Just West of the Midwest Chapter 8: If This Is a Day to Celebrate My Birth, Why Do I Feel Like Death?

Before I begin reporting what’s been going on here lately, I have to send a super thanks to Catherine, Caralyn and Audrey for their much appreciated contributions to the “When in Rome – beg for care packages” Fund.

Not only did the contents bring a smile to my face, a sigh to my stomach and a twinge to my heart, but now I can hold my head up high each time I go to work knowing I’ve got my Dick Tracey “Glamora Girl Kit” to make me feel confident about being a real woman.

The first week of my third month in Japan has been so busy that my only plan for the upcoming weekend is to lock myself in my apartment and sleep. If I do have to go out into public, where there is little doubt that I’ll be the object of far too much attention, I plan on donning a very clever disguise so as to go unnoticed by my many fans here in Shintomi.

I plan on disguising myself as an old Jewish jeweler named Saul.

Wish me luck, or should I say, “B’Hatzlacha.”

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My birthday celebration at Kacho’s home during the Harvest Moon Festival.

Last Tuesday night, everyone at the Board of Education office was invited to Kuranaga-Kacho’s to celebrate Shukakutsuki, the Harvest Moon. Japanese legend is that if you look closely enough at the moon during this time of the year, you can see a rabbit mixing a bowl of rice for rice cakes.

His doing so is supposed to ensure a good season of crops.

It was a truly magnificent evening as a cool breeze made its way across the fields of rice and vegetables surrounding the house. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen and high, high, high in the sky sat the blue-white moon.

A bright, solitary eye set there to watch over the evening’s festivities.

We arrived at Kacho’s at dusk and found laid out on the lawn of his lovely home, a feast fit for the Emperor himself: fruits and fish, vegetables and meats, spirits and sake (much of which I’d never seen the likes of before) crowded the long, low table.

As we spent the next few hours indulging in the lavish dinner before us, which was the traditional and exceptionally delicious dish of Sukiyaki, I could sense secretive glances here and there and couldn’t help but wonder what my companions were up to. As their secret smiles became more and more obvious, especially after Kacho disappeared into his house, I guessed that they had planned a little something for my birthday.

They had.

Not only had Kuranaga-kacho’s wife baked me a cake, but she and her nieces (some of my students at Tonda) presented me with two lovely potted plants, which I hope to keep alive for the very first time in my less than stellar experiences with house plants. The folks at the office also chipped in and bought a cassette/cd player for my apartment.

Their continued kindness and generosity really got to me and in the middle of thanking them, I began to cry.

Embarrassed by this sudden outburst of emotions, I looked away from the long table of friends to Yoshino-san, sitting to my left. She, too, was crying.

When our teary eyes met, we both began to laugh and the happy evening was back on track.

And the birthday celebrations didn’t end there.
In fact, they continued on for quite a few days, during which time I was given:

  • lipstick from Yoshino-san and Akiko-san
  • earrings and a scarf from Oki-Hosa’s wife and daughter
  • rice bowls and hashi (chopsticks) from a girl that works in the computer room down the hall (whose name I’m sorry to say I don’t even know)
  • a birthday cake from the kitchen staff at Tonda Junior High
  • pajamas and towels from Sam
  • an ugly doll from one of the Masta’s (owners) at a Karaoke bar we frequent
  • a bottle of wine from Tomioka-san’s wife,
  • a bottle of champagne and roses from Tomioka-san
  • fruits and nuts from Junko-san
  • 27 pinks roses from Toshi and the other fellows who work in the computer room down the hall from my office, whom I’ve gotten to know during cigarette breaks
  • and all the students at Tonda sang me Happy Birthday

What on earth am I going to do when I return to being a nobody back in the States?

Who cares.

And the celebrations didn’t end there. (Even though, in hindsight, they probably should have.)

Samantha came down from Hyuga over the weekend to help continue the celebrations and after a few beers in my apartment, we headed out to a local karaoke bar. Now you might be asking yourself why we seem to be addicted to making asses out of ourselves with microphones, but the sad fact is, that we have no other choice in Shintomi.

It’s either karaoke or nothing.

There are no quiet, corner pubs or dusty ol’ saloons, no cozy wine bars, or lively juke joints – just these dark, windowless, characterless, little sing-a-long spots.

The first one we walked into was nice and peaceful.

Sam and I were enjoying the lack of attention.

Please understand that it’s not overblown egos at work here. The simple fact is that as one of very few female gaijin living in the area, we tend to get noticed.

It also doesn’t hurt that Sam is a tall, beautiful blonde and I’m… well….I’m tall.

However, we soon found the quiet atmosphere and only the two of us to look at, rather unappealing and decided to call it an evening. We were resolutely steering a course for home when we heard strange cat-calls from the third floor of a building just behind us.

At first, Sam and I continued toward my apartment.

Indignant and disapproving.

But, almost simultaneously, we looked to one another, shrugged, and with a “What the hell?” headed up the staircase.

At the top, we found a group of men who had apparently been imbibing for quite some time. It was clearly a celebration of some sort and the focus was a young man who wore a painted-on beard, with a scarf and belt wrapped around his head – sheik style.

We never did find out what that was all about, but we did find ourselves in another Shintomi karaoke bar previously unbeknownst to us. This one, however, was packed to the brim with men.

Hallelujah!

From the moment of entry (maybe I should rephrase that), our glasses were kept filled and we were treated like starlets aboard a Navy destroyer that was on leave for the first time in 12 years.

I also met an older gentleman, a local businessman, who said he’d been wanting to speak with me since my arrival. It seems he’s interested in finding an English teacher for his employees and although I explained I was under contract and kept quite busy with my present job, he urged me to consider something for next year and handed me his card.

Eventually, this large group of men left the establishment, en masse.

Sam and I, however, stayed.

And drank.

A lot.

Which I am now dearly paying for with a headache the size of Godzilla.

And a smoldering stomach which Yoshino-san keeps force-feeding green tea.

Each time the evening’s libations threaten to reappear in a fiery flame of vomit, I  lay my head down on my plastic-coated desktop and curse the day my mother gave me life.

My office wants to me to go out with them again tonight. All I want to do is crawl into the fetal position from which I sprang.

Just West of the Midwest Chapter 9: Two Gaijin, One Thief and Seven Police

Sam and I had five days off from school and decided that after doing some chores at our perspective homes, we would meet for a few days of sightseeing around Hyuga.

Despite the fact that typhoon number 22 was making its way across the island.

The first night I arrived in Hyuga, we headed out to find some food and drinks and ended up at an establishment we’ve been to before called Hard-Boiled. (I have no idea why and my guess is those who named it don’t have a clue either.)

The establishment was empty, except for the bartender, Kyoto, who is a teacher at one of Sam’s schools, moonlighting at the bar at night. Kyoto and I had met previously and I have to say he left a good impression on me for having an excellent sense of humor. Sam likes to tease Kyoto about speaking English (which he can manage, but only slightly), but I’m more interested in practicing Japanese and Kyoto proves very patient and supportive.

Comfortably bellied-up to the bar, Sam, Kyoto, and I spent the remainder of the night teaching each other English and Japanese phrases.

Oh yeh… and drinking.

By the time we leave the bar, Sam and I had downed just about every type of concoction Kyoto and the other bartender on duty could conjure and were literally holding each other up as we made our way through the rain and up the hill to Sam’s house.

It’s about 4 a.m.

I don’t know how we managed, but we stayed up talking – at least until the room stopped spinning – and then turned off the lights.

The next day, we dragged ourselves out of bed only to discover that the bad weather had gotten worse and there was little use in making any sightseeing plans. So, we easily fell asleep again until about noon, when we finally decided to dress and head out for some food to sop up the alcohol still churning in our stomachs.

Neither of us could find our wallets.

Being in the sorry state we were in the previous night, we figured we’d either lost them on the way home, or left them at the bar.

Strange though.

I’m sure I took my wallet (which contained 7,000 yen, about $53) out of my pants and set it on the kitchen table at Sam’s after we got home.

Then again, things were a little foggy.

Not overly concerned, we headed to the bank and took out more money.

(By the way, here in Japan, cash is King. We’re even paid in cash.)

And after buying groceries, we headed straight to Hard-Boiled.

NO. Not to drink, but to see if anyone was there.

Not a soul was in sight.

So, we decided to return that night to inquire about our missing wallets.

And stumbled home at 3:30 a.m.

No lectures, please. We’ve heard them all.

When we got home, I went to put the remaining cash I had into a brand new wallet which I chose not to carry that night, thinking there’s NO WAY I’m going to lose another wallet.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

In a matter of moments, Sam and I discovered that missing is not only my new wallet, but my camera, her camera and her wallet.

It’s then a faint lightbulb appeared over our alcohol-addled brains.

“We are idiots!” I moaned. “We didn’t lose anything, we’ve been robbed – and not once, but twice!”

This time they got my cash card, my American Express card, and another 15,000 yen ($115.00).

Not knowing where to turn at such an ungodly hour, we returned to Hardboiled and told the owner what happened. Hoping he might have seen some suspicious character follow us out of the bar.

I don’t know.

Maybe somebody wearing a striped shirt and a mask.

He didn’t.

So, the bar owner called the police and reported the crime and we spent the next hour at the police station trying to explain the circumstances. Afterward, we returned home and to bed, only to be woken three hours later by the alarm we set in order to greet the Hyuga police who’d soon be arriving to investigate the scene of the crime.

Once we dragged our sorry asses out of bed, Sam went in search of someone with a good grasp of English; while I waited at Sam’s house, tidying up and trying to get the smell of alcohol and stale cigarettes out of the air.

At about 9 a.m., the police arrived.

And much to our complete and utter dismay, not one, not two, not three, but SEVEN representatives of the Hyuga Police Department invade Sam’s home.

They have cameras.

Notepads.

Fingerprinting kits.

Walkie-talkies.

The works.

And for the next three hours, they proceeded to question us (through our interpreter) about our activities of the last two nights. Needless to say, they’re shocked by our late-night carousing and (although they would be hard-pressed to admit it), more than slightly amused by the haggard, smelly, foreign women before them.

Undoubtedly fostered by the fact that Sam and I are laughing through most of the investigation.

Not that the situation is the least bit amusing.

It’s just that we were running on very little sleep.

Even less food.

And boatloads of booze is still coursing through our systems.

The longer the investigation took, the giddier we became.

Until we were so slap-happy that any question we were asked was followed by fits of uncontrollable laughter – made even worse when Sam and I were required to stand at the various crime scenes, pointing to the spot where the perpetrator had taken the items, while an officer snapped photos.

They told us this is routine.

We laughed again.

They laughed along.

Sam made coffee for everyone and shared some British goodies and souvenirs sent to her in a care package from home and after all that’s required of us had been completed, we sat back and watched the policemen perform their various duties.

A few wandered outside to look for strange footprints.

Another officer attempted to lift fingerprints off the desk where some of our stolen items had been.

Unfortunately, I had to admit to washing the desk earlier that morning in my efforts to tidy up the place before the police came.

This brought the house down.

As the merry investigation progressesd, Sam discovered that also stolen were some earrings and a bracelet. In order for the police to get a better idea of what the items looked like, Sam pulled out a photo album and showed the officers recent pictures, which happened to be of the two of us in our travels.

I watched as half of the Hyuga Police force handed the album from man to man – each of whom spent far more time than necessary skimming through the pictures.

Maybe they liked Sam’s photographic skills.

Maybe we were kind of like a freak show.

Bizarre.

A little grotesque.

Hard to look away.

Maybe they were trying to get a better grasp of just how ingrained our stupidity is.

Whatever the reason, all seven officers finally wrapped things up and depart.

Each with a tiny Union Jack fluttering in their hands.

And Sam and I spent the remainder of the day eating heavily, watching movies and trying to forget the past 48 hours.

Later that afternoon, the phone rang.

It’s one of the policemen from earlier that day who claims he has one last question to ask. This ruse is quickly uncovered when, before the phone call ends, he asked Sam out on a date.

Can you believe it?

She gets a date out of the whole thing, while I’m out 22,000 yen ($170) and left with the frightening knowledge that there are several horrendous photos of me on file – or better yet, posted on the walls of the Hyuga Police Station – none of which will land me a date with anyone but the flasher who just happens to see my picture at the station while being booked for the 29th time.

Now one would think that the story is over, wouldn’t one?

Well then… one would be wrong.

We HAD to and I mean HAD to meet some people out that night.

The entire evening had been planned around us.

So, once again, we return to Hardboiled where I learned that Kyoto has the hots for me. He did not choose to share this bit of news by seductively whispering some sweet nothings in my ear, but announced his amorous intentions to the entire bar with the same subtly a male tiger uses when spraying his intended. (Audrey!)

I guess I’m flattered, but I’d have preferred a little wooing.

Besides that, the remainder of the evening was rather subdued and, believe it or not, Sam and I were home before one a.m.

And relatively sober.

I put my last 3,000 yen in my purse and after talking for a short while, we called it an evening.

Before I passed out – from exhaustion, mind you – I’m sure I heard a noise outside Sam’s house. However, I convinced myself that it was merely an overactive imagination spurred on by the past days’ events.

Wrong.

We woke the next morning to find that we’d been robbed.

Yet again.

Bringing the grand cash total to 25,000 yen.

I’m so very, very glad Sam and I chose to stay in Hyuga in order to save money for our Christmas vacation.

This, of course, led to another police investigation, but one not nearly as mirthful as the last.

The officers investigating this time are humorless and condescending.And clearly think Sam and I are a pair of brainless bimbos who don’t know their right boobs from their left.

Not that I can blame them.

To top it all off, we were called in to Sam’s office where her supervisor sternly lectured us on the fact that we have an image to uphold and that our behavior – although on our own free time – was unacceptable. (Even though that behavior was in the company of many of his other employees behaving the same way, but who are not being lectured. The difference? They’re all men.)

I was never more glad to see my little town and my futon.

But sleep was restless.

I was certain that first thing Monday morning, after hearing all the gory details from Sam’s supervisor, I was going to receive the same lecture from my superiors at the Board of Education.

Yet no lecture followed.

Kacho told me he got the anticipated phone call.

Hosa shook his head disapprovingly, but said nothing.

And then, as they turned back to their work, I can see they’re doing everything they can to hold back their smiles.

Did I tell you that I love my town?

That’s all for now, my friends.

May the sun shine brightly on your days. But not in your eyes, causing you to swerve recklessly into another lane, where you take out a few cement pylons and a brand new BMW, owned by a big man named Luigi, who doesn’t want to call the police.He’d just prefer to break your legs.

Just West of the Midwest Chapter 10: Double Dating

It’s rather hard to believe that by the time this letter reaches you, my dear friends, that I will have been here for four months. It’s getting so that I can barely keep track of the time as the days and weeks whiz past with little proof that they even existed.

Except, that is, for the constant memories that amass in my heart and in my mind.

Thank goodness for the occasional photograph which captures one brief moment, one genuine smile, one friendly face, that I hope in the years to come will help to keep my memories of Japan alive.

Recently, I have been giving a considerable amount of time (during most of which I should have been sleeping) to the most important decision I currently face.

To stay or not to stay – that is the question.

In fact, I think I’ve contemplated my future even more than the dark Prince of Denmark.

And, after weighing the pros and cons…

Pros:

  • So far, it’s been a wonderful experience.
  • In two years, my Japanese is bound to improve.
  • I have a lot of time to read and write.
  • I have a world of adventure right at my fingertips.
  • Everyone here wants me to stay.
  • It gives everyone back home a good excuse to save their money and finally plan that trip to Asia.

Cons:

  • I’ll never have sex again.
  • Most people here will still be having conversations with my breasts (eye-level, folks).
  • I’ll never find any clothes my size.
  • This isn’t the most intellectually stimulating job.
  • I miss my friends and family.
  • I’ll never get my family and friends to visit.

… I’ve decided to stay. I know this probably won’t come as a shock to many of you. After all, I was looking for something more long term even before I set foot on Japanese soil. I will, however, be home for a visit at the end of August for my brother, Jim’s wedding.

So, that’s that. If all goes well with my review, I’m here for a while longer, which means there will be plenty more opportunities for all of you to get that inaugural letter out.

Come on kids!

I’m beggin’ ya!

A note.

A postcard.

I’ll take a stamped envelope for God’s sake!

Now… on to what’s been happening here.

On the potential romance front please refer to item one in the “cons” section above. I have not seen Kyoto (Remember the bar-tending teacher in Hyuga?) since his public announcement of his intentions, but I plan on heading up to Hyuga in a couple of weeks.

We’ll see if he’s a man of his publicly-spoken words.

Here in Shintomi, I’ve learned of another dating potential. If you’ll recall the 27 pink roses I received from the Town Hall Computer Boys for my birthday, I recently learned they were actually from one fellow in particular, Toshi, who also bought me the champagne. When Akiko unveiled his not-so-secret-now crush, I told her all that was left were diamonds and I’d be his love slave.

Either the translation missed the mark, or the joke did.

I’m guessing it was the latter of the two.

I decided to share the birthday bubbly with Akiko and a few of the folks from the computer department who we’ve been out with several times in Miyazaki, the capital of the prefecture.(Our first night out, we went to an Italian restaurant – they chose – and I was very amused when I noticed that as the courses began to arrive, all of our Japanese companions watched Sam and I very closely before attempting to use the over-complicated Western cutlery.)

Anyway, we planned an evening at Tomioka-san’s home where we popped the DP and had loads of wonderful food. At the end of the evening, after Akiko took Toshi and Sunada (another computer boy) to the train station, Akiko returned to inform me that, according to Toshi, I was his “Stand by Me.”

I haven’t the faintest idea what that means.

Neither did Akiko.

Whatever the intent, I’m thinking it was meant to be romantic and, so far, it’s the closest thing to an outright flirtation that I’ve gotten from him – or anyone for that matter. I know it seems I have little to complain about with two men in two towns seemingly interested in me, but the fact is if I can’t even get to a date out of either of them.

At this rate, I might as well buckle down for a long, lonely winter.

I shouldn’t complain though.

I did have a date with TWO handsome, young men recently.

There’s only one hitch.

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photo by ac frohna

They are two of my 14 year-old students from Kaminyuta Junior High, Mikiyo and Naotomo, who got up the nerve to ask me if I’d go to the movies with them in Miyazaki last Saturday. When I said yes to their invitation, they were so excited, they ran screaming down the school halls causing a huge commotion.

So nice to finally have that kind of reaction to going out with me mean something positive.

My young gentlemen treated me to burgers and a movie (“Total Recall” with Arnold Schwarzenegger) and tried very hard to use English the entire day (as I did the same with my Japanese). Everywhere we went, they proudly strutted on either side of me down the streets of Miyazaki as if I was Queen of the Universe. The more I drew attention to our trio, the prouder they stuck out their chests and cockadoodle-dooed.

Especially, when they ran across girls from their school.

When they walked me from the train station to the front door of my apartment at the end of the date(s), before saying good-bye, I kissed each of them on the cheek and thanked them for the lovely day out.

Then I left them on the other side of the door.

Slack-jawed and stunned.

Listening from within, I knew they’d recovered from the shock when I heard giggling, followed by feverish footsteps and excited conversation as they leapt down the stairwell (several steps at a time) and headed down the street.

Laughter echoing off the sides of the buildings until they were out of earshot.

If only the Queen of Everything hadn’t woken the following morning with a cold so monumental, a beheading would have been preferable. My office is freaking out and ready to send me to the hospital, but I’ve been quite insistent that this is not necessary. So, instead, they’re shoving gallons of green tea and every Japanese cold remedy they can think of down my throat.

They have a soda over here aptly called Pocari Sweat.

Just imagine what the medicine tastes like.

Just West of the Midwest Chapter 11: Strange Sightings, or Hello Kitty, Good-bye Style

The weather is starting to cool, so last week my office bought me something to help me through the chilly nights.

It’s called a “kotatsu.” Translated, this means “foot warmer” and it’s an ingenious invention to help those deprived of an even more ingenious invention – central heating.

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The kotatsu looks just like a standard, low to the ground, Japanese table, but lo and behold, if you look underneath, you’ll find a small space heater. The idea is to place a thin futon onto the tatami mat beneath the table, remove the top, place another comforter over the table frame and then return the top so that you can set food, drinks, books, etc, on it.

You then plug the table in, place your legs snuggly beneath the covers, and “Voila!” You (and your guests) are snug as bugs in a rug (and not the tatami kind which have recently been reported infesting the apartments of other JETs in the region).

As odd as this little device sounds, I would have killed for one of these in my drafty, little coach house in Chicago.

Speaking of oddities here in Japan, let me take this opportunity to talk to you about Pachinko, a tremendously popular pastime here. In fact, there seems to be a Pachinko Parlor in just about every other building in the commercial area of Miyazaki. Even little Shintomi boasts several.

I’ve never been more than a couple of feet inside one of these establishments simply because the deafening noise of bells and balls, combined with the glaring florescent and neon lights is enough to make me run screaming into the night like Dracula at the sight of daylight. However, from what I’ve been told, they’re a type of gambling establishment where rows and rows of people sit like zombies in front of these flashing boards, sticking yen after yen into them and fiddling with some buttons in the hopes that they’ll take home some winnings.

Or at least break even.

Each parlor has some ridiculous Vegas-like name and grotesquely outlandish exterior lighting to match. What would pull someone into these establishments night after night after night is beyond my comprehension, but whatever it is, is highly addictive and, from my sources, has been a scourge on Japanese society.

Since we’re talking about peculiar things about Japan (to be fair, maybe I should say “rural” Japan), let’s talk a little about automobiles. Japanese automobiles (the majority of which are white and about the size of the cardboard boxes you and I used to play in as kids) look quite normal… that is, on the exterior.

Step inside and it’s a different world altogether.

Except for the ever-present air-freshener on the dashboard of EVERYONE’s car, men and women’s autos differ drastically. For some strange reason, the men seem quite adverse to removing the plastic wrap which covers the upholstery of all new cars.

Even if their auto is years off the showroom floor.

One enters the vehicle feeling as if one is entering Aunt Marge’s forbidden living room.

You know the one.

Where everything is covered in plastic: carpeting, lampshades, sofas, chairs – the cat.

Yet you’re still not allowed in there.

I find this almost as amusing as inhaling the mind-altering fumes from the aging factory plastic. Not so amusing… the challenge of climbing in and out of the saran-wrapped upholstery without making unforgivable noises.

The women car owners are a completely different kettle of sushi. They do take the plastic off the upholstery… but only to replace it with fluffy pillows, stuffed animals, curtains (Yes, I said curtains.) and anything else you could possibly imagine  – or not – hanging from the windows and mirrors. To top it off, this gargantuan-headed, animated cat, Hello Kitty, seems the number one design theme among females of all ages here. It’s freakish cartoon image is on everything from pillows to purses, window shades to floor mats; making entering one of these automobiles akin to experiencing a Disney movie.

Directed by John Waters.

Which brings me to the homes I’ve had the pleasure of visiting. Almost inevitably, the exterior gardens of the homes I visit are simple, elegant and serene, as are the traditional Japanese-style rooms. However, walk into what are considered the more Western-styled rooms and it’s like entering the set of the new teen horror flick, “Barbie Goes Mad,” or “Grandma from Hell,” where simplicity and elegance are swallowed up by the ever-present Hello Kitty-themed curtains.

And lace and ruffles for as far as your tear-filled eyes can see.

Another feature which I’ve found particularly odd is the fact that many new homes have separate bathroom facilities for men and women. I guess this does hearken back to the by-gone days of men’s and ladies’ parlors, but to include in the design the correlating stick figures on each door makes one feel as if they’ve entered Denny’s on Hwy. 41 rather than someone’s home.

Which brings me to another culture clash. (I’m on a roll. Don’t stop me now.)

As I told you in a previous letter, and as many of you already know, Japanese tradition requires the removal of shoes upon entering a person’s home. This inarguably makes a good deal of sense when the tatami rooms are often multipurpose – places to eat, sleep and entertain. The kicker is that traveling from room to room with bare or socked feet is a no-no. Instead you’re expected to put on provided slippers – and I’m sorry to say not precious, silky slip-ons (maybe with a little brocade, or perhaps some boa feathers and a slight heel) but slippers which look more like mental ward knock-offs, yet far uglier.

Upon entering someone’s home, you’re required to slip into these crimes-against-foot-fashion and make your way to the tatami mat where, as I said, you are expected to remove them. However, when nature calls (and it inevitably will, due to all the tea or beer you’re being served) and you must leave the tatami room in search of relief, you step back into these unsightly slip-ons and head in an incredibly inelegant, uncoordinated manner (due to the fact that these slippers are “one size fits all”) to the bathroom. Here, you’re expected to trade these lovely slabs of rubber (or plastic) for yet another pair of plug-ugly slippers, placed there specifically for use in the bathroom.

All in all, it seems an overly-complicated process just to prevent a few crumbs and some rogue dust bunnies from invading a room.

If only I had some money to invest in the Japanese slipper industry. I’d be set for life!

I certainly haven’t experienced a culture yet that doesn’t have it’s share of quirkiness, accentuated by tackiness. God Bless America.

Except maybe the Italians. (But that might be my heritage talking.)

These are simply my observations – things that strike me as unusual. Besides, it all evens out in the end. When the tables are turned, my habits and manners are frequently met with looks of complete confusion and curiosity. The other day, for instance, I was buying candles at my local grocers in order to create lighting in my apartment that doesn’t signal planes in for landings.

The lady behind the cash register was clearly puzzled.

She asked me (at least from what I was able to make out between recognizable words and hand gestures) if I was planning on praying a great deal. As I finally gathered from our broken conversation, candles here are used almost exclusively for placing on the small family shrines most people have in their homes. So when I answered no – not even attempting to translate “mood lighting” – I left the cashier behind shaking her head in wonder.

And now for a few other observations about my life here in Japan, which I like to call:

All I Can Say Is…

  • Because Sam and I have become regulars at Hard-Boiled (We haven’t changed our bad habits, just the locks on Sam’s doors.), we’ve decided to establish a drinking club. Mom and Dad would be so proud. We call it the Hard-Boiled Bar Fly Club. Our motto is: “How do we like our eggs? Preferably unfertilized.” (Another proud moment.) Currently, Sam and I are the only members. All I can say is… I’m beginning to think Groucho Marx had it right when he said he’d never want to belong to a club that would have him as a member.
  • There was a visitors’ day at Tonda Chugakko last week. I was team-teaching with Yamamoto-sensei while 30-some visitors looked on. One of those observers happened to be Tanaka-sensei, the cutey I met at the volleyball tournament . I know, I know, it’s hard to keep track. All I can say is… if I ‘d known he was coming I would have worn flats.

Just West of the Midwest Chapter 12: Mountain Splendors, Mousy Men and Massive Ego Trips

Last weekend was a three-day holiday due to the Emperor’s Enthronement, so it was decided that me, Sam, Kyoto (the teacher/bartender that supposedly has the hots for me), and several of his friends would head to a festival in the mountains in the northern part of the prefecture.

I spent a very quiet Saturday night in Hyuga with Sam (it’s been known to happen) and early Sunday morning, Kyoto arrived at her doorstep in his Jeep, sans roof and doors.

Things were off to a good start.

About 45 minutes into the trip, we met up with the remainder of our party (which consisted of 4 cars and 8 people) and off we headed to Shiba for the Hietsuki-bushi Festival. The festival is a re-enactment of the love story between a young samurai of the Genji Clan and a Samurai’s beautiful daughter of the Heike Clan – the sworn enemies of the Genji. The epic feud (much like our Romeo and Juliet) between these two families to control Japan during the 12th century is one of the most famous of all the Japanese legends.

After enjoying the brisk but beautiful ride up, we came upon the tiny mountain town. Squeezing into a parking space and then squeezing through the crowded, narrow streets of the old village, we slowly serpentined our way through the masses to the parade route where – for once – my height had me at an advantage for being able to see over most of the crowd.

I began to hear a slow, low drum beat in the distance and anxiously waited for the procession to begin, watching the on-lookers around me as they, in turn, gave Sam and I a good looking-over. Slowly, the pageantry made its way in front of us and I was soon transported back in time, as all signs of the present faded away and my eyes focused solely on the ancient ceremony which strode past.

The soldiers, both young and old, marched by in somber procession clad in armor that clicked like winter branches against an icy wind. From behind them, I heard the steady, slow and mighty steps of mountainous horses as they made their way up the small street lined with hundreds of eager faces. A horse whinnied, which drew my attention toward the handsome and statuesque Samurai astride a massive, DaVinci-like steed.

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photos by ac frohna

Adorned in a rich tapestry of armor, he stood so tall and grand on his mount that he seemed to reach the ashen clouds above. He looked straight ahead, somber, dignified and determined in his role of lover and soldier. His almost perfect, almond-shaped eyes, shaded by thick, feathery lashes drew me into one, long gaze and spurned a desire for him to turn my way. Yet he never shifted his purposeful gaze. I watched he and his companion until they rode out of sight, at which point I turned my attention to the next procession that would prove even more enchanting than the last.

What I assumed to be Ladies in Waiting were next to pass before us. The kimono they wore were of such colors that a rainbow would have wept at the sight of them. Perched upon their heads were large, round headdresses draped in a white fabric that thinly shrouded the upper parts of their bodies, with the exception that through the front of the veiling you could just make out their silken, white complexions and dark, painted lips. I thought nothing could be more beautiful, more divine, until, close behind, I saw four soldiers carrying upon their shoulders the platform which held the Samurai’s love.

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To try to find the words to describe her beauty is almost like trying to capture an autumn day in the palm of your hands. But when she passed my way, and our eyes met for a brief moment, I felt as if I had stared into an ethereal light.

Resplendent.

Perfection.

The slow beating of drums and the low rumbling of horns approaching from behind the beautiful, young lover intensified the already intensely hypnotic scene.

“Now this,” I whispered into the din of the crowd, “is the Japan I’ve been looking for.”

As I looked over the heads to Sam, who stood a few feet away, we both smiled, silently acknowledging how fortunate we were feeling. Even the intrusive attention Sam and I were receiving during the breathtaking procession did little to quell the joy I felt. I figured the sighting of two gaijin was probably a less common occurrence in this tiny, mountain village, than was this splendid festival. So, I simply kept my frustrations at bay, offering a friendly smile and hearty “Hello” to all who wanted to greet us with the one of the two English words they knew.

When the cavalcade disappeared behind the walls of the rickety, old village, Kyoto and I hopped back into the jeep (Sam now rode in one of the other cars, no doubt in order to give Kyoto and I some “alone” time – the manipulative wench.) and led the way further up the mountain, along the narrow, curving roads, passing one pastoral scene after the other. Somewhere along the way, as we edged along the road overlooking the valley far below, I noticed something rather peculiar in front of an old, tumbledown shack teetering on the mountain’s edge. It was a large, medieval-looking cage of rusted metal bars and within it, two immense, hairy beasts. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me and what I actually saw were, perhaps, two very large family dogs But a little further along, I saw a similar scene and turned to Kyoto with such a look of bewilderment that both he and I began to laugh.

Still laughing, Kyoto asked me if I knew what “inoshishi” was.

Responding with an even greater look of confusion, he pulled over at the next cage and gave me a good look at the objects trapped within. I now know the word for huge, smelly, hairy, black, wild boar. Obviously, these are not house pets, but what appears to be common fare for the mountain folks here.

“Aw, Mom, not wild boar AGAIN!”

Although I cringed at the thought of the creatures’ inevitable demise, , I had to remind myself that the only difference between this and passing a pig farm back home…

Sheer volume.

We drove on for quite some time, getting further and further from civilization.

And caged wild boars.

The further we drove, the more I was enjoying the day, despite the cooling temperatures and lack of protection from the elements. I simply wrapped myself in Kyoto’s jacket and found warmth from his smile.

He really is a very sweet fellow.

But before you “awwwwww” in unison, I’m just not feeling the sparks.

Yes, he’s kind.

Yes, he’s fun – and funny.

Yes he’s single.

And he’s showing me a Japan I would never see on my own.

But I’m just not feeling “it”.

Good thing you’re all thousands of miles away because I’m quite sure that last comment would have summoned hearty slaps from each of you.

But I can’t help it.

If there’s no chemistry, there’s no chemistry.

Before you verbally assault me, however, I’m not giving up altogether. We continue to do more and more things together and I enjoy his company, so let’s just see where that takes us.

Honestly, I was lying in bed last night thinking about all of this and it hit me.

I actually enjoy being single.

I like the freedom.

I like the flirtations.

I like the fact that I’ve made certain choices in my life without having to consider how it will affect another individual.

It’s only the lack of sex that really sucks.

And until someone comes along to change my mind about all of this, there’s not much I – or for that matter, you – can do about it.

So, offering forth my very best raspberry, I salute you!

And with that, on with the story at hand.

The further we headed up the mountain, the narrower and less travelled the roads became until they were barely more than dirt ruts towered over by tall pines and snow-capped peaks. About an hour passed when Kyoto finally pulled over beside a river and with his huge, crooked grin, informed me we had arrived. Crossing through the river (there was no bridge), with the caravan close behind, we began to set up camp on an embankment close to where the river tumbled over a waterfall and continued on its southern course through the mountains.

Firewood was collected, tents were pitched and sleeping gear was stowed. For Sam and I, this consisted of several pastel-colored comforters from Sam’s house.

What can I say, camping gear did not make the short list of “Things to bring to Japan.”

We stuffed the blankets into our tent and tried our best to ignore the obvious… Most likely, we were going to freeze our asses off that night.

Kyoto was suddenly looking more attractive.

Though our camping gear was sparse, our fellow campers accoutrements made up for it. At first, I thought they’d overdone it by bringing practically an entire kitchen and three-quarters of their living room, but I had to admit that all of these luxuries added to our enjoyment of the evening. After settling in, the women (of course) began food preparation and although Sam and I offered repeatedly, they politely refused our assistance. I didn’t know whether to be indebted or indignant, but after sitting next to the fire with a blanket wrapped around me and a beer in my hand, I quickly chose the former and spent the remainder of the evening eating, drinking, laughing and stargazing.

I did, in fact, freeze my ass off, but managed to wake the next morning with a surprisingly sunny disposition. Especially considering there were several points during the evening when I couldn’t decide whether to cry – as I shivered uncontrollably through the various stages of Hypothermia – or simply skip all the stages of freezing to death and slip into a sleepy coma.

After a leisurely breakfast (which Sam and I, once again, had absolutely nothing to do with) we packed up our gear, cleaned up our mess and headed further north through the mountains.

The scenery was extraordinary.

The autumn colors were at their peak and being in the jeep made me feel as if I had plummeted into a pile of leaves. It’s hard to compare the fall colors here to those I grew up with on the shores north of Chicago, except to say that the autumn of my upbringing bellows and blazes and brags of its fleeting beauty; while here, on the island of Kyushu, autumn floats in with a whisper.

Subdued.

Serene.

All along the gravel road which took us further and further into the forest, waterfalls cascaded down the mountainside. As we passed nearby in our open vehicle, I could feel the icy mist against my wind-blown cheeks. I felt so alive and so happy to be alive that I was sure an irrepressible squeal of delight would force its way through my throat at any moment.  But startling Kyoto while he maneuvered along the edge of these precarious roads was probably not the best idea, so I suppressed my urge into a smile so unyielding that it made my face hurt.

We stopped and drank from one of the waterfalls. It was sweet and cold and clear. And flooded my mind with wonderful memories of the summers I spent at camp in Colorado.

The higher and higher we climbed, the sharper the air became and the more the autumn colors began to melt away, leaving in their wake forests of naked trees with branches as waxen and sullen as icicles set against a grey, winter sky.The further down the road we travelled, the more I began to understand the significance of the mountainscape, or fukei, which is reflected everywhere (besides those “western-styled” rooms) in Japanese culture.

In traditional clothing.

Earthenware. Art. Music.

Even the quintessential Japanese garden is designed to mirror what is seen in a natural mountain setting.

Once reaching the peak, we pulled to the side of the road and climbed out to have a look at where we had just been and there we stood, smiling and giggling and rubbing the cold out of our hands, until the caravan became anxious to move on.

We continued west through the spectacular countryside of Kumamoto-ken until we reached Naidai Jinkyo, an enormous red bridge that spans over a valley and river. The bright red of the bridge set against the deep greens of the fields and forests below was both dissonant and dynamic, making me feel as if there ever was a man-made object created to worship and respect the scenery it intrudes, this was it.

We bought some roasted corn from a vendor set up nearby and strolled to the center of the bridge where we gazed down below at the tiny village and geometrically aligned rice fields. From where we stood high above the rolling terrain, the sleepy countryside looked like the coolest model train set ever. Not wishing to miss a single perspective, I leaned over the edge of the bridge until my head began to spin and a brisk gust of wind set me right again.

As we wove our way back home, Kyoto asked me if I wanted to join him for a dance festival in Nishimura the following week and without a moment’s hesitation, I said yes. The festival is known as “Yokagura” or God’s Banquet. Beginning in November, the festival gives thanks for a good harvest and offers prayers for next year’s harvest. It’s a celebration during which people gather weekly at different homes (or public stages) called Kagura Yado. There, participants drink sake, sing and watch dancers perform the “Kagura”, ancient theatrical dances which, Kyoto tells me, tell tales of Gods and Goddesses and the creation of Japan.

The dances – and the celebration – last all night long.

I can hardly wait.

All I Can Say Is…<

  • The other day, as I was returning home after school, a little girl was walking just ahead of me after having purchased candy from the local grocer. Eager to bite into her sweet treat, she tore off the wrapper and threw it on the ground. I didn’t mean to startle her, but I’ve never been tolerant of littering. So, I picked up the wrapper, tapped her on the shoulder and explained in my broken Japanese that what she did was not good and would she please throw the paper in the garbage. I then continued on my way, looking back only once to see her still standing there –  wrapper in hand – as chocolate dribbled from the side of her mouth, desperately looking left and right for somewhere to deposit her trash. All I can say is… although she probably only understood half of what I was saying, I think I made an impact on her. I’m just not sure how much the environment will benefit from my scaring the crap out of a little girl.
  • Something happened at the office the other day which gave me hope that I was making some progress with my Japanese. Tomioka-san came into the office and noticed that I was wearing my Greek sailor’s cap in my usual manner – in reverse. He commented that my hat was on backward. Without hesitation, I corrected him – in Japanese – saying, “Actually, my head is on backwards.” The look of surprise on his face (and those who overheard our conversation) was absolutely priceless. Suddenly the entire office was laughing. All I can say is… for the first time since I arrived, I feel as if there’s a chance of hurdling myself over the language barrier.
  • Sam has been dating this guy in Hyuga and after they’d been out one night, he walked her home. When they got to the door, she thought she’d help him in his assumedly romantic endeavors by suggesting he give her a goodnight kiss on HER CHEEK. His response was simple and direct. He croaked, “SHY BOY!” and ran screaming into the security and dark of the night. Sam sat on her stoop for moments afterward trying to make some sense of it all. She then calmly picked herself up, walked into her house, stuck her head in a pillow and screamed. Combine this with the fact that I spent an entire weekend with Kyoto and he never even tried to hold my hand. All I can say is… there may be a lot of roosters around our proverbial hen houses here, but all they do is “Cock-a-doodle-don’t!”
  • As for things back in Shintomi… the other day, I got on my bicycle and went to Tonda Beach for the first time since my arrival. The beach is very close to my apartment and quite lovely, except for all the litter. It inspired me to talk to the Board of Education about arranging a clean-up day with my students and trying to get some trash cans, trash bags and t-shirts donated from local businesses for the event. All I can say is… if that little girl with the chocolate bar has spread the story of her scary encounter with me, I should at least be able to intimidate of few children to participate in the event.
  • I had my first visit to an elementary school this week. I visited Kaminyuta Shogakko and the entire school was led into the gymnasium to greet me. Two students welcomed me with speeches in English and I introduced myself in Japanese. I was then serenaded by all the students and was invited to play Dodge Ball during lunch break. During the course of the game, I was barely allowed to move my hands – or body – into action, as at least four children on either side of me held onto my arms, dragging me from one end of the playing field to the next, screaming, “Anne-san, Anne-san, Abunai! Abunai!” (Watch out!) I felt like a human wishbone. I loved every second. All I can say is… the stir my visit caused was no less exciting than a child’s first encounter with Santa Claus (and considering my recent weight gain, the physical similarities were eerie, to say the least).
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  • During the game, one little girl did not move from my side. Her teacher explained that even though my little companion did not like the game in the least, she was willing to risk being hit by the ball for a chance to be near me. And if this wasn’t enough, after lunch, I was presented with an armful of gifts the children had made in honor of my visit. There were beautiful origami figures, a paper necklace, paper dolls, an array of pictures illustrating famous Japanese cartoon characters, and even portraits of me. I was also bombarded with questions – one of the most popular being what kind of music I like. Sadly, the answers, Pink Floyd, Frank Sinatra, and The Beatles left my tiny interviewers with lost expressions. As far as their knowledge of Western music goes, it’s either Michael – or Janet – Jackson, Madonna, New Kids on the Block – or nothing. All I can say is… music will NOT be our common ground for promoting international understanding.
  • As we drove away from school that day, many of the children ran beside the car, calling out my name and yelling good-bye, and for days, the thought of my visit has brought a huge smile to my face and a pang in my heart. All I can say is…. talk about your ego trip.
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Just West of the Midwest Chapter 13: A Very Short Story Loosely Based on the Truth

With a book that held no interest sitting open in her lap, she sat on the train bound for Shintomi-cho, quietly taking in the faces of the passengers surrounding her.

The conflicting smells of bento [box lunches] and local chicken farms filled the air, creating vastly different sensations that ranged from cravings to queasiness.

The idle train, which had been stopped for quite some time at Kawaminami Station waiting for a freighter to pass, sporadically shuddered and rattled. The taunting motion made her more and more anxious to be moving.

It had been a long and exhausting weekend and the only exercise her mind would allow was staring out the window at the Japanese countryside with the same glazed intensity of a mannequin in a store window.

Acutely focused.

Seeing nothing.

Until, from the murky depths of her gaze, she saw something strange in the woods just fifty feet from the train’s window. At first, all reason told her that what she saw was simply a pile of garbage. After all, just a short while ago, as the train rattled down the tracks toward home, she had mistaken ugly, metal silos for primitive grass shacks, attributing the error to her tired eyes and all but drained mental faculty.

Still… she stared at the object beneath the tree for quite some time.

She wiped her glasses.

Then looked again.

There, lying against an old, gnarly tree was an old man, dressed in the traditional, ancient attire of a Japanese farmer, sleeping.

His face was blackened and worn from the years of working all day in the fields. His rough, bony hands held tightly to a walking stick, as knobbly as the tree itself.

Squinting in an attempt to refocus, she waited for the scene to change.

Or, for the old man’s eyes to blink, his nose to twitch, his body to jerk – even slightly – in order to give life to this strange vision.

Or was it an illusion?

But there he slept.

Motionless.

Turning her attention back to the truth of the train car, where she hoped her mind would find a tangible distraction, she found nothing and no one which held the same interest than what she was sure she was imagining on the other side of the window.

She turned back to the object beneath the tree, expecting to see her ancient farmer replaced by a tarp or some fallen branches.

She shuddered as she focused again on the old man as he slept.

“This can’t be,” she laughed quietly and whispered to no one, becoming more and more uneasy at the sight of it.

Sliding to the edge of her seat, she looked around the train car for a friendly face who would lay this apparition to waste, but hesitated.

“Exactly what would I say?” she thought to herself. “Excuse me, but do you see that ghost beneath the tree?”

So, she remained silent and turned, once again, toward the window, intent on dispelling the strange manifestation once and forever.

Just as she turned, the train began to pull away.

Her heart began to beat faster, as she pressed her nose against the pane. She watched her one last chance to dispel the vivid vision fade into the distance.

The old farmer licked his lips and rubbed his tired eyes.

He stretched, long and slow, then rose from the shade of the tree.

As he righted his ragged straw hat and steadied himself with his walking stick, he cocked his head to hear a strange sound.

A steadily accelerating drumbeat.

The old man looked all around for the source of the sound, but it soon faded into the day.

And the day was fading away.

So on he went.

Down the road.

Toward home.

Just West of the Midwest Chapter 16: A Lub Story

Don’t tell me. Let me guess.

I bet all of you have been sitting by your mail boxes for the past few weeks in eager anticipation of my next letter.

You’ve cancelled meetings, delayed chores, missed exciting social events.

All with the hope that the postman will bring a ray of sunshine in the form of a small white envelope from the Land of the Rising Sun.

And what follows?

Nothing. No letters.No postcards.No pictures.

Nothing but bills and big yellow envelopes announcing “You could have just won $3,000,000,000,000.00 from Ed McMahon.”

The Howie Fuggs Family were disbelievers too, but they sent in their forms and now they have more money than the Japanese have rice. Let’s talk to the Fuggs Family and let them tell you more:

Howie: God Damn, I’ve been scraping gum off the bottom of bus stop benches fer forty years. I never thought I’d have so much money!

Ed: And what are you going to do with all that cash, Howie?

Howie: What any man in my place would do, Ed. I’m going to finally buy myself that industrial-sized scraper!

Ed: That’s it? You’re going to buy a large scraper with 3 trillion dollars?

Howie: Hell no. I got my eye on a kick-ass leisure suit from Sears, plan to get my wife some electrolysis and move my family into a home they can be proud of – a top a the line Winnabeggie. And if I got somethin’ left after that, I plan to help make this world a better place!

Ed: And how’s that Howie? Donating to a wildlife fund, a peace organization, an environmental cause?

Howie: Hell no! I’m going to help put Jim and Tammy back where they belong – on God’s Playing Field.

Mrs. Fuggs: Amen.

Ed: …Someone hand me a hanky.

Mrs. Fuggs: Amen.

But I digress.

To be perfectly honest, I don’t feel too bad about not writing (only in the sense of not writing for writing’s sake) simply because I’ve had nothing to respond to. The least any of you could do is drop a brief, “Fuck off, whiner” note in the post. I mean, how sad is it that the last two letters I received were from – strangely enough – Ed McMahon (How did he find me here?) and Visa (How the HELL did they find me here?).

Whoever said, “No news is good news.” was full of crap.

As for things here… work has been extraordinarily busy. So, at the end of most days, I retreat to the seclusion of my apartment where I routinely procrastinate, avoiding all the things that might benefit me emotionally, spiritually, physically and/or intellectually. On the job front, I wasn’t sure (due to the usual bureaucratic red tape) whether I’d be able to renew my contract for next year, but was told yesterday that it was 99% sure that I could stay another year.

On the travel front, other than some weekends heading up to Hyuga or down to Miyazaki, I hadn’t gone anywhere until last weekend when Sam, Eleanor (another JET) and I went to Fukuoka (in the northern part of Kyushu) to see the Ramsey Lewis Trio at a bar there called The Blue Note. The concert was fantastic. Our table was just a few feet from the small stage and being the only westerners (besides the band) we were personally greeted by the trio as they took the stage.

And boy did they take the stage.

The Japanese crowd, although more lively than usual, was still quite subdued for our standards, so our snapping, clapping, swaying and tapping was looked upon with some curiosity. Later, however, the band revealed to us that they were quite happy to see some life in the audience. The concert ended to a standing ovation and the crowd began to pour out as if “Last Call” meant, “Get the hell out of here, before we sever a limb.”, until we found ourselves (with less than a handful of others) sipping our drinks and trying to figure out a way to talk to the band. As it turned out, we didn’t need a plan after all. The band came to us – or at least, Henry Johnson (rhythm guitar) and Chuck Williams (bass guitar).

Knowing they hailed from Chicago, I thought it would be a nice ice-breaker if I explained that that was where I was from, at which Chuck immediately said, “North Shore, right?” When I replied in the positive, the jazz guitarist with an apparent chip on his shoulder the size of the Sears Tower for my being born on the wrong side of town, soon departed. Henry didn’t seem bothered and ended up talking with us until we were kicked out of the Blue Note and then accompanied us to some other watering holes in the neighborhood until he had to call it an evening in order to catch an early flight the next morning.

Really nice man.

Failing to secure bus reservations for our return trip to Miyazaki, Sam called upon her latest beau, Hirada, who drove FIVE hours to come and get us.

Sam better put out for that fellow, or I will.

The trip home was through some of the island’s most beautiful scenery. We saw Mt. Aso, the largest active volcano in Japan and one of the largest in the world, the fjords and waterfalls of Kumamoto Ken and stopped at Kumamoto-jo, one of the premier castles in Japan – a spectacular sight with its 49 turrets. And the gardens were incredible. How can one properly describe the traditional Japanese garden?

Harmony. Serenity. Meticulously composed. Sheer perfection.

And to add to the experience, we were there just as the ume (plum) trees were blossoming. In fact, there was a line of photographers perched atop one of the castle walls which overlooked the largest group of trees, many of whom possessed camera equipment that must have cost the same as what a day in that damn Gulf War is costing. After strolling around the gardens, we soon found ourselves among the photographers and although we should have expected it, one of the photographers surprised us by turning his attention away from the magnificent scenery and asking us to go down among the trees for a few posed shots. Being very tired, slightly hungover and envisioning even more horrid images of us on public display, we politely declined, quietly skeedaddled and headed toward home.

On the romance front, I haven’t heard from Raymond and although I never really expected anything to come from a long distance relationship, there was, until very recently, a modicum of hope that he couldn’t live without me. I have tried to fill the gap by taking things a few steps further with Kyoto – when schedules permit – but I don’t think this will last too much longer. He made a fatal error – or should I say two – recently. One was mumbling something in his sleep about children – in English! As soon as I heard this, I picked my jaw up from the floor and quickly woke him from his dream with a few well placed slaps, a bucket of cold water and electric shock treatment. I didn’t tell him about what I heard and was hoping I misunderstood.

I didn’t.

Last weekend, after having a few cocktails and thumbing through his dictionary, Kyoto used the “L” word. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Oyasuminasai. Raishu ni hanashimasho. (Good night. Let’s talk next week.)

Kyoto: Anne. Chotto matte, ne? (Anne, wait a minute, okay?)

Me: Hai. Nan desu ka?(Yes. What is it?)

Kyoto: I…..I…..I lub yu.(I…..I….I love you.)

Me: Nani?(What the fuck did you just say?)

Kyoto: I….luuuuub….yuuuuuu.(He repeats very slowly as he lifts me off of the road.)

Me: Nani?!

Kyoto: %#^@%&&#%%*@&@^#!!!!!!!! I lub you!!!!(%#^@%&&#%%*@&@^#!!!!!!! I love you!!!)

Me: No, you don’t.

Kyoto: Hai.

Me: Kyoto… No… YOU DON’T.

Kyoto: Hai. I do!

Me: Kyoto, you don’t love me. You can’t love me. You barely know me. Hell, Kyoto, we can’t even hold a normal conversation!

Kyoto: Nani? Wakarimasen.(Meaning: I don’t understand a word you just said, but I still think I love you.)

… And the level of communication only went downhill from there.

He really is so very sweet. He’s also pretty dang good in bed AND we have had a lot of fun together. But the fact is, I don’t feel remotely in love with him and think it’s best I step away while he’s still busy thumbing through his dictionary trying to translate our last conversation. I really don’t want to hurt him anymore than I’m already going to by breaking things off now.

Damn my bewitching charm.

Seriously though, this sucks. I hate to lose his friendship… I guess I should have thought of that before I slept with him.

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All I Can Say Is…

  • I’ve watched and listened with both horror and amusement to some of the popular bands in the Japanese pop music culture. I’ve concluded that most are utterly talentless, clueless and tasteless, insipidly superficial and chockablock with brainless bimbos. These nitwitted ninnies (the majority of which are girl bands) take the stage and sing with voices which bring to mind the strange mating calls of the Australian wombat I once saw during the nature documentary, “Orgy in the Outback”. Add this lack of musical talent to dance routines which regularly resemble Howdy Doody (with a couple of broken strings), and I find myself feeling more than slightly nauseated, as well as, thoroughly offended. All I can say is… if the music world depended on “talent” such as this, the Bay City Rollers would now be buried in Graceland.
  • I’ve been feeling a little put off by the pressure some people have been giving me about my current level of Japanese. It’s ironic really. Most people here study English for a minimum of seven years and can’t speak more than a handful of words. Yet I’ve been here only seven months and although I’m no linguist, I’m able to get by. This, however, is not enough for many people and I’ve found they expect one of two things: either you’re fluent, or brain dead. All I can say is… this attitude has really motivated me to expand my Japanese %$*&#%@#! vocabulary.
  • The other day there was a knock on my door. I answered it to find two gentleman, representatives of the Japanese Postal Service, looking incredibly apologetic as they handed me the remains of what once appeared to be an envelope from the States. Even though the plastic bag containing the shredded remnants clearly and officially indicated that the damage had been done back in the U.S., the postal workers before me were prepared to take full responsibility. Both men offered a rapid and heart-wrenching series of “Gomen nasai” (apologies) for this unpardonable postal catastrophe, as well as a number of gifts, including a handkerchief and a kitchen towel. I had the distinct impression that they’d be willing to do anything I asked of them to make up for it. All I can say is… where were they when I totaled my Mom’s Audi.