The sweet smell of kerosene in the morning...

And here you thought that kerosene was just one of those things from "the days of old". Nope, kerosene is alive, well, and available from self-service pumps at every gas station in the great nation of Japan. I remember thinking this summer when we were oriented on our many heating options for the coming winter that I was beyond kerosene heaters, too evolved to heat my apartment by burning oil. After all, kerosene was once used in lamps as a slightly more dangerous alternative to WHALE BLUBBER. Heat my apartment with something that replaced whale blubber and is now one of the main components of jet fuel? I think I'll pass, thanks.

That was before.
That was before I realized that air-conditioners-cum-heaters are expensive.
That was before I realized that space heaters don't actually heat very much space.
That was before I realized that a kotatsu (heated coffee table) was not designed with Norwegian genetics in mind.
That was before I had to sleep on my heated rug because my bed just wouldn't warm up.
That was before I woke up yesterday morning to my indoor thermometer reading forty-six degrees Fahrenheit.

That was before.

I am now the proud owner of my very own, song playing, timer functioning, child-proofing, oxygen level checking kerosene heater. And maybe it is just the congestion, but all I can smell is heat, delicious, toe-warming heat. I hadn't realized how debilitating the cold was until my apartment crept back up to 62 F, and I suddenly wanted to do dishes, tidy things, and generally go places in my apartment that weren't within arm's reach of my heated rug. I was warm.

And I will be warm again tomorrow morning when I wake up...

Whale blubber, schmale blubber.

Update 01/12: My kerosene heater is kind enough to give me two warnings when it is getting low on fuel. First, it plays "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and flashes a green light. The second warning flashes a red light to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb". Who knew that burning oil could be so cute?

What's up?

I am starting a revolution... one wannabe punk-ass junior high school student at a time. Somewhere along the line it was decided amongst the English teachers in Japan that there is only one appropriate greeting. It goes as follows:

A-san: Hello.
B-san: Hello.
A-san: How are you?
B-san: I'm fine, thank you. And you?
A-san: I'm fine, thank you.

Three months in and 1,700 students later... I am starting a revolution, the "What's up?" Revolution, because there are only so many times you can hear "I'mfinesankyouandyou!" before the crazy hits the fan. I'm starting slowly. Just a few of the pierced eared, fashion mulleted, disenfranchised Michael Jackson dancing 15 yr. old boys first. I try to convert 3 new ones a week.

Last week I had particular success with Nonsense Shouter-san. He was one who not only slept in class, but he even managed to ignore my perfectly calibrated hallway salutations (2 parts obnoxiously genki, 3 parts "Oh yes, it's true. I am WAAAY cooler than you are.", and 1 part Minnesota Nice). I couldn't even get past a "How are you?" before he would start yelling nonsense and quickly retreat to the safety of his fellow hoodlums.

Then, one regular afternoon as I passed him and two of my revolutionaries on the staircase, I saw my chance. I ignored him, turning to his friends instead, because there is no better motivator than feeling like you are out of the loop. "What's up?", I said and gave them my best gangsta shrug. They were paralyzed by fear for a moment before realizing that they knew the answer and that the answer was COOL. "Not much!" they shouted (they always shout) before making valiant attempts at gangsta shrugs while their hair danced in the breeze 5 inches above their heads. Nonsense-san looked confused, desperate. He looked at his friends. He looked at me, his head cocked at the universal "What???" angle.

I had him.

I explained, using my best gangsta shoulder shrug again, that "How are you?" is, well, ma-ma (so-so). But "What's up?".... cooool. "Ahhhh," he nodded, "Not much!"

...several hours later...

I accost Nonsense-san in the hallway, and as he begins to shout nonsense, I give him a LOOK and repeat myself. "What's up?" *gangsta shrug* He pauses for a half second, thinking. And in that half second I remembered that these moments are the reason people teach. He was interested. He was interested in speaking English. I could see the neurons connecting as he searched for the answer he knew he had... "ehhhh tohhhh.... NOT MUCH!!" And he gave me a smile like he had just discovered The Secret, which, I guess, he had.

I caught him explaining "What's up?" "Not much." to a friend the other day, complete with gangsta shrug. If I teach him nothing else, it is enough.

Washing Machine Wars and Wajima Photos

I haven't got anything particularly interesting to share except the fact that, three months in, I still open my washing machine and have to pause in absolute disbelief at what lies within. The intricacy of the knots that my washing machine manages to tie in my jeans, tank tops, towels, and socks is really a testament to the Japanese attention to detail. It honestly takes me 4 minutes just to untangle the first article of clothing from the mess to start hanging them up. Now I start with the towels after discovering early on the particular affinity my washer has for jeans. They are not so easily extricated.

After hearing horror stories of laundry bags being ripped to shreds I got smart and began putting as much of my laundry as possible into my zippered pillow cases. Though it is an effective way to preserve some of my clothing, I always end up feeling bad for the clothes that don't make the cut. They come out of the washing machine with their appendages stretched and twisted in the most unnatural directions, and though no one has been torn limb from limb yet, I'm just not sure how long our luck can last. This may be one battle that Japan was always going to win.

Some photos...


Photos from the last night of the Wajima Tai Sai, the children's night! This should not suggest that there was no carrying of heavy things and no burning of big stuff, or even that there was no carrying of the big burning stuff, there were just more kids around.

one of the dueling teenage kiriko teams




baby taiko drummers



Senmaida - 1,000 rice paddies. The smallest one has just 6 bunches of rice.



In Japan, even the road work signs can't help but bow.



Photos of Monzen Temple, home of the most delicious green tea/vanilla swirl cones in the Noto.

Wajima Tai Sai

I had intended to tell you the story of my very first Japanese festival tonight, but alas, it is late, and I still need to make a worksheet about My Dream Day for the 7th graders. So in the mean time, you will have to settle for a facebook album. I am going to do my best to go chronologically through all of the crazy of the last few months, starting with the Wajima Tai Sai in which large lantern floats (don't let the word lantern fool you, those things are HEAVY, particularly when running barefoot across a bridge carrying one) are carried by drunken hordes through the sleepy city of Wajima from gigantic torch to gigantic torch. Enjoy the photos, amusing anecdotes and tall tales to come soon...

Wajima Tai Sai Album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2035828&id=19402168&l=b7fafc6fd0

28/10/09 - update

What follows is a partial description of the madness that was my first festival, or what I thought was madness until I remembered that I am living in Japan now. This isn't madness, it's life.

Wajima Tai Sai - August 22nd to the 26th

One very hot and sticky week in Kanazawa, I decided to get out of my unairconditioned apartment and head on up to Wajima to experience my very first Japanese festival, the Wajima Tai Sai, which basically means Wajima's Big Festival. It goes on for four days and although I am sure there is some cultural significance, it seems to follow a pattern that is becoming very familiar: eat lots of food, drink even more alcohol, carry gigantic heavy things, drink more alcohol, make gigantic fire, run around said fire carrying said heavy things, repeat for next three days and countless generations. It was fantastic. In the age of globalization, my only question is this: why haven't we globalized this?

The first night that I was there a couple of other JETs managed to get themselves involved with one of the teams of kiriko carriers (each neighborhood gets together a team to carry their lantern float on the parade through town, you get bonus points if your team can run full speed and/or spin whilst carrying said kiriko). About half way in to the seven hour ordeal I think they may have been reconsidering their decisions, but that's where the women rolling the cooler of beer and the old men with two liter bottles of sake come into play. They did receive a bit of respite when the parade stopped twice to regroup a light a several story torch on fire, think Olympic games style, but with a tug if war for burning bamboo poles once the entire thing inevitably comes crashing to the ground. The first one actually came crashing down on some poor man's head, but after someone died at this festival a couple of years ago, they always have paramedics on hand. Safety is obviously a huge priority at these events.

I'm Back!

After a three month separation, the internet and I are once again cohabitating, and it could not have been a more joyous reunion. I bopped around my apartment singing several variations of the "I have the internet!" song for a good 30 minutes straight. Some day in the future I will tell the story of why my internet took 3 months to return to me, but I'm just not sure that I have enough emotional distance yet...

I would love to give you all a beautiful post complete with photos and video, but I have to run to dinner with the friend of an acquaintance. I am hoping to have stocked up enough friends by winter to fend of the damp darkness, so far, so good.

More later!

Grocery Store Fun

Okay, so I decided today that she can ignore me all she likes, but ain't no Internet fairy that can keep me from sharing the wonders of recycle shopping and Japanese grocery stores. I have a few photos to share, but please look for more post-Internets.

Going to the grocery store in Japan is, at best, an adventure with potential catastrophes lurking down every aisle. How, for example, does one choose soy sauce when there are (I counted) 56 options? I went for the Kikkoman with the red label, but I have no idea how that might be different from the Kikkoman with the green label, the blue label, the gold label (too expensive), or the silver label. I fully understand the importance of brand marketing now that I am reduced to buying the things in the most attractive packing. Do I get the rice with the cute flowers on it or the rice with the funny looking bunny using a mortal and pestle? Obviously the bunny.

Which brings me to Peter Rabbit. Yes, Peter Rabbit. We all know the importance of Hello Kitty to the Japanese school girl and salary man alike, but even in my farthest imaginings, I never would have guessed the popularity of Peter Rabbit. I mean, he's a pretty damn dapper bunny (or he was until he lost his coat in Mr. McGregor's garden, good thing his cousin helped him get it back later), but really? Peter Rabbit?

On my first venture into the school's mercifully air conditioned library I thought it was probably a fluke that they happened to have every single Beatrix Potter story ever written all bound into adorable mini books. Then I got to the English Preparation Room, discovered more English books and among them was, you guessed it, The Complete Works of Beatrix Potter - now with never before seen drawings! But okay, this has got to just be the work of my predecessor who simply failed to mention her Peter Rabbit fetish, right?

Wrong! A couple of weeks ago, a coworker took me on a recycle shop (think Goodwill/Salvation Army, but not as cheap) tour and what did I see? A Hello Kitty toaster, complete with speech bubble of adorable pink and silver salutations. Did you know that Hello Kitty's birthday is on Novemeber 1st? Or that she weighs as much as an apple? Well, consider yourself enlightened... by a toaster. If I had had the $20 to spend on a toaster, I might have gotten it then and there. But that would have been a mistake.

Just last weekend I returned, determined this time to get the toaster. What could be better than a coffee maker that says, "Do you love me? I love you!" (no joke, "aishiteru? aishiteru!") and a Hello Kitty toaster? The answer should be obvious by now.... a Peter Rabbit TOASTER. That's right folks. Every morning when I wake up, I turn on my coffee maker, take my time in the shower to decide if I really do love it back (I always do), get out, kindly ask Peter if he will toast my bread (he always does), and have myself a spectacular breakfast. Well, as spectacular as I ever feel at 7:20 a.m. Oh yeah, did I mention that my predecessor gave me a couple of coffee mugs my first day here? Of course, one of them features my new favorite bunny, Peter Rabbit.




Photo 1: a campaign poster for my new favorite political party. Not sure what their precise policies are, but how can you go wrong with the "Happiness Realization Party"?

Photo 2: yes, that is correct. Your eyes are not deceiving you. This is Peter Rabbit mayonaise. No joke.





Photo 3: when the culture shock gets too bad: Asian Therapy

The Internet Fairy

I just wanted to give you all a quick update to let you know that I have neither been stung to death by a jellyfish while skinny dipping nor fallen into a gaijin trap. I haven't been crushed by a kiriko, and I haven't even gotten swine flu yet. I may, however, be thrown into jail for attempted murder if the Internet Fairy continues to be the coy minx that I now know to be her true self. Honestly, in a country where tv comes standard on cell phones and a cute pink kitty can take over a national psyche, why can't I get Internet! Bah, so until the happy day finally occurs, updates may be few and far between. When I had nothing to do at work but pretend I was doing something, life was good and Internet was plentiful. I am now dealing with overworked teachers and 1,700 Japanese middle schoolers in addition to trying to make enough friends that when winter comes I will not be left to mold in my apartment on Saturday nights. Thus far, I would say that I am succeeding on both accounts. Now if only I knew how to get me some internets...

More on festivals, Peter Rabbit, and hippies later.

Moss Movement

Every morning as I make my way down the streets to school, I get the eerie feeling that I am being watched, that my position has been compromised. The underworld is alive and well, ready for the signal to take back what is rightfully theirs.

Some call Kanazawa "The Green City", and I would have to agree. Plant life spills out of garden walls and squeezes up through pavement. Staircases become display cases for caged greenery. Moss, grass, and flowering vines erupt out of sidewalk cracks and alstroemeria grows in gaijin traps. Living admist all of this unstoppable life, one can't help but feel that this entire city is perched precariously atop an ancient society, ruled by bonsai trees domesticated so long ago they can no longer remember the feeling of wild and rampant growth. The lotus plants are pacifists, and the rice conformists. But the moss has other plans.

The morning glories climb windows with their strangling tendrils. The moss, slowly, imperceptibly rearranges sidewalks and slinks up walls. And when the signal comes, Kanazawa will be the first to fall. Until then, the rice waits patiently...

This is my friend Katy. She lives in Wajima, about 2 hours away by bus, 1.5 by the tiny blue box that she calls a car. I just went to visit her for Wajima's main festival, and it was amazing. Though pretty remote, I think the scenery and tranquility might be worth it. Also, she lives a 5 minute walk from a public foot onsen (onsens are hot springs). I only truly appreciated it after running barefoot across a bridge carrying a gigantic and REALLY HEAVY lantern float thing.

Also, I would highly recommend my friend Adam's blog. He was placed in the "geographical center of nowhere", as he said, and reading his blog never fails to leave me in giggles. I posted the link on the right side under the heading, "Friends' Blogs". Check it out, and be glad that I am not dealing with face-sized spiders... yeesh.

Psychopaths and Playboys

At long last, I have joined that not-so-elite club of awkward white guys who arrive in Japan and shortly find themselves a female companion who, as we say in the States, is way out of their league. Yes, that's right folks, I have a Japanese girl friend.

It all happened so fast. One day we were just being introduced at the beach, and before I knew it we had exchanged phone numbers. She said she would get in touch.

I waited. A week went by, then two. I thought, "I guess she's just not that into me." I indulged in some self-pity. "Why does this keep happening to me?", I thought. "I meet these girls. They seem to like me. We exchange info, and then nothing... What am I doing wrong?"

I gave up hope.

Then, Tuesday night as I unlocked my bike outside the station I heard a familiar squeal, "Maggiiiiiie!" It was Miki! As she teetered toward me on impossible high heels, I allowed myself to hope again, just a little. She wrapped her arms around me and squealed all in one breath, "How-are-you?!-I-couldn't-find-you-on-Facebook.-What-are-you-doing-here?-Are-you-free-tomorrow?!" Relief flooded through me; she was into me! She had looked for me on Facebook, and now here she was, in the flesh, well, as much flesh as a Japanese girl friend could be expected to be in. She was asking about coffee tomorrow, saying she would sms me, and then, before I knew it, we were in each others arms, and then she was gone. I wondered, "Will this time be different? Will she sms me tomorrow?"

3:30 Wednesday afternoon - sms from Miki asking to meet up. She's into me! Yes, I want to meet up! Yes, I think it's fabulous that your English is from "Sex and the City" and that you love Zara and think your head is big and that I have nice skin. Yes, I want a friend!

I think all of this in .25 seconds. I reply, "Hey Miki, yeah, I'd love to. Do you want to get coffee downtown?" She does.

We meet. We chat. She teaches me all the Japanese that my coworkers never will. For instance, I can now have the following conversation:

A - Oh, he's cute.
B - His exgirlfriend is a psychopath.
A - Oh really? Nevermind.

And when you consider that she also taught me how to say "exboyfriend", "playboy", "playgirl", "annoying", "shut up", and "I don't care", the iterations are endless.

After confirming that I would be here for at least 2 years, Miki said she would introduce me to her friends, starting with Toru. Toru is a tall bashful guy who djs house music on nights and weekends and whose day job is to sell Armani. He doesn't speak English. But he does look like a Japanese Adrian Brody. I think this "introduction" was an attempted set up, and although I'm not sure how I feel about that, I could do a whole lot worse than a tall Armani-clad house dj. Also, Miki assured me that he is not a "yarichi" (playboy), and his "moto-kano" (ex-gf) is not a "saite" (psychopath).

When he mentioned that maybe we could come to a club he is working at on Saturday Miki taught me how to say, "We'll see."

Beware the gaijin traps and Cicadas of Death

Today's video comes to you from a tree outside my apartment. The main character is only one example of the many Cicadas of Death. They used to be innocuous enough, hiding up in the trees, making a consistent buzzing noise that lulled me to sleep every night. Then.... they started to get cheeky.

First, one landed in my hair. I thought it was just a fly by, until I went to fluff my hair.

The next one got fresh and landed on the back of my neck. I was at the beach and, not wanting to brush it accidentally into my shirt, I politely asked Caroline to remove it. She was busy conversing. "Caroline. Caroline! CAROLINE! I am having AN EMERGENCY!" She took one look and began beating me with her cardigan only to scare the bug into her cleavage, a state of affairs that left her none to pleased.

The third was stealthy. I went into the post office to use the ATM. I set down my backpack. The cicada took flight, panicked postal workers descended, and we successfully scared the bug in the appropriate direction, outside. The postal employees and I are now the best of friends, and they often make buzzing and flying motions when I come in.

Perhaps my most terrifying encounter with a cicada was just as I reached my apartment building. I stepped on something that did not feel like ground. It began to make a BONE-CHILLING noise. I started. It flew erratically in my direction. I took off up my apartment stairs in a flat out SPRINT. I slammed the door behind me and proceeded to lock all three locks. I flinch at shadows and small birds now.

For those of you who have yet to urbandictionary the term "gaijin", it basically refers to foreigners in Japan. In the past it was used as a slur of sorts, but now is most commonly used by gaijin themselves. For example, I just got my Gaijin Card today from City Hall, which is actually some complicated Japanese version of Legal Alien Registration Card, but Gaijin Card is perfectly descriptive and just sounds snappier. It also allows for the creation of such delightful terms as "gaijin trap" and "stealth gaijin". The former being mini-canals along the side of most roads that can be anywhere from 1 ft wide by 2 ft deep to several feet wide by fathomless depths of lost gaijin. A couple of years ago, a new JET, just off the plane from Tokyo, accidentally stepped into one. She was never seen again. Well, not for the several weeks that she had to spend at home recovering from her broken ankle anyway.

But gaijin traps and sidewalks that make Warsaw's look smooth aside, I have been successfully biking around Kanazawa for the past two weeks... in skirts no less. Granted, that incident of nearly running over a small child put me on edge, but that was the first day. Since then I have improved immeasurably, to the point that I can now bike in all of my skirted glory (oh the humidity) to the 100-yen shop and then to the grocery store, precariously piling my purchases a good foot higher than my Mary Poppins style front basket ought to allow, before biking picturesquely home along my mini-river.

Good thing no one can hear my internal monologue: "Oh God, just don't fall over.... aaah, slight incline!.... BUMP!.... Look out! Gaijin on a bike!... Oof!"

I had lunch with Fairy Godmother today. Homemade okonomiyaki, a delicious savory pancake thing with pork and cabbage and Fairy Godmother's secret ingredient, "I always tell my children, 'and a little love'." She sent me home with the ingredients so I can make it at home and a bunch of fresh alstroemeria. I just mentioned that I thought it was beautiful, and away she went with the scissors. Everyone ought to have a Murakami-sensei.










#1 - Alstroemeria, it grows everywhere here.
#2 - Little dancers at a harvest festival
#3 - Fabulous example of Japanese fashion in front of Japanese National Party vans.

Avoiding jellyfish and belting out Beyonce

Terribly sorry about the wait, more orienting, much socializing, and one karaoke filled evening. Though it is undeniably true that I can't carry a tune to save my life, one of my best moments in Kanazawa has got to be singing Beyonce's "Irreplaceable" with Luke, the 31 year old Australian who used to work for the Australian Department of Defence in Iraq. He was drunk, but I need no such assistance to make a fool of myself when there is pop music to be sung, and with 30 JETs all in a room with microphones, I was not the only one. The 3 of us who were left at 3:10 a.m. ended it on a good note with Taylor Swift's "Love Story". Who knew that my rather embarassing devotion to trashy Top 40 hits could actually shift the balance of cool in my favor? What a fantastic country.

As for the jellyfish, Kanazawa is delightfully located only a 17 minute train ride from a beach town called Uchinada where jet skis, bikinis, and techno djs abound... alas, the season for swimming will reach a swift end at the first jellyfish sighting. Thus far, no encounters with a "floating kleenex with motor skills", but we swim with caution. At night, after watching the sun set into the Sea of Japan, you can watch the squid boats come out. They appear as stars on the horizon, though the reality is somewhat less poetic. Each boat is equipped with a gigantic spotlight which they shine into the depths of the ocean. Masses of squid follow the beam up to the surface, in search of who knows what, perhaps the light at the end of the tunnel? Or maybe they just like shiny things. At any rate, the bubbling masses of squid are then netted out of the water to be skewed or filleted and eaten with rice... mmmm, delicious.










#1 Sparkly lights at the beach... maybe the squid are on to something...

#2 Dance party, though it didn't really get started until we hit the floor

#3 See! I don't spend all of my time watching my rice grow (it's doing nicely, in case you were wondering), this is me, Miki, and Melanie.

(Click on the photos to make them bigger, significantly bigger.)

Amber Waves of Grain

If there were only one thing I could share with you about my life here, I would share the wind as it flows across the rice paddy at night. I would share the way the stalks, growing heavier and more golden with each day that passes, bend and ripple at the lightest touch of a breeze. I would share the low rustle and the fresh soft smell that reaches through my living room window.

As I walked home the other night, I passed a rice paddy just as the breeze picked up. For an instant I thought, "it smells like home."

Though I come from the Heartland and have always lived in vast, flat countries crisscrossed by fields, it is only now, halfway round the globe in a land of mountains and earthquakes, that I truly appreciate the beauty in amber waves of grain.

Super-san and my fairy godmother

I could quite possibly write an entire blog just about Super-san (a.k.a. Mr. Ikeda, my official Board of Education supervisor), but I just don't think it would do him justice. Remember the scary, mean, unhelpful, non-English speaking supervisor that my imagination was absolutely certain would be waiting on the other side of the baggage claim doors? Mr. Ikeda is about as far from that as possible, except for the amusing circumnavigation he has to do to get a point across in English.

After I got over the terror of the first 30 seconds of meeting my new boss, I realized, this man is ridiculous. A little under 6'0” and fragile looking, he bobs around, making a dive for this or that bit of paperwork, swaying a bit before dashing off to get something, and twirling my pen so fast it flew out of his fingers. He has the attention span of a 5 year old, but luckily he over compensates with patience, as demonstrated by the fact that he is in charge of getting every Kanazawa ALT a cell phone, a process that is 1.5 hours/gaijin. Yikes! As we were attempting to navigate that particular obstacle course, I struck out twice trying to set up autmatic payments, even the Japanese bank book didn't work. When we finally managed to get my debit card (yay Paynesville Credit Union!) set up with the phone account he started to hum the basketball warm up theme playing on the loudspeakers (Seriously, Japanese background music is out of this world. I was buying cabbage the other day to gangsta rap.) and put both hands up for a high ten. Fabulous.

Also fabulous is Murakami-sensei, my supervising teacher whose desk is next to mine. I thought that she was about 4'11"... then I realized that she wears 2" heels every day, which makes it even more adorable when she can't remember a word in English and just repeats it emphatically in Japanese. She stands there looking up at me as if she is saying "Voila!", firmly believing that one of these days she will magically endow me with the ability to speak Japanese, right there in the grocery store between the "noodle sauce" and dried fish shavings. I wouldn't put it past her. If only you could have seen the wonder in her eyes when, after dragging me through every aisle of the supermarket identifying such things as dried red pepper, sesame oil, and dashi stock trying to understand what I meant by "vinegar", we finally arrived at something suspiciously familiar. I pointed. "Vinegar?", I asked. "...inhale..." She spread her arms wide to capture the moment, "VINEGAR!"

I felt like I had just won the Tour de France.

This photo only catches a tenth of her adorableness, but you can see why she is basically my go to for, well, everything. After taking me grocery shopping my first afternoon and witnessing the poverty of a recently arrived JET (noodles, unidentified sauce later identified by Murakami-sensei as "noodle sauce", instant coffee, and orange juice to ward off scurvy) she worked her fairy godmother magic and showed up the next morning with tomatoes from her grandmother's garden and a frying pan. Halleluiah. Since then, she has showed up at work with more tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplants, potatoes, and onions, all from the garden. I owe her a SERIOUS thank you note.

Moment of Truth

So, this is it. I am here. I am living in Japan. I have a washing machine, a bicycle, and pot with two plants that I named Hikari (it means "light"). Slowly but surely, I am settling in. And so far, not a single panic attack. No sobbing in the middle of my living room floor as I unpack a mix cd a friend made me (our keynote speaker at orientation), no collapsing into a weepy mess in the middle of a supermarket (his friend), not even any magic fixing words when I wacked my head on the bathroom doorway...again. Perhaps my moment will come in the more depressing Stage 2 of culture shock when I realize that I never fully appreciated being able to bake more than 4 cookies at once and that wacking my head on the doorway is no longer just an amusing anecdote to make friends with Japanese coworkers. ("ooooh, hahahaha, silly giant gaijin") But for now, things are pretty darn genki, better than genki actually.

Contrary to the "Every situation is different, but my supervisor hated me/I had to live in a cave with only face-sized spiders for friends/my students were demon spawn plotting to take over the world..." sorts of stories from Tokyo orientation (and the horrifying pathway my own vivid imagination went down), my supervisor is a 5'11", 97 lb. Japanese super hero. My apartment is lovely (check out the video, but now imagine a dining table, a washing machine, and a very small plant). And the students seem like pretty standard issue middle school crazy. My presence never fails to elicit one of the following reactions:

- terror, wide-eyed, deer in the headlights, terror
- uncontrolable fits of giggles
- rib bruising nudges ("You talk to her." "Shut up! You talk to her!")
- flat out denial ("...if I don't look at her, maybe she will disappear...")

But I came prepared. Slowly but surely, I will win them over. I will seduce them with my stickers and tendency to make a complete fool of myself. Because everyone knows, the fastest ways to a middle schooler heart are persistance, prizes, and making yourself look more ridiculous than they feel. I am ready to deliver on all accounts.

Apartment Tour!



p.s. We really do live in the age of technology. A quick "apartment tour japan" search on youtube will get you inside the apartments of approximately 90% of JET participants. The first video for "apartment tour kanazawa" is a guy I work with. I now covet his balconies, but not the crazy office workers that look in his bedroom window.

Moment of Panic: Take 2

1852 miles to Tokyo

3700 ft

nearing the Sea of Okhotsk

We just crossed the int'l date line, and I just had my second encounter with the WTF-are-you-doing-with-your-life truck. Perhaps my spirit guide will show up and send me back to high school like in "17 Again" (disturbingly enjoyable in-flight film starring Zac Efron, of High School Musical fame). Maybe not.

The problem now is that I had this convenient theory during my college years that school just wasn't my thing, that I would be much more effective at real life. Then, sitting in 39A, a terrifying question presented itself: what if I'm not? That is to say, what if I'm flying past the Gulf of Shelekhova with all of this bright, shiny certainty only to find out that I'm not terribly effective at real life either, and that the only thing that I am really good at is getting into ridiculous situations in foreign countries? Not that that would be the most terrible skill, just not as marketable...

Actually, who am I kidding? This is the 21st century, and I am writing this just by touching my finger to the flat surface of a shiny object that not only corrects my spelling but can check the weather in 3 countries simultaneously all because some guy named Steve Jobs hates buttons. Worst case scenario: declare bankrupty and write a soon-to-be-famous blog about being bankrupt in Japan. Maybe if I write it all on my iPod Touch then Steve Jobs will become my corporate backer...

Alright, second moment of panic passed... Hey! I think I can see Sarah Palin's backyard from here.

Moment of Panic: Take 1

I think it best to start from the beginning, which is probably the moment that I looked out the plane window, saw the Midwest (actually, I think we were probably somewhere over Alberta) slipping away beneath me, and panicked...

3:41 pm, 25 July 2009

I just had my first moment of panic. I know, only 3 hours in to a 13 hour flight. I haven't even seen an ocean yet. Lame. But it came out of nowhere. I glanced out the window at shades of green and yellow forming geometric patterns that an alien race is probably overanalyzing from space. It was spacious, peaceful, familiar...

Then I glanced at the in-flight info screen. #*%$! It was covered in what I can only assume to be Japanese. That's when it happened. A semi truck with a big WTF on the grill slammed into my face.

What am I doing?! I am leaving this all behind. I am going to have a real job with real coworkers that I really can't speak to, and I am going to be responsible for doing things, real things. Like planning lessons and running clubs and who knows what else! I certainly won't know because I can't speak Japanese and apparently no one will tell you what their expectations are because you are a big dumb scary foreigner. (!!!) Thanks Chicago orientation for making me feel so much better.

Maybe for some people is it the, "Oh my God, I'm living in a foreign country alone!" thing. It's not really the alone thing for me. Actually, it is not at all the alone thing. It's mostly the Japan thing. I'm going to make a couple of sweeping generalizations here and say that in Poland, people are reticent and cynical in a way that is somehow extraordinarily comforting. In Argentina, at least in Buenos Aires, everything is a disaster, a quilombo. But then, you have expected that and worn your shiny fuschia heels just out of spite. In Japan... Well, the Japanese... I have no idea! I don't even know any Japanese people! Okay, I have probably met at least 5 Japanese people; let's go crazy, and say that in my entire life I have met 10 Japanese people. So? I've got nothing. I have no idea what I am getting myself into, which would be okay if I was just moving to Japan for kicks and giggles, but actually having responsibilities? :S

30 seconds later... I've escaped the WTF truck with only a faint imprint left on my forehead. It's going to be okay.

Waterfalls and Walking, a lot

Before I got here I thought I walked a fair amount, maybe not a TON, but I definitely walked places. Estuve equivocado. Since arriving in BsAs I have walked my way through three pairs of shoes and am making quick work of several other pairs. The first pair to go was a cute pair of black Mary Janes with white checks that I got at Bata in 10th grade. They were never quite the same after I wore them to The Hives's concert in Vienna... (note to self: being in a large crowd of excited moshers in flats = black and blue feet the next morning)

The next pair to go was my beautiful pair of purple satin Indian flats that I got on the spur of the moment in London on Adriana and I's "Senior Trip". I can't begin to count the miles I must have walked in them, and though they have required repairs once already, I just can't let go. There is nothing like the relationship between a woman and comfortable pair of cute flats. Nothing. Maybe the cute old cobbler on the corner can fix them...

The most recent casualty was this afternoon as I walked the 10 blocks between the bus stop and the apartment where I tutor. Halfway there my fake Birkenstocks broke, and I limped the remaining blocks until I could get my hands on some superglue. Though they feel pretty sturdy now, I would rather not find myself with broken shoes and a 45 min. walk home. It would appear that it is time to go shoe shopping. What a tragedy. :-D Now the only question is to get a pair of the ubiquitous Converse sneakers, some pointy metallic flats, or pretty sandals. Decisions, decisions...

One of the contributors to the death of my Birks was most likely the 4 km hike in Iguazu to the waterfall under which we spent some time swimming before hiking the 4 km back. And thus I arrive at my weekend trip to Iguazu. Though it was only the first week of October it already feels like an eon ago. And as, according to Wiki, there is no specific length of time designated by the term 'eon' I feel pretty secure in my assertion that the psychological time that has passed for me since the first week of October is equivalent to an eon, más o menos.














Iguazu was my first trip out of the city as well as my first micro ride. Though not miserable, 17 hours on a tour bus is not my idea of a good time. And apparently I have fallen into the role of the girly girl as the majority of my travel companions were ready to step off the bus and head straight for a tour. I don't know how they do it. 17 hours on a bus and all I can think about is exfoliating about 17 layers of skin and bus off of me. Blech, it gives me the shivers just thinking about wandering around like that. So, after a quick shower we were ready to head to the park, and what a park...



Everyone says that the view is more impressive from the Brazilian side, but I have a hard time believing anything could be more impressive. After a short trolley ride we arrived at the beginning of the path to La Garganta del Diablo. Everyone says that the view is more (The Devil's Throat). And this is where I find myself at a loss, because as much as I love words, the sensation of standing looking down over the edge of a waterfall so high that you can't see the bottom for the mist is something quite indescribable. The first thing you notice is the noise. You can hear the dull roar before you can see anything. Then there is the mist. You turn a corner and see this cloud of mist rising in the distance. Standing at the top of the falls is a rather damp experience as any time the wind shifts a cloud of mist comes swirling out of the depths straight for you and your digital camera. But with the mist come the rainbows, and the rainbows are pretty much completely lovely.

You know what else is lovely? Waterfalls that you can swim under. Like the kind you might imagine Tahitian goddesses bathing under, except instead of Tahitian goddesses it was 7 sticky college girls who had trekked several kilometers and climbed over several ant infested rocks (eeeewww, think Discovery Channel trails of ants.... everywhere). But the waterfall took care of that, and any illusions we might have had about the joy to be found under said waterfall. Of course it was great fun. However, falling from many many feet above one's head is not the softest thing and the slippery rocks beneath are pretty good at limiting one's ability to move gracefully, assuming one had such an ability in the first place.

Grace was definitely not a problem for the two Brazilian dancers who showed up at our hostel barbecue to run the limbo stick that night. And considering what they were wearing (or rather, what they weren't wearing) and the heels they were so precariously perched on, just standing would be a noteworthy feat for most women. So aside from learning about infantile literature, Spanish grammar, and intemperie in recent Argentine literature, I have also learned some bizarre facts, for instance: Brazilian women don't have cellulite. I'm sure that some poor soul is the exception to this rule, but in general, it seems to be a well-known and widely accepted fact. When I told Gaby that there had been Brazilian dancers her first question was how their bums were. I had barely managed to say that they were pretty impressive when she continued on to inform me of the notoriety of Brazilian bums. The funny thing is, a girl I traveled with had a nearly identical conversation with her host mom. I am sensing an inferiority complex going on here, which would perfectly explain the 100 different products available for purchase in BsAs that promise to make you as smooth as a, well, as a Brazilian's bum.

And you can all thank Mandy for asking the question, "Where is that blog post?", that got me off my bed and finishing this entry. Glad you are back in the land of internet! I missed you!

The butterflies are all for you Gramma. :)

Manson and so much more...

Whoa, so a lot has happened between now and my last blog. In the past three weeks I have: moshed with hundreds of people dressed in black, swum under a waterfall, done the limbo under a stick held by two Brazilian carnaval dancers, gotten quite sick, been to the forest that Bambi was based on, picnicked by a mountain lake, and so much more. In order to keep from overwhelming you and myself, I am going to divide this week by week with an entry for each over the next couple of days. And thus I begin with Week 1: Marylin Manson.

Saturday the 29th of September dawned a beautifully sunny and very nearly hot day, perfect for a day of outdoor music festival going. Somehow I had managed to convince 4 other people that going to see Marilyn Manson was a good idea, and we all met up for a picnic outside the grounds before hand. I was shocked to find, upon meeting up with my companions, that only myself and Courtney had worn black. Now, I don't know the degree of your knowledge about Marylin Manson, but I would have thought that black was the obvious color choice for his concert. (This turned out to be an accurate assumption once we got inside.)

After our picnic and getting past the street preachers outside who were trying desperately to save our poor souls (I felt bad for them; they were so earnest) we entered into what could have accurately been called Goth Convention Buenos Aires. I have never seen that much black eyeliner, even as a 9th grade girl. :-D Though my lack of skin pigmentation, black shirt, and a little black eyeliner of my own helped, I still felt pretty conspicuous. Next time someone please remind me to pull out my leather pants with buckles down the side and 4 inch platform boots. I knew my look was missing something that morning.

There were several small stages to choose from, but we mostly switched back and forth between the two main stages. The first band we watched was Cuentos Borgeanos. Their music was not bad and their stage presence was amusing, but I would have to say that the most impressive thing about them was precisely how low-slung and tight the lead singer's pants were. There must have been double stick tape involved. Carajo, an Argentina hard rock band, was GREAT. And I met the guitarist later who was a very cool guy. I believe there is a photo of me with him on facebook somewhere. The lead singer of Cabezones was in a wheel chair, and at one point his tiny daughter came out to sit on his lap as he screamed/sung something vaguely similar to a ballad.

And then there were The Locos, a Spanish ska band. They are tied with Carajo as my favourites of the pre-Manson bands. When they came out and yelled, "¿Comó estais?!!!!" everyone laughed at their Spain-Spanish. :-D At one point they had everyone in the crowd make an ENORMOUS circle so that hundreds of people could begin skipping (yes, skipping) as fast and high as they could around the circle. What a sight. Another fun sight was when the large blow-up figure of the Grim Reaper of Liberty (think Statue of Liberty.... but not) was pulled out. The lead singer yelled (en castellano), "Does anyone here like the United States?!" Again, my companions seemed to have missed the memo as a couple of them started to yell "Yes!" before realizing that everyone was booing. Whoops. Apparently one of the things that living overseas taught me that I have taken for granted is a little perspective. It wasn't that these girls didn't know that a lot of people are not huge fans of the States, they had just never come face to face with it en mass. Their reactions ranged from indignant to genuine confusion and interest. Though not everyone appreciated their political stance, I think it is safe to say their music was universally enjoyed.

And so we arrive at Marilyn. By way of my general sneakiness in crowds and some outright pushing Donna and I managed to get quite near the walkway that projected out into the crowd. Those of you who have been to similar concerts will know that as it gets closer and closer to the moment the band takes the stage people get closer and closer to one another until the inevitable instant that the desired star comes into view and the entire crowd of hundreds and hundreds of people crush ever further forward. Unfortunately for Donna this meant that after one song (luckily it was the one I had told her to download, "If I Was Your Vampire") of a jumping sea of people she was feeling sick and had to fight her way out. Easier said than done. I stayed. Complain though I might about being tall, this is one of those occasions that I thank my lucky stars it is my shoulder blade that some poor girl's face is smooshed into and not the other way around. :-D

What can I say that will give you any idea of what it is like to be at a Marilyn Manson concert? I mean, it was amazing. I left smelling like pot (not mine) and sweat (also, mostly not mine... ewww), but it was worth it to spend an hour and a half in a huge crowd all jumping in perfect unison and shouting..... well, lyrics. ;-) I do have a couple of complaints to lodge though:

1) He spent a lot of time writhing on stage which I'm sure was effective for the video of the concert, but it was not particularly enjoyable for those of us in the crowd as we couldn't see a thing.

2) For someone who claims to be annoyed by bad grammar, "If I Was Your Vampire"? Please, it should obviously be "If I Were Your Vampire". Granted, the imperfect subjunctive is really more of an option than a necessity these days, but I still would have expected better. I am considering writing him a letter to tell him so.

That is about it, except that he has a double chin. But he can't help that so I shouldn't complain. He does look far better in 4 inch platform boots and tight pinstriped pants than I'm sure I ever will so that must be of some consolation to him. However, when we were treated to a view of his naked bum at the end of the show I felt a little smug as I am quite sure his is whiter than mine... but it might be close.

I found Donna the end of the concert only to discover that her phone had been stolen along with another girl's camera. Another benefit to being tall? I guess I looked too scary to try to take something from. After peeling off our sweaty concert t-shirts we followed the crowd to the exit and the nearest bus stop where all of us must have been quite a sight. I'm sure we frightened more than a few old ladies and small children, a huge line of sweaty people clad in black and sporty streaky make-up can do that. Anyway, my story ends at a pizzeria near my apartment where Donna and I shamelessly polished off a large pepperoni pizza in record time before heading straight for our respective apartments and showers. Soap has never felt so good.

More on las cataratas de Iguazu in a couple of days...

Subtitulos and salsa classes

Today was a good day. Not only did I tutor a lovely girl named Stephanie for the first time, but I also bought two tickets for Día 8 of the Pepsi Music Festival. Or as the ticket vendor said, el día de Marilyn Manson. Yes, that's right folks, I am going to see Marilyn Manson! I'm not really a huge fan of his music, but ever since reading an interview where he complains about bad grammar and the mindlessness of the American entertainment industry, I have been intrigued. So that combined with gorgeous weather, about 5 other Latin American bands, and decent ticket prices had me queuing for tickets today. Don't worry though, if I have any sudden urges to join a cult, you will all be the first to know.

Aside from dear Marilyn, I am cultivating another new hobby during my time down here... rugby. Not playing, watching. Last Saturday I spent the afternoon with 3 girl friends in a sports bar enjoying the 2 for 1 beer special and yelling at the big screens along with a couple of hundred Argentines. The yelling was mostly happy though as the Pumas soundly trounced Namibia 63-3. Though obviously we have allegiance to the Pumas, we decided that we would have wanted them to win anyway because they are just so attractive, and when they aren't playing, they all wear suits with pale pink ties. Fantastic.

Fun fact: whenever the Argentine announcer said Marseille it sounded like "Mar-sei-sha"

So, subtitles. The other day I went to go see a great film called Zarte Boek, or Black Book, or El Libro Negro. That should give you some idea of the language mess I was in for. The previews had given the impression that there was a significant amount of English in the film. Well hooray for false advertising. :-D It was almost entirely in a combination of Dutch and German with about 5 minute segments at the beginning and end of Hebrew and English respectively. So between hearing Dutch (which sounds remarkably like English some times), reading Spanish, and trying to make it all make sense in English... I left the movie with a headache. However, I also left the movie with an understanding of almost the entire film. Or at least I think did...

Speaking of things lost in translation, I really need to figure out how to convey disinterest and/or distaste en español. Apparently not smiling and looking away just don't cut it. Or at least they didn't at salsa class last week. Somehow, unbeknownst to me I seemed to have given this guy the impression that I wanted to dance with him. Which I most certainly did not, not only because he was utterly incapable of leading, but because of the fact that the chest bared by his half undone shirt bore more resemblance to Austin Powers than Fabio, complete with gold chain and all. Ewww. Luckily I had come with a guy friend who quickly rescued me before I was caught a third time. Thanks Chris!

Besides fending off bad dancing partners, watching rugby, and watching a Dutch film in Spanish, I have also been spending inordinate amounts of time at a place called Mark's Deli. Though I would say it is more of a bistro than a deli, diction is the only complaint I can make about the place. They serve HUGE salads and equally enormous cookies, which, amusingly enough they don't translate and as a result ends up sounding like "kooky". I have yet to ask for one with a straight face. Oh, and miracle of miracles, they also serve... okay wait for it..... ICED COFFEE! And in 10 oz. glasses no less. Amazing!

I may actually be spending even more time at Mark's in the future considering the fact that I am now making a bit of money instead of simply spending it all. Three days a week I will be tutoring a lovely 10th grade girl named Stephanie in Biology and whatever is a priority at the time. She is a huge fan of organization and Post-It notes but just doesn't have any idea how to get started... that's where I come in. I think we were meant for each other. Hey Mom, would you mind sending me a couple more post-it tab things? I gave her my last ones.

Spring has, at last, come to Buenos Aires. The trees are that lovely spring green and the flowers in the Japanese Garden are stunning. The wisteria is in bloom too. I just can't walk past wisteria without thinking of Rhett Butler. Maybe if I go to grad school in Charleston I will get it out of my system... probably not.

This church sits at one end of Plaza Güemes, a small plaza about a block from my host family's apartment. Once it gets a touch warmer I plan to spend a lot of time on the benches there. It's about 2 blocks away from a fabulous bakery and a coffee shop that does to-go cups. Picnic!

Paros and Pancakes

Argh, I just managed to lose half a blog entry, which is pretty frustrating as I had done some serious editing and recrafting of my sentences to get them the way I wanted. But all of that effort was for naught as I am now left with nothing. So I will try to recreate the previous version, but I make no promises, not that any of you know what you will be missing. Anyway, here goes.

As of 5:30 Friday afternoon I had been awake for 11 hours straight. 6 of which I had spent sitting on a white plastic chair in a large room in the Dirección Nacional de Migraciones. Arriving at 7:30 on that grey morning I walked into a covered passageway to the courtyard to escape the rain. As my eyes adjusted to the shadows I saw walls lined with faces. Faces waiting for their chance to study, work, or just simply live in Argentina. I made my way through them to the back where I first heard and then saw the group of brightly clothed COPA students. When the office finally opened at 8:00 and the line began to snake forward we joined the end like twist in an M. Night Shyamalan movie. He's dead?! What?! Oh.... well, I suppose that makes sense. American students need visas too.

Once inside the fun really began, and by fun I mean sitting on a supremely uncomfortable plastic chair in a room full of other people sitting on supremely uncomfortable plastic chair as we waited for the women wielding the official stamps to notice us. Behind desks on dais like queens commanding a kingdom they sat looking disgruntled and ever so slightly Slavic. But maybe that was just the wealth of paperwork on their desks and variety of stamps at their disposal. Somehow I had the luck to be among the final six students to meekly present my offering of paperwork to the visa goddesses. I'm mixing my metaphors I know, but after 6 hours the lines between queens, goddesses, and government officials had been significantly blurred. Either way, after presenting her with my paperwork I watched as she stamped each photocopied page of my passport with three separate stamps. I was then sent on my way to await the cashier's two stamps recognizing my payment. This step completed I returned to sign 7 separate forms, reading none of them. I could have very well been signing myself into eternal servitude to the Argentine Agricultural Ministry. It may yet turn out that I have. All forms signed I was sent back to my seat to wait, again. A half an hour later my official document was ready, and I was free to go. Like a domesticated animal being returned to the wild I paused for a moment, not knowing what do to, before making straight for the rectangle of open sky, blinking as I reached the grey afternoon light.

But of course, my piece of paper is only good for 40-65 days, at which time I have to return for the real thing and some more stamps. Of course.

I am officially declaring pancakes to be one of the best foods on earth. Why, you ask? First a bit of back story... Gabriela, Lorenzo, and Gustavo are probably flying down the slopes of Barriloche as a type this which means several things,. 1 - Nunzia (Gabriela's mom who is Sicillian and a snob, but in an amusing way) has been coming over to have dinner with me. 2 - When it was disgustingly hot and sticky a couple of days ago I had no qualms about stripping down to my underwear while watching tv. And 3 - The kitchen is almost completely at my disposal. I say almost because Rosi is around to make me dinner and sometimes during the day to do a bit of spring cleaning. However, for all intents and purposes, I can mess around as much as I want. And here come the pancakes...

The heat broke a couple of days ago resulting in much raining, thundering, and general grossness out of doors. It also made the idea of walking to the supermarket less than appealing. After examining my store of ingredients, doing a little investigation the web and some more to find the missing pieces of my recipe in the kitchen, I settled on oatmeal pancakes. Wow. They were delicious, easy to make, and should be easy to adjust to whatever ingredients I want to add, subtract, or substitute. And, when eaten with fruit they are acceptably healthy. Thus, they are the perfect food.

So aside from Gaby and company, the professors are also on leave. Though somehow I doubt that they will be flying down ski slopes. Aside from my Tuesday morning professor who chose not to take part, there is a paro (strike) going on at UBA. I believe it is for better salaries, which, considering it is a completely free university that educates tens of thousands of students, isn't terribly shocking. I am continually amazed that one can get a respectable degree without paying for more than photocopies of the material. While being in favour of the idea, I am also in favour of paying professional educators a fair salary. And if I have to miss class for that to happen, so be it. I will happily find some other way to occupy myself this coming Wednesday. :-D

The photo is of Chris (or Chirstopher according to his passport, thanks U.S. government) and Avigail. Chris was also among the last 6 to get his visa. To kill some time I taught him to count to ten and be sleazy in Polish.

Also, for those of you who haven't noticed, I have made an addition to my blog: links to my friends' blogs. Apparently I have started a trend as a couple of my friends who are also studying abroad have started their own blogs detailing their adventures. "A Young Man's Adventures in Mother Russia" is written by Charlie who is studying abroad in Yaroslavl, Russia. "Ben in Barcelona" is, well, by Ben, who is in Barcelona. And "Life in Translation" is written by Morgan who is studying on both sides of the border between El Paso, Texas and Juarez, Mexico. If you've some the time you ought to check them out.