8/27/14

Today I learned about おでん (oden), a winter dish that consists of boiled egg and cabbage, and is commonly sold at just about any convini (convenience store) for ¥100 (about a dollar).  From the same class I also learned that one of the women’s ex-husbands is a man named Kunitachi, a famous trumpeter the other students had heard of, who teaches at Tokyo Music College.

I have private lessons three times a month with a doctor who likes to take over the class and treats our sessions as practice medical lectures.  I find that I’m getting better at down-shifting out of teacher mode and into student mode.  This makes our lessons go very smoothly, since all he needs are small corrections here and there, and otherwise I can just enjoy a fascinating talk about medicine.  He gets the English practice he wants, and I learn something new and strange every week.  Let’s call him Doctor-san.

Doctor-san sat down at the table today, and pulled out a bag of old medical tools, including some rusty scalpels that made me very nervous, but he handled them with confidence as he admitted to being unkind to the surgical assistants back in the day.
Here’s what I learned at today’s session:
-A person who holds tools for the surgeon is called a lancet, after the person who held lances for a knight (although I think this was the job of the squire).
-A hook holder is a tool that dilates openings in a patient’s body so the surgeon can have a clear view of the job (this task falls to the newest surgeon, and it’s apparently a very difficult job, standing perfectly still, holding a hook holder for hours at a time).
-A double-sided blade is for amputation: cutting the top half of the leg first, then the bottom half without letting go of the tool that would have become slippery with blood by then.
-Scissors that are curved at the tip are called Cooper’s scissors, and are so designed to allow a surgeon to see what she’s cutting while the tool is in a tight space, or a tunnel (vein).
-A zondel is a narrow metal rod that “investigates anal tube.”  I became hyper-aware of how he handled it with his bare hands.
-There are at least two types of scalpels: one that has a narrow and slender blade, the tip of which is used inside the body, and is held with a “pencil grip.”  The other has a shape most people would find more familiar, and is used to cut the body open (the part of the blade used is different, and could be called the monouchi if it were a Japanese sword).  It’s name is something about “with a belly,” which describes its shape wonderfully.  It’s held with a “violin bow grip.”

8/25/14

I finally got a cell functioning cell phone today.  Apparently the one I had wouldn’t work for some reason…?  Anyway, when I signed the contract, they could only put two names down: first and last.  Japanese people don’t have middle names, and I have to put my name down on everything exactly as it’s printed on my resident card, which has all three of my names.  This little conundrum could only be solved by combining two of the three names, resulting in FIRSTMIDDLE LAST.  The woman who sold me the contract saw my name and read it aloud.  I told my coworker, Hiroko-san, that it sounded like when my mother was mad at me to hear my first and middle name in such rapid succession, which she thought was hysterical, so she explained it to the woman working at the store, and they giggled together.

Quick vocab lesson:
Campaign- special offer
Service- free sample

I found a traditional Japanese inn behind the school where I work.  I went in just to check it out, and found a really beautiful lobby with dark wood, communal tables and benches, a long bar across the back wall, a friendly owner whose English is excellent, and a little white dog who might be a bit too friendly.  We made friends as soon as I came in, and while I chatted with the owner.  I took a business card and was just about to walk out when the dog tackled me at the ankles.  I turned around, and he was crouched a few feet away, head near the ground, butt in the air, in full playful mode.  I played with him a bit while the owner laughed and apologized.  I shared the info with my dad, assuming he’d be interested in staying there when he came to visit.

While reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil with a class, the topic of jurors came up, and the students gave me some great info about the way a Japanese courtroom were once run.  The current system resembles ours, but up until about four years ago, jurors were paid professionals whose only job was to populate juries.

A male student during another class got distracted by my facial expressions and abruptly announced that he didn’t know how to raise just one eyebrow at a time, or wink.  Everyone tried, many failed.  So cute.

In the class for high schoolers, the two girls and I discussed anime.  One of them told me about a horror anime that sounds genuinely scary, so I told her it sounds great, but that I can’t watch it because I can’t handle scary stuff.

One of the women in another class read several signs in our textbook, and got confused when we came across one that says, “tires and exhaust.”  She read it instead as “tired and exhausted,” and we all enjoy a good laugh.

8/22/14

Today is Friday, one of my days off, so I slept in, then wrote a haiku about the little cast iron bell I bought for $1 at my school’s bazaar in the lobby:

Morioka bell,
calling high and sweet, even
dogs stop to listen.

After breakfast, I headed through the muggy air to haunt the tourist center until 2ish, at which point it was obviously time for jajamen.  The thick, warm air scared off all but die-hard weirdos like me, so there was no line today.  The chef, a tired, round woman, cuts a noodle with her thumbnail to test if it’s ready to serve.  She wears a green apron with white kanji that means “white dragon.”  The patrons are all male, with the exception of one table of three women.  The baseball on the TV catches my attention: one of the players hits a home run, and smiles and pumps his fist in celebration as he jogs to home plate.  His teammates smile and high five him enthusiastically.  This strikes me as so different from the way the game is played in the US, but when I mention this to my students the next day, they clarify: those were high schoolers playing, not professionals.  Still, the stakes are high.  Apparently, agents watch these games very carefully.  High school baseball is taken as seriously as high school football in some small towns in the US.  Still, I’m happy to see that there is still some joy left in a televised sport.

Having spent all morning (and some of the afternoon) chatting with people back home and stuffing myself full of delicious noodles, there was no time left to go to the martial arts supply shop.  I headed home to shower and change, then meet Ryann for a girls’ night out with Annie, a friend and coworker who occasionally teaches at our school.  We get Indian food, and each of us orders a different type of Naan: sesame (Annie), garlic (Ryann), and honey (me).  I clearly won, but everything was delicious.

Then we hit up a karaoke bar on Odori that charged like $90 for an hour!  I was shocked, but it was fun to finally do some karaoke in Japan.

8/21/14

I taught a few classes at the hair and makeup academy in the morning, then caught a ride from Nabuko-san to the post office, where my bank card awaited us.  Nabuko-san parked illegally, and steps happily out of the car.  “Just a short time,” she chirps, and saunters into the post office at a confident clip while I jog to catch up.  I’ve grown very fond of her, and appreciate her frank, friendly approach to all things.

2pm
While discussing our personal opinions of the way different languages sound, I told the only two women in the class that I thought German often sounded like fighting, and they all nodded.  One woman then shouted, “Aishiteru!” (I love you!) while punching the air.  It took me a while to regain my composure.  The students chatted easily among themselves, and the topic turned to sports.  They mimicked Hideo Nomo’s pitching style.  “Tornado,” they say, and one of them contorts her body before whipping around and accidentally hitting a chair.

They were both surprised I ate jajamen alone at the time.  I told them I went to Pylon and sat at the bar to eat.  “That’s a… man’s space,” one of them said, and the other nodded in agreement.  “Oh, I don’t care,” I said, then added, “Anyway, I’m American, so…” At this they nod vigorously.  The rules are different for foreigners, especially bold American women who can be said to not know the unspoken rules of Japanese pub/restaurant culture, and may or may not choose to be bound by them regardless.

8/20/14

I ate lunch at work today: okra tempura (slimy), BBQ liver and hot green tea.  The lobby hosted several older people drinking coffee, waiting for their turn in line for a medical examination.  I enjoyed listening to the old people chat and laugh while they waited.  Their cadence and rhythm of speech is totally different from how younger people talk.  It’s very soothing.

The exams were taking place in a classroom that shares a wall with the kitchen.  Now and then voices slipped through the seams in the movable wall, but the more distracting sound was something that resembled a dog barking in its sleep.  Was it an old man coughing for the doctor?  A machine releasing pressure or air?  I still don’t know.  I chose to picture a dog, and giggled into my tea.

2pm
During a private lesson with a very high level student, I mentioned that I visited a few neighborhood shrines during Obon.  She said that her parents generation used the days off during Obon for their intended purpose: to travel to their hometowns in order to visit the graves of their ancestors.  Her generation and younger, however, took the chance to take vacations, travel abroad, or just relax.  She then said she liked the environment of a church: quiet and beautiful, but that she dislikes Catholicism because of “assault… with teenagers… I don’t like.”  Of course, she talking about the rampant molestation that only came out within the last decade.

6pm
I teach private lessons with a doctor who likes to take the wheel, and treat our sessions as dry runs for medical lectures, which is at times a bit taxing on my ego, but if I can downshift into student mode fast enough (and I’m getting better at that), I find I can actually enjoy his lectures quite a bit.  He went over the three types of autopsy:
Systematic- for the purpose of education, done by a medical student
Pathological- for the purpose of determining the cause of death
Legal- also for the purpose of determining the cause of death, but ordered by a judge

At the end of our lesson, he pulls out an email that details why his latest submission was not accepted for publication by a medical journal.  He likens the experience to romantic rejection.  “I sent many letters to women I loved.  Most of them said no.  But some of them were very kind, and some were not.  Lily: you must be mild when you say no.”  I promised I would.

8/19/14

My entry in my little journal where I jot down notes about my experiences here in Japan reads thusly for August 19:

“Internet voucher @ tourist ctr. ran out (2 weeks).  Still no internet @ home, no phone plan b/c no bank card, + no money in the bank b/c Credit Union is dragging its feet.  My coworkers are amazing.  Everyone else sucks.”

Once my two week free wifi offer expired at the tourist center, my world kinda came crashing down on me.  I was unable to contact my people back in the US any way other than email on the communal work computer.  I went to the tourist center, discovered the problem, and deflated.  I sat on one of their benches and crumbled at the edges.  I went to work and explained my situation very simply and calmly to my coworker, Hiroko-san, who could not have been more sympathetic.  As I write this, almost a month later, the Credit Union still has not gotten in touch to figure out how we can transfer my funds without chatting over the phone (and they wouldn’t call my work number for some reason, the issues went on and on).  Eventually I stopped thinking about it for my own mental health, and haven’t heard from them since.  I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t even so much as lift a finger to help me.

I got officially depressed.  I was totally isolated, but more than that, I was powerless.  I couldn’t contact the outside world from anywhere but work.  If I ran into trouble or had an emergency at home, I was on my own.  I couldn’t see the faces and hear the voices of people who would move the earth itself to make me happy.  Like my first days here, I started stepping away from my desk to cry in the bathroom now and then, not because I wanted to, but because the tears were coming, and crying at work in front of coworkers is a distinctly female behavior of which I totally disapprove.  I’ve grown quite fond of my coworkers, and I trust them.  It might be because of this that I simply refuse to emotionally unload on them.

8/17/14

I stayed in Morioka to see the Obon festivities while Ryann headed to the coast to spend a couple of days on the beach. I checked out the seemingly unused shrine near my apartment, then finally meandered around Hachimangu shrine, where I shook a giant bell that didn’t ring, and went fishing for a fortune, and kept the fish (gold for me, red for someone else). I asked a father of two adorable little girls whether my fortune was good or bad, and he said it was good, so I kept it.

The street leading to Hachimangu was full of people and street vendors selling jewelry, second-hand clothes and pots, small plants, skewers of whole squid bodies, scallops and giant, warm, delicious oysters at $3 a pop (totally worth it).

At the tourist center, Boyfriend told me about his doubts about my feelings for him, how I’ve been acting distant, and that it doesn’t bode well for us long-term. I told him that I’ve had to stop thinking about my attachments back in LA to survive mentally here in Morioka. If I keep pining for everything I miss about home, I’ll be depressed all the time. Therefore, I’m letting go of my life in LA to make Morioka feel like home. It might be a temporary mentality, or not. Boyfriend appreciates honesty over gentle if false news, which is admirable.

I stood in line for an hour for jajamen, then rode my shitty little bike down to the Kitakami river to observe the Obon festival celebrations which had been pointlessly postponed one day (it drizzled all day).  Men carried floats called funeko nagashi (funeko is boat) shaped like dragons and covered in fireworks down to the river, where they coaxed them to travel relatively straight, and slower than the current. I was interviewed by a reporter who writes for the Yomiuri Shimbun (I need to bug him about the article), and laughed along with the other spectators whenever a boat almost capsized or something went wrong. The note I scratched in my little book between ship burnings reads: “For such an uptight country, these people sure think it’s funny when things shoot sideways by mistake.” This is in reference to the many fireworks (hanabi, small fireworks) that went off in the wrong direction, occasionally putting the boatmen and spectators at minor risk.

Two young brothers next to me were clearly discussing how the fireworks resembled something like a Dragonball Z battle, and the younger of the two enjoyed singing Happy Birthday with a different tune whenever flames started to lick the insides of a float, some of which had eyes and mouths that lit up. The finale, a white dragon float, blew smoke out its mouth, and had oscillating blue eyes that shone in the gathering dark while the dank weather closed in and coaxed out the cicaidas.

8/15/14

On our last day in Tokyo, we headed out around 10am and left Yokohama on the Shinkansen, for which we finally paid for the pleasure of a ride to Tokyo station. A short subway ride brought us to the sword museum, which consisted of a very small display of mostly late Edo-era blades, all of which were beautiful, and surprisingly smooth and detailed. I was fascinating and somewhat thrilling to see the various grains of each blade close-up. Each piece of the swords was laid out, and the artistry was heart-breakingly obvious. I fell in love with one suba that had an antler and a bat featured on it.

We headed back to another station and ate at the restaurants there: Ryann grabbed a sandwich and joined me at a curry spot just two doors down. We both craved ice cream afterward, and found a mango bar for Ryann and a matcha cookie bar for me, which I shared with a man outside the convini (when he offered water from his bicycle basket in return, we politely declined). We chatted for a bit, and continued our sojourn to an anime museum run by the company that produced Cowboy Bebop, Shin Chan, and Full Metal Alchemist just to name a few, but I was disappointed to find none of these very well-known anime at all prominently featured inside. Regardless, we stenciled and watched some Shin Chan in Japanese, and headed across the street to appreciate another shrine which was beautiful, and totally empty.  Ryann fled from a bee, which I thought was hilarious until I saw the size of bees here.

RUN RYANN!

8/14/14

Ryann and I took about a jillion trains until we finally found the owl cafe. We paid $20 each, gave my name for the reservation (Sayuri), and enjoyed my first burger at a nearby restaurant while it drizzled outside. Afterward, my craving for coffee and Ryann’s hankering for a beer left us with a bit of a conundrum, so we wandered in search of one or the other and found a shoe shop on a lovely walking street where we bought identical (and quintisentially Japanese) sandals to replace my broken ones, and to give Ryann’s feet a break from the blisters that formed walking around so much the day before.

Eventually we settled at a semi-Italian cafe directly across the street from the shoe shop where Ryann and I had three beers and three coffees respectively, and we discussed dinner plans: no question, okonomiyaki for sure. The area was rotten with them, so it only seemed appropriate that we finally try it, a first for both of us. We picked one essentially at random after the owl cafe and had one cheese, and one egg and green onion. The cheese was better, and I can’t wait to try one with a noodle base instead of cabbage. A woman sitting next to us helped us figure out how to cook it properly, and was very sweet and helpful (and spoke some English as well).

Our reservation at the owl cafe wasn’t until 4. A ringing bell nearby the cafe drew our attention, so I went to scope it out and discovered a small shrine down an outdoor hallway. There were small paper packets with something shaped like a box inside on a small tray to the side. I tossed a 100 yen coin into the donation box, bowed, clapped twice, contemplated my existence, bowed twice more, and took an envelope. Ryann and I discovered a small wooden box inside that sounded like it had a coin wrapped in velvet inside. Turns out it was a shiny gold (false) coin with writing on one side and the image of a god on the other, wrapped in a small white piece of parchment paper. I didn’t realize the box could open until five days later when I showed it to some coworkers to ask them what it was for. They must think I have brain damage to not realize the box could open. Still, I learned something fascinating about the box that I wouldn’t even have known to ask about.

It’s made from a wood called kiri (Paulownia tree?), which repels bugs and is difficult to burn. The tree grows quickly, so the tradition associated with the kiri tree is to plant one when a girl is born into a family, then cut it down when she turns 18 so the father can build a cabinet for her dowry. Japanese cabinets are fucking gorgeous, and double as semi-public art. I will own one, one day. I bought my dad a book on Japanese cabinets that I found while working at the LACMA bookstore. I’ll have to ask him if he still has it.

Four o’clock finally found us at the door of the owl cafe, waiting with bated breath with about a dozen others, all Japanese. A sign on the door read that Fridays featured English-speaking staff. Today was Thursday. The long, and likely informative speech given by our hostess was mostly lost on us, but we paid due attention and nodded when the time seemed right, and tried not to look impatient while about two dozen live owls all over the shop tolerated and ignored us simultaneously. Eventually, we were all given permission to walk around, take photos, and soon after, hold them. I noticed a barn owl perched behind a stand, and asked to hold it. It was easily the most beautiful bird in the cafe, and I have a small obsession with barn owls, so I think I might have to go die now. I was absolutely thrilled to be so close to such a flawless animal.

I didn’t get the chance to hold one of the larger birds, but did get to have a bright orange-eyed little guy perch on my shoulder. What a cutie. One smallish owl snuggled Ryann’s face while perched on her shoulder, and she almost died. They might be the cutest couple of all time.
After three trains to another accidentally free ride on the Shinkansen, we crashed at Kenta’s apartment for a half hour before venturing out to take a look at a nearby shrine we had noticed on Google maps. Turns out it was a rat shrine, with freely rotating statues of two rats with hammers, and a starving neighborhood cat who was friendly, but refused to follow us onto the shrine grounds (which is awesome, btw). On the way home we stopped to watch a game of pickup soccer, and some middle school aged boys playing a game of tag.

Back at the apartment, Ryann crashed while I had a late-night conversation with people back home, and ate the onigiri I bought earlier for a midnight snack.

8/13/14

Up at 4am.  Officially in the land of the rising sun.  There, I’ve seen in.

Eggs on toast with tomato and powdered coffee stuff, then off to the tourist center to chat with people back home for a spell before meeting Ryann at work.  We walk together to the Morioka train station where we hang out in the waiting room and I call home because I’m excited to have access to wifi.  We board the Shinkansen, and arrive at Tokyo station about two very smooth hours worth of mostly green, semi-inhabited countryside later.  We throw our bags in lockers inside the station, and check a Google map on Ryann’s phone to see what there is to see in the local area.  We decide on a green patch that looks like a park, and start walking.

Turns out that nice little park was the Imperial Palace grounds.  Pretty beautiful, and very well kept.  Many of the plants and trees are labeled in Japanese and English, which apparently fascinates me.  Maybe I’m in the wrong line of work, because plants occasionally capture my attention the way coloring does.  I find a stick of sufficient size and do happogiri with it, minus the ei-ya-to’s to spare Ryann the humiliation of filming a screaming, stick-wielding travel partner, who she’s stuck with for another two days while we visit Tokyo.  Kaiso will still be pleased, I think.

We jump on the subway and head to Asakusa temple, a fantastic building with giant deity statues on either side of the gate (behind screens, sadly) and monstrously large sandals for the gods to wear, which is the best thing I’ve seen or heard since my arrival in Japan.  We meet Annie, a British woman and friend of Ryann’s, who is also teaching English in Morioka.  She is very relaxed in what still feels like a very foreign environment for me. We move at a clipped pace past loads of vendors I’d love to waste the day staring at.  We eat ramen, visit the temple, and watch a monkey show nearby for a moment to rest and collect ourselves.

We stop into a knife shop at my request, and I’m very disappointed to find the planes all exorbitantly expensive, but at least they have air conditioning.  One teacup shop and a subway ride later, we’ve arrived in Yoyogi Park where we meander around what feels like a vast forest surrounding the Meiji Shrine (Honderi Shrine).  I catch my first glimpse of priestesses like I’ve seen in anime (most memorably Inuyasha: fucking Kagome!) dressed in brilliant white against vibrant orange-red hakama, and intricate stiff wiring tied into their hair.

Getting off the subway I spot two girls in full Asian squat with bright pink hair and dark tan skin.  I take my favorite photo of the locals to date, and speed after Ryann, who walks at a clipped, tour guide pace (and in fact she has been a tour guide).  One girl passes us decked out in lovely gothic lolita, and I am too startled to take a photo.

Back at the Tokyo station we struggle to find our bags.  We need to take them with us to our next destination, the area where we’re staying for the next two nights.  We refer to the photo of the map I took before we left (“You are here” doesn’t help when you can’t figure out how to get “here”), and eventually realize we’ve very cleverly locked our bags in the Shinkansen area of the station.  We would have to buy a useless Shinkansen ticket, or else explain our predicament to someone in order to gain access to the area where our bags are being held hostage by the highly efficient Japanese transit system.  We get in line at a JR ticket station to ask for advice, and are given curt and friendly directions by a startlingly alert Japanese man in a hilarious hat to the Shinkansen area where we are not allowed access.  He doesn’t get it.  We’re left with no option than to sneak into the area, grab our bags grab a train, and sneak out at our destination where we meet the person whose apartment we’re crashing, a native Japanese man and friend of Ryann’s named Kenta.

Mischief managed, we are picked up by Kenta in a company car, and whisked away to Japan’s largest Chinatown, where we insist on paying for dinner thusly:
“No no, Kenta, we’re paying.”
“Oh, are you sure?”
“Yes, you’re not paying.”
“Oh, ok.  Thank you.  I’m going outside to smoke.”

We settle into his apartment where he does work in seiza on a laptop on a low table in front of a TV, which is set to a summer concert with what seems like several hundred acts, most of which are off-key and seem totally over the top (the costumes, the facial expressions, the gesturing, the dancing, the makeup… none of it appeals to me).  We settle in to sleep, and I take advantage of Kenta’s wifi to call home.