LET'S GIVE THANKS

This week marked Thanksgiving, and eager to celebrate any occasion centering around food, some friends and I decided to organize a large feast.  There were nine of us in all, the four Americans outnumbered by our Commonwealth (and other) brethren: an Aussie, a Kiwi, a Scot, an Irishman, and a Brit.  However, the holiday was almost scuppered on Monday, when I returned from school to find that the electricity had been shut off in my apartment.**  No hot water, no way to light the gas stove, and no warming defenses against the 40 degree weather outside.  However, the biggest problem was the refrigerator, and more importantly, the variety of foods housed in said fridge, including the turkey.  I quickly packed up the essentials and headed to my friend's apartment, where he gave asylum to the turkey et al.   Saved!

Makeshift cornucopia

The feast, part 1

Wednesday was a national holiday, so we gathered at noon to partake of an epic meal that included turkey, stuffing, meat pies, cheese, salad, three kinds of homemade bread, cranberry sauce, wine, homemade pie, chocolates, mashed potatoes...and some other things I can't remember at the moment.  Oops. The EPA? We played games, talked about what we were thankful for, and stuffed ourselves silly.  Even better, Wednesday also happened to be the day of a huge festival for my village, and the procession passed right by my window.  Who needs the Macy's Thanksgiving parade when you have people singing and dancing, all while dressed in traditional Japanese clothing, such as samurai armor?  The best part of the day (other than not giving anyone salmonella poisoning from the turkey) was the cultural exchange. For the non-Americans, this was their first Thanksgiving, and they all seemed to enjoy it, while making fun our pronunciation of words like "banana" and "herbs."  We all agreed that on a day typically reserved for family and close friends, it was really nice to be able to come together as a surrogate family. 

One of my students was dressed up as the "princess" of the parade.

**It turns out that the automatic payment system for the electricity had not been set up (even though I had been told it had), and the statements I had been getting in the mail were not to help me keep track of what was being deducted from my account every month. 

KANE NO KIREME WA EN NO KIREME: "WHEN POVERTY FLIES IN, LOVE FLIES OUT"

My dad recently sent me an interview with an American named Donald Keene, who spent a lifetime translating Japanese literature into English.  He became a celebrity in Japan shortly after the Tohoku earthquake, when he announced that he was going to become a Japanese citizen and live out the rest of his days in Japan. I brought the article to my latest session with my adult eikaiwa group.  The Japanese are fascinated by perceptions of Japan in other cultures.  What are they known for?  What interests us about them? Basically: how have they impacted the larger world?

When I first brought up Donald Keene, I wasn't sure if anyone would have heard of him, since I hadn't until I read the article.  However, not only did everyone recognize his name, but they all had an opinion on him.  Most people smiled benignly at the mention of his name, but one of my ladies spoke up and said, "Oh, I don't think he speaks Japanese as well as everyone says he does."  "That's interesting," I responded, surprised, "I actually wanted to ask you all about something he said in the interview."  Quoth Keene: "The most important words in English are 'I love you.' When you translate that into Japanese, there is no 'I' and no 'you.'"  The group applauded wildly- "Yes! That is so true!" The Keene objectioner said begrudgingly, "Well, I guess he speaks Japanese better than I thought." I asked them why people express themselves that way. 

"We only use the verb.  When you say it to someone else, they know what you mean." 
"Because it's obvious? What if you're talking about someone you're going to marry, and you say to someone, 'I love him/her'?" 
"No, you still would only use the verb.  They would understand." 

Somehow the Japanese have managed to make love less proprietary, but also more impersonal.  There aren't different degrees or variations of love, it just exists.  And when you use the word, it should be obvious to the other person what your intent is. 

Two boulders are placed several meters apart at this temple.  According to the brochure, if you can walk blindfolded from one rock to the other, you will soon find your love.

The lone male in my adult eikaiwa group keeps asking me if husbands and wives in America talk to each other once they're married.  "I guess it depends," I say. "I think a lot of couples complain that they don't."  He always seems relieved whenever I say that.  "Japanese people too," he says.  Mr. M retired last year and found that while he had a lot of time on his hands, his wife was constantly busy, taking care of the house and doing other projects.  When she announced that she would not be making his lunch everyday, he signed up for a cooking class.  I love how progressive and flexible Mr. M is, especially since other Japanese men don't seem to adapt as well when they realize that being the main breadwinner doesn't necessarily make them the boss at home.  "My wife-y, she has no love for me anymore.  Before we are married, she very nice to me.  But now, nothing.  We have no love between us," bemoaned a teacher at my school after his wife forgot his birthday.  Ah, marriage.

Pumpkin cheese cake

COLD HANDS, WARM HEART

"What are you wearing?!" asks Amanda.  We've just connected via Skype, she sitting in a t-shirt in her centrally heated house in Tennessee, while I am attired in two pairs of sweatpants, a t-shirt, two fleeces, wool socks, and a ski hat.  "Um, well, it's cold here," I whine in justification.  With no insulation and no central climate control, Japanese buildings tend to trap in and amplify the outside temps, whether it be blistering heat or bone chilling cold.   Winter is a particularly sedentary time, as families huddle for warmth around the kotatsu, a large table with a heater under it.  A heavy blanket is placed over the table to hold in the heat, and everyone sits on the floor with their legs crammed underneath.  This position is maintained until spring.  Though I've been warned not to fall asleep under the kotatsu- "You can burn your feet."

The question of how to best heat an apartment generates a healthy debate.  

"Don't use your air conditioner to heat your apartment.  It has a heat function, but the bill will give you a heart attack." 

"Wait, I use my air conditioner to heat one of the rooms in my apartment.  It's not a big deal- it's fine!"

"No, it's way too expensive.  The kerosene heaters are pretty inexpensive.  That's what I use."

"Yeah, but they're really dangerous.  I mean, for one thing, you have to keep kerosene around, which is highly flammable.  Then you have to be careful not to leave your clothes or you towel sitting on top of the heater because they could catch fire and burn down your apartment."

"OK, but that's just stupid anyway.  The kerosene heater's not that dangerous. You just have to make sure you open the windows every so often to let out the carbon monoxide so that you don't get carbon monoxide poisoning."

I hope to survive the winter with option three, my Sanyo Accumulate ceramic fan heater.  Really, the temps here aren't that different from Washington, DC in winter.  However, it turns out that central heat makes a crucial difference, particularly during the 3 minute period in the mornings when you have to crawl out of bed, walk to the shower, wait for the water to heat, and get into the shower.  

ROSE-COLORED GLASSES

In a recent email from my intrepid correspondent in Kenya, she expressed her concern and solidarity as an expat, saying at one point, "One moment you say that you are extending [your contract] for another year and the next you mention that you are eating lunch alone..."  This struck me for two reasons, 1) I have some wonderful friends, and 2) Leigh is right- living abroad is not always bread and roses.  So I thought I'd "get real" and share my top 5  "WTF am I doing here? moments."  Some of them I've already detailed in previous posts, others are more recent.   The good news is that as frustrating as these things can be, the situation is always ameliorated, by a kind gesture, or assistance from a stranger, or commiseration with good friends.

1. I go into the grocery store for the first time alone and realize I have no idea what anything is.

2. It takes me 2 weeks to be approved for a cell phone, and 2 and half months to get Internet in my apartment.  

3. Japanese ATMs.  One of my biggest gripes about Japanese culture has to do with money.  I haven't had such trepidations about banking since I was 6 or 7, and my mom took me to the bank to open an account.  We were 99% through the process, when I balked at having to hand over my vast fortune (probably close $20).  I believe my exact words were, "When can I visit it?"  (As a child, I really enjoyed counting my money, which made me feel like Scrooge MacDuck from "Duck Tales," with his swimming pool of gold coins.) The teller explained that she was going to deposit my money with everyone else's, so I couldn't really "visit" it per se.  My young mind boggled as I hugged my Ziploc bag of change closer to my body.  This had to be a scam.  Mom, realizing this was a deal breaker, thanked the teller and packed me off quickly into the car.  I didn't open a checking account until I was 13.  

To this day, not being able to get my hands on my money makes me nervous.  Especially since in Japan, cash culture + significant expense of living, eating, shopping and traveling = one must carry around a substantial amount of cash.  However, gaining access to your hard-earned yen is a challenge. First of all, not all ATMs run on the same schedule, even if they belong to the same bank.  From what I can gather, as a rule, ATMs function from 8:45am-6pm M-F.  From 8-8:45am and 6-9pm there is a $2 surcharge to withdraw. Past 9pm, you can forget about it-the ATM will have shut down completely.  On weekends you have to pay a $2 surcharge all day.  And if you have plans to start your Christmas shopping on a national holiday, don't assume that you can make a withdrawal, even if it is a weekday. Otherwise you will show up to the ATM to find the machine turned off, which may in turn cause you to wonder what this country is coming to.  

4. Getting my reentry visa.  If you have a visa to work or live in Japan, you have to get a reentry visa if you plan on leaving that country at any point in time.  If you leave without one, they won't let you back into Japan.  Slightly problematic.  So last Friday I traveled an hour on the train, walked another 30 minutes in the rain, and after being lost for a good 20 minutes thanks to the inadequate map provided by my contracting organization, I finally found the immigration bureau. However, it was closed because it was 12:08, and the office takes lunch from 12-1, which of course is not mentioned on their website, which lists their hours from 9AM-4PM.  So there I sat, wet from the knees down, wrapped in the drafty, smoke-filled cocoon of the immigration bureau, waiting for it to reopen.  When the clock tolled one, the doors dutifully parted, at which point I was thwarted again by a Japanese couple who had arrived at 12:50pm, and efficiently and ruthlessly cut in front of me.  My turn finally came, and my business took all of 8 minutes to complete.  Oddly, I don't know if the quick turnaround time made the experience worse or more bearable.  Regardless, I can now flee the country whenever I want and return.  

5. Trash bins.  Throughout Japan, there is nary a trash bin to be found.  Occasionally you'll find one in a train station, but it's usually hidden and they only accept obscure materials like newspapers, as opposed to the things you really want to toss, like water bottles or chewing gum wrappers. And because littering is the 8th deadly sin, you're forced to squirrel this detritus away in your bag or pockets.  Don't be mottainai (wasteful).  Do be a hoarder. 

THE ROUTINE

A weekly routine is emerging.  By day, I'm the teacher who is often mistaken for her students (another teacher almost stopped me one morning to ask why I was out of uniform).  Weeknights usually resemble a Regency novel, sitting by the light of my laptop instead of a candle, reading or writing letters, occasionally watching Hulu.  Now if only Mr. Darcy would come a knocking.  I'm thinking about learning some sort of needlework over the course of this long, cold winter, weaving my way into spinsterhood.  

This coming Wednesday I committed to going to exercise with a group of teachers, including our principal, who is probably in his early 50s and runs daily.  I'm prepared to be shamed by his personal fitness, and have been assured that no one will think less of me if I walk with the other female teacher who was invited.  Time to get fit!

Thursday nights are spent with my adult eikaiwa (English conversation) group, which consists of 7 women and 1 man, all in their late 50s and 60s.  Each week, they come equipped with notebooks, one iPad, electronic dictionaries, and a smorgasbord of sweets.  While my high schoolers are learning how to order off an English menu, my "grannies" (as my friend Paul calls them) want to talk about the debt crisis, the presidency and separation of powers, idiomatic expressions, and what Houston, TX is like.  

Their most recent source of fascination is the Occupy New York movement.  The whole scenario is unfathomable to them.  "What do they want?" they keep asking me.  "Japanese people would never do this."  When I asked why, they seemed at a loss for words, and looked around the table at one another to see who would speak first.  Hemming and hawing, there was no direct answer.  What I gleaned was that public protest is beyond undignified- it's a slap in the face to national unity.  In a country where people wear face masks when they have a runny nose to prevent others from getting ill, to stand up and make a stink about something they don't agree with seems...well, rude.  Even though Japan has multiparty system, people widely acknowledge that all the politicians and their platforms are pretty much the same.  They regard the revolving door of prime ministers as a grim joke, but can't actually admit out loud that they're frustrated by it.  "If people are so sick of the politicians," I asked, "Why don't they pick someone new?"  There was no answer to this question, either.  Stick with the devil you know.  

45 MINUTES ALL TO MYSELF

A while back, en route to a festival in Sakurai, an 8 year-old clamored up to our group.  "What kind of people are you?" he asked in Japanese (that's the literal translation- in English, it equates to "Where are you from?") "We're from America," I said, ignoring our Kiwi and Irish friends' national identities in a typically American fashion.  "Oh!" he replied, and then ran a short distance before turning again and shouting, "Hello! Hello!" until we looked at him, at which point he simultaneously picked his nose and grabbed his crotch in a very provocative manner (as in, meaning to provoke, not to seduce). 

Flash forward to the festival itself.  A small girl in a traditional Japanese yukata looked up at me, did a double take, pointed, and started shrieking, "America-jin! America-jin!" ("American! American!"), in a tone that suggested that she could see a massive asteroid hurtling towards the earth, and was attempting to warn the passerby. 

What, this old thing? Why, I only wear this when I don't care how I look!

Four months into this gig, I thought that the novelty of being the new foreigner would have worn off, at least in my community.  It's not as though they've never seen a female Anglo before.  I mean, there was one living in my apartment for four years before I moved in.  But either I'm stranger than the average gaijin, or people just can't get enough of the things foreigners do.  Like Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls, I've taken to eating my lunch in a secluded spot (in my case, the women's changing room).  This is to avoid the curious looks in the staff room as I heat my food in the microwave, along with the accompanying questions: What is that? Did you cook it? Can I smell it? What do you call it in English?  One student wandered by my desk one day, asked me what I was eating, and then requested to try a bite.  She thought it was tasty, but still- I'd rather not face judgment on my "lazy lunch" days of yogurt and a bag of potato chips.  

Barley tea flavor

Chai tea flavor

Green tea flavor