Chance Encounter

The odds were 5 in 32 million. Maybe I should buy Mini Lotto takarakuji tickets more often. Sadly, I won’t be calling into work “rich” anytime soon. This wasn’t about scratch-off luck.

Middle school students look alike in their uniformed uniformity, but something made me look twice at one girl walking towards me on the sidewalk. But my iPod was acting up again, so I glanced down to fiddle with it.

“Jefu?” Did someone just call my name? I looked up in panic. How does she know my name? She must be one of my students, but quick – from which school? She’s with four others. Hello, Omiyada 8th graders! Thank goodness for school-issued book bags. However, we were in the sumo district, not near their school where I had just finished teaching for the day.

They fumbled for English, and I for Japanese. We could only keep shaking our heads and uttering “ehhh” as the Japanese do when words fail.
“What are you doing here?” they pieced together.
“I live here! A 25-minute walk,” I said, pointing south. On my way home from Omiyada, I stopped to research offbeat museums in this area for an upcoming magazine feature.
“Now, what are you doing here, and why the hell weren’t you in school today?”

Turns out they, too, were on the museum circuit, but for a school project. The entire 8th grade was turned loose on the town, unchaperoned and armed with notebooks and disposable cameras to document their findings. Had it been Kanokita School, Tokyo would have been on orange alert.

This group had just come from the one-room fireworks museum, which was exactly where I was heading. “It closes at 4:00, doesn’t it?” They looked rather astonished, so I pulled out an itinerary with museums names printed in kanji to illustrate my own assignment. I considered buying them a round of burgers at Macku if they did some of my legwork.

I pointed them in the direction of the tabi museum where I had spent a whole 30 seconds. Tabi are split-toe socks worn with kimonos. We laughed at the absurdity of such a place, bested only by the Shinkansen (bullet train) brake museum and the safe and key museum nearby.

The Long Goodbye

It started with Douyoto’s 7th grade section 1-1, and it’s going to last until mid-March. Not long after I finally finished introducing hobbies, height and number of family members to the 50 classes in four junior high schools, it’s time to start saying good-bye. Forever.

I beefed up my student photo alum with requests for class pictures. “I’ll never forget you, class 1-1,” I waxed in Japanese as students shuffled up to the board — some more willingly than others —while careful not to intermingle genders. Some paused for a moment, processing my profound words spoken in their native tongue. One boy felt moved enough to respond: “But I’ll forget you!” Thanks, kid.

While hundreds of faces inevitably blur together, a few stand out. I’ll miss the two sumo. Only eight schools citywide have sumo teams, and Nebiko – a barrel of flesh – placed second in the Tokyo junior high tournament.

In the same class is his shorter sidekick, also with a shaved head and no neck, sort of like a soccer ball, but with ears shaped like satellite dishes. Neither can speak much English, and from what I saw of their compositions, their Japanese ain’t good either (mostly written in hiragana while other students used more complex kanji characters). Gambatte, guys.

I’ll also miss the 7th grader who, shaped more like a linebacker than a sumo, left red marks on my hand every time we high-fived. I won’t forget the patient pronunciation of another 7th grader with whom I spent hours after school reciting John Lennon’s “Imagine” for her eventual speech content triumph.

For the 9th graders soon to enlist in high school, I exploited the occasion of our last class to indoctrinate young minds with Jefu’s four tips for a good life:

#4 Follow your heart, desires, dreams, passions, whatever. I think I used the phrase, “Be all that you can be,” but left out the toll free U.S. Army recruitment number. Just don’t become joyless dark-suited sacks of salarymen. Japan already has more than its fair share.

#3 Come visit me in New York. Not now, but once you master enunciating “r”s and “l”s as different sounds.

#2 Keep practicing your English. It might land you a better job. You are very young, and can eventually become fluent like me (laughs of disagreement).

#1 Do. Not. Smoke. (Pounding heart and lungs) Ever. I know your grandmother and father’s mistress do, but I don’t care if you never practice your English again so long as you aren’t plunking change into a cigarette vending machine glowing from every street corner.

“Yayaaa,” one boy with spiky hair moaned while squirming in his seat. “I inherited a strong body from my mother, so I will be okay.” The Japanese English teacher laughed and translated, whereupon I shook my head. Still, I remain hopeful that when such decision-making times come in the future, that they’ll remember the cool, tobacco-free New Yorker who made English class slightly less boring than usual.

This influential power of teachers became apparent near the end of a 7th grade class. A nondescript boy approached me with a pad of Post-Its. He wanted me to sign the first two. My eyes followed him back to his seat. How would he tarnish sensei’s name?

Suspicion dissolved into disbelief as I watched him open a glue stick and carefully adhere my signature to the cover of his notebook. A lump formed in my throat. It was that moment that validated my entire Japanese experience.

Long Time, No See

“Miyukiiii, you’re late!” shouted a teacher from his sidewalk post.

The staff of Douyoto School acts like protective parents stationed on street corners around the school looking out for stragglers. This is a small school – only 280 students, and thus has a family atmosphere. They almost lost one member before my eyes. Had the same teacher not blocked Miyuki’s intended sprint through the crosswalk, he would have had an unfortunate encounter with a minivan.

It was a bittersweet week. I hadn’t taught at my favorite school since Halloween, but January’s reunion would be short-lived. It was my final scheduled appearance. The 7th graders seemed to have forgotten my name because some insisted on calling me Johnny or Bobby. I think they’ve been watching too much TV again. Nevertheless, they welcomed me back with open arms and a few questions, like “how do you say ‘anus’ in English?” and “was that you on TV?” I hope the two weren’t related.

I quizzed them with listening comprehension passages about Thanksgiving and Hanukkkah. Unlike at Kanokita School, where only the walls pay attention, Douyoto students volunteer to recite model textbook readings. English, while not as popular as gym, is at least favored over math and art. In a school survey, 61% rated English as either their favorite subject or one they like.

This, after all, is the school where I coached two students to victory in a sweep of the two first prizes at the ward’s English speech contest. Douyoto divided my loyalty by unseating last year’s champion Nubata School, the second favorite of the four I teach at.

As a parting gift, Douyoto 8th and 9th graders gave me a new batch of compositions to correct. The 9th graders, currently mired in jiken jigoku (high school entrance “examination hell”), wrote about their dreams. It was heartening to read their aspirations pieced together in mangled English. Among the future bakers, barbers, clinical psychologists, weather forecasters and nursery school teachers, some didn’t yet have a “future dream.”

Others expressed exactly what they wanted. One boy confessed an urge to “become a temporarily straight adult.” Talk about lost in translation! Two verbalized definitive goals. One, to follow in dad’s footsteps at Japan Rail. The other, to become a conductor on the Seibu line in a 3800 series train, a mechanical diagram of which accompanied his text.

A humble girl had this to say:
I want to be common housewife in the future. Why? First, it is an ideal every morning that send a husband and child out. I am similar afterwards and do terrible housework in various ways and want to finish first. Now I do not like a help of a house very much. Therefore I want to do my best little by little.

I’m setting her up with this boy:
My dream I would like to be happy old man. What’s happy? Happiness might be different for the person. The dream for me is to do to want do it is necessary to do, and doing. It’s my dream!!

Meanwhile, the 8th graders described “their important one thing.” Family, pet cat, soccer ball, baseball glove and Nintendo were common. One girl wrote about having “a considerate heart.”

This capitalistic boy coveted more tangible values:
My important thing is money. A mony can change everything.
Japanese money is yen that has many kinds. The smallest yen is own yen next five, ten, fifty, hundred, 500….A money made all of us happy, and it is life.

Comic books enthrall Japanese young and old, apparently even in the afterlife:
My important thing. It is many comics. It gave me many some thing. For example, knowledge, smiling face, etc…It isn’t miss my life. I like comics. So my coffin in these comics. Because I want to read comics in the other world.

As this blogger well knows, never underestimate the power of the pen:
I have a important thing. It’s a pen. Because it is needed to write. But I often break it. Now I have six pens in my pencase. I often by pen. But it is expensive, isn’t it?
If you say “Yes” you are right.
If you say “No” you are stupit.

Yet even teacher make mistakes. I misspelled cockaroach, cavier and badmitton on the board. I drew an uncomfortable silence after mispronouncing the Japanese word for Thanksgiving (kansha-sai) as kancho-sai. Day of Thanks came out as “enema festival.”

A blooper at recess was just as embarrassing, but more painful. I should have known better than to play a sport I know nothing about while in loafers. I’m not sure how it happened. Maybe I tripped on the soccer ball, or maybe over my own feet, but the next thing I knew I was tumbling. Not just falling down, but a sputtering, flailing dive. Had my palms and right knee not broken the fall, I would have tasted playground dirt.

My stumble drew a chorus of laughs. I casually dusted off my stained trousers, which hid a skinned knee glistening with blood that hadn’t broken the surface. “You’re weak,” one boy shouted in Japanese, adding “and slow, too” while I hobbled after him ready to ring his neck.

I atoned by teaching two 8th grade classes on my own. Technically this is illegal because I am not a certified teacher in Japan. However, Ms. Kimura had to take her feverish son out of elementary school and to the doctor, leaving me in charge of the lesson plan. I drilled cooperative students on reading passages and vocab before running out the clock with hangman. I told them it was our last class together. They stood up, bowed and gave me a mild round of applause. I high-fived my way out the door for the final time.

An Eye for IQ

Instead of Aiko’s regular Tuesday night private lesson at my apartment, we took a field trip to a neighborhood sushi restaurant. It’s always packed. The salaryman next to me was watching live soccer on his phone.

The place is known for its swimmingly fresh and stunningly cheap seafood. Aiko did all of the ordering, and I did most of the eating – tuna, octopus and squid sashimi and conger eel tempura. The fish was so fresh that for once I didn’t gag at the normally briny stench of sea urchin when it hit my tongue. I nibbled at shredded radish garnishing the sashimi plates.

Just when I didn’t think I had room for any more, soup arrived. Aiko described it as ara shiru, a clear broth with fish bone, head and meat. I cupped my hands around the warm bowl and raised it to my lips. Clean and refreshing.

All that remained was an unidentifiable chunk. Aiko’s bowl was empty. I looked into mine. The meat looked back at me. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had an epiphany like when your brain unscrambles a Magic Eye optical illusion. From the bottom of my bowl stared a fish eye. Strands of meat clung to the socket, but there was no mistaking the opaque bubble in the middle.

“Are you supposed to eat this?” I cried as quietly as possible.
“Yes, it’s delicious,” Aiko said.
I poked the eye in the eye with a chopstick.
“It’s hard! It’s an eye!”

I can’t remember the last time I got squeamish over food, but the cold look of the eye was jarring. I wanted the waitress to clear my plate, yet out of curiosity I kept poking it as a warm up for the inevitable.

The grey-haired waitress detected my indecision, and told Aiko that boiled sakana no me (fish eye) was good for the skin and intelligence. An eye for IQ.

“Maybe it’s best if you eat it with another food,” Aiko suggested. “Like tofu, if you are scared.” I was scared, but intrigued. Curiosity won, but my taste buds had the final say. My nostrils flared. It was crunchy like plastic. Was it the cornea? Sweet gelatin oozed onto my tongue.

I wanted it out of my mouth and fast, but only had a moist washcloth for a napkin. I pursed my lips, and breathed heavily through my nose. The shredded eyeball sloshed around in my mouth. Teeth cracked on a pachinko ball. Is this what they mean by eyeball? My throat closed. There was nowhere for it to go but back out. I raised the bowl and spat.

Aiko had been watching my contorted facial expressions, which now eased with relief. A swig of beer neutralized the aftertaste. Check, please.

Breaching Sashimi Borders

I took a stool at Daruma restaurant, where the scene has been rather quiet the past several visits. I told Masa I was hungry and wanted something “bigger” than my usual meal of kawaebi, the Japanese equivalent of popcorn shrimp. She knew just the thing, and yelled something at the cook, who greased up an already greasy iron pan.

As I awaited the mystery meal, a salaryman on the adjacent stool startled me by striking up a conversation. It was the standard where was I from and where did I live now. He picked at a plate of sliced fish the color of blood. “Do you like kujira?” he asked. I like all types of raw fish, but this looked a little too raw for my taste.

Kitchen hand Nao came over to translate by pictograph. My eyes lit up. This wasn’t just any fish. It was whale. It’s only on the menu of two countries – Japan and Norway – that haven’t banned the practice despite international pressure.

“Some foreigners think it’s rude for Japanese to eat,” the man said, sliding a piece onto my plate. I was surprised to see it served at a hole-in-the-wall like Daruma. Whale is expensive, and its consumption on the decline. It’s now considered a delicacy instead of an entrée at school lunch, which remains a childhood memory one art teacher would rather forget.

The blood-red chunks didn’t look appetizing. Unlike smooth slices of tuna, whale looked more fleshy than fishy. It didn’t dissolve inside my mouth like tuna either. I couldn’t spit it out in front of everyone, and kept chewing until the lump felt masticated enough to wash down with beer.

Squid eyes. Whale. What’s next to cross my lips? Sakana no me. Stay tuned for Fishy Business Part 3.

Squid Eyes

How can you tell if you’ve been in Japan for too long? When hankering for a snack, you bypass the Kit-Kats and Doritos and beeline to a supermarket’s raw fish section.

I needed an after school pick-me-up, and picked up a container of baby squid. At first I wasn’t sure if its contents could be eaten on the spot. I had never seen squid eyeballs as white beads. Were they supposed to be cooked? My stomach growled. The enclosed packet of mustard was enough to convince me that raw was the way to go.

I lamented the unofficial no eating while walking rule in Japan, but stuffing slimy squid tentacles into my mouth on the way to the train station did seem a little messy. Yet, I couldn’t resist. I looked both ways, and popped the seal. The unexpected crunch of the eyeball almost chipped a tooth. I spit out the rock on the sidewalk, and carefully continued chewing.

My midday snack wasn’t as tasty as it had looked. Once I in the privacy of my apartment, however, the de-eyeballing process was easier. Adding mustard and soy sauce turned raw taste into a tasty treat.

I e-mailed an American friend about crossing new fishy frontiers. She shot back, “That is absolutely DISGUSTING – sounds like you need a care package and quick!!!!!!!”

Now that you mention it, yes. Everything bagels, pizza without corn and mayo toppings, non-Asian ethnic food and anything else that doesn’t contain dried baby sardines, rice or squid eyeballs would be fine, thanks.

Taking Swings in Kiba Park

There aren’t too many places at 35°41' North latitude where you can play outdoor tennis in January. Tokyo is one of them. Ironically, in order to avoid the sun’s tanning rays, Japanese women wear more clothing to play tennis in July than in January. In summer’s 137% humidity, I perspire walking to the subway in a t-shirt, but that doesn’t stop women from wearing full sweat suits with long sleeves, mittens and visors inspired by Darth Vader.

In cooler conditions and under cloudy skies, I joined the Yamakuma family at well-maintained grass courts in Kiba Park, a half hour walk from my apartment. Kiba means “tree place,” and alludes to the lumber stockyards of the Edo period.

Nowadays, an unsightly concrete bridge accents the park, which attracts a crowd of retired shutterbugs who assemble tripods to document the local wildlife – pampered pooches and plump pigeons. Winter doesn’t enhance this drab park’s appeal, but when in Tokyo one learns to relish open spaces of any kind, even “parks” nestled under overpasses.

I tutor Jiro, the Yamakuma’s 7th grade daughter, for an hour on Saturday mornings. She showed up with a racquet, as did adult 6 family friends. We rented two courts, one for the husbands and the other for the wives. I was assigned to the wives’ court.

For two hours we played matches of four games each, rotating partners. While I hadn’t held a racket since an embarrassing defeat at the hands of an American 7th grader while vacationing in Oman a year ago, at least I was able to follow Japanese tennis jargon as we volleyed balls and apologies for hitting them. A typical point consisted of the following dialogue, gasped in staccato female whimpers:

Oh, I’m sorry! Are you ready?
Ahh, excuse me. I’m sorry.
It’s short, excuse me.
It’s okay. Sorry.
Oh, nice serve!
It’s short, so short. I’m sorry.
Almost!
Okay, next. Your turn, please.
Excuse me, please have a ball. Thank you.
Oh, thank you so much. I’m sorry.
Okay, it’s no trouble. Thank you.

My underhand serve needs work before next week’s qualifying match for Tokyo’s Toray Pan Pacific Open, but I’m set to practice with Nubata’s tennis club after school (also outdoors).

Walking through Kiba Park triggered memories of an earlier visit. I’ve had many bizarre encounters in Tokyo, but this perhaps outranks them all. Back in July, a salaryman at Daruma restaurant took me drinking around the neighborhood. Our last stop was a street cart named yatai. These are portable food vendors, but with fixed sidewalk locations.

I pulled up a stool, and the salaryman ordered me a can of Asahi and a bowl of oden, a hodepodge stew of strange root vegetables. Four other locals yammering in Japanese ringed the wooden cart, but became intrigued with the foreign diner.

A woman had a son my age, but after 45 minutes the salaryman left me on my own for translations. A man of about 50 with a shaved head and athletic build bought me another can and then a round of sake, which unfortunately were not elixirs to clarify his speech. Even the salaryman had trouble comprehending his thick Japanese with a heavy accent of intoxication.

The yatai chef was calling it a night, and my new friend – missing a bottom front tooth – smiled at me to follow him to the corner. Before the light changed to cross, he hailed us a cab. Climbing in sent shockwaves of uncertainty in this order: (1) cabs are an unaffordable luxury, (2) how was I going to get home from where we were going, (3) where were we going and (4) who the hell was this guy?

I began noting landmarks to help me retrace the route for the long walk home. Two right turns and a trapezoidal bridge later, the cab stopped. There was a convenience store and park. We went into the conbini first.

“Hanabi!” I pointed at the fireworks hanging from a rack by the door. I thought I had seen it all, the young clerk was thinking to himself as he eyed the drunken odd couple buying fireworks at half past midnight on a weekday.

The man, who paid for the cab and fireworks, hadn’t stopped talking through either. I was absolutely clueless as to what he was saying as we walked to a grassy field illuminated by street lamps.

I gazed up at the night sky. The next thing I knew, I was seeing stars. I had been knocked off my feet with some martial arts maneuver. And now I was angry. I charged back to return the favor, but bounced off; he was built like an ox.

I can’t remember how long this midnight melee lasted, but it ended as abruptly as it began. He started walking home. I ran after him to hand him the fireworks we’d abandoned. A banzai scream broke the silence as he punted the package into a stand of trees.

I woke up at noon wondering if it was all but a dream. Grass stains on my track pants told otherwise.

Shock ‘n’ Defrock

It was judgment day at Nubata School. What do you want to be in the future? That was the lesson planned for 8th graders. I was to ask each student his or her aspirations just as soon as the teacher passed back last semester’s English test. The Japanese school year is divided into three, and each marking period has one or two tests per subject.

The students looked nervous, and given their scores I would have been, too. Mr. Nakamura called out names, and students lined up with tortured looks to receive their academic fate. “Is this test out of 100?” I whispered. Mr. Nakamura chuckled with embarrassment. I was seeing red inked numbers in the teens.

“Ayyy sensei,” one girl cried, quickly folding her paper. Another grabbed her pigtails in frustration. One student aced the exam. It wasn’t the guy shredding the paper under his desk. It seemed that the quietest students either understood class very well (85% and above) or were hopelessly clueless (25% and below). “That’s pathetic,” I said in Japanese, patting the shoulder of a back row boy who fell three points shy of breaking double digits. I hope there’s a curve.

I began the lesson with a row of girls, who professed desires to become rich girl, pretty girl, rock star girl or a great human. I then moved to the boys by the window because they have the shortest attention spans. One wanted to become “a wind,” which seemed to make sense to him in his little world of anime artfully drawn in his notebook’s margins.

The third boy back was a little rascal with a shaved head and mischievous eyes known as Saito. “I want to be a priest,” he said laughing and waiting for me to react. I shrugged off his insincerity, and queried the boy behind him.

Saito apparently was serious because he suddenly grabbed my ass. Not just a friendly pat on the butt, but a full-on, crowded train chikan grope. I wheeled around in disbelief to see Saito grinning with his hand still outstretched. He repeated his desire to join the clergy. “That won’t be a problem,” I assured him. “I’m sure the priesthood will just love you.”

Stern warnings only embolden Saito, who unfortunately continues to fumble around for out-of-bounds places. It could be worse. I’ve yet to be a kancho victim. This word is Japanese for enema, and is a popular ruse with elementary school boys who, hands clasped like a gun, sneak up and jam outstretched index fingers into a buddy’s rectum.

Somehow, I just don’t see this catching on with American kids, but the time-honored tradition is alive and unwell in Japan. T-shirts available. Arcade games (gulp) available. Sick stuff? Hardly the tip (ahem) of the Japanese iceberg.

Saito’s friend Kenichi, who has a sharp wit and perhaps the best English in the class, had a flattering response. “I want to be a Jeff-sensei in America,” he said of his desire to teach Japanese to Americans. I clutched my heart. Had I finally broken through to a student? Of course not. After class, Ken said he was just kidding. He wanted to be a priest. I dodged his hand just in time.

Private Dancers

It was a “one-derful” day. In the teachers’ room, my chin rested on a notepad where I was jotting down thoughts. I was scheduled to teach just one class, and that was three hours ago during first period. I wait until after the subsidized school lunch to ask to be excused for the day.

Two girls entered the room with a soft “shitsuri shimasu,” which is customarily said upon a entering a room to apologize for the disturbance created. Whatever teacher they were looking for wasn’t here – I was alone. When they didn’t leave, I looked back up – they were looking for me!

I asked them where we were going. A lanky girl said “the sports dome.” Intrigued, I followed. We headed to a room above the gymnasium where once I did taiko drumming with the “handicapped students.”

Girls were milling around in their gym clothes awaiting Haruko’s instructions. Male students affectionately call this gym teacher “short, fat woman” in English. She seems to embrace the appropriate description.

Haruko’s class was practicing Japanese folk dances to be exhibited at their upcoming school festival. Each student grasped a yellow and white sensu (Japanese fan) and shakujo (stick rattles with metal bells). The girls, some beaming behind their fan-shielded giggles at performing for a visitor, took their positions.

Haruko popped in a crackling cassette. The girls swayed to the traditional rhythms. The fisherman’s dance looked like a reenactment of an epic tug-o-war. And if you’ve seen the size of the torpedoes auctioned in Tskuji fish market, you’d understand why.

The girls watched my reaction as they twirled. They were no longer dancing for Haruko; they were dancing for me. The choreography, music and intimate setting felt like the real Japan. Sure, Japanese festivals are impressive staged events, but this uncostumed, raw demo in a middle school gymnasium felt more visceral.

Despite a few dropped fans and miscalculated tugs that sent some toppling over, the girls executed well. One dance was a school tradition performed since 1983.

“Shall we dance,” a girl asked me near the end of class, quoting the recent movie based on a Japanese film. Others called for me to join, but I sat contently watching the young experts.

Gongs At Midnight

Fifty minutes to midnight, I was in my apartment with a sixer of Sapporo munching on day-old sushi and gizzard skewers. The television was on. I was exactly where I wanted to be.

The New Year’s Eve tradition of kohaku uta gassen was in full swing. J-pop stars were pitted in a battle of the sexes while kimono-clad enka singers waxed about unlucky love to sway the older demographic. Gorie, the transvestite comedian, sided with the girls’ team. While the parade of talent featured a few too many feathered boas for my taste, not so for the average Japanese household, 50% of whom tune into the program (down from 80% in the 60s-70s).

Unlike in the West, New Year’s in Japan is steeped in tradition more meaningful than champagne, Dick Clark and Times Square. The holiday is similar to Thanksgiving in that it’s the one time families get together. Bamboo and pine ornaments adorn entrances, soba noodles symbolizing longevity are slurped whole and bizarre seasonal foods crowd supermarket aisles.

Also unlike in the West, I was having trouble getting myself invited to a year-end celebration. Time was running out, and so were the contacts in my phone book.

Hidemi was with her family in Mie prefecture. Basketball buddy Takahiro was down the street, but also with his parents. Sweet Kaori was texting me to arrange a follow up to her trial lesson in June. Nao (male) was going to Yokohama for an event staff party. Nao (female) wasn’t returning messages. And I wasn’t returning Fumiko’s.

Yoichi was having a party in his apato, but then suddenly changed plans for Chiba. Michelle and Nobu were in New York. Lawrence was in France. Hicca, of restaurant and radio fame, was in the hospital with a brain tumor. I almost thought about texting Satoshi. Almost.

So, like most other days here, I spent omisoka alone, but not lonely. Another tradition is to visit a shrine at midnight, or sometime during the three-day holiday. About 70% of Japanese make a pilgrimage for ceremonial rather than religious reasons. More than three million descend upon Tokyo’s Meiji Shrine, which is about the number of salarymen swarming into my Otemachi-bound subway car on non-holidays.

Luckily, my neighborhood is home to Tomioka Hachimangu Shrine, perhaps one of the five most important in Tokyo. At 30 minutes to midnight, I set out to rendezvous with the god of war. Just Hachiman and I would ring in the New Year together. Little did I expect such a crowd to vie for his attention.

The shrine was packed with people waiting to make a wish. Food stalls cooked up tempting treats in a haze of scented smoke. Never mind champagne, it was tako-yaki time (fried octopus-filled golf balls, right).

I exchanged greetings with two basketball acquaintances who spotted me while awaiting their fortune slips. Not wishing to wait in line for a custom I didn’t understand, I played roving photographer. I nudged my way up to the front of the shrine just before midnight, and videotaped the clapping crowd as gongs boomed. Some drunken guys hoisted one of their own, and bounced him as if he had just scored the winning goal.

The best part about the New Year, however, isn’t the anti-climatic countdown. It’s wishing random people well. This was made more satisfying in Japan where I was a foreigner unexpectedly equipped with the right phrase, and – after five Sapporos – emboldened to startle strangers.

Among those I bestowed New Year’s wishes upon were the supermarket checkout clerk (to purchase said Sapporo), the muffin girl in the silly hat working the bakery aisle, grandma Yoko the Chiyoda Sushi lady where I order out three times a week, a gang of high school troublemakers sitting on a park fence and a couple walking a dog down a quiet side street.

I spotted another young couple. “Sumimasen, shin nen no hofu wa nan desuka?” (What’s your New Year’s resolution?). Waiting for the walk signal, they were trapped. In typical Japanese style, the woman repeated my question. She then shot her boyfriend/husband the look. Traffic stopped. He laughed to end the conversation. The response needed no verbalization: more sex in ’06.

I continued to indulge in Japanese tradition on New Year’s Day, as I made a McTeriyaki burger my first meal of 2006, and watched the 85th Emperor’s Cup soccer match in bed (the red team won).

While I received no fortune at the shrine, I got an e-mail from Atami, a Douyoto 9th grader. His message was one we can all embrace: “2006’s ambition is ‘Don't forget progress spirit always.’” Amen, little guy. It’s going to be a good year here in Tokyo. Akemashite omedetou gozimasu to you, too.

Blind Dates

Hair neatly parted? Check. Nostrils and teeth free of debris? Check. Plentiful supply of invigorating Frisk peppermints? Check. It was time for my first goukon.

Satoshi’s friend had arranged everything. I would meet them outside of Shinjuku station, exit A13 (there are, after all, about 50). I had traded mangled text messages with Satoshi for the past two weeks, but forgot what he looked like. We only met once in passing at a party and exchanged numbers. Now we and two other guys were going to meet four girls for drinks, dinner and a possible first step towards lifelong romance.

Goukon is a Japanese-style group date involving equal numbers of guys and girls, often the type that struggle to find their own dates beyond a structured invitation from an equally desperate friend.

Maei, Maki, Mariko and Eriko were waiting in the basement-level restaurant’s private booth. I removed my shoes and climbed in. We began introductions as our drinks arrived. Aside from names, I understood and said very little. One of the guys spoke some English, but other than that I could only express common interests with Eriko by repeating hip-hop stars on her Sony mp3 player.

Maki had the looks and the piercings – 19 of them, in fact. Not all were visible. “I want to see them later,” I blurted out in Japanese. Sometimes I forget my audience is not always adolescent males. She looked older than the other girls, perhaps early 30s, but I wasn’t one to guess. I was surprised to learn that Satoshi, who looked 23, was actually 33.

He was also on his third glass of shochu (whisky and water) before I had broken apart chopsticks to sample the appetizing raw tuna slices drizzled with peanut butter and clover sauce, or that’s what it looked like.

Perhaps impairment caused Satoshi to call Maei “Maria,” who grunted at the affront. She was a piggish girl with an attitude, and scowled at him all night. She also divulged that her mother owned a restaurant in Tochigi prefecture where horsemeat was the specialty. It was apparently very cheap. I double-checked to make sure I interpreted correctly. Yes, the horsemeat came with egg and ginger sauce. I’m not sure if the eggs were on the side or in the sauce, but I was glad we weren’t eating in Tochigi.

While Japanese flew all around me, I dove into buta no kakuni ni boi, or boiled pork squares, which don’t sound much better than horsemeat, but were heavenly. With the girls nothing special, at least I had an endless supply of pre-ordered food arriving at the table.

Later in the evening a woman slid open our booth’s shoji, a paper door with wooden frame. She dropped off promotional cigarettes in green and pink packs. A nicotine-like rush came over me as I thought about owning my first pack. While I would never buy one based on principle, I’ll take anything free and targeted at me, even cancer sticks.

Satoshi, who smoked as much as he drank, had other ideas. He gave all of the pink packs to Maria, and kept the green ones for himself. He knew the American didn’t smoke, but where was his Japanese sense of obligatory hospitality?

The best part of the goukon was periodically changing places. This clever twist ensured a mixing of the group in case you initially sat next to Mariko, who had less to say than I did. Changing places also enabled me to devour the untouched plate of pork squares at the other end of the table.

Although all seven of us except Satoshi started off with beer, by the end of the evening I was one of only two such drinkers left. The others had switched to shochu or mixed concoctions. Warned about last call, Satoshi ordered an extra round. This happened twice more, with drinks coming before the previous ones were finished. Maria hoarded three full glasses, and was talking loudly across the table at Satoshi.

I was stuffed, but slid chocolate cake onto my plate. You can’t eat and drink this well for ¥6000 ($51)/person in New York.

When I returned from the restroom, I asked Satoshi where the girls had gone. I struggled to understand that they had left without saying goodbye. Satoshi wasn’t ready to call it a night, and in his thirst hailed us a cab to an Irish pub.

Students were keen to know of my Japanese experience. Perhaps next time I should listen to their suggestions. As one 9th grade girl advised, “Don’t go on a goukon. The girls are pathetic.”

Jam-Packed Road Trip

Japanese mass transit is predictable to the minute, and its workers don’t have pension issues (right, New York?). However, cattle cars are a predictably boring and hectic means of movement. I was eager to trade darkened tunnels with unpleasant odors for the freedom of an automobile with fresh air on the open road.

Shuichi, the English student of my American friend Michelle, would chauffeur with his own wheels. Would our getaway vehicle be one of the 10 I cited as having head-scratching names? The side door automatically rolled opened on the white 2003 Honda Stepwgn, which might hve mde my tp 20.

Michelle packed typical Japanese road trip fare: squid jerky, octopus bits, and sweet potato soft chew sticks. I had the foresight to bring two “international-style” CD mixes of top 40 hits. Otherwise, Michelle and I were poised to commit double suicide in the back seat as O-zone’s hit single “Ma Ya Hi” was stuck on repeat during the 45 minutes were circled around trying to find the Shuto expressway out of Tokyo.

The confusion was in spite of a GPS system onboard, an indispensable gadget for anyone daring to drive to an address in this city. While such systems in American cars display the nearest Six Flags or Burger King, Japanese GPS pinpoints soba noodle shops and ubiquitous convenience stores.

I quickly grew nostalgic for being pressed up against dark-suited strangers. Monday was a holiday, so you’d think that by Sunday morning people would have already headed for the hills. Not the case in a country where 7pm is early to leave work, even on a Saturday. I learned a new word on this trip: jutai. It means traffic, of which we faced 24 kilometers (15 miles) worth.

Not even purple Etc. toll lanes (think E-ZPass) could speed up the trip. Two mixes proved insufficient, and O-zone came back on with a vengeance. I love Romanian dancepop just as much as the next guy, but it’s best in small doses. Really, really, really small doses.

Traffic snarled again at the gateway to the Izu Peninsula, a popular getaway for its onsen, or thermal hot springs. Route 135’s one-lane roads hugging the coast were illuminated with red brake lights.

After a sumptuous feast (click right for a yummy close-up) and relaxing night on futons in a traditional ryokan inn and scenic sightseeing the next day, I anticipated a long haul back to Tokyo Monday night.

Night fell on the Shuto expressway, but all was not dark. Brake lights shined 40 kilometers (25 miles) towards Tokyo.

A Very Jewish Christmas

At Kanokita, where the kids have no appetite for learning, Mr. Mochizuki passed the buck to me to answer more interviewing-the-foreigner questions to eat up class time. “How to celebrate Christmas in your home country” was first on a handwritten ditto entitled: “Let’s Enjoy!!! Mr. Jef retraces himself.”

Mr. Jef introduced the subject with skilled drawings in colored chalk. Students recognized the ornamented Christmas tree and gift-wrapped presents beneath it. So far, so good. But confusion ensued when they identified sleigh-riding Santa as a snowman. To clarify, I sketched a chimney and fireplace, and added directional arrows showing Santa’s path from the sleigh down the chimney to deliver presents under the tree. But further explanation was needed. The fireplace mantle was not adorned with a plate of rice crackers or pizza. The glass was not filled with coffee, juice, champagne, shochu or sake.

One dark Tuesday, I regurgitated this 50-minute lesson four times in a row. My holiday spirit soured by the fourth class. I lit the fireplace logs and redrew a cross-section of the chimney with a bulge and dangling legs. Poor Santa. While Mr. Mochizuki translated, I fanned the flames, which shot up and singed Saint Nick and ignited the “Christmas socks” hanging from the mantle. Soon, tree tinsel was ablaze. Some boys were giggling. I wasn’t taking any prisoners this holiday season.

I drew a reindeer. The girls whimpered upon learning that I had eaten one (yes, a kebab in Finland). Shock turned to horror as I drove home the point by sketching Rudolph’s forehead with a bite removed. I sliced open the body to add entrails spilling out in hastily rendered chalk. The bell shook me from my trance. The boys were still giggling. The girls hung their heads. I hung mine. What had I turned into?

That the day has religious roots was news to some. A few were surprised to learn that it marks Christ’s birthday, not Santa’s. One asked, "how old?" While Christmas is secularly celebrated in Japan, I sensed an opportunity to convert young minds to the joys of a new holiday. Not just one day of presents – but eight!

“Happy Chanukah!” I wrote on the board, emphasizing the guttural “ch.” Giggling resumed. “Hadaka?” one snickered. My religion’s holiday unfortunately sounds like the Japanese word for “naked.” I handed out a printout with images of menorahs, gelt and dreidels.

“Chocolate money [gelt] is delicious!” I cried, rubbing my tummy, hoping to jumpstart the class. Okay, Plan B: break out the games. “Do you know dreidel?” Someone echoed “jello,” another “judo.” For the 7th graders, I simplified the lesson into a Christmas dreidel game, dispensing with the whole Jewish thing altogether. The capacity of 13 year-olds to absorb a foreign topic in a foreign language is quite limited.

I divided each class into five groups, and distributed a dreidel to each. Familiar with Japanese koma counterparts, they only needed about 30 seconds of practice. Advanced dreidelers spun them upside down or on their foreheads.

I quickly switched to the competition phase where one member of each group spun his or her dreidel on the floor. The last one standing earned a pencil. Everyone gathered around to watch; students instantly took a liking to the Jewish koma game.

The release from textbooks, excitement of competition and promise of prizes turned class into a festive atmosphere. After the games, we merrily sang the dreidel song until time expired. Hook, line and sinker.

A Complaint

“Hey Jeff, do you have a sec?” It was Todd, the grey-haired jovial Australian head of my teaching placement agency. We were walking from our monthly teachers’ meeting to the company Christmas party at a nearby izakaya.

Meetings are a chance to compare notes, which for me means verifying that my students are indeed the worst in the ward. “Wow, none of my schools are like that,” Jon said upon hearing selected stories. “The craziest questions I get are marriage proposals.”

“Great, let’s walk ahead,” Todd suggested. Singled out, I tensed up. This wasn’t about a Christmas bonus or teacher of the month honors (both nonexistent at the agency). Thoughts raced as to what I had done wrong at school.

Masturbation sprung to mind. As the kids test out their adolescent vocabularies, I’ve worried that Japanese teachers have detected the dirty words and blatant hand gestures students greet me with, much to my embarrassment yet subtle encouragement.

For example, while checking on progress of blackboard copying, I moseyed over to one bad boy in the back of the room. “How big?” he said, pointing to my groin. Two erasers sat on his desk. I pointed to the jumbo one and said “American.” Then I pointed to the mini eraser and said “Japanese” before turning my back on the laughter and pacing down the aisle.

A class at Nubata the week after created more of a stir. It featured school pervert Ryoki, who has previously caught me off guard. Once morning bows were exchanged, the Japanese teacher, only two years my elder, asked me to recap Thanksgiving activities in New York.

I also had taught at this school the week of my departure. Once I passed pervert & co. in the stairwell.

“When are you going to New York?” Ryoki asked.
“Friday.”
“I want a gift.”
“Okay, what?”
Pause. “Strawberry condom.”
His friends then clamored for lemon, grape, orange and Christmas (?) flavors.

Two sentences into my Thanksgiving shpiel, we made eye contact. Ryoki – sitting in the second row – flashed me the hand gesture for you know what. A snot ball flew out of my nose. Basting the turkey is one thing, but masturbation? I wheeled around to hide my laughter and use my sleeve as a tissue.

I regained direction and continued with less than perfect pronunciation while biting my tongue. “What did you eat on Thanksglivling Day?” the teacher asked in his normally mangled English.

“Pussy, pussy,” Ryoki whispered in Japanese. The teacher must have heard it, but didn’t react. Meanwhile, I was struggling to keep a straight face while listing the four kinds of pies I ate. “Oppai,” Ryoki moaned, deliberately confusing dessert with the Japanese word for breast.

The teacher quizzed comprehension about the pies’ names, and then asked if there were any questions. Ryoki’s hand shot up. He wanted to know what I had done in my house at night. In case I couldn’t take the hint, he made the gesture. I paused, falsely smiled, and said that I watched TV, which played right into his trap. “Oh, what kind of TV do you watch?” he snickered. The news. And no, not the Naked News. After class this brash boy approached me with one last question: where was his souvenir?

I digress.

“Jeff,” Todd began, “We’ve gotten an e-mail from a school saying that you’ve fallen asleep during class. Twice.” I shot him an are-you-kidding-me? look. “I know,” he continued, “I’ve been there in those over-heated rooms standing by waiting to be played as the human tape recorder.” Kenichi, the company co-head, caught up with us and flashed a nervous grin of stained black teeth.

“Honestly, Todd, I don’t know what they’re talking about.” Sleeping in class conjured up images of student heads buried face down in their arms on the desk. “I mean, I might have zoned out for 30 seconds, but I never fell asleep in class,” I added, leaving out the part about propping myself up against the back wall while fighting the weight of my eyelids. Damn gravity.

Todd’s tone was friendly; he was just checking up. Not that I’m worried if it happened. I’m confident I’ve been a good sensei and friend to the students in spite of the part-time salary and rent-an-English-teacher treatment I get from my Japanese counterparts.

On the other hand, who bothered reporting such a thing? Students get away with it all the time here. I narrowed suspicion down to two schools, and chose Ms. Shomatsu at Omiyada as the tattletale. Beneath superficial kindness lurks a history of her sweating the small stuff.

At the beginning of one such class, students nervously got her attention. This was unusual because they rarely break the mold and initiate dialogue with the teacher. But today they had something to show her. Something urgent. She walked over to where they were pointing at the floor and scowled in Japanese. My first thought was a mouse.

No, she returned to the front of the room holding a mini straw at the end of which was a hardened piece of chewing gum covered in dust. Back in the teachers’ room, she showed off the catch of the day as if it were a drug syringe. Somewhere, a report was written. Perhaps another e-mail.

I’m not here to make pals with the teachers. So long as the students are on my side, I’m happy. And if I did nod off, it goes to show just how boring teachers’ lessons really are.

The Joys of Englisex

You know students are getting comfortable with you when they begin asking questions beyond the realm of grammar or “life in America.” Lately, hormones are at high tide in the 8th grade hallway of Nubata Junior High.

A wide-eyed boy ran over to me with two uniformed friends in tow. “Ohh Jefferee! Oh, ahh…do you know a masturbation?” I didn’t raise an eyebrow. I’ve now been asked this question more times than if I like natto.

It all started weeks ago. After lunch with the 9th graders, I followed some boys (see photo) onto the breezeway that connects the school to the gym. This is where the cool kids congregate to avoid post-lunch cleaning chores and kill time before fifth period. They just sit around, occasionally putting a shorter kid in a headlock.

A punky looking boy first popped the $25,000 question among middle schoolers. Immediately, all eyes were on sensei. How exactly was I supposed to respond? The line between mentor, friend and pervert is a slippery slope when you’re teaching minors. My response would set the tone for future interactions, and I didn’t want to open the flood gates of impropriety. So, how to respond without responding? Two years of legal assistant work had prepared me well for such a challenge.

“Shiko-shiko?” I smiled. I simply translated “masturbation” into the vernacular. The boys fell over laughing. They couldn’t believe I had mastered the finer points of their language. “Yes, yes…can you do?” one asked. “Everyday?!” another piped up. “Sen-zuri manichi?” I fired back (literally, 1,000 rubs everyday?). Hysterics ensued. One boy demonstrated the international gesture with a jerk of his fist.

Unfortunately, addressing the subject in any form was grounds for further questioning — “Can you have sex?” “Is American wiener large?” “How big, how big?”

Also unfortunate was that three 9th grade girls had been drawn to the doorway by the noise. One girl wearing an eye patch and a toothy grin innocently imitated the gesture. “Oh, no, no no!” I said rushing over. Enjoying the attention, she pumped more vigorously while my mind raced for Japanese words to string together to convince her to stop.

Her friend – privy to its significance – shook her head, but left me to do damage control. Students were finishing up their cleaning. Another teacher might show up. I grabbed a broom and pumped it while sweeping the floor. “See, it’s a way to clean,” I said blushing with desperation. “Now cleaning time is over, so stop it.”

Although the 9th graders were the first to mention it, the 8th graders are the most inquisitive. A gang cornered me (see photo and hand placement of pervert on the right) in the hallway and tested out the English they didn’t learn in school. Behind their cherubic grins, Nubata School boys have dirty, curious little minds.

“Do you have any sex friends?…When do you watch adult video?…Sex machine!…Black penis man!…Do you have Christmas sex?…Christmas condom!” I swatted away the questions, but began to crack with laughter. A pimply-faced kid with a chipped tooth said, “My mom has a big penis!” I cracked. “Too young, too young!” I protested.

Another began, “Your mom….” I clenched a fist above his head in anticipation, but didn’t understand a word, and neither did the other boys crowding around me. The questioner scattered to the back of the group in embarrassment.

Another boy stepped up to face me. “Do you girl virgin, girl no virgin?” I lunged for his collar, but he ducked. A different one popped up like in that arcade game where you bop rodents with a padded mallet. He pointed to the one who had just disappeared: “He hair has just now.”

“ENOUGH!” I roared, fighting my way out of the crowd that continued tagging along at my hip.

They’re a tough bunch to shake. One day a group of 8th graders were leaving school just as I was. It didn’t take long for the topic to come up. Their smiling faces were brimming with questions. I let them entertain me while refraining from becoming the uncomfortable educator.

I seek refuge from oversexed middle school minds on the fourth floor. The 7th graders don’t know enough English to verbalize adolescent sentiments. Or so I thought. The normally mild-mannered Subaru (the boy, not the car) approached me with one thing on his mind: “Ehh, do…ehh…you know ahh masturbation?” Send help. Word is spreading.

Mr. Nishono

Familiar shuffling approached my desk in Omiyada School’s teachers' room. I didn’t look up from my book. I knew what I’d see. Mussed salt-and-pepper hair crowning a man with a wrinkled work shirt two sizes too big for his wiry frame. Stringy hair failing to conceal the bald spot creeping forward. Bifocals sliding off the end of a freckled nose. If after lunch, forgotten crumbs clinging to the corners of his mouth. It was time for class with Mr. Nishono.

A fellow English teacher didn’t even know his given name when introducing me on my first day. The students don’t either; they call him hage (bald) behind his back. The hair that remains reminds me of a frayed steel wool pad.

I’m handed a “teaching plan.” It reads, “This class is full of underachievers.” However, Mr. Nishono adds that they are not all “in bad condition” like the class he once abruptly cancelled my services because of their misbehavior the day before. He always does his best to shield me: “First, you wait here while I prepare the lesson.” I read for 10 more minutes while he attempts to subdue the eighth graders.

No such luck. Once permitted to enter the room, I’m instructed to make “daily conversation to each student.” I ask them basic questions like the date, weather or favorite color. These warm-up exercises prove too complex for some.

First up is a boy with a grating voice whom I try to avoid. When we pass in the corridor, he yelps monkey noises loud enough to disturb teachers down the hall. In response to “Hello, how are you?” he recited a list of fruit juices. His writing is no better. I pointed out that his a’s look like u’s. “Yes very much fine thank you!” he boomed.

The rest of Mr. Nishono’s lesson plan leaves less margin for student creativity:
“You Read (P 32) when I ask you to (students listen).
You Read new words when I ask you to (students repeat).
You Read (P. 32) when I ask you to (students listen).
You Read (P32) – students repeat (Phrase by Phrase).
I teach.
(Ending reading)
You read (P 32)”.
I leave class knowing P 32 by heart.

Another week’s teaching plan is also prefaced with a warning: “They are very mischievous class.” I couldn’t wait. The textbook pictured an overweight, unmistakably American lacrosse high school player. Not being a lacrosse sportsman myself, Mr. Nishono decided that I should “please relax” on the sidelines.

I observed the girls paying some attention, but the boys didn’t even have their books open, except for one – a Japanese novel. Behind him a kid fiddled with rounded magnets to form a snake that slithered across his desk with polar attraction.

Others were fashioning fighting sticks out of rolled paper featuring a girl with an anti-drug message. They passed around tape and scissors, with one crafting a ball out of tape. I sat at an empty desk in the back jotting everything down.

Then suddenly sensei stepped out for a few minutes. I assumed control, and plucked a sword off a student’s desk. I turned from the protesting boy to face the student patching together the tape ball. “Batter up!” I cried, managing several swings before Mr. Nishono returned with dittos he had forgotten.

Recently, absent-minded Nishono embraced the holiday cheer with a class sing-a-long to “Wish You A Merry Christmas.” Heavily accented British children caroled on CD. The words completely stumped the Japanese children, whose vocabularies didn’t include “good tidings to you and your kin.” Figgy pudding stumped me. Mr. Nishono blindly hummed along, and pushed repeat to extend everyone’s confusion.

By the fourth go-around, a girl cranked up the volume and positioned her ears next to the stereo. I gasped as one boy jabbed a blunt box cutter blade into another’s uniform. On autopilot, Mr. Nishono just kept humming, his bifocals glued to a page of lyrics he couldn’t articulate. I moved away from the blasting Christmas music to spy on a boy drawing. It was a cartoon caricature of me.

I Don’t Know What You Did Last Summer

Last year an unfounded rumor that Douyoto school was going to close spooked off parents who can send their junior high school aged children to any school in the district. As a result, half the usual number of seventh graders matriculated. Although the student body of 280 is the smallest of my four schools, it felt overwhelming when faced with correcting their English compositions about “My Summer Vacation.”

This was the first writing I’ve seen students do beyond copying down the board. The result was amusing on first read, but painful thereafter to correct. Sometimes the Japanese English teacher couldn't figure out what the students were trying to say in the accompanying Japanese. Here’s the best of the worst:

I was Yoyogi Park Festival play the drum.
Many people was Festival come.
I was rest yakisoba eat.
Last all play.
Play the rice eat.
Come back was confectionary.
I can tense a well good fine.
-----------------------------------
I was going to look the Festival
My friend a strike drum a festival
My friend a drum strike figure very fashionable.
After that going a stand food buy a lot of things.
I have very good time.
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I was went to Hakone in July.
I was arrived at Hakone noon.
I was lurch at the lesterant.
After that going Hakone Sekisho.
After that a music box museum
I was a very have a good time.
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I went to Aichi Expo on our school trip. The most impressive pavillion was Mitsubishi Future Pavillion.
It was a place, the earth without a moon. The place I can’t imagine, all day long was eight times end even hard wind blow even not forest’s and oxygen almost pass away, even human being wasn’t born. So the moon is very important.
-----------------------------------
I wasn’t able to go to the famous pavilions. Because Aichi Expo was filled with people. There wasn’t more interesting than I imagined. It was very interesting for me to play with my friends whole night. Hiroki, Tatsunari and Sachioweje my room. We knew whole night isn’t allow but we did it. We drank coffee, watched TV, talked about each other’s secret and made a noise. This trip made me happy, and it made my precious memories too.

’Tis the Season

for warm butts. On the way to work, I snagged a seat when the doors opened at Kinshicho station’s outdoor platform. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. And then one stop later, I noticed a pleasant sensation. My buns were roasting. The carriage’s air wasn’t noticeably heated, but the padded seats sure were.

But they weren’t yesterday, and I sat on the same train, in the same car. Outside highs remained mild – 50s and low 60s F. What had changed? The calendar. Now that it’s December and officially winter, heating is switched on in trains and in classrooms. School hallways and bathrooms, however, remain out of bounds, and freezing. The open windows don’t help either.

Outside temperature is irrelevant. The calendar guides dress code and indoor climate control. According to the government, summer starts on June 1. In order to reduce greenhouse gas emissions, the “Cool Biz” initiative mandated that office air conditioning not be turned below 28 C (82 F), and suggested that suit jackets and ties be left at home. Summer ends September 30, and in October “Warm Biz” kicks in. Heaters are not to be cranked above 20 C (68 F).

Once the October page is torn off, Burberry-inspired scarves come out in force, coiled around the necks of schoolgirls despite it not being cold enough for a jacket (or pants – as the girls continue to trot around with exposed shins in their all-season skirts). Although an accessory, scarves have become an all but mandatory part of the fashionable winter work uniform for schoolchildren and many adults.

Inside the train, warmth radiated from my seat. I felt like cuddling with the two OLs (office ladies) flanking me, locking my arm underneath their elbow, nodding off on a shoulder, and riding the rails out to Chiba prefecture.

Rumors Were True

I was wrong. The kids were right (see previous blog). I was on TV Sunday night. My face was plastered on primetime, beamed into millions of tiny Japanese homes, including the bedrooms of middle schoolers mesmerized that their sensei doubled as a TV star.

A strange phone call from Kai at Jupiter modeling agency caused me to reverse my conviction that the kids had mistaken my identity. “Jeff-san, I need to get your bank information so that we can pay you ¥3000 in January.”

Caught so off guard, I almost played along. “Umm…actually, you don’t owe me anything. I never did a job for you.” I think I should know. I mean, how could I possibly have appeared on TV in absentia?

Apparently quite easily. All the network needed was a headshot that the agency snapped when I registered in August. Because there is no actors’ guild or modeling union, my likeness can be exploited like a cheap commodity. You play by industry rules, and this network required confidentiality as to which faces had been selected until after airing.

Kai explained that I appeared on TV Asahi’s popular quiz show “iQ.” Japanese contestants are challenged in a game of memory featuring pictures of foreigners. “For Japanese, cannot recognize foreigners – they look the same. Your face came after a German.”

I won’t have to imagine the pained expressions and wild gesticulations of Japanese contestants stumped when faced to recall foreigners. I hope to obtain a complimentary DVD copy of the program. However, part of me feels like a pawn used – without my knowledge or consent – as a means to an end: to boost ratings through humiliation of outsiders. On the other hand, that’s the most effortless $25 I’ll ever pocket.

Evolution

Progress has been slow and all too painful. But seven months into my Japan adventures, I’ve finally found adequate back support for the hours I spend sitting on the computer. From a backbreaking wooden stool to its thinly padded Valentine’s Day kitschy cousin, meet the end-all, be-all: a plush yet robust wooden chair purchased from Muji.

Seat cushions have evolved, too. The latest and comfiest also hails from Muji, and fits squarely on the newest furnishing gracing my 140 square foot palace. This form-fitting foam padding and sturdy lumber chair hopefully spell an end to lumbar agony during lengthy blogging and e-mailing sessions. Now, if I could only do something about those curtains….

In unrelated news, my return to Tokyo after an enjoyable respite in New York was marred by an unusual bomb scare not far from where I work. I first found out about it from Yahoo! news headlines. Don’t miss the other latest national “news” links following the article.

And finally, I need to put an end to some speculation. No, I was not on TV Asahi’s quiz show Sunday night. I let down about a dozen excited Omiyada students today, including one who was “100% sure” that it was I. Perhaps the imposter is the one siphoning my lucrative modeling audition calls. I am placing a ¥1000 ($8.50) bounty for any information leading to his whereabouts.