東京タネンハウス「Tokyo Tanenhaus」

Che, Me Mudaré

2008-05-28T12:58:00.003-04:00

My time in South America has ended. Although I blogged little about my adventures in Buenos Aires, I composed a poem about ordinary yet meaningful reflections that defined my experience. Lo siguiente es un homenaje a la ciudad que ya extraño. The title means, "Hey, I'm Moving." Native Spanish speakers have told me that the poem is uniquely descriptive and lyrical. I fear an English translation would lose this musical rhythm, and consequently have not included one.

Che, Me Mudaré
por Jeffrey Tanenhaus

Para los bonaerenses es su provincia.
Para los porteños es su ciudad.
Para los argentinos que restan es su capital.
Para mi, Buenos Aires no es un lugar, sino una mezcla de sentimientos, sonidos y sueños.

Un cruce de esquinas y momentos cuando mi destino chocó con un destino:
Peña y Uriburu, bajo un diluvio, cuando recebí las primeras llaves para abrir esta vida nueva.
Florida y Mitre, los jueves a las 18:30, sentado en el segundo piso tomando un café y conversando con mi pareja de intercambio.
Calle 5 y Calle 6 donde sentía el temor de meterme con la frontera de la villa 31.
Santa Fe y Riobamba donde observé un cacerolaso antes de juntarme con los demás. Marché a la Plaza, tapa y cuchara en mano. Los golpeé al ritmo de ser un argentino animado y armado con la pasión de protestar.

La pasión se convierte en la rivalidad, una especialidad de esta ciudad.
De Boca y River, Freddo y Volta, Nación y Clarín, bondis y tachos, centro y suburbio, soberbio y decente, lomo y bife, tinto y blanco, la movida y la aurora.

En Buenos Aires vivía días de dos horas.
Dos a la mañana en la sala de musculación, entrenando.
Dos a la tarde en un aula con mujeres listas, hablando una lengua viva.
Dos después en un café, leyendo obras de escritores en español.

Un día en que si no hoy, hay mañana, y si no mañana, pasado mañana está bien también.
Una ciudad de onda, con sedución y sin presión.
Servicio no punctual, sino relajado al lento paso de un tango.

Algunas veces los pasos aumentan. Los cartels me advierten:
Sólo en efectivo
Colabore con cambio
No hay monedas
No se vaya sin factura
Cierre la puerta
Descienda por atrás
Mantenga distancia

Está alerta por acá.
Mirá por donde pisás, no sólo por las veredas agrietadas.
Entre robos y paros, demonstraciones e inundaciones, hay un menú de los quilombos del día.
Sueldos fijos, precios subidos, monedas desaparecidas.
El coro de bocinas Microcentrinas, la sirena de SAME, el silbido del Subte.
El humo de un 60, la neblina del campo.
¡Pará!
A pesar de respirar días difíciles, el mal olor se transformaba en un buen amor.
Aires siempre eran Buenos.

Tal vez sea optimista con placeres sencillos:
El beso de encuentro y partida.
Una gota de Persico con coco y dulce de leche con brownie.
La aroma del maní garrapiñada flotando en el aire.
La sensación de verde en la Plaza San Martín, cubierta en las hojas y la mansarda.
Un paseo por el Palacio de Aguas Corrientes donde un suspiro siempre se me escapaba.
Una vista nocturna del Obelisco, el clave blanco anclado en el corazón de la capital.
La madera de la Línea A, cuyas carrozas viejas se desplazan bajo de la tierra.
La luz negra dentro del colectivo 109, viajando por Viamonte a la madrugada
Las calles empedradas con sus fachadas pintadas.
Los graffitis y el arte callejero que busqué a pie por Barracas y Constitución a San Telmo.
El código del lunfardo y las muletillas de “che” y “boludo.”
Los tiempos cuando una señora me llamó “joven” o un camerero me saludó “caballero.”
Los almuerzos ejecutivos con una copa de tinto y dos bochas al final.

Ahora estoy en un café cualquiera.
Me siento solo, pero acompañado con un tostado mixto y licuado de banana – siempre con leche.
Escribo estos pensamientos sobre el volante de “Mi Matute,” mi pizzeria preferida donde pedía en persona una criolla para evitar equivocarme por teléfono.

Escribo como el periodista que no voy a ser,
Como el poeta que no sabía que era.
Palabras, lágrimas y recuerdos llenan la página, fundidos como el jamón y queso en el plato.
Esta es la ciudad que yo veía, donde yo vivía, porteño, por un poco.

El fin de la travesía se acerca.
De Buenos Aires me voy, dejando buenos tiempos y la vida tranquila.
Espera el próximo capítulo.
Extingo este fuego lento que creció.
El humo reaparece.
Pero esta vez huele bien.
Bien dulce.

Kawagoe

2008-04-30T08:00:00.003-04:00

Less than an hour from Tokyo, "Little Edo" (小江戸) is a throwback to what bigger Edo might have looked like. A beloved bell tower, the city's symbol, presides over a well-preserved block of distinctive black kurazukuri (fireproof merchant houses). Nearby, dozens of confectionery shops do brisk business from passing sweet tooths. Cherry blossom season is an especially rewarding time to explore Kawagoe´s landscaped temples.

Click here for more pictures of Kawagoe (川越).

The Away Game

2008-02-10T21:35:00.000-05:00

During my first year in Japan, I went to a professional baseball game with two students. A year later, I returned to the bleachers, but this time to watch my students take the field. High school baseball in Japan is like college basketball in America: fiercely local and competitive, and more followed than the professionals. Koshien, a national high school tournament, is like March Madness twice a year.

Shin Gakko has a reputation for sporting excellence. For example, women’s handball is one of the top programs in the nation, and a source of talent for the Japanese national team. The SG baseball machine is also a force on the field. Whereas some Tokyoites I met didn’t recognize the city ward (borough) in which I worked my first year, the name Shin Gakko in the suburbs rang a bell because of their success at Koshien. The potential for my students of today to become the professional stars of tomorrow wasn’t a trite exaggeration. This baseball squad was better trained than some national armies. Year-round practice, sometimes twice daily, cultivated a fighting spirit unleashed on a diamond battlefield.

Loaded bats rested on young shoulders. If the well-stocked trophy cases outside of the principal’s office were anything to go by, sports was the pride of the school, its reputation staked to athletic success. A strong Koshien performance counted for more than the exam scores of the other 2,000 students. Some teachers bowed to these crew-cut stars in spite of less than stellar academics, but I didn’t have to force favorites – their receptive attitude towards English made me an instant fan.

At the beginning of the school year, my enthusiasm still bubbly, I imagined myself being that loyal teacher in the bleachers. Visible and vocal, I’d earn a reputation of supporting students outside of the classroom while gaining respect inside it.

Language and logistical barriers, however, sidelined that lofty ideal. Just pinpointing ever-changing game locations proved a challenge. In space-starved Japan, the school’s only field was a fenced-in dirt patch where handball, soccer, track and tennis teams practiced, often simultaneously. As a result, baseball games were held off-site. Those on the weekend were both hours from home and sometimes beyond the reach of public transportation. And reporting to work every other Saturday only increased my desire for distance from school-related activities. Instead of becoming the regular I aspired, I barely made a cameo.

I wouldn’t have even managed one game without active recruitment from Kijo. The second baseman and I had been talking about the upcoming game against Bunryo H.S. for weeks, at a clip of one sentence per day. A morning update from Kijo was part of my routine. I’d punch in at 8:11 a.m. and change into “indoor” shoes that carried me across the concrete courtyard to an 8:15 meeting. Two stories above the courtyard, the 12th grader leaned out of a window to inspect the flood of uniformed foot traffic clomping towards classrooms. I stood out for my size.

“Gooood morning!” Kijo saluted from above. I signaled a silent response. He then cupped his outstretched hand skyward to detect any drops.

“The weather is fine today,” he concluded with a smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial.

Actually, the sky was a miserable grey, but in Kijo’s world the sun was always shining. He had a class president’s persona – affable and outgoing among friends while respectful and studious for teachers. During a year when I struggled to cultivate classroom interest in English, Kijo was a refreshing exception. He initiated conversation in English, and used proper grammar without perversions. From this window we forged a friendship.

If only he had been my student. Those of my own had no appetite for English. Only running the mile seemed to draw longer faces. Yet among the bright spots of talent, lights few and far between, were those with mitts packed among their textbooks.

“Baseball game against Bunryo is in two weeks,” Kijo reminded with a wave before shifting his attention to a teammate below.

He did more than just remind me. He created a color-coded map labeled in English. It highlighted the way from school to the game with times and transfers for a series of trains unfamiliar to me. Yet my confidence in the cartographer faltered at rural Asaka station, the last stop on my map. A distinction between east and west exits was not labeled among the landmarks. Before I bet on one direction, I saw something familiar, but not from the map.

It was a short navy skirt with gray socks pulled up to the knees. Uniforms were required when attending school-related events, even on weekends, a protocol I suddenly praised. I was relieved to run into Manami at the station. Actually, it was more like I ran after her. I followed her familiar uniform from a distance, hoping she would show me the way.

At first I thought she sensed the stalker in me, leading me in circles through the station. It turned out she was just as lost, so I blew my cover to combine our resources – my illustrated map with her native tongue. Although in Kijo’s grade, she didn’t share his fluency. After six years of study she couldn’t string together two words in English.

After walking for 15-minutes in silence, a stadium came into sight. Manami and I entered side-by-side, dropping the jaws of the student ticket takers and drawing stares from parents handing out programs. I smirked off the attention as Manami led the way to our seats.

Inside, school supports took sides. Each section fired up its team with a repertoire of chants, honking trombones and pails of water sloshed on supporters after a run scored. I recognized Shin Gakko students and their band along the third base line. Not sure if off-duty teachers were welcome in the cheering corral, I tagged along behind Manami to the general seating and parent area behind home plate where two of her friends were waiting. The bands blared fight songs to introduce what would be a battle of a game.

Emerging from the dugout in uniforms crisp and white, these teenagers looked like minor leaguers taking the field. A scoreboard flickered to life, and a female announcer introduced the first batter to one-sided applause. Speedy centerfielder Shintaro Nishida stepped to the plate. The hardened looks on players’ faces spread to the spectators. Lines were drawn; everyone dug in.

Shin Gakko knocked in four runs that first inning, but I didn’t recognize any of the batters. Although I taught a number of students on the team, most were sophomores who went through the same punishing drills during daily practice, but watched their elders compete until age privileged them to perform. Kijo, although a senior, seemed not to be in the lineup, but I spotted his white smile around the dugout high-fiving teammates who had scored.

During the 7th inning stretch, players raked the dirt infield. In the stands, mothers busied themselves dispensing paper cups of tea to thirsty supports resting their voices that had quieted since the first inning outburst; we were now down by a run. An offensive reawakening in the 8th inning, however, prompted me to write this column for a newspaper designed for non-native English speakers.

After the game I sought out Kijo to congratulate him on the victory. Before I could get to the throng of players, I bumped into
Principal Ouchy who, in his standard suit and tie, at first didn’t recognize me in a backwards baseball hat and jeans. Elation from the late-inning heroics masked any grumble of disapproval. After all, his school’s reputation was safe for another week.

After recording the final out, Shin Gakko's team (in white, left) rushes to the batter's box where both teams will bow to each other.

Snow Gleaming

2008-01-31T20:00:00.000-05:00

A year ago I called in sick to work while boarding a plane to Hokkaido, Japan's northernmost island. I was bound for frosty Sapporo, the site of an international snow sculpture festival and the hope of the eponymous beer. During my week up north, I detoured to the fishing port of Otaru, which was holding its own wintry festival that I recently wrote up below.

A Year When...

2008-01-13T21:00:00.000-05:00

Finally I got up. The Germans, Israelis, Bolivians and Argentines were already on their feet, glasses held high with anticipation. We gathered around folding tables littered with cow bones and side dishes reduced to lettuce shreds and tomato seeds at Hostel Exxes’ year-end barbecue.

Grillmaster Juan Pablo and younger brother Fernando stood armed and ready with shaken bottles of champagne aimed at the group. Paula, one of the Bolivian girls who later dragged me out to Club 21, leaned over to say she couldn’t wait to bid despedida al año 2007.

On TV, a man wearing a funny hat was also excited. Jumbo purple numbers ticked down over his face. 10…9…8…I wished for an action movie ending. The kind where the cord is cut, the code is cracked. In this intervention of mine, time doesn’t expire; it rewinds. Sand defies gravity and refills the empty hourglass of 2007.

Someday, after many more inversions of the yearly hourglass, after double knee replacement surgery, and after white hairs have rooted in my ears, I will wish upon time to transport me back to the year just passed.

A year when I operated cell phones in three different languages.

A year when I spent more time abroad than most people do in a lifetime, but managed to reconnect with friends and family at home.

A year when I took almost 12,000 photographs of global subjects as diverse as a sign of democracy in a repressive regime
to the world’s leading icon of liberty.

A year when I switched countries like TV channels.

A year when I had a full-time job for just three months,
but never worked harder in my life.

A year when English was often my second language.

A year when not only did I follow dreams, but lived them in vivid colors. In vivid cultures. In vivid company.

A year when, if only for a day, I considered life as a single father.

A year when every calendar page was torn off in a different city,
a different county.

A year that began on the quiet Indonesian beaches of Gili Air and ended at a festive Argentine asado in the city of Salta.

A year that was 2007.

My Hollywood ending never materialized. Now in 2008, I’ve surrendered to the measured march of time, but remembrance remains forever mine. Crisp photos. Fresh flashbacks. Lessons of life indelibly etched in my memory.

I have many people to thank for inspiring me during journeys far and wide, but gratitude shouldn't be expressed as a laundry list. Some can’t read English. Others can’t reach a computer. To you who do, I post this at the risk of coming across as maudlin, even arrogant. To the contrary. Had you viewed the year through my lens, you too would wish 2007 eternal.

JANUARI: GILI ISLANDS ❖ INDONESIAN PARADISE

2月: JAPAN ❖ SAPPORO SNOW FESTIVAL

3月: 東京教師のたいしょく ❖ EARLY RETIREMENT

TAGU: MYANMAR ❖ PROFOUND SIMPLICITY

พฤษภาคม: THAILAND ❖ BANGKOK & BEACHES

JUNE: NEW HAMPSHIRE ❖ COLLEGE REUNION

7月: 東京最終ツアー ❖ TOKYO FINAL TOUR

ÁGÚST: ICELAND ❖ RAW BEAUTY

SEPTEMBER: NY ❖ HOME AT LAST

OCTUBRE: ARGENTINA ❖ ADVENTURE ANEW

NOVIEMBRE: BUENOS AIRES ❖ DíAS BUENOS

DICIEMBRE: SALTA & JUJUY PROVINCES ❖ DREAMSCAPES

Feliz Año Nuevo a todos.

Phi Phi Paradise

2007-12-26T07:00:00.000-05:00

To coincide with the three year anniversary of the Indian Ocean tsunami,
I wrote an article about my visit to Thailand's Phi Phi islands to evaluate how well Ko Phi Phi Don has gotten back on its feet following unspeakable loss.

For more photos of a paradise rebuilt, click here.

La Mucama Esmeralda

2007-12-17T07:30:00.000-05:00

Mucama is the Argentine word for a female servant, but I like ama de llaves, literally woman of the keys. Whatever keeper of the house lingo you prefer, I am of course talking about my criada, the maid. Esmeralda comes Tuesdays at 10, a time I mark on my calendar as a reminder to leave extra early for Spanish class to avoid the awkward encounter between servant and master. At a hotel would you enjoy room service with your feet up and television on while the morning maids put your room in order? Since I’ve never met my empleada dómestica, I actually don’t know her name, but imagine that Esmeralda fits just fine.

Apartment rentals in Buenos Aires commonly include once-a-week cleaning. Although I keep neat on my own accord, I won’t pass up a free scrub of the scrum lining the toilet and sink. Ironically, if you want to find my apartment at its cleanest, knock at 9:45 on Tuesdays. I feel compelled to leave my place in good condition before hired help does the job for me.

I get Esmeralda off to a running start. Grocery bags full of trash are put out in the hall next to the garbage shoot. Boxes of crackers and granola bars are aligned. Apples are stacked. Dishes are cleaned and placed in the drying rack. Crumbs from tablecloth and hairs from bathmat are released into the morning air off the sixth-story balcony. Bathroom and bed-making duties, however, remain squarely in Esmeralda’s domain.

Spooked by tales of low-paid crooked maids, I lockdown the apartment before leaving. All electronic devices are stowed inside my suitcase, such as a MacBook Pro 2GHz laptop, Canon XTi DSLR camera and Oral B 7400 toothbrush. The last is done more out of concern that Esmeralda will knock the bristly vibrator off its perch on the mirror’s ledge, switching me to manual twice a day from here on out.

I vacate no later than 9:55, and walk 45 minutes downtown to my 11:00 class. When I return by 2 p.m., I can tell that Esmeralda has worked her magic. The balcony door is ajar; curtains billow in the breeze. But upon closer inspection – sink and toilet aside – the magic is an illusion. The bed smiles with hospital corners, but the floor is crunchy from whatever she kicked up underneath while making it.

Had Esmeralda bothered to sweep, she would have treated herself to the dollar’s worth of pesos I discovered when surveying the filth under the bed. Instead, I pocket the change as compensation, slipping golden coins into my bag to pay for tomorrow morning’s subway ride downtown.

Esmeralda has also failed other tests I devised following that first peek under the bed. The apartment has a mini moth problem – small in physical size and scope – not big enough to warrant redecorating with balls of naphthalene, but just annoying enough to make me give chase while clapping my hands.

For those unfortunate to have been caught up in my standing ovation, I use their powdery remains as checkpoints to evaluate Esmeralda’s thoroughness, or lack thereof. Yes, I deposit dead moths at strategic locations around the apartment: by the telephone, on top of the television, next to the nightstand lamp. Yet, there is no change come Tuesday afternoon. Just as moth remains lie undisturbed, so does Mel the (living, and usually sleeping) spider in his web-bed corner behind the bathroom door.

An army of Esmeraldas with buckets and brooms makes a small, hard-earned living cleaning up after foreigners able to afford to best of Buenos Aires by day and night. Where is the time or motivation to deep clean dozens of apartments in one day, all grander than hers somewhere out in Lomas de Zamora or Villa 31? The prism of cursory service casts a spectrum of valuations. For me, coming home and seeing sunshine strike the straightened comforter feels special that someone has been in while I’ve been out, no matter how helter-skelter the toiletries now are in the bathroom.

After hand-exterminating another moth fluttering around my closet (and laying it to rest on the stereo’s power button), I unlock electronics from my luggage and boot up the computer. I open the calendar and highlight the following Tuesday, marking it as Día de Esmeralda.

Asimilación

2007-11-28T17:27:00.000-05:00

TOP 15 SIGNS I’M TURNING ARGENTINE

15. Making small talk with merchants about latest national football result.
14. Wishing I had a billfold of 20s instead of 100s for which nobody has change.
13. Listening to wistful tango tunes on Internet radio streams.
12. Navigating ankle-twisting sidewalks in stride, although not necessarily with grace.
11. Lingering in cafés over croissants and mint mocha lattes for three hours.
10. Showing up to parties two hours late, but still being two hours early.
9. Hailing the bus, and later, executing a moving dismount when it slows but doesn’t stop to disgorge passengers.
8. Kissing strangers hello/good-bye on the cheek.
7. Pronouncing double Ls like drawn-out Js.
6. Shaving four-day-old stubble in four more days.
5. Eating every edible part of a cow at some point during the week.
4. Doing day’s to-do list sometime this week…or next.
3. Getting home by 04:00 qualifies as an early night.
2. Caving into cravings for ½ lb. servings of ice cream at Freddo, Moretto, Persico, Un Altra Volta, that mom & pop shop on the corner.
1. Looking up at blue skies from palm-shaded streets lined with European-inspired facades. Absorbing uninterrupted sunshine. Pressing pause on the game of life to appreciate that I could have landed on a far worse level…and that it’s time for #2.

Celebration of Skin

2007-11-15T23:00:00.000-05:00

People ask why I chose Buenos Aires, and not some other cosmopolitan Latin American capital where a strong dollar makes living light on the savings. One reason is that, well, Managua or La Paz aren’t home to an important Jewish Diaspora. Buenos Aires, on the other hand, has the only kosher McDonald’s outside of Israel. Although not observant by any stretch of the imagination, when starting from scratch (again) in another international city, I at least hoped to have religion as a common thread to tie me into local life should I feel too displaced. It turns out I didn’t have to go far to find it – religion found me.

Heading out for a midnight snack, I left my apartment wearing an Israeli Defense Forces t-shirt. I was just going down the block to Volta for a quarter kilogram (half a pound) of heavenly gelato flavors like dulce de leche con brownie, cream of almonds con caramelized almonds and tiramisu con real chunks of cake.

After crossing the street at my own risk at Junín and Peña (more on this later), a man on the corner with a black hat and bushy beard said something to me in what I guessed was Hebrew. Seeing the confusion in my eyes, he switched to Castilian (Spanish), but got the same look before making a connection with me in English.

After admitting I was Jewish, Rafael the rabbi asked me what I knew about Jabad Lubavitch. The blank looks resumed, so he tried making a connection to some famous rabbi in Brooklyn.

“Don’t you know Brooklyn!” he demanded, hoping I would say yes to something.

My ignorance prompted him to reconfirm my identity with questions like “Were you born in New York?” “Is your mother Jewish?” and “Did you have a bar mitzvah?” After I regained his confidence, he returned to the rabbi questions, digging into his wallet lined with large bills to find a creased black and white photo of a rabbi I still didn’t recognize.

“Without the beard and black hat, he sort of looks like the Pope,” I said sheepishly. Rafael inhaled a large breath of disappointment. But I wasn't totally a lost cause, just a work in progress. We exchanged numbers so that he could invite me over to temple sometime.

A week after the chance encounter my cell rang. I didn’t recognize the number or voice.

“Heyyyy Jeff man, what’s up?”

The hearty, American-sounding greeting caught me off guard. My first thought was a surprise call from a fraternity brother now in Zambia, but who didn’t have my number even if he found a working phone to dial South America.

Rabino Rafael wanted to see what I was doing the next night because there was some celebration at the synagogue. After greeting me in English, he had defaulted back to Spanish, a stronger tongue. I thought I understood him well enough, but sought confirmation of the odd, unexpected invitation.

“So, I can attend the event where they do the skin cutting of the dick?” I asked in suave Spanish, which turned heads on the express line at Disco, a supermarket chain I initially mistook for a record store.

“The boy’s father would love it if you attended,” the rabbi said as I stepped out of line to add to my basket, wondering what sort of gift would be most appropriate to mark the occasion – bottle of Malbec, jar of formaldehyde or Swiss Army knife.

Hanging up the phone, I felt strangely excited to attend my first bris (well, technically my second). Whereas growing up in New York I’d cook up any excuse to skip Wednesday night Hebrew school or marathon High Holiday services, here in Buenos Aires I couldn’t be too choosy with company, at least not at the outset. Having Tuesday night plans other than eating cold pizza in my apartment was comforting, even if I was only going down the street to temple to celebrate foreskin removal. There I could meet locals, practice Spanish and score points with Dios all at the same time.

Uncertainty, however, undercut excitement. I already grit my teeth when trying to communicate with porteños, most frequently when I present a basket of goods to Disco’s mumbling clerks. Discomfort would double at an Argentine temple where, with a yarmulke on my head, it would be expected that I'd be versed in hymns and traditions when the sad truth is that I’m all but illiterate unless Wikipedia is a click away. Worst case scenarios swirled in my mind. What if Rafael asked me to lead a prayer? To bless the wine. Break the bread. Cut the skin. All I could muster would a blessing for Chanukah candles.

The next evening as I made my way to temple, I paused where Peña intersects Junín in free form. Although not even a blip on the city’s grid of poorly controlled streets, I take no comfort as drivers speed up to these crosswalks like a finish line in their race to beat traffic. Barreling down Junín, a convoy of buses belches black smoke while cars shoot across Peña without so much as a stop sign to regulate right of way. When the screeching of tires interrupts my dreams, my mind flashes to this intersection where a black and yellow taxicab (no doubt driving without headlights) has stopped on a peso to avoid driving through the side of bus #101.

An elderly man stood at the corner, looking dapper but apparently not seeing much. Sensing that someone was beside him, he spoke up. Before I could process the translation, he hooked his arm around mine and marched us across the street. I threw up my free arm in hopes of slowing a cab and Fiat running neck and neck to the finish line.

It turned out that the gentleman and I were headed to the same place. The bris, minus the baby’s robotic wails from a different dimension of pain, was a festive event followed by an appetizing spread of finger food and sweets. Rafael introduced me to the head rabbi, and we all did a shot of Smirnoff. For someone who can’t remember the last time he had been to temple, I look forward to making it twice in one week for Shabbat dinner.

La Vida Nueva

2007-10-31T22:00:00.000-04:00

The New Life.

Author’s note:
Three months after saying sayonara to Japan, I began a new chapter on another continent. Hurdles previously cleared were resurrected to adapt to a different language at an opposite latitude. Japan was truly a mystifying experience, through which writing helped me better understand. The urge to share vagaries of another life abroad – seemingly less foreign than before – has waned. So too has the conviction to chronicle. However, rather than remaining silent, I hope to occasionally write vignettes on universal themes. Think more along the lines of neighbors and universities instead of adventures of fishy dinners and naughty school children.

Fresh musings will be posted here on Tokyo Tanenhaus, but under the label of “Argentina.” I do not wish to uproot an identity cultivated in Asia to sow a distinct South American one. These feet will never forget the maze-like streets and subways of Tokyo, even if they learn to tango. As my virtual fingerprint, this blog charts growth like tree rings, each line detailing an adventure or achievement. There is no need to plant a new tree in Argentina; new will sprout from old. As tales from the Far East remain in the works, expect a mixed species.

For now I’ll begin with the soggy day when I touched down in Buenos Aires. Will la vida nueva become la vida Buena? I have six months to figure it out along with everything else that comes with unpacking in another end of the world.

EZE did not live up to its hassle-free-sounding airport code. Ezeiza’s terminal felt like a further step down from the illogically designed Miami International Airport where I had stopped en route from New York to Buenos Aires. Expecting a light dinner at American Airlines’ Admirals Club for which I had a free pass, I instead washed down dry carrot sticks and stale mini-pretzels with cold tap water. This spread was a far cry from the airline’s Narita lounge that served up smoked salmon sandwich squares, wrapped rice balls and self-serve draft beer and liquor free of charge. I hoped it wasn’t a metaphorical sign of the transition to come from life in Asia to that in South America.

A squat security guard blocked the staircase down to immigration where a crush of people were already corralled towards rubber stampers inside glass booths. The man held back a growing tide of sputtering passengers deplaning from two 777s. The other had arrived from Berlin, home to tongues that always sound sputtering to me. In line for the better part of an hour gave me time to dream of a hypothetical childhood as a soccer-loving youth in the squalor of Asunción. Carrying a Paraguayan passport at least would have qualified for the Mercosur speed line.

Unlike my once jittery arrival at Tokyo Narita, there were no probing questions about my intentions or intended length of stay in Argentina. The agent actually asked if I wanted a tourist visa; maybe I should have inquired about the alternatives.

The untiled, unlit baggage claim felt like a flea market. People shouted from behind wheeled carts piled high. I salvaged two bags, one weighing 58 pounds, and queued again. Customs’ x-ray machines were the size and speed of dinosaurs, combing for contraband but eliciting only deep sighs from already harried passengers.

Transfer to a prearranged apartment downtown was smoother thanks to a prearranged taxi service. Francisco, an amiable porteño in his 60s, seemed eager to chat. He encouraged me, despite my rusted Spanish, to ask him any question about anything in the city. I was pretty good at Spanish in high school, but that was ten years ago in a classroom with a teacher paid to praise. Now in the real world, I started slowly by asking his favorite place in the city. He responded, “everywhere,” but singled out the botanical gardens for being particularly pleasant.

Airport cab rides slowed in traffic tend to kindle the usual 20 questions. Among my answers riddled with grammatical errors were a few blatant blunders, such as introducing myself as “a desk” instead of “a writer” and admitting that I looked forward to meeting “little girls” out in the city’s vibrant nightlife.

Francisco thought my Spanish was good enough for only learning it in school. He said that kids study English here, but can’t string together much of a conversation after exams. I told him I was acutely aware of this reality having taught English in Japan for two years.

We drove past a barricaded National Congress where the asphalt was sprayed white with political messages to Argentina’s elected leaders. As balconied facades assumed more European elegance, Francisco said that my address in Recoleta was in the nicest neighborhood of the city, which affirmed what every guidebook had said about this Parisian-inspired area with doormanned lobbies and shaded sidewalks smeared with poodle poop. Francisco pulled up to a door (sans a man) on Peña Street. We wrestled my luggage out of the boot and onto the sidewalk. He then bid me an enthusiastic farewell, tooting the horn while the taxi purred off in the pouring rain.

The lift to the sixth floor was a cage-like elevator with double manual doors. The apartment owner’s mother and agency representative greeted me for the ceremonial contract signing and rent payment. A brief tour of the one-bedroom apartment ensued. During a demonstration in the kitchen, flames roared out of the side of the gas oven. They’d have it fixed, I was told, but in the meantime I was to play it safe by using only the front burner. Another ominous sign was the sinister blue flame of the water heater continually burning through an exposure in the tank.

Not one to cook, I was far more concerned about the Internet connection, my lifeline to the world. Once I got that up and running, I sat down and pondered my fate in a city where I suddenly had nothing to do and nobody to do it with. I celebrated freedom by redecorating – small touches to make an already furnished home feel homier. For example, I programmed the microwave’s clock and converted an empty bidet into a bowlful of toiletries. After all, Americans are far too civilized to need to wash the dirtiest part of the body after use.

The reason behind bidet storage arrangement was that I dared not rest anything on the sink, which threatens to topple from the weight of anything more than a soap dish. The bathroom has proven more problematic than the kitchen. I blew out the light during a wet run of the toilet, and then snapped a plug inside a socket. Sturdier is the entrance door that has more deadbolts than a bank’s vault. And I thought this was the good neighborhood?

Now to some advice for anyone moving to an unfamiliar place: pack lots of chocolate. Like 58 pounds worth. It won’t spoil and gives needed much-needed energy and comfort when you can’t forage anything else to eat because you are too exhausted or disoriented to leave your kitchen.

Today chocolate is especially apropos. Unlike the tricks I engaged in last year, Halloween in Buenos Aires passed uncelebrated. Instead, I’ll deliver treats – images from one of the world’s coolest cemeteries, a necropolis just down my street, which has turned out to be the rotten road of Recoleta….

Entrance to my apartment building.

Color Coordinated

2007-10-21T21:00:00.000-04:00

I've previously blogged about autumn's beauty in Japan. In 2005, I delighted in Nikko's seasonal transformation. A year later I strolled through Kyoto and Uji for an even more impressive pageantry. This year I put it all together (thanks to some armchair research) and came up with the top 10 spots for foliage viewing across Japan. The result is a subdued but sophisticated spread in Japan's elite cultural magazine, J Select.

My Summer Vacation

2007-09-20T01:46:00.000-04:00

September spells the end of freedom for students, and the beginning of grading My Summer Vacation journals if you’re an English teacher at Shin Gakko. Back in June I asked Egg Man, the department chair, what assignment we should give our ESL charges over their six week break.

“You mean like some kind of homework?” he asked like I had suggested going against the laws of physics. Apparently such a concept was unthinkable, or at best, discouraged. Above Egg Man’s doubts, I recommended a journal project as an easy, open-ended assignment for students to document their summer vacations. Educational merit aside, I was deeply curious about what the little buggers were doing with their newfound free time.

I designed a booklet with six pages, each split in half. Knowing that there were more cartoonists than wordsmiths among the rows of silent mouths drooling on desks, the top half of each sheet was left blank for optional drawings, photos or newspaper clippings. Double wide lines ruled the bottom half; five short sentences could easily fill the space.

Although originally intended for only my three classes, the assignment quickly won converts across the department. Egg Man ordered hundreds of additional copies; now all 14 high school English sections would be journaling this summer. Such a progressive assignment seemed like a good idea at the time, even at the risk of losing popularity among the moaning students. When school resumed in late August, however, a challenging stack of journals awaited my red pen and its refill of ink.

Scribbles of English were so incomprehensible that I had to limit myself to a dozen journals a day or risk fluid swelling in my brain. Out of more than 500 pages reviewed, my hand-picked favorites are reproduced below. These essays stand out for the lyrical simplicity of their prose that makes for a rhythmic and poetic read even if results run well wide of the grammatical mark. Without any further ado, I present to you:

MY SUMMER VACATION 2006

The summer of Japan must fan. It is very convenient though it is not a wind of nature. Mosquito incense coil. Peculiar shape. Smell. There is an electric type today, too. I thought that the culture of Japan was very wonderful.

It is July 24 today.
Visiting a library on the way.
Children who had been doing the insect removing in the park were seen.
I thought to play in such a wind recently.
Such hot everyday.
It is likely to have to play outside only on such a day.
It was hot today.

First day, we are swimming in the pool and sea on the hotel all day. At night, we have a dinner at the hotel as smorgasbord, which there are Japanese, Chinese, Western food, fruit dessert and various drink and so on.

I went to sea with my littler brother and cousin and uncle and ant. Today is hot. I can few swim. So, I used float ring. I swimming in the sea. Then, I was nearly drowned! the wave was floated my float ring to the shore. I thought die.

August 15 sunny + cloudy
I couldn’t do homework. Because it is very hot today. My room was very hot when I comed from school. I will do homework. But, it is hot today. So I feel a lack of motivation. I think that I want to do cold tomorrow.

August 16 Wednesday
I met an old friend again. He is mother’s boy. I gathered in a house of a friend. I ate curry to lunch. Nose hair stick out. I was very happy on that day.

Today is August twenty three.
I went to school because today was toukoubi. This means go to school day. Teacher talked about new term. I thought that I haven’t finished homework yet. I thought that Vacation has already ended for two weeks. I thought that how early it is!
I thought I sad.

8/31 – It is a day the last in summer vacation today. Homework has not ended yet. I think it is staying up all night today. Please help someone.

For other Engrish entries, have a look back on past compositions at other schools.

Tax Office Jitters

2007-09-09T23:30:00.000-04:00

...Continued from previous post.

The Shinjuku Ward tax office was a nondescript building in a nondescript section of Shinjuku, just beyond the shadows of the district’s celebrated skyscrapers. At first I walked right by, mistaking the four-story structure set back from the road for a school – a class of building molded from a similar concrete cookie-cutter batch.

Inside, the room of bureaucrats silently shuffled papers at retro metal desks under light fixtures yellowed with age. Lines snaked on the worn salmon carpet as people waited to turn in forms I didn’t have and couldn’t read.

Not sure of where to start, I walked up to an unstaffed counter. My strategy for assistance was one of entrapment. Looking helpless becomes an advantage when playing upon the innate sensibilities of the Japanese to deliver superior customer service no matter who the client.

I set myself as bait, standing tall and vigilant. One glance and Hiroshi was hooked. Our eyes met. I reeled him in with a smile and wave of papers (actually just the map the Oracle had circled).

Short spiky hair and acne-scarred cheeks gave him a fresh out of school look. Hiroshi was easily the most junior on the graying staff, and as a result was probably under 9-to-5 orders to serve whoever the wind blew in, such as clueless gaijin like myself.

Even though we couldn’t communicate, he dutifully ushered me to a long table with a wood pattern laminate peeling from the corners. I had seen this before. I flashed back to elementary school lunch tables on which I unwrapped the tinfoil around a PB&J sandwich my mother packed with two Saran-wrapped Oreos and a napkin inside a brown paper bag.

Instead of taking out my lunch, I handed Hiroshi the earnings slip that prompted the Oracle to steer me here. Turning in the paper was like loading batteries into a robot. Hiroshi sprung into action, picking up a form that looked like an accountant’s crossword puzzle. He plugged numbers into formulas, tapped on a calculator and juggled the results into rows of white boxes.

“Maybe you owe money!” echoed the Oracle’s haunting forecast.

That outcome worried me. Here I was going out of my way to do the right thing, and I prayed to be rewarded with a tax payout, not punished with penalty for a balance due. I watched Hiroshi’s tabulations with the fixation of a tennis line judge. Refund, refund, refund, I chanted to myself, holding my breath for the sum to settle. Totals climbed with additions and tumbled with subtractions. I felt like I was on some kind of personal finances game show hanging on to see which way the balance would tip.

¥26,820. Hiroshi put his pen down. Positive or negative? I sought clarification in his eyes, but he directed them towards his senior who had appeared behind him to supervise the calculations and translate the result into English.

“This number is your refund,” the man said of my approximately $240 windfall.

I exhaled. In my next breath I naively asked for my winnings in cash, drawing laughter from both employees. A casino this was not.

As I scribbled my bank account information on a deposit form, another sheet of paper appeared. It was a letter – in English and addressed to someone else. Apparently I had to do some off-the-books work to secure my money. No matter what a foreigner’s occupation in Japan, no one is immune from at least some degree of teaching English. Spontaneous tutoring arises without warning and in unusual places, like here at the local tax office. I ignored irregular capitalization as I proofread the letter about a foreigner’s double filing mistake. When I, too, rested my pen, we traded bowing thanks over the long table.

Outside the rain had stopped, and the pavement gleamed under thinning clouds. On my way home I decided to stop by the Oracle to share news of my good fortune.

The Oracle of Shinjuku

2007-08-31T23:30:00.000-04:00

“There are only two things you have to do in life to be a good citizen,” the Honorable Justice Evans pleaded to the half-filled central juror room at County Courthouse. “Pay taxes and do jury duty.”

After two postponements, there I was reporting for duty less than a week after returning from Japan, which doesn’t have such a legal system, but is considering adopting it. In the meantime, were Justice Evans addressing Tokyoites, he might substitute proper disposal of household garbage for jury duty. Paying taxes anywhere is a given, except maybe in Dubai.

As I looked forward to fulfilling civic duty in America, I thought back to qualms I had about shirking it in Japan. I had cleaned up my act on garbage after initial infractions. And I never had to think about taxes since they were automatically deducted from my teacher’s paycheck.

Complacency with being a good foreign resident changed with the arrival of an official envelope from the Shinjuku office of Tokyo’s city government. Not lost among its thick contents covered in small, indecipherable characters was a bolded bottom line: ¥104,200 with four pay stubs for ¥26,050 each. I only had to read numbers to know I had debts equivalent to $900 due two weeks before I departed.

With time of the essence, I sought a one-stop authority. I asked for an audience with the Oracle. Unlike her predecessors from ancient Greece, China and Mesopotamia, this glasses-rimmed granny didn’t look particularly divine behind a bare desk with a nine button telephone.

And rather than “ask for an audience,” I simply walked into the Shinjuku ward office. Nonetheless, her advice was not to be taken lightly. She dispensed such wisdom that I consulted this bilingual bureaucrat four times in my final two weeks. To her, it was a day job. To me, a personal concierge ready to tackle the nitty gritty of getting a pension refund or recycling a water-logged laptop. Charged with helping Japanese-challenged foreigners figure out affairs, the Oracle became a lifeline to wrapping things up in Japan before I shipped myself back to New York.

Frustration preceded reverence. With a grasp of two languages and within reach of a telephone, the Oracle delivered a painful reading at my first consultation. She decoded the suspicious envelope, which was an unwelcome parting present for residence tax owed. While coincidence rather than prescience delivered the bill before my checking out, its bottom line could not be ignored before my imminent departure.

The Oracle was not sympathetic. “You must pay now” became her patented response to each sour face I threw up in opposition to parting with such a hard earned sum.

Pouting to the Oracle would get me no where, but another foreigner waiting in the Oracle’s on-deck chair offered advice of his own. A Japan veteran, the Ph.D. student gently interrupted to explain how changes in tax laws had hit everyone hard. Residence tax in particular had skyrocketed. He knew of people who owed double or triple what they had paid last year.

“But I didn’t pay anything last year!” I cried.

“That’s because your first year in Japan is free,” he said. I was getting nailed for my second year just days before I left for good. He understood the temptation. From the corner of his mouth he insinuated for me to drag out the installments for as long as possible, and to leave without saying good-bye, especially not to anyone official. The Oracle observed the exchange while brooding from her seat.

To pay or not to pay wasn’t the question. It was a matter of how much. Posts from online forums steered wannabe evaders to pay just enough to keep names off the top of the delinquent pile on the tax collector’s desk. I wrestled with how much was just enough. One installment? Two? Or get installments further subdivided and pay even less before slipping away.

I couldn’t block out the Oracle’s uncompromising tone ringing in my ears: “You must pay…you must pay NOW!”

A whispering voice on my other shoulder countered, “Drag it out for as looooong as pooossible.”

Battle lines were drawn in a fight for my morality. Rules were rules, but the Oracle’s do-right demands were hollow; if I wasn’t renewing my visa to stay longer, there was no mechanism to force my compliance before jetting off for good. In the unlikely event that immigration asked for proof of payment, I might be detained until I cleared my name. According to the online community, the specter of such a scenario was about as remote as locusts descending upon the concrete of Tokyo.

Here at the end of my Japan adventures, however, I felt a moral imperative to do right. After all, hadn’t I broken enough laws in this honesty first, by-the-book country? The number of smiling lies I fed to immigration about my intentions for visiting. The three months I taught on a tourist visa. The mega amounts of prescription drugs I smuggled in my luggage to avoid headaches from customs and monthly shipping charges from overseas. To make up for the past, my conscious was guilting me into full compliance.

A few days later I decided to pay the Oracle another visit. A smile of recognition gave way to an eye of suspicion.

I confessed immediately. “I already paid one installment!” It was due before I left, so paying that one was never in question.

I already knew the Oracle’s stance on the rest. Yet I was here for a different issue – getting a refund for payments I made into the national pension scheme. I showed her an assortment of confusing paperwork. One small slip of paper caught her attention. It was an earnings and tax statement from the current year. The Oracle revealed that if I was leaving, I might qualify for an income tax refund, but only the national tax office could tell me for sure. This building housed, among other departments, the tax office for Shinjuku ward where my residence tax would be collected.

A pension and income tax refund would help offset losses from the remaining installments of residence tax. I would be doing everything by the book while reducing the blow to the balance in my bank account.

Just then, the Oracle had a second thought. Storm clouds massed outside.

“But maybe you must owe more taxes,” she warned. “I don’t know.”

Thunder crackled. Lighting flashed. It rained locusts. The thought of voluntarily walking into the income tax office and coughing up more money made me choke, but the Oracle had spoken. I would heed.

She pulled out a map made illegible from countless reproductions, and circled my meeting place with Tokyo’s taxation tribunal. Twenty minutes later I reached their office, and it began to pour.

To be continued….

Ashikaga

2007-08-21T01:25:00.001-04:00

Below is a published recap of a day trip I took with Jen back in January.

To view the Ashikaga photo set, click here.

Afternoon at the Arcade

2007-07-14T23:00:00.000-04:00

I'm no fan of boxing or the bland Ikebukuro district of Tokyo, but the other day I had a little fun with both. Thanks to Michelle for finding this gem, to Jen the videographer, and to my video-skilled sister for pasting it together.

Ka-POW!

On a sad side note, this will be my last post from within Japan proper. Although after two years I have decided to move on, the backlog will ensure the blog's continuation for the foreseeable future.

Bali's Lesser Known Neighbor

2007-07-06T05:00:00.000-04:00

My jumping off point to Triple Paradise was Lombok Island, which is the subject of the article I wrote below. Click it to enlarge.

For the full set of Lombok photos, click here.

Crunch

2007-06-28T14:15:00.000-04:00

I’m pleased to report the reunion (in all its denim) was a success. In the words of Yelena, 2002 class reunion chair, “I just love those jeans on you.” Thanks, Yelena.

The other compliment came from my friend Heather’s psycho freshman year roommate. In the barbecue buffet line, I had my hand on a hot dog bun when hers grabbed my shoulder. I took me a moment to remember who Pam was, but she didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh my gosh, Jeff, you look great! The goatee looks so good on you!”

She wouldn’t have said the same for some of my fraternity brothers who I bumped into at the diner down on Main Street Sunday morning. With bloodshot eyes and stained t-shirts, the three zombies smelled like they had slept in a landfill.

“Hey guys…what’s up?” I asked with hesitation.

Yogi went first. “Odie pissed his car.”

Odie went second. “Yogi broke the lock off the [frat] house with a rock to use the bathroom but hosed himself right there standing up.”

It was Jester’s turn. “I woke up in Butterfield [dormitory]. I have no idea how I got there.”

I surveyed the group with arced eyebrows. Then Odie spoke up, admitting that, yes, after a night of binging on beer pong he passed out inside his Ford Explorer behind the house and lost control of bodily functions.
Jester (left) and Odie exchange paddle slaps after winning a point in pong. They'd both be on the losing end come sunup.

“Yeah, and he also booted all over the driver’s seat!” Yogi volunteered.

"Shut the hell up, Yogi, no I didn't."

There was no denying, however, that Odie had also drained his truck's battery. Yet Yogi and Jester weren’t home free. The SUV (Smelly Urinated Vehicle) was their only ride back to Boston.

* * *

After reliving liquid college memories followed by a week of hosting a Japanese friend (blog entry forthcoming), I found myself sitting aboard American Airlines flight 167 bound for Narita.

During the delay at the gate, I polished off leftover apple pie and a container of chunked melon and strawberries for breakfast. Now past noon, I was ready to snack again. I inflated my air pillow and settled into my coach seat. With legs on this 6’2” frame, I can vouch that American does have more legroom.

I was nibbling my third handful of Snak Club Yogurt ‘N’ Nut Mix when an unusual announcement came over the PA.

“Ladies and gentleman, the mother of a little girl in seat 42B has alerted us that her daughter has an extreme allergy to peanuts. Anyone seated nearby is asked not to eat peanuts.”

I stopped mid-munch. Snak Club had no cholesterol, no preservatives, but plenty of peanuts. Was I the subject of censure?

I glanced up at my seat assignment. 36B. Six rows. How near was near, and was I far enough away from near? How much of a whiff of peanuts was gonna choke the little girl’s throat? What if I left the offending nuts in the bag, could I keep indulging in almonds, raisins, dates and irresistible white chocolate chips – mouthwatering bits of perfection my taste buds suddenly craved at any price? I mean, there were plenty of other little girls on the plane. Healthy ones, too.

My jaw locked shut for fear of contaminating the air with peanut particles, the fallout of which would surely suffocate girl 42B six rows back. I decided to sacrifice for the greater good, and carefully rolled up the plastic bag.

“Excuse me!” barked a voice from behind.

Shit, too late! Wrongful death was my first thought.

Like the airline’s Boeing 777 fleet, Marilyn the flight attendant was an aging hen rolling through the aisle in preparation for take off. Unlike slinky stewardesses on Asian carriers, Marylin and American's girls were probably now grandmothers who had pedaled beverage carts long enough to land the coveted international routes. Grace had worn off years ago. Riveted elbows and sliver hair matched the exterior of the fuselage.

“EXCUSE ME?” she clucked again. “Can you get that? I can’t reach.”

And just like that she resigned herself from closing the overhead bin above me. For the base fare, taxes, security fee and fuel surcharge I paid to sit on my air pillow, I didn’t take kindly to a do-it-yourself attitude from an employee of an airline behind schedule.

She moved along tapping shoulders down the aisle, delegating duties to Chinese and Japanese passengers who couldn’t catch her rushed instructions in English. I did her job and fluffed my cushion. Buckling my belt, I reached for the seat pocket and unleashed the bag of nuts.

Introducing...The Staff

2007-06-20T09:30:00.000-04:00

Generally speaking, the staff here at Shin Gakko is excellent – friendly, tolerant and dedicated to a fault. They treat us foreign teachers as quasi equals even though we are, well, barbarians who break house rules with only casual teaching credentials to our name (i.e. being native English speakers). Below are staff vignettes with Anglicized nicknames to protect the innocent and mock the guilty.

Arlene
Personal secretary to Mr. Ouchy. Never fails to "herro good morning!" me with her only three words of English while we’re riding the elevator to the 8:15 a.m. staff meeting.

Bambi
A dear of a home economics teacher. Young, sweet and single.

Biology Bob
Quirky science teacher I sit next to in the teachers' room. Never seen him eat lunch all year.

The Bento Babes
Three mothers who staff the school canteen (“The Bento Shack”) where bento box lunches and vacuum-sealed breads are the source of lunchtime sustenance when I don’t have time to chow down on Bertha’s cafeteria cooking.

Bertha & the Kitchenettes
Bertha leads this endearing cafeteria cooking crew. Her bright smile, short graying hair, strong forearms and stronger work ethic merit a comparison to a Japanese Rosie the Riveter. The best part of working at Shin Gakko is their bathtub-size curry rice or fatty sauteed beef bowl.

Charles
British co-worker who amuses me with his daily antics in an otherwise by-the-book atmosphere. Once accidentally exposed himself to Gloria.

Commander Kickshit
Overzealous, gruff boy’s P.E. teacher with an impressive wardrobe of matching Adidas tracksuits. Hates kids and English even more. Dishes out an excessive number of pushups to his lanky charges. Could benefit from a rainbow Care Bear or a bear hug.

Egg Man
A pun on his real Japanese name, Egg Man and I teach English to my insolent homeroom class of 7th graders. “So what we gonna do?” is his patented phrase before we enter the room. With the little monsters waiting inside, I’m tempted to call the Ghostbusters.

English Inc.
Faulty placement agency that duped me into this job. While its employees are nice as individuals, I’ve butted heads with the company over working conditions, salary, health insurance, time off and everything else in my flawed contract.

Esther
Perhaps the longest tenured teacher at Shin Gakko, Esther reminds of my eponymous late grandmother with her passively barbed comments. Despite my limited role as a human tape recorder in her two sections of 11th graders, I look forward to class as a way to spiritually reconnect with Grandma.

Gloria
Terse custodian who sweeps the halls with a grimace. Has no qualms about mopping the men’s room while I’m doing time on the can. Normally a shadowy background figure, Gloria once took center stage when she tumbled down a flight of stairs outside of my English class.

Head of English
But ironically one of the worst at it, Head is an example of textbook learning gone horribly wrong. I bite my tongue whenever he begins sentences with fundamentally, as you know and namely. Case in point: “As you know, in five minutes, namely 8:25, there is a homeroom class of fundamental English.”

Irma
Gloria’s gloved subordinate.

Mr. Microphone
Balding audio-visual guy who wears dark sunglasses even inside his studio cave outfitted with floor-to-ceiling sound equipment circa 1986 and flickering monitors with murky images.

Ms. Mitohara
The most helpful and competent English teacher I’ve ever worked with. She has been my lifeline to any and every question concerning a frustratingly disorganized school management. Yet as a junior teacher and a woman, responsibilities bypass her in favor of more senior and English incompetent male colleagues.

Ms. Murasaki
Prim and proper, this Japanese language teacher is unfailingly polite. Behind that perfect façade, however, I just know that she yearns to abolish English language instruction and banish the barbaric foreigners defiling her country in the name of teaching it.

Mr. Oki
This young and dumpling-shaped English teacher and I teach two sections of 10th graders. Future dream: escape Japan and move to Melbourne.

Mr. Ouchy
A pun on the principal’s Japanese name. His chauffeured black “President” model sedan idles out front sparing him the 15-minute walk to the train station.

Soccer Dan
Finally, a hip math teacher! Tall and 24, Dan draws a line of girls at his desk seeking extra attention after class. Once a soccer player in college, the sportsman keeps in the game as a coach for the boys’ team who rank just behind baseballers as the big men on campus.

Sunshine Suzuki
Ebullient and enthusiastic, this female gym teacher coaches the 7th and 8th grade girls. For my assistant gym teacher duties, I am fortunate to be paired with her rather than Commander.

Suzuki & Suzuki
Two sister spinsters staffing the school store stocked with overpriced mechanical pencils and notebooks. Hairnets, buns and white-powered faces are a throwback to pre-war Japan.

Trudy
Reminds me of my grandmother after she began forgetting my name or that, yes, we have class today and, yes, it started five minutes ago. Her English pronunciation is so mangled that even I have trouble catching the non-sequitors spitting from her mouth. We team-teach one vacuous class of 10th graders who silently count down the minutes until the bell ends foreign language hell.

Unfriendly Wendy
Crotchety head receptionist holding court in the main office where Arlene sits. Faxes my monthly timesheet to English Inc., begrudgingly.

Velma
Dwarfy librarian never without her maroon apron and thick glasses. Possibly having an affair with Mr. Microphone.

Day of Denim

2007-06-14T03:15:00.000-04:00

In the five years since I’ve graduated from college, peers have outpaced me with more framed pieces of paper and larger bank balances. Now this weekend it’s time for our first reunion, where no doubt I’ll have better stories over beers in the Class of 2002 tent, but I’ll also need something more to measure up. Style.

Of particular concern is what to wear on my bottom half. Go-to Diesel jeans have worn away at the most inconvenient place – the crotch. So, too, have A+F boxers, compounding the exposure of a private area in public places. Sitting on the subway leaves me especially vulnerable.

Over two years, clothing expenditures in Japan have totaled $20 for a new belt and second-hand jacket. Stylistic differences and size realities have ruled out flirting with Japanese fashion, which is probably for the better. Purple tank tops under three-quarter button-down stretch shirts look fine on their rail-thin frames, but would leave me feeing self-conscious even at a gay mixer.

Unsure of where to hunt for men's denim, I guessed that OIMEN department store would be a good start. I tensed up walking into the ground floor, also ground zero for accessories. Snakeskin shoes, belt buckles larger than my fist and enough glittering chains to make Mr. T blush all screamed high fashion out of my league. Despite sounding like a narcissistic brand snob, I find shopping to be stressful and degrading (hence buy only brand names to make myself look positively stunning).

Boutiques and responsive attendants filled OIMEN’s eight floors. Some enthusiastically engaged the lone foreigner by pulling recommendations off the rack as I walked by (see above remark about J-boy fashion). On the second floor I hovered around a promising shelf with jeans in hopes of sending a silent signal for help. I even unfolded some and held them against my legs. Why was no one running over? Was my booty that out of proportion? Or worse, were these women’s jeans?

I built up the nerve to ask the teenage sales girl if she had the paint-splattered denims in large. She acknowledged the request with a nasal shriek and shuffled off – literally jogging in baby steps – and returned with a counter-question: would I like to try them in medium?

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I made a classic gaijin (foreigner) mistake by walking into the fitting room with shoes on feet. The footwear foul must have incensed the clothing gods; the jeans wouldn’t budge above my knees. Salvation knocked on the door and handed me a large, but in a style so splattered that the jeans were almost white. Out of politeness I tried them on – up until my thighs.

I was just pulling my old jeans back up when the door swung open. The head salesman looked in without apology. A more suitable client stood behind him with two pairs in hand. I stumbled out of the fitting room as casually as possible, clutching sneakers in one hand and belt loops in the other.

I buttoned my fly and tightened my belt on the up escalator, and contemplated the challenge before me. Jeans in Japan had to fit three criteria, the second of which was fitting me. First they had to pass a style test – funky but not flamboyant. Next I had to pass the physical challenge – squeezing American thighs into pants designed for a people with pencils for legs. Finally came the price check. With tags often $175 and up, would fashion come at any price?

On the third floor, directly above the fitting room fiasco shop, I spotted another rack of denim, and parted it with authority. I stepped back. The style was exactly what I was after – whitewashed creases radiating out from the groin (looks better than it sounds, trust me).

I sucked in air through my teeth as fingers fished for the size tag inside. Actually, one glance at the thighs said enough. I could fit my arm through the leg hole, but not much else. Criterion two failed. Game over.

Out of curiosity I checked the price of what would have been. My eyes lit up – they were under $85. Momentum restarted. Behind the small size was a larger pair – LL to be exact. The planets were aligning.

I rushed to the nearest attendant, who was folding sparkly skull and crossbones t-shirts. His sun-kissed skin complemented hair dyed auburn. Manicured bangs swept over one eye. He was a textbook example of かっこいい (cool guy). His jeans were ripped and roped, and studded with brass buttons down the leg seams. A white t-shirt matched his smile, or chagrin at having a foreigner on his hands. In haste, I yanked off still-tied sneakers and ran into the dressing room.

I emerged.

“Such long legs. I’m jealous,” he said.

“No, no. My thighs are a little big,” I admitted while testing out the hip huggers, which did the job without turning legs numb.

“They look good on you,” he said, bending down to examine the cuff that flared out. “Just right.”

I turned to put on sneakers that, tightly tied, I had kicked off outside of the fitting room. They now sat neatly aligned and undone. The thought of this superstylish guy laboring over my New Balance laces brought out an “only in Japan” smirk.

He folded my purchase like it was the emperor’s robe, and sealed it inside a plastic bag that he lowered into a shopping bag over which he slipped another plastic bag to guard against the morning’s drizzle.

His duty wasn’t done until he walked me five feet to the door, bowed and politely asked for my continued patronage. I dually thanked him (as well as the clothing gods). With solar eclipse-like odds of finding jeans in Japan, expect me back around 2087.

Outing in Akihabara Part II

2007-06-06T08:05:00.000-04:00

...continued from last post.
Some passages of this post are sexually explicit. Reader discretion is advised.

I had been conditioned to seeing the boys in black uniforms, but on this Sunday we were far from locked school grounds. Noki arrived so camouflaged that I didn’t recognize him, although he stood out like Rambo dressed head to toe in fatigues from a hunting hat down to black combat boots laced high. He slung a matching backpack over one shoulder. Oversized brown sunglasses completed the enthusiast’s ensemble.

I fumbled for words, but only laughter let loose. The kind of knee-jerk snort like if you saw your dad in drag. Honda picked up on my poorly disguised reaction.

“This crazy boy,” he said, maxing out his conversational English.

Honda (center) had his own look. He was grooming himself to be a typical Japanese pretty boy. A diamond glinted from one earlobe. Snug jeans rested low on his hips with a Louis Vuitton wallet peeking out from the back pocket. A dark velvet blazer hugged his shoulders while neatly tied around the neck was a fake Burberry scarf, a ubiquitous accessory among trendy teenagers like his friend (left).

In our distinctive outfits – solider, fashionista and off-duty teacher in khakis – we marched off to explore the urban jungle of Akihabara with Noki of course leading the charge.

One subset of geeks is perverts, and bookshelves in Akihabara are packed with perversions. On this day I saw enough bulging cartoon breasts on magazine covers to satisfy me for a lifetime. The industry trend seemed to be the bigger the better, and boobs inflated beyond the size of beach balls were not uncommon.

Permutations for erotic poses were endless. Some girls wore skimpy school uniforms. Others, bikinis dripping in cum. Boobs came bound in chains and rope while another popular theme was girls’ caressing the chests of playmates.

Once you’ve seen a few, you get feeling you’ve seen them all. That was until I came across a cover with a wolf-human clawing into bleeding vaginas. Nearby, penile-shaped tentacles of an anthropomorphic octopus penetrated all orifices of a gagging schoolgirl.

Honda typed Japanese into his electronic dictionary. The translation read, “This causes sour relations between Japan and countries concerned.” I was more than concerned. I was nauseous, and was about to feel worse.

Up and down stairs Noki weaved through floors with narrow aisles of paperback fantasy worlds with twisted illustrations. Grisly graphics were not bound to the printed page. A video game running on demo mode challenged players to select an animal and rape chained girls with ferocity. Success was measured by the level of white liquid dripping into a pot at her feet.

I asked Noki if he was ready to leave.

“I must check this floor,” he said with diligence. “Checking many floors is very important.”

I, however, had seen more than enough, and wondered if they were even allowed to be seeing any of this. Honda typed again and showed me the result: “Persons under the age of 18 are not admitted.”

“How old are you!” I accused them once we were back outside.

“Sixteen!” they chimed in unison as I followed them into the next store.

Filled with endless volumes of comics, this basement bookshop was at least tamer. Curious collections included: Chrono Crusade, Venus Versus Virus, Arrivederci Alicevenice, Lunatic Saga, Butt Backraid and the not-so-Shakespearean, As You Like It featuring a not-so-studious schoolgirl.

Noki showed me his favorite, a series called Rozen Maiden. I recognized the girls on the cover as those on his fan and day planner he brought to class.

“I don’t like real girls,” Noki confessed. “I hate them.”

As Noki explained the characters, their strengths and the battles they faced, I sensed his kinship with the maidens. The books about these girls now seemed normal compared to other subjects in stock like Love Doll Hole, How To And More.

Browsing further, I noticed an evolution in cartoon chests on covers. Muscled arms and exposed torsos were locked in group embrace. I picked up a paperback called “Brothers,” but the men looked more intimately familiar than just family. Contrary to my first thought, this was not the gay manga section. Noki said that “Boys Love,” or BL, was a genre for girls. It seemed only fair that if men can flip through pages of girl-on-girl action that women could fantasize about groups of amorous guys.

The final fantasy adventure in Akihabara was a reality check. As soon as we stepped back outside, two uniformed officers moved in on Noki.

“Are you here shopping in Akihabara?” the policeman asked.

“Yes, we are going to some stores,” Noki said. Honda and I backed up a step.

“So you’re here shopping?” the policeman reiterated in typical Japanese-style interrogation. Passersby slowed to whiff the unfolding drama.

“Actually, he's here to wage guerilla war on soft targets,” I wanted to interject. I lacked the language skills to do so, but saw an opportunity to practice.

Since there were two officers, I engaged the one not frisking Noki’s fatigues. I told him that Noki was a friend, but that I was no otaku. He asked me what country I was from and how long I had been in Japan. Sensing the next question would be about my job, I changed the subject. I didn’t want Honda implicating me and piping up about my being their teacher.

“Tokyo is so safe,” I marveled. The cop cocked his head in doubt. “Well, my hometown is New York.”

His head straightened and he smiled in agreement before turning to his patrol partner who was wrapping up his search. Failing to find a knife, pistol or other 凶器 (murder weapon), the policeman released an embarrassed Noki.

Interest in us faded, and so did my feelings towards Akihabara. I warned Noki and Honda not to be late for English class tomorrow morning and disbanded.

Outing in Akihabara

2007-05-31T03:15:00.001-04:00

Akihabara means different things to different people. For technophiles, it’s mecca for the latest gadgets that hit shelves here before they do in the States. Meanwhile, technophobes can dig up a spare part to a dinosaur desktop or score an original Legend of Zelda Nintendo game cartridge from 20 years ago (used to love that one). Representing more ordinary tastes, I have browsed Akihabara for an iPod and a digital SLR camera.

Tokyo’s Electric Town also has an underbelly. Akihabara is ground zero for a nerd subculture drawing devotees of anime (animation), manga (comics) and cosplay (costume play, photo left) to its glowing precincts. Words can’t do justice to this fantasy world that for otaku is the only reality for these “obsessed house-broken geeks.”

Noki is an otaku. He’s also my 11th grade student, and one of the friendlier ones, too. Shirking the school’s required black blazer, he stands out like a flamingo on an iceberg full of penguins. The next layer of the uniform – a white button down shirt – flaps untucked and unbuttoned to reveal his true character: a t-shirt with anime characters.

Anime obsessions do not earn respect among high school peers, but Noki wears his hobby like an honorary shield, which must magically give him protection. The boys’ dress code dictates that blazers be buttoned up like straightjackets. Teachers reprimand those who casually keep two top buttons open, one over the limit. Yet I never saw anyone challenge Noki for sitting in class naked, relatively speaking.

The bell ends the struggle of students’ listening to another language. They file out of the room happily chatting in Japanese, but Noki lingers to reassemble. During the course of class he’s kicked off his shoes – and if summer, socks – and littered the floor around his desk with handouts.

I confer with the Japanese teacher about the lesson plan for next class, which falls every Monday and Wednesday morning. From the corner of my eye I catch Noki creeping up. He’s waiting to tell me something, and I know exactly what it is.

“I went to Akihabara last weekend,” he announces if it’s a Monday. (Wednesday’s opener is, “I will go to Akihabara this weekend.”) Noki is admittedly an Akiba-kei, a pejorative term for an Akihabara-type person. The label still seems benign at his age, at least more so than for those in their 30s branded for similar obsessions.

Noki answers my question before I’ve asked it by showing me his newest anime acquisition. During class I saw him keeping cool with this plastic hand fan, which turned out to be decorated with cartoon girls busting out of maid’s costumes and brandishing weapons far more dangerous than dust mops.

“Which one do you like best?” he asked.

The question caught me off guard. Did he mean sexually? I mean, how else would I “like” them? Lust mulled their heaving chests and oh so slender figures.

“Um, I’ll take the one with blue hair and nunchuks,” I said, slightly ashamed over where my mind just went.

“I, I like this one.” He pointed to a character with sharp red hair cascading down to black socks hiked up to the knees. As I checked her out, oversized auburn eyes flashed at my intrusive gaze. Her raised sword forced my eyes to surrender.

I looked up. Noki was one of the few students who conversed with me willingly, so I was happy to be engaged on any subject. In due time, polite interest earned me and Honda an escorted tour through Akihabara’s subculture that made the sworded maids seem realistic.

Honda and Noki made a curious pair. Honda played the class clown when not otherwise preening his spiky hair, which he fussed over to the exclusion of anything topical. Although he sat in front of Honda, Noki’s position on the totem pole of high school coolness couldn’t have been more distant. Girls extended a sympathetic wince if a friend got paired with Noki for conversation drills. But who was Noki to care? His mind wasn’t bound to the realm of realism anyway.

Perhaps admiring Noki’s rebelliousness, Honda courted him as an ally for in-class mischief, but I never expected them to join forces outside of it. On this occasion, however, temptation was too great. For Honda, a journey beyond classroom boundaries into his classmate’s passion while with his English teacher would be something to brag about come Monday morning, just in time for our first period class.

That class began at 8:50, but punctuality wasn’t in Noki’s or Honda’s vocabulary. They were usually the last two in their seats after the second bell. Honda reveled in any reproach that shifted the bad boy spotlight on him.

It wasn’t surprising, therefore, that while waiting at our meeting point in Akihabara station, my phone buzzed with a text message:

GOOD MORNING p(>o<)q
I am sorry , may be we will late to meeting. so Please wait . for us w(oOo)w

It was from Honda’s number, but with Noki’s name as the author in the subject line. Honda could barely introduce himself in English while Noki was the only student I knew who didn’t own a cell phone. Reasoning was a matter of finance mixed with obsession: why pay a monthly contract when such money could be saved for the next big game release?

Forty minutes later they arrived, whereupon irritation dissolved into speechlessness.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK….

Mountain Ramen

2007-05-23T05:00:00.000-04:00

Friday evening is a special time, marking the transition from the freshly finished workweek. Monday morning’s obligations are a small, dark cloud on the horizon. First come two nights of smooth sailing, each followed by a morning of slumber and the rest of Sunday to recharge.

In college, after classes on Friday I hosted a weekly news radio show that bridged the divide between lecture halls and fraternity row later that night. Even though nobody tuned in, broadcasting through a microphone was therapeutic and marked the beginning of the weekend’s liberation.

In Tokyo, I turn to basketball to air out pent-up frustrations, often courtesy of absent-minded middle schoolers and ineffective team teachers. I continue to stick with the gym in my old neighborhood now 40 minutes away by subway. After the game I head to Monzen-Nakacho’s name-knowing local restaurants that feel like the closest thing to home when 7,000 miles away from it.

Satisfaction from a surprisingly successful game (12 pts, 10 rebs, 3 blks, 2 stls) collapsed into shock when I rounded the corner to Java. My first Monzen-Nakacho hangout had been my favorite outlet for a glass of dark beer, home-cooked beef stew and casual conversation in English with Narumi the proprietress.

This pub with an eclectic interior had now been gutted. Naked wires hung like strangled snakes from the ceiling. A notice with a big phone number was taped to bare glass once covered with a patchwork of tapestries from Southeast Asia. I assumed the number wasn’t for takeout, and shuffled down Eitai Street to find another place for dinner. Knees ached from running the court, and now my heart had a small tear from Java’s sudden closure.

The chill in the air steered me to a familiar ramen shop that I valued for is hearty portions and, more importantly, picture menu. I always pointed to the same noodles mixed with pork and caramelized onions, garnished with a runny raw egg. The long counter was also a blessing when dining alone and trying not to feel like it.

Reaching for a menu, my hand recoiled as if the paper had sprouted thorns. By my standards, it had indeed mutated beyond recognition. The new menu did not include a single picture, much less a word of English. I panicked. The staff would expect me to order soon. From behind the counter sounds of bowls banging and water hissing as it boiled made me sweat with indecision. Asking for an English menu would be a futile embarrassment. Asking for a standard miso or soy sauce-based ramen was akin to ordering sandwich with white bread in a deli. It was too late to leave, so I stalled by pretending to peruse columns of bewildering kanji characters while I racked my brain for a dignified solution.

Now two years into this adventure, I was suddenly knocked back to its early days when I didn’t understand anyone or have a clue about anything. Days when I relied on pointing to plastic models in shop windows, and still wasn’t sure what I was about to eat. The resurgence of helplessness and solitude was a stomach-turning reminder as to how little I’ve progressed even at simple tasks.

Pulling the “Oh I’m ringing and it’s really important!” ruse and hurrying back out to the sidewalk worked once upon realizing that the only thing rotating around the sushi conveyor belt was empty dishes; later in the evenings you have to order your fish instead of plucking whatever looks good coming down the line. That night I opted for convenience store take away rather than trying to pronounce Japanese fish names in front of the local panel of judges behind their piles of soy sauce-stained plates.

Extricating myself eventually came from an overlooked source – the menu itself. Amid the hieroglyphics I picked out a phrase I could digest: 味山ラーメン [literally, miso mountain ramen]. It sounded like the standard miso-flavored ramen, perhaps with some mountain vegetables. Or so I thought.

I stopped sweating and ordered. Relief was short-lived. The mountain ramen was twice the size of any ramen I had ever seen. It had the stability of a cone balancing three scoops. Just looking at the steaming mound sated my mild appetite. Chopsticks felt like leaden rods. For fear of stirring the pot (and triggering a noodleslide onto the counter), I nibbled on cabbage cherry picked off the summit.

Just then a group of 10 co-workers entered with designs on sitting at the counter, capacity 12. My seating shield – a group of four near me – retreated to pay, leaving me naked in the middle. As they strategized on how to squeeze themselves around the foreign obstacle, I moved my mountain to the corner of the counter.

Mr. Kurihara, in a gray suit and puffy red cheeks, plopped down beside me with gratitude. He wiped his round glasses. He seemed impressed that I was from New York and could speak a smattering of his native tongue, but was blown away by the size of my ramen. Three of his juniors also wiped their glasses to get a better look at the spectacle still smoldering before me. In a rare role reversal, they ordered “whatever he’s having – ”

“It’s the mountain ramen,” I interjected with authority in Japanese. I flipped through the menu and pointed out the listing. They cooed in understanding. I resumed digging in, but hardly made a dent even after five minutes. Waiting for his own noodle and vegetable mountain, Mr. Kurihara leaned over with one last question:

“Do you give English lessons?”

Triple Paradise

2007-05-19T13:33:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the lack of postings lately. I have been traveling in Myanmar and Thailand for the past six weeks. I'll write more soon. In the meantime, here's an article about a previous expedition to Indonesia's Gili islands. Click on the image below or read the online version here.

For more pictures of paradise, click here.

Dinner with a hook

2007-04-09T10:30:00.000-04:00

Here's an article I wrote about my favorite restaurant in Tokyo:

For more pictures of what it's like to catch your own dinner, click here.

Culture Day

2007-04-02T11:00:00.000-04:00

Nasal automated announcements sparked up nostalgia. I was back aboard bus 67 bound for Kanokita Junior High. The smokestack of the ward garbage incinerator loomed in the distance, marking the vicinity of where I once taught perverted boys and sometimes drunk girls, underachievers all.

No lessons were scheduled. Today was Culture Day, a national holiday every November when some schools stage student performances to parents, friends – or in my case – former staff. I had been looking forward to the reunion ever since Ms. Hattori had mentioned it during our summer outing. (Nothing like accepting a causal invitation.)

I hopped off the bus in front of the familiar grocery store, the source of mid-morning sustenance in between uncontrollable classes. Teachers and parents welcomed guests at the main gate. I felt out of place returning half a year after saying good-bye for what I thought was forever. I no longer worked there, and the connection to former students had faded in my absence.

After all, I was an English-speaking mouth contracted for a niche role for a limited time only. Another interchangeable part had since replaced me, this one imported from Australia. Over the summer, Ms. Hattori told me that he was a “very strong” teacher. Given these students, teachers had to be able to take it on the chin. Repeatedly.

Some kids came up to me to touch hair especially spiked for the occasion. Coming back after graduation is a chance to show off just how cool you’ve become (which I reinforced wearing a “Local Celebrity” t-shirt).

Some students matched my “maturity.” A metal ball pierced Maki’s chin. For the boys, longer hair seemed en vogue, and leader of the pack Me Too Pants Dropper sprouted a Japanese-style fro. A year older, students were also a year closer to the edge of rebellious adolescence. Some had already succumbed to its teenage temptations. I bumped into Harajuku Boy in the courtyard. His cherubic smile couldn’t mask the odor of tobacco on his uniform. We traded an awkward hello.

Next to him was another boy I recognized with hair now colored auburn. Theoretically rigid school rules forbid individual forms of expression like dyed hair, long hair, piercings, makeup, or any markings or accessories on the skin or uniform (much less Marlboros). I spoke to him in Japanese because the only English to ever come out of his mouth was piecemeal vulgarities. He, too, reeked of smoke, and I challenged him about it. Instead of an apology, he stunned me again by whipping out a condom from his uniform pocket. The smoking, the sex. I didn’t know where to begin, and didn’t have the language skills to try. I shook my head and walked inside the gym-turned-auditorium.

Culture Day at Kanokita consisted of each class singing a song on stage. The PTA judged the contest before doing a number themselves with some of the teachers and principal, which nearly plunged the place into chaos because so few teachers remained to police order.

On a day with the outside community present, there was still no hope of hiding hallmarks of disorder. Despite an auditorium full of their parents, students were raising hell for teachers embattled like Anglos at the Alamo. In Japan, schools are expected to shoulder the burden of disciplining teenagers, and parents can fault the school if their child causes trouble even off its grounds.

Speaking of trouble, among the rows of students I spotted the Tribe of Terror – a girl-powered tornado that swirled through the hallways kicking up insurrection. They intimidated students and teachers alike, and I was no exception. The white-haired principal tried unsuccessfully to confiscate their cell phones while other teachers shushed clamor that drowned out the half-hearted singing. One bright spot, however, was watching Mr. “Do you play sex, everyday?” lead his class as their conductor. Their melody moved me to take this video clip:

At lunch, I caught up with last year’s youngest mischief-makers, including Crotch Grabber. We cracked a few old jokes before I was told I could go to the supermarket to buy food and eat it with the custodians downstairs. So much for the days of eating with the students.

After lunch, the opening act of a dozen kids was decidedly awful, until I realized they were the “handicapped” class I once guest lectured. Their gentle ways had been a refreshing contrast to the clowns upstairs. With this tough crowd, they were courageous to sing on stage no matter how off key.

I couldn’t understand a word of the school play (but took cues from the backdrop that it was set in a forest), and decided it was time to leave.

The main gate was blocked.

The Tribe of Terror had been kicked outside and took up positions along the perimeter where they listened to music on their cell phones and picked on anybody who came into range. Heading straight toward Seiko and Maki – the eye of the storm – my stomach clenched. Sure enough, they harassed me one last time, sending me off with the big nose song. While I was happy to reconnect with students who gave me such inspiration for writing, I was even happier to leave them under someone else’s responsibility.

The reunion took an unexpected turn on the train station platform when I was tapped on the shoulder. It was Mr. Yamato, Nubata’s young yet overworked English teacher. Although it was a national holiday, he had been at school coaching the tennis club, a sport he admittedly knew little about. I congratulated him on being promoted to a homeroom teacher, and of course asked about my favorite students, a decidedly more docile breed than those at Kanokita. They hadn’t forgotten me either. On the first day when their new foreign English teacher was introduced, he heard murmurs of, “Hey, that’s not Jeff. Where’s Jeff?”

If only this year’s crop of students at Shin Gakko were half as sincere. More updates to follow.

Israel

2007-03-26T10:30:00.000-04:00

Last June I traveled to Israel on a Birthright Israel program that sends first-timers for free. Here are two articles I wrote that were recently published in Japan about Israel.

Teacher, Can You Spare A Coin?

2007-03-19T10:45:00.000-04:00

Spit hit the curb with a smack outside of 7-11. It was 8:06. My eyes moved up from the ground to the source of the guttural noise. I knew that kid. A 16-year-old with a freshly shaved head, his white shirttail peeked out the back of his black uniform jacket. Matching trousers hung low on his slim thighs. He wasn’t my student, but I’m sure we had talked on occasion, probably about coarse rather than course subjects.

His arm amorously wrapped a classmate as he initiated a private moment in a public place during morning rush. One of the great things about Japan is the taboo on P.D.A., which he was flouting while spitting on the road (much more acceptable).

We both reached the door at the same time.

“Oh, sensei [teacher], ohayo!” he greeted with a devilish grin.

“Hey, how are you?” I asked what’s-his-face.

“Oh, sensei,” he cocked his head and repeated, unable to muster the simplest answer in English.

We headed for the same aisle, he for breakfast bread and I for fruit juice. Selection was good. Bread shelves were stocked with all of your favorites like chocobread and peanut butter cream Danish.

“Whaddaget?” I asked.

Corn bread. And by corn bread I mean yellow kernels embedded in white stuff on a Danish.

“That’s disgusting,” I said in Japanese.

“Nah, it’s delicious,” he countered.

I turned back to scan the juices and make a final selection.

“Sensei” he called. “I forgot my lunch.”

“OK, well, here you are,” I said, waving to microwavable pasta with hot dog slices and egg salad sandwiches stuffed with the yolks of those hard boiled.

This morning I felt like apple juice.

“Sensei” he called again. “I forgot my money.”

It was the quiver in his voice that turned me around. I stared into his drooping eyes for clues on how to react. His girlfriend stood in his shadow. Wasn’t she less forgetful? Whether the kids like it or not (and most do not), I get paid to be their teacher. Yet here was a chance to do something more than that. Here was a chance to play dad. I moved closer. I didn’t have to think for long.

My hand intuitively dipped into the outer pocket of my bag. I felt the raised edges of a ¥500 ($4.25) coin and fished it out. His eyes were trained on my bag, waiting to see how much I’d pull out. I felt like everyone in 7-11 had also paused to witness charity in slow motion.

Compared to the rest of Asia, there aren’t a lot of needy kids in the world’s second largest economy. Yet here I was giving the gift of lunch money – enough to make Sally Struthers proud.

“Sensei, arrigato. Arrigato, sensei!” he thanked while cupping his hands to receive the oversized golden gift.

He said it would cover him for both today and tomorrow. Then he grew silent. It was my turn. To foster some sense of responsibility, I told him in which teachers’ room I sat.

“Tomorrow,” he cried in Japanese.

“OK,” I smiled.

“Or the next day!” he added, heading to the register.

N.B. Hey kid, “tomorrow’s” been three months and counting. Sensei wants his gold coin back.

Interview with the Foreigner

2007-03-14T09:00:00.001-04:00

I’m more used to writing about others than being written about, but Shin Gakko’s in-school magazine included me in their quarterly issue (click picture to enlarge). Don’t mind my photo, although at least my tie matches my flag. In case you are like me and those pesky kanji are like Greek to you, here’s what I had to say in plain English. Questions are listed exactly as I received them. Answers, however, may deviate slightly from the Japanese printed.

1. Where are you from?
Brooklyn, biotch. You steppin’?

2. What good things about your country?
A lot of space for living and the freedom to live the life you want comfortably.

3. What makes you come to Japan?
Fresh sushi, jinsei-keiken(life experience), schoolgirls in short short skirts.

4. How long have you been in Japan?
20 months. Time fliesね!

5. What makes you attract about Japan?
Good food, healthy portion sizes, reliable trains, and interesting culture.

6. What’s your favorite Japanese food?
Sushi (salmon, salmon roe, eel, tuna).

7. What’s your least favorite Japanese food?
Oba.
(N.B. green perilla leaf also known as shiso used as a garnish in sushi and other dishes.)

8. What’s your favorite place you have visited in Japan?
Daytime, Kanazawa. After dark, the neon (red) lights of 歌舞伎町.

9. What’s your hobby?
Traveling, photography, writing.

10. Have you ever experienced any jobs (excluding teaching job)?
Sports instructor in Guam. Paralegal in New York. The usual.

11. What’s your motto?
If at first you don’t succeed, try again. Harder.

12. Do you speak any other languages?
Español, which despite not using for almost a decade is still light years ahead of my Japanese. (Sigh).

13. Please give our students to your message.
The world is big. Go discover some of it. Learning English can be your passport to new places.

B.J. Play

2007-03-12T04:39:00.000-04:00

Being a foreigner in Japan has its ups and downs. So although I wouldn’t normally pay $35 to see “professional” basketball in Japan, I made the most of free tickets for foreigners to attend international day at the arena. I upgraded to better free seats walking to the will call window – only in Japan do fans give away premium tickets. After tipoff, I wondered if anyone in Ariake Arena had actually paid to watch the last place Tokyo Apache battle suburbia’s Saitama Broncos in a match up of B.J. League rivals (the unfortunate acronym stands for Basketball Japan).

Banners in Engrish were scattered throughout the arena: “BS Freaks,” “Try Our Best,” “Our Way. Our Will. Our Win.” and – my favorite – “No basket. No life.” Indeed, the scoreless Apache looked dead as the Broncos stomped all over them in the early going and never looked back. Although the Apache logo is a bird, some boosters wore headdresses that would have made the University of Illinois’ recently retired Chief Illiniwek blush.

C-list celebrities on the court included Apache coach Joe Bryant, Kobe’s dad; Broncos forward David Benoit, one of my favorite former reserves on the Utah Jazz; and a Michael Jackson. A mix of races and sizes squared off as small Japanese guards swished threes from the perimeter while African-Americans like Benoit muscled inside for driving layups.

Not having an affinity for the home team’s garish purple uniforms or a suburban team in kelly green, I rooted for Benoit, who played well despite limited minutes. The contrast, however, saddened me. Once a substitute for Karl Malone, the NBA’s greatest power forward ever, Benoit now came off the bench in a country that has sent just one player to the NBA, which was a short-lived experience for Mr. Tabuse.

As for the game itself, I bet Kobe’s dad wished he had his son on the court, or any other Laker past or present for that matter. Even though the game was out of reach, I felt self-conscious about being the only one to pack up early. With less than a minute to play fans from both sides were still glued to their seats.

Score one for the suburbs, Their way. Their will. Their Win.
Final: Saitama 91, Tokyo 75.

Tohoku, We Have A Problem

2007-03-03T05:30:00.000-05:00

Within the first two weeks of my new commute to Shin Gakko, I was delayed more times than in the previous year combined. I can thank the Keihin-Tohoku line for that. It’s one of Tokyo’s busiest, and as I’m learning, most breakable.

One morning the train stalled in the station for 10 minutes, rattling my confidence in Japan’s to-the-minute timetables. However, as this line also serves the 2,000 students at Shin Gakko, I felt safety in numbers showing up late.

Two weeks later it got worse. Much worse. Ascending the platform at fun-sounding Okachimachi station, I saw a blue train stuck halfway in the station. The doors were closed, but some passengers were inside. Concern crossed the face of the young conductor poking his head out of the window. After an unusually loud horn, the train lurched forward 15 feet and halted. On the opposite side, a green Yamanote line train glided into the station. I smirked to the suckers stuck inside the blue train, and hopped aboard.

Blue and green lines run parallel before green splits off to loop around central Tokyo. I thought I’d be clever to bypass the disabled blue train by riding the green one to the last of their shared stations, and catch a blue train further down the line.

Four stations later, I joined the throngs at Tabata station. I had outsmarted myself. There were no blue trains here. Everyone was waiting for the one stuck at Okachimachi. And when it did get moving, that train would be packed with four stations of stranded commuters.

Long overdue, the blue train arrived to an agitated swarm of commuters jockeying for inside position. I laughed to myself. They would never all fit. I didn’t join the fray because I had chosen a poor day to shed my laptop’s bulky carrying case in favor of an unpadded messenger bag.

As only the Japanese can do, everyone squeezed aboard. Except for me. Alone on the platform, I felt their stares drawing me inside. I scanned their pained expressions and noticed a woman smiling at me. I returned her smile with a shake of my head. I was waiting for the next one, which would be almost empty. Had I outsmarted myself again?

The doors never closed, and passengers were gasping. Embarrassment turned to satisfaction as riders rethought their decision, and began lining up behind me. An incomprehensible announcement (at least to my ears) led more to switch sides until the train was less full than when it arrived. That’s when I went in.

I spotted two of my students standing inside. Now with enough space to safeguard my laptop, I joined them. They became my lifeline for what qualified as a serious delay, but one that was seriously refreshing.

Some locals gathered along the fence watching the empty tracks. The silence was deafening. Today, the rails shined brighter. Concrete buildings looked a little more charming. The unpredictable had tossed routine on its head. Fretting commuters checked their wrists while I rocked back on my heels.

I spotted the same youthful conductor, and took an interest in his increasing exasperation. No one confronted him, but he could feel the scorn of hundreds of grumbling commuters. I wanted to buy him a beer after this run. It was Friday for me, but his weekend (career?) was ruined. He announced alternative routes to reach destinations, including mine. It involved transferring three times when all I wanted to do was take this train directly there.

If you’re late, you might as well be really late. I wasn’t in the mood to move, and of course the lazy junior high kids weren’t either. Service resumed after 20 minutes, and despite a reverse commute, plenty of people were now waiting to go to the suburbs. I staked out a corner and stood facing the wall to shelter my bag in front of me.

The conductor announced stops with his eyes closed. He looked 22, and was breaking out around his temples. The microphone trembled in his white-gloved hands. His voice remained composed over the P.A. system, but speaking from the back of his mouth and not his diaphragm, it sounded like each word would be his last. The burden of everyone’s lateness was suffocating him.

And then it suffocated me. Passengers flooded in at the next station. I saw one of my students get carried away in the human tide. Uniforms, briefcases, and backpacks crunched together. I got thrown face-first into the wall, and the safe zone for my laptop vanished. I elbowed the bag above the masses, and cradled it on my shoulder like a baby in rising floodwaters. Toes tingled and my arm tired; I rested the bag on a schoolboy’s back, his cheek smeared against the glass.

When the doors opened at my station, it was like pulling the stopper out of a bathtub drain. Train etiquette in polite Tokyo doesn’t include waiting for passengers to exit before boarding. I waited until the flow had reduced to a trickle to make my move, but once again misjudged. The tide reversed itself before everyone had cleared out, and commuters – backed up into the stairwells – rushed in.

I punched into work 30 minutes late, but was hardly the last to arrive. Quadruple suicide? I asked the other teachers the cause of the delay.

“Nah, they can hose that down in five minutes,” another foreign teacher said. “It must have been a signal problem.”

On the way to first period, I mechanically asked a high school girl, “Hi, how are you today?”

“I’m surviving,” she said with a smile. Surprised at her skillful English expression, I couldn’t have agreed more.

Dinner with the Fam (Part III)

2007-02-25T08:00:00.000-05:00

It’s been a while since I’ve chronicled life with my Japanese family (Part I here, Part II here). Their drinking house (izakaya) Daruma is the one place in this megalopolis where I truly feel at home.

It’s 9 p.m. Friday night in Monzen-Nakacho. Izakaya are bustling along the narrow streets of this Edo-era neighborhood as salarymen celebrate the end of the work week (well, at least those who get Saturdays off). Chatter and the sound of clinking glasses resonate from small shops with glowing red lanterns. Despite an empty stomach, I see red as a warning, not a welcome. I dare not intrude into unfamiliar territory, and remain on the cold side of wooden doors and frosted glass.

Daruma is different. A large front window makes patrons (and seat availability) easily visible, and friendly owners keep an eye out for regulars passing by. That’s how I met my parents almost two years ago during my second week in Japan.

I slowed as I passed by Daruma, hoping to catch the eye of the older gentlemen who bowed to me the evening before while I was walking the streets on a nightly food-finding mission. From the safety of the sidewalk on the opposite side, my eyes instead connected with a woman shaped like a turtle.

I made a spoon-fed mouth gesture to gauge if I, a foreigner, was welcome to eat there. Poking her head outside and spouting off Japanese, the turtle of a woman waved me in with enough fanfare to attract the attention of her husband and nearby diners. I walked into the wood-paneled room filled with men dressed in dark suits. On my way to the expat nightlife enclave of Roppongi, I radiated color from inside a DKNY shirt.

Tonight I blended better in a black hoodie and sweats, fresh from a Friday evening basketball game that I still attend despite moving across town. Then, like now, I take the stool closest to the door. A committee greets me the same way they do for regulars who have been dining there nightly for decades.

Aya, the married older daughter (above right), hands me a yellow washcloth to wipe my hands. Her mother, turtle-shaped Ma-san, welcomes me in Japanese. Kitchen hand Nao brings over a tab and nods. This is code for my ordering the usual – deep-fried river shrimp and a big bottle of beer. The cook couldn’t hear Nao’s placing my order above the din, so Nao acted out his best river shrimp impersonation that looked like a swimming dog. We both laughed. The scene inside here is how it was, is, and always will be.

The most effusive of greeters is Dad (Otosan), who was noticeably absent. One of the dozen 50-year-old salarymen took it upon him to slip in a Dean Martin CD from the rack of disorganized albums of Jazz greats like John Coltrane and Miles Davis.

Simply saying “hai” (yes) in response to Nao’s nodding was enough to get a rise out of the salaryman next to me. His oversized glasses rested on a forehead wrinkled from crunching 40 years worth of data – probably by hand. Super-sized moles had sprouted in the valleys of his wrinkles. His head bobbed in and out of consciousness. He closed his eyes while swiveling a toothpick around his gums before tossing it in his plate of soy sauce. He then raised his glass halfway before gravity pulled it back to the warped counter.

Nao delivered an omelet filled with natto (stringy, stinky fermented soybeans), and placed it next to the man’s half-eaten plate of whale sashimi.

“I don’t want it,” he said with a wave of the hand.

“Really?” Nao asked.

“I don’t want it!” he repeated with the defiance of a kid being force-fed broccoli.

The exchange brought Ma-san over from the other end of the counter where she was toasting a red-faced patron and nibbling fried chicken off his plate.

“Half, how about half?” she pleaded.

He would have none of it, so the once model-sexy Aya was brought in for feminine coercion. She slid onto the stool next to him and consoled him. After cutting the omelet with a spoon, she fed it to him “here-comes-the-airplane” style. My nose twitched at the fumes. Natto’s pungent odor is one almost all foreigners in Japan detest, and I’m no exception.

He took one spoonful but refused more, and instead swallowed Aya whole with a bear hug. Unfazed, Aya fed herself, and then passed the plate to Nao, who took a bite and let Ma-san finish the dish.

Just then Otosan arrived. He didn’t see me at first, so I patted him on the back as he was hanging up his jacket next to the CD rack, and got the welcome I missed.

“Ah, Jeff-er-e, my son,” he called out in English, and then leaned on my shoulder.

“Yakeddo,” he cried, wincing.

I knew that word! Or I once did. My brain quickly scanned the archive of Japanese words that have gone in one ear and out the other...Archery! No, that couldn’t be right. He rolled up his trousers, and a bandage appeared around his leg.

“Burn. Burn! You burned yourself!” I said.

“With oil,” Aya chimed in Japanese while picking at a block of ice and sending crystals flying like fireworks.

“With water,” Ma-san added with a gesture of pouring a pot onto herself.

The doctor told him not to work, but a leg burn wasn’t gonna sideline this super grandpa battling liver cancer. Ma spooned the last of the omelet into her mouth before rising up to greet new guests with her high-pitched “Irasshaimase!” Miles trumpeted in the background. Otosan rubbed my back. No matter how mediocre of a basketball game (this one ended with my blowing three put-backs – all on one play), Daruma lifts my spirits.

Otosan moved from behind me to introduce my new neighbor, who had replaced the drunken mole man. I was told that he was “a comedian,” which I soon figured out was a joke meaning fool. The computer programmer ordered raw tuna for the two of us.

I asked Nao for atsuage, fried tofu garnished with horseradish and scallions. Nao tried pushing natto, but like the mole man before me, I’d have none of it. “It smells like my shoes,” I cried, taking one off to demonstrate.

The fool and I talked in a mix of languages, mostly about names and traditions of Japanese food. I was able to understand some of what he was saying, and could even weigh in on Tokyo’s current events, like the stoppage of several north-south train lines during morning rush.

“…Saikyo line…this morning…” I overhead two men discussing.

“Me too, me too,” I butted in Japanese. I had been on that line. “Unbelievable, wasn’t it?” For Japan it was. Operations had halted for almost 10 minutes while I was changing to the Kehin-Tohoku line, reducing a roaring Akabane station to an eerie silence one might find in a cemetery without any birds.

Transit woes are rare here, but when they happen, they are cause for a blog. Stayed tuned for “Tohoku, We Have a Problem.”

Where’s the Love?

2007-02-19T07:30:00.000-05:00

Not that I needed any hard evidence, but Valentine’s Day at Shin Gakko confirmed what I already suspected: I’m less popular with junior high school girls than Bush is with Europeans…Americans…or anyone for that matter. Speculation into my plummeting popularity will be revealed in blogs to come. Meanwhile, Valentine’s Day was a reversal of fortunes from last year when I was showered with cookies and chocolates. This year I was nearly shut out.

Only at the eleventh hour (3:55 p.m.) did adorable Ayana with her jack-o-lantern grin (seen on the right in her school uniform) offer me sweets, and even this transaction had to be done on the down low and after school. Gifts of affection to the opposite sex are an embarrassment for 13-year-olds, and with me as the recipient, Ayana risked her own popularity for this overture.

Expectations weren’t high that morning after checking my class schedule. Afternoon lessons were cancelled, and one of my three morning classes was with all boys, busy collecting chocolates of their own. I immediately ruled out munificence from the sour seventh graders (Ayana is in the other section). That left first period with more mature eleventh graders as my best chance, but only two girls delivered, and they were from the afternoon section that got cancelled.

Were it not for the generosity of a gym teacher, I would have left school with an empty heart while some colleagues needed shopping bags to haul home their loot. Truth be told, I don’t care about chocolate – it makes my skin break out. Most of the sweets I received were redistributed to other classes as prizes to reward student effort on the cheap.

Despite the disappointment, not all was lost that day, as I carried out a special lesson plan hatched purely for my own amusement. In addition to the vocabulary-building word puzzles, for Valentine’s Day I was going to make them sing. Or at least follow along. I printed out the lyrics to the most embarrassingly romantic song I could play for a class of 39 high school boys, many of whom were jocks.

Ballplayers with crew cuts dutifully recited “I Will Always Love You” at my command. After each stanza the Japanese English teacher translated. Once they were well versed, I hit play on the CD player and grinned. Words are one thing, but sound is another.

A few eyebrows arched in muted disbelief as Whitney Houston filled the room with high notes and heaving sighs. English grammar may be a hard slog for these guys, but eternal affection is an international emotion, right?

While a classroom of American boys would have revolted at music from “The Bodyguard,” their Japanese counterparts were totally mellowed out. That is, until my impassioned lip-syncing and heart pounding coincided with Whitney’s hitting those impossibly high notes at the end, which got them in an understandable uproar. Without any girls to wink at, I tilted my head and outstretched arms at the ceiling while I mouthed the song’s title for the fifth iteration.

“Sensei, sensei,” one begged me to stop. But that was part of the fun. In my class, the “E” in English stands for entertainment, otherwise they don’t stay awake.

After no one fessed up to having a valentine, I gave the boys a homework assignment. One good thing about teaching is that it gives me a platform to preach – quite literally, as each classroom has a raised step behind the teacher’s desk designed for my shorter Japanese colleagues.

“OK everyone. Today go home and tell your mom that ‘I will always love you.’ Class dismissed.”

A teacher should practice what he preaches, so Mom, if you’re reading this, Happy Valentine’s Day and I will always love you.

What the #@$&?

2007-01-31T10:00:00.000-05:00

is my usual reaction as it sputters to a halt, beeping twice and flashing lights red with anger.

So far, the most challenging aspect of this job has not been learning student names, adjusting to team-teaching methods, or working full-time in a Japanese environment. It’s been making photocopies.

For a country that exports cutting-edge Cannon and Konica products, this private school (not short on endowment from 2,300 students) uses off-brand machines without a paper feeder. If you thought finicky office machinery in America was frustrating, try your hand at making copiers cooperate that are fluent only in Japanese.

One of the three machines is often out of order. When errors arise, the pictorial diagrams popping up on the LCD screen are just as incomprehensible as the message…usually something about door A on the front of the copier.

The most dreaded encounter is with the toner, which magically runs dry whenever I step up to the machine. Spent toner rolls must be unraveled like an inky accordion, rubbing off on hands and clothing. It’s a dirty job, so rather than messing with it, I switch to the next machine.

When that, too, fails, my technical know-how springs into action. The best solution to get the gears whirling is also the simplest. In fact, it’s sort of like playing pinball – rock the machine while blindly pushing buttons until you hit the jackpot. Observe:

Step 1: Open door A.
Step 2: Yank random lever.
Step 3: Slam door A.
Step 4: Repeat steps 1-3
Step 5: Kick machine where it hurts. If no response within 15 seconds, kick again harder.

To further get out aggressions, I turn on Mac – my name for the guillotine of a paper cutter that gathers dust by the window. This thing could slice through a Redwood. It, too, is vintage, yet is smartly designed (activating the cutter button requires both hands after turning a key).

If office machines could date, Mac would be the meathead boyfriend of Ms. Shredder. That’s the actual name of a dainty lil’ thing unable to shred more than three sheets at a time. She’s so temperamental that she’s better left unplugged, just like some of the girls in my homeroom you’re about to meet.

Traditional Takayama

2007-01-29T10:15:00.000-05:00

I never got around to blogging about my trip to Takayama (高山) last summer, but here's my recently published article about the city.

Additional photos here.

Supplies & Demand

2007-01-23T03:00:00.000-05:00

Face it. The best thing about going back to school was shopping for supplies. Roaming the wide aisles of Office Mart, the whole year seem so fresh, so organized, so possible. Five-subject notebooks and three-ring binders were staples of students. Stocking up on supplies was a motivational exercise despite knowing full well that a month later you’d be searching for incomplete homework in a folder bursting with papers across five subjects.

When you’re a teacher in Japan, however, the supplies come to you. Two days following the footwear misstep on my first day, I was inventorying inherited junk in the desk drawers. I’ll list last year’s leftovers from most useful to most disturbing:

Scotch tape

Chopsticks

Pliers

Burberry-patterned scarf

Old batteries

Frisbee

Coloring book of the 50 states

“Fifty-Fifty” English learning cassette

Biology for Dummies

Martial arts gloves

Punctured ping-pong ball

Soiled socks

Empty box of Durex

A supply guy was making the rounds in the teachers’ room. 1 folder, 1 glue stick, 1 binder clip, 1 tiny box of paper clips, 1 black pen, 1 red pen, 1 unsharpened pencil, 1 eraser - item after item he delivered to the desktops of new teachers. Veterans presumably had enough ink and clips from last year, or were on their own for foraging. Despite my looking green, my desk remained empty as yellow plastic chalk cases found new masters. Possession of a chalk case is the ultimate accessory to feel part of the teacher’s circle.

Not confident to speak up in Japanese, I looked around to see if anyone else was witnessing the injustice. Across from me, another new foreign teacher smirked while twirling his unsharpened pencil. Missing out on the correction fluid pen, however, was the last straw. I had to have it.

The metallic clinking of the ball inside was the sound of productivity. Sort of like a mating call in the jungle, shaking the pen announced something authoritative – that you were perfecting the details of an important project.

“Sumimasen,” I said softly to the man as he was in mid-delivery over a neighboring desk. I didn’t know what else to say once I got his attention. I just pointed to my desk and put on a face that pouted, “Yeah, I’m new here too – just like the three other foreigners receiving supplies.”

He apologized (profusely), and caught me up to stock. I waved the white out pen at my co-worker with a celebratory rattle.

Drinking in the New Year

2007-01-16T10:00:00.001-05:00

For an all work and no play culture, the Japanese make exceptions to let loose in December and January. That’s when bonenkai (忘年会) and shinnenkai (新年会) parties give co-workers and friends reason to forget the old and celebrate the new.

January 14th’s shinnenkai was with Kensuke (last seen on the blog saving my life) and some of his buddies (last seen barbecuing in the park – click on the “Kensuke” label link at right for a refresher). I anticipated an evening of struggling to speak in Japanese and relying heavily on hand gestures oiled by sake, shouchu, and draft beer.

Kensuke and friends seemed subdued, maybe because everyone was off to a shaky start. Kensuke was set to lose February’s income because Master was closing the izakaya and taking a month’s rest – in Hawaii. Working Mondays at a pachinko parlor wouldn’t make ends meet.

Tak, fighting a cold, looked depressed underneath his wool hat. He didn’t even have part-time prospects after his long hair got him bounced from an interview at another pachinko parlor.

After talking about jobs, or the lack thereof, conversation switched to girlfriends, or the lack thereof. Kensuke and Tomo recounted their foray into Kabukicho, Tokyo’s red light district. After 10 minutes of perusing photos, about $125 got them 15 minutes with the Japanese girl of their choice. Except that when the door opened, in walked a Korean, they said with a trace of buyer’s remorse.

The affable grill master from the summer BBQ was noticeably absent, but checked in a few times via cell phone from home where he was studying for a college exam. Such obligations, however, didn’t stop Tomo from extending Sunday’s shinnenkai until 2:30 a.m. Monday. The slim tae kwon do fighter (below) tied a ponytail on top of his head and cursed off a Chinese test looming later that day.

“Not pass,” he said, gritting his teeth. I didn’t disagree, as his Chinese vocabulary was about the same size as mine – four words.

Around the table, lighters sat perched on cigarette packs like poker chips. Kazu blew rings from his mouth. Ailing Tak dragged on a cigarette and blew mucus into a wet wipe. The table began to clutter with empty glasses, discarded edamame pods, and bare plates as fried chicken, raw octopus, and other shareable snacks were attacked upon arrival. I dipped slender shishamo (ししゃも, smelt fish) into mayo and savored its scaly texture. The Japanese have caught on: mayo makes everything taste better.

Quiet Kazu was wearing a long sleeve shirt imprinted with a map of New York City’s subway. I pointed to the dot on his chest where I was born. A barrage of “New York life” questions followed, which were mostly contorted fantasies picked up from watching too many B-movies.

The guys were most interested in black people and junkies; needle in forearm gestures accompanied their questions about the latter. How many black friends did I have? How did I greet them on the street? Were cops not strict about marijuana? Did I use in high school? Did all junkies use wheelchairs? Did the one junkie per block ratio hold true in the City? So as not to completely disappoint them, I pointed to Kazu’s shoulders and said that in those outlying areas you could find what you were looking for.

I might have misinterpreted, but Kensuke then shared a factoid that for every 100 meters between a NYC police station and his hotel, there was a 150% chance that a Japanese person would get mugged twice.

We later moved into a private booth equipped with a karaoke machine. Earlier, sniffling Tak had been eager to know if I could rap. Something about wanting me to do so at his band’s show. In denial that I couldn’t, he queued “Lose Yourself.” I reluctantly picked up the mic, and by the time I put it back down I had new respect for Eminem’s speed. Hopefully I convinced Tak to keep searching for a performer.

We took turns thumbing through a song book the size of a state telephone directory. I knew just where to flip. With sporadic practice over the months, I’ve assembled a repertoire:

Bon Jovi – Livin’ on a Prayer
Zager and Evans – In the Year 2525
America – Horse With No Name
Javine – Surrender
Linkin Park – Numb
Celine Dion – My Heart Will Go On

It’s a nice mix of oldies, rock, and pop that won’t push my limited vocal range. Celine is a shattering exception, but by that point nobody will remember anything anyway.

Despite my spirited first-time rendition of Mr. Mister’s “Kyrie,” quiet Kazu turned out to be the most talented. While the others stuck with Japanese hits, he handled the Red Hot Chili Peppers on key and in clear English.

Aside from memorized lyrics, however, their collective English ability was quite limited. The five of us nevertheless connected. Cell phone dictionaries bridged gaps, such as for gesture-defying words like entrance examination, conscription, and sperm bank.

Although they kept complimenting my Japanese, it hadn’t improved since the BBQ six months ago. I still only know about 10 verbs, half of which I can use correctly. Instead, I spit out a steady diet of nouns and hope people get the picture. Kensuke made an interesting point. Despite not studying, my living in Japan for less than two years has made me more proficient than their six years of compulsory English education.

Kensuke (center) and Tomo

By 10:30 p.m. Kazu and Tak called it a night, but Kensuke, Tomo, and I moved on to a yakitori place that could become my next neighborhood hang out. Staff welcomed me like a regular, and I pulled up a padded beer barrel stool among the lively locals growing louder after every glass. Kensuke kept the sake flowing and ordered skewers of torikawa (とりかわ, grilled chicken skin), tiny bird eggs, liver, and pork slices.

Around 1:30 a.m. a female friend from their junior high days joined us for a final round of sake and skewered entrails. We then parted ways into the chilly January night, 2007 having been initiated Japanese style.

Opening Ceremonies

2007-01-09T09:40:00.000-05:00

To kick things off in the Year of the Boar, I’ll start at the beginning, which happens to be nine months ago when I began a new job. More demanding hours combined with an increase in paid freelance writing have hampered leisure blogging, so I have a lot of catching up to do.

Rotating among four schools last year, I found it hard to develop friendships with students. I was there solely to assist the Japanese English teacher, and felt awkward asking to eat lunch with the kids or being caught clowning around during recess, often as party to the mischief.

Then along came Shin Gakko, a private school that actually encouraged foreign teachers to be active in the lives of its learners, which included junior high and high school. On top of English lesson planning, my other roles were to be an assistant homeroom and gym teacher. Shin Gakko seemed like the perfect match to grow with the same set of students in various settings around school.

Head first I went to day number one with plenty to cover my feet. Changing footwear is an ingrained habit of Japanese life. For example, in my new, shared apartment, I check shoes at the door and change into one of three pairs of slippers depending on if I’m showering, doing laundry on the porch, or walking through the living-dining-room-kitchen.

At school, here’s what you’ll find in my locker and bottom desk drawer:
1. outdoor shoes – what I wear when I come to work
2. indoor shoes – what I change into to wear inside school
3. ground shoes – what I change into if gym class is outside in the dirt lot
4. gym shoes – what I change into if gym class is in the hardwood gym
5. slippers – for carpeted classrooms

Upon arrival, most teachers change out of their dress shoes they wear to work. Apparently dirt from outside of school isn’t to mingle with dirt on campus. The result is comedic. Teachers look business from head to ankle, but covering their toes are mismatching sneakers or el cheapo sandals with off-colored socks. Assimilating to the strict footwear code of conduct, however, doesn’t have to be difficult. Other foreign teachers here have streamlined the system by wearing a universal pair to cover all surfaces.

I wish I had done so on opening day. That morning I traded black dress shoes for “indoor” white Pumas, which – shhh! – on weekends I wear out to bars and clubs. I had no idea what to expect that first day, but it turned out a little like the Olympics’ opening ceremonies, but with only one country competing.

Lined up in their gym clothes for Sports Day practice.

Convocation was held in the dirt schoolyard with a baseball diamond. Students in linear formation endlessly marched in class by class, and used military-like maneuvers to evenly space themselves out – no small feat considering that there were 2,200 of them. With so many pupils, the high school feels more like a factory churning out students packaged with the same school crest lapel pin.

High school boys wore cadet-like black blazers with a dozen gold buttons fastened from waist to collar. Girls paraded in navy sailor tops and pleated dresses. Middle schoolers were outfitted in tiny grey jackets and trousers or dresses. Black shoes clomped all around. They looked like a uniformed fighting force of a small nation. Standing silently at attention, they awaited word from their commander-in-chief.

The principal faced a microphone on a raised podium over first base. Aged and important-looking men (retired generals?) flanked the platform while rank and file teachers fanned out around the perimeter of the yard. Like the rest of the Japanese workforce, teachers wore shades of black. The overcast weather also dressed for the occasion. I had not.

New teachers entered last. We followed the third base line, touched home, and lined up along first base near the principal. The five foreign teachers were the last of the last. Scanning the group of new Japanese teachers in black shoes, panic swept over me. Mine were white, and for indoors.

“Those are nice shoes, but I’m not sure if I’d necessarily be wearing them right now,” the American behind me said. It was too late to change. My stomach knotted as I faced the crowd standing one teacher away from the end (home plate). Maybe if I stood on the white base line nobody would notice. They did. The foreign teachers cracked jokes as we applauded the entrance of the junior high, the final troops to deploy.

Speeches began without my comprehension. Bowing seemed to be the theme because we did it before, many times during, and at the end of each speech, which were mercifully brief. Then it was time for new teacher introductions. Three by three, newbies ascended the platform to have the chief announce their names before bowing down.

I secretly wished for a sudden downpour. Once the main ingredient for my popularity last year, my snow-colored Pumas would now trigger an avalanche of embarrassment. Three of us foreign men were the last to go up. Walking past the other teachers I also noticed that I was the only one not wearing a white dress shirt, but luckily had a black spring jacket to mask the sky blue underneath.

The sea of bored faces suddenly rippled to life. I’ll never forget the sequence of noises as we assumed the stage. Dead silence, followed by murmurs loudening into laughter. Never mind the feet; it was the face. Three tall, pasty white foreigners (one with shoes to match) were just too much of a contrast from everyone who had bowed before.

Retreating to ground level, I reflected on how my first day could have been worse. That morning I almost pulled beige slacks out of the closet.

A Fall Pageant

2006-12-23T17:00:00.000-05:00

I’d like to finish the year with some images from Kyoto, Japan’s ancient capital and modern day tourist magnet. This leafy city rivals Tokyo as Japan’s tourist hub, and easily surpasses it in beauty and preserved heritage. Like Kanazawa, Kyoto with its geishas is the Japan that foreigners envision, but in reality it exists only in isolated pockets. Nonetheless, the many UNESCO sites here attest to Kyoto’s being a unique window into this country’s feudal past.

For a brief period at the end of November, nature turns the tables and pushes Kyoto’s architectural gems to background scenery. Like leafpeeping in New England, momijigari is popular in Japan, but New England doesn’t have five-storied pagodas and expansive temple grounds dating back centuries.

Accordingly, the two best spots to view the foliage combine nature with national treasures. Last year I blogged about Nikko. This year I took a bullet train to my date with the belle of the autumnal ball.

There wasn’t a hotel room left in the city. I joined the throngs lining up to enter temples and their outdoor rock gardens (above photo). Mobbed doesn’t even begin to describe the pedestrian traffic, but gazing up at the leaves made the dark coats with clicking Canons fade from consciousness.

You have to be there to appreciate it; my Canon couldn’t capture the delicate intensity of leaves that catch fire when sunlight strikes. The colors, bold and complex, were juxtaposed against a spiritual setting, such as a blue sky, golden pavilion (above), or wooden-framed temple. I was mesmerized. Absorbing the warmth radiating from these colorful trees helped fight the chill in the November air.

Despite being peak season, most of the trees remained green. However, certain species like the Japanese maple and gingko turned the spotlight on themselves and vied for my attention. In Japan’s premier architectural setting, nature, too, was at its finest. Foliage in Kyoto combines the best of nature’s and man’s accomplishments, so sit back and enjoy the pictures.

Kyoto in late September 2006.

Kyoto in late November 2006.

Before heading back to Tokyo, I stopped in nearby Uji for a look at Phoenix Hall (below), which is featured on the back of the 10 yen coin. Uji is also famous for tea. At a teahouse near Phoenix Hall I participated in a private ceremony, which got off to an inauspicious start when I slammed my forehead into the doorframe just after removing my shoes. Participate isn’t really the right word, as the only thing I did was get bowed to. Two kimono-clad ladies prepared a cup of rich green tea before my very eyes, which took a little more precision than adding hot water to a mix. The ceremony was short but highly formal and complex.

Uji in late November 2006.

Buddha in Black

2006-12-19T14:30:00.000-05:00

I thought I had seen them all, but alas, another remained. I’ve already described the spiritual satisfaction I get from visiting enormous Buddha statues, which I now realize number four in Japan. Two are famous and two are not. Buddhas at Todai-ji in Nara (60 feet) and Kotoku-in in Kamakura (44 feet) are dwarfed in size but not reputation by Nokogiri-yama’s 102-foot giant carved into the mountainside.

The missing member of Japan’s Buddha family was only one express stop on the Tobu-Tojo line from Ikebukuro. While the closest to the capital, Tokyo Daibutsu (東京大仏, or The Great Buddha of Tokyo) is also the smallest (43 feet).

Sleepy side streets with well-appointed houses near Jouren-ji Temple felt far from the vertical bustle that characterizes the commercial hubs of Tokyo. Behind the temple, a grove of bamboo and a thick carpet of crunchy leaves were two pleasures of nature I’ve never encountered within these city limits.

Except for a leaf blower, the temple precincts were quiet. Yellow ginkgo leaves had finished for the season, but aggressive carp looked as active as ever, opening their gullets wide to fight over air bubbles or fish pellets that my Hawaiian friend Lahela tossed into the pond.

The presence of the main attraction was felt all over the grounds. Tokyo Daibutsu’s silky black bronze body contrasted to the weathered green of Kamakura’s bronze Buddha cast in 1252. Tokyo Daibutsu, however, is about as ancient as I am, and was honored as a New Tokyo Landmark after its completion in 1977.

Yet this is a landmark few know about, and on a Tuesday afternoon in December the seven stone gods of fortune outnumbered human supplicants. I found the smaller Jizo statues in red bibs to be more photogenic. For ¥500 these guardians of deceased and unborn children, pregnant women, and travelers could be purchased and placed on larger Jizo statues to fulfill wishes.

The outing was a chance to test drive my snappy new camera equipped with a powerful zoom lens and advanced auto focus unknown to my old point and shoot. I was able to capture writhing carp, smoking incense, and Jizo statues with as much or as little detail as I pleased. Later on, Lahela caught me performing magic tricks in the leaf pile out back.

Click here to see the results.

Picnic in the Park

2006-12-17T11:00:00.000-05:00

Just two entries after first blogging about her on Halloween, it was time to say sayonara to Delphine. Japan was losing this Frenchwoman to Australia. Disgruntled with my current teaching job, she offered me hers. Seeing as I do enough baby-sitting of 7th graders, the thought of changing diapers and wiping runny noses of crusty-eyed preschoolers was out of the question.

Thanks to Tokyo’s already mild winters, and with a little help from global warming, November 12 was still seasonal for a farewell picnic in the beautifully landscaped Shinjukugyoen, once the estate of a feudal lord from the Edo period. ¥200 ($1.75) was well worth admission to touch real grass, the most manicured I’ve seen growing in a city otherwise paved over in concrete. Luckily, the Central Park of Tokyo is not far from my new apartment, and was the setting of a few lazy August days when I was on summer vacation.

An international group spread out on the lawn, and dug into perhaps the most international of foodstuffs – Pringles potato chips, seemingly available in every country with UN membership. I, however, packed a supermarket bento lunch box of grilled salmon, and brought tea and cookies for the others to munch on.

Low autumn sunshine cast tall afternoon shadows in the park. Gingko trees with brilliant yellow leaves rustled. Creeping shadows and steady breezes made lounging on the grass feel chilly, so we began tossing around a frisbee with predictably chaotic results. The wind steered the disc according to its whim, on occasion colliding with someone’s back or back of the head.

By 4 o’clock, shadows had overtaken sunlight, and we retreated to a nearby café to warm up over tea and coffee. Thanks to Yukari for being the official picnic photographer, and for inspiring me to upgrade my point and shoot to a digital DSLR retailing for more than a month’s rent.

Christmas came early to Tokyo, but the good-byes continued a month later with Lawrence , my best friend here, and then the freewheeling Jackson who was last seen on the blog atop the Yamanote line’s luggage rack on Halloween. Lawrence is back in Paris while Jackson is off to pursue his career as a talent across four cities worldwide. And I’m still in this conflictingly irritating but fascinating city, but feel like I, too, am on my way out.

Top (from left): Tanya (Ukraine), Lawrence (France)
Bottom (from left): Yours Truly (USA), three girls I don’t know (Australia, Taiwan, Japan), Delphine (France)
Not pictured: Michelle (Canada), Yukari (photographer, Japan).

I Didn’t Do It

2006-12-10T01:00:00.000-05:00

Culture shock and the oddities of Japanese life have worn off, but every now and then something takes me by surprise. Such was the case waiting on the outdoor platform of Akabane station, the crossroads of northern Tokyo.

Winds sprayed a December rain onto trains and those waiting for them. I insulated myself with a scarf and gloves while iPod earphones warmed my eardrums. I didn’t look approachable. Firstly, I’m a foreigner. Few Japanese will risk the unknown and initiate interaction with such species. Furthermore, my ears were closed to conversation, and the corners of my mouth sagged in protest at heading to work on yet another Saturday.

But all that didn’t stop a 30-something-year-old man from pushing a book under my nose. The text was in Japanese, but penciled neatly above an image of Bart Simpson was one of his trademark lines: “I didn’t do it.”

The man pointed, and on cue this ever-ready English teacher read the phrase aloud. He pointed again, and so I repeated. His eyes flickered while processing the information.

“I didn’t do it,” he quickly muttered as if Bart had sprung to life.

“Yes,” I said approvingly. He repeated. “Yup, you got it!” I was less enthusiastic by the fourth go-around, and by the seventh time I wanted to unplug him.

I scanned the horizon for my train that would break this awkward encounter. He then flipped to a group picture of men from the cartoon “King of the Hill.” Unfamiliar with the program, I could not comment on the grunts and groans he uttered as he pointed to each character. After seven of them, he stopped making noises, and stared at me with widening eyes.

“I’m gonna kick your ass!” he seethed through his teeth at least three times. I didn’t know who he was imitating, but silently cursed the global influence of American television.

The weirdo wasn’t finished. He turned to a picture of the Simpsons family hanging off the Empire State Building. Homer grabbed the needle in one hand and pumped his fist in the other.

“Doh!” the childlike man cried as if Homer himself were standing next to me. He then imitated something unintelligible for Marge and Lisa before pointing to Bart. I knew what was coming next. “I didn’t do it,” he said once, twice, five times, before belting out a final “Doh!”

Platform bells announced imminent relief snaking towards me. Or maybe not. What if he clambered aboard after me to continue the unsolicited routine?

“I’m gonna kick your ass!” he hissed into his book while walking to the opposite track. The doors closed (another melody – aren’t they fun?), and by the time they opened at my stop, I had completed another blog entry.

White Heron

2006-11-28T06:00:00.000-05:00

About 400 years old and 400 miles west of Tokyo, Himeji castle stands elegantly, white, and layered like a wedding cake (or a flying heron, take your pick). Being Japan’s best-preserved castle and a UNESCO World Heritage Site make it the belle of fortresses once protecting this feuding island. Unlike the recently reconstructed castle in Kanazawa (or Nagoya, Osaka, etc. take your pick), Himeji owes its longevity to being a virgin to fire and battle. Himeji somehow dodged WWII bombs that rained down on the rest of the town, and today exhibits its original and impressive fortifications surrounding the photogenic five-story donjon.

Himeji, however well preserved, is a one-castle town, so after a self-guided tour and a bento lunchbox on the sidewalk, it was time to fly.

Freaky Foreigners

2006-11-17T12:00:00.000-05:00

Halloween. You get the feeling that the Japanese think they should be celebrating it because it’s Western and in the movies, but aren’t sure how to go about it. Pumpkin-themed things are available, and if you look hard enough you may find a genuine miniature pumpkin, which in central Tokyo looks lonely and lost from the patch.

“Happy Halloween” signs are just window dressing. There’s no substance behind the decorations. And without Thanksgiving as a buffer holiday, some stores launch into Christmas mode in mid-October. That's another Western holiday the Japanese don’t quite grasp, but have added their own twists.

Thank goodness for foreigners to set them straight. In addition to conversational English, we can prove our worth by teaching the joys of dressing up like freaks and gorging on candy until our stomachs explode (nowadays from liquor).

Every four years I’m due to celebrate in full gear:

1998. New Hampshire. Freshman year of college, hallmate Susannah persuaded me to cross-dress so that she could do my makeup. Thankfully those were pre-digital days.

2002. New York. My resort uniform (purple swimming trunks, white tank top, shell necklace) from a former job in Guam was widely mistaken for a marathon runner, an event held later that week.

2006. Tokyo. Having already purchased red wristbands, finger guards, headband, and bandanna to dress up for school sports day (think color war), I realized I could save money and be creative at the same time. The subway line closest to my apartment is coded red. Inspiration met originality – I would be the Marunouchi Line, Tokyo’s second oldest and my second most disliked after the Ginza Line. Sometimes it’s so crowded that I miss my stop because I can’t fight my way out fast enough. Carriages that smell like the men’s bathroom don’t add appeal.

After working a thankless 13 consecutive days at school, I was ready for a holiday, any holiday. The Halloween dance card was full: four parties in one night. The first required no invitation.

In the same vein as a flash mob, an expat Halloween tradition calls for a costumed convergence on platform 13 at JR Shinjuku station, the busiest in the world. Here we would catch (commandeer) a Yamanote line train. With 3.55 million riders daily, this line is the bread and butter of Tokyo mass transit. Famous for its light green color and cattle cars where the seats fold up during rush hour, Yamanote trains endlessly circle the core of Tokyo connecting the city’s major transit hubs.

Dressing in red wouldn’t be clear enough, so I spent two hours fashioning the Japanese for “Marunouchi Line” onto the back of my red track jacket. It’s the first and last time I’ll ever write kanji, but the result was striking. Two letter “M”s taped on the butt and thigh of matching sweatpants completed the look.

From the front, I looked like a bad 80s rapper. From the back, I was more puzzling. Who would embody a subway line? Again, Halloween is not a well-known concept here, so I simply looked freakish from every angle. Stepping outdoors, I quickly retreated back in – to a convenience store to pick up two canned cocktails (7%) to calm my nerves on the way to platform 13. I got the rare-bird-escaped-from-the-zoo look. Tropical plumage from head-to-toe was a magnet for attention. I became sensitive to sounds. Even busses rumbled by with laughter.

Powerless police officers puttered about platform 13, whispering distress into their radios. Open containers, however, were legal. And so were we, just waiting for the train.

The 21:07 to be exact. That was the pre-decided time to ride. I stepped on the yellow line, and aimed my camera at headlights growing in the dark. The conductor, aware of who awaited, put some serious juice on the horn as the train blew into the station. The crowd cheered. It was party time.

Without enough crazy foreigners to take over ten cars, only the last was targeted. Passengers were given the courtesy of exiting before the spirits of the night stormed the carriage to rile up the unlucky remaining ones. One Japanese woman, coincidentally in an orange sweater, looked like she had seen a ghost, so to speak. The doors closed, the gears wheezed, and we cracked open beverages and yelled “kanpai!” to toast our departure.

Shin-Okubo…Takadanobaba…Mejiro. Locals left and those in costume consolidated control of the car. At each station, boarding passengers received a rowdy welcome, whereupon they scrambled up the platform to find a tamer car. As usual, many commuters waited at Ikebukuro station (change here for the Marunouchi Line). They froze on the platform. The next train was only five minutes behind.

The mood inside was festive, but there’s really only so much fun you can have drinking aboard mass transit. The Yamanote loop takes about an hour, but my next party started in half that time, so I jumped train at Komagome station to retrace my tracks back towards Shinjuku.

According to someone who saw the evening news, foreigners were blamed for causing delays on the line because at each stop revelers would dance on the platform right through the closing door melody and jump back on in the nick of time (see footage below).

For more, check out these Youtube highlights. I guess I exited too early cause it looks like they had a lot more fun than I had.

My friend Delphine, uncostumed but accompanied by a Columbian suitor, also reversed course. Pabo seemed a little spooky himself, a hunch that she confirmed at lunch the next day. Apparently he had a thing for the French damsel, which he subtly conveyed by trying to force her hand down his pants to prove just how small it was. Over instant messenger he once sent her an unsolicited picture of his toothpick.

“He goes on three or four dates a week,” Delphine said. “And he takes girls to love hotels and films it. He’s showed me. ‘It’s small, isn’t it?’ he asks me.” Delphine said that while he’s kooky, he’s no liar.

After Maria’s birthday and Halloween party in Shibuya, I cabbed it to DJ’s place. Rain began to peel away my letters, so I skipped the fourth party to crawl home to bed.

Meeting up with Delphine for lunch the next day, she took one look at my clothing and said with a smirk, “I like you in red better.”

* * *

A week later was Jackson’s birthday, which he rolled into a post-Halloween bash on a boat cruising around Tokyo Bay. Ever the crazy Canadian, I like Jackson because he’s that guy. Check him out here lounging on the Yamanote line’s luggage racks.

Once again I dressed up in the color of embarrassment. Halloween was so last week, I thought. No sooner had I locked my door than I heard English voices echoing down the corridor. Crap! It’s my neighbor Mike whose name I’ve seen on the mailbox but hadn’t met in person. He and three friends turned the corner before I could unlock the deadbolt and hide inside.

“Uhh, hi?” I said, clutching my keys.

“Hi, I’m your neighbor” Mike said, doing his best to act casual.

“I don’t usually dress like this, I swear.”

“You’ve got a party to go to, I see,” a friend said.

“Yeah, it’s a post-Halloween thing. I know it’s over, but….”

“Hey, it’s been happening all week,” the friend said, bailing me out.

To get to the pier, I caught a ride on what else but the Marunouchi Line. On the platform, a Japanese man came up to shake my hand and call me a “cool guy.” I felt like a traitor transferring to the Ginza Line, where a drunken salaryman also stopped to shake my hand with a giggle, but fortunately not a grope.

Party pictures can be viewed here.

Train Bingo

2006-11-12T08:45:00.000-05:00

How well do you know your fellow commuters? Play the game and find out. I'm behind the concept and text. My co-worker labored on the illustrations. Disclaimer: some squares may only apply in Japan. Click to enlarge.

Pinch Hitting

2006-11-02T04:33:00.001-05:00

Teaching intractable junior high kids without basic English skills, I’ve often wondered what it would be like to take on elementary school ones rawer in behavior and ability. In February I found out.

Subbing in the suburb of Funabashi required a 5:40 a.m. wake up call. That was the easy part. To earn some extra income east of Tokyo, I had to transfer from the safety of a train with English signage to the unpredictability of a Japanese-only bus.

Figuring out the right stop was like solving a math problem with only two known variables: travel time from the station depot and the cost of the journey, which every now and then increased with distance. The kanji of stop names flashed up on the screen like scrambled squiggles, and I couldn’t catch the driver’s announcements. A wrong guess would leave me, the functional illiterate, late for school and freezing alongside unknown empty fields.

Students of this elementary school (where I arrived on time) had one 20-minute English lesson per week. That’s in addition to their Spanish class. Two things struck me about the English classroom: no chairs and no board. Before I could reformulate my lesson plan, by twos in marched the first class – seven-year-olds with mucus-streaked cheeks and curious eyes fixed on the giant white alien. I stared at them, and they stared at me.

Nametags dangled from their necks, and one began whimpering about something. Others intently picked their noses or smiled with mouths full of misaligned teeth. I was not accustomed to students out of uniform. Their hodgepodge sweatshirts and overalls included mangled phrases like “Life Is Like A Music” and “Somewhere I Have Never Been. Sometimes I Am.” Yet their clothing was as colorful as their eyes were warm. They were clearly surprised to see a new teacher half the age and weight of their regular Tuesday instructor.

The great thing about elementary school is that it’s game time all the time. Their cooperation and enthusiasm put my junior high misfits to shame. We first reviewed vegetables by splitting into small groups and playing memory with flash cards. No blackboard was necessary because they couldn’t read English let alone much kanji (just like their subbing sensei). So they memorized English words based on picture associations. Spinach, sweet potato, and spring onion, their vocabulary made me hungry for lunch until I thought I heard them recite “toilet paper” when holding up a picture of a bell pepper.

“Stormy Night” played over the PA during lunch. When nobody in the teacher’s room noticed that the song got stuck, I politely pointed to the ceiling speaker and then to my ear while bowing my head with a smile.

With winter approaching again, I think back to that cold day in a new place. Inside, the miso soup for lunch and extra servings of smiles warmed me up. Just a one-day job, by the end it was still hard to say sayonara. The little buggers tagged along in the corridor as I walked to the stairs leading down to the entrance.

Changing into my outdoor shoes, I heard footsteps and looked up. An Adidas tracksuit bounded downstairs to send me off with a hug. I gave the boy a final sayonara, and made my way to the bus stop.

Outside, the sidewalk abutted the playground where recess was in full swing. Two girls kicked up dirt while balancing giant orange cones on their heads. Then I spotted the tracksuit jumping off the jungle gym. The next thing I knew, the boy slid through the gate. He attached himself to my leg and wouldn’t let go. I forget what I said to him in Japanese, but I’ll always remember that firm grip of appreciation.

Spiritual Natadera

2006-10-23T11:11:00.000-04:00

Riding a newfound Buddhist kick, I was lured to the rocky caves of Natadera (那谷寺) after seeing a dreamily landscaped picture while in the Kanazawa tourist office. For a day trip, I headed west to Kaga Onsen station, where I disembarked, looked up, and saw a white elephant towering above the trees. Upon closer inspection, it was neither white nor an elephant, but rather golden and a mutant cross of the Virgin Mary and Buddha. At the risk of sounding blasphemous (all sanctity was lost after The Grope), what the hell is this thing?

No such iconic tawdriness existed on the forested grounds of Natadera, a temple of the Shingoh Sect of Buddhism. Founded by monk Taicho in 717 A.D., this sanctuary continues to harmonize humans and nature through religion. It was refreshing to have spirituality and the environment overshadow man in Japan, a capitalistic country paved over in asphalt and coated in concrete.

For a closer look at some greenery, view my pictures here. Click on images to read descriptions.

Kanazawa: Marsh of Gold

2006-10-04T06:00:00.000-04:00

On paper, Kanazawa (金沢) had all of the traditional trappings that foreigners associate with Japan: geisha districts, samurai villas, meticulous gardens, a castle, and a ninja temple.

After a seven-hour coach ride from Tokyo, the capital of Ishikawa Prefecture greeted me as it does most travelers: with a downpour. Rain-streaked windows blurred my first views of a city where Hideki Matsui played high school ball. Kanazawa averages 178 days of precipitation a year, so it’s fitting that the train and bus transit hub is designed like an open umbrella.

Once the weather cleared, I set out along doublewide sidewalks with far fewer pedestrians than in Tokyo, whose steamy asphalt I had escaped for four relaxing days. For an ambitious walker like myself, Kanazawa’s well-labeled sites (in English!) are navigable by foot. And unlike in Tokyo, shady benches are on hand to spell your feet.

Parks, gardens, and sculptures give the city a pleasantly landscaped feel that’s lacking in Tokyo. Kenrokuen Garden (兼六園) is known to be Japan’s finest, and if the crowds are any indication, it’s true. The “garden with six sublimities” opened to the public in 1874; in 1922, it was designated as a National Site of Scenic Beauty. In 1985, it was designated as a National Site of Special Scenic Beauty. I’m not sure what the difference is, or why that took 63 years to designate.
What a recently recreated castle lacked in historic charm, the surrounding park made up for in beauty with rolling lawns and flowerbeds that contrasted to cloud-white castle walls seemingly floating in the blue sky.

My favorite part of Kanazawa was exploring temples clustered at the base of Mt. Utatsu. After walking through the Higashi Chaya Geisha District – the best of the three in town – I wandered along winding lanes of a residential neighborhood where I had the streets and temples all to myself. It was tempting to get lost, but even cemeteries hidden in the woods had directional signs in English.

Of all of Japan’s temples and shrines, Myoryuji was by far the most memorable. Erroneously dubbed “ninja-dera” (ninja temple), no agents of assassination and espionage ever inhabited these grounds, yet the crafty layout would sure make them proud. The building appears to be two stories from the outside, but like most things at Myoryuji, appearances are deceiving.

The inside revealed four stories (or seven levels, counting mezzanines) with no fewer than 29 staircases. Plenty of contraptions baffled intruders and probably the Kaga clan who used the building in Edo times. Trap stairs, a fake offertory box in the floor, and a kitchen well rumored to link to a tunnel leading to the castle kept past enemies and present tourists ever guessing.

Far more confusing, however, was a Noh performance later that evening. Kanazawa specializes in one of the five schools of this traditional drama popular during the 17th-19th centuries. Reputedly one of the most boring performing arts ever known to man (at least those from Western countries), the drama made me wish I had brought toothpicks to prop my eyelids open.

The lone actor’s subtle gestures and lyricism went right over my sleeping head. In the first of two acts, a man in baggy, old school attire paced around the stage while taking his pointy straw hat on and off. Occasionally he let out haunting laughs. Action climaxed when he threw the hat on the stage and stomped off stage right. Rousing applause.

Even Japanese kids held their heads up better than the only foreigner in attendance. Nevertheless, I found it a relaxing way to spend $10 and an hour and a half. It was sort of like going to the opera, where I also can’t understand anything, but the rhythmic tones therapeutically clear my mind.

To that end, a Kanazawa retreat comes highly recommended to anyone in Japan needing a change of scenery or recharge of batteries. Check out the rest of my pictures here.

Sayonara to Summer

2006-09-28T07:45:00.000-04:00

In half an hour? The Japanese aren’t known for their spontaneity, but here Kensuke was inviting me to a BBQ two days after he saved my life. It was the last day of summer before I returned to work. Soon I would only be able to feel the sunshine from the wrong side of classroom windows.

The night we met at DJ’s place, Kensuke mentioned his favorite park near where we live. I counted the homeless people sleeping on benches in Yotsuya Sannencho Park. No sign of grills. No sign of him either.

Once he arrived at our designated meeting point, he led me away through twisting alleys with quiet homes bathed in soft afternoon light. A park like none I have seen in the capital came into view. A bamboo fence enclosed a gravel lot. In one corner, trees shaded a small shrine. Businessmen and elementary school children stopped by to summon the spirits.

Dark splotches dotted the back of Kensuke’s Bob Marley t-shirt. A towel wrapped around his neck soaked up the last of summer’s sweat. Our feet crunched on pebbles as we approached his four friends sitting around a hibachi. Two sat leaning against the fence sharing earphones like Siamese twins.

The cook rose up from sitting on the cooler to welcome me with a cold Yebisu beer. I recognized the tanned and mustached boy from DJ’s place. The grill sizzled with an assortment of meat, which he piled generously onto my paper plate before I took a “padded” seat on a flattened cardboard box.

This being a city that has repeatedly burned down over its long, fire-prone history, cooking devices were banned in the park. Helicopters chattering above added to the cook’s paranoia, which he voiced in Japanese.

“If the police come, you run,” translated a slim 19-year-old who has the Friday night shift at Kensuke’s restaurant. He pulled back his long auburn hair with a tortoiseshell headband and continued, “You are teacher.”

We all laughed. Water sources close at hand quelled any risk of fire. Near the shrine was a manual water pump, and much of this small sanctuary was filled with a dirty pond home to some resilient goldfish and one fearsome Kappa water monster, or so the boys told me.

This mythical creature lurks in rivers and ponds, and preys upon humans by gently sucking out their entrails through the anus (distended rectums of drowning victims is evidence). Only cucumbers can combat a Kappa’s hunger for humans, so pocket a good supply the next time you take a dip.

The hot plate sizzled with pork, sausages, smelt fish, and veggies. A record player studded with Sapporo bottle caps turned out reggae beats. I held my own as we talked in Japanese about various subjects like music, cars, and girls. They said Japanese Olympic gold medal skater Arakawa had a “horror face.” I charged that American Britney Spears was dumb and ugly. However, we came to agreement that Sharapova was one fine piece of Russian meat.

Aside from the imported Jamaican music, the park, food, company, and conversation felt like the real Japan. Although always an outsider here, for a few hours on the last day of summer I felt incorporated into Japanese life.

It didn’t last long. I suddenly urged to cry out in my native language. Surrounded by the Japanese atmosphere, I wanted to reassert my identity. I grabbed my Yebisu beer can, and thumbed away the beaded sweat. I read the English label aloud like I was at a poetry reading. Even the earphone twins tuned in to listen. Unable to digest my words, they captively swallowed them whole.

“You are so cool,” the cook smiled following my impassioned delivery.

I took a refreshing sip before returning the compliment with an empty plate.

Gossiping with a View

2006-09-20T10:47:00.000-04:00

Five months had passed since we last screamed at infamous Kanokita School kids together. It was time for a reunion. Ms. Hattori, who was last seen on the blog changing classroom tactics, invited me to dinner and drinks on the 24th floor of a hotel overlooking drab suburbs receeding north of Tokyo.

She showed up in a black suit, and I in a short-sleeve shirt and hiking pants, which didn’t seem to faze the tuxedoed servers. I also came with an appetite for all-you-can-stomach appetizers and drinks. Ms. Hattori came with a stack of 300 loose photos from her summer vacation trip. Seeking school gossip rather than a slideshow, I suggested that we look at them later over coffee, hoping that moment would never come.

Photos or not, she couldn’t tell me enough about the Australian way of life during her homestay in Carins where she brushed up on English and volunteered at some schools.

“Do you know Holiday Inn?” she asked like it was the holy grail of hotels. I nodded. “I ate seafood buffet at Holiday Inn. It was dericious!”

Armed with glossy illustrations, out came pictures of platefuls of half-eaten food (one for every dinner down under), the airport tarmac, bus stops without timetables, a park bench. My favorite was of her with her fleshy host mother posing on red satin sheets. I slugged back another Moscow Mule (quite refreshing in the summer heat), and excused myself to the sushi platter.

With my chopsticks around some squid, she leaned over and told me that I couldn’t tell anyone. About what, feeding peacocks in the host family’s backyard? No, about her entire trip. This wasn’t an ordinary summer vacation. It was a guarded secret that only the principal knew. Apparently Kanokita had taken its toll on the green teacher. Those kids could drive anyone to an early retirement. She flipped open her phone and showed me a picture.

“Looks like confetti on the floor,” I said.

“That’s my worksheet!” she cried.

Ahh, how I miss those kids. Well, she didn’t, and instead of a recommended week of stress therapy in the hospital, she fanagled four in Oz.

Despite the respite from work, she was full of school news. First the good: Kanokita captured the Tokyo tennis title. The young Omiyada “handicapped class” teacher I played basketball with got married. A shotgun wedding was rumored.

Then the bad: one of the 9th graders stole a bicycle. Others were caught smoking on the top floor, having broken a wall and set something on fire. That both the fire and police departments responded was apparently a bigger deal than just the usual visit from Tonka toy-like fire engines.

And last, the ugly: April’s test results were in for Tokyo’s junior high schools. Kanokita ranked last – in the ward, and in the entire city. The average school scored a 70. Kanokika’s rowdy neighbor Nakamizu placed second to last in the ward with a 34. Kanokita scratched out a 30, the lowest of anywhere in the world’s largest metropolis.

The news was confirmed a week later at a fireworks display. For the festival, Ms. Hattori wore her summer yukata, and I wrapped myself in a Burmese longyi, which got more than a few stares on the subway ride over. As fireworks exploded overhead, Ms. Hattori’s friend, an English teacher at Nakamizu said how demoralized her school felt about coming in last.

“But you weren’t last,” I pointed out.

“Well, everyone knows that Kanokita is the worst, so they don’t really count.”

Worst or first, those mischievous kids remain close to my heart.

The Night Kensuke Saved My Life

2006-09-11T21:39:00.000-04:00

DJ’s party is always a good place to meet Japanese people. Last month’s theme was “virgin honeymoon,” and featured a mural of a pumpkin-headed woman in a mini-skirt swinging an ax. Illuminated under black lights, it came closer to Halloween than honeymoon.

Unlike past events when I helped pass out flyers on the corner to suspected English-speakers, this party was a closed event. The bar was trying to keep a low profile – from the cops. Apparently they had visited on another night, which was enough to spook DJ & Co. of a follow-up at their monthly event.

Usually I don’t have a connection to the people I meet, but I shared something in common with Kensuke. He lives down the road from me, and works at an izakaya in between our apartments. He invited me for dinner two nights later.

Wisps of a goatee decorated his young face. Soft, wide almond eyes invited friendship. He seemed like the sort of person you could become friends with instantly. He dressed like an apprentice in the restaurant’s t-shirt and a tightly rolled headband that crowned his head like a halo. He accompanied the chef on frequent smoking breaks in the kitchen. In 35 years I could see him in the chef’s grease-stained apron with the frying pan in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

The chef, 59 and grandfatherly, spoke just a few words of English, so we stuck to basic Japanese. Not knowing what to order, I expressed basic preferences, namely that “I like fish and meat.” He took it from there. The boiled and bony mystery fish was disappointing, but five assorted yakitori skewers made up for it.

Kensuke brought me a raw egg to use as a dipping sauce for the meat. Raw eggs are a common and flavorful garnish in Japan. I draw the line at eating raw chicken. Away I dipped, only to have Kensuke correct me that only one of the five skewered meats was meant to be egged.

Three hours of limited Japanese conversation ensued. Kensuke asked if I wanted to finish off my meal with some sake. It went down smoother than water. The chef scolded him upon learning that he had poured from the most expensive bottle. Master wrote it off on the house.

The owner of the restaurant had one more present before I called it a night. Master reminded me of someone who would have attended Woodstock. Concert posters, t-shirts, and autographed photos lined the walls. A long, bony face sat atop a lollipop frame. A rolled-up headband also circled his head, and his lips squeezed a lit cigarette.

From a box of individually wrapped sweets, he presented me with a pastry from Sendai. He had trouble opening the plastic wrapping. At a BBQ the next day, Kensuke would tell me that Master was roaring drunk as per usual, although he hid it well. He sliced through the wrapping with scissors, and put the pastry on a plate in front of me. He turned his attention to a small packet that came wrapped with the pastry.

Master’s fingers obstructed my view, but I was pretty sure it was a dessicant, boldly labeled “DO NOT EAT” in both languages. Master cut it open.

“Excuse me, what is that?” I quivered in Japanese.

“Sauce,” he said, dumping black powder onto my white pastry. I cringed. The powder looked like mold, and had some seasame seeds mixed in. Was he trying to kill me? I hadn’t even paid the bill yet.

Although still very much a foreigner, I now see through Japanese eyes. Master’s pastry put me in a pickle. I thanked him for his generosity, and prepared to save face by stuffing mine. My gut churned at what a sense of cultural dignity moved me to eat. I could stomach the aches. Besides, I was still on summer vacation, and had a free day to burn at the doctor’s or hospital if necessary.

I stalled by nusing the last of my sake. I trusted its guidance. I reasoned turning the pastry over and picking at the untainted side, and conceding fullness before I fully poisoned myself.

My hand hovered above the plate. Just then Kensuke came out of the kitchen. He was holding the crumpled packed Master had thrown away. He politely suggested to his boss that maybe the special sauce wasn’t designed for digestion.

“Hai, hai, hai,” Master chuckled off the minor mistake, slapping me on the back. He staggered to the back of the room to fix me up with a pristine pastry.

I turned to Kensuke and mouthed thanks. The incident shook me up, not because of Master’s mistake, but at how I had nearly convinced myself to nibble around poisoned food to maintain the important Japanese concept of harmony.

Master and chef bid me farewell, encouraging me to return again. Thanks to a life-saver named Kensuke, I intend to do just that.

Saw Mountain

2006-09-07T10:10:00.000-04:00

There’s something about seeing Buddha that always puts me in a good mood. Maybe it’s his restful pose, assuring gesture, or level mind free from desire. Whatever it is, he makes for a good role model if there ever was one.

Although Japan’s population is 84 percent Shinto/Buddhist, it’s a secular society. So unlike other Asian nations, Buddhas are few and far between the massive department and electronic store temples enshrining Japan’s dominant consumer culture. Of Japan’s two famous Buddhas, I already made a pilgrimage to Kotoku-in in Kamakura. Todai-ji’s Buddha in the ancient capital of Nara is even larger (60 feet). I will pay respects later this month when my parents visit.

Rising more than 100 feet is Japan’s largest daibutsu, yet also its most obscure (unreferenced in Let’s Go). Nihon-ji temple dates from 725 A.D., but its Buddha arrived 1,058 years later. This stone beheamouth sits about halfway up Nokogiri-yama, or “Saw Mountain,” so called because it’s shaped like the teeth of a saw thanks to bygone quarries chipping chunks out of the mountain’s face.

The mountain is only 329 meters (1079 feet) high. Getting up took a few minutes in a cable car. Getting there took three hours. To halve my transportation costs, I opted for local trains that required four transfers, one taking an unprecedented 45 minutes (I’ve never had to wait that long for a train here). My destination was worth the wait.

Cool mountain air whisked away sweat as I soaked up panoramic views of Tokyo Bay. Hawks soared overhead in cloudless skies. Sunlight percolating through the leaves lit shady footpaths. I walked alone along mountainside paths, but 1,500 stone arhat figurines (novice buddhas) – each said to have a different expression – kept me company. They were wedged into rocky ledges and perched on trees. Moss, lichen, and faith held them in place. If I had to be a statue (and hopefully not one of the headless variety), this would be where I’d want to sit gathering moss.

Later I found another Buddha-like icon carved into the mountain. A 30-foot high image of Kannon, the Buddhist Goddess of Mercy, towered from within an alcove. Dating from the 1960s, however, it’s a recent addition to the mountain’s attractions.

Under the watchful gazes of Buddha and Kannon, I paused for water and to reflect on life. Around 4:30 I climbed down the mountain and happened upon a beach. I stopped first at a 7-11 for dinner: soba noodles, a riceball, and a “freeze lemon -196C” chu-hai (canned cocktail). You know, just the essentials. I sat and sipped on the beach as daylight departed. It wasn’t Thailand, but it wasn’t Tokyo either, and that’s all that mattered.

Click here for more scenes from Nokogiri-yama.

Onna Hirona

2006-08-31T09:15:00.000-04:00

I’m glad August is over. It’s just not my month. Last August, Krazy Katherine (a.k.a. India Girl, where I had met her on vacation) descended upon Tokyo for what would be my most unpleasant week that year. You won’t find a blog about it. I tend not to write about romance or disaster. But just days after I wrote about both, my heart would ache again. I figured the best way to forget about dating disaster girl would be to hit the clubs and find a new onna, or woman.

Hirona and I had made eye contact earlier, so I moved in when I saw an open seat on the couch next to her. Her friend was passing out on a pile of bags on the other side. I know enough Japanese for the first three minutes of any conversation, but I quickly reverted to English to verify what I thought I heard.

When she said she lived in Omiya (50 minutes north of central Tokyo), I added that’s not far from where I teach. Then she said the name of her former high school. It sounded familiar. It was my school! She woke up her friend and former classmate to share the news. His English was good, too. I speak with authority when I say they that didn’t learn it in high school. We both graduated in 1998, but it seems like some old timers have been teaching since the school’s inception in 1947 (and dressing like it, too). We played the “do you know so-and-so sensei?” game, and one rang a bell.

“Hey, do you still have your school uniform?” I suddenly asked.

She looked at me and smiled. Then I looked down and frowned. What kind of perverted question was that? I’m not into that. I mean, I’m a teacher. I can’t be into that.

“You must be very popular at school,” she said.

“Well, sort of. With the high school girls a little bit. But my junior high kids could care less about me. In fact, a few girls openly dislike me.”

I told her she should come for a reunion. Then I had a better (read: worse) idea. Displaying affection at school is strictly forbidden. In fact, displaying affection anywhere while in uniform is strictly forbidden. Last year two junior high students were suspended because they were seen touching lips in town.

“On the last day, I want to kiss you in the middle of the courtyard at school,” I said. “Bring your friend, too.” It would be a legendary sayonara moment, and the final affront to what has been a less than pleasurable teaching experience.

Wanting to speed up that moment, we danced with the help of several gin and tonics. Things got a little blurry. She kept checking on her friend. And I kept loosing her in the dark crowd until I thought they had left.

I flipped open my phone and scrolled to “H.” Hidomi…Hika…Hillary…Hiro…Hirona (X). I use that designation to remind myself never to call someone with whom I politely traded numbers. But I was totally into Hirona. Then I remembered I had met a different Hirona earlier that night.

“You’re the most beautiful guy I’ve seen in Japan,” she had said at the bar. She obviously didn’t get out enough, so I walked away after she asked for my number.

I couldn’t believe that I had spent hours with the good Hirona and forgot to get her number. All I knew is the region where she lived. That gave me one chance.

I pushed out of the club, and made a beeline to Shinjuku station. I bought a ticket for a train I would never take. The time printed on the stub was 04:45. I went up the platform, eerily silent and hazy just before sunup. It was still too early for service, but I wasn’t going anywhere for a while. I planted myself at the foot of the stairs to the two tracks with trains bound for Omiya. She would have to pass through here to get home, or so I hoped.

My phone buzzed with a message. It was Hirona. Hirona (X). I kicked myself, and maintained a vigil. The trickle of partygoers passing by went in and out of focus. I kept anticipating a purple and white striped shirt would come bouncing along. She was just a normal girl, nothing outstanding other than our high school connection, but the thought of another lost opportunity made me hold out hope. The odds of finding her in the world’s largest train station were slim to none, but that hadn’t stopped dating disaster girl’s ex-boyfriend from randomly spotting us together outside of it.

Two-toned pinging noises from the ticket turnstiles increased with frequency. The station gradually revved to life. Takao, 6:35, track 7. Utsunomiya, 6:42, track 4. Shin-Kiba, 6:44, track 5. Chiba, 6:51, track 11. Announcements flashed for trains fanning out from the world’s largest metropolis. At 7:00 I conceded defeat.

The station attendant looked at me. Yes, I had bought a ticket from the same station that I was now leaving. It was a long story, and didn’t feel like breaking out my survival Nihon-go and asking for “money, please.”

Walking home, I began murmuring the “Somewhere Out There” song. It had been playing in Jonathan’s restaurant (think Denny’s) where I had eaten alone just prior to clubbing. Alone again under the pale sunlight, the evening had come full circle.

Time to climb another mountain....

Mt. Mitake

2006-08-24T01:30:00.000-04:00

Continued from last post.

The next morning I awoke at 6 a.m. with a dry mouth and pounding headache. I had to get out of here. Anywhere but here. Fresh air would clear my mind, and hopefully erase last night’s episode.

An aging orange Chuo line train would lead me out of town. Actually, I technically wasn’t leaving metropolitan Tokyo, but was heading for a corner remote enough to wipe the bars off my cell phone.

I rode the train for two hours to the edge of my Japan Rail map. At Mitake Station I set out on a two-mile walk, some of it up a 15% grade. Nobody clued me into the bus service until it passed me. A six-minute cable car ride hoisted me up to 930 meters. After a 15-minute walk through a mountaintop village, I climbed 300 stairs to reach my destination: Musashi Mitake Shrine. A red X had replaced blue bars on my phone. I felt better already.

Here at this Edo-era shrine to the God of farming, I sat down and scribbled two pages of notes that evolved into the Dating Disaster blog. I capped the pen, and chugged a water. The cool mountain air buoyed my heavy heart. I had the day to myself, and was unreachable to the outside world.

Mount Mitake offered peace, quiet, and solitude. Although thanks to elementary school day-trippers, it was hard to feel alone. Packs of them in color-coded caps clambered up and down the stairs, pausing to raise thermoses of green tea to their lips.

I initiated konnichiwa greetings, and got high-pitched group responses. I’ll always remember the pudgy boy lagging behind. Sweat rolled off his face as he puttered down the stairs.

"Konnichiwa!” I said, breaking his concentration.

He looked up from the handrail and stared. “Who are you?” he sneered in Japanese. Kids are priceless.

The only good thing about the humidity was an excuse to spoon up kakigori, my favorite summertime treat. At a shop on the mountain I asked for green tea flavored shaved ice, which wasn’t on the menu. The only flavor I could make out was strawberry, so I settled for that. I relaxed at table with a panoramic view of the green valley below. I had just been hiking in the woods, where I sang to a captive audience of trees and rocks.

The friendly proprieter urged me to return again, and on my way out handed me seasonal brochures with the moutain ablaze in autum orange and spring’s pink cherry blossoms. So long as I don’t have any more dating disasters, I’ll relish this as my only visit.

For more scenes from Mitake-san, click here.

Dating Disaster

2006-08-18T07:45:00.000-04:00

Wednesday couldn’t come fast enough. I had been waiting a week for dinner, over which time we had traded about 30 text messages. She was the perfect combination of lively, stylish, Japanese, proficient in English, and just a year younger.

Not yet hungry for dinner, we decided to get a drink first. The Hub, a British-style pub chain offered us a barrel to stand over in the middle of the smoking section. Hardly the right atmosphere. The next place sounded more promising. The only thing I could read on the sign for the fifth floor restaurant was “private dining,” written in English.

We checked our shoes at the door, walked past a waterfall, and then on top of a dry rock garden encased in glass. She did all of the ordering from our private booth.

My cell phone buzzed with a text message, but I didn’t budge. When hers buzzed, she looked. We chatted over beer while shelling wet peanuts (wet seems to be the custom here). She buzzed again, and typed back. Korean style pancakes arrived. She buzzed. Tuna and scallion maki rolls arrived. She excused herself. Fried cartilage came. I nibbled and waited.

When she returned, I remarked on the cartilage’s crunchiness as being kori-kori. She smiled and asked if I liked it, but didn’t hear my response. She was buzzing.

“Your friend?” I asked, forcing a smile.

“Yes,” she said while fiddling with her phone.

Perhaps something bad had happened. It had, but for me. In one of the busiest parts of a city home to of 32 million, somehow her Japanese ex of two years had spotted us together. He was mad, and letting her know about it. They had recently split, but not for much longer.

“You miss him?”

She took a sip, buzzed, and rose up clutching her phone. I stared at my beer. It was half empty. I have trouble finding my friends at a designated time and place, so how could this be? I’ve had chance encounters here before, but doesn’t this sort of thing only happen on TV dramas? A week’s worth of anticipation had evaporated within an hour. Just as I was about to reach for my wallet and leave ¥2000 ($17) on the table, she returned. We silently headed to get our shoes.

She removed my Pumas from the locker and arranged them on the floor. She turned to pay the bill – in its entirety.

“Gomen-ne,” she apologized.

I stood by the elevator waiting for her to get her shoes, also Puma.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she said flatly. “Gomen-ne.”

I slammed the down arrow button. Outside, neon lights everywhere added to my shock. Cars, signs, vending machines. Everything was lit up and swirling in my mind. People rushed by from all directions. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Sitting on the sidewalk with a beer sounded good. Then I could roll into traffic.

Instead I walked home and had a second chance encounter. I bumped into Takahiro. His piercing feline eyes always make me feel uneasy. A tank top with the phrase “I’m not gay, but my boyfriend is” clung to his muscular chest. His shiny face reflected the neon lights. He has a plastic look, but is too young for cosmetic surgery. Jess once said that he was 24, but he looked older, perhaps because he had been playing the scene for too long.

Takahiro was pacing on the corner. Diego hadn’t arrived, and couldn’t be reached by phone. Diego had Taka’s esctacy and his money. I told him something bad had just happened to me.

“Ohhh, what’s wrong? Did you get AIDS?” he shrugged as if popping advil would do the trick. Takahiro has a great way of putting problems into perspective. After I told him of my heartbreak, he shared his dating news: yesterday afternoon he spent 12 hours banging the brains out of some German guy.

“But yesteday was Tuesday! Didn’t you have work?”

“It was my day off. I needed it. I was so tired from the weekend.”

He then gratuitiously recounted his clubbing-esctacy-meth-afterparty-sex-filled weekend. He flipped open his phone to show his conquests of chisled white men who could have walked out of a Calvin Klein ad. They were just from the weekend.

Was this supposed to be making me feel better? We ducked into the nearest bar for a beer and waited for Diego. Once the goods arrived, Takahiro dumped me. I walked the long way home.

* * *

“Go Tell It on the Mountain” is a gospel song. That Jesus Christ was born doesn’t have anything to do with my situation, but the title is fitting for how I coped the following day. Find out next week.

Under the Bridge

2006-08-08T10:00:00.000-04:00

My favorite place in Tokyo is not where you’d expect. It’s not in the shade of blooming sakura trees lining Ueno Park. It’s not atop the Mori Tower sky deck. Nor is it on the tranquil grounds of an Edo shrine. Rather, it sits unceremoniously in the shadows, below bustling Tokyo life.

My favorite place is underneath Ryogoku Junction overpass. Here, Expressways 9 (Mukojimasen) and 6 (Komatsugawasen) merge over the Sumida River as vehicles circulate into the beating heart of Tokyo.
The overpass marks the border of Koto and Sumida wards. Sky blue tarpaulins of displaced urban campers color the opposite bank, which lies in Chuo ward. This spot along the Sumidagawa terrace offers glimpses of mundane activities in three different wards at once. Here I reflect on my relationship to this dynamic city passing me by.

To be frank, the Sumidagawa is no Seine. Commercial barges traffic this working river with unremarkable views, but look into the murky water and the Sumida’s character will surface.

This corner of the river’s terrace is outfitted with child-size concrete stools encircling a round table. The shape reminds me of a small-scale Stonehenge tea party, without the teacups or bucolic English countryside. Instead, trucks rumble above, sounding off at the bottleneck traffic. An ambulance requests permission to pass (It’s Japan, of course they ask – and politely so). I gaze up at perfectly aligned rows of rivets in steely harmony with their surroundings. Water laps the expressway’s concrete pillars below. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

This is also the point on my jogging route where I pause before turning around. Shaded from the sun, I catch cross-breezes while stretching out my throbbing knees. I stop to survey the land and water, and the multi-colored bridges spanning the two. Pod-like water buses shuttle people between Asakusa and Odaiba. I wave to small pleasure craft operators or even the rare foolhardy jet skier.

Activities under the bridge vary depending on the time and day. During the week, salarymen chow down on o-bento. Anglers cast lines. A retiree practices Tai Chi. A homeless man rests out the midday heat. An amateur artist paints watercolors worthy of framing. A woman strums a traditional string instrument.

In the evening, couples pose for pictures as the sky glows orange. Under the cover of darkness youth ignite firecrackers, leaving charred remnants as evidence.

On warm weekends, the aging set in bucket hats and parasols stroll along the riverbank while shirtless men sunbathe on the benches. In winter, the homeless wrapped in blankets angle lounge chairs towards the sun. On Sunday, which seems to be designated dog-walking day, tiny pooches groomed to the teeth strut manicured paws and hair barrettes to owners parading their own canine pride. Wet noses rub; compliments are traded.

I value the Sumidagawa terrace for its colorful touches, like graffiti, bridges, and blooming bushes. The terrace provides ample jogging space, sheltering me from hard stares I otherwise receive on narrow city sidewalks when darting around old ladies laden with groceries. This narrow patch of green and gravel disrupts the mismatched concrete blanketing Tokyo. A bamboo grove or mountaintop it’s not, but beneath Ryogoku Junction overpass is my choice for a Zen moment.

Click here for a slideshow of scenes from the Sumidagawa.

Animal, Vegetable or Mineral?

2006-08-01T08:25:00.000-04:00

Making Sense of Japanese Supermarkets

I arrived in Tokyo from New York tired, alone, without a job and, worst of all, hungry. Eerily realistic plastic food displayed in restaurant windows wasn’t much help. I was clueless as to what the replica was imitating. Even picture menus puzzled. I needed someplace to inspect goods up close, and preferably under bright lights. I needed a supermarket.

Here, senses of smell, taste or touch come in handy when sight alone proves insufficient. Unable to crack Japanese labels, I play the grocery guessing game, which entails crossing fingers and tossing an item into my basket. I’ve made two memorable mistakes.

I have an acute weakness for dried baby sardines inserted into Japanese snack mixes. True to my American roots, I buy in bulk. Elated upon discovering an extra large bag of little fish, I unwittingly purchased – and partially consumed – cat food, which got a rise out of a Japanese friend who declined a nibble.

I am also guilty of gulping what I thought was a can of refreshing “Italian lemon and California lime” soda. A few minutes later it hit me – in the head, as I stumbled around my apartment in a Suntory stupor.

A chore anywhere else in the world, grocery shopping in Japan transforms routine into cultural phenomenon. My local branch of the Akafudado chain is no exception. The experience begins right outside the supermarket’s automatic doors. A lady with a generous smile peddles a cart of ¥100 (85 cents) skewers of grilled animal parts unknown. Some are tasty, others crunchy. One triggered a gag reflex.

Skewer lady competes with the singing meat display near the frozen food aisle inside. A portable stereo mimics the meat. It chirps at shoppers, “we like meat, take your pick” in a treble that only Alvin & The Chipmunks can match. One might expect higher prices and lack of music to drive skewer lady out of business. But jingles can backfire.

The voices were cute, at first. But the tune turned repetitive, and then harassing. Now I restrain myself from gouging out eardrums with nearby toothpicks just to make the voices stop.

I take refuge out of earshot in the snack food section. Despite serving sizes fit for a gerbil, rice crackers, cookies and traditional sweets come individually wrapped within larger packages. It’s the equivalent of encasing each Dorito in plastic (which hasn’t been done here…yet). While the concern for freshness is admirable, the means to achieve it are an environmentalist’s nightmare.

Indeed, Japan is the land of small portions. Although now I’ve adjusted to thinking of their size as sensibly adequate, I used to eat at McDonald’s just to get enough calories. Sympathetic supermarket workers have taken notice.

“Delicious,” I said to one, satisfied after sampling his seafood salad. I reached for a container marked ¥462 ($4), but the employee pulled it out of my hands. He pried open the lid to slip in additional shrimp, jellyfish and cellophane noodles, but left the price sticker unchanged.

Another time, a young man at the gyoza station flagged me down for a taste test. After dishing out seconds, he directed my attention to baskets lined with clear plastic bags filled with what looked like melting intestines.

“Ika,” he said. It sure didn’t look like squid. He jabbed a toothpick into the basket brimming with pinkish worms, and extended the slimy offering. Although raw fish is a favorite food, even I paused at the sight of this freebie.

“Mexico,” he said, jiggling it. Mexican squid? What the hell, I thought, closing my eyes as it slithered onto my tongue and down the hatch. “Indonesia,” he pointed at the next basket. Just swallow, I told myself. “Japan,” he said with hometown pride, reaching for yet another toothpick. After cleansing the palate with some seaweed from Hokkaido, I thanked him for the world tour.

Free samples subsidize my strategy of eating supermarket cheap. Why pay more when you can’t afford it? Cutting costs on food in one of the world’s most expensive cities is a necessity. At Akafudado, I barrel down the aisles with Olympic athleticism in search of tofu, gyoza or anything left unwrapped. Insider’s tip: making a few rounds amounts to a free appetizer.

I then head to the rear of the building (dangerously close to the singing meat) to select a bento box entrée. I regularly set my cell phone alarm to ring for 7 p.m. This begins the evening competition with salarymen and bargain-hunting biddies to snatch up marked down items. One reduced by ¥75 (65 cents) catches the eye. I never know quite what I’m buying, but bento beggars can’t be choosers.

While queuing for the register, people peer into my basket to see what the foreigner is feeding on for dinner. Doritos and Coke? On the contrary: bento, edamame, walnuts and sardine mix and a drink. I feel the urge to defend my strawberry milk selection by staring back and saying, “Yeah, well nice radish, lady!” It’s usually the thickness of my lower leg (or daikon ashi, but don’t say that “radish-legged” insult to a woman).

The checkout line gives me time to whip out my point card. It offers few financial rewards. Instead, the card confers status. I deliberately fiddle with it to advertise that I live here, too, and am not some stray tourist with the temerity to forage among the locals.

Arms saddled with plastic bags, I exit past the ¥290 ($2.50) apples. Murmurs of singing meat fade away. Skewer lady’s grill smokes as a customer looks on. Although often ignorant as to the species of mammal, vegetable or fish I’ve purchased, one thing’s for sure: grocery shopping in Japan sure works up an appetite.

Hey Mr. DJ

2006-07-27T06:15:00.000-04:00

Not one to turn down a party invitation, I met Yuji at the Roppongi station turnstiles. This area of town pulsates at night under neon signs advertising sweaty bars and decadent companion clubs. A haunt of tourists, expats, military and the Japanese who wanna party with them, I avoid Roppongi’s $9 beers and cheesy music at all costs.Yet Yuji’s friend was DJing, and I figured it would be a good chance to hang out outside of his father’s tiny restaurant where we had met. I’m glad I made the exception. Yuji’s limited English could not prepare me for what type of party to expect. To play it safe, I wore a button down shirt stuffed into slacks. I should have remembered that Japan doesn’t have a dress code.

Yuji (right) – in baggy pants, a grey hooded sweatshirt and wool cap – led me in the opposite direction from the bright lights. We made a Family Mart run to grab drinks to finish off en route. The stairwell descending into the basement bar was dizzying. Graffiti lined the walls down to the bottom where a lanky DJ (center) welcomed me like an old friend, and handed out a CD with his R&B remixes.

The bonenkai wasn’t starting for another half hour. This marvelous Japanese concept is known as “year-forgetting parties.” (This being back in December). Momo was already forgetting. He wobbled around the room in a large reindeer headgear. Yuji meanwhile posted flyers with the DJ lineup around the bar.

I was the only foreigner in attendance, which is how I like it. It feels more cultural in that lost in translation way. I get C-list celebrity attention, and don’t get annoyed with other foreigners who think they are god’s gift to Japan for being proficient in the language.

I did, however, feel conspicuously overdressed among the music video wannabes in oversized off-brand tracksuits, dangling chains and sunglasses – sometimes a sign of gang membership here. Then again, it’s hard to consider someone wearing size 28 pants as tough, especially with a Louis Vuitton wallet poking out of the back pocket.

Sometimes they’d catch me staring with arced eyebrows at their outfits, but as a foreigner I can get away with it by falling outside of the Japanese social rubric. A smile and head nod turns embarrassment or confrontation into an icebreaker.

Such was the case with Kobe. I forget his real name, but he was wearing the basketball star’s jersey with matching Lakers cap and a fake gold chain that read “chain gang.” This Yokohama boy was no Bay Star. He looked the least likely of anyone in the room to play a sport or be in a gang. Yet he was eager to make my acquaintance, and summoned his friend Nao to join us.

Long hair poked out of Nao’s trucker’s hat that read “No problem. I love working my butt off for no money.” His sweatshirt was two sizes too big, and he had a goofy grin like he had been sniffing too much glue. He was an older but just as immature version of my students. He even lived in the same neighborhood. Astonishingly, he too, had wandering hands. I’m beginning to think this is a latent cultural phenomenon.

Like most people I met that night, Nao had a curiosity for English. First about translations for private parts, and then about his hat. “Butt” was easy enough, but the expression wasn’t. What did working hard have to do with a butt? he wanted to know. Giving up in frustration, I asked to borrow the hat to wear to the next monthly teachers’ meeting.

I also had trouble translating “Shat,” the artist’s name on the flyer advertising the evening’s party. This being a country where M-Shit is a popular punk rocker (M stands for Mohawk. Shit, for talent).

Easier to explain was a baby blue Columbia varsity jacket, purchased second-hand and turning baby brown from a patchwork of stains. Kousuke was startled to learn that Columbia was a university in New York. I was startled to see it personalized with “Christie.”

Unable to translate songs titles like “Return of the Mack” and “Bug A Boo” or lyrics like “Can I have it like that?…You got it like that,” Nao suggested that we not pay bar prices and instead drink on the sidewalk outside Family Mart. While not illegal, it felt amateur…and freezing, this being winter.

Back inside, Momo (right) was slumped over, naked without his headgear and neglecting the hot plate simmering with pre-cooked hot dogs on sticks for sale. More people had arrived, and Yuji facilitated introductions.

The underground setting bred intimacy. The vibe was friendship, not meat market, which is the selling point of foreigner hangouts in nearby Roppongi. Everyone seemed to know one another like we were in a party in a friend’s basement party.

The dance floor got crowded. Passionate DJs moved their friends with homespun music. In typical Japanese style, no one was going overboard. No bumping ‘n’ grinding, just bopping in place. Fly swatter-like arm extensions towards the DJ signaled approval. Some added their own beat with two drums on hand for audience participation.

In between DJ sets, live acts took the stage. Japanese rappers wearing puffy jackets and unbent MLB lids sang a good first number. Of course, I didn’t understand a word, but the same goes for American rappers.

It was refreshing to be with an unpretentious crowd enjoying one another’s company to amid good soundtrack. No drama, just a girl in a Santa costume passing out free shots of fizzy tequila. It was also DJ’s birthday, and at the end of his set he was presented with a cake, which everyone devoured using a communal spoon.

Santa and reindeer girls made a festively adorable duo, Nao was a one-man comedy show, but DJ was my favorite. He didn’t know much (any?) English, but his smile was contagious. The turntables electrified his blood. I could only feel excited watching him bounce around the DJ booth waving records in the air. He hooked me on “The Drive” by Headnodic & The Procussions and a Chemical Brothers remix of “Galvanzie.” Rock on, DJ.

This being a monthly party, I’ve gone several times since December’s debut, hence pictures in different clothes. The flowers were from Maki for my birthday. Viewers will be pleased to know that I’ve since done away with the long hairdo. I don’t know what I was thinking other than that it was winter and my head was cold.

Mandalay on My Mind

2006-07-23T08:00:00.000-04:00

Once in Mandalay, I reunited with Erin & Miles, fellow American traveling buddies I had met in Yangon. They had taken the overnight bus, and after hearing stories of a flat tire, midnight military checkpoints, and sub-zero degree air-con, I concluded that the train was the lesser of two evils.

For sunset, we headed up Mandalay Hill. During our barefoot half-an-hour climb, we encountered a group of “students” ages 13 to 18. We had heard this story before. I thought they were hustlers, but was quickly proved wrong. One boy even bought me a bracelet. Others clutched a printout with questions to ask tourists to practice their English. They seemed thrilled to talk to Americans. Not many native English speakers care to visit a military dictatorship with a history of human rights violations.

These kids, however, made me glad I broke rank. A 360-degree panorama of the plains greeted us at the top. While other tourists took pictures of the sunset, we Americans gathered the children in a circle and began an impromptu lesson with their undivided attention. I introduced the concept of ‘high-five,’ which we practiced many times.

The walk down was dark. Flickering electricity teased our eyes. At the bottom of the hill we met their 22-year-old teacher. He invited us to class the next evening at a nearby monastery.

* * *

After an ambitious day visiting the ancient cities of Paleik, Inwa, and Amarapura via private taxi, we returned to Mandalay. The sun was done, but teaching duties remained.

The darkened road had no signs, but we knew we had the right place. Headlights illuminated joyous expressions of kids waiting at the monastery’s gate. Apparently, we were the only foreigners who had ever taken up the invitation. The teacher was ecstatic, too, and kept apologizing for the blackout. Although they were scheduled to have power that evening, candles had to be lit.

Thirty of us gathered on the floor of a main hall with a huge Buddha statue. I had never envisioned a lesson without a board, much less lights. Suddenly the latter materialized, and Miles took over with charades. It spawned a teaching revolution.

Older students cornered me in the back with questions. When I wrote down words like “amazing,” “gorgeous,” or “guinea pig,” notebooks jostled to copy it down. I couldn’t pay Kanokita kids to do that. Those studying for less than two months had better vocabularies than second-year Japanese students. One surprised me with “nunnery.” I guess vocab lists are different in Buddhist countries (yes, Japan has Buddhists, too, but nothing like Burma).

Learning from the mistakes of the Japanese school system,
I decided to divide the group based on ability. Miles, Erin, and I each took a group. Erin took the newest learners. Miles (right) got Lai Nu, among others. I got the boy with the orange spiky hair (left) and Konnai, the one with the best yellow thanaka design on his cheeks.

I guess I can never go on vacation from teaching, but for this lesson the pleasure was all mine. Their questions exceeded the ability of their Japanese peers. I was asked to pronounce “vocabulary,” spell “photogenic,” and exemplify the meaning of “vague.”

Under the watchful eye of Buddha, I grew attached to these young minds. They had an economic necessity to learn English as a ticket to a tourism job to escape poverty that ensnares most of this country’s 52 million people. Their dreams were intertwined with the language I take for granted.

Suddenly my experiences in Japan felt cheap. It was here that students needed (and wanted) help – not to pass entrance exams, but to make a life better than their parents could give them. I thought about what awaited me back in Japan: a new position in a private school full of uniformed children in a charmless suburb of a concrete capital. Sure Japanese kids are cute, but the exotic setting made teaching young Buddhists more alluring.

It was 10:00 p.m. Dust from the ancient cities still coated my face. Both camera batteries were drained. We hadn’t had eaten since a $3 restaurant lunch (the total for three people), but I could have gone all night. However, out of concern for worried mothers, we ended the lesson with high-fives.

These energetic and appreciative Burmese boys and girls made their Japanese counterparts seem like cookie-cutter clones. The Japanese had no character, no thanaka. No longyis tied around their waists. One was tied around mine (a $5 acquisition in Amarapura), which the kids retied correctly while hugging me tight (but not grabbing what lay beneath like in Japan).

This was an incredible and incredibly local experience. The glow inside me peaked as I climbed into the bed of a pickup truck taxi to our hotel. The kids surrounded the truck, and I handed out hugs and high-fives. I guardedly promised to return after my upcoming contract was complete. A headlight then caught my attention. The orange spiky haired boy was revving up his motorbike while friends piled on. We exchanged one last smirk, for this year at least.
View my top 125 pictures of Myanmar here.

Going Up?

2006-07-17T07:30:00.000-04:00

I had three weeks in between jobs. The day after my last at Kanokita, I was on a plane to Myanmar. There was something excitingly controversial about visiting a country where the Lonely Planet cover included parenthesis around the country’s name (Burma).

The contrast between industrialized Japan and a land using World War II-era buses was startling. Traveling by train provided an even bigger contrast. The following is an entry lifted outof my journal:

3/20/06
There was nothing special or express about the “15 Up Special Express” going north (or up) from Yangon to Mandalay. Wide, padded upperclass seats offered ample legroom, but the carriages were vintage Chinese jobs. The seatback reclined 120 degrees, but the bottom cushion slipped forward, creating an abyss for my ass.

I was surprised to be the only foreigner. Ordinary class (wooden upright seats, no electricity) was for locals, some of whom paid extra for the “comforts” I was “enjoying” for $35. Even my air pillow met its match on Myanmar Railways.

While the guidebook didn’t mention anything about air-con, it didn’t mention anything to the contrary. Ceiling fans sat motionless while the sun baked the train in the station. Two men in forest green uniforms began smoking.

Like Japan, departure at 18:00 was on time. Apparently this called for a thunderous send-off with Burmese rock music blaring from the speakers (that worked all too well). The beats outpaced the train’s speed. So did a boy on a bicycle. Is this why the 650 km (400 miles) trip took 14 hours? The rock music was a distraction from the heat, but auditory discomfort lasted until the music switched to more poppy beats to which the rattling train grooved.

Families sat on weedy tracks, some with a teapot and food while train-chaser kids jumped from tie to tie. Yangon’s grimy outskirts gave way to thatched huts and concrete stupas. The country air smelled sweet like a campfire. As the sun set over the flat plains of the Bago Division, the sky turned the color of the pink-robed female monks sitting behind me. Dusty breezes (now cooler) mixed with Vegas brand tobacco fumes across the aisle.

To my pleasant surprise, at 18:30 bare bulbs flickered to life. Locals continued reading The Flower News while I journaled, now in the company of insects who detected that I was the only foreigner on board. At first, many of the bugs that blew my way were small and dead. Further north, they increased in size and vitality.

I bought only one bottle of water so that I could avoid using the restroom. I thought I could handle 14 hours, but the narrow gauge tracks provided stagecoach comfort. A few bounces nearly threw me out of my seat.

Of course, this jostled my bladder, too. With the train rattling, peeing into the open-hole pit was a physical challenge. The door jammed closed, leading to momentary panic of being trapped for the remainder of the rough ride.

At first, I enjoyed the bounce like a cheap amusement park ride. However, the hours dragged on, and I found myself the only one awake after midnight. I guess everyone else got used to it. Some slept on mats under the seats or in between cars, including in front of the restroom. The lights remained on, so to pass the time I began a log:

00:15 We’re stopped. Noises outside, but no lights. Men are near the undercarriage of my car. A kerosene torch reveals their shadowy figures like a Rembrandt painting. They have longs sticks, or were they guns?

01:15 Pyinmana. This is the remote interior city where the dictatorship is moving the capital from Yangon to better consolidate its grip. Darkened faces are waiting in dark places. People are sleeping wherever there’s room – under benches on the platform or in piles of dirt to be used for construction.

“Hey lama, hey gobimon, wabey!” a woman repeats while walking up and down the tracks balancing a basket or water jug on her head.

A barbed wire fence separates me from the kids clustered outside my window. A pig the size of some cars here feeds on garbage by the tracks. The shadows and unfamiliar shapes make my hairs stand on edge.

01:59 Do you really have to smoke that cigarette now?
03:01 Snack time! Caramel and peanut candy and Cowhead Chocobiscuits.
04:07 Landing rights denied to huge beetle thing. Thwà-zàn! (Go away!).
05:05 We have arrived in Thazi (English announcement) 10 minutes early. Hawkers board trying to sell moist face towels. Bags of something are piled high on the platform. My throat hurts – from the air? From the insects? It’s cooler out. Some people in the train are sleeping with blankets.
05:11 Snack time! These Cowheads are addictive.
05:35 Third bathroom break. It’s like peeing off the back of a galloping horse.
06:11 Here comes the sun.
06:34 Here comes the music. Again.
07:56 Arrival in Mandalay, the country’s second largest city, four minutes ahead of schedule, which, come to think of it, beats trains in Japan.

Key statistics:
13.9 hours of travel time
10 Cowhead biscuits consumed
5 big, itchy bug bites
2-3 hours of interrupted sleep
0 more times I’ll take the train over a plane to Mandalay.

Reflections

2006-07-10T11:00:00.000-04:00

It seems like a long time since I first stepped into a classroom. A year has come and gone, and in its course yielded unanticipated lessons. I’ve chronicled the day-to-day mischief and chaos I’ve witnessed, but after the final bell, what has this teacher learned?

In a world of poverty and politics, natural disasters and nuclear weapons, I’ve come to value innocent students as an outlet for juvenile jokes and mutual companionship. School immersed me in the simplicity of malleable minds free of adult worries and real-world problems.

Junior high in Japan was a triumphant return to a time in America that I’ve tried to black out; I never even bought a yearbook then. This job gave me an opportunity to make up for one of those three years of misery. More than 10 years later and on another continent, I finally became one of the cool kids, just disguised as a teacher in Pumas.

Friendship was superficial, but I wasn’t expecting to forge life-long connections with kids half my age. We bonded for the moment, and it was the moment that counted. Our lives intersected fleetingly, but these students touched me (spiritually, but certainly also physically) in ways their American peers could not.

They patched a void of camaraderie in a confusing culture where I maintain shallow roots. Japan – with its traditions, etiquette, food, and language – is arguably the most complex country on earth. To even begin to grasp the intricacy of this society is a challenge that takes months of close observation. Businessmen and tourists don’t stay long enough to gain a sense of true Japan.

I came face-to-face with raw culture in a working class ward not in any guidebook: I participated in daily life at public school. In return, students got up close (and often too personal) with a foreigner otherwise inaccessible at their sheltered age. We symbiotically brightened the boredom of the curriculum through high-fives, immature jokes, and recess sports. The universality of shared company overcame the awkward exchange of languages. When crossing cultures, baby steps in communication feel like a big connection.

With wide eyes and curling corners of mouths, they signaled that our company was more than just shared – it was appreciated. Even cherished. I felt like big brother, and wanted to hang out with students after school and pass around bags of dried squid and melon flavored chips while fighting over PlayStation2 controllers.

After growing up, I never thought much about kids, especially not working with them. I became a teacher in Japan because it’s the easiest path to a work permit. I never expected to become attached to those half my age and of a startlingly different ethnicity. They taught me more about life and about myself than I taught them grammar. We grew together, but on different wavelengths.

Through teaching I came to understand the power of a personal touch. Few jobs can influence the direction of someone else’s life. Part educator and part entertainer, I planted seeds of English and Americana in spongy minds. I know that more than a few will mature into interpreters, translators, even English teachers. I never realized this power from my days on the receiving side of the lectern.

A Douyoto School girl chose this to say in a composition about “one important thing:”
Though I’m doing bad and good things…varied things, I’m having a good time at school. I think I can enjoy school life by grace of friends. There are disgusting things in my school life. But my friend gives me spirits a lift when I feel down.

The school which has many friends is pleasant place!! I have a dream. One day, all students will go to school.

To be a part of these young lives for however brief, the memory – on both sides – will persist. None of them (thank god) are reading this, but if they could, I’d want to look them in the eye and with a slight bow of my head say “thank you.” You were my reason for staying in Japan – hundreds of reasons, in fact. Each one similar but slightly individual.

The end is just the beginning. Stay tuned for a whole new season of students.
The New Batch drama premiers this September.

Last Day

2006-06-29T04:45:00.000-04:00

Kanokita School is laid out in a horseshoe. Characterless five-story buildings surround a central courtyard with a gated entrance. Every morning, teachers, PTA members, and the principle greet students at the gate as per Japanese custom. They also serve as a checkpoint to inspect hair length, uniform collars and buttons, and to deaccessorize jewelry. Makeup is also forbidden.

Bowing on the run, I utter a hurried “ohayo gozaimasu” to the greeters two minutes before the bell chimes. The courtyard leads to the main building where faces suddenly appear in half-open windows. Hands poke out like little prisoners in the county jail. “Ooh Jeffurey!” they crow while waving to me and smirking to their friends – probably about my commuter tennis shoes or funky tie. This ritual occurred each morning on the way in and afternoon on the way out.

Walking out on my last day surely would be memorable. A scream rang out from the fourth floor window. I recognized a boy with no English skills hanging his mini-mohawk outside.

“Fuck you!” he shouted.

His words rained down on me like bricks. My heart pounded. Pride bubbled inside. What excellent intonation and diction! His English had definitely improved. I congratulated him with a salute of the middle finger, and laughed all the way to the bus stop shedding a tear of joy.

Well, at least that’s how I envisioned my grand exit from one of Tokyo’s most dysfunctional public schools. At Kanokita, however, such insolence only qualified for a regular day. This one was a Wednesday in September.

In reality, while counting down the final hours, Ms. Hattori dropped a stack of papers on my desk. I gave her the look. I didn’t do grades, and it was a little late for lesson planning. I looked down again. Suspicion melted into surprise.

This was the lesson plan! Students had spent a period decorating goodbye letters in rainbow ink. My heart tingled like when someone unexpectedly remembers your birthday. The stack was too thick to review on the spot, so I peeked at a few and savored the rest on the commute home.

I hunted down several students to pass out the remaining pictures I had snapped of them over the course of the year (as a cover for my ulterior motive of posting them online). I couldn’t recognize some because heads sprouting bushy hair in the photo stood before me cleanly shaven and vice versa.

It was now after 5:00. I had never stayed at school this late. A lone flute trilled somewhere down the hall. Dribbling echoed in the gym. The tranquility of after school clubs reigned in the absence of daytime mischief-makers. I joined the basketball team for a few lay-ups and blocked shots. Students gathered to give me a last round of high-fives.

“What’s my name? What’s my name?” a boy in a black Nike t-shirt asked with Destiny’s Child-like insistence. I could only pat him on the head. Kohei was quick to remind me.

“Good luck, Kohei,” I said as our brown eyes connected. “And practice your English, okay, buddy?” Our palms smacked together one last time.

Pushing through the creaking metal gate, I walked out of the courtyard and toward the bus. I reached into my bag for headphones. Just as I was about to juice up my iPod, I thought I heard the wind whisper my name. I turned around. It was Kohei.

“Jeff-uh-ree, Jeff-uh-ree byee-bye!”

The final farewell. For the third time. It was just like the ending of a romantic movie – except that we weren’t in love. We were partners. Partners in a cross-cultural exchange whereby they heard a native English accent without a CD player, and I vicariously experienced Japanese adolescence (going through puberty once firsthand was more than enough).

Kohei, shivering in basketball shorts under darkening March clouds, suddenly represented the hundreds of students I had stood before with an open textbook. The dozens who made me laugh with their “Japanglish” or universal acts and words of immaturity. And the handful who touched my heart with their gentle personalities and genuine interest in English or America.

Beyond textbook scripts and the supervision of other teachers, exchanging a spontaneous sentence or two with these special youngsters made the day’s commute worthwhile. It made the move to Japan worth the effort. Kohei was the last one of them that I’d ever see, ever interact with. He stood there smiling and waving like a happy dog.

I waved back and walked backwards. I couldn’t see the Swoosh on his shirt anymore. My eyes were misty. The setting sun and approaching cold front cast an eerie orange glow. Heaven’s tears showered the bus just as I boarded.

Nuts for Nuts

2006-06-23T10:30:00.000-04:00

“Hello, how are you?” plays like a broken record from my lips during school hours. The next most uttered phrase is “Don’t touch me!” Unfortunately, it’s yielding diminishing returns.

Students now mimic me as they swarm in to cop a feel. What would be viewed as perverted or queer in America seems perfectly playful among touchy-feely Japanese school boys. The progression of the school year has only fueled their aggression for my receiving unwanted attention.

The final days of my tenure as a public school assistant language teacher bore an unprecedented number of bold attacks on private parts in public places. After lunch with one of my favorite classes, the boys were feeling frisky. There had been grabbing before, but not like this. Had there been something extra saucy in the fish cake lunch?

I enjoy mingling with students in the unstructured 20 minutes that follow lunch, but as a spectator manage to stay above the fray of pile-ons, insect-catching and games of onigokko (cops & robbers). Not today.

Larger classmates were preying upon “little angel” (my nickname), the smallest and most adorable boy of the class. He was in the fetal position on the floor protecting his vital organs and sacrificing his shoes in the process. I stepped in to repossess his footwear, but was suddenly swept up in what could only be described as a round robin kancho free-for-all.

“Clitoris!” the naughtiest of the mob shouted, catching me off-guard and scoring a direct hit (grab) on my crotch. I cursed him off in English, and side-stepped a second strike. The halls echoed with the frenzy of high-pitched screams and squeaking sneakers as the boys turned on one another.

“This is new sport,” one boy said rushing by with an outstretched hand in pursuit of his friend. I cautiously slid to the nearest stairwell. If kancho were an Olympic sport, I’d award Japan the gold.

* * *

English words were the last thing the boys in the back were penciling into their notebooks. One sketched a picture of a boxer with oversized gloves and long, wavy hair. When I walked over, he labeled it Jeff. He then asked for vital stats to accompany the diagram.

“I’m 185.3 cm. Taiju is 70 kg...what did you say? You little pervert!” I slapped him on the head. Here we go again, I thought, but this time was different. His friends coordinated a two-prong attack. One lunged for the front while the artist reached for the rear.

They took stabs at the American flag erasers I was holding. One snatched it out of my hand and wouldn’t return it, only offering to arm wrestle for it. Intimidated by his spiky hair and shaved eyebrows, I let him keep it.

I looked up to the front of the room to call for backup, only to find that the Japanese English teacher had already left. I looked back down. The artist pulled out a ruler, pressed it against my upper thigh and scribbled a measurement in his notebook.

* * *

I always walk around on high alert when in the presence of Kanokita 7th graders. Although the nickname applies to many, one kid tries so frequently that I’ve dubbed him “The Crotch-Grabber.” This picture caught him in the act. (The green and white sleeve is outstretched to ward off the attack).

Today’s class was handing back midterms full of red ink. The student who scored a 96 was sculpting dried flakes of white out into lines on his desk. Kenta scored a 4. He already drew my sympathy as the class shrimp, always looking lost behind long hair that curled on his neck like the crustacean’s tail.

“Thirty-five?” Crotch-Grabber whined as he crumpled the paper. Devoting more attention to vocab lists instead of my groin would surely increase his rank.

After class, Crotch-Grabber found me in the hall. One wrist was bandaged, which I thought would slow him down. It only increased his ingenuity. He faked his hand down and pinched my nipple. I yelled. The crafty kid offered me a high-five apology, but instead gave me a low grab.

A passing teacher laughed it off as cute, but I didn’t think it was so funny. I wrapped my hands around his neck and pushed him into a corner. Then the tables turned. It happened fast. His friend swooped in for a hit, allowing Crotch-Grabber to break free and renew the assault. I blocked, but our arms tangled. My ankle turned. I didn’t know how to tell him it was still in bad shape after a basketball injury a few weeks before.

To take the pressure off, I leaned on my other ankle, but balance befell me and I took Crotch-Grabber down with me.

“It hurts!” he yelped in Japanese while clutching his bandaged arm that I had just landed on. Nervous and apologetic, I put my hand on his shoulder. Grinning, he slugged his free fist into my crotch.

Editing History

2006-06-06T11:40:00.000-04:00

Aside from Prime Minister Koizumi’s yearly pilgrimage to Yasukuni Shrine, there's nothing that embitters Japan’s neighbors more than its Ministry of Education’s approval of textbooks. Every few years when an update is due, a renewed uproar ensues accusing Japan of whitewashing its role in history. Last year was one of those years.

Although I teach in public schools, I’m not proficient in Japanese, and never thought I’d witness the controversy first-hand. That is, until I was modeling dialogue for a lesson about “Language – Life of a People.” It was the last lesson in the 9th grade English textbook, and discussed how after 1870 the Welsh were forced to use English in school, and were punished if they didn’t. The next example hit closer to home by bringing up Japan’s restricting the use of Korean during its occupation of the peninsula.
The teacher stopped me in mid sentence. Was I speaking English wrong? It turned out that the government-approved textbook (used in all of Tokyo’s public English classrooms) had been gussied up (I mean, updated) just after publication. I was reading from the old version. Contrast it with new one below:

“…Korea was a colony of Japan for thirty-five years. Korean school children had to learn Japanese as the ‘national language.’ Later, Korean language classes become optional. It was really painful for them. This system lasted until the end of World War II.”

You be the judge.

Money Hungry

2006-06-02T07:00:00.000-04:00

“Money and Card” was the title of the final lesson with Mr. Mochizuki. Preparation was simple: wow the kids with faces of dead presidents on American currency. I brought a dollar’s worth of new pennies to Japan to inspire interest in American culture, and as backup should pencil prizes become exhausted.

The first student to guess the value of the coin I held up received a cash prize. Like ravens, shiny coins distracted 7th graders. I wasn’t so generous with the bills. I weighted down $1, $5, color $10, and $20 notes on the front desk with piles of pennies, and called up rows of students for a viewing. Their eyes turned green, and begging began.

Upon realizing that I was lax about their taking centy souvenirs, they got greedy. They clamored for something I walk away from when dropped. There were a lot of outstretched palms to grease. One kid reacted after smelling a fistful of change. Yup, smells like America all right. Japanese currency is somehow odorless.

I brandished a credit card to regain the educational focus of the lesson. This only stirred the pot. Visa is not everywhere you want to be in this cash-based society, and I transformed from assistant teacher to Daddy Warbucks. The bell rang before I could count my change, but by then it was too late. About 25% of the kids made off with 75% of the coins.

I stuffed the bills, card, and a few remaining dimes into pockets while shaking off demands for more. I continued to laugh until they started poking in places I didn’t wanted to be touched. One pilfered the bag of coins from my rear pocket. I beat him on the head with the textbook until I got a refund.

I consolidated valuables into the front pocket and made for the door. Three kids blocked my path. I sliced through them, but two more held the door shut. I needed backup, preferably an armored car, but even the bumbling Mr. Mochizuki would do. He had already left, and I had to fend off the mob alone.

Driven by hormones and greed, they groped and grabbed – my pockets, buttocks, anything they could get their dirty little fingers into. Outnumbered and outmaneuvered, my bum ankle only hampered my agility.

They were swarming now. Desperation swelled in my gut. I went into survival mode, and backed into a corner. One tried to sneak behind me, so I used my hips to check him into a metal cabinet. He yelped, holding his hand in pain. Others reached in for the “arm”ed robbery.

I knocked two boys out of the way, and broke for the back door again. The kids exited from the front, and confronted me in the hallway. Once there they suddenly became like fish out of water. Although their momentum died, it wouldn’t be the last time they tried to make off with my jewels.

Stay tuned for “Nuts for Nuts”….

Vocabulary Building

2006-05-29T10:00:00.000-04:00

As class began, SexPlayer approached me with a new word on his mind. “Service parlor,” he blurted out. I’m not sure exactly what he meant, but my best guess wasn’t too savory.

For students without inklings for English, it’s tough to find something both educational (even marginally so) and that keeps their attention (and mine). Thank goodness for the word association game. It’s my go-to activity whenever I have ten minutes to kill, or have lost patience trying to teach the textbook. Please allow me to introduce it to you.

Hello, class. Do you know the word association game? Okay then, watch me, please. S-c-h-o-o-l [I write it on the board]. School means gakko desu ne? Okay, now what is in a school? Students, teacher, class…or…desk! Okay, d-e-s-k. What is desk? Chair or…wood! Okay, w-o-o-d! Wood is…brown, tree…. Do you understand? Okay, okay, let’s play now.

The rules are simple, and the results interesting. Here are some teacher-vetoed associations students (read: boys) came up with:

speak…mouth…~~smoke~~
needle…~~HIV~~
pie…meat pie…cherry pie…~~cherry boy~~
toy...~~adult toys~~
wedding…baby…~~six nine [69]~~…mother…~~Meg Ryan~~…children…~~Mr. Children~~…~~Michael Jackson~~

Shrimp…lobster…crab prompted Me Too Pants Dropper to make lewd clawing gestures while pointing to girls. Another boy tried to make an association from that by crying, “Let’s play masturbation!” Me Too Pants Dropper pointed and fired back, “Masturbation boy!” I desperately tried to divert their one-track minds to words I could write on the board. Like “winter.” But Me Too Pants Dropper heard “wiener,” and yelled out “meatball.”

A tamer class started the game with “school” and followed it with “teacher…student….” The final two words before the bell rang were “danger…landmine.” By the law of syllogism, school is a landmine. At Kanokita, teachers already know to tread with caution.

Naughty by Nature

2006-05-22T07:30:00.000-04:00

Behavior of perverted, pubescent students at Kanokita has been well documented.

Although I get tired from standing all day, one perk of being a teacher is the freedom of classroom mobility. I call it “The Teacher’s Walk,” and mine sort of looks like a giraffe drinking water. With hands clasped behind my back I methodically pace and pause up and down rows, lowering my neck to inspect desktops.

I walk mostly to keep from falling asleep, but also to joke around with students and to encourage them to at least put books on their desks. This time, Glue Boy in the back corner had another idea. From inside his desk emerged a tissue-covered cup. I braced myself. He yanked off the tissue. A penis sat in a glass of water. It was one of those Grow-A-Penis things that swell when immersed.

I tried to act like the mature professional that I am, and said: “Chisaii chimpo!” He burst out laughing; it was indeed a small pecker.

Later on I was Walking to check the lack of progress in copying sentences from the board. I couldn’t help but ask Glue Boy, “Hey, show me your penis.” We both laughed, and he ducked his hand into his desk to whip it out.

* * *

Eating lunch with students is my favorite time of day. First of all, I’m fed for cheap. Second, anything can happen. And it usually does when taking meals in section 2-4, home of Potato Face, Me Too Pants Dropper, and SexPlayer.

It was a Friday, and these boys were in weekend mode. I opened the door to a scene of culinary chaos. Me Too Pants Dropper was inhaling globs of rice with baby sardines by the fistful while banging his spoon on the lunch cart to demand more from the intimidated girl server. His shirt was untucked and unbuttoned. From the lunch cart he also grabbed the last frankfurter with his teeth and taunted SexPlayer with it. The ever playful SexPlayer bit the other end and tugged.

I ate alone, but as I was finishing the boys closed in. I guessed what perverted question would spill from SexPlayer’s mouth. Usually he lives up to his nickname by asking me if I like to play sex or if I like to play sex everyday.

“Do you like adult video?” he chirped. I almost congratulated him for asking a new question, but replied negatively hoping to end the line of questioning. It didn’t. SexPlayer brought over his book bag for some show-and-tell.

“Porno DVD!” Me Too Pants Dropper exxxclaimed, announcing the obvious. I was floored that they had gotten their hands on another objectionable item (at least this one didn’t shoot pellets), and had brought it to school. They circled me with eyes and ears eagerly awaiting a response. I couldn’t disappoint. “Mimashou!” (Let’s watch!) I shouted to a chorus of cheers.

At other schools class can be as quiet as a library. At Kanokita, however, the only way to get students’ attention would be to press play. Something tells me it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve seen it.

SexPlayer started sucking on Me Too Pants Dropper’s index finger. I rose to rack my tray. SexPlayer followed, and I asked him what other videos he watches. “I have two at my house,” he said. “Toy Story and adult video.”

Far left: Potato Face. Center with Rasta wig: SexPlayer. Far right: Me Too Pants Dropper.

* * *

Hormones run high at Kanokita, but those inside Me Too Pants Dropper are off the charts. He’s grown by inches in months. Now I look up at him, which he never lets me forget by sliding up next to me before class with big brown eyes and a naughty smile.

“Kiss me, please,” he likes to ask before class, pointing to each cheek. I send him back to his seat unfulfilled.

“Would you come here, please?” he asked during the lesson. I should know better than to accept his entreaties, but sat down next to him to see if he’s added anything new to his routine. “I like sex play. Do you like sex play?” Same shtick. I turned away, but he patted me on the shoulder. He smiled devilishly, and began stroking my knee, moving his hands onto my thigh.

“Enough!” I yelled, jumping up and causing a disruption.

“Wait, please!” he begged, sticking out his tongue and winking.

One time he tried a more direct approach: “please tell me about your penis.” His pronunciation hasn’t caught up with his hormones.

“My parents? Oh, well I have one mother and one....”

Slowly, I’m teaching them. We’re starting with the small stuff. Don’t raise your middle finger. “F*%# you” is not pleasant parlance. Erase “COCK” from the blackboard and your textbook cover. And please don’t describe your weenie as an “anaconda.” You’re 14 years old, and Japanese at that.

Crime and Punishment

2006-05-17T10:00:00.000-04:00

Just as class finally settled down, Seiko strolled up to the front. She was holding her head. Mr. Hirogashi wrote her a pass, no questions asked. He’s just as happy to get rid of her as she is to get rid of him. Her hand was glued to her forehead, but only figuratively. It’s not a migraine, but rather a bad hair day. She’s been having a lot of those ever since her father lopped off her prized bangs as punishment for misusing a vending machine.

He should have trimmed her tongue instead. While waiting for the pass, Seiko couldn’t help but be a nuisance. She looked up from the floor to crack jokes at my expense. They’ve become so repetitive that I can now understand almost everything she throws my way. I counter with squinted eyes.

Discipline is deteriorating at Kanokita like the paint flaking off the walls. Some behavior qualifies as bad even for public schools in America. Fourteen-year-old girls, Seiko included, were caught red-faced after drinking beer (from a vending machine) in the bathroom in between classes. Not that they attend those classes, but the school nurse solved the mystery of their suddenly flush complexions.

Several boys, meanwhile, uploaded pictures of lighting up on school grounds onto their homepages. Word spread quickly. Enforcement of rules has not. The usual morning staff meeting at other schools is held in the late afternoon at Kanokita, probably to take stock of the day’s carnage and to make sure all teachers are accounted for.

In between classes one day, I returned to the teacher’s room to get more pencil prizes. I didn’t understand an announcement on the PA system, and empty chairs greeted me the next period. Class was cancelled. An emergency assembly was held instead because papers spontaneously combusted in the bathroom for the second time in four days. The fire department knows the route here well. Alarm pulling, or paper burning, has proved effective in postponing class.

Walking out of school one afternoon, I approached a girl shivering in the cold. Her skirt bopped up and down as she sang along to the J-pop playing on her cell phone speaker. She congregated with a group of boys on the steps near the gated entrance.

Their eyes radiated mischief. This group also hangs out on the fire stairs in front of the building. A boy sporting a mini-mohawk smiled suspiciously. As I walked by, he opened his uniform jacket and pulled out a gun. His grin exploded into laughter as he fired blanks at a student peeking out from behind the gate.

The kyoki (murder weapon) fooled me at first. But this is Kanokita where anything is to be expected, and so long as the gun’s not real, it’s not threatening enough to take meaningful administrative action. Try telling that to the special ed students caught in the crosshairs and rushing through the gate to reach the safety of waiting vehicles.

Seeing a policeman with the principal in the corridor doesn’t raise eyebrows. Last year the school made national news when a dozen girls were arrested for fighting. The melee unfolded on an embankment where they were trying to throw (drown?) someone in the river. The only thing that sunk was the school’s reputation.

The headlines never seem to fade for nearby residents. Sometimes I meet people who grew up or now live in the ward. While not an alumna, Carrie at Hollywood Models was well aware of Kanokita’s reputation. She cited breaking windows and casting a teacher’s chair into the pool as less criminal mischief.

What it boils down to is that these kids are just naughty by nature…To be continued.

Vanity

2006-05-14T09:30:00.000-04:00

The beauty parlor was in full swing. Mirror, brushes, pads, lipstick – cosmetics crowded the desktop. A dumb-looking girl adjusted her fake eyelashes. She applied blush and eyeliner with the vigor of an actress due on stage. All that was missing were the vanity lights, but the oversized mirror was enough to draw the teacher’s disapproval.

She continued primping despite being instructed otherwise. When the teacher walked over, the girl glanced up with a vacant stare, her fingers still on her lashes. I recognized the stare from when I had asked her what she did on vacation. Maybe she didn’t understand a word of English. Maybe it’s Maybelline.

The Japanese take beauty seriously. While it’s taboo to eat or drink on trains, women routinely apply makeup as if they were in the privacy a dressing room. Men trim and reshape their eyebrows (not on board). Some shave them off completely. The grooming begins in junior high school, and is especially noticeable at Kanokita where students prioritize plucking over cracking a book.

Popular in-class treatments include gelling each other’s hair, filing nails and straightening hair – one strand at a time. Even the boys tote oversized mirrors that they prop open on the desk and spend the period perfectly aligning their spiky hair. The mirror reflects their attention away from the board. Such was the case with one punk with a band-aid patched over his eye and a (fake?) Burberry scarf concealing his neck. When done attending to the hair on his head, he shifted gears to tweezing his eyebrows.

In another class, two kids plucked the body hair off of an early bloomer. One friend dutifully worked on the boy’s arms while his exposed leg rested in the other’s lap. He didn’t flinch much, perhaps numbed from the sound of English.

Personal care isn’t all glamour. Sometimes it’s messy. Like when one student got a trim. Or when the normally well-mannered “Harajuku boy” (as I call him ever since spotting him on the train bound for this trendy area of Tokyo) was playing with shards of glass from the mirror he had sent crashing to the floor.

Perhaps following his lead, a girl with a black kit on her desk threw tweezers, eyebrow clipper and eyelash crimpier to the ground in apparent frustration. The girl sitting behind her remained cool, and continued straightening her frustrated friend’s hair with a turquoise comb.

This teacher is sensitive to some classroom salon treatments. Seiko and Maki bring tears to my eyes when using hair spray on each like they’re in a shaving cream fight.

“This room smells funny,” I remarked to the Japanese English teacher after walking into another class. He sniffed and agreed. This time it’s not hair spray; it’s nail polish. I scanned the room for the culprit. A girl with a pink hair clip was painting her nails at the expense of my nostrils.

To avoid confrontation, the teacher asked her not to stop, but to instead do it later. She pleaded for one minute more, and of course ignored the clock and his empty threat. Class began, and so did rawness eating at my throat. Disrespect had crossed the line into physical discomfort.

I mulled an appropriate response. I, too, didn’t want to cause a stink, and realized that if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. She didn’t look up when I towered over her desk. I silently stuck out my pinky and received a glittery coating. The Japanese teacher followed suit.

Meanwhile, a misguided boy was working on his own version of nail care. He super glued his thumb and index fingertips together, and raised his hand for me to hail his accomplishment. I gestured back. As long as he wasn’t eating it, everything was relatively OK.

I is for Impunity

2006-05-04T04:30:00.000-04:00

Near the bottom of Tokyo’s public educational barrel, Kanokita School appropriately sits in the shadow of the regional garbage incinerator. Toxins must seep into the water table, too.

I share a bus ride from the nearest train station with a disturbing number of mentally disabled adults. They are the only ones naive enough to sit next to a foreigner, although my knees do jut into the adjacent seat, sometimes the last one available.

An otherwise routine trip was once enlivened when one such man boarded with a bottle of brown “English tea.” Drinking on public transportation is frowned upon, but that didn’t dissuade him. He was audibly slobbering on the bottle. How refreshing to have the other passengers furtively eye someone else for a change.

While the bus was in motion, he leaped up and lunged across the aisle to slide open the window, dripping tea on an elderly passenger. He ejected the bottle from the window. Plastic rattled onto the pavement. The engine drowned out stifled reactions.

However small, it was a rare breakdown in order here. Well, rare if you’re a stranger to Kanokita. If D is for Delinquency, then I is for Impunity.

A pack of wild girls runs down the hall feeding off disorder it incites. Like a car with squealing brakes, Seiko’s shrieks can he heard down the block. First, she’s in the hall. Next, the fire escape. Then she’s yelling upstairs to Maki from the flowerbed in the courtyard, her uniform snared by branches. An old custodian lady pleads her not to trample the greenery.

A teacher told me that the outdoor pool is the only one in the ward to freeze in winter because it faces west and receives no direct sunlight. This distinction would qualify for an achievement at Kanokita were it not for the students who nearly fell in after treading on thin ice. Others kept their distance from the safety of fourth floor windows and pelted the ice with Mandarin oranges from school lunches, now a free meal for the crows.

Sometimes their boldness is welcome. Students freely adjust the classroom thermostat, which often works to this sweaty American’s favor. I silently cheer when a student pumps up the a/c. During spring rainy season either I’m getting soaked from above or sweating from underneath.

A tradition dating back to temple schools from the Edo period, students are assigned daily after school cleaning tasks. A rotating wheel of chores keeps track of who is sweeping where that day. Kids arm themselves with hand brooms and washcloths as chirping music sounds over the PA system. The tune mimics what’s heard at a closing department store. Chairs are raised, desks pushed to the side, and dust balls and spilled rice grains swept up. Others rub washcloths along the banister or wipe the linoleum stairs. At Kanokita, however, there’s no music – only the huffing of teachers carrying cleaning supplies.

The only thing that students who don’t want to learn have learned is that they don’t have to learn if they don’t want to. When students wield more power than teachers, threats are hollow and discipline is unenforceable.

Such antics wouldn’t go unpunished in U.S. schools. There are principals to lay down the law and detention for those who flaunt it. In Japan, principals are powerless and detention is a foreign concept. It’s the fundamental right of students to attend class. Kicking kids out would be to deny them this right. Students hold the ace of spades. Except for when after class began I broke up a poker game on the grounds that if I wasn’t dealt in, then nobody was playing.

While sometimes I use outsider status as leverage to encourage good behavior, specialized Japanese “cowboys,” as I called them, are the only hope of containing problems. In the absence of respected authority, cowboys patrol classrooms and hallways to prevent rebellious teens from taking over the ranch.

Chief cowboy Koutoro is a cool 30-something friend to the students and ally to the out-of-touch staff. His hairstyle matches his eclectic taste in fashion. The kids liken his stringy bangs plastered to his forehead to pubic hair. They have a point. He began as a volunteer five years ago, and now is the longest tenured member of staff.

The student-teacher ratio in one class was 3:1. Two English teachers, two cowboys, and one other man were on hand to lead and observe class. The problem was trouble itself. These 8th graders were perfectly behaved.

Although not (yet) as treacherous as their sempai (elders), the youngest students influence classroom life. I suggested dividing into groups to play a game that worked well with elementary schoolers I once subbed for. A 7th grade class at Kanokita has about the same English ability. The Japanese English teacher rebuffed the idea: “This class doesn’t do groups. If we try, one or two groups won’t participate.”

We’re teachers. Time to show ’em who’s boss, right? To the contrary, the mischief only gets worse….

Sushi Place

2006-04-25T10:45:00.000-04:00

When it comes to sushi, Japan – not surprisingly – is bar none. My neighborhood is just up the subway line from the world’s greatest fish market, Tsukiji. I wasn’t making it another supermarket mystery meat bento night. I decided to revisit a sushi place private student Aiko showed me one “lesson.” This time would be different. Without a crutch, I was intruding into a salarymen stronghold feeding on the bedrock of Japanese cuisine in old town Tokyo.

Approaching the storefront set gastric juices in motion. But you can’t just walk in and seat yourself. Well, you can, if you’re Japanese. I paced past the entrance to check seat availability along the two bell-shaped counters. It’s always packed. Making a U-turn after entering invites humiliation. Standing and waiting along the perimeter feels too exposed when you’re a foreigner, not to mention the only one under 40.

The glass of the double sliding door is frosted almost to the top, but standing on my toes enables reconnaissance without commitment. I already had peered in twice. Cigarette smoke blurred dark salarymen suits. I pretended to thumb text messages while waiting for someone to walk out, but hunger soon trumped insecurity.

Unlike typical establishments here, don’t expect an audible welcome upon entering, which at least doesn’t draw more attention. Other customers aren’t looking for polite service. The freshest, cheapest sushi on this side of the Sumida River keeps them coming back. I feel their gaze, but hone in on my goal – sliding into an empty stool without knocking it or anyone else over. I cringed stuffing my knees under the counter.

The grey-haired lady poured jugs of sake into customers’ overflowing glasses. I recalled her stern disposition from last time, sort of like the sushi Nazi. Apparently I wasn’t a stranger either. “I never forget a handsome face,” she said through a customer translator. Ack. I let out a breath and looked up to order. Instead, I caught people staring at me from behind beer mugs and raised chopsticks. Can he speak Japanese? Can he eat raw fish? Can he handle chopsticks? Let the games begin.

In such situations, I fall back on a fail-safe recipe: draft beer. I wanted small, but ordered 1 liter. Murmurs of approval. First hurdle cleared. Next I whispered “unagi” (boiled eel) just like I had eaten when with my private student. Its mouth-watering richness makes it taste more like dessert than sushi, although it’s not raw. The sushi Nazi turned to the kitchen and yelled, “Do we have unagi today?” loud enough for everyone to overhear.

I sensed laughter before it became audible. One observer challenged me, in English, as to why I was ordering cooked fish in a place known for its raw delights. My cheeks turned the color of a maguro slice. The lady's answer was no, followed by a sentence I couldn’t catch. The only word I recognized was anago, unagi’s salt-water cousin (conger eel). I didn’t really want it, but quickly accepted.

“Maguro,” I called out, adding the house staple of tuna to my order, which appeased any remaining detractors. I wasn’t in the clear just yet. Furtive stares anticipated how I would eat what I had spent so much effort ordering. I treated chopsticks like a surgical tool and poured less than usual soy sauce.

The conger eel arrived dripping in delicious sweet eel sauce. I steered clear of the accompanying bottle filled with seasoning. Unfamiliar lids with unfamiliar contents only increased chances for embarrassment. Anago in chopstick, I raised it to my lips and stopped. Was that someone speaking to me? When you can’t understand the language, you begin to sense these things. A well-dressed gentleman in his twilight salaryman years had uttered “saisho,” or first. I knew what he meant. I had skipped a step. The eel was still undressed.

I imagined drowning it in green flakes. When nothing came out, I tapped harder and the prophecy fulfilled itself. I causally smeared the sprinkles around my plate like I was seasoned expert. I looked up to find the salaryman nodding. I toasted him with a green slice of eel.

Welcome to Japan! (and other milestones)

2006-04-15T22:30:00.000-04:00

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.

Changing Tactics

2006-04-13T10:30:00.000-04:00

Lately, Ms. Hattori has gotten smarter. Battle weary from the daily onslaught of Kanokita’s 8th graders, she has sacrificed a fellow freshman teacher to the front lines. Instead of leading class from the front, she now stands in the back and watches me sink. Why should she do the heavy lifting when the burden can be shifted?

I waited for her usual shouts to begin class, but they never came. I stared at her, and she stared back. So now I’m expected to take the reins, which were slipping by the second as students picked up on the breakdown in command.

I made the class repeat the greeting because instead of responding, “I’m fine thank you, and you?” they echoed the question, “How are you?” Today’s lesson plan featured an unseasonable dialogue about Thanksgiving Day. I repeated the model reading, but no matter what the month, these students aren’t listening.

From the back Ms. Hattori cried, “One more time,” which became seven more times. A few mouths moved, but were inaudible because the gang of four was concocting trouble.

Birthmark boy is the ringleader, but he gets a little help from a girl with pale skin whose attitude turns mine red. Neither had a book open, unless you counted her journal filled with mini photo machine stickers and magazine cutouts of fashionable J-teen icons.

Before class, birthmark boy invaded her privacy and introduced me to this revealing slice of middle school girl life. Hours (of class time) are spent coloring pages with thick Poca markers and gluing in small photos. It’s an illustrated diary of friends, friends turned enemies (blackened out faces), material desires (cell phones, clothing) and their concept of beauty.

As I thumbed through the book, I got slapped on the head. Its owner had returned was none too pleased. I shifted attention to a boy with a crew cut (usually an indicator of trouble) squeezing swirls of Elmer’s glue. It looked like marshmallows had melted onto the desktop. As I approached, he glanced up to say “petting.” He wasn’t talking about his dog. He flashed a vulgar gesture and repeated himself while pointing at journal girl. Maybe it’s a good thing she can’t understand English.

“Where’s your book, kid?”

“At home,” he said, his lips curving upward. “Heavy petting!” he then exclaimed.

I kept a straight face. Now where did he learn that? In a weak moment months ago, I taught Me Too Pants-Dropper boy the same phrase after he, too, said “petting.” I’m sure it was the end of a long day, and I thought it would be harmless. I mean, these kids use “good morning” as an after lunch greeting.

I tried not wasting much time with the gang of four because several students in the front were actually making an effort; however, the gang distracted everyone. Glue boy tossed a button from his uniform and a battery at birthmark boy. Tired of mild threats to encourage attention, I marched over, confiscated the items and threw them out the third floor window.

I should have tossed out the glue. After joking in Japanese that I wanted to drink it, glue boy uncapped the bottle and began squeezing – above his open mouth. Nothing came out. He squeezed harder.

「ばか! ばか！」 I warned “stupid.” Curious to see how far he went, I didn’t intervene. Even Ms. Hattori was watching after having migrated to the board to write some sentences.

The glue oozed out like a string elongating with gravity. And then it snapped. I was hoping for down the throat, but it missed and pooled on his nose.

“Told you, stupid,” I chimed above his cries for a tissue. Shouldering teaching responsibilities here makes it tough to get a handle on class. Not even if you super glued one on.

Extra, Extra

2006-04-11T08:50:00.000-04:00

read all about it. I’m pleased to announce my biggest freelance assignment to date, this week’s cover feature for Metropolis magazine, the most circulated English language magazine in Japan. It took me more than a month to research, write and revise.

Click here to read about Tokyo's less visited museums. I also took the sculptural photograph for the cover and those that accompany with the story.

Loosing That Loving Feeling

2006-04-07T12:10:00.000-04:00

It was January, my first week back after New Year’s break. I had missed the childish camaraderie, and was even looking forward to defending the privacy of my parts on a daily basis. The last update on the mischievous nuts at Kanokita Junior High was in October. I’ve been taking careful notes of their behavior since then. By now I’ve finished up at my three other schools, so the focus of the blog will shift to these bundles of trouble doing what they do best – causing it.

“Mr. Mochizuki, how are things here at Kanokita this New Year?” I asked, fishing for gossip.

“Oh, same as usual. Not in particular,” he said showing off his front teeth from behind oversized glasses. That smile always gave me the willies.

Two more days back in session would be enough to erode Mr. Mochizuki’s veneer of winter recess relaxation to the point of disillusionment: “Mr. Jef, I no like this class. Why am I appointed this school?” he suddenly complained before class. “To tell you the truth, I don’t want to come to this place. There are very bad students, maybe the worst in Tokyo.” Although shocked by his candid confessions to a younger and contracted employee, he had a point.

The honeymoon period’s over. I dragged my feet up the stairs to class with Mr. Hirogashi, a young teacher who spent December break in Hawaii on his honeymoon. Regarding the three other schools I rotate among, he asked, “Do you notice a difference between this school and the others?”

I nearly laughed out loud, but realized he was in fact quite serious. He’s fixed at one school, and sounded like he was hoping to gain insight into the outside world populated with better disciplined students.

Perhaps he’s longing for the past. After all, he met his bride while teaching in another ward of Tokyo; however, Japanese school rules stipulate that a husband and wife cannot teach in the same ward, much less the same school. So he designated himself for reassignment, which after half a year at this school must mean he’s filed divorce papers just to get his old job back.

Blood-curling screams echoed into the stairwell from an undisclosed location. It could have been from upstairs or downstairs – maybe from both. Something then crashed to the floor. Usually it’s loud and metallic, but the dull thuds worry me most. Mr. Hirogashi filtered out these background noises.

Students at two of my other three schools were angels compared to Kanokita kids. I didn’t want honesty to burst his already bruised bubble. Morale in the teacher’s room was low enough.

“Well, the 7th graders aren’t so bad,” I said with a positive spin. Actually, Omiyada’s, led by the inept Mr. Nishono, acted worse. Kanokita’s 8th and 9th graders, however, were the bottom of the behavioral barrel.

“I think this school is like a jail,” he said as we climbed passed 8th grade classrooms on the third floor – ground zero for disobedience. His analogy was faulty. Although inmates are also bad apples, and as a matter of law must remain on the premises, a jail enforces order through authoritative guards. Kanokita is more like a game preserve where wild beasts roam free in a loosely patrolled area. There are some rangers, but not enough to be effective guardians.

At the top of the stairwell on the fourth floor, we turned right instead of left. “Oh no, no, no…not this class,” I grumbled to myself. There’s only one room at this end of the hall. It’s the class with the boy with the huge birthmark on his chin whose standard greeting is, “Oh Jefu! Son of a bitch!”

There were eleven students today, but they still outnumbered two teachers. Four girls in the front row were throwing pen cases (one labeled “Bump of Chicken,” a popular band) at one another or using textbooks to inflict head trauma. The boys behind them sketched their own variations of manga characters from an illustrated masterlist.

Efforts to overlay the worksheet on top of their drawings were brushed away. When Mr. Hirogashi then tried removing the drawings, a student yelled and ripped the worksheet in half. Mr. Hirogashi acquiesced.

The girls in the back of the room were hopeless. I knew from past experience that I’d be wasting my energy. One sat on the windowsill staring into space. One foot was planted on her seat while the other leg rested across her desk. At least she looked comfortable. Beside her, a friend craned her neck out the window to report on the boys P.E. soccer game.

Two girls glanced up from writing letters in multi-colored ink. They welcomed talking to me (in Japanese), but one preferred listening. At first I thought she had a new earring, but then spotted an earphone concealed beneath her long black hair. My face lit up, and she begged me to keep quiet. I just smiled and returned to the front of the room to survey the scene from a macro level. Finely fashioned paper airplanes crisscross flight paths in the back of the room.

Except for pretending to arrange to go to a Beyonce concert with a boy who practiced English five hours a day over winter vacation, classes were an exercise in futility. The students don’t care. There’s nothing stopping them from showing it. And there’s nothing I can do except witness the chaos unfold.

Penis Festival

2006-04-02T08:30:00.000-04:00

Japanese schoolboys’ asking about my American body parts or inappropriately touching them has been well documented on this blog (with further outrages to come). But now I have proof that the problem isn’t me. It’s them – their repressed culture. Immaturity hit a new low yesterday in Kawasaki at the Kanamara Matsuri, or Festival of the Steel Phallus.

With its origins in the Edo era, this festival is held at a shrine sprouting several smooth mushroom-headed sculptures. The festival coincides with the cherry blossoms when Kawasaki women used to pray to ward off syphilis.

The event attracted more gawking foreigners than Japanese. Penis paraphernalia and themed sweets were available, and photo-ops were aplenty. The highlight was when a mother and her baby (not the one below) slid off the wooden shaft and tumbled to the dirt.

You know what a picture’s worth; I’m not going to waste my breath.

Kobayashi Gets Kicked Out

2006-03-30T07:10:00.000-05:00

My favorite class plunged into chaos at the normally well-disciplined Nubata School. These docile 7th graders were among the first I met in May, and today was our last time together. I surveyed their gentle dispositions. Darling brown eyes beamed back.

Kobayashi’s English has improved slightly from when he once replied “NO!” to “what’s your name?” His manners, however, are still rough around the edges. First, he pretended not to have the worksheet, finding it only with great exaggeration. He again irked Mr. Yamato teacher by pulling the same stunt with his textbook. Yamato-sensei inserted a CD for a listening comprehension test.

Kobayashi slouched sideways in his seat, casually fanning himself with a Yomiuri Giants folder. He’s a baseball nut, and Giants pins cover his pen case. In no uncertain terms (i.e. both languages) did I once announce my affinity for cross-town rival Yakult. Mr. Yamato walked over to issue another warning. Get with the program, kid. This wasn’t rebellious Kanokita School.

When Yamato-sensei turned his back, Kobayashi uttered something. Something he shouldn’t have. Already on thin ice, he more than anyone should’ve known that it’s three strikes and you’re out.

Mr. Yamato has been under some pressure. He arrives at 07:30 and doesn’t leave school for another 12 hours. Yes, this is public middle school, not I-banking. Apparently such commitment is tacitly expected of teachers in their first year. One day when I was leaving work at err–12:45—he confided that they never told him about the schedule when he started.

The extra hours are like a pledge period to show devotion and prepare lesson plans. Or practice his English pronunciation, which is more painful than hearing Gregory belt out Bonnie Tyler.

Here are some examples:
She ha has a house. She, her, her, hers.
They will kill themselves. They, their, them, theirs.
Mekitchen lice is ewer favolite gay ass odor. Mexican rice is your favorite game us order. (Not a real sentence, I know).

Even my company representative, after observing one of my classes, joked about it. Anyhow, one of Nubata’s English teachers (who taught two sections while Yamato-sensei had six) broke her leg and was out for the semester. Instead of hiring another teacher, the burden was shifted to guess who?

This afternoon it didn’t take much to make him snap. He spun around. Kobayashi’s big, brown eyes filled with apology, and then fear. Sensei went for his waist. Kobayashi fought tooth and nail to stay seated – digging the latter into the window ledge. His fingers weakened and in desperation he grabbed his desk, ripping the cover of his English textbook in half.

He squawked and dragged his feet like a chicken plucked from the coop. A vain attempt to latch onto the lunch cart sent it crashing into the back wall with a metallic ping. The class was mesmerized. If a teacher confronted a student at Kanokita, the student would have grabbed back and dragged the teacher. Acting insubordinate toward Nubata teachers just wasn’t conceivable.

I, too, was spellbound. The CD was repeating the passage about Minato Chuo Park for the tenth time: “A woman is listening to a CD under a tall tree. A boy has a small cat. I like this park very much. I like this park very much. I like….”

I was alone and without a lesson plan. The class tasted anarchy, and it tasted good. They fed off the disorder to release pent-up middle school inhibitions. Noise escaped through the back door that remained open.

Skeletor poked her head in. Even the kids say that this social studies teacher is scary, more so her stern personality than her looks, which draw heavily on Skeletor’s flat but protruding cheekbones, spaced eyes and the mysterious nose.

Her sight spurred me to provide a solution instead of complicitly becoming part of the problem. I turned off the stereo, and drilled the students to repeat the Minato Chuo Park passage until they were blue in the face. Luckily I had a few pencils on hand to persuade reading aloud. Once supplies were exhausted, I forced them to sing happy birthday to me.

A red-faced Mr. Yamato returned 10 minutes later, just in time for the end of class and to award them a 1.5/5.0 on their behavior report card. Not the ending I had in mind for Nubata School, but certainly a memorable one.

Ending on a High Note

2006-03-16T19:00:00.000-05:00

Only ubiquitous convenience stores outnumber karaoke parlors in Tokyo’s cityscape. I visit the former regularly to pick up essentials such as soft serve ice cream, clean underwear and Japanese comic book porn. Actually, not the last two.

Despite being in Japan for 10 months, tonight was my first foray into karaoke – at least the proper way, among friends – instead of with hostesses paid to sing along and pour you watery whisky.

Unlike the glittery street level parlors I pass, Utahiroba’s upstairs reception area had the neglected and dated décor of a rural bowling alley. My invited guests (plus Gregory) were led to a windowless room with clashing wallpaper and padded turquoise benches around a table. The cost covered all-you-can drink, and we quickly sent the waitress running to go fetch.

Natives Maki and Takafin kept each other company closest to the door and the telephone -- to call for more drinks not long after the first round had arrived. Team France (Delphine, Lawrence and Koya) sat together while I split up the Napoli girls because of Napoli#1’s long-standing promise to do duets with me.

Napoli#2 apparently invited Gregory, and they began to comandeer the controls to queue up songs. Two volumes the size of telephone books indexed the music library, and selection numbers were keyed into the remote. Along with the lyrics, the television screen flashed images from what I think was Chicago circa 1987.

A white chick with too much makeup and outdated hair strut through the streets in denim. Sometimes she walked around parked Oldsmobiles. Sometimes she danced in front of a graffiti mural. The worst was closeups in the park of her frizzy hair blowing in the breeze. All this to the beat of Destiny’s Child.

Perhaps stimulated by the 80s imagery, Gregory grabbed the mic and put on a show to remember, but one we're still trying to forget. Hands collectively covered ears. Mild-mannered Maki shrank against the wall. “Holding Out for a Hero” never sounded this bad.

“Onchi!” I cried across to room, eager to exercise a random but suddenly appropriate word (tone deaf) before curling up in Napoli#1’s shoulder. One eye watched Koya look for the fast-forward button.

Gregory already had our attention, but he stood up and slammed his foot on the table, knocking over an empty glass. Ice cubes skated onto the floor. He pumped his fists to the chorus, and kept rasping. The noise overwhelmed such a small compartment (but one still larger than my apartment).

Then came the gratuitous crotch grabbing. Maki blanched. How long was this song? Yelling with his foot on the table and hand on his crotch wasn’t enough. Seeking further exposure, he raised his shirt. For a split second I didn’t know what I was looking at. Something four months pregnant and carpeted in hair. He caressed his belly while momentarily abandoning the lyrics to proclaim “I’m beautiful, I’m beautiful!” It was a show-stopper. To a chorus of moans he replied, “Oh, come on, it was a coked-up Bonnie Tyler.”

After a few songs, "Livin’ on a Prayer" began. Gregory, who hadn’t let go of the mic, began singing my song. I complained to Napoli#1. First my party, and now my song were being soiled by this pregnant pig. Delphine passed me the other microphone. I cut into the chorus, but was no match to overpower his husky voice.

Still, he noticed. I glared back. My song. It’s one of the few that my limited octave range can match. I stood up and continued to sing for what was rightfully mine. Gregory backed down, and rested the mic on the wet table to grab more of some cloudy drink.

“What was that?” he groaned when my voice trailed to a whisper. “That was like some Frank Sinatra version of Bon Jovi. It’s the worst I’ve ever heard.” He insisted on a more guttural approach, like perhaps Bonnie Tyler on drugs.

Midnight was fast approaching, and with it, last trains. There wasn’t even enough time to finish the current song, which happened to be Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.” Along with Bon Jovi, it rounds out my karaoke repertoire. I jumped up, grabbed the mic and attracted audience participation. Take that, Gregory.

About three-quarters of the way through, the waitress tapped on the door. She had a collection plate. Either pay up, or time’s up. Celine and I weren’t quite finished, so good thing Maki translated that the song must go on.

Gregory

2006-03-09T12:00:00.000-05:00

Continued from last entry.

His name was Greek, but his accent sounded English. Something about an upcoming project that I might be eligible for. A client desperately needed a model for exfoliate advertising. My first gig! This sounded promising, but what was the catch?

On account of his accent and not holding the phone over his mouth, I could only pick up one out of every three words. There was, however, no mistaking these two: “drag queen.” Alarm bells. I had to get dolled up and exfoliated for my first shoot? A queen to break into the scene?

But if the client approved of my look, for my pains Gregory would give me a handsome discount on my portfolio book and prints. I was torn between giddy excitement at the sheer lunacy of a first assignment, and the doubts of drag. Still, the client had the final say, so I put the ball in his court and offered my services.

Gregory asked me to e-mail him with sample photos. “As many as you can is fine,” I heard him say. So, I stayed up into the wee hours rooting around my digital photo library for flattering and creative snapshots. In a late-night delirium, I attached 14.

I called him that morning as he was off to an Internet café to check my pictures. How many had I sent? “Good god,” he cried. Apparently I misheard “five” as “fine.” We agreed to meet the following day.

Expecting a dapper, professional photographer, I winced when a short, round balding man in cargo shorts zoomed into sight clutching a cell phone. He was walking and talking in different directions. “Sorry lae, I bookstre reading I jus los track ime.”

His piercing hazel eyes were perhaps the only vestige of youthful beauty before time and strippers took their toll. Now in his 30s, he had lost hair on the top of his head, and gained it in less desirable parts, like peeking out of the neck of his t-shirt.

“I’ve got to apologise, mate, my studio is a mess.” A mess? The place was a sty. He had trouble opening the front door there was so much crap on the floor. I took an uneasy seat in a tattered armchair facing a table groaning under the weight of books and papers piled high. He sat by a darkened computer screen smudged with fingerprints. A nearly empty bottle of extra virgin olive oil was at his feet.

Only a few clues hinted that this was a photography studio. Sagging black fabric covered fluorescent ceiling lights. A small army of spotlights stood neglected in a corner; a few wounded ones lay knocked on their side. Pink and white feathery costumes overflowed from boxes along the back wall. A few color prints were taped to the wall, including a bare-chested Samuel L. Jackson ringer. “I’m most proud of that shot.” I couldn’t imagine much success being snapped in a space like this and in a state like this.

Instead of getting down to business, he veered off topic. Without warning, tales of his strip club escapades spewed forth like we were old fraternity buddies. It sounded like he blew his every Yen on women of the night. In Tokyo, he tried luring lap dancers back to his home. Growing up, porno cinemas were good for cheap thrills when $5 blowjobs on the street were too expensive.

I couldn’t keep track of his lurid stories, starting from 14 years old. Something more recently about going to a brothel to get an hour with a girl for free in exchange for modeling shots. But when that plan failed – and five lines of coke later – he substituted a male stockbroker for “mind-blowing sex.”

“I’m sorry,” I interjected. “Come again?”

“Oh,” he stammered, realizing. “I’m straight. I have a girlfriend. But when I’m on drugs I can’t get off with a girl so I do guys. But I don’t really use drugs.”

Although I was sitting right next to it, the door suddenly felt very far away. My question seemed to snap him from a daze. It triggered an apology and an excuse for talking my ears off about his sexual depravity.

“I’m sorry, mate. I’ve just had a nervous breakdown. I’ve gone mad.” So I’ve noticed, I thought. He proceeded to explain how he rented out a room to, unbeknownst to him, a paranoid schizophrenic.

“Aww, man, that’s gotta be the worst fucking disease.” I stared back blankly.

For the past four days he undid property damage from his tenant, who ambitiously chopped away part of the door, tore up the floor, ripped out the cupboard, and injected the walls with sealing foam to scramble electronic bugs placed by the people who were following him. The sealant’s expansive qualities caused the walls to bulge. He undertook the repair work himself. He had to give up his lease, and was in the process of changing houses. In the meantime, he was living in the studio. Now it all made sense. Except for the brothel part.

“Are you Mediterranean? I am Greek, and people think I hate Turks or Arabs, but I consider them all my brothers. We all live near the same place, eat the same foods, and I don’t think we should spill blood because of religion and borders.”

“No, my heritage is Russian, Polish and Romanian,” I said.

“Are you Slavic?”

“Uhhh….”

“Muslim Russian?”

“Ehhh….Jewish.”

“Ah. Many Israelis have a weathered look. I don’t know why.”

“I’m not from Israel,” I said.

“And you are not weathered. You have young features, and a very masculine look. You aren’t the most gorgeous, but certainly aren’t the worst looking.”

“Thanks.”

“You have a USB, and I think – ”

“I beg your pardon?” He lost me again. How did we switch to electronics?

“A U-S-P, unique selling point. You don’t look like most people here. And you don’t have the blond hair, blue-eyed WASP look.”

“I’m Jewish.”

“I’m sorry, can I see your forearms? Are they are hairy? The client needs a hairy subject,” he added. “But also one with feminine features. Yours are too masculine, but I think you would work for the part. The client should be lucky to find someone willing to do this. He’s just not going to find a feminine-looking hairy man. Hairy men are masculine. I’m going to recommend to him that you do this.”

“I’m sorry,” I interjected. “Now what exactly is the assignment again?”

He explained the pitch for the exfoliate product. If it could remove hair on a transvestite, it would surely leave a real women’s skin gleaming. My picture would be put in a mail order catalogue, but not widely broadcast.

“Nobody will recognize you, except for some middle-aged woman in Kyushu who wants to remove hair on her ass. I love it when girls remove hair on their ass because it means they are trying to please a man, you know?”

Silence.

“Do you mind if I snap a picture of your forearms to send to the client?” he continued. “Would you mind if hair were waxed from your arms? I know, I hear it’s awfully painful.”

Listening to him had to be more so. Jesus, what was I getting myself into here?

As it turns out, aside from a migraine and sore eardrums, nothing. The client found a better candidate. My forearms and dignity remained intact.

東京 タネンハウス 「Tokyo Tanenhaus」