The Crazies

It is high time I describe the people that I'm working with, though I think it would do well to be noted that my knowledge of these people is rather shallow. Not speaking their language, I think, is an inhibiting factor in truely understanding their personality.

The first person I should make note of is my supervisor, who insists that he be called Bill. I call him Mr. Bill, usually, only because he doesn't know who Mr. Bill is. Whose clumsy now, Mr. Bill?


In any case, he is my favorite person here. He often stands up while he talks to me and announces to the office, "everybody. This school sucks." No one pays attention to him, but it makes me giggle at his complete passive aggressiveness. His English is so much more superior than that of the other teachers, that he'll purposely say something they don't understand. Whether this is score cool points with me, or to make him feel better about himself, I cannot say with certainty. I do, however, think it is for both reasons. His favorite phrase is, "any fucking way", and he repeats it twice, mostly because I laugh at it. Of the many things you expect an ESL to say, any fucking way is at the bottom of the list.

When asked to describe my supervisor, I often say that he is "too American for the Japanese, and too Japanese for the Americans." Two weeks later, I am still confident in this assesment. He is often complaining about things in Japan for some reason or another. When I said that I was excited for the Togi matsuri, he said, "why? It hurts your shoulder (refering to carrying the kiriko) and it's boring." However, I think he's more comfortable here, where he knows the rules of the game. He is two different people, he tells me. With me, he cusses and makes dirty jokes. He tells me that the him I see is a secret, and I need not tell my other co-workers that he is like that. Being two different people, myself, I can sympathize.

Location: Suprise, surprise, my desk.
Listening: Stop Me - Mark Ronson (cover)
Wishing: that I wasn't a slave to public image.

James Bond in the Land of Other James Bonds

I drove on the left side of the road yesterday! It was dangerous, and I felt exactly like James Bond. This must be how it feels, fighting Russia and driving on the left side of the road. It's a wonderful feeling of absolute awesomeness. What is even more James Bond-like was that I drove without getting into an accident (which isn't really how every car chase ends), and without problems, aside from the fact that I kept hitting the wind shield wipers whenever I wanted to turn on the blinker. Surprise surprise. If the wheel is on the opposite side of what you're used it, everything else will be too.

I bought a manual yesterday, against the better judgement of the condescending car salesman, and my boss who thinks I too clumsy. However, aside from the fact the gear shift is, you guessed it, on the left, I'm confident I can handle it. Colorado is not exactly the flattest place (well, it is out towards Nebraska), so I'm sure I'll do fine in Togi. Anyways, I know enough about manuals that I won't freak out everytime I stall.

The joke is, right now, that if I'm out on the roads, I'm to call everyone and say "watch out! I'll be driving Route 249 between Suzu and Togi at 4 o'clock." All my co-workers think that's wildly funny. I think it's starting to get a little annoying. Yes, I've run into a fence post. Yes, I've run into a tree. I bare the scars of an over confident youth, and I've learned from them. I hope.

Clumsy is the popular word at Togi High school. I trip up the stairs because I'm not used to my slippers. Clumsy! I run into the door because I'm not paying attention. Clumsy! I drop food because I can't use chopsticks. CLUMSY! I forget my passport at the restaurant on my first day. CLUMSY CLUMSY! Bill, my supervisor, always introduces me like this: "This is the new ALT. Her name is clumsy."

To which, I am forced to reply, "I am actually Alison. But thanks, Bill."

Location: Desk
Listening: Elephant Gun -- Beirut
Wishing: to be able to do something productive.

Of Which Alison Recieves a Car

My car was dropped off today, but my friends only stayed for five minutes. It was a very bizarre feeling that made me reevaluate my personality. Had I done something wrong? I wondered. I had been irritable in Kanazawa, surely that was the answer. They were two hours earlier than they had said they would be, and it was very lucky I saw them, for I was just leaving to watch the traditional Japanese dancing.

I was late, and caught the tail of end of a ceremony that forced me to travel back into my imaginary past lives. Surely this is what a heathen felt at his/her first mass, befuddled by the ceremony, and completely unaware of its purpose. We bowed, clapped our hands, and offered up tree branches with a paper hanging off of them. Souta, who is Ishihara-san’s grandson, was just as disinterested as a child would be at mass, playing with his Aunt Aki’s mobile, which gave a tinkling, fairy-like tone every time it opened.

I spent most of the day moping about, and at complete loss of what to do. I had thought, after all, that I was going to have company. Now I’m wondering if I should go to Suzu this weekend at all.

Unfortunately, I felt out of place today. I wanted the Ishihara’s to enjoy each other’s company, so I did not want to intrude. However, by myself, I felt like a poser. Nevertheless, I was stalwart in my decision to stay, and to not let paranoia beat me. I met a very nice lady name Yamamoto, whose niece will be in my third year class. I wish that I had talked to her more, but I am always nervous when I first meet someone and I ran away to buy some very disgusting yakisoba. I forgot that when you live on the coast, the default meat is fish, so I had to throw it away. The Japanese won’t believe that I don’t like it, and then I remind them that my supervisor also doesn’t like fish. Always, they ask, “is he Japanese?” I laugh and tell them yes, but “isn’t he strange?” I also have to explain them that fish is just not something common in Colorado. In Colorado, beef is everywhere, and it’s cheap. “Shinjirarenai!” they exclaim, meaning, “I can’t believe that!”

I was invited to Ishihara’s for dinner again, and this time I did not get sick. I was careful to avoid even looking at foods that I did not want to eat. In Japan, I’ve noticed, all one has to do is look at an item, and they automatically assume that one wants to eat it. Staring straight ahead has become somewhat of an art for me.

Then, that night, I pulled a contraption that I did not know the name of. It was an anticlimatic event, for after two hours, we stopped, clapped and congratulated each other for finishing. The float was very pretty, with two mannequins posed stolid beneath a pine tree littered with red lamps. At their feet was a waterfall of pink blossoms, and behind them was a small temple, sitting as if it were on the horizon of their journey. The singing the floated around this strange display was impossible to interpret, but I imagined it to be a story of two people in search of something, being pulled by an inexplicable force away from their home, but the memories of it keep following them.

Festival-ing it Up in Togi!

I didn’t know how it started, but I found myself wandering down the street, summoned by the pied taiko drummer. At first, I was nervous. Did I belong? What will they think if I come watch? I felt as if I was an unwelcome tourist, shallowly trying to appreciate what was wholly theirs, snapping photos of their quaintness.

They pass my window now as I write this, like noisy ghosts, eerily illuminating the streets as they float by, accompanied by the steady beat of an echoing drum.

My favorite kiriko is the one that my students carry. It is big, and it takes all of their strength to keep it under control, all the while it spouts bubbles into the air as it wobbles too and fro. By the end of the night, I was sure they were all very, very drunk, and they danger, which when felt before was only superficial, became very real. When I mentioned this, the adults put their fingers to their lips and told me that it was a secret.

The children had their own kiriko, and were the only ones to be able to pass beneath the cement torri (gate to the shrine). A festival for a child is always seen through different eyes than that of an adult. When I was young, I loved large social events, excited to see what I had never seen before, and develop a meanings for what was previously ineffable to me. The lights and sounds in combination were like magic. As one grows older, however, the magic is peeled away like a cheap paint, and all one sees are excuses to drink and socialize. Perhaps only the children should be allowed to pass under the torii.

After the earthquake, only one torii survives, arched over the road, beckoning travelers to see what is beyond it. All others are cement, and their permanence is less impressive than the rotting wood of the sole survivor.

I found the other foreigner in Togi, and invited him to come along, although I don’t think it made Kana-chan (Ishihara-san’s other daughter) very happy. His Japanese is not very good, so I fear I will be forced to become his translator.

Going to a matsuri, I discovered, is a lot like playing a very slow game of frogger with rules that only the cars (or in this case, the kiriko) know. Whistles are being blown, sometimes to a mysterious beat, other times, frantically like a warning. What sounds like warnings, are merely ruses, for the real danger only happens when one least expects it.

Unfortunately, all my photos were lost. A faulty memory card is to blame. The last photo I tried to take was of rising moon in the lilac sky, greeting the world through the leaves a plum tree. Perhaps such beauty was never meant to be captured.

That night, I was finally struck by the ceremony of the Togi matsuri. They circled shrine, all shouting their individual calls, slurring them in their liquor induced haze. It was as if hedonism and asceticism had found a way to merge, and they did so by requiring men to carry heavy contraptions (often without padding) for hours upon hours, yet allow them to drink to their heart’s desire.

Bottles of sake were passed around, and I had managed to avoid them until a man who dubbed himself the Japanese Jimi Hendrix forced me to drink. He cut a very funny site, wearing his happi (tradition Japanese coat that represents the neighborhood you are from), accompanied gigantic black, afro wig. He was very impressed that Nick was from New York, and too embarrassed to say that he didn’t know where Colorado was. His friends gathered around us, and I tried very hard to translate drunkenese for Nick. No one seemed to notice that I wasn’t very good at it. We learned many times that his friend had a “japanese tattoo”, because he kept lifting his shirtsleeve and showing it to us. I said that looked like it hurt, and he grinned at me. “It did,” he said.

Watching Bad British Television and Waiting for Bad Brits

EDIT: Sunday ought to be exciting, for my friend Ezzie, and my newly acquired friend, Anne, are coming! I'm not sure if Michael is, but I will be sure to buy enough food in any case.

Before I left for Japan, I let myself buy one television show for the first difficult few months. This show was the unfortunate choice of BBC 2's Robin Hood. The most unfortunate thing about it, aside from the downright awful scripting that happens every now and again, and the blaring plot holes, is that it is only thirteen episodes long. I've been trying to space them, watching commentaries on episodes I have just watched, and watching an extra instead of an episode. But my time is almost done, and without internet I fear my sanity. Escapism is like a drug, and one needs it at least every few days.

However, the show isn't all bad. It has some very good ideas, and the characters, in general, are very interesting. One character I like in particular is Much (who is played by the grandson of Patrick Troughton, the 2nd Doctor! Coolies!), the manservant of Robin Hood. The following page is off in its description of him, but here it is anyways:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/drama/robinhood/characters/much.shtml

Despite the impending lack of Robin, I have found some respite in some very intriguing JDramas. What their names are and what they are about, I am unable to say. Nevertheless, the incessant indignant slapping of one another is just enough to take the edge off.

Last night, I watched the taiko drums practice for tomorrow's matsuri. Expect photos and updates on Monday, or for those of you who are current living in the past, Sunday.

Eating and Drinking in Kanazawa

Kanazawa is known as little Kyoto, and I can hardly disagree with the description after visiting the Katamachi district. The streets are slightly less accessible, but it is a large city, teeming with pedestrians casually strolling in the brightly lit streets. The city was so electric that even when I closed my eyes, the lights dizzily danced through my eyelids making me feel as I had stood up too fast.

However, no matter how much one praises Kanazawa, one cannot ignore its most blaring downside. Due to lack of imagination, it seems, rather than any discrediting factors of the city itself, the only thing to do there is drink. This is, naturally, not true. The city is host to gardens, geisha districts, and many other attractions. However, with the small amount of time I had (being there only in the evening), and having no earthly concept of the geography of Kanazawa (the streets are annoyingly twisting with little or no method), I was forced to eat and drink as entertainment.

It was because of this, as a sober person, that I found I hate being around people who are drunk. They are loud, obnoxious, and think themselves to be unerringly funny. Ezzie, my friend who I love dearly, did very little to endear herself to me. She was touchy-feely and laughed at everything in a loud cackle that sounded as if it bordered on octaves that only dogs could hear. Anything derogatory was sported like a mortal wound that made her whimper and cry, “why are you being so mean to me?” She would then mope by burying her head in either my, or Michael’s shoulder. Fortunately, she forgot most of the rude things I did say to her the next day. I feel bad for being a wet blanket, even though I did my best to drink.

All in all, the trip to Kanazawa was not as fun as I had originally imagined it would be. When one goes to Little Kyoto, one expects some experiences. The only real experience I had made me cry. I thought my supervisor left me to fend for myself. It was wholly embarrassing. Not having a cell phone, I had to ask the office workers at the Jyosei Center to let me use the phone, and I called the one phone number I had. Unfortunately, this number was a person that I had not met yet. He was very kind, but told me that he was in Tokyo, and thus, unable to help me. However, he did give me the Prefectural Advisor’s number, and Fiona’s (a very nice Irish girl) number. Neither picked up, so I left a panicked message, which made me break down into tears. I told the very worried office workers that I was lost, and they spoke to me so rapidly that all I could do was cry. Then, at my most panicked moment, my supervisor walks in with a very confused look on his face. He had thought, because my orientation made me so late, that he was supposed to pick me up at the other hotel, but he could not find me so he came back. Sobbing every two breaths, I tell him that we were supposed to meet at the very spot I stood weeping.

“I know you won’t believe this,” he told me as he helped me get into his car, “but this is the first time I have ever made a girl cry.” I told him that he was lying, and he’s probably broken a whole stream of girl’s hearts. Then, I made him promise not to tell anyone that I was so distraught that I was crying. I don’t know if he will keep that promise.

After that, it was a very nice two-hour ride home, during which we decided that the blame for what happened in Kanazawa should be divided 51/49. I, naturally, was 51 percent to blame.

Taiko at Two O'clock

This actually took place the 13th of August:

Suzu has been nothing but eventful, and I find myself thinking how appropriate the kanji (珠洲), which means “pearl state”, is. The city itself is hard to penetrate, but once I did, I found that there was an absolute wealth of beauty and fascinating attractions.

I was introduced to Naho this day, a beautiful Canadian girl who speaks native Japanese because of her parents, but admits that she cannot read or write it as well as she ought to be able to. When she speaks, I become shamefully prideful because I understand most of what she says, unlike every other Japanese person I’ve met. This is likely because she speaks Tokyo-ben (Tokyo dialect, or as my supervisor calls it, city slicker dialect), the dialect that one learns in university. Inexplicably, it reminds me of my supervisor who says jokingly, “I speak three languages: English, Japanese, and Ishikawa-ben.”

We went to two beaches, the first because of its renowned beauty and the second because of its accessibility. I cannot remember the name of the first beach, but it was breathtakingly beautiful if one ignores that rubbish that naturally accumulates because of its geography. The irony of the beach is not lost on anyone. However, all the good spots on the beach were taken, it proved to be too dangerous for us more timid swimmers to get to the nicer waters, so instead we choose to go the beach which is only ten minutes away from Suzu as opposed to the first one (which took us a forty-five minutes to get to).

Michael climbing the rock at an unnamed beach.

Playing keep away at the beach in Suzu

After eating a dinner at a restaurant that was far too expensive for what it provided, we went to the Suzu Matsuri. It was simultaneously the most frenetic and the most laid back event I had ever seen. The lively taiko beat was always drifting in and out of street, but the kiriko (floats) stopped every five minutes. Whether this was to give the men carrying them a break, or if it was a tradition, I was not sure.

The kiriko are insanely dangerous! The tilt and sway, and are stopped because they often catch the ubiquitous power lines that arch over the streets. At this point, a person must climb up and free it. Mind you, these people have drunk, by this time, vast amounts of cheap, bitter beer. I wanted to yell “abunaiyo” (Watch out!) every few seconds. Six years previously, Takeyo (Anne’s boyfriend) informed us, a spectator was paralyzed because they had not been watching out for the seemingly impossible to control kiriko. It was enough to make me nervous, to say the least.

Smoking and drinking makes a good matsuri.

Drunkenly touching power lines has become the lastest addition to national pastimes.

I got very few good photos because I have yet to figure out how to use my camera in the nighttime. The oddest thing was that I could not tell if anyone was enjoying themselves that night. It seemed to some that the matsuri was a stupid, boring, and troublesome custom. I found out that there is also not enough men in each neighborhood to bear the kiriko because of the negative population growth and the Diaspora to the cities Takeyo helped out Iida town, and he didn’t seem to pleased to do it.

Little kids hitching a ride on the kiriko. Michael begged me to get at least one picture of this little girl.

Everyone will tell you that Japan is the land where tradition meets modernity, and they hold each other's hands happily, even willingly. Many will argue against this idea, but this matsuri was definitely agreeing with that concept. Matsuri is a very old tradition, yet all of the kiriko are illuminated by electricity, and the men who urge the carriers on hold lightsaber-like swords as they scream their nonsense cheers. Even as the electric lights poored from the many old lanterns, I could still feel the antiquity burning brighter than any lamp could

After four hours of nonstop taiko drumming, even the most culturally curious part of me was becoming tired. It was two o’clock in the morning, and I have trouble staying up past midnight in general. There is a zero tolerance policy on alcohol in Japan, so one cannot even have one beer if one intends to drive. Of course, we were well beyond that, so we had to walk thirty minutes back. I saw the apartment like it was the Holy Grail, and I turned to make a beeline for it. Unfortunately, there was a rice paddy between the apartment, and me. Within two steps I was wet, and struggling to get out a ditch, only to fall into another one, losing a sandal in the process. With the light of our cell phones, we looked for it, but it was too no avail. I was shoeless in Suzu.

Obon

For some reason or another, this is written in historic present tense... Don't ask me why. Also, this happened on the 12th, but I have not had internet until this point.

My supervisor laughs when I inform I’m going to Suzu (珠洲) for Obon to visit my friend, Ezzie.

“Without a car,” his amusement is undisguised, “I don’t know how to get there.” With that, he bids me to call someone in Suzu and ask the best way, to which the reply is overwhelmingly, “why would you want to go to Suzu?” After I wait for the laughing to subside, and they realize I’m quite serious, they tell me to go to Anamizu with puzzlement thick in their voices. I nod, trying to fake confidence even though they cannot see me through the phone, and neglect to tell them I don’t actually know where it is.

Bus schedules in rural areas, such as the Noto peninsula are punctual but infrequent. Traveling north is a joke, for all bus schedules tell are for the southern towns, such as Hakui, and Kanazawa.

Nevertheless, I am stubborn about my impromptu decision, and I venture to the bus station to figure out the best route. As the directions are being explained, I notice that man’s cigarette has extinguished in neglect because of his shock. Why would anyone want to go to Suzu? The quest becomes more daunting, but I refuse to succumb to cowardice.

The first bus out of Togi to the north is at seven o’clock. Determined not be on busses all day, I wake up at six, and arrive at the station at six forty-five. At seven o’clock, I notice a bus leave, read its characters and realize its mine as it disappears through the city streets with an endless stream of my curse words chasing it, as if I believe they will wrangle it and bring it back. I chock it up to fate, and suppose there is a reason for missing the bus, though none become readily apparent. I believe in fate, although it does seem determined to make me live a life of never-ending stagnation. So, I returned home, watch Pocket Monsters (which is surprisingly easy to understand), some baseball and then make my way back to the terminal. This time, I get on the bus and make my way to the next terminal, a small Podunk town called Monzen.

The characters for Monzen (門前) mean “before the gate”, and I can only presume it means the gate way to hell. The streets where desolate, with the only population visible waiting in a very hot bus station for buses that seemed would never come. I am left with nothing to do but wonder if the devil had thought of making this a punishment for sins. Two hours pass, and I’m convinced that the lady sitting next to me is a witch, so much so that I write this:

There was a witch in Monzen, on the Eleventh of August, waiting for a bus. When
she spoke, her voice went into octaves inconceivable by ordinary humans, and
when she found something funny (which was usually something she said), she did
not laugh as you and I would, but instead cackled so loudly that for those brief
moments the room was so full of noise and echoes that one could hardly breath
for it was devoid of air. When her companion leaves her to smoke, she stands up
and paces, only to stand in front of the window and mumble nonsense phrases that
are likely curses. I felt fortunate to have preemptively countered her curses
earlier by holding my breath while going through a tunnel and wishing to make it
to my destination ok. She continues to mumble as I leave her. The witch was
still waiting for her bus.

I meet another foreigner on the bus, a second-year ALT on the bus, and I realize that it was then that I was meant to miss the first bus. Without him, I surely would have missed my stop and ended up in the far reaches of the Noto peninsula with nothing but a list of phone numbers to aid me.

I get out of the bus into the sticky heat of Anamizu 1600 yen and five hours later with high hopes about my last leg of the journey. However, all hopes are dashed when I try to read the schedule which is incomprehensible to anyone but a Japanese person. My genius plan, then, is to ask every single bus, no matter what side of the road, if it is going to Suzu. There is no such luck, and I continue to wait with my toes burning in the sun and my throat slowly drying like a pot in a kiln. It becomes harder and harder to swallow with every passing, burning second.

This is where I waited for the bus for three hours. Engrish like this is not uncommon.

Unable to bear the thirst any longer, I make my way to the ever ubiquitous vending machine, at which point I am accosted by a strange man with a poorly shaven face, a dowdy fishing hat and a shirt that proudly proclaims the name New York. He asks me “where are you going?” twice, as if he is unsure of his grammar.

“Suzu,” I reply.

“Wait here, wait here.” He motions to the stop I was at, and then looks at the bus schedule. The bus, he informs me, will not arrive until six o’clock. I look at my watch, which says it is only three. Seeing my face fall, he invites me to his house. I scramble for a way out, and remember there was a CD store nearby. “I like music,” I shake my head, “so I will go do some shopping.”

“I’ll come with you.” He is still fumbling with words. Excited to see a foreigner, he tells me that he is forty-five and asks “do you have a boyfriend?” I lie and say yes, and he tells me that I need to get married to him quickly. He says, “I hate Japan” and points to his shirt. “That is why I why I wear this.” It takes my best effort, but I smile knowingly, although up until this point I had found I really rather liked Japan.

As we approach the doors into the store he stops and he says that he can’t come in. Thankful for the opportunity to be left, I walk in without a second glance, fervently praying that he won’t be waiting for me to come out. I start to wonder if fate is being cruel again.

Originally, I plan to grab a CD randomly to add some more adventure to my life. However, the price was enough to quell even the most spendthrift part of me. Reluctantly, I set the CD that I had chosen (largely due to the very attractive man that looked up at me with sultry eyes) down and wander into the book section. Frankly, I was having enough of adventure. Comic books are a very cheap in Japan, so I bought five books and wandered over to the magazine section. My vain efforts to translate the titles is interrupted by a “hey! Hey!”

He is standing in the doors with a CD in his hand. Warily, he walks in and gives me the Best of Marvin Gaye which I accept suspiciously, largely due to the sheer arbitrariness of it, but also because I don’t actually like Marvin Gaye. With it, he gives me his three cell phone numbers, home number, and email address which he admits sheepishly. I chortle because it is Momotaroh125943, which is evidently a very popular name. Momotaroh is a tale that I have only just learned, but it is very famous in Japan. It is about a boy found in a peach with amazing fighting abilities, and it seems to me that everybody in Japan wants to be him. At least 125943 are not afraid to admit it.

The man leaves again, casting his eyes about nervously and I sneak out and dodge into the grocery store, which is busy, crowded, and not well suited for a frightened foreigner carting a suitcase around. I buy a snack because I remember I have not eaten since I left, and the sneak back to the bus stop, worried that Mamatoroh125943-san will return. A bus comes, and I do my usual “Are you going to Suzu?”

The bus driver replies, “Suzu no iida,” and I give him a blank look devoid of comprehension. He shakes his head and drives off. Two seconds pass, and it dawns on me that he was saying that it goes to Iida station, the exact place I needed to go. I berate myself using a few choice words that I say a little too loudly, and wait for another bus which comes forty-five minutes later and ask “Are you going to Suzu’s Iida station?” and the he nods his head unenthusiastically.

The bus ride is beautiful, yet I spend my time pondering safe places to go should earthquake occur. I came to the unfortunate conclusion that there is none, and resolve not to tell my mother about this, for she worries enough as it is. After that, the trip was uneventful. I was spotted by Anne (apparently it is very easy to spot blond hair in Japan), a fourth year ALT in Suzu who called Ezzie and she ran out to greet me. I try to tell her I am to sweaty to hug her but she does so any way. We meet the two other ALTs and eat ramen at a local ramen house and watch Shaun of the Dead. I thank god for the night for being uneventful as I go to bed for I had enough adventure for one day.

I often refer to this picture as the best thing (even in it's unfinished form) I've ever drawn. It is entitled "The Assasinaton of Autorobocrat". Why I bring this up is that I am to introduce myself to the classes, which includes listing my awfully boring hobbies (i.e, sleeping, hiking, writing, drawing). And, as I list these hobbies, I need pictures for examples, as the student's English is apparently awful. Unfortunately, this is the sort of thing I draw. I wonder what they will think of their new gaikokujin...

Currently, I am living in two apartments, and it is a little nervewracking to have to consistently keep moving from apartment to apartment just to get ready in the morning. I probably make a very fun sight, running in between with dirty plates, then socks, and then shoes. The apartment I am supposed to be living in, and the one I am paying rent for has no key, so I don't feel comfortable leaving some of more precious belongings in there, nor do I feel comfortable sleeping in there. Also, the window is still broken, and so is the washing machine. I'm wondering if some things have been forgotten during the renovation, like the curious lack of a bathroom sink, and the missing lid to the washing machine as well as drying racks for my clothing. Hopefully, it is just the language gap and I'm misunderstanding when I am to actually move in, although I'm nearly postive she said it was two days ago.

I get three days off to enjoy Obon, and I think I may go to Suzu to see my new friend Ezzie. There really isn't much to say about her other than I genuinely like her. She's very friendly in the stereo-typcial English mother sort of way (although she is my age). I'm hoping to hear many fascinating stories from her as I go. As for me, it's quite clear that today has a boring entry.

Togi, the Cursed Town

It has been a week since I arrived in Togi, and this is the first oppurtunity that I have been afforded to write. It is a beautiful city that seems larger than its population, and I long to walk into the empty houses to discover their secrets. After the earthquake that condemned many of the houses, it seems that would not be a good idea, but the desire is still nothing short of persistant.

A house full of wonders, I'm sure of it.

I feel like I have amnesia. Everything is so familiar, yet I am always confused. This feeling was most poignant as I stared at the microwave in the teacher's office, trying to heat my food and failing miserably. Or when I had to ask the grocery clerk if a meat was chicken. I feel bereft of all things that I had inherently known, and it is a surreal feeling to say the least. In day to day conversation, I understand only half of what I'm told, and people tip toe around me because they do not know how much I understand, worried that they might confuse me even more.

The view from my apartment.

I already love Togi, but I cannot help but feel as if they town is cursed. Togi is considered to be the most rurul place to be sent to in the Ishikawa prefecture, yet there is more convenience here than I ever had in Elizabeth. One does not need a car to get around town and visit the various small mom and pop grocery stores (although it seems as if everyone uses their cars anyways). It is completely self-sufficient, and consequently, it has stagnated and this curse that touches all of the residents.

Teachers, after five or so years, should transfer to other schools yet many teachers have stayed at Togi for much longer than that. One teacher grew up in Togi, went to Togi High, went away to Kyoto for university and then found herself spiraling closing and closer to Togi as she was transferred from school to school. I wonder if the thought that she has returned ever bothers her.

This stagnation has led to meeting some very interesting characters, however. Last night, I was befriended by my Oya-san(landlord) and her friends who were all very interested to know old I thought they all were.I'm sure they thought I was flattering them outrageously, but the Japanese honestly look younger than American women.

I wish I had had my camera, for no description could ever do these ladies justice. The lady who was on my right was sitting casually back, her thin arms resting on the table. She said that really likes the color red (and I believe her, as her drawn-on eyebrows, shirt, and car were all red), that she is actually sixty years old and plays on a volleyball team. She also insists, and not without good reason, that she can run faster than me. I smile and agree with her. The next lady, whose name is the only name I can remember, assures me that it is okay to call her Nao-chan (chan is a suffix reserved for young girls), although I can't get myself to do it because she is so much older than me. Speaking Japanese, interspersed with broken english translations of simple Japanese words that I already know, she loudly asked me what I like, and what I dislike. She wonuld not believe that I liked umeboshi, but nodded her head knowingly when I confess I didn't like natto or tofu. The other lady was a quiet woman who fanned herself as she made small, cute noises from the bottom of her throat that I thought meant that she agreed with whatever Nao-chan was currently proselytizing. Ishihara, my land lady, was to my surprise, not the life of party. Instead, she chimed in every now and then only to make the other three laugh, and then continued to listen to Nao-chan and the elderly woman who liked red.

The experience was wonderful, if not a little confusing. But, very little this week has not confused me.