This should have posted a couple of weeks ago, but something went weird. The sentiment remains, so I added even more sakura pictures as an apology.

Before we left for Korea I sat down with my Korean American friend Dara to get advice on good eats. One of the dishes she recommended was samgyetang. It’s a whole young chicken, stuffed with fresh rice and herbs, boiled in ginseng broth. There was a samgyetang restaurant in our guidebook, Goryeo Samgetang, but we asked the concierge if we could find one closer by. “I can’t recommend something better than there,” he answered, so he found directions for us and sent us on our way. I read that the restaurant was known for their black chicken samgyetang and for using wild ginseng. The guide book told me that black chickens not only had black skin, but the meat was darker than your average poultry. Yum.

After a quick subway trip to the City Hall we found it. The building is unassuming and we nearly walked past it, but the two windowed floors full of people eating convinced us that the Hangul sign was for the restaurant we wanted.

Fortune favors the brave, as Shakespeare and every bungee jump instructor ever said. Despite our trepidation and a confusing trek up to the second floor, we entered the restaurant and held up two fingers. The waitress was probably in her mid-forties and understood as much English as we spoke. We did use very simple phrases—two please, this one, water please—so there’s no telling how much more she understood, but the place was busy and she had the kind of attitude I remembered from diner scenes in 1950s movies. The surly waitress doesn’t bother to remove the cigarette from her mouth as she puts a hand on her hip and gestures at the young couple with a small notepad. “Whaddya want?” It was like that, but she brought us foods that we didn’t know how to eat.

As soon as a pair of Korean women sat to our left we started observing them. Okay, this thimble-sized cup of mystery liquid is a drink. Eat your rice with your spoon, not your chopsticks, and leave the bowl on the table. All these spicy kimchi dishes can be eaten separately or with the chicken soup. It’s okay to use spoon and chopsticks in the soup, and to eat directly from the bowl or spoon it into your small bowl. Bones go into the bucket.

Kim-Chi and I both ordered black chicken soup from the bilingual menu, hers with wild ginger and mine with what I assume was the garden variety root. After toasting each other with our thimbleful of drink (which turned out to be ginseng rice wine) we started on the side dishes. We didn’t have to wait long to get our clay pots of boiling fresh samgyetang. Kim-Chi regarded the contents with some wonder.

“Why is its skin black?” Kim-Chi asked. “Did they soak it sesame or something?”

“It’s born that way,” I replied, and anticipating a follow-up question I quickly added, “That’s a negro chicken.”

This struck us as hilarious, and we proceeded to cackle through that meal like the very birds we were shoving into our mouths. Aw, sad. But not really! Because those Silkies were delicious. The dark succulent meat practically melted from the bones. The blend of herbs and spices made for a savory broth, and the rice stuffed inside the fowl was nearly porridge in consistency. So goooooood.

Once we had waddled back to the hotel we changed for a night out. Kim-Chi and I have very different tastes when it comes to clubs and bars. I prefer a club that is made for dancers, that has a good DJ who mixes current pop and hip-hip hits, and that is big enough that I can get lost if somebody likes my moves too aggressively. Kim-Chi looks for spots described as “indie,” with live music and a relaxed atmosphere. In short, she’s looking for socialization with the option of dancing, and I’m looking for dance to be the only option. In a city as large as Seoul I reckoned it would be better to find a place that suited her description of a good club rather than mine. I don’t remember my reasoning behind that thought, but it made a lot of sense at the time.

Recounting the long process of finding the club is boring, so let it suffice to say that Time Out: Seoul is wrong about a lot of the subway exits. The half hour detour eventually led us to Club NB, a self-proclaimed hip-hop club. The music was good, the people were good-looking and knew how to dance, and the boys bought me drinks (I asked for bottled water, so they knew what they weren’t getting. Suckers). The best part of the night, however, was that the taxi ride home was only about 5 USD! In Kyoto it would have cost us three times that much.

On Sunday we got an understandably late start to the day, but first on our list was the Leeum Museum. I wrote in more depth about the features of the museum in this article on the Ganbatte Times website. In summary, we didn’t spend enough time there because the facility closed at 6. Seoul is known as the Design Capital of the World, and throughout the city we were hard pressed to find a clump of ugly buildings.

The Leeum Museum is a feat of architecture, before we even stepped through the doors we were marveling at the design and cool modern aesthetic. There are three distinct buildings: Museum 1, Museum 2, and the Samsung Child Education and Cultural Center.

Look to the right and see a familiar horror: Louise Bourgeoise’s Maman lurks outside with progeny and some eye chairs. Over a year ago I recall telling Kim-Chi that I wasn’t into a lot of modern art. I didn’t like the stuff that was supposed to shock, horrify, or disgust the viewer, and much of the contemporary stuff seemed intent on doing absolutely that. Abstract art I found boring—the drip paintings of what’s-his-fame did nothing for me. Kim-Chi’s response was, “Art is supposed to be evocative, so even if it evokes revulsion…” I interjected that I just didn’t like that. My second encounter with Maman was nothing if not evocative. The nightmarish image is juxtaposed with the frailty of her spindly legs and the protective nature of the eggs she carries and the spiderling “following” her. It brings to mind a giraffe guarding her newborn, man-eating calf.

On returning to Japan I did a little research on the artist. Her Wikipedia page reads like a senior thesis in Feminists of Modern Art 402. That being said, it’s worth noting that the spider is a loving representation of the artist’s mother, not a character from a Tim Burton horror film.

Unless you’re a fan of pottery, calligraphy, or metalworking, Museum 1 gets old pretty quickly. The pieces are beautiful, of course, and were I a greater history buff I would rave about the carefully preserved ewers and elegant poetry scrolls. Kim-Chi and I did notice another English-speaking foreigner who seemed invested in that portion of the museum. “Yeah, I know from making pottery that this shape is really hard,” he informed his Korean friend as they gazed on a large pot. “To get it just right; this is like, really good craftsmanship.” The pair moved on as Kim-Chi and I goofed off in what was the most interesting part for us—the stairwell.

That's me.

On the calligraphy floor the knowledgeable foreigner caught up to us again. “You can tell that it was influenced by western art,” he was saying, pointing at a painting of butterflies and flowers. “Look at how big it is. Older art is all small and detailed, but these kind of big, bold elements are obviously an influence from the West. When was this made, 19th century? Yeah, it’d definitely…” I didn’t hear the rest of it as K-C and I moved on, but just before we descended the stairs the two men strode past us. “I mean, I want to be respectful of the culture,” the foreigner said earnestly. The Korean man cut in. “Well, you don’t know. You just don’t—” And again that was all I heard. The pair didn’t blip on my radar after that.

Between leaving the museum and 1 a.m. on Monday night/Tuesday morning I took no pictures.

On leaving the museum we headed to Pho Hoa (accents not included) for the Korean chain restaurant take on pho. It was okay, not amazing. Our friend Trevor met us to show us around a boutique-lined shopping street, eat a little bulgolgi, and then head to a bar with a Korean friend of his. That was the end of our night, save for that we learned there was a diner that served American breakfast in town. That made my night. And the company. Totes luv ya, Trev!

Seoul has much more of that big city feel than any place I’ve been in Japan, Tokyo included. Freeways lace through the city. It sprawls, and towers and skyscrapers spread out to the very edges. The streets are dirty. People don’t apologize when they bump into you. Everyone walks fast and speaks loudly to be heard over all the noise. I’m really excited to be here, and can’t wait to see what misadventures dear Kim-Chi and I get ourselves into.

We arrived in Shinjuku on Friday night after nine. Due to the Tokyo marathon being that weekend we were unable to find a double room, so while Margaret and her friend Greg checked in I hung outside and wrote that first paragraph. Friday night we spent in the brightly lit part of Shinjuku, wandering around trying to find a good bar where we could sit and chat. Later that evening we met up with two more Kyoto ALT friends, Matt and Mario, and went to an izakaya (traditional style Japanese pub) for nibbles and more drinks. It isn’t that exciting to write about, but we had a good time.

Saturday was our first real tourist day. The weather wasn’t ideal for sightseeing; it drizzled for most of the morning and was cloudy all day. Margaret, Greg and I headed to Harajuku to see the Meiji Shrine, which is dedicated to one of the most influential emperors in Japanese history.

All these gates are called "tori" as in Spelling

The above image is of sake casks that various breweries send for a blessing. I noticed a huge different in the amount of color used between these casks and the staid, traditional black and red designs I see in Kyoto.

Below is the main shrine. When we tried to explore to the left a security guard came over and told us in English that we couldn’t go there today; “bride only.”

We didn’t have to wait more than 30 seconds to find out what he meant. The bride wasn’t wearing the traditional fortune cookie-shaped headdress that I hoped to see, but her dress and the clothes in the wedding party (and location) indicated a wealthy and influential bride and groom. I am mostly sure that the two men in front are priests. The two girls are a little like novices at a nunnery, except they don’t live at the shrine and aren’t dedicated to the shrine for life. All those I’ve seen do their best to avoid being photographed, so I took the opportunity whilst they were forced to walk slowly.

I mostly took this picture for his umbrella and shoes.

Once we exited the shrine we met up with Matt and Mario and headed into the heart of Harajuku. Due to the weather the cosplayers weren’t out in the throngs that a first-time visitor would expect, but there was still plenty to stare at. I, jaded resident of this country, was all “It’s like a street full of pricey Hot Topics,” in my head but I did take a few obligatory pictures to prove that I have indeed been in the area. Also, I don’t mind helping other people shop. Furthermore, I did buy a pair of sunglasses that the worker said was “very Lady Gaga,” but since I am out of the loop with pop culture I thought they were much more LeVar Burton as Geordie La Forge on Star Trek. I don’t have a picture of me wearing them, but I do have a picture of a crepe.

The key is to look for one with more filling that isn't whipped cream

We spent a few hours wandering around, poking and mocking things in stores (gently mocking, because a lot of the shop workers could speak English). Greg, Margaret and I found ourselves on some swanky street nearby and stopped in a café to rest our feet and have coffee. We all grabbed Turkish kebabs later, which were delicious. Side note: Why is 1,000 Island dressing called “sauce americain” in France but “mix sauce” in Japan? I never intended to consume so much of that particular dressing, but the nomenclature confused me.

Once everybody had found whatever they were looking for, be it wallet chains or grown women dressed like rag dolls, we decided to move on to Roppongi. However, we had spent so much time on the same street that no one wanted to take one last walk past the vendors. What better to do than meander down a few dead end side streets? We did find a Michael Kors boutique and some fancy architectural details.

Mexican standoff, photography style! In this case Matt would be at greater risk because he only has one gun, i.e. he isn’t shooting Greg. You think about that.

I ain't goin down fer this!

Eventually we made our way down a set of stairs that led to an alley that went behind a Chinese restaurant and some boutique shops to come back to the main street, Takeshita. then we left.
The “Larl wuz here” picture, before a certain young man took my camera and made me pose for a picture. I tried really hard not to smile, which meant that I accidentally made that weird cat-duck lip smile that is so popular in Japanese advertisements. On the models it’s cloyingly cute. On me, well…

I ain't goin down fer this! By which I mean the focus.

We moved on to Roppongi, famous for its Hills (towers) and the foreign population. Why go to Roppongi Hills, you ask? Well, to see this monstrosity, of course.

Its name is Maman and it is terrifying. Margaret occasionally likes to point out how easily I am creeped out—always gotta bring up Coraline, and how even as an adult it gave me one, just one, nightmare. It’s not like I hid my eyes during the movie and accidentally rubbed my eyeliner onto a friend’s white sweater (sorry, Rainer), like I did when I saw Saw II, but Coraline was a seriously creepy movie. Man, I could write a whole blog post on movies that shouldn’t have scared me as badly as they did. Wait, hold on while I jot that down…blog…post…on. scary…movieees…mention…The Birds. aaaaaand tropopkins. I’m back. The point is, Maman gave me the heebie-jeebies.

The most accurate "Maman & Moi" photo she'll ever add to her album

On rereading my work so far any reader would think we spent most of our time taking coffee breaks and finding places to sit down. It’s hard to communicate just how much walking we did, so let me say that save for the thirty minutes in the café on the swanky street, I hadn’t taken a seat for about six hours. That was my lead-in to the next thing that is boring to read: Everyone took a well-deserved Starbucks break in the tower while I jogged over to a nearby Zara for a look around. Is anything made of cotton these days? Or tailored, maybe? Blech. Once I rejoined my party Matt took the opportunity to change my shoelaces.

“Wait, WHAAAAA?” you ask, stunned by this revelation. Why, yes, when we first met up Matt and Mario were in a shop of snarky t-shirts. When we wandered into the neighboring store full of rainbow and brightly colored items, Matt said something like, “I wish I could wear rainbow stuff, but I can’t match it with anything.” My response was to snort and say, “Rainbow goes with everything, Matt—all you do is pick one color that’s in the rainbow, and you’re matching. Voila.” The “duh, stoopid” was implied.

Not five minutes later we were in the next store of belts and accessories. Matt was all, if I buy you some shoelaces wouldja let me change yours? And I was like, I accept presents, just don’t put those American flag ones on me. Then Matt was like, ooh, rainbow, and my response was, “Erm…I don’t really have any rainbow stuff,” with a whiny tone that pretty clearly communicated how little I liked the idea. Matt looked at me, stone faced, and deadpanned, “Just pick one color in the rainbow and match it, Laurel.” So now the shoes that I bought as a practical alternative to heels to wear with my work pants look like this:

Here’s a picture of the spider mama being creepy at night, looking way taller than Tokyo Tower.

We trekked to Shibuya for dinner. Greg had neither tried Korean food nor yakinikuyet, so after some obligatory gawking at the busiest intersection in the world we set off to fill our bellies with meat and foods whose names I can’t pronounce. Lucky for us we randomly decided on a Korean restaurant so authentic that it was full of real Koreans, both serving and dining. The food was delicious and spicy, and by the time we left we were all waddling a little.

One quarter of the busiest intersection in the world

The capstone of the evening was to meet up with friends of Matt and Mario and introduce Greg to the fine art of karaoke. Nine of us crammed into the karaoke room and warbled for a couple of hours, though I am ashamed to say that none of us paid tribute to the late great Whitney Houston.

Note: To understand the difference between Japanese and American karaoke, please see “The Kameoka Diaries” Chapter Six by Lars Martinson. Mr. Martinson, should you ever read this you’ll be pleased to know that I practiced not forcing duets upon anyone, and largely contented myself with playing the tambourine during upbeat numbers and nodding my head. I will be prepared for our next karaoke encounter.

We ended the night by skipping over to Nichoume for drinks and dancing. I say “drinks and dancing,” but what I mean is that my travel buddies and I were in and out of that club in about forty minutes, maybe less. Though the amount of rug I cut wasn’t nearly to my satisfaction, it turned out to be fortuitous—Margaret, Greg and I were bathed and in bed by two in the morning, so when the alarm went off at nine on Sunday we were ready to go. While Margaret met a friend the boys and I headed to Nerd World, more commonly known as Akihabara.

The pop art setting on this camera is fitting, I think.

If you need a custom part for the computer you’re building, visit Akihabara. Itching to dust off your original Nintendo unit but need a couple parts and new games? Akihabara’s the place to find it. Did you want to add to your collection of lengths of electrical wire? Check out the various booths in Akihabara, and then find various parts of other electrical things to attach those to in Akihabara. Looking for a limited edition robot cat girl figure to display next to your collection of wires? AKIHABARA, DANG IT.

Young men dressed in drag, who turned out to be a volunteer street cleanup crew.

We went into store after store filled with nothing but figures, everything from Gundam action figures with moveable parts, to Mickey Mouse, to what I can only describe as acrylic sculptures of battles between Star Wars characters, to desk toy-sized figures of almost naked women with oblong balloon breasts and bald nether regions. I know you may not have needed those last few details, but there were a lot of that kind, in various states of masturbaposes. Manga shops held floor after floor of comics and related paraphernalia. I won’t claim that women aren’t into manga and the like (quite the contrary), but in Akihabara I was often the only uterus carrier on the floor, and always outnumbered.

Only 2 ladies, an one is hiding behind her sign for a maid café.

One of the big draws to Akihabara is AKB48, Japan’s largest and most popular uterus carrier group. I don’t like their image or their music, so I took no pictures of anything featuring their smug little faces. Another big draw are the plethora (and I am using that correctly) of maid cafés. A maid café is what, Yoda ask? Maybe you’re having a bad day. What better to cheer you up than a young Asian woman in a frilly French maid outfit, maybe wearing cat ears, who will sweeten your coffee with air kisses, magic spells, and a “love beam?” Nothing better, I tell you. If you don’t know how to find one, simply accept a flyer from any one of the girls standing outside to hawk their wares. Note, if you clearly carry a uterus the girls will wait until you have passed to offer a flyer to your uterusless companions.

AND she's wearing pink Ugg boots. More like UGH boots, amirite?

Figure stores, manga shops, purikura, a futile search for a puppy café and Dance Dance Revolution, and the largest electronics store in Japan later it was time to go. The three boys and I met up with Margaret and her friend for an early dinner. Matt, Mario and I had to be on our merry way by seven—the two Ms because they had a two-hour drive home after the three hours to Kameoka, I because I was teaching all six periods the following day.

Matt and I (and eventually Mario) filled the Shinkansen ride by making up a story, passing ye olde iPadde back and forth after typing a single word or phrase. The only rule was that once the tablet was in the other person’s hands, we couldn’t go back and change what we had written.

One day an old chicken nugget got herpes. It was eaten by a free-spirited hippie who hadn’t ever tried one before. “Oh my! This tastes of sweet mead,” he joyfully pronounced whilst wiping his brow. The cook, named One-Eyed Jackson, guffawed and spewed a shower of diseased spittle, saturating the hippie’s ensemble. “You ‘ain’t evuh put yo greasy lips on suh’men so gooood,’ you mean? Idiot!”

 

The hippie slapped a nearby woman. “Dost thou bite your thumb at me?” he shouted. The woman urinated immediately, soaking the hippie’s Birkenstocks. The hippie calmly finished his nugget as the woman continued micturating.

That’s only the first part of our tale. Thanks to Matt’s addition of herpes (and urination. I’m about 70% sure that was on him), the hippie goes through an incredible diseased-induced existential crisis with the woman acting as the antagonist. Thanks to my mistype of “One-Eyed Jackson” as “One-Eyed Johnson” in the next paragraph, the rest of the story is too full of thinly veiled penis jokes to post on my respectable blog. So that’s all you’re getting.

This is purikura, the ultimate photobooth. The words at the bottom say, "Let's hang out/plaaaaay <3<3" and "Spring is coming soon, right? Let's go shopping together! So happy about Spring!

Fin.

Ergo when Margaret suggested we take a day trip to a traditional town for no other reason than to see thatched roofs covered in snow, I immediately agreed. Later she had to back out due to “work,” i.e. a daytrip with her coworkers, but I warn’t giving up my mini vacation opportunity fer nuthin’. Miyama is a 20-minute trains ride and an hour’s drive northwest of Kameoka. For such a simple trip there were a surprising number of people going; five busses full from our station and more already at the stop in Miyama. I met up with a couple of non-teacher JETs, Jen and Alice, and we walked around the slippery hillsides of the tiny town and took a ton of pictures. Also we threw the occasional snowball at each other, but Alice upped the ante by shoving me face first into a drift. She didn’t seem the type to enjoy tackling, so I resisted the urge to turn the snow fight into a snow war. More accurately, she kept shoving me and hurling basketball-sized chunks of snow onto my head when I tried to get up, so I’m pretty sure she would have won regardless.

Could have made a giant snow candlestick, but I didn’t.

This mailbox is on the advertisement, so naturally I expected it to be in some obscure location, like the prize for a treasure hunt. Even more naturally I felt proud that we had found it within five minutes of walking up into the village on the main road. Look at it! Mail!

One of the local attractions is a bakery featuring bread made with locally grown rice. The trail down to the shop was icy and willies-inducing. After the picture below, Alice and I pretty much held hands the whole way down, warning each other that if one fell, the other would follow. This is long before the treachery of the snowball fight.

The famous bakery. I had a cabocha (pumpkin) bread, and it was too delicious to wait to eat, so I don’t have a picture of the bread itself.

We crossed that bridge and climbed up the hill to the right to find a shrine.

Then we came back down so as not to be trapped on a hill when the sun went down. Trapped, I tell you.

The most Japanese snowman I’ve ever seen. By the way, goodly Internet folk, did you know that Japanese snowmen are made of two balls instead of three?

If you look reeeeaaaally closely below you can see photographers setting up in the woods. The town was crawling with tripod-toting shutterbugs, who, I think, only added to the rustic poetry of the environment.

Nature at its finest:

Jennifer stopped to make a snow something, which naturally meant that Alice and I decided to roll a huge snowball into her. She deftly avoided us by standing up, but we got the above monstrosity out of it. I thinks it’s much more Donnie Darko than Harvey.

By which I mean at one point it had two ears and vaguely resembled a rabbit.

Jen’s artistic talents surpassed us all.

Though we didn’t participate, visitors had the opportunity to make a snow sculpture in which to place a candle for the evening light up. As darkness fell the candles were lit and the town glowed soft yellow. A fireworks display closed the evening, and we three wandered down to check out the snow sculptures. Some of them were pretty impressive, and I’m sad that I don’t understand my camera well enough take better pictures.

They had a fireworks show accompanied by silence. Japan.

One can never know if the sea beast sculpture is of a mythical creature or a Pokémon character.
Since we went around the beginning of February there were a whole bunch of heart sculptures, but I feel that the above is a more accurate representation of February and what it does to people by which I mean me.

It wouldn’t have been a night without a giant Hello Kitty head.

Walking around in snow is cold, hard work, so to various points we stopped to savor the local delights—handmade breads, boar stew, venison croquettes, and these tasty pumpkin doughnuts.

The only casualty was the lens cap for my camera; it fell out of my pocket as we were slipping and tripping our way from the snow sculptures to the bathroom. I’m pretty sure that I can rig a replacement with construction paper and a rubber band. Verdict: Kyoto explored! Regrets upon my departure decreased! Mini vacation a success!

- Posted from my iPad

Nearing the end of sixth period one boy asked me in Japanese, “Which do you like better, Japan or America?” While I rubbed my head and pretended to hem and haw the students guessed my answer. Of course America, they whispered to each other. I looked at the teacher, who jumped and became visibly confused as to why I had cast my eyes in her direction. Okay, I would try explaining in Japanese.

“I from America,” I said sincerely. “It’s my hometown, my birthplace, I am culture. Naturally of course I like. But I live in Kameoka, now going on four years.”

“Four years!?” The students hadn’t known me before last April; some of them still had thought that I was traveling from America every week.

“Yes, four years now. I live Kameoka, so I learn liking things about Japan. I like very much.” I clasped my little square hands to my bosom in earnestness. “Not equal, but both I like.”

The teacher turned to the students. “Were you listening?”

One talkative girl piped up. “Yeah, her Kansai accent is really strong!” Then she asked me if I liked roller coasters.

- Posted from my iPad

P.S. I’m still working things out with my home Internet situation. Also, it’s still really cold here. My fingers are stiff. Here’s a view from the station yesterday.

1) At O Elementary, 5 classes per visit (4 5th grade classes and another whole grade in the gym).

5th Grade Teacher: Do you come here next week?

Me: No, so you can have the students draw pictures for their picture books during English time. [The  students were making picture books in English.]

Teacher: We probably won’t have them do anything. See you in two weeks.

2) At I Junior High, 2–3 classes per visit. The following took place in Japanese.

Two 2nd-year boys: Psst, hey, Ryan-sensei. What does “f*ck off” mean?

Me: It’s a very strong “deteke” or “damare“

Third boy: Ha! Hey, Togei. F*ck off.

Me, breathing a silent prayer: No, guys, f*ck is number one strong bad word in English. It’s very, very, very rude; if you say it in lesson, teacher  be very slow.

Boy 2, translating my broken Japanese: The teacher will get super mad.

Me: Right. And me, too. So don’t say it.

3) M Elementary, 4–6 classes every visit. This school has Smartboards.

Me: All right, 5th graders. Can you tell me some breakfast foods? What do you eat for breakfast?
Students: Bread, rice and miso soup, cereal, sandwiches and green salad.
Me: A green salad? Does anyone have orange juice or yogurt? (Two more options on the screen)
Students: For breakfast!?!?

4) Lesson plan for two elementary 3rd grade classes on Monday, sent on a Sunday afternoon:

Please teach American Children’s Life.

To understand why that’s in this post, please ask yourself what America’s children’s life is and how to sum it up so that Japanese children who only know how to say their numbers and colors in English will understand. Then try to find appropriate pictures and print them without a printer. During one of those classes:

Me: Students can buy a school lunch. Here’s a picture of a grilled chicken salad. Here’s chili pie. They can bring a lunch, too. This is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. This is a Lunchables. You can make a pizza.

Student: Ii, na! I want to go to America!

School’s English coordinator, who came in the back halfway through the lesson and took over for the home room teacher: Ms. Ryan, which is better: Japanese or American school lunch?

Me, uncomfortably: I think it’s the same. Some days it is delicious. Some days it is not. My mother made my lunch, so I did not eat school lunch very often.

Coordinator: Ryan sensei says that school lunch is not delicious in America!That picture, the chili pie. Is it healthy? Which is more healthy: Japan or American school lunch?

Me: School lunch is like here at M Elementary. Some days it is very nutritious. Some days it is not.

Coordinator: America’s school lunch has no nutrients! It’s like junk food! Hey, student, do you still want to go to America? Ha ha!

Student: Well, not now…

5) I Junior High 2nd year junior high class activity to practice comparatives, creating a survey for classmates:

Who is more beautiful, Ms. Ryan or Mr. Hashimura? [Mr. H is over forty and has severe dandruff

Ms. Ryan: 8

Mr. Hashimura: 9

6) In the same class during a listening comprehension activity after I told them that in the U.S. the pressure is on the man to buy a good Valentine's present.

Mr. H: Ms. Ryan, what do you want from your boyfriend for Valentine's? A necklace? Flowers? Chocolate

Me: I would definitely want food

Boy to a friend: She's basically a man.

7) Lunch with a 5th grade class at T Elementary. The following took place in Japanese

Girl 1: Ms. Ryan, do you ever wear skirts?

Me: Yes, when go junior high school.

Girl 2: How long are they?

Me, indicating below my kneecaps: Here about. Or more here [indicating mid-calf].

Girls: That’s so long!

Me: Seriously? How long, then?

Girl 1, pointing to her own short skirt: About here.

Girl 2: Yeah, mid-thigh is cute.

Me: But I’m teacher! Sometimes bare legs! No tights! It’s cold!

Girl 2: But you’re a girl, so your skirt should be above your knees.

8) 2nd-year class at B Junior High after a presentation on Black History Month.

Me: No, black people can sit anywhere on the bus now. Do you have any more questions?

Do You Like Peneesu Kid: Do you have boyfriend?

Me, narrowing my eyes: Why do you want to know?

The teacher translates my reply and the class giggles.

DYLPK’s neighbor: Because I like you very much.

Me: I’m twelve years older than all of you.

The teacher lets them figure out what that means by themselves, resulting in more giggling.

DYLPK and neighbor to each other. Don’t mind. Ah, that’s not it, I don’t care.

The teacher: Wow.

9) Later with the 3rd years at the same school

Teacher: Now that Ms. Ryan gave her goodbye speech, would you like to say anything to her?

Me: Hah, I don’t think they’re prepared for that.

Teacher: You have studied with her for three years. What do you remember?

Silence

Teacher: What was fun, or amusing?

Student to his classmate, after thinking for a moment: Her face.

On walking in to a class at O Elementary, after a month of not seeing them:

Students: Good Morning! Wait, your hair’s still straight.

Me: Hah, yeah, sorry. It’s a permanent.

Teacher translates with a laugh: It’s a straight perm. She says she’s sorry.

Students: What a waste.

As I type this the young hot teacher at I Jr. High is clipping his fingernails in the office, and it is so, so loud. Hotness points reduced.

- Posted from my iPad

P.S. My Internet is once again on the fritz. Yahoo BB and I are not speaking right now.

Today I was at a junior high, what I like to call my “field school.” (Guess where it’s located. Just guess.) The teacher was having me prepare the students for the listening section on high school entrance examinations, so except for when they greeted me and when I bade them goodbye, I only saw the tops of their heads as they puzzled over the dialogues I was reading. Ergo it wasn’t until the bell had rung that I took a good look at their faces and remembered who was who. That’s when I had that bittersweet moment, when I realized how much they had grown while I flitted from school to school.

These were the students who had made me start to like this school a little better. “I remember you,” I wanted to say to one tall girl. “When you were a first year you cried because you couldn’t understand me during a game. It wasn’t my fault, but I felt terrible. You’ve grown into your jaw.”

Another boy was particularly attentive during the class, and though I didn’t immediately place him his hairstyle and posture indicated that he was popular and something of a rebel. Once that bell rang, though, he sat up and stretched, and I remembered. Ah! You were that poop of a second-year! When that teacher I didn’t like had us play games in the gym, you were the only one who refused to play by the rules. When the teacher asked you to stay with your group, you yelled out, “F*cking!” and stalked around with a smirk. I remember being angry, not just that you used the language in school, but because the teacher didn’t know enough about English to be properly offended. You blew me off when I tried to tell you what you had just said, so for a long time I didn’t like you much. That boy must have gotten over that phase, or at least put it on hold for class, because he was an angel baby during today’s class.

Graduation is not always the end of my relationships with my students. I see them sometimes on the train, or at Mr. Donut, or sushi, or in the shopping centers. They’re inevitably shocked to see me; the ALT system in Japan has built a sense of impermanence where foreigners are concerned. The family in the house facing my apartment has three daughters, none of whom I taught. However, one of my former students, the yankee type who trims his eyebrows down to angry clown arches, has been dating the oldest daughter for the better part of a year. The family is of a respectable sort (the patriarch once ran for office in Kameoka), but apparently this punk of mine is capable of behaving well enough to be welcomed inside the house. We often run into each other as I’m coming home from the grocery store or aikido and he’s bidding his girlfriend goodbye, or they’re sitting outside. He nods awkwardly and I greet him in Japanese. He’s much less embarrassed about not being asexual now than he was when he first realized, to his horror, that I lived within spitting distance of his lady love. Sadly, I still don’t know this boy’s name, but even though he could very well be dealing drugs and robbing banks in his spare time I’m pleased that I can watch him mature in snippets.

Now that I’ve turned in my I-Will-Not-Be-Here-In-August papers it feels like senior year in college. I’ve a strong desire to leave my mark on the people I know: Don’t forget me, and don’t confuse me with the next ALT you meet. And remember that my natural hair is super curly. Last night at church the pastor talked keeping our focus on living for Christ, and I was reminded that it really doesn’t matter if I fade from the memory of the good Kameokan students. I’m finding the epiphany hard to put into words at the moment, but it allows me to be grateful for the time I’ve spent around all of my tearful and foul-mouthed students. I’ll remember that at some point in time they really liked Miley Cyrus and didn’t read the English Board I spent an hour making. I’ll remember that even if they were asking inappropriate questions or trying to determine which 15-year-old I found most attractive, they tried to use English with me. I’ll remember that teenagers are teenagers everywhere. Parting from them in March will be another sweet sorrow, but we had three years together. It will have been worth it.

- Posted from my iPad

Last night Little Boy Cat came round while I was doing laundry out on my back porch. It was snowing and he was loud, so I let him in. Little Boy Cat does not like to sit still; I was hard pressed to get a picture of him that was neither a tail disappearing around the corner nor a blurry nose on the lens. P.S. I’m not a great photographer. After a fight with another neighborhood cat last summer LBC has a permanent half wink, which is sad in real life but jocular in photos.

The last two pictures I took while waiting for my laundry to dry. It snowed all day yesterday, big thick wet snowflakes that stay on your nose and eyelashes. Silver white winters that MELT into Spring…I pulled on my snow boots to test my paltry nighttime photography skills after a quick trip to the grocery store.