Here and Now

Marching to the remarkable drumbeat of regularity, Japan has turned out to be a fairly predictatble place. Certainly, there are millions of rules, regulations and traditions in constant operation and sifting through all of them in hope of learning or assimilating is a nearly impossible task. But, I have found that to be utterly unnecessary, for they belong in a realm exclusive to the Japanese. It is a members only club and no outsiders are allowed. Regardless. I have walked across enough ropes to know my way precisely to the degree I wish to know it. Certainly, I can, as many do, try to delve deeper and deeper into what still is, in many ways, a remarkable enigma, but that will not bring me any closer to truly being an equal part of the show and at most, impart knowledge on me that, in all honesty, simply will not be all that useful. Do I understand the heart of Japan, as many a cliche will ask? In my way, meaning sufficient enough for my needs, yes, I in fact do. I understand it enough to know what role it needs to play in my life. And once you have that figured out, there is no real need to go further...

Now, if I only wrote one intelligible thing there, meaning something that would give a more practical dimension to my conclusion, people might actually see what I am trying to say. I admit, it is a hard thing to convey, especially because it really does play out abstractly in my mind. Perhaps I need just a little bit more time to let it evolve.

In the meantime, its been a good fall. Classes in full swing, my niche fully and comfortably, albeit at times brainlessly, carved out. For a while, I thought about just dropping the blog bit, simply because I think it served a wrong purpose in my life. I was not writing because I had something to say, but rather because I knew someone would read it. That kind of motivation, while impossible to fully remove, is nethertheless a wrong one, I think. But, I figured, if I write telling myself that its simply fun to write for its own sake, I would be ok. And so, that's what I am doing now...

New foreigners have arrived and I find myself being labeled a second year, which theoretically propels me so some sort of status that I do not really deserve or feel. But it does put more things in perspective, knowing that I have lived in this land for well over a year, not an insignificant amount of time.

I find myself consumed by few things, budgeting both my money and my time. Ogle-eyed facscination with my surroundings has long ceased to be a primary facet of life and I now make sure that I find enough time to commit to things that not only can, but must be done, in any environment. And again, I will leave it abstract, without comment on exactly what those things might be.

I have to say that life has changed for me. Not in an earth-shattering way, but enough that I will forever be able to say that in Japan, things happened and I grew up in a way, refocusing my outlook, strengthening my will, and adding solid building blocks to a life-long direction. And thinking about that makes me happy, which I find more and more possible with each passing day. Thanks for your time.

The length of a cigarette

how long does it take to smoke a cigarette? by some counts, five minutes. but, by other, otherworldy counts, in those countable inhales and exhales lie embedded entire universes, parallel dimensions that contain within them endless eons of creation and extinction, birth and apocalypse, everything that was ever known and everything more that never will. wherein lies the portal to this place, where knowledge is but a fabric to digest and wisdom is but a gelatenous blob within which consciousness lies. i want in, desperately, but between here and there are sky high walls of human desire, mechanical byproducts of a wasteful existence. each passing second, each bygone exhale take with it precious bits of time that will never again shower upon me the glimmers of hope. the cigarette is done and once again i am sucked into the whirlwind. please forgive this temporary intrusion, this cold fluorescence. this bold suggestion. its time for you to lead me home.

One More Time

So, I came back to the United States for a period of three weeks, which under normal circumstances, is a sizable chunk of time, but in this case, flew by faster than a swallow carrying coconuts from Africa. The whole time there, I was hoping for a reflection on my time in Japan, which rather quickly turned into waiting to get back to Japan in order to reflect on my time in the states. Well, now that I’m back, I’m thinking I can do both, the former as a brainstorm about the upcoming year, and the latter as gratitude to all those that I saw and spent time with.

Let me shift the order yet again, and focus on being at “home.” The simplest way to do it is by way of a quotidian yet highly significant example. The first few days of being in Chicago, I perpetually took off my slippers before going into the bathroom, at first without even thinking about it, later forcing myself to do it. Eventually, the practice was given up. The habitual nature of human life lies locked within this little vignette. A year in Japan imbued in me new habits and patterns of behavior that soon enough became second-nature. The moment my external environment changed radically (i.e. Japan to US) the old habits resurfaced, raising the question of what causes these habits to form in the first place. Are we really such pitiful creatures of our environment? Needless to say, the bathroom incident was far from the only one with regard to doing things exactly as they had been done the year before, and many before that one. The lesson here is a good one. Unless conscious behavioral choices are generated by core principles somewhere deep on the inside, I, we, she, he will remain naught but a malleable fluctuation, well beyond what some would like to call control. Realizing all this made quite a profound impression on me. Then again, this realization has been floating around in my head for many years, but this time it was coupled with undeniable empirical proof, rather than simply abstract flotsam whizzing through my attentive space. How it plays out this time around is a good and absorbing question upon which I will continue to concentrate.

It was really good to be home, too. I visited NYC with my family and took in some of the sights and sounds of that metallic metropolis. I spent four days and an incredible amount of money in that den of sin known as Las Vegas, where my good friend Rob was given a proper send off into the married life. I ate an unbelievable amount of good food, including a few filet mignons and nine or ten enchiladas, which in the short run made for a satisfying experience but in the long run resulted in about 4 unwanted kilograms. I played some poker, watched some T.V., hung out with friends and family. In short, I got exactly what I needed from this journey back home, some R and R.

Throughout my first year away, many people here told me about their experiences in going back “home.” What stands out primarily now, as it did at the time, is that the trajectory of those still at “home” goes on. While I am away doing something else, those at home are doing what they have been doing and there are no breaks in their lives. I left and I came back, and while for me, there’s been a year’s worth of new experience, those at home cannot say the same for themselves. This forms a kind of discord, which made it difficult for me to relate what I went through and felt while in Japan during my interactions at home. I simply rejoined that on-going trajectory, which swallowed a year’s worth of memory and made it seem like it was dream rather than a lived-out reality. That, in itself, was a scary proposition because to have the significance of a year lost almost immediately makes one ask questions about the validity of life. Nevertheless, having coming back to Japan and having rejoined my own new trajectory, those fears were minimized as inconsequential. But that does bring up an important point and that is how to avoid this happening all over again next year. Which, in turn, brings me to this upcoming year.

Having been back for a couple of days now, I feel really comfortable. I approach my daily routines without the anxieties that had begun to plague them before going to the U.S. My language, although nowhere near where I want it to be, is at a level which allows me to function normally and shows the possibility of progress in the very near future. I think I have finally learned the futility of setting large-scale and vague goals (because they can always be altered, pushed back, excused out of existence) and instead am focusing on day to day tasks. Life, if lived moment by moment, but yet fully, is a beautiful and wonderful thing. What has come before is relevant only as a stepping stone to appreciating what is happening right now, and what may or may not come in the future is absolutely irrelevant to making the most of the present. Such an assumption does not negate the idea of ambition or of desire to pursue a certain path, rather it purifies and simplifies present action. I do not want to be driven by the nebulous rewards of an uncertain future because that makes me miss the fruits of the now.

My kids are good. The teachers are the same as they were. My new schedule of seven schools keeps me busy, which is also a good thing because before I was finding that too much time with nothing to do was having a negative effect on my psyche. Slowly, yet surely, a clearer picture emerges of what I must do. As before, I am plagued by the nagging supposition that I should be doing something more, something greater with my life, whether for the benefit of mankind or of my resume or for a better social image or for a better self-image, but it has become easier now to recognize that the wrong motivations will only result in wrong action and in the end only harm me. I have a lot of time for myself in the upcoming year and I hope to use it to the best of my ability.

I want to thank everyone, including family and friends, for making my visit to the U.S. highly enjoyable, and parts of it, unforgettable. I will certainly miss all of you, but I do have to say that the second time around (when I wasn’t going into the unknown and you weren’t going into a Roman-less existence for the first time) it was easier to say goodbye. Except that is not what I tried to say to everyone. Rather, it was see you.

And on that note, let me plug Japan. Come. Come. Come. You won’t regret it. One of the most amazing countries on the planet (but, of course, I have seen only a small number of them)

I hope you all are well and carrying on. Take care and I hope to write here with a greater frequency and not only narration, but reflection as well. And in shorter bursts, too. Much love and peace.

Only in Japan

In a land of protocol, where a sense of duty and loyalty trumps many other human emotions, there is a very special time when the boundaries are expanded beyond recognition, and this very protocol changes into something from a bad dream. Concerning work and family, the Japanese have a very specific way of life, constricted, restricted, squeezed into a narrow tunnel, stepping outside of which earns one social indignation at best, complete ostracism at worst. But again there is that special time, when one can get out in the open, into a free and unrestricted world. As previously mentioned many times, glimpses of it lie in the realm of inebriation, where the imbibing of the national liquid treasure, sake, takes one to a place where there simply are no rules, where the limitations of daily existence are temporarily breached and one can perform that gamut of activities, from something benign like obnoxious singing on the streets to perhaps something more sinister like draining oneself through the colander of the anti-prostitution laws, that ordinarily would be highly frowned upon. But it’s like that in many places of the world. However, here in Japan, there is another very special time, which, to my knowledge and experience, is unique to this country. The Matsuri.

The simplest translation is merely Festival, which does it little justice. Japan is a nation with one of the most coherent and continuous histories on the planet. In the book I’m reading now, Shogun by James Clavell, it was just mentioned that there has been an unbroken Imperial line in Japan stretching for 107 generations and that the emperor’s bloodline stretches all the way to the beginning of history, and beyond that into mythology, where the first Emperor is said to have been the son of the Sun Goddess, Amaterasu. That’s a long time and, mind you, the book takes place in 1600 A.D. No wonder tradition and its conservation play such an important role here. So many things have been done the same way for hundreds, if not thousands of years. Certainly, the appearances of things have changed, but at its heart, at its core, the underlying philosophies have remained largely untouched. If we go back some two thousand years or a mere two hundred, we would see Japan as a nation of fishermen and rice farmers, leading quiet, isolated lives, practicing and passing down skills of former generations. Of course, there is the whole feudal thing and the Lords, their vassals, the samurai, and the unique cultural and social implications that go with that, but once we establish everyone in their proper and accepted place, the picture of life becomes easy to grasp. The first major need of any human unit is, of course, food. Japan did not become a nation of meat-eaters until only fifty or sixty years ago, and before that, had primarily subsisted on rice, its geography is prime for rice-growing, and fish, it being an island nation and all. And, so, naturally, the importance surrounding these two events is paramount. Add to this Japan’s interesting religious amalgamation (Shintoism, Buddhism, and a unique local polytheism that places a kami (god) in every town, village, even house), and you can see the need for a special event in which to please the gods and ensure success in the year’s rice harvest and fishing expeditions. And so, to fill this great need, emerges the Matsuri, the great village festival, a time of celebration, merriment, revelry, and prayer for success. Every town across the land has its own Matsuri, each unique in some way. Of course, there are many similarities between them, but again, each town is also different. I have seen many Matsuris in my year here, but always as a tourist would, from the outside, merely being there, not in it, but outside, observing without much understanding. But, last weekend, I had a wonderful opportunity to see it from the Japanese side of things and would like to write a little bit about that.

I was invited by one of my teachers to his town’s local Matsuri, which took place over two days (last Friday and Saturday) in the northern part of the Noto Peninsula (I live right at its neck). The name of this particular one was the Abare Matsuri, which is loosely translated among the English speakers here as the Fire and Violence Festival. (Nice name, innit?) It took place in Ushitsu town, part of a larger town called Noto Town (recently in Japan, many villages and towns have unified, forming larger bodies – like my town of Shio and the neighboring town of Oshimizu joined last year and are both now Houdatsushimizu – but many of the local traditions, including Matsuris, have remained). Ushitsu is a fishing town, right on the coast of the Sea of Japan, and so this Matsuri, stretching from hundreds of years ago, was closely linked to wishing the fishermen success.

My friend Dipika and I left Houdatsushimizu right after work on Friday and made the two hour drive north. We were met by my teacher, who had taken the day off of work and had already been drinking for a significant amount of time when we arrived. He showed us into his house, into a large tatami living room, with a long table in the middle. Sitting around it were perhaps fifteen men of all ages, partaking in the massive quantities of food being brought out by the mother of the teacher and his sister. Let’s not forget to mention the copious quantities of Asahi and Kirin also present. Food magically appeared (and really, really good, well-prepared food too) and glasses kept getting refilled. We were shown where to sit and quickly joined in. The tables were literally overflowing and, failing to keep my ravenousness in check, I dug in. Having had my fill for a while, I began to observe and noticed a very curious thing. People would sit for a little while, eat, drink, and then leave, their spots soon filled by other people walking in. The doors of the house were open. People could come and go as they pleased, but the moment someone walked in, he/she would be shown a place, loaded with food and drink, and invited to some conversation. The master of the house sat at the head of the table, and everyone came in and complemented him. We sat for quite a while, so I was able to see many people come and go. Eventually, through my own deduction and conversation with Hisada sensei, I figured out that at matsuri time, many houses in a town opened their doors like this, and since this was a community (and a close knit one at that, the notion of privacy or intimacy is not developed in Japan) and almost everyone from the neighborhood knew each other, people visited others freely like this. We were invited specially, not being from the town and foreigners at that. But, to the locals, this was a long-established tradition. I had actually experienced it before (last summer), but slightly under a different (ahem) mindset, so didn’t think about it much, but now it really hit me. This kind of generosity and warmth was entirely amazing and fascinating. In a time of Matsuri, the kindness of Japanese people, for which they are renowned anyway, is expanded out of all proportion. So, we sat and drank some more, until it was time to go and meet my arch-nemesis for the evening, the kiriko. Beer in hand, we left the house and along with other revelers, made our way down the tiny streets and alleys to where it was waiting for us, huge, heavy, and fearless…
There’s a picture of it. Forgive me, but I carelessly forgot my camera, and so had to settle for the much lesser quality of my cell phone. What is it, you may ask? Well, I don’t really know how to describe it best. At this festival, there were about 30 or 40 of these things, each manned by up to 60 drunken men. Each neighborhood of the town has its own kiriko, as well as its own particular happi (the little coat everyone wears), its own chant, and its own taiko (drum) rhythm. The kiriko has that thing in the middle, around the base of which children sit, playing all sorts of musical instruments. Right in front of it is a big taiko drum, which means at least two drummers there. But here’s the basic idea. These 60 men (in our case it always seemed to be way less, thus adding to my problems) carry the bugger on their shoulders, chanting a wicked series of words, following the drum beat, occasionally lifting the whole thing up even more, in tune with the rhythm. The activity is quite mind-boggling actually, and you can imagine how bad it was for me, being not an insignificant amount taller than the rest, having to stoop way down to get myself under it and also having to bear a significant part of the weight.

So, we arrived, and stood around, waiting. About ten or so kirikos were lined up and we were the last on this street. Everyone was in a cheery mood, dudes walking around with rather large bottles of sake, giving, sharing. And to refuse sake at a festival is akin to treason, so I had to partake. But, as many may not know, ever since that trophy-bowl-sake-drinking-dive-into-rice-field-fall-off-bike-and-wake-up-really-late-for-work incident last fall, my relationship with sake has not been particularly good. So, I had to pull the old tip the bottle but don’t drink move to satisfy the villagers, as well as the gods. Finally, after tense waiting and watching the other kirikos move out, we got into position, shoulder cushions in place, and after a little “se no” lifted the crapper. Oh MY GOD. It was heavy, really heavy, but we had to work as a unit and I knew that if I gave in, the whole thing would come down. Now you gotta believe this thing weighs at least a ton, so it was a monster to carry. Plus there was the chanting, which helped a bit, and the almost out of control swaying. Remember, we were carrying the kiriko (a good 20 feet high) as well as probably around ten people (mostly kids but still). Slowly, down the street, around some corners, almost into a river, but not quite. It was like a parade of these things, and slowly both sides of the street began to fill up with people who were watching and any number of times we almost took the whole thing on top of them. No wonder people die at these things. I thought we’d seen it all, but that wasn’t the half of it. We had carried the puppy for a good forty minutes, when we arrived at the festival’s main square, and here is what we saw.

Three large poles with clumps of easily burnable straw and wood at the top. Standing at least thirty feet in the air, these poles formed the center of a large square, flanked to one side by a harbor and the other by massive throngs of people. As all the kirikos stood by at the entrance, each of the clumps was lit and gradually erupted into tiny little infernos, lighting up the night. Then, to mad chants and cheers, the villagers, me included, proceeded to carry the kirikos in circles around these massive flames. It is really difficult to capture this in words. Each kiriko can stand on the ground on its own, balanced on the base. But, when it is lifted and no part is touching the ground, its entire weight rests on the shoulders of rather intoxicated individuals. It is enough that just one of them lets go, thereby increasing the burden of those around him and the whole thing comes crashing down to the ground, either front end or back end. It always balances ultimately, but when the strength gives, everyone is at the mercy of this wooden giant. Any number of times it happened, and any number of times I and everyone had to duck out of the way. Now, its one thing to carry it down a street, but its quite a different one to do so in circles. And even more different when the circles are around huge bonfires in the air that are spewing burning embers that are landing everywhere, including inside of my ear, giving me a nice little burn. And even more considering there are ten or so kirikos going in the circle at any one time, each one dependent on the one in front of it not to collapse. Ours did, and others had to dive out of the way. Needless to say, the whole thing became a blur at some point, and right now, really seems surreal. At some point, we stopped, rested. Then carried it back to the starting point, with several stops along the way. When it was all said and done, I plopped down to the ground, in more pain than I was prepared to experience. We eventually hobbled back to the house, snacked a bit, and I hit that futon like a pile of bricks falls to the ground.

The next day, my shoulder, neck and at least four vertebrae were in massive pain. I could barely move laying down, much less walk. But, as a nice sturdy 6 course Japanese breakfast was waiting for me down stairs, I willed myself into action. We sat around some more, then said our farewells, and on the way to the car, went to pay our respects to the kiriko, bang on the drum, relieve last night’s glory. Then, Dipika and I drove off, leaving Hisada sensei to his festival. The second day, as I subsequently heard, is a lot more difficult than the first. They started carrying the thing around 3:30 PM, taking a break around 7:00 to eat, drink, then continuing with it until the neighborhood of 4 in the morning. Surrounded by mad festival crowds, gallons upon gallons of sake, and that second part of the Fire and Violence Festival…

A day later, I was still baffled. Sure, in the times of superstition and more powerful religious belief, such an exercise could be seen to entertain the gods, thus making them happy and granting a successful fishing venture. But in this modern day and age, is there really such a need to continuously engage in such foolhardy and seemingly dangerous relics of the past? I thought for a bit and then in came to me, somewhat embarrassingly, for all its palpability. In a land where the individual counts for little and the group, no matter how big or small, counts for everything, the Matsuri is its lifeblood. The notion of community, of everyone working together, blending into a common unit and task, trumps many other values here. It is evident at school, where the students will never answer a question unless they have first consulted with their friends. It is evident at work, where endless meetings are necessary to resolve the slightest of issues. It is evident in the neighborhood, when hundreds of people get up at six in the morning on a Sunday to go voluntarily clean the beach. It is visible everywhere. And once the drunken buffoonery, the apparent mayhem, and the general revelry of the Matsuri is seen through and digested, it is certainly present there as well. From the tiniest village to the biggest city, the Matsuri is a way for the folks of this land to come together and celebrate themselves and all they have worked for, to remember thousands of years of history and tradition, and to participate in an event far greater than themselves. I am forever grateful to have played a tiny role in such an amazing spectacle.

Vanity

Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee.
誕生日おめでとう

New Fotografs

are up here...

http://public.fotki.com/PhotoMoose/romans/nippon_late_springe/

and while you're at it, check out...

http://public.fotki.com/PhotoMoose/random_picture_storage/

and here's a haiku for you...

spring withers away
beautiful opens my mind
wind blows gentle song

Inside on the Outside: Part I

If you could magically give time wings, how fast would it fly? Its funny how the answer to that question depends totally on perspective, on who you ask and what particular set of tangled emotions that person happens to be going through at that moment. I have been in this country for just over ten months, which in a lifespan is insignificant, but from a day-to-day outlook is a noteworthy chunk of time. And yet, it has literally sped by so fast that I have barely had time to catch my breath. Like we have a saying that time flies, the Japanese liken time to an arrow, piercing the air at an amazing rate to some unknown destination. I will not deny the fact that some days and perhaps weeks and months have indeed become monotonous, almost indistinguishable from one another. But nonetheless, it is an experience I will be unlikely to forget. And yet, I wonder how such a thing can change a person? Take for instance growing through childhood. You do not really notice it, do you? Day by day, year by year, your mind and body matures, gradually expanding, taking on new tasks and responsibilities, and yet your awareness of this process makes it seem changeless. Precisely because it is so natural is it difficult to gauge the changes. But, people you see only once in a great while will tell you how you have gotten so much bigger, how you have gained or lost weight, and sooner or later these comments will lead to them reflecting on how fast time is moving. And yet, for you, it’s all the same. You are you, no matter how others may insist on you having changed. Or, for instance, a friend of yours or your family has a child and you see this child once every couple of years. Each time, you will be amazed at the changes, especially if this process starts from that child’s birth. Five, ten years go by, and that child only enters your consciousness when you see him or her, and before you know it, the child is a grown adult, fully capable of doing all those things that you can, whereas in your mind you can still see the diaper and the joys of looking at a baby. You try to convey that idea to this adult, about how much he/she has changed, how the time has just disappeared somewhere, and they will look at you with sympathy, but without the least trace of empathy. I think the point here is that it is highly difficult for us to track change within ourselves, because we carry with us, always, the same criteria upon which to judge. You look in the mirror everyday, but because your body ages along with your mind as well as your consciousness, what you see is the same. Oh, sure, you may notice a wrinkle here or a balding patch there and briefly brood over the aging process, but I am not talking about those kinds of changes. I am talking about root personality traits and components. Returning briefly to the childhood imagery, during those early years of development is when so many things are solidified and made concrete. If, for instance, you do not get over your dislike of mushrooms as a kid, it is highly unlikely that you will do so as an adult, and so on and so forth, except at increasingly more complex levels, well beyond a simple like or dislike of food. If you don’t learn how to properly socialize with others, your adult life will be marred by these failings and shortcomings. If your first serious relationships are beset by problems, it is a likely indication that your subsequent ones will be similar. And on and on in that vein. At some point, we are formed, developed, and ready or not, shoved into a world that heaps responsibilities or at least expectations on us and leaves us be with whatever it is we got. And we begin the struggle, or more precisely, we are able to, for the first time, to become aware of the struggle that has been going on since the earliest conscious moments – the struggle to achieve something great, which for most people lies within the confines of their pursuit of personal happiness. This way and that, we fight, we commiserate, we act, and we cower, and in the end, the sun keeps rising and setting, taking with it that speeding arrow of time. How do we even begin to gauge the constant vacillations, the endless cycle between the pits of despair and the epiphanies of joy? Can we ascribe causality to it, honestly? Of course, we try very, very hard and the result is certain conclusions. “This” is something that will lead to that peak, that will propel us to that end of happiness. And so we use that “this” to make all sorts of decisions, whether conscious or not, whether small (what should I have to eat) or big (should I go on this career path or marry this person), and we wind our way through the forest of life. And so, somehow or other, through a complex web of causality, I have ended up on the other side of world, on the island of Japan, where time does not stop.

Imagine spending twenty years inside a house. It is a very large house and it has almost all imaginable amenities and facilities. After a while you become used to it, it becomes second-nature, and you pursue the aforementioned within its confines. That environment molds you to a tremendous degree and the possibilities of action and thought are restricted to the sights, smells, and textures of that house. You are house-man and if you are asked to talk a little about yourself, to describe your personality or your dreams and aspirations, in one way or other, anything you say will somehow come back around to this house. It is inescapable. And all is jolly good until one day you begin to experience the slightest gnawing sensation, somewhere deep in your bosom, that something is not right, that something is lacking here. A pit begins to form that slowly, yet persistently, makes you ask yourself weird questions, not the least insignificant of which is, is there something more to what you have habitually been referring to as life, is there something greater that this house? Sometimes it goes away, and you go on with your habits, temporarily forgetting about that new nuisance. But, at others, it comes back so strong you do not know what to do with yourself. A number of years passes, and lo and behold, you have found yourself having accepted this nuisance as just another part of life. You have learned to live with it, like people learn to live with baldness or some other icky physical characteristic. It still asks the same questions but you have discovered the magical answer that calms it down anytime it starts acting up, more specifically, the undeniable attraction of the limitless possibilities of tomorrow. There is always a tomorrow, and it is always filled with the potential that today can never even hope to achieve. And so, tomorrow, the much sought answers will come, but for today, you will go on as always, as this house has trained you to be. You will be under the impression that you have conquered many things, that you are living a worthwhile life, but somewhere underneath the radar of your consciousness, that small pit will have grown into a heaving, bubbling heap of dissatisfaction that one day will burst, propelling you above and beyond anything previously experienced. One day, you will go outside. So ask yourself, what happens to you, having been in this house for so long, once you are outside? What kinds of changes do you expect? Oh sure, everything looks new, but what is the one element that is not? Does being outside really provide that answer you’ve been looking for?

I have been away for ten months. As I have mentioned, I cannot track changes within myself very well and perhaps this period of time is really too little for anything to have taken place at all. But I will come back in a couple of months and hopefully be subject to some sort of evaluation on the part of others. I am hoping that I will be able to see, through this reflection of other people, myself under a different light. For it will be, after all, like seeing that child again after a long absence. Of course, it is far different than observing a simple change in size, but nevertheless, a long separation has given me many, many opportunities, which may have made a significant impact on me. Being outside is something all should try, for the biggest hopes and dreams could be accomplished here.

Is it all a lie? A trick of the mind? Most likely. Again, this particular piece has caught me in the midst of a certain disposition of emotions, which contributed to the words you see before you. Had I written it yesterday or tomorrow, it may have come out radically different. But it is a snapshot, a stop motion capture of inside on the outside and that is all really that we can hope to achieve with words. In the meantime, the arrow keeps flying, and we watch it, occasionally wondering where it is going, but mostly just taking its flight for granted. May it reach its destination safely.

A Litte Monday Dilemma

Ok, today was an interesting day at work. Being the outsider that I am, I have slowly yet surely built a role for myself in the work place and adhere to it pretty strictly, and rarely go outside of the boundaries. Primarily, I am an Assistant Language Teacher, which means I assist a Japanese teacher in the teaching of the English Language, which in turns means that there are two of us in the room and I serve in a purely secondary, assistance role, which the name implies. As to other functions which the Japanese teachers have (and believe you me, they are many, much more than their counter-parts in the U.S.), none of them apply to me, nor are they expected of me. I may occasionally choose to voluntarily accept some but usually, like I said, I stick to the role of ALT, as well as the resident gorilla. But today, two things happened which placed me in an unfamiliar situation and, on the spot, I had to make some decisions, which, in hindsight, I am trying to figure out.

The first. I am walking out of my first period first grade class (junior high school 7th grade equivalent) and look to the right, down the hall, where some commotion is taking place outside the classroom of the other section of first grade. (They're split into 1-1 and 1-2, much like old school Soviet style, with 1B, etc.) A bunch of kids, boys and girls, are gathered around two students, one of whom is on the floor and the other towering above him, giving him slight kicks to the legs. I see another teacher, a music teacher, in the vicinity, and this gives me reassurance that whatever is happening is meant to. Keep in mind, in Japanese schools, the notion of light violence between students is quite common. Age is very important, and anyone who is older is automatically entitled to get away with a lot, and so seeing students slap or punch each other (not on the face, but still in what appear to be painful ways) is common place. I used to be shocked by it, but no longer. So, I attribute what is happening to the above and, being reassured by the presence of the teacher, think no further of it. However, as I start walking away, I hear that the kid on the floor is crying, rather loudly. I look back, the other teacher is gone, and the action has now moved inside the classroom. I go to investigate and see that the kid is now on the ground against the wall, being repeatedly kicked and slapped by the bigger one, and all the other kids are standing around, laughing, yelling stuff incomprehensible to me. At this point, I'm going on instict, ignoring whatever I may have learnt about Japanese customs and school life, I make my way over to the kid and make myself a protective cordon sanitaire, keeping everyone away from him. The bully manages to sneak by and land a few more awkward throws before I literally remove him from the scene. After this, I take the shaken, crying boy and we walk away from the scene, toward the teachers room. I try to ask him what happened but he is too shocked and shy to tell me anything. We're standing outside the teachers' room and I'm trying to figure out what to do and finally decide to go tell one of my English teachers, kind of passing on the baton, after a brief explanation of my understanding as to what happened. He took over, talked to the kid, talked to some other teachers and it passed out of my hands and the day could go on.

But immediately, I began having qualms. To start with, what kind of chain reaction, if any, had I set in motion? Would the other teachers take up an investigation, try to figure out what happened, dispense some sort of punishment upon the perpetrator? Even though it was unlikely to go this far, it was still a possibility, and then I wondered about the future consequences of this for the kid. Where as without my interference, he would have recovered from the incident and life could proceed, with my interference, was there a chance that it would ensure future troubles for this kid and further retribution for him being a teachers' boy, seeking outside assistance where none was needed? It wasn't a very simple situation, especially considering the group dynamics of school interaction. This student was obviously signaled out and excluded from the social circle (whether briefly or not is not known) and this enabled the kind of treatment that befell him in front of all the other students. It may very well be a natural occurrence between school kids of this age (12, 13). By I interfered, almost akin to a PETA member interfering with a lion's hunt, and while saving the kid, in some sense, may have upset the balance. Again, I don't think this situation escalated anywhere and the kid is unlikely to face further repercussions because of my actions, but the possibilty is there and it makes me wonder... I still stand by my intervention at the moment, but it raises an interesting question that I would like some commentary on...

Second. It was after lunch. The kids all eat lunch in their homerooms (which I guess is like the cohort system; they all have classes together with their homeroom, and usually the teachers go to the homeroom, unless other facilities (i.e. science, gym) are needed) and are supervised by the homeroom teacher. Lunch is wheeled in on a cart with the food, trays and particular plates bowls, etc, that are needed. Some students are in charge of distribution, and after they eat, everything is put back on the cart and wheeled out and the school day goes on. Ok, so after lunch, I go with my teachers (this class actually had both the other English teachers and me) and we start the class, when a left-over tray is discovered on a desk of a kid who is late coming back from recess. There is some immediate tension, as this is something that obviously shouldn't happen and in fact has never happened before, in my experience. Finally, the kid comes back and the teacher begins to question him, and he immediately denies that it is his, is believed, and the question posed to the class as to whose tray it really is. There are snickers and silence, the question is posed again, and yet no perpetrator comes forth. After some stern words, the head teacher suddenly says that the class is over for the day and storms out of there followed by the other teacher (as I found later, he said that until the perpetrator came forth, there would be no class). I stand there a bit stunned, encountering such a breach of protocol for the first time. Remember, I have never seen a misbehaving kid sent out in the hall (much less to the principal's office) and here is a full-out cancellation of class. So, I stand there for a little while longer, and finally cannot resist the temptation to actually have the whole class to myself, to teach as I see fit. So, I continue the lesson. We had just started the daily dictation, which I take over and cater it to the theme of the lunch tray, saying stuff like "It's not my tray, is it yours?" etc., trying to use the incident to teach or re-inforce some stuff. We get through that, do some true and false, I'm getting the kids to talk, they're actually listening to me, and we're actually doing some learning. As I am totally unprepared for a lesson (usually, I'm just told what to do by the teachers), I decided to play some English games and organize the class, and just as we're about to get started the not-main English teacher comes back (meanwhile a good twenty minutes has elapsed) and inquires as to what I am doing. I step out into the hall and she kindly asks that I cease and desist and return to the teachers' room. Wanting to avoid an argument, I apologize, go back to the class, explain that I must return because of the tray, pop out my one Japanese joke (which they love, but it itself it isn't all that great; the jist of it is the English word sorry is pronounced like the Japanese word for prime minister, so I basically said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Koizumi sorry." That's it, but it was effective). After this, I return to the teacher's room, where the head teacher thanks me for trying to teach, meanwhile I can read his face to really be saying that he highly disproves of what he did.

And so, again, I have to question whether what I did was right. In Japanese teaching eyes, there was a serious infraction of social code and the tray was left out of place, and the school process could not go on until it was resolved. The resolution was obviously that the owner of the tray would step forth, return the tray to its proper location, and face whatever consequences there were, and class would move on. Because this did not happen, the head teacher did what he did, imposed his authority, and left, expecting me and the other to follow. She did, I didn't. I continued to teach the class, because I personally did not feel that the tray incident was a huge deal and that the pressures on the perpetrator of remaining anonymous were too great for anything beneficial to happen. But, of course, in a way, I was defying the authority of the head teacher and his decision. I did what I thought was right when he was trying to make a different point, and such a defiance, especially right in front of the students could potentially damage his reputation with them and his ability to teach them (while potentially increasing mine). But, at the same time, was I to defy my own instict and premonition as well, simply because the Japanese teacher had done it??? Therein is the other little dilemma of the day.

Of course this may all seem trivial, and it kind of is, but like I said, I would just like to hear about other people's opinions and what they think, that's all. In the meanwhile, I did a little radio show last Saturday, where I got to talk a bit about myself in Japanese (wow, was that horrible or what), and to play some of the music that I like (you should of seen the faces of the hosts of the show...ahahahhaa). The songs chosen were 1) Cold and Ugly; 2) Mann geggen Mann (Rammstein); 3) Passive (APC); 4) The Bitter End (Placebo); 5) Gotta Get Away (Offspring); and 6) 46 and 2...some of us may remember the opening lyrics of Cold and Ugly ("Throw that Bob Marley wannabe.......). Yeah, I can't say they loved it, but it will air this week.....oh, the ways that I amuse myself. A picture of it follows this post. Then, Saturday evening I played my first game of poker and amazingly, only lost my initial buy-in. It was fun and I made some crucial mistakes from which to learn, not the least of which is, don't attempt to actually win at cards and become inebriated, excessively, at the same time. Another week is on, and hopefuly you're all doing well. Please comment on the dilemmas above. Laterz.

Making the Best of It

So, I just came back from a little get-away trip to Kobe and Osaka. It was at the tail end of Golden Week, which is a series of three back to back public holidays, which basically means the entire country up and moves to another part of itself, just because that's what's meant to happen. Before leaving, however, I got an opportunity (and a very expensive one, at that) to do something I had never done before in my life. More precisely, I played 18 holes of golf with my principal, a principal of another school, and a co-worker. Don't know how much anyone knows about golf, but I certainly increased my share of respect for it. Whereas before, I hardly considered it a sport at all, after being deeply humiliated and embarassed on the links, I now realize that it does take quite an amount of skill, not the least of which is endurance (it took us six hours for 18 holes). Of course, my borrowed clubs were much too short for me and the numbers on them tended to be confusing, but I'm not about to start making excuses for my whopping 170 on a 76 par course. Yeah, that's about 100 strokes over what it's supposed to be. Oh god, where didn't I take shots from. In the woods, in the sand, in tall grass, from the vending machine...it was all good times though. Occasionally frustrating, especially when I kept hitting the top of the ball and it would fly like twenty feet. Or, in the queue for the 10th hole, when there were three groups ahead of us and like four behind us, which means at least 12 people had the awkward yet somehow satisfying pleasure of watching me tee-off directly into a tree like 6 feet to the right of the tee. In the end, my body hurt, my wallet hurt (it was at a private club, which meant that you didn't really pay for anything on the spot, but signed your name on a sheet, so all expenses added up in the end to about $150), but at least I have now played golf. Woohoo.

Anyway, later that day, I went out with some buddies in Kanazawa, to get a little plastered in preparation for our 3 AM train to Osaka...a hell of a fascinating way to travel eh. The train absolutely stank. There was almost no room to sit, and from 3 AM to 6:30 AM, I was sandwiched between three young ladies who decided at around 5:15 AM that it was time to begin putting on make up and make incessant trips to the bathroom. Yeah, no sleep for me. We finally got to Osaka, had to take the zombie express up to Kobe, and then figure out what to do at 8 in the morning on no sleep. A day and a six hour nap later, we went out, drank a bit, and had, no joke, THE BEST PIECE OF MEAT ON THE PLANET. Hold on, hold on, I don't think you got that, let me just make sure. IT WAS THE MOST FABULOUS, AMAZING, SUCCULENT, JUICY, MOUTH-WATERING, DELICIOUS steak I have ever had. I've heard that these Kobe cows are fed beer or something, but regardless, if you have an extra $2000 lying around, buy a ticket to Japan, come to Kobe and spend $100 on a meal. You will not regret it. After that heavenly experience, we went out and the next day, made our way to Osaka, or more precisely to the Osaka Dome, where we witnessed a spectacle that I didn't ever expect to see myself at. It was PRIDE, a special Japanese version of Ultimate Fighting, or K1. The stadium was filled to capacity, all eagerly present to watch human beings unleash an atrocious sort of violence on each other. Of course, we can all sit here and make arguments about the degeneracy of actually paying a substantial sum of money to see this, but let's not do that. Let's just accept the fact that watching two grown men descend into the most barbaric form of human interaction was somehow enticing and could not be ignored. There were nine fights all together, even featuring two Russians, Roman (oh yes!!!) Zentsov and Aleksandr Emelianko (the brother of the current PRIDE champion). The former won his bout and the latter was shameless beat down by an American. Like I said, even I can argue for not going to such events or about the meaninglessness of their existence in the first place, but I won't. I had a good time and whatever that means, that is how it stands. Afterwards, I had (Halleluiah) Mexican food. Boy, how I do miss you, Chipotle... It was fantastic. And after that began the highlight of the trip.

Yeah, and that would be the booming sickness. Starting with a slight cough, slowly maturing into nasal leakage, and finally forming into the full blown fever and headache, the sickness kept me immobile in the hotel room. It is true that the next day I went to the Osaka zoo, which was rather disappointing (although watching the orangutang bang on his cage viciously and scare the little kids was entertaining) and to the IMAX for Sharks 3D (have you been to a 3D movie lately, those are rocking), the rest of the time was spent within the confines of a lovely room at the Hotel the Lutheran (the place had a friggin cathedral inside of it). It was unfortunate, but what can you do. And thus I get to the main point of this post, the entire reason behind it. Make the best of whatever it is you got. Yeah, cliche, but how often is it overlooked? Yes, my buddies partied till 6 AM both nights in a place for parties (if you're not aware, I live in a tiny village of 6,000 where the only entertainment venue is the local supermarket during a sale) and yes, I could have been with them, and yes, I could have set there gloomy like, cursing my pathetic life. But I didn't. I got some nice rest and reflection time. Thought about many things, listened to the new Tool disc a great many times. And never, ever forgot that terrific motto that all of us should constantly keep in mind (except not to the nihilistic degree), and that is - "And this too shall pass." It is so true. I've been back a few days, still sick, but recovering. Not doing much of anything at the moment. But would like to take one and congratulate my friend Paulie for finally accomplishing that to which he was committed for a long, long time and launching his website (www.pawky.com). All the props in the world to the man who had a vision and spent long hours and endless nights bringing it to life. Beautiful work, man.

Yeah, that's it. Decided to keep it short this time around. Life chugs its way forth and hope it finds you all making the best of it. Take care. Until soon.

A Note Concerning the Following

Hello, dear friends. I apologize for the massive delay in posting anything. For some reason or other, it has been difficult to sit down and write for any long period of time, so what you see before you is the product of many choppy sessions and attempts. Please forgive the incongruity if there is any. Also, this mother is long, so if you're going to read it, please allow yourself a good half an hour. Thank you for your kindness and attention. I'm gonna go and get me a jelly donut. Cheers.

Two Months in the Life...

I do not even know where to begin or what to highlight, because there has been so much and it has generated quite a whirlwind of emotions and expectations. I guess the best place to start would be, as always, at the beginning. I was born on… O.K., O.K., not that far back, only about two months, when I received my first visitor from “home.” Up until that point, excluding the brief period I was with my parents and brother in late December, I obviously and voluntarily had placed a 5,000 territorial barrier between myself and everything that had become close and dear to me over the past twenty years. Living a new life, so-called only because there were many new, as yet unlived experiences in it, I quickly came to realize that, as any person with half a brain should be able to tell you, at the root level, it does not really matter where you live. We carry our problems, our joys, and our sensitivities across any ocean and any distance, for they cannot forsake us even if we choose to radically change up the scenery. Of course, coming to Japan, I knew that but was in some state of half-denial, half-fantasy, eager for not only new experience, but an influx of motivation to get “stuff” into gear. As someone named Leary once said, I yearned for a state of chaotic, confused vulnerability in order to inform myself and coming to Japan was just the ticket. That train of thought is neither here nor there, but it does get me to an important point. Apart from that “stuff,” which is so personal and deeply rooted in every individual (and rarely prone to external influence), what it is that makes our lives meaningful? Well, I would like to argue that it is in large part the people that we choose to spend our time with, who we let share our variety of experiences, joys, and fears. Not that I’ll argue that here, but just state and assume it as fact and say that back in July I separated myself from that and was for quite some time distracted by the multitude of things in this country. But eventually, I settled down, became used to the newness, rediscovered many of my demons and at that point, I began to sorely miss the comfort and support of old friends. Luckily, this was right around the middle of February, and as I said before, before the month’s end, I would receive my first visitor.

Maria was here a whole week before we met, which, in my eyes, was very brave, but being the adventurous person that she is, she managed quite well on her own. We had agreed to meet in Takayama, a sleepy little mountain town about 2 hours’ drive from me. After paying half of my annual salary in tolls and tracking a nice elderly lady at 27 km/hr down a never ending, highly loopy mountain road, I came to the train station, where Maria’s train was due to arrive. Not to overplay the drama, but I was slightly apprehensive, mostly because of the symbolic nature of this event, the bridging of the gap between new world and old. She came and for a while, I felt somewhat ill at ease, not really knowing what to say or do. At the time, as well as with hindsight, I have to attribute this brief uneasiness to the reunion with something from the past that I had not come into such direct contact with for a while. It quickly faded, we ate some ramen, reminisced, explored the little town that is really only worth going to during its two annual festivals (and that isn’t just my opinion, but that of the 300,000 or so people that come to each.) That day I had two of the 4,204 subsequent coffee breaks that have become the defining symbol of my way of travel. Some may share this view and some may not, but I have really shied away from the “ok, here’s a break down of our day and we will spend exactly 37 minutes here, before spending 18 minutes on transportation to here, where we will spend between 12 and 27 minutes, depending on interest gauged at the time” philosophy of travel and really just picked one or two places per day that I really want to see, really given myself time to explore them, and, to fill the gaps, really done a lot of relaxing, which happens to revolve around coffee and cigarettes. Anyway, slight tangent. That evening we had lovely yaki-niku (where they bring you raw meat and you grill it in front of you, a la Korean BBQ style) and the next day, after visiting a museum of the portable shrines that are used at those two annual festivals, we drove back to good, sweet, old Houdatsushimizu and engaged in that grand countryside entertainment ritual – DVD watching (Wedding Crashers and Showgirls, back to back, oh yeah.) Next day, (Monday, but a day off for me) we took the train down to KZ and utilized the better part of the day sightseeing via a quaint and lovely bus designed precisely for that purpose. I actually got to see much of Kanazawa that I hadn’t seen before, like the Geisha quarters (apparently real live Geisha still, to this day, live and work in Kanazawa, which I didn’t know and had assumed they were only in Kyoto, and maybe in Tokyo.) Additionally, as I didn’t know, Kanazawa is very famous for its gold leaf, which is a very, very (we’re talking .000001 of a millimeter) thin piece of gold that is obviously extremely fragile. It is used for a variety of things, among which are food additive (we ate some gold) and paint substitute (those familiar with Kinkakuji, the Golden Pavilion in Kyoto, should know that it is coated in gold leaf from Kanazawa). Finally and naturally, as any conscientious visitor to Kanazawa should, we paid homage to one of the three best gardens in Japan, Kenrokuen, and although it was cold enough to shrink a penguin, it was still beautiful. That night, we dined with some of my local friends in the izakaya, a traditional Japanese small restaurant, catering particularly to local residents (i.e. not designed for tourists or travelers, but as a second kitchen, of sorts.) The following three days, I had work, which was difficult because I wasn’t altogether of the working mindset, and Maria went skiing and lounged about. On Thursday evening, after a little elevation, I set off on the overnight bus for Tokyo, where Maria, who had left Houdatsushimizu on Thursday morning, would meet me the next day.

Imagine putting a rather decent sized and tired rhinoceros into a cage designed to house, at most, a very large dog, completely shutting out all the lights, and then shaking the hell out of him for eight hours, while expecting him to perform circus tricks all day the following day. Yeah, as you can imagine, I was pretty tired the next day but there is nothing like the sight of Shinjuku at 6:00 AM to wake you up. That is actually a very curious time because it is when the crowd mixes, with the zombie like, wasted creatures stumbling back home after a night of drinking and the equally zombie like, yet slightly better dressed creatures on their way to work bump into each other on the way into and out of trains. Add to that scene a sleepless rhinoceros, 47 million gigawatts of dormant electricity, and love hotel city, and you start to imagine what Shinjuku is like, except that 6:00 is probably the quietest time. As anyone who has been there will tell you, the area becomes a veritable zoo as the day grows and, by the time it is dark enough for the neon to come to life, it is transformed to perhaps the liveliest, busiest, insanest place on the face of the planet. But that’s for later. In the meanwhile, I had me a couple of coffees and an Egg McMuffin with cheese, read Mr. Heinlen (my first exposure to the science fiction genre (minus J.R.R. Tolkien), which I have to recommend to all), and patiently waited for Maria at the South Entrance of Shinjuku Station (number 35 of 79 exits) located smuggly between 2 of the 4 department stores (a la Marshall Fields, yet twice as big) that make up just a small part of this, the busiest train station on earth. Amazingly enough, she found me, we dropped off the luggage at the hotel, and strolled, if you will, around the west side of Shinjuku, which, in the last thirty years has become home to Tokyo’s skyscrapers, as well as many of its luxury high rise hotels. We climbed to the top of (well, took the elevator really, as my building climbing skills are a bit unpolished, as of yet) the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building (which, in a week’s time would subsequently take on many different shapes and sizes as well as adding moniker of “Sanitation” to its name), hoping to catch a panoramic glimpse of the city, as well as of the ever-hidden yet definitely there Mt. Fuji san. It was cloaked in clouds, as usual, but the rest of the view proved worthwhile and additionally, I delighted myself by purchasing a couple miniature plastic models of ramen and vending machine inventory. Don’t ask me why. Next stop was an advice solicitation adventure at the Tokyo office of LEK Consulting Group, Maria’s multinational employer. It proved somewhat anticlimactic because the office was just a room, the staff a bunch of young foreigners, and the advice quite limited and ineffectual. But it was in Shibuya, so we did get a chance to walk around for a bit, catch a bite and figure out what to do for the rest of the day, which in the end turned out to be not much at all. We made it out to the Roppongi and after being endlessly solicited by big black men to try out their spaghetti and women, eating at some pricey yet slightly sleazy yaki (grilled) tori (chicken) (oh, on a stick) place, stumbling about with a weak desire to go clubbing but no real purpose, returned to the land of Shinjuku, where we employed the “let’s never use the same exit twice strategy” successfully and got lost yet again. Needless to say, that was a tiring day for the rhino.

But it did merit a nice and lazy 12:00 PM wake up time. We were staying on the seventh floor of the Nishi Shinjuku Hotel, a business hotel but on the quasi-expensive side. The room size didn’t justify the cost but I’m guessing the view did – the block in front of our window was taken up by none other than a large, heavily populated cemetery. From the ground, the fence around it made it appear like a construction sight, but from the seventh floor it was definitely a splattering of death in the midst of such incredible life. The midday sun shone brightly and we made our way to the Tsukiji Fish Market, which is most famous for its pre-dawn frozen tuna auction which we had only missed by a narrow margin of seven hours. But, as the saying goes, the closer to the source, the better the fish (it’s a saying now, cause I’ve said it!). We walked around the stalls and smelled the freshness of the seafood and after numerous occasions of near accidental manslaughter at the hands of lunatic kerosene cart operators, we settled to a beautiful lunch of just about the best sushi I have ever tasted, not to mention my first exposure to the world of raw horse sashimi. After such a delightful dining experience, there was precious little to do except to head out to the Imperial Palace, home of the Emperor, who sixty five years prior, was God, and sixty years ago became merely human, but is still a widely respected and important figure in Japan. Good grief, you should see the Palace, you really should. Because, we didn’t see it at all. Turns out, it’s open to the Public only twice a year and that particular day just didn’t hit the mark. We saw a heavily guarded bridge across the moat that leads to the entrance gate, and also a side of one of the palace buildings, entirely undifferentiated from many other Japanese traditional structures. Woo-hoo. Ok, ok, at least we’ll go to the East Palace Garden, a famed expanse of green in the middle of an otherwise concrete and neon urban density. But alas, that was not meant to be either, as the place shut down precisely four minutes before our punctual selves showed up at the gate. Nothing more to do but to sit on the curb, smoke one or two, and head back toward Shinjuku, to prepare for a night out in the city’s trendiest nightlife neighborhood, Shibuya. And what a night out it was (if you haven’t yet caught on to the obvious yet somewhat unjustifiable sarcasm permeating these last few words, well, read on.) After gazing at the well-groomed yet still somehow incongruent types that populate this area at night and taking in some cheap beer and ramen, we both decided that we were too tired to cough up a lousy 3500 Yen cover charge for the nightclub and would rather play some pool instead, which we did in the largest pool hall I have ever seen, with a whopping fifty tables or so, at least. Two vodka tonics and a cab ride later, we were back in Shinjuku, traversing our way through Kabukicho, love hotel and strip club central, fascinated by the ways in which Tokyoites, and Japanese in general, entertain themselves at night. Yet another club-hope-filled night ending in failure.

Ahh, Sunday. If you ever get to Tokyo and it happens to be Sunday, drop everything and head out to Harajuku, either on the JR Yamamote line, or via numerous subway lines through Shibuya (which means walking through the lovely Yoyogi park, full of musicians and markets and performers of all kinds, more later.) On the bridge between the entrances to Yoyogi park and the Meiji Shrine, you will find an extremely interesting and eye-catching collection of Japanese youth who have taken it upon themselves to express their counter-culture through fashion choices that are best described as a hybrid of 19^th century European aristocracy and late 20^th century hard-core goth. What they’re doing there is hard to say, but to the untrained eye, it looks like simple hanging out, reuniting with friends, relaxing on a Sunday afternoon just like you or I would do. They are happy to pose for pictures or to simply look at the throngs of mostly foreign tourists with trigger-happy camera fingers. We saw, took in what we could, and strolled down the Omotesando, a broad avenue full of shopping and restaurants, whose sidewalks were filled absolutely to the brim with people. Since it is down sloping away from the station, we could see very far ahead of us and to my disbelief the crowd did not thin and there could have easily been something like 50,000 people within the space allowed by my weak vision. Feeling the overload of people, we ducked into a pedestrian only shopping lane but that only added to my frustration, as this lane possessed not only the same concentration of people but much less space in which to house them. It was alright though, because I bought myself a pair of imitation Aviators at a boutique and blent (blended is so passé) right in. It was an amazing experience overall, and even in the city of Tokyo, which is normally teeming with more people than bacteria in a Petri dish, it was remarkable to see such crowds. We barely made it to our train that took us to Ginza and the Kabukiza Theater, for a brief 90 minute glimpse of that grand, old Japanese traditional cultural pastime, kabuki. Up near the roof, but for a cheap ticket price and an English speaking ear piece, we watched a scene of tragedy unfold far beneath us. It really reminded me of opera, but without the music. It was drawn out, but the acting seemed superb and I have to applaud some of the actors for playing their feminine roles so well. The costumes and make up were quite something as well, but, unfortunately due to the lack of comprehension, the whole thing got a bit tedious fairly quickly (and not just to me, judging from the unbelievable number of sleeping people all around me…..quick tangent, have I already mentioned that the Japanese can sleep under any, and I mean ANY, conditions?) and sitting through to the end witnessed a bit of a battle between me and that sweet, amorous human condition known as sleep. After kabuki, we ate dinner at the Ginza Lion Beer Hall. Yes, a beer hall in Tokyo. It even looked German on the inside but the food wasn’t very good at all unfortunately. Anyway, a few of those and it was back to Shinjuku, back to the hotel, goodbyes, and back on the highway to hell. I believe Maria left Japan very satisfied with her experience, returning to the United States with good memories. As for me, it was back to the country for a few days before it would start all over again.

Actually, coming back to Shio was somewhat depressive, because I was suddenly switching from weekends away with old friends to job mode, half of which was recuperating from the weekend before and the other half preparing for the next one, which really made working productively difficult. (Please allow me yet another quick bitch here – as if this job and productivity could ever be in the same sentence – thank you.) Anyway, the week dragged, but finally it came to be Saturday morning and I took off for Komatsu Airport, giving myself a tuna sandwich and approximately 90 minutes to make my flight. Naturally enough, I didn’t think about that sneaky early Saturday morning traffic jam, which gave me exactly forty-five minutes before my flight to cover a distance of 28 kilometers, park the car, check in, and get on board. It was not to be the last such scramble for the next few days but it did provide for a nice 150 km/hr rally with this other dude trying to make the same flight. Finally, I got there and experienced the easiest check in of all time. Without a single pause, I scanned the ticket, got a boarding pass, went through security, got to the gate and boarded the plane within ten minutes. The flight was a pleasant 50 minutes long. After disembarking, I knew that I was at Haneda Airport at 9:00 AM, and Walter and Sonya would not be arriving until 4:00 PM at Narita Airport, thus giving me about seven hours, at least two to three of which would have to be spent on transportation. So, I decided to venture out to Akihabara, Tokyo’s Electronics Town, an amazing wonder of the latest and greatest in gadgetry and other electronelia. At first, it was mind-boggling, almost overwhelming – streets upon alleys upon avenues of big and small electronics shops, eight stories of concrete and neon housing all sorts of computer parts imaginable, book stall upon book stall of manga, computer games, DVD’s, the Yodobashi marvel – eight football fields piled on top of each other, each containing an extensive array of everything you can ever imagine requiring a plug and electricity, including 28 types of hair dryers and 18 different electronic scales, endless stretches of bins, boxes, sleeves, lids, containers, packages, some new, some old, microcameras to fit inside of cigarette packs, assembly parts for concert speakers and amplifiers, the dolls, oh my god, the dolls, entire stores devoted to assembly, dress up, maintenance of these small plastic wonders that come in all shapes and sizes, the action figures, probably every single one ever produced, and finally, the pornographilia, literally tons of it, in the form of DVDs, video games, computer games, books, but most prolifically, the comic books, everywhere, being scoured and digested by anonymous looking men in dark suits, all with backpacks and glasses, spending hours upon hours staring at what, to me, was incomprehensible beyond the pictures, of course. I spent a good four hours there, and near the end, I was hungry, befuddled, and my head hurt from the simultaneous events of overload of stimuli and an inability to process it fully. I really wanted to buy something, anything, but near the end, I literally felt that my brain would just melt and leak out the nearest orifice if I dilly dallied there any longer and I had to hot foot it back to the JR station. The hunger was not to be simply abated by a back alley coffee and a cigarette, so I settled for another uniquely Japanese experience, the station ramen stall. Rather, a countertop at a right angle, with three stools on one side and ten on another, enough to fit thirteen Japanese (or, for easier comprehension, about five and a half Marchenkos). In a narrow station passageway crowded with such stalls, I chose this one solely because it was the only stool without a body on it. Miraculously, I squeezed in between one of the aforementioned backpacker types and a lovely young lady typing away madly on her cellie. My elbows were literally in their bowls, so I sandwiched myself in the best way for greatest threeway comfort. The turnover at these things is amazing. They order, the two-man, two-woman assembly line whips up their dish in a matter of seconds, its plopped down with a glass of water and a wet wipe, and the noodles are profusely, rather loudly yet scrumptiously sucked up, the bits of fish or meat eaten, and the remaining soup drank with a loud “sssssshhhhhhhrrrrrrppppppp.” Nothing to do but to blend right in. I cannot even begin to tell you how much I enjoy the liberty allowed here of such loud slurping. For the Westerner it’s obviously a sign of slobbery but also of a certain relaxed, careless state of mind, and I indulge in it fully when I can. After a delicious 4min35sec meal, I got on the trains, figuring I would surprise the Rosenbergs at the airport, but also thinking I would save a bit on the insane fares by taking the slower trains. A good hour and a half later, I was looking at my watch, at Narita station (the town, not the airport), getting a bit nervous, as the plan was to meet in Shinjuku, not at the airport with no way of getting in touch, calling my brother in the vain hopes that the flight was a bit delayed, generally getting jumpy about the course of events that day. Finally, the much awaited train came, I got on, ran my way toward the arrival gate, just in the nick of time, to see a very classily dressed Walter (adidas, flannel, t-shirt, and beard all stylishly matching) and a visibly tired yet happy Sonya emerging from customs, bearing both the smiles and large-backpacks of weary travelers preparing for a long trek. I hid, both myself and my extreme elation at seeing them, until they went straight for the bus ticket counter, which is where I made my presence known. The hugs and kisses were exchanged and I could once again become accustomed to them and they to me. Little immediate change was noticed, but it was good, really good, to be together like this again. We stood around, I smoked, we got on a bus for Shinjuku, which was in turn re-routed due to traffic, Walter and I got into one of our talks (mainly centering around my comments about his stylish apparel choices and his annoyance with my embarrassment) and Sonya rightfully chose to ignore the whole thing and listened to some music instead, the Beatles no doubt. We disembarked and went searching for the Sunlite, on the corners of neon and red light. For most of that walk, it was mostly me aching from the strain of two bags (one of which graciously provided by my mother with much needed supplies, even more graciously transported by Walter) and the two others gawking, their heads mostly up, their bodies mostly bumping into unfortunate Japanese who did not have enough time to jump out of the way. We found the hotel, and because I didn’t have lodging for the evening, they scouted the possibility of sneaking me into their room and while I was waiting, I ducked into a corner store and bought a welcome gift, Jameson’s style. We were all set, snuck in, Walter and I happily partaking in Irish hospitality, figuring out the rest of the evening. As usually happens when you spend enough time in Ireland, Walter and I became really happy (a pattern oft-repeated in the next couple of days) and we all dove into the bright Shinjuku lights, crawling among the crowds, searching out a place of more sustainable nourishment. We found it in a busy basement restaurant, where a lovely Japanese man kept ordering sake for us (much too fast for us to drink, so he kind-heartedly helped us out) and we munched on some yakitori. Shortly after even Sonya joined our little club, albeit a bit behind Walter and myself, the leaders of the anti-prohibitionist movement. We walke, er stumbled out, did some jumps and headed for the insanity of the video game parlor, to the basement floor housing the infamous Purikura (Print Club) machines, or in other words, halls of vanity for young Japanese girls to put on excessive makeup, giggle, take pictures, and later color the whole thing with pretty lines and drawings. We, naturally, did the same, and followed that up with some drums. After that, there was nothing left to do but to return home and not go to sleep, not talk about life, not play a game of some sort, but to pass out like there was no tomorrow. A good day.

Ahhh, natto. Every Japanese person’s paradise and a foreigner’s worse nightmare. Fermented soy beans and cheese, whipped together into a gooey frenzy of taste sensation. They say it’s what makes the Japanese live so long and apparently it is indeed very healthy. When you try it, if the slippery, nasal excrement-like consistency doesn’t get to you, then surely the foul, “did I just eat a lot of rotten eggs” aftertaste will. Of course, it’s a proud Japanese dish and if you visit Japan, you must try it, which is what Walter did the next morning and I was able to laugh about it for a good long time. After breakfast, we headed on to Shibuya, just to take in the sights, with no particular agenda at all. Walter, having recently acquired the obsession of “taking” movies of everything, was continuously spinning around, trying to capture that which is, alas, not confinable to a two by three camera screen – the living, breathing energy pulsating from Shibuya. We strolled the various avenues and alleys lining this, quite a hilly, neighborhood, before settling down to a long coffee session in a hip café attached to a department store and playing loungy trance music. We just watched the people on this beautiful but windy Sunday day and I can truly say, that at that time, I felt carefree, in the fullest meaning of the word. We talked and laughed and then were on our way to Harajuku, via Yoyogi Park. Some sort of big stadium on the right, directly in front, a tree lined pedestrian walkway, each side, at evenly spaced intervals, occupied by aspiring musicians. Two dudes with a guitar here, a chick singing and playing piano there, a boy band with matching white sweatsuits performing to crowd of giggling adolescent girls here, an attractive young lady singing in front of a crowd of men there, and so on for a good half a kilometer. Each group was just far enough spaced that you could listen to it with little interference from the other side. Personally, it was the first time I had seen such immaculate organization and efficient use of finite space to pack as much musical creativity as these people managed to do. After that, we came upon a large open air stage (where a band was setting up) and an open air market of sorts, with “merchants” having set up large blankets on the ground and covered them with all sorts of used clothing and seemingly useless trinkets that the strolling buyers were avidly gobbling up. We couldn’t really understand the attraction of anything up for sale, but the whole set up wasn’t really there for our benefit anyway. We proceeded past this into the beautiful park, filled with sunshine, children running around, all sorts of sports activities, naturally bicycles, and more performing street musicians, this time mostly centered around drum circles. We settled on a bench across from one such group and just watched them. They were performing solely for themselves, solely as a way to relax and enjoy their Sunday afternoon. When they finished, the beating of the drums did not stop, but simply moved elsewhere, further down, where in the distance another group was actively enjoying creating ancient tribal sounds in the middle of the park. When they stopped, the sound became yet more muffled but did not disappear, but simply migrated further, joined in time by birds chirping. It was a true feeling of holiday, of day off from stress and anxiety and needless worry. We walked on, met a man with a crystal ball, and tried to find a way into the Meiji Shrine, dedicated to the Meiji Emperor (who, in 1868, was restored to the chrysanthemum throne, after almost three hundred years of Tokugawa shogunate rule) and the most famous Shinto shrine in Japan. It was to be the Walsons’ first shrine experience and Walter especially was fascinated by that first arch, the first of literally hundreds that they would subsequently see in Japan. After the shrine, we headed toward Harajuku, where I had been exactly a week prior, and marveled at the girls, who where perpetually doing what they perpetually do. Back to the train, back to Shinjuku, to rest at the hotel, to more Jamesons, and finally out to eat. Walking around busy parts of Japanese urbanity in search of something to eat could be a trying experience. It is simultaneously all out in the open, but at the same time, hidden within a cavernous, unexplored, difficult to access space. The menus are out, illuminated by the neon. Some have pictures, but trying to decipher the kanji takes hours. And then, you’ve found a menu you like, the salival mechanism kicks in, but all you have is a large, plastic menu in front of you, sometimes a cabinet display of plasticinated food. Where do you go? Up those stairs? Down those? Around the corner perhaps? It gets trying until you just do it, don’t look back, and hope for the best. That’s exactly what we did. Follow the arrow, get on the elevator, enter the restaurant, follow the attractive Japanese lady, take off your shoes, weave your way in between squatting Japanese to your own little pillow on the hardwood floor. Open the menu, simplify things for yourself by ordering the multi-course set meal, enjoy your drinks and your food, laugh at Walter’s inability to eat almost anything, except that which most directly resembles chicken, celebrate one year of Walson communal life, drink, eat, be merry, deal with the aches of eating without chairs, stumble to the bathroom a couple of times, observe, interact, pay the huge bill, find the elevator, and re-enter the Shinjuku zoo, now at a time where 90% of its occupants cannot walk a straight line. Weaving, trying to avoid causing fatal injury, we find Shidax, the karaoke monolith that is part of any Japanese major city thoroughfare. Argue about fares, settle on drink options, get the key to the tiny cubicle on the seventh floor, arrive, settle in, begin to search for songs. That first night at karaoke was new for some, there were some disagreements, but in the end, everyone realized (for some it was more difficult that for others) that its not really about singing prowess or ability, but really an interesting and highly amusing way for friends to hang out and spend time together. After much Beatles and a little Metallica, we made our way back to the hotel, and after another beautiful day, quietly transitioned into the night.

It is amazing how habitual we human creatures are. If we find something comfortable (and heck that’s not even necessary, even pure convenience or lack of discomfort will do) we stick to it . I’m sure there’s a saying of some sort about it, something along the lines of “if it’s good enough to do once, its best to do it every time.” Anyway, point being that once you possess a certain knowledge of something, it becomes somewhat hardened and ingrained and it becomes hard to evaluate it or to add on to it or drop it altogether. How does this fit here? Well, not really, except for the fact that the week prior I had been to the Tsukiji market and to Harajuku and enjoyed both immensely, and so it became part of my Tokyo program (meaning that which I would like to show to people who come to Tokyo and have decided for themselves that I should know more than them, especially about the whereabouts of the Tokyo Metropolitan Sanitation Department and its 300 or so buildings around the city.) If I was to come to Tokyo on my own, I may not visit these places again, but it’s definitely something I will keep bringing people to. After morning coffee and Walter’s light breakfast of four and a half donuts, we set directly off for the fish market for lunch. (In case you haven’t noticed yet, the major activity in my life is, drumroll, eating. Everything else is just gap filler between meals.) We went to the same place as the week before and had plenty of fish. Perhaps the Walsons were a bit sushied out by this point, but I still enjoyed myself. After fish, I had high hopes of seeing monkeys and gorillas and other live, breathing animals, so we headed up to Ueno, way in the north, in the hope of getting into the Ueno Zoo, the oldest and supposedly best in the country. The zoo complex itself is part of a huge park with many museums and varied attractions, and halfway down our stroll along what would soon be a beautiful sakura walk but at that point was still only trees recovering from winter, I realized that most national and public institutions are closed on Mondays. After accomplishing the feat of repeatedly kicking myself in the head for this, I resorted to the hope that I was potentially mistaken, but alas, we soon stood in front of the shut zoo gates, me slowly fluctuating between sullen sobs and bitter memories of having stood in the same spot some three months before, when the zoo was shut for the New Year’s Holidays. Damn it, damn it, damn it. All I wanted was to stare at some gorillas for a little while, that’s all, that’s not too much is it? It wasn’t meant to be. Nothing better to kill the pain, however, than a coffee break and a rolled up crepe (which was for the most part delicious, except I mistakenly chose a crepe filled with whipped cream, bananas and what I had assumed to be white chocolate but which really turned out to be something like cheddar cheese.) After stuffing the aforementioned, we went back to Shinjuku and blew about $15 on video arcades and those damned pictures, all in about 10 minutes and somberly headed back to the hotel, but only after yet another cup of coffee. At the hotel, I quickly taught the Walsons a great card game (Shithead) and took off thinking I had plenty of time to make my flight. And so began another great adventure.

Enter the Japanese rush hour commute. Between the hours of 7:00 and 8:30 AM, and then again between 4:30 and 7:00 PM, being at busy commuter stations in central Tokyo is a bit of a nightmare, even for such a rhino-like self as me. As you may know, Tokyo itself is huge, and its densely packed urban center is surrounded by rings and rings of suburbs, but these are not like Buffalo Grove or Wilmette, with potential stretches of green and blue, but rather paler imitations of the center, with a similar population density but much less neon. The Tokyo suburbs gradually blend in with the suburbs of its neighbor, Yokohama, which in itself is also a huge city. Therefore, the vast stretches of nothingness that divide major cities in places like the Midwest are simply not present here and the resulting population of these two metropolises (which together form Smazo’s favorite word, a megalopolis) is over 10% of the entire population of the United States, or 33,000,000 people. So all these folks gotta live somewhere and obviously Japan, being a water-locked island chock full of mountains and uninhabitable terrain, does not have a lot of living space to spare. If you’ve driven through Tokyo, you’ve seen the density. Every block, every square meter, is filled to the brim with concrete, which in turn is subdivided into the tiniest living quarters to fit as many people as possible into the smallest area. And obviously, the closer to the center (both of entertainment and business), the more sparse and expensive the real estate. And so, for the hundreds of thousands of young salary men, already married but not yet established enough, the only logical conclusion if they want to continue working for the big companies is to live far out in the suburbs and make the daily commute to and from work, which often can be as much as two hours each way (a little math here - if your commute is four hours, your work day itself is eight, and the near-mandatory after work getting sloshed party at the company bar is anywhere from two to four, that leaves from eight to ten hours for sleep, free, and family time….and of course an occasional Sunday with that…) But anyway, luckily all these people don’t drive to work because then Tokyo would be a virtual metal standstill, and even luckier yet, Tokyo is criss-crossed with all sorts of rail-ways (literally miles upon miles, the subway underground and the JR lines above ground), so millions of people utilize public transport. Shinjuku station alone handles 2 million people a day. Naturally, as anywhere else, Tokyo has its rush hour when most people are either headed to or are leaving work, and equally as naturally, this idea was nowhere near the active center of my brain as I was relaxing at the hotel, thinking, “well, of course I have time to teach them Shithead, for its such a wonderful game.” And so, with no further ado, here goes. My flight departs Haneda at 8:00, sharp. It’s 6:02 and I’m walking out the front door of the Shinjuku Sunlite, two bags, one significantly heavier than the other, in tow. Weaving through the human traffic, I make it to the station and board the JR Yamanote line headed for Shinagawa station, right around 6:24. Seventeen minutes later, we arrive at Shinagawa and I get my first delectable glimpse that something may be wrong. Those wishing to leave the train at this station are having extreme difficulty because the platform has been transformed into a giant can of sardines, and once a can is filled to capacity, it is sealed, stamped, and sold, and vagrant sardines who swim up too late have no choice but to turn back. Anyway, I pushed forward, using my size as an advantage, thinking that this mosh pit was simply due to the fact that there was only one escalator up to the station proper. Mistake number two of the night. So, slowly, yet surely, I make my way up that escalator and see that the entire station, meaning every square inch of its floor has a foot in it. Nobody is touching anybody and everything is in fluid motion, but to get from point A to point B requires such precise choreography, which my bumbling self doesn’t have the training for, that I probably severely injure hundreds of poor ducking Japanese as I make my way through them. I have parted ways with JR and now I need to buy tickets for the Keikyu line, which is a private railroad that will take me right to the terminal at Haneda. There are the ticket machines, and the platform is plainly visible. Time, 6:48. I’m in the clear….NOT. I see the queue for the ticket machines, of which there are only two, and it stretches way, way back, around a couple of columns. Well, nothing left to do but to go and wait; can’t buy tickets at the train because I need to get through turnstyles first. As I begin to wait in line, the place begins really filling up. More and more trains keep arriving at other platforms, and more and more announcements are being made that trains on this platform are running late. The queue moves, slowly, yet surely. Having forgotten my glasses, I keep straining to see the information board, which would tell me which exact train would take me to Haneda. Finally, they make the announcement. 7:01 PM is the train, and it is 6:54. Nothing more I can do but hope that time is on my side. At 6:59 the announcement is made that all trains are running ten minutes behind schedule, which gives me some breathing room. Five, four, three, two more people before I get to the ticket machines, and boom, suddenly, with no warning and without a single care, both machines beep loudly and break down – no more tickets will be issued from those automated marvels. Its 7:06. I’m looking around, being at least a head taller than most, and on the verge of hopeless laughter when I notice something interesting. Nobody seems to be using the turnstiles anyway, they are simply not working. There are two huge crowds on both sides, and like an hourglass, they slowly filter from one to the other. I take the plunge and get into the crowd going in. Trains are arriving. People get off and have to squeeze through a crowd that is breathing and raging collectively. The most interesting part is in the turnstiles, which are constantly occupied by people going in, who sometimes have to make way for those headed out. When I reach the turnstile, with my rather large frame and large bags, there is absolutely no way another person could get by, but no where else to go, people pushing from behind and ahead, I have to jump my ass onto the turnstile and slide down it and end up in the pit on the other side. It is 7:12. My train has arrived and left and I cannot see when the next train will be. We are standing waiting. If you’ve ever been to the Aragon for a big rock show, think about what it’s like afterwards, when that sweaty scary crowd is all trying to squeeze itself down that stairwell – yeah, sort of like that. Everytime a train arrives, people scramble out of it and begin fighting through the crowd. As soon as they’re out of the way, the crowd surges, and the people right by the doors don’t just walk it, but rather ride the surf. Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t stay. Watching this from above, I find it incomprehensible. The door opens, and people with absolutely mad faces sprint in to occupy every available inch of the train car. As it fills to capacity, the look changes from madness to fear. The train car changes from a laundry basket of all sorts of dirty clothing (all rolled up and all over the place) to a neatly folded closet, meaning the space with utilized with maximum efficiency. Every set of train car doors comes with its own attendant, wearing a uniform and white gloves, whose main job is to control the flow of people in and out, which he can’t really do until the very end. When it seems like there’s absolutely no room, this person literally pushes more passengers onto the train and hold them there, to make sure they don’t spill out while the doors are closing. The train shakes and rattles and rolls off, and I’m reminded of pirate movies where there’s a huge net hanging in the air and bodies are sticking out of every which way. Everytime a train pulls in, the crowd surges forward a few feet, but at this rate, I will get to the edge of the platform a very, very long time after I need to be there. It is 7:18 and I hear that the 7:14 train will be arriving at 7:24. Ok, ok, I think, everything is all aright, I’m going to be ok. Push, push, two trains away, one train away. Ok, the next train is mine, but I’m still about five or six rows away from it, unlikely to get on. Then a new problem arises – all the trains are different, with different stops and different destinations, but almost all of them have been equally packed in with people. The Haneda train arrives and there’s no usual surge. Sure people are getting on, but no where near the same amount. I move forward a foot, and the dude in the white gloves is looking around, about to give the go ahead. At this, I have to make my move or I miss my train. One bag in front and one in back, I surge forth, and duck into the car just as the doors are about to close. It is all out of my hands now. 7:24 we leave Shinagawa, and my flight will leave ground at 8:00. Chug chug chug goes the train and we slowly weave our way out of central Tokyo. Tick tock tick tock goes the clock and we slowly approach takeoff, without one of the passengers. Finally, Haneda station. Time is exactly 7:45. I’m at a sprint through the airport; I run up to the lovely lady operating the electronic machines and hand her my ticket. She looks at it, than at me, than at it, then at me again, this time with that “hey sonny, you’re so missing your flight” expression, but in a nice Japanese way, runs to a phone, makes a frantic call, tells me to run after her. We’re now both sprinting down the terminal. She takes me through some doors that apparently allow me to bypass security altogether and now my way is clear toward the boarding gate, which is 18. I look and I’m at ten. Never have I sprinted so hard, and I’m now joined by three other people. We’re mad dashing, my heart about to explode; slide the ticket, run to the plane, get on, find the seat and collapse. Time, 7:56. The instructions are read, the seat belts are buckled, and plan begins its rolls towards the runway at precisely 8:00, with the announcement that one registered passenger has not made the flight. By the time my heart finally comes down, we’re about to make the landing in Ishikawa. Amazed by how lucky I was (had I not made the flight, I probably wouldn’t have made my school’s graduation the next day), I peacefully drive home, unpack my stuff, count all of my marbles, and drift off to sleep. Moral of the story? Avoid rush hour at any cost…

The following day was sotsugyo shiki (or graduation ceremony) when the third graders graduated. It was quite the grand affair, with highly ritualized speeches and activities, singing, presentations, and the diploma reception. I think to do it any justice this could take up a whole entry in and of it itself. But just to say briefly, compared with my own JHS graduation ceremony, it was like two different worlds. (Subsequently I would go to three such ceremonies and all of them, although somewhat different in details, had the same general structure). Anyway, that night (as happens on any night following some sort of big school event) the teachers had an enkai (drinking party) and the traditional “let’s all get butt-naked” right before-hand and take a dip in the communal bath together. The food was good, but I was exhausted, so I chose to forego the after dinner karaoke. Instead, I went home to bed and the next few days went by in a haze and before I knew it, it was Thursday and I was driving down to Kanazawa in the midst of a downpour to meet Katya, Walter, and Sonya for a nice dinner and night out. I picked up Katya, we parked the vehicle, and met Walter and Sonya on Katamachi, the busiest street in the city. We went to Dotour coffee, not only to get our fill of caffeine, but also to allow Sonya’s shoes to dry off a bit, as they, along with the rest of her and her husband, had gotten absolutely drenched from the day’s walking. Additionally, what a fabulous opportunity it was to absolutely massacre the wonderful Russian language and for Katya to have a great number of private funny moments. Afterward, we went to the near by Watami restaurant and had ourselves a terrific dinner consisting of deliciously prepared small dishes. Then, I committed incorrigible sin and drove after having consumed a beer, but I got us all up north safely to a nice comfy sleep. (Ok, I’ve lost it, I no longer have the ability to describe day-by-day trivial affairs in a way meaningful to me, so I’m going to shift a bit and try a new approach to cover the remainder of this minor novella here).

Having returned rejuvenated from the morning’s graduation ceremony, where each of the graduating elementary school sixth graders gave short, stuttering speeches in front of all the faculty, other students, teachers, and various local dignitaries, I arrived to an empty domicile and shortly discovered, via cell phone, that my guests had gotten themselves lost and were patiently (spelled with an im at the beginning) waiting for me by an unnamed bridge over an unnamed river. We headed for the train, unwittingly relying yet again on the marvel of technology, which deceived us, leading us to believe that the train which would shortly carry us to Kanazawa, would be at its designated spot five minutes after it actually left it – a situation which warranted a few rounds of the aforementioned shit head right there on the station bench. A short while later, our respective rear ends had visited a number of train seats, we had reduced our overall number by one and we were standing in front of the marvel that is Kyoto station, glancing at the towering phallic monolith known as Kyoto Tower, excited and triumphant, having arrived slightly refreshed. The number two city bus, fifteen minutes, but where is the 7-11? It must be this way and the empirical minds that we are, operating solely based on trial and error, we almost made it back to the station before turning around and discovering that the 7-11 loomed just half a block the other way from the bus stop. Unpack, relax, pop the lid on that newly discovered elixir of life, this time in the form of Black Label, and get down to the business of utilizing the precious moments that we spend in the company of those most important to us with maximum efficiency. Which is apparently what we did, because very shortly those moments had consumed themselves a half bottle and we were ready for that infamous Kyoto landmark, an absolute must for all Russian émigrés living in the U.S. but visiting Japan, the 100 Yen Sushi. Knowing me and my voracious insatiable appetite, coupled with the fact that I would visit this place three times within the span of two weeks, I must have had me at least eight to nine pounds of raw fish and add to that the fifteen or so that Walter consumed in an hour, we certainly gave the place good business, in addition to permanently re-adjusting our digestive tracts in favor of scaly things. And of course no Kyoto 100 Yen Sushi night is complete without the requisite visit to Karaoke, so we did indeed rip up a vocal cord or two, up in room number 409. That night, like the many following, as well as preceeding, sleep was met with open arms, in a hazy, smoky rendez vous that filled the mind with thoughts of nudity and shrubbery and the heart with nothing but joy. We were all set for re-union.

Appointed time and place, stealthily watching the escalator, under the weight of 100% conviction that out of the 3.7 million people floating around, those that are being waited for will emerge from one particular spot. No such thing, illusion shatters, and I am on my way to manually search. I find one half of the elusive foursome, barreling along in their respective half sweaters and light blue (a little too light for me to be comfortable in) sweat pants. Greetings, chatterings, boy it was good to see them. But they were not complete, still lacking major elements, the Grinpetovas, if you will (remember when it all started with Bennifer, and has now become of a part of all our lives – Walsons, etc.) Anyway, apparently a mix up and miscommunication earlier in the day caused some delays and discomfort, but within a matter of hours, we were all re-united, happily, enjoying a nice Japanese lunch and watching Elina, of the half-sweater, be utterly disgusted with hers. On to the Ryokan Hinomoto, soon to become the favorite lodging spot for Russian Ex-Soviet Americans, via a mistaken bus number and a brief walk along Kyoto streets sans umbrellas. Unloading, followed by sightseeing at the Kyomizudera Temple, up in the eastern mountains, with absolutely beautiful main gates, pagodas, and general temple utilities. Drinking of the holy water, blessing the newlyengageds, and stumbling, half drenched, by way of Gion, back to the Hinomoto, to ready for yet another spectacular night of sushi and karaoke. A six tatami room, six large (relative to the Japanese, some larger than others) foreigners, some cans of alcoholic juice, a can or two of Japanese beer and a bottle of Suntory’s finest, and a deck of cards couldn’t have made for a better two hour preparation. As we would find out the following morning, the obnoxiousness on some of our parts started then, perhaps with the ``Walter, give us a beat ------boooom, chi, ba boom boom chi,`` perhaps with the oral sex charades, or perhaps with simple inappropriate verbal utterances, but in any case, we were soon out on the street, merrily trudging along toward Sushi Heaven, some wearing their umbrellas tops on their heads, holding the skeleton, others endlessly harassing helpless Japanese passerbyers, yet others snapping pictures of air molecules, and yet still others simply enjoying a fine stroll on a fine Kyoto evening. Apparently we were so large, they did not have tables long enough, so the group had to be briefly split up, but, not to worry, Walter had himself at least three deserts at each table. Ms. Halfsweater was threatening to go to Wendy’s, because sushi is apparently devil spawn, but reluctantly ended up sticking to the group. A short stumble across the alley and we dejavued back to the karaoke place (alas Room 409 was not big enough) ordered ourselves up some Kuri-a Peechi and two hours of sado-masochism. I believe the ladies got to sing maybe one song (Britney, no less) before I led the way into an endless medley of cock, ingeniously devising a scheme to make karaoke immensely funner. Who will ever forget the stunning, gorgeous, absolutely genius rendition of Metallica’s Enter Sandman. (For the layman, just juxtapose all nouns with cock and it works wonders). The ladies, who apparently were a few liters behind us, angrily expressed their disapproval, threatened to leave, were ignored, and promptly did so, leaving the men to kill off the two hours in highly comfortable (read, removal of pants) style. By golly, we must have had 9 Kuri-a Peechis each…and boy were we good, especially concerning Walter, Suntory, and myself… Off to bed we marched, calling it a conservatively early night.

In the morning, everyone seemed light and refreshed, happy to be together, looking forward to the upcoming day. Myself, and speaking for the rest of the males, we had had a really good time the night before, but we soon came to realize that it was not the case for all of us. In no uncertain terms, we were told that we had behaved like buffoons, which we quickly acknowledged, and that we had disrespected those around us. After a heated conversation and debate that followed, we apologized for the latter and came to agreement that under the inebriated circumstances the former was excusable and certainly the cause for a very good time for many of us. With that out of the way, we stored away our luggage and headed off to the seventh floor of a department store, via some fun on an escalator, where we found just about the only international ATM in Kyoto and withdrew much needed funds. (The day before we had tried literally about 10 of ‘em, with no luck). Next, the feeding dilemma – how do we go about filling the stomachs of seven foreigners (again, I point out that one of those stomachs was extremely resistant to Japanese food)? No better way than the famed Mos Burger, among the more delicious McDonald’s wannabee Japanese fast food establishments. We were certainly replenished with our small yet perfectly sized burgers and our colas in glass glasses and our perfectly pre-arranged coffees. On to the buses and a short Armani wearing stint later, we were enjoying the sights and sounds of the Golden Pavilion (kinkakuji), where it suddenly and quite unexpectedly started snowing, but later, almost as instantaneously cleared up and was sunny, making for some excellent shots, among which the best ones were of the newlyengageds, as well as of some karate kicking practice. This temple, coated with a thin layer of gold leaf (manufactured in Kanazawa) sits at the edge of a quintessential Japanese pond, and once you walk past it, you climb a small hill, which grants you a marvelous overview of the whole place. Needless to say, I believe it was tremendously enjoyed by all. On the bus back, we naturally went in the wrong direction and were dropped off at the bus terminal, being told to wait a bit and get on the same bus again, having to pay again. Typical Japan, but we avoided it by taking the subway instead, headed for our next destination, the Ninoji Castle (or, as it quickly became known in our circle, Walter’s Ninja Castle). More beautiful ponds and gardens, and although we couldn’t get into the castle itself, we did take some great pictures, including a group one on the steps. The sakura (cherry) trees were just barely coming into bloom, but the crowds were already out, gazing, snapping shots, and we spied a group of lovely young ladies in kimono and masqueraded them into the background of our own quickly changing pictures. I seem to remember a similar routine back in the Europe trip of 2002, where there were many pictures of a blurred Rob in the front right and some lovely legs in the back. (12:00 o’clock; reset; etc.) Now it was time to begin the grand journey to the ryokan, the famed traditional Japanese inn. It was an atrociously long walk, but with a pause for walson’s last minute souvenir shopping, where they bought up 89% of the stall’s merchandise and stood around while the nice, kind, yet a bit slow 95 year-old saleslady proceeded to meticulously and precisely wrap every individual gift. Having briefly marveled as the unbelievably good looking women employed in Japanese convenience stores, we finally found our ryokan, told some of our members to wait at a coffee shop across the way, while some of the men (one of whom had injured his foot but still braved the journey) took a cab back to the previous night’s lodging to pick up our luggage. Finally, at around 6:00PM, we were all set to begin that experience.

The ryokan. After check-in, various explanations, and a few minutes of breathing, I was set to begin the explanation of bath usage. Of course, it would all turn out to be self-explanatory, but I must say that it was quite amusing to paint this grand picture and put a little fear into those about to be fully naked with each other for the first time. After all, people, here in Japan, it is absolutely customary to strip down and take baths with those close to you, usually of the same gender. And so, here we were, the closest of friends in all the world and the idea of being sans clothing within visible (oh yeah, really visible) proximity was so absurd, so unthinkable that it caused some to convulse in giggles on the floor, others to suck in stomachs, still others to full out face the challenge with the shaking willies, if you will. Saying hello to the lovely Japanese ladies (about 37 of them) that were housed across the way as we headed toward the elevator, expectations were high. I don’t know what they were for the women, but naturally enough, the men all had the same thought on their tiny brains, primarily “well, of course I’m the biggest, and besides, that’s not even important, it’s how you use it that counts.” Downstairs, Wally was the first to expose his willy and we all soon followed. The bath turned out to be much smaller than expected and there were no Japanese people in sight, so we owned the place. The usual routine – shower, wash all parts, rinse off, soak for a while, get out, shower, soak for a while again. Can’t remember now what we talked about, but I know that the glory of the aforementioned thought process is all mine… After the bath, which is perfect before a meal, we headed down to the feeding chamber, where all seven settings were immaculately prepared, four and three, the men segregated and across from the women. Two elderly Japanese ladies kept sliding in and around the room on their knees, bringing various dishes; meanwhile we kanpai’ed and got to eating and I do believe I was pretty much the only one to finish all the food, the rest ranging from almost everything by Walter and, you guessed it, almost nothing by Elina. It took a good two hours, by which time the bath and the food and the long day had taken their toll on the ladies (so they headed off for bed) and the boys had themselves a grand old poker game, in which clothes were continuously shed by some, chips continuously raked in by others. It was a rather fun game, and it being my first, I did surprisingly ok. Around 12:30 or so, there was a beer run to the konbini and we continued strong until about 3:00, at which point I believe Paulie started singing something in Arabic, Walter entertained himself by waxing his belly, Rob stared at the ceiling with an open mouth, and I was contentedly finishing up every remaining scrap of food in the room. It was definitely time for bed.

The next morning, I had to say goodbye to some peeps. It was emotional, but, at least from my stand point, the fact that I had seen them, combined with the notion that the previous six months or so in which I had not seen them had absolutely, almost unnoticeably, flown by, made the entire endeavor much easier to handle. After we saw them off, we checked out, and now, in a much reduced contingent of three, set out for Osaka, with two definitive goals in mind. After a short subway ride and a little assistance from a kind Japanese man, who virtually walked us to the place, we came upon an eight story building. It has to be among the smallest such buildings I have ever seen, because it literally has eight restaurants, on each of its floors, and nothing else. And the restaurants themselves aren’t at all that big. But none of that mattered, cause on the seventh floor of said building was Mexico and I had been waiting to get to Mexico and celebrate the fact with a Corona for a very long time. I ordered me a full plate and some beer and we enjoyed this fabulous lunch and even Elina had a few bites here and there. In between chewing and digesting, we looked around the walls, which were covered from top to bottom with all sorts of grafitti and writing from all over the world, some of it in Japanese, but most of it in other languages, including many “sdes’ bila katya” in Russian. Stomachs full and imaginations fueled, we exited Mexico and headed back into the heart of Japan, via a long walk along Osaka’s main street. A few turns and major crosswalks later, we arrived at the Osaka Prefectural Gymnasium, where another uniquely Japanese visual feast was about to entertain our eyes. Even from the large entry hall, you could tell it was something special. They came out, majestically, yet also lumbering, in their yukattas. Some were small, but most were taller than me, and certainly bigger. The image of such large human beings, clad in bathrobes and flip flops seems outright ridiculous, but I guess it is nowhere near as incomprehensible as the uniforms in which they perform. Elina warmed her way up to a young Estonian gentleman, about 21 years old, but well over two meters tall and some where around the 300 pound mark. He was nice, posed for pictures. Meanwhile, I found out about tickets and it turned out the cheapest seats for the day were long sold out and we had to settle for $50 a pop for this mighty spectacle. We were led by an unenthusiastic lady to our seats (probably because that is what she’s been doing all day) and turned out we had a pretty good view. Now, I won’t get into all the details of the Grand Sumo Tournament and how it works, but I will suffice it to say that each match is allowed four minutes and the wrestlers use it all up, except that the actual wrestling only takes about 20 to 30 seconds, if not less. The rest of the time is taken up by ritualistic intimidation, coming into and out of the ring, all sorts of awkward moves and slaps (remember these men are wearing naught but a tightly woven piece of fabric that manages to cover only the essential privates, exposing the rest of the wrestler just like the day he was born). The matches start early, with all the lesser ranked going first, so by the time 5:00 o’clock rolls around, the big shots are wrestling. Each tournament lasts around 15 days and they only wrestle once a day. The crowd is essential here, for the wrestlers can really work it, get it all going, yelling, screaming. It’s amazing what an otherwise timid and quiet country will do around a sumo ring. We saw many of the big names, except only two stand out now – Kotooshu, the big Bulgarian dude, who up until recently was taking the sumo world by storm, but at this particular tournament had a knee injury of sorts and was getting tossed about, and Asashoryu, the Mongolian, who is the current Yokozuna. The former lost, but the latter kicked some major Sumo ass. I can probably go on for a long time about this, but since most of you fell asleep around seven pages ago I will permit myself the liberty of moving on. After sumo ended, we made our way back to the train station and caught the Thunderbird for Kanazawa, then the JR Nanao line for Houdatsushimizu, and then the Toyota Sprinter for Casa Romano. And thereby ended another day.

Waking up at leisure the next day, we decided to drive down to Kanazawa, but, as the car started profusely leaking gasoline all over the pavement, prudently changed our traveling options to the train. The second group of the bunch to meet Katya, we met up at the Mr. Donut and headed out to Kenrokuen for a nice stroll for a good 45 minutes, as that is all we had before it closed. (I kid you not about the leisurely wake up time). It took a little time for all of us to get used to each other, ahem, but eventually, I think the four of us had a good time. The garden was not yet at its prettiest, but it did make for excellent scenery. After wards, we trekked across town to beyond the train station for an out of the way, but supposedly delicious yakiniku place but were confronted with a 30 minute wait, which made us settle for fine train station cuisine, where once again, Elina didn’t eat and Paulie had the pleasure of eating food that was moving when it was placed on the table, due to the sprinkled fish flake shavings that shrivel up upon contact with hot food). Again we said goodbye to Katya and headed back up north, where we concluded the visit with yet another poker game late into the night. The next morning, bright and early, I dropped my visitors at the train (and they would subsequently take another train, and another, and another, and then a 13 hour flight) and headed to work, trying to absorb the impact of the last month, the whirlwind of having so many close people come and see me. The week went by slowly, uneventfully. That Friday, Katya and I went to play table tennis with my coach, and both of them tore me a new one, and on Saturday, we drove up to Nanao (a city about 30 minutes north of me) to hang out with some Japanese friends. The weekend went by and the next few days, and before I knew it, I was again on a train, this time with Katya, and headed for Kyoto, where at 11:00 AM, on Wednesday, March 29^th, 2006, on the second floor of Kyoto Station, I met with the Shafrans, Fusman, and Ralph. Déjà vu is real people. We took the bus to the Ryokan Hinomoto, dropped off the luggage, and went to a temple. Unfortunately, I forgot its name, but it was at the foot of the mountain and parts of it were built into the mountain, with absolutely gorgeous scenery to boot. I remember seeing a prayer service for the monks (an elaborate procedure, mainly consisting of the routine of chanting something, standing up, kneeling back down, forehead to the floor, chanting, standing up). I watched them for about ten minutes and they kept at it. It was awe-inspiring and Katya later told me they were actually praying for the safety and well-being of the visitors to the temple, which made it even more touching. After the temple, we took the long walk home, passing through Gion, where, with about a hundred other gawkers, we waited for the Geisha to come out. They did, we ran after them like paparazzi, and they ran away, like Britney Spears and her baby would do. Finally, the Shafrans went back to the Hinomoto and we went to our own hotel and met up shortly for, drum roll please, the 100Yen sushi (hey, once you know a good place, you stick to it, eh…) After yet another stuffing, we went across the way for, an even bigger and stronger drum roll please, karaoke!!!!!! Booya baby. It was a good time. I felt kind of bad for Katya, who really couldn’t sing with us and nobody could really sing the Japanese songs she knew, but I think the night is summed up best by the fact that we sang the Scorpions’ Wind of Change TWICE. Oh yeah, that rocks. Take me back to the magic of the moment on a glory night. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thoroughly wiped out and exhausted, we said our goodbyes after karaoke, let the Shafrans, Fusman, and Ralph be on their way, and headed back to our hotel to prepare for our own little get away, Hiroshima.

As most people should hopefully know, this city on the southern end of Japan’s main island, Honshu, was the sight of the first ever atomic explosion. This is not the place for these kinds of details (hopefully I’ll be able to write something specifically pertaining to this aspect), but I chose to go to this city in order to firstly remember but secondly to contribute at least something, at least in my own heart, to the peace movement that this city has become renowned for. As the shinkansen arrived, the clouds dissipated and the sky became permeated with light rays and bird songs. We ate a fine lunch at the McDonald’s, reveling in the joy of sitting in one of the last remaining smoking areas of this wonderful Illinois establishment. Hopping into a cab, we reached our hotel and secured our room, which, from the seventh story, overlooked the river and Peace Memorial Park. Although we had some specific plans, there was no particular hurry and most of that day’s remaining hours were devoted to leisure. Strolling about, we hit up a toy store. I recommend anyone above the age of 18 (which is presumably the last allowable time one should be in a toy store for oneself) but without any kids, to pay a visit to a toy store and buy something or a lot of somethings. It is an incredible feeling, I tell you. You remember childhood and the freedoms and fantasies that entailed. You revert back, however briefly, and it just feels good. We continued our walking and eventually ended up at a steak restaurant with my friend Nate, who, along with his woman Shu, Pete, and Andy, had all also ended up in Hiroshima in order to do a bit of traveling and also celebrate Nate’s birthday. FINALLY, I had me some lovely steak and even though it was a far cry from Ruth’s Chris Filet Mignon, it was still delectable. Follow up any good steak with tequila shots and half price liquor at the local reggae/hip hop club and you’re sure to find yourself a good time. We found just that and sometime in the wee hours skipped and hopped into the Family Mart and from there back home. The next morning was devoted to Peace Memorial Park and all the gut-wrenching that went with it. It is truly terrifying to contemplate the power and atrocity that happened there and I had a hard time of it, much like four years ago, just outside of Munich, Germany, where we visited another spot of mankind’s most evil acts. The rest of the day seemed empty, pointless, meandering. We walked to and fro, but nothing held any sort of vibrancy that usually animates a big city. We simply ended up at the hotel and rested for a little while, before commencing the search for this one kebob place in the middle of the entertainment district, which was populated by more hostesses than I have seen yet, all of them dressed to the nines, standing outside, soliciting drunken businessmen clients, stumbling about wearing identical suits with identical lives. We found it and had some succulent Mediterannean cuisine before heading over to New York New York for some more drinks with Nate and co. The night ended, as many have before and many will since, in a night club, where, after a brief rejuvenation thanks to the wonders of wormwood and sugar, Katya and I had a big talk about the future and I could fully attribute my raw honesty to an incessant consumption of liquor. By the next morning, the effects, I think, had worn off for both of us and we could both face reality once again. Hiroshima is one of the few places in Japan with genuine tram lines, so, after stopping at a bookstore for some much needed and sorely missed English language acquisitions, we headed out in a streetcar toward Hiroshima Port, the point of embarkation for our day trip to Miyajima Island. Back in the day, this was a holy island just off the coast. It consisted of a major Shinto shrine (Itsukushima Jinja) and other minor ones, as well as Buddhist temples. Regular people were not allowed to go to the island, as it was reserved for monks and higher ranking Buddhist and Shinto officials. But over time, it has become a Japanese person’s travel paradise, filled with Temples, ryokans, and about 800 or so free-roaming deer, who, like in Nara, are considered descendants of the gods and are widely revered, in spite of their greedy habits. After a short ferry ride, we toured the Shrine, whose very famous (read, this is probably the most photographed thing in Japan) Tori Gate stands about 300 feet out, so when the morning tide comes in, the gate is surrounded by water. (In fact, the entire complex is built on wooden pillars and simply appears to float). It is apparently very beautiful, but unfortunately we weren’t there at the right time and instead of water had to settle for moss, and the endless groups of Japanese determinedly digging for something in the sand (I believe it was for fresh oysters). Afterwards, we saw the pagoda, which absolutely must be seen, right? It’s a pagoda after all… Finally, after feeding the deer a bit of plastic and cigarettes, which were ravenously devoured, we headed for some okonomiayaki (a pancake like concoction of noodles, mayonnaise, lettuce, veggies, and meats) which Hiroshima is famous for and hurried back to the main land, so as to make our 8:00 dinner reservations. Oh, the irony, but we justified the former as an appetizer for the latter, which turned out to be on the 25^th story of a hotel in a highly posh French restaurant with food priced accordingly. It was one of those nine course thingies and, I must admit, was very eloquently done. By the time it was over, I couldn’t be asked to do much more than get out of there. On the next day, before our departure, we dropped by the toy store for the third time and I finally made purchases to my heart’s content, including a 1,000 piece puzzle of the Miyajima Shrine during full tide. On the way back to the hotel, we randomly chanced upon yet another toy store, which turned out to be about twice the size of the previous and contained all the items I had just dished out the money for, but at a significantly reduced price. Yeah, so I cried a bit, but the kid in me quickly reminded me that it wasn’t the price but the actual ownership of toys that mattered and we happily floated from there to the hotel to the shinkansen to the countryside and to the bed. Thus concluded my visit to Hiroshima, which I found to be a very lively and happening city, despite its past. Not too big, without the hustle of Tokyo, without the ancient feeling of Kyoto, and definitely without the isolation one may often feel living in the middle of nowhere. Definitely worth visiting during any extensive traveling in Japan.

The next week was a bit of a sad one, as it was to be my last with Katya. We saw each other every day, which was a lot more than any time prior to the Hiroshima trip. Those last moments were dear and special but somewhat darkened by the oncoming reality of our impending and most likely permanent separation. On Friday, I had the day off work and had to drive Katya to the port from which she would sail for home, on the mighty cruise ship Rus, headed for Vladivostok. Boy, was that an appalling experience. A monstrosity of a piece of iron, the ship, while pretending to have all the amenities of your typical Caribbean package, was in reality old, rusty, manned by Russian sailors, complete with all the stereotypes that go with that. Told before hand that we would recognize the road to the ship by the multitude of men in sweatsuits riding around on bicycles, sure enough, there they were, but without the welcoming scent of nostalgia that I was expecting to have. No such thing. True enough these were not representative of the Russian people that I associate myself with, but it nevertheless did directly confirm for me the appropriateness of having left that country a long time ago. After a sad and long goodbye, she was off, in the big ship that took her away from me, out of my life, back to a place, which, even with all its familiarity, is so foreign and dark. I stood and I looked and then, there was nothing left to do but leave. Without thoughts, trying to show little emotion, I drove back, just in time to join my teachers at a party celebrating the beginning of a new school year. Thus began about a week of straight drinking, some of it out of desire, some out of obligation, but most in a haze of readjustment and rehabilitation to a life without that special somebody. After that party, we went to Rope, a local karaoke bar, where the mama san and the papa san have taken a liking to foreigners and charge them a lot less than Japanese for all-you-can-drink. Saturday, dinner with some drinks; Sunday, poker with some drinks; Monday, izakaya with some drinks; Tuesday, kompa (which is a uniquely Japanese dating gathering, where a guy and a girl both invite a bunch of their single friends and they all go out together) with some drinking (yeah, fast, I know, but can you say distraction); Wednesday and Thursday, more start of year parties, with the Town Hall folks and folks from another school I just started working at; Friday, at my house, a nomikai (drinking party), where some peeps from the Town Hall, led by their boss, came over, bringing absolutely everything (I just provided the seats), hung out, ate, drank, washed everything, and left the house as spotless as they had found it; Saturday, out in Kanazawa, with drinks, where we discovered an actual night club, not the tiny bars that have previously taken up the moniker. Sunday was a bit of a relaxing and herbalizing day, and by Monday, I think my afflictions had left me. That Tuesday, I went down to Kanazawa again, this time to meet with Marina, Anton, and Leites, with whom we had some coffee and conversation at Mr. Donut and then made our way to a restaurant with some of my friends for a lovely dinner. The next day, the three of them came to my school and helped me and the other senseis teach two English lessons. I think they went over superbly and the kids were surprisingly attentive and enthusiastic, obviously suppressing the usual lackluster “please shoot me right now” approach to studying English. After school that day, my guests treated me to a lovely homecooked dinner of Russian stew and my commitment to a “dry” week quickly evaporated, as such a thing as a “Russian dinner with no alcohol” does not exist on this, the planet Earth. Deep into the night, we conversed, even about very deep esoteric questions and arrived at the conclusion that we’re either all satisfied or just simply lazy. The next morning, much like I had done three weeks before with the Birmans, I drove them to the train and they too left Japan, under a deeply satisfied impression. Thus ended my chain of visitors and thus I could once again re-enter the stream.

And so, there we are. I am extremely grateful to everyone that came here. I want to thank all of you. Of course, it is a fine line between coming here to see Japan and coming here to visit me, but regardless, two extraordinarily excellent things came out of it: the first was that I got to see my dearest friends and companions again after a very long time apart and the second, arguably more important, was that these people got to taste that which I have been living for the last nine months, to experience, however briefly, the country of Japan, its people, traditions, sights, and sounds. Like I said in the very beginning, the excitement of my initial months here had faded and I was beginning to miss crucial elements from home. In addition, there were so many things that I wanted to communicate, whether they be emotions or experiences, to close ones back home but could not do because they were simply inexpressible in written form or over the phone. But not any more. The people that came to Japan now have a much better sense of what I am going through and I think that anything I try to relate from now on will resonate with them to a much greater degree. That kind of connection and the ability to bond in such a way is essential to maturing human relationships. As I search for ways to conclude this little slice of life, I am at a loss for words. Let this be not any definitive summary but merely two months in the flowing stream of time. Today, I will go to sleep and tomorrow I will wake up and so will all of you. Those that were here, thank you so much. Those that were not, thank you too for being you. It is almost May. The weather is beautiful. Tool is touring. And I’m having sushi for dinner. What more can you ask for in life? I’m out.