Three weddings and a circumsion party

Wedding 1 (Saturday): It wasn't the actual wedding; rather, it was the "Kelin Salam." That's when the new daughter-in-law greets her mother-in-law's friends by dressing in 20 different outfits and bowing, slowly and solemnly. While the daughter-in-law bows, the mother-in-law's friends eat, chat, listen to music, and dance. I stuffed myself with cookies and juice (am I 5?), then only had room for one bite of plov. It was fun to see all the women dancing together, especially my host-mom. She can really shake her thang and I pleased her mightily by shaking mine. The new daughter-in-law greets her mother-in-law's guests in a variety of outfits, given to her by her new husband. The wealthier the family, the more outfits the daughter-in-law gets and, thus, has to change into.

My host-mom in her party dress, serving food (she wasn't the host she's just cool). She also made sure that my friend, Caitlyn, and I got all the freshest food. She's pretty much awesome.

Weddings 2 and 3 (Sunday): I didn't go to two weddings - I went to one and it ended up being two. My first real-life double wedding! I thought such things only happened in movies, but I was wrong. The brides and grooms entered the restaurant with much banging of drums and blowing of horns. Seriously. None of that staid 'wedding march' for Uzbeks! They made their way to the head table - a dais with flashing lights behind it - and sat with serious faces. The brides had to look especially grim to show their sadness at leaving their families. This is meant to be a show, of course, but one of the brides really did look grim. My Uzbek friend even said, "She's either a very good actor, or she's VERY unhappy."

After the wedding party was seated, the band played and people danced. At this wedding, the band played and only the men danced. With each other. They were awesome dancers, with wild waving arms and one-legged hops across the dance floor. The way I've described it makes it sound like a monkey moon-walking, but it's really impressive. The best dancers also make dramatic facial expressions, like in a Bollywood movie. I love seeing men dance, but I especially love seeing men dance well! I'm convinced that this is a lost art in the US, especially on the West Coast. The men I know (except for my Dad and brothers) can only be coaxed to dance after consuming lots of booze. Dancing is for everyone, people!

Circumsion Party (Sunday): Okay, okay . . . the circumsion party was also the double wedding party. When you're short on cash, it's wise to roll them all into one. The little boy's parents carried him in on their shoulders, while the guests cheered. He was dressed like a prince, with a red velvet robe embroidered with gold thread and a four-cornered red velvet hat. They sat him at his own table in the middle of the room, until he started to cry (I think he was about 3 or 4) and carried him around.

In Uzbek culture, they usually do the actual circumsion at a hospital after the party. In Kyrgyzstan, they did the party AFTER the circumsion. They also circumsize boys as old as 5 or 7. When I went to a circumsion party with my Kyryz teacher there, his 5 year old nephew had just been circumsized. I asked if he would be able to enjoy the party and he said, "He's walking, isn't he?" That' good enough!

Me in a half Uzbek, half Russian dress with my host-mom and her friends. I didn't take any pictures at the other party, so this is all you get! Notice how tall and blond I am compared to the other ladies. I fit right in here . . .

The tale of the fly-swatter

I was just finishing my morning coffee when the scream came from the table:

"GRANDMAAAAAAAAAAA!!! Aziz hit me with the fly-swatter!" Medina could barely say the words because she was crying so hard. I doubt that the hit with the swatter was that painful, but she's three and she likes to cry. Aziz is four (almost five), the tsar of our house, and he also likes to cry. He also likes to hit people.

My host-mom hoisted herself up from her chair and ran to the table (I've never seen an old woman move so quickly!). She grabbed the fly-swatter from where Aziz had discarded it on the ground. Aziz, guessing her intentions, ran to the other side of the table. From there a complex game of 'chase the kid around the table' began. My host-mom, in traditional Uzbek dress with hair covered, chased Aziz around and around the table as he fled and proceeded to cry harder and harder.

The commotion upset the baby, who started screaming. Nigina, who is seven and above it all, sat on the swing and laughed. My host-sister didn't bother to interrupt her breakfast and mechanically kept eating. The only thing that could have added to the commotion would be a barking dog. Luckily, we don't have one, but I'm tired of children and retreated to my room. After I shut the door, I heard my most-mom yell,

"You see, Aziz! Ailey is so tired of you, she had to go to her room! Ailey will not like you if you act like this!"

This is pretty much the truth.

Welcome to my house!

According to the text that I have to translate:

"Uzbeks of modest means are also extremely generous toward their guests. When a stranger arrives at an Uzbek household, he is first invited inside and offered tea and other refreshments. Only then does the host ask who the guest is and why he has come."

This statement isn't necessarily true. At my house, the big brown gate (see above) is almost always bolted and, before my family opens the door, they yell, "KIIIIIIIIIIIIIMM?!!" I think a direct translation might be, "Who the hell is it?!" After that, though, they're extremely friendly.

Above you see our courtyard. We have a lot of fruit trees, including peach, apple, a fruit I'm unfamiliar with, and grapevines. The white table is on a raised platform where we eat every meal unless the flies are too bad. When they swarm, we eat inside which is far less pleasant. In the background, you see a stone wall. Behind this wall, our cow and goat stand all day. They're tied in place, so I guess they'll be tender when they're finally eaten.

This is my living room. As you can see, I'm kind of a messy person. I have more furniture in my rooms than my host-family has in theirs. From what I've experienced, Central Asian culture doesn't value clutter as much as American culture does. For example, my host-family has a large living room with only a TV in the corner and a couch against the far wall.

Here's another view of my living room. I have my own TV! Unfortunately, I only get three channels - Tajik, Tajik, and Russian. The Tajik channels are often overtaken by the president, who gives long addresses to his Viziers that I don't understand. The Russian television has been playing the EuroCup and, for that, I'm thankful. That said, I haven't been watching much TV. You're probably surprised that I can tear myself away from Tajik speeches and the Russian news, but I've been cultivating a willpower that's second to none.

My bedroom! I have a full-sized bed that is actually two singles pushed together. It's a nice room, which my host-family painted pink before I arrived. I love my pink room. The best part of my pink room, though, is the killer fan. I love the killer fan. Just this morning, my host-father said, "Did you know that if you sleep with the fan on . . ." But before he could finish, my host-mother yelled from the kitchen:

"I already told her, you old man! She sleeps with it on anyway!"

And there you have my house.

Iskander Kul

The sketchy driver locked our luggage in his trunk. Curran had shaken on a not-so-good deal - 500 somoni for five people in a sedan, meaning four people would squeeze into three seats with our extra baggage. We protested and begged for a larger car. The driver was unmoved, so Curran slipped him 20 som and we transferred our things to the Jeep that could comfortably fit all of us, as well as transport us safely along bumpy mountain roads. We were on our way to Iskander Kul, sans sketchy driver!

If your nervous about driving, this trip is not for you. The road hugs sheer mountainsides with no guardrails. Drivers honk when turning corners to warn oncoming traffic of their approach. On our trip, our driver told us tragic stories: The mountain pass is closed because two cars careened over the edge, killing everyone inside. In the winter, an avalanche trapped 90 people on the road. Benevolent Iranian truckers gave them each an egg a day. However, the tunnel is scariest of all.

Finished a few years ago, the tunnel is poorly designed. Water collects on the inside and stands at 2 or 3 feet in places. Side tunnels lead to nowhere, abandoned machinery rusts in the darkness and mist, single lightbulbs hanging from wires light the way. I took a picture, but it was obscured by the gases that had collected. Another tragic story: During an accident and subsequent pile-up in the tunnel, drivers kept their motors running and several people died of carbon monoxide poisoning. I felt like I was close to being the next victim as we drove through; my lips were tingling and I felt lightheaded.

The tunnel of doom.

Coming out the other side was exhilerating. Life was mine again! Also, the view wasn't bad. Here there are mountains upon mountains.

The trip also gave me some perspective on how people live outside of Dushanbe. In many of the towns that we passed, people lived in mud or stone huts with no greenery in sight.

After being stopped at a roadblock for three hours (three Tajik men shared their vodka and vegetables with us on the riverside), we finally made it to Iskander Kul. The picture below doesn't do it justice. The lake is truly amazing.

Iskander Kul has only one resort - a crumbling Soviet construction that was once picturesque and quaint. While overgrown, it still held some charm. However, we stayed in tents. I felt safer there (fewer fleas) and it was nice to sleep in the outdoors again.

On Saturday, we hiked to a waterfall and then, because the hike to the waterfall wasn't enough, we climbed a mountain. The climb up was tough - loose rocks and boulders slipped and fell on those below and I twisted my ankle, but my legs were happy for the exercise. And I was happy for the view from the top.

I'm not quite sure how the legend about Iskander Kul goes. Something about Alexander's horse walking into the water and never coming out? In any case, I felt that I could have stayed for a lot longer. Up the road, a trail leads into the Fan Mountains where there are more glacial lakes and a path to the Uzbek border. Maybe next time, assuming I could survive the tunnel again.

I Should Have Known or It's All Part of the Experience

As soon as the first bite of qo'rtab (sauteed onions and bread pieces in yogurt) hit my stomach, I knew the outcome would be bad. Something just didn't feel right.

I went to class and, after four hours, I had pretty bad indigestion. But that could just be from sitting in Uzbek class for four hours, couldn't it?

I went home and my stomach was in an uproar. When my host-mother asked me what I'd eaten, I ran to the bathroom to throw-up, but nothing happened. Instead, I went to bed and tossed and turned for two hours; the pain was horrible. Of course, my evil mind kept sending me pictures of qo'rtab - the chunkiness of the yorgurt, the sour taste, the soggy pieces of bread. Every thought brought another wave of nausea.

Finally, the sickness hit. I ran back and forth between my bedroom and the bathroom. My thoughtless host-father decided to take a shower in the midst of this, so I had to resort to the 'other' toilet. The squat toilet. Needless to say, it was horrible. Needless to say, I'll never eat at that cafe again and I will NEVER again eat qo'rtab (unless I'm starving and it's the only thing available).

I feel a little better today, but very tired and weak. My host-mother made me drink hot water that had been mixed with a bitter root - I don't know what it was, but it was so disgusting that it actually made me throw-up the first time I drank it. Maybe that was the point? My host-sister, a doctor, gave me a natural medicine that would 'replace the good bacterias' and provided me extremely sweet black tea, which I was required to drink an entire pot of.

I slept through most of my class this morning, but, as my friend Jarrett said, "I'm growing a strong stomach." However, we'll see how true this is after my next visit to a local restaurant.

Fan Death! Tajikistan-style.

When I get sick in the US, I usually look to the most likely culprits - germs, exhaustion, dehydration, or a combination of all three. Here, however, everything can be blamed on cool air and cold water! It's so much easier. The recipe for good health is to sleep in a stifling room and drink nothing but hot tea. At least, this is what my host-mother tells me.

When I developed a bad allergy to dust, my excessive mucus could be blamed on the fact that I slept with a fan on. When the dust made my chest hurt, this was because I had been drinking cold water. This morning, I could hardly speak because my throat and chest were so raw. My host-mother looked at me menacingly and said, "I told you! No fan! But I heard you watching TV last night with the fan on. This is why you can't speak today."

After classes, we went to the Turkish cafe for lunch, which gave me a bad stomach. When I came home to use the toilet, she said, "This is because you drink cold water. " An unfair accusation! The water that I drink is almost never cold. If it happens to be cold when I buy it, it doesn't stay in that condition long. However, they won't even let the children touch my water! It's too cold for children! I told my host-mother:

"I never drink cold water."

"I see you drinking it all the time," she said. "You use the fan and you drink cold water and this is why you're sick."

At this point, I will share a truth: sometimes I drink cold(ish) water with the fan on. I let the fan blow RIGHT on me as I drink the water! It feels good to live in a dangerous way, but I'm suffering the consequences: a cough, intestinal cramps, and sleepless nights. Obviously, my water is too cold and my fan is too blow-y. Aren't the most pleasant things in life always this way?

The heat is consistent. The electricity is not.

Yesterday, in the middle of my last class, the electricity went out. I thrive on the electricity in our classrooms. When it turns off, so does my soul. It was 4:00 p.m. and the heat was intense. I started sweating. My teacher and I decided to open a window, but it was hotter outside than it was in the room. I made a quick pros and cons list in my head: cooler (but still hot) and stuffy versus hotter and fresher. They were both losers.

Today I was eating lunch in the Turkish cafe and got the gut-wrenching cramps that come only with bad food on an empty stomach. I ran to the bathroom, but the lights went out in the middle of my stint. Afterward, I realized that I had been standing in the wrong direction on the squat toilet.

Tajikistan has "energy problems." Hence, mid-day blackouts and winters without heat or running water. I'm not an expert on the country's natural resources, but I do know that they have a lot of hydropower. The problem is, they sold most of it to Afghanistan. Oh, the wonders that truly great leadership can achieve.

I don't really mind going to the bathroom in the dark. In fact, sometimes it can be an exciting adventure (only for the very bored). I don't even really mind sitting in a hot classroom. I'm just glad that I don't have to be here in the winter.

Dushanbe: Day 2 (the not happy part of the day)

Uzbek placement test!

I failed it. It was awful. They wanted me to translate sentences like: “Please tell Yorik that I intended to call him last night at 7p.m.; unfortunately, I fell ill and could not reach a phone.” After staring at the paper and feeling the tears gather in the back of my throat, I finally handed my test to the teacher. “Ko’p bilmayman,” I said – I don’t know a lot. She nodded, looked at my test and nodded again.

Just this morning I had a glorious conversation with my host-mom about how much work she had to do before she got her very own ‘kelin’ (daughter-in-law) and, also, how to work the bath. She also showed me how to flush the toilet (unnecessary). I was feeling very competent.

These are sentences that I know how to say:

“It’s hot this morning.”
“What time do you usually eat breakfast?”
“I like this movie.”

Anything with a complex sentence structure is out of my reach. In addition, PLEASE do not ask me to read from a text. I might be able to converse (awkwardly) but I have a really hard time reading from a text. I blame this on my Uzbek professor, the notorious Cirtautas, who would pass out articles or stories, ask us to translate them, but then actually read and translate them herself. Not exactly the perfect way to learn a language.

So, I’ll be in the novice class and that’s alright. Maybe I can actually learn how to buy something or even barter. Stupid UW Uzbek class.

Dushanbe: Day 2 (the happy part of the day)

It’s 6:30 and I’m awake, but I’m tired. I could lay in bed and listen to the birds chirping and the goat randomly bleeping for hours, I think. Especially because it’s still cool outside and it’s QUIET. The city sounds that I’m accustomed to in Seattle are non-existant here. On my second day in Tajikistan, I find it extremely relaxing.

In fact, I find the entire experience relaxing. True, struggling through learning a language with a host-family that you don’t know can be a tough experience, but I’m excited for the slow days. After my Uzbek placement test this morning, I hope to sit under the grape arbor and just read while drinking tea and thinking about nothing. A year of graduate school has made me hungry for quiet and long, lazy days. I feel like I’m on a retreat.

But first, I’m going to go running. It might not be a long distance, but it will get my legs moving and, hopefully, I’ll finally have time to get back in shape. Let’s pray for no rabid dogs or children with rocks. Though, to be honest, Dushanbe doesn’t seem like that kind of city.

Dushanbe: Day 1

This morning, our flight from Istanbul arrived at around 3p.m. By the time we unloaded and found our luggage (Jen’s never came – poor Jen) it was light outside. I expected it to be steaming, but the air was pleasantly cool and everything looked and smelled fresh. I had a feeling that it would be a good summer.

Our resident director, Curran, met us at the airport. We all loaded into a van and drove to our respective host-families. My host-family has a single-story house built around a courtyard, in which they grow grapes and tomatoes and apricots and some other delicious things that I don't know the words for. When I arrived, they sat me on the platform and fed me flat, round bread with homemade jam and kashi.

Finally, I asked if I could sleep. It was 7:30 a.m. by this point, so the showed me to my room – two rooms actually – I laid my things on the ground, and fell into bed fully dressed. My host-mother woke me at twenty to 11 a.m., I got dressed, and we went to the American Councils office.

The office is new and welcoming; plus, it has air-conditioning. This is important because, today, the low was 108 degrees and it’s mid-June. Needless to say, it was hot. Curran gave us a quick run-through of what to expect living in Tajikistan. It’s a very safe place, but be wary of police officers. Don’t flash your wealth around. Don’t wear revealing clothing. After that, we started talking about the exciting stuff – excursions. Curran has three potential excursions planned for us this summer. The first, I can’t remember. The second, I can’t remember. The third, though, is to the Pamirs and I can’t wait.

For five or six days, we are meant to drive the Pamiri Highway in rented vehicles of mass destruction (SUVs). Along the border with Afghanistan, you can often see nomadic Afghans with llamas. Also, from certain points along the highway, you can see the mountains stretching all the way to Pakistan. The Wakhan Corridor is mostly peopled with Kyrgyz tribesman who still live a nomadic lifestyle and have maintained their Kyrgyz language and culture despite being separated from their kindred by mountains and years and national boundaries. Needless to say, I'm stoked.

After our meeting at the office, we got a tour of the main part of the city, which is far more developed (at least along the main street) and scenic than I’d expected. Many of the buildings are painted eggshell blue with white trim, others are salmon pink. Most are built in the Russian style, which makes them very picturesque and there are fountains EVERYWHERE. It was about 108 degrees, so I sweated profusely and tried to stick to the shade. However, it was hard not to let the heat drag me down, as well as the jet lag. I felt like the walking dead.


I finally got back to my host-family’s house around 5:30 where they fed me clear broth with a chicken leg in it, vinegared vegetables, and osh (plov) with beef chunks. After I helped clear the table, my host-mother called me in to their section of the house to watch an Indian movie dubbed into Uzbek. “I just love this,” she said. Every time a house would catch on fire or a love would get stabbed, she would gasp. “I LOVE this!” I think we’ll get along.

At 9 p.m., I’d had it for the day and said my goodnights and passed out within seconds of putting my head on the pillow. And thus ended day one in Tajikistan.

I'm out of practice (and I'm going back to Central Asia)!

It's been a while since my last post (a long while), but mainly because my life has been consumed by reading papers, writing papers, and going to work. That isn't of interest to anyone, not even me. But hope is in sight! Summer break beckons and it's only one month away. Summer promises long days, lazy evenings, and time for jogging. Interestingly, this summer promises that Ill be doing those things in Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

Make that one hot, dry summer, indeed.

Dushanbe might not be good for beaches, cheeseburgers, or off-trail hiking (land mines and all that), but it is good for mountains, Baltikas, and . . . some other things that have yet to be discovered by me. Finally, something to write about! Adventure is so refreshing.

Just in case you need a refresher:

Just in case you were wondering . . .

The results are in!

Ritchie and I ran in the Love 'Em or Leave 'Em race at Greenlake on Sunday. Our team, Blimey (he chose the name, obviously) came in 22nd out of the 127 in our division! That means that we were faster than over 100 other teams! I probably ran past those people. Ha! I'm totally kidding, though I did run past a few five-year-olds and some dogs on leashes.

Also, I ran alone. Why? Because Ritchie is way faster than me. I finished the race in a sad 25:33, while Ritchie finished in a jaunty 21:33. That's pretty good for a guy who never trains. He met me near the finish line and yelled encouraging words. I thought this was sweet - until he told me that it was because I looked like I was 'struggling.'

Lovely.

How to stay sane in Statistics

Statistics is a necessary science, but it will suck your soul if you let it. My professor is young and eager and, as some might say, genki, but even he can't make those probabilities pique my interest. No, this is something that I have to do myself.

When in Statistics, I've found that I can best stay sane by devising inane stories for the symbols we're taught. I try to keep these to myself, but sometimes I like to bother my desk-mate. For example, yesterday we learned about P hat (yes, that is a technical term) and had the following, VERY exciting conversation:

Me: What kind of hat do you think that P is wearing?

J (Rapidly taking notes): Um . . .

Me: I mean, is it a beret? Or a sombrero? Or one of those hats that people picking rice in China wear? I think it's a beret.

J (no longer taking notes): Oh, definitely a beret. For sure. P-hat also kind of looks like he's carrying a baguette.

Me: Hoh-hoh! Is he riding a moped?

J: Oui-oui! And smoking a cigarette!

Me (disapointed): Actually, Monsieur P chooses not to smoke. It was a good try on your part, though.

Unfortunately, this whispered conversation caused me to miss the explanation of what P hat means. So, while I remember his name and shall hereafter fondly think of him as Monsieur P, in Statistical notation he means nothing to me.

The fragility of life

This is not going to be a post about how short life is and how we need to value every moment of it, though that is true.

Rather, this is about how fragile life really is. I'm thinking about this today because, in the past two years, two good friends of mine have fallen very, very ill. In short, two good friends of mine have almost died.

These are not girls who lead unhealthy lives. Quite the opposite, actually. These are girls who exercise regularly (one is even an ultra-marathoner), eat well, don't use drugs, and generally respect their bodies. However, these healthy habits weren't enough to keep their bodies from acting up - one suffered a brain tumor and the other went into cardiac arrest while running.

I've never believed in the 'invincibility of youth,' but I still find myself stunned when these kinds of things happen. You hear stories about how strong the body can be - a man surviving a forty-story fall or a person with two prosthetic legs competing in an Iron Man - but stories of how precarious life is rarely make headlines.

I know that my two girlfriends are strong enough to make their lives into great comeback stories, but for now I find myself wondering, 'Why them?'

Why are we so fragile?

Yesterday, some people played football. Do you really care?

Yesterday was Super Bowl Sunday and I didn't care.

The Super Bowl is good for eating fried food and drinking beer, but other than that it's boring. I've kept my silence for so long, but even when the Seahawks played it was boring! The half-time show is somewhat interesting, but that doesn't involve men in pads, so the point is moot.

You know who else doesn't care about the Super Bowl? The rest of the world, that's who. They have a different sport that also happens to be called football. The main difference is that it's fast and fun and the game doesn't stop every thirty seconds.

It's amusing when, at the end of the Super Bowl, they pronounce the winners the "World Champions of Football." Somewhere out there, a lone Englishman is cheering.

Right name, wrong sport. I think I'll go skiing next year.

'I Went to England' or 'Blogs Galore'

I went to England with Ritchie. We visited family and friends, saw some sites, drank a lot of tea, and ate a lot of Marmite. If you like to read (or even just enjoy looking at pictures), peruse the posts below. If you're impatient and don't count reading about other people's lives as one of your favorite things, here's a brief overview:

1. I went out to dinner.
2. I celebrated Fake Christmas (I was hungover).
3. I went to London.
4. I went to Bath.

And there you have it!

Ritchie with his Mum (note my cultural awareness in the spelling) and Dad, Diane and Pat.

Ailey and Laurence, a good friend from Japan.

Bath

Ritchie, like locals of any place in the world, hasn't seen many of the famous sites in the UK. Because I'm not a UK local, I try to remedy this whenever I visit. Therefore, we journeyed to Bath. After three hours of driving, we easily found the city, but it took us an hour of driving up and down medieval streets to actually find the Bed and Breakfast where we were staying.

Tensions were high, so we decided to decompress by buying tickets to a Pantomime - Aladdin:


Though the story was Aladdin, the Pantomime took place in Peking. Were the writers trying to avoid offending the Middle Eastern population by packing the play with Chinese stereotypes instead? Despite the untraditional setting, the play was a lot of fun.


A trip to Bath is not complete without a trip to the city's namesake, the Roman Baths:

This picture shows the Baths as the were in Roman times, with Bath Abbey in the background. In Georgian times, the water level was higher.

Ailey converses with a Roman aristocrat.

Ailey and Ritchie in front of the Roman piping that feeds water into the Baths.

The city of Bath offers free walking tours of the city, so we braved the freezing weather to brush up on our Georgian history:

The tour guide gives a history of the Royal Crescent.

Some very expensive real estate, the Royal Circus.

A sample of the city's narrow, winding streets.

We also visited Bath Abbey, but it looks like any other medieval/Renaissance church so I'll spare you the photos. After a day of walking in the freezing cold, we scrapped plans to drive across the bridge into Wales and returned to Ritchie's parents' house.

London!

Ritchie and I took the train to London for a day of culture. Last year, we visited the Tower of London, Borough Market (spelling?), the British Museum, Leicester Square, Hyde Park and other stuff. Lots of other stuff. This year, we were far less driven. On the train ride into the city, our conversation went something like this:

Ritchie: What do you want to see?

Ailey: I want to go to the Tower of London again.

Ritchie: The portrait gallery is free.

Ailey: I want to go to the Tower of London again.

Ritchie: The British Musem is free.

Ailey: I want to go to the Tower of London again.

Ritchie: The Tate Modern is free.

Ailey: Fine, lets go to the Tate Modern (but I really wanted to say was, "I want to go to the Tower of London again").

So, we went to the Tate Modern. While impressed by the large crack that is running through the ground floor - it's a meaningful crack, of course - after two hours, I was ready to move on. My artist friends may shun me for saying this, but as far as modern art goes, I'm a cretin. I like the pieces with bright, bold colors and interesting designs, but large slabs of concrete hanging from the ceiling hold very little interest for me. Our walk through the museum was filled with "hmmms . . ." and "ummms . . ." and, the most hated comment of all, "I could do that."

After meeting Ritchie's friend for lunch, we did something a little more to my interest - the British Museum! Thousands of ancient artifacts collected (stolen?) by The Empire on view for me at no cost! With exhibits ranging from Viking Europe to ancient Egypt, the British Museum is definitely the best that I have ever seen. We arrived just an hour before closing, so we wandered my favorite exhibit, the ancient Levant.

Ritchie reads about an artifact while a bust of Rameses II holds.

We ended the day by meeting Ritchie's university friends for dinner at a Lebanese restaurant in Piccadilly Circus. Good (expensive) times!

Fake Christmas, number 2

My family celebrated Christmas on December 1st. Not to be outdone, Ritchie's family had Fake Christmas on December 15th. Unfortunately, I'd decided to celebrate Fake Christmas Eve by drinking wine and dancing (see below) and was not in top form. As the kids ran around and the adults engaged in distinguished English conversation, I moaned on the couch and stared at the TV. After downing tea and shunning all offers of alcoholic beverages, I retired to bed a 3 p.m. only to wake up after everyone had gone home. Merry Fake Christmas, indeed.

Dinner at the Green Man

We met Ritchie's brothers, Martin and Vinny, and a few of their friends for dinner at the Green Man. I had the duck salad, pheasant, chocolate mousse, and a mince pie. I also had a lot of wine.

Following dinner, Ritchie, Martin (Ritchie's brother), James (Martin's friend), and I went to Ivory for dancing and chav-viewing.

Martin, James, and Ritchie pull a manly pose while a fight breaks-out just outside the club.

Women! Issues! Women's issues!

I just got home from a six-hour women's summit. The day started with coffee, pastries, and opening remarks. The keynote speaker was a local woman who has lobbied for women's issues and is now a consultant for environmental policy. I was impressed by her credentials and energy, but as her speech went on, I began to see that her main focus was on a very particular aspect of womanhood - women as mothers and mothers as women.

She described her efforts to change policy for Family Leave, healthcare for women and children, after school programs for children, and equal pay for women with children. She even had an anagram - MOTHER - that we had to stand up and spell out with our bodies.

I support the issues that she discussed, but I found myself asking . . . what about me? How did the opening remarks get stolen for the 'mommies'? Why was the introduction into this women's summit focused on an issue that only applies to some women?

The summit was very diverse, including women from all races, ages, and sexual preferences. There were recent immigrants, there were transgendered people, there were homeless women. There were even men! Were I the keynote speaker, I would look at this group of people and draw similarities based on what I knew about them - they're interested in women's issues, they're interested in social change, and they want to talk about it.

Instead, we were all drawn together by motherhood ("Stand up if you're a mother! Okay, now stand up if you've ever had a mother! See, this is all something we have in common!). I'm not a mother and I may never be a mother. This doesn't make my concern for women's issues less valid. I want to talk about issues that affect ALL women - sexism, the glass ceiling, healthcare, reproductive rights, and education - and I don't really want to have a warm-fuzzy talk about mommies in action (no offense, mommies).

In the end, I'm tired of the idea that motherhood describes womanhood. Or that a woman isn't complete unless she's a mother. Who I am is far more complex than my ovaries.

Back in the City

After a year of teaching English in Japan, two weeks of traveling with my parents, and another two weeks of (insert cricket chirps here) absolutely nothing, I'm back to work and back to life in the city. I'll be working part-time at an international nonprofit and part-time at a locally famous coffee and doughnut shop. I can't say that I'm excited about waking-up at 5:30am on weekends, but income is income and I'll need it to survive graduate school. Those late-night coffees don't come cheap, you know. Well, if you work at a local coffee shop they do, but you get my gist.

Lots and lots of old stuff.

Yesterday, my parents and I traveled to a place called Yoshinogari, north of Nagasaki. The area is a huge archaeological sight that was discovered in the 1920's. The sight dates from the Yayoi Era (300 BC - 300 ACE) and the Japanese government has recreated the city as they think it was at the time. There were pit-dwellings, storehouses on stilts, temples, shrines, and military barracks. In addition to the recreations, there was lots and lots of old stuff. Archaeologists excavated the sight and found metal tools, foodstuffs, clothes, wooden utensils, and burial urns - with bodies inside, of course - most of which were on display. I was seriously impressed by the seeming organization of the society at the time. Growing up in the US, I never learned about Japanese history, so it was all new to me and I was fascinated. What were my ancestors doing 2000 years ago? Probably shivering under a sheepskin and foraging for roots in the British isles. Because that's what people did back then, right? Okay, maybe my European history isn't what it should be either . . .

Temples, nuns, and typhoons.

After five hours of train travel, my parents and I have finally made it to Nagasaki on the south-eastern tip of Japan. For several hundred years, Nagasaki was the stronghold of the Christian daimyos (regional lords) and, despite being terrorized by various shoguns over the years, there's still a noticeable Christian presence here. Yesterday in Tsuwano, I visited one of the top five Inari shrines in Japan and watched temple priests perform chants in their traditional garb. This afternoon on the train to Nagasaki, I saw a Japanese nun. This country is filled with contradictions.

I'm interested in Nagasaki because it's where foreign and Japanese cultures have been mixing for centuries. In a country as insular as Japan, cultural fusion is fairly rare. Nagasaki is famous for the atomic bomb, but also for its 'castella cakes,' Dutch-style houses, Chinese food, and cathedrals. I'm curious to see what has been absorbed into the local culture and what stands out as noticeably Portuguese, Spanish, Dutch, Chinese, or Korean. Obviously, the Iberian regard for arriving late never caught on - our train pulled in to Nagasaki station right on time.

Tomorrow I want to see all the sights within the city so that, on Saturday, I can head out to Aso-san and peer into the world's largest active caldera. I want to take a big whiff of the sulfurous air that oozes straight from the earth's core. Unfortunately, a typhoon with estimated 100 mph winds is expected to hit Kyushu tonight. Sightseeing in a hurricane has never really topped my list of favorite things, so I may find a shrine and rattle the bell, appealing to the gods to hear my weather-related prayers. Or, better yet, I'll find a cathedral and light a candle.

Maybe both would be more effective.

These are very strange days.

This morning, I ran 13 miles. When I began my run, it was 6 AM and overcast and cool. I started off through the rice fields and saw a large remote-control helicopter being flown back and forth across one of the fields.

"Oh," I thought. "It looks like the quarry guys are having a bit of fun on their break."

As I got closer, I realized that the remote-control helicopter was actually dusting the field with what I assume was pesticide. I ran on. Further ahead, another helicopter was dusting a field. And another. And another! The fields were covered by these hovering crafts dispensing chemicals. I wondered if the technicians shouldn't be wearing gas masks.

Now my parents are in town and the strange days continue. My Dad is sleeping on the floor next to my couch, my Mom is in my bed, and I'm shivering under a thin fleece with the air-conditioner cranked to 22 degrees, Celsius. My parents claim that this is the most comfortable they've felt since they've been in Japan. I, on the other hand, am freezing my butt off.

Tomorrow, my parents and I will visit each of the schools that I've taught at in the past year and exchange pleasantries with my coworkers. I'll introduce them to my students. This will also be the very last time that I visit any of these schools or see any of my colleagues, at least for a long, long time.

In less than two weeks, my parents and I will have traveled to Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Kyoto, and Tokyo. Then we will board a plane for Seattle and I will say goodbye to Japan after an entire year. In Seattle, I will hang out with my girlfriends and make dinner with my boyfriend and go camping with my sister and search for gainful employment and it will be like this year of sushi and chopsticks and kanji and Sports Days and anime and yukata and soft tennis and futons was just another twelve months.

As I was finishing my run this morning, a group of young firemen said 'good morning' to me. I responded with the Japanese greeting, "ohayo gozaimasu!" They doubled over with laughter and I blushed.

Indeed, these are very strange days.

Lord of the Flies

As I sat down to eat my baked potato last night, a fly fell on my head. I brushed it off and continued eating. Twenty seconds later, a fly fell on my arm. Could it be the same fly? I glanced at the ceiling and, much to my chagrine, saw that it was covered with a swarm of little, black flies! Disgusting! I ran to make sure all the windows were tightly sealed, then looked in my bedroom - my bed and the ceiling were carpeted with flies. I stood perplexed for a moment, wondering what to do. Do I leave the flies and let them die on their own time, or do I spray them with super fly-killing poison and burn a few brain cells of my own at the same time? The thought of sharing my bed with egg-laying flies led me to choose the poison approach. I sprayed until there was a fog of chemicals clouding my apartment. The flies died. They dropped like . . . flies. I vacuumed them up, then sprayed some more, then vacuumed them up, and then sprayed some more. Two hours later, flies that had hidden from the massacre were still appearing. I sprayed and vacuumed well into the night - I had to be certain that they wouldn't be falling on me in my sleep. Finally, I went to bed, but guess what I dreamed about? That's right, flies.

Musings

Tonight, I had my last English conversation class. Even though it's been a month of 'lasts,' I feel even sadder now than I have before. Once a week for the past year, I've spent an hour with the same six people - playing games, discussing cultural differences, and endlessly teasing each other. This class and this group of people is one of the only things about my life in Japan that hasn't been a challenge. Our age differences span as many as fifty years, we all come from different backgrounds, have different interests, and very separate lives and yet, somehow, we managed to have a good time whenever we were together. I have been really moved by this experience and can honestly say that it's one of the best I've had in Japan.

And, because I'm in a sentimental state of mind, I'm going to reminisce on my other 'bests' from this year past. There are a few (okay, a lot) and they're in no particular order. So, if you've got some time to kill, read on my friends! It's a rare glimpse into what I've been doing over on this side of the world.

My most memorable experiences have been:

Playing 'Would you Rather' at Yashiro with Liz, Ryan, and Loz and laughing until I couldn't breathe; seeing Ritchie walk into the terminal at Narita airport, riding rental bikes around Kyoto, and singing karaoke in Tokyo; playing dodgeball with the 1st and 2nd graders at recess (and getting my butt kicked); meeting Taka and his amazing family who now call me Ailey-chan and always make me feel at home; playing with the InterHyogo soccer team in Awaji and taking first place (Go, go, Hyogo!); spending Christmas in England with Ritchie and his family; riding the ferris wheel with Liz in freezing-cold Edinburgh; skiing with Travy, Carly, and Liz in Tajima - the few times that it actually snowed; the night that Jennie made apple pie; my shoes icing over in Sapporo, followed by skiing in powder up to my knees and then warmed up with hot drinks; experiencing The Dune with Reuben Rye and drinking beers with my English conversation class; spending one short but fun weekend with Nate and Marissa; nomihoudai night (oh, but it was dangerous and I have scars to prove it) and playing darts in Tokyo with Denise; cooking dinner with Dirty Mario on the beach and watching him throw tennis balls at the hawks; making pottery with Kazue and her family and having them sing Happy Birthday to Ritchie (the long-distance version) in the backseat of the car; tasting home for one week, then coming back; planning, teaching, struggling, and generally growing.

Now I only have one week left in this too small town, in this tiny apartment with the absurdly low door frames. Just like this time last year, it's hot and humid and miserable outside. The difference is that now there's a life I've made for myself that will be left behind. And that's damn hard thing to say goodbye to.

Nevermind

I lied in my previous post - I have let a 'little' typhoon ruin my weekend plans. However, this doesn't mean that I don't have alternatives! Rather than navigate a rushing river on an inflatable raft, I will navigate a crowded subway system on my own two feet. Rather than rapell down a 70 foot waterfall into a pool of crystal-clear water, I will ride a glass elevator to the observation deck of the tallest building in Japan. Rather than set-up camp on a riverbank, I will curl up on my friend Carlton's apartment floor. Yes, that's right, I'm going to Tokyo!

I've been to Tokyo (three times), so it's not as exciting as Shikoku. It's also drenched in concrete and neon, so it's not as picturesque as Shikoku. And the masses of buildings, people, and cars make it difficult to enjoy 'nature,' so it's not exactly what I had planned for my last three-day weekend in Japan. However, Japan is a relatively small island and this little 'typhoon' is negatively affecting ever possible outdoor activity. Therefore, going somewhere with indoor offerings is a must.

I'm disappointed about missing out on rafting and canyoning, but I love Tokyo and shouldn't complain. Even though I've been there (three times), there's still so much that I haven't seen! The Chinatown in Yokohama, for example, or the Daibutsu in Kamakura. That's one of the good things about Japan - even if you've seen it all, there's always something more.

The little typhoon that could (ruin my weekend plans).

Actually, the typhoon isn't little. In fact, it could be really, really big and it's supposed to hit Shikoku this weekend. Coincidentally, I'm also supposed to hit Shikoku this weekend. I've been looking forward to this weekend for over a month. Some friends and I gathered camping gear, assigned a driver, and booked our places on the dual white-water rafting/canyoning trip through one of Japans biggest gorges. That sounds fun, right? I thought so, too! I even though that doing it in the rain would be a good time, until I came to my senses and realized that a typhoon means sheets of rain, thunder, lightening, and gale-force winds. Needless to say, the rafting company is threatening to cancel our trip. One friend has already backed-out. Should the rest of us admit defeat in the face of this little typhoon and cancel our trip altogether? No, I say! We will forge on, despite the rain and wind and possible electrocution! I refuse to let a little typhoon ruin my weekend plans. There might not be rafting, but there WILL be huddling in a tent, trying not to drown. So, take that, typhoon. We might even play cards.

Farewell speech to Koto Elementary School

This speech is written for elementary school students and it's definitely not going to win any awards for eloquence, but I became very emotional while writing it. Teaching at elementary school has been one of my favorite parts of working in Japan and I feel very sad knowing that tomorrow will be my last day. Even on my angriest days, having little kids chase my bike on the street yelling 'Ailey-sensei! Ailey-sensei!' always seemed to lift my spirits. That's the funny thing about kids - though I may look different (very different) and speak poor Japanese, they don't seem to care.

"Good morning, everyone!

Today is my last day at Koto Elementary School.

I am excited to go home to my family and friends in Seattle, WA, but I will miss you all very much. My first day at Koto seems like just last week, and not one year ago. Now, the kindergarteners are 1st graders and the 6th graders have moved to Minato Junior High. There have been a lot of changes and you are all growing very quickly.

Next year, even though I will be thousands of kilometers away, I will always remember cooking curry and rice with you in the home economics room, playing soccer and dodgeball at recess, and picking 'wakame' at Tai Beach. My days at Koto Elementary School were some of the best that I had in Japan. You are very special students and you always made me feel welcome, even though I look different and cannot speak Japanese well.

I hope that you are as kind and friendly to the next English teacher, who will be just as nervous and scared as I was when I first came here.

I will leave Kehi in three weeks. Before then, if you see me on the street, please say 'hello' and 'how are you.' It will make me happy to know that this isn't our last goodbye. Otherwise, please remember me when you speak English or listen to the news about the Seattle Mariners. I know that I will always remember all of you."

My sister and brother-in-law are so much cooler than me . . .

Tales From the Tube: Aiguille du Midi: Climbed

Not only do they have an awesome dog, but they do awesome things! Also, my sister speaks Spanish (cool) and my brother-in-law is on the news (cool). What did I do while they were climbing a potentially deadly rock face, you ask? Well, I went to a rainy and humid beer garden in Kobe, then slept in a capsule hotel. If we were to wage a battle where our only weaponry was coolness, who do you think would win? I'm afraid we all know the answer to this one.

I like Speaking Japanese

I had a friend in the Peace Corps who didn't know the Kyrgyz word for 'rain' so he called it 'sky ink.' A bit confusing, perhaps, but it still got his point across and has provided endless amusement for me whenever I remember that story.

To me, that story shows why languages are so fascinating. Each language has a strict set of rules - sentence pattern, verb conjugation, etc. - and yet, if you're creative, you can communicate without knowing all the rules. In essence, you can cheat.

It's easiest to cheat on vocabulary. Much like my Peace Corps friend did when describing 'rain,' you can talk your way around the problem spot. For example, if you don't know the word for 'wild boar' you can say 'a really big pig.' If that doesn't do it, you can say 'with really long teeth' (you probably don't know the word for 'tusks'). If you don't know the name for 'honeymoon,' you can call it 'marriage travel.' If you don't know the name for those little floating trays they serve alcohol on at some onsens, you can call them 'sake boats.' The possibilities are endless!

It's like a really big word puzzle and it's quite fun. And an added benefit is that people automatically think you're funny, even if you're not. Referring to 'rain' as 'sky ink' is pretty much gauranteed to get a few laughs. We don't have this flexibility in our own languages because we're too aware of the rules and anything outside of them is deemed inarticulate or uneducated. When speaking a second or third language, people find it charming when you make a few mistakes. Therefore, I will continue to charm and cheat my way through Japanese through the next month and a half and enjoy it thoroughly the entire time.

Guess who I ran into at the Yukata Matsuri?

The legend himself, Dirty Mario! Because he has taken it upon himself to prove every Italian stereotype to be true, he was cooking pizza, sporting a generous moustache, and gesticulating wildly to the bemused Japanese passers-by. And to really drive home the fact that he is, indeed, Italian he played his accordion on the sidewalk in front of the pizza stand! Mario pushed so many pieces of pizza on Travy and I that I felt full to my toes. Then, true to form, he gave us each a sweaty hug and said, "Heya! I've been-a waiting all day to touch a pretty woman!" and laughed his dirty laugh.

He may be dirty, but he makes some damn good pizza.
I don't know why I'm about to insert this piece of pizza into my nose.Does he look Italian to you?

Best Engrish of the Day

'I think that I like the home.'

I'm relieved that I won't need to call Child Protective Services for Mr. Kadono, though I'm left dangling with that 'I think . . .' Could things be bad at home and he just doesn't know it?

'My birthday on December twentyth six. My birthday eat cake. It is Derishas.'

I don't even know where to begin on this one, though I give Miss Imazue an A for effort. At least she was able to put three sentences together! I also like the idea of a birthday eating cake, if a birthday had a physical form. Very creative and avante garde.

'I don't think I like baby.'

Considering that the student who wrote this is only fourteen and just getting involved in all of those mixed-up adolescent feelings, I'm pleased to see that he's lucid enough to recognize that there is only one thing that could make his life more awkward right now - spawning.

And here's my personal favorite from today:

'I think that Miss Ailey is a great teacher.'

Aaaaaaaawwwwwww!!! Alright, that one is a perfect English sentence and obviously not funny, but I posted it so that everyone can see how awesome I am. That's right, love me. Adore me. I am deserving.

Maybe I've Done Something Right

One of the benefits of working in a small school is that I know each of my students by name, I can recognize their handwriting when grading tests, and I've come to understand their personalities. For example, Maeba-san loves to play the clarinet, but she hates cleaning and will do anything she can to get out of it, including faking menstrual cramps or conveniently losing a button on her blouse. Ujou-kun wants to be a translator when he grows up, but all he really thinks about is soccer. Kitani-chan isn't very good at English, but she has a great sense of humor and will always yell random English phrases in the hallway, such as “Wow! Unbelievable!” Over the past ten months, I've really gotten close to some of them, so I shouldn't have been surprised when a group of 8th grade girls cornered me in the hallway.

“When are you getting back from Seattle?” they asked.

I told them that I'd be back very, very late on June 17th. “But that's your birthday!” they said and hurriedly whispered among themselves in Japanese

I was shocked; they'd remembered my birthday?!

“Where's a calendar? What days will you be at home?” We looked at the calendar together while they chatted rapidly in Japanese and I tried to disguise my confusion. Why were they being so persistent and mysterious? “Please be at home on June 24th and be there ALL DAY. Promise that you'll be there?” I promised, but I asked why.

“Because we want to bring you something for your birthday!” Morimoto-san yelled and Kitani-chan hit her in the arm, “Ssssshhhhh!!! It's a secret!”

I had that tingling in my scalp that you get when your Mom kisses your forehead or your Dad tells you that he's proud of you. It was the same feeling I got in Kyrgyzstan when one of my students introduced me to her parents and said, “I've told them all about you and that you're why I want to learn English.” And I had the same feeling in Spain when one of the German girls in my class told me that she'd had a bad opinion of Americans, but after meeting me she'd realized that maybe her prejudices were wrong.

I don't know quite how to describe it, but I think it's the feeling that maybe, just maybe, I've done something right.

Dirty Mario and His Dirty Posse of Traveling Silver Salesmen

Doesn't the name just say it all? College jokes aside (where are Reuben, Kevin, and Newt when you need them?!), I had never truly experienced a 'Dirty Mario.' This past weekend, however, all of that changed!

Takeno Beach in all it's pre-Mario glory.

Picture this: Liz, Rob, Travy, and myself relaxing at Takeno Beach, taking in the sunshine, the turqoise water, and the lack of people.

Now picture this: An old, fat, Italian man in his boxer shorts (and JUST his boxer shorts) with a team of equally shady characters. Dirty Mario and His Dirty Posse of Traveling Silver Salesmen have entered the scene.

Dirty Yuki, preparing some dirty Asian/Italian fusion antipasto.

On arrival, we noticed the presence of other foreigners on the beach. Naturally, my curiosity was piqued, but Liz was reluctant to converse as 'we might not be able to escape.' A valid concern, but we didn't have much time to contemplate our situation as one of the foreigners yelled 'hello' and gesticulated wildly (we knew then that he was Italian) for us to come and sit with them. We did.

After talking with Dirty Mario and His Dirty Posse of Traveling Silver Salesmen, we discovered that they were a mixed trio of Italian, Sri Lankan, and Japanese descent. Their life goal was relaxation. Their plan to achieve it was sitting on the beach. Their source of funding was intermittently selling silver out the back of their van at various locations across the country. Dirty Mario's life philosophy went something like this: "Hey! I see a beautiful woman, I say, 'Hello, beautiful woman!' Then I drink some wine and eat some food and I like the accordion! Life is good!"

And then Dirty Mario and His Dirty Posse of Traveling Silver Salesmen cooked us a fusion of Italian and Japanese food, right there on the beach. They passed around beer and cognac and spoke in Italian and Spanish and English and heavily accented Japanese and it was true - life was good.

Ailey and the man himself - Dirty Mario.

Not the best coffee I've ever made.

It was Saturday morning. Liz, Rob, and I awoke groggy, sweaty, and in some serious need of caffeine. "Never fear!" I said, valiantly. "I've got true Starbucks coffee - guaranteed to give you what you need!" I went to work making the coffee; not too strong, but not too weak. I am, after all, something of a connouisseur. Rob asked for his with milk and sugar - I gave it a stir and handed it over.

"Is this a special kind of coffee?" Rob asked. "It's got a really fruity flavor."

A fruity flavor? Rob must be a connouisseur, like me! I drink the same Starbucks coffee every morning and I never noticed a fruity flavor! Prepared for an enlightened experience, I took a big sip of my coffee . . . and promptly spat it back into the cup.

"What the h--- is this?!" I said. "It's vile!" I sniffed the water in the teakettle - it seemed okay. I sniffed the coffee - it seemed okay. I sniffed the milk - it was fruit yoghurt.

"I'm such an idiot, Rob. I'm sorry."

"That's alright," he replied. "But I'll always remember this as the day that a person from Seattle put fruit yoghurt into my coffee." And he finished the cup.

Teaching Spanish in Japan (in English, of course)

One month ago when my friend, Takako, asked me to teach a beginner's Spanish language course, my response was excitement. My eyes grew hazy as I remembered shaking my hips to Latin beats at Salsero Mayor, meeting my friends to botellon in Plaza Nueva, taking a siesta every afternoon and drinking a bottle of wine with my bartender-friend, Juan Jesus, every night. "I love everything Spanish!" I thought.

"I love everything Spanish!" I said.

"Good," Takako replied. "Classes start on May 14th. We'd like you to teach the entire course in Spanish."

Reality quickly fast-forwarded four years to the present day. I am living in Japan, speaking Japanese, and I haven't studied Spanish since my final test at the Universidad de Granada. When I search for a word, it's like reaching into a bag of languages and pulling out whatever is nearest to the top - How do I ask the time? Emne caat? No, that's not right. Nan ji desu ka? No, that's not it either. My Spanish is rusty, to say the least, and I'm beginning to feel sadly as though it was never very good to begin with.

Now, when driving to class, I find myself chanting, "I love everything Spanish. I love everything Spanish. I love everything Spanish." To bolster my sense of well-being, I conjure images of elderly Spaniards playing bocce ball in El Parque de Lorca as I run laps around the perimeter. I block out the memories of random men exposing themselves from park benches.

Before I drown in this bath of self-pity that I've drawn for myself, I will look at the upside. What better way to refresh my passion for Spanish than to teach it to others? Taking on this class has really inspired me to pursue a higher level of language ability. The first step is going back to Spain - I'm convinced that some cultural immersion will force all of those Spanish words back to the top of my brain. Also, the daily siestas, bottles of wine, and salsa dances will help me to remember that, really, I love everything Spanish.

Like clockwork

There is a beer vending machine ten minutes from my front door. For this very reason, I don't usually keep beer in my refrigerator. Instead, when I'm in the mood, I walk down the road, put my change in the slot, and select my beer of choice. Sometimes I open it there and sip while I'm walking home. Sometimes I walk to the beach (if the weather is nice) and drink it there.

Lately, though, something has been happening that has rained on my beer parade. The benefit of living in a very small town is that everyone knows you. The downfall of living in a very small town is that everyone knows you. Like clockwork these days, whenever I'm reaching down to grab my beer, someone I know appears over my shoulder. The most common question I get asked is an innocent, "What are you doing?" But it's not that innocent! I'm convinced that said person has seen me put my money into the vending machine, select my beer, and they know that I'm trying to not-so-discreetly keep it behind my back.

Inevitably, the can is spotted and said person will say, "Hey, what are you drinking?!" This is a thinly veiled attempt to hide the REAL question, which is, "That's not a beer . . . IS it?" At which point I meekly show the offending beverage and say something along the lines of, "Yeah. I'm drinking a beer. I thought it was a soda (when all else fails, plead ignorance)." If I'm feeling truly ashamed, I might add something like, "It's for my Dad." This is a good excuse because everyone knows that Dads are the official drinkers of beer.

But I'm tired of the lies! I am tired of masking my love of beer. Though it's true that Dads are the official drinkers of beer (and makers of breakfast - these are universal truths), it's not true that they are the only ones who find beer delicious. I've decided to face the situation head-on. From now on, I will walk the streets drinking beer openly and proudly. Let my neighbors think that it is a crazy foreigner habit - I don't care! I just want to enjoy my beer and not feel guilty every time I bask in the inviting glow of a vending machine.

What did you do at work today?

As per usual, I got to work at around 8 AM and prepped for my classes. Fresh coffee was brewing in the teacher's room and everyone was joking around and cheerful. The sun was shining outside and kids popped in and out with questions and random anecdotes that only young children and adoring adults find interesting.

And so began another day teaching at elementary school. Out of everything that I've experienced in Japan, teaching the younger students has been the highlight. Why? First of all, because they're still too young to worry about being 'cool' and instead bring a refreshing sense of excitement to learning. Second of all, they don't seem to care that my Japanese is . . . shall we say . . . lacking. Even if I don't understand what they're talking about, they continue to run their mouths at 100 miles/hour. If their monologue ends in 'ka,' I respond with a 'hai' and they seem satisfied. If only all communication was that easy! Finally and perhaps most importantly, the kids really seem to dig me. Maybe that sounds egotistical, but the truth is, how can you NOT like what you're doing when ten kids jump up and down screaming your name after you walk through the door?

So, in case you were wondering, at work today I sang some songs, practiced counting from 1 to 20, played games, and went to the beach to pick wakame - a form of edible seaweed. When I got home this afternoon, my pants were soaked with sea water, my face was sunburnt, and I was exhausted, but who can argue with such a day?

What did you do at work today? I can only hope that you had as much fun as I did.

The Six Week Festival o' Fun

It's Monday morning, I'm back at school, and I'm very tired. The past month and a half has been a tornado (un-PC in light of recent events in the mid-West?) of travels and events and good times. From now on, I will refer to this period as the Festival o' Fun. So far, it has been one of the best times I've had in Japan. This is thanks to the visits of friends and family who are determined to use me as an excuse to see a little more of the world. Ha! Luckily for me, I was able to convince them to visit me in my town which sits somewhere between elsewhere and nowhere. Hilarity ensued. I’m wondering if I should even begin to detail what I’ve been doing these past weeks, or just let it go with a simple, “Good times were had.” But that is a cop-out and, as a Creative Writing major (thanks, Mom and Dad!), I feel the weight of responsibility – writing is a heavy burden.

Three (not-so-brief) synopses of my recent adventures with friends and family are below. Pictures will follow soon!

Losing our Way (finding her way?)

If there were to be a contest of who had the largest cojones (even though girls don't actually have cojones), I think that Denise would be the winner. Even though she'd never been outside North America, much less traveled to a foreign country on her own, Denise booked her trip to Japan and didn't seem to care that I wouldn't be able to meet her in Tokyo. I bit my nails and stressed when I didn't hear from her on the first day. Or the second day. Or the third day. But then an e-mail arrived! Somehow, she'd made her way to Kyoto, found her hostel, booked a tour of the city, and made new foreign friends, but she was feeling a bit tired, so was it okay if she came to see me a day early? I was so relieved! I'd had visions of her having a nervous breakdown in Tokyo Station and sleeping in the cold glow of a beer vending machine.

On the first weekend of Denise's trip with me, my friend Laurence was feeling a bit lonely down south and decided to drive up. We went hiking and then had a night on the town (it's not a very big town, but we seemed to have a very big night). The next day, we bid farewell to a sluggish Loz and began our drive to Kyoto. The drive through the countryside was beautiful, but getting into the city was a nightmare. I was foolish enough to think that I'd just be able to drive into Kyoto and find Taka's temple. I was wrong. We finally arrived at 10 PM, the temple gate had long been closed, and so had to take the super-ninja route through the complex. Have you ever driven through a temple complex? Imagine driving along a balance beam – the width of the road is pretty equivalent. The next day, Denise and I contemplated a rock garden, imagined ancient warriors squatting over ruined pit toilets, and saw about 500 red gates. We then collected the car and drove back home on the wrong road, turning a 2.5 hour trip into 5 hours.

The next weekend, which thanks to Golden Week began on Thursday, we woke early to make the six-hour trip to Tokyo. First a drive, then a bus, then a train, then a shinkansen, then another train, and finally we were at our hotel. What can be said of Tokyo? It’s the biggest city in the world and therefore has everything to offer – any kind of food that you could want, shopping, people from all over the world, and lots and lots of flashing neon. I love Tokyo. It's expensive and huge and crowded, but the streets are strangely clean (don't Japanese people litter?) and most people are far friendlier than they would be in an American city. Also, it has excellent public transportation. Why is Seattle so far behind in that regard? Step it up a notch! Japan has bullet trains, express trains, local trains, express buses, local buses, ferry boats, monorails, and trolley cars. If you can't get to your destination one way, you can get there another.

In Tokyo, Denise and I shopped in Harajuku while gaping at girls dressed as Little Bo Peep – bonnet and all – wandered the Imperial Gardens as a token cultural activity, and drank beer on the street. That's another thing I love about Japan – there are no public drinking laws! By the end of the weekend, I was exhausted from a lack of sleep, too much spending, and too much beer. I was also ready to go somewhere where I wouldn't have to constantly fight my way through a crowd, so I said goodbye to Denise and began the long and lonely trip back home. This marked the end of my Festival o’ Fun. Denise made her way to the airport to catch a flight to Okinawa. I suspect that they made her check her cojones – they are too large to carry on.

'Nate and Marissa' or 'Shinagawa isn't a word?'

My brother, Nate, and his wife, Marissa, came to stay with me for a long weekend in April. Despite the relatively short length of their trip, we were able to go hiking, attend a barbeque, eat soba and sea salt flavored ice cream, and take a road trip to Himeji Castle. Aside from the near-constant political and ethical debate insisted on by my brother, the most amusing aspect of their trip to Japan was the confusion that it caused to the local Japanese. Marissa is Chinese-American and, therefore, much more Japanese-looking than I (obviously). Whenever we went to a restaurant or were in a situation that required speaking Japanese, the person we were conversing with would automatically direct their questions and responses to Marissa. Marissa would then shrug and look at me to translate. This resulted in the usually-collected Japanese becoming flustered and awkward. A blonde woman? Speaking in Japanese? Impossible! I was also amused by Nate's propensity to develop his own language when stumped by Japanese: Shinagawa! When you can't remember the correct word, just create your own.

*Writers note: 'Shinagawa' IS a word, but it's a place name and definitely not the thing that Nate meant to say.

Reuben Rye and The Dune

Reuben stayed at my house for the majority of his three week trip to Japan. Apart from some side-trips to Tokyo, Hiroshima, and Kyoto, we were together the entire time – and we never fought! I'm convinced that this is because I've reached a higher level of Nirvana, but it could also be that Reuben is a laid-back kind of guy. My adventures with Reuben had two marked differences to most adventures I've had here so far. First of all, the man has a large red beard that both scares and startles Japanese children. Second, eating fish causes him to break-out in a mysterious red rash, which ruled out eating any sushi, sashimi, ramen, or udon. This means that our adventurer's cuisine consisted of KFC, McDonald's, and knock-off Italian food. Feeling strengthened by my new diet of vitamin-rich western food, I was eager to see the exciting things that my area has to offer; for example, a very large sand dune. This is no ordinary sand dune – it is The Dune. Some local entrepreneur even had the brilliant idea of offering camel rides, because what goes better with a sand dune in Japan then a camel? Unfortunately, it was too early in the season for exotic pack animals and we contented ourselves with running up and down the dune and taking pictures of the sunset. It was all very romantic, in a platonic sort of way. But now Reuben is back in Seattle and my couch is missing its favorite surfer. At least I can eat fish again.

It's time for something new.

In other words, it's time for something a little more upbeat. I apologize for the downer post, but living in a foreign country is a series of serious ups and downs; if I didn't reflect them in my blog, I wouldn't be true to the experience. But onwards and upwards!

I said goodbye to my dear friend Reuben on Monday night and drove home to nurse my lonely, aching heart. Soledad, o soledad! However, I'm left with some great memories, not least of which was our most excellent trip to Himeji! I'm told that going to the Hanami in Himeji is a must-do in Japan, so I'm glad that I was able to experience it. In essence, it's a big, drunken picnic in the shadow of the castle and under the cherry blossoms. The day was slightly overcast and drizzly, but well worth it.

Looking at the pictures, you might notice an abundance of cherry trees and foreigners. We might have been the largest group of westerners that the Japanese had ever seen together. In fact, I'd

say that Japanese tourists took a pretty equal share of pictures of the castle and pictures of us.

Those are some mighty fine cherry blossoms!

And those are some might fine looking foreigners!

Updates from Japan

Actually, there really aren't many updates. I mean, what can I say? I'm moving back home in 3.5 months and, in the meantime, I'll do what I always do. I'll come to school every day and stare out the window. I'll think about studying Japanese, but pass it by for something more engaging. I'll go running, I'll watch rented episodes of Prison Break, I'll hang out with my friends, and I'll buy beer out of vending machines. Because that's what life is all about. It might be obvious that I'm feeling a bit weary of the situation right now, but no worries! It's Friday, and that means that I have an entire weekend to boost my mood.

If Oprah can do it, then so can I.

Inspired by my friends Liz and Rob who are running the Nagano Marathon next weekend, I've decided to dust off my running shoes, banish the icecream and beer, and start training for a marathon. To cement my commitment, I even booked my place! Okay, okay, I've signed up for a marathon before and not run it, but I'm older now! You know, more mature and determined and stuff. Barring injury, illness, or death (my own), I WILL complete this race. If you're interested, check out www.bellinghambaymarathon.com. It's a new race, so I'll be one of the first (hundred or so) people to do it. Cool! Oh, and wish me luck.

So you want to work in Japan?

This interesting (and telling) excerpt was taken from the book Behind the Japanese Bow, by Boye Lafayette De Mente:


Except for new recruits schooled in technical skills, managers do not look for the most intelligent, most ambitious, or the most energetic employee candidates. In fact young people who fit these categories may not fit into the typical company system in Japan. Many managers look first for young people who do not have strongly held opinions or ambitions and can be molded into what the managers regard as company soldiers - people who will adhere strictly to the military-like hierarchy of the Japanese company, obey rules without question, and devote their lives to working diligently and rising slowly in the ranks.

Female employees are usually excluded from the male bastion of management in Japanese companies, and are generally not required to undergo 'boot-camp' training. Their training usually ends with how to sit, how to stand before superiors, how to respond with the proper speech, how to bow, and how to serve tea. Not surprisingly, Japanese women bow more often than Japanese men.


Unfortunately, my college degree didn't include training on how to bow, how to speak to my superiors, or how to serve tea. I also, sadly, have many strongly held opinions and ambitions. I don't have much desire to be a company soldier and adhere to a military-like hierarchy. It seems that I'm destined for corporate failure in Japan, which maybe isn't such a bad thing - I'm coming home in four months, anyway.

For all of you women who spent over $30,000 on higher education and devoted four years of your life to the study of tea service and subservience, Japan is the place for you! Or you could get a job at Starbucks (the tips are a benefit).

Kyoto, Nara, Osaka . . . oh my!

In two days, Reuben, Travy, and I have managed to hit three of the top tourist destinations in Japan. Reuben is visiting from Seattle and Travy had yet to see The Largest Bronze Buddha in the World, Housed in the Largest Wooden Building in the World, so we decided to make it a weekend of destinations. On Friday night, we took the train to Kyoto, where we drank sake with Taka and Hillary before bedding down on thick, comfortable futons. The following morning, we set out for Nara, which is about forty-five minutes from Kyoto. In Nara, we managed to see The Largest Bronze Buddha in the World, Housed in the Largest Wooden Building in the World, wander the scenic gardens, gape at the ancient pagodas, admire the view from a temple perched over the city, and feed the (not so) tame deer. We ate some meat-on-a-stick to tide us over, then hopped a train to Osaka. After spending an hour underground trying to navigate our way out of the death-cave that is Osaka Station, we finally managed to breath fresh air and check-in to our hotel. We gave ourselves an hour to rest, then headed out in search of Indian food, which we savored for as long as possible. Actual spices! In the food! It was unbelievable . . . The next day, we woke up early and took the train across the city to Osaka Castle (a 1931 re-build, complete with a glass elevator), then another train to the Osaka Aquarium to see the whale shark and watch the otters float around on their backs, then to the Suntory Museum, to cultivate ourselves by viewing the Dali exhibit there. We managed to make our way back to Osaka station, where Reuben and I enjoyed HUGE bowls of ramen, then spent another thirty minutes in search of the exit to the death-cave. Today, I am exhausted and sore, but I can die happy knowing that I've seen The Largest Bronze Buddha in the World, Housed in the Largest Wooden Building in the World (twice!).