Just West of the Midwest Chapter 2: Just West of the Midwest

With the orientation behind us, twenty-three of us boarded a plane bound for Miyazaki City, the capital of the prefecture where we would be employed. After landing, claiming our baggage, and moving as a nervous pack of science rats through a giant maze, fellow participants in the experiment began to scatter as each found their respective town representatives, or (if you insist on continuing with this analogy) “pieces of cheese.”

After exchanging strained and anxious smiles with Sam from across the room, I found myself chin to forehead with Yamamoto-sensei (sensei, meaning teacher), who will be working with me at one of the three middle schools I’ll be teaching at: Tonda, Nyuta and Kaminyuta Chugakko.

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Me with Oki-Hosa (l) and Yamamoto-sensei (r)

He was joined by two other gentlemen (Oki-Hosa and Kuranaga-kacho) from the Board of Education where I’ll be stationed before the school year begins and where I’ll have a desk when I’m not scheduled for a school visit.

If anything can be said about this unexpected detour from a hot shower and a deep sleep, it’s that I now have the bowing and proper greetings down flat.

I found quick comfort in the fact that these men seemed as nervous as I.

Although the town had been assigned an American AET the year prior, she was of Japanese-American descent and far less, “exotic-looking” than what had just walked through the airport gates. And what did they really know about this conspicuously-sized American gaijin (gaijin, meaning “outsider,” though if you ask most tactful Japanese, they’ll attempt to make it sound far less insulting).

We made it through introductions (Yamamoto-sensei acting as translator) and before there was time for an uncomfortable pause, the entire JET entourage was led into a large room at the airport for a press conference.

Despite the unexpected arrival of “Aunt Flo” (who had just barged onto the scene with a bloody vengeance), the completely overblown media attention, AND the overwhelming desire I had to slither from the scene, the televised event passed without international incident.

Afterward, the two cars they sent for me (in case I overpacked…which I did) were packed up and I settled into the back seat of the lead car.

Breathing a long sigh of relief.

Knowing I was soon headed to my new apartment.

Where I planned to unpack, unwind and sleep for an exorbitant amount of time.

As we headed north to Shintomi, the surreal nature of everything that had happened over the past week suddenly began to fade and the reality of the situation became as clear as the spotless windshield I was gazing out of as the Japanese farmland whizzed past.

Holy crap, Batman. I’m here… and for a year!

During the half hour ride, Yamamoto-sensei restlessly thumbed through my file – which I have since learned was copied and given to nearly every member of the Town Hall and nearly every teacher/faculty member where I’ll be team-teaching.

Who subsequently shared it with just about every member of the village who is old enough to read.

Yamamoto-sensei attempted to break the ice by asking a lot of questions about my life – marriage being near the very top of the list. In other words, at 27 years old, why am I not?

As attempts were made to keep the driver and passengers from experiencing a moment’s silence, I smiled, answered their questions, and occasionally gazed out of the car window as we whizzed past the scenery of Japan’s Pacific coast.

Thick and green to its very rocky edge in one place.

Long stretches of desolate beaches a few miles further along.

As we left the highway for smaller, narrower streets, I saw the coastal scenery quickly replaced by flat meadows, thick with yellow, creeping to the edge of a river.

On the other side of which – more yellow, stretching to meet a range of misty mountains.

Down the road a bit, as my tired gaze grew more gauzy and my hosts more comfortable in the silence, we passed one rice paddy after the next, neat and tidy.

Perfect rows.

Perfect stillness.

Each patch perfectly reflecting the surrounding trees and tropics, sun and sky. Making my mind wander toward visions of patchwork quilts, windswept prairies, rows of young corn, “knee-high by the Fourth of July.”

Thoughts of home.

We passed fields upon fields of ripening vegetables – daikon and cabbage, sweet potatoes and carrots, each pungent and promising; and one watery channel after another where, Yamamoto-sensei explained, eels (a staple in Japanese cuisine and Shintomi’s economy) are raised.

As we passed a moist, green pasture scattered with grazing cattle, I noticed buildings appearing in greater frequency. First, it was merely a weatherbeaten, old farmhouse or outbuilding at the side of the road, but soon the streets began to fill with tiny shops and modest houses.

Faded but orderly.

Well-groomed and practical – if not beautiful – schools and offices playgrounds.

Yet amid the unassuming architecture, I noticed everywhere shadowy shrines and inviting gardens – the elegant undertones of customs and colors – which made me want to wander aimlessly and as soon as possible.

As we wound our way through town, all of the gentlemen in the car pointed at places of interest and of use, but I wasn’t really listening.

My mind was reeling with how utterly unfamiliar this was going to be from the last five years I spent floundering in Chicago.

I’m up for a World of different.

However, at this point in my adventure, the only thing I wanted to encounter was my apartment.

And a pillow.

My hosts had their own agenda.

First, I was paraded through the corridors of Shintomi’s Town Hall.

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Shintomi Town Hall, photo by acfrohna

If anything could be said about this unexpected detour from a hot shower and a deep sleep, it’s that I now have the bowing and  proper greetings down flat.

And this is no easy task, my friends, for there are many complexities which make up the Japanese Office Culture.

This industry of industry.

This world of uniformed workers, where business cards are handed out like handshakes and three-tiered greetings, as well as ceremonious departures are as much a part of life as crew cuts, white shirts, green tea, exercise, ties clips, white gloves, parasols and sensible shoes.

Walking through the town hall for the very first time, surrounded by my pint-sized, Board of Education posse, I was led into a machine gun round of official, formal introductions with every Head Hancho from every department.

The final, official, formal greetings of the day was at the Board of Education office where I’ll be working. There, I met the Superintendent, a soft-spoken man who quietly arrived, presented the rest of his staff, showed me my desk and then quietly disappeared into the crowd of curious bystanders.

So there I stood in my new office.

This peculiar environment of pushed together desks with thick, yellowing, plastic desk-protectors, folders, forms and neatly stacked file cabinets.

My new bosses and co-workers hovering silently nearby as I swayed with exhaustion.

I was soon whisked away by an expanded posse of SIX.

Both little, white cars now filled to capacity.

Added to the evening’s entourage are Board of Education staff members: a young woman, Akiko-san, a middle-aged woman, Yoshino-san, as well as Hiejima-kakaricho, the office’s chief clerk.

Within moments of leaving the Town Hall, our tiny parade pulled up to Shin Machi Shin Danchi and my apartment complex, which looks about as welcoming as a cell block.

With no traces whatsoever of the simple, elegance of Japanese architecture I’d envisioned for months prior to my arrival, I have to admit I was a little disappointed.

This disappointment was immediately vanquished when I saw I had little to complain about. My apartment is very spacious.

More room than I need, really, especially considering multiple generations of Japanese families regularly share one the very same size.

I have three rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom which boasts (there is a God) a good, ol’ sit down, Western toilet. I’ve quickly discovered that this is more of a luxury than I had ever, in my wildest dreams, imagined. I don’t know if this applies only to the more rural parts of Japan, but nearly everywhere I go and have to “go” I am forced to practice the fine art of squatting over a porcelain hole in the ground.

Because of this ungainly position, it’s probably fortuitous that someone, somewhere in Japan invented a little recording device for public bathroom stalls. Devices which has been designed to play music to veil the potentially embarrassing sounds associated with relieving oneself.

I’ve even heard the recording of a toilet flushing used for the same purpose.

Go figure.

As unaccustomed to squatting as I am (especially where no tent is pitched), bathroom visits have also become a muscle-burning workout, during which time the grunts and groans one hears emanating from my stall might be seriously misconstrued.

The Western toilet, however, is about the only thing familiar about the apartment.

Two of the rooms, divided by a screen, have tatami floors where I spend most of my time. Not only because this is where I unroll my bed each night, but because this is where my heating/ac unit is installed and being a sub-tropic region with cold winters and hot, humid summers this will surely be my favorite fixture in the apartment.

It certainly won’t be the florescent lighting installed in the ceiling of every room – the turning on of which casts a morbid pall over my complexion.

And my mood.

… nor will it be the Japanese-style bathtub.

What could be so different about a bathtub, you ask?

Ah ha, my friends, this isn’t the long, low receptacle we’ve all come to know and love; where one soaks in hot water and Mr. Bubbles after a grueling day.

The official story is that you’re not supposed to wash off in a Japanese-style tub at all, but suds yourself up outside the bath (which resembles more of a box), rinse, and then step into the tub for a soak.

Before any of this can happen, the water must be heated.

That’s right. After I fill the large, plastic box with H20, I’ve been instructed to ignite the pilot light (situated on the side of the tub), turn the dial to the desired temperature… and wait.

About 30 minutes.

The water in the kitchen also requires heating.

And there is no oven.

Only a two burner stove top.

A rice cooker.

And an itsy-bitsy washing machine that might be able to squeeze in one pair of jeans.

The grand tour of my new digs felt like a scene out of Woody Allen’s “Take the Money and Run.”

Convicts chained together.

The entire Shintomi Board of Education shuffling from room to room.

I began to feel the weight of the past days on my eyelids and was trying to figure out how I could gently persuade my gang to ‘git.

What was I thinking?

The seven of us piled back into the cars and headed off to a local restaurant for a welcome dinner. It was here I met Junko-san, a quiet, apologetic type, who’ll be assisting me in teaching a series of adult English classes at the Community Center.

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l to r: Kuranaga-kacho, Yamamoto-sensei, Oki-Hosa, Yoshino-san, Akiko-san and Junko-san

She relieved Yamamoto-sensei of some of the translating duties as we dove into a feast of fresh fish and cold beer. This is definitely something I WILL NOT have to get used to. Every morsel and every sip of it was heaven sent.

Throughout the evening, I felt anxious glances greeting my every motion. Their unspoken curiousness and unasked questions were palpable. How would I handle hashi (chopsticks)? How long will it be before we can communicate with each other? How can she put away that much beer? How does someone of that size not collapse under the sheer weight of herself?

Actually, their genuine concern for my comfort was of great comfort.

The only instance that brought a moment’s worth of awkwardness was when I first sat down at the restaurant. As is customary whenever I sit on the floor, I crossed my legs.

Keep in mind, I was wearing shorts and tights.

I had failed to notice that all three women were sitting primly and properly on their knees, with their hands folded gently on their laps, and would have continued to be utterly ignorant of this unseemly, unfeminine posture had it not been for Yoshino-san, who approached me quietly from one side.

And slipped a handkerchief over my… how do I put this delicately?

Crotch.

Not a word was spoken about it (not that I would have understood it anyway) and I made an effort for the remainder of the evening to at least attempt sitting with my legs folded to the side.

I did try sitting on my feet in the same manner my female companions, but soon discovered that the leg flailing brought on by cramps caused by maintaining this position for more than 10 seconds would have proven far more embarrassing than an innocent, little groin shot.

When the dinner was over, I was relieved to learn that the women (Junko, Yoshino and Akiko) would be taking me back to my apartment, while the men continued celebrating my arrival at a local Karaoke bar.

The Karaoke bar, if you are not familiar with it, hails from these parts and can be found on nearly every corner of every community – large or Lilliputian.

They are usually small, dark establishments which serve (at least in Shintomi-cho) an array of alcohol – as long as it’s whiskey, shochyu (a local fermented beverage made from sweet potatoes) or beer.

A fixture in nearly every karaoke bar is the Mama-san. Usually in her 50s, dressed in a dazzling kimono or a baffling brocade suit (better suited for a sofa), caked in make-up without looking like it, this tiny, but near-terrifying presence lords over the bar with polite yet stern solemnity, making sure that patrons are well-served and, if over-served, rowdiness is kept to a minimum.

And then, of course, every Karaoke bar is equipped with music videos and microphones.

Now, the kind of music played here is not something a buck will buy you from an old juke box, but a series of sappy sounding, sing-along melodies played on a video screen, ranging from traditional Japanese ballads to obscure renditions of American Jazz standards.

At some point in the evening, each person (and EVERYONE is expected to participate) is handed a microphone and asked to sing their chosen song to a captive and politely captivated audience.

Sometimes you might find yourself standing on a small, spotlit stage and other times, you’re able to hide in a dark booth in the corner. Either way, you are socially obligated to belt out a tune.

For those of us not familiar with the traditional Japanese songs, most local establishments have a handful of Western melodies, such as “Yesterday” (Which, by the way, offers a five minute video of naked Japanese girls writhing on the screen); “My Way,” “Love Me Tender,” “I Left My Heart in San Francisco,” “Moon River,” and the ever-popular, “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.”

I wish I could say that I am able to perform this ritual in the unassuming shadows.

But that would be silly.

It’s become painfully obvious that I don’t go unnoticed doing anything – anywhere in Shintomi.

However, I’ve learned that the drunker my audience, the more appreciative they are.

And the drunker I am, the better I think I sound.

So I’ve learned to hold off on my song until the end of the evening.

With that said, my first evening in Shintomi finally came to a close.

As the men from my new office continued on with the celebration, Akiko, Yoshino and Junko brought me back to my apartment and after making sure I was settled in, left me on my own for the very first time since I set foot in Shintomi.

As soon as the door closed, my exhaustion morphed into nervous excitement.

I circled the apartment.

A few times.

I unpacked my things.

I called Sam, who was also feeling anxious and nervous.

Which made me feel much better.

So did a soak in the tub.

That’s right.

I soaked IN the sudsy tub for an hour.

Protocol be damned!

Then I tossed and turned on my futon until I heard a neighborhood rooster crow early the next morning.

Author: Anne Celano Frohna

I am a writer, a mother of two girls, Eva (21) and Sophia (19) and wife to one husband, Kurt. I was mostly a professional writer and editor for 25 years for graphic arts and advertising, for publishers of newspapers, magazines, books, etc.,. Now, I have this blog where I post my creative non-fiction, short stories, a couple of illustrated children's stories and a comedy I wrote about two years I spent teaching English in rural Japan (NOT a story for a child.). I recently opened a shop on Etsy called ChannelingNonna where I’m selling the many vintage treasures I’ve collected over the years and continue to hunt down at thrift stores and yard sales. My husband and I both love to cook and to entertain and have welcomed friends and family to our home for over 20 years, so in 2016, we began hosting with Airbnb as the perfect (and most natural) way for me to continue to pursue my passion of writing, while at the same time help us pay for current and future college expenses. But the experience has proven to be so much more than financial gain. It has been life-changing in the best ways imaginable.

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