Santa Didn't Leave a Present. He Just Turned Off My Hot Water

Japanese houses are built for the summer. The walls are paper thin and the doors within the house are on tracks so you can slide them around and remove them easily and rearrange your house to get the best airflow and light during the summer months which are indeed very hot. Unfortunately, someone forgot to mention to house builders here in Iwate that the winters are the problem. I can imagine these house-builders working by candle-light in winter in feudal Japan, preparing plans and schematics for the construction of Iwate houses for the coming Spring. They sit hunched over, imaging ways to suck out as much insulation from paper as they can, completely oblivious to the six feet of snow piled against their warm log cabins.

I guess freezing temperatures in my house for four months of the year is a small price to pay for my thousand degrees of feng shui interior deco freedom for the other four. Maybe I am being a little extreme. There are of course a couple ways to keep warm. One option is to buy a coffee table with a heater under it. Then, you simply lift the ‘table’ part off the ‘legs’ part and put a blanket over the ‘legs’ part and replace the ‘table’ part. Now, all you have to do to stay warm is sit in one position and not move all night.

You could also go the route of buying a mini heater which spits venomous flue filled, but very hot, air at you in three hour cycles. The machine actually turns itself off after three hours, presumably because it wants to make sure you’re still alive and haven’t asphyxiated from the toxic chemicals in the air. Of course that never happens though, because the house-builders from years and years ago have already assured that those toxic elements, along with the hot air, have already dispersed through your paper walls and into the night. Great foresight fellas!

When I first came to Japan, there was a session in our three day orientation program called ‘Surviving Winter.’ It wasn’t ‘Making the Most out of Winter,’ or ‘Tips for a more Enjoyable Winter.’ It was ‘Surviving Winter.’ The discussions ranged from stark to unsettling. We talked about condensing whole apartment into one room, taking only the bare essentials and a couple things for ‘fun,’ like a book or a puzzle, for the four month hiatus of normal social life. The rest of the apartment was to be quarantined and forgotten as you sequestered in your private Ark. We talked about buying electric plates to put on top of the electric tables to cook food on, making kitchens disposable. We talked about people who had an allergy to kerosene fumes and developed rashes all over their necks and arms but couldn’t really do anything because there isn’t a feasible alternative to kerosene heating. Electric heaters take an hour to warm a solid 3 foot halo around themselves, probably aiming to corner the contortionist market.

Another unhealthy by-product of using kerosene to heat Japanese apartments is that because the outside is so cold and the inside of houses are so much warmer, moisture forms on the inside of windows and doors and becomes a perfect breeding ground for bacteria and some fungi and some other things. My friend’s apartment is in an area prone to that stuff, and during winter they come out in full force. He has boils on his face which he takes a cream for.

Last winter was alright, as I was still in the ‘living in Japan’ honeymoon portion of my stay. At that time, the boils were quaint… This winter has been rougher, with more snow and colder temperatures (I have no documentation of this besides a feeling in my old bones, mind you). I made an oath to myself last November not to let the winter dictate my plans. I consciously spent more money on taxis and buses or forced myself to walk into town to meet friends and do things just like I would during the warmer, bike-friendly months. It worked great. I was much more of a force this winter. The light was at the end of the tunnel. I could almost hear Spring knocking gently and warmly at the door. Then, 30 centimeters of snow dropped and I was relegated this weekend to my house, bored and cold. In an effort to cheer myself up, I made a list: The Top Ten Things about not Having a Centrally Heated House.

10. I use less oil when I cook because it’s frozen all the time

9. When I step out of the shower I know immediately where on my body I did not entirely towel off

8. I can leave dirty dishes in the sink for weeks and my kitchen won’t smell

7. Even if my kitchen did smell I wouldn’t care because I never go in there

6. Chewing toothpaste is interesting

5. I never have to worry about hat hair because I always keep my hat on

4. I don’t have to worry about that uncomfortable fifteen or twenty minute adjustment period when you leave your house and find that its much, much colder outside

3. I hear freezing to death, after dying in your sleep, is one of the best ways to go

2. If you burn Styrofoam in your living room for heat and inhale deeply you can get a pretty good high going.

1. I can read global warming articles on the internet and be happy

Did we really do that last night?

We now explore the fascinating subject of drinking culture in Japan, a subject which I have immersed myself in for your enjoyment and cultural understanding. When I first came to Japan, I heard fables and tales about the antics and debauchery at Japanese drinking parties. I heard odes to openness - teachers who had been hiding their surprising mastery of the English language during working hours reveal themselves to you as coherent angels on golden wings. I was enraptured with reported feats of tolerance - cultural as well as liquid. When I finally went to my first party, I wasn't let down. The beer flowed like wine and the table somehow always had more of those delicious fish-type-tasting-whatchamacalits on it. Or maybe they were thin slices of pork with that salty dark brown sauce. Hell, I can't remember what I ate. I was drunk. Besides all the speeches at the beginning that I didn't understand, it was an orgy of merriness. Luckily for me, it continues to be just so. When I think, 'work drinking party,' I think, 'college frat party for people with disposable income and perhaps children.'

These parties are akin to frat parties in all manners of silliness, randomness, zeal, peer pressure, age-defined status, and camaraderie. The difference lies in the next day. In Japan, it's like the party never happened. Often this is a relief, but maybe even more often this is maddening. I'll get to that later, though. First, please see two days in my life...

On Monday, December 22nd, my school had its annual 忘年会 (pronounced bounenkai) which literally means 'forget the year party.'  Everyone's goal, as explained to me, is to black out the past year.  To set the scene, I must explain that all us teachers got on a bus and rode out to an 温泉 (hot springs bath) resort, most of us to stay the night.

12/22 (night of the 忘年会) - 6:30 pm. Sitting naked with my teachers in hot water, not saying much.

12/24 (first day of work after the 忘年会) 6:30 am. Sleeping.

12/22 - 7 pm. Let the madness begin. The principal says a few words (he kept it short this year) The people who organized the party say a few words. Then, everyone says the magic word (kanpai, or cheers) - no one can drink before all 70 of us start together - and thus begins a two hour free-for-all on booze and food. We are sitting Japanese style - on the floor - in a big room, each person on a chair with no legs and a mini table in front of him or her. Each mini table has a smorgasbord of delictable delicassies on it. This year, there is a bowl of three thinly sliced pieces of raw fish, a bowl of rice with more raw fish on it, a tiny bowl of sea pineapple (I think), a hot plate of chicken in a delicious red sauce with vegetables, a bowl of soup with tofu and fish in it, a plate of cold french fries (why?!) and cold pork, a small bowl of something else tasty, and another small bowl of something else tasty. Oh, there is also a mediocre salad. But! Next to the table is a little bowl just wide enough for the butt of a big beer bottle. The hotel is even kind enough to provide circulating faries whose only job is to make sure that little bowl always has a bottle with something in it in it.

During Japanese drinking parties, no one is allowed to pour his or her own drink. You must pour for your neighbors when they are running low, and you must wait for them to pour yours before you can get a refill. It is perfectly acceptable to offer your neighbors more beer or wine or liquor even if thier cup is full. First, they will be shamed into drinking more. Second, they will realize that you are really saying, 'Don't you forget about me.' (It's ok to sing it...) In English we have a saying about this. 'Birds are generally alcohol poisoned with one stone.' If I've forgotten the exact wording, forgive me, I've been away a while.

12/24 - 7 am. My cell phone alarm rings. Damn. I have to walk around my 40 degree apartment to the shower. Oh wait! I forgot to take the towels out of the washing machine! I have nothing to dry myself with. Well then, I guess there's no way I can a shower this morning, even though I really want to. Sweet! An extra 30 minutes of sleep...

12/22 - 7:45 pm. I'm finishing the food laid out in front of me. Delicious. Now, if only there was something to wash it down wit- OH! Thank you Kodama Sensei! I could definitely use some beer...

12/24 - 7:45 am. If I skip breakfast, that's an extra fifteen minutes I don't have to walk around in 42 degree air. Plus, I can sleep a little more. Yeah, let's do that. I have eaten breakfast approximately four times in Japan...

12/22 - 8:25 pm. Who the hell is this guy sitting next to me? Does he even teach? Oh well. Let's use that Japanese language I've been hearing so much. 'Would you like some beer? Oh, your glass is full? Whoops, sorry. Well...yes, now that you mention it I could use a refill. Thanks for your kindness. Oh, you can say, 'You're welcome,' in English. That's fantastic. Thanks for the olive branch. Oh, you can also say 'malnutrioned youth of Somalian refugee camps.' Wait, what the hell subject do you teach? Math? But you love foreign languages? Why haven't we met before?...

12/24 - 8:25 am. How the hell am I almost late again?! I have to stamp in by 8:30! (Derek runs to desk, fetches stamp, runs to enormous attendance sheet.) It's that dude! The one who knows about starving youths and gerunds! Good morning! 'おはようございますデレックさん。　おとといどうもありがとうございました。' he says. What the hell?

12/22 - 8:40 pm. The principal speaks to me for the first time in English. He was an English teacher for 35 years! Who knew?! We talk sports, he tells jokes, some too inappropriate for this blog. All in English, of course.

12/24 - 8:40 am. He maintains, and explains to me, in Japanese, that his command of English knowledge is more theoretical than practical. He was always fascinated with reading English literature, and is not a very good speaker. As he says this I am wondering which Shakspearean play he learned the word 'titties' from.

12/22 - 9:15 pm. I am teaching Ogake Sensei, a low level black belt (still better than what you have!) the basics of boxing that I learned at my rental Tuesday school. (In an effort to engage some of the more 'colorful learners' at this other school, I started going to the boxing club after school, which is where they can be found once the bell rings. They're very excited when I go and I think they want me to spar (hit me) soon. I'll let you know how that turns out...) He shows me some karate stances. He also rolls up his sleeves and presents hideous bruises that he recieved while trying to level up his black belt last weekend at a tournament. Since I am a 'sportsman,' as many here call me, simply because I played high school baseball, he asks me if I know any American tricks to cut down pain and swelling. I shake my head no but only because I don't know the Japanese word for amputation.

12/24 - 9:15 am. 'Hey Ogake Sensei!' 'Hello Derek.' 'How are your bruises?' 'What bruises?' 'The really black ones on your arms from the karate thingy?' 'What are you talking about?' I really thought he was joking for a while, but he was serious. His refusal to even acknowledge our conversation actually made me question my sanity - or wonder if Japanese beer is laced with acid. I thought about tackling him and pulling up his sleeves to show the world (and me) his bruises. Then I realized that no matter whether he had bruises or not, I would be less than pleased with the result. If indeed he had bruises, it would then be true that he was in fact a black belt in karate. Attempting to tackle a black belt would probably get me thrown through a wall. If, on the other hand, he didn't have bruises, then I would be immediately compelled to check myself into a mental institution...

12/22 - 9:40 pm. The vice principal wants to know more about my trip to Poland. He tells me that he went to Korea about 20 or 30 years ago. I express that I would like to see pictures. He says of course. He'll bring them.

12/24 - 9:40 am until forever. No pictures. Of course forever hasn't happened yet, avid reader. But I'm willing to put money on this one.

12/22 - 9:50 I talk to Mimori Sensei about an interesting phenomenon betwixt the English and Japanese languages. In Japanese, there are completely seperate words for different rices and preparations of rice, not simply adjectives on the word 'rice,' like we have in English. For example, uncooked rice is 米 (kome) while in English its 'rice.' Cooked white rice is ご飯 (gohan) while in English its 'rice.' Fried rice is チャーハン (chahan, spelled out with the characters reserved for foreign words because fried rice is originally a Chinese cuisine - I think, please correct me if I'm wrong) while in English its 'fried rice.' もち (mochi) would be 'pounded rice' in English. おかゆ (okayu) would probably be 'boiled rice' in English. There are undoubtedly more that I don't know or can't think of now, but you get the idea. In English, its all rice, with adjectives to distinguish. But in Japanese, these 'rices' have separate, very distinct words, reserved. Just like in English we have a ton of words for the word 'penis.' That was my enlightened thesis to Mimori Sensei, an English teacher. He agreed.

12/24 - 9:50 am. Yeah, ok... I guess it's not appropriate office banter no matter how you slice it...

12/22 - 10:10 pm. Kiyoshi Sensei is practicing WWF pins on me.

12/24 - 10:10 am. Kiyoshi Sensei is coming out of the kitchen and I am going in. Saying no words, we maneuver through the door so that we are as far apart as we can be.

12/22 - 12 am. Sleep time...

12/24 - 12pm. Sleep time... (Just kidding. I do work. Really, I do!)

Now, it is very nice that in Japan what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, because if the saying is true then Vegas is probably the only place in America that that happens. In college, the night life was more relevant than the day, and reputations were built and destroyed by what one did after the sun set. And of course, these feats or defeats were chronicled tirelessly, whether one wanted to remember or not. In the workplace, which probably should be a level up from college, even as a lowly intern, I was privy to the information that so and so puked in the water fountain and took off his pants at the Christmas party two years ago.

In Japan, that doesn't seem to happen.  At last year's 忘年会, there was an incident involving robes and drag and puking but no one has talked about it since. And it's hilarious. If this were college or work I'd be talking about it right now instead of writing this.

And because no one talks about it, the action doesn't define the person. I look at K Sensei everyday and I see a superior that I respect and listen to, not an overweight fool whose naked body is hanging out of a woman's robe. Those two people are different people. But, in America, to me, the man who stripped and puked in the fountain is the same man who is telling me that I need to get the next set of data tapes quicker. 'Ok ok ok.  Keep your pants on,' I think.   

At all three of my schools' parties in Japan so far, and countless other functions, work is work and play is play.  There are social disconnects in relationships depending on what clothes you're wearing, or not wearing as might be the case.

But which man is the real principal?!  Does Ogake Sensei have bruises or doesn't he?!  Is Kiyoshi Sensei my wrestling buddy or not?!  My Japanese co-workers slough off and put on their personalities so much more easily than I can.  If a teacher who doesn't drink alcohol talks my ear off at the party but then seems put off by me in the workplace, what does that mean?  Does she like talking to me or not?  And how do I ever find out?  I never feel like I know exactly where I stand with most people.  

I have the same struggles with students.  The kids that don't do jack in class are all over me in the hallways or when I run into them in the mall, lit up and asking questions, and the bright stars of class crawl up into shells when I say hello to them at a restaurant.  The number of people who interact with me on the same terms all the time is far outdone by the people who don't.  And because these personalities are like night and day, it feels fake.  I feel like I'm starting my relationships from scratch every time, even though I've known most of my co-workers and students for a year and a half.  

I've gotten more and more used to it as I've been here longer and longer, and I'll bet that I probably do it now as well.  But I don't have to like it.  Maybe I should just have fun with it.  Perhaps I'll start using accents and fake histories and backstories at parties since the personalities are disposable anyway...

A letters

Letter was being finded in a bags on eyeland on top of Hokkaido. 3 years-ish ago. Ununderstandableing. Can you making things of it?

My Dearest Mother,

I fear that I am fighting a losing battle. Every night I see the faces of the casualties, grotesque and distorted in their multitudes, asking me why I couldn't save them. I weep, begging for forgiveness. Please don't forsake me, I shout! I tried, I tried, I did! But they can't hear me, their bodies pushed up against the bars, their hands searching for me. If you can't save us, then join us! But I don't let them touch me. I'm too frightened to become one of them. Were I to become one of them, what hope would anyone else have? Tractors approach, dumping more and more bodies into the pit, swept under the rug and forgotten. All that's left is the hole in the world where they used to be.

The epidemic will soon be on par with God's wrath. It's coming. Oceans can't stop it. Take confession mother, for it's our only reprieve. Very soon the world will be thrown into confusion. Just five days ago, during a research trip to the uppermost reaches of the country, my colleague and I discovered the horrible fact. The epidemic has mutated.

Are you familiar with the island of Rishiri, just off the coast of the winterlands to the north? Perhaps not. Famous for its natural seclusion and beauty, it will soon become infamous for what it unwittingly spawned, that is if history itself even remains. Upon arriving at the port, my colleague and I sought a bit of sustenance. The journey through the winterlands was harsh and sapping. We saw signs of the epidemic everywhere. People of all ages were conjugating their verbs in the foul manner. "Let's going this way," they would say. I'm sorry for bringing up such a vile topic as I know your health is ailing, but I beg you continue reading this letter. I have no one else to tell, after what happened to my colleague. I know your mind is strong, if your body is not. Pray continue.

Where we had time we tried to save the young. But more often that not, we had to run lest a mob broke out. Oh! How it tore me up inside when I had to run away from a woman who had brought me her baby. It was clear that she was gone. "Let's saving my baby! Let's saving my baby!" she shouted hysterically, the tears welling in her eyes. The babe was merely eight, and of slight build. I had the English inoculation all set for him, but he looked me in the eyes and said, "Please am saving me." Hopeless. His grasp of the present continuous was incurable, probably learned from his mother in her best attempts to educate him herself, the poor fool. I ran. The inoculation would be better served on someone in the earlier stages, perhaps misplaced modifiers or maybe even plurals... She shrieked, "Don't running! Stop run!"

What could I do mother?! I know you've taught me that everyone must be valued and saved, but I can't! There's not enough of me. I can't miss the forest for the trees! How unfair this is, to be pushed into this position. This field seemed so glamorous when I was young and watched your work. The way you and your generation manipulated the English was astounding. But at some point you became too cocky with your power, and now me and mine are fighting against the depressing inevitable. Why aren't you here with me?! It was you who stood idly by as computers with spell check and grammar check took people's accountability away! You promised a world where everyone would be Gods with the English, infallible and terrible. It was you who applauded hacks like Vonnegut as they gashed the English, bending it to the point of breaking and abusing it for the amusement of the masses like a tamer beating an elephant. But tamers get old, and elephants never forget. Did you even think what would happen if people who weren't ready for the responsibility of the new English discoveries suddenly had it at their fingertips?

People in Japan experiment with the English, producing grotesque abominations of nature, flaunting them on T-shirts and buildings, not knowing the destruction they are perpetuating. And now, in America, in some pagan circles, those horrors are sought. The reverse shock will be terrible, and it's your fault.

I'm sorry. It's not all your fault. I know that. It's just sometimes I see how hopeless is it, and I look for someone to blame. Oh well, it won't matter soon. The next phase of the epidemic is upon us. Yes mother, it has happened. I have proof of the first case of 'noun conjugation.' What started as misplaced words and tenses has now evolved into something entirely different altogether. There is not even a semblance of sense anymore. I'm at a loss. I don't know how to fight this. It's too big for me. I'm sorry.

My colleague, hungry and tired, pointed to a restaurant and said we should eat there. At once I saw the sign and his disturbing non-realization of the egregious error. I gained control of myself and pretended like nothing was wrong, in case he tried to infect me. I immediately conjugated 'eat,' with all subjects and tenses, four times just like we practiced during lessons. I still don't know how my eyes didn't give me away.

At first chance, I took his wallet and fled the island, leaving him there with them...

Your ever loving son,

Derek

Enclosed is the picture. Please sit before looking.

Maybe there are places in Japan just for Japanese people

I can remember everything.  Humanities class had just finished and most of the other students were already out the door.  My notebook and pen and some papers were still out on the wood-textured plastic row tables.  Jon was standing by the giant map - the ones that pull down out of a collection of other rolled up maps.  I used to marvel that Mrs. King-Kalnek could always pull exactly the map she wanted, and there weren't even listings on the tabs. She never ever made a mistake and pulled out the wrong map.  I'm positive.  The big map of Africa hung there because we were studying the ancient kingdoms of Ghana, Mali, and Songhay.  But it was a current map. John pointed and said, 'Hey Derek, say this country's name.'  As soon as I looked up at his finger I understood the joke.  But I said it anyway.  

"Nigger."

He was of course pointing to Niger.  Mrs. King-Kalnek whipped around and demanded, 'What did you say?' so quickly that I almost didn't understand her.  I couldn't say anything.  I couldn't move as she strode toward me.  I knew I shouldn't have said it, I still don't know why I did.  I was scared.  She stopped in front of me, looked me right in the eyes and said, calm as she could though I knew she was furious, 'Don't say that word.'  Her voice betrayed her and rattled.  Then, my memory gets hazy.  I can't remember exactly what happened.  I can't remember if she said more, or if I just said I was sorry.  I don't actually remember whether I said I was sorry or not.  I was sorry, though.  I am sorry.  

I start remembering at Jon's laughing.  He had run out of the room after I said it, but came back to wait by the door.  I think he wanted to see what was going to happen to me.  For some reason, he started laughing.  Mrs. King Kalnek snapped her neck to him and barked, 'Get in here.'  He came in.  She shouted, 'And you're even worse if you think this is funny!' without feigning control.  Then we left.  

I remember those words crystally clear.  "You're even worse if you think this is funny."  "You." She didn't condemn the word, and she didn't condemn the act.  She condemned me.  Just because of a word.  

Since that day, every time I hear 'nigger' I have the same reaction.  I freeze.  My body remembers Mrs. King-Kalnek snapping around and the intensity of her eyes.  The little black spots were dancing madly.  'It's wrong.  Don't say that word.  How could you say that word.'  That's what I think now about people who say it.  Mrs. King-Kalnek was entirely successful in passing her loathing of that word on to me.  On the other hand, she made me so scared of it that I never wanted to revisit it, or race at all, for that matter.  When I said 'nigger' in middle school, I didn't realize it's history, the power behind it, and the effect it had on people.  It was nothing more than a taboo word. But the strength of her reaction and the force in her eyes scared me from talking about it again. What if I, once more, were to say something without knowing the connotations and context? This is not limited to just words, mind you. What if I expressed an opinion or a thought or a joke that provoked the same visceral reaction?  I never wanted to see anyone look at me like that again.  She hated me in that moment, despite what she might have said later.  'You are even worse,' replays over and over.    After that, I felt it better to just leave the whole area alone.  Racism and racial slurs are all bad.  Don't explore it.  Just know it.

It's been a long time since the eighth grade, but I only started thinking seriously about stereotypes, prejudices, discrimination, slurs, and where I fit in, recently.  High school didn't really challenge me to explore it, and college certainly didn't, one 'History of the American '70s' class excluded.  But in that case I came from the angle of an impartial observer measuring facts with plastic gloves through a glass wall and thirty years.  I didn't feel it.  I suppose I had never been discriminated against.  No one had ever given me cause to get the eyes like Mrs. King Kalnek had almost ten years ago.  Then, I went to Wakkanai.

Picture, if you can, Ryan and I in a desolated town.  A town with a feeling like it had been quickly abandoned because of a plague, or zombies, or a plague of zombies...  There had been a summer festival about three hours before, so vendors' tents were still out and the streets were littered with papers and rubbish from the raucous gathering.  Clues abounded that quite recently the streets had been hopping.  But, the party had died suddenly and no one had stayed around to clean up the mess.  Pushing midnight, we strolled around looking for something to do.  When we couldn't find any dry alternatives, we decided to hit the bars.  (Really mom, we did try!)  Unfortunately, for humanity (not my liver), none of the bars would let us in.  At every bar, the same played-out play played out.  

Setting - Bar, dimly lit.  No one else in the seats.  Woman in tight black dress or man in flowing dark clothes behind wooden counter, Japanese.  American pops playing lowly on the speakers, barely audible.

(Door opens)

Barkeep:  いらっしゃいませ。 (looking down)   Note: いらっしゃいませ (Irrashaimase) is the standard greeting when a customer walks into a shop.  It is such an ingrained, habitual set expression that workers at stores are programmed to say it whenever a door opens.  They don't actually care if someone walks in or not.  If I brought a tape recorder with sounds of doors opening, I bet I could get a clerk to greet me 36 times before he or she noticed something fishy, like only one person in the store.

Derek:  今晩は。 (perfect Japanese pronunciation)  Note: 今晩は(Konbanwa) means 'good evening'.

Barkeep:  今晩は。 (decent Japanese pronunciation)  

(Barkeep looks up to find two immaculate, well groomed men, early twenties.  Conservative adjective for the Adonissi might be 'strapping'.  Upon sight recognition, barkeep quickly throws her arms up in front of her face in an 'X' shape, meaning 'no.'  

Derek:  なんで?  Note: なんで (Nande) means 'Why?'

Barkeep:  もうすぐ閉めるからです。Trns:  Because we're going to close soon.

  

Derek:  本当？！ Trns:  Really?!

Barkeep: (with much feeling) 本当です。Trns: Really.

That happened three times.  Ryan and I both knew the bar wasn't closing.  But, skeptical reader as I know you are, I will offer proof.  There was only one main street with bars and the like, and in our search Ryan and I walked up and down for a good hour and a half.  The bars, miraculously, were getting fuller and fuller.  Imagine that...  Also, we found out later, by contacting the only ALT in Wakkanai, that he has the same problem in that town.  Perhaps he is an awful guy, but I have a hard time believing that.  

Finally, on bar four, we managed our way in.  At first the man said no, but I really concentrated on my Japanese and pleaded our case.  I attempted to say that if he didn't have an excuse better than, 'We're closing,' or 'You're not Japanese,' Ryan and I were not going to leave.  In Japanese, he told me he was worried about his ability to speak English to us.  Take a moment and re-read that sentence.  Finally he let us in, and Ryan and I ended up having a pretty good time playing darts and talking to other people there.  The bartender even showed us his favorite Metallica videos.  Go figure.  

Being turned away because I wasn't Japanese didn't bother me most.  The prospect of not being able to drink at bars in Wakkanai didn't bother me most.  What bothered me most was my reaction to being turned away.  After the third bar, I might actually have believed a little bit that I wasn't good enough for the bars.  When I pleaded at the fourth bar, that emotion didn't spring from a dying physical need for alcohol, or a cry for a way to combat boredom.  I wanted to get in there and show them that I was a good guy!  I wanted to show them that Ryan and I were exceptional foreigners who were different than what they had encountered before.  I wanted to show them that I was more like them and less like me.  In the bar, I concentrated on my Japanese and made more of an effort to talk to people in Japanese than I ever do.  I even buried my gut reactions.  When I speak Japanese, I generally react in English.  Rather than switching to the Japanese equivalent, I stick to phrases like, 'No way!' or, 'Cool!' or 'That's fantastic,' in English.  But I withheld those.  Ryan had the same sort of feelings, too.  Ryan speaks a little Japanese, but since he just started learning a year and a half ago and didn't start taking real lessons until after our trip, his Japanese at the time was very much a noticeable process.  In the bar, he hardly said anything, even to me.  He told me, after we left, that he was afraid to speak English because the other people might not like it.  

In the span of merely two hours, Ryan and I had started to doubt our worth.  We kowtowed because we wanted to fit in.  We threw our language away to apologize for mistakes we assumed others like us had made.  We bought into the charade that we as ourselves weren't good enough.  I still can't believe we tried so hard to get into somewhere where we were so unwanted.  We believed the racists in Wakkanai.  

And now that I'm out of that place, and the inferiority spell is broken, it's hard not to think about those people without hating them.  Not for turning me away, but for making me feel those things about myself.  If I went back there, I think I would try and show them all just how different I am and how proud I am to be different.  And if a woman in a tight black dress or a man in flowing dark clothes tells me I can't come in, I know those inferior feelings would come surging up.  And the best way to bury those is to beat them back - force them down. I'd want to lash out real hard and real bad...

But I wouldn't.  Because I remember the eighth grade.  And I remember the mad-dancing eyes.  And I remember what it feels like to be 'you' and not know why.  

Maybe I'd try to get in and be myself, or maybe I'd just walk away.  I'm really not sure.

First is the Worst, Second is the Best, Third is Irrelevant for My Purposes

"Why the hell would we want to see the most northern point in Japan when we can see the second most northern point in Japan with more difficulty?"  I asked.  To me and Ryan, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable question.  To our Japanese friends, it took some explaining.  Clearly, the only reason that people come to this city in the middle of nowhere is to see the most northern part of the mainland.  That means the most northern part will be infected with all the people who we wanted to get away from.  You know, all them city folk with their new fangled phones, and their rock and roll music, and their Twinkies, and their science.  They'd just be a-gawkin at this 'n that, ta'in' pichurs n' laffin...  There would be fleets of busses whose insides looked like rocket ships complete with amenities and toilets and foot-rests and personal space.  There would be gift shops with hoozits and cloppits, bonkers and cadoodles, maybe even winkers and prots.  There might even be English...  Everywhere you go in Japan, you see English.  Most signs are bilingual.  (That means they like both ways equally, but I personally think that's bullshit.  I know they prefer one or the other...I'm on to you bi-signs...((shakes fist)))  I wanted to see a place that didn't have signs in English.  There must have been a time in Japanese history when all the signs weren't in English, right?  I mean, Japan is older than English, right?  Right?!  And, thankfully, for my sanity, Wakkanai was one such place.  The signs were emphatically not translated into English.  They were translated into Russian.  

WhAt?!

Yes, Russian.  The signs on stores and shops were emphatically translated into Russian.  Clearly, no place in Japan is just for Japanese people.    

But, beggars can't be choosers.  At least I had found that feeling that I didn't know what the signs around me said.  Truthfully, I understand what the Japanese says, but at least I could imagine that had I come here when I first came to Japan I wouldn't have known what they said.  And that's what I wanted.  (Don't worry.  That doesn't even make sense to me re-reading it.) 

 

At any rate, after a little sight-seeing near the station, Ryan and I got down to the real purpose of our trip.  It took about twenty minutes and a crowd of three different groups to find our bus station.  Five minutes was spent assuring them that I understood what I was saying in Japanese, another ten was spent assuring them that we indeed did want to go to the second most northern point, another four was spent once again assuring them that I knew the difference between 'most' and 'second most' in Japanese, and the final minute was them pointing to a bus stop fifteen feet from us, as the bus was pulling away...

Now, as you can imagine, busses to the second most northern point in Japan aren't very frequent.  This was also explained to me, as well as the fact that three busses to the most northern point would be leaving before the next bus to the second most northern point came again.  But, Ryan and I stood firm.  Finally, our rickety bus pulled up, and we got on.  Shockingly, other people were on the bus.  Of course, they all got off before the last stop.  Except for a pair of twenty-somethings like us.  These Japanese guys were living out of their bags.  Unshaven, unkempt, we had a nice drive to the last stop at the end of the line just the four of us.  Nobody said anything, but we all knew.  As the bus weaved in and out between the run-down, bad smelling factories and the food shops hanging on for dear life, we knew we were almost there, to the second end of the world.  And here it is.

Derek:  This is it?

Everybody in the world except Derek and Ryan: C'mon, Derek, what were you expecting?

This is Ryan at the second most north point in Japan.  Can you feel the excitement too?

There was also this dolphin thingy.

Now, my tone may be a little sarcastic, but that's just for your amusement, reader.  The truth is, I had a great time.  It was really quite a journey to get to the dolphin thingy.  Two hours by train from Kitakami to Sendai.  An hour plane ride from Sendai to Sapporo.  A six hour bus to Wakkanai.  The whole time, Ryan and I were talking, or just looking at the scenery go past us, or laughing at how strange we are.  Remember, anyone can go to the 'most something or other'.  Trips are designed around going to the most famous places in a city.  That's easy stuff, fed to you for your consumption enjoyment.  It's an altogether different trip if you want to go to the 'second most something or other.'  And, its probably cheaper too!

Also, I got to eat some delicious sea food ramen at a hole in the wall shop.  Now, if a Japanese person asks me what the best food in Wakkanai is, I have answer to give that might actually give him pause.  "Well, my friend, there's a little place up at the second most northern point in Japan...  Do you know it?  No?  Really?  Hmm."  Then again, he might just assume that it's the second best ramen in Wakkanai.

 

A view from the outside

A view from the inside.  Please note the fly-paper strips hanging right over the food-making area.

Fly sou~ er, I mean... Crab Ramen

Please recall that Wakkanai, the name of the place I went, sounds a lot like the Japanese word for, 'I don't know.'

Principal:  So, where are you going this vacation?

Derek:  I don't know.

Principal:  What?!

Derek:  I said, I don't know.

Principal:  No no... I heard you.  It's just that Chihiro Sensei told me you already bought your ticket.

Derek:  Yeah, I did.

Principal:  Well, what does it say on your ticket?

Derek:  I don't know.  

Principal:  Oh!  You can't read it, can you?

Derek:  No, I can read it just fine.  It says I don't know.

Principal:  How does the ticket know?

Derek:  How does the ticket know what?

Principal:  That you don't know.

Derek:  What?

I apologize.  But it was funny to me when that happened.

By the end of January I have to tell my school whether or not I'll be staying in Japan for the next year, that is, until the summer of 2010.  Last year's decision was much easier than this one.  At this point last year, I had only been in Japan for half a year, which really didn't seem like enough time.  As it turned out, it wasn't.  But now, a year and a half in, I have to decide about the next year and a half.  It seems like the stakes are a lot higher this time around, and I really am twisting in the current.  

I had intended to write a regular update email to my friend Eric, but what came out instead is interesting, to me.  Hopefully it will be interesting to you, too.  I sent it out over a month ago, and upon re-reading it, it's still a good representation of how I feel.  So, here it is, word for word:

The fact is, I am at a crossroads Eric.  The only reason that I wouldn't stay in Japan for another year, and maybe more, is because I would think I was wasting my talents and not paying my dividends.  Perhaps it is strange of me to think of myself as a commodity, but I feel like I owe it to so many people to follow the gold-paved path and make some bank (editor's note - money).  My grandparents and parents and relatives have invested in my education throughout the years, and, if I put my foot on the gas, I could probably have the 'successful,' 'easy,' life that they had always envisioned someone in our family finally getting.  I could be the realization of making more than enough money to be comfortable, and doing so without using my hands.  In fact, my whole generation, including my three cousins, are primed for that step in (excuse the sappy reference) the Polish-American immigrants' dream.

But, the truth is, I am comfortable now.  No, I can't care for anyone else, and at this rate I'll have to work my whole life, but I am quite comfortable.  I have no job stress, aside from the pressure to make ready-to-graduate Japanese high school seniors interested in English.  I have no living stresses.  I stay at work if I want.  I go home if I want.  I do what I want when I want.  I live in a really beautiful environment, besides the wolf-deer.  (editors note - When Eric came to Japan, for one day I had to work and I let him loose, alone, on my fair city of Kitakami.  He biked up into the mountains and there was 'attacked' by some sort of creature.  In his efforts to get away, he didn't get a good look at the beast.  He described it as some sort of hideous cross between a rabid jaguar and a fierce boar.  It turned out it was a deer.)

In general, I feel like in Japan I can be the person that I want to be (and hopefully really am) more than I ever could in America.  I feel free and easy.  I feel like everything I do, even shopping, is an adventure.  It's a wonderful feeling.

It's ok to make a new personality, to strip the American Derek to the bone and build up again with a 'Japanese' coat.  If I go back to America now, I'll just find my old coat and put it back on.  I'll lose that everyday sense of adventure that leads me to talk to strangers and climb mountains and travel on weekends and dance stupid and play ridiculous games in public and do shotty (editors note - blowing hookah smoke into other people's mouths) with other dudes and play in a band live for people (Matt and I have formed a Whitestripes cover band.  We've played for people, not in a club or anything yet, but we will get there soon...) and start a book group to read and discuss Brothers Karamazov or wear a penguin suit and look like a fool in front of 200 high school kids.  I can do all those things back in New York, or anywhere in America for that fact.  But I probably won't.  I understand that that doesn't say a lot about my personal conviction to be unique and explosive and chase what I really feel is fun, regardless of other people's perceptions, but if its the anonymity of living in Japan that I need to do so, then so be it, no?

Sometimes it feels like a cop-out, though.  I should be able to do those things in New York.  I always had fun in America, no matter where I was.  Before I left for Japan, I was so sad about leaving America.  Leaving my family, the house I knew, understanding what signs say, you, Jen...  But very quickly I forgot about all that.  Quicker than any transition I ever made, in fact.  All I know is that when I was on the plane from Tokyo to JFK for Peter's wedding, and I was 'leaving' Japan, I was very, very sad.  I was sadder than when I made the reverse flight a year before.  AND I KNEW I WAS COMING BACK IN A WEEK!  I can't even imagine what it would be like to leave for good.

Well...  Sorry.  I had intended to write a couple of funny/interesting stories, but I got lost in this one.  I promise I'll write again soon with water-cooler banter.

Derek

Bound For I Don't Know

Summer vacation amongst the JET community is an opportunity to put those hard earned yen to work.  Many people use the week off in summer, as well as some of their precious twenty vacation days, to tour other countries in Asia.  Flights to China, South Korea, Cambodia, and especially Thailand are all, of course, much cheaper from Japan than they are from everyone's home countries, half a world away.  People also use the break to return home.  In general, summer vacation is a great time to get out of Japan.  

But, when Ryan and I sat down to discuss our plans, our conversation never left the borders of Japan.  It didn't even cross our minds to go elsewhere.  For whatever reason, we can't bring ourselves to leave.  Maybe we love Japan too much.  Maybe everything that we have seen, eaten, touched, and experienced so far has been so impressive that we want to wring as much of it from this country as possible while we are here.  Every different area of Japan has a speciality food.  Ask a person from Iwate what food you should eat in Okinawa, and they will tell you 'anything pig and goya champloo,' even if they have never been to Okinawa.  Ask an Okinawan what you should eat in Iwate, and they will probably say Morioka reimen, even if they have never left Okinawa.  It's like every Japanese person knows exactly what foods are good in what area, regardless of their personal experiences.  And, perhaps, Ryan and I have bought into that. Maybe we really do believe that the best miso ramen is in Sapporo, and the best tskemen is in Tokyo.  And, maybe we really do believe that to 'experience' Japan, we have to eat all of these foods from all of these different places, and do all these things in all these different places. 

Or, maybe we don't leave Japan because we're not ready.  Maybe we feel like we haven't yet caught the Japan we were hoping for, and visiting some other country for vacation would be an acknowledgment of our failure.  After all, if we love Japan so much, why should we want to leave?  

When I first found out, back in New York about a year and three months ago, that Iwate would be my home, I looked forward to getting away from everything familiar and starting over.  As one of the most rural prefectures in Japan, I envisioned, however misguided I might have been even at the time, dark nights in a house with no other houses around.  I saw myself reading and writing and studying and retreating from people.  At the same time I was nervous about withdrawal from society but also relishing the cliche, semi-romantic hermetic lifestyle.  I quickly found out how wrong I was.  Delivered to my city of 100,000 people, two gigantic malls, a movie theater, a train station (bullet train included) connecting me easily to any major city, and even an amusement area called 'American World,' complete with batting cages, movie rental store, Baskin Robbins and a ferris wheel, my nights and weekends have been anything but monastic.  This schism between my expectations of a quiet and disconnected lifestyle and the reality of my actual lifestyle, which is scarcely discernible from the one I had hoped to leave in America, readily affects my travel plans.  It's almost like my life is too good, and too comfortable here.  My seamless transition has left me wanting more of a challenge.

Perhaps that's why, when my parents came to visit, I dragged them to a town in the middle of nowhere to see some run-down temples that we had to walk quite a ways for.  I didn't want to see the giant, touristy temples of Kyoto.  I wanted to find something tiny and secluded, something I could call my own discovery. 

Perhaps that's why, for this summer vacation, Ryan and I decided to disregard standard JET policy and travel against the current.  We chose a place that prompted people, Japanese and foreign alike, to exclaim, 'What?  Why?!' when we told them of our plans.  We chose a place whose name's pronunciation sounds the same as 'I don't know.'  We went to the northern-most point of Hokkaido, the most sparsely populated island of Japan, and then went even further. We went to Wakkanai.

To get to Wakkanai, we travelled through Sapporo.  Sapporo is a fantastic city, and not small by any means.  The first day there, we met up with a college friend of mine who is also on the JET program.  The whole weekend, unbeknownst to us, was Sapporo's summer festival weekend. We ate, drank, and were generally merry.  There's no real reason to bore you with those experiences, since that was standard city party stuff: karaoke, an all you can eat/drink lamb buffet, outside festival with dancing and singing competitions, playing guitar in the grass with a Japanese blues man, and meeting other foreigners and walking loudly through the streets.  So, I'll just show a couple pictures of that part of the vacation, collect my thoughts, and get into the meat of the vacation - Wakkanai - in the next installment.

In fact, this is all that you need to know about Sapporo.

The next two pictures are of the famous canal in Otaru, which is a city about forty-five minutes by train west of Sapporo.  There is a lot of European architecture along the canal, like the gas lamps that line the canal.  The canal was nice, although a little too romantic for Ryan and my tastes.  We had to do something manly after walking the length of the 'darling canal' together. We hung sheet rock and drank a beer.