Akemashite Omedeto

Welcome back! I hope everyone had a delightful holiday this past week. I certainly did, and am now making the most of a weeklong break from school activities to get in a little travel. The kids themselves aren’t so lucky: the closing ceremony for the second semester, much like the first, is an opportunity for faculty members to remind the students at length about their various responsibilities, and to exhort them to resist the temptation to have any kind of fun. Of course, they have club activities except for on New Year’s and one or two days before and after (no Christmas holiday here), so it’s not like they have much time to get up to things, anyhow. But nevertheless, I will have to shoulder the burden of interesting doings in their stead, and take lots of pictures to show them when I get back. Oh, the many hardships one has to endure as an educator.

But, as you can guess by the actual days off for the students (stingy though the Ministry of Education may be), New Year’s far outweighs its nearest neighbor in both importance and special events. Christmas has made a big splash here, to be sure, but New Year’s is something that everyone does, and these traditions are so deeply ingrained that they blend seamlessly with the traditional rhythms of the Japanese calendar. Granted, when the country formally adopted the Gregorian Calendar in 1873, it pushed forward everything on the traditional calendar by about six weeks or so. When you think about it, celebrating the New Year closer to the middle of February (like the Chinese Lunar New Year) makes more sense to welcome the spring, but people here throw themselves into the Western version with precisely the same spirit.

Before the New Year even comes, people in Japan perform a massive cleaning of both their homes and workplaces. Japanese tradition places a major focus on ritual purity, and it’s believed that crossing into the New Year with a clean household will help to welcome good fortune and to ensure continued purity throughout the year. Never mind that one has to clear out the same amount of dust and other junk every December; it’s a spiritual act of cleansing as much as anything else. Besides, it’ll only get worse if you wait longer. Luckily, the kids throw themselves into the work too, for one reason in particular: money. For the New Year, parents and other relatives give children a special allowance, known as o-toshidama, which is sometimes quite substantial. And as long as they’re keen on not getting on the family’s bad side, you can bet that the parents will just as eagerly exploit their offspring’s newfound work ethic. It’s a winning situation for all parties, really.

Once that’s done, you’ll see plenty of decorations about: elegantly decorated pine branches and sacred straw rope adorn previously bare (or previously Christmas-y) doorways, and if you are able to look inside, you can see two disc-shaped slabs of mochi (a sticky, glutinous substance made of pulverized rice) stacked on top of each other, with a bitter orange sitting on top. Once the New Year comes, the mochi is broken up and eaten, but don’t eat the bitter orange—it’s got that name for a reason.

While you’re getting into the festive spirit, it’s best to also send your friends, family, and associates New Year’s cards. Known as nengajo, you can buy them pre-made or make them yourself; they usually include images of the animal for the year’s Chinese Zodiac sign, and a set phrase wishing the recipient a happy new year (such as the title of this week’s article). The post office dutifully makes sure they arrive by January first. Don’t throw them out after that, though: if you’re lucky enough, one of the cards you receive might even have its number come up in the nationwide lottery held in late January. All the better reason to try and send—and thus receive—as many cards as possible. Charity is not solely for the sake of others….

Then there’s the specially prepared food. I spent New Year’s at a Japanese household in Tokyo during my last winter vacation, and I was completely flabbergasted at the sight of so many and varied foods that the family dutifully cooks—or perhaps orders ready-made—for the New Year. What’s really astounding is that it’s all done ahead of time, so that the family can be together and not have to bother with cumbersome culinary tasks during the holiday. So instead, everyone feasts on special o-sechi ryori (New Year dishes), featuring zoni (a soup with mochi and various boiled items, which, at the risk of confusing my audience with more foreign words, reminds me great deal of matzo ball soup; good stuff), toshi-koshi soba (noodles with which to pass into the new year), kurikinton (a chestnut/potato mixture), specially-prepared egg, and many others. They are presented in as decorative a style possible, and the sheer volume can be overwhelming. I personally find that not all of it is to my liking (many of the names are actually puns related to health and good fortune in the New Year, so perhaps the elements are not necessarily chosen for how they stimulate the palate), but the sheer effort that goes into making it all is much appreciated.

But of course, no New Year’s would be complete without the customary trip to the local Shinto shrine or Buddhist temple on New Year’s Day. Called hatsumodé, this visit allows the individual to dispose of old, used-up talismans and amulet, buy new ones to help ensure health and good fortune, and to pray for a year free of worldly troubles. The larger of these locations can have lines going on for a mile or more, so maybe bring a book for the interim.

That’s the basic New Year’s playbook for life in Japan, but I’ve only really touched on the bare bones of it here: in more modern terms, the Kohaku Utagassen (Red & White Singing Competition) is a yearly televised tradition on par with New Year’s Rockin’ Eve in the States, featuring Japanese pop artists and well-known entertainers. And no self-respecting bargain hunter would be able to resist the New Year’s fukubukuro, or lucky bag, on sale at many establishments. For a (relatively) modest fee, you’re guaranteed a randomly chosen bag filled with merchandise worth at least what you paid, and often significantly more. Not too shabby, if I say so myself.

So, while Christmas in Japan may be a comparatively modest affair, I’d say that New Year’s in the Land of the Rising Sun actually outdoes its counterpart in the US by a healthy margin. In many ways, it incorporates the same themes as Christmas does in the West, but with a decidedly unique flavor. And that’s why I’m looking forward to this week. Right now, however, I should be going—I need to finish packing for my trip. Check back next week, where I’ll hopefully be back in one piece and able to tell you about it.

Merii Kurisumasu

Well, it’s that time of year again; some would even call it the most wonderful time of the year, though I always felt that the end of the school year gave it a run for its money in terms of general elation. Regardless, Christmas is nearly upon us, and that means that it is once again time for me to wonder in a mixture of amusement and general confusion at the version of the holiday that exists before my eyes. While the old story of a beaming, crucified Santa Claus proudly displayed in a department-store window is probably just an urban legend, I’ve seen enough unusual Christmas traditions here to more than make up for that.

The first thing that one has to get used to are the different Christmas tunes that play constantly on the radio and as background music in stores. While there are a few well-known carols that make it over (“Silent Night” comes to mind), far more numerous are the pop tunes that have cropped up over the years. These range from Japanese versions of well-beloved classics (“Makka no o-hana no tonakai-san”/“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”, “Jinguru Beru”/“Jingle Bells”), to those by former members of the Beatles, to ones that I still don’t know the names of. There’s one Japanese ditty that keeps repeating “Silent Night” in a way that I’m pretty sure has little to do with the carol, but I still haven’t figured what it’s called. Such are the perils of catching snippets repeatedly when browsing in a convenience store.

But perhaps the most excruciating variety of Christmas song here is the novelty song, popular for all of a fortnight in its home country, but finding lasting appreciation here. The worst offender of this lot is, without a doubt, “Last Christmas” by WHAM! It is played to a nauseating degree every single Christmas here in Japan, and I really wish it would just go away. The song first came out for Christmas of 1984; it made #2 in the U.K. and an entirely undeserved appearance on the Top 40 in the U.S., but enthusiasm had justifiably cooled by the time I was born the following March. I hadn’t actually heard it until I came here, and that was probably for the best: just several listenings are enough to never want to hear it again. Even if you never had anything personal against George Michael, spending the entire Christmas season in Japan will have you contemplating, if not plotting, violence against the man—possibly involving the use of a time machine to go back to 1984, so that he will never have written it. The other perennial favorite here would seem to be “All I Want For Christmas (Is You)” by Mariah Carey. In this case, my annoyance doesn’t have to do with the song itself, so much as it does with my own personal dislike of the artist’s work. I sometimes wonder if maybe they like to play the song just to annoy me. Could be.

Venturing outside the world of the Christmas carol, you’ll find that Christmas in Japan is a time for… couples. The image of Christmas as the ideal romantic holiday to spend with your significant other far eclipses the idealized portrayal of families spending time together in tacky matched sweaters, if the latter image ever held sway here at all. You might think that Japanese business would have actively promoted Christmas as a time for buying gifts to give to everyone, but instead, all the ads for potential presents are tinged with romance. In Japan, gift-giving is practically second nature, so if the businesses don’t want to exploit it, it’s their loss. At any rate, rather than Christmas Day as a time to spend with loved ones and enjoy family-themed activities, Christmas Eve is the romantic night out for two. A few of my students were incredulous that the 25^th is actually more important than the 24^th in the English-speaking world. Crazy, I know.

For those who do decide to spend the big day—or evening, as it would seem—together with the family, there is at least a traditional holiday meal to share. This would, of course, be a bucket of KFC and a Christmas Cake. The latter, I can sort of understand: as an angel-food variety with white frosting and fresh strawberries, it bears little resemblance to the traditional cakes made around Christmastime in other countries, but at least the practice has some sort of precedent. The KFC, on the other hand, is just weird. I can get not cooking an actual bird at home when the oven can barely fit two drumsticks side-by-side in the oven, but if you’re going to do that, why not go that extra mile and actually get a whole cooked chicken? KFC, it would seem, has responded to that very question by promoting whole roast chickens for Christmas (which have to be reserved by the beginning of this week), but still: KFC? Why?!

The answer to all of this weirdness would have to be the simple fact that Christmas is a relatively late arrival in Japan. While Jesuit missionaries had visited Japan as early as the 16^th century, the Shogunate managed to effectively repress Christianity’s influence. Even now, less than one percent of Japanese identify themselves as Christian, which means that Christmas has mostly been absorbed through exposure to Western—and predominantly American—mass media. As a result, here they have fancy illuminations, trimmed trees, Santa-san, and flying reindeer; what they lack (or at least they did, initially) was a sense of the cultural and religious traditions that went along with it, so they created their own. I wouldn’t call it pure mimicry, exactly, so much as pragmatic adaptation. Besides, I rather like the ability to enjoy a secular Christmas on my own terms, without the perennial assertion from certain quarters that I really ought to subscribe to the religious beliefs that gave us such pretty Nativity scenes, even if the Winter Solstice celebration itself has been around for quite a while longer.

Of course, part of the reason for Christmas’s popularity in Japan has to do with its entirely coincidental placement right before New Year’s, which in Japan is a Big Deal—but more on that next week. For now, enjoy the spirit of Holiday Cheer with your family and friends—just go easy on the old George Michael singles, for everyone’s sake.

The Kids I Teach

As I’ve mentioned before, the end of the second term in Japanese schools is an extremely active time, and as I find myself rushing to finish lesson plans and get loads of peripheral things done in time to actually enjoy the upcoming holidays. But as the upcoming break approaches, I’ve also found myself amused by the foibles of my students. As an assistant, I work with all three grade levels (the equivalent of U.S. grades 7 to 9), so I have a lot of them, and nearly all of them have challenged my expectations about school life in Japan.

I suppose that maybe I had had a distorted perception of the kind of students I’d find here in Japan, based on decades of being told about extreme focus on studying, as well as legendary levels of discipline that, to me, seemed practically inhuman. These both served to make students in the Japanese school system seem like a kind of mythical object, nigh impossible in real life. And as it turns out, these views, if they were ever true, are certainly quite a bit different from the experience I’ve had.

Yes, the students are expected to learn a lot, and are frequently pressured to excel so that they can get into good schools. And yes, the rules themselves can seem unnecessarily strict, especially when it comes to keeping up a particular appearance. (Students are, to name just one example, forbidden from dyeing their hair, on the grounds that it draws unnecessary attention and serves as a distraction in the learning environment.) But at the same time, the kids are in many ways just the same as their American counterparts.

For one thing, they chafe at the rules constantly. While they have uniforms, some students seem to make it their mission to wear them as sloppily, or as inventively, as possible, following the letter of the regulations while subverting their spirit as far as they can get away with. The boys in particular seem to enjoy flashy belts, coloring the buttons on their jackets, and wearing colorful t-shirts underneath; the girls hike up their skirts to a worrying degree, then wear their PE shorts to preserve modesty. The teachers frown on all of these illicit modifications, of course, but can do little besides chide the students as long as they’re actually wearing the things. The main uniform infraction that teachers can actually punish—not wearing it—is of course not an issue the teachers ever have to deal with.

Also, the classroom and hallway chatter is pretty much the same as it is back home. Students pass notes, gossip about who likes whom, complain about school and schoolwork, talk excitedly about their favorite TV shows and bands, and engage me with all sorts of conversation. This last is probably the biggest difference from home, since my school didn’t have a native-language assistant for French or Spanish, but it certainly reveals more similarities to home.

The students who regularly talk to me divide fairly cleanly into three main groups. The first are the students who are serious about learning English. A few of them are quite skilled as a result of serious self-study and after-school prep classes for high school entrance exams, while others have little going for them besides enthusiasm and sheer dogged determination. I try to reward their effort as much as possible, while guiding them towards grammatical sentences without getting them too frustrated, but it seems like the opportunity to speak to a real live Anglophone helps keep them trying again.

The second group is the ones who want me to teach them all the interesting vocabulary English has on offer. Many of them are second-year boys (equivalent to eighth grade in American schools), who are at that critical age where curiosity about the anatomy and human… relations has hit its peak. Some of them are unsure of how to respond to the question “How are you?”, but they can certainly say some items that would make a sailor blush. I most certainly did not teach them those things; I blame the Internet. Nevertheless, I try and steer them towards more appropriate subjects, while feigning ignorance of the words they really want to know. After all, I don’t want them to blame me if they get beaten up by irate locals on their first trip abroad.

The last main group of students seems to relate to me chiefly out of curiosity about, well, me. They are intensely interested in where I’m from, what life is like back in the U.S., what my family is like, and more. While I appreciate the desire to learn more about life overseas, some of their questions can get uncomfortably personal; I’ve invented some answers out of whole cloth to keep from too much awkwardness (“I have lots of girlfriends!” with a big goofy grin and a thumbs up is silly nonsense, but is an effective rejoinder to “do you have a girlfriend?”). I sometimes wonder if they know I’m not really serious about those answers, though.

More than anything else, my daily interaction with these students, both in and out of the classroom, has helped put a human face on what I once regarded as remote and perhaps even a little forbidding. No matter where you go, kids will be kids, and the ones that I teach here in Matsubara are no exception. But of course, I’ve only scratched the surface here, so expect far more on the subject in the new year. But it seems we’ve got some special occasions coming up, so why I don’t I take a couple of articles to explain those, first?

Round, Flat, and Good with Mayonnaise

It’s finally happened: my Japanese test has come and gone, and while I’m certainly relieved that it’s over, I can’t exactly rest easy. The grammar and listening sections weren’t too much trouble, but I’m pretty sure that I made a fool of myself in the kanji section, which counts for a quarter of the grade. I suppose it’s possible that I managed to squeak by with a score in the low 70s, but I won’t know until February. Guess I should start studying for the next session in July, just in case.

That aside, school is also proving to be a handful, thanks to the end of the second term. The old lunar calendar calls the twelfth month Shiwasu, meaning “teachers run,” and with the presentations, meetings, random lesson schedule shifts, and review preparations, my legs are starting to get tired. I’m buoyed by the thought of soon being able to use a computer that doesn’t make horrible grinding noises when it ought to be asleep, as well as the upcoming New Year’s-related festivities, but they seem like such a long way away from now. On the bright side, I can at least indulge my appetite for some good Japanese-style cooking.

I’m sure that most of you are familiar with sushi, teriyaki, and ramen. These are well and good, but they are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to food here in Japan. This is especially true in Osaka, which is known as “the Nation’s Kitchen”, where you can “Eat Till You Drop”. While Tokyo is known for its high-end restaurants, and the ancient capital of Kyoto for its haute-cuisine and traditional Japanese sweets, Osaka has good, old-fashioned, artery-clogging comfort food.

For starters, there’s takoyaki: this is a fried ball of gooey batter that contains, at its center, a chunk of octopus tentacle. It’s far better than it sounds, and it’s sold by street vendors and dedicated takoyaki sellers alike. It tastes a lot better than it sounds, and is easy to snack on while you walk down the street – just make sure to let them cool off first, though. They can burn the tongue straight off the griddle, as I learned the hard way.

There’s also yakisoba, which is a stir-fry consisting of noodles in a tangy sauce, cabbage, a variety of meat (pork, shrimp, and squid are popular here), and some other ingredients I’m not exactly privy to. Nevertheless, it’s quick, cheap, and not difficult to make – all plusses in my book. But my favorite Osaka food is the round, flat, and apparently untranslatable okonomiyaki.

Literally meaning “cooked favorites”, “okonomiyaki” is often rendered in English as “Japanese pizza” or “Japanese pancake”. While the first sort of conveys the interchangeability of ingredients, and the second the general shape, it’s really not that close to either. At its heart, okonomiyaki is a pan-fried batter-cake where you can choose the ingredients that go in it. Generally, this means cabbage, a kind of meat (or several), sometimes cheese, and occasionally shallots.

When it’s done, you smear okonomiyaki sauce on top, crisscross that with some mayonnaise (Japan loves mayonnaise) and then sprinkle over that bits of seaweed and tuna flakes. These last seem to dance in the heat of the freshly-cooked food, which is both oddly fascinating and disturbing at the same time. If you’re at the right kind of restaurant, it gets served directly onto a heated pan in front of you, where you can then use a special spatula to cut it up and heap it onto your plate. Some places even let you make it yourself. (Japan is less litigious in general and thus seemingly untroubled by the thought of burns or food poisoning from letting hapless customers do their thing.)

There are regional varieties, too – Hiroshima, out west, prides itself on a layered (rather than mixed) version with only a thin kind of batter, while Tokyo has monja-yaki, which is like okonomiyaki but runny. My personal preference, however, is for modan-yaki, a homegrown Osaka favorite that includes yakisoba noodles right in the mix. It’s like the best of both worlds in one, and a high-calorie guilty pleasure I can justify by the fact that I go to the gym. As long as I don’t have it too often, anyway….

At any rate, Osaka provides a wealth of less-than-healthy food for me to sample, and eating out with friends is a sure-fire way to ease the pre-holiday blues. I mustn’t forget, however, that Japan has a variety of regional specialties, which is why I also intend to travel during the upcoming holiday. After all, someone’s got to eat that food, right?

Dazzled by technology

December is here at last, and with it, I have taken up a new hobby: shivering. While winter temperatures in the vicinity of Osaka never get anywhere near what they’re like back home, there is a whipping wind that comes down off the mountains and helps make everything feel colder than it really is. The lack of insulation also helps with that. Anywhere in this country south of Hokkaido has an annoying tendency to skimp on materials to prevent the temperature outside from getting in, which leads to near-unbearably hot summers and – wouldn’t you know it – freezing winters. Schools are likewise unheated, though the teachers’ room ought to have heat; it’s just broken right now. And so, I throw on an extra layer, hoping to keep out the chill of what would otherwise be above-freezing weather.

That aside, I am studying like mad for my Japanese test, which is now less than a week away. As the date inexorably approaches, I am feeling less and less prepared, and more and more certain that I’ll have to take it again. Maybe it’s just pre-test jitters, and maybe it’s a reflection of the steep jump between level 2 (which I passed last year) and level 1 (which I’m taking on this coming Sunday). Either way, I’m wedded to a near-daylong test that I won’t find out the results for until February, so I might as well make the attempt.

Nevertheless, my thoughts are buoyed somewhat by the thought of the approaching holiday season. While Christmas in Japan pales in comparison to the version back home – a topic I will discuss more in a week or two – stores are still brimming with decorations, and there’s still something of that festive cheer floating about, thanks to the equally enthusiastic embrace of New Year’s as a time to eat, drink, and be merry. Just knowing that multiple end-of-year parties will be coming along after a busy month is a much needed respite from the continuing grind.

And while Christmas shopping may not be quite as big, December is still a big consumer season in Japan, for one reason in particular: the winter bonus. Salaried employees in Japan usually receive a rather substantial part of their regular yearly income in semi-annual chunks, and one of those comes right in December. Naturally, stores are keen to take advantage of this, offering sales on all sorts of items, from luxury goods, to household appliances, to gifts for that special someone. (You’d think no one told them about the recession.)

As fate would have it, though, my major purchase for this season is already determined, thanks to an ailing computer creeping ever closer to its last gasp. It gave up trying to read CDs and DVDs ages ago, and of late, it’s been making some pretty scary noises and throwing up the occasional cryptic error message. (And as I was typing this column, the sound went. I wonder if it knows what I’m planning.) But while my contribution to the Japanese economy is born of necessity, it’s still really neat to walk around and see what’s on offer.

Nowhere is this more clear than at the major electronics stores in Osaka: Bic Camera in Namba and Yodobashi Camera in Umeda. Both are sprawling, multi-storey behemoths, and both contain far more than just cameras. Yodobashi Camera in particular has not only its own food court and multiple clothing stores under its roof, but an entire floor dedicated to computers; another for peripherals and other accompaniments; one for A/V equipment; one for household appliances (and furniture!); one for toys and games; one for cameras, watches, and jewelry; and a basement level dedicated to bicycles, luggage, and other odds and ends.

Strolling through a place like this is nearly surreal, just seeing what’s on offer, but I am continually struck by the ingenuity that goes into household technology. Manufacturers are continually shrinking both the space and energy requirements of their appliances, and to stack them against their American counterparts would make ours seem big and clunky by comparison. (If that sounds familiar, it’s because it also applies to Japanese cars; I’ve simply noticed since coming here that the mindset that drives vehicle philosophy in Japan applies equally to other things, as well.) This is quite nifty, of course, but I always gravitate towards the electronics. Flat-screen HDTVs are on offer here at sizes that wouldn’t let me sit far back enough to watch them in my tiny apartment, with a host of features I don’t recall ever reading about back home. Even the stuff that’s comparatively normal seems to have a futuristic sheen about it.

Maybe time has marched on in the US, too, since I left, but when iPhone has been criticized here for lacking many of the features common to Japanese cell phones, maybe not so much. That features viewed as nifty back home are taken for granted here says a lot about the way that technology like cell phones has so completely permeated the public consciousness. And by the time that level of “standard” features reaches the US, Japan will probably have moved on to something better. The pace of development just seems that quick.

One thing that surprised me, though, is that high technology here seems at par, if not a bit more expensive, than back home. I had always thought that since so much stuff is made in Japan, it would have to be cheaper here, but that tends not to be the case. Instead, in a country where things are usually 1.5 to 2 times as expensive as in the US, it’s about the same. This makes it practically a steal if you live in Japan, though not so much for anyone hoping to find a discount by looking to the Rising Sun. In fact, it probably would work out to more money to have something shipped back, so, more likely than not, it’s best simply not to bother. Even so, I can’t help but be captivated by all the shiny things. If I can’t have it, at least I can bask in awe of its sheer awesomeness. A guy can dream, can’t he?

Let's talk turkey

With Halloween now nearly a month behind us, it’s time for those of you back in the US to shift gears and engage in another one of those mystical American traditions: the Thanksgiving Day feast. I have to admit, while it’s always seemed rather odd to me why we have two harvest festivals in short succession – one to decorate pumpkins and the other to eat them, I suppose – I have never been one to shy away from generous portions of food (as those who know me can attest). It is therefore with some disappointment that I have discovered no direct equivalent for our American habit of stuffing turkeys with which to stuff ourselves, accompanied by copious amounts of sleeping and watching of televised sports events.

It has, however, been something of a pleasure instructing my first-year students these past couple of weeks on the many and varied foodstuffs we shovel by the mouthful on this day, among them the aforementioned turkey and stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, salad, string bean casserole, a variety of vegetables, and a plethora of pies (but chiefly apple, pumpkin, and sweet potato). They are interested in my own pictures of the event, as well as the impossibly large feast that Japanese people rarely indulge in at home. But they are mostly curious about the food itself.

It may not strike people in the US as unusual to eat things like turkey even year-round, but the bird is native to the Americas (the name comes from its general air of the exotic when first introduced to Europe, not an Ottoman pedigree). Other items, such as pumpkin, are also technically from the Americas, but the general unavailability of turkey here gives it an air of mystery to the students, perhaps not unlike that which greeted it when it first arrived in the Old World centuries ago. OK, so maybe I’ve exaggerated the size a tiny bit – they are big birds, after all – but I think they’d still be fascinated otherwise.

Of course, all this talk of Thanksgiving has left me with pangs of longing for a home-cooked meal, and to be around family and friends back in the North Country. Last year, my experience was still too new for me to be all that concerned, but for this time, I’ve requested (and my parents have obliged) a shipment of stove-top stuffing and cranberry gelatin dessert, just to give something of the proper feeling. Obviously a turkey is out of the question, but maybe I can find a smallish chicken to substitute (and to fit inside my microwave that doubles as an oven). We’ll see.

Of course, Japan is not totally bereft of feasting; the main concern is simply one of space and adequate kitchen apparatus. With the typical apartment not being very conducive to large gatherings, and the typical kitchen lacking anything like the requisite number of burners or oven space for proper cooking, these events are usually held at restaurants, where the food is plentiful and the elbow-room more generous.

These feasts come chiefly in two varieties. The first is enkai, which most readily translates to “banquet”. At a restaurant or inn, large groups of people are presented with a multi-course meal of a pre-planned menu, interspersed with important announcements, games (sometimes with prizes), and a slightly more formalized atmosphere. These are generally held to commemorate specific events (welcoming or going-away parties, celebrations, or other similar milestones), and are either paid-for by the group in advance, or through a predetermined contribution from each participant. The second kind is the uchiage, or “party”, usually held after participating in some kind of event and through the voluntary attendance of its members. The menu is not set, but items are ordered by individuals for the entire table, providing a sampling of finger-foods that accumulate until you start wondering who ordered that last round of fried squid rings, or where the beer in front of you came from after you’d already decided you really ought to walk home under your own power that evening. It’s a lot of fun (and with the chorus, there’s some spontaneous singing mixed in there too), though when the bill comes, it always seems impossible that any one person could have eaten as much as they’re claiming you ought to pay for. Maybe the fun is calculated into the total, as well.

There is actually one meal for large groups that’s usually eaten at home, and that’s nabe, or hot-pot cooking. It’s something that can be had year-round at most restaurants, but it’s especially common in winter, and that goes double for the end-of-year party, or bonenkai. Basically, you boil vegetables along with some kind of meat (in Osaka, often a non-poisonous variety of pufferfish) in a special pot at the center of the table, throw in more ingredients when it starts to get thin, and repeat until no one can eat anymore. There’s also a point where you throw in rice to make ochazuke and use up the rest of the broth, but last year I didn’t make it that far. We’ll see how I do next month. Until then, I’ll just have to make do, and quietly give thanks for the many things I can do here.

Taking out the trash

In every person’s domestic life, there are unpleasant realities that must be faced every now and again. While overall, things may be quite decent, we are forced to come to terms with something that is distasteful, perhaps even disgusting. For me, this is more than a constant annoyance; it’s a fact of life. I am talking, of course, about what to do with my garbage.

I must confess, the Japanese system for dealing with one’s household waste is one of the areas of the country that truly mystifies me. While I do empty my trash regularly and take it out to be collected, those who have encountered me along the way have always told me that I’m doing it wrong (while, in typical Japanese fashion, neglecting to give me anything more specific to go on). I don’t think I could possibly be alone in this.

For one thing, there are very specific rules about how you are supposed to divide up your garbage. Ideally, you ought to have a bag (translucent) for burnables, abag (translucent) for non-burnables, a bag (translucent) for recyclable bottles (washed, de-labeled, and de-capped), a bag (translucent) for cans, bundled newspapers, and a somewhat-less-than-helpful category indicated by “other”. While I have tried to hold to this ideal, I have to admit that there are times when I maybe didn’t completely adhere to these rules completely, or occasionally, at all. I don’t think I should be blamed for this, though: Japanese laws on the subject of trash are complex, draconian, and above all else, somewhat arbitrary with regards to what fits in what category. Back when I did my homestay in 2006, I was constantly being hounded for putting something in the wrong receptacle, even if (to me, at least) it looked like it belonged there. I mean, where’s the harm, right?

The other thing that earns my constant ire is figuring out which day is supposed to be trash day. Apparently, there are several: one – or possibly two – day(s) for burnables, one (maybe more) for non-burnables, one for recyclables, etc. The only problem is, no one I know can explain to me which day is which. There is a sign outside my apartment (as well as many others) that threatens fines towards individuals who violate the proper trash day to leave articles sitting outside in plain view until the day they’re supposed to be picked up, but the chart which gives those days is either blank or faded to the point of invisibility. Someone I talked to told me it was somewhere on the city’s website, but I haven’t been able to find the schedule there, either. Maybe Japanese people just communicate this information by chemical signals or something, like some tree species. Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder.

One of my fellow ALTs, the Welshman, seems to have taken to the sorting and disposal of rubbish here in Japan a bit better than me, but even he is at a loss to try and explain what I have to do. Maybe he’s started picking up the chemical signals too. At the very least, we can both be slightly amused at an odd Japanese trend we’ve both noticed: while the US and the UK cannot agree on standard terminology for waste (we Americans prefer “trash” or “garbage”, while the British insist on “rubbish”), most Japanese trash cans we’ve seen use neither, opting instead for the (perhaps Japan-only) term “dust box”. Very odd.

At any rate, the supposed fines threatened by the sign have thus far failed to materialize, so I mostly just try to take stuff out with some semblance of regularity. After all, my apartment is by no means large, and small amounts of trash can quickly accumulate to a level I just can’t keep lying around. Against regulations or not, it ain’t staying in here. Just don’t tell the city government I said that – as a public employee, I should at least maintain appearances as a law-abiding citizen. One cannot always play the role of the oblivious foreigner…

I think I'm turning Japanese

When you live in a foreign country, there eventually comes a certain time where you realize that you have long passed the initial culture shock, and have more or less adjusted to the daily rhythms, expectations, and societal norms of the people around you. On an intellectual level, you may still regard the local customs as curious, quaint, or any number of other things, but on some level you have begun to internalize the unspoken assumptions, expectations, and even speech habits of your neighbors, which helps you get by. You may never truly “fit in” or “pass” as a local, but you have nevertheless been indelibly marked by the place you have made your home. (Then, if you ever move on, you get to experience the whole process of acculturation all over again, starting with a fresh round of culture-shock.)

I suppose it’s inevitable; stay anywhere long enough, even in the same country, and you begin to take on something of the local color. My parents, raised and educated in New Jersey, have spent the last twenty-five years or so in Clayton, and now their accents are much more North Country than Garden State. And while I may not have been here in Japan for nearly as long, I’m definitely exhibiting signs of having absorbed some Japanese habits.

Two recent incidents in particular have drawn my attention to this development. The first happened just the other day in class, as I was demonstrating a conversation with the Japanese-native English teacher. But at the end of the skit, as my character was about to say goodbye, turn, and walk away, I did something entirely unintended: I bowed. In Japan, it’s not out of place to do so at that particular moment; in fact, it’s expected. But the gesture is – from the standpoint of Anglophones – entirely unnecessary, and at any rate, it was completely involuntary on my part. I had simply become so used to bowing at that particular social cue that my spine, as if obliging some innate need, dutifully curved forward for me. As you can imagine, this was embarrassing, to say the least, and it drew some unsolicited laughter from the student audience. I just grinned sheepishly and told the students they didn’t need to imitate that part. But somewhere deep inside, I was thinking, “I just know I’m going to be that guy who bows to the pizza delivery boy years after I’ve gone home.” If, years later, you do see me deferring a little too much for any sensible American, please be kind.

The second incident happened just the other day at Mister Donut, as I was sitting, drinking coffee, and reading (as per my usual custom). My coffee was just about to run out, and I intended to avail myself of the free refills. But when I looked over at the counter, they were swamped. A big crowd of people had just come in, and the staff were evidently preoccupied. Now here’s where a funny thing happened: I actually caught myself thinking, “well, I don’t really need another cup of coffee right now, do I? They’re obviously busy enough as it is; far be it from me to bother them about some trifling need.” For an instant this seemed perfectly rational, but then I remembered, “waitasec, you’re the customer here! It’s their job to serve you! And what are you hesitating for, anyway? You’re an American, aren’t you? Just go up and say something, already.” I did just that, and the staff were happy to refill my cup even as they juggled multiple customer orders at the main counter. A little American directness goes a long way, but that I had to remember how to use it caught me off-guard.

And while I’m ashamed to admit it, there are even times where, walking down the street, I’ll spot someone who isn’t Japanese and think, “Hey, a foreigner. That’s something you don’t see every day,” before regaining my senses and reminding myself that I’m a foreigner too. I don’t think it’s entirely my fault, since Japan tends to be extremely homogeneous – the society tends to promote sameness in whatever isn’t inborn – to the point that anyone who bucks the trend becomes a visually interesting novelty by comparison. Nevertheless, it’s embarrassing to be caught staring, especially when more than a few Japanese people have been guilty of staring at me while I go about my business, for no other reason than the fact that I look different. Luckily for me, resident aliens in Japan share a secret code for when they pass by one another on the street: a flash of recognition, followed by a knowing nod. It’s not much, but it seems to suggest, “I know what you were thinking, because I just thought the same thing. We’re in the same boat, you and I.” It’s conspiratorial, subversive, and in an odd way reassuring. Lots of foreigners in Japan have had similar experiences to mine, and that one look tells me that I’m not the only one on whom Japan is slowly, almost imperceptibly, working its strange magic. I may be turning Japanese, but at least I’m not the only one.

Architectural malaise

By the time you’re reading this article, the 2008 Elections will have already concluded. It’s certainly a relief, considering the way they dragged on, and no doubt everyone back home is breathing a sigh of relief. For my part, I’d like to extend my congratulations to [ELECT], our next President, as well as my sympathies to [RUNNER-UP], who ran a disciplined and hard-fought campaign but came up short this time. Here’s to the next four years. This article, however, is (mercifully) not about politics this week. Instead, I’d like to turn your attention to something that bugs me.

As I’ve mentioned previously, I have decidedly mixed feelings about the urban sprawl that characterizes much of Japan’s major metropolitan areas. The public transportation and the conveniently-located shops are certainly a plus. Nevertheless, the unbroken lines of buildings can get depressing at times, especially when I can only find the time to get out of the area on weekends. Even this wouldn’t be all bad, though, if not for one, little thing: the architecture.

Don’t get me wrong – I think traditional Japanese architectural is fantastic. The exteriors of contrasting dark wood supports and whitewashed walls topped with decorative tile roofs, and the interiors with their high floors, tatami mats, sliding doors, and rigid geometry are all nigh-inseparable from the notion of Japan itself. The problem, here, is that traditional Japanese architecture makes up a relatively small part of the makeup of any given town, and it is steadily shrinking. What exists in its stead is something that I view as just plain ugly.

Japanese buildings constructed over the past 50 years or so, both dwellings and commercial space, are afflicted with what I like to think of as “modern-itis”. There’s nothing wrong with building to a modern aesthetic in itself, but Japan’s problem is the tendency to rely on two things: boxy prefabricated construction and wildly incongruous architectural styles. The first grows out of simple cost concerns. When building a new house, business, or what have you, it is easiest and cheapest to build something whose plans already exist, rather than design it from scratch. You don’t have to work out any serious design flaws in revisions, and since the constituent parts are already made it’s much faster to construct. But the upshot is that most of these buildings are unimaginatively ugly at best, and completely out of place at worst.

The ones on the “completely out of place” side of the scale grow out of the second sin of Japanese building, which is the wildly incongruous building style. I have nothing against a stately brick house, or a Southwestern-influenced stucco look, or even something vaguely neoclassical. But none of these things belongs in a Japanese neighborhood, and the “brick” houses (thanks to cost concerns and earthquake codes) aren’t even real brick. And if it’s not something new and ridiculously out of step with its surroundings, it’s often being left to decay until it can be replaced with one of these styles. When I walk down the street, I just have to shake my head.

It is entirely strange to me that Japan would have so little attachment to its own signature buildings, but in some ways I guess it makes sense. After all, this is a nation where since time immemorial, periodic floods, tsunamis, fires, earthquakes, wars, and bombings have regularly leveled entire cities. Combine this with the wabi-sabi aesthetic that celebrates flaws and impermanence, and you get a recipe for the seemingly random distribution of new and old, Japanese and Japanese-idea-of-foreign. People are looking ahead instead of back; it’s part of what makes Tokyo seem so futuristic. But at the same time, is it really so much to ask to take better care in preserving what historical buildings remain for a new generation? There are nice old neighborhoods in places like Kyoto, Nara, Kanazawa, and elsewhere that show it can be done and well, but at this point I’d be happy with reasonable facsimiles. You can’t convince me for an instant that a nation as technologically advanced as Japan is incapable of mimicking the traditional architecture with modern materials, safety features, and accessibility. If anything, it seems to be more a matter of building preference than anything else, and to me that’s just a shame. Change and progress are all well and good, but there are some things that are better left not tampered with. It’s too bad more Japanese people don’t see buildings the same way.

Japan's supernatural side

Season’s Greetings, everyone! I hope you’re all having a fantastic week leading up to the holiday… by which of course I mean Halloween. Back in my youth, Halloween was the source of many a fond memory involving candy, costumes, haunted houses, and being frightened out of my wits by innocuous things. In fact, I think it’s pretty safe to say that overall, Halloween was my second-favorite Christianized-pagan-holiday-turned-secular, just behind Christmas.

It’s something of a problem for me, then, that All Hallows’ Even has yet to make much of a dent over here in Japan. Sure, Universal Studios Osaka is running a Halloween-themed party all month with Peanuts characters in costumes, but aside from that and some decidedly inadequate decorations, all it really seems to offer here is green squash passed off as “pumpkin” and a few novelty baked goods. Trick-or-treating, among the 31st’s many other sublime joys, is simply unknown. I’ve made an attempt to educate my students, who do seem curious about “those pumpkin face-things” and the opportunity to get a month’s supply of sugar in a single night, but the lack of enthusiasm is telling.

And that’s a shame, because when it comes to the supernatural, Japan is a veritable hotspot. Japanese folklore is replete with tales of mystical creatures roaming the mountains and forests, and the hauntings of vengeful, wronged ghosts told and retold in bunraku puppet-theatre and kabuki plays. You would think that when a country has such a stockpile of home-grown ghouls just lying around, they would put them to work repurposing a perfectly workable holiday for native sensibilities, but it just didn’t happen. Nevertheless, they at least provide me with a fascinating glimpse into the stories that have kept generations of Japanese up at night.

For starters, there are a ton of mythical creatures to be had in Japan. Aside from ghosts, the (legless) apparitions of the deceased, there are also oni (ogres who are alternately evil antagonists and mischievous-but-dumb troublemakers), tengu (strange avian creatures with long, beaklike noses), kappa (man-sized, turtle-like river creatures with a taste for young children), noppera-bo (humanlike-but-faceless tricksters who enjoy freaking out unsuspecting people by wiping off their features after lulling their mark into a false sense of security), tsukumogami (inanimate objects that gain life and creepy faces after 100 years of existence), and kodama (tree spirits that inhabit forests by the millions). Even real animals get in on the act, with foxes, badgers, and tanuki (think: the special suit in Super Mario Bros. 3) portrayed as shapeshifters who make sport of humans who ought to know better. If I were a Japanese child, I don’t know if I’d ever feel truly safe with such things lurking all around me. I mean, who wants to pull out an umbrella only to find it staring back?

As if that weren’t enough, if it’s a ghost story you want, there’s a ton of those to choose from too. There is the Yotsuya Kaidan, where a Samurai plots to kill his wife Oiwa and remarry, only to face the consequences of his actions; the Bancho Sarayashiki, where the servant Okiku is framed and killed for destroying an heirloom plate of the samurai who covets her; Yuki-Onna, whose snow maiden of the title lures men in the mountains to their deaths; Botan Doro, with a man’s otherworldly lover, and Hoichi the Earless Minstrel. These and many more were first compiled in English by Lafcadio Hearn (otherwise known as Koizumi Yakumo) at the turn of the 20th Century, and that’s still one of the most convenient places to find them all in one spot; check out Kwaidan or In Ghostly Japan for more like these.

For those wishing for something a little more modern to scare them senseless, however, Japan has a flourishing genre of horror films, or J-Horror, which have made a splash big enough for at least some of them to get big-budget Hollywood remakes. Perhaps you’ve seen a few of them already. One such film is The Ring (Ringu), the story of a cursed videotape that kills those unfortunate enough to watch it. It also draws liberally from older Japanese ghost stories, with the well borrowed from the story of Okiku, and Sadako / Samara’s appearance based more-or-less directly on Oiwa from the Yotsuya Kaidan. There’s also The Grudge (Ju-On), where the curse of a vengeful ghost begins to spread its influence along with its victims. And then there’s Dark Water, where what seems to be a leak in the ceiling above a young mother’s apartment turns out to be far more sinister. And just this year, there was another remake: One Missed Call (Chakushin Ari), where cell phone calls presage doom.

Generally speaking, the American versions of the above films change the characters and setting to the US (with the notable exception of The Grudge, which stays in Japan but brings in some American characters for the audience to indentify with), while polishing the visual effects and making the storylines more straightforward. As for whether the originals or their remakes are better, I think that’s a decision best left up to the viewer, but I do tend to prefer the originals. There are subtitled versions out there for those who don’t understand Japanese and are feeling particularly adventurous.

For Japanese horror even more off the beaten path, there is Suicide Club, where a rash of seemingly-unrelated suicides in Tokyo is just the tip of the iceberg. This is something of a cult film, even in Japan, with the public divided over its subject matter and the goriness of certain notorious scenes. And lastly, there is Audition, which I only mention because I’ve seen it, and not to recommend. I watched it once, and it was the closest I came to being physically ill due to a movie. Perhaps for those accustomed to more recent things like Saw or Hostel it’s nothing new, but I have to say this: piano wire should only be used for pianos. Ugh.

But enough on films to scar impressionable young minds; the important thing is that, with a wealth of ghost stories and other curious tales here, I can at least keep myself in the Halloween spirit, even if the only evidence that it’s Halloween comes from a few cutesy decorations and green squash being passed off as “pumpkins”. That, and the prodigious amounts of Halloween candy my parents have sent me, in an apparent ploy to thwart my efforts at the gym. Now if I could just get Japan to adopt Halloween as readily as it absorbed Valentine’s Day…

A language divided

I’ve written a lot thus far on various aspects of living in Japan, from the living accommodations, to the food (especially the food), the local customs, and the like. But as I’ve mentioned previously, I am employed here teaching English. It’s a lot of fun – working in the educational system, and with kids, gives a certain insight into what makes Japanese people who they are – and not a lot of money. The upshot of this, however, is that my daily life is infused not only with the study of Japanese and its various idiosyncrasies, but also with taking a magnifying glass to my own native tongue. So, please bear with me this week while I take a momentary break from talk about Japan proper, and turn my gaze instead to the other elephant in the proverbial room: the English language.

At first glance, English seems quite straightforward: it is, after all, the language that you and I speak (or at least I would assume you speak, since you’re reading this article, aren’t you?), and the idiom in which we spend our days conversing, gossiping, vituperating, writing, and otherwise communicating. And while we may hold a certain disdain for, say, marking the plural with an apostrophe, or using “your” for “you’re” – to say nothing of the language’s daily slaughter on the Internet – we can at least be confident that there is a “proper English” that we all learned in school and can rely on to make ourselves understood. Right?

…Not exactly.

One of the joys of working in English-language education is sorting out the English you actually speak from the English you teach your students, because as it turns out, there is absolutely tremendous variance in what’s considered “proper English”. The language has no central governing body akin to the Académie française for French or the Real Academia Española for Spanish, as the insanity of our spelling system can attest to. Instead, tradition is what rules the day. We as Anglophones just so happen to have 400 years of such divergent tradition, and as you can imagine, America and Great Britain (not to mention the disparate parts thereof) disagree on what counts as “proper English” on a frightening scale.

George Bernard Shaw – the English playwright who gave us what would become My Fair Lady, and he himself essentially Henry Higgins incarnate – was absolutely correct when he described the UK and the US as “two countries separated by a common language”. I should know: two of the other native English teachers in Matsubara are from England and Wales, respectively. We have butted heads time and again on aspects of the language I once thought so utterly incontestable that I scarcely stopped to think about them. Now I look at every word and turn of phrase as if for the first time, wondering just how universal it really is.

Now, perhaps you disagree with me here. After all, you’ve probably read a British book or several in your lifetime (ones concerning a certain bespectacled boy being the most likely candidates at the time of this writing), and British TV broadcasts and movies that make it overseas are still understandable to the American viewing public. But don’t be fooled: part of this is self-selection at work, since generally only titles “international” enough find any traction overseas, and even then they get meddled with. The aforementioned Harry Potter series was actually “translated” into American English by US publisher Scholastic, with some of the more confounding Britishisms – jumper for sweater, trainers for sneakers, and vest for T-shirt, for starters – changed to terms more readily identifiable to American children. They even went so far as to change the first book’s title, Philosopher’s Stone – the “Holy Grail” to alchemists, from which they hoped to make the Elixir of Life – to Sorcerer’s Stone, in order (as one Internet denizen put it) “to make it more obvious to religious fundamentalists that the book is about magic and therefore dangerous”. So sometimes, the British English you’ve actually seen wasn’t really.

Nowhere is this more apparent than at the biweekly ALT meeting at Matsubara City Hall, where the two British teachers regularly air their grievances on this point. I should explain first that the English textbooks in Japan use American spelling and grammatical conventions, and that most of the Japanese English teachers have been educated in the same. So not only are the Brits incensed at having to teach “trash” instead of “rubbish”, “forty” and “color” without the “u”, and “soccer” for the sport whose true name has been “stolen” by “rugby for pansies”, they also have to deal with teachers constantly “correcting” their English, which is “not wrong, just different”.

While I mostly have no problem on these counts, one thing in particular rubs me the wrong way. One of the characters in the textbooks is from Canada, and in the second year, there is a section about Toronto, her hometown. However, the Air Canada Centre is referred to as the “Air Canada Center” so as not to confuse the students. Being the hockey fan that I am, there is no way I couldn’t be annoyed by that – it’s where you go to watch the Maple Leafs lose, for crying out loud! You just don’t do that to a hallowed institution like hockey.

So I feel for them, I really do. But then again, that “not wrong, just different” quote was originally more strident and contained a juxtaposition of “Yank” and an expletive (which I’ll spare your delicate sensibilities), so I also take a certain devilish glee in undercutting their pretensions to linguistic superiority. For example, did you know that the “-ize” ending in words like “realize” and “summarize” comes with a recommendation from no less an authority than the Oxford English Dictionary, which denounces the “-ise” spelling so beloved in Britain as a non-standard variant? It’s true.

And so it goes, with them ribbing the two Americans over our pronouncing “latter” and “ladder” the same, and us coming back with their pronunciation of the letter “r” (or “ah”, in their case), them getting us on our fondness for “transportation” where “transport” will do, and on and on. On a separate occasion, the Welsh ALT labeled my pronunciation as “degenerate” for being unable to distinguish between “no” and “know”, or “choose” and “chews”. As it turns out, both pairs of words are members of lexical sets that only Welsh people can readily tell apart, so really his declaration about my English was just his provincial dialect peeking through the cracks of his studied Received Pronunciation. We all had a good laugh (or at least I laughed at him) about that one.

At the very least, both sides can agree to be perplexed at the Japanese idea of English, which includes such bizarre coinages as “symbol mark” for “logo”, “hello work” for “employment office”, and “my car” for “[one’s own] car” (i.e. “Leave your ‘my car’ at home and take the train!”). It just goes to show that whatever linguistic barriers we may face on our opposing sides of the Atlantic, we’re still far more similar than we are different. That, and Japan really needs to employ native English speakers in areas other than teaching the language.

Fruit, and things related thereto

With autumn in full swing here in Japan, yet another special season is gearing up, which I am thrilled to be a part of. The autumn shrine festivals here in Osaka, with their massive and ornate danjiri carts, are beginning to wrap up, but something even better is already here. It’s something that brings me quiet joy through the long winter months and brightens each dreary day. That’s right: it’s mikan season.

For those of you have have not yet had the opportunity to engage in such a sublime indulgence, allow me to explain. Mikan (scientifically speaking, Citrus unshiu, sometimes called “Satsuma” in English) is a variety of orange-like fruit that originated in China way back, and is beloved today in Japan. Of course, it goes without saying that it is dear to my heart as well. It looks, on the surface, a lot like a Mandarin orange or tangerine – all citrus plants are genetically malleable enough to be considered basically one big species, so I guess technically it is – but the mikan is infinitely superior. For one thing, mikan are super-easy to peel. The skin is soft and can be removed with bare hands, which is a great relief for anyone who’s ever struggled with an orange in one hand and a knife in the other (read: me). Also, they are much sweeter. Oranges are all well and good, but when you’ve got a mikan at peak ripeness, there’s no contest. If bliss were a color, it would be orange.

The other thing about mikan that suits me just fine is how prodigious amounts always seem to end up in my possession. They’re already relatively inexpensive compared to most other fruit in Japan due to their sheer abundance, but half the time they just fall into my lap without me having to do anything. I cannot overstate this enough: some days, it seems like I just happen to run into someone I know, and before I even know what has happened, I’ve had an entire bag of them pushed into my arms for no reason other than that my friend has “too many” and I just happened by. In fact, I’m starting to suspect that Japanese people have their own private mikan groves hidden away somewhere (don’t ask me where), specifically for the purpose of unloading them on unsuspecting foreigners. If I were a paranoid man, I might even come to suspect that they were doing this just to supply me with a steady store of mikan throughout the winter months (after all, fruit is by no means cheap here). But can you really be considered crazy if your delusion is that everyone’s conspiring to give you things?

At any rate, my infatuation with mikan is the reason I was absolutely thrilled to have the opportunity to visit a real mikan orchard this past weekend, and even pick some for myself. From firsthand experience, I can tell you that they’re even better straight off the tree, even if they were still a bit on the green side at this time of year. I might have to go back a bit later in the season when they’re fully ripe, just to experience the full flavor of a freshly picked mikan. As it is, there’s no possible way I could have my fill of the things, so I know I’ll be back there sooner or later. They’re just that good.

In other fruit news, it’s also persimmon season in Japan. I never really got to eat persimmons back in the US, so my first experience with them was after I came here. They’re actually quite nice, with a slightly pumpkin-y texture and a subtle flavor, but here’s the thing: they’re only good when they’re fully ripe. If you eat them before they’re ready, they’re horribly bitter. I learned this the hard way, and it is a lesson I will never forget. Nevertheless, as I’m biting in and secretly praying that I got a ripe one this time, it’s definitely a distinct experience with flavor. I’ll just keep a glass of water nearby – you know, just in case.

Lastly, I’ve noticed lately that it’s become increasingly hard to find bananas at the supermarket when I do my weekly shopping. At first, I chalked it up to seasonal unavailability (after all, imported fruit in the off-season is expensive), but then I remembered that all bananas in Japan are imported, so that couldn’t be it. The mystery was finally solved when I was watching a talk show, and they began a lengthy discussion on the new “banana diet” craze that’s apparently sweeping Japan right now. As near as I can tell, the idea is that the dieter has a banana – with water and nothing else – for breakfast, and eats whatever she wants for lunch and dinner. (And I say “she” because it’s being specifically marketed towards women here, along with every other diet.) While I obviously don’t doubt that bananas are a great source of vitamins, minerals, and fiber for a balanced diet, I can also state with some conviction that it’s a load o’ hooey. For one thing, while eating better reduces your calorie and fat intake, you still need to burn the fat you’ve already accumulated. Furthermore, if you’re off the hook to eat “anything you want” for the other two meals, you’ll probably overdo it and end up gaining weight instead of losing.

But of course, it’s no use telling that to the people who fall for these diet fads hook, line, and sinker. For all of Japan’s technological wonders and medical breakthroughs, a lot of its people still tend to exhibit general ignorance about matters of health. Traditional Chinese remedies, often with no proven effectiveness, are sold alongside proper pharmaceuticals in drugstores, and fad diets like the banana one seem to renew themselves every couple of months, just as the previous one is going out of style. And then there’s the smoking, which I mentioned in an earlier column. On the other hand, I really shouldn’t be too surprised – the US can be the same way (for just one homeopathic placebo “cure” I’m sure you all know: “HeadOn! Apply directly to the trash bin!”). As an outsider here, it’s just that more obvious to me how ridiculous it can get. But I digress, as this is fast becoming more of a rant about how I can’t find any bananas at the store than anything else. Anyhow, I think that’s quite enough fruit for one sitting. Let’s talk about something else next time, shall we?

Communing with nature... more or less

For the second week in a row, I have been reminded of the beauty of Japan. This time the culprit is the yearly retreat for the chorus that I sing in here. We went up into the mountains of southern Osaka Prefecture for a weekend of rehearsals, excessive food intake, and no cell phone or Internet service whatsoever, at a facility just slightly nicer than your average US summer camp. And for the first time in a while, I felt a pang of homesickness.

I don’t need to remind you how much nature the North Country has to spare, seeing as how if you’re reading this, you’re there already. But for me, I’ve been living and working in cities for the past year, among buildings, roads, the occasional agricultural spot, and more buildings. Sometimes I need reminding of just how much splendor nature can have to offer, and I was glad to have the Japanese countryside there to remind me this weekend.

Of course, I don’t think I’ve mentioned the chorus in too much detail yet either. Long story short, when I was working in a different city prior to Matsubara, I opined (complained, really) to one of the teachers on the fact that I hadn’t gotten to sing in any kind of group since I got to Japan, and I’d like to change that. As luck would have it, she just so happened to be a member of the Tondabayashi Mixed Chorus, and one trial rehearsal later I found myself signed up, attending practice every other week, and making friends with the other members.

Being a part of the chorus has been quite the experience in itself, made even more appreciable by the fact that getting in seemed to just happen to me without much effort on my part. It’s often said in Japan that in life, your connections matter more than anything else, and in this case, I can believe it. It might be nice if there were members closer to my own age, but I do enjoy the special status accorded to being both the only foreigner and the only under-25 in the group, so I guess it works out in the end.

At any rate, this retreat was especially interesting for me because it meant a chance to go “off the beaten path”… by which I mean, by roads. Having road access may not exactly make it the most out-of-the-way location by American (let alone North Country) standards, but the difference is certainly tangible. We turned off the highway, onto a network of winding, unnervingly narrow (but still paved) roads, and found ourselves passing through a series of smaller settlements, and up forested mountainsides. It was absolutely picturesque. The closest rail station was miles away.

Being, as I am, an advocate for convenient public transportation, it might seem incredibly odd for me to be calling the lack of train access a good thing. But actually, I liked it a lot for two reasons. First, it gives me a place to explore that I can’t easily get to any other way (so there will still be something left out there even after I’ve traversed the entire length and breadth of this country by foot and by train). Second, the very look of the place (as well as the typical urban sprawl just down the hills in central Kaizuka) had me quite convinced that the lack of easy non-car access was a major factor in keeping the area pristine. Bring in a rail line, and suddenly you have throngs of commuters shuffling off daily to Osaka and Wakayama, thus new development and new residents demanding all the comforts of city life, like McDonald’s, Mister Donut, and UNI-QLO. The next thing you know it’s just another suburban wasteland. Easily reached and pedestrian-friendly, perhaps, but still despoiled. So for once, I was happy to be out of the way, and entirely reliant on other people to get me back to civilization at the end of it.

Anyhow, Saturday was a gorgeous autumn day, and the weather up at the retreat was perfect for cooking outside, which is what we did. It was my first outdoor barbecue here in Japan, and despite the menu (beef yakiniku with yakisoba noodles after), it was pleasantly satisfying (and stomach-expanding). I can’t say whether the surroundings actually helped our singing any, but it certainly contributed to a convivial air among chorus members, and we all chatted away into the night over leftovers from the barbecue and other things inappropriate for snacking on at 2 in the morning.

When I did finally retire for the evening, it was to the communal bedroom, where ten baritones and basses had a waiting futon laid out over the tatami mat floor. As I stepped into the room, I was taken aback momentarily to find that outside the window was complete and utter silence – not particularly arresting back home, but a novelty after living for the past year in a variety of places set dispiritingly close to major roadways or rail lines. Reveling in this discovery, I settled in to the futon and shut my eyes… to be awakened moments later by some unearthly loud snoring from one of the other basses. He was even louder than my father gets in his sleep, which is an impressive feat. So, I ate more than my fair share, and then didn’t exactly get a good night’s rest, and then Sunday was cold and wet. But the surroundings were so beautiful that it was hard not to like the trip overall.

As we headed back the next day, I wanted to stay just a little bit longer – and also, for the first time since coming to Japan, felt just a little bit like getting a car. Expensive, impractical, and backwards though they may be, I would be able to get into all the truly out-of-the-way places where the trains don’t go. Maybe someday. For now, at least I can look back fondly on a weekend up in the wilderness with my fellow singers.

The perils of urban sprawl

Japan truly is a beautiful country. You might suppose that I always think this, having liked the place enough to want to spend years in it at a time, but unfortunately, that isn’t always the case. Luckily, I was reminded of this fact today, when I went with a number of people in the local English conversation association to a glee club concert at Kwansei Gakuin University near Kobe. Almost as soon as the train pulled out of Osaka, suddenly the tracks were flanked by green, with tree-lined roadways, thoughtfully planted terraces, and ample park space in almost every direction. Such was the contrast from the city I had just left, that for a moment I wondered where I was.

The answer, of course, was Nishinomiya City, about halfway between Osaka and Kobe, just over the border in Hyogo Prefecture. And what a difference that made! I actually felt a slight twinge of guilt at having been surprised that a Japanese city could pull off urban planning competent enough to remember to leave space for people to breathe. Alighting from the train at Shukugawa Station, we made our way along a winding riverside park, up roads that had been widened with pedestrians in mind, to a university campus that was built, while not in traditional Japanese style, with attention to detail and a complete avoidance of the usual concrete bunkers of learning that seem to be the rage in this country.

All that just serves to drive home a point: Japan has some serious problems with urban sprawl. Matsubara, where I live, is crammed end-to-end with roads, buildings, elevated expressways, and more buildings. Such green as exists tends to be shunted into criminally small public parks, or over the wall in someone’s private garden. It sometimes seems like trees are treated as such a rarity that they must be kept together, apart from civilization… while every inch of human habitation must be paved over with concrete. All this makes for somewhat dreary scenery on my daily commute, and nature an entity that must be sought out to enjoy, rather than existing passively alongside everything else.

The sad thing is, it wasn’t always like this. In the foyer of Matsubara city hall is a wall of pictures taken just after the city’s incorporation in the 1950s, just over half a century ago. From the position of city hall, there was farmland in every direction, with the cities of Sakai and Osaka faintly visible on the horizon, and Matsubara proper a much more modest and uncrowded affair. You would scarcely guess this from the current situation, which has those same acres of farmland crammed from stem to stern with buildings of every description, an unbroken sprawl from Matsubara to Sakai to Osaka and back.

Everything changed at just about the same time that Matsubara City came into being: no longer saddled with the US Occupation, Japan aimed for the sky, and achieved spectacular economic growth – but along with this came people by the trainload from the countryside to work in the new industries, along with dramatically increased car use and the need for elevated expressways (in case you haven’t guessed, I rather despise them as a blemish upon the landscape).

Even today, with Japan in the midst of a decade-and-a-half economic slump and an ever-shrinking birthrate, the cities continue to grow, fueled by immigration from abroad and the continued decline of rural communities which lack enough jobs (or sustainable industries) to support their own residents. It’s gotten so bad that some villages and towns have been officially declared “depopulated” (that is, lacking enough full-time residents to warrant remaining as an independent municipality), with rural areas skewing disproportionately old as nearly all the youth have left in search of work. Some places, to stem the flow, have even begun promoting the rustic charms of “country living” (not to mention generous subsidies) in order to get people back into their emptying streets. The level of desperation would be comical, were it not so dire for the communities in question.

I sympathize with their plight, having spent a not-altogether-disagreeable childhood in Clayton, and sometimes even entertain the notion of moving out to the countryside: teaching in some remote school where I might be the only real live foreigner the students will ever see; settling down with one of the townsfolk and raising 2 kids – more than the national average – with better-than-average English; actually getting to know my neighbors; and spending evenings down at the local izakaya over a pint of happoshu. But then again, I also enjoy getting around by bicycle and not needing a car, so I suppose in the end it works out to a mostly even trade. But I digress.

In some ways, I understand the dilemma that Japan faces as a whole: being mostly mountainous, it has to be very conscientious in allotting what habitable area it has between open countryside, agricultural activity, and human residences / businesses / factories / roads / railways / etc. Be that as it may, the current line of thinking results in a dramatic segregation between nature and everything else, as though someone had erected an invisible barrier emblazoned (in whatever language of chemical signals it is that plants understand) with “NO PHOTOSYNTHESIZERS ALLOWED”. The sole open green space in my neck of the woods that doesn’t belong to tiny public parks belongs instead to criminally small rice paddies that at any rate get cut down at harvest time.

Instead of this arrangement, if Japan’s urban planners were to just stop trying to cram as many people as possible into as small a space as possible, I think they would find there was still plenty of leeway to plant more public green space and spread trees and such a bit more liberally throughout the landscape. That, in essence, is what made Nishinomiya such a shock to the system: it’s like somebody took a minute to think things through, and realized that it really would be a nicer place if people were given the space to actually live in the city instead of merely dwell there.

Make no mistake about it: Japan truly is a beautiful country, when it wants to be. And while it may have its fair share of spaces that rival the worst of American urban blight, there are places that are equal, if not superior, to what the North Country has to offer in the way of green, open space. The key is to get the mixture right – and that’s precisely why I’ve decided that the next chance I get I’m going off to explore southern Hyogo Prefecture and its eminently livable environs.

An apartment by any other name

Is it autumn already? I know I'm probably beginning to sound like a broken record with this, but I still can't figure out where all that time went. By all rights, it feels like it hasn't been long enough for it to be the end of September, but nevertheless, here I am, over a year into my time in Japan and a semi-seasoned expatriate. Even so, there are moments that give me pause: watching from afar the gigantic US Financial Meltdown of 2008 has been for me an oddly detached experience, reading and hearing about it near-endlessly in both languages as though it were happening to someone else even though I know it's bad news for lots of people acoss a huge swath of society back in my home country. But I am no economist, and anyway, I'm at least grateful that I have a roof over my head... which is what I'd like to talk about this week.

First of all, I live in an apartment. Or actually, it might be called a "heights". Or maybe a "mansion". I'm not really sure exactly, because Japanese realtors seem to classify the old standby of "apartment" with arcane terms that certainly do not mean the same thing as they do in English. A "mansion" is indeed an apartment, and not (as far as I can tell) anything particularly luxurious. This might be what we'd call an apartment you own instead of one you rent in the US, but I can never get a straight answer out of people, because they don't know either. （And they're too busy being blown away that the idea that a real mansion is a gigantic house on a large estate, something which simply could not exist with Japan's space issues. But that's a story for another time.)

Now, where was I? Ah, yes... somewhat less mystifying than the above is their size classification for apartments. It's a simple compound term that indicates the number of rooms and the particular amenities associated with the flat. For example, the term "3LDK" indicates a three-room apartment with living room, dining room, and kitchen in addition to the (taken as a given) toilet, bath, and sleeping area. The absolute smallest classification that I am aware of is a "1R", or one-room apartment: these put everything except the toilet and the bathtub in the same room as your bed. I'm slightly luckier than this: I have a 1K, which means that my kitchen and washing machine are outside of the bedroom. A larger space would be nice and all, but I'd have a hard time trying to justify it with the amount of possessions I have here, not to mention the increased rent costs. Living in Japan is not particularly cheap, after all. Apart from that, rooms themselves are classified as to whether they are Japanese (with woven-grass tatami mats) or "Western"-style, and (in both cases, oddly enough) measured according to the number of tatami mats that would fit into them. My place is all "Western"-style (the unfortunate norm, really) and entirely too small for my tastes, but somehow I get by.

Upon entering my apartment, the first thing one sees is the entryway, for taking off shoes. Traditional Japanese houses would have a substantial height difference between this and the floor proper , but this, like many modern Japanese houses, is just a tiled area prior to the (fake) wooden flooring that runs through the rest of the place. There's a handy cabinet for footwear directly to the side of this, and my shoes somehow manage to just barely fit.

My kitchen consists of some cabinets, a sink, a bit of shelf space, and a plug for a gas burner. The burner, (compact) fridge and microwave were not part of the included furnishings. I still manage to make decent use of the space, though, even if two burners would be ideal for cooking some things. Across from the kitchen, there's the bathroom, which (unlike larger Japanese dwellings) has a "unit bath", with toilet, sink and tub all in the same room. Next-door to this is the washing machine, which is tiny and underpowered to its American counterparts, but does its job well enough. As I've mentioned before, there is no such thing as a clothes dryer in Japan unless you've got the space and the money, of which I have neither.

The bedroom is separated from my kitchen space by a set of wooden sliding doors, which I worry about falling off unprovoked. They havent (yet), but I'm keeping my eye on them just in case. On one side of the room, I've got my desk / table (I use it for both purposes), a wooden bookshelf, and a plastic set of dresser drawers. Classy, I know. On the other side, I've got a relatively tiny closet (hence the aforementioned drawers), and an old brown imitation-leather sofa, that I still have no idea how I managed to get in to the apartment, and even foggier a notion of how on Earth I'll ever manage to get it out when it's time to go. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, I guess.

On the far wall, I've got two things of note: First, is the balcony. One thing I can say for Japanese apartments is that they certainly have their priorities straight when it comes to having something of an outdoor space. Even if it's used mostly for laundry and nothing else. i just wish they could change the view to something a little more stimulating than the roof of the building next door that needs replacement. The other thing on this wall is also quite important, and that's the air conditioner. Actually a combination heating / cooling unit, this is something that you turn on when you need it and turn off when you're comfortable. Its use seems closer to a gas-powered space heater or window-mounted air conditioner than the central air new houses in the US have been touting for quite a while now, but it makes sense from an energy-saving perspective... until you realize that the walls are really, really thin. For all the things that they manage to innovate on, you'd think someone in Japan, would have discovered thermal insulation...

Regardless of the relative quality of my living space here in Japan, I'm quite happy that I have a spot to call (or at least privately consider to be) my own. One day, after I return to the US, I'd like to be a homeowner, but I guess I have to work my way up one step at a time. Until then, I'll just have to use my one-room (plus kitchen) apartment to the fullest extent that my landlord allows.