes P.E. (Not that I dislike P.E. I actually love P.E. I have found that sports kind of come naturally to me, which is odd. And P.E. means the chance to beat all the coaches at volleyball.) However, I’m convinced my high school gym is the hottest room in Izumo (following a Japanese shower, which is kind of a two-in-one sauna, of course). Unlike most rooms, which are around the same temperature as the outside air, the gym miraculously traps the hot air in. (We actually step outside, in the 90 degree weather, to cool off.) Basically, the gym is the greenhouse effect at its finest. Since the roots of my hair are saturated by the end of the hour, this sweat has a lasting effect. The bike ride home only adds to such an accomplishment. Once home, I skip steps up the stairs, all the while dripping, to turn on the AC in my room. I strip off the majority of my clothes with difficulty, and lie down in front of the floor fan. There is where I remain for a good 20 minutes.
This was a simple point drug out entirely too long.
I laughed at how theatrical this sounded when I finished. I can’t change it though, because if you should not know this way, you should not know at all. (<<< Also obnoxiously dramatic.)
My embarrassment:
1) Consider it appalling for one to try on a garment (gym shorts, for example) in the store on top of one’s original garment while in Japan. If such said activities occur, prepare one’s self to be bluntly declared the worst existing title in a foreign country. (American)
2) The quilt-like cover on my bed is not meant to be a quilt-like cover after all. I don’t really feel like talking about this one.
3) If one decides to go ahead and fall asleep during school, try not to do it sprawled upon the tile floor with The Fellowship serving as a face-shield.
4) When roaming an unfamiliar city, always carry a map. Do not, however, draw the map on a large section of a cardboard box. When this map is eventually necessary, locals will stare with bewilderment at such humiliating creativity.
September 1, 2010
My camera just missed the best day ever. Super bummed about that, but not enough to bring me down on the best day ever.
BEST DAY EVER.
Today was day one of the 3-day festival. I finally was able to fit in, as much as that is possible, and wear the same ‘festival’ gym clothes as everybody else. Food was sold everywhere. No crap food either—quality Japanese food. Though, there were French fries. According to the grapevine, students were supposed to buy tickets assigned to particular food items prior to festival day. Apparently this event occurred on Monday as I walked aimlessly around the gym, dodging people and disregarding the ticket purchasing process. Lucky for me, I’m kind of a big deal at my school, and people were constantly crowding my personal space and giving me their own tickets. All in all, I ended up eating a ton.
(This is what I look like after the best day ever. >>>)
The day then got better when I was slurping this strange tapioca-tea drink, minding my own business, and out of nowhere someone screams “SARAH SAN” (The closest translation to ‘San’ is Mr., Mrs., or Miss. I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned that, but I’m often called either ‘Sarah San’ or ‘Sarah-chan.’), so I turn around and this guy I’ve hardly even talked to is looking at me and starts singing into a microphone. And he was staring at me the whole time and it was a little creepy, but the whole scene was in a light, humorous manner, so I was okay with it. Basically, he dedicated a song to me. It was tremendously embarrassing and my cheeks most certainly turned the color of my shirt (see photo), and I almost put my head down and ran away, but then I realized that it might be the greatest thing that will ever happen to me, so I stayed. I hope the Japanese song lyrics were really corny. That’s just how I imagined it. (Just to let you know, the singing wasn’t completely out of nowhere. There was a mic open for the festival all day and lots of students had been singing. Karaoke is big in Japan. It doesn’t really matter if you can sing or not, because everyone will laugh anyway. It’s rather fun.)
There were several horror-houses set up in some of the classrooms. Seriously, the students made horror-houses. And they were pretty freaking functional. I got lost in one of the mazes, and one of the ‘zombies’ who I had almost attacked seconds earlier recognized me in the dark and had to lead me out before I started to panic. It is amazing how quickly I can change how I feel about someone.
I got home at 6, and only had 10 minutes in front of the floor fan until dinner.
Pictures:
1) Aiko and me in front of a Shinto shrine.
2) Fortunes you tie to trees.
3) Family in front of mystery building.
4) Result of mystery building. Can’t figure it out.
5) My school.
6) Surrounding my school. Nbd.
- Isamu would fall over backwards if he saw a Nerf gun. I’m thinking the Tommy 20, if you know what’s up.
- My quality of life increased by 43% when I discovered the bell on my bike.
- Japanese sodas are energy drinks incognito. The 4oz bottle should have been a warning.
- American 1 dollar store < Japanese 100 yen store
I don’t know why the US wasn’t first to discover that rubber ax murder masks and fake eyelashes are perfectly complemented by a concrete nude woman statue spewing water from her mouth. And we wonder why people wear pajamas to the Dollar General.
- You should know that until the Japanese reach a certain age, they look at least 10 years younger than they actually are. Once they reach that certain age, they look ancient. As far as I can tell, this is an overnight metamorphosis.
Takashi is my host father. I don’t know how old he is, but he has 2 children who are almost 40. He looks 55. We’ve never actually spoken, because he doesn’t speak a stitch of English, and all I really have to say to him is Thank you (arigato gozaimasu), which generally doesn’t require much of a reply. Somehow, I give more respect to Takashi Ito than I have given to any one person in my entire life. I have no idea why this is. But everything I do well, I do in hope he notices. And the not-so-good things, I avoid, in acknowledgement he might notice. It’s like one of those “I JUST WANT YOU TO LOVE ME” father-daughter relationships. Except only one sided, because he seems to rather enjoy my company, even when I’ve just woken up and don’t have the energy to be anyone but myself. Also, he doesn’t work late hours or carry a briefcase.
My brother just ran across the living room naked, right arm stretched above his head, pointing a plastic pistol to the ceiling.
Have I mentioned that I love my host family?
I love my host family.
August 31, 2010
I will now describe my day in terms of sweat.
The bedrooms and the living room are the only air-conditioned spaces in my house. This is normal. During this hot season, artificial air is a sensitive ecstasy in Japan. Doors and windows are left open throughout the house, meaning the summer heat from outside is also celebrated inside. After waking up, I go to the sink to wash my face; an uncomfortable clammy perspiration veils my skin. I return to the chill of my room and it disappears. I pull on jeans and a sleeved shirt, as my private school requires until my uniform arrives. Breakfast in the living room, all is well. I watch the news in the Kendo shop with Takashi San until 8am; the glisten grows. Just as the news is over I leave the house on my 1-geared bike for a 3-mile ride.
Sometimes I feel as if I’ve made the sun angry, and I’m metaphorically beaten for such misbehavior. This thought came to me when I remembered the commonly personified phrase—“beating sun”, and combined it with my recent interest in the Buddhist sun god.
As many bikers know, the day’s heat isn’t yet insufferable until you’ve stopped biking. The wheels cease to turn and that personal wind of yours ceases to blow. In my jeans and often cardigan, I park my bike and walk into a stuffy classroom filled with students in the exact same situation. I hate when people try to lighten a bad circumstance by pointing out that they get the same treatment. “If it makes you feel any better, I bike to school too, and I agree, this weather sucks!” NO! THAT DOES NOT MAKE ME FEEL BETTER. I STILL COULD NOT PEEL OFF MY JEANS IF I TRIED. I will never again start a sentence with “If it makes you feel any better.” In fact, I’m putting it in the same boat as “No offence.” It will not make me feel any better, and it will definitely offend me.
Anyway, since the students turn on the AC when we get there, and it takes about an hour to actually make the room a reasonable temperature, the whole class is sweating and frantically fanning themselves through 1st period. Then, just before I’ve remembered not to take 2nd period for granted, comes P.E. (Not that I dislike P.E. I actually love P.E. I have found that sports kind of come naturally to me, which is odd. And P.E. means the chance to beat all the coaches at volleyball.) However, I’m convinced my high school gym is the hottest room in Izumo (following a Japanese shower, which is kind of a two-in-one sauna, of course). Unlike most rooms, which are around the same temperature as the outside air, the gym miraculously traps the hot air in. (We actually step outside, in the 90 degree weather, to cool off.) Basically, the gym is the greenhouse effect at its finest. Since the roots of my hair are saturated by the end of the hour, this sweat has a lasting effect. The bike ride home only adds to such an accomplishment. Once home, I skip steps up the stairs, all the while dripping, to turn on the AC in my room. I strip off the majority of my clothes with difficulty, and lie down in front of the floor fan. There is where I remain for a good 20 minutes.
This was a simple point drug out entirely too long.
I laughed at how theatrical this sounded when I finished. I can’t change it though, because if you should not know this way, you should not know at all. (<<< Also obnoxiously dramatic.)
My embarrassment:
1) Consider it appalling for one to try on a garment (gym shorts, for example) in the store on top of one’s original garment while in Japan. If such said activities occur, prepare one’s self to be bluntly declared the worst existing title in a foreign country. (American)
2) The quilt-like cover on my bed is not meant to be a quilt-like cover after all. I don’t really feel like talking about this one.
3) If one decides to go ahead and fall asleep during school, try not to do it sprawled upon the tile floor with The Fellowship serving as a face-shield.
4) When roaming an unfamiliar city, always carry a map. Do not, however, draw the map on a large section of a cardboard box. When this map is eventually necessary, locals will stare with bewilderment at such humiliating creativity.
September 1, 2010
My camera just missed the best day ever. Super bummed about that, but not enough to bring me down on the best day ever.
BEST DAY EVER.
Today was day one of the 3-day festival. I finally was able to fit in, as much as that is possible, and wear the same ‘festival’ gym clothes as everybody else. Food was sold everywhere. No crap food either—quality Japanese food. Though, there were French fries. According to the grapevine, students were supposed to buy tickets assigned to particular food items prior to festival day. Apparently this event occurred on Monday as I walked aimlessly around the gym, dodging people and disregarding the ticket purchasing process. Lucky for me, I’m kind of a big deal at my school, and people were constantly crowding my personal space and giving me their own tickets. All in all, I ended up eating a ton.
(This is what I look like after the best day ever. >>>)
The day then got better when I was slurping this strange tapioca-tea drink, minding my own business, and out of nowhere someone screams “SARAH SAN” (The closest translation to ‘San’ is Mr., Mrs., or Miss. I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned that, but I’m often called either ‘Sarah San’ or ‘Sarah-chan.’), so I turn around and this guy I’ve hardly even talked to is looking at me and starts singing into a microphone. And he was staring at me the whole time and it was a little creepy, but the whole scene was in a light, humorous manner, so I was okay with it. Basically, he dedicated a song to me. It was tremendously embarrassing and my cheeks most certainly turned the color of my shirt (see photo), and I almost put my head down and ran away, but then I realized that it might be the greatest thing that will ever happen to me, so I stayed. I hope the Japanese song lyrics were really corny. That’s just how I imagined it. (Just to let you know, the singing wasn’t completely out of nowhere. There was a mic open for the festival all day and lots of students had been singing. Karaoke is big in Japan. It doesn’t really matter if you can sing or not, because everyone will laugh anyway. It’s rather fun.)
There were several horror-houses set up in some of the classrooms. Seriously, the students made horror-houses. And they were pretty freaking functional. I got lost in one of the mazes, and one of the ‘zombies’ who I had almost attacked seconds earlier recognized me in the dark and had to lead me out before I started to panic. It is amazing how quickly I can change how I feel about someone.
I got home at 6, and only had 10 minutes in front of the floor fan until dinner.
Pictures:
1) Aiko and me in front of a Shinto shrine.
2) Fortunes you tie to trees.
3) Family in front of mystery building.
4) Result of mystery building. Can’t figure it out.
5) My school.
6) Surrounding my school. Nbd.
Friday, August 27, 2010
August 26, 2010
This is why I love my parents:
(Type A)
Dear Sarah,
Thanks; I saw the photos.
How is your room?
Who lives in "your" house?
What is the house like?
How is school?
Does someone translate for you in school?
What classes are you taking?
How do you get to school?
Make any school friends?
Are you learning Japanese quickly?
Are you lonely sometimes?
Do you have to study a lot?
What do you eat?
What will you do on weekends?
What address should I use to mail you things?
Should I phone at a certain time? When? How often?
Love,
Dad
(Type B)
I love your blog...but I HAD TO GET IT FROM HOLLY AS YOU HAVE NOT GIVEN ME ACCESS TO YOUR FACEBOOK PAGE. I WILL DISOWN YOU IF YOU MAKE ME GO THROUGH THIS EMBARRASSMENT AGAIN!!! WHERE IS YOUR LOVE FOR YOUR MOTHER WHO SITS ALONE HERE IN MY HOTEL ROOM ON A BORING BUSINESS TRIP HOPING MY LOVING DAUGHTER WILL TELL ME TALES OF JAPAN???
I LIED TO HOLLY. SAID I COULDN'T GET ON TO FACEBOOK ON MY IPHONE OR SOME GARBAGE LIKE THAT!!
I LOVE YOU.
INCLUDE ME AS A FULLY INSTATED FRIEND.
Keller
(If Holly reads this, sorry mom. And Hi Holly!)
On Japanese Schools:
Lalalala I don’t know where to start. Ok, at the door. Slippers. You wear them. They are not attractive, but attractiveness is mostly based on what everybody else looks like, and when everybody else is wearing plastic sandals with a rubber, 1 inch heel that squeak when you walk, they become no longer unattractive. You change from your outside shoes to your slippers immediately upon entrance in a porch-like room called a genkan, which every Japanese building has. Outside shoes go in assigned ‘cubbies’ and you really don’t see them again until school is over. I’ve considered just arriving barefoot, as it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. On the hallway wall directly outside the bathrooms is a large mirror above 3 sinks, which both boys and girls often use to brush their teeth in the mornings and to wash their hands hourly. I have no explanation; this is simply an observation. Also, 3 soaps are tied to the 3 sink faucets in mesh bags. This allows the bar soaps to be utilized to their full ability without being lost and without creating scum on the counter. I think it’s pretty neat. However, I have noticed that there isn’t a towel to dry your hands off with. This bothers me. I haven’t yet discovered if it is that the Japanese do not have a problem with indiscretion, or that the boys are so confident in themselves to change from their study uniforms to their gym uniforms patently in the co-ed classroom. I’m not close enough with any of the students to ask about such behavior, but evidently I am close enough to see them in their underwear.
One significant difference between my Japanese school and most schools in America is that the teachers move to the students, rather than the other way around. You stay with the same classmates throughout the entire day—like we did in elementary school. When we arrive at school at 8:40am, the day begins with a 15 minute ‘morning meeting’ with the homeroom teacher. Believe me, the moment I understand what is said at these meetings, the world will know. When a teacher enters the classroom, all the students rise. The teacher bows slightly, and the students respond with a deeper bow. (Longer and lower bows signify a higher level of respect. For example, a younger person should always bow lower to their elders.) Then, the students are seated and take a moment of silence. (This is my favorite part. If I am ever a teacher, I will make it a rule for my students to follow this Japanese ritual.) We lower our heads and close our eyes and everyone is quiet for about 30 seconds, when the teacher breaks the silence and class begins. On the second day of school, Robby, the English teacher, told me that this was a practice meant to clear the minds of the students, to leave behind everything else and prepare for the coming lesson. The best part about this moment of silence is that everyone actually participates. I imagined this custom at Lincoln: students would inevitably be texting, listening to music, shuffling through papers, finishing due homework…etc., but I think it means a lot to Japanese students, I hope it does. It means a lot to me because I really do think it works. I feel lighter after I clear my mind. Not in the weight sense—the other kind of lighter where you don’t fear you’ll scream at any given second. I hope you know what I’m talking about.
Another thing I really enjoy about my school in Japan is the independence the students are given. So far, while in preparation for the festival, we have four 50-minute periods with a 10-minute break in between each class. These 10-minute breaks are basically free time because our lockers are in the classroom, so we don’t have to go anywhere. Sometimes students just walk around the school to say hi to other friends. I usually read LOTR and let people take pictures of me. (I am getting used to this. I have learned that being an exchange student and being shy are contradictory. It just can’t happen.) After 4th period is cleaning time. There are no janitors in Japanese schools. The students spend 15 minutes a day, before lunch, cleaning. It’s really quite a good idea because with 20 students per classroom, it’s not like any 1 person has to do much. I usually erase the chalk on the blackboards. (Blackboards are another thing I like about my school; I always found chalk more fun than dry erase markers. They remind me of those old movies where when the kid gets in trouble, his nun-teacher makes him stay after class and clap the erasers. And the kid overly-exaggerates his hatred for this punishment, as if clapping erasers together is really so unbearable.) Cleaning period is followed by lunch, which, after the first day, I will never forget to pack again, as there is no cafeteria. After lunch, the rest of the day is preparation for the festival, and back to what I said about independence: we pretty much get 2, unsupervised hours to do this. We can use the gym, go outside, use art materials, costumes, even box-knives… just about anything we can accomplish on our own, we have access to. I don’t think this would go over well in an American high school, but in Japan, somehow productivity and fun can exist in harmony.
August 28, 2010
- The Japanese do not eat the peels of grapes. Ever. They suck the inside out and put the peel on their plates.
- When I attend Rotary events, somehow the Rotarians make me feel like I’m in a room with twenty E.O. Wilsons. I don’t know how else to describe it.
- I read somewhere that when you exchange business cards with a Japanese person, you should accept it with two hands, study it for a few seconds, and then put it somewhere safe to show that you truly care. I haven’t noticed much of the two-hand thing, but I have noticed that they will seriously break apart every letter of your card, sometimes reading aloud what is written and turning it into a question. For example, “Lincoln High School?” As if they expect it to be a misprint, or as if they have a great-niece twice removed who went to Lincoln and they are leading to a story of how she scored the winning goal at the girls’ soccer championships. The point is, the Japanese definitely take their time in familiarizing themselves with business cards.
- The Japanese really do care how a foreigner feels about their food.
- I have recently caught myself smiling and nodding when someone is giving a speech to an audience. I eventually remember that I have to idea what is being said, and I feel silly. But I keep smiling and nodding.
vv Governor's head vv
What's up, I'm Salah Axerad.
This is why I love my parents:
(Type A)
Dear Sarah,
Thanks; I saw the photos.
How is your room?
Who lives in "your" house?
What is the house like?
How is school?
Does someone translate for you in school?
What classes are you taking?
How do you get to school?
Make any school friends?
Are you learning Japanese quickly?
Are you lonely sometimes?
Do you have to study a lot?
What do you eat?
What will you do on weekends?
What address should I use to mail you things?
Should I phone at a certain time? When? How often?
Love,
Dad
(Type B)
I love your blog...but I HAD TO GET IT FROM HOLLY AS YOU HAVE NOT GIVEN ME ACCESS TO YOUR FACEBOOK PAGE. I WILL DISOWN YOU IF YOU MAKE ME GO THROUGH THIS EMBARRASSMENT AGAIN!!! WHERE IS YOUR LOVE FOR YOUR MOTHER WHO SITS ALONE HERE IN MY HOTEL ROOM ON A BORING BUSINESS TRIP HOPING MY LOVING DAUGHTER WILL TELL ME TALES OF JAPAN???
I LIED TO HOLLY. SAID I COULDN'T GET ON TO FACEBOOK ON MY IPHONE OR SOME GARBAGE LIKE THAT!!
I LOVE YOU.
INCLUDE ME AS A FULLY INSTATED FRIEND.
Keller
(If Holly reads this, sorry mom. And Hi Holly!)
On Japanese Schools:
Lalalala I don’t know where to start. Ok, at the door. Slippers. You wear them. They are not attractive, but attractiveness is mostly based on what everybody else looks like, and when everybody else is wearing plastic sandals with a rubber, 1 inch heel that squeak when you walk, they become no longer unattractive. You change from your outside shoes to your slippers immediately upon entrance in a porch-like room called a genkan, which every Japanese building has. Outside shoes go in assigned ‘cubbies’ and you really don’t see them again until school is over. I’ve considered just arriving barefoot, as it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. On the hallway wall directly outside the bathrooms is a large mirror above 3 sinks, which both boys and girls often use to brush their teeth in the mornings and to wash their hands hourly. I have no explanation; this is simply an observation. Also, 3 soaps are tied to the 3 sink faucets in mesh bags. This allows the bar soaps to be utilized to their full ability without being lost and without creating scum on the counter. I think it’s pretty neat. However, I have noticed that there isn’t a towel to dry your hands off with. This bothers me. I haven’t yet discovered if it is that the Japanese do not have a problem with indiscretion, or that the boys are so confident in themselves to change from their study uniforms to their gym uniforms patently in the co-ed classroom. I’m not close enough with any of the students to ask about such behavior, but evidently I am close enough to see them in their underwear.
One significant difference between my Japanese school and most schools in America is that the teachers move to the students, rather than the other way around. You stay with the same classmates throughout the entire day—like we did in elementary school. When we arrive at school at 8:40am, the day begins with a 15 minute ‘morning meeting’ with the homeroom teacher. Believe me, the moment I understand what is said at these meetings, the world will know. When a teacher enters the classroom, all the students rise. The teacher bows slightly, and the students respond with a deeper bow. (Longer and lower bows signify a higher level of respect. For example, a younger person should always bow lower to their elders.) Then, the students are seated and take a moment of silence. (This is my favorite part. If I am ever a teacher, I will make it a rule for my students to follow this Japanese ritual.) We lower our heads and close our eyes and everyone is quiet for about 30 seconds, when the teacher breaks the silence and class begins. On the second day of school, Robby, the English teacher, told me that this was a practice meant to clear the minds of the students, to leave behind everything else and prepare for the coming lesson. The best part about this moment of silence is that everyone actually participates. I imagined this custom at Lincoln: students would inevitably be texting, listening to music, shuffling through papers, finishing due homework…etc., but I think it means a lot to Japanese students, I hope it does. It means a lot to me because I really do think it works. I feel lighter after I clear my mind. Not in the weight sense—the other kind of lighter where you don’t fear you’ll scream at any given second. I hope you know what I’m talking about.
Another thing I really enjoy about my school in Japan is the independence the students are given. So far, while in preparation for the festival, we have four 50-minute periods with a 10-minute break in between each class. These 10-minute breaks are basically free time because our lockers are in the classroom, so we don’t have to go anywhere. Sometimes students just walk around the school to say hi to other friends. I usually read LOTR and let people take pictures of me. (I am getting used to this. I have learned that being an exchange student and being shy are contradictory. It just can’t happen.) After 4th period is cleaning time. There are no janitors in Japanese schools. The students spend 15 minutes a day, before lunch, cleaning. It’s really quite a good idea because with 20 students per classroom, it’s not like any 1 person has to do much. I usually erase the chalk on the blackboards. (Blackboards are another thing I like about my school; I always found chalk more fun than dry erase markers. They remind me of those old movies where when the kid gets in trouble, his nun-teacher makes him stay after class and clap the erasers. And the kid overly-exaggerates his hatred for this punishment, as if clapping erasers together is really so unbearable.) Cleaning period is followed by lunch, which, after the first day, I will never forget to pack again, as there is no cafeteria. After lunch, the rest of the day is preparation for the festival, and back to what I said about independence: we pretty much get 2, unsupervised hours to do this. We can use the gym, go outside, use art materials, costumes, even box-knives… just about anything we can accomplish on our own, we have access to. I don’t think this would go over well in an American high school, but in Japan, somehow productivity and fun can exist in harmony.
August 28, 2010
- The Japanese do not eat the peels of grapes. Ever. They suck the inside out and put the peel on their plates.
- When I attend Rotary events, somehow the Rotarians make me feel like I’m in a room with twenty E.O. Wilsons. I don’t know how else to describe it.
- I read somewhere that when you exchange business cards with a Japanese person, you should accept it with two hands, study it for a few seconds, and then put it somewhere safe to show that you truly care. I haven’t noticed much of the two-hand thing, but I have noticed that they will seriously break apart every letter of your card, sometimes reading aloud what is written and turning it into a question. For example, “Lincoln High School?” As if they expect it to be a misprint, or as if they have a great-niece twice removed who went to Lincoln and they are leading to a story of how she scored the winning goal at the girls’ soccer championships. The point is, the Japanese definitely take their time in familiarizing themselves with business cards.
- The Japanese really do care how a foreigner feels about their food.
- I have recently caught myself smiling and nodding when someone is giving a speech to an audience. I eventually remember that I have to idea what is being said, and I feel silly. But I keep smiling and nodding.
vv Governor's head vv
What's up, I'm Salah Axerad. 
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
August 21, 2010
I am beginning my Japanese adventures in Florida, where I met my first single-serving friend. I was shoved in between him and a Latino woman who slept the entire way. He wore a black denim vest with cutoff sleeves and the back was embroidered to proudly signify he rode a motorcycle, although I can’t remember the exact design. He told me he was a private investigator from Dallas, Texas, and that I was very brave for leaving my current life for a new one. He also inquired about my “home-church,” which I embarrassingly needed him to clarify. I told him I went to church on Christmas and Easter, and he handed me a pamphlet that read, “AM I GOING TO HEAVEN? QUIZ!” (It remains a bookmark in the Japan culture guide next to me, which I am ashamed to let the front cover visible here in a domestic Tokyo airport, as I imagine locals such as the woman across from me, dressed in a kimono, does not require a guide to learn such a beautiful culture.) My first single serving friend had terrible body odor, but he promised to pray for me and gifted me a chocolate-chip cookie the size of my head as we filed down the airplane aisles into the Dallas/Ft Worth airport. I ate it in 3 minutes.
The second plane I boarded was a direct flight to Tokyo. It was huge, with 9 seats a row and a TV screen on the back of every seat. However, I was not surprised, as all international planes are around this big. I was assigned seat 44F, which turned out to be the second to last row. Seat 44F was next to seat 44E, filled by an older man. I never got his name, because our friendship was so short-lived (due to reasons not yet addressed), but he worked with the Navy and it was his 4th time visiting Japan. He spoke very fondly of the country, but also very softly, making my responses limited. He told me that the Japanese always follow the rules, then continued with a teaser, “but I can’t tell you what the rules are.” This killed me. The duration of our conversation only lasted as passengers boarded, when Phil, a flight attendant, informed Navy-affiliated man and me that the last two rows were for the crew, and it was a mistake that we were assigned these seats. Therefore, Phil moved us both to different parts of the plane, and I never saw Sir Navy again. My new assigned seat was next to a thin, middle-aged man who wore glasses identical to those of my Economics professor (who was West African and had a sweet accent). The frames were perfectly round. This man and I did not talk much, but we were next to each other for 13 hours. There are not many people I have spent 13 straight hours with, so this alone made us closer. This alone is not all, however. About 4 hours and 23 minutes into the flight path (I followed the times on the TV monitor), the man next to me started crying. He put his elbows on the tray and his head in his hands and cried. There are even fewer people whom I have been next to as they cried, and I love and care about all of these people very much. As I thought about these people whom I love and care about very much, I concluded that I would never forget this crying stranger. Later he told me he had never been out of state before, let alone across the world. I think he was trying to consulate his tears, but I still don’t quite understand. I think maybe he is lonely. Two of three of the airplane meals given were not vegetarian, so I gave them to the man next to me. He seemed so surprised when I did this that the second time I had to explain that I didn’t eat meat, as if he thought I was giving him charity food for his misery. This makes no sense, but I can see how many people would think it. He gave me a bottle of water near the end of the flight. People are so strange.
Observations:
1) The Japanese are incredibly eager to take my bags/open the door/give me gifts and any other act of flattery.
2) Yes, the showerhead is too low for me.
3) My siblings, Aiko (6) and Isamu (9), are the best. They have more personality, tolerance, and obedience than the average, mature American.
4) Air conditioning is a privilege, not a norm. EMPHASIS ON THIS.
5) I am grateful for how much I didn’t pack.
6) 6ft tall translates to 180 centimeters tall. The Japanese translation is even worse.
7) I need to get used to the idea of not seeing my reflection daily, which is somewhat refreshing. For desperate measures, use photobooth as a mirror.
August 22, 2010
Isamu plays the Japanese equivalent of KGB. This is great.
First of many baseball games with Isamu and Kazuhiro—seriously hit myself in the face with the bat. Strike 1.
In the Ito household, there are three meals a day. This is not flexible.
I learned at tea today that Junko’s husband, and Isamu and Aiko’s father, was killed in a car accident 4 years ago. This makes me sad. As Buddhists, they have a small temple in the house for Hiroshi, they each pray before it every day.
When you see how finely woven and finished a tatami (rice straw) mat is, you will understand why shoes are not a good idea.
Second night, first emergency—a tree fell and damaged the train tracks Junko and the kids were approaching on their way to Osaka to visit Hiroshi’s parents. They waited on the train for 5 and a half hours before coming home to Izumo.
Soda the color of Shrek dyes your tongue. In America, green is supposedly the most unpleasant color to digest. This notion does not apply to the Japanese, apparently.
August 23, 2010
I went to City Hall today to register for something or other. Also ate a fish. Not raw. Not really sure how it was cooked, but it reminded me of beef jerky, except it was an entire fish. Aiko and Isamu say that if you eat the head of the fish first, it will make you smart, and if you start at the tail, you will run faster. Initially, I couldn’t bring myself to eat the head. This made them laugh. They laugh a lot, which I like because laughing is universally understood. The Japanese word for octopus is tako. Eating tako in Japan is as common as eating tacos in the USA. Kazuhiro lines up tissue boxes across the middle of a table in the kendo store so he and the kids can play ping-pong. This brings me infinite happiness. Takashi is taking me to my first Rotary meeting tonight. It’s supposed to be a big deal. I know this because I was told to dress formally. Takashi speaks no English.
Many Japanese streets are one lane, but two-way. This frightens me.
I think I ate a snail today. Not really sure what it was actually, but Rotarians were incredibly amused by my careful examination of the food item prior to consumption. I have found it difficult to decline a Japanese delicacy when crowds of white-haired men in suits are staring with wide-eyed grins.
I’ve heard lots of people tell me I’m beautiful, and either I don’t believe them, or it doesn’t really mean anything. Somehow, when a Japanese person tells me this, it means a lot.
The Japanese word for ‘expensive’ and ‘tall’ are practically the same, only with accents on different syllables. Incidentally, both were used frequently at the fitting for my school uniform.
There is no such thing as dry sweat in a Japanese home. You shower before you cool off—end of story.
It took me 3 days to fall in love with Japanese tea (which kind of tastes like wheat). It also took 3 days for me to bow automatically upon introduction.
There is no law in Japan to wear a seatbelt in the backseat of a car. This quickly settling habit may be problematic come my return to Florida.
In Japan, if you don’t have a business card, you don’t exist.
Eco-bags are a must when grocery shopping. If you happen to forget your cloth bags at home, you pay about 5 cents for each plastic one.
August 24, 2010
School starts tomorrow. I won’t get my uniform for another two weeks—as if I won’t stand out enough already, I’ll be wearing average clothes when the entirety of the school population is dressed in uniform plaid. Also, the principal said that a plain v-neck was too “sexy” for school. Oh, what a different world we live in.
Fact: the Japanese are extraordinary at EVERYTHING they do.
^^(After touring the art and music programs at my school)^^
The English section of the bookstore consisted of 9 books. One was The Catcher in the Rye, five were of the Harry Potter series, and the last three were the Lord of the Rings series. Hello Tolkien.
August 25, 2010
FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!!!!!
Kawaii is the Japanese word for cute. After today, I will never be able to forget this. They also think I smell fantastic. All of them. I don’t smell anything. I had to give a short introduction—first in front of the teachers, then in front of the entire school. I was completely unprepared, and it went something like:
Konnichiwa! Watashi no namae Sarah des. Junana des. Summimasen, yoku wakarimasen ga Ninhongo. Dozo yoroshiku. Arigato gozaimasu.
^^(Insert pauses and stutters)^^
The boys and girls are completely segregated here. They hardly talk in class, let alone at lunch. I think the Japanese are just really shy. I don’t know. But that doesn’t make so much sense because I get hit on a lot—but maybe that’s only because I’m American. Also, no one understands me when I talk. But we both try. I forgot to pack my lunch, so I went to the vending machines to buy some tea, and was interrogated by a group of guys. I asked them why they didn’t sit with the girls, and several offered to be my new boyfriend. This is one example of the many issues lost in translation, but I suppose company is nice, no matter the circumstance. The whole school is in preparation for a festival, where each class does a performance in front of all the students. I am currently watching my classmates dance the choreography played at the end of High School Musical 3. I’ve never been happier. They want me to be in the performance, but after my speech today, I don’t think I can handle another foreign stage. However, I might end up participating in tug-of-war. I can’t wait until spring, when everyone isn’t drenched in sweat. That will be nice, I think. I’m super excited for the Australian students coming next month. SUPER EXCITED TO SPEAK COMPLETE ENGLISH SENTENCES.
My host family is the best. Granted, I went without a lunch today, and someone forgot to pick me up from school at 3:25, resulting in the principal driving me home over an hour later. But all this is ok because I am starting to identify a few words in Japanese conversation (even when they speak 100 words a second), and because when I walk in the door I take a deep breath and smile because it smells like home, because Aiko and Isamu are watching an episode of The Suite Life of Zach and Cody (in Japanese) and I can laugh when they laugh because I’ve already seen the episode, and because Junko excessively apologized for not packing me a lunch and had a full meal ready for me in 20 minutes.
I am just now realizing that the only probable reason I am keeping up with these document entries is because I rarely have internet, leaving photobooth and Microsoft Word to play with. Even if this is the case, I’m glad I’m typing.
I am beginning my Japanese adventures in Florida, where I met my first single-serving friend. I was shoved in between him and a Latino woman who slept the entire way. He wore a black denim vest with cutoff sleeves and the back was embroidered to proudly signify he rode a motorcycle, although I can’t remember the exact design. He told me he was a private investigator from Dallas, Texas, and that I was very brave for leaving my current life for a new one. He also inquired about my “home-church,” which I embarrassingly needed him to clarify. I told him I went to church on Christmas and Easter, and he handed me a pamphlet that read, “AM I GOING TO HEAVEN? QUIZ!” (It remains a bookmark in the Japan culture guide next to me, which I am ashamed to let the front cover visible here in a domestic Tokyo airport, as I imagine locals such as the woman across from me, dressed in a kimono, does not require a guide to learn such a beautiful culture.) My first single serving friend had terrible body odor, but he promised to pray for me and gifted me a chocolate-chip cookie the size of my head as we filed down the airplane aisles into the Dallas/Ft Worth airport. I ate it in 3 minutes.
The second plane I boarded was a direct flight to Tokyo. It was huge, with 9 seats a row and a TV screen on the back of every seat. However, I was not surprised, as all international planes are around this big. I was assigned seat 44F, which turned out to be the second to last row. Seat 44F was next to seat 44E, filled by an older man. I never got his name, because our friendship was so short-lived (due to reasons not yet addressed), but he worked with the Navy and it was his 4th time visiting Japan. He spoke very fondly of the country, but also very softly, making my responses limited. He told me that the Japanese always follow the rules, then continued with a teaser, “but I can’t tell you what the rules are.” This killed me. The duration of our conversation only lasted as passengers boarded, when Phil, a flight attendant, informed Navy-affiliated man and me that the last two rows were for the crew, and it was a mistake that we were assigned these seats. Therefore, Phil moved us both to different parts of the plane, and I never saw Sir Navy again. My new assigned seat was next to a thin, middle-aged man who wore glasses identical to those of my Economics professor (who was West African and had a sweet accent). The frames were perfectly round. This man and I did not talk much, but we were next to each other for 13 hours. There are not many people I have spent 13 straight hours with, so this alone made us closer. This alone is not all, however. About 4 hours and 23 minutes into the flight path (I followed the times on the TV monitor), the man next to me started crying. He put his elbows on the tray and his head in his hands and cried. There are even fewer people whom I have been next to as they cried, and I love and care about all of these people very much. As I thought about these people whom I love and care about very much, I concluded that I would never forget this crying stranger. Later he told me he had never been out of state before, let alone across the world. I think he was trying to consulate his tears, but I still don’t quite understand. I think maybe he is lonely. Two of three of the airplane meals given were not vegetarian, so I gave them to the man next to me. He seemed so surprised when I did this that the second time I had to explain that I didn’t eat meat, as if he thought I was giving him charity food for his misery. This makes no sense, but I can see how many people would think it. He gave me a bottle of water near the end of the flight. People are so strange.
Observations:
1) The Japanese are incredibly eager to take my bags/open the door/give me gifts and any other act of flattery.
2) Yes, the showerhead is too low for me.
3) My siblings, Aiko (6) and Isamu (9), are the best. They have more personality, tolerance, and obedience than the average, mature American.
4) Air conditioning is a privilege, not a norm. EMPHASIS ON THIS.
5) I am grateful for how much I didn’t pack.
6) 6ft tall translates to 180 centimeters tall. The Japanese translation is even worse.
7) I need to get used to the idea of not seeing my reflection daily, which is somewhat refreshing. For desperate measures, use photobooth as a mirror.
August 22, 2010
Isamu plays the Japanese equivalent of KGB. This is great.
First of many baseball games with Isamu and Kazuhiro—seriously hit myself in the face with the bat. Strike 1.
In the Ito household, there are three meals a day. This is not flexible.
I learned at tea today that Junko’s husband, and Isamu and Aiko’s father, was killed in a car accident 4 years ago. This makes me sad. As Buddhists, they have a small temple in the house for Hiroshi, they each pray before it every day.
When you see how finely woven and finished a tatami (rice straw) mat is, you will understand why shoes are not a good idea.
Second night, first emergency—a tree fell and damaged the train tracks Junko and the kids were approaching on their way to Osaka to visit Hiroshi’s parents. They waited on the train for 5 and a half hours before coming home to Izumo.
Soda the color of Shrek dyes your tongue. In America, green is supposedly the most unpleasant color to digest. This notion does not apply to the Japanese, apparently.
August 23, 2010
I went to City Hall today to register for something or other. Also ate a fish. Not raw. Not really sure how it was cooked, but it reminded me of beef jerky, except it was an entire fish. Aiko and Isamu say that if you eat the head of the fish first, it will make you smart, and if you start at the tail, you will run faster. Initially, I couldn’t bring myself to eat the head. This made them laugh. They laugh a lot, which I like because laughing is universally understood. The Japanese word for octopus is tako. Eating tako in Japan is as common as eating tacos in the USA. Kazuhiro lines up tissue boxes across the middle of a table in the kendo store so he and the kids can play ping-pong. This brings me infinite happiness. Takashi is taking me to my first Rotary meeting tonight. It’s supposed to be a big deal. I know this because I was told to dress formally. Takashi speaks no English.
Many Japanese streets are one lane, but two-way. This frightens me.
I think I ate a snail today. Not really sure what it was actually, but Rotarians were incredibly amused by my careful examination of the food item prior to consumption. I have found it difficult to decline a Japanese delicacy when crowds of white-haired men in suits are staring with wide-eyed grins.
I’ve heard lots of people tell me I’m beautiful, and either I don’t believe them, or it doesn’t really mean anything. Somehow, when a Japanese person tells me this, it means a lot.
The Japanese word for ‘expensive’ and ‘tall’ are practically the same, only with accents on different syllables. Incidentally, both were used frequently at the fitting for my school uniform.
There is no such thing as dry sweat in a Japanese home. You shower before you cool off—end of story.
It took me 3 days to fall in love with Japanese tea (which kind of tastes like wheat). It also took 3 days for me to bow automatically upon introduction.
There is no law in Japan to wear a seatbelt in the backseat of a car. This quickly settling habit may be problematic come my return to Florida.
In Japan, if you don’t have a business card, you don’t exist.
Eco-bags are a must when grocery shopping. If you happen to forget your cloth bags at home, you pay about 5 cents for each plastic one.
August 24, 2010
School starts tomorrow. I won’t get my uniform for another two weeks—as if I won’t stand out enough already, I’ll be wearing average clothes when the entirety of the school population is dressed in uniform plaid. Also, the principal said that a plain v-neck was too “sexy” for school. Oh, what a different world we live in.
Fact: the Japanese are extraordinary at EVERYTHING they do.
^^(After touring the art and music programs at my school)^^
The English section of the bookstore consisted of 9 books. One was The Catcher in the Rye, five were of the Harry Potter series, and the last three were the Lord of the Rings series. Hello Tolkien.
August 25, 2010
FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!!!!!
Kawaii is the Japanese word for cute. After today, I will never be able to forget this. They also think I smell fantastic. All of them. I don’t smell anything. I had to give a short introduction—first in front of the teachers, then in front of the entire school. I was completely unprepared, and it went something like:
Konnichiwa! Watashi no namae Sarah des. Junana des. Summimasen, yoku wakarimasen ga Ninhongo. Dozo yoroshiku. Arigato gozaimasu.
^^(Insert pauses and stutters)^^
The boys and girls are completely segregated here. They hardly talk in class, let alone at lunch. I think the Japanese are just really shy. I don’t know. But that doesn’t make so much sense because I get hit on a lot—but maybe that’s only because I’m American. Also, no one understands me when I talk. But we both try. I forgot to pack my lunch, so I went to the vending machines to buy some tea, and was interrogated by a group of guys. I asked them why they didn’t sit with the girls, and several offered to be my new boyfriend. This is one example of the many issues lost in translation, but I suppose company is nice, no matter the circumstance. The whole school is in preparation for a festival, where each class does a performance in front of all the students. I am currently watching my classmates dance the choreography played at the end of High School Musical 3. I’ve never been happier. They want me to be in the performance, but after my speech today, I don’t think I can handle another foreign stage. However, I might end up participating in tug-of-war. I can’t wait until spring, when everyone isn’t drenched in sweat. That will be nice, I think. I’m super excited for the Australian students coming next month. SUPER EXCITED TO SPEAK COMPLETE ENGLISH SENTENCES.
My host family is the best. Granted, I went without a lunch today, and someone forgot to pick me up from school at 3:25, resulting in the principal driving me home over an hour later. But all this is ok because I am starting to identify a few words in Japanese conversation (even when they speak 100 words a second), and because when I walk in the door I take a deep breath and smile because it smells like home, because Aiko and Isamu are watching an episode of The Suite Life of Zach and Cody (in Japanese) and I can laugh when they laugh because I’ve already seen the episode, and because Junko excessively apologized for not packing me a lunch and had a full meal ready for me in 20 minutes.
I am just now realizing that the only probable reason I am keeping up with these document entries is because I rarely have internet, leaving photobooth and Microsoft Word to play with. Even if this is the case, I’m glad I’m typing.
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