Small lessons.

Things I've learned from Japan:
A liter of Orange Juice for 105 yen is a godsend.
The thicker the toast, the better. (Until it's just an uncut loaf.)
Spread the butter thick and the jam thin.
A bicycle and a lot of spunk is all you need to get around in the world.
It is not so much the steepness of the hill, but the length of the incline that matters.
Japanese boys really aren't that cute.
Japanese girls really are that scary. (Not all of them, exactly, but most.)
Trains are abso-bloody-lutely amazing, but that doesn't mean I'll go riding them in America anytime soon.
Somewhere between young-adult and middle-age a profound and beautiful thing happens; people drop their pretenses and their prejudices and become wonderfully nice, helpful, polite and endearing. (At least, in Japan they do.)
Japanese children are the cutest thing on earth. All of them. I have not yet seen a Japanese child I did not think was adorable, and I hate children!
People are really a lot nicer than I give them credit for.
I cannot flirt for the life of me.
Accents are the spice of language, to be used liberally.
I am ashamed to have an American accent, yet proud to have a country accent.
The ophuro(public bath) is only awkward when another foreigner is there.
A dollar's worth of chocolate can sometimes be too much.
Five dollar's worth of chocolate is always too much.
Having a convienence store five feet away, with copious amounts of $1 bags of chocolate snacks, represents a significant drain on both your wallet and your health. (I haven't really learned this one yet.)
It is never ok to drink nine cups of coffee in one day.
I'm incredibly glad English is my native language. Even with crappy U.S. school not teaching foriegn languages with any sort of priority, at least we have the English down. Most of the time.
I'm incredibly ashamed to not know any other language. Most of the exchange students know their native tongue and English, and they're learning Japanese (or can already speak it, the bastards.)
Having small coins be worth 100 and 500 yen makes it far too easy to spend lots of money, feeling one has only spent one's spare change.
Rice is delicious.
Crane games are like gambling with crack.

More to come, some time.

Friend/brother/sibling type thing.

Gianni:
'Do you think we could ever live together without a third party to keep us from killing each other?'
An astute observation, friend. 'Because, we get along and all, but I think that's because we don't see each other all the time. Every now and then one of us dissappears for a while.'
I'm smiling and laughing and I want to just stand up and hug you, for all your boyishness and truth. 'I don't know, but I like this. It works out.'
We are too much like brother and sister, in how we act and react to each other, but we have not had the benefit of twenty years living together to figure out how to handle each other. Like a brother, you can needle and pick at me until I snap. I don't think you do it on purpose, like my sisters do. They know how to push my buttons and do so with glee, but thankfully these days that usually just makes me smile in a kicked-puppy syndrome sort of way. Their abuse shows they love me! (I am kidding, you know.) But you, maybe you know, or guess, but I don't think you do it on purpose. I love to bullshit with you, it's one of the joys of my day, but, like a sibling, you keep going until it's not fun anymore. I get tired, I can't keep up the smile, and then I'm not bullshittting, I'm just annoyed. Only, with siblings, love and hate come in equal measure and can coexist quite easily. I can be raging, spitting mad at Emily one second and turn around and make her a cup of hot chocolate the next (and not even a poisoned one, at that!) It is almost the same with us, it just takes a little more time. I get annoyed, not with you exactly, but with all your boundless energy and your insistance on being right, even playfully. I don't enjoy searching for a counter to your argument when it feels like the argument has turned on me. I shut up, I put my head down, and I walk ahead. To your credit you always notice. But really, nothing is wrong. I really was just tired. It is only when I'm too tired to deal with the world that I turn on it.

But twenty minutes or so later, when you're spinning about your apartment exuding energy and you look at me with that boyish glint in your eyes and ask, 'Do you think we could ever live together without a third party in between?' I smile, and want to hug you out of sheer love and lack of anything else to say. Maybe it is the order of the world for siblings to hate each other sometimes--living with a person, how can you not? But so too is it true that they can always return to that easy love and acceptance--living with a person, how can you not?

We may not have the bonds of blood that tie us together by no choice of our own, and we haven't had twenty years to learn all the nooks and crannies of each other's personalities, but in this short time we have known each other (Think, I only really met you two years ago, and we've only been close friends for one) . . . Well, what am I trying to say at the end of this all? I'm glad we can get pissed at each other now and again, and bounce back from it with such ease. I'm glad we can sit or walk in silence and not feel the need to talk, I'm gald we can get our points across to each other with barely any words at all, I'm glad we can talk about anything and everything, even if we have to make it up as we go. I'm pretty much glad that you're around. I'm glad you exist. Good job, keep it up.

Supplemental:
James--"You two have the strangest platonic relationship I think I've ever seen."
Gianni--"Explain!"
James--"Well, you both act like you've known each other since you were two, but you haven't, you know everything about each other, you're always together and you do everything together, but you still think each other has cooties . . ."

Thanksgiving in Japan

How do I begin to describe this? It was like stepping suddenly into ten different familys, all with their own traditions and quirks. Eddie was the cook, he prepared a spledid dinner for a dozen people, and his slightly-superior attitiude was not one of an egoist but one of a person who has often been hard-pressed to pull off such feats, and only orders and quips because he knows how it must be done. I was duly impressed by his accomplishment. James, slightly exasperated but always laid back, just smiled and shrugged and seemed to watch the proceedings pass him by--you would never have guessed he had a hand in it. Christine rallied the people, marshalling us together with her smile and slight souther drawl, making us all sit and say what we were thankful for before we could begin eating! "Of course, the one thing you always hated most as a child . . ." they said, as laughingly we complied. But had I ever done this as a child? Been forced to say, out loud, just what I was thankful for? Outside of school I cannot remember a time or place that would have happened. Delphine, in her halting rich French-accented voice, gave a good bit of thanks that would have worked up into a real speech if we hadn't forced her to move on. Of course, it was the non-Americans who gave the had the best things to say. Perhpas, suddenly confronted with a new custom, they had no time to resent it and only said what they meant.
What did I say? I'm thankful for Eddie cooking this meal, I'm thankful for all the amazing international students who are here and who are awesome, I'm thankful I got to speak to my family this morning, I'm thankful for Sam who is going to be my roommate next year . . . It's funny but I was nervous as hell. Like a child again, asked to speak in front of class. Like a student being forced to introduce yourself to twenty other awkward, shy kids you just know are going to have cooler things to say than yourself. Directly afterwards of course I remembered other things I should have said, really true things and I should have looked them in the eyes when I said it. So, I'll say them now.
I'm thankful for all the friends I've made in Japan. I never would have thought I could find this many amazing people on the other side of the world. I'm thankful for my family, my mother and my sisters, and the house and home that I can return to. I'm thankful I have a home I can return to. I'm thankful to Nicole for being my best friend, an amazing person, and keeping me grounded when I need to be from so many miles away. I'm thankful to Amanda for letting me be her surrogate sister/child/best friend, and for always--without fail--making me feel better. I'm thankful to Jenni for her smile. And I'm endlessly thankful to Gianni for keeping me sane, and mostly sensible, in Japan. I hope we can do the same for each other for the rest of this year and next.
Then the food began! Broccolli with cheese sauce, delicious carrots cooked to sweet perfection, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing I gladly would have exchanged my stomach for, whole baked chickens (having no way to cook a turkey, we sadly went without (not that it really mattered, the chicken was delicious)) and copius amounts of rolls to sop up all the juices! There was also a wonderful vegetable soup, a corn chowder sort of concoction that was drunk from paper cups--we had no bowls. More specifically, we had no spoons!
For a short time there was that delicious silence of a large group of people too busy eating to talk. It was understood. But eventually the chatter began again as people reached for second helpings (I mostly hounded the stuffing), commented on the food, and Christine began getting drinks for those that asked, pulling a large bottle of vodka out of the fridge. Then began the most comfortable and memorable portion of the meal: the conversation.
I've always enjoyed being in a room with lots of people. Where one person talking can be distracting, I find the buzz of multiple conversations soothing. Listening in on three different debates, not speaking much at all myself, I relaxed at my seat and smiled. I was surrounded by good friends and their voices-nothing could be wrong with the world. Then someone--I don't know who, nor care--began to discuss what the definition of barbeque was. This was a Thanksgiving conversation, to be sure. I don't know exactly what the debate was--something about whether the grill you barbequed on was a barbeque, if the act of barbequeing was in fact an act, or if only the presence of barbeque sauce could warrent the use of the word as a noun. When it got to be about seven people arguing this, including Gianni chiming in just for the sake of making the debate more lively, I looked over and met Christine's eyes. We smiled. We began to laugh. It was the kind of laugh that rises up out of you all unwilling, that rides a warm swell of your heart and you can't tell what you're laughing at nor why nor how long it might last. The kind of laugh that can heal the day. I laughed so hard I cried. I couldn't have been happier.

Of course, after dinner came pie, which no one had saved room for (who would, with all that stuffing!) It was pumpkin pie, store bought perhaps but delicious nonetheless, with a huge can of whipped cream to add to the picture. Gianni pulled out his guitar and led a chorus of thirteen in "I'll Make a Man out of You" from Mulan. Youtube was contacted, and the round of Disney sing-a-longs began. Voices clamored for their favorite songs in French, Spanish, English damnit! The living room was a mess of plates and cups and bodies merrily sprawled about, but we had all, somehow, just accomplished Thanksgiving in Japan, and we glowed with the ridiculous victory of it all.

Some Musings

Listening to writers, hearing their words and works, inspires me. More than that, seeing their personalities makes me want to be a writer. Makes me want to be like them, I suppose. Taylor Mali makes me think it wouldn't be half bad to be a teacher, watching Castle makes me actually want to do the legwork, because I see it in snatches and it intrigues me. I've always been easily impressionable. I can take on ideas and ideologies like coats, try them out, twirl around a few dozen times in them until they slip, or I find another one to put on. I don't think this is really a bad thing. I've always been a day dreamer, and I let my mind run away with the imaginings of what life could be like in these different facets. It is fun, and probably good exercise. But I always like best when I picture myself as that slightly rumpled, disheveled English major, drinking coffee late in the day and hunched over a laptop in the slanting sun of a late November afternoon, the cadence of my typing broken by long pauses when I stare almost cross-eyed into space as my mind whirls down a side track, running freely away from me down the well worn and newly parted paths of my imaginings. If I could paint a picture that was a wish for my future, it would be this.

Ispired by Talyor Mali

Sometimes I think I would rather be a poet,
Because poetry is easy.
Poems can be thought up quickly, spilled out in rhyme or meter that does not need to be digested or reconstructed
Poems can be spun from the top of your head and spoken with the ease
of infinity
Not like a story.
Because poems do not have to mean, they can simply feel or sound
Or sing
A poem can be about a drop of water or
The greatest fight of all mankind
Alike and it can move people and it is so much easier to play
With words
Than to play with plot and character.
But of course these times I forget what it is to be a poet,
I overlook what I know poems to be because for a moment I wish to only be a poet,
I do not wish to be saddled with pages and pages of type and script
And storylines.
Because a poem can come like this, because it can beat with the rhythm
Of your heart
And flow like blood through your veins.
Because a poem can stand as it is and weather the years of decay
Simply because it is a finely crafted piece of work.
A poem can be written for nothing, or for yourself,
And this is never true of a story.
A story, no matter how meticulously constructed or how
Ingeniously told can never be great without one thing
That no writer can supply it with,
That no amount of craft or lyrical inventiveness can sufficiently
Insure.
And that is the love of an audience.
A story is never told for the sake of the telling
And it is never written for the pleasure of the writing or the writer,
A story must be told for the listener because that is what stories are
Poems can be self expression but stories are the memories
Of a race, and to exist they must be loved.
True, a story can be classic without being loved,
But those are the stories that every English teacher teaches
And every English student reads the sparknotes on.
It is the joy of listening that can take a common story and make it an epic,
From the simplest tale of mice to the greatest fight of men
These words are told and retold and made into the subjects
Of High school projects and master’s
Thesises and Doctorate
Dissertations.
It is only on the days that I fear I will never achieve this mark of greatness
That I wish I was a poet.
Because I care little for the words I write for myself.
It is in the telling that I find solace and meaning, and though it may be the hardest part
It is that which makes my life have purpose.
So word by word I will spin a tale and drop it in your ear
by moonlight in the softest part of the year
and though I be no poet in craft or skill I will give you
all I am from the drops of this quill.

What happens to my head when I watch movies.

(This is kinda personal, but I guess we're all friends and family here, so what the hey, enjoy.)

Just finished watching Australia, and I am left with the longing to drive cattle. Cowboy movies do that to me, I guess. But more than that, I feel more than ever certain about my path, that vision I had of my future. A farm, some land, livestock to tend and a garden to mend. A house as big and warm as my heart, and someone I love inside, and children to make life hell and heaven all at once. I think I can accomplish this. I feel in my heart a peace, such a settling, when I think of it, like the pealing of a bell on high telling me that that is where I am headed, that I am supposed to be there whether I know it or not. Who will be by my side? Will I have anyone at all? It’s hard to think about, but I don’t think, in the end, it will matter much. If I find someone to marry, then I do. If I do not, I don’t. I’m sure that life will work itself out. I know I will have my children regardless, because that is simply a fact of my existence that I will let nothing take away from me. And if there is no husband or lover destined for me, there is still family that might be willing to take up the empty rooms, fill the silent spaces. For me, there will always be the wind and the stars, the quiet cedar trees and the whip o wills saying good night, good night, the hawk shrieking in the valley, the low hum of the house asleep, the shadows whispering, and the sun breaking slowly through the trees to say good morning. How many miles have I traveled, how far have I stretched myself just to know for certain what I am tied to? Did I come all the way here just to know that I want to go home? Or did I come here, to listen to this land, to learn what my heart truly wants? This land is a stranger to me, but when I listen it speaks. These mountains that rise so suddenly from the earth, the golden green rice whispering in patches of gathered sunlight, the trees so much older and wiser than any I have known. There is a confidence in this land, a stately attitude. It is not young, nor wild. It has been revered by the people here, and worshiped, and it is secure in its place. It is not my home, though. My home is rough and unruly and cuts your hand as soon as shakes it. But it warms to the touch and the heart, and here I realized what I could do there. I never thought about it before. I wanted to go home because it was home, but I didn’t know what I would do there other than, somehow, survive. Never did I think about what I could really do for that land, what it might do for me in return. It gave me a childhood, a family, and a place to stand. I will give it a future, a purpose, and the freedom to do as it chooses around me. Anyway, what more can you really give land but your love and respect? It wants to be cared for, just like anything else. Understood, worked with, and respected. I want nothing more than to do this for my home, and build a story to tell. A story I can tell my children, my grandchildren should I be lucky enough to have them. (If not, my friend’s grandchildren. I have no shame.) I want to build a story worthy of the telling.

Make Amends

So, I sort of skipped out for a month, didn't I? Terribly sorry about that. The thing is, soooo much stuff has happened, I don't even know where to begin. A lot of wonderful things, interesting and crazy and new, and new people who are utterly astounding. But I don't know if I can catch everyone up on all of that. If you want to facebook stalk me, you'll see a lot of what I've done in pictures at least. Let's see . . .

There was Kobe, and the beach. It was warm and sunny and the water on the sand was clear, the sound of French accents lingered in the air. Then there was the music festival in Takatsuki-shi. The jazz saxophone drifting over the hot air, the bluegrass catching me by surprise, that first sight of Mekka walking through the crowd, and all the events that streamed from that meeting. The concert, jumping and thrashing in a dark little club beneath a love hotel in Kyoto, in zombie makeup, something pounding through our veins that was more than blood. The smile of a girl whose smile could light up your eyes. The stories of South America, Mexico, teaching English, the cool morning breeze in Kyoto. The taste of hookah in Aki's bar, madarin orange lingering in my mouth, the smoke rolling off our lips like poetry. The memory of a blonde-haired fairy who once smiled at me through a haze so like this. Geoff suddenly appearing, the joy at seeing him. The Saturday adventures, finding a saxophone in Osaka, next week running off to Kyoto again to be zombie dancers, Geoff being utterly terrifying in his makeup, staying the night at Mekka's house, marveling at how this woman can live out a fairy tale, a story, a fantasy that's real.

And now, what is it now? November now, and I am wrapped in the cooling weather, the feel of winter gently sneaking around the corner. Snuggled in a coat and hiding my chin in a scarf, I revel in it. It makes me miss hot apple cider and nutmeg and a fireplace, but I know with an intensity that these things will be mine for the rest of my life, and one year without them won't mean so much, in the long run. Strains of music drift through my head and I want to learn them, to take my free time here and make it into something productive, something I've never done before, and I might try to learn a few new things . . .

And today, sipping hot coffee in my room (and amazing how the addition of a coffee pot makes me not dislike my room quite so much) the memory of seeing a friend's face and hearing her voice last night, a thick letter clutched in my hand ready to be mailed, and in my thoughts are my sisters, my mother, the smell of my house. The sweet November air tumbles gently in through my open window and makes my feet cold. I stuff my hat in my bag, wrap a scarf around my chin, and head out on my bike to smile into the breeze and laugh at the world, because somehow I am getting away with it, with being here, with living a dream, and don't let them know or they'll send me back! But for now I smile and the sky seems ridiculous in its blue and white and careless memories.

Takatsuki-shi

I went with Mari to her hometown of Takatsuki-shi, and it was one of the best things that has happened so far in Japan. She came to meet me at Kandai-mae, and we rode the trains all the way there. Originally, I thought we were just going to go shopping, but as it was a holiday weekend she said everything would be too crowded. So instead, she would take me to her town, and we would go out for lunch with her mother and father and visit a temple. Needless to say, I was not upset by this turn of events. Her father meets us by the station in their car, and he is kind and quiet with that definite shy wisdom that makes me instantly respect a person. He is a teacher of autistic children, and does taiko drumming as well, combining the two in the best kind of teaching. He is very musical, and plays a bamboo flute with beauty and ease, the kind of sound that can only come from wood and humble origins. They take me to a sushi restaurant, where the food is plentiful and delicious. But it is where we go next that speaks to a deeper part of me.

Because I mentioned that I was interested in Japanese literature, we were going to visit the city library (toshokan). Mari's father had offered to check out any books I would like to read for me, as he had a library card. We walk from a parking lot around a pretty little pond that was more welcome because it was not perfectly manicured. Water lillys crowd the space within, glum in their dry summer clothing and shutting down for winter, all save one pink flower that blossoms huge and heavy and fading among the browning leaves. A Willow tree stands in the pond, behind a fountain, and she seems lonely and peaceful as all willows do. We feed the mass of koi in the pond with old bread, and Mari shudders at the sight of the teaming bodies, the wide mouths that dumbly gulp at the water's surface and air, searching for the crumbs of food that fall from above. I ask to take a picture of Mari and her family, and her father seems suddenly uneasy and stiff, and I feel bad, the poor man is so shy! But her mother smiles in the photo with ease, once her blind eyes have been pointed in the direction of the camera.

The toshokan was closed that day, but we venture back to the car and take off again. I am nearly glued to the window, watching the approaching mountains with hunger. I want, more than anything, to go to them. Mari tells her father that I am interested in visiting temples, and we head towards one. I almost don't know how to react to this kindness. How do I express to them how much it means to me that they would go so far out of their way to take a foreigner around their hometown, smiling and explaining to me the names of plants and trees, the colors in the turning seasons, the sound of insects in the night. And how did her father know that this information is exactly what I had been craving, this gentle relationship with nature that is as natural as friendship.

We drive over a hill and enter a beautiful valley that truly takes my breath away. It is not a dramatic scenery, and that is why it warms me so much. It is farmland, honest and simple and something I know well. The green gold of carefully tended, privately owned rice fields makes the valley shine with warmth on an overcast day. The low surrounding mountains lumber in a sleepy, kind sort of way. A river tumbles through, loved and frequented by the citizens. This, my instincts tell me, is part of the real Japan I had been seeking. I found it not in cities and monuments, but in the fields, the products of the land itself.

Up a short, winding road and we reach the temple. The woods are tall and densely green, and quiet. The Japanese cedars stretch elegantly towards the canopy, and below the air is gentle, still. It smells of wood and dirt and rain. Some of the stone monuments and markers within are new, and their sides are smooth and clean. But some seem to rise from the forest floor and are clad in moss and their weathered faces are the ones I smile upon. We walk through the temple complex, and Mari's father continues to point out trees, bushes, flowers, fruits. He does not speak English, so Mari translates for me, but I watch him and listen with rapt attention because I do not need to understand the words to feel some of what he is telling me. We are, after all, speaking a common language with different words. He is talking about nature, and music, and these are things I understand on a deeper level than language.

We climb two flights of stairs to reach a bell. It is large and turning green. Is it copper, iron, brass? I do not know, but its weight is a presence and I tread carefully near it. Mari's father rings the bell first, and the note is deep and louder than I expected, but the volume fades swiftly. The note stays, however, and lingers lower and lower until I am no longer sure if I am hearing it or feeling it or if the air around me is humming back in response. Next I go up, and grasp the thick rope in both hands. One, I swing the log back a space. Two, I pull again, and it moves easily. Three, I pull back and forward again, hitting the bell. It springs to life at the touch and rings with a magnificence that I have rarely heard, not growing up around actual bells, but more often an electrical recording of church bells.

Mari's father says that in America there are many bells, and they might be nicer and larger and newer, but that in Japan you can feel the bells in a different way, and they speak to more than just the air. That bells didn't merely ring, it sang through the rocks and trees and the ground, and it melted slowly down your body until you felt it more than heard it, and continued long after the audible vibrations had died.

After the temple we drive back down into the valley and walk along the river for a short time. Mari's father continues to point out plants and flowers, and I am happy and content with the sound of water falling and the smell of fish and trees and wet things. It was better to visit that lonely temple in the woods, for there were hardly any other people visiting. Temples in Kyoto and Nara might be huge and beautiful, but they are packed with tourists. I suspect I will still go, but I'm glad I got to see this little part of Takatsuki-shi before I ventured to the larger cities. I will go back in the fall, when the trees have begun to change their colors. I will see if I can remember the names of the trees, and the character of the stones, and the smell of incense that lingers around a wishing shrine.

The Placement Test (Or, the Sterile Brain-sucking Room of DOOM.)

After nearly a week of chatting idly with Japanese speaking people, becoming comfortable again with the language, remembering words and phrases and grammar than had merrily fled my mind over the summer, it might seem that we had an advantage as we sat in the starkly sterile room where our placement test was held. Matt. T. laughed and said it was like being in Webster, in a class full of Webster students. The walls are white, the desk is cool and gray, and the light that comes through the window whispers softly of doom. We try to ignore all these omens and look at eachother with half-quirked smiles that belie the queasiness within.
The teacher comes out, and she is calm and beautiful and speaks very fast Japanese. You know, one of them fluent types. She instructs us to . . . something. We don’t really know. Very rarely does she break and say something in English for us. But, regardless, the first portion of the test is listening. There are ten practice questions. We listen to a sentence being read and fill in the missing hiragana letter. I feel a jump of excitement in my stomach, and I start to smile, for I can here the words, I can makes sense of the test, and I start to relax thinking that this won’t be so hard after all. Out of ten, I get nine of the practice questions correct. Wonderful, I think. Maybe I’m not so bad after all.
Then she starts the real test. The words whip by so fast I might as well be on a train, with the teacher standing on the platform and whispering the sentence as I pass. I find myself staring at the second word, wondering how she already finished saying the whole sentence. It is, to say the least, a struggle. I am glaring at my paper, head down, furious with her for speaking so fast, for not even giving us a chance to show our competency, what little we do have, and with me for just not being able to hear the words. When those 65 questions are done, I look at Cory, and see a similar look of grief. At least we are all in the same sinking ship.
The writing portion is laughable at best. The teachers warns us, kindly, that the test is hard but they don’t expect us to know everything, and not to worry if we can’t read anything at all. I mostly can’t, but I manage to make two almost coherent sentences at the end—After the test I am going to Umeda to buy a cell phone (really it was tomorrow) and Japanese falls are warmer than Canadian ones. (Maybe. I –might- have said that.)
All in all, it felt like slow motion train wreck, but after the interview we all relaxed a bit, and now we just wait to see where we will end up.
Which, by the by, was level three! Yay!

The Settling In

So, last night we were supposed to meet up all together, but Cory, Mat and Mat got lost on the trains back from Umeda, and the girls were too tired, so it was just Gianni and I for a long long time, and he told me stories and stories and I listened, and it was wonderful. There is nothing I enjoy more than listening to, and understanding, someone else’s story. I didn’t feel the need to talk, and I liked that. Because I don’t always want to say anything, but I will always like to listen. Then, at Dieboros, I had my first White Russian. Favorite drink. Forever.

At Orientation today, I met Mariko, a wonderful student volunteer who helped us fill out our forms for Alien Registration cards. They took us to Suita City Hall and helped us. She was sooooo nice and sweet! After, we all went to Wooden Village, which is an awesome little bar tucked away down a back alley on Kandaimae. We had that place packed with exchange students. It was more fun than I could have imagined to eat and drink with the guys. Cory was hilarious—just like I thought he would be when drunk. He’s a good guy, you can just tell. Mat and Mat are both nice, laid back, and they’re really sweet, though you might not think it. I met Christian and Clinton, from North Arizona University, and they are also both extremely nice boys. Christian is a music major, and the thought I looked like an oboist. Which is, basically, cool! Clinton has a really deep, mellow voice and it is pleasant to listen to. Those two did nomihodai, and were really very drunk. I think the count was ten mixed drinks and four shots. (God damn!) I just don’t even know how to say how much fun it was. Just being there with all of them, laughing and smiling and having fun, laughing so hard and not needing to know why exactly I was laughing, just that I was sharing it with all of them. It was one of the best nights I’ve had so far. And the bartender was really cute. I think his name was Taka, or something close to it, and he was friends with Mari and Chi. They teased me about thinking he was kinda cute, and a guy came in when we were having dessert—just the four of us, Mari, Chi, Gianni, and I, with two parfaits between us (totemo oishii ne!)—and I thought he was cute so they were telling me to talk to him or sit next to him.  It was fun. They said I was cute too, so that makes me happy. For a while I felt a little disjointed, like I didn’t know how to be me in this country, unsure if my personality would come across here in a different culture with different customs. But, it seems to be ok. Of course, I’ve done so much more in this last—oh, not even a week, just what, four days? Holy shit, I’ve only been here for four days! Anyway, I’ve met so many new people and been much more outgoing that I usually am, so that in itself is strange and new. I like it so far. Tomorrow there is a Social for the exchange students, and I’m excited to see Mari and Christian and Clinton and Chi again. Clinton warned me that he might not remember my name, because he was really quite drunk, but Christian wrote everyone’s name down, so he’s got it good. It was a good, good night.

A sudden dash of homesickness, and I’m left reeling. How far away from home am I ? How far physically, how far mentally, how far emotionally? It’s not just the distance. I am having the time of my life in a place an ocean away from the people I’ve cared most about my whole life. Does it feel wrong? Or do I just miss them? Even while I love being here, I also want to be home. I miss Webster, and English classes. I guess I’ll feel better when we start classes here, too. Then I’ll have a schedule and things to do every day. But so far, we have about another week of just getting settled in, orientations, and school holidays. I'm looking forward to traveling around, though. It will be a good week.

I'm In Japan!!

We land in Japan and it is gray and raining and I love it. Could I have asked for a better introduction to this country? I don’t think so. It slowly hits us, as we leave the airport, that we really are alone and no one is here to hold our hands and pick us up. No, we have to do this on our own. One by one we overcome our fears and just ask people for help. Gianni is first, and asks a man where the right bus for us is. I can’t believe he just had a conversation—intelligible at that—in Japanese, in Japan, with a Japanese man. Props to Gianni. We board the bus and gain a brief respite before we start to worry about where to get off. But we needn’t have. We mostly enjoyed the ride, through a sprawling industrial zone—I’ve never really seen one of those—to gradually the high downtown of Osaka. We get off at Osaka Station, and pull our baggage into the crowded station that seems more mall than anything. And everywhere, everyone glances over us and we cringe inwardly. We must look a sight. (Though that’s not by a long shot the worst of what’s to come.)
Our first task, I suppose, is to find the ticketing booths. We manage. Then buy a ticket. We do not manage. We poke and prod the machine in hopeless wonder. We are getting no where. I finally get up the guns to ask a nice-looking mother for help. She is wonderful and sweet and kind and I begin to relax and love this country. We buy our tickets.
The trains are amazing. I can see how mass transit would work with systems like these in place. They are smooth and fast, and I want to call Amanda and tell her—everyone in this country is beautiful. Why wasn’t I born here? With minor worrying over what stop to get off at, we disembark at Senreiyama station.
So, we are at Senriyama Station. And we have no idea where to go. We look at our map-it tells us next to nothing. Our directions tell us less. ‘Walk to your dormitories.’ Oh, yeah, sure. Where?!? But there is a man outside, and we do not even ask this time. He sees our duress and asks us where we want to go. We say, Kansai Daigaku no ryoo desu! Isho ni gakusee desu. He squints at our map and wonders, and after a minute he tells us to follow him. “Guide-o desu!” He smiles and rallies us and we follow, and I smile into the mist and the lights of the night and I love this country, this town, these people.
The Dorm
We find our dorm, a big purple building on a hill. No one seems to be ready for us, and the poor boys still have to find their dorms (which, now I know, is about a 30 minute walk away without rain and night and luggage.) The three of us sit in an empty room and wait, feeling awkward, for someone to figure out what to do with us. About ten minutes later we here noise outside and the boys have come back, standing in the entrance of the building, wet and tired and loud, but laughing. We didn’t know it then, but they created quite a stir. Girls were walking by to see. The rumor spread—“There are guys in the dorm!” Boys are not allowed in Tsukigaoka Dorm. They made history that night. (Or tried to.)
My room mate Asumi is the sweetest person in the world. That’s just all there is to it. She showed me around the dorm, and with the help of her awesome nifty electronic translator thingy we understood each other fairly well. Her English is, I’m afraid, much better than my Japanese. She took me to the bath as well, and it was incredibly relaxing and pretty much awesome. The ease they have is easy to pick up, and it’s just wonderful. Funny that some Americans—where we are oh so liberal—have trouble with such a simple thing. Perhaps because it is so simple, so calm, nothing flashy or showy. But I digress.
It’s almost 9 in the morning now. How the hell did I get up so early? Well, I don’t know. (Actually, it’s probably 3 in the afternoon or something at home, so this is normal wake-up time for me.) Asumi let me have some of her toast for breakfast, and it is delicious! I bought a milk&coffee drink from the machine too. So, I have conquered breakfast! YES! But Asumi went home for four days to Iichi(?) Prefecture for basketball practice/game, so I have the room to myself for awhile. It’s nice and calm, but I have no idea what to do. Having missed orientation and the first placement tests, I don’t know what we should be doing today. So, I’m heading to campus for some exploration (and pictures!) and hopefully some food and items I need to buy. I’m going to scout for the International Student House. That would be a good place to go, I think. Well, until I make it back! 

Planes, Trains, and Buses

The Little Plane
The last star of morning watches the dawn, and I wish I had Fight Club. Every city must look beautiful in the pre-dawn mist, sponging pink and yellow. The star must be Venus.
We’re moving! We’re moving! Pardon me while I freak! The planes MOVE! :D! The plane also has teeth. “Me ears are popping.”
6:15am and I am defying gravity. Oh my freaking Gee we’re above clouds. I’ve never been above the clouds before. The sky is so blue up here.
The plane accelerates with alarming speed—exhilarating. It could almost be like a roller coaster until the wheels leave the ground. Do I feel it? Do I imagine I do? I see the wing draw away from the ground, and then in a moment of stillness I know. We have defied gravity. We have done what no other animal on earth has managed—to fly without wings, to soar in the face of angels. There is a tremendous peace to it as the plane rises, and the city slowly lays itself bare beneath my window. The plane is sure of itself, sound, and the earth does not give up her hold on us reluctantly-no-she lets us go, a slow uncurling of her fingers. The wing tip goes down and we bank, a move slow and delicate as a whale. The dawn splays on the horizon as we climb, and the rivers coil joyously below us. The interchanging highways become latticework, like Celtic knots—beautiful. I wonder if they designed them to be seen from above. Cars become tiny, sparkling jewels sifting along the long strings. The sun breaks the surface and triumphantly sparks through my window, slowly lifting clouds into a soft warm glow. But we are chasing the morning, and turn our backs to dawn. Now, so far above the clouds—I had no idea they looked like this from above!—I can see twilight in the distance, clinging to the Western horizon.
The turbulence makes our little plane tremble, but it rocks me in a pleasing manner, and he battles on. I have become fond of the plane in a short time: I suppose it is hard not to be fond of something that is carrying you thousands of feet in the air, and hundreds of miles from home.
The crinkled desert lays below us, unassuming, frank. And I know I have to go there, soon. It looks so much more alive from here than on Google Satellite, yet those unexplained, unexpected perfect squares are there. I se a cliff—how high is it? I cannot tell from here. But it calls, in a lonely way that is not lonesome but simple alone.
The descent is easy, but reluctant. I don’t think the plane wanted to land. As it taxied to the gate, it felt almost merry, but misused, like a racing thoroughbred brought off the track and laden with baggage, but till merrily trotting down the trail.
Denver
We get off. It is 7:20 in the morning, 8:20 watch time (your time). The air is beautiful, the wind rushes at us, and the morning sun is perfect. I am outside for less than a minute. I wish I could stay there.
The mountains are distant, but hulking. In the airport, a man whistles. It is loud, and follows me. I like it. People stride across horizontal escalators like superheroes brought to earth.
The little girl by the window has a purple plush dragon. He is regal as he trounces about the desk, and she mimes decapitating him. I wonder what story is in her head?
At 8:20 the 757 takes us away. I do not like this plane as much. It claws and fights its way into flight—no perfect moment of zen airborness. And they do not accept cash on the plane . . . only credit cards. Isn’t that a touch illegal?
10:10 watch time. It’s 55 degrees in San Francisco. Those lucky coastal bastards!
The 777.
She was like a giant albatross, wings spread wide and held defiantly aloft as she walked down a windswept deck. Her wings are massive. I felt much safer in this plane. She took to the air with calm. She looked gravity straight in the eye and said “Move the fuck aside.” That’s right, she’s a badass.
It still really hasn’t hit me. I look at this, and it is as though I am watching someone else’s life, someone else’s story.

The Drive

At 1:00 in the morning, my mother gets up, but I have never slept. The music of Howard Shore is humming in my mind and my fingers are sore from working the black and white placebo hat I started and charted that night. The last two weeks stretch ages behind me. How long ago did I work my last Monday night? I almost don’t remember my summer at all.

Leaving my room for the last time, I don’t want to move. The smell of incense clings to the air-can it do that? Can it cling to air? I suppose it can. And it sticks to the curtains, the wood, my stuffed animals. I feel the pull of all that is home and comfort and warmth and it pulls, pulls at me to leave it all behind.

The drive to the airport feels charmed. It is so late and so early that it is no time at all, and we move through nothing and no where. We approach the airport, and I see the planes. I’ve never really seen planes before, not like this. “Is that the big building where they keep the airplanes?!” “Yes,” my mother says. “It’s also called a hanger.”

It is now that I realize who I am, where I am. I am nothing more than a little country girl, who’s never been to a bigger city than St. Louis, and barely even been there. I have never flown, I have never left the country, I’ve never lived anywhere but Ste. Genevieve and Webster Groves. I have never been anyone or anywhere than who and where I have always been. And here I am. I am leaving, taking to the air with a leap and a bound and I won’t be back for months. Who is this girl who suddenly has the guile to do this? Is it really even me?

The Breaking-In

It makes me a little sad to see the blog sitting empty, even though as yet I have no need of it. So, a little pre-departure note wouldn't hurt, would it?

It is Tuesday, I leave on Friday. I don't think I've really comprehended this yet. It hasn't 'sunk in'. I going to pack my clothes today, and as much else as I can do early. It feels odd to think that I only have one more day in the house. Tonight I'm visiting Webster again, and won't be back until late Wednesday night. When I think of that, a vague sort of panic creeps up the back of my throat, and I turn my head and whistle, furiously ignoring it. People keep asking me if I'm excited, and I am. But somehow, I don't feel like I'm as excited as they expect me to be. Last year, when I was deciding to go, that was when I would freak out and squeal in excitement. Now, I just feel sort of normal. Maybe it's because I have nothing to compare this too, I have no idea what it will be like to leave the country and be somewhere else for four months. I'm not overly excited or worried or nervous or sad. I'm just existing, twiddling my thumbs until I get on that plane and leave.

This weekend my sister threw my a going-away-party. There was food, and fire, and friends, and family. And that was good. On Monday we went on a quiet little float on the Meramac, and that even better. Nicole and I managed to not flip the Padilac, though there was a close moment when a tree decided that the best way to torture canoers was to lean its branches down to the water around a fast bend. We got a little stuck, but thanks to a few helpful rams from Derrick's kayak and the deft use of branches from me we were soon going down the river again--backwards. It was the high point of the trip, I think. And Nicole did not drown in the river, always good!

So, back home again with about ten hours of sleep behind me I'm not yet packing, not yet really thinking about the day. There's still coffee in front of me, so by my clock morning hasn't ended. (What will I do without coffee? It's not the caffeine, it's not even the taste, it's the essence of the drink that I will miss, and miss horribly.) I suppose I'll get on with life after another two cups.