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.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
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.
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