March 30, 2008
It's my first full day with literally nothing to do in so long, I don't even know what to do with myself.
For the first time since college finals and the week before coming home from Swiss Semester, I keep getting a twitchy feeling that there's something that I should be doing that I'd just forgotten about. I've just taken to leaving my Day Planner open on my desk, because I'm tired of taking it out of my bag to double-check that I have nothing to do, and returning it to the bag. I'm not very good at relaxing.
I got back from a trip to the Kansai region of Japan last Wednesday, and I've been captioning photos and trying to catch up in my journal with what happened. It's weird, though, because I don't get the urge to blog about the big things that happen -- the temples upon beautiful temples, the discovering of interesting restaurants and foods I didn't even know I liked. My personal journal reads like, well, a day planner. First I woke up. Then I ate this. Then I saw this. Then we made a joke about a bird chasing Gabe across Japan. But it's not very good storytelling. I guess I'll let the pics I post later do that for me.
It just made me think the other day that the things that really inspire me to write are the day-to-day monotony. The librarian who traveled to Tokyo to give me a book about the samurai who founded the town I live in. The insult that a Japanese person hilariously said to me without even knowing it was insulting -- like complimenting me by telling me I have a small head, or telling me to join in sports day because I look awkward.
I guess even today. Even though I haven't moved from this spot on my couch bed since I sat up this morning, I got the urge to post here with what I've been doing on my first day off in forever.
And without further ado, here are the fruits of a day free from the shackles of appointments in my scheduler.
Gabe-bacca and Lauren Solo
Princess Lo-a and Jamie the Hutt
Gabe tries to eat deer food
Gabe is haunted by a bird following him around Japan
Yeah, maybe having things to do is a good thing. I need to get out more.
March 17, 2008
Every day at lunch, the tiniest woman comes around hawking her wares. A strange thing about Japan is that soliciting is allowed in the workplace.
This means there are often crowds of people gathered around behind me, whispering, sucking their teeth, wondering if they should try to explain a Japanese travel package to the white girl. Or try to sell me a tie. The answer is always that, yes, they should, which inevitably leaves all parties embarrassed. Actually, I'm surprised I haven't just bought a trip to Okinawa and a matching spring tie simply out of guilt and obligation.
But I like the drink lady. She is employed by Yakult, a yogurt company, and she always saves a pineapple juice just for me. I often have an opposite problem with her than I usually have in all my interactions.
See, I can get by. A little. I can survive without ending up naked, starving in the rain.
Most days, at least.
I know how to ask how much things are. I can hear numbers and prices, and I understand statements that they're out of something. I've gotten myself out of hairier situations than ordering a juice.
But this poor woman always takes a deep breath before rounding the corner to my desk. It is her duty to serve juice to all the teachers who want it, and she takes it very seriously. Deathly seriously.
The first time we met, I had already gathered what her job was from her stopping at the other 50 people in my office. So I felt horrible when she saw my face, gasped, almost dropped her bag of juice, and started frantically searching for someone who spoke English.
Not rudely or offensively. She was truly terrified she wouldn't give me good service. I felt terrible. I tried nodding and taking huge bills out of my wallet. I bowed and thanked her. I had no idea what kinds of juice there were to choose from, but god forbid her boss asks her later how her day went, and she breaks out in tears over an inability to protect and serve (juice). Hoping to save her from such shame, I pointed cheerfully at a random juice and paid for it. That lunch, I dined on the delicious and refreshing blend of grapes...and lettuce. Mmm, that lettuce juice is delish! Someone call up Tropicana.
She came in the next day with a little sheet of paper, and pronounced a message written in katakana. "Too-day? Pleazu? Some-singu?" I clapped and gushed over her good English, and I was truly touched that she cared so much to try and communicate with me.
Since then, we have grown together. One day I got brave enough to quit the lettuce juice (which actually is...kinda good), and I started my pineapple juice regiment. Her English has gotten better, and now she can say, "Would you like anything today?" There was one day she was out of pineapple juice. We had a few laughs then. After Christmas, I brought her back a light-up pen from the states. I seriously thought she was going to have a heart attack and die on the floor.
She's gotten more bold, too. Sometimes she talks without having rehearsed it (audibly) for a few rows behind me. She also has started approaching me and simply striking a pose, smiling and holding up my pineapple juice by her face, like she's in a brochure.
Today, I apologized because I only had a 1,000 yen note for the 100 yen juice. She puffed her chest up, looking very proud, and said, "Ah, thank you very much. And your change? Ninety-thousand yen!"
Of course she gave me the correct change, but I still had to stifle a giggle.
I love the drink lady.
March 14, 2008
Melissa's Visit to Japan
This is from when Melissa came to visit in December, but it's the same 2 girls referenced in the last post. I tutor them and their mom every other Friday.
March 13, 2008
How can the most mundane events in life be so awkward?
So 4 times a month, I tutor 4 delightful girls. When I got here and the job was basically dropped in my lap, I thought it might be a little overwhelming, but I didn't want to let anyone down. These kids have been tutored by the ALT who lives in my apartment since at least my predecessor's predecessor, and who doesn't love a little moonlighting money?
But I've learned so much about teaching from these girls. I went from giving them awkward tours of my 2 room apartment and having them repeat various household objects as I point them out...to what I do now -- sing nursery rhymes and jump around their house with them, their mom smiling at the fun we're having while stirring rice in the kitchen.
But there's still the language and cultural barrier. I also give the mother lessons, which is basically just a fun conversation with a few grammar points thrown in. I did try to make it a little more about grammar (you know me!), but she seemed to enjoy hearing about my life, and surprise! I like talking about it. So it works.
But it has been slowly getting warmer in our little town, and I called Megumi today to tell her I could bike to her place instead of getting a ride from her, which I had always felt a little guilty about anyway. Unfortunately, I seemed to forget that bikes take longer than cars, so I got to her house 15 minutes late. Not a huge deal, although I worry that she schedules dinner around when I leave.
I have a fine class with the girls, and we sing "No More Monkeys Jumping on the Bed," which I highly recommend you try if you have any 7- and 9-year-olds lying around. Actually, that sounds creepy. If you have any 7- or 9-year-olds lying around, please return them to their parents. I play a game of hangman to wrap up what they'd learned that day. The word was "monkey" and I made it more of a hangmonkey with ears and a tail, because that darn "e" is tricky. So I went another 5 minutes over right there.
When it was Megumi's turn for class, she started asking me about my parents' recent trip to Japan. She always tries so darn hard to formulate her sentences correctly, so I had no problem slyly sliding my worksheets back into their folder to have a nice conversation.
And then disaster. Okay, not really. So I have an Interpretive Dance performance this Sunday at an Arts Festival in the woods, organized by my Japanese tutor. I'd kind of been keeping it a secret from my friends, precisely because I like to keep the Annoyingly Cheerful "No More Monkeys Jumping on the Bed" Lauren under wraps in exchange for what I hope is a much cooler "James Dean" Lauren that I show in front of them. James Dean is still cool, right, guys? Guys? Get off my lawn!
But I did want this family to come. They have really taken me under their wing, and invited me to dinner and family sports day (SO fun!) a few times. Only, I can't remember the name of the Art Festival place or the town, because, you know. Japanese. We don't have road names here. We give directions to people by saying, "Pass the store with the Buddha in the window, and turn left at the sign with an egg crossing the road. If you see a fat guy riding a red bike, you've gone too far!"
So I write down the URL. Megumi frowns. I've sent her emails before, but I'm pretty sure they went to her phone. The directions to the actual park are hidden on the website, so I start to draw a picture of the web design, which I soon learn is very futile. I meekly offer to show her on her computer, and she blushes and actually stands up to start pacing around the room. Oh, no. Uh, I don't have to? It's in the forest. Just, uh, walk towards the green stuff over there.
She rushes out of the room and returns a second later to apologize profusely. What's going on? She tells me her house is very dirty, and she only cleaned the downstairs for my arrival. Crap. Now I'm imposing. I backpedal and tell her I'm sure she can find it on her own, bowing, apologizing in the most polite Japanese I know. But she's already up the stairs, and I'm really not sure on the URL, so I reluctantly follow, keeping my eyes fixed at the ground, so I don't even see if there's a mess or not.
I get to her bedroom, and of course it's ten times cleaner than my place. I'm the girl who often has guests over to my house, and if they have to use the bathroom, I just ask them not to mind the underwear that's drying in a colorful Victoria's Secret flower around the sink. Why? Because I don't dry it outside. Why? Because perverts will steal it.
Anyway, I sit down at her laptop, and as it's starting up, I hear a strange noise I can't immediately place. Then I put my finger on it. It's the Windows Start Up song from when I was IN HIGH SCHOOL. This computer is 15 years old if it's a day. There's no way it's gonna be able to launch this site and a .pdf flyer.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I don't play computer." Luckily, I play computer. I have a very high score on computer. When it's in English. And made in this century. I sit down and launch Internet Explorer. Easy enough, right? It takes a few minutes, and I gulp as I look at the clock. Surfing the net on the company dime is different when the company is an adorable young mom peering over your shoulder.
I type in the address. An error comes up in Japanese. Just a warning, I assume, and click "Okay." Wrong move, Jack. "Okay," it appears, opens up a new program in Windows, a program that scrolls through reams of code like I'm Dennis Nedry hacking the raptor cage of "Jurassic Park." This program also has the cute quirk of being impossible to close. I hit the X, and another error message comes up -- one that makes Megumi gasp.
I, of course, have no idea what it said, nor do I know what the last one said, but I'm getting the feeling that my old trick of clicking Yes, No, or Cancel until something works isn't quite going to cut it here. I want to hit cancel, because it's always so safe and nice and never let me down before. But Megumi is already on the phone to her husband...at work. I feel awful.
My minute-long jaunt has turned into my sweet friend bothering her husband in the middle of a Japanese work day to fix the heirloom computer I seem to have broken. He doesn't seem to have the answer, either, after 5 more minutes of time I've wasted, so she shuts down, and we try it again.
I realize at some point that the URL I typed wasn't the right one, and I cross my fingers as I type a second time. It works, inasmuch as it gets me to the site, but the Runtime errors (or "rantaimu erazu") keep popping up every couple minutes. Ah, runtime errors. That takes me back.
To make a long story not any shorter at all, she was able to get a glimpse of the map before it disappeared off the screen, and I think she'll be showing up on Sunday to see me. God, I love that family.
I stayed a little longer (to apologize a little more) and to give her a few extra minutes of lesson time, which I thought was doing her a favor, but who knows if I was inadvertently starving her children. I knew for a fact I was starving their dog, because he always gets fed after a lesson, and when I went out to get my bike and bid them adieu, the poor thing was just giving me this look like, "Pack it up and move it out, Uncle Sam. I gots kibble to eat."
To top off my night, spring, as you know, is the time when a young plant's fancy turns to pollen, that is subsequently blown directly into my corneas. I don't have allergies in LA or Pittsburgh, and in fact, I used to make fun of my sneezing mother and brother for having inferior immune systems. But when I moved to Nashville, I learned that I am allergic to things in certain towns, and lucky me, my town in Japan is one of them. I don't have it as bad as some people. I don't sniffle or sneeze or anything, but my eyes itch and water and run like a marathon.
So biking back, my eyes are watering so much, tears are beginning to roll down my cheeks. Another unfortunate side effect of spring is that I can no longer hide in my Japanese hooded jacket, and everyone can see me. So I'm trying to keep a distant smile on my face like, "Oh, nothing. I'm not crying. It's allergies. See? I'm happy. Just a normal person riding their bike, smiling like a goon with tears running down their face. Carry on, citizens!"
And that, my friends, was my night. From 5:15 to 7:30. I don't have enough blog for all the awkwardness I feel here, but it sure keeps life interesting.
March 09, 2008
I'm reading a book right now that got me thinking. There's a very minor character who is an anarchist and thinks that books will be phased out in the future. Replacing them will simply be memes -- the viral spread of information through direct communication. The point was that people prefer shared experiences, and all the stuff that matters enough will be sufficiently transferred throughout society. Less-than-vital knowledge will be filtered out, and I assume people will be drawn towards others with similar knowledge.
First it piqued my interest because I immediately thought of Internet Memes, and how happy it makes me in real life when I pick up on a reference that someone throws out there.
Then I started thinking about what my friend Tom and I used to call "pop-culture friends." It was a negative term, and it basically meant all the people in high school with whom I talked endlessly about "South Park" and Quentin Tarantino, without knowing anything about their families or lives or hopes or dreams. Tom looked down on me for having so many friends like that, and I was the recipient of many an eye roll when I used to pepper our arguments with, "This is exactly like the time on 'the Simpsons' when Homer told Lisa..."
Now, of course, I realize how wrong Tom was. (And so does he, as, in adulthood, he has since admitted his wrongs, and we often have conversations about Quentin Tarantino's guest appearances in "South Park" episodes.) I can often tell which friends I will get along best with by sharing social memes with them. I knew Gabe would be an awesome friend because he loves MTV's "The State" and also says, "When you assume, you make an ass out of Uma Thurman," which is such a random and esoteric reference to ONE sketch on SNL in the early '90s, even though I still say it all the time.
I knew I was among friends last night when in the middle of an otherwise intelligent conversation about Camus and Sartre, I quoted "Camus can do, but Sartre is smartre," to which my friends echoed in unison, "Well, Scooby Doo can doo-doo, but Jimmy Carter is smarter."
And even though the minor anarchist character was meant to be kind of tongue-in-cheek, and even though it's a Dean Koontz book, which I guess is like literary junk food, it really made me appreciate how much we yearn for people who understand us. It made me think that maybe my extensive knowledge of lolcats and amazing ability to apply webcomics and forum threads to everyday situations maybe isn't all for naught. After all, that old Far Side comic where the parents dream about the kid playing video games for a living while he appears to be wasting his life away...sort of came true. I have friends who are "Nintendo Experts" and "Skilled Computer Games Operators," as the comic jokes.
It makes me think that we've come full circle, and society is coming back around to verbal storytelling to pass on our heritage to the future, only now it comes packaged with technological visual aids, blogs, and youtube videos to punctuate our points. We're entering a familiar but different chapter of social interaction, where we rely on our friends to inform us, via technology, of the new social developments, as they rely on us.
And that, my friends, is why I deemed it appropriate to show my friends "2 Girls, 1 Cup" at my dinner party last night. For science.
INT. Lauren's Kitchen -- Evening
Lauren: How's dinner coming along, guys?
Gabe: I keep salting this rice, but it doesn't taste saltier.
Jamie: Yeah, where did you get that fucking salt?
Lauren: The store. I use it every night on my dinner. Tastes fine to me.
Gabe: ...I don't think this is salt.
Jamie: Holy shit, this is MSG!
Gabe: I've been shaking this into the rice for 5 minutes!
Jamie: Well, at least it'll be really delicious.
Gabe: There's a panda on it, Lauren! Panda means MSG.
Lauren: ... *Exits, pursued by bear*
Fin.
Suddenly, my irrational fear of accidentally killing everyone who comes to my house for a dinner party DOESN'T SOUND SO IRRATIONAL, DOES IT?
March 05, 2008
Although I'm sure my bitching started at a very early age, I can think back to my years in lower school and remember cursing my height.
I clearly remember wanting to be taller at some point. I remember not being able to reach things in the pantry and coming below the annoying height line at theme parks. My mom always told me (or threatened) that one day my little brother would be taller than me, and perhaps I should stop punching him in the face, because I'd get mine someday. It was a race for me at that young age. Everyone always talked about how tall my parents were, and I was excited grow into what I foresaw as a unique position. My hair was almost blond but not quite, and I had just enough freckles to make it look like my face was kind of dirty, but not enough to be Cutie McFreckles. But if I could be TALL, I was golden.
As is the cruelty of biology, from about 5th grade on, I was one of the tallest people in my class until puberty finally started leveling the playing field. I guess as far as Height Cards are dealt, it was probably much worse, socially, to be The Short Guy. However, this just tended to make the Short Guys overcompensate with their personalities and become the class clowns, consequently ending up as the guys I always had crushes on. Yes, many a picture of my ballroom dancing class shows me in a flowery dress dancing with some jokester who barely comes up to my shoulders.
But while everyone regaled my size, reciting the minimum height for supermodels and foreseeing a promising career in ballet dancing, all I could think of was how cute the short girls in my class were. Some went the tomboy route and became sassy spitfires, always looking a better match with the class clowns than I did, but the others fit so perfectly into the role of a demure cutie-patootie. They were so shy, it was almost as if their shortness weren't enough for them, and they wished for even a few less inches so that they could slink under their desks and disappear. I envied these girls, because I felt I could never fade into a crowd. I was gangly and awkward, and I recall spending the majority of my junior high school days crossing my arms in front of my body because I felt I didn't fit.
At some point, I hit the height I am now, which wikipedia tells me is indeed above average for American women, but far below the average for men. Even with statistics in my favor, the few boys I've dated have ranged from ridiculously shorter than me to equal height.
And I'm still the shortest in my family, which my mom loves to remind me, lording her whole half-inch or whatever it is over me at every family gathering.
Although height was never a factor in choosing to come to Japan, I thought that it was something I was "over," pun slightly intended. I joked about my impending likeness to Godzilla with my friends, and they were honestly jokes. It wasn't a big deal.
And for the most part, it is still funny to me. I stand up at the Opening Ceremony with a row of teachers, and I tower over the next tallest by a few inches. I play in the teacher's volleyball game, and I crouch down comically so that the shorter, more experienced players can save the ball from my inept flailing. If anything, I've gotten used to being the weirdo everyone stares at, and it slightly amuses me. I get to be unique, just like I wanted when I was younger.
But the novelty wears off sometimes. Like when I'm in the shoe section of a department store, and I'm 100% SURE it's the children's section because these tiny things don't look like they could fit DEER hooves. Until I see the children's section off in the corner, and I sadly slink off to the men's section that probably isn't going to have the cute pink stripey number I was looking for.
Or when I just want to shop for groceries and the grandmothers all but drop their dinner squids in shock at the sight of me having inadvertently crept up behind them. When the tiny kid points up at me and shouts "kowai" (scary) and runs off crying, and my Japanese friend tries to assure me that he said "kawaii" (cute), but I somehow think there would be less tears and shaking if, say, Pikachu were to come bounding up to him.
I attended an all-female party for teachers a few months ago, and the differential was even more exaggerated. As we waited outside, I joked with some of the English teachers that I could feel it raining, but they wouldn't feel it for a few more minutes. They all sighed (perhaps at my terrible joke), and confided that they wished they could be as tall as I were. They joked that sometimes they have to get students to reach things off of shelves, and it's very embarrassing. They sometimes feel weak and insecure when they're with men, and they wish they had the sheer surface area that I have to give them peace of mind once in a while.
I dunno. I suppose the tomboy in me still takes pride in being asked to carry heavy stuff with the guys once in a while. I don't really mind always standing in the back row for pictures, since there's less of a chance the photographer will notice the funny face I'm making. I guess it's not so bad.
Still, though, maybe my next trip should be to the Amazon or something, and I can live out my fantasy of being so small, people just want to ball me up and carry me in their pocket.