Sushi Place

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

It’s My Party, and I Can Order Chicken If I Want To

Running a fashionable 20 minutes late to my own party only added to the confusion since some of the dozen people waiting under Shinjuku’s huge Studio Alta screen didn’t know one another.

I picked through the crowd of 100 others waiting in the same spot to round up the group, and led the charge to Kaikyo, a cheap izakaya (Japanese-style pub restaurant) I had scouted out. I saw the outing less as a birthday party and more of an excuse to jilt my usual Saturday night date with the washing machine.

I worried about the dinner reservation because we only had the table for two hours, and were now running half an hour late.

“We can’t go yet!” Lawrence called out. “Delphine’s not here.” Pretty name, but who’s Delphine? I wondered. The eclectic group included Lawrence of France, his Fumi, his friends Delphine and Koya, the Napoli girls (of Naples, Italy), a teacher who quit my company, his Japanese friend Ken, my friend Maki, and Takafin, the T.G.I. Friday’s waiter I befriended last month.

I chose Kaikyo because it was an alternative to traditional izakaya fare with Western influences that I craved. Like rock music, big portions and popcorn otoshi (obligatory table snacks, usually pickled things in neon colors). Oh, and fried chicken. Actually, the biggest portion of fried chicken this side of the Mississippi. The Colonel’s got nothing on Kaikyo. Maki’s eyes rolled out of her head and onto the floor. She got full just looking at the platter.

“We’ll need two more orders of this,” I asked Fumi to tell the waitress. “And a forklift.” The Napoli girls, forever lamenting the sorry state of pizza in Japan, exclaimed, “This place is just like America – fried chicken all over the place!”

I sided with Takafin’s take: “let’s fuckin’ eat!” Takafin enjoyed eating and drinking as much as he enjoyed lacing profanity into his English with grammatical predictability. His construction of choice was: let’s + fuckin’ + verb (limited to eat or drink).

And eat we did. Communal bowls of Kim chi tofu, spinach salad sprinkled with baby sardines, radish the consistency of steak (or, “radish steak”) and baked curry bread smothered with melted cheese — not for the calorie phobic. If this doesn’t sound like your ideal birthday menu, then you clearly haven’t spent enough time in Japan. The concoctions grow on you. Of course, my priority was the fried chicken, which, depending on the batch, could have used a dunk in soy sauce or spicy Japanese mustard.

A few pitchers of beer helped wash down the juicy pork and egg dish, but nobody got silly. We saved that for karaoke. But first, a few thoughtful gifts – a bouquet from Maki, potted plants in proportion to my apartment from Fumi, and a personalized
daruma signed by the group. I looked up to smile. It was a Fuji Film moment. But then I stopped.

Gregory? Was that really he, the freaky Greek? Who the hell invited him?

Two friends of friends of friends joined the karaoke train rolling out of the restaurant and through the alleys of Kabukicho, once the seat of traditional kabuki theater and now the underbelly of Tokyo’s red light district of sleaze and sex and the gangsters who profit from it. Sort of like Times Square in the 80s, but without the garbage, graffiti and drugs.

“I know just the place,” I assured the group. Of course, all karaoke parlors are the same, but I felt loyal to one after researching it for my 24-Hour Tokyo article.

Gregory the photographer asked me how I had been, and if I had gotten any jobs. I was surprised he remembered. “There’s this Greek guy who has the same clean cut look as you,” he said. “He’s doing really well. Gets lots of jobs for suit shootings.”

We had met when I was considering getting a book of portraits photographed to show off at auditions to launch my now fizzling modeling career (okay, flat-line). Gregory was known to have the best price in town. But $200 was still too much of an investment at the time.

He offered a discount when we met at his studio one hot July afternoon. I had nearly blocked the encounter out of my mind. When I got home, I banged on my keyboard for an hour, saved the document, and haven’t opened it since. That is, not until tomorrow….

The Toilet Paper Incident

At Omiyada, there was much ado about one-ply. A mound of unraveled, slightly damp rolls sat on the vice principal’s desk. Had the school lunch of miso soup and mystery fish of the day on rice given him the runs?

Teachers were filing into the room after fifth period. Having survived my final class of 7th graders for the day, I intended to jet off to a job interview; however, before I could zip my bag, talk about toilet paper began.

All eyes were on the principal’s long face and folded arms. Murmurs of agreement rippled through the teachers’ room. Something had to be done, and fast. Iran couldn’t be allowed to enrich uranium. It would destabilize the whole region. Or that’s what you’d think they were deliberating with such somberness.

I understood the following words: toilet paper, window, from the fourth floor and outside. Coupled with Exhibit A, I got the picture. After I left, a school-wide assembly was convened to ferret out the perpetrators. Remember, this was the school where Ms. Shomatsu reacted to a piece of chewing gum on the floor as if she had found a spent fuel rod.

Justice was swift. The following day was my final one at Omiyada, and the morning meeting was the most exciting of all. I was expected to give a brief farewell speech, but three girls stole my thunder. Eyes fixed on the floor, they were paraded in to face the humiliation of the entire teaching staff, including the foreigner sitting front and center.

The usual suspects. These girls were the very same 7th grade terrors that Mr. Nishono had warned me about. From their fiefdom of picture albums and colored markers in the back of the room, class time had nothing to do with learning.

Each girl took the floor to announce her name, grade, class and heartfelt apology. The first could barely choke back tears. She was the one who had taunted Mr. “Mista” Nishono when he tried to yank her out of class. She was singing a different tune now. Her young face shriveled in fear from the hardened stares of every teacher. She apologized with deferential language, and bowed deeply before sulking away with a guilty conscience.

The few times I interrupted the second girl from her creative pursuits to ask a question, she responded in passable beginner’s English. She had potential as a student, but bellied up to bad influence by angling her desk to be within arm’s reach of photos and markers. Glasses and short hair added innocence to her now pained expression. She had to be the one just going along with the plan in the heat of the moment, never expecting it to come down to this.

The last delinquent was the ringleader. She was tall for her age, and her few freckles spoke to me that she masterminded the whole operation. But where, oh where, did she find so much toilet paper? She didn’t have much to say. In Japan, silence is not uncomfortable. It’s reflective. She muttered an apology, and stood there until a teacher showed her the door. I knew she’d be back hell-raising within a week.

This show of force and remorse provided a segue into my farewell speech, which I nervously delivered in Japanese and have translated as follows:
Today is last. That’s disappointing. I had fun. Omiyada students are lively, aren’t they? Seventh graders are cute, but sometimes I have headache [pause for laughter]. Good luck! Thank you and farewell.

Today was last indeed. That translated into clearing pencil inventory from my desk drawer. I slapped them into the hands of boys with whom I often discussed baseball over lunch. I collected love letters from two 8th grade girls, and gave pink pencils in return.

One went to a boy for reading a passage out loud. Touched by the gift, he reciprocated by unfastening a samurai pin from his pencil case. The Japanese character stands for “sincerity” and “faithfulness.”

The lesson halted, and everyone was studying the slightly emotional exchange. His outstretched hand was shaking from being in the spotlight. I graciously accepted, and instinctively fastened it onto my sweater—over my heart for maximum effect.

Swapping pencil for pin was more than tit-for-tat. Although we met only briefly and could barely understand each other, these mementos will persist. They symbolize different cultures that intermingled inside a classroom on the outskirts of Tokyo. Cultures that will continue to influence our very different lives in very different ways.

My last conversation with Omiyada students was in the unheated hallway outside of the teachers’ room. Several girls shivering in gym shorts were waiting with a rack of volleyballs for the “short, fat woman” gym teacher.

“You look like Tom Cruise,” one said. I rewarded her praise with my last New York State pencil.

I then turned to find a different girl looking at me. I had never warmed up to her suspicious stares, so I hoped the last flag eraser would make things right. Her beady eyes burned a hole in my head. “Do you know Russell Crowe? From Gladiator.”

I relaxed and smiled, waiting to soak up another handsome look-a-like compliment.

“You don’t look anything like him,” she said, adding, “Tom Cruise is sooo cool. You are just a little cool.”

“Gee, thanks. Can I get my eraser back?” As I reached, she relented.

“Okay, you are half as cool as Tom Cruise.”

Deal. Have a good life, now!

I was lost in thought walking past my favorite power line to the train station for the last time. It felt different. Kanchos aside, I had never expected kids at this slightly naughty school to touch me, but beneath my samurai pin beat an aching heart. It really did hurt. It was indigestion from lunch’s sickeningly sweet fried tofu.

Growing Up

Okay folks, time for some Tokyo Tanenhaus trivia. All of the following happened on my birthday last week EXCEPT:

(a) Played three different versions of 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” at stroke of midnight.
(b) Got kancho-ed at Kanokita School.
(c) Had business cards printed in both English and Japanese.
(d) Bought 30 GB video iPod (black).
(e) Ate at T.G.I.Friday’s alone; begged waiter not to sing.
(f) Passed up celebratory drink offer to tutor privately as scheduled.

Post your guesses now. Don’t be shy. Answer to be revealed soon. All lucky winners to receive a free TT online subscription and limited edition t-shirt! Just kidding about the shirt.

Mista Nishono Part III

Part I here. Part II here.

If Mr. Nishono were a Hasbro toy, he’d be Mr. Potato Head. None of his facial features are quite in alignment, and he’s also “silly talkin’.”

At first I dreaded team-teaching with him, but now I can hardly wait. It’s just so damn easy and amusing. Lesson planning occurs on the walk to class. This after a 10-minute delay where I am instructed to remain in the teacher’s room while he “prepares the lesson.”

While I wait, I comment on the day’s news to the vice principal, who is thumbing through the paper for the second time that morning. I’m not sure what else he does. I can’t read the headlines anyway, but sitting from my desk I can see the lead photograph, which is enough to get simple conversation going. Tragedy in London. Big problem for Livedoor. Angry Arabs.

Once summoned for duty, I’m briefed with an assessment of the class’ behavior, which is usually as piss poor as their English ability. Mr. Nishono wasn’t kidding about one 8th grade section being “the lowest class.” They struggled to respond to “what day is today?” and “how are you?” So I smile with encouragement, pronounce a few new words and spend the rest of class taking real-time notes of unfolding drama.

The 7th graders keep my pen busy. This is the only school where the youngest are the most problematic. Even the 13-year-old devils at Kanokita aren’t this recalcitrant. Here at Omiyada School, each 7th grade class is further split into two sections. The attempt to divide and conquer has only backfired and multiplied the problem. Sort of like trying to quash insurgency in Iraq.

“All teachers get nervous and shout at this class,” he cautioned me upon entering. I immediately recognized them from yesterday’s lesson when their terror level was downgraded because “the worst girl is absent.”

No such luck today.

“Hey mista, mista!!!” she screamed at Mista (Mister) Nishono as we walked through the door – quite literally. The sliding door was torn off its track, and propped up against the back wall. “Mista, I’m hungry,” she demanded. It’s two periods before lunch.

“What smell taste,” Mista muttered, resting his basket on the desk. He totes a collection of teaching materials like a homeless man’s shopping cart of recycled possessions. Teaching aids of the day were dog-eared cards of cartoon animals probably sketched by 7th graders in 1988.

Binder clips and duct tape held the plastic beach basket together. Mr. Nishono reached in for a chalk case, which wasn’t originally designed as such. “Blunt” was stenciled over a cannabis leaf on the metal cover. I’m sure it wouldn’t have taken long to find a student with a lighter.

“Let’s sing song corner,” he announced to the stereo wires he was unraveling. Mista loves to sing. If done properly, songs are valuable teaching tools. Today’s selection was “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree,” which sounded like a folksy Vietnam-era tune, more recently covered by teen pop divas S Club 7 (anyone have this mp3?).

I hadn’t heard of it, even though it’s an American song and, yes, I am American. Mr. Nishono’s reaction led me to believe that I’m expected to know my nation’s entire discography (can someone please send me the S Club 7 version?).

It didn’t matter because the students, if they were conscious, yawned their way through the song. Mista hummed along. I hugged the window like a lizard trying to absorb sunlight. Hallways aren’t heated, and the missing door was turning my fingernails purple. Toes tingled with a numbness that I haven’t felt since after a full day on the slopes.

The lack of a door was also a problem for the chipmunk-looking science teacher in the adjacent class who appeared at the opening to flash a volume-reducing gesture.

The hungry girl continued to stir the pot. Mr. Nishono had enough of her insolence, and yelled at her to follow him out the door. She wouldn’t budge. Finally, she walked half way, but turned back toward her giggling friends. She wouldn’t get off scot free. Later in the day I spotted her and two boys lined up in the hallway being scolded by two teachers. It takes a village to control Omiyada 7th graders.

It was then time for the guess animal game where I “please become a certain animal and students guess.” Monkey and frog went fine, but spider deteriorated into arm wrestling a boy with shaved eyebrows in the last row.

He tricked me into using my weaker left arm while he added to his advantage by pulling down with his torso to force my biceps to surrender, but not before the already loose desktop became fully unhinged. I don’t go down without a fight. I could only shoot him dirty looks while he gloated over his cheated victory over sensei.

While the bell was ringing, Mista ran out the door. “That was fast,” I said to the student sitting by the empty frame whose cartoons proved a good source of entertainment for us both during the 50-minute “lesson.”

“Baka,” he said. “Hage,” he added. Students have several monikers for Mista. “Stupid” and “bald” are the most popular. I laughed in agreement on both counts.

Humbled and Hobbled

…continued from last post.

“Daijoubu desuka?” an opponent asked from above.

No, I wasn’t. I was on the floor, where – adding insult to injury – I had watched the ball roll off the rim. I don’t remember if someone tipped it in. The game was over, and I was finished – for a few weeks. Not wanting to draw attention, I quickly dragged myself to the sidelines to change clothes.

The pain was so fresh that I could walk through it before the nerves came to their senses. I unlaced my And1 basketball high tops, and peeled off sweaty socks. A fleshy bulb had replaced my left ankle. It looked like elephantiasis. A recent visit to the world’s only parasite museum (left) was still on my mind.

“See you next week!” Takahiro, 23, called on his way out. Yeah, right.

Everyone was heading home. I panicked. What about me? Cabs aren’t an option if unable to articulate a route (addresses alone are useless in Japan). How to obtain food if unable to walk? I can’t point at a Domino’s picture menu from over the phone. Who could help? Certainly not a doctor. I don’t have insurance here.

Biting my scarf, I faked a thumbs up to the junior high crowd murmuring in the corner about the walking wounded. Downstairs (god bless elevators), the sports center receptionist rose halfway out of her chair.

She knows it’s Friday night whenever I walk in to buy a ticket. We always exchange evening pleasantries. Her mouth parted for the usual thank you-good night, but then her eyes bulged. Lips painted red searched for words. She inhaled through her teeth. I lied again with my hands. Such a pretty face. I’ll miss seeing it for a while.

I scratched together an idea for a home remedy: tape two Coolish ice cream bags around my ankle and pray. I mean, just where was I going to get ice? Sapporo? (Look at who came in fifth!).

Forget Sapporo, even the supermarket was too far away. Instead, I shuffled into 7-11, and hobbled over to the cooler. No Coolish, but there on the bottom shelf were bags of “rock-ice for people who know the difference.” I knew. The difference was having an ice pack instead of ice cream bags to reduce swelling. Oh, thank heaven.

With morning came judgment day. The bulb had shrunk. No sign of bruising either (that wasn’t till the third day). Yet, on my way to tutor elementary school girls, a 15-minute stroll to the station became a 30-minute physical challenge.

In a perverse way, I enjoyed the humbling sensation of not taking walking for granted. Overnight I had aged 50 years. I had the gait of the local hunchbacks pushing carts of groceries whom I ordinarily zoom by when dashing to the station. Not being able to walk puts the rest of your problems in perspective.

However, I also felt like even more of an outcast. I get enough unwanted looks on the street on normal days. Now I kept a lowered head to avoid eye contact altogether. A mix of pity, curiosity and fear stared back when I looked up at intersections.

I’m not used to slowing down for the flashing green man when about to cross. I navigated the elevated walkway over the highway with right hand on the railing and left foot in the air, hopping stairs with my right foot like a Double Dare physical challenge (minus the super sloppy slime).

So young, but so crippled must have been running through the minds of passersby. Mothers steered children away from my path as I teetered along the edge of the sidewalk like a wounded animal on its last legs, clutching walls, poles and railings for support.

As usual, weekend plans included only a date with the washing machine. The ice pack accompanied me throughout the evening. I tucked myself into bed, and it into the freezer. Thank you, rock-ice. You’ll always be on hand when my foot needs you, which hopefully is never again.

The Hoop and the Harm

From playing basketball with handicapped kids to becoming one myself, my ankle took an unfortunate twist last Friday. All week I look forward to shooting hoops with locals ages 13 and up.

The Japanese are sharp shooters, but lousy defenders. When scrimmaging they seek to shoot as much as possible from as far away as possible. Yamazaki, 21, has a 3-point shot matched in meanness only by his skin disease. His preferred firing range is from between the 3-point line and half court. Swish.

The only times I touch the ball on offense are by accident or offensive rebound. I quickly pass for fear of blowing another lay up. Like the rest of Japan, rims at the ward sports center take exception to foreigners. As the lone alien on the court, I’m easy to spot.

I contribute solely on the defensive end. I patrol the oversized international key while four teammates wait to fast break back down court. There’s no set offense – just fast breaking and 3-pointer launching. Sometimes they just stay on offense. Taking cigarette breaks in between games hasn’t increased their stamina to hustle back on defense.

By 8:30 p.m. I’m ready for a break, too. I sub out 15 minutes early to take advantage of nebiki, discount food shopping, at Chiyoda Sushi. Prices are slashed up to 50% to clear the day’s inventory.

Besides, you know what they say about taking that one last run on the ski slopes. I don’t want to tempt fate in that final game for fear of injuring, well, someone else. I’m known to foul hard, going for ball or head – whichever is closer – in hopes of recording a thunderous block. Swatting the ball out of bounds with authority has caused badminton players on the opposite side of the gym to take notice.

Last Friday, however, I skipped nebiki. Goseki, 21, and always sporting New Jersey Nets gear, was telling me about his upcoming trip to NY with Yamazaki to see the Nets face the Knicks at Madison Square Garden. I frowned. He smiled and said, “Do you feel homesick?”

With about one minute left, somehow I got the ball on the perimeter. Feeling frisky, I surprised everyone by hoisting a shot. My outside touch has improved, but this attempt smacked the side of the rim with a thud. Frustration mounted at not adding to 4 points the whole night (on six shots).

Similar to Japanese shops, “closing time” music filled the gym. Fourteen all. Last play. Offense. Goseki missed a 3. I rebounded. I was too far under the basket to put it back up. I didn’t pass. Not this time. I dribbled outside, then back into the key. Three defenders converged. Pivot, fake, spin. I saw an opening, and sliced between two defenders. Jump! Airborne, I flicked the ball. Light touch. Looks good! Bouncing around on the rim. Front. Back. Bouncing…oooww –

Pain shot through my leg. I’m down. And couldn’t get up.
Did the shot fall like the shooter? Find out tomorrow.

Trouble Kids

Every week at Omiyada, I am invited to spend a period with “trouble kids.” At first I hesitated. I get enough trouble at Kanokita. But when told that the “handicapped class” was looking forward to my visit, I put two and two together and quickly accepted.

Having the sole classroom on the ground floor, the boys inside inhabit a world separate from those upstairs. For one thing, it’s better furnished than my apartment: 3 laptops, 2 PCs, 2 printers, xerox machine, TV, stereo, grand piano, keyboard with mic, potted plants, humidifier, hot water machine and fridge. Not bad for a public school.

The student to teacher ratio is 1:1 – there are two of each. Omiyada offers an enriching program that dotes upon each individual. Sign me up. By contrast, about 15 special ed. students at Nubata School feel even more special by dressing not in the standard navy uniform, but in a red sweat suit to flag their status. The official reason, I’m told, is that red is easier to spot in case one goes missing. Right.

The first lesson at Omiyada was self-introduction. One boy followed up with more thoughtful questions about the U.S. and Katrina than the “normal” students upstairs.

A teacher of traditional performing arts joined our second class. The taiko master led a jam session on a drum that required two people to move while the boys banged away on two smaller ones. They sounded just as good as the performers at festivals, but here I got a private show.

I resisted taking a hit. Haven’t students laughed at me enough? But drumsticks were deposited into my hands anyway. Spreading legs in the “orthodox” taiko pose, I channeled frustrations into hammering the “lady cow skin” covering the drums.

“Soré!” I screamed, raising my arms and then crashing them down with all my might. I aimed to pierce the drum. Hitting something this hard felt good. In what could be a first step toward group therapy, I answered a classified “calling all taiko drummers.”

Fun and games continued the third week with shogi, Japanese chess. I learned the rules while suffering a defeat at the hands of the more mentally disabled of the two boys. I avenged the loss with a narrow victory over his classmate before both teachers trounced me.

Luckily, I had prior experience with the fourth lesson. The assignment was to create machajawan (tea bowls) to eventually have a tea ceremony. Clay caked under my fingernails and hardened on my palms, sucking moisture out of my cracking hands. I flashed back to a high school ceramics independent study. I may have lost in shogi, but my bowl was unbeatable.

It had been fired in time for the fifth lesson, devoted to sandpapering. Sanding helps smooth imperfections hardened in the firing process; however, unless you’re keen for silicosis, two years as an asbestos paralegal taught me not to grind brake pads, cut pipe covering or sand fired clay. But then again, in Japan asbestos was banned only recently. I dunked my bowl into a tub of black glaze that stained my fingertips.

Drinking from the fruits of our labor, I enjoyed piping hot green tea with sweets at a Japanese tea ceremony during our sixth class. Cheers to respiratory illness and lead poisoning.

Cultural pleasantries dissipated and competition resurfaced during our final meeting. It’s been a while since I’ve run laps in a gymnasium, but I welcomed any movement inside the unheated gym. After some interesting stretches, including one that mimicked fish out of water, we took the court for basketball shooting drills. Despite the ice-cold touch (my fingernails were purple), I swished a few.

With 10 minutes left in the period, a teacher suggested that we five play a match. Expecting 3-on-2, I was stunned to be singled out for 1-on-4: America vs. Japan. Unlike Kobe Bryant, I’m not used to being quadruple-teamed and not passing to anyone, yet also having everyone to defend.

This time, coach, there was an “I” in team. I jumped out to a 2-0 lead. I didn’t bother playing defense except to collect rebounds, whereupon I sprinted down court. Japan huffed to keep pace. “Hands up!” a teacher cried as Japan swarmed to form a wall of arms jumping for the sky. The humor proved distracting.

Tied at 4 with the bell about to ring, national honor was on the line. I sensed it. The teachers sensed it. The kids might have sensed it, but were just getting in the way and missing shots. A driving lay up at the buzzer put Team America on top for good.

Victory was short-lived. Gym was over. Trouble was about to begin. It was time for class with Mr. Nishono.

Red Day

“Jefu, stop!” commanded an 8th grade girl. I obeyed out of surprise. I had exactly 35 seconds to get to my seat in the teacher’s room before the bell sounded the morning meeting. She took precious moments to dig out a small bag of sweets from a shopping bag.

How could I forget? It was Valentine’s Day. Another girl scouting out boys from the stairwell presented me with a bag of mini-brownie squares. This being Japan, the packages were sized proportionately—three bite-sized sweets in each. 12 seconds. I could have amassed a month’s worth of dessert samples had I hung around for their friends to also open their hearts to sensei.

Valentine’s Day in Japan is a spin-off of the Western tradition. Cards aren’t exchanged, but it’s almost obligatory for schoolgirls and OLs (office ladies) to dispense sweets to their male counterparts, regardless of affection. That’s how I scored premium Kobe truffles from a math teacher, and a box of six chocolates from a private student.

Men sit back and let the loot roll in. Until March 14, that is. In a savvy ploy by confectioners (think of the Simpson’s episode where Hallmark devised a new summer card-giving holiday), on White Day men must return the flavor with white chocolates symbolizing pure feelings (or so I read in a book). A month is plenty of lead time to make good on IOUs. Luckily I’m not working then, so for me the flow is one-way. Delicious.

Or disgusting. That’s how one girl introduced her offering in bag festooned with four leaf clovers. Only in Japan…or Ireland.

In another moment of puppy dog love, on Friday I received two love letters. It was my last day at Omiyada School, which proved too much for two 8th grade girls to bear. To be sure, I think they were just appreciative to have received pink New York pencils during an overstock fire sale their final class.

Shortly before I walked off school grounds forever, they tracked me down and, giggling, handed me slips of paper folded with origami precision. They even attempted to emote in English. I made sense of the Japanese by slowly sounding out the hiragana, which drew curious (jealous?) stares from semi-retired salarymen on the 15:06 train home.

Here’s a rough translation:
Dear Mr. Jeff, First letter. Hell. Mr. Jeff's class is enjoyed. Thank you very much for the pen. I had fun. From now, thank you very much. Please don’t forget me.

Hello. My name is Shiori. From today, I enjoyed talking with you a lot. Thank you very much. I will never forget you. Thanks for the pencil. I love you.

If you're reading, girls: kochira koso. Same to you.