Day Two at Nubata

On the second day, I broke the golden rule. Above all else, never be late in Japan. Punctuality is sacred. In America, chances are the friend you’re meeting is also running five minutes behind. Or, if you’re like me, 10 to 15. You half-heartedly apologize, and move on.

However, here in the land of the time-obsessed, trains calls at stations on the dot. One cause of Japan’s recent rail disaster was that the driver sped to make up for lost time. Had he obeyed the limit and arrived 90 seconds late, 106 passengers would have lived to commute another day.

Nubata J.H.S. is a 20-minute walk from the nearest station. The morning teacher’s meeting begins at 8:15 – you guessed it – on the dot. Still new to the route, I was cutting it close. Perhaps I paused too long outside the car dealerships that line this neighborhood, where all your Japanese favorites are represented, including the all-new Nissan Cube³ (they aren’t kidding).

I entered the foyer as the bell sounded. Bolt upstairs and slide into my seat, right? Wrong. Here in the land of the cleanliness-obsessed, I first had to change into my “indoor shoes.” Black loafers can only take me to my job’s doorstep. Here I switch into sneakers, a virgin pair that have never stepped foot outside. In theory, that is. Outside germs have of course sullied these running shoes, but for Nubata's purpose they serve as my indoor shoes. Anticipating guilt, I bleached the soles at home.

As a result of this switcheroo, I walked in a full 90 seconds tardy. I faced no immediate repercussions because, this being the land of polite, poker-faced people, the Japanese will never tell you what they think to your face. Maybe I’ll be absolved because it was my second day and because white people are expected to screw up, but I wouldn’t be surprised if my employer (not the school, which will complain to my employer) mentions it a month from now.

Morning meetings begin with a secretarial bell chime. Discussion is in Japanese, so I while away the minutes by guessing each teacher’s subject based on appearance. The motherly lady who offers me ochai (tea) each morning seems like home economics, but in reality who knew math teachers had a heart? The aggressively dressed woman with a face only a frog could love must be charged with drilling Japan’s revisionist history into these middle school minds. Always in a suit and never wearing a smile, she once scolded the girls I was giggling with outside of the teacher’s room.

Vintage desks crowd this room. You know, the metal kind with rusting drawers dating from the late 60s. This is the extent of the teacher’s office. Veterans cluster in the front of the room where the vice principal reads his newspaper all day while uncertified aliens sit by the back door, convenient for the next time I barge in late.