Shintomi-cho Board of Eduction – Dog-eared Stories

Just West of the Midwest Chapter 5: All in a Day’s Week

Day in and day out, for the last six weeks, upon returning home after a hard day of teaching English to the young minds of rural Japan, there’s an unmistakable twinge in my stomach each time I approach the mailbox, a desperate, glimmer of hope that when I open it-

“Creeeeaaaaak!”

– there will be at least one letter from at least one person who dares call me friend.

Much to my chagrin, I swing the door open and bend down, sweat falls into my already tear-stung eyes and the only thing I find inside is the faint echo of my last visit.

“Damn – damn – damn…”

“No letters – letters – letters…”

And I walk to the stairs of my apartment, sighing and crying.

Crying and sighing.

Look, when we said good-bye in July, I didn’t think it meant, “Talk to you when you get back.”

c2a42-art-15 — This is how I feel each time I approach my mailbox. Student/Teacher storyboard artwork.

The only other thing that has frustrated me as of late is the language barrier. My understanding and ability to speak Japanese has improved, but only slightly. I just have to stop being so inhibited and so worried about saying something truly embarrassing, such as “Show us your package,” as opposed to “A pleasure to meet you, Prime Minister Kaifu.”

I do find, however, that after a few beers I can convince myself that I’m practically fluent and the words (as well as the often intense intonations of the language) come flowing out. My office got quite a kick out of the fact that I responded to a recent comment with: “Eeeehhhhh?” (To say this correctly, the voice should gradually rise several octaves. It’s kind of like the equivalent of our “Huh?” but, quite honestly, far more effective.)

2d5b3-5-0 — At the Board of Education office with Akiko-san.

At first I thought that working in an office where no one spoke English was going to be rather difficult, but I’ve discovered it’s to my advantage. Being forced to learn the language is both challenging and a great way to build relationships.Akiko-san, the young lady who sits across from me at the Board of Education, is trying hard to use English – everyone is – while I struggle with my Japanese.

She’s advancing at a much faster pace than me.

Everyone is.

Nevertheless, I try not to get too discouraged and have to be content to learn a few new phrases each day. As it happens, going through my own struggles has made me better understand how I might be able to help my students learn English.

I’ve also been feeling rather lusty lately.

(Wow, where did that come from?)

As in most countries, the male populous of Japan has its share of toothless, pot-bellied, pock-ridden slobs who feel that if they’re going to take a chance on a woman it might as well be me, but man… some of the men here are so dang handsome.

Case in point, I met this incredibly good-looking elementary school teacher at a community volleyball game on Saturday who set my heart – as well as my lower regions – afire.

His name is Tanaka. He’s single, about my height (there is a God), and has a face that would surely launch a thousand sighs from you American women.

We met at a post-volleyball party as Yamamoto-sensei introduced me to each and every individual there. I was shaking hands, bowing, kissing babies and was nearly elected into office, before we got to this delectable, young teacher. The group he was with invited me to sit on the tatami next to him and although I preferred the idea of sitting on top of him, protocol forbid it.

Akiko-san snapped pictures while the hunky teacher and I chatted – or at least tried. He doesn’t speak much English. (Ask me if I cared.) Maybe I’ll send you all a copy of the aforementioned photo after I’ve had the negative blown up life-size. Come to think of it, maybe I’ll have it blown up a little larger than life so that he can be taller than me.

Many at the post-volleyball party departed soon after, including the man I now wished to father my children, so I spent the remainder of the evening eating and drinking and drinking and drinking with my employers, co-teachers and co-workers. Sam and another AET, Ted, arrived in Shintomi at about 6 p.m. only to find they were far behind. It wasn’t long, however, before their plates were piled high and glasses filled.

And kept filled.

eaf3c-5-3 — Yamamoto-sensei (raising his glass) at the Community Center volleyball tournament. photo by ac frohna

It’s a Japanese custom never to let a companion’s glass get less than half full and they take this responsibility very seriously.Following the post-volleyball party was, of course, a visit to a local Karaoke Bar. There is NEVER only one event to attend when you go out in Shintomi and, I assume, Japan. In fact, you’re often expected to go to at least two more places before calling it a night. Even then, the men are often on their way to a fourth and fifth place.

While at the karaoke bar, my bosses and co-workers had their first chance to hear Sam sing.

God love her.

The sweet, utterly tone deaf diva.

At one point, a newcomer to the party (oblivious to Sam’s previous, ear-splitting performances that evening) moved to hand Sam the microphone. To my great astonishment, I watched several of my companions – who, as Japanese, seem culturally and morally obligated to urge EVERYONE to sing – jump from their seats to grab the microphone before the lovely, but terribly tortured songbird had the chance, offering excuses on her behalf.

Don’t feel too bad.

Sam continues to perform, unabashedly and unapologetically, every chance she gets.

After a while, Sam, Ted and I splintered off to a different Shintomi establishment where we encountered a wedding party celebrating, and where, by the end of the evening, I attempted to teach a young man in the party a truly conservative version of the Lambada.

I think I made a new best friend.

Just West of the Midwest Chapter 6: My Town of Shintomi Board of Education Family

Considering these are the folk I spend most of my time with, I thought it might prove helpful to offer a quick run down of My Town of Shintomi Board of Education Office Family: Kuranaga-kacho (above left) is the office’s section chief, a tiny, little, married man with coke bottle glasses. He is the “Papa-san” of the office. He has a devilish sense of humor and a HUGE heart. He is quick to smile, to test me and to tease me. When he and I spend time together, I’ve noticed his facial expressions vacillate somewhere between unabashed bewilderment and downright delight.

Oki-Hosa (above right) is the Assistant Section Chief. He is the family’s nerdy, forty-something uncle with a buzz cut, a big, persistent, genuine smile and an almost noiseless laugh – nearly imperceptible without seeing his facial expressions and body movements. Married with children in some of my classes, Oki-Hosa has a penchant for doing everything by the book and has made it clear that as Assistant Section Chief, I am officially HIS responsibility.

In his mid-thirties and married, Hiejima-kakricho (above center) is the Board of Education’s Chief Clerk. He is reserved in his words, his smile and his sense of humor. All of which are alive and well, yet wielded at the most unlikely moments.

Yoshino-san (above right) is the office Mama-san, with a small but sturdy build, a boyish hairstyle, but a natural, feminine grace. She is single, thoughtful, quick to laugh and quick to scold. She is stern but nurturing and as loyal – and protective – as an old bulldog.

Akiko-san (above right of me) is the youngest in the office. She is single, has a slight frame and what seems to be common among Japanese girls and women, a page boy-style cut. She is sweet and soft-spoken, but has a sly, sisterly wit. She’s been my local tour guide, a kindly tutor in all things Japanese and an excellent friend. I surprise her often, frighten her a little and make her laugh. A lot.

Tomioka-san (above with me) is Head of the Town Hall’s Computer Department. Even though he is not part of the Board of Education, Tomioka-san is a regular face in our office due to the fact that his office is just down the hall. He is the “cooler”, more laid back uncle, the family’s “black sheep” who shuffles rather than steps and always has a cigarette dangling from his left hand. He thrives on distracting people from their work with a joke, or a story. He always looks like he needs a haircut and would clearly prefer to be somewhere – anywhere – but at work in his office. He never fails to make me laugh.

I was given a load of praise from my bosses this week. They seem quite pleased with my performance thus far, despite the sleeveless top I wore to a recent school function. I’m quite sure my popularity has a little to do with the fact that Shelly, my predecessor, was apparently a very private individual. It seems she didn’t go out very often and, much to everyone’s chagrin, she also didn’t drink.

I do both.

Happily.

Not that that should matter. But if the truth be told, a little alcohol goes a long way to relax people, take down inhibitions and let go of experience-stealing insecurities; and honestly, even though this job is important to me, even more important is that I grab all the experiences I can while I’m here. What better way than to immerse myself in the lives of the people who surround me? So, when they ask me to join them, I do.

Otherwise… what’s the point of leaving your own backyard?

It’s a lovely feeling knowing that I have an entire community looking out for me (not just my office) and although the attention isn’t always easy, it’s never unappreciated. At least not yet.

Even though they feed me and feed me and feed me.

And then worry I might gain weight.

They praise me, encourage me and gently correct me when they feel I’ve gone astray.

They also guide me, direct me and lead me, for fear I might lose my way. If I have to go to the post office, someone accompanies me. If I have to meet an electrician at my apartment, two people tag along. When I had to go to Miyazaki for yet another orientation, Yoshino-san took the train with me, using the excuse she had errands to do in the city.

They do, however, let me go to the bathroom on my own. Ironically, this is where I would most like a female companion due to the fact that men and women share the same bathroom on my floor at the town hall. The women do have stalls, but in order to get to them, one has to pass by the urinals.

Go figure.

Thankfully, a new building – with separate bathrooms – is under construction as we speak.

But I’m truly grateful for the caring guardianship. It’s a far cry from what several of my JET colleagues have been going through. Poor Jeremy (a super lovely fellow from New Zealand), for example, has been having a really bad time with his host town. He and another AET, Janelle, have not only been systematically ignored by their office (hardly having a word spoken to them thus far), but are being given few school visits and are left with little to do each and every day. Add this to the fact that on the very first night of their arrival, the officials in charge dropped the two off at empty apartments, with no futon, no bedding, no furniture and, most certainly, no welcome dinner party.

Jeremy said his heart left for home that very night.

How could you possibly blame him? Very sad. I feel very welcome and wanted here. They make me feel as if we’re all in this together. Which makes me feel as if maybe I’m not that far from home, after all.

All in all, the initial fears I felt since all of this began have slowly melted away. We’re discovering that despite the vast differences in our lives, we come from the same world where people laugh when something’s funny and cry when something’s sad. Where the sun rises in the morning and sets at night.

The only difference for me is that around each corner, at the start of each new day, with the learning of each new word, I’m greeted by a new adventure and filling the void I’ve been feeling in my life for so long.

Not-So-Side Notes:

I began classes last week and found my students very noisy, but anxious to listen. Let’s see what happens after the novelty of my first few visits and the excitement of hearing about where I’m from wears off. I’m quickly learning how very important the teacher is to the fabric of the Japanese family. Parents look for guidance and advice from their children’s teachers and welcome regular home visits. Together, they talk about everything from behavioral and familial issues to future goals and expectations. Teachers are highly respected in Japan – revered even – and rewarded with high salaries and excellent benefits.
There is an undeniably military feel about the Japanese School system. Not only in how tighty things are run, but even in how things look. Especially with regard to the students.The typical boys’ elementary school uniform is black pants, a white shirt, white tennis shoes and a black Nehru jacket. Even their serviceman-style buzz cut reeks of the armed forces. Girls’ uniforms may vary in color, but the theme is always nautical in nature, complete with sailor tops, pleated skirts, as well as the quintessential Page Boy cuts.
Fascinating to me is the fact that all of my students are responsible for cleaning their schools. Each day, the entire student body grabs their assigned mops, buckets, rags, etc., and clean the classrooms, bathrooms, the offices and hallways. They wash blackboards, scrub floors, scour toilets, empty trash. I think it not only offers a sense of pride – ownership – of their school, but it also teaches one to respect the process and all it takes to make things work.
There is a strong sense of community, and an even stronger sense of conformity woven into the fabric of Japanese culture.Yet I can see inklings of revolt in the younger generations. Slight and more than slightly tinged with likeness. But change is coming and the desire for individuality, perfectly understandable.
I saw a rugby match last weekend. Pant, pant, pant. Grunt, sweat, grunt. (And that was just me watching from the sidelines.) I went to the event with Akiko and, afterward, we chatted with her Rugby friends who invited us to a party. It was at that very moment that Akiko helped me to understand something I read about the Japanese culture before arriving, but was not sure I understood.Their reluctance to say, “No.” I jumped at the party invitation and turning to Akiko, asked if she wanted to go. With a look of absolute terror on her face, she said the word “hai” (or yes), but was shaking her head “NO!” I was confused. I was stymied. Eventually, I took the international symbol of frantically jerking one’s head left to right, then right to left, and so on, as the stronger of the conflicting responses. Afterward, as we climbed into Akiko’s car, she let out a nervous giggle. Followed by a reeeeeeeally looooong sigh of relief. I knew then I had made the right decision.
I went to a Benneltons in Miyazaki and saw lots of cute clothes. Unless I can amputate 30 pounds and several inches from my body, I won’t be buying anything of them.
I received word from DePaul University. I passed my comprehensive exams and officially have my Master of Arts in English. And there was much rejoicing.
Sam and I decided on either Bangkok, Singapore, or Burma, for our two weeks off during the Christmas break. Wherever we go, we hope to find long, deserted beaches, stores that carry clothes our size and men who know how to follow through on flirtations.
I attended a Kendo (Japanese fencing) lesson because I thought I might be interested in learning this ancient art. I quickly learned I would be consistently hit on the head with a bamboo pole. Maybe I’ll try Kyudõ (archery).
If anyone cares to send a care package I would love to have a decent sized towel. The ones I find here barely wrap around my head, let alone any other part of my body. Also sparse in these parts: decent toothpaste, effective deodorant, ingredients for pasta sauce, good music, Woody Allen’s “What’s Up Tiger Lily?” AND, of course, LETTERS!
I’m desperately trying to get used to having to constantly remove my street shoes (be it school, office, or someone’s home) for a pair of incredibly unattractive rubber slippers which I regularly launch ahead of me into the path of innocent bystanders.
I met a Major based at Nyuta Baru Air Force Base here in Shintomi and he’s invited me to visit. Let’s see… me and hundreds of American Fly-boys. What to do, what to do…
Although I don’t have to make a decision until December, I’m thinking I might sign up for another year.
I went to the beaches of Kojima with Sam and Ted where we saw wild monkeys. When the tide was out, the three of us walked out to the island where the monkeys live. Beautiful, but slightly stressful knowing our adventure had to be timed with the tides, otherwise we’d be spending the night with our primate pals.The beaches were stunning and almost completely deserted except for a very kind and generous family who shared their picnic and their jet ski.
I was recently invited to a chicken farm where I was gifted a dozen freshly laid eggs. The gesture brought a tear to my eyes. Or was it the tons of pungent chicken shit wafting through my nose?
How about that crisis in the Middle East?
Also heard about Stevie Ray Vaughan… bummer.

Just West of the Midwest Chapter 19 Burying the Fat Man

3c813-19-3 — Glover House and Garden, Nagasaki, photo by acfrohna

A couple of weeks ago, Sam and I went with my office to Nagasaki. We left Shintomi at 3 a.m. and arrived at the western coast of the island at about 8 a.m. At which point, we began a whirlwind tour of every tourist sight you could possibly see in one day. (Quite a change from the usual sloth-like behavior Sam and I have become accustomed to on our excursions.) If I had a choice – some kind of happy medium would be preferable.

7e480-19-7 — Glover House and Garden, Nagasaki, photo by acfrohna

We visited the Dutch Village (an odd theme park re-creating the Netherlands) and the Glover House and Garden, built by a Scottish trader who played a key role when Japan opened it’s doors to the outside world in the mid-19th century.

We were having a wonderful time, mind you, but I often felt that even though our Japanese companions were looking at everything, they weren’t really “seeing” anything. Except, that is, for our visit to the Atomic Museum and Nagasaki Heiwa Kōen (Peace Park).

9fc60-19-2 — Kuranaga-kacho, me, Sam, Oki-Hosa, Yoshino-san at Nagasaki Heiwa Kōen (Peace Park).

As you’ll remember from your history lessons, Nagasaki was the unfortunate, second recipient of the atomic bomb. Early on the morning of August 9, 1945, the “Fat Man” was dropped on this coastal city, instantly killing some 73,000 people and injuring (let’s be honest, slowly killing) about 74,000 others. That’s nearly 150,000 out of a population of 240,000.

Nagasaki wasn’t the original target, either. But due to bad weather, the choice was made to drop it here.

Shiroyama Elementary School was ground zero.

At one end of Heiwa Kōen, sits a giant buddha-like statue. His left hand extends out to the world, palm facing down in a gesture calling for peace among all people. His right arm points to the heavens, to the clouds from where the bomb was dropped. His eyes are closed – not to the death and destruction, but in a prayer to end all wars and to offer all victims a prayer for eternal peace.

At the opposite end of the park lies the Fountain of Peace honoring all those who died when the bomb was dropped and to the many who died afterward from the contaminated waters they drank to quench their thirst and cleanse their wounds. The fountain sprays its water upwards, in the shape of a dove’s wings and all are welcome to drink from it.

The place is lovely, yet somber, and overlooks Nagasaki, now an incredibly charming city on the East China Sea.

It’s hard to imagine what this very spot looked like 46 years ago.

After the “Fat Man” paid a visit.

The museum, however, drew a graphic, horrid, painful picture.

The subject of nuclear war is certainly not new to me. Afterall, I have a B.A. in “How We’ve Screwed Things Up on Earth” (aka Sociology). I was even an organizer and the Master of Ceremonies at an anti-nuclear protest in college. But god almighty. I was standing in the very same spot where just a few decades ago, thousands lay burned and mutilated.

Weeping and screaming.

I was also standing beside two colleagues who had been children when their country’s challenge to the world was met with atrocious consequences.The museum had black and white pictures enlarged to life size showing scenes of charred bodies which looked like nothing more than sand figures eroded by the wind.

Of a city flattened in seconds.

Of chaos and confusion.

One picture in particular will stay etched in my memory for many years to come – a mother, badly burned, holding her infant child to her breast. The baby, also burned, trying desperately to find nourishment from his mother’s battered body.

Over 20 million lives were lost in WWII, but it was the babies and children I saw that day and the haunting similarities of my students’ faces in theirs that made me ache.

There was no doubt about it…

at exactly 11:02 a.m., on August 9, 1945, hell fell from the skies of Nagasaki.

With spirits deflated, we made this the last stop of the day and headed to our hotel where we could wash off the film of sadness and gather together in peace and friendship.

That night, we lifted our moods with an elaborate dinner, good company and lighthearted conversation.

As for the rest of happenings here, Monbusho (the National Education Office) finally gave the go ahead for renewing my contract and so we’ve been busy planning next year’s schedule. It looks like everyone here is pleased with the decision and another year’s employment takes a load off my mind as well.

Sam and I will be heading to Korea in a few weeks, after which I’ll be heading back to Chicago for my brother’s wedding. I haven’t heard from Raymond lately, so there go my plans for having a handsome date for the event – or, for that matter, a steamy romance with a Hong Kong police officer. I knew it was going to be difficult to make this baby fly, but I hoped it would’ve at least gotten off the ground. I must admit, however (she says as she blushes), the male situation has picked up a bit here.

Maybe it’s due to my ever-increasing grasp of the language, my always effervescent personality, or maybe a few of the men here have simply become tired of waiting to get their hands on my big, American breasts. Whatever it is, I’m enjoying the attention.

No… I haven’t exactly ended it with Kyoto.

No lectures, please!

We hardly ever see one another and the blow-off speech I translated is really geared to that kind of relationship. Anyway, he has tickets to Keith Jarret (no, not Leif Garret!) in Miyazaki this weekend.

In my own defense (inspired by reading a recent article about the dating scene in Japan), there is a serious lack of dateable females in Japan. According to this article (and I certainly believe EVERYTHING I read) women here are often finding themselves with several different boyfriends – each suited for different purposes: expensive dinners, running errands, buying presents, etc. The article goes on to say that dateable men are expected to have the following: the basic, nice car, good fashion sense, money, a good job and… (wait for it)… a smooth complexion a razor simply can’t offer. That’s right ladies, young, single Japanese males are now expected to have facial electrolysis in order to please their women.

Who says Japanese women have no power?

It does, however, makes me wonder how Japanese men feel about female facial hair (being still unwaxed and fire-free)? In light of this new information, I figure it’s okay to continue going on the occasional weekend excursion with Kyoto.

All I Can Say Is….

A few weekends ago, I spent great sums of money and an entire day in Miyazaki City searching for the proper ingredients with which to make Chicken Cacciatore for some friends I’ve invited over from the office. I managed to find everything down to the mushrooms, borrowed a carload of pots, pans, dishes and silverware, set a beautiful western-styled table and cooked all day Sunday. All I can is… if that dinner was a reflection of my outer beauty, I’d be Grace Kelly and Marilyn Monroe all rolled into one!
Speaking of food. I’m always amazed by the amount of food the average Japanese can put away. They claim that it’s ALL good for you and won’t make you heavy. All I can say is… why then, after a year of eating the exact same food, do I trigger the local earthquake siren when I jog?
Locally and nationally, elections are currently taking place in Japan and the campaigning is fierce. Strapping concert-sized speakers to the roofs of little, white cars and vans, candidates scour (or should I say scurge) the cities of Japan. My town’s mini, mobile daises (which menacingly roam the streets at all hours) have, on several occasions already, jerked me from nightmares of a strangely similar ilk. From the bowels of their gas propelled soapbox, the candidate and his wife call out unending campaign promises, followed by an absolute overindulgence of “Arigato Gozaimasu,” delivered by a voice that causes one to question when it was that Minnie Mouse became a helium addict. All I can say is… if the Japanese had used similar tortures on Allied prisoners in WWII (“Make it stop!! For god’s sake, MAKE IT STOP!!”), the Japanese would now own ALL of our major corporations, instead of just 95% of them.

I hope this letter finds friends and family in excellent health and good spirits, with love in your heart and peace in your mind… and maybe a tranquilizer gun at your shoulder, aimed at all extraordinarily loud and irritating politicians.

I love you all and think of you often.

Just West of the Midwest Chapter 37: The End Is Near

Time and time again, I’ve been meaning to write in this strange, public journal of mine but have, as of late, found myself distracted and disheartened by the thought of leaving Japan; amplified by the fact that I’ve been packing up things I’m planning to ship home by surface mail.

As a result, my apartment is looking rather sad and barren and I’m feeling more than a little forlorn, especially with no job prospects to return to and the hope of going back to school for my Ph.D. dwindling with my bank balance.

I’m still unsure of where I’ll be living, but if I don’t spend the first couple of weeks with my family (most of whom have migrated north to Wisconsin, the Land of Cheese), I’m going to be disowned, disinherited and disemboweled. After this, I’ve decided that my best course of action (if I plan on finding employment that doesn’t require muck boots and a shovel) is to move down to Chicago, move in with my sister, Mia (She doesn’t know this yet… well… she does now.), and hit the pavement.

If anyone you know is looking for an overeducated underachiever, with little direction, less money and lots of debt, I’m your woman!

As for life here in the Land of the Rising Sun, a short time ago, the nation went through its annual shifting of positions. Teachers, salesclerks, office workers, principles, etc., are transferred to new locations, promoted, retired – what have you – and replaced by both new and familiar faces. It’s usually standard for a person to stay in one position for a certain number of years (teachers, for example, normally stay at a school for 5 years) and then are required to go elsewhere.

As a result of this annual shift, my adorable and completely lovable, Hashimoto-sensei retired and was replaced by Shingaki-sensei. I now also have two new teachers at Nyuta and Kaminyuta – both teaching my first grade English classes. One of these teachers can’t speak any English and does her best to avoid me whenever possible. Thank god this was not the case any time during my last two years here because I would have been miserable and terribly frustrated.

I feel so very fortunate that each of my teachers: Yamamoto-sensei, Kubota-sensei, Hashimoto-sensei and Hatakeyama-sensei, have been such wonderful and ever-enthusiastic teaching partners (even if the job itself has been less than perfect). I feel truly blessed to have known and worked beside each of them.

The biggest change during this season of change, however, was the fact that Oki-Hosa, Yoshino-san and Kuranaga-kacho (the three people still at the Board of Education office who had been with me from the very beginning) also moved on to new positions within the Town Hall. When I was informed this was happening, I was (to say the least) taken aback and broke into uncontrollable tears in the middle of my office.

But I could hardly help it.

Not only did this change bring even greater focus to the end of my job and my fast approaching departure, but intensified the emotion of having to say good-bye to three very special members of my strange and ever-amusing Shintomi family. Not having them there at the Board of Education Office everyday has not only proven to be very, very sad, but very awkward. The new people in my office are really very nice, but we don’t – couldn’t – have the same rapport.

Not with the time left and so much water under the bridge.

When hearing the news, I had an inconsolable emotional outburst which was not only witnessed by everyone in the Board of Education Office, but everyone in the adjacent Community Offices, as well as by all of my principals (who happened to be there for a meeting that day). Word of my tear-filled reaction quickly made its way through the Town Hall and, as I soon learned, spread like wildfire through each of my schools, to the Community Center and beyond.

I felt like an utter fool.

My Shintomi family, on the other hand, was overjoyed by the fact that I was so miserable.

As far as school goes, I have my good days and my bad days, like any job. The new first graders are, as always, adorable and give me reason to smile. The other day, after making my first visit to a classroom and introducing myself, I finished my little speech and said my good-bye, to which the entire class replied in loud voices with gigantic smiles, “See you later, Alligator.”

It was too precious.

After class, they all came running up to me to ask what “See you later, Alligator” meant.

I did my best to explain, but focused more on teaching them a little more nonsensical English. Now, if I say to them, “See you later, Alligator,” they reply with exuberance unmatched, “In a while, Crocodile!”

My job here is done.

———————————

At the end of April, Japan celebrated Golden Week, which (as I might have explained in an earlier correspondence) is named for the unusual amount of holidays that fall within a week of one another, such as: Greenery Day, Memorial Day and Children’s’ Day. So, Sam and I took the week off and, watching our yen, decided to stick around Miyazaki and make it a relaxing, healthy holiday.

Honestly!

I went up to Hyuga, rented a bicycle, and for the next week (which gave us perfect weather everyday), we cycled, sunned and swam. Not knowing where we were going or exactly what our plans would be, we simply hopped on our bicycles each morning and took off to remote parts of the region.

These were not very difficult to find.

All we had to do was turn off the one main highway that runs along the coast of Miyazaki Ken and we’d soon find ourselves in the middle of nowhere; where little mountain villages popped up amid the rice fields, beside the ocean, atop a mountain.

Here, the modern monstrosities all too common among the urbanized landscape of Japan were replaced by old wooden houses and barns as quaint and pleasant as the natural environment which surrounds them. Narrow, winding roads led us through forests and fields where the smell of pine and wildflowers reminded us that there are still places that reject the mediocrity of modernity.

Occasionally, we’d stop and sit by a river flowing peacefully through the mountains, or rest on a bridge that offered a commanding view over farms and valleys, cooled and reinvigorated by the ocean breezes.

We explored one of the oldest parts of Hyuga, Mimitsu, where legend has it the very first emperor of Japan, Emperor Jimmu, set out to conquer all of Japan. The streets – barely wide enough to fit a small car – were lined with low, wooden houses and stores that although sun-bleached and weatherbeaten, were impeccably kept. If it hadn’t been for small traces of the modern world – such as telephone lines and gas meters – it would have been hard not to believe that our bicycles were, in fact, time machines which had transported us back a century.

We were equally entranced by the various smells and sounds of this tiny port village where the briny ocean breezes blended with the local fish market, and the calls of the gulls chimed in chorus with the chatter of old women on the steps of a shrine.

Each night, exhausted and thoroughly contented, we’d shop for a simple dinner, sit back to watch a classic tear-jerker, and look forward to the next day with childlike anticipation.

All sadness, all negative thoughts, were barred and banished.

——————————

Once again, I have people from all parts of Shintomi deciding that it’s time for me to settle down and get married. All are gravely concerned that I’m rapidly approaching the age considered well past “wedding cake” (a term used to describe an unmarried woman in her mid to late twenties) and that if I don’t want to marry a Japanese man, then they’ll pray to the various Gods that I will find one immediately upon my return to the States.

Gods Help Me!

Speaking of men… (you knew I would have to get back on that subject sooner of later) I had a bit of a run-in with one particularly primordial male the other night when I was out with Greg, Sam and Vance in Miyazaki.

The evening was progressing along quite well, when in transit from one place to the next, Sam was accosted by a fat slob in one of the crowded arcades. He actually came up and pinched her on the butt and proceeded to say lewd things to her.

With steam shooting from her ears and indignation in her trembling voice, she told me what had happened. Well… having had similar and by all standards far worse experiences both here, there and just about every-fucking where, I decided that it was finally time to put my foot down – or as it would prove in a few short moments – elsewhere.

Having enough alcohol and justifiable indignation coursing through me, I turned heel and, ignoring the fact that the ogre looked as if he could very well be a yakuza (Japanese Mafia), I met the fat offender face to face.

I told him that he was very rude to my friend and said that he shouldn’t have done that.

He answered with a lecherous smirk.

I answered with a hand on each of his gargantuan shoulders and a knee to his groin.

He doubled over in pain.

His friends standing nearby dropped their jaws and began to laugh. Passersby stopped in their tracks.

My friends (slowly backing away from the scene) prepared for the worst.

But the big ape was so shocked (and probably even more embarrassed) that I was able to turn from the scene with a dramatic flourish and stomp away without harm. Not a word was spoken until we were safely ensconced in a new establishment.

“Well,” I finally said with nervous laughter, “part of my role here is to promote international understanding… I think at least one person understands Western women a little better, don’t you?”

I have absolutely no regrets for my actions. In fact… it felt kinda good. A little like sweet vindication for all the pervs from my past.

——————————

I’m officially finished with work on July 17th, but plan on hanging around Shintomi for a couple of days to say my good-byes – and spend a little more time with Hiro.

Who the hell is Hiro, you might ask?

He is tall, dark, very handsome, a med student, not married, not engaged, not a thousand miles away, NOT a virgin, not a perv, and really, very charming. I met him when his mother, whom I know from the Community Center, invited me to join in a local celebration a few weeks ago.

The event at which we met seems to revolve around honoring somen noodles. I’m not really sure of the meaning behind the event, but the result is both delectable and delightful. All around the neighborhood, strange contraptions were set up in the streets in front of homes.Large bamboo trunks (which had been sliced in half lengthwise and dried) are propped at about a 30 degree angle and then fresh water is run down them like a culinary luge. From the top of the pole, the, shall we say, noodle bearer, takes a handful of freshly made somen noodles from a large bowl and drops them down the watery channel toward people sitting and chatting around and beside the noodle delivering apparatus.

Armed with hashi and lightening fast reflexes, diners catch bite after bite of these cold, delicate, springy noodles as they shoot down the bamboo pole and then dips them into a bowl of yummy, light, salty, sweet sauce.

Ice cold beers always at the ready.

Smiles as plentiful as the noodles.

And yet another indelible experience that even the years ahead cannot possibly fade.

Simply awesome.

Since this wonderful culinary event, Hiro and I have spent quite a bit of time together and admittedly have big, huge crushes on each other. The loveliest thing about this romance, during these last days in Japan, is that there is a finality to it that has taken all the pressure off either of us to fulfill some pre-conceived notions and fantasies.

It’s just plain sweet.

Without a tinge of sadness or regret.