Iwaki

Iwaki Coast

From the beach where Eriko and I stood, long, wide arcs of water playfully reached for our feet, retreated, and returned as we looked out at the sea. The sky hung grey over our heads and a lighthouse sat on a cliff in the distance. Behind us, a few skeletons of houses crouched over themselves, as if aching, ready to collapse. There were only a few of these dying structures left; the rest was a field of concrete foundations marking where homes once made up a small coastal village. All that remained now was a pile of rubble that overflowed from the junior high school pool.

“Tsunami”, Eriko said, now facing the grave of concrete.

We walked along the remaining road that followed the beach. It was broken and covered in sand. The few buildings left were in shambles, waiting to be torn down by tractors and wrecking balls. There were only a few people walking amongst the wreckage, people who once belonged to the village, but who now seemed as lost as we did.

“This looks like my village,” Eriko commented. “Only in mine there aren’t even a few houses standing anymore. It’s all gone.”

I was quiet, angry at myself for inviting her to the coast with me. I didn’t realize that the tsunami damage would still be so fresh.

“I’m sorry, Eriko. We can leave if you’d like.”

“No. It’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine, Joshua. Don’t worry.”

The rubble in the junior high school swimming pool sat like a decaying carcass. Men in business suits and yellow hard hats had come by and told the weathered fishermen that it was all saturated with radiation and it couldn’t be moved. Surveying its height and breadth, I could make out mattresses, tables, kitchen stoves and desktop computers. There were dolls and plastic playground slides for toddlers, car tires and street signs. The items absorbed into one another and smelled of mildew.

“In my town, the tsunami came up twenty meters,” Eriko told me.

I looked out at a lifeguard’s perch on the beach. The railing was twisted and uprooted from the concrete. Rust had already covered the exposed metal. The tsunami must have been just as tall as the top of the structure.

Holding my gaze at the same height as the lifeguard perch, I turned toward the village, envisioning the tsunami’s path. Maybe I could conjure the sounds of wood buckling and cars being turned over, of ships being lifted over the wave breakers and smashed into the cliff behind the town. Maybe I could see faces of people watching their houses drown in the angry sea. Maybe I could feel a fraction of their pain.



I couldn’t.



I looked at Eriko who was lost in thought, likely about her own village. It was clear that she had already grieved, in her Japanese way, and was ready to move on. There were new challenges to face that the tsunami left in its wake. Her parents were still living in a family shelter provided by the government, and needed to find a new place to rebuild their home. She was still getting used to the new town she had been relocated to. And there were daily broadcasts of radiation levels that had us all wondering just how safe Fukushima was. The aftermath had forced her wounds to heal quickly.

I admired Eriko. I wanted to console her, to share some profound advice on life and say how it’ll all be okay. But the sight of the leveled village choked my thoughts and kept me silent. There was nothing to say. 

We walked off together, back towards my car. The silence remained as we drove away, leaving the sad remains of the village behind us. We didn't speak again until my car passed over a hill and the sea disappeared from our view.

Does Size Matter in a Japanese Sauna?

I was naked, sitting next to Endo-san, a fifty year old, five foot four inch, stout Japanese man. He was also naked. Next to him was a slightly taller but portlier man, naked as well, around Endo-san’s same age. All of us were sweating profusely in the thick heat. A still older man flung open the sauna door and tried to casually walk his wrinkled, sagging body to one of the tiers of wooden benches that we were seated at. I say "tried" because the man was clearly drunk on sake and had difficulty putting one foot in front of the other. Stumbling around drunk in a sauna wasn't a good idea, but the man didn't seem to recognize the danger. I winced as I watched him sway close to the burning stones that heated the small room. He swaggered and tried to focus on a place to plop down his floppy, bare cheeks. Seeing him eye the towel on the first tier of benches, a spot dangerously close to my foot, I moved into the agura position, cross legged, in order to avoid an incident. The position switch made my spot on the second tier feel more cramped, but it was far better than having an old Japanese man rest his naked ass on my toes. His presence made me uncomfortable. But that was just the beginning of the discomfort.

Endo-san laughed. He gestured a drinking motion at me to explain that the man was drunk. I feigned surprise and smiled back. I was still trying to get used to the whole situation.

Going to an ofuro, or public bath, is a very traditional Japanese activity. As much as I was grateful to Endo-san for inviting me to go, I was still anxious. Despite being a means to relax, ofuros, like all Japanese traditions, have strict rules that need to be observed in order to participate. I of course, was not familiar with most of them.

Before leaving for Japan in July I consulted a friend of mine who had lived there for two years and was currently getting a PHD in Japanese History. I asked him about working in the schools, what etiquette I should observe, foods that I should look for and others that I should avoid— all the basics that I would need in order to make a smooth transition into the new culture. During the conversation my friend mentioned ofuros.

“You know about the public baths?” he asked.

“I know something about them, I guess. They’re like a hot springs, right?”

“Kind of. There’s a bit more to it than that. You don’t just dive in and relax. The Japanese shower before getting into the baths. But it’s not like how we’re supposed to shower before jumping into a pool; like where you splash some water on yourself and call it good. In Japan, you sit down on this little stool and scrub the hell out of yourself for about fifteen minutes. You’re in a line with a bunch of other naked guys and you scrub yourself until your skin is red.

“Since I was a gaijin I made sure that I really scrubbed myself down. The Japanese have this image of us as dirty barbarians, so I did what I could to make sure that they knew that I was just as clean as them. I must have been there twenty five minutes scrubbing, longer than anyone else.”

I laughed. “Really? You really clean yourself that much?” The idea seemed silly to me, a man who has gone two weeks in the mountains without bathing.

“Definitely. And even then, when I rinsed myself off and went to sit in one of the baths, a Japanese guy saw me coming and got out. He didn’t want to be in the same bath with a dirty gaijin.”

I looked surprised, “Really?”

“Oh yeah. The Japanese can be pretty racist sometimes.”


With my friend’s advice in my head, I wondered what the Japanese men that I sat in the sauna with thought about me. We hadn't even gotten to the baths and showers yet, but I was worried. Was I ruining the others' ofuro outing by being there? Were they eyeing my body, looking for some filthy, contagious gaijin disease that could be spread to them?

Endo-san looked over at me. I expected him to say something about how I didn’t clean off enough.

“Joshua-san,” he said in Japanese. “You’re tall.”

He brought his hand up to the level of my head and compared it to his own, saying “Bigger!”

I laughed, hoping the action would calm my nerves a bit.

Endo-san looked at my arm. He flexed his bicep next to mine and made me do the same, comparing sizes again.

“Whoa!” he said, shocked. “Bigger!”

The game would have been funny if we were fully clothed. But now, naked and sweating, I couldn’t help but feel awkward.

He looked down towards my waist.

“Whoa! Much bigger!” he exclaimed.

The heat of the sauna felt like it jumped five degrees. Had my face not have already been red, I’m sure that Endo-san would have caught me blushing. I laughed uncomfortably.

Endo-san brought his hands toward me to measure the body part that he had just labeled as "Whoa! Much bigger." This was a clear cultural difference in personal space standards that no Lonely Planet cultural summary had prepared me for. Before I could jump or run, or perhaps curl into the fetal position and cry, I saw that he held his measurement far enough away that I didn't need to overreact. Relief came like a splash of cold water. But it didn't last long. I quickly divined that the measurement that Endo-san held up was almost a foot and a half. My relief became confusion.

“So big!” he declared.

Though I knew he was being generous, I glanced down at myself to verify how ludicrous his eye-balled calculation was.

Nope. Definitely not that big.

I thought that maybe his augmentation of my body part was some sort of strange Japanese way of complimenting me. Or perhaps he was fishing for me to respond in a similar way by, ahem, 'enlarging' his own measurement. Whatever it meant, I had no idea how to respond.

I was going to say something like, “Thank you” or “Oh, it’s not that big,” when I saw that he was bringing his one and a half foot hand measurement toward himself in order to compare. I quickly looked away, hoping to give him what privacy I could.

“Joshua-san, look."

That was the phrase that I was dreading. There are a lot of respect your elder politeness rules in Japan, but I wasn’t sure if that meant that I should or should not look at what he wanted me to see. I turned my head towards him, cringing slightly as I glanced in the indicated direction.

“You are much bigger.”

Endo-san had his hands at the same length as before but, to my surprise, he wasn't sizing up what I had expected. He held his hands just over his thigh. His was about a foot long, and mine was about a foot and a half.

I sighed relief, “Oh, yes Endo-san. Much bigger.”

Our thighs— he had been measuring our thighs the whole time.

The drunk old octogenarian in front of us slumped over, singing something to himself in more of a murmur than a song. I moved my legs out of the agura position and rested my feet back on the first tier. Despite the body part measuring game, I was feeling more comfortable now.

Then, a knock at the door.

The sound was unusual. Everyone who had entered before had simply flung the door open and sauntered in. I expected it to be some etiquette rule that I was unfamiliar with. Maybe I should have knocked when I first came in.

The knock came again, this time accompanied by a crackly, tired voice. Though I couldn’t understand what it was saying, I could tell that the voice was an old woman's. She rattled something in Japanese that seemed to issue a warning. I looked at the drunk man and wondered if it wasn’t his wife looking for him. Or maybe the ofuro was closing and we were supposed to leave.

Endo-san yelled back, “Dozo.”

“Dozo?!” I thought. The word itself is now easy for me to understand. My shock was not one of confusion as to the meaning of the word, but as to why Endo-san would respond, "Dozo", or "Come in", to an old lady about to enter a room full of naked men; naked men that included me!

I thought in silent protest, "What do you mean ‘dozo’, Endo-san? We’re butt naked in here!”

Apparently our nakedness wasn’t a problem. The old lady swung open the door and charged in with a bundle of fresh towels in her arms. When she set them down on the first tier and stood up, she was at eye level with my waist.

Being a gaijin, I understand why people stare at me in the streets or at the schools I work at. My brown hair, blue eyes and six-foot one stature are a stark contrast to the short, black haired Japanese. Usually I don't worry much about the stares. Now however, squeezed into a blazingly hot sauna with an eighty year old grandma looking on, I wished that I didn't stand out quite as much. I could only hope that her waist level glances toward me, like Endo-san’s, were merely to check my thigh length.

I stood up quickly with the other men and we helped pick up the old towels that we had been sitting on in order to replace them with the new ones. Brushing against a bunch of naked Japanese men was strange enough, but stranger still was the fact that the old lady stood there, maybe a foot away, barking orders at us. Again I was glad that the heat was a valid excuse for my blushing and profuse perspiration. The other men weren’t fazed a bit.

I wondered to myself about everything that I had heard about how shy the Japanese were and how privacy was very important to them. My experience wasn’t fitting into that paradigm. You would think that during my friend's advice about adjusting to ofuros he would have mentioned the old ladies that come in when you're butt naked and make you change the towels. I guess that part never crossed his mind. Or perhaps he wanted me to learn that lesson on my own.

Even when the towels were laid and the woman's job was finished, she stayed for a bit and chatted with Endo-san. Endo-san, as naked as anyone else, didn’t give it a second thought. He sat on the second tier, legs spread open, and chatted with the old woman about who knows what. I ignored the conversation, since I didn't consider it an ideal time to practice my Japanese, and attempted to sit cross legged again in hopes of maybe covering up a bit. It was hopeless. Actually, a better word would be ‘pointless’. The old woman cared as much about my nudity as I would have a naked baby’s. Whatever body part came across her view, big thighs or little thighs, it wasn’t of any interest to the towel granny.

When the woman left, Endo-san let me know that he was heading to shower before getting into the bath. I hadn’t even started the real ofuro process yet and I was well outside of my comfort zone. But clearly, there was no hiding. After such a start I actually felt somewhat empowered. What else could happen? Whatever awaited me at the showers and the baths, it would be hard to find anything that would be as uncomfortable as my first thirty minutes in the sauna.

I stood up and walked out of the small room, happy to leave the heat behind. As soon as I crossed through the doorway I could hear the old drunkard, alone now in the sauna, belting out a new song.

Fall Colors, Honky-Tonk, and Language Difficulties

We’re headed to Mount Aizu. It’s fall now and Aizu is the best place in Fukushima to see the colors changing. I’ve been invited by Kawase-san, my Japanese teacher, and his family.

From the tape deck in Kawase-san’s small SUV, the songs go between old honky-tonk and bluegrass. At first my brain struggles with the anachronism, being from both a different time and a completely different culture. But then, as I take in the banjo twangs and look out at passing shrines and Buddha statues, I realize the humor in it and I can't help but chuckle.

“Kawase-san. Ongaku ga dai suki,” I say after a long thought process to make sure that the sentence is okay: ‘I really like the music.’ When I finish the phrase my pride sneaks up on me and pats me on the back. I'm actually able to speak some Japanese.

“Hankuwiru musu” he responds.

That's when the cold stab of ignorance sets in where my pride had just snuck up a moment before; I don't understand.

“Sumimasen. Mo ichido onegaishimasu.” I ask Kawase-san to please repeat what he said.

Changing Colors - Aizu

My low level of Japanese makes it so I hardly understand anything, but sometimes when people repeat a phrase, and slow it way down, I can pick up on one word that allows me to guess at the general context of the question. From there I can give a blind shot at an answer, though I don’t have much of a vocabulary to give any elaborate response.

Kawase-san repeats, “Hankuwiru musu.”

I recognize the iru ending, which means that he’s using a verb form in the normal (not polite) present tense. But I have never learned the verb hankuwiru. Hanku sounds like hanko which is the identification stamp you use to sign documents. My Spanish would lead me to believe that maybe you could turn the noun, hanko, into a verb, hankuwiru, since there would be an obvious root to work with. But I’m slowly learning that Japanese doesn’t share roots as easily as romance languages. Sometimes it works; like with the verb ‘to sing’, utau, which sounds like the word ‘song’, uta. To say singer then, I would assume something like uta-jin, ‘song-person’, or utau-jin, ‘sing-person’. But unfortunately, it has no connection to the root. ‘Singer’is kashu. That's why I no longer trust my natural inclination to connect verbs and nouns vis a vis a root. It just doesn't always work in Japanese.

I repeat the word aloud, “Hankuwiru musu.”

“Hai,” Kawase-san affirms. “You know hankuwiru musu?”

At this point I have to admit defeat. I don’t know what the words mean. My face immediately reverts to an expression that has been my way of saying ‘I don’t understand’ since arriving three months ago - I raise my eyebrows and my eyes grow wide, as if the new word or phrase was a slap in the face from a martian. The face says, “I can’t believe it” and “What the hell is going on?” at the same time. People catch on to the meaning pretty quickly.

I have no idea what hankuwiru musu means and I don’t know why Kawase-san would be talking about identification stamps after I told him I liked his music. The phrase can’t be connected to hanko, then. Unless it’s an expression; like, you give it your stamp of approval.  No, that can’t be right.

My mind goes blank and I concede, “Iie. No. I don’t know.”

He looks surprised. In English, he comments, “Really? Very famous.”

I’m sure he meant to say that the word is very ‘common’, but I get the gist of his mixed adjectives since we have been meeting each other for two hours every Friday for the past two months. Our discourse is like that. I say funny things in Japanese and he understands me. He says funny things in English and I understand him.

His reaction to me not knowing hankuwiru musu doesn’t help me feel better. I think, “Great, I don’t even know famous words.”

Then Kawase-san’s wife interrupts with more Japanese that I don’t understand, but the meaning is easily inferable as she reaches her arm to the backseat, where I am seated, and hands me an orange.

“Oh! Arigatou gozaimasu.” I say, still fixed on hankuwiru musu and what it could possibly mean. Before I can ask, Mayumi, also sitting in the backseat, changes the subject.

“We are picking up my friend before we go to Aizu. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” I reply, tickled that her translations from Japanese to English still include the politeness to ask my permission for something I clearly have no control over, nor would I ever be opposed to.

“He is from Korea,” she explains.

I ask, “Oh, does he speak Japanese?”

“No, no, no. He is only here visiting. He speaks English though.”

I feel a relief that is irksome. I know I will be happy to be able to communicate in English, but I want to be forced to speak Japanese. Forced communication is the only way to relieve myself, eventually, from this constant feeling of ignorance. At least her friend will be in the same boat as I am. We can laugh about how we don’t understand anything.

When Mayumi’s friend, Jung, gets in the car, Kawase-san starts asking him questions in Japanese. I prepare myself to see the same dumbfounded expression arise on Jung’s face. To my dismay however, he barely hesitates before he responds to the questions clearly and articulately.

“I thought you didn’t speak Japanese” I try to say casually, hopefully hiding my jealousy.

“Oh! I don’t,” he responds without out any pretense. He really doesn’t consider his responses to be speaking Japanese. If he can answer Kawase-san’s questions and considers it not being able to speak Japanese, than I wonder what he thinks of my language ability. I must be at comatose level, or the level of some inanimate object; “Yes, I speak Japanese almost as well as a rock.”

Again Kawase-san’s wife’s arm comes arching to the backseat and hands all of us some wasabi peas.

I respond, “Oh! Arigatou gozaimasu,” happy that at least I can say that much.

Jung also says thank you, opens the tiny packet of wasabi peas, and before eating says, “Itadakimasu” which shows that you humbly receive the food. It’s a word that is always said before eating anything. I forgot to say “Itadakimasu” and I’ve already eaten four wasabi peas and my orange peel is sitting in my lap.

***

Kawase-san drives his small SUV like it’s a steed. He’s the cowboy trying to wrangle up wild cattle that done run off the ranch. Or, in this case, he’s trying to take us on a Sunday drive to see the fall colors. Between the speed at which Kawase-san takes turns up the winding mountain road and the thick fog, I am barely able to take in any kind of a view. I assume we’re headed to a lookout point and I’ll be able to appreciate the iridescent trees from there. When we get to the lookout however, the fog is so thick that we can’t see ten yards in front of us. I laugh at the circumstances. I don’t really care that much about the view. The time spent with everyone is entertaining enough.

On the way back down the road, Kawase-san really digs his spurs in and we tear through the forest. I think he wanted to match the rhythm of the honky-tonk still playing on the tape deck. Unperturbed by the speed, his wife yet again reaches to the backseat and gives us little cartons of an iced coffee drink. I think to myself, “Where is all of this food coming from?”

As we bounce and jar to the whim of Kawase-san’s driving, Jung reads the Japanese writing called katakana that's written on the coffee label. “Co-fu-i o-re-i.”

He doesn’t know Japanese, my ass.

***

The Kawase’s take us to a tea ceremony and then to an ancient castle. It appears that the Japanese tourist image isn’t solely reserved for the Grand Canyon or Disneyland. Even in their own country, people are out in the dozens, taking photos and posing by holding up peace signs in front of all sorts of interesting landmarks.

The day is long but enjoyable in its entirety. I am sad when we are on the road back home, where I’ll eventually sit down to another dinner for one. My brain probably needs it though. Despite not talking much I have managed to write down twenty new words and five new phrases that I try to commit to memory while we’re in the car.

The food providing arm reaches back yet again and deposits chocolate in my hand.

“Oh! Arigatou gozaimasu!” I say again. Then, before eating, I make sure to include, “Itadakimasu”.

A familiar song starts playing from the speakers. More honky-tonk. Kawase-san turns it up a bit and says, “hankuwiru musu.”

I’m so full of new words from the trip that I almost let it go by. It’s obviously too hard for me to get; hankuwiru musu. But then I pause and my brain chews on it a little more. Hankuwiru musu. Hankuwiru musu. Han-ku. Wi-ru-mu-su. I give a kind of guffaw of disbelief that I couldn’t figure it out before. Hanku Wi-ru-mu-su. Hank Williams.

SEXY Blog, 2011

Welcome to the new, improved, On The Move blog. There are a few new features to peruse at your leisure that I'd like to bring your attention to:

1st- There is a new "Welcome" tab that you can read if you so choose.

2nd- You can now register on the right-hand sidebar to receive emails when I update my blog.

3rd- Also on the right-hand sidebar, you can become one of my "followers" (weird...but it would be cool to see who reads this).

4th- There is a new tab called "Writing Projects" where I have put some stories that are of a different genre than the travel writings. All of the pieces I have put more work into than a normal blog post. Whether that makes them better or not, I have no idea, but I'd love to hear comments and feedback on any of the stories as it would greatly help me grow as a writer.

Finally- I have a new post from Japan, entitled "Typhoon" just below.

Thank you for taking time to read some of the stories from my life. I greatly appreciate it.

Sincerely,
Josh

Typhoon

The people had heard of the typhoon days in advance. It was on their televisions as a digitally rendered spiral mass. On the radio, they said to batten down the hatches, or something of the like in Japanese. People talked about it in the streets when the clouds moved in lackadaisically grey and heavy, and the first rain drops appeared.

There were only so many preparations for the people to make, and they became less dire in a land that was accustomed to the monthly natural disaster. It was an earthquake in March, another in July, mudslides and flooding in August. And now: typhoon.

School stayed in session. When the first winds picked up, it lashed raindrops against second graders in yellow slickers. The children marched in a line from the bus to their classroom. The teachers closed up the windows and the rain became background chatter to their daily lessons. By lunch time, the indoor world and the outdoor world were of entirely different spirit. In clean, dry shirts and ties, teachers looked out from the protection of their rooms and watched trees bending and swaying sideways. The rain fell from all directions and sometimes leapt toward the windows, like a horror movie ghost, only to be broken up on the glass pane and turned to rivulets drawn down by gravity. There was nothing the people could do but wait out the storm.

***

The rice paddies had already started turning golden brown before the rains. It would be harvest time in a month or so. The grains were growing heavier and were bending the rice stalks into a reverent bow. No longer sprightly, green adolescents, the stalks had matured into middle age and bore the weight of their lives with quiet dignity. When the rain picked up and the earth dampened, the stalks were not affected. They were firmly rooted in the dark earth.

When the dirt became viscous and turned into mud, a soft pair of bulging eyes, no bigger than fish eggs, surfaced to see what the commotion was all about. The soft membranes blinked, checked the paddy for dangers and slowly surfaced, revealing a blunt arrow of a head, and tiny forelegs. The frog inhaled thanks to the rain, silently praising it. Moisture! He blinked his bulging eyes again, clearing any mud from them, and then creaked a noise more fit for a creature fifty times his size, a stentorian, deep croaking that called to his friends. For a moment, silence. Then the responses came. Other frogs chimed in with their croaks: “The rain is here! The rain is here!” The responses came in the hundreds, from all parts of the paddy, from all the rice paddies stretching down the mountain valley. They rejoiced in the rain which was now becoming stronger still and turning the paddy rows into a muddy playground.

The frogs delighted in the wet earth and set to leaping about. No predators would be around in such a storm. For the frogs however, the weather was perfect. They jumped above the bending rice stalks, into the wind and lashing rain of the typhoon. Then they came splashing down softly into the new pools of black water, all the while continuing their croaks. Swimming beetles and unfortunate grasshoppers would find themselves hopelessly flailing about in the pools, and the frogs found opportunity for a feast. In an instant, they would send their sticky tongues out like a whip, grabbing the defenseless creatures and gobbling them up. The frogs found mates with which to celebrate the rain, and leapt about together, chasing and flirting with one another. It was one of the few times when the frogs could play safely. They knew this, and they loved the rain for it.

In an hour’s time the rain had increased significantly. Now the pools poured into one another. The rice stalks tried their hardest to not uproot, though their heavy bounty was now dipping into the water. The frogs, who before found hills and banks to jump from, were now swimming about, looking for the reprieve of solid land. But there was none to be found. They were growing fatigued from swimming. Though their powerful hind legs were made for such sport, the deluge became too much. Streams and rivers formed, threatening to carry the frogs downstream. They began to yearn for the mud again, for a place to bury themselves away and rest. The hundreds of frogs needed to escape the deep pools and rushing water; they had to find higher ground where they could wait for the floods to cease.

***

Thunder cracked and roared down the mountain valley. There was no beginning or end from whence the rain came. Rather, it all chaotically spun about in the atmosphere and poured down on the earth. Hillsides were giving, and trees toppling over.

The elementary school students were being dismissed to the busses. Their rain hats were grabbed from their heads by the wind and were swallowed up into the dark storm. They entered the busses bewildered and silently watched the typhoon from behind the windows as they were driven off to their homes.

When night came, the teachers were still working diligently in their office. The storm had still not abated. A teacher packed up his things, told his colleagues to please drive safe in such terrible weather, and then darted to his car. He was soaked by the time he got in. With the engine catching and the wiper blades violently waving back and forth, he pulled onto the road and made his way home as quickly as possible. When there were not pools of water in the street, he could get up to sixty kilometers per hour, a good clip considering the conditions. It was enough to get him home as quickly as possible, so that he may dry off and sit by the heater.

There weren’t many cars on the countryside road. The headlights of the teacher’s car only illuminated a small triangle ahead of the vehicle. The teacher’s hope to get home quickly translated into a push on the accelerator and the car began barreling down the road, the rain crashing down upon it. The storm was still surging but it wasn’t as bad as before. The car moved faster, swerving around large puddles and careening into the small ones. The teacher would be home in twenty minutes at this rate, faster than he originally thought. Maybe he could make it in ten minutes.

The rain was almost stopping now. The speedometer moved to seventy, eighty. The teacher could almost feel the warmth of his heater at home; of his dry clothes. And then, too suddenly for the teacher to do anything about it, in the small triangle of light that the headlights cast upon the road, a leaping frog hurled himself in front of the car.

The teacher cringed at the sound of the small impact. But he didn’t slow, his resolve to get home growing stronger. A few seconds later, another frog leapt from the side of the road and landed in front of his left tire. The tiny bump it made could barely be felt by the teacher when the car ran over it. Just as a notion of surprise at hitting two frogs crept into the teachers head, the triangle of light, now moving at eighty three kilometers per hour, illuminated more tiny bodies leaping into it. For a millisecond the teacher could see their brightened bodies as if frozen in mid air. There must have been half a dozen of them. But he had no time to neither swerve nor avoid the inevitable collision. Every tiny, leaping body that the triangle of light picked up came to the same end: smashing violently against the car that charged down the wet road.

The sound began to rat-a-tat-tat from the front of the car and the teacher noticed that the frogs were leaping in front of him by the dozens. He slowed, but still not enough to stop the massacre. Every meter he progressed a new onslaught of bodies threw themselves in front of his vehicle. The teacher’s morality began taunting him. Every new thump to hit his car, every small bump that became muted under the tires, was a plea that he be merciful and stop his car. But he continued on. The horror of it was interminable. The teacher accelerated, hoping that the nightmare would end faster that way. The thumps and tiny crashes picked up their frequency. Instead of hearing rain drops hit the car now, it was frogs; hundreds of them. He accelerated still more. The faster he went, the quicker it would end. Soon he would be home by the heater, where he could wait out the storm in silence. With the belief that such an event had to end quickly, that there couldn’t possibly be more frogs, the teacher pressed on. But the thuds and crunches continued relentlessly, echoing in his ears, shaking his conscience. The debate in his head of whether he should stop or not was meaningless. What was the point when he had already hit so many? He weighed the pros against the cons of stopping, of waiting for all the frogs in the valley to pass. But still he continued on, his car plowing against more and more helpless creatures running the gauntlet of the road.

The triangle of light was a merciless picture show of the teacher’s callousness. If he would just stop, dozens would be saved, hundreds perhaps. But it had to end. Maybe a second more and it will end, he assured himself.

His assurance was met with only more thuds, which now he ignored. He had set his course. It was their own fault anyway. What the illuminated triangle at the front of the car revealed in all its frigid indifference, the darkness behind the car covered and left to be forgotten in the night.

Just get home. You’re almost there.

***

The heater in the teacher’s small apartment was nice and warm. He quickly changed out of his wet work clothes and into jeans and a soft, dry sweater. He drank tea to drown the last inklings of cold that his body had taken on and soon enough he had moved to his bed where the blankets enveloped him from chin to toe.

The rain had stopped completely. The teacher noticed the quiet. It sounded foreign and new against a day of constant storm. Just before the silence took hold of the teacher and carried him off to his dreams, it broke. Somewhere beyond his window, in the rice paddies of the mountain valley, a sound of croaking began.

Howdy, Sensei

Kawase-san is sixty years old. He sits in the agura position, crossed legged, on the tatami mats in his home in the Japanese countryside. Incense burns from plates on the floor, the smoke writhing and curling above his head. Shoji screen walls border the room. A low table hunches in the middle of the floor. Six sitting cushions are evenly distributed around the table. Kawase-san’s mustache is neatly trimmed, grey at the tips and black under his nose. The crow’s feet that branch out from his almond eyes extend past his temples, to his hairline. His features are kind and wise, his manner, patient and deliberate. He wears a dark red t-shirt with the words “Grand Canyon” printed on it.

I enter, eager to start learning Japanese. Kawase-san stands and I present him with a bottle of sake. I bow and say yoroshiku onegaishimasu, nice to meet you. He smiles with delight, bows, and begins to open the sake.

“Sumimasen Kawase-san, but I drove here.” I mime ‘driving’. “Sorry.”

He smiles, and sets the sake down. In English he responds, “Okay. Next time, we drink sake.”

Through Mayumi, my friend, translator, and go-to help for all my pragmatic needs while in Japan, I have arranged to meet her uncle in order to start a Japanese-English exchange. The plan is an hour of English and then and hour of Japanese. I’m hoping that the plan will help me take a step forward in the language which, as of now, is still stupefying me. When I meet Kawase-san for the first time, I know it will be a good exchange.

“Joshua-san,” he begins. “Tell me. What does the word ‘yippy-kay-yay’ mean?”

I can’t help but smile. I guess we’re starting with English first.

“Well…that’s a good question. I suppose it means, something like, ‘Yeah! Let’s go!’”

As soon as I finish my definition I realize that I missed the mark. How do you define ‘yippy-kay-yay’? Regardless, Kawase-san scribbles a note into his notebook. Mayumi looks on, also intrigued by the new word.

“Joshua-san.” Kawase-san begins to ask me again. “What about ‘Yee-haw’?”

I laugh. I’m starting to notice a trend.

“Well. I guess it’s pretty similar to ‘yippy-kay-yay’. Except I think you use ‘yee-haw’ when you’re riding a horse.” I pause for a second. “These are interesting words. I think that you like Westerns.”

“Ah, so, so, so,” he affirms. Knowing that I am far removed from cowboy culture, I still say proudly, “I’m from the West.”

Suddenly Kawase-san’s eyes brighten. “Ah, yes?”

“Oh yeah. I’m from Colorado. We have a saying—The West is the best.”

He chuckles and looks eager to ask another question. I can tell he is trying to recall the right words to use.

“So, you ride horses?”

Uh-oh. He’s calling my bluff. “Well, no, not exactly. I have ridden a horse. But I don’t do it all the time.”

The gleam in his eye fades slightly, but he continues smiling. He replies, “Oh, I understand. I understand. But, maybe, you have a gun?”

Again, I look away slightly, breathe in quickly and try to think of a politician’s response. “Well, no. I’ve actually never even fired a gun.”

Now the hopeful gleam in Kawase-san’s eyes fades visibly, but the smile remains. I feel bad. I’m not the cowboy he was hoping for.

Suddenly, I raise my voice, startling Kawase-san. “I have a word for you! ‘Giddy-up’!”

He looks intrigued. The gleam in his eyes surfaces again. He silently mouths the syllables: gi-di-up. “I have heard this. What does it mean?”

“That’s how you tell your horse to move faster. You yell, ‘Giddy-up!’ and the horse shoots off.”

He scribbles the word into his notebook and writes more notes. I struggle for something else to say that will prove that this exchange is worth his time.

“Here’s another one, Kawase-san. It’s used with cowboys all the time. ‘Ya’ll’.”

Now he’s smiling even bigger, as if I was the secret link to his transition into full cowboyhood. I might not be a cowboy myself, but I can teach him the ways of the cowboy.

“’Ya’ll’,” I repeat. “As in, ‘Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?’”

Kawase-san is now scribbling at high speed. He wants to get every word down, every accentual fluctuation, every accompanied hand gesture. I explain the meaning of ‘ya’ll’ and ‘Ya’ll come back now ya hear?”’ and suddenly the conversation takes off. Somehow my knowledge-well of cowboy culture is refilled and we talk about rodeos, famous bandits and robbers, line-dancing, and gold rushes. I tell him how my great grandpa met Buffalo Bill, and how you can still see cowboys today in Colorado. Kawase-san’s eyes remain fascinated now, and he continues to jot down notes and new words. His wife comes out and brings us dinner. His grandson and his grandson’s friend join us. Mayumi takes my small plate and fills it with sushi, then noodles, then egg-tofu. I continue to describe the culture of the American West, and realize that I do it with pride. Though I know I’m not a cowboy, something still rises in me to think that I’m not too far removed from it. Kawase-san seems to understand and accepts my experience as good enough for him.

By the end of the night the English lesson far outweighs the Japanese one. The majority of the time was spent with me teaching esoteric idioms from the ole west. At this point in my time in Japan I sorely need to learn more Japanese. I was hoping that by the end of the night I would have some new phrases and expressions to try out. But it appears that my Japanese will have to wait. I’m fine with waiting. A moment that makes me smile, laugh and feel welcome in this new country is well worth it.

Sweaty Gaijin

During a formal Japanese business introduction it is important to be dressed in your finest business attire. A suit with a white shirt and black tie is ideal. Your clothes should be ironed and clean and not stray from the standard professional dress expected in Japan.

When entering a building where it is required to take off your shoes, step out of your shoes into the guest slippers placed at the foyer. Keep your outdoor shoes in a pair and place them with the other outdoor shoes, toes facing toward the exit of the building. In some cases, you can take your slippers from a locker and put your outdoor shoes in their place.

When meeting new people during these formal introductions, bow properly, with your hands to your side, keeping your back rigid and bending at your hips. Say, “Hajimemashitte” (Nice to meet you) and then introduce yourself with, “Watashi wa ___________ desu” (I am ___________). Conclude by saying Yoroshiku onegai shimas (another way of saying nice to meet you) and bow again.

It is important to receive a business card with both hands, admiring the card for some interesting detail, and then of course, bowing upon receipt of the card. Never put the business card into your pocket, nor bend, dog-ear or otherwise mar the card. When receiving multiple cards, place the cards on the table in front of you, face up, and order them from left to right according to importance.

At the introduction you will be asked to sit. Do not sit. You will be asked multiple times, but refrain from sitting until the most important person sits first. You will also be offered tea or coffee by the head of the meeting. Do not drink the tea or coffee. Wait until the most important person has taken a drink first. Make light talk about your plans. If you are a new gaijin English teacher in the area, light talk means discussing how excited you are to be working in Japan, asking about the students, and going over your tentative schedule. Do not talk about how successful you will be teaching the students English, nor about your past accomplishments. Be humble. Be quiet. Let the heads of the meeting guide the conversation.

When the introduction is over, you will be asked to stand. That’s right, don’t stand. Until? Now you’re catching on. Once the head of the meeting stands, you may do the same. Again, bow and say Yoroshiku onegai shimas. Gather the business cards given to you, stacking them from top to bottom in order of importance, and keep them in your hand. Bow multiple times upon leaving to show how thankful you are.

If you can follow these simple rules to a formal Japanese introduction, you will surely be successful.

* * *

I couldn’t stop sweating. There are few things more uncomfortable than a sweat soaked, starched, Target brand collared shirt with a tie cinching it down against your neck. I wasn’t nervous though. Despite all that I had been told to do at my introduction to the Board of Education, or BOE as they call it, I wasn’t nervous.

A heat wave had been breaking record highs in Japan for the first week of my arrival. While I sat in the BOE office, in full business attire, my face showed clear signs that I couldn’t handle the heat. Luckily, in Japan the custom is to have a handkerchief with you in order to wipe the sweat from your brow. I had brought mine, but a handkerchief only does so much when it has already soaked through. I also chose to use the handkerchief sparingly because I had had it since I was five years old and I was not sure if the tattered ends and holes in it would appear as the most hygienic of sweat wiping devices to the Japanese. I also doubted that the snarling tiger image on it would convince them of my professionalism. My only other option against constantly wiping the sweat from my face with a 22 year old handkerchief was to let the sweat pour and then act like I had no problem with it. Maybe the Japanese would think that in my country extreme perspiration is a normal thing.

But again, I wasn’t nervous. I felt like I knew what I was supposed to do. I had practiced the bowing, the business card holding and admiring, and the introductions in Japanese. I even made a point to take my shoes off every time I entered my own apartment, in order to start forming the habit. Mayumi, my translator and cultural liaison, before entering the office, had asked me if I was nervous. With a smile I said, “Of course not. I’m excited!” Now, with rivulets flowing down my face while talking with the head of the BOE, she must have thought that I had been lying through my teeth.

If my sweating was offensive, the others didn’t let on. They maintained a very amiable yet professional demeanor. I did my best to do the same. I collected business cards and laid them on the table accordingly. I talked about being happy to be teaching in Japan, and Mayumi translated for me. Meanwhile sweat came down in streams. It was just too hot. It was 90, with humidity at 80 percent. The fact that the others weren’t in my same condition shocked me. There was no way that anyone could adapt to such heat.

Okay, maybe the sweat came because I was a little nervous. As I recall, there was one point during my time at the BOE where my nerves may have initiated the deluge. Again, I had rehearsed the greetings for days before the meeting. One statement, Yoroshiku onegai shimas (Nice to meet you), I made sure was well etched into my head, as it was the most complicated. Having practiced, when I arrived at the BOE office, I was confident that I could execute the phrase with perfection. As I entered, the whole office stood up, I was introduced, and everyone, in unison, said to me, “Yoroshiku onegai shimas.”

I recognized the phrase instantly and I knew that my job was to repeat, bow and then sit back and feel good about properly introducing myself. With the best pronunciation I could muster I did just that.

“Yoroshiku onegai shimas” I said, with what I believed was excellent pronunciation.

I bowed, and right as I was going to settle into the feeling good about myself part, I realized that they were doing it again. They were bowing a second time and saying Yoroshiku onegai shimas. I wasn’t prepared for a second time, and I didn’t know the proper response. Nothing at orientation covered a second Yoroshiku onegai shimas, nor did any of the pre-departure readings that they gave me in tomes. Perplexed at the situation, I thought it best to follow their lead. For a second time I bowed and said Yoroshiku onegai shimas, except this time with a questioning inflection at the end. When I stopped, I saw that they were going down for a third bow, with a third Yoroshiku onegai shimas! We were like pinball machine paddles going back and forth at each other, but instead of hearing the bells and whistles of the pinball machine, what filled the room was a perpetual echo of Yoroshiku onegai shimas. No one gave any sign that this was unusual so I repeated my bow and said Yoroshiku onegai shimas for a third time.

Somehow, eventually, I was ushered to a meeting table and I wasn’t sure if I had totally messed up, or if that was exactly how it was supposed to go. That is when I noticed the sweat begin. That’s also when I noticed how uncomfortable my clothes were.

I made it through however, and performed all the ceremonial traditions as well as any new gaijin to Japan can. When the meeting at the BOE was ending, I remember thinking, “Thank God that these introductions only have to happen once.” Mayumi and I left the office, bowing and saying Yoroshiku onegai shimas even more, and then we made way into the hall. I started to walk down the corridor, but Mayumi hesitated.

“You’re not coming?” I asked.

“Uh, yes” she responded. “But we have to wait for Suzuki-san.”

“He’s going back home with us?” I joked.

“Uh, no. He is going to introduce us to the three other schools you will be working at. We have three more introduction meetings today.”

She saw that I was surprised and asked, “Are you nervous?”

I Moved to Japan

For those who may not know, I now live in Japan. During my year back in the States I realized that my desire for travel and the specific kind of learning that it brings is still not satisfied. So I arranged plans to teach English in Asia. I was fortunate to get a position in the Fukushima area of Japan (yes, THAT Fukushima) and moved here about a month ago.

The blog has been inactive for most of the last year, though I do have a few stories from the US that I would eventually like to post once I get an Internet connection that isn't just on my phone. I've included one new entry below to give an impression of where I am. Yes, I did write it all from my phone. No, I won't be doing that again.

I hope you are all doing well and find the entry worth your time.

-Josh

Rice Paddies & Grumbling Giants

The rice paddies here grow a brilliant green in the sun. It's a color that I've never seen before which tells me that this experience is good. The road I take to work meanders next to that rich color of life and the movement of the car gives energy to the paddies. They become a wide, lazy green river moving against me. Verdant hills rise from the river and border the serpentine valley. In the forests that cover the hills, Japanese cicadas sing in continuous waves that build, crash and crescendo into one another. My neighbors tell me that they will sing until autumn. The sound is a melody that astounds me. I'm relieved to be astounded again. My senses have been craving something new.

The earth is uncomfortable. He's trying to rest but can't find the right position. You can hear his cantankerous grumble before he moves. The sound, cavernous and dark, builds from the east and undulates toward my door. As soon as I make it out for what it is, the furniture begins to tremble. I hope that the sudden vibrating living room is only a tremor, but the giant whose back on which my apartment rests is capricious.

One night his insomnia was contagious. I laid awake in a loft above my kitchen and the earth decided to move his resting position. He grumbled and rolled and my lofted bedroom became the top of a bobble head doll. At the height of the shaking, I clutched at my toppling desk with one hand and at a pair of pants with the other. I was getting ready to make a run for it. The ceiling beams sounded cracks while the wall beat against my shoulder. I tried to plan my escape but realized that strategy is hard to summon while your home is trembling violently. By the time I convinced myself of how to flee (shrieking and half naked was the best I could come up with) the trembling quieted and then, disappeared. The beams were still in one piece. The walls only shivered slightly and then stopped. And my heart raced. Everything was in one piece, making me believe that the earth had found a position to rest in for the time being.

My wanderlust has brought me here, to green rice paddies and a shaking apartment. I am happy to be here, on the move once again.