Welcome to Japan! (and other milestones)

That’s what the toothy man wearing a cross hanging from rosary beads said to me as the train pulled into Shinjuku station. The stop couldn’t have come sooner.

He had interrupted viewing Sleeper Cell on my iPod video to say, “Excuse me, from what country are you?” I forced a smile at “Ohhh, Big Apple!” and his hope that we (Japan and America) could be friends.

“You are handsome and clever man!” I looked away, and then tuned out a monologue professing love for Paul McCartney and the “charming” Beatles. “I want to hold your hand,” he said. I hoped he was just quoting. I tried to catch the name of the station we were bypassing. Today the express wasn’t fast enough. When I got up at Shinjuku, he shook my hand and with a big smile welcomed me to Japan. He was almost a year too late.

It’s hard to believe that today marks a full year here. Months have merged into a critical mass. I remember my first day in this then – and still now – unfamiliar setting.

Lying to immigration about being a tourist. Sweating about customs uncovering neckties wrapped around resumes. The bus driver’s struggling to remove my suitcase from the belly of the airport bus. Asking for directions to the landlord’s headquarters. The elation over holding my first set of apartment keys (just like in the Fannie Mae commercial). The shock of ducking into said "apartment". Scraping old ramen out of the kitchen drain. Picking hairs out of the bathtub. Not fitting into the shower after hauling luggage along the Oedo line. Meeting Michelle for a shabu-shabu dinner in Ikebukuro. Buying the wrong train ticket to get there. Being questioned by the police on the way back.

The ride hasn’t gotten easier. The everyday unfamiliarity of Japanese life is something I’ll never acclimate to, or to be honest, enjoy. Being a functional illiterate. Being hungry but not recognizing any food to order, an undertaking in itself. The discomfort created when a foreigner sits next to a local on the train or in the ramen shop. The cigarette smoke. The cramped quarters. The concrete. The crowds. The homogeneity. The dark suits. The school uniforms. The conformity. The oneness of Club Japan. The solitude of the one percent of non-Japanese.

Were it not for mischievous school kids and deliciously cheap sushi, my last blog would have been not long after the first. As it turns out, this 100th post coincides with my one-year anniversary. That’s one blog every 3.65 days, not an insignificant feat since every post is a short story that can stand alone. After finishing the school day, a second shift begins: blogging. A post requires several hours to write and edit, but adds permanence to my ever-evolving experience here. Actually, I enjoy writing more than experiencing events themselves.

Okay, enough nostalgia. I recently signed another one-year contract at a different school, so as soon as the blackblog about Kanokita is posted, I’ll try for another 100 stories.