Pre-emptive Measures

It has begun, earlier than I expected. It’s not much, but there’s a world of satisfaction hidden in the two boxes occupying a corner of our humble abode. What it means… is that there are twenty less things to concern ourselves with when crunch time arrives and the last-minute scramble that is the inevitable fate of all movers ensues. This is our attempt to ease the stress of those seemingly endless yet perilously short hours, less than two months away. In my humble opinion we’re off to a good start, thanks in no small part to my husband.

I feel funny saying this, especially since I have a sinking feeling that I will regret it later on when eggs can fry on our kitchen counter simply by existing, but I’m actually a little impatient for warm weather to make itself comfortable enough where it has no intention of disappearing into a pocket of cold. With this invisible line drawn, another good portion of packing can be done, and thick bundles of winter attire can slumber in the moisture-proofed darkness it knows for six months of the year.

Despite all this rather definitive mental and physical activity, our pending adieu to Japan still hasn’t registered emotionally. I’d say the odds are pretty good on the side of bittersweet, what with the farewells and homecoming and new beginnings and all of that… which I’m okay with, as I’d prefer it to feelings of “meh” and instant adjustment. I guess I’d like to feel something, rather than nothing at all.

Please Show Us Favor

It’s finally over. After two weeks of unceasing political campaigning for 1 of 24 city council seats against 31 other candidates, a welcome silence has settled over our fishing town once more. Instead of inundating the public with phone calls and television commercials, candidates drive around town in pre-approved vehicles set-up with a speaker system to loudly solicit votes, with the occasional parking at a street corner to wave and smile at passer-bys.

In general, these slow-moving vans and pleas for consideration have generated nothing but eye-rolling and headaches from us unedumicated non-voters. What little we do understand boils down to the phrases “Thank you very much!” and “Please show us favor!”, with a heavy dose of the candidate’s name thrown in.

But what do the local people think? Ever vigilant for conversation topics, I threw this question out to my friends one day. It turns out our understanding comprised about 95% of what information was actually being imparted, and my husband’s dry commentary on the whole Japanese campaigning system was highly accurate. There’s no chance of getting deep into issues or giving insightful speeches when you’re constantly on the move, something the residents look upon with dissatisfaction. If anything, it appears like you’re heavily banking on the belief that your name will stick in people’s minds if you say it enough, eventually leading to a vote based on familiarity. Nor does it seem to matter how genuine a city council hopeful might be, the rules of the game are firmly established. Kind of a shame really, especially considering there are people who actually want to listen to speeches and understand each candidate’s position more in depth.

Plus it’s noisy as all get out.

Fortunately, good can come out of such things. It turns out that the lone candidate we have an acquaintanceship with ended up winning a place on the council. Here’s hoping he can make a difference by serving the city in a way he’s been yearning to for years.

Two Sides

The day is coming… when chicken breasts of the skinless variety will be readily available once more. The notion of no longer peeling the limp epidermis off my protein pleases me greatly.

The arrival of the aforementioned day also means I will no longer hear the peals of a deep-toned bell reverberating through the air at precisely 7am every morning. Housed in a shrine around the corner, my husband uses it to judge if he’s running behind schedule in the mornings. I’ve visited it a few times, and it’s as serious-faced as its somber, dutiful morning announcement would have you believe. Today, with a small pang, I realized that I will miss it, especially now that I’ve finally begun to wake up naturally about ten minutes before the rope is pulled with measured strokes.

There's Something in the Air...

A seasonal change is at hand. I’m still not sure what magical device furtively sends a signal to every restaurant across the land, but an unspoken consensus has been met, and it is only communicated to a patron such as myself by the altered companion to the regular steaming mug of green tea that comes with every meal.

The towels given for the purpose of wiping one’s hands before eating are ice cold, instead of the steaming comfort they once were in a land wrapped in Jack Frost’s embrace.

This can only mean one thing.

Spring is near!

This is good news for certain students, whose teachers I hear tell steadfastly refuse to turn on the heater until the room thermometer dips under 12 degrees C, and then maybe they’d entertain the idea. On the rare occasion that the pleas from the shivering bundles writing on worksheets are heeded, relief is had for only 20 minutes before being shut down. This relief would probably be longer due to residual heat if the windows weren’t almost immediately thrown open afterwards to disperse potentially dangerous fumes from the kerosene heater.

On a completely unrelated note, the teacher’s room is a super-popular area to request for daily cleaning duty during the winter. Something about it being nice and toasty all day long…

Re-Discovery

I peeked my head through the side door, glancing around the familiar earth-toned workroom. Debbie was busy at her desk the next room over, or at least, I assumed she was busy as the sound of typing drifted from her direction. The copy machine/printer/book producer/hovercraft-if-we-could-just-figure-out-the-secret-code was quietly humming to itself, every-so-often spitting out a page sent by someone around the office.

My eyes lingered on the mammoth CM for a moment before coming to rest on a little machine that would never know the joys of flight. Nevertheless, it had its own gravitational pull and I was soon standing in front of it, papers clutched to my side and left pointer finger flexing in anticipation. A slight smile formed as I indulged in one of my favorite occupations during my stint as an assistant admin at the church.

In another land far far away…

I had been working diligently on preparing materials for my husband’s upcoming elementary school lesson while he was away at a conference. Mostly though, I was getting a cramp from hunching over large rigid plastic sheets painstakingly transforming them into giant BINGO cards. It was time to give my screaming back muscles a rest, and besides, the machine was ready. Moments later I was doing my best to sing along to a Japanese pop song on my iPod as a familiar aroma tickled my nose and the first toasty warm sheet depicting the letter “A” peeked out the other side.

The truth is, I’ve always secretly enjoyed laminating. The first place I did it with any regularity was at the church, and although it was always done in a brisk and efficient manner, I could have happily laminated all day if there were that many things to laminate. While I like tasks that engage my brain, there are some repetitious jobs that serve the important function of helping you unwind while still accomplishing something useful.

Now, my husband hates laminating, which is unfortunate considering the nature of his job here. Teaching just seems to be one of those professions that require the transformation of fragile paper materials into a virtually non-destructible representation. It appears that Providence brings people together for a myriad of reasons, for I am exactly the opposite (although I must point out that I’m not a compulsive laminator. There has to be a purpose behind the madness).

For some strange, undefined reason, it’s actually fun for me. There’s something soothing about going through the motions, that brief second before the plastic becomes unyielding, the jerk of the page at the rollers’ release. The slow, steady, and meticulous work reminds me of other instances when I worked to bring chaos under control, resolving it into order… like finding a place for a mountain of Christmas ornaments that didn’t equate to being shoved in a corner or placing every picture and sticker “just so” in a scrapbook. It’s a good feeling, one of accomplishment.

I also happen to think that the distinct scent of the laminating machine melting plastic together must be what the process of transforming chaos into order smells like… at least a little bit. There’s a tang to it that just smacks of conflict- two opposing ideologies battling it out with one slowly succumbing to the other.

The truth is, I’d forgotten about this little joy until the need arose to engage in it once more. Discovering the little quirks that make a person unique is interesting in and of itself, and re-discovering my own connects me once again to the fact that we’re all so similar, in completely different ways.

Anything Else Would Be Uncivilized

Acquired Japanese Habit #346:

• Using a fork and spoon together to eat pasta.

Although awkward at first, I have come to appreciate both the aesthetic and logical reasons for using both utensils to enjoy the multitude of spaghetti dishes available. Twirling pasta with a fork on one’s spoon makes for a neat, flavor-filled bite without a mess of noodles wiggling their way out of sight to satisfy hunger. It’s also a practical way to cut down on sauce flying all over the white blouse you’re inevitably wearing and anyone else within a 100 yard distance.

But mostly… I finally feel like I’m able to eat pasta in a dignified manner, which I never achieved in the time-honored way of “going solo” that I grew up with. Not to say that there aren’t places or people in the U.S. that came up with this mannerism on their own, I just never witnessed it. As for Japan… I’ve seen it everywhere. It’s just how things are done.

Except in that odd pasta restaurant where you’re required to eat with chopsticks instead, which everyone including your Japanese friends find strange given the slippery nature of Italian spaghetti, yet is endured because the taste is fantastic.

It wasn’t by choice though, there just wasn’t a Western utensil in sight.

Final Verdict: This is one habit I fully intend to bring back to American soil.

Mystified

I’ve been mystified by two things lately.

1. The Japanese health care system. It’s a strange land where general practitioners are all but extinct, having been displaced by specialists who refuse to do anything about anything unless it’s directly related to their field of practice. A medical degree seems lacking somehow when the doctor on duty can’t even check your throat or ears for infection because he’s not an eye/ear/throat degree carrying expert.

2. The issuing of “dry air warnings” during the news hour. The last time one went out, I hopped online and looked at the current humidity levels. Curiosity and all that. It was at 85 percent.

I guess the sensation of swimming through the air has lessened of late… I had been mistakenly attributing it to climate acclimation.

...raindrops keep falling on my head...

You Know It's Cold When...

… it’s been three hours since you returned home from running errands, and the thought of removing your scarf and coat still hasn’t crossed your mind.

… you are sitting at your desk, take a drink of your tea, and breathe steam when you exhale.

… the words “typing gloves” catch your attention, immediately transporting you to that dreamy world of warm hands and an unhindered keyboard manipulation ability. The style of these particular ones is nice, although a little more digit coverage would be welcome… perhaps extending to the knuckle where the finger itself bends instead of leaving the entire thing to the mercy of the arctic air.

… you re-fill your mug with piping hot liquid and immediately take a big mouthful, forgetting that just because it takes mere minutes to cool down to sippable levels doesn’t mean it won’t burn your tongue fresh from the teakettle.

… you run cold faucet water over your injured tongue and shiver, not from the decidedly strange sensation of such an act, but from having to be in the uncivilized portion of the apartment (i.e. no heater) longer than originally anticipated.

... the Minnesotan in the neighborhood appears mildly pleased that his package from the states containing a light jacket has finally arrived.

Spouse Not Included

*telephone rings*

Me: Moshi moshi.

Man: Konbanwa. This is Mr. D from City Hall.

Me: Hi Mr. D!

(insert small talk with Mr. Dedicated, a.k.a Board of Education Unofficial Translator Unofficially Yoinked From His Work and Given the Unofficial Responsibility of Taking Care of the Assistant Language Teachers)

D-san: I’m calling to tell you about the annual year end party. It will be held on the 27th of this month.

Me: The 27th?

D-san: Yes.

Me: I’m sorry, we won’t be able to make it this year. We will be gone.

D-san: Oh, is that so?

Me: Yes.

*silence*

D-san: Where are you going?

Me: We will be in Hawaii.

D-san: Oh really? Wow. That… that’s wonderful.

Me: We’re really looking forward to it.

*silence*

D-san: Just you?

Me: Um… no, both of us.

D-san: Oh. Your husband is going?

Me: … yes, he is.

D-san: Ah, okay.

Me: Sorry we won’t be able to make it.

D-san: No problem, have fun in Hawaii. Good-bye.

Me: Good-bye.

I hung up the phone feeling as if we’d just committed some sort of faux pau. This is entirely possible since it’s considered part of your duty as an employee to attend company parties, although nothing would ever be said out loud.

More than anything, I was a little bemused by yet another natural assumption reversal that brings my ever evolving mental image of Japan closer to the Twilight Zone. Back home, it’s abnormal to go on vacation without one’s spouse, and the unspoken state of togetherness goes unchallenged unless otherwise stated. Here it’s the other way around; to not actively mention the accompaniment of your husband or wife means just that- they will be elsewhere.

Mr. D isn’t the first person we know of to operate from this plane of reality; another Japanese friend of ours travels to a different country every month or so, and she’s just as likely to be with her husband as without, and vice versa.

The head tilt I tend to do when something catches me by surprise is getting quite a lot of practice these days.

we’re not in Colorado anymore

James Bond

My husband and I went to see the newest James Bond movie, complete with Japanese subtitles. Recently I was informed by a friend that the only English movies appearing in theaters that are ever dubbed are the ones that mainly target children. This pleases us, as it’s one less accident waiting to happen the one time we want to give our brains a break from puzzling out the meaning of Japanese sentences.

Right now a badly cut James Bond movie (The World is Not Enough) is being shown on television to “encourage” the public to go see the latest installment. The funny thing is, I can’t do much of anything but cringe at the cheese-factor. Casino Royale is by far one of the best Bond flicks I’ve seen; Daniel Craig played a truer-to-the-book Bond, the director kept things tasteful, and the script was well-written. Best of all, I can’t recall any corny innuendo-laden lines that made me writhe in silent agony at the assault on my ears. Most of the other Bond movies (mostly the latest ones) are hard for me to watch, and I am being painfully reminded why.

Nevertheless, the movie companies have a pretty sweet set-up going on with Japan’s government-run television network when it comes to new picture promotion, since every single household in Japan who has a television is honor-bound to watch NHK. We’d probably fall for it more often if paying the equivalent of $15 per person to soak in the movie theater atmosphere didn’t make our wallets weep.

Luckily, only Harry Potter and Bond have proven splurge-worthy since our arrival.

We can only hope the current trend of mostly mediocre, uninspired motion pictures continues until we are on our native soil once again. The less temptation, the better.

Random Observation- Grocery Store

United States: We buy enough food in one fell swoop to feed the army that is our family for at least a week, quite possibly two. The combination of ample living space and huge food storage units (oh freezer that’s bigger than a microwave, how I miss you so) makes this possible, and even desirable in our quest to save time, gasoline, and hassle.

Japan: Fresh food is the pinnacle of delectability, which feeds the need for daily foraging and supersedes the otherwise coveted quality of convenience. While not everyone is limited to the foot locker of an icebox that we have (think the mini-fridge most commonly used for beer storage during college), it appears that simply having more space doesn’t erase a practice intricately woven into the society’s psyche.

We can follow these two distinct patterns of behavior without difficulty as they trickle down into the subconscious of one of the most basic, yet necessary steps : going through the check-out line… which brings me to my observation of the day.

Every single time I check-out of a grocery store (which is to say every single day), the check-out lady quietly informs me of the price of every single item in my basket, culminating in the total yen due. It doesn’t matter if I’m buying 3 things or 20, the price of each is faithfully stated at the moment the numbers flash on the register.

There’s no way that would ever happen in the states, if only because of the sheer volume filling the average cart. The total price is the only number uttered in the entire interaction... at least in my experience. I’d be interested to hear if there are exceptions to this generalization.

…now that I think about it, it’s not just food shops around here. It’s every store that sells tangible goods and products.

I hope this random little tidbit eases your mind the next time you’re in Japan, have a mind to purchase something (like a cheese bread thingy from a bakery… they’re quite tasty), and wonder what it is the check-out girl is muttering under her breath.

Or check-out boy. They’re not as common, but they do exist.

And if you do happen to make out what’s being said, a pleasant feeling of accomplishment will run through your veins, fueled by the fact that you have learned your Japanese numbers well enough to both recognize and comprehend them.

Yes, I am a simple soul...

Awesome

With a faint splutter, the television that has been silent all day flickers on. Practiced hands manipulate the remote control and the screen jumps from outrageously-attired talk show hosts to very large men facing one another in a bullish display of strength tempered by surprising grace and speed.

Like clockwork, for fifteen days every other month beginning at four in the afternoon, we bustle about the house with the latest sumo tournament as our backdrop.

Read that again. While we do relatively mundane tasks around our home, we have sumo wrestling rumbling in the background. There’s absolutely nothing unusual about me cooking dinner, dashing into the living room for 30 seconds when Ash calls out “Hey, ::insert sumo wrestler’s name here:: is up!”, briefly discussing the outcome while deciphering the kanji on the screen, going back to our interrupted tasks, and then doing it all over again.

Sumo wrestling. As a part of our normal routine.

How awesome is that?!?

Canine Sense

He trots along in the dark, eyes fixed upon the road beneath his mud-splattered feet as the brass tag dangling from his dark leather collar jingles softly. He seems to take no notice of the strong wind beyond flattening his ears and keeping his head down. His stride is quick and purposeful, conjuring visions of a warm welcome from his family when he returns home.

The headlights from our slowly approaching car shine upon his trim form traveling down the middle of the street and we wonder if it will matter to him in the slightest. There’s no indication that he’s aware of our pending arrival until, without so much as a glance backward, he immediately swerves to the side of the pavement. We glide past unimpeded.

As I turn to get one last glimpse before he vanishes in the darkness, I can’t help but feel bemused. Why is it that one of the only examples I’ve seen testifying to a sense of self-preservation in this country comes from a dog facing away from the something-ton vehicle bearing down on it?

The little old men and women who populate the streets in broad daylight could learn a thing or two.

I've Been There...

A few days ago the news was showing a clip of a city experiencing high winds and heavy rain. The streets were deserted, save for one lone woman out on the sidewalk who was valiantly trying to make her way to her destination on foot.

She struggled against the wind with her umbrella for a few seconds before closing it with an air of resignation and allowing herself the dubious pleasure of getting soaked. I could almost picture her car right around the corner, a haven in the storm. Oh, if only the dratted kasa had held out a few more minutes!

As one speaking who has braved the elements only to discover my rain shield made little difference whatsoever, it was both funny and sad.

Classic Joke

Today I was helping a couple ladies navigate the intricacies of English Conversation. This is not to be confused with Textbook English, for I maintain the viewpoint that grammar is what jukus are for. I just speaken da langige as I sees its.

After adding essential phrases and words such as “Shake a leg” and “butterfingers” to their repertoire, I was compelled to say a few words about Halloween.

No, Halloween is just one day… one evening actually.

No, we’re not doing anything special for it.

Yes, candy is popular.

Desperate to turn the conversation to something slightly more interesting, I hit upon the brilliant idea of explaining the origins of the phrase “Trick or Treat”. Once they understood the idea of a prank, I could see their esteem of the funny American holiday dwindle rapidly.

To stop the train of thought that would eventually lead to the belief that American kids are nothing but egg-chucking hooligans, I told them of the tradition my old neighborhood in Iowa had of requiring a trick or a joke before handing over the sugary loot, thus bringing a new meaning to the classic Halloween line.

Then they wanted me to tell a joke.

So I told a joke, and what a joke it was… yeahhh, I had nothing. Absolutely nothing… thus, I went with the old classic: “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

They cocked their heads from side-to-side, squinted, and by all appearances tried hard to figure out the answer. Eventually they conceded defeat and looked at me expectantly.

I, in the meantime, had been trying to think of one of the countless punchline variations that accompany that question, but they too eluded me. I grinned at them apologetically.

“To get to the other side.”

There was silence… and then one of them (the better English-speaker of the two) burst into laughter. I’m not speaking of the obligatory chuckle, complete with a rolling of the eyes and a slight groan- I’m talking hearty, genuine, gut-busting laughter.

It’s funny how laughter is infectious, isn’t it?

And yes, I'm terrible at telling jokes. But that doesn't mean I don't keep trying!

Odori

Last night we attended odori performances being put on by various classes around the city. For those of us who like to use official names, it’s known as Nihon Buyou, or Japanese traditional dance.

The premise is actually pretty neat. In essence, City Hall sponsors a sort of culture month every year and rents out the local concert hall. Classes around the area sign up, pay a nominal fee, and get the chance to showoff their skills in front of the community for a night on an actual stage. Different nights showcase different presentations, with everything from modern dance to traditional Japanese instrumental performances. From what I could tell, the events are well-attended as neighbors rally together to cheer on the students, who range from 5 years old to 70.

A wave of nostalgia washed over me as we entered the darkened auditorium, as well as a faint tug of displacement. I was instantly reminded of the countless hours spent in J.Hall during college, working to ready a production for its opening and the exhilaration of each performance night. A part of me wondered why in the world I wasn’t backstage somewhere helping out.

Mind you, I don’t go through these feelings every time I attend a show. But there is a decidedly different feel between a professional production and a college production, the latter being filled with the extra tension and energy of a cast and crew still learning and honing their abilities. Last year’s atmosphere exuded this sort of charm.

All this to say it was an enjoyable hour and a half. The pictures don’t really do the dances justice- much of their beauty comes from small graceful movements (like the turning of a head or subtle kimono sleeve manipulations) and fan use. Most of the dances were performed to traditional Japanese music, which is something else… and nothing if not distinctive. Although we’re not the biggest fans, Ash and I want to get a CD or two just to bring the flavor of Nippon home with us.


The only thing missing were large pieces of bamboo hanging in mid-air.

(The stage design of J.Hall’s Rashomon remains one of my favorites.)

Two Left

Once upon a time we had 8 umbrellas.

Two sailed over the briny sea to take up residence here: Tiny and Buzz.

One was bought in Narita to shade us from the scorching sun: Grey.

Two were on sale when the local department store went under: Tic & Tac.

One was acquired on impulse: Blue.

Two of the cheap, clear, plastic variety were as precious as gold when a downpour rushed us in the streets of Akihabara unexpectedly: Prism & Walter.

Eight for two people… it seemed like overkill, but we soon learned that umbrellas multiply almost unnoticed in both the homes and businesses of the Japanese people.

Now we know why.

One by one, these brave little soldiers, our main line of defense against getting drenched, have fallen. Buzz, Grey, Tic, and Tac have been broken & turned inside out by the rain’s heavy hitting “Enforcer” known as kaze around here. It’s gusting at high speeds outside right now.

Prism was performing her duties admirably before she was accidentally forgotten on a train… and while Tiny still stands defiant, she’s weak. One good whallop from the wind and she’s done for (and we’ve had some close calls)… so she’s been relegated to “drizzle” and “sunny” weather.

The two left have been assigned different duties. Blue sits quietly in the car for those times Ash goes to work when it’s sunny and comes home when buckets are pouring from the heavens, while Walter hangs by the front door for the business of actually getting to the car and back again.

Yes, the number of umbrella fatalities in Japan is high, especially for someone who has owned maybe 2 umbrellas in the whole first 20-some years of her existence. But now… now it feels like we’re woefully undermanned by having the same number of umbrellas as we do people in this house.

I’d reflect on how strange that is, but I’m much too busy drafting a plan to replenish the ranks.

And Then...

And then there was nothing. It was as if a razor-sharp blade came whistling out of nowhere, leaving a sudden silence in its wake. The wind just ceased to be.

Never have my ears strained so hard to fill the void that slammed into place without warning. Before long a truck, emboldened by the break in weather, zoomed past the house with the usual rumble accompanying it. I let out the breath I hadn’t even been aware I was holding. My eardrums were still intact, and my heart sang with the hope of a beautiful fall day.

* * * * * * *

Ah creative license, what a sweet thing you are. The end of the storm was not quite so dramatic as all that, but it really was strange for the wind buzzing around the house to quiet down, and I decided to give voice to that brief tightening of the chest that happens when you unthinkingly make sure all the senses that had been assaulted for the past day are still working.

It did turn out to be a glorious day, and the sun shone with a ferocity I rarely remember. Maybe it was trying to make up for disappearing so completely this past week. Driving around revealed that the river was very close to overflowing the concrete barriers while a canal only a few blocks from our house had actually crested over its banks and flooded a street or two (which didn’t stop some children from gathering and frolicking in the water). We always forget how close we are to the river… so we’re glad the rain stopped when it did.

We saw an amazing sight too- a larger-than-normal hazy moon blushing a light, pretty red. We were even able to see craters and stuff; the magnification was a little startling. Sadly, our frantic driving around for a good spot to stop and take a picture was to no avail. We took a minute too long, which means the moon was visible for a total of a minute and a half.

You won this time little moon, but next time we will capture you on film... digital sensors… whatever.

Game on.

That Explains Everything

It began slowly. The only thing signifying the fact that it was anything more than a light drizzle was the slow solidification of the air as it took in the unceasing moisture dusting through the sky. The clouds hung heavy upon the hills that surrounded the fields of harvested rice, settling themselves for a long stay over the land.

Slate grey sure is ugly… I always forget just how monochromatic the world looks without the foil of bright blue stretching endlessly overhead.

5 days ago we asked long-time residents of our town if we were experiencing a typhoon. “No,” they replied, “it’s just a little bit of rain.”

4 days ago we asked other people the same question. The reply was always the same- “No no no, you are mistaken. It’s not a typhoon, and most certainly not the rainy season.” It might just be me, but it seems a little silly to assign the title ‘rainy season’ to a pre-determined month instead of the time of year rain actually begins to disrupt daily life. I can’t remember it ever raining without cease for so long in June.

This line of questioning and the subsequent answers continued up until today. Today was different. Sometime during the night the winds came howling and clawing their way from the south to join in the cacophony of sound the rain made, and is still making, as it dashed against the window shutters. It’s different than thunder- the wonder at the ferocity of sonance is still there, but stops just before crossing the threshold to enjoyment. I like thunderstorms, but the low, menacing growl of its cousin that refuses to cease for a moment soon becomes a background noise uneasily ignored, punctuated by the random shuddering of doors within the house.

In fact, I refused to open the shutters, which is unusual considering my dislike of feeling boxed in when there’s no light filtering through the windows. Kissing my husband goodbye as he braved the elements to go to work, I watched as he engaged in an impromptu tugging match with the powerful gusts that attempted to wrest his umbrella from his hands. I briefly wondered what the teachers would say today to the inevitable question.

I received my answer sooner than expected. For some reason, lunch had been canceled at Ash’s school for the day and he was given leave to go ‘study at home’. I eagerly awaited the news, and it wasn’t too long before he was stumbling through the door, thanks to the gusts he made friends with in the morning shoving at his back.

“So, did they finally upgrade this…” I waved my hand in the general direction of the rain-soaked concrete outside, “… to an honest-to-goodness typhoon?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I asked Tau-sensei about it. She said it was definitely a typhoon.” We shared a smile of triumph, always knowing what it truly was, but it was still nice to finally hear some confirmation. He continued to shrug out of his damp jacket, paused for a moment, and then said in a voice tinged with laughter, “It wasn’t too long after that before she tilted her head to one side and said thoughtfully, ‘Actually, it’s two typhoons.’”

Ah. That explains everything.

Still Out of It

Oh body of rebellion, why must you fight me so? The mornings sparkle with the promise of a new day, and all you want to do is snuggle ever deeper into your blanket and sleep, even though we both know there’s no more restful slumber to be had, and that this act in fact curses us to grogginess for the remainder of the day.

So what if I ran you ragged this weekend? We had fun didn’t we? Listening to an impromptu Baroque concert, spending time with an amazing Japanese family and nearly exploding thanks to their determination to keep feeding us, fighting to pay for lunch, traversing the ancient paths of the Edo period through famous woodblock prints, strolling endlessly along a river that winds its way through the outskirts of Tokyo, re-tracing my husband’s steps to his college during his summer stay years ago, dodging mega-camera toting enthusiasts at the Tokyo Game Exhibition in Makahari...

...and why are comedians putting large orange necklaces onto raging bulls, climbing upon the said bull’s back, and otherwise making an unhappy bull even unhappier? There also appears to be a man yanking on the bull’s nose ring to get it to stay still… this can’t end well.

* * * * * * *

No serious injuries have been sustained, just someone successfully parasailing behind a motorboat, coming to a standstill, and then dropping like a stone into the churning water below.

That’s worse than the Tower of Death. Who would ever want to be a comedian in Japan? They’re just brutal to each other.

Do you hear that, body mine? Get your act together or else we’re going into the Japanese comedy business! Then you’ll be sorry.