"The Best Twenty-five of twenty-five," part I

For this last week of twenty-five, I would like to take some time to highlight some events or discoveries that might not have gotten much--if any--mention on this blog, but nevertheless played a formative or otherwise interesting role my last year of life. Each day, for the next five days, I will highlight five "Best Ofs" from my twenty-fifth year, comprising, altogether, "The Best Twenty-five of twenty-five."

Here goes:

1. The best birthday gift

This is way hard to choose, actually, because I had so many amazing birthday presents last year! Ashley Jones gave me a skirt that I love and the best key cover ever. I got a beautiful sweater and some great books from my sisters. And Josiah, in his usual custom, gave a hand-made greeting card, complete with personalized coupons to be redeemed for special outings and fun activities. In the end, I guess I have to say that Josiah's present would be the best, because there's no greater gift than time.

2. The best (and by "best," I mean worst) near-death experience

I'm not exaggerating. I really could have died. Back in September, when Josiah, Jared, and I took a two-night backpacking trip in the Ansel Adams Wilderness, the weather was less than kind to us. The first morning, it started to drizzle. With hopes of climbing nearby Madera Peak, we eyed the sky hopefully all day, casting furtive glances at the southern horizon, where dark clouds persistently loomed over the mountain tops.

Finally, at mid afternoon, the clouds in the south still showing no immediate intention to move our direction, we decided to just go for it. Armed with water and snacks, we began to scale the steep, granite slope. Once we cleared the tree line, the going became especially difficult, with loose rock shards slipping out from under us as we climbed higher and higher, our gaze remaining cautiously on the clouds in the south, ready to detect the slightest hint of threat.

A clap of thunder sounded so loud and so close you could feel it in the ground. Immediately, we realized our folly: we had been watching the clouds in the south so intently, we had entirely failed to notice the storm advancing on us rapidly from the north! We were absolutely exposed and standing on the side of one of the tallest mountain peaks in the vicinity, nothing but loose granite beneath our feet.

Fully aware that a scraped knee or even a twisted ankle would be preferable to being struck by lightning, we began to descend as quickly as possible, running and sometimes sliding down hillsides of sharp stones. As incautiously as we hurried, however, we were no match for the rolling black clouds, which advanced on us rapidly, releasing terrifying cracks of lightning. I moved as fast as I could, but both Jared and Josiah were far ahead of me. The clouds were finally right overhead. And then I was passing trees and shrubs and, as the rain began to fall, my hiking boots touched soft dirt, and I knew I was probably going to live.

3. The best thing I got in the mail

A letter from a student in Japan.

4. The best job

I genuinely loved working for UPS in December. I never thought it would be possible to love a job and occasionally, specifically on the days that it rained, it could be a little bit miserable. But I loved the feeling of working hard and doing something physically exerting while being outdoors and interacting with lots of different people in a positive setting all day. What was there not to love?

5. The best thing I crocheted

In late 2010 and early 2011, I crocheted several fun little things of which I was quite proud, but my favorite would have to be this guy right here.

He's an iPod sleeve.

Rebound

Japan, when I first arrived there, was so immensely foreign. With everything to the broadest cultural concepts to the cryptic labels on cans of food seeming entirely inaccessible to my uninitiated mind, I began building emotional and and intellectual defenses around myself to ward off the ever-impending threats of culture shock, homesickness, and public humiliation. These little psychological protections, however, had the ultimately adverse effect of hindering me from truly absorbing and appreciating my surroundings to the extent that I might of had I not been so concerned with the security of my ego. I seldom allowed myself to enter into situations where I would not have control over myself and my reputation. Resultantly, I seldom found myself in situations where I might be subject to any real learning opportunities. Oftentimes in conversation, people will mention something they admire about Japan, and I begin to feel quite stupid and vulgar that I, who lived there for two years, never thought about that before.

Perhaps this is all sounding rather cryptic; I will try to be more explicit. I regret that I did not delve further into learning the language. I took classes, but, when I was with my friends who spoke English, I was all too comfortable allowing the conversation to proceed entirely in English. I did not put much effort into learning about the arts in Japan. I refused to watch Japanese television. I resented the "American bubble" I lived in, but I made close to no efforts to break out of that bubble.

The positive side to all this is that I can still have the humbling yet exciting experience of continuing to learn wonderful new things about Japan and Japanese culture. From people who have never even set foot in Japan, I learn to observe and appreciate a Japanese design aesthetic, with its clear lines and minimalist attention to detail. Out of an impulse to retain whatever language abilities I haven't already lost, I flip through some manga and watch some anime...and discover that I actually like some of it.

Despite my general aversion to anything mainstream Japanese media while I was living in Japan, there was one particular J-drama, a one-season romantic comedy by the name of Zettai Kareishi (Absolute Boyfriend) that I fell in love with. The ridiculous premise--a rather dweeby hopeless romantic with aspirations of becoming a pastry chef is unknowingly selected to receive her very own robot boyfriend--was irresistible. And Hiro Mizushima, who plays her bad-boy boss who ends up falling for her, is pretty darn cute.

Tonight, I was thrilled to accidentally discover that Saki Aibu and Mokomichi Hayami, who portray the main character and the robot, respectively, have been reunited in a new ten-episode drama, Rebound, that just concluded earlier this month. It's the story of a woman struggling with her weight who falls in love with a pastry chef, and even though after watching the first episode I'm not instantaneously endeared to it as I was to Zettai Kareishi, it is still a quirky comedy with a contrived romantic plot. Toss two beloved actors into the mix and I'm hooked. I'll do my best to resist the temptation to watch the entire show in one sitting.

One Year to the Day

As cliché as it may be for me to say so, I can't believe a year has already gone by. Certainly, the distance between me and that salmon-colored concrete schoolhouse surrounded by rice paddies seems vaster than ever before, but a year? It hardly seems possible that my ongoings, since leaving my job and my life in Japan, have been plentiful enough to fill 365 full days. The facts--that I took a trip to Vancouver, Canada, watched both my sisters get married, spent two months in Europe, worked a month at UPS and am now nearly a month into a new job--seem negligible. Years are supposed to feel grander, more substantial, than what has passed between this day and the day I stood up in front of a swelteringly hot gym full of 200-some students and their teachers, all of whom had contributed so significantly to my experiences and perceptions of their country, and choked out a goodbye speech in a language I have since all but lost. Referring to what has passed between now and then as a year seems ridiculous. If years can slip away so quick and easily, then what use have I for them?

I wanted to do something special--commemorative--to mark this day. I thought about making Japanese food for dinner, maybe driving up to Kearney Mesa and visiting some of the Japanese retailers in town. Watching a Japanese film was also taken under consideration. But I realize that any of these activities, even if I were to invite my parents to participate, would be imbued with a tinge of loneliness and remorse. It is more than an ocean that divides me from the country that, when I left, was just beginning to feel familiar. Japan and I are separated by a full year of experiences. We have both changed a lot in that year. I feel particularly estranged from the pain that that country has suffered in the aftermath of March's natural disasters, and know that my separation from these events has rendered me more of an outsider--more of a gaijin--than ever before. In this sense, a "year" seems hardly sufficient to describe the span of what has elapsed between me and my life in Japan.

I Like America

I recall having had, throughout my childhood and adolescence, a nagging sensation of my own cultural inadequacy; I perceived myself to be at an acute disadvantage in comparison to my friends whose parents or grandparents had immigrated to this country in the last half-century (a demographic that--growing up in San Diego, a port city with a military base right on the boarder with another country--described a considerable number of the kids I hung out with). I still recall how once, in kindergarten, there was a day on which we were all supposed to wear the traditional dress of our ethnic heritage. I came to school dressed as a cowgirl. Even at age five, I knew that this was a bit of a cop-out.

My middle-class, American, White, Protestant family seemed thoroughly estranged from our distant Northern European heritage. We celebrated American holidays, such as Thanksgiving and American Christmas, and we had our own little traditions surrounding these get-togethers, but the origins of such rituals could be traced back no further than a couple of decades. In middle school, I was profoundly jealous of my peers who got to celebrate bat-mitzvahs and quinseañeras; not because I envied the attention or the presents, but because I was deeply, terribly covetous that they should have such clear evidence of belonging to a specific cultural identity and community.

It was my deep-rooted sense of cultural inferiority--or, should I say, my perceived lack of culture altogether--that, at least in part, fostered my desire to travel and experience other countries. As much as I learned about being a Kenyan, an Englishman, a Japanese, or a Frenchman during my escapades in Kenya, England, Japan, France, I learned just as much--if not more--in each of these countries about what it means to be an American.

If you're having trouble understanding your culture as an insider, go overseas and observe the juxtaposition of your own culturally conditioned tendencies, opinions, and mannerisms with those of people who operate within a different cultural paradigm. It was during the two years that I spent living in Japan that I began to observe, more fully than ever before, evidence suggesting that I did, indeed, belong to a culture: American culture. (And even more specifically, Southern Californian culture. And, more specific yet, San Diego culture!) And, thank goodness, American culture is more than just Big Macs and 64-ounce soft drinks; it's a way of perceiving our individual selves and the ways we relate to others. In a grocery store in San Diego, for instance, it seems entirely normal to find myself spontaneously engaged in friendly conversation with an employee or fellow shopper. As Americans, we don't need to know each other to be friends. This is entirely not the case in Japan. Strangers' dialog with one another is comprised mainly of stock greetings employed at the beginning and end of nearly all interactions. Polite, not familiar. An old woman in the supermarket gave me some unsolicited advice once about what bread to buy, but that was unusual. I guess old people, in any culture, are allowed to operate within their own paradigm.

It's empowering to belong to a community and to have a cultural identity, but it's also healthy to be aware of the positive and negative aspects of that community's way of understanding and explaining life. I think it's great that Americans, in general, are so friendly and outgoing; but, I think we also need to focus on having more genuine interactions and not become obsessed with always giving off the image of being "great!" I like that we value personal identity and individual capacity for success; but, I think we work too much and are generally too focused on money and possessions. And I love how diverse America is; but, we still have a ways to go in ensuring equal rights and social securities for all citizens.

Our preference for and allegiance to a certain thing mean very little if we've never had anything to compare it to. I may like bananas, but if I've never tried another fruit, I will neither fully understand my own tastes, nor be able to relate to a person who says she prefers apples. Living in Japan helped me to see that I do, indeed, like America and being an American. As I climbed up on the hill in my parents' back yard to watch the fireworks shows this evening, enjoying my first Fourth of July in this country in three years, I felt happy and proud to be part of something good. Not better, certainly not perfect, but good. While the fireworks displays finished off, each with their own grand finale, I joined in the chorus of neighbors standing outside their houses and chanting, "USA! USA! USA!" I admit, it was a bit silly, but we were all being silly together, and it felt great. We were all enjoying the evening. We were all Americans.

Job Jumble

Is it bad that this makes me feel a little bit stressed out?

I guess because making time to do all those things sounds difficult. Despite the fact that I, being unemployed, should have all the time in the world.

Unemployed? Yeah. I was supposed to start working at a certain big-name book retailer this afternoon, but the assistant manager called to say that she was too busy to do my orientation this week and would have to reschedule for next Tuesday. Another week to not work? That would be all fine and good, were it not for the fact that it pushes back the day when I will at last begin earning a paycheck.

I've been hired at two places since I got back from France (four weeks ago today!). Both times, I was led to believe that I would be starting work right away. And, both in both cases, the actual start date has been pushed back (the offer I received two weeks ago to work at a vegan food booth has been put on hold indefinitely).

I'm trying not to feel stressed out about this. Yes, my savings account is rapidly approaching nonexistence, but, feeling anxious about it probably won't help anything. At present, I'm reading Richard Foster's Freedom of Simplicity, and his discussion of some of Jesus' teachings in the book of Matthew, concerning the conflict between material possessions and the spiritual life, seems especially deserving of consideration right now. In Matthew 6, Jesus instructs his disciples, "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth [...] For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also" (v. 19 & 21), and he admonishes his followers to not worry about food or clothes, "But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well" (v. 33). Foster comments on Jesus' command, clarifying that we are not being forbidden from making provision, but rather told to "live the carefree life of unconcern for possession in the midst of our work" (37). In other words, serving God rather than wealth doesn't mean we have to wear animal skins and forage in the wild for food. Nor does it mean that we just sit comfortably in our parents' house and watch Netflix in expectation that a job will magically appear. It means doing our work, but not letting it become the source of our hope; that's God's job.

It's been a long time since I was in a position where I didn't feel like I could just buy whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. In Japan, my income was always beyond sufficient for my means. And with the savings I acquired during my two years abroad, there was little to dissuade me, upon my return to America, from buying a car, going on a vacation or three, and basically just taking it easy for a few months. This situation of having to abstain from my usual consumerist tendencies and to consider all my purchases carefully is rather foreign to me. But it feels healthy. Despite the fact that I occasionally have moments of panic where I wonder how on earth I'm going to afford the gas to get me to my job until my first paycheck (that's what credit cards are for!), this experience, overall, is good for my soul. I am learning. I am growing. I am grateful.

The one where she decides to go to France

"You must be brave," people kept saying to me. Brave? It might sound brave to some, I suppose, if not downright brazen, that I would suddenly decide to put the remainder of my English-teaching savings toward taking a two-month solo trip to France. I didn't know anyone in France. My mission, simply, was to learn a bit of French and spend some time on some French farms. I had a French school in Paris picked out for the first three weeks but, otherwise, I would be making plans as I went. "Brave." The choice of descriptor seemed logical and, yet, I didn't feel brave. I didn't feel anything. Not even scared. The fact that I was truly going to France--had paid for the non-refundable airline ticket and sent a deposit for the language school--didn't seem real to me. Empirically, yes, I knew I was going. But I didn't feel it.

This emotional numbness, this unshakable malaise, was one of the main motivations that led me to decide to go to France in the first place: I wanted to feel something. It seemed that I hadn't really felt anything for a considerable while. Which, in retrospect, was probably not entirely accurate. I was just depressed. And I think we've all experienced moments (I do almost daily) where we compare the present moment to a preceding one, and are filled with insufferable angst that things aren't as good now as they were when we were in that other town, other job, other relationship, other mindset. Of course, that earlier reality had its imperfections, too, we just don't consider them because we are depressed.

Such was my condition in February of this year. I was jobless, living with my parents, my savings from teaching in Japan trickling away slowly as I searched less-than-half-heartedly for a job. My sister, Lindsay, had just gotten married and, with no more wedding to plan and prepare for, I was left to face the void of my future, armed with nothing but a bachelor's degree in English and a vague intention to go back to school for something. I started to panic. It seemed that all of the career advice I had ever received--to follow my dreams, to do what I love--was rendered irrelevant by the growing realization that I had no dreams and, if in fact there was something I would love doing, I had no idea what it was because I had never done it before.

One day in late February I was hanging out with some friends. This is usually a good idea because being with friends helps me to feel better about my lack of direction in life because most of my friends are in a similar situation. However, since we share the same predicament, my friends are unable to give me any helpful advice and, as soon as I am no longer with them, I go back to being depressed. But on this particular day, one of my friends said something to me that changed everything. She asked me where I wanted to go on my next vacation. It was an innocent question, I'm sure, posed simply for the sake of interesting conversation. Without having to think about it much, I told her I wanted to go to France and spend some time learning French. It was an idea that I had toyed with for a while toward the end of my second year in Japan, and I had never completely discarded it, though the quizzical looks I got from people when I told them the idea and their unanswerable questions, "Why France? Why French?" had persuaded me, in my insecurity, to let it become obscured in the back of the closet of my brain. Now, with the permission of my friend's hypothetical question, I pulled the idea back into the light and, dusting it off, noted just how strongly it still appealed to me.

Yet, in answer to those questions as to my reasons for choosing France and it's language, "Because I want to," didn't seem like strong enough justification for spending several thousand dollars to go on vacation for two months. For the sake of explaining myself to others, I focused mainly on the reasons I shouldn't not go to France:

1. I may never have the time and money to do something like this again.
2. I'm 25 now and it's cheaper to do a lot of things in Europe if you're 25 or younger.
3. I don't have a family to look after.
4. I might regret it later if I don't.

Though it works unfailingly in arithmetic equations, in life, a double negative does not make a positive. Using a roundabout means to justify myself to others rather than simply having the confidence to be honest about my own hopes and passions provided me with a compelling enough argument to legitimize my trip to France and to motivate me to take the practical steps needed to get the trip in motion; but, it set the precedent that this trip was intertwined with my need to prove myself to others, a need that on several occasions threatened to destroy what otherwise turned out to be possibly the greatest two months of my life. It was not until the last week of my trip that I finally confronted this need of mine more seriously than I ever have before and, in a monastery not far from the border to Germany, glimpsed the road to freedom from self-deprecation. It is a road I continue now and will probably always continue to walk but, on the first of March, the day I officially decided to go to France, I was miles from the trail head.

In the three weeks leading up to my departure, I tried to mentally grasp the gravity of what was coming, but all my pondering failed to elicit the feelings of enthusiasm or nervousness that might be expected of someone in my situation. How can you be excited about something if you have no idea what to expect? And how can you know what to expect if you've never done anything remotely like it before? No, I wasn't scared. But one thing I certainly didn't feel--even as I packed all the belongings I would need for two months into a 65-liter backpack, as I sent emails to the absolute strangers who didn't speak English whom I would be staying with in Paris, as I hugged my dad goodbye in front of the San Diego airport on the morning of the 23rd of March--was brave.

Learning French in France

...is exceedingly different from learning Japanese in Japan. For one thing, I know not to expect any praise for my meager efforts to communicate in the local tongue. At best, Parisians respond to my lousy French patiently, but with indifference. They'll often just start speaking to me in English--a courtesy, I'm sure, but a bit frustrating when most of my reason for being here is to learn French.

At my language school the ladies who work at the front desk seem to have little patience or sympathy for people who can't communicate articulately in French. A bit ironic, if you ask me. Yesterday, feeling confident that I knew just enough vocabulary to communicate that I was not in possession of the list of activities put on by the school each month and that I would like one, please, I approached the receptionist and attempted to convey my desire. Without looking up from her computer screen, she listened to my broken explanation, furrowed her brow, and said, still without looking at me, "Je ne comprens pas." It took a little more scrambling for words before I was understood and told that I could get the schedule on Monday.

But the point that should be taken away from all this is not that Parisians are rude or that I feel I am entitled to a little more positive reinforcement. I would argue that neither is the case. Not everyone can be as liberal with compliments as Americans tend to be. The point that should be taken from this, rather, is that I am in fact learning French! With approximately five hours a day dedicated to disciplined study of the language, and much of the rest of the day spent reading signs, food labels, and menus and practicing basic exchanges with waitresses or people on the metro, I'm excited to find that I'm already experiencing results.

Who knows where I'll be linguistically when my course ends in two weeks? But I am thrilled to know that I am setting the foundation for a new skill that I can continue to nurture and develop in the future.

From Paris

Something wonderful happened today. But as much could be said of every day since I arrived in Paris.

For example, on Friday morning as I was sightseeing around the Notre Dame, I randomly spotted two familiar faces: a couple whom I recognized from my university. Though they didn't know me, we are connected by rather significant mutual friends and the three of us were appropriately amazed by the improbability of such an encounter.

Seeing fellow APU alumni had an assuaging effect on the creeping loneliness and slight homesickness that, mingling with my lingering jet lag, had managed to put me in an unfortunately unpleasant mood that morning. I decided to make this trip to Paris (consisting of a three-week French language course and homestay, to be followed by six weeks of additional travel in France and Spain) only about three weeks ago. And though this seemingly rash decision was actually preceded by several months of related "what if" conjectures, the short time that I had to prepare--practically as well as mentally and emotionally--made it easy for me to interpret the stress and fatigue I was feeling at the moment as possible indicators that the whole trip had been a mistake. This is, of course, probably not the case. If anything, it's quite possible that this trip will turn out to be one of the best decisions I've made in my life. Running into a couple of APU alumni in front of the Notre Dame somehow helped to remind me of that.

Another example of a wonderful thing: yesterday I visited the grave of Frederic Chopin. Though I had been looking forward to seeing the final resting place of the composer whose works I most adored as a teenage aspiring virtuoso, I had not anticipated the great and reverent sense of gratitude that overcame me as I stood before that lovingly adorned marble tombstone. Seeing the graves of Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, and Molière was certainly interesting, but standing next to Chopin felt rather profound.

And today's wonderful event? As I arrived at the apartment building this evening where I will be staying with a French family for the next three weeks, I passed by two women who appeared to be mother and daughter an who looked like they could be Japanese (I always keep an eye and an ear out for Japanese people; I can't help it). Sure enough, I overheard a few Japanese words and noticed that the daughter was holding a piece of paper that I recognized as the letterhead for the French language school that I will be attending, starting tomorrow. I approached them and spoke to them in Japanese. It turned out that the girl was starting a homestay that evening with a different host in the same building, and she and her mother were struggling to little avail to communicate over the phone with her host family, to let them know that they were outside, waiting to be let in. Happily, they handed the phone over to me and I was able to convey the message in English. Jubilation! The mother remarked that God must be looking out for them. I didn't tell her so, but I'm absolutely certain that this is the case. And that the same goes for me.

Disaster in Japan

This morning I awoke to the ring of my cell phone, Josiah calling to make sure that I had heard the news: Japan had been hit by a massive earthquake, magnitude 8.9, the largest earthquake in their recorded history. My mind, somewhere in REM sleep only a minute earlier, snapped into gear. Josiah and I spent the summer of 2008 to the summer of 2010 living and teaching in Tochigi Prefecture, Japan--only two prefectures south of Miyagi Prefecture, where the devastation had been most concentrated.

I opened my web browser to BBC News and turned the t.v. on to CNN. I scanned Facebook for updates from any of my friends who are in Japan. One friend had changed his status to say that he was okay, just without water or electricity. This was reassuring. But the video clips flashing across my parents' high definition television screen provided less comfort. Image after image of great walls of sea water rushing forward to take out entire towns, businessmen stumbling about swaying office buildings, people running terrified out of their homes. But never a word as to where these videos were captured. In Miyagi? In Tokyo? It was several hours before I was able to get in touch with friends in Tochigi and get an idea of what the situation was like in my once-hometown of Moka.

In Tochigi, people were scared, but fine. Many spent almost a day shivering in their homes without water or electricity, but hardly anyone--as far as reports have shown--has been seriously injured. Tochigi prefecture is completely landlocked, far enough inland that tsunamis do not pose a threat and--as anyone who has been following the news today is now well aware--buildings in Japan are specifically engineered to withstand violent earthquakes, so the damage to homes in and around Moka has been relatively minimal. I heard a report that a friend's parents' roof was significantly damaged, but her parents, physically, are fine. They are fine!

But my joy at knowing my own friends have been spared is put on hold in the face of the devastation that has taken place in the coastal prefectures to the north of them. Japan is my second home. It is part of who I am now. I am reminded poignantly of the truism that inviting others into our lives means sharing not only their deepest joys, but also their most painful sorrows. As the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz empirically reasons, "Now I know I've got a heart, 'cause it's breaking." If I had any doubt before as to how significantly my time in Japan had impacted me personally, it has been wiped out of my mind by the aching of my heart as I watch the tragedy unfold on the news.

I was deeply impressed by a certain video clip that they have been repeatedly showing in the mainstream television coverage of the story. On t.v., they only show a small portion of the video, but a longer version is available on Youtube. We watch as, in a supermarket, workers forgo running to safety in order to help one another hold the wine shelf in place and to rescue some of the store's most valuable merchandise.

The video reminds me, first of all, of how shocked I was when I first felt (what I then considered to be) a big earthquake in Japan: I momentarily "freaked out" and looked for a place to duck and cover; but, in looking around, realized that everyone else in the room was ignoring the quake altogether! It occurred to me then that earthquakes were so much a routine part of life in Japan that it was not worth it to even acknowledge the relatively small ones.

But, even more than that, these video images remind me of the pervasive sense of "team" that runs throughout Japanese culture. Americans working in an American supermarket during a natural disaster would sooner be concerned with protecting themselves than protecting the merchandise of their employer, I think. (And here the American side of me wants to chip in, "And rightfully so!" But the veteran gaijin side of me sympathizes with a mindset in which duty always comes before self.)

The hardships that Japan and its people face today and will continue to face in the months to come are unimaginable, but I know that this culturally embedded sense of dedication to the group over the individual will play a vital role in their rehabilitation. Somewhere, several months from now, healing will happen. But today, my heart aches alongside hearts in Japan and throughout the world. Please, now, as you finish reading this, pray for Japan.

"Love Naturally"

I can't think of an excuse to share this video, other than that I love it.

It in no way represents what my life was like when I lived in Japan.



But, oh, how I wish it did!

Nabe Flop

According to the cookbook, Japanese Cooking: Contemporary & Traditional, by Miyoko Nishimoto Schinner (from which I derive most of my Japanese recipes), nabemono (hot pot) dishes "are designed for communal eating" (120). Indeed, in light of my experiences eating nabe in Japan, it never would have occurred to me to think of it as a dish that could possibly be enjoyed without a group. Everything about the way it is prepared and served indicates that it is meant to be partaken of communally. So, to me, the very thought of eating it by oneself is laughable.

Yesterday, as it drew near dinnertime and the hour for my family members to begin returning from their respective jobs, I enthusiastically began to chop vegetables and tofu in preparation for a dish I was sure would truly impress. Nabe is the perfect autumn meal; the entire process of preparing and enjoying it warms the body and the spirit. Typically, all the ingredients are cooked together in a large earthenware pot over a portable burner that sits in the center of the table and continues to warm the soup throughout the meal. Generally, this meal lasts a couple of hours.

I don't own a nabe pot, nor do I have a portable burner that can be used indoors. But I figured--no bother--I would simply prepare the soup in a ceramic pot over the stove and bring that to the table. My family and I could keep a lid on it to retain warmth and even reheat it on the stove intermittently, if necessary.

However, much to my dismay, each member of my family, upon returning home, informed me that he or she had a prior engagement that that evening and could not stay for dinner. And so I was left to eat my nabe by myself. Nobody in my family could understand why this should make me laugh and shake my head so much. They, never having partaken of an authentic nabe experience, could not possibly grasp the absurdity of the present situation.

I ate my nabe alone. Kimchee nabe: The best kind. It tasted good, yet everything about it was...wrong.

I need some San Diego friends.

The Best Day

But it didn't start off that way. I awoke at 7:30--a good two hours earlier than my unemployed self has lately become accustomed to--feeling groggy. I was up late the night before, turning my room upside down in search of a manila envelope that contained the important personal documents I would need to have on hand for my job interview this morning. I lost a good hour and a half of sleep and was ready to call off the search before the obvious place finally occurred to me. All that for a tiny little piece of paper with my social security number written on it? I went to bed in a foul mood.

This morning, I was assembling my usual breakfast of yogurt, granola, and raisins, when Lindsay, running out the door on her way to work, explained apologetically that the dog had "puked his guts out" all over the living room and, though she'd tried to clean it up a little, she didn't have time to finish the job. I looked at the clock: I was intending to head to my interview in half an hour, but I still needed to eat, get dressed, blow dry my hair, and write down directions. "Okay," I told her, "I'll do my best to clean it, if I have time."

I cleaned up the dog's vomit (which resembled, much to the misfortune of my gag reflex, the granola I'd just eaten), slipped into a half-ironed shirt, skipped the blow dry, jotted down what turns to take after the freeway exit, and dashed out the door about fifteen minutes later than I'd intended. I made it to the interview location exactly on time.

Fortunately, it was a group interview and the group was large, so nobody took much notice of my lack of punctuality. It was mostly an information session for a seasonal position with UPS, which, as it turns out, I may or may not qualify for on account of the area where I live. We'll see.

Gloriously, however, the interview location was in Kearny Mesa, a part of San Diego that is a veritable heaven to a recently repatriated former English teacher in Japan (like me). Immediately west of California 163, off Balboa Avenue, is a more than satisfying conglomeration of Japanese shops and restaurants, including a discount variety store and a used book shop that also had locations in Moka, Japan! Immediately after leaving the UPS warehouse, I headed down to Daiso, where I simply basked for about an hour in the familiar foreignness of it all, reading labels in Japanese and listening to small children speaking to their mothers in a language that I am remorsefully rapidly forgetting.

I left Daiso without purchasing anything and headed next door, to a Japanese market. After perusing the aisles, my mouth literally watering the entire time, I concluded decisively that tonight is definitely going to be a nabe night. I bought the soup base, tofu and vegetables I would need--including five kinds of mushrooms--and went across the street to lunch on fresh authentic hot udon noodles at Kayaba in the Mitsuwa Marketplace. As I headed back to my car, I couldn't help but dance a little through the parking lot from the utter joy that this noontime excursion had brought me. True, it's not the same as a trip to Japan, but, for a fraction of the cost, it comes delightfully close.

Update

I was just updating my blogger profile and noticed that my location was still set to Moka, Japan. I changed it to San Diego, United States, and instantly felt less interesting.

Dear Meghan teacher,

I’m sorry that it took me so long to write a letter. Meghan sensei, how are you? We are all fine. How is it being back in your hometown? In Japan, it’s the season of beautiful maple leaves. And, it’s becoming cold. What is it like now in America?

Do you remember me?

[purikura of Eri and some of her friends from school]

We all miss you, Meghan sensei. I’m sad I can’t see your cute smile in English class anymore.

At Yamazaki Junior High School, we just had Rindosai [the school festival]. All of the classes did very good in the chorus competition and at “Yama-chu LIVE” [the afternoon talent/variety show portion of the program] and, altogether, everyone was able to make good memories.

And that’s what’s happening here!

I’m waiting for a letter from you, if it pleases you to write one.

From Eri Genta



I received this letter in the mail on Saturday and it certainly succeeded in making my day, if not my week.

We're going to slice a face on his belly!

The grass is always greener on the other side. Unless, of course, you live in San Diego and the grass is insipidly lush all year round. But in Japan right now, I know that the leaves on the ginko trees are turning a stunning yellow. And that knowledge, paired with the gloomy-rainy weather we've been having in Southern California the last few days, puts me in a happy, autumny mood.

It was in such spirits that I took a paring knife in hand this evening and went to work on a lovely sized pumpkin with a perfectly gnarled stem. Lindsay sat beside me at the kitchen table, working magic on her own bulbous gourd. The results were two gnomish visages, appropriately reflective of Lindsay and my respective styles. Dad was able to guess whose is whose right away. Can you? (*answer below)


And now I sit, enjoying handfuls of freshly roasted pumpkin seeds, the delightful aroma of which has filled the kitchen and living room. The only thing missing from this picture is a mug of steaming mulled wine, an omission which is scheduled to be remedied tomorrow evening.

Happy autumn, all!

*Jack-o-lanterns: the aghast one on the left is mine; the inanely pleased one on the right is Lindsay's.

Missing Moka-shi

I just finished watching the 2008 Japanese film Departures. I did not see it when it first came out, which was a source of much embarrassment to me since, as I was living in Japan and as I have many hip friends in the States who watch a lot of foreign films, I felt even more than usually out of sync with the trends of the times when folks back home would ask, "Oh! Did you see that Japanese movie that won the Academy Award for best foreign film?"

Well, enough about me and my social insecurities. I thought Departures (おくりびと) was lovely. The story line was so well crafted, it was humorous in all the right parts, and best of all, the film demonstrated in both its form and function the acute attention to aesthetic detail that is so much a part of Japanese life and society. Even the ritual of preparing a dead body for burial, in its care and precision, is imbued with meaning and beauty.


I miss Japan so much. The feeling hit me hard and out of nowhere yesterday as I was walking down the street, on my way home from the mailbox. I felt sad and cried a lot the last few weeks that I was in Moka, but yesterday was really the first time since coming back to California that I truly felt the pain of loss. Japan is a marvelous country, and I really didn't start to grasp just how special a place it is until I was no longer living there.

I don't really feel remorseful or depressed about it. My job there wasn't great; often it was terrible. And I have a lot more friends in America than I ever did in Japan. But Japanese culture and society found a permanent place in my heart. I'm grateful that I can continue to learn about Japan and about myself in the context of my association with that nation, even when I'm in the States. And I'm grateful that when I do go back some day, to visit or maybe even to live, it will already be my home.

Naked in Nippon

This morning, as I sat beside the fire ring with three friends who had accompanied me on a weekend camping trip, I told a humorous story from my experiences in Japan. The telling of it reminded me that it's a tale I've yet to set down in writing. Though the punchline might seem anticlimactic to Japanese readers, my own compatriots are likely to get a kick out of it.

Earlier this year, I went hiking in Nikko National Park with my American friend Josiah, my South African friend Marius, and my Japanese friend Atsuki. It was a very pleasant hike, about four hours along a fairly level path, ending at a train station where we could easily catch a ride back to the trail head, where Atsuki's car was parked. Also near the end of the trail was a large, slightly famous and rather upscale hotel, with a proportionately famous and upscale onsen attached to it.

An onsen is a Japanese-style communal bath house. Traditionally, they are built around the offshoot of a natural geothermic hot spring, but many present-day onsen simply pipe in heated tap water. Though these bathhouses vary significantly in size, quality, and style, the system for visiting an onsen is fairly uniform.

The standard onsen is divided into two sections: one for men and one for women. After paying the entrance fee, men and women go through separate doorways, usually concealed by a blue curtain for males and a red curtain for females. After passing though the curtain, the customer enters a room in which she undresses completely and leaves her clothes and personal items in a locker or basket or cubby. Next, she proceeds to a room where she washes herself very thoroughly with soap. After completely rinsing off, she enters a steaming hot bath for soaking. Depending on the onsen, there may be just one bath or there may be multiple baths of different styles, temperatures, or even aromas. Some may have massage jets or bubbles, and there might even be waterfalls, saunas, and beautiful outdoor (but still appropriately private) settings. The visitor to the onsen will probably find the intense heat a little too overwhelming to stay in the baths more than an hour or so and, after completing her soak, will once again wash herself thoroughly with soap before returning to the locker room. All of these steps are done in the company of fellow same-sex bathers and, though potentially awkward for the unseasoned foreigner, make for a deeply relaxing experience.

I love onsen, and, on that day in Nikko as my fellow hikers and I made our way down that scenic path, the four of us agreed to visit the hot spring at the hotel before taking the train back to the trail head.

As we neared the end of the hike, the conversation was about on the different types of onsen that exist in Japan and Atsuki mentioned something I had heard of only once before: that there are, in some places, "mixed" onsen--called konyoku--where men and women bathe together in the same area. Atsuki said that such establishments, however, were very rare these days and he had never actually seen one.

We came to a bridge that marked the end of our hiking trail. The bridge stretched over a wide river. As we walked across, we could see, about eighty yards away on the opposite river bank, the back of the hotel. And there, along the back of the hotel, was the onsen.

"Oh my gosh, guys, look."

It appeared to be only the men's baths that were visible from the bridge, but there the men were, in full view of anyone who happened to pass along this public space. Given, we were too far away to really see much beyond the obvious fact that they were naked, but we all giggled and agreed that, of the three nationalities represented in our party, Atsuki's was the only one that would find such a setup completely acceptable.

We crossed the bridge and would have to walk along a path and cross another smaller bridge to reach the hotel. We walked up some steps and Atsuki, who was in the lead, suddenly stopped and turned around to face the rest of us. "Guys," he said, "the kind of onsen that we were just talking about--the one with men and women together in the same bath--konyoku--this sign says that there's one right here!"

We were all amazed by the improbability of the coincidence that had just taken place, and prodded one another jokingly about whether we would be willing to give it a try. But, rather than proceed straight forward toward the entrance, we turned the corner there to cross the smaller bridge. I stepped out onto the bridge, glanced to my side, and nearly screamed in shock.

It turns out that the konyoku had an outdoor bath overlooking the riverbank, too. But this time, rather than far enough away to prevent the unassisted eye from discerning any details, the baths were RIGHT THERE, and old naked men sat lounging without a care not fifteen feet from where I stood.

Oh, my. I instantly diverted my eyes. My hiking companions struggled to stifle their shocked laughter and teased me about my bright red cheeks. "That," even Atsuki felt, "isn't normal."

In the end, our perceptions of normal and abnormal are deeply ingrained in our own cultural backgrounds. Living in Japan taught me to reconsider many of my earlier assumptions about what is natural or universal in regards to common human behavior. It was a good learning experience. But there are certain images and situations that, at least for me, will perhaps never cease to be shocking.

To get to the train station, we had to come back across the same bridge and, though I tried to be polite, I admit I got another eyefull in spite of myself.

As much as I love onsen, I don't think that konyoku will ever be my thing.