Not Trying to Be Emo or Anything, But...

Lately I've been feeling very lonely in my new home. It's not the kind of loneliness that can be cured simply by spending more time with people. It's a deeper loneliness -- I am lonely for the people who love and know me best. I think the hardest thing about moving to a new place like this, all alone, is not having a single relationship that I feel sure of. Every relationship I have here is new, fragile and uncertain. I can never be entirely sure where I stand with anyone, even the people I rely on the most (Perhaps especially the people I rely on the most).

Talking to friends and family back home over the internet helps, but even in the best interactions there is still a lack: the distance alone destroys, in part, the very intimacy I am seeking. And even an hours-long conversation can't change the fact that these are no longer the people I am making a life with. The end result is that my every relationship is marred by distance, whether emotional or physical. It is a painful state to live in continuously.

But live I must. So I live on the hope that tomorrow will be better than yesterday, and that perhaps the day after that will be better yet, and that slowly, with painstaking work, every day's little moments are pebbles being added to the pitcher, so that soon I will be able to quench this soul-thirst.

The Drill Sergeant in Yellow Sneakers

Yesterday, I was at elementary school again. Because it was only my third time going to that school, most of the kids there still didn't know me, so I had to dust off the old self-introduction and bring it out for several classes-ful of kids to "oo" and "ah" over. One kid, upon seeing me enter the room behind the Japanese teacher of English, actually said, "Sensei, did you just bring in some random stranger off the street?" (or the Japanese equivalent thereof).

At lunchtime I was with a class of unreasonably adorable second graders, one of whom I think I actually talked into believing that I was around eighty years old. One of the great things about kids this age is that their language is at a low enough level that I don't have too much difficulty understanding them. The other great thing is that at that age, they don't mind, and in fact often don't even notice, carrying on a more or less one-sided conversation. All it takes is a few well-placed "sou desu ka?"s and some vigorous nods of the head to satisfy them that I'm holding up my end of the deal.

For some reason they weren't having cleaning that day, so after lunch we all went straight to play time. I wandered out into the school yard behind the kids, hoping to find a nice, sedate game of jump rope or, barring that, some tag. I approached a likely-seeming group of 5th-grade girls, but they merely nodded politely and then scurried off, giggling. Eventually I came across a large group of kids playing some strange hybrid of dodge ball and red-rover that had, somehow, lost all of the violence native to those two games in the merger.

I had just begun to chat up a Peruvian girl in Spanish when all of a sudden I sensed a presence off to my left and about two feet down. I glanced around until at last my eyes lighted on a round, serious face glaring up at me, the two sharp eyes sizing me up and very possibly finding me wanting. The Peruvian girl took my distraction as an opportunity to escape back to her game and I suddenly found myself alone with this small, intense person. She began to speak to me very quickly and in such a thick Tochigi accent that I hadn't a clue what she was saying.

"Nani?" I tried. First mistake. I should've just gone for the smile and nod approach again.

She let out an exasperated sigh, adjusted the little cardigan stretched across her stomach (rendering it no less crooked, I might add) and then repeated everything she'd just told me just as rapidly and just as unintelligibly. This time, however, she tacked on the end, "Mitai?"..."You wanna see?"

I raised my eyebrows, cocked my head to the side in my best "Huh?" gesture, smiled and repeated, "Nani?"

Second mistake. I should've just said "Yes."

My small interlocutor's exasperation then ratcheted up a notch, and she shook her head, took a deep breath and then barked out in a shockingly spot-on interpretation of a drill sergeant, "Na! Ma! Chi! Mo! No!"

"Namachimono?" I repeated, slightly bewildered.

"Chiga-!" she yipped. "Kakikukeko no che! Na! Ma! Che! Mo! No!"

"Namachemono?" I corrected myself, realizing now that I had mis-heard her the first time.

"Chiga-!" she yelled. "Kakikukeko no ke! Na! Ma! Ke! Mo! No!"

"Oooooh," I said. Apparently I'd misheard her both times. "Namakemono?"

"Sou! Mitai?" she barked at me again, and then leaving nothing to chance this time, she took me firmly by the hand and began dragging me off to the other side of the school yard. I hadn't a clue what a "namakemono" was, but I was intrigued. Once there, she led me to the bars and proceeded to show me just how well she could hang upside down from them. I thought it best not to point out that she was showing her underwear to the entire student population of the school.

Her demonstration completed, she climbed back down, made a few closing comments, dusted off her hands and then launched into her next unintelligible speech. Having learned nothing from the first "conversation" with her, I once again attempted to have her repeat herself, and it wasn't long before I found myself being barked at again: "Shi! Ri! To! Ri!"

I thought it best to try the smile and nod approach, which elicited yet more exasperated sighs on her part (Looking this word up in the dictionary later, I discovered it was a sort of Japanese word game, which I surely would have failed at). Giving this latest suggestion up as a lost cause, she took me by the hand once more and began leading me over toward a small grassy mound on another edge of the school yard, maintaining the entire way her litany of strangely accented Japanese. I smiled, nodded, expressed concern, approval, agreement or sympathy as seemed appropriate and before long found myself being ordered to squeeze my nose shut and hold my breath as we summited the peak before us.

Once we'd safely made it down the opposing slope without passing out from oxygen deprivation (fortunately we never got TOO high above sea level), she gave me an approving pat on the back and then began leading me over to a nearby tree. She pointed at a sign on the tree that displayed the species name. I read it to her, but she seemed to find it necessary to correct my pronunciation in her own inimitable manner: "Ku! Mo! Ki!"

At this point I felt it appropriate to ask her her name, even though I could read it quite clearly on her name tag. She nodded sagely, confirming that I had indeed chosen the right thing to do and then said, "Chi! Ho! Ha! Chi! Sai!"

"Oh, I see, Chiho. So, you're hassai (eight years old)?"

"Hai! Tan! Jou! Bi! Wa! Ha! Chi! Gatsu! Ichi! Nichi!"

"Ah, so your birthday is Hachi-gatsu tsuitachi (August first)?"

"Hai!" And then she pointed to her shoes, which were an eye-opening shade of yellow and asked me if I wanted to race. I agreed, and then without further ceremony she began to run full-out across the school yard. I followed at a pace that I felt made it seem that I was trying but that wouldn't tax my abilities too hard. Inevitably she won.

She allowed herself a small smile to celebrate her victory and then once again pointed to her shoes.

"It's because of these," she asserted. I was beginning to be able to decipher her speech. "They're all 'pika! pika!' I like kiiro. In English kiiro is YELLOW! Can you say kiiro?"

"Kiiro," I said.

"Good," she admitted, and I glowed with pride. Chiho didn't seem the sort who gave out praise lightly. And then the bell rang signaling that play time was over, and just like that Chiho was giving me a brisk wave and a curt nod good-bye before dashing off toward her classroom.

As soon as I was back at the table in the staff room, I pulled out my phone and used its dictionary function to figure out just what the heck a "namakemono" was. A moment's search discovered that it meant "sloth," as in the animal that likes to hang from tree branches all day without moving a muscle. Apparently Chiho had simply wanted to demonstrate for me the proper way to imitate a sloth. Good thing, too. Not sure I would've been able to continue as an ALT without that knowledge...

二本

My special needs students are awesome. As my co-worker Adam put it today at work, "The special needs class are easily the coolest kids in the entire school." They're the most fun to teach and also the most fun to just hang out with. I've taken to crashing their midday break time a couple of times a week.

I don't know which one makes me laugh the most, the Kendama Whiz who often lets out an exasperated "Sensei!" at my attempts to imitate her skills, the Tickle Torture Queen, or the Secret Genius, who speaks three languages and is a truly gifted artist. There's no question of who my favorite is, though. She was the first student I ever met at my middle school. When I showed up on my first day of work, she was sitting in the principal's office, a new arrival like me, waiting to go before the entire staff room to make her self-introduction. We chatted for a while, and I asked her her name. When she told it to me, I repeated it back. However, my pronunciation was apparently dis-satisfactory, for she made me repeat it several times before she gave her approval.

Since then, she's become well-integrated into the student community, being one of the friendliest and most outgoing people I've ever met. She always greets me with the brightest smile and a cheery "Hello!" when we pass in the hallways at school. I always make sure to emphasize the part of her name that I originally mispronounced, just because this always makes her laugh.

This morning, however, my favorite barely looked up when I waved and greeted her on the way to class. Something had her down today. I made a mental note to check in with her after lunch to find out what was up. When the after-lunch break rolled around, though, she was nowhere to be found. It turned out that the second and third-year students were having a meeting in the gymnasium, so I hung out with the first-years, getting them to teach me how to write the characters in their names.

At last the other students appeared, having finished their meeting (one of them tried to explain what it had been about, but she used too many big words. :_( The student I had been waiting for shuffled in slightly behind the others, sliding over to her desk without looking up from the floor. I tried to call her over to show me how to write her name, but she just shook her head, mumbled something and then slid over to the other side of the room to fiddle with her book bag.

"She's in a hurry," one of the other students explained.

"She seems a little down today," I ventured. The girl I was speaking to nodded and then turned to our friend across the room. "Hey! Are you all right?" she asked. The other girl nodded and then quickly left the room.

I wanted to follow her and ask her what was up, but the other students were crowding around, showering Adam and me with questions, and besides, she apparently had something to get done quickly.

Then, a few minutes later, I looked up and realized that she was standing right next to me, clutching a piece of paper, which from the looks of it was homework. I gave her a smile, wrapped up the conversation I had been having, and then turned to her and asked, "Did you need help with that?" She nodded and then spread the paper out before me. It was an English worksheet. She pointed at one section and said, "I don't understand this at all."

With a sigh of relief, I set about explaining the activity and then helping her complete it. English was a problem I was definitely well-equipped to deal with. Finally, we got to the last question. It was a fill-in-the-blank exercise, and the last sentence was "There are ____ ____ in the box." I looked at the picture that we were using for reference. The box in question contained a volleyball and a beach ball.

"All right," I said, "so what's in the box?"

She looked at the picture. "Booru?" she replied, using the Japanese pronunciation of the word.

"Right, I said. But how many are there?"

Her eyes lit up and she filled in the first blank with the word "two." Then she shifted her pencil over to the second blank, poised it to write and then frowned. I waited for her to ask for help, but she just kept staring at the blank. After a minute, she tentatively wrote "b."

"Good," I congratulated her. And then, just to be helpful, I enunciated carefully, "balls." And then I started giggling, because deep down inside I'm no better than the middle school kids that I teach. Fortunately, she didn't notice my inappropriate laughter, instead opting to continue her attempt to spell the intractable word. "Bour," she wrote and then gave me a hopeful look. I shook my head. She erased the last three letters and then waited.

"A," I suggested. She wrote "a." Then I made a beautifully rendered L-sound (which, in Japan, is really just showing off), hoping that she would be able to guess the appropriate letter just from the sound. No such luck. "R," she wrote.

"No, 'L,'" I said. She added a second "r" after the first one. "'L,'" I repeated, turning and writing it on the chalkboard behind me. I added an "r" next to it and then demonstrated the sounds each letter made a few times until she seemed to grasp the distinction. She erased the "r"s and then proudly inscribed a single "L" on the page.

"There are two of them," I said in English, holding up two fingers to demonstrate. She frowned, cocking her head to one side. "Two 'l's," I repeated. She looked down at her paper and then back up at me. I cast about in my brain, looking for the language that could communicate what I was trying to tell her. Then inspiration struck.

"二本エルがある," I said.

"Ohhhhh!" she said, inscribing another "l" after the first.

"And 's,'" I added. And at last her paper read "two balls," perfectly spelled and everything. And then I giggled.

Is "本" even the proper counting word for "l"s? IS there a proper counting word for English letters? I have no answers to these questions. All I know is that "二本エル" got my point across, and that's good enough for me.

The Season

This year marks my sixth consecutive year as an outside observer of the Atlantic Hurricane Season, and I think I'm finally getting used to it. For the first nineteen years of my life, I lived right smack dab on the Gulf Coast in an area that had seen rather a lot of tropical weather over the years. So, every tropical depression, tropical storm or hurricane was a matter of concern for me and everyone I knew. At home, we would warily watch the Weather Channel of a summer evening, waiting with interest or anxiety, depending on the current storm's projected chance of reaching our area, for that night's tropical update. (I can still remember one Weather Channel reporter's laughable attempts at reading a Spanish-language warning during 1992's Hurricane Andrew: "Oonuh tore-men-tuh moy pelly-gross-oh.")

At school, every May as the annual Atlantic Hurricane Season kicked off, our local T.V. station's weatherman (or woman) would pay a visit to each class to pass out free hurricane tracking charts (marked with the station's logo) and teach us, yet again, how to track a storm using the coordinates given out on the news. For us kids, these days were particularly exciting because they gave us hope that an early season tropical storm might get us out of school early for the year.

My first full-blown hurricane wasn't until I was eighteen years old. It was July of 2003, less than a month before I was set to leave home (ostensibly forever) for college, and the storm was Claudette. She was small, barely rising to a Category 2 just as she made landfall...just in time for her to weaken again, falling quickly down the Saffir-Simpson scale, through Category 1 and tropical depression and, within a day, into mere "big storm" status. I even had to go in to work that morning, though they sent me home before the worst of the storm hit.

And then I shipped off to Abilene, Texas, a good 380 miles inland from the coast: 380 miles from all the action, as far as I was concerned. Oh, we occasionally got the remnants of a hurricane or tropical storm that had made landfall down near my hometown or, once, on Mexico's western shores. But it was nothing like being there to see the real thing, the storm in all her glory and terrific power. I consoled myself by printing out tracking charts from on-line (sadly, with no KVIC logo on them) and filling them out on my own.

Then in the summer of 2005 (oh, fateful season!) I started working at the International Office, and soon I discovered that one of my co-workers was a fellow native of the Gulf Coast who, unlike all the inlanders we worked with, sympathized completely with my need to track storms all summer long. That year, Lauren and I tracked storm after storm together, posting our beautifully color-coordinated charts on the office wall for everyone to see. From Arlene to Dennis to Katrina to Rita to Wilma and even on into Alpha, Beta, Gamma territory, we followed that inexorable line-up. As the season worsened into what eventually became the most active of recorded history, our record-keeping took on an ever more urgent tone. And after the disasters of Katrina, every new storm that threatened the Gulf Coast, and by extension our homes and loved ones, became the object of fascination not merely for Lauren and me but for everyone. Suddenly people wanted to hear our stories, wanted to know what it was like to grow up in the shadow of these massive monsters of storms. I said a little thank you in my heart to all the weather reporters over the years who had made sure my tracking skills were up to snuff.

A couple of years later, Lauren moved away, and though I kept our storm-tracking traditions alive, someone it just wasn't the same without her...

And now here I am, five years later, once again far from the action in the Gulf of Mexico. I haven't bothered tracking any storms yet, partly because this early in the season the storms simply aren't worth bothering with and partly because other disasters have sapped my attention (See "BP Snafu"). And one more thing: This year, for the first time, I'm planning to take an active interest in the Pacific Typhoon Season, home of about a third of all the world's tropical cyclone action. Next month will be August, the busiest month for storms in the Northwestern Pacific. Even now, I'm getting my blank charts and colored markers ready...

Trial by Seafood

It was this kind of day today:



As though the weather knew how sad I was feeling about the imminent departure of my colleague and friend, Steven. Tonight the International Friendship Society, where I am taking over Steven's position as volunteer English teacher, held a Farewell Steven/Welcome Sara party. They chose as the venue a very nice (and probably very pricey) traditional Japanese restaurant, the kind where you take off your shoes at the door and sit on cushions on the tatami floor, and every item on the menu is an obscure Japanese delicacy. This did not bode well for my digestion.

When we arrived, the table was already set with a full plate of food, which I foolishly took to be our main course. Before we ate, the waitress explained what each item on the plate was: "In the upper left-hand corner here we have jellyfish, mochi, cheese and wasabi-flavored edamame. In that corner, shellfish and [some kinda Japanese fish I don't remember the name of] with lemon. In the lower left-hand corner, tuna pasta, octopus and potato, and in the lower right-hand corner tofu and shark gristle." Oh, goody. But I decided I would suck it up and eat it all. The upper left-hand corner went down OK, even the jellyfish. The lower left-hand corner was a cinch. The tofu wasn't terrible, and even the shark gristle didn't taste bad, strange as it was. Egged on by Steven, I even managed to consume the entire shellfish. And that's when they brought out round 2.

A salad, topped with real gold flakes, to celebrate new beginnings, and consisting of lettuce, tomato, shrimp and raw fish. I gambare-ed my way through it, only to be faced with two different kinds of fish (cooked, thank God), one with the tail still on. I plowed through that, and was feeling pretty good about myself when the waitress minced in with a tray of little green dishes, which she announced contained "Hand of Turtle." Steven tells me the look on my face was priceless. I couldn't even look at the curved, knobby greenish shapes in the dishes until someone finally explained that they weren't indeed turtle fins, but actually a kind of shellfish that looked very similar:



No one faulted me for not eating them, so I thought I was doing OK when a ripple of excitement ran up and down the table, and excited whispers of "The main dish!" clued me in to what would ultimately be my downfall: the sushi. I had actually come prepared to suffer through as much sushi as they wanted me to eat, and yet after the jellyfish, the shellfish, the octopus, the shark gristle, the shrimp, the raw fish and the sight of those turtle hands, I just couldn't imagine forcing down any more strange, rubbery seafoods. I politely ate the egg and then tried to surreptitiously set the rest to one side:



But they weren't letting me get away with it. "Is this your first time eating sushi?" someone asked. I shook my head and explained that I'd eaten it several times before. "Did you know that sushi is the best and most expensive Japanese food?" says someone else. I shake my head, trying not to blush. He goes on to explain, "It's because the restaurants must choose the best and freshest fish." I nod, feeling ever more miserable. A few more minutes pass. Then, "Maybe you could just try one." I look at the raw slabs of fish lying before me, and a queasy sensation takes hold of my insides. I shake my head. "I'm feeling quite full now," I mutter. I notice out of the corner of my eye that the waitress has slipped a communal plate of vegetables and pickles onto the table when I wasn't looking.

And yet, that wasn't the end of it somehow, for in just a few more minutes the waitress appears with a dish of ginger-flavored chicken. "This is chicken," everyone assures me, and a few of them add, "It's OK to eat the chicken even though you didn't eat the sushi." I nod and smile, but I really don't want to eat anything else. However, they keep indicating the chicken and smiling widely, so I oblige them by taking a few bites... As I'm moving the chicken around my plate, my neighbor leans over, points to a covered dish I hadn't noticed before, and says, "Have you tried this yet?" He lifts the lid, I look inside and my stomach gives another lurch:



I don't know what it is, and I don't want to know. I just want the lid back on. And then the waitress glides back in with steaming hot bowls of mushroom and onion soup, which I discover contain small, rainbow colored bits of something bobbing up and down among the vegetables. I take a few sips, trying to appear as though I'm really enjoying the meal, and I say a little prayer of thanks that I'd gone for the wine instead of just the grape juice.

At this point, I don't even dare to hope that it was the end of the meal, which is good because in just a few short minutes several waitresses and a waiter dance in with trays full of fruit and ice cream desserts. I notice that they don't set any in front of me or Steven, and in a moment the reason for this is revealed. The two of us are to receive a special "sugoi" dessert. The lights are dimmed. The shoji are slid open, and then in wafts the waitress carrying two huge piles of fruit and ice cream topped with sparklers, and she sets these down before Steven and me. When the sparklers burn down, the lights go back on, and Steven and I discover that our dessert came with a gift:



Ohtawara-themed banners. The dessert looked good, so I decided to go for it, and I discovered that the simple and fresh flavor of the fruit did wonders for my stomach. This was fortunate, for just then the occupants of the table began to demand that I make a speech. I stood, smiled, and thanked everyone for a delicious meal. As I settled back down onto my cushion, I felt very proud of myself. Perhaps someday I may even be able to lie as well as a Japanese person.



The spoils of the evening

To Whom It May Concern:

Dear Ancient Human Ancestors,

Look, it's not like I'm meaning to be disrespectful. I know we all owe you a lot, and I'll admit you had some great ideas: the domestication of plants and animals, the wheel, fermented beverages, pyramid-building. Great ideas, all. But wearing clothes in the summer? Really?

I understand that losing your body fur was not a conscious decision. It was something that nature chose for you. I get that. So I can grasp that once you started migrating out to cooler climes that had real winters it was necessary to find a new way to trap heat close to your bodies. So far, I'm with you. But who was the genius that, come spring, said, "You know, these animal skins trap my body heat so well, I think I'm gonna keep this going"? And why, for the love of God (or gods, or whatever you believed in), did you LISTEN to this idiot rather than taking him (or her) outside the camp and stoning him as a heretic? He might even have made a nice human sacrifice.

But, no. Not only did you decide to run with this brilliant idea, some of you decided you liked it so much that clothes-wearing became the norm and the naked human body became taboo. For some unexplained reason, you decided that summertime is best spent sweaty, sticky, overheated and drenched in your own "natural scent."

I'm sure you had your reasons. But whatever they were, can they really have been worth it? I think, oh great humans of the past, it's time to do some deep soul-searching and think about what you've done. Because, frankly, you let us all down.

I'm working on a time machine right now. Think about what I've said. Maybe someday we can work something out. Until then, I remain

Your bewildered and irritable descendant,

Sara

サッカーをしました！ And other tales of this weekend...

This weekend was the long-awaited Nagano ALT Soccer Tournament. It was my best weekend since coming to Japan. I give it twenty-two gold stars!

Friday afternoon was insanity. After a time-consuming and disappointing attempt to send a bank transfer to the U.S. ("I'm sorry, we don't work with that bank."), getting slightly rained on, dashing to the grocery store for last-minute purchases and seeing to the day's emergency load of laundry, I frantically cleaned my apartment like it had never been cleaned before in preparation for a visitor. My colleague Steven's girlfriend, Miori, was coming over for our first language exchange session, and from everything Steven's told me she's a high stickler when it comes to cleanliness. Once all was in preparedness, I discovered I still had some time before she came, so I grabbed a quick shower, threw on some clothes and gulped down a quick supper.

Soon Miori showed up, bearing a gift, which she told me was some cheesecake. (Thanks for telling her my favorite dessert, Steven!). This made my stomach smile, so I thanked her profusely and stored it in the refrigerator for later consumption. We had a successful two hours and then said our goodbyes, and the first thing I did once she left was pull out that cheesecake. When I opened the box, I was greeted with the sight of two desserts: a slice of cheesecake and a little mango pudding. Suddenly Miori's voice popped into my head from earlier in the evening, telling me that mango was her favorite fruit. She'd meant for us to eat the desserts together during our meeting. I felt really horrible as I slurped that mango pudding...

And then it was time for a quick Skype date with my Mom. When that was finished, I popped out for an even more last minute purchase before returning home to pack up my gear for the weekend and chat a little bit with my sister as I waited for Yuhki, my ride, to come pick me up.

By the time he rolled into my apartment building's parking lot, it was a good hour and fifteen minutes past my bedtime. By which I mean that it was about 11:15 PM. Yes, I have become that pathetic. Everyone else in the car looked pretty sleepy, too. Not surprisingly, it was a quiet ride. Fortunately, it was a short one, too, and soon we arrived at a friend's house to crash for the night before rising at an ungodly hour the next morning to head to Nagano.

The first thing I heard upon waking in the morning was an air-splitting crack of thunder. This was shortly followed by Yuhki cursing loudly from across the room. Apparently he'd left his car windows rolled down.

We loaded up the cars in a brief but torrential squall and then we were off to Sano. By the time we'd been on the road for two minutes, the rain slowed and the day turned sunny and clear. Another short trip brought us to the city of Sano, where we met up with most of the other members of the Tochigi prefecture ALT soccer teams. Introductions were made (Being the local N00b, I know no one), breakfasts were bought, bad news of a last-minute loss of the ladies' team captain was conveyed, and then we were off to Nagano. Minor hijinks ensued. Suffice it to say, we all arrived safe and sound.

As it turned out, the tournament was not actually being held in Nagano but in the nearby resort town of Sugadaira, an idyllic little village ringed by low mountains whose forests are scored with long, green patches that in winter will become ski slopes. We headed straight to Sania Park, the sports compound where the tournament would be held. Our mens' team was slated to referee one of the first matches, and we arrived in the town literally two minutes before it was to begin. The ladies meanwhile spent their time suiting up, stretching and memorizing one another's names. In an ironic twist of fate, the ladies ALT team ended up containing a total of 2 ALTs, the other four members being friendly English-speaking Japanese nationals.

We played our first game a little less than an hour after arriving and were quite soundly defeated. In two fifteen minute halves, the other team managed to score 6 goals against us. We scored a whopping zero. On the plus side, Rachel, our goalie, turned out to be pretty good, having saved us the embarrassment of being scored on something more like 20 times.

And then, as soon as the match was over Rachel, looking wan, mutters, "Uh oh. I think I'm getting a migraine" And just like that our six-man team was down to five. Rachel was packed off to the hotel in hopes that a good rest would prevent the migraine reaching full-strength while the rest of us set about being spanked by the next team. We lost 6-0 again. The next game we lost 4-0. Then we ate lunch. Then we lost 3-0. We weren't too surprised by the losses, and our utter patheticness drew the sympathy of the other teams, who spent the day encouraging us to keep trying and even occasionally loaned us players so that we could have a six-man team again and at least one sub. Then at last we were done for the day, and it was time to crawl over to where the men were playing and receive the kindly attentions of our resident nurse, and my sometime co-defender, Miyu. Our fill-in goalie, Emi, had had her big toenail turned into a bloody mess, and one of our forwards, Satomi, required the heavy application of icepacks on her leg muscles. Miyu herself was suffering the effects of having both her feet trampled more than once. My toes were killing me, and when I at last sat down to pull off my shoes, I discovered that the toes of my right-foot socks were soaked in blood. All in all, a most satisfying day on the pitch.

When the men were finished being beaten, we all limped off to the hotel for a good, long soak at the onsen, supper and a nap. I cannot express in words how lovely the onsen feels when one has spent the day getting chased across a soccer field by large women who know what they're doing. When the naps were done, we all arose with new vigor to pile into a bus and head to a different hotel for a surprisingly energetic dance party. Finally, shortly before 2 AM, I literally collapsed into my futon (my aching leg muscles prevented a more decorous entry) and fell immediately to sleep.

Up at 6:30 the next morning and wishing I hadn't gotten low QUITE so many times at the dance party as my thigh muscles felt like they had been treated to the tender mercies of a meat grinder. Fortunately, the onsen is open at all hours of day and night, so I headed down for a little pre-breakfast soak. There was a pronounced limp among those shuffling toward the breakfast room, me included, but for the most part everyone looked quite cheerful and ready for another day of having their butts whipped.

It was a single-elimination tournament this time. The ladies' team strategy for the day was simple: Lose. Which we did. And then we could enjoy the rest of the day at our leisure, watching the other games, taking pictures, sympathizing with the men in their final defeat, eating tasty curry... We all took one big group photo, and then we ladies discussed our conviction that we definitely needed to get together to practice before the next tournament in the fall.

There's a big party coming up two weekends from now, and I'm really looking forward to seeing my new friends again. Yay! OK, that last sentence kind of sounded like something from one of my third-year students' text books. Must be time to go. Peace.

Awkward...

So there I was, checking out at Sanki, the discount clothing and housewares store near my house. I'd picked out several inexpensive items for the soccer tournament I'm playing in this weekend, and I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself. The cashier is ringing up and bagging my items when suddenly she pauses, a small line appearing between her brows. She looks at the item she's holding then glances up at me, her eyes squinting up in a considering look. Then she looks back at the item and says,

"Are you sure this size is OK?"

I look at what she's holding in her hand. It's the sports bra I'm buying, which was on sale (yes!), but which I was pretty sure was NOT OK size-wise. However, there was no way I was going to tell this lady, "Actually, no, but that's the largest size you carry, so let's just go with it."

I give her an awkward little nod, and she smiles and nods in a way that politely communicates (in a way only Japanese people can), "Well, it's your funeral," and then she rings up the bra for me.

When I got home, the first thing I did was try on the bra. Yep. Too small. Alas.

It's a New Record!

That's right folks. For the first time, ever, in the history of my job I taught FOUR junior high school classes in one day. Phew! It was so tiring.

Actually, it wasn't tiring at all. It was invigorating. I had no idea just how bored I had been sitting at my desk all day every day. On most days, I pass my time counting the hours until lunch. It's a banner day if I actually learn a kid's name. :P Bad days are the ones where I'm forced to eat unidentifiable seafood at lunchtime AND no one will talk to me. *tear*

Not today, though! I showed up at my usual time (bright at early at 7:50 AM), poured my morning cuppa (coffee, not tea), sat through the incomprehensible morning meeting (3rd graders need to stop getting hit by cars) and then spent first period planning a lesson with the Special Needs teacher, Takabayashi-sensei. After that, it was 2nd period with some 2nd graders, whom I can definitely excuse for thinking that "taught" should be spelled like "thought" since they rhyme. Then 3rd period with some 3rd graders, who made me die a little inside by consistently answering the question "What country would you like to visit?" with "I like Japan." This was also the class where the teacher, during warm-up question time, asked the class "Which do you like better: a boy or a girl?" (The Filipino kid who sits in the corner smirked, and I tried very hard not to make eye contact with him.) I also got to impress the kids with my sugoi English-reading skills. You can read that passage three times in three minutes? Well, I can read it five times. Bam.

Lunch was with 1st graders, Class 7 who are one of the liveliest bunches in the entire school, and it included Nikujaga. Mmmm... I learned three of the kids' names (Kaori, Momoka and Masaki, in case you were wondering), learned that Kaori likes oranges but not grapefruits and prefers bread to rice, and at last discovered the exact pronunciation of the new student teacher's last name (Goibuchi. Weird, I know). I then made the mistake of asking Kaori and Masaki if they like Goibuchi-sensei. They do, which is all well and good, but this then led to the question "Sara-sensei, are you going to get married?" Oh, geez.

Fifth period turned out to be the highlight of the day. It was our first class with the Special Needs kids. We introduced them to the basic concept of phonetics (This letter's name is "A," but you read it "ah"). The Special Needs kids are so sweet and friendly. Not that the other kids aren't, but the Special Needs kids tend to be much more open and willing to talk to me. We had a lot of fun learning that "t + i" does not say "chi" and that "h + u" does not say "fu," and the kids caught on very quickly. Sixth period, the last of the day, was our second class with the Special Needs kids, and was only marred by the fact that a couple of the kids kept dropping off to sleep. ^o^ Not that I really blamed them. It was the last class of the day, the weather outside was warm and sunny and we were making their brains work pretty hard.

And then it was done! I couldn't believe how quickly the day went by. We get to teach the Special Needs kids again next Thursday, and I'm really looking forward to it. Hopefully in the interim the Powers that Be (aka, Tanaka-sensei) will see fit to grant me a larger class-load. Amen.

習字！(Calligraphy!)

Yesterday was my first day joining in club activities at my junior high school. Yay! Since I was barred from joining any "dangerous" sports clubs (the school plead insurance concerns. psh.), I eventually settled on joining the "Cultural Activities Club." Their main activity is Japanese traditional calligraphy, or Shuuji.

Excited as I was, I went right out and acquired myself a calligraphy set. This turned out to be much easier than expected because my fellow ALT, Steven, had an old unused set simply lying about in his apartment.

Since it was my first day, the teacher who leads the class, Yamanaka-sensei, showed me how to set up my ink tray and pour in the ink and how to make sure the brush is good and wet. Then she provided me with a stack of blank pieces of paper and a page of model strokes:



This is the most basic stroke in writing Chinese characters, and it's also the character for "one." So for the next hour, I sat quietly at my little table and made the same stroke over and over again: "One. One. One. One." When I finished a page, I would line up next to Yamanaka-sensei with the other students and wait my turn to display my handiwork. She would then take her own brush, dip it in red ink and highlight things I'd done well (red circles) and then demonstrate things I'd done poorly:



It was funny, but every time I carried my sheet of "ones" over to her, she would exclaim "Ah, jouzu! Oh, it's very good!" before proceeding to point out that I had made the exact same mistakes as last time. At last, she proclaimed my work "finished" (suspiciously, right when club time was ending) and rewarded me with a giant red swirl, the Japanese teacher's way of saying "Good work!":



And there they are. My set of glorious "ones." Yamanaka-sensei assured me that when I come to club next week, I'll get to move up to "twos." I am literally panting with anticipation.

Poem at 30,000 Feet

I'd forgotten about this until this evening, so I decided to polish it up and post it. I wrote this on my Dallas to Chicago flight back in March. I think I was trying to capture in words why exactly I love flying so much. Anyway, here it is.

Poem at 30,000 Feet

flying on a cloudy day
rising in an airplane up and away from the anchor
of land
rising through dense, damp white before

seeing the sun

feeling its heat knowing
that people miles below shiver
under lowering gray

watching the sun revealed
through a veil of water vapor

light spills upon the floor of clouds
reflected white as on the surface
of a still, morning lake

your craft rocked roughly by the fists
of the fussing wind currents

above, the blue that fades to black
where the imagination dusts in stars

below, rolling hills, peaked ridges,
smooth plains all white and soft gray,
the landscape of the sky
and somewhere beneath this new ground
falls snow.
a second blanket covering
the distant memory
of the frozen earth.

I'm Not Internationally Known...Oh, wait. Yeah, I am.

A few days ago, I was quietly reading my novel in the teachers' room at work (My job's real demanding), ignoring the buzz of Japanese conversations around me when my ears suddenly perked up at one word: "supein-go." For you non-Japanese-knowers out there, this word literally means "Spain language," i.e. Spanish. I made the movement that my co-ALT Steven has dubbed "the Golden Retriever," that little upward jerk of the face, eyes wide with complete attention, that is an involuntary reaction to a familiar word heard in the midst of a stream of unfamiliar ones.

Steven, sitting next to me, noticed my sudden movement and looked up too, asking me what had drawn my interest. When I told him, he turned his attention to the conversation (unlike me, he actually knows Japanese), listened for a moment and then, looking even more interested, joined in. I heard him tell the teachers, "Sara also speaks Spanish," so I gave the half-crazed, smiling nod that I can't help doing on the rare occasions that I actually understand something someone has said in Japanese. "Sugoiiiiii!" said the other teachers. (This word is something akin to the English word, "Wow.")

Steven turned to me then and explained that the teachers had been discussing a new student whose parents were Spanish-speakers. It was necessary to send home some forms, but the parents didn't read Japanese, so they were trying to figure out how to communicate the necessary information to them.

"Sara could translate the documents into Spanish," Steven told our colleagues. "Of course, she doesn't read Japanese either..." : (

"But you do, Steven," the teachers replied eagerly.

And so it was decided that Steven would translate the documents into English for me, and I would then translate them into Spanish for the parents. Then, if any reply was made, the whole process would be repeated in reverse. A few minutes later, after we had all returned to our previous activities (or lack thereof), Steven leaned over to me and murmured, "I can't help but feel that this whole thing is like a game of Chinese whispers for the insane." Chinese whispers is what the Brits call the game Telephone. Oh, those Brits and their quaint names for things.

Yesterday morning, we were presented with the documents in question -- one sports club participation form and two letters concerning school lunch payments (thrilling stuff). So we got down to business, Steven making short work of the Japanese to English leg of the journey, and me laboriously transforming the resulting English artifacts into some semblance of comprehensible Spanish. Steven offered the occasional helpful suggestion, such as that I should call the school principal the "tribal chieftain" and refer to monthly school lunch payments as "sacrificial offerings made at the new moon." Eventually (after having to look up an embarrassing number of words), I was able to present the completed documents to the relevant teacher (She threw on some more of what Jerry refers to as "the Sugoi sauce.")

Every time I've seen that particular teacher since then, she has bowed deeply to me and thanked me profusely for my help. The look on her face warms the cockles of my heart. Golly gee, I love learning foreign languages.

Wherein I Wax Philosophical

I've been thinking about Gregor a lot lately. For those who don't know (or don't remember), Gregor was my philosophy teacher when I studied abroad in Uruguay. He was a German transplant, but spoke fluent, if accented, Spanish. He wore a leather vest and mud-splattered leather pants, rode a motorcycle, and had the most amazingly spider-like salt-and-pepper eyebrows. For more than two hours at a time, my classmates and I would find ourselves staring glazed-eyed at this man while he spoke rapidly and idiomatically on the subject of Latin American philosophy. I often found myself both overwhelmed and exhausted at the end of these classes, but I won't deny I learned a little something.

Gregor was certainly the first person to introduce me to some basic philosophical concepts, and in fact, to this day, there are some topics I feel more comfortable explaining in Spanish than in English. Gregor's words often come back to me when I find myself confronted with an intercultural situation. I hear his voice saying in my head "Se saca del si mismo," and I see him gesturing broadly, one hand clutching the space over his heart and then wrenching away sharply, a vivid illustration of the words he is saying. "Se saca del si mismo" -- It takes him out of himself.

He's telling the story of a reporter who is one day cheerfully trotting the streets of Montevideo when his motion is arrested by a vision: he catches sight of a large dumpster, its lid just opening, and from the dumpster emerge two small hands, tossing out a piece of cardboard. A moment later a tousled mop of hair and two round eyes appear in the dumpster opening, staring at him just as he is staring at them. For a moment, as the two exchange this gaze, the reporter feels that he is the filthy child digging in the dumpster and being quizzed by the well-dressed man out on the street. For a moment, he feels what it might be like to be a different person. The experience takes him out of himself. Se saca del si mismo.

What the reporter comes to a realization of in that moment is the very concept that Gregor is trying to explain to us: the subjectivity of the other. The self remains self-contained, imagining itself the world's only subject, the main character of the play while all others remain supporting characters. The self only understands its own subjectivity and views all other beings as objects, for study, for acting upon, for interaction with, but never subjects in their own right. Until a moment like the one this reporter had when we come into contact with another existence so different from our own that we are drawn out of ourselves and made to wonder What must be happening in that other person's head?

Once that question is asked, it becomes possible for the self to imagine itself in the place of the other. The self imagines the other's point of view, in which the roles are reversed. We suddenly realize that to everyone else we ourselves are the other. Outside of ourselves, we are merely objects for a world full of other subjects. It is a fearful, a humbling thought.

Living in another culture can feel like a sustained out-of-body experience. Every moment of every day is a potential "se saca del si mismo" moment. The self, removed from its native context, comes to know itself continually as other. The self's subjectivity is continually questioned, repressed and denied. To survive intercultural living, one must learn to accept the position of object. Whether this means being the object of giggling stares or the object of well-meaning, if rudely phrased, questions, or the object of neighborhood gossip (when you inevitably put the wrong trash out in the wrong bag on the wrong day), living outside one's own culture means learning never to take your self too seriously. Which is maybe why Gregor wore those awesome eyebrows with such non-chalance...

Mini-Update: Cell Phone!

So, even though getting a cell phone in the U.S. isn't exactly blog-worthy, for some reason getting a cell phone here makes me feel really accomplished. Also, it's a pretty neat phone, by U.S. standards. Keep in mind that this was the phone that came free with the plan here...






And look! It came with free stuff: a cute little hand towel that I've already used at school (They don't have paper towels in the bathroom for drying your hands) and a free (yes, FREE) mini-SD card to use with the phone:



And I'm sure you've noticed by now that it has photo capability. Count 'em: 8 megapixels, baby. For comparison, here's a photo taken with my 5.1 megapixel digital camera and a similar photo taken with the phone:



I like.

Mini-Update: The Mask

So, I've gotten a request for an explanation about the masks. I was surprised when I first got here by how prevalent the mask-wearing is. On any given day probably a good tenth of the people you see will be masked. You might think that this is because they are afraid of the dirty infection abroad in the air. You would be half right. The people here are generally pretty nervous about germs. They try to keep things as clean as possible.

However, they also are pretty judgmental of laziness. Even if you're feeling ill, as long as you're capable of walking, you're expected to be up and about and getting things done. How to reconcile these two things? Enter the face mask!

See, people are wearing face masks not to protect themselves from illness but to protect OTHER people from their own germs. If you wake up with a cough, you're supposed to slip on a face mask to shield the world from you disgusting disease. It's probably no better or worse than our habit of covering our coughs with our elbows, though it certainly lends a certain jaunty air to the ill that you just don't get in ye old U.S. of A.

What You've All Been Waiting for!

Finally, the apartment tour to end all apartment tours. Note the extra-shoddy camera work. ; ) Feel free to ask me any questions you may have.

Mini-Update: The View

I'll give y'all the obligatory apartment tour soon, but right now I haven't really had a chance to make everything look nice yet. But, just to keep you all interested, here's a video of the amazing view from my front door:

Mini-Update: The Bread Sale

So, down at the Mito Station there's a great bakery with really tasty bread. They close at 9 PM, so beginning at 8 PM every day, all their bread goes on sale for 100 yen. Check out this tastiness. That one up top is a Sakura Anpan, with a real sakura on top and tasty pink filling. The one below, still in its wrappings, is a choco-bagel. Mmmm.

Video BONANZA

It was a nice day for once today, so I went down to Mito's big, beautiful park and took several little videos. Pictures are on facebook. Please watch my videos:

At Senba Lake



Beginning of the Blossom Viewing Season



Say A Little Prayer



The Cure

I've Got a Beautiful Feeling

Check out the sunny view from my hotel room window! And some video:

Part of this Balanced Meal!

Just so my mom won't worry, let me assure you all that I have had several tastier and more nutritious meals than this since arriving in Japan. Tonight, though, I slept in instead of venturing out for supper, so today's last meal of the day came from the hotel vending machines. Witness its majesty.

Well, this is the end of my third full day in Japan, and it was my first free day. Monday was the day I arrived, and as mentioned elsewhere, that day mostly involved various confused errors and then eventual collapse into bed. Tuesday and Wednesday were largely consumed by all day training sessions. I did all kinds of exciting things like signing contracts, learning Japanese educational theory, and practicing for my interview with the Otwara Board of Education. However, the training took place alongside about twenty other new ALTs, so there's no need to fear I was lonely or bored.

Because today was to finally be a day of rest, I determined to sleep in all I wanted. I even stayed up late last night in anticipation of this, not finally closing my eyes until nearly 1:00 AM. Then, of course, just because my body is my greatest enemy, I woke up at 4:44 and could not go back to sleep. I eventually gave in and got up around 5:30. I then spent several productive hours trolling the internet, gettin' my Skype on (with Mom) and making more Skype dates. Around 8:30, I decided to have my daily Denny's breakfast.

The hotel I'm staying in has a Denny's attached to the lobby, and the rooms include a complimentary breakfast past for every morning you stay. At Denny's, the nice ladies show you a poster illustrating the two breakfast choices, western or Japanese. The western option includes your choice of toast (HUGEST toast I've ever seen, btw) or pancakes, scrambled eggs, two sausage links, a strip of bacon, and, of course, salad with Thousand Island dressing. The Japanese breakfast consists of a bowl of rice, another of miso soup, dried seaweed, a fried egg, a strip of bacon, pickles and, of course, natto. I have yet to brave the Japanese breakfast, though I have seen others try. One day, though, before I leave the hotel, I will screw my courage to the sticking point and order it.

Once breakfast was taken care of, I met up with a couple of friends and ventured out into the cold and the wet in order to experience all the joys and beauties Mito has to offer. We visited the train station, several book stores, the electronics store and, through a misunderstanding, a male hair restoration clinic. Lunch was acquired at the tasty Mos Burger. And then, because it was nearly three in the afternoon and I'd been up since before 5 AM, I came back to the hotel and took a nap that lasted until 9:00. Ahhhhhhh.

So let me break down the next week or so for y'all. Saturday I'll meet with the company to receive my rental car (That's right. They're actually gonna let me drive here...). Then, on Monday I'll drive with my city coordinator, Shuji, and the other new Otawara ALT, Jerry, to my new town, meet my new apartment and introduce myself to the Board of Education. Sometime from next Thursday (April 1) onward, I will begin work. ¡Que emocionante!

Well, there it is, folks. Please feel free to ask about anything I neglected to cover! I tried to hit all the high points. Watch for more updates in the future!

Mini-Update: Double Duty and a New Signature

Today, I acquired a new identity. Well, sort of. See, in Japan, just writing your name--no matter how many flourishes you use in your cursive--does not constitute an official signature. You have to have one of these special name stamps called a hanko, and you have to stamp your name in red ink. You will need this for any official document you sign. Here's a picture of mine, which was just made today. In case you were wondering, it's my first name written in kanji, or Japanese characters. It looks like this: 沙羅.


Now check out this awesomeness. Apparently the Japanese are against the creation of extraneous faucets. Therefore, the sink faucet does double duty as the bathtub faucet. You'll notice in the image above that there is clearly no tub faucet. You simply turn on the water at the sink and flip the switch to shower. You can leave the shower head high to take a shower or move it down lower to fill the tub. So efficient!

Mini Update: Who Needs Pajamas...

...when you've got a comfy yukata to wear? The hotel provides this lovely (and truly very comfortable) traditional clothing item and changes it out every day, just like a towel. I wasn't sure how I'd like it, but I found it to be infinitely wearable.

Note: I am wearing a very cheesy smile in this picture because I was trying my best not to look sexy, which was really hard in that particular pose.

Mini Update: Super Toilet

Is it weird that the one thing I really love about being in Japan so far is the toilet? Check out my photos. You'll see that the handle for flushing has two labels on it, and it can be turned in either direction. You turn it clockwise if you went number 2 (or "big" as the Japanese label calls it, 大). You turn it counterclockwise if you went number 1 (or "little" as the Japanese label says, 小).

The toilet also has a built-in bidet that will cleanse your hindquarters with warm water for you. There are settings for both front and back cleansing and for different water pressures.

U.S. toilets just seem so primitive by comparison. Heh.