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.