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