tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39400739762381743542024-02-21T05:04:47.038-08:00Cate-o-rinjust a little blonde girl...Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-76484541213065455702020-08-02T15:03:00.000-07:002020-08-02T15:10:09.510-07:00Reposted: Mt. Tsukuba from December 2010A couple of months ago I climbed Mt. Tsukuba (筑波山)with some friends and coworkers. The mountain is pretty well-known in Japan. It has two peaks, Nyotai-san 877 m (2,877 ft) and Nantai-san 871 m (2,858 ft). Apparently, housed within these two peaks are divinities, one male and the other female.<br />
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There's a legend about these two peaks. Apparently, thousands of years ago a deity came down to earth and needed a place to spend the night. First he asked Mt. Fuji, offering to bless the mountain if it provided him with lodgings. But with it's perfect shape and majestic height, Mt. Fuji was too proud and arrogant and said it didn't need the deity's blessings.<br />
Humble Mt. Tsukuba, on the other hand, gladly offered the deity a place for the night, as well as food and water. According to Wikipedia, "Today, Mt. Fuji is a cold, lonely, and barren mountain, while Mt. Tsukuba bursts with vegetation, and is filled with colors as the seasons change." So basically, Fuji was jerk and now it's cold and barren... hilaaarious.<br />
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Anyway, Mt. Tsukuba is also kind of interesting because it's not part of a mountain range. It's stands alone in the middle of farms and rice fields, so you have a pretty fantastic 360 degree view from the peaks.<br />
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And that's really all I have to say about that.<br />
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However, at the base of Mt. Tsukuba there is a shrine. As we were descending from the mountain we came across a large crowd of people at the shrine. People, young and old, were standing below a stage holding empty plastic bags or other receptacles. They seemed pretty excited about something, but I couldn't see anything except for a couple of dudes on the stage wearing some sort shiny robes (probably cause shinto shrine people do stuff like that). Then we noticed there was a mountain of cardboard boxes stacked behind them. What on earth could be in those boxes?<br />
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That was when we realized that a large number of children, who until now we had been unable to see, were up at the front of crowd chanting, "Choudai, choudai! Choudai, choudai!" (ちょうだい、ちょうだい meaning roughly, "give me give me!") By our large powers of intellect we deduced that whatever these desperate children were screaming for, it must be whatever was in those cardboard boxes. I know, call it a long shot. But for some strange reason, we just had an intuition that it must be in those boxes. Hoping we were right, we stuck around to find out.<br />
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After much waiting and anticipation, the men in shiny robes multiplied in number and began tearing open the boxes. What is it? What it is!? The masses began to close in tighter, swarming around the stage with hunger and fierce determination in their eyes. Plastic bags rose above our heads. What was going to happen? What?! Suddenly, it began to rain. Screaming, shoving, kicking, the hordes began scrambling to catch. What was it they were catching? Why... it was... something white, and small. Bam! My companion got was slammed in the face by a small but very hard and round disk of mochi (Japanese rice cake). THIS is what people were waiting for? I couldn't believe it. But then, the sound and the size of the rain changed. Thousands of cup of noodles, and packets of instant ramen rained down upon our heads- the weather gods in their shiny robes hurling them with all their might- a vengeful look of pleasure in their eyes. One man had obviously played himself some professional baseball back in the day- because he was definitely trying to hurt someone. I almost got swallowed up in the sea crowd.<br />
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<br />Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-37985460557287321642011-07-01T08:45:00.000-07:002011-07-01T10:34:47.245-07:00Bucket Potato!!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTN_fBtQGJsks2hJ28WPlGQ4hiApMUXnrp7qlvpYM4FgYSI3FY5wbmnJxzeP-PctU1OwPxj1a6nKldAEasiBjWbjoS1sGuSRKPrcLoGiLP7RrRMnG_7_LO_5QDTPV2LB4FlHsDzCnqicr/s1600/bucket.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTN_fBtQGJsks2hJ28WPlGQ4hiApMUXnrp7qlvpYM4FgYSI3FY5wbmnJxzeP-PctU1OwPxj1a6nKldAEasiBjWbjoS1sGuSRKPrcLoGiLP7RrRMnG_7_LO_5QDTPV2LB4FlHsDzCnqicr/s320/bucket.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624411346911343650" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCIcZNd2oI0p6oG5Iw7RaRxyyCQrPB5SZdtmchi31DPBEXckBlSFqviKbACgj1SuF40PrUSKngBEQ-wCetNos7nADZdrfWLF5kdEBw7e8sFItl50930RNyp-zZklw-3dQc392073L5Y6U5/s1600/potato1_l.gif"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 284px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCIcZNd2oI0p6oG5Iw7RaRxyyCQrPB5SZdtmchi31DPBEXckBlSFqviKbACgj1SuF40PrUSKngBEQ-wCetNos7nADZdrfWLF5kdEBw7e8sFItl50930RNyp-zZklw-3dQc392073L5Y6U5/s320/potato1_l.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624411194835783858" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />So, today I was teaching some kids how to order foods like barbecue ribs, pork chops, grilled chicken, all those things that they don't eat here in Japan and that these kids probably won't ever eat unless they go abroad, and by the time they actually go abroad, they won't remember this lesson anyway...you know, stuff like that.<br /><br />So, I'm flashing them the cards one by one. The kids are sounding out the words, trying to read them out loud together. I am painfully doing my best to correct their pronunciation.<br /><br />I show them a card. "Ok, what's this?"<br /><br />"FRYY-DO PO-TAY-TO!"<br /><br />"Uhh, nope. French fries!"<br /><br />"French po-TAY-to!" they cry in the heat of battle.<br /><br />"French FRIES!" I repeat.<br /><br />"French FRY-do!" they call back in a triumphant chorus.<br /><br />"Um.........ok, close enough."<br /><br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">I flash a new card</span>)<br /><br />"Roasto beefu!"<br /><br />I correct them. "Roast beef."<br /><br />"Roast beef!" they parrot back.<br /><br />"Wow, nice one!"<br /><br />I flash a new card.<br /><br />"What's this?"<br /><br />They tell me knowingly, with little smirks on their faces, "Sarada."<br /><br />"Nooo, that's Japanese. In English, it's SALAD!" (Seriously, in Japanese, salad is called "sarada.")<br /><br />They muster up some more strength, and then try again. "Salada!"<br /><br />"SAAA-LID." I draw the word out, slowly.<br /><br />"SaaalEEEEda." Oh dear god, they sound Spanish now.<br /><br />"SAAA-lid." I make my body droop as I say the "-lid," emphasizing the intonation in a softer tone at the end.<br /><br />"Saaaally," they say softly, their bodies drooping to the floor.<br /><br />"Heh. Um, ok."<br /><br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">new card</span>)<br /><br />"What's this?"<br /><br />"uh-???"<br /><br />"Let's read it...what's this?"<br /><br />"uh-???"<br /><br />"bbbb-....." I prompt them.<br /><br />"buhhhhh...." they moan.<br /><br />I give them a little more. "Bayy-..."<br /><br />They give it back. "Bayyyy....."<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">"BAH-KEH-TO PO-TAY-TO!</span>"<br /><br />All movement stops. The room is quiet. Everyone is looking at me, but I'm looking at 9-year-old Ayaka, my mouth frozen in a perfect "o" of surprise.<br /><br />They watch me. They wonder.<br /><br />I'm thinking in my head.... "bah-ked potato? neh-ked potato? naked potato? Uaghhh...no."<br /><br />They look at Ayaka, the source of that.... whatever you'd call it, for some answers.<br /><br />Finally, I burst. "Bwahhahahahhahahah!"<br /><br />The kids take their cue, "bwahahahahahahha!"<br /><br />Ayaka's relieved. She laughs and smiles. We're all crying with laughter, but it's time to turn off the waterworks.<br /><br />"Haha, ok, that's funny. Anyway, listen. BAY-KT potato!"<br /><br />"BUCKET POTATO!" they cry in unison.<br /><br />"Hahahha. Um, no. Listen again. BAYYYKT potato!"<br /><br />"Baaaaaaayyyykt potato."<br /><br />"YES!"<br /><br />The small kid in the back jumps up in delight, "BAH-KEH-TO PO-TAY-TOOO!!!" He raises his fist and does a little dance.<br /><br />"....no."<br /><br />"Bwahahahhaha," the room explodes in a sing-song chatter. "Bucket potato, bucket potato, bucket potatoooooo!!!"<br /><br />Alright, that's it. I stand up. I approach the whiteboard and pick up a marker. I draw. A little here, a little there.<br /><br />Ahh... a bucket potato.<br /><br />They roar in what I accept as approval. "Bwahahahhahh!"<br /><br />I chuckle and mentally pat myself on the back. Oh you're a clever one, you are...<br /><br />"Ok, next card! What's this?"<br /><br />"BUCKET beanzu!" they answer decidedly.<br /><br />Oh crap... no.<br /><br />"Baked beans!" I cry out to the masses."It's Baked beans!" But they only continue to torment me.<br /><br />"BAH-KEH-TO BEANZU! BAH-KEH-TO BEANZU! BAH-KEH-TO BEANZUUUU..."<br /><br />Oh dear, oh dear. What have I done...?<br /><br />--------<br /><br />30 minutes and a few hair-graying games later...<br /><br />"Ok," I tell them. "Time to go! Cushions over there, line up at the door!"<br /><br />"Wazzzzzzaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!!" C<span>ushions, children and stuffed elephants are flying everywhere</span>.<br /><br />"Ok, Nami, are you ready to order?"<br /><br />"I'd like the roasto beefu ando za bucket beanzu."<br /><br />"Ok, Nami... seriously."<br /><br />"I'd like the roast beef and the the bucket beans."<br /><br /><span>I point to the picture of beans. </span><br /><br />"Very close. But, what is this in English, Nami?"<br /><br />"Ehhh to, bah---k---?<br /><br />"baked..."<br /><br />"Aahhh! Ahhh! Baked beanzu!"<br /><br />"Oy, ok, good job. See y-"<br /><br />"SEEE YOUUUUUUUU!" A stampede of children tramples me in the doorway.<br /><br />"...next week."Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-92192502815014948012011-06-06T20:06:00.000-07:002011-06-06T21:21:54.069-07:00Monkey Mako Chan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjd0PLh_7Cq_Oic_WNBnMY3VPW6M-0QY0zMcJ942LhjzmohpN_P1pHAL7NzOMorBqsc9rAHFGO3bz718BwlEMGTQtAaN7vtPkpJTIwPwt2bSCMvlAtVa_SMAo2bmOJdpej4nIwZrko0moz/s1600/prod7197_dt.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 315px; height: 315px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjd0PLh_7Cq_Oic_WNBnMY3VPW6M-0QY0zMcJ942LhjzmohpN_P1pHAL7NzOMorBqsc9rAHFGO3bz718BwlEMGTQtAaN7vtPkpJTIwPwt2bSCMvlAtVa_SMAo2bmOJdpej4nIwZrko0moz/s320/prod7197_dt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615322717232053106" border="0" /></a><br />I seriously had a breakthrough with my private kid student yesterday. This kid has had me cradling my head and wondering how the hell I'm supposed to teach him anything if he doesn't want to be taught. After he threw the flashcards in my face and told me to go away (in Japanese, of course), I threw those flashcards in the back of my closet. I stopped trying to make him repeat things. I pretty much gave up and just decided to have fun and play with him. I just talked to him, mostly in English, a few Japanese words sprinkled in if he really didn't understand. But he almost never spoke a single English word. I felt like I was wasting his mother's money. I was a fake, a liar. I wasn't a real teacher. Sure, I can teach kids at my school. But that's different. They provide materials, lesson plans, a classroom, Japanese staff to help you enforce the rules. I had no experience in making my own lesson plans, and this kid didn't want them anyway. So, I chased him with stuffed turtles and caterpillars and let him throw plastic apples at me. I performed a play for him where I jumped on a futon pretending to be a monkey jumping on the bed. I fell on my head and I cried for my mama. Then I pretended to be mama, calling the doctor and telling them,"no more monkeys jumping on the bed!" Mako just sat there and laughed his head off while I threw away my dignity, his mother watching the whole thing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJSqM2AAFk2kZaRiv9__r-rOAPwTl_1TqFAiVr03oWZ8AwmoZSxolWU9dv6n3EXtuqaW74si-WGjWFEG0ROiDCscKV_R-sFgTzr8EJLRCkCTse8pReFnAd9Z82pb6SsZS8eJxiMBUnUhac/s1600/61dGJQCEf9L._SL500_AA300_.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJSqM2AAFk2kZaRiv9__r-rOAPwTl_1TqFAiVr03oWZ8AwmoZSxolWU9dv6n3EXtuqaW74si-WGjWFEG0ROiDCscKV_R-sFgTzr8EJLRCkCTse8pReFnAd9Z82pb6SsZS8eJxiMBUnUhac/s320/61dGJQCEf9L._SL500_AA300_.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615322068368940594" border="0" /></a><br />But then something changed, Mako started to trust me. We became friends. I regained my confidence and starting getting more creative ideas. I slowly incorporated interesting ways of learning without him ever realizing it. I bought those plastic capsules filled with little sponges shaped like animals. You put them in hot water and watch them grow. We decided if they were fish, or turtles, or sharks, or starfish. I bought a big fuzzy dice at Tokyu Hands and some pieces of colored felt. I sewed a different colored square of felt on each side of the dice. I counted to three, he threw the dice at me, we looked to see what color and then we ran to find something that was the same color. This whole time he almost never repeated ANYTHING. But slowly, something was changing.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVS8-_OQDeosGweHb1dVUx4JjbZ1YRwzsqBrSsXl6YHysOl5Y5gYoGpNEjBAoLgGytg3KAPCEYvZ0Gue4-9KJjdUgRhMmgB4GMtxc0xZ97KHznlljS5d-usOORmUhU9xBoyBvfZoErRHx/s1600/IMG_1734.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVS8-_OQDeosGweHb1dVUx4JjbZ1YRwzsqBrSsXl6YHysOl5Y5gYoGpNEjBAoLgGytg3KAPCEYvZ0Gue4-9KJjdUgRhMmgB4GMtxc0xZ97KHznlljS5d-usOORmUhU9xBoyBvfZoErRHx/s320/IMG_1734.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615321175012912082" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Yesterday, I came into his bedroom bracing myself for more plastic apple abuse, but something was different. Mako-chan suddenly wanted to learn something. We matched foam ABC letters to the letters on a mat, and he repeated A B C D E and F. We threw the dice around and he repeated all the colors as he touched them. We collected everything we could find that was yellow. Then we sat down on his floor and had a snack. We ate mango jelly and drank green tea his mother had brought upstairs on a tray. I felt like I was on a playdate, only I was 25 and he was 3. Recently I had been trying to get him used to hearing and answering the question "Do you like___?" So, I asked him, do you like mango jelly? Instead of answering in Japanese "Un, suki da yo," like he usually does, he said, "Yes!" and gave me a thumbs up. Wow, I thought, progress!<br /><br />I rubbed my tummy and asked, "Is it yummy?" He nodded, "Yes!" Then he couldn't open his package of crackers and commanded me to open it, "akete!" I pretended not to understand. I made a motion like I was opening something and questioned "Open, Mako? Open?" He nodded and said, "Open!" I said... "Open, please?" He repeated, "OPEN PLEASE!" Well, how about that. I finally got him to say please. And then I opened it for him. Well, my work here is done, I thought.<br /><br />But then, something even better happened. It was almost time to go and his mother had come up to collect our dirty dishes. I was cleaning up the plastic food toys that littered the floor. There should be seven french fries but I counted only four. I asked Mako, "Mako, where are the french fries? French fries please!" He raced to retrieve them from under the sofa and brought them to me. Trust me, he had never obeyed a request like this before. I said, "Thank you," and he repeated, "THANK YOU!" I laughed. Hmm.. maybe this was the the chance I'd been waiting for. I handed the fries to his mother and said, "Here you are." She said, "Thank you." I motioned for her to hand the fries to her son and say "Here you are." She did, and I can't believe what happened next. Mako said "Thank you," and then he passed them to me and said, "Here you are!" I was literally about to cry with happiness. For months, I couldn't even get him to say, "Thank you," and now he was saying, "here you are." This was too much progress for one lesson. I was sure he would soon be bored, I was ready to stop there and take the progress I could get. But then, Mako tells his mother he wants to do it AGAIN. Doubtful, I ask him, "One more time?" He says, "One more!" I hand the fries to his mother, we do our little conversation, she hands them to Mako, he says his lines perfectly, he passes them to me again, and we continue like this for maybe 7 rounds. Here you are. Thank you! <span style="font-style: italic;">gobble gobble gobble. </span>Here you are. Thank you! <span style="font-style: italic;">gobble gobble gobble</span>. Mako loved every minute of it. And so did I!<br /><br />Now, I can't wait for next Monday.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMZOvITgmYNqhzdKKbzsX7wThi4R-JLLsYv5ZHDiL9ZMIDltB5wrw0Sm_wdVerEkiWdGOQDzpJwGPSo6Ba5GJ8wgTrtGViu9YWfVE4cLLrG7g3n9_rQZTqxGP8WlfQDtZKGini6BYHv_30/s1600/IMG_1736.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMZOvITgmYNqhzdKKbzsX7wThi4R-JLLsYv5ZHDiL9ZMIDltB5wrw0Sm_wdVerEkiWdGOQDzpJwGPSo6Ba5GJ8wgTrtGViu9YWfVE4cLLrG7g3n9_rQZTqxGP8WlfQDtZKGini6BYHv_30/s320/IMG_1736.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615321515450851778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A set of Very Hungry Caterpillar-themed cards<br />we sometimes "play" with</span></span><br /></div>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-5449900554907516922011-06-06T17:37:00.000-07:002011-06-06T21:13:53.334-07:00Oh. Hello again.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9O1vZvHa61Sv4r7jzSmKle5tk3sc-utZDud2fJ3YaqNWeG3pdslAH3VW3Hvx1r6GlnQ3hsqid7ONbCGhQpJEuRi1AVRcvBScAvT2-9WH6AHVZ8ip-wXX8sPsF5WtDwjE095sGoge60Is-/s400/i+love+japan.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9O1vZvHa61Sv4r7jzSmKle5tk3sc-utZDud2fJ3YaqNWeG3pdslAH3VW3Hvx1r6GlnQ3hsqid7ONbCGhQpJEuRi1AVRcvBScAvT2-9WH6AHVZ8ip-wXX8sPsF5WtDwjE095sGoge60Is-/s400/i+love+japan.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Apologies for the long absence. You know, busy with moving and worrying about earthquakes and radiation and whether all those people up in Northern Japan are okay. I just saw pictures taken by some friends who went to volunteer for a few days over the weekend. The piles of rubble are insane- as high as the houses sitting next to them. I would have liked to volunteer as well, but I noticed there were only men in the group that went up North. Apparently they thought clearing rubble was too hard for someone like me. (Yeah, fair enough, they're probably right.)<br /><br />Anyway, the aftershocks finally stopped about a month or so ago. Every so often we still get an earthquake, but it's a small one. I don't even know what's happening with the nuclear power plant anymore. I haven't turned on my TV in a long time and frankly, I like it this way. I was tired of being nervous all the time. I just needed to get on with life.<br /><br />Apparently, so did everyone else. Life in Tokyo seems business as usual. People are out and about shopping and eating and all those things they do.<br /><br />Personally, things are pretty good right now in my corner. Being a newly single foreigner in Japan, I am excited to have the freedom and the independence to really get to know this place better than ever. I no longer have a Japanese guy I can depend on for help with translation, question asking, buying electronic appliances, etc. It can be scary to approach someone and try to explain something in Japanese because you never know what new word they're going to say that might trip you up, or whether or not they're going to panic and tell you they can't help you because they don't speak English, even though you're trying you hardest to speak THEIR language. Sometimes I just can't stand the awkwardness. I'm sure I make it awkward as well, but when we're both awkward about the fact that I'm not Japanese and my Japanese isn't perfect, it's just painful sometimes. But, in the past couple of weeks I've done a bunch of things that I have seriously put off for months and months because I was lacking confidence about my Japanese ability. Finally, I think I'm gaining some confidence in that regard.<br /><br />1. I went to a hair salon and got a haircut using only Japanese. Granted, the haircut sucked afterward, but at least I got some Japanese practice. Now I know that just because the salon is close to my apartment, that doesn't mean I should go there. Seriously, this girl just didn't care. She parted it to the side, whacked off a couple of inches and said she was done. I mean, I know I told her to just cut it and then do what she thought was appropriate. Back in America they would put some layers in without even asking you, make it look nice. It wasn't until the next day that I discovered the worst part. If you don't get the part lined up exactly as she had it, then strands of hair fall on the wrong side and look at least an inch or two longer than the rest of my hair. I had to fix this with my craft scissors in the bathroom.<br /><br />2. I went to the Suginami City Office and finally asked them why my recent health insurance bill had appeared to double, and whether it would continue at this rate. They did explain, and I mostly understood. There were a few points I didn't quite get, but I'm gonna chalk that up more to my atrocious math skills rather than any lack in my Japanese ability. Anyway, I was relieved to find out that everything made (relatively) perfect sense and from now on I'll be charged at the normal monthly rate. Thank heavenly goodness.<br /><br />3. I called my landlord yesterday and asked if he could do anything about my clogged sink in my bathroom. It's been clogged since a week after I moved in. That was about four months ago. Right now, as I write this blog post, there's a dude in my bathroom fixing it. Truth is, I could have emailed the company that helped me get this apartment (they speak English) and they could have called the landlord for me and translated. But why not cut out the middleman? I've been studying this language for 3 years now. It's time to frickin use it! And now, use it I have.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.okinawahai.com/photos/uncategorized/2008/08/17/img_6026.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 476px; height: 356px;" src="http://www.okinawahai.com/photos/uncategorized/2008/08/17/img_6026.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Earth: a salon where the hairstylists don't give a crap </span> </div><br />Life is also good because this weekend was especially fun-filled and relaxing. I did all my usual favorite things- studied Japanese in a coffee shop, sang karaoke for two hours by myself belting out Madonna, Michael Jackson, Weezer, Lady Gaga, and more. They didn't have Fiona Apple's "Criminal" anymore. Apparently her popularity has waned in Japan. I'm pretty upset about that one. That was seriously my best karaoke song.<br /><br />Anyway, after that I went to the neighborhood Sento (public bath house) and took a nice long soak. Super relaxing. I was also surprised to see a girl with tattoos in there. She wasn't kicked out, in fact, no one paid her any attention. Usually these kinds of places, particularly Onsen- that is, natural hot spring- would strictly forbid people with tattoos from entering. Once upon a time the only people with tattoos were the Yakuza (mafia). However, I'm guessing since my neighborhood is famous for having lots of tattoo-adorned, thrift-store-clothed, guitar-toting young people, the most popular neighborhood sento has adopted a lax policy towards tattoos. No tattoos, no customers...<br /><br />The other highlights of my weekend included seeing a Paul Klee exhibit at the MOMAT (The National Museum of Modern Art, Tokyo) and then going to a pop idol group concert. The exhibition was really interesting. I always knew Paul Klee was famous because we briefly studied him in art history class in college, but I never gave him much notice. It turns out... we have a lot in common. He loves yellow, orange and green, too! Every time I stood next to a painting, someone said something like, "Oh, you match the painting!!" I swear I had no intention in matching his color palette when I was dressing that morning. I did get a lot of enjoyment out of his colors though.<br /><br />Below is a photo I took of a postcard of my favorite painting in the show. Then, below that is one of my paintings from my junior year in college, during my western phase. Note the abundance of yellow and orange in both images.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0gu5LchjbqXwXZxPv1VamWcHaWVHrapwzesppuq9Q42enJl7baFfy7kgxBHo-2B5pbU4Fa2xV-VpcZdUhB6Q6U0ftB6G9I158Je4HwyETxKBPJCvc_iAWyD_zC6K4XRh3YHg1xp5mbxIz/s1600/IMG_1732.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0gu5LchjbqXwXZxPv1VamWcHaWVHrapwzesppuq9Q42enJl7baFfy7kgxBHo-2B5pbU4Fa2xV-VpcZdUhB6Q6U0ftB6G9I158Je4HwyETxKBPJCvc_iAWyD_zC6K4XRh3YHg1xp5mbxIz/s400/IMG_1732.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615300651321897026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Paul Klee, 1922</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpjZDKBVQjGpsIrWPjR7NCmn2saFUAeAUixKktUXCd4E62R3Sq9H0yzRjREaifD6yiZjG7q4eJ4U8-uQozwCNuILfZoAeUwaWjJbcM_WoMV-DUOryHN27J-umCZG_Kh4cssuxzb6aqM-XD/s1600/Caitlin+Stewart+-+01+Mounted+%2528For+Roping+a+Good+One%2529.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpjZDKBVQjGpsIrWPjR7NCmn2saFUAeAUixKktUXCd4E62R3Sq9H0yzRjREaifD6yiZjG7q4eJ4U8-uQozwCNuILfZoAeUwaWjJbcM_WoMV-DUOryHN27J-umCZG_Kh4cssuxzb6aqM-XD/s400/Caitlin+Stewart+-+01+Mounted+%2528For+Roping+a+Good+One%2529.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615299770053764434" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAY5sJGR-5Pi38cT9gq5iE6NYXdYR_RTJ8LZqJ-3uC7dodClHrVoIoNn8t8FkA3R-Jbe-Ny4x7ZN5f_IZF7jACNMm1fDPzQTenyM0JjLE-3xvHjGQ_o-t1wK0qRK0hJBHZUU6sjAGlDXR1/s1600/IMG_1732.JPG"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caitlin Stewart, copyright 2005</span><br /></div><br />As for the pop idol concert, well it started with the visit to the art museum. I went to the museum with a few friends and acquaintances. One girl mentioned that she was going to her cousin's concert that evening. She explained that her cousin was in a teen pop idol group called Paspo (ぱすぽ), which is short for the English word "passport." The group consists of 10 girls all in their teens. Their costumes and songs have a bit of an airline theme to it, meaning they push suitcases around stage for a few seconds at the beginning and then salute the audience a lot. Some are short and cute, some are tall and model-esque. All are skinny, with long pony tails, short skirts, and high voices. I never expected to attend something like this, but my friend suddenly realized her other friend wasn't going to make it and she needed an extra person to take the ticket. That's how I found myself accepting an invitation to a teen idol concert. After a second's thought, I figured, well, I never made it to a Hanson concert when I was 10 years old, now's my chance to see what this sort of event is like. I had no idea what I was in for.<br /><br />In America, one would expect to see an audience largely made up of young pre-teen or teenage girls, desperate to grow up beautiful and popular like their idols. But this concert was totally unexpected. I'd say 98% of the audience was male. On top of that, probably half of those males were over 30, perhaps even in their 4os or 50s. They knew all the lyrics and dance moves by heart. Some of them had obviously practiced together at home, or in the park. (On any given Sunday afternoon you can often simultaneously see dozens of various groups practicing dance moves, singing in a circle, or playing an instrument in Yoyogi park-perhaps I've seen some of these guys on a Sunday afternoon, faithfully practicing their Paspo dance moves). Anyway, there was one group of about 10 young guys (they looked about 15 years old) at the back of the concert hall with a huge pile of glow-sticks on the floor (backup, in case the sticks ran out out of juice). They held glow-sticks in each hand and did synchronized dances while singing along. The sticks made it feel a bit like a rave or something. What's more, everyone else in the audience was holding glow-sticks, too. Each girl in the pop group has a designated color- ie. pink, yellow, red, green. Our friend's cousin was the blue girl. So we wore blue glow-stick bracelets in support of our friend's cousin. Everyone in the audience held a different colored glow-stick depending on which girl was their favorite.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://teen0en.img.jugem.jp/20110510_1959790.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://teen0en.img.jugem.jp/20110510_1959790.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />To be honest, the fact that there was so much importance placed on the idea of which girl was most popular, and that the entire audience was male, suggested to me that this whole thing was less about the music and more about fetish-izing the girls. I mean.. half the time the girls weren't even singing. They would put one of the more popular girls out on stage by herself and she would dance to a song by herself. The crowd loved it, but honestly it's apparent these girls aren't really dancers. It was mostly a lot of jazz hands and simple, easy cheerleader moves. No flips or anything fancy like that. At the end of the show, they announced that anyone who bought a CD could line up to meet and take a picture with their favorite girl. Each time a girl was requested, they would announce it over the loudspeaker and she would run to greet her fan and laugh at his jokes and give him a hug and take a picture with him. Some girls were called up o<img src="file:///Users/Caitlin/Desktop/2010-04-06%2020%3b25%3b25.jpg" alt="" />ver and over again, like 20 times, while others (including our friends cousin) got called over only two or three times. It was a big popularity contest. According to our friend, the manager is pretty mean to them, as well. I just can't imagine the terrible pressure and distorted self-image that weighs upon these young girls.<br /><br />But there I go, trying to bring my feminist ideals into a teen idol pop concert. It was a fun experience though, no doubt about that. I especially enjoyed it when that group of boys lent us some glow-sticks and we tried to follow their synchronized dance moves. I can't say I'll ever attend another event like this, especially as my ticket was free this time, but I valued the cultural experience. Only in Japan, eh?<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://img02.hamazo.tv/usr/youngadult123/%E3%81%B1%E3%81%99%E3%81%BD%E2%98%86A%E5%86%99%E5%B0%8F.PNG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 389px; height: 260px;" src="http://img02.hamazo.tv/usr/youngadult123/%E3%81%B1%E3%81%99%E3%81%BD%E2%98%86A%E5%86%99%E5%B0%8F.PNG" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Get ready for take off, it's PASPO! </span><br /></div>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-68587491411297437542011-01-05T19:59:00.000-08:002011-01-06T08:47:15.693-08:00Bad Man On Plane<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidVYSwO4OAXyjzxR1L2a2TYNYkudP1JW9XB21b_FRiPbKfv7s2HsfQA-QEpKyqrhsmt6JipW6qnkey9elM2DSfOd8qL7qMPPHsqoJ4CR7qlbfXv2NV8NaMhyphenhyphen024e5GuFFwSS9Yu5q7xkQE/s1600/IMG_6700.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidVYSwO4OAXyjzxR1L2a2TYNYkudP1JW9XB21b_FRiPbKfv7s2HsfQA-QEpKyqrhsmt6JipW6qnkey9elM2DSfOd8qL7qMPPHsqoJ4CR7qlbfXv2NV8NaMhyphenhyphen024e5GuFFwSS9Yu5q7xkQE/s320/IMG_6700.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559113045238674306" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPW61gUI6gBysorEtDzURL6QUdX_DYh1fC86iNQJenSopzK67xmmXsQklOvY54B23WH2KY5iL-VxA691Aj-bHf97TWp-sEGrm5XWRcGTDJaH5MU57fvdT8y-ryEGT5vlDnVmf-ByWkD4M/s1600/13343_new_york_1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPW61gUI6gBysorEtDzURL6QUdX_DYh1fC86iNQJenSopzK67xmmXsQklOvY54B23WH2KY5iL-VxA691Aj-bHf97TWp-sEGrm5XWRcGTDJaH5MU57fvdT8y-ryEGT5vlDnVmf-ByWkD4M/s320/13343_new_york_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559112783871780786" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />So I'm sitting on a plane from Japan to New York. The guy next to me is some overweight American guy and by the window is his Asian girlfriend. Thankfully, I have the aisle seat, but the cute baby I admired earlier at the gate is now screaming bloody murder. And only two measly rows ahead of me. I accept the fact that I will not be sleeping on this flight. Time to watch some movies.<br /><br />It soon becomes clear that my headphone jack is irretrievably broken, meaning that I have 12 hours and 45 minutes to NOT watch movies or TV. Well, that's great. Apparently Delta doesn't bother to maintain their equipment. An announcement overhead informs me that if I am interested in signing up with the Delta Airlines sky miles program, I should contact a flight attendant. Well contact this Delta.<br /><br />I recall my experience on an American Airlines flight where I could choose from a menu of movies from my own personal TV on the back of the seat in front of me. And oh, how well it worked, too. On this flight, I have to lean out into the aisle and squint my eyes to see the screen all the way in the front of the cabin. At least now, it doesn't matter. I wouldn't be able to hear it anyway.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4XpUpmeRaluSdawsdoSwwlkJc6xwUiBxi0fS0qUFu9aXT_lzoCIiYJ9nr8OB5KciKiumnxMm43LsVOQDno7gbjP0fM-VJvurKt2jF2TqYaEX9bjLFWx8w_PYV1hU-syzywhUWbO7L7d_W/s1600/internet-in-airplanes.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4XpUpmeRaluSdawsdoSwwlkJc6xwUiBxi0fS0qUFu9aXT_lzoCIiYJ9nr8OB5KciKiumnxMm43LsVOQDno7gbjP0fM-VJvurKt2jF2TqYaEX9bjLFWx8w_PYV1hU-syzywhUWbO7L7d_W/s400/internet-in-airplanes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559113668867653362" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This is what they DIDN'T have on my Delta flight. </span></span><br /></div><br />I politely ask the guy next to me if his headphone jack is working properly.<br /><br />"Cause, uh, mine doesn't seem to be working." That baby releases a deathly scream that makes the hairs on my neck stand up. Talk about foreshadowing.<br /><br />"Let me see. Yeah it's working."<br /><br />"Oh, okay. So I guess it's just mine then."<br /><br />"Yep, guess so."<br /><br />"Hmm... this sucks. I wonder what I should do."<br /><br />"You should tell them. Maybe they can fix it."<br /><br />"Yeah, okay. I guess I'll do that."<br /><br />The happiest flight attendant I've ever met conveniently comes sashaying down the aisle with her drink cart.<br /><br />"Hey baby, what kin I git for you?"<br /><br />"I'll have ginger ale, please."<br /><br />"Okay, honey... one ginger ale, coming right up. There you go sweetie."<br /><br />"Thank you."<br /><br />"OH, you're SO welcome honey!" she says in a deep, appropriately honeyed voice. She seems overly pleased that I've bothered to thank her. Even though I overheard all three in the row ahead say exactly the same thing. I wonder if she'll be as pleasant at the end of the flight as she is now.<br /><br />"By the way, my headphone jack doesn't seem to be working. Is there anything we can do about it?"<br /><br />"Oh, I'm sorry, honey. There's really not much we can do."<br /><br />"Are there any other seats available?"<br /><br />"Well, not unless you wanna sit in the middle?"<br /><br />"Ah, I see. Okay, I'll stay here then. Thanks anyway."<br /><br />"Sorry, sweetie pie," she purrs over blood curdling baby shrieks. She glides away.<br /><br />Oh. This is not good.<br /><br />I turn to the guy next to me. "Sorry, I was wondering... do you think you're gonna watch any movies?"<br /><br />"Well, yeah I mean I don't want to say I'm not, cause if there's something good, I definitely wanna watch. Sorry."<br /><br />"Oh. Okay..."<br /><br />"You know what I mean?"<br /><br />"Yeah, sure, I understand."<br /><br />Jerk.<br /><br />I pull out a book and start reading as the baby continues to wail in despair. Yes, baby, I know.<br />This is seriously going to be the longest flight ever.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjczF0Gb30K9O44pcEqWeXZWcApDcd8MLTyLORBM4sYdr10XCIPpUi5JrXMXf6-2KV1_k9R1c7Fjhw4zGZgukOBYyGSZA3T_Wa4qwWff9PtUf8j51Hkn5Ii5Jr9QfwFP-enCkT3G50XfMef/s1600/delta-airplane.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjczF0Gb30K9O44pcEqWeXZWcApDcd8MLTyLORBM4sYdr10XCIPpUi5JrXMXf6-2KV1_k9R1c7Fjhw4zGZgukOBYyGSZA3T_Wa4qwWff9PtUf8j51Hkn5Ii5Jr9QfwFP-enCkT3G50XfMef/s400/delta-airplane.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559113215941405762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Here's Delta.. the worst airline I've ever flown... </span></span> </div><br />I'm working on my laptop hours later, studying some Japanese, when I feel something slither into my lap. I peer down in the darkness. The guy next to me is grabbing my hand, yet he seems to be asleep.<br /><br />I pick up the vile, ghastly thing and put it back where it belongs. His eyes never opening for a second. Okay, no one has to know.<br /><br />Tap tap tap, I'm typing away. Tap tap ta--What the?<br /><br />That beast's got his elbow all up in my space and he's still asleep. I don't even understand how he can sleep through all that crying and shrieking anyway. I give a good shove and make sure that revolting limb withdraws into it's hole.<br /><br />"So," I think, "the jerk told me I couldn't use his headphone jack and now he and his lady friend are out cold. Two movies have played already and yet not one of us in aisle 27 has been able to enjoy them. Unbelievable."<br /><br />I start typing again. Though, I continue to deal with the advances, ever increasing in frequency. It attacks, I thwack, it retreats. It worms it's way back, I smack, it recedes. Elbow-wrestling is on it's way to becoming a regular in-flight pastime. As I'm fighting to the death, for the right to some peace and a bit of space, super-happy flight attendant is cooing down the aisle.<br /><br />"Would you like some water, honey?"<br /><br />"Yes, please."<br /><br />"Would you like some water, baby?"<br /><br />"Yes, thanks."<br /><br />"Would you like some water, sugar baby?"<br /><br />"Um.... no?" Can't she see I'm busy? I search her eyes for any possible recognition of what I'm going through.<br /><br />"Ok, sugar." And she's gone.<br /><br />Man, it is like way past my bedtime.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhr9a2LiBRRmnuTebhTcGT6xagFwbBjuGxEk7AEXRlGDv7-p-ZdYeOaWrIhHod6xEJtLuuljAI4BRwuv3KdpR4k0fQJZP_j8Cv_75zPldjLG92ZKxwc6Zs1DrR7q4Z0p9nuzenLacEn7OP/s1600/glass-of-water-0808-lg-10661967.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhr9a2LiBRRmnuTebhTcGT6xagFwbBjuGxEk7AEXRlGDv7-p-ZdYeOaWrIhHod6xEJtLuuljAI4BRwuv3KdpR4k0fQJZP_j8Cv_75zPldjLG92ZKxwc6Zs1DrR7q4Z0p9nuzenLacEn7OP/s320/glass-of-water-0808-lg-10661967.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559114281087381538" border="0" /></a><br />I try typing with my left hand, using my right to keep that repugnant creature at bay. Tap tap tap, bam! Take that you repulsive creep. I stop typing. I sit. I watch, ready to block it's next move. I see it coming. Those horrid hairy arms uncrossing, the left one raising up in the air and reaching it's peak, and then it's coming, sailing down around my head. I freeze in terror, unsure, unable to react. And then...<br /><br />Oh no you did not!<br /><br />He has actually put his arm around me. It is resting on my shoulder, the hand like a spider on my back. He has a vulgar grin on his face. I do not like that face. Does he think I'm his girlfriend, or is something super scary going on here? And why won't he just wake up already? I mean, is he used to getting battered in his sleep? I don't even want to know what kind of relationship those two have. She seems all sweet and innocent, but who knows...<br /><br />Well, it's time to send the beast running. I pick it gingerly off my backside and throw it back in his chest. My sleep-stunned opponent falls back in befuddled confusion. He turns the other way, with his over-sized rear facing me. Finally, now I can get some work done.<br /><br />I'm in the zone. Tap tap tap. I am so productive. Tap tap. I'm gonna be quite the Japanese expert when I get off this airplane. Oh yeah, this is great, maybe it's--<br /><br />That thing has come back for more. And this time it's enveloped me in both furry limbs, it's head nestled in the crook of my neck. Oh god, help me. Now it's attempting to lace it's digits in mine. This can not go on.<br /><br />"Hello, excuse me.." I'm tapping on his arm.<br /><br />"Hello? Um... please wake up." The tapping gets desperate.<br /><br />"PLEASE. Come on. WAKE UP."<br /><br />He snorts and a long, groaning, "Huh?" escapes his mouth. His eyes open for the first time in what seems a century.<br /><br />"Excuse me, you're..."<br /><br />"OH GOD!" The man recoils from my side-- as if I'm the one being a creeper.<br /><br />"Um, yeah... wrong direction."<br /><br />"Sorry. I, uh, I thought you were her," he stutters, jabbing his thumb in that general direction.<br /><br />"Yeah, I see that. Whatever. Don't worry about it."<br /><br />The girlfriend wakes up. "What's going on?" she demands.<br /><br />"Well, I thought she was you."<br /><br />"What!?"<br /><br />"Nevermind, let's go back to sleep." He burrows his face deep into her inadequate bosom.<br /><br />So they're really not gonna watch a single movie? Okay, fine. Time for justice buddy. I fish out my headphones from the seat pocket and insert them into his headphone jack. Looks like a good one is just starting. Too bad they'll miss it...<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAm7YN2kbTAJIVmM-TuW1bD14xMQTxdeX0LLDX3LnDHhbwygDprNOwiG7Xr63LojK3aidvVGBZ7I2Aj6bd5wfEg4ehPxBCl2zUOQ8HcLsJuo3W5Ir_UGYPI5_Xlkf5JssLx4LjFqDw1gSC/s1600/lady-justice_311754081.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 110px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAm7YN2kbTAJIVmM-TuW1bD14xMQTxdeX0LLDX3LnDHhbwygDprNOwiG7Xr63LojK3aidvVGBZ7I2Aj6bd5wfEg4ehPxBCl2zUOQ8HcLsJuo3W5Ir_UGYPI5_Xlkf5JssLx4LjFqDw1gSC/s200/lady-justice_311754081.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559115369283903602" border="0" /></a>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-74216672388244567472010-09-02T06:42:00.000-07:002010-09-02T08:39:00.371-07:00What don't you like about your job?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4bXHzwpNKNdAMz0z0OvyxVkpgBsHyGKnrcOyE82xSZUilXR7huUCayh_zRoVjeegzJuq0pMpgsVs733htPlJ0Vc5235K17dgV5uDMKeNVGrnWdOgTyKPgg6YaZt_w-WooYmhpGbL9OupX/s1600/dead+fish.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4bXHzwpNKNdAMz0z0OvyxVkpgBsHyGKnrcOyE82xSZUilXR7huUCayh_zRoVjeegzJuq0pMpgsVs733htPlJ0Vc5235K17dgV5uDMKeNVGrnWdOgTyKPgg6YaZt_w-WooYmhpGbL9OupX/s400/dead+fish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512336911968894194" border="0" /></a><br />I know that learning or teaching a foreign language is a situation that naturally results in misunderstandings and awkwardness, but seriously people, today was something else:<br /><br /><br />4:30pm<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Wow, Fusae, that was great. Ask me another question using the grammar structure, "What don't you like about..."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fusae:</span> Okay. What don't you like about your job?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Um... geez. Okay, ask me about my neighborhood.<br /><br /><br /><br />7:25pm<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Student</span>: My parents had flower arrangement marriage.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Um, sorry?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">S:</span> Ahh, my parents had arrangement marriage.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Arrangement?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">S:</span> Ahh, I mean arranged marriage. My parents had an arranged marriage.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Ahh, ok... Wow, really? That was pretty common in Japan in the past, right?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">S:</span> Yes. I have arranged marriage, too.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Oh........ Wow, really? That's.... so interesting.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">S:</span> Yes. What do you think about arranged marriages?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> What do I think? Oh, gosh.. I dunno. I mean, it's so different from my culture. It's, well, interesting. So... uh... do you have any siblings?<br /><br /><br />8:23pm<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">female student:</span> What is your personality? Are you outgoing?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">male student:</span> Well, when I meet new people I am usually shy. But, sometimes when I meet people I am outgoing.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">fs: </span>How about you Ken, are you outgoing?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ken:</span> Yes.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">fs</span>: Really, why do you think so?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ken:</span> I like to go outside. I like to play sports and traveling.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">fs</span>: ehh????<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">male student</span>: ehh????????<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me</span>: Um, do you like to <span style="font-style: italic;">meet</span> people, Ken?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ken: </span>No.<br /><br /><br /><br />9:15pm<br /><br />So, I was tired of explaining to students that it is NOT okay to sit there like a dead fish while someone else is talking. How many times do I have to tell them that eye contact is important, and so is verbal response, whether it be a simple laugh or an "oh really?" This time, I didn't even bother with my speech. I came up with another solution. I liken it to when an audience is watching a live talk show. At certain designated moments, a flashing sign that reads "applause" tells people when to put their hands together.<br /><br />Tonight, the usual male, intermediate-level students in their 30s sat around the table with their their mouths hanging open and their eyes focused on the carpet as Yoko the 40-something spoke under her breath-- literally, in a whisper, about her family. Her eyes, too, were focused on the carpet.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>How about you guys, are you more like your mother, or your father?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yoko</span>: I'm more like my mother.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Male student 1</span>: <span style="font-style: italic;">dead fish </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yoko</span>: Because my dad doesn't care about other people.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Male student 2:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">dead fish dead fish<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Exasperated, I snatch my piece of scrap paper and scrawl at the bottom in BIG letters:</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">REALLY? OH YEAH? WOW!</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The students look at me expectantly. Any chance to get me talking is an even better chance to let them be silent. Good thing they're in a conversation class, right?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">I point to the word REALLY?</span><br /></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Male student 1:</span> Oh really?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yoko: </span>Yes. And he's very selfish.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Male student 2:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> speaking of <span style="font-weight: bold;">fish</span>, this one is DEAD<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Male student 1:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> and this fish has up and died all over again<br /><br /><br />10 minutes later...<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Male Student 1:</span> I've run 10 marathons.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yoko:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> dead fish<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(I point to Wow!)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yoko:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span>Wow!<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span><span><span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Male student 1:</span> Yes.</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />(I point to Really?)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span>Yoko:</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><span><span>Really? Where? </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span>Male Student 1:</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><span><span>In Japan. </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span>Yoko: </span></span><span><span><span style="font-style: italic;">...</span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span></span><span><span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(I point to Oh yeah?)</span></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Yoko: </span></span></span><span><span>Oh yeah? Where in Japan? </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><span><span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Male Student 1: </span></span></span><span><span>Near Tokyo. </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span>Yoko: </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">...dead...............................................fish.<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Male student 2: </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">dead fish that was eaten so long ago by other fish that they, too, have also died</span></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(I point to Really?)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yoko:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span>Really?<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Male student 2:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> maybe he's actually dead?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span><br /></span>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-51917206335889634472010-08-18T08:06:00.000-07:002010-09-02T09:52:55.747-07:00Bon Bon Bon!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4OUFygnMkPm4ARVdldU94LXKGnvxQf6QDQ4z31AuJWWVHn0F0y7GL66iPlE_GsM1IW7o4rlGBpXa8liOYa8nZCmuF1B30D-KtM-sAkCuSY3ebPuwcUIhys0swz9jiq-wtSbi1OyeQbC1v/s1600/l_map_ja.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 303px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4OUFygnMkPm4ARVdldU94LXKGnvxQf6QDQ4z31AuJWWVHn0F0y7GL66iPlE_GsM1IW7o4rlGBpXa8liOYa8nZCmuF1B30D-KtM-sAkCuSY3ebPuwcUIhys0swz9jiq-wtSbi1OyeQbC1v/s400/l_map_ja.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512342875417912930" border="0" /></a><br />This summer break I went on a 5 day trip to Nagano prefecture. It's located Northwest of Tokyo prefecture (see above map for more detail). I've been to the prefecture before but that was to a different area. Anyway, the first few days I went to Matsumoto. It took about five hours by bus to get there. I don't remember much of that city, but here is the one thing I really do remember: the Matsumoto city theme song that was blasted on repeat for over 5 hours from speakers that hung from light posts around the city streets. ( Note to reader: I don't know why everything seems to be in five's in this blog post, but I will try to continue this trend now that I've noticed it.)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBIVhfG3IIDxUEW6uXVvO_CSXzg9tJZqxOzFXKDmN0O9Wk1BXUQwZKDEeAWek8dlUZL5777b1Bht7mWBFdP3iaXsoZ9KiK7FMxPnCp-pW9GChyphenhyphenujkaOM1B1MfZwSXL-a_4gAN8m7B30sxZ/s1600/IMG_0422.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBIVhfG3IIDxUEW6uXVvO_CSXzg9tJZqxOzFXKDmN0O9Wk1BXUQwZKDEeAWek8dlUZL5777b1Bht7mWBFdP3iaXsoZ9KiK7FMxPnCp-pW9GChyphenhyphenujkaOM1B1MfZwSXL-a_4gAN8m7B30sxZ/s400/IMG_0422.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512349331959726242" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"Bon bon Matsumoto Bon Bon Bon. Bon Bon Matsumoto Bon Bon Bon."<br /><br />So simple. So pure. So genius.<br /><br />It's my fifth new favorite song and it will never leave my head, at least not for the next five months. For your own amazing experience of the Matsumoto Bon Bon festival, watch this video below. (Watch it five times if you please.)<br /><br /><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/x_VYdcTNqDU?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/x_VYdcTNqDU?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="480"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />After the festival, I remember seeing a castle that I assume was called Matsumoto Castle. I climbed to the top, I think there was probably a beautiful view. Mostly I waited in the dark unlit interior of the castle behind a long snake of people, as I waited to climb the dozens (or maybe there were five?) of identically steep and narrow staircases up to the top. I also remember going to a hot spring on a roof with an amazing view of the city and the mountains surrounding it. I was naked on the roof of a building. I have no idea if people could see me, but I guess in Japan they don't care about those things. Apparently I took pictures, more than five. (Are you sick of it yet?)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjimJSR5HsVVn-ZNqsV1EzIHoOa_a_adVMaLd6neoCMxdxsw4tepJIe_2hxcUaLeBWTDKTiYd3AfOh5kIRlF0N4UHStjuKkeSuIQUDFHwF6spphLeybBWdwrWg29CWQcf82XiTXA0_i58kC/s1600/IMG_0543.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjimJSR5HsVVn-ZNqsV1EzIHoOa_a_adVMaLd6neoCMxdxsw4tepJIe_2hxcUaLeBWTDKTiYd3AfOh5kIRlF0N4UHStjuKkeSuIQUDFHwF6spphLeybBWdwrWg29CWQcf82XiTXA0_i58kC/s400/IMG_0543.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512350565694490834" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi55WUqpyYyrtVoN-0PkUf5U4vXcHQ9sDjAjXyzjLlRm8F9JyV0L15Bo-Bniu5nmf1sAG2emEISOkL5lYlvWLXVIYxW-eS91huCO4ZBX_pW6AuU5CiTXm08KeMuxQOs4ckAgZimwN0jv-O-/s1600/IMG_0524.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi55WUqpyYyrtVoN-0PkUf5U4vXcHQ9sDjAjXyzjLlRm8F9JyV0L15Bo-Bniu5nmf1sAG2emEISOkL5lYlvWLXVIYxW-eS91huCO4ZBX_pW6AuU5CiTXm08KeMuxQOs4ckAgZimwN0jv-O-/s400/IMG_0524.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512350298739007922" border="0" /></a><br />After Matsumoto, I went to Kamikouchi. It didn't take five hours to get there. It took one and a half. I stayed in a Japanese style inn (called a ryokan) with the traditional tatami mat floors. People wore the casual kimono (actually called yukata) and slippers around the place and took advantage of the free hot spring. I'm just crazy about hot springs- they are super relaxing. There is nothing like scrubbing every inch of your body clean and then soaking in a hot tub of water. There was also another private onsen you could use for free. They had to drive you to it cause it was in a cave. A cave I tell you! How cool is that?<br /><br />But seriously, Kamikouchi is a beautiful place. It's situated in a gorgeous river valley among the something-something Alps (in case you couldn't tell, I can't remember which Alps because just about every mountain range in Japan is called "the blabbity blabbity Alps"). The river's water was so clean and clear you could see right through to the bottom and it was a gorgeous green color. It was also extremely misty, which made everything very mystical and mysterious. The weather was also extremely cool. We were able to sleep with our windows open to let the cool breeze in at night. It was quite a relief from living in Tokyo, where the heat is simply brutal.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggtn3IYw8LZG0sQMyFDZByDqM4G82BsnYAkB7LxLShGexjfVdCal1WTQaVRUW1BVeRa2noglsgwjW2OxUCHJS2cQa9C8nfXiddq5U_TJmjmCPNIQsMG0NsgHABfrUbQJUk5h5c9x9b-Eou/s1600/IMG_0652.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggtn3IYw8LZG0sQMyFDZByDqM4G82BsnYAkB7LxLShGexjfVdCal1WTQaVRUW1BVeRa2noglsgwjW2OxUCHJS2cQa9C8nfXiddq5U_TJmjmCPNIQsMG0NsgHABfrUbQJUk5h5c9x9b-Eou/s400/IMG_0652.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512359235453781026" border="0" /></a><br />Also, where else can one eat an ice cream cone, in the rain, while hiking in the mountains? Yes, there was a souvenir shop selling ice cream. I couldn't help myself. And it wasn't raining until I stepped outside of the shop with my freshly bought cone. Call it bad timing, or denial of iffy looking clouds in the sky. Either way, I felt a bit ridiculous, but also really enjoyed my ice cream.<br /><br />The other exciting part was eating at a restaurant where I watched the staff pulling fish out the river, sticking them on skewers in one, big, violent thrust, then ripping out their organs, and putting them on an open fire to cook. A good while later at my table, a delicious set lunch of grilled fish, rice, Japanese pickles, miso soup, and other assorted goodies was set before me. I was told I could eat the entire fish-- head, tail, fins and all. You could even eat the eyes, the bones, the teeth! Oh my! My companion just bit right into the head and ate that whole darn fish in a few gulps. Craziness! I managed to eat everything, but the head. It was a mighty delicious fish, though. I've never had fresher.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiDO-jRztQyF32II7IUzNUt8UKF56PIy5GmcQqlYEE6sY6G96rYRHJq7-s07Rz2gRhMNP6314zxSJewycdUrqyaFn0ix3V71sJPbDGYJWAa8H_vRFjvrxbxUAHwfzx0lGusmc-4AolzBra/s1600/IMG_0671.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiDO-jRztQyF32II7IUzNUt8UKF56PIy5GmcQqlYEE6sY6G96rYRHJq7-s07Rz2gRhMNP6314zxSJewycdUrqyaFn0ix3V71sJPbDGYJWAa8H_vRFjvrxbxUAHwfzx0lGusmc-4AolzBra/s400/IMG_0671.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512358847475213554" border="0" /></a>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-88633307716051146162010-08-04T21:30:00.001-07:002010-08-04T21:32:03.713-07:00I Actually Write like... http://www.richardclegg.org/write/<!-- Begin I Actually Write Like Badge --><div style="overflow: auto; border: 2px solid rgb(221, 221, 221); font: 20px/1.2 Arial,sans-serif; width: 380px; padding: 5px; background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% rgb(247, 247, 247); color: rgb(85, 85, 85);"><img src="http://www.richardclegg.org/write/poo.png" style="float: right;" width="120" /><div style="padding: 20px; border-bottom: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); text-shadow: 0pt 1px rgb(255, 255, 255);">I <b>actually</b> write like<br /><span style="color: rgb(105, 139, 34);font-size:30px;" >a moonstruck lunatic possibly actually wearing a straightjacket</span></div><p style="font-size: 11px; text-align: center; color: rgb(136, 136, 136);"><em>I Actually Write Like</em> <a href="http://www.richardclegg.org/write/" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% rgb(255, 255, 224);"><b>Analyze your writing!</b></a></p><p style="font-size: 11px; text-align: center; color: rgb(136, 136, 136);"><br /></p><p style="font-size: 11px; text-align: center; color: rgb(136, 136, 136);"><a href="http://www.richardclegg.org/write/" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% rgb(255, 255, 224);"><b><br /></b></a></p></div>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-46233141955219709182010-08-04T21:02:00.000-07:002010-08-04T21:20:41.304-07:00Is THIS what I look like?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLZ8qQz-rdQ4kIh5swa9qLhKKieIEwN6_cHIbuqEgQBgxMClrwbuYGM0ljRUMH4tpRvicv4NC1bzp_b9gw_Uvsqmpt6dHzKpBL9uoReMHuShKBe2BtMDmnsbwV6YFHEJGWYOTPPGMDSTS5/s1600/doll-links.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLZ8qQz-rdQ4kIh5swa9qLhKKieIEwN6_cHIbuqEgQBgxMClrwbuYGM0ljRUMH4tpRvicv4NC1bzp_b9gw_Uvsqmpt6dHzKpBL9uoReMHuShKBe2BtMDmnsbwV6YFHEJGWYOTPPGMDSTS5/s400/doll-links.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501771831422623074" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I do not understand the Japanese custom of ooohing and ahhhing over people right to their faces. I went with a Japanese friend to hear his friend perform at a live house. The crowd was not your bubbly giggly crowd by any means, but as soon as he introduced me to a couple of his friends, the girls turned into cooing, squealing old ladies. It was nuts, I tell you!<br /><br />"kawaaiiiiii!! Ningyou mitai ne! sugoiii kawaiiiii!"<br />{translation: cuuuuuute! She looks like a doll! SOOOO adorable!!" }<br /><br />For one, I was a bit offended to be compared to the likes of something I find rather creepy (see photo above). But also, couldn't they have waited for me to go buy a drink or something, before making me want to die of embarrassment? And they didn't stop. I'd say thank you and hope that would be the end of it. The conversation might wander off for a bit, and then there would be a lull and "OOOOHH KAWAIIIII!!!" It would start all over again. Maybe they were just trying to be nice. Maybe they had nothing else to say. But holy geez! Just cause I have pasty white skin, blue eyes, and hair that isn't black? Get over it!<br /><br />I mean, if I was back in the U.S. and I met someone from a foreign country--actually, if I met anyone really-- and I was to ooh and ahh over them like that they would probably smack me, or put me in an insane asylum, or maybe just call me a freak. Either way, it's not something we consider normal.<br /><br />To make matters worse, one of the girls found out that she knew my roommate, who is also Japanese. Later that night she was text messaging my roommate, letting her know she had met me and that I was super cuuuuuuute and looked like a doll. What's with this doll stuff? I'm a human, okay? If you wanna call someone a doll, do it behind their back.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-39918427353613467602010-08-04T20:38:00.000-07:002010-08-04T20:41:17.130-07:00It's been suggested I sell my recipes to McDonalds...The hamburgers have gotten out of control...<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC2Ju1Cx7GY6sd9q7GIwqlqeNTZUueeXhq2AdFUK5TOCzySr8DvDpSdBGO6fLzZGGjBxfBRCETqnItA3NYFwked8Qksf6XHO-w0B6PjOAerrss23tiddr_tvHt6DvnBT4Hk24R4edOEk-2/s1600/IMG_0401.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC2Ju1Cx7GY6sd9q7GIwqlqeNTZUueeXhq2AdFUK5TOCzySr8DvDpSdBGO6fLzZGGjBxfBRCETqnItA3NYFwked8Qksf6XHO-w0B6PjOAerrss23tiddr_tvHt6DvnBT4Hk24R4edOEk-2/s400/IMG_0401.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501765621362311954" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOVlIlBeZ1aNoH_1ey5W3Ne5wfiOSgo7XN1ZUydFc3p1FbHpPcgR4ESQtD-FYG6ilDPeUJhPBEQQ08dzrw78Lc1GCWaUHZt_dV9fSMqEiYGWEFImvdD3N9kAHJQ9ZfdDKs5lXC6zYIsKc4/s1600/IMG_0398.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 289px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOVlIlBeZ1aNoH_1ey5W3Ne5wfiOSgo7XN1ZUydFc3p1FbHpPcgR4ESQtD-FYG6ilDPeUJhPBEQQ08dzrw78Lc1GCWaUHZt_dV9fSMqEiYGWEFImvdD3N9kAHJQ9ZfdDKs5lXC6zYIsKc4/s400/IMG_0398.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501765529956325474" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxn-9LxItSYvmHBgXxFpmRqJbe2YnW08ylmYNMxrk-HoFdRNVVD5RkdRjDauiIpGn4nBV0lLRbkqbi_ouuSarOIS0rpnti2uuMxSiJH_SIHe2J57VDvnApSqU3BUqRhpgi-1HCEN-5BCFm/s1600/IMG_0397.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 277px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxn-9LxItSYvmHBgXxFpmRqJbe2YnW08ylmYNMxrk-HoFdRNVVD5RkdRjDauiIpGn4nBV0lLRbkqbi_ouuSarOIS0rpnti2uuMxSiJH_SIHe2J57VDvnApSqU3BUqRhpgi-1HCEN-5BCFm/s400/IMG_0397.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501765429346139474" border="0" /></a><br />Yes, this is what I did on my day off. And yes, I plan to do it again.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-39143007205539449892010-08-04T20:26:00.000-07:002010-08-04T21:34:12.362-07:00Who is William Gibson?So I just heard about this website, forgive me if it's totally old news, I live in Japan.... so sue me. Anyways, you plug in a sample of your writing, hit a button, and the site analyzes your writing to tell you which famous author you write like. It said I write like William Gibson. Too bad I've never heard of him. But according to Amazon.com he is a science fiction writer. Already I am displeased. Here is a list of some of his titles: Neuromancer, Johnny Mnemonic, Pattern Recognition, Count Zero, Burning Chrome... I can honestly say I've never been less interested in reading someone's books before.<br /><br />The sample of writing I used was simply a blog post from this very same blog. Imagine that! Who knew this was a science fiction blog!<br /><br />Anyway, here's where you can find out who you write like:<br /><br />http://iwl.me/<br /><br /><br /><!-- Begin I Write Like Badge --><br /><div style="overflow:auto;border:2px solid #ddd;font:20px/1.2 Arial,sans-serif;width:380px;padding:5px; background:#F7F7F7; color:#555"><img src="http://s.iwl.me/w.png" style="float:right" width="120" /><div style="padding:20px; border-bottom:1px solid #eee; text-shadow:#fff 0 1px"> I write like<br /><a href="http://iwl.me/w/86bc26af" style="font-size:30px;color:#698B22;text-decoration:none">William Gibson</a></div><p style="font-size:11px; text-align:center; color:#888"><em>I Write Like</em> by Mémoires, <a href="http://www.codingrobots.com/memoires/" style="color:#888">Mac journal software</a>. <a href="http://iwl.me" style="color:#333; background:#FFFFE0"><b>Analyze your writing!</b></a></p></div><br /><!-- End I Write Like Badge -->Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-91934320212570205532010-06-02T06:58:00.000-07:002010-06-02T09:47:58.829-07:0026 Year-old learns to ride bikeThere's this group of islands in the south of Japan, called the Izu Islands. Considered part of Tokyo, they are actually managed by the Tokyo government, but it takes over 9 hours by ferry to reach them. One island that goes by the name of Nijima, though not a particularly spectacular island, has become extremely favored by the foreigners in my circle of friends and acquaintances. Perhaps it can be attributed to the fact that this place is pretty much the exact opposite of touristy. There is one hotel, there are 2 supermarkets, literally no convenience stores (seriously, what a shocker in Japan!), one bakery, one pizza shop, one tiny history museum, and two hot springs. There are two beaches, one littered with blocks of concrete, the other littered with surfers battling the terrifying waves that crash you into large rocks that batter your shins and trap your feet so that when a wave comes you fall flat on your face. I obviously thoroughly enjoyed my 10-minute water-treading session.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiueEPmDDXuI7aXmRqsijM4VkBSYY9HrWbGOBqmu0GwA3nfw6ZOhL75LskRTVUKFGJ2gZbd8qAfcQFlwjqb_ToA-He8sZYHNFt312IdO_iHSazuxOOwJG9w0Q4W2SZ7I3PDwR_evM7a4KaX/s1600/IMG_0353.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiueEPmDDXuI7aXmRqsijM4VkBSYY9HrWbGOBqmu0GwA3nfw6ZOhL75LskRTVUKFGJ2gZbd8qAfcQFlwjqb_ToA-He8sZYHNFt312IdO_iHSazuxOOwJG9w0Q4W2SZ7I3PDwR_evM7a4KaX/s400/IMG_0353.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478191555221923586" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Really, I enjoyed my trip there-- both of my trips there, actually. Considering my raving review above of the island, you must be wondering why I bothered to go back there again. Well, I could say that it was nice and relaxing, that I enjoyed camping out, lying on the beach, cooking food on a grill outside, and riding a bicycle to town to buy food or go to the hot spring. Yeah those things were nice the first time, but the second year was like.. um hey, didn't I do this last year?<br /><br />Okay, so maybe I'm not the tiny, quiet island-type. Or maybe I like variety and I don't really enjoy visiting the same place twice. I've never been a huge fan of visiting the same museum, restaurant, or park more than a few times. It gets old quickly. Actually, I can't stand walking the same seven-minute route to the train station every day. Anyway, I got a little bored my second time around visiting this island.<br /><br />However! This trip did have it's highlights, or highlight... I should say. On this island, I taught my 26 year old friend to ride a bicycle. Yes, I know what you're thinking. 26 years old and he didn't know how to ride a bicycle? I don't know why. Ask his parents. What normal parent doesn't teach their child how to ride a bicycle? Nevertheless, this guy had literally never set foot, or perhaps I should say bottom, on a bicycle before. I must add though that he never really seemed like the outdoorsy type.<br /><br />Now, here's where I should mention that if you stay on this island it's pretty much impossible to get around without a bicycle. I mean, sure if you want to walk, go right on ahead. That's what this guy had to do the first time he visited Nijima. His friends all rented bikes and took like 15, 20 minutes to get to town to buy food or visit the hot spring. He had to walk. You can imagine how long it took. I'm sure it was not a pretty sight. From what I gather, he mostly ended up sitting alone at the campsite while everyone else happily rode their bicycles and frolicked around in their bathing suits in the hot spring with a gorgeous sunset view.<br /><br />This time around, it was insisted that he learn to finally ride a bike. Two of his friends agreed to teach him. The three rented their bikes, took them to a parking lot, and let the learning begin. Evidently it did not go so well, as about a half an hour later I rode by to find the guy alone in the parking lot rather disheveled and sweaty.<br /><br />My offer to try teaching him was quickly rebuffed with "I can't," or "I'm too old," or "I look like an idiot," and so on. I set to riding my own bike around the lot, quietly trying to figure out exactly what I was doing when I rode a bike. Eventually, I tried to explain: push down hard on the pedal with one foot and get the bike moving. Keep good posture so as to stay balanced, and as quickly as possible, get that other foot on it's pedal. You want to start pedaling immediately and not slow down. If you lose momentum, you lose your balance. But the guy was so sure that if he put that second foot up on it's pedal, he would fall. He would get the bike going and I would cry, "Yes! That's it! Now get that other foot up and keep going, don't stop!" and then that foot would hit the ground. "Aw, come on. Don't put your foot down. You had it!"<br /><br />"No. I was going to fall," he insisted. "I'm never going to be able to do this. You can go. I'm sorry for wasting your time."<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT8-Q7NICGTaAZCtU0Qf-DYBBd2TLL5GhF5P8xAG2-_AIWuUiS4XVxRmIH3Q3DaY-wst8sVbhKbRbwbZsAJiy_lscWIdYwr6TADYX_LJmoUfqTvksLS1DtYMG4a2xaXJaRXFRC-Adrt3us/s1600/bicycle-yellow.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT8-Q7NICGTaAZCtU0Qf-DYBBd2TLL5GhF5P8xAG2-_AIWuUiS4XVxRmIH3Q3DaY-wst8sVbhKbRbwbZsAJiy_lscWIdYwr6TADYX_LJmoUfqTvksLS1DtYMG4a2xaXJaRXFRC-Adrt3us/s400/bicycle-yellow.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478194865368628818" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We went on like this for probably an hour and I realized literally the only thing keeping him from being able to ride that bike was his fear of falling.<br /><br />"Don't be silly. Where are you going to fall to? The ground isn't that far away. You might get a little scrape or bruise, but that's nothing. When you get that urge to put your foot down, resist. Don't do it. Instead, just keep pedaling!"<br /><br />And then thirty, maybe forty minutes later... oh my god. I swear there was music playing in my head, like when a kid finally makes that home run in some feel-good family movie. He just did it. He rode that damn bicycle. It was a miracle.<br /><br />And that was, seriously, the highlight of my trip. Seeing this grown man overcome his fear and learn to ride a bicycle at age 26, that was just super inspiring. I felt all warm and fuzzy inside.<br /><br />You can go ahead and say, "Aww," now (or puke, whatever you prefer).Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-83760044692163161292010-04-20T09:23:00.000-07:002010-04-20T09:30:13.619-07:00My MacDonarudo.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpsxYtKgX3PPJaGoHbAOQgLujo7Nig1UlKz3xUU1Ad98j1CmsQIDyl-bkQ65OyQOJBMU_8CS0k08p4RxJUJcFEXU4dJMjc2UeUVflb22j4DAuGdWH2TpmyFvPI8mDIkzZMsaqXYQ4jVZm3/s1600/24063_616658639012_3100108_35712149_2368796_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpsxYtKgX3PPJaGoHbAOQgLujo7Nig1UlKz3xUU1Ad98j1CmsQIDyl-bkQ65OyQOJBMU_8CS0k08p4RxJUJcFEXU4dJMjc2UeUVflb22j4DAuGdWH2TpmyFvPI8mDIkzZMsaqXYQ4jVZm3/s320/24063_616658639012_3100108_35712149_2368796_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462257003237559474" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />This is what happens when you unleash me in a room with small children and plenty of free time...I start asking what kinds of food they like:<br /><br />Do you like candy?<br />Do like strawberries?<br />Do you like hamburgers?<br /><br /> and then suddenly I'm asking them if they like cat watermelon hamburgers or, better yet...television, watermelon, zebra hamburgers.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinrUxaEMiHfC7ki57vNQJ7kWF0YJ3ETrQuqQBw1ikOeQmMkBoyvl6fSuuH1poJBlujglwdP0Hp7EP516u_KRBMPC9D3SytNuKYAsJ84qgKzibpyTMZ2JhlZ4iaCiiZne2e6mLbQtIMTLl6/s1600/24063_616660894492_3100108_35712179_3135012_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinrUxaEMiHfC7ki57vNQJ7kWF0YJ3ETrQuqQBw1ikOeQmMkBoyvl6fSuuH1poJBlujglwdP0Hp7EP516u_KRBMPC9D3SytNuKYAsJ84qgKzibpyTMZ2JhlZ4iaCiiZne2e6mLbQtIMTLl6/s320/24063_616660894492_3100108_35712179_3135012_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462256445419796914" border="0" /></a><br />I think I've stumbled upon new artistic subject matter. yeah?Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-60259038143775485892010-02-08T07:01:00.000-08:002010-08-04T21:23:59.383-07:00Am I Invisible?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaescZaLOIx74I8bhhNkPZ0o8xAkPrNp9CU5JssUJTeCyLoy5DXHj-Bzu6EZSTSQuiVpPO3vw9E8yesmdNcOaACB_fqabeHAQ-WyYRh8dw7tLf3BekOLB3PtI8CDQJQM1sQzV5a8qjXISf/s1600-h/071025_Bowing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaescZaLOIx74I8bhhNkPZ0o8xAkPrNp9CU5JssUJTeCyLoy5DXHj-Bzu6EZSTSQuiVpPO3vw9E8yesmdNcOaACB_fqabeHAQ-WyYRh8dw7tLf3BekOLB3PtI8CDQJQM1sQzV5a8qjXISf/s400/071025_Bowing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435893543344504226" border="0" /></a><br />You know the stereotype that Japanese people bow a lot? Well, it's not a stereotype. It's true. It's very common to bow to any one you are parting ways with. However, it's usually in formal or business situations. Shop clerks and restaurant staff always bow to customers, employees will bow to co-workers or bosses. I think, perhaps, it's especially important to do it for someone who is superior to you in age, social standing, or position in the company. Depending on their degree of importance, you have to adjust the change the angle degree of the bow. If they are a lot more important than you, you should bow really low. Anyways, I don't know much about it because I'm never really in a situation where I need to know this. Since I'm a foreigner, no one expects me to bow. Right now I'm focusing on the language, not the customs. One thing at a time.<br /><br />Anyway, I remember noticing a ridiculous amount of bowing one time on the bullet train from Tokyo to somewhere far, maybe Nara. There were these female train staff in their fancy matching uniforms that made them look like flight attendants. They were walking up and down the aisles, passing from car to car for no apparent reason that I could glean. Every single time they exited a car they would open the door, turn around to face the people in the car and give a low bow before going out the door. If there was a group of them, each one would stop and give a bow before exiting. It seemed like these girls were stopping and bowing and going in and out of doors every 10 minutes. All I could think is, no one notices their bowing except me, the foreigner, and I certainly don't care if they bow to me or not. Is anyone really going to be offended if they exit the train car without bowing first? I know I may be missing something culturally, but I just found it rather excessive--to the point of being quite funny.<br /><br />Another thing I've noticed is that people often bow when they get off trains and part ways with someone. The other night when I was on my way home from work, there weren't any seats so I was standing in the the middle area near the doors. There was a group of people standing a few feet away from me. As the train doors opened, most of the group got off the train and one of the remaining members was saying her deeply polite "goodbyes" and "thank yous" and "you've worked hard's" (<span style="font-style: italic;">Sayonara, arigatou gozaimashita, otsukaresama desu..</span> etc) to these people who must have been in a higher position than her, maybe even her bosses, but I don't know.<br /><br />As she was spewing this ridiculous string of intensely polite greetings, she was rapidly bobbing her top-half up and down, up and down, so devotedly, so eagerly, that she failed to notice my presence about a foot or two away. Suddenly, mid-bow, her head landed right on my shoulder. I moved away, quite surprised and she didn't even seem to notice. She continued right on bowing. I couldn't help but laugh. I had just been bowed on!<br /><br />And for a treat, here's a funny picture I found of Obama bowing to Emperor Akihito last November. It looks pretty funny cause the two are supposed to be in equal standing--both world leaders, and yet the Emperor is giving a very shallow bow and Obama is bowing like a lowly servant. It's also pretty funny that he's shaking hands at the same time. People don't usually shake hands in Japan--unless they are greeting foreigners and they are aware of the custom. I kind of love that he did that, though. So very hilarious..<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8lkETQvwz1jvW-YjzVSEA4BgFfYOLmvtMzBiR5A8hFZio9RtwVbXdyCxwm_zxKGd3almCfRczP66Fxg0oA__bcjI_jJDsIfpODzhSbTP0SoWD52f8dTxBU25blCHLhK5lM0clrBNYWpce/s1600-h/rt_obama_akihito_091115_main.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8lkETQvwz1jvW-YjzVSEA4BgFfYOLmvtMzBiR5A8hFZio9RtwVbXdyCxwm_zxKGd3almCfRczP66Fxg0oA__bcjI_jJDsIfpODzhSbTP0SoWD52f8dTxBU25blCHLhK5lM0clrBNYWpce/s320/rt_obama_akihito_091115_main.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435894754085034098" border="0" /></a>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-33849306218670426612010-01-24T23:08:00.000-08:002010-01-24T23:18:54.853-08:00The Cutest<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhecfjTok7b_8OmyvpeZWmMEQeZYzo_ozWWySs2LYhI_bo0Jup0WPGMFmTHGGf6oNpRxI-q66nVHX3o6kr7oin89K_QlytxLiiQ07mpfRgSvltKCZNeDytJ-1PQXtevZLmAISWLHOyruLbg/s1600-h/mameshiba-cartoon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 396px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhecfjTok7b_8OmyvpeZWmMEQeZYzo_ozWWySs2LYhI_bo0Jup0WPGMFmTHGGf6oNpRxI-q66nVHX3o6kr7oin89K_QlytxLiiQ07mpfRgSvltKCZNeDytJ-1PQXtevZLmAISWLHOyruLbg/s400/mameshiba-cartoon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430573365001116370" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This is a Japanese TV ad campaign for beans that is running right now. It seems to be a national phenomenon. Fuzzy plush bean dog toys, bean dog mugs, notebooks, pencils, are being sold in gift shops all over. And I love it! In fact, I've had an image of one of these things as my blog picture for like over a year and I never knew what it was.<br /><br />The idea is someone's about to sit down and eat their meal when a bean starts talking to them. Th e bean is super cute and has ears, so it kinda looks like a litte dog. Hence the name, bean dog. The bean dog tells them some random disturbing bit of trivia, such as "a kangaroo's pouch is really stinky," or "a flamingo's mother's milk is red." The person is so disgusted they can't finish their food. I'm not sure how this makes someone want to eat more beans, but I find these bean dogs cute and hilarious.<br /><br />And now, please watch for yourself. There are about 14 versions. Most are in Japanese with English subtitles, one is in English, and one is in Spanish. I personally recommend watching them all.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/profile?gl=US&user=mameshibavideos">http://www.youtube.com/profile?gl=US&user=mameshibavideos</a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQhSkMANabhFbRO6l54J2h_CMb_E5Fnn2euxLTIRM_HHiJFcyifXpUguYWpzS_7xK5uTnZV2qcOtQczEXoQ4A3isJz_AgwPELA8my4qMg9_snApE66kRO9l0YeTIOxUNARVNvhUJkgFYi/s1600-h/f0060315_23332012.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQhSkMANabhFbRO6l54J2h_CMb_E5Fnn2euxLTIRM_HHiJFcyifXpUguYWpzS_7xK5uTnZV2qcOtQczEXoQ4A3isJz_AgwPELA8my4qMg9_snApE66kRO9l0YeTIOxUNARVNvhUJkgFYi/s400/f0060315_23332012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430572899956900514" border="0" /></a>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-9943601724819195742010-01-24T20:51:00.000-08:002010-01-24T23:01:54.964-08:00Thank Heaven for 7-11<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9VMp9eIJiZNPXqkCxkC20k_iQvSAdLZGJmOlI6jMcW8DsYFxmbQZEYtM05wjyvl-bOWaZriWLmA4EZ_vdIfFDHvSynWglcxi6I9POT0zdFHd5sPKBY9o2Bs_S4DAW5oFNacMRGZ0-zO8F/s1600-h/stock-photo-a-view-of-a-toilet-in-a-public-restroom-3067210.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9VMp9eIJiZNPXqkCxkC20k_iQvSAdLZGJmOlI6jMcW8DsYFxmbQZEYtM05wjyvl-bOWaZriWLmA4EZ_vdIfFDHvSynWglcxi6I9POT0zdFHd5sPKBY9o2Bs_S4DAW5oFNacMRGZ0-zO8F/s400/stock-photo-a-view-of-a-toilet-in-a-public-restroom-3067210.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430554164639924834" border="0" /></a><br /><br />So one day I decide to go running in my neighborhood. I know it's Winter but it's a particularly sunny day and it can feel quite warm in the middle of the afternoon.<br /><br />I start running along a dirt path that runs beside one of the many canal/stream whatever things that run across the city. I run for about 20 minutes, I realize I need to pee. No problem, the dirt path intersects with many streets. All I have to do is find a convenience store. Sure enough, there's a 7-11.<br /><br />I pass a young, female employee mopping the floor. When I get to the restroom, there's a little handwritten note taped to the door. It's mostly in Kanji characters which I can't make out the meaning of. The only word I know is "Key," or "lock." Okay, I think, one school I work at has a handwritten note on the bathroom door that tells you how to work the lock properly. Unconcerned, I go in and lock the door.<br /><br />When it's time to leave, I try to open door. The lock won't turn. Still calm, I alternate between wriggling the knob and knocking on the door.<br /><br />Someone comes to the door and cries, "<span style="font-style: italic;">Ehhh?! Okyakusama</span>!?!" (<span style="font-style: italic;">Ehhh</span> is a typical Japanese noise of surprise. <span style="font-style: italic;">Okyakusama </span>means customer or guest.) I hear a sigh of resignation. She knows I'm stuck in here. She's also probably wondering why I stupidly didn't read the note on the door. The young employee frantically tries to open the door. She goes to get some keys. She tries every one. None of them work. She asks me to try unlocking the door from the inside. I tell her I can't. She asks me another question, but she's obviously panicking and it's causing her to speak so quickly I can't understand her. I try to answer, but it soon becomes apparent to her that I'm not Japanese. This is where she really freaks out.<br /><br />She goes to get the manager, crying something about a foreigner stuck in the bathroom. He also tries the keys. He tries telling me to unlock it from the inside. Well, duh.. don't you guys think I 've already tried that? I don't immediately respond because I'm trying to work out what to say in my head.<br /><br />This is when he panics. He asks me questions in ridiculously fast Japanese. I start to panic, too, because I just can't understand him. I want to tell him that I can speak Japanese, but he needs to speak slowly and use simpler words. However, I can't seem to remember any of the tons of vocabulary I've studied over the past 2 years.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbXkv-xphdhXepcJEk3HROvKsYUYdXBZ2HrwFB9Q47uz3Zazy2MZy_G2_57Nj-L0FXQnnWZy-7LDwHm1JspwNyyjTNwJEezNqVRc_4DbYjKqw2LsH0mz8rHQbN67uaUu9vRSURyt3dRFIy/s1600-h/7-11_Japan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbXkv-xphdhXepcJEk3HROvKsYUYdXBZ2HrwFB9Q47uz3Zazy2MZy_G2_57Nj-L0FXQnnWZy-7LDwHm1JspwNyyjTNwJEezNqVRc_4DbYjKqw2LsH0mz8rHQbN67uaUu9vRSURyt3dRFIy/s400/7-11_Japan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430551347716146018" border="0" /></a><br />This continues for about a half hour: shaking the door, yelling in unintelligible Japanese, and trying different keys. Finally, I understand something they say: they are going to call a locksmith. I try to tell them I understand. However, it usually seems to be the case that once a Japanese person realizes you are foreign, their mind becomes literally unable to comprehend that you might understand Japanese.<br /><br />They come back and tell me, in Japanese, that the locksmith can't come for another hour and a half. I tell them, in perfect Japanese, that I understand. But they don't hear it. I can hear them trying to figure out how to say it in English. They're panicking again. I tell them it's fine, I understand. I'll wait. Don't worry. Of course, I'm pretty upset that I have to be in here another hour and a half, but I'll do it. I'll wait. What choice do I have?<br /><br />They abandon me to contemplate my imprisoned state in solitude. I close the lid on the toilet and sit down. I'm sweaty and red-faced from my run. I survey the items on the shelf above my head. Toilet paper rolls, spray bottles of cleaner. I remember it kind of smelled when I first came in, but now I seem to have gotten used to it.<br /><br />Just as I've rested my head against the cold, tile wall, I hear in very broken English:<br /><br />"heh-ro? Eh...you ..... ehhh... shouldo...ehhh...wait? ehhh, wait one...ehhh...ando....thirty."<br /><br />Um.. I'm guessing she's trying to tell me to wait for an hour and a half. I try to reconfirm this in Japanese, since her English is obviously not too awesome.<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Hai. Ichi jikan han. Wakarimashita. Arigatou gozaim</span><span style="font-style: italic;">asu.</span>" (Yes. One hour and a half. I understand, thank you.)<br /><br />She's so surprised that I've answered in Japanese. She half asks, half wonders aloud to herself , "Wait, you can't speak English?"<br /><br />"No. I mean, Yes. I can speak English," I correct her, in English. But she has already run away to break this devastating news to her superiors. Now how they are supposed to communicate with me?<br /><br />Eventually she comes back with another girl and they continue trying to open the door. They keep lamenting in Japanese, "An hour and a half? What should we do?"<br /><br />The new girl asks the first girl if I'm alright. The first girl replies a little too casually and disdainfully for my liking, "I dunno. She's a foreigner. She can't speak English OR Japanese."<br /><br />The other girl asks, "Really? Where is she from?"<br /><br />"I dunno. Probably Europe or something."<br /><br />I attempt to say in Japanese that actually, "I'm American," thank you very much. But they have completely given up on trying to communicate with me.<br /><br />"Oh, too bad." They walk away.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp9hU-XyporzNzzuQpXOx0vcfDEm59VCvl8ZRq4tngHAVmsO6C38h0p6k4QX9x4AFyoav0Pm_YNBQmhsCxnDAoc23pTKRrJeJMkB9gB_vxFlF8awwF-iicFDlt2cyATfoFPoZObaxxZCr-/s1600-h/keys+%28from+sxc+photo1004210%29-8x6.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 204px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp9hU-XyporzNzzuQpXOx0vcfDEm59VCvl8ZRq4tngHAVmsO6C38h0p6k4QX9x4AFyoav0Pm_YNBQmhsCxnDAoc23pTKRrJeJMkB9gB_vxFlF8awwF-iicFDlt2cyATfoFPoZObaxxZCr-/s400/keys+%28from+sxc+photo1004210%29-8x6.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430564551445473058" border="0" /></a><br />What the hell am I going to do for an hour and a half, in a 7-11 bathroom? I don't have anything on me, but a key. No cell phone, nothing. I think about asking if they would slide me a pen and some paper, or maybe a magazine, through a little hole in the door, but no one comes back. I wait. I try sleeping with my head propped against the wall.<br /><br />When the locksmith comes, he can't get the door open. He's banging on it, using some metal tools to try to force it open, fumbling with more keys. Finally, he brings out something so noisy and terrifying that it makes me cower in the corner, as far away from the door as possible. I cover my ears. Fire-y orange spastic sparks shoot everywhere. The door swings open and I peek out. Wearing a gray jumpsuit uniform, the locksmith looks at me, stifling a chuckle as he motions for me to come out. I hop over his mountain of tools and escape like a scared little animal.<br /><br />Mid-escape, I run into the manager. He awkwardly asks me in Japanese if I'm ok. Yeah, I say, sorry for not speaking Japanese so well, and not being able to read kanji. He gives a simple apology and leaves me standing there, wondering where my free stuff is. Shouldn't I at least get a complimentary bottle of water? Geez. I slink past the register on my way out, avoiding the smirking faces of the young employees behind the counter.<br /><br />2 hours and 20 minutes after I left my house for a run, I slowly crawl back home, defeated. I feel somehow this is a definitive low point.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-30713191622924043162010-01-24T20:22:00.001-08:002010-01-24T20:47:01.877-08:00The groping hands return...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJoOoL4vQqcp92N8mrRJIVOxW2Yrt5HxrgjfPJSTT-DAuXEGWGlmANtBnxXpuuW9nph5EzwCWp8LujscRbFb32f9PrqQatZlRVphgLH9r8j4bNdhICNxBivwiuTL-SVr4ADF3_8qMKV1B/s1600-h/babyhandsoaps.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJoOoL4vQqcp92N8mrRJIVOxW2Yrt5HxrgjfPJSTT-DAuXEGWGlmANtBnxXpuuW9nph5EzwCWp8LujscRbFb32f9PrqQatZlRVphgLH9r8j4bNdhICNxBivwiuTL-SVr4ADF3_8qMKV1B/s400/babyhandsoaps.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430532800663932402" border="0" /></a><br />The next time it happens, I am looking for my children who have magically disappeared. The mothers are all happily chatting away on the plastic orange sofa in the lobby. I begin my search through the myriad of classrooms. Eventually I hear the telltale sound of giggles. I enter to find five little girls hiding under a table. Cute.<br /><br />"Ok, kids. Let's go! Time to start!"<br /><br />They crawl out, one by one. I say hello to the first sweet little girl, who always behaves impeccably:<br /><br />"Hello, Sehwa! How are you?"<br />"I'M FINE!"<br />"Good! High five!"<br /><br />One missed high five and a little hand lands on my pillowy chest. A wide mischievous grin spreads across her face. She reaches out again.<br /><br />"No, Sehwa. Don't touch!"<br /><br />Her frown turns upside down:<br /><br />"No <span style="font-style: italic;">ja nai</span>!" (<span style="font-style: italic;">Ja nai</span> is Japanese, basically equivalent to "not," so having a negative meaning)<br /><br />She reaches out again and attempts to pat and prod. More giggles ensue. The other girls have extracted themselves from their hiding place and now see what's going on out here. They want in.<br /><br />10 little hands are groping and grabbing and chasing me around the classroom. And they won't stop that giggling!<br /><br />"No! No! No! Stop!" I run out of the room. The mothers look at me, startled.<br /><br />"Uhhh." I can't think how to tell them in simple English that their children are sex fiends. Didn't these mothers ever tell their children NOT to touch people in naughty places?Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-34750601100685577002010-01-24T20:07:00.000-08:002010-01-24T23:07:53.991-08:00Sexual Harassment in the Workplace.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcoe9qdisEibCgXylCCixwRAtgRXCWPCus9GJwI93vgIUG48GQLF_KFrnUhvedwXCEnTJgch-6HBHvxXVvu-aNMjh8PFx21yn-unyBYB4YpCSHF2CE_DdKb0eaWkXrAtXd6E2SMXqs956h/s1600-h/001825_BigButtValentine.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 372px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcoe9qdisEibCgXylCCixwRAtgRXCWPCus9GJwI93vgIUG48GQLF_KFrnUhvedwXCEnTJgch-6HBHvxXVvu-aNMjh8PFx21yn-unyBYB4YpCSHF2CE_DdKb0eaWkXrAtXd6E2SMXqs956h/s400/001825_BigButtValentine.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430570675640042210" border="0" /></a><br />I do apologize for my almost year long absence from this blog.<br /><br />And now, I would like to announce that I've been sexually harassed at work.. by little girls.<br /><br />It all starts one innocent Friday afternoon. I'm in the school lobby, about ten minutes before my class starts. A group of young children around age 4 or 5 are all gathered with their mothers, eagerly anticipating another 50 minutes of:<br /><br />"What's this?"<br />"Chicken!"<br />"What do Chicken's say?"<br />"Cluck cluck!"<br /><br />You know, the usual stuff.<br /><br />A girl named Nana, enters the school with her mother. She shyly hands me her attendance booklet and suddenly bursts out with:<br /><br />"HERE YOU ARE!!"<br />"Why, thank you, Nana."<br />"YOU'RE WELCOME!!"<br />"Good job, Nana, high five!"<br /><br />Smug with the knowledge that I have taught my kids well enough to say "here you are" and "you're welcome," I start to walk away from the lobby back into the office area. Suddenly, I feel a little hand grab my rear end and give it a good couple of satisfying squeezes.<br /><br />bonk bonk. One, two.<br /><br />It reminds me of the way one grabs a little fluffy round bunny tail. All innocent and oh, it just looks so soft and plush, I want to grab it.<br /><br />"Oh!" the mothers cry.<br />"Oh!" I cry out.<br /><br />Mortified, I spin around.<br /><br />"Nana!?"<br />giggle giggle.<br /><br />giggle giggle.<br /><br />gigglegigglegigglegiggle. the mother's have joined in. Nana's looking real proud of herself.<br /><br />I sigh and walk back into the office area. I drink my juice. No one speaks English, not even the mothers, so what the heck can I say anyway? I let it go.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-30721626240507865762009-03-09T07:36:00.000-07:002009-03-09T09:51:45.447-07:00CHANGES: Part IIThe most recent and most drastic change that has occurred during my time in Japan is moving house. In the beginning of this year, I was finally forced to face the impending equivalent of a $100 rent increase. At my (sob) old guest house, the usual policy is to give new residents a 12-month rent discount. After 12 months, their rent goes "back to the original price."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmAZWmy0H7HSNsfIyKGVVE3Llk9nCk2wIjau0JdXv4EcF2lbBtFVgeS0UXS3OPaLEcd4Kl9_DBu_I2gFSSoimxbLZh74QGASa4UCluWnvMFCtPMRdzO6mRiSCB9yeTkhX5wEaLyJoCTU-g/s1600-h/n554635130_5090116_1650.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmAZWmy0H7HSNsfIyKGVVE3Llk9nCk2wIjau0JdXv4EcF2lbBtFVgeS0UXS3OPaLEcd4Kl9_DBu_I2gFSSoimxbLZh74QGASa4UCluWnvMFCtPMRdzO6mRiSCB9yeTkhX5wEaLyJoCTU-g/s320/n554635130_5090116_1650.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311216242318754530" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Here's a sample of the artwork that covered the walls of Big World 21.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" > My favorite piece.</span><br /><br /></div>Although I had become extremely comfortable in my guest house and was hesitant to leave the amazing social atmosphere it had provided me with, I was also not keen to pay an extra $100 every month. The place was not very clean, to put it mildly. It was also super cold in the winter and disgustingly hot in the summer. We had to pay for heat with 100 yen coins (it adds up). We had to walk up a huge, ridiculously steep hill to get to the train station every day. Despite my strong attachment to Big World 21--an attachment which earned me strange looks and inquiries such as, "are you crazy?" from my friends and co-workers--I knew there definitely had to be better places out there. So, I decided I'd better look around. In early February, I moved into a guest house in the Kichijoji area.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghc8tmAin4rilMkKg-WzrQ9NRRTHh3iRK2EgFF2WY-gt31iV6yyFVcGvdRQcfnyaC9SE1hKQsqnwuEp_0Gas9H2CcY3EbUHQAgv6goRM9F-dKXcpjiX09QnL15QhewjqA2NoxQthmqBQRY/s1600-h/n507670194_3498405_7943.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghc8tmAin4rilMkKg-WzrQ9NRRTHh3iRK2EgFF2WY-gt31iV6yyFVcGvdRQcfnyaC9SE1hKQsqnwuEp_0Gas9H2CcY3EbUHQAgv6goRM9F-dKXcpjiX09QnL15QhewjqA2NoxQthmqBQRY/s320/n507670194_3498405_7943.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311216733663634818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Here's a taste of my amazing social life in Big World 21.</span></span> </div><br />I love Kichijoji. It's probably one of my favorite parts of Tokyo, actually. It's only about 10 minutes away by train from my former home-station, Musashi Koganei. While Musashi Koganei is decidedly homely--or one might say empty and bland, Kichijoji is amazing. It has a lot of character and is just as interesting as all those famously over-crowded places in central Tokyo. In fact, I think it's better because it's actually in the nearby suburbs of Tokyo, and therefore not as big, or crowded, or overwhelming. Still, it has tons of restaurants, bars, cafes, department stores, clothing stores, second hand clothing stores, book stores. It has everything I need. If it weren't for work, I'd never need to leave Kichijoji.<br /><br />There's also beautiful Inokashira Park, with a big lake that's lined by cherry trees. They are absolutely stunning in the Spring. People ride swan-shaped boats, and play guitars, and run, and eat ice cream and do stuff that people do in parks. There's also a zoo which I have yet to visit. I hear they have an elephant and lots of meerkats. The Ghibli Museum, concerning the animation studio that produces famous Japanese animation films such as Totoro, Kiki's Delivery Service, and Princess Mononoke, is also located in this park. Again, I have yet to visit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTYhDNBU7UM-20pKPlSPoS6p4iKfK_8Kf9jWhO82HvcKIf03jDn6C2yY6cvaxc3Z1qf5dIqdL5m1iG9qHrt4ZoP6_8ErpJX9mcp1x1Nk569ItU2v6OoIuHJEdcSRYKLwmtym1_WWcWxYC/s1600-h/IMG_4588.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTYhDNBU7UM-20pKPlSPoS6p4iKfK_8Kf9jWhO82HvcKIf03jDn6C2yY6cvaxc3Z1qf5dIqdL5m1iG9qHrt4ZoP6_8ErpJX9mcp1x1Nk569ItU2v6OoIuHJEdcSRYKLwmtym1_WWcWxYC/s320/IMG_4588.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311217336730012226" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbt4P5HvnpmgGFntE3LZIEU4OQ2tDA7YQDZcM4EXhB02_t04ixg0RIqk6Ka2ha5DG755EM2kG6qR_ZO5iRvCd1_TB7FfmYcbzh0MAsFD_53yFQlqTdH0vY6uS6iIrtdX7451hstJKyCxP/s1600-h/IMG_4583.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbt4P5HvnpmgGFntE3LZIEU4OQ2tDA7YQDZcM4EXhB02_t04ixg0RIqk6Ka2ha5DG755EM2kG6qR_ZO5iRvCd1_TB7FfmYcbzh0MAsFD_53yFQlqTdH0vY6uS6iIrtdX7451hstJKyCxP/s320/IMG_4583.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311217592285655378" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-PkpZ1e_Psg4jH00rLuXsVlueNKUPjJoFoICqrHyV4QYslVhNjthcNxMfV9jCGAy7yd6UvfJta3NFEmQ_WzjNYNpAYhB3vpw5-KRufqKITLl7uiOaZUZmObLgVslD6ElNgm27gNJvvzwc/s1600-h/IMG_4604.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-PkpZ1e_Psg4jH00rLuXsVlueNKUPjJoFoICqrHyV4QYslVhNjthcNxMfV9jCGAy7yd6UvfJta3NFEmQ_WzjNYNpAYhB3vpw5-KRufqKITLl7uiOaZUZmObLgVslD6ElNgm27gNJvvzwc/s320/IMG_4604.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311217770782096482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Inokashira Park, Cherry Blossom Season, April 2008<br /><br /></span></span></div>The hard parts of moving inevitably included the physical moving of my possessions. This took many difficult trips involving dragging my over-sized suitcases many times up and down that blasted hill in Musashi Koganei, and then through the claustrophobia-inducing Tokyo transit system. I enlisted a few friends to assist me, you can be sure of that. After all that was over, I had to go to various important looking buildings to re-register as a foreigner, and re-register my address, and re-register with the phone company, and re-register my eye color, and re-register the number of eggs I eat for breakfast, and re-register the number of freckles on my knees. You get the idea. I did a lot of registering. (There really are a lot of freckles on my knees, though. My dear friend, Anne, used to call me "the spotted freak." What a sweetheart.)<br /><br />After all that registering, then I had to meet the lovely people in my new guest house. Most of the conversations went like this:<br /><br />"Hi! I'm Caitlin, nice to meet you."<br /><br />"Oh.. hi. I'm Yosuke. I'm moving out tomorrow."<br /><br />And some went kind of like this:<br /><br />ME: "Oh my! Someone didn't wash this pasta strainer, and then put it back on the shelf! Gross." [I place it in the sink.]<br /><br />JAPANESE DUDE: "This is not a hotel! ...blah blah blah, your responsibility." (Of course, spoken in a mixture of Japanese and English, the hotel part definitely spoken in English.)<br /><br />ME: "Um, ok. I was going to wash it... after I strained my pasta."<br /><br />J.D.: "Whatever."<br /><br />So, maybe meeting people isn't so easy after all. But I gave it a shot. The other foreigners consist of a bunch of French people, one Canadian who also speaks fluent French, and a Korean girl. There's also a Japanese guy named Shin who lived in New York for 5 years. His English is fairly close to perfect. He likes to come into the kitchen without a shirt on so that I can look at his pectorals. (I refuse.) He enjoys speaking in, what I believe to be a forced, tone of voice that reminds me of an overly-macho Samurai in a cheesy anime cartoon. He also enjoys quoting Star Wars--"Luke, I am your father," in much the same voice. Finally, he loves telling me about his fabulous future as a person working in the fashion industry: he has a fabulous high-paying job, he's really busy, and he's probably going to be promoted any day now. What a winner.<br /><br />Ok, so the social atmosphere is definitely lacking when compared to my former guest house. I admit that this has produced some acute feelings of homesickness for Musashi Koganei, as well as a bit of "Oh god, what have I done?" But I <span style="font-style: italic;">had</span> lived there for year. It was time to move on, make some changes in my life. What I can say is that this new guest house is definitely cleaner and warmer. It's more expensive, but utilities are included and not paid for by coins. There are endless other little creature comforts provided here that make it feel a bit more like a home. My room is definitely much larger; I have room to breathe in and be organized. Now that I have few people to socialize with over dinner when I return home from work, I get more stuff done. Now that I have lots of cozy cafes to choose from, I am studying Japanese more. I'm also preparing my classes more, trying harder to keep in touch with people back home. I am spending more time writing songs for the band, and trying to draw pictures once in awhile. I have more time for myself. This is true. However, it feels like I am living by myself, which wasn't exactly what I'd expected. But, I'll get used to it. Everyone has to live alone at some point in their life. It builds character.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-58536951474074836312009-03-09T06:36:00.000-07:002009-03-09T09:56:14.076-07:00CH-CH-CHANGES: Part IDear me, it's been way too long since I've updated this thing. But then, you already know that. You're reading it, aren't you?<br /><br />In the past several months my life in Japan has slowly changed in the slowly evolving changing sort of way, as well as in the sudden, drastically changing sort of way. Naturally, when living in a foreign country and befriending many other foreigners, people are going to leave. That has, of course, already happened a few times. Most notably, my friend Daniel left in the early fall, causing my band situation to also change. The new band, consisting of myself and three others, finally came up with a name: Das Yukon. Please don't ask for an explanation. It would only be a dull one. I guarantee you. I'll just let you know that Andy and I extremely enjoyed the hard K-sound in the work "Yukon." That's about as interesting as it could possibly get. I don't really care about the possible meanings. In fact, I'm pretty sure we tried to avoid any possible meaning of any sort (other than it meaning "The Yukon). We just like sounds. There you go.<br /><br />In truth, the new band has had it's ups and downs. Actually, a lot of downs, mostly due to the fact that our drummer has canceled practice one too many times (often with fairly short notice). But then, according to stereotypes, that's to be expected of drummers, right? (Notwithstanding, my brother is an extremely responsible and punctual human being, as well as a drummer)! Of course, one can't be too hard on the poor fellow as one of the incidents involved him finding out he had suddenly developed a bad case of diabetes. I suppose that's pretty high up on the list of forgivable things.<br /><br />In addition to many missed Sunday practices, I should also mention the high number of un-enjoyable/wasted practices, mainly caused by my faithfully sour disposition that never failed to appear immediately upon entering the studio. I believe this was caused by my being extremely tired. My tiredness was caused by the following things: a.) Sunday was the end of my work week b.) I hadn't had enough sleep c.)I had woken up early both Saturday and Sunday morning d.) I taught a very busy shift on Saturday involving lots of jumping around with children and sweating in my full business attire e.)I'd gone out with friends on Saturday night f.) I also worked Sunday which means I was forced to talk to people I probably didn't want to talk to all day g.) I had rushed home to change clothes, eat dinner and then go to practice h.) I had to carry a heavy backpack to practice that held my laptop, a "lovely glockenspiel" (read: a xylophone), and a pair of castanets, among other essential assorted items. i.) Sitting at the keyboard really hurts my back j.) I have terrible posture anyway.<br /><br />Don't worry, though, I won't complain.<br /><br />Anyway, all of the above contributed to me being as negative and cranky as possible during many a Sunday night band practice. Nothing ever sounded "good enough." Nothing was working "quite right." I just wasn't "feeling the song anymore." My awful mood inevitably infected the others, causing them also to be extremely frustrated. Oh, Sweet futility! Yet, we had booked those three hours, and by god were we going to use them.<br /><br />On those days remaining, practice went great! We now have about 3 songs that are basically finished. We can play them really well, almost every time. I've <span style="font-style: italic;">finally</span> memorized my own lyrics (that I wrote--shouldn't have been so hard). We have recorded them and uploaded the recordings to our page on Myspace. We are working on a few more songs at the moment.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQaPN5b3cYE2bqZqF2DGPffZal3VdGTW3nbzRBwsLj81NC9RqYJIIQOCWoknwYENJUVf7TF0TS4ReUIZFFBNn7xhEbvXk7Hh1EeWsQ63_sC0-Q7sJ9MgtUqPUQPaYkh_cKEPgx5PlaPt1/s1600-h/m_e30ac96148fc4e739a2971090f07b3ee.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 127px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQaPN5b3cYE2bqZqF2DGPffZal3VdGTW3nbzRBwsLj81NC9RqYJIIQOCWoknwYENJUVf7TF0TS4ReUIZFFBNn7xhEbvXk7Hh1EeWsQ63_sC0-Q7sJ9MgtUqPUQPaYkh_cKEPgx5PlaPt1/s320/m_e30ac96148fc4e739a2971090f07b3ee.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311230608543136130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">our picture on myspace<br /><br /></span></span></div>As we slowly improve and build up a collection of original Das Yukon songs, our pride and excitement are tempered with apprehension. That unreliable diabetic drummer is leaving Japan in April with his Australian girlfriend. The most talented musician in our band is leaving. This means we will need to replace him, but whom with? The question remains unanswered as we also tackle the problem of whether or not we should attempt to play a show in Tokyo before his departure. That, too, remains unanswered, buut April isn't very far away so please just be patient on that one.<br /><br />Either way, I'm still excited about the way things are going. I really hope we get a good replacement for Adam and we start playing shows around Tokyo. Andy and Kate are totally up for it. I'm also really enjoying writing lyrics and melodies, and horsing around in the studio (I believe some might prefer to use the horrid term, "jamming;" use what you like--I can't stop you), and of course I am very happy to be singing again on a regular basis.<br /><br />If you are interested in hearing those 3 basically finished original Das Yukon tracks, you can find them here at: <a href="http://www.myspace.com/dasyukon">http://www.myspace.com/das yukon.</a> And please befriend us if you haven't already (I know chances are you probably haven't as I can count on one hand the number of people, that I personally know, who have). Hope you enjoy!Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-14567761346622548452008-11-25T00:35:00.000-08:002009-03-09T09:46:32.515-07:00Naganooooo way!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFd_evyIwAM5ds2qkOvAOPN88oU22nHpdVJozU1sj_998-whDAfQZ8fdUIUl0sDm0NL15pywtB18sObtCumM2_AcjG20ppJ2ficcfeJFybsJa5xFp2DwsdCa5iUL1zP8sheOgSIbkU8Q3U/s1600-h/IMG_0815.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFd_evyIwAM5ds2qkOvAOPN88oU22nHpdVJozU1sj_998-whDAfQZ8fdUIUl0sDm0NL15pywtB18sObtCumM2_AcjG20ppJ2ficcfeJFybsJa5xFp2DwsdCa5iUL1zP8sheOgSIbkU8Q3U/s320/IMG_0815.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311229022809344850" border="0" /></a><br />So months ago Japan had two national holidays in a row, on a Sunday and Monday. Since life in Japan was starting not to feel like life in Japan anymore--it was starting to feel more just like life--some of my friends and I decided we better get off our rear ends and do some traveling.<br /><br />We went to Nagano.<br /><br />Nicole, Alana, Andy, and I hopped on a train Sunday morning. Four hours later, we arrived in Yudanaka, a station about 40 minutes from Nagano station, in the Northern prefecture of Nagano. Yudanaka was extremely tiny from what I could tell. We stayed in a little <span style="font-style: italic;">ryokan</span> (traditional Japanese Inn) owned by an indescribably adorable old couple. I will attempt to describe them. To begin with, the man we called Mr. Yumoto, was very small and short. He spoke quite a bit of English, though in a very strange and robotic, sometimes Yoda-esque accent. Phone conversations never ended with a goodbye or a thank you. Mr. Yumoto preferred hanging up the phone at the moment when he deemed the conversation over, which may not necessarily have been the same moment that you found it appropriate to hang up on a person. Sometimes his end of the conversations consisted of simply one word:<br /><br />Andy-san: <span style="font-style: italic;">Moshi moshi.</span> (hello?)<br /><br />Yumoto-san: <span style="font-style: italic;">Dozo. </span>(go ahead)<br /><br />Andy-san: <span style="font-style: italic;">Hai.</span> (Okay.)<br /><br />Yumoto-san: ... <span style="font-style: italic;">"click"<br /></span><br /><br />Then there were moments when Yumoto-san wanted to direct the course of our entire time in Nagano. <span style="font-style: italic;">You must go to Obuse, town with famous restaurant, chestnut restaurant, you eat good chestnut. You go to Sake brewery, drink good sake, must buy Sake. Must go to museum. Must buy souvenir, go to craft shop. </span><span>Yumoto-san's wife and grandson were equally as cute and enthusiastic. When we went out for dinner the first night, when we arrived back at the room the light was on. We were freaked out thinking someone had broken into our room. When we entered, our slippers were all lined up, the table had been pushed to the side and our futons had been laid with care on the floor, all made up with blankets and pillows and little complimentary mints and toothbrushes on them. It was amazing.<br /><br /></span><span>The place was really fun because we stayed in a real tatami-mat style room where you do everything on the floor. We had little chairs that had no legs and a little table with a teapot and what seemed like an endless supply of green tea. We loved putting on the <span style="font-style: italic;">yukata</span> robes (casual style kimono) and taking tons of ridiculous posed pictures of each other in our traditional Japanese clothing.</span><br /><span><br />The next morning we were treated to a huge Japanese style breakfast. It was delicious: grilled fish, rice, japanese pickles, miso soup, salad, and I forget what else, but it was good and very generous. </span><span><br /><br />We originally went to Nagano thinking we wanted to go to an <span style="font-style: italic;">onsen</span>, but we decided some of Yumoto-san's recommended activities might be nice beforehand. The morning was wonderful, Yumoto-san drove us in his van to a monkey park where we saw live monkeys just walking around on a mountain, bathing in natural mountain hot springs, picking bugs out of each others hair, occasionally doing the unmentionable dirty deed, doing what monkeys do. Best of all, there were adorable little baby monkeys. It was insane because there were no fences or anything. We were just walking around with the monkeys. We could have touched them if we really wanted to. Though, they probably would have ripped our arms off.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKM9o1xISUNSvZ1MqyYDhINITE7wDPHjgd3w8u04-gdY_RfDHfKxP14H3e4gmpJhZtdMXDzMWSFfrdFuTRGsgb3RFQrpMsUhvAnh61zwxW_y1YObrllxP3Ba3kefyp0nehyphenhyphen0_dTmZsg4AK/s1600-h/IMG_0898.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKM9o1xISUNSvZ1MqyYDhINITE7wDPHjgd3w8u04-gdY_RfDHfKxP14H3e4gmpJhZtdMXDzMWSFfrdFuTRGsgb3RFQrpMsUhvAnh61zwxW_y1YObrllxP3Ba3kefyp0nehyphenhyphen0_dTmZsg4AK/s320/IMG_0898.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311228203672928498" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtbwZVXC3y6PpC47iLFlV-GjciGsIL927pp9Qi218wYqKngUDAAgJFWCSPWI7nSew2LoukfUBGEpUeu3byOPq5yaI2oj5Y6h7D9SFyFkOhwkGLphUZn1OXCv5_5eGg778gkyc_L6zzRtuZ/s1600-h/IMG_0932.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtbwZVXC3y6PpC47iLFlV-GjciGsIL927pp9Qi218wYqKngUDAAgJFWCSPWI7nSew2LoukfUBGEpUeu3byOPq5yaI2oj5Y6h7D9SFyFkOhwkGLphUZn1OXCv5_5eGg778gkyc_L6zzRtuZ/s320/IMG_0932.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311228376100453730" border="0" /></a><br /><span>Afterwards we probably should have just done the <span style="font-style: italic;">onsen </span>(hot spring) thing, instead of following Yumoto-san's plan for us, as we of course got lost and then it started to rain heavily on us. But at least the famous chesnut restaurant had interesting food! Everything was, well, chestnutty..you know, made of chestnuts. They're kinda good, really sweet. After that, I'll spare you the part where we bickered about whether to return home early or still try to figure out where there might be an onsen. I'll just tell you that we decided to return home early and went back to Nagano station, ready to board the <span style="font-style: italic;">shinkansen</span>. We saw a travel shop in the station and decided to go in and ask if they knew of any <span style="font-style: italic;">onsen</span>'s really close by that we could hit before returning home. We were tense and disappointed by a wasted afternoon. All we wanted was some hot water to get naked in. Luckily, there was one reachable by taxi.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Like I said, our original reason for going to Nagano was to enjoy bathing in an <span style="font-style: italic;">onsen </span>(hot spring). We had made good use of the <span style="font-style: italic;">onsen</span> in the Ryokan, but that one wasn't a real <span style="font-style: italic;">onsen</span>. It was a good way to introduce Alana to the world of getting naked with your friends. Still, this was indoors, there was only one pool. Now she was introduced to the world of getting naked in front of <span style="font-style: italic;">everyone</span>. She took it well though. She was a real pro, having worked at a health spa for a long time back home. The big, public onsen we went to in Nagano was huge. There were about six pools inside and then one large pool outside where you could look at a mountain side. It was very peaceful. Really relaxing. Just what we needed and a great way to end the trip. Nagano was a bit of a random choice, but I think ultimately it was pretty rewarding. I actually really recommend the Ryokan we stayed at, they were super helpful and accommodating and cute and hilarious and nice. There. Finished. Now for lots of pictures!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWkXfG03yL2OUbrDkIfP94MMf_V3U6EepXKqyxnc2OO4VS477-CTWgTIoqKvVZOiW5LKu72tlQm2VFmZiqwJGIBsYNWzKZC5ZY22W0smvAqAzliVuPwIn8Z6gk0baX-2QI6-acz8QjXhy/s1600-h/IMG_0842.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWkXfG03yL2OUbrDkIfP94MMf_V3U6EepXKqyxnc2OO4VS477-CTWgTIoqKvVZOiW5LKu72tlQm2VFmZiqwJGIBsYNWzKZC5ZY22W0smvAqAzliVuPwIn8Z6gk0baX-2QI6-acz8QjXhy/s320/IMG_0842.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311228533651348226" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5LDg-4EXDvGFvwh-uSzW7xN_03UnuhOv4m-Iw2hEyA-IZ6WH1FaHl6m8qt9U7YXLLeg_R7zSbH8mhxBZKgWf3M1QxYvPzKa0rZjLHy_DzpBQTZFFUaLlHHwzvwuVwEUibIkZlKIoydN7/s1600-h/IMG_0773.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5LDg-4EXDvGFvwh-uSzW7xN_03UnuhOv4m-Iw2hEyA-IZ6WH1FaHl6m8qt9U7YXLLeg_R7zSbH8mhxBZKgWf3M1QxYvPzKa0rZjLHy_DzpBQTZFFUaLlHHwzvwuVwEUibIkZlKIoydN7/s320/IMG_0773.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311228021526467906" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhwoMPjHDp3qwCxcqfhBO-grq9JyoAkQPk02i-9K7pte84EYBHcU8PzcqhUBcN4zvYyizBQD033t4TidosrmXpRxwkt-OCehR6mXS-FqJ0fNOTq6FESquqHa9Ret6uYctgasGDKuIFE-Al/s1600-h/IMG_0778.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhwoMPjHDp3qwCxcqfhBO-grq9JyoAkQPk02i-9K7pte84EYBHcU8PzcqhUBcN4zvYyizBQD033t4TidosrmXpRxwkt-OCehR6mXS-FqJ0fNOTq6FESquqHa9Ret6uYctgasGDKuIFE-Al/s320/IMG_0778.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311228751738204770" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit5aq5p2iQbatY_aWdtoxiRIF-eCtoMb_Q8tgbtfAXQzWZg2ymn_GLpyfaYEmC_DtDed4pp9UX5DEw3gazUhwF5Zr6gWkcsRwhQJYJFp3rEoij60OkslroAfs7eibudibjx4nVpEQac9rl/s1600-h/IMG_0759.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit5aq5p2iQbatY_aWdtoxiRIF-eCtoMb_Q8tgbtfAXQzWZg2ymn_GLpyfaYEmC_DtDed4pp9UX5DEw3gazUhwF5Zr6gWkcsRwhQJYJFp3rEoij60OkslroAfs7eibudibjx4nVpEQac9rl/s320/IMG_0759.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311228814777409810" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFM_SjyZY3zuDRv-30ubHCnVO3LiSWrFhRXJmTuvuveFO2swAGO5fOFPIxmF9VaiiKP3t9p2nnDsFjNPtFllCuN4nksb-rWZGb17n-CK_ShFgWLx1DQw3qW2o97R-nofU7lPaHd3hPFOWZ/s1600-h/IMG_0802+desaturated.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFM_SjyZY3zuDRv-30ubHCnVO3LiSWrFhRXJmTuvuveFO2swAGO5fOFPIxmF9VaiiKP3t9p2nnDsFjNPtFllCuN4nksb-rWZGb17n-CK_ShFgWLx1DQw3qW2o97R-nofU7lPaHd3hPFOWZ/s320/IMG_0802+desaturated.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311228901340694274" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvtZ4B8cVBrn18IyePXtoJN2y6j5dgWtZ2dnmUJ7uMOShPuRTb90iMWrdvTNhgeAeho8bNeVCO6ABw5sdkCVWU8-wWqKMKKgR4fNCtC_3zHfhK6VHhRpxfqC-fJX_WFMuSYfSqvIkJr2Z5/s1600-h/IMG_0806.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvtZ4B8cVBrn18IyePXtoJN2y6j5dgWtZ2dnmUJ7uMOShPuRTb90iMWrdvTNhgeAeho8bNeVCO6ABw5sdkCVWU8-wWqKMKKgR4fNCtC_3zHfhK6VHhRpxfqC-fJX_WFMuSYfSqvIkJr2Z5/s320/IMG_0806.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311229591137069586" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD6NnJ8S3b1JgEOCm9og64NzREp8ICaK7VWM8sZ3Y5-d8ffDXyKLPSy-HhQl3XWBQqlV2De0gWEA-Wh_W7T2NLSOoRPKMPOcKJuelN4DnvxlcE1JaezyPLfvKvizqBN8n4rUwSQH1jNmQM/s1600-h/IMG_0825.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD6NnJ8S3b1JgEOCm9og64NzREp8ICaK7VWM8sZ3Y5-d8ffDXyKLPSy-HhQl3XWBQqlV2De0gWEA-Wh_W7T2NLSOoRPKMPOcKJuelN4DnvxlcE1JaezyPLfvKvizqBN8n4rUwSQH1jNmQM/s320/IMG_0825.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311229680445686434" border="0" /></a>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-20428052270730779992008-11-10T04:46:00.001-08:002008-11-10T08:18:05.156-08:00All My Children.Well, don't ask me how it happened. I took great pains to protect myself from the possibilities of infection. I was afraid of them. I took great pains to avoid acquiring any kind of knowledge that might pertain to them. I took great pains to avoid developing any kind of understanding of them. I avoided developing the ability to feel any sort of comfort in their presence. To the disbelief and anger of my entire neighborhood, I rudely asked everyone to desist in requesting my services as a babysitter when I was in middle school.<br /><br />I believe I had perfectly good reasons.<br /><br />I hated it when they smelled bad. I hated it when they cried. I hated it when they complained. I hated it when they were small and I was terrified I was going to drop them on their heads and end up in babykiller's prison. I hated it when their parents expected me to somehow feed them. I hated it when they told me they were going to tell on me when their mother got home. I hated it when they insisted I lay down on the grass in their yard, in broad daylight, mind you, in front of the whole damn neighborhood, just so they could jump over me repeatedly, over and over and over, for hours upon stupid hours, while their ugly golden retrievers slobbered on my face and their saucy older sisters smirked and stifled giggles at my misfortune.<br /><br />I didn't care how blond they were or how small they were or how chubby their damn hands were. They were scary. No, scratch that. They were utterly terrifying.<br /><br />But I should have known.<br /><br />I should have known when I accidentally fell in love with a pair of baby shoes once. I couldn't help it. They were irresistibly small. I should have known that I wouldn't be able to suppress my love of most things miniature forever. I mean, I once had a doll house. Didn't that tell me anything about myself? Who was I kidding?<br /><br />But I said it. Many times. "I never want to work with kids. I probably don't want to have kids. I certainly never want to teach kids. In fact, I never want to teach anyone, anything, ever! So there!"<br /><br />Well, here I am. I am in Japan. I am teaching, and I am teaching children.<br /><br />Oops.<br /><br />You can't say I didn't try, though. I fought back for a long time. I almost made it 9 months without getting infected with child lover's disease. But in the end, I was fighting an uneven battle. I was teaching nine kids classes per week. Now that's tough. That's cruel. Screaming, crying, sneezing on you, trying to hide flashcards under my skirt (what a stupid hiding place, do they really believe that I won't think to look there?), setting timers to go off after 10 minutes while I'm in the middle of chorusing new vocabulary so it disrupts the class, putting bells on my cushion so I'll make a ringing noise when I place my dainty rear end upon it. The things one goes through. Honestly.<br /><br />It started slowly, crept up on me without my noticing. It was Soichiro, the six-year-old troublemaker that slid into class on his stomach, wearing his shoes on his hands. He was always trying to do headstands, and purposely provided answers to my questions that were the opposite of correct, effectively confusing the rest of the class. What color is this? RED! No, it's blue. What number is this? 10! No, it's 5, (idiot). And the other kids had no clue. They'd look confused and then repeat his incorrect answer. uhhh oh, ok... RED! No no no. NOT red, BLUE! BLUE, I say!!<br /><br />This was what I was dealing with.<br /><br />But it was the day I realized he was the only one in the room who understood my sense of humor- understood <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>. He totally got me. When I pretended to eat a fake pineapple the way cookie monster would, he laughed so hard he fell over. When I jumped up and down like a monkey and made strange noises so the children would understand exactly what a monkey looks and sounds like, he was the only one who stood up and did it with me, laughing all the way. (I won't bother with the girl who simply sat there, pointed at me with a look of pure disgust and said, "baka," translation: stupid.) That was the day I noticed he didn't annoy me anymore. In fact, looking back upon that time, I understand better what I was feeling that day. It was the feeling of liking something. I actually found the little boy cute.<br /><br />Then it was Shuu, the three-year-old boy who was so small, and so afraid to come into my class, even though the parents were there, too. It was the day he came out from between his mother's legs and shouted, "salami!" when I asked, "what's this?" Now <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>was cute: a little person just steaming with pure happiness, pure accomplishment, pure pride.<br /><br />Then it really happened. Halloween arrived. I was dressed my little piggiest, so as to elicit the most number of "kawaiii"'s (<span style="font-style: italic;">cute) </span>possible from the students. Well, wouldn't you know it? The damn children got dressed up for Halloween, too! Who do they think they are? One girl was a christmas tree (wrong holiday buddy, get with the program mom), one was a samurai, one was a king, one was knight in shining armor, one was a pumpkin, one was a skeleton, one was a I-have-no-idea-what-you-are-but-it's-hilarious, and there were plenty of pointy witch hats being displayed that week. Yes, that's right. Halloween was a week long this year. I dressed like a pig at work, five days in a row. I was subjected to helping little children make balloon ghosts and balloon spiders, and carve pathetically small, green pumpkins because the orange ones don't exist in Japan. They all looked so scared and uncomfortable in their costumes.<br /><br />It was adorable...<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg81-y-XmTO4d9YORPy049e_g6yHdh7dnTgooeWvKnjBat7h9cXjukVPm8KznKkXqQJEI7xfe-7o4fjMq6Ei4J92yh71wQM2ghxDJ8U1Xunxo5jsUi09qmciIQ2FUxJ8KxC1V-keE8TaKi9/s1600-h/IMG_0506.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg81-y-XmTO4d9YORPy049e_g6yHdh7dnTgooeWvKnjBat7h9cXjukVPm8KznKkXqQJEI7xfe-7o4fjMq6Ei4J92yh71wQM2ghxDJ8U1Xunxo5jsUi09qmciIQ2FUxJ8KxC1V-keE8TaKi9/s320/IMG_0506.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267063731511576562" border="0" /></a><br /><br />People, the news is in: I'm hooked on kids, and I love teaching. Who have I seriously become?Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-37874507677196899232008-09-22T01:51:00.000-07:002008-09-22T03:52:41.846-07:00Blazing Cranes....and wedding bands?Folks, it's official. I am officially at an age where it is appropriate to be married. My God.<br /><br />I seriously didn't think anyone I knew would get married until I was, at least, thirty. But sometimes, you just can't help how and when you fall in love. You never know when it'll happen to you. All you readers, beware, I say. It could strike at any moment. Don't think just cause you're in your 20s you're immune to this infectious disease. Back home, in New York, people are falling like flies.<br /><br />I can't tell you how many photo albums of weddings I've seen on Facebook this summer. And this is just including the pictures of people I personally know. In all fairness, most of these people are in their later twenties, usually friends of my brother. It makes sense. I could deal with that.<br /><br />But now, someone extremely dear to me, someone my age, someone who is essentially kind-of like my sister, is now married. EXCUSE ME? I still act like a five-year-old half the time. No one my age should be getting married.<br /><br />That's right. Last week, one of my best friends got married. This past spring, in my insanity, caused by my love for my kind-of sister, I decided to purchase a plane ticket to New York and take four of my allotted 5 vacation days off. The decision was solidified after I found out that many of best friends, as well as my parents and brother would be there. Well, hell, if they got to be there, then I wanted to be there too!<br /><br />On Wednesday night, the 10th of September, I returned home from work at about 10pm. I finished packing my suitcase and went to bed. Thursday morning, I woke up at 5:30, hopped on the train to Shinjuku, then transferred to the Narita Express. I got to Narita Airport at 9:30am. Caught an 11:45am plane to JFK airport. I arrived in New York at 11:30, 15 minutes earlier than I had left Japan. That really did my head in. How could I arrive 15 minutes earlier than I left, on the SAME exact day? Time is an amazing institution.<br /><br />The first thing I noticed about New York was what a jerk the customs officer was. I walked up to the counter and put my passport and customs form on the desk. Little did I know, I had inexplicably become a ghost at some point while I was in Japan, because the guy didn't seem to have any clue that there was even a cloud of moisture in front of him. He was absorbed in what must have been a very interesting discussion with his buddy, and fellow customs officer, across the way. He waited a full minute before slowly picking up my passport, not bothering to wonder where this little book could have come from or what ghostly apparition might have placed it there, and gave it a careless, lopsided little stamp. He placed it back on the counter. I said in a brassy loud voice, "THANK YOU." I waited... Nothing.<br /><br />Nothing. There was nothing! He couldn't hear me. Then it dawned on me... I really was invisible! My God! What had happened to me? Had I died and no one had bothered to let me know? I was considerably upset by all this until I walked into the terminal, and beaming unmistakably in my direction were my dewy-eyed parents. A smile broke on my face. I was alive!!! It was nice to see my parents, too.<br /><br />After dropping off my luggage at the house, I set off on some important errands. I got a haircut, a manicure, and a pedicure, lulled to sleep in the salon chair by Norman the Hairstylist's gentle political rantings about Sarah Palin, the devil. Afterwards, I partook of the best Italian food I've ever eaten, at my family's favorite restaurant, accompanied by my parents and brother. I fell asleep at dinner, my head pressed against the cold, candlelit tile wall.<br /><br />The next morning my family, a good friend of mine, and I set off in a cramped Subaru station wagon to foggy Martha's Vineyard. We drove 5 hours, ate McDonalds for lunch like good, patriotic Americans sometimes do, rode an American yellow school bus to the ferry port, took a 45 -minute ferry-ride to the island and were promptly picked up by the bride-to-be and her family.<br /><br />Fast forward to the wedding. I really respect and admire Anne for the way she organized her wedding. Firstly, it was extremely small: mostly family and a small number of very close friends. It was also done very simply, locally, and inexpensively.<br /><br />Before I tell you more let me just preface this next paragraph with an important bit of information: the bride has three Aunts, meaning her mother has three sisters, as well as a Great Aunt, who lives in Martha's Vineyard. Why am I telling you this? Well, just read for crying out loud!<br /><br />Here we go. Her wedding dress was made by one of her aunts. All the vegetables were grown in another aunt's backyard. All the food was cooked and prepared by her aunts. All the food was served by her aunt's friends. Another Aunt's friend did all the flowers and wedding bouquets. To top it off, the wedding took place in the front yard of her great aunt's house, with a reception on the back porch, over looking the stunning beach scenery. What else did her aunts do? Well maybe that's about it, but I think that's quite a lot, now don't you?<br /><br />I was amazed that literally everything for the wedding was done by someone who knew the family closely. Here are some more examples: The bride didn't have any makeup or hair done professionally. It was all done by one extremely talented bridesmaid... (no, not me, don't be so silly!). Really though, who needs professionals? She looked perfect, like a Gretian goddess. The photographer was also a friend of ours from high school who is currently embarking on a professional photography career. Her photos are amazing. Now, get this. This one I found really amazing. Okay. The bride and her husband were married by her mother's best friend. That's right, her mother's best, best friend just happens to be a minister. I just think that is a really nice thing, to be married by someone you know well, who is really close to your family. The woman is a really sweet lady too, with a good sense of humor. No one minded when she accidentally skipped a part, and started to repeat a part of the ceremony. She actually demanded that they remove the rings from their fingers and do it again. But no one cared. It was cute, it was hilarious. Everyone just laughed, which was a nice respite from all the crying that was going on. Because let me tell you, there was <span style="font-style: italic;">a lot</span> of that. Even from the bride, herself. She was so happy, she could barely say her vows. Since it worked out that I was the bridesmaid standing closest to her during the ceremony, we had formulated a little plan where I would pass her a little lacy hankerchief with which she could dab her water-proof mascara-ed eyes. I can't remember the last time I was in a place so permeated by happiness before.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7tEbWqlFK8ogRK5yyg76FiC7LAIAmMbKFzQpNWZ2nHbASjcXET0DT_V7EecZwuinJvlv4JmDZjWBYIseNn-NT-TUsfo71LroF20RVnMIpbdfuS0y8Qt7LA7X-DFY9NejFY6lsQ9QOYPa/s1600-h/IMG_0319.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7tEbWqlFK8ogRK5yyg76FiC7LAIAmMbKFzQpNWZ2nHbASjcXET0DT_V7EecZwuinJvlv4JmDZjWBYIseNn-NT-TUsfo71LroF20RVnMIpbdfuS0y8Qt7LA7X-DFY9NejFY6lsQ9QOYPa/s320/IMG_0319.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248786346879909874" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">There's the bride-to-be, waiting </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">to put on<br />that beautiful dress hanging in the doorway.<br /><br /></span></span></div>Everything was so quirky, so perfect. The wedding cake consisted of strawberry covered cupcakes made by a local Vineyard bakery. Even the insanely bright bridesmaid dresses, that had made everyone so nervous, ended up looking perfect. There were six bridesmaids in all, most of us in different colors. One wore pink, another blue, one green, two yellow, and I wore orange. Sadly, J Crew failed to convey through photographic evidence on their website that the colors of the dresses had obviously been precisely matched to the colors found in a pack of highlighters. All day we were herded around by the call of, "Okay, over here my little highlighters!" But, by the end, everyone agreed that it made the wedding much brighter and livelier. They were also incredibly photogenic. I was also delighted to be told by many that the color of my dress was decidedly less like a highlighter than the others, and was actually a fabulous color on me. Yippee. Perhaps I'll get to wear it again...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi2apsTqnesos1LN5tQOer5Ba4YuuWQsOzYXmHaDSDXzv3rWyqhtRdzLVB4Fp3O_wbxPLMMjzSoBLL_10lYvTmIRENIviwh585btC_ssoI7ZBBXYDqMeA6fq4GAGs_Bmy-ZRztGtVodAUi/s1600-h/IMG_0339.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi2apsTqnesos1LN5tQOer5Ba4YuuWQsOzYXmHaDSDXzv3rWyqhtRdzLVB4Fp3O_wbxPLMMjzSoBLL_10lYvTmIRENIviwh585btC_ssoI7ZBBXYDqMeA6fq4GAGs_Bmy-ZRztGtVodAUi/s320/IMG_0339.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248787735689236834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">See how those tricky little dresses are deceivingly<br />not like highlighters when captured in photographs?<br /><br /></span></div>Anyways, the wedding was beautiful. I had an amazing weekend seeing my parents, brother, and many very important people and friends from my life back home, all who I love very, very much. Too bad I had to return the following Monday, which meant I arrived in Japan on Tuesday and then went back to work on Wednesday. But, I've decided it was totally worth it. The thirty minutes of that ceremony were probably the most intimate, personal, meaningful thirty minutes in earth's history. I'm not kidding.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-Z28zql2PwFg62iNcFjAZLTDJdyVgbCOfHLOsUhrhJnlLkkw4OEDrZw36phTEFUBbUFUIhFSQxQZKtDbCrGYktnTUed18x49uTNwddnnlYsHcUtPi0HSi8MWN2_hPqSVs4YCQThk9LEl/s1600-h/IMG_0350.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-Z28zql2PwFg62iNcFjAZLTDJdyVgbCOfHLOsUhrhJnlLkkw4OEDrZw36phTEFUBbUFUIhFSQxQZKtDbCrGYktnTUed18x49uTNwddnnlYsHcUtPi0HSi8MWN2_hPqSVs4YCQThk9LEl/s320/IMG_0350.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248788409518158802" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Here's one of my favorite pictures, of me and my brother.</span><br /></div>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-63666841432413811092008-09-17T09:28:00.002-07:002008-09-22T03:51:28.111-07:00The Blazing Cranes are DeadSo the other reason I've been M.I.A. from this bloggy land is that I was very busy practicing with my band, the Blazing Cranes. We had a live show a few weeks ago at a small bar in Kokubunji, a train stop away from where we live. Since Daniel is leaving Japan (forever) in about a week or so, the band as we know it, is dying. We decided to really give it all we had and a have a gig before he left. So during the months of July and August, we started having practices about two or three times week. A lot of practices were devoted to recording. We tried our darndest to get a good recording of each song so we could make an album to sell at the show. Since none of us are really very technologically or musically knowledgeable, it was quite the struggle. Tensions rose between all of us, and it became harder to play songs with the same kind of passion after playing them over and over again, stopping for even the tiniest little mistakes. But we persevered and were finally able to get recordings that we, at least, felt comfortable burning on CDs and giving to friends.<br /><br />I bought a crappy used Casio keyboard for 1,000 yen, about $10, so I could practice by myself in my room. We tried doing acoustic practices in the guest house, but eventually we were threatened with eviction after our crotchety old neighbors in the next apartment building over were complaining about us. We took to waking up early and biking to the park to record songs on Daniel's laptop. Children paddled in the river and old men walked their dogs as we sang at the top of our lungs, the boys wailing on their acoustic guitars.<br /><br />As the the date of the show neared, we got equally busier, more stressed, and more nervous. Our social lives consisted solely of the interactions we had with each other at practices. Daniel was assigned the huge task of mixing the recordings and making the CDs, while I was assigned the task of creating the album covers. We decided on the album title, <span style="font-style: italic;">Blazing Cranes are Burning Hands</span>, which tied-in to one of our songs that was about hands. I didn't want to do an image that was too related to the title, because I tend to find that sort of thing disgustingly cheesy. I settled on using photographs I had taken at aquariums around Tokyo. I made a bunch of protoypes, then let the guys choose their favorite. We decided on a very simple CD case design. Each case was made out of one A4 piece of white cardstock. We folded the sheet around the CD into a square so that the cover image was printed on the front, and then the back flaps were folded back and tucked into themselves. The track list and acknowledgments were printed on the back flaps. I spent a lot of time playing with the design on photoshop, and then finally made the trek to Fedex Kinkos--yes, they have it in Japan--where I printed sixty covers. I bought a ruler and a handy paper scorer and went home to begin a week of meticulous folding. Every night when I came home from work, there was I was, folding, folding, always folding. I was still folding up until the night before the show. In the end, though, I was actually pretty happy with how they turned out. The front side of the final cover looked like this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzVuM4WXv55-FbZKIDLCy-URUh-0MU34yeB7l4TIbkWkHU9MO2rV7IwcYQ5K1YcGLD1FEwi_yH7MomurxfJoIE9k6eH94c57bsvcY_rMLqw79qlkJsUwYpZp_zcvbvOulkLhdcuTGCiTC/s1600-h/Blazing+Cranes+final+seaweed+album+cover1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzVuM4WXv55-FbZKIDLCy-URUh-0MU34yeB7l4TIbkWkHU9MO2rV7IwcYQ5K1YcGLD1FEwi_yH7MomurxfJoIE9k6eH94c57bsvcY_rMLqw79qlkJsUwYpZp_zcvbvOulkLhdcuTGCiTC/s320/Blazing+Cranes+final+seaweed+album+cover1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248747706319617346" border="0" /></a><br />The hilarious thing was, at the show the next evening one girl I know asked me why we called ourselves the Blazing Cranes. I told her we just liked the sound of it. Then she asked me why I chose the image I did. I told her I chose it because I liked marine creatures and aquariums a lot, and I didn't want an image too related to the title. I liked how the sea weed in the image looked a little bit like a plume of smoke though, which subtly tied it to the words "blazing" and "burning."<br /><br />Well, then she really gave it to me. She told me that the moment she saw the cover, she immediately thought of Hiroshima. She said the seaweed looked like an atomic cloud. The "Cranes" in "Blazing Cranes" made her think of origami paper cranes. Paper cranes are a famous symbol of Hiroshima because of a Japanese girl who organized some peace movement that involved folding thousands of paper cranes, but then died of radiation. So basically, we were horrible human beings. I was stunned. All four of us had been oblivious. We had completely failed to notice any of these connections. Why, in God's name, did we have to choose that design out of all the others? I was pretty upset at first, especially after roughly five other people provided similar sentiments about the cover later on. Luckily, none of them were Japanese, they were all foreigners. A few comforting comrades asserted that it was okay, because now it made us seem edgier. Still, I couldn't help wishing we had picked a different design. [<span style="font-style: italic;">See a couple of the other possible designs below. </span>]<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLDi2LmAzDL_GCbXpYzKs0fgUzirs4s_CZjSOmuFOgKJ6jkx1akiXrSpFbTrjR6FSbPW9JzAC20Mi9DjzneZ8xyD_c6KwtyBVmHb_c6qqCfa5LY-GEm2OxLA7hcEWn3MUm_CIbLfYMdOD/s1600-h/cuttlefish+cover+7.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLDi2LmAzDL_GCbXpYzKs0fgUzirs4s_CZjSOmuFOgKJ6jkx1akiXrSpFbTrjR6FSbPW9JzAC20Mi9DjzneZ8xyD_c6KwtyBVmHb_c6qqCfa5LY-GEm2OxLA7hcEWn3MUm_CIbLfYMdOD/s200/cuttlefish+cover+7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248750046925332866" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOWz7Ux8f0lne1a4qPtcXiZD0eNG-CCACoSYaaHASvtkoPTM7Mn117TLz3-3AjaE4k9X9BqAjiKlXkLx38-DGyhqy3HlHTC95R6xfNYy-byXs81TRqvMxV6TC3zhVbL8mFHSGabJYmU3Nu/s1600-h/sea+cover+5-3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOWz7Ux8f0lne1a4qPtcXiZD0eNG-CCACoSYaaHASvtkoPTM7Mn117TLz3-3AjaE4k9X9BqAjiKlXkLx38-DGyhqy3HlHTC95R6xfNYy-byXs81TRqvMxV6TC3zhVbL8mFHSGabJYmU3Nu/s200/sea+cover+5-3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248750208321915362" border="0" /></a><br />Anyways, on to the show: we were pretty nervous as the show began, but as it progressed we slowly relaxed and got into the music. By the end, I was having a great time. We all made a bunch of mistakes, especially me. However, I'm proud to say we packed the place. Lots of English teachers, and even some Japanese school staff came, as well as a large group from our guest house. After the show, a lot of people told me my voice was "good," "fantastic," "amazing." Always a nice thing to hear, whether or not it's really true. I can't say whether people were sincere in their compliments to us, but I do believe that people in the audience had a lot of fun. They really liked it when we played a song from the video that everyone teaches in our Mini Kids classes. For an idea of what the song might be like, the age range in those classes are 1.5 to 2.5 years old. Anyone who could, sang along and did the corresponding actions that we do in the classes. We played about ten songs at the show. There were also about ten songs on the album, including a secret bonus track. [Ooh, aren't we fancy?] All in all, it's been a good, fun experience. Hopefully when Andy and I play a show with our new band, we won't be quite so nervous.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAixPKc68GdmTkNOlTj8kdIphIWR5Voe0TDzew4yK8CBoOiB7F1NNiH0V9aOikJS1SjnMgNqJMBzKIR4ZKANZND2rQJbhDLq0DipBzJnDfoCsA7q3EXepPPC1XzUMZ2U608XAUHuR7zuz/s1600-h/n1218530_41488965_2712.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAixPKc68GdmTkNOlTj8kdIphIWR5Voe0TDzew4yK8CBoOiB7F1NNiH0V9aOikJS1SjnMgNqJMBzKIR4ZKANZND2rQJbhDLq0DipBzJnDfoCsA7q3EXepPPC1XzUMZ2U608XAUHuR7zuz/s200/n1218530_41488965_2712.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248752038047978818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Here's me singing. Andy on the left, Daniel on the right.</span><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRFpGr4To_HS-U_gRCgmqrimNR1xp-jeioxdGvRjwfGogL6GyM2taq6Ly67t3YWZs5eRDKZa7KVSesu_iryk_q9xVxRjRMNDG7nrHQE4INVKMdZswBR6XXChDTlWwsLClShiy3DSj4w9qr/s1600-h/IMG_0223.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRFpGr4To_HS-U_gRCgmqrimNR1xp-jeioxdGvRjwfGogL6GyM2taq6Ly67t3YWZs5eRDKZa7KVSesu_iryk_q9xVxRjRMNDG7nrHQE4INVKMdZswBR6XXChDTlWwsLClShiy3DSj4w9qr/s320/IMG_0223.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248752714548370434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Here's the band after the show, nice n' sweaty.<br />Daniel, Me, Andy, Leo.<br />They all look a bit dazed and beat up.</span><br /></span></div><br /><br />Since Daniel is leaving soon and Leo, the drummer, may be moving to a different part of Tokyo, Andy and I have been brainstorming our next moves. We've decided to recruit my friend Adam, who plays drums and is intensely interested in music, specifically good dance music. That will be a interesting new musical influence. Our other new recruit is Kate Sciandra who apparently plays saxophone, bass guitar, some piano, and can sing. Awesome. So, with the two of them, Andy, and I, we will have a complete group again. Andy and I are excited to incorporate new instruments into the mix and experiment with new music genres. We're thinking of trying something a little more danceable. We'll see where the new lineup takes us.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3940073976238174354.post-76644619605548084142008-09-17T09:28:00.001-07:002020-08-02T14:33:34.892-07:00And now for a bit of traditional cultureMy, it's been awhile since I've posted anything. The summer has been ultra busy. I guess it all started in early August when I had a two week summer vacation. My mother and grandmother came to Japan to visit me. I immediately whisked them off to Kyoto, which probably should have involved less whisking and more slowly stirring because it was super hot and my grandmother was super tired. She was a champ though. I felt kind-of bad for dragging them around to see everything, but I think it worked out okay by the end. If my grandmother really needed to rest, she could easily take a taxi back to the hotel.<br />
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We stayed for about 4 days, I believe. Our hotel was literally across the street from Nijo castle. We could see it from our hotel room windows. It was an amazing building, really old and wooden with elaborately painted walls, and also elaborately carved walls, too. I'm sure the walls were decorated elaborately in other ways, too, but we weren't allowed to get close to them, so alas I was denied the privilege of noticing. We were allowed to walk through the hallways and peek through the open doorways into the tatami rooms. The fact that they were hauntingly empty severely contrasted with the walls that had been lavishly filled to the brim with decorations. It occurred to me though, that perhaps there was never much in the rooms to begin with. Perhaps, back a long time ago, rooms were never cluttered with furniture and whatnot like they are today. In a traditional Japanese tatami room, you never wear shoes or set anything really heavy on the floor, so as not to damage the tatami mats. Everyone just kneels on the floor on cushions. Perhaps there people used to have small, low tables to eat off of or something. But that may have been about it. I could be wrong, but it occurred to me, what else would they really need to have in there? No one slept on beds either, just futon mattresses on the floor. Or maybe they didn't even have those back then, either. How curious.<br />
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Anyway, we saw lots of amazing beautiful temples. We saw most of the sights the day after we arrived because we had signed up for a day tour. It was a bit long, and a bit hot waiting to enter some of the places all lined up in the sun. My grandma went home after lunch, before the second half of the tour started again.<br />
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While I enjoyed Kyoto, and saw many old, beautiful, traditional Japanese places and things, I have to say I was surprised by how ordinary and modern most of Kyoto was. The actual city itself was rather bland and slightly unattractive, in fact. However, on the outskirts, in the mountains, and occasionally within the actual city, there were many isolated, but stunningly beautiful spots. My favorites were Kinkakuji, which was a small temple in the middle of a lake, covered in Gold leaf. Very shiny. Very pretty. My other favorites were the above-mentioned Nijo castle and Kiyomizu temple. Kiyomizu was at the top of a hill, leading into the mountains, and not only had impressive architecture but also had an impressive view of the city.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUB5LBBKe_qxv8xq_R5SBGcnboIFbzS7_16UvVli2YlUHqoyplpqsdcrHfllc9KwMqXnIzcdnRDGR7HhXpz7BUSs1ChiIOaWY6sLysHTHok8RWRamJUjqfmFpOcLvdSeClfZRAqJ3wKVlH/s1600-h/IMG_6700.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247048098355882914" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUB5LBBKe_qxv8xq_R5SBGcnboIFbzS7_16UvVli2YlUHqoyplpqsdcrHfllc9KwMqXnIzcdnRDGR7HhXpz7BUSs1ChiIOaWY6sLysHTHok8RWRamJUjqfmFpOcLvdSeClfZRAqJ3wKVlH/s400/IMG_6700.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghKzqSKmEZI7SpS55oBTkr6Uf8JPASMfPIbVfguELGC_4O960rKPeJ8TqhR2zf3w_FkZ1ujmUhZzbTuWW3J9wM5p_qeV0v4-AU9zwPMFRfMztad67iwlLjVKcowSd1XqF0lhTC34Jh38a/s1600-h/IMG_6831.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247048315298251074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghKzqSKmEZI7SpS55oBTkr6Uf8JPASMfPIbVfguELGC_4O960rKPeJ8TqhR2zf3w_FkZ1ujmUhZzbTuWW3J9wM5p_qeV0v4-AU9zwPMFRfMztad67iwlLjVKcowSd1XqF0lhTC34Jh38a/s400/IMG_6831.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
Kyoto was very strange, because I felt like it was clinging to old traditions for the sake of tourism. We went to Gion, the place that was a big entertainment district and famous for being the home of the Geishas, but during the day it was quite empty and felt a bit contrived. It was still interesting enough for me to become obsessed with taking pictures of it. Though, perhaps that is not a difficult thing to achieve.<br />
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When we returned to Tokyo, the following day we went for an adventure around Tokyo itself, guided by my boyfriend's mother. He came along too, of course. But the mother was the one who had planned most of the day for us. What a sweetie. She took us to the Edo-Tokyo museum, then for a boat ride down the Sumida river to Odaiba, a man-made island. It was a very strange place. It had a huge shopping mall and that seemed to be about it, as far as I could tell. Then we went to Roppongi Hills to climb the observation tower and watch the sun set over the extensive views provided of Tokyo. We got to climb up to the roof of the building where there was a helicopter landing strip. It was very strange, but beautiful.<br />
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It was a wonderful day, but the most memorable part seems to be the Edo-Tokyo Museum. [Tokyo used to be called Edo back in ancient times.] I barely got to see the exhibits because soon after entering, I happened upon a traditional dance performance inside the museum. I was totally enthralled by it for a number of simple reasons: 1) the costumes were pretty, 2) the music had a nice beat, 3) the dances were exotic and interesting and 4) there was one dance they kept returning to over and over again. It was the same dance that everyone had performed earlier this summer in the dance festival in Musashi Koganei, where I live.<br />
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That festival was such a great experience, because I was amazed by the large numbers of people that had come out of the woodwork to fill up the major street leading up to Musashi Koganei station. I've never seen so many people in our neighborhood before. There were tons of aged folk, families, teenagers, couples, small children daring to run and dance into the street every time there was a break in the line of parading festival dancers. It was amazing, there were all sorts of types of people dancing in the parade, too. I got the feeling the schools must have been involved in organizing and encouraging groups of children to participate because there were many large groups of children, all sorted roughly by age and size. Some of the children were so tiny they could barely dance, while some of the older ones were obviously very talented dancers. Others had probably never danced before in their lives, but that didn't stop them-- they certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves.<br />
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I just remembered being touched by this highly attended event that really conveyed people's sense of pride in, and love for their community. I imagined being one of those heavily painted, beautifully dressed, dancing children and the only thing I could compare it to was being in the high schools plays. Yet, somehow it just wasn't the same. I was quite jealous of those children. I wished my community had had something similar for me to participate in as a youth. It was also amazing how such a long parade of people could do the same dance over and over again, and chant the same songs over and over again, and beat the same drum beats over and over again and not tire of it. Everyone performed with such vigor and passion, it was utterly enchanting. There was a bit of a carnival air to everything, with food stalls selling <i>yaki soba</i> noodles, chicken on skewers, and lots and lots of cold beer. It was also hilarious because as I was standing on the side of the road with a small group of fellow foreign English teachers a really old toothless man with long gray hair and a long gray beard suddenly appeared in front of us. As he danced he stared at us with an intensely ambivalent look. After a while of us feeling a bit uncomfortable, he finally took the hand of one girl and began teaching her how to do the dance. It was pretty hilarious watching this very white girl doing this funky dance with an old man down the street along the edge of the parade. She actually got quite far down the street before she felt ready to turn back and rejoin our little group of outsiders.<br />
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Anyways, this was a very exciting, memorable experience for me. So when I saw this same dance being performed again at the museum, I fell into a trance. I watched them dance for about an hour. By the time I was done, it was almost time to leave and I had barely seen anything else. I was just so excited to see this dance again, to recognize it and be familiar with it. I was also glad to see that this dance wasn't just something that people did in museums, to give people a taste of what traditional Japan was once like. I knew, from my own personal experience, that this was a dance that people still did in suburban areas in the outskirts of Tokyo. It was totally still a part of the culture. It was finally something real, found in real, everyday life. And yet, it was very exotic, different from home. And I loved it.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18108007197832518994noreply@blogger.com1