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.