Converted to a Crier

So, generally, you are either a crier or you’re not. I don't mean the town criers of old, pronouncing breaking news in raised voices for all to hear. I mean people who bawl at the end of tearjerker movies and touching romantic novels. I mean people who behold a shockingly beautiful sunset, a horizon laced with vibrant reds, purples and oranges and have tears instantly well up behind their eyes.

I always put myself in the category of “occasional crier.” Anytime I see an installment of the Lord of the Rings film series, the optical dam breaks and streams run down my cheeks. I couldn't help but get teary-eyed during Bambi. How can people hunt after seeing that?? Yet I sometimes I can watch a movie or read a book intended to be tragic and sad and not flinch.

Not Bambi's Mom!!

I realized this week the degree to which leaving Japan will push me into the full-fledged “bawler” category. I thought I could be strong and bolster up iron-clad defenses to not cry when leaving the school here. Yet, what was I thinking? This school is ingrained in my life now. It is a memory that will always be there in my mind. So perhaps it is only right that I cry.

I didn't predict the frequency with which my tears would flow, however. The other day, a student gave me a letter saying I am the best teacher EVER. Today I got a going away gift from some parents at school. I had lunch for the last time with a class and they gave me a parting present. I had to think of the funniest SNL skit possible to keep from having a humiliating emotional breakdown in the teachers’ room.

This has all been in the past two days, and I still have two more weeks left. I can’t imagine what my last day will be like. Emotionally trying, that’s for sure. 

Coincidentally, I sang this One Direction song "Moments" in class today

Gaijin Moments

While in Kyoto last weekend, I had the most Gaijin moments in any given period of time that I ever had. It all began with my journey from my apartment to my friend’s apartment in Kyoto. I had the journey all planned out in my mind. I knew exactly which bullet train I needed to take to get to Kyoto and when it was scheduled to leave. So, I arrived at the station in Tokyo with just enough time to buy my bullet train ticket, board the train, and bolt off to Kyoto by 7:20. I got to the front of the line and the salesman called me forth. To my horror, he didn’t speak a word of English.

Lately, I have started using a tactic when this happens that may actually be more detrimental than beneficial to getting the things I want to happen to happen. I kind of act like I understand with two phrases: “daijoubu des” and “hai,” or “that’s okay” and “yes.” So I began my enquiry with “skinkansen Kyoto” which he responded to with a slew of questions. Eventually I tried to say I didn’t understand, which led to him spewing out the SAME questions in Japanese but a tad slower. I blinked my eyes at him with a confused expression and he just did the exact same thing again. I finally sighed and went with my default response of “daijoubu des.” He handed me a ticket, didn’t tell me which track it left from or at what time. The ticket itself had no specific time written on it, as they normally do. It also turned out he gave me a ticket with a non-reserved seat. Great. I felt like a confused failure and headed over in the general direction of the bullet train tracks like a dog with its tail between its legs and asked an agent there which track. He angrily mumbled “18” handed me the ticket and pointed. Well, at least I was sort of getting somewhere.

When I got to platform 18, I encountered more problems. I got on the train and asked a passenger “kore…Kyoto?” meaning “this…Kyoto?” and pointed at the train. He was actually kind and smiled and said “no, no, next!” I thanked him and got off the train. The sign, however, said that the train I was on was going to Kyoto, so I asked a police officer. He said “yes, this. Car one, two, three.” So I walked up to car 3, and noticed a huge line outside of the door. I assumed they were waiting for the next train and began to step towards the door. A security guard blew his whistle at me aggressively, so I bolted backwards. A minute later, the train left. Well, I sure hoped at that point that the next train was correct. I was so irritated with conflicting information that I wanted to leap through a wall and hope for the Hogwarts Express.

Thankfully, the next train actually was mine, or even if it wasn’t, I still ended up in Kyoto. No one checked my ticket so who knows? I wanted to relax on the bullet train ride and listen to music and read, but the woman next to me was Japanese so of course she was working and furiously typing on her laptop the entire 2 hours and 45 minutes. I don’t think they know how to take breaks from work here.

My next “Gaijin moment” occurred on the following day. My list of “must-see things” in Kyoto basically only included the place where Scarlett Johanssen went in Lost In Translation. So, that was my first destination and it was lovely, but my actual experience lacked the emotional soundtrack playing in the background like hers did. Whatever, it was still nice.

Next, I decided to go to Kinkakuji, the famous Golden Temple, because it is arguably the most famous tourist spot in Kyoto. I knew the general direction of the temple, so just started biking and figured I would know when I came across it. So, eventually I biked past a huge temple with many student groups and tourists, so I figured it must be Kinkakuji. I walked around, took pictures, and even asked people to take photos of me in front of it. Then, suddenly, I was struck with the thought that this temple only had a little bit of gold on it, so it probably wasn't the golden temple. It didn't say anything in English, which made me even more skeptical, since this was allegedly the most famous tourist spot. Crap. I decided to keep biking, and eventually came across a sign indicating that Kinkakuji was still far ahead. Great.

Finally I found it, and this time I was positive because the temple was…well, golden. Also it cost like $5.00 to get in. If it isn’t free, you know it must be a big tourist attraction. So, I made it there with only minimal obstacles.

The language barrier became a little easier to deal with on my last day. I successfully got a ticket back to Tokyo with a reserved seat thanks to my friend’s ability to understand Japanese. Also, I ordered coffee at a Starbucks and the employee said that my Japanese was “really good.” That’s pretty sad actually, but I will definitely take the compliment. Go me and my sad amount of Japanese! I’m not even embarrassed about my “foreigner moments” anymore. Bring them on, they make for entertaining stories.

My Nagging Conscience

During my weekend in Kyoto, I had no shortage of "Gaijin moments." Gaijin, which means foreigner, is a slightly derogatory term used here in Japan. So, those moments are ones where visitors do something totally stupid because of cultural differences. I am not immune to those moments. In fact, I am particularly prone to them. 

One particular incident that stands out like a preppy girl at a goth convention (do they actually have conventions? How strange would that be?) occurred at a sushi train restaurants. For those of my readers who are unfamiliar with these places, they feature little plates of sushi going around on a conveyor belt in front of diners who can reach out and take what they like. Each plate costs about $1, which is pretty awesome. It kind of makes me feel like this: 

So, almost immediately plopping down on a stool, my eager eyes caught sight of what looked to me like tuna and some fish I didn't recognize topped with a dollop of something that looked like horseradish. The little card featuring the name of the sushi had a lengthy title beginning with the word "horse" so I assumed that my thinking was correct. 

A look of terror quickly befell my friend's face and he asked me why on Earth I just took that plate. I didn't understand the problem and just stared at him blankly. Then, my face adopted the same expression of shock and terror as he informed me what my "horseradish fish" really was. Not horseradish. Raw horse meat.

My first instinct was to immediately return the plate to the conveyor belt, but of course, since I touched it, such an action was unthinkable. My heart began to race and I was awash with complete panic at the revelation that there was RAW HORSE MEAT in front of me. So many horrific thoughts began to swim in my mind. First, that it went against every ethical bone in my body to have to PAY for that plate. Second, the fact that they were serving horse at a sushi restaurant. If it were a seahorse, MAYBE I'd understand.

I began to calm myself down when it hit me that there was really nothing I could do. The horse was dead and on little blobs of rice on three plates going around and around on a sushi conveyor belt. Nothing I could do could change that. But the horse continued to haunt me like a ghost, slowly passing me by about every two minutes, because no one else was a terrible monster like me and picked up the horse plate. After about an hour, only one plate in addition to the one on the counter way too close to me was taken by someone else. That person is far worse than I am, however, considering they actually ATE the graceful, majestic creature.

The situation felt very reminiscent of the horse head in the bed in The Godfather. I couldn't even escape the haunting of the horse meat in the picture of me in the restaurant. If you look right to the right of my hand, you can see the little plates of equine "sushi."

WOW, I really can't escape my mistake! I am listening to Pandora, and a song by a band called "Horse Feathers" just came on, no joke. I am scarred enough by knowing what horse meat looks like. Visions of raw horse meat will dance around in my nightmares like sugarplums dance in the visions of sleeping children waiting for Santa. Except I bet that sugarplums dance in a jolly, cheerful and magical way whereas slabs of dead horse dance in a demonic, terrifying way. Strange analogy, sorry...

I'd prefer this any day

I will never live this down...I am sorry to horses everywhere! At least I didn't actually EAT one of you! Please consider this my public apology.

Lost In Translation

Sorry to those who thought they were about to read a review about one of the best movies ever made, but this post is about how much is literally lost in translation here in Japan. The language barrier is thicker than a brick wall reinforced on both sides with a steel titanium alloy. This means, of course, that I am out of the loop on basically all topics when it comes to discussions in the teacher's room. For example, one day I slaved away all morning in preparation for my level three classes only to discover once I got to my first one that it was a different schedule that day. The English teachers all seemed shocked that no one told me, and I realized that they probably did, but in Japanese.

Most moment of best movie ever

 Being out of the loop is better sometimes, however. During the sports day at school where the students participate in relay races and other games, I was told shortly before one relay that I would be participating as a runner. Had I known about that ahead of time, I may have backed out due to anxiety from anticipation. The same goes for when I found out that I would be judging an English speech contest. I suppose, to be fair, I had pretty ample notice on that one- about one week. But, when I was told about it, it was in a tone expressing shock that I was unaware of it before.

Sometimes the attempted translations are just plain hilarious. The other day, I went to an electronic store to find out about getting a phone here. The whole process was just ridiculous as the representative did not speak a word of English and we took turns using his iPad translation app to communicate. My favorite was at the end, before I left after trying to explain that I would have to think about it, he told me to wait and typed something into his translator. He turned it to me and it said "I would like to be your partner." I almost burst out laughing on the spot. I'm not sure if he was trying to ask if we could meet up and practice English because he seemed all excited when he noticed that I was an instructor on my ID card, or if he was saying he wanted to be my salesperson if I returned, or if he was just plain being creepy and wanted to be my partner.

I've also realized that sometimes, teachers express understanding when I explain an activity to them, and once we get to class and attempt to execute said activity, it is clear that there was no understanding whatsoever. 

Honestly, some days I want to crumble in to a heap of hopeless sadness on the floor because I just so desperately want to get a point across and be able to communicate with some really cool people. But then I realize that there is absolutely no point in doing so, so I gather myself up, hold my chin high and embrace the challenges posed by cultural differences One thing is for sure:. being thrown into a new country makes learning the language a heck of a lot quicker.

The way to cause that wall preventing communication to come crumbling down? Put everyone in a room together and get a drink in their hands. And then after that drink, refill their glasses and repeat, until fluency is achieved. It works like a magic charm. 

Pantyhose and Japanese Hot Yoga

Not at the same time, don’t worry. I don’t think pantyhose are the best option for alpinists attempting to reach the summit of the tallest mountain in the world. They are, however, ridiculously common here in Japan, yet another reason I feel like their trends are a bit stuck in the past. I never would have thought that I’d be a regular pantyhose-wearing workingwoman (I am dumbstruck by the fact that that “workingwoman” is one word), even after realizing that EVERY female here wears them. I resisted for my first two weeks. Finally, I caved after hanging out with my Japanese friend and decided to give it the old college try. Turns out, I love pantyhose. They make my legs look awesome, even-toned and slim, and they make me feel less gross changing between sweaty pairs of shoes all the time. I feel like they also keep my pants cleaner from creating a barrier between them and my sweaty legs.'

My new best friends

Speaking of sweat, the only time you can see a Japanese person covered in it is during a hot yoga session. I decided that since I paid a whole $5.00 for a month gym membership, I should milk it for every cent and go to one of the classes they offer. I was completely clueless as to how it works at my gym where literally no employee speaks English. Of course, attempting to ask about if the gym has a sign up procedure for their classes was out of the question. Even if I magically figured out how to ask if I needed a mat or if I could rent one, I would never be able to understand the response. 

So, I learned how to read "hot yoga" in katakana, found out there was a class at 3:45 today and decided just to show up. I got there about a half hour early and there was already a line outside the studio. Good sign. I also noticed there were piles of mats stacked up inside the studio. Sweet, free mat rental, BOOM! I assumed, quite erroneously, that their version of hot yoga would be equivalent to that in America, with the same 26 postures. WRONG. Thankfully, the lady on the mat noticed my obvious white-ness and how completely lost I was instantly, and she started giving me little gestures on what to do in the mirror. The most awkward thing was that the instructor was clearly hilarious- people were laughing at her jokes the entire time, and I just sat there with my straight face plastered on. I think laughing with everyone else when they clearly could tell I didn't understand would have just made things worse. 

My fake laugh is a bit over the top...

The class was actually quite enjoyable, a nice detox, and if I continue to go maybe I will pick up some vocabulary. I doubt it, however. It may even make the normal gym fee worth it next month. 

Watashi Wa Gita o Ensoo Suru

Teaching this week gave me thicker calluses on my fingers than I’d ever like to have and demonstrated the degree to which the Japanese do not understand sarcasm. To the students’ giddy delight, I brought my guitar this week to play in class. It began as just two classes that asked me to play a song and morphed into the teachers asking that I play for every class. So, I had to play “Back to December” by Taylor Swift and “If I Had a Million Dollars” by the Barenaked Ladies (it was fun trying to explain THAT band name...) more times than I ever wanted to in my entire life.

In my advanced classes, the teacher I assist pointed out how difficult the English is in the song “Back to December” and I jokingly said “yes, I know, and I expect the entire song memorized by next week.” And she actually TOLD her students in Japanese to memorize at least half of it! When I started making gestures of shock and trying to explain that I was kidding, she had no idea what point I was trying to get across. Then, I made another joke in my other advanced class (no, I had not learned my lesson yet) saying I thought that we could have a talent show if they learned the whole song. The teacher didn’t really respond save for a nod, but knowing how literally they take everything, she probably is trying to arrange a massive school talent show right now. God, I hope not.

...you're not actually planning a talent show... right??

On another note, playing guitar was the simple way to worm my way into the wee hearts of my students. Okay, wee maybe is not the best word- some of the older boys are a head taller than me thus indicating that their hearts are potentially larger. Or, is the heart a muscle that remains the same size no matter the body size of whomever it resides within? No idea. Point being, the kids clapped and encored and gave my ego a huge boost. Also a shy little girl who rarely talks in class timidly approached me and said that she loved my voice. Aw! Either she is really sweet or really good at sucking up. Whichever the case, it worked and I adore her now.

Playing guitar in front of 30-40 students at least 7 times this week really helped me overcome my nerves that I develop, without fail, prior to performing. Seriously, the first time I played for a class beads of sweat were cascading down my face, likely causing the students to wonder why Americans are so gross. Asians basically don't sweat ever. I'm super jealous. 

So, perhaps they are teaching me more than I them. I am overcoming my fears and taking on new challenges as never before. 

Jan-ru-ary...?

Teaching English to Japanese pre-teens is rewarding and enjoyable and, on a less pleasant note, sheds light on the little spelling and abnormal quirks of our language. Today during my English class for the special education class, I was teaching the days of the week, the first six months of the year and the four seasons. While I began to write the names of the months on the chalkboard, I froze while writing the word January. Crap. With all eyes on me, the blood drained from my face as I realized that writing that word is simply habit. When extensively focusing on the spelling of the word January, panic set in. Where was my best friend, Spell Check, to help me out in my time of need? Out bowling with my other buddy Second Nature, I guess. Those two are officially no longer my friends.

JANUARY? The word itself began to just sound absurd in the way that any word does if you repeat it to yourself enough. For example buttress. I mean, is that seriously a word that we allow to exist in our language!? Jan. U. Ary. That seems logical was my first fleeting thought. But then I remembered our dear friend, Feb RU ary. February? Is that a joke? What is with the silent R? Perhaps at some time in the antiquity of English it was pronounced.

My hand began to shake as I held the chalk to the board, fully aware that 30 plus sets of eyes were locked on me, the new foreign teacher conducting her first real lesson. Would she fail? This was my moment to impress them all! And, thankfully, I remembered my training. We were told to make a decision and stick with it, complete confidence shining through. If you forget who the first president was, as inexcusable as it may seem, if you say CLINTON with enough gusto, perhaps your attitude alone will make it correct enough for the students, anyway...

So, with chalk to chalkboard, I went with my gut. J-A-N-U-A-R-Y. Phew! I checked later and luckily, it was correct. No stupid, hidden R in that one! Thus, my lesson was a success, and perhaps a future generation of eager Japanese kiddos will move forward in life spelling the first month of the year correctly.

I blew the MINDS of those kids with my perfect spelling of JANUARY!

They Do It in India, They Do It in Japan

No, my blog did not just take a leap to NC-17 rated material. Sorry, all my perv readers out there (hopefully none of you...). I am not referring to "IT" in the sense that giggly 5th graders in Sex-Ed often do. I am referring to a cultural practice which, though it may sound nice in theory, is something I am SO thankful we don't do in the US of A. The practice to which I am referring is that of wearing different shoes indoors and outdoors.

Changing shoes when you enter a building from outside sounds like a good idea, as previously mentioned, in theory. It seems that it would prevent floors from getting contaminated with the filth tracked in from outside. However, the nitty-gritties of the practice are what disgust me and convince me of the repulsion resulting from it.

Two words, ladies and gents: loaner shoes. Yes, if you do not have your indoor shoes with you when you enter a building requiring the removal of your outdoor shoes, you need to BORROW the designated guest indoor shoes provided by the establishment. I cannot even fathom the number of strains of fungi hanging out inside of those loaner shoes. I mean, depending on the visitor traffic of the place, there could be hundreds of pairs of feet sliding in and out of those things DAILY. That includes the feet of extremely unhygienic people who shower a maximum of once a week. I'm sorry, but shockingly I would rather soil the holy floors of a building than put my foot where those feet have been. Gross.

NO! Not the LOANER SHOES!!

Don't Cry Over Spilt Milk

I had the most ridiculous and hilarious experience at lunch (remember, I have learned to laugh at my own misfortune). Normally, (I say that as if I have been teaching longer than two days...) I fend off the kids before they can place a milk carton in front of me at lunch (my vegetarian slash lactose intolerance means I bring my own lunch) but today I didn't manage to do so. Putting the milk back would be as rude in Japanese culture as a man itching his groin and belching while entering a room would be in ours. So, obviously I couldn't do that. Why not just pretend to drink it, you ask? Well, after finishing the last drop, the kids have to UNFOLD and flatten the carton, reverse-oragami style, meaning that if the tiniest drop remains it will spill all over the place.

Pretty much...

So, knowing full well that my body would launch a mutinous attack against me by allowing lactose, which it is unable to digest in such large quantities, into my body, I guzzled it down as fast as possible. The bloating began almost instantly, and embarrassment was soon to follow. I couldn't for the life of me figure out the carton-folding process, so a 14-year-old student had to come to my aid and while he meticulously undid the carton, it became clear that I did not consume every last atom of milk since it spilled all over the desk and dripped onto my pants. The pre-teen girl across from me handed me a pack of tissues with the expression "wow, what a stupid American..." plastered across her face.

Not the best impression to make at lunch. At least some of the kids think I am comical now. And, as long as I laugh with them, they aren't exactly laughing AT me, right?