This week heralds the first in which I have been at a high school during exam week, and not been hovering constantly on the edge of hyperventilation/heart attack/incontinence due to attacks of nerves. This is, of course, because I am no longer on the receiving end of those exam scripts, that metred time, those red pens. My heart goes out to those who still are subject to that certain stress (my dear sister, my wonderful friends, suffering still at the hands of the Gods of Law, who do be vengeful gods), but I do feel an unmitigated smugness as I construct the marking schedule, find my median, and moderate according to personal whim and the unpredicatable scale of my own desire for a cheeseburger. After all, I was made martyr to Exam Week for most of my life - I remember one exam period during high school where I spent no less than 12 hours in English exams alone - it is only fair that I should extract pleasure from the same circumstance where I may. Because where Exam Week means tears, and sorely smudged fingers and possibly dashed hopes for the average student, for the English teacher so new that her shoes are not yet worn in, it means something entirely different.
It means a 10am arrival at school, as opposed to the usual 8am requirement.
It means a casual dress code, whereby I am currently clad in yellow tights and a short skirt with flowers in my hair.
It means SNACKS. I have so far been presented with a large mocha and a chocolate orange. It means the constant intake of said SNACKS throughout the day.
It means a day spent SITTING rather than STANDING.
It means no lesson preparation, no sleeping students in class, no swollen feet and no liberally chalk-dusted shoulders (I have an unhealthy attachment to the pink chalk, so always end up looking like have particularly violent strain of dandruff).
It means smilingly bypassing every one of the numerous and deadly landmines of the Japanese classroom.
That said, it also means facing the reality that despite 6 weeks of slavish dedication to the furtherance of the English skills of some 120 promising young students, the majority of them still believe the past tense of 'ski' to be 'skyed'. But one cannot win all one's battles.
Today has therefore been spent, armed with red pen and coffee, facing 120 literary masterpieces on the subject of the imminent winter vacation (in 60-80 words) (or in one student's case, 9). From what I have read, many of them will be studying. Still more will be skying. One student faces the interesting prospect of the purchase of 'food hall' shoes. I wish him all the luck of the Irish. Japanese students are unerring polite, so many will conclude their essays with 'Thank-you', which makes you feel a little mean-spirited for presenting them with a grand total of 4 marks out of 20 (two of them gleaned through the ability to double-space, one through the admirable ability to count words written (23)).
Despite recurring incomprehensibility, dramatically bad spelling and a cliched adherence to 'r's over 'l's ('I was rearry tired'; 'I will be grad when it is holidays'; and, from one contradictary soul, 'It was rearry scaley' (scarey, for those ill-versed in Engrish)).
One might think that this would be a great trial for a FOB English teacher with a genuine love for the language she disseminates, but really, it is a joy. Once you have inured yourself to the predicatable repetition ('This winter vacation I will read books. I could not read books in my summer vacation because I was busy. So this winter vacation I will read books, because I am not busy') and distinct aversion to double-spacing, you can enjoy spotting, and rewarding, the original, and the idiosyncratic.
To the student who wrote 'Do I like studying? Not so much' I give you KUDOS, for that sentence could have come from my very mouth.
To the student who wrote 'I will become a crever girl!' CONGRATULATIONS for making me choke on aforementioned chocolate orange.
To the girl who spelt 'shoes' with three 'o's, no one will ever fault you phoenetically.
And to the esteemed author of 'I wont to study herrd at school because I wanting to Engish teacher be it', good luck. Methinks thou shalt need it.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Japants (or "The Lack Thereof")
Here is the great thing about being in Japan: I know for absolutely certain that I am not in New Zealand anymore.
This would be my greatest fear, should my overseas exploits lead me more West-wards: that the likes of London, Sydney, and Vancouver (I have no idea whether these places are West of New Zealand, this is beside the point) would all be more striking for their similarities to, rather than differences from, the Land of the Long White Something. Japan does not make me fear this. In fact, finding ANY point of convergence presents something of a challenge - so far, I can only state definitively that they drive on the same side of the road and also have Pringles.
One fabulous ramification of this vast cultural gap is the difference in fashion. In New Zealand, it is only natural that common trends should tend towards the New Zealand body shape, which ultimately makes a necessity of covering up the bad bits and exploiting the good. As a nation tending towards a gentle beer belly, our tendency therefore is to make much of the decolletage - opaque tights and a low neck will get you all the places you want to go (Estab, and then Burger King). As a quintessential example of this body shape, my wardrobe is thick with tights and rife with boob tubes - the neck and shoulders are where my superpowers lie, while I must allow my legs to be my kryptonite (thanks for the thighs, Ma). Not so in Japan! Oh no!
Breasts here are like drugs. Nobody has them. And if you have them, you keep them hidden away, otherwise everyone will want a go. One of my first days in Japan, wearing a top that in New Zealand would be considered positively demure, suitable for office work, a close-up photo of my breasts was taken by a portly old man on the subway. I was too surprised to permit the feminist to rise within me. Sometimes I think of him, a little nostalgically, sitting up in bed clutching cellphone, staring at the faint shadow of real-life White-Girl-Cleavage on the tiny screen. And I could hardly blame him - my modest C cup is an anomaly, even on the midnight subway returning from the red-light district. The above-the-waist fashions here therefore tend toward the collar and tie. Even the proliferation of the maxi-dress here in the un-seasonally hot summer did not allow for the spaghetti-strap to make a comeback - they all wear t-shirts underneath. No, what the Japanese work is the leg. And, woah, do they work it.
You have not seen legs until you've been on a crowded 7am subway with 500 15 year old girls. I am aware of the perverted nature of this subject, and that this should be authored by a hairy 50-plus in a wife-beater with his hands down his pants. But my fellow JET's even have a name for it: "Junior High Thigh". Their school skirts are rolled so as to be crotch-skimming, and the legs thusly revealed are long, pale and thin with barely a hint of either muscle or cellulite. This is just how they're made. And looking from these pins, to mine own, safely concealed beneath the ubiquitous 80-denier black stockings, I do begrudge my breasts, so I do. The most dangerous part of this blatant attractiveness is the inherent innocence. The 14 year-old school girl will sit with legs widespread on the bus, on the subway, beneath the desk at school, with never a hint of the knowledge that the 25 year old English teacher standing before her is trying with all his (or her, I'm not above it, though I am shielded from it by the fact that a. I teach at a Senior High School, at which stage they have learnt to be appropriately scared of the power of their bodies and b. Kaisei has no uniform) might to resist the hitherto dormant paedophllic inclination that is stirring. You have to feel sorry for the teacher trying to explain the meaning of the word "fancy" while Junior High fannies air themselves easily before him. The most striking point is their seeming carelessness - though they must stand before mirrors in the morning, carefully rolling their skirts to display the lower butt-cheek to best advantage, their poses once so attired are artless. There is no cocking of the knee, no careful drape of a crossed leg - they are still schoolgirls, and they giggle and huddle and squat exactly as one would expect. It is no wonder they are the subject of countless pornographic books, disguised as comics - no surprise that the brothels one passes in Susukino are adorned with false blondes in miniscule approximations of school uniform: in a country where false modesty and ignorance are considered worthy attributes, the giggling adolescent in navy socks is a symbol of the most perfect, corruptable, purity.
This post has, as they seem always wont to do, wandered off topic somewhat. But I think that nonetheless my digression has summarized the inclination of Japanese fashion aptly: it is all about a subtly sexualized rendition of the inner child, made manifest in long socks, short skirts, high necks, tartan and bows. Big hair is also the go; the best have manfully gone through the painful bleach process to achieve the gingery/honey blonde which is the best Britney that Asian hair can manage. Make-up focuses on the EYES, capitalized to show the desire that they be AS BIG AS POSSIBLE. Huge, spidery lashes, white powder at the inner corners, a constant Bambi-bashfulness. Cheeks glow with blush - the Japanese value their pallor, shrinking from the day beneath frilled sunbrellas, and so the pinker the cheek, the paler the rest of the face by comparison. In passing, do you know why so many Japanese will put their hands to their faces (in the peace sign, of course) in photographs? Because they think it makes their faces look smaller. I have no idea, but feel it is an important cultural point. High heels seem an essential element of any outfit, and it is not uncommon to see a young Japanese woman, impeccably dressed in the shortest of skirts, riding a bike in leopard-print six-inch stilletto's whilst both texting and smoking.
I am in awe.
In short (skirts), I am no Japanese girl. That said, as I go out tonight (it being a public holiday tomorrow, thank you Equinox Day), I will be wearing an outfit purchased in Japan - a short creme dress with a ruffly hem, a long black vest with similar ruffles, and red lipstick to top it off. And - because I am from New Zealand, and therefore the reluctant owner of a fine pair of "Mince Pie Thighs" - black tights.
This would be my greatest fear, should my overseas exploits lead me more West-wards: that the likes of London, Sydney, and Vancouver (I have no idea whether these places are West of New Zealand, this is beside the point) would all be more striking for their similarities to, rather than differences from, the Land of the Long White Something. Japan does not make me fear this. In fact, finding ANY point of convergence presents something of a challenge - so far, I can only state definitively that they drive on the same side of the road and also have Pringles.
One fabulous ramification of this vast cultural gap is the difference in fashion. In New Zealand, it is only natural that common trends should tend towards the New Zealand body shape, which ultimately makes a necessity of covering up the bad bits and exploiting the good. As a nation tending towards a gentle beer belly, our tendency therefore is to make much of the decolletage - opaque tights and a low neck will get you all the places you want to go (Estab, and then Burger King). As a quintessential example of this body shape, my wardrobe is thick with tights and rife with boob tubes - the neck and shoulders are where my superpowers lie, while I must allow my legs to be my kryptonite (thanks for the thighs, Ma). Not so in Japan! Oh no!
Breasts here are like drugs. Nobody has them. And if you have them, you keep them hidden away, otherwise everyone will want a go. One of my first days in Japan, wearing a top that in New Zealand would be considered positively demure, suitable for office work, a close-up photo of my breasts was taken by a portly old man on the subway. I was too surprised to permit the feminist to rise within me. Sometimes I think of him, a little nostalgically, sitting up in bed clutching cellphone, staring at the faint shadow of real-life White-Girl-Cleavage on the tiny screen. And I could hardly blame him - my modest C cup is an anomaly, even on the midnight subway returning from the red-light district. The above-the-waist fashions here therefore tend toward the collar and tie. Even the proliferation of the maxi-dress here in the un-seasonally hot summer did not allow for the spaghetti-strap to make a comeback - they all wear t-shirts underneath. No, what the Japanese work is the leg. And, woah, do they work it.
You have not seen legs until you've been on a crowded 7am subway with 500 15 year old girls. I am aware of the perverted nature of this subject, and that this should be authored by a hairy 50-plus in a wife-beater with his hands down his pants. But my fellow JET's even have a name for it: "Junior High Thigh". Their school skirts are rolled so as to be crotch-skimming, and the legs thusly revealed are long, pale and thin with barely a hint of either muscle or cellulite. This is just how they're made. And looking from these pins, to mine own, safely concealed beneath the ubiquitous 80-denier black stockings, I do begrudge my breasts, so I do. The most dangerous part of this blatant attractiveness is the inherent innocence. The 14 year-old school girl will sit with legs widespread on the bus, on the subway, beneath the desk at school, with never a hint of the knowledge that the 25 year old English teacher standing before her is trying with all his (or her, I'm not above it, though I am shielded from it by the fact that a. I teach at a Senior High School, at which stage they have learnt to be appropriately scared of the power of their bodies and b. Kaisei has no uniform) might to resist the hitherto dormant paedophllic inclination that is stirring. You have to feel sorry for the teacher trying to explain the meaning of the word "fancy" while Junior High fannies air themselves easily before him. The most striking point is their seeming carelessness - though they must stand before mirrors in the morning, carefully rolling their skirts to display the lower butt-cheek to best advantage, their poses once so attired are artless. There is no cocking of the knee, no careful drape of a crossed leg - they are still schoolgirls, and they giggle and huddle and squat exactly as one would expect. It is no wonder they are the subject of countless pornographic books, disguised as comics - no surprise that the brothels one passes in Susukino are adorned with false blondes in miniscule approximations of school uniform: in a country where false modesty and ignorance are considered worthy attributes, the giggling adolescent in navy socks is a symbol of the most perfect, corruptable, purity.
This post has, as they seem always wont to do, wandered off topic somewhat. But I think that nonetheless my digression has summarized the inclination of Japanese fashion aptly: it is all about a subtly sexualized rendition of the inner child, made manifest in long socks, short skirts, high necks, tartan and bows. Big hair is also the go; the best have manfully gone through the painful bleach process to achieve the gingery/honey blonde which is the best Britney that Asian hair can manage. Make-up focuses on the EYES, capitalized to show the desire that they be AS BIG AS POSSIBLE. Huge, spidery lashes, white powder at the inner corners, a constant Bambi-bashfulness. Cheeks glow with blush - the Japanese value their pallor, shrinking from the day beneath frilled sunbrellas, and so the pinker the cheek, the paler the rest of the face by comparison. In passing, do you know why so many Japanese will put their hands to their faces (in the peace sign, of course) in photographs? Because they think it makes their faces look smaller. I have no idea, but feel it is an important cultural point. High heels seem an essential element of any outfit, and it is not uncommon to see a young Japanese woman, impeccably dressed in the shortest of skirts, riding a bike in leopard-print six-inch stilletto's whilst both texting and smoking.
I am in awe.
In short (skirts), I am no Japanese girl. That said, as I go out tonight (it being a public holiday tomorrow, thank you Equinox Day), I will be wearing an outfit purchased in Japan - a short creme dress with a ruffly hem, a long black vest with similar ruffles, and red lipstick to top it off. And - because I am from New Zealand, and therefore the reluctant owner of a fine pair of "Mince Pie Thighs" - black tights.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A Little Bit Camp
Get to know me even a little bit, and you will immediately become aware that I am not low maintenance, appearance-wise. Stemming perhaps (certainly, this is not an immense psychological challenge) at least a decade of extremely low self-image, inevitable comparisons with two very attractive sisters and some bullying experienced in formative years, a lot of my current confidence is gleaned from the ability to look in the mirror and, objectively, like what I see. And, objectively, my natural reflection grants me none of this self-assurance. My addiction to hair-dye began at 13; eye-liner at 15; hair-straighteners at 17; and expensive foundation at 18. I consider my unprimed image a blank canvas, requiring extensive and painstaking application of paint (preferably MAC) before public exhibition may be considered. I know this isn't healthy - I am envious of those who unthinkingly leave the house in the mornings fresh-faced with pillow-imprints still upon their blithely smiling faces - but nonetheless it is a fact of my life. My ability to interact with others, do my job properly and behave like a functional human being relies almost exclusively upon the strength of my face-faith. This means that I am rarely (OK, never, I sleep in my make-up, I can't even DREAM confidently with a naked face) unmade up, I refresh this facade frequently, and I consider a bad hair day no less an affliction than the clap. All of this then culminates in one certainty: camping is not my natural environment.
The irony of this escapes me not, the whole point (or so I am informed by those with an earthier bent) of camping being "getting back to nature". My response to this "why would you want to do such a thing?" I firmly believe that the whole campaign of human accomplishment is premised on the ultimate goal of getting as far away from our natural roots as possible. Keep your caves - I'll have a penthouse. The higher the better! If I can be closer to the sun than to the earth then I must be extremely successful! Natural materials? No - give me stainless steel, titanium, the harder and less bio-degradable the better. Why would something subject to degradation be desirable? Unfathomable. Living as I now do on the 11th floor of an apartment building as asthetically pleasing as a single cinder block stood on end, I consider myself to have come rather far in the world. And yet, this very weekend, I voluntarily subjected myself to something that ought to have been obliterated as a leisure-activity when resort hotels were conceived of - camping.
I can only put it down to FOMO. Or perhaps the formation of fissures in my thus far rock-hard attachment to the concrete jungle in which I reside - maybe the move to Japan has awoken the nature-lover within (think it vastly unlikely)... Anyhoo, I am a boastful recent survivor of Lake Toya '10, the destination for a Hokkaido Welcome Camp at the end of a 3 hour bus-ride. This was back to basics stuff (or as basic as I can manage, which still involves an iPhone, vodka and liquid eye-liner). No mattresses. One toilet. And no showers. Not that thatmattered in the end, as "camping" as an experience legitimated all my hitherto blocked-out memories; and it rained, near constantly, from the moment of arrival to precisely the minute we were back onboard the bus. My last camping experience was circa '05 and was less of a "getting back to nature" event so much as a "drinking as much alcohol in as short a time as possible" vendetta. Five years appears to have had less of an effect on me than I might have thought (have now thought hard, have only marginally longer hair and a tattoo to show for one half-decade departed) because I found myself gleefully skulling a lethal vodka/lemonade concoction out of a water bottle whilst sitting in a circle playing "I Have Never". Despite the fact that this last blog documented clearly the onward march of my 20's, methinks much of the 17 year old remains in me still, and not merely in the form of a Harry Potter addiction. So how did I survive nearly 20 WHOLE HOURS without electricity? Simple. I was drunk for most of it, and asleep for the rest.
Camping therefore remains an experience, if not wholly foreign, then certainly blurry to me (NB: Have discovered how to use italics. Expect more of it). I feel it is best left that way. And yet: now, back in my apartment, with a laptop on my lap (where else, pray tell?) and a perfect fringe, I feel a certain freshness that I certainly did not have at this time on Friday. There is something to be said for the power of nature, for the beauty of Lake Toya is really best left unsubjected to sarcasm. The water was cool and grey; the leaves yellowing and collecting at the margins of the shore; the mountains at the horizon really did loom and tower like all the best mountains ought (though Japanese mountains do mirror their human counterparts in their smallness and uniformity)(dammit, nearly made it through that whole description sans sarcasm. Alas). Though my shoes are ruined and all photos of the event depict me with an alarming expanse of forehead, I do not regret this regression into a less vain past. Time (20 HOURS) away from the city has zenned me out. I am drunk on ozone (and, admittedly, red wine).
Maybe occasionally (very), it would do me some good to be reminded of the wonder of an unmarred landscape, even when compared to the genuinely impressive results of a flawless MAC finish... A gentle constant rain may be soothing - bugs in ones food a source of protein - a sleepless night on rocky earth a chiropractic success... But next time I'm bringing an air-mattress. And a pillow. And a small - but well-equipped - collapsible bathroom.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
A Foreign Birthday
Today I experienced my very first birthday away from the comforts of my home country - a foreign birthday. I must premise this blog with the caveat that it is only 2.15pm, and that much might remainin store for me, whereby this becomes the best/worst birthday ever but that, should it occur, will legitimise the existence of a different blogpost.
In typical rule-breaking form, my birthday began yesterday, as I had the dual pleasure of opening a package from home and Skyping with two best friends in Wellington. In my family we have a very strict rule in which no presents are to be opened - indeed, not even vague allusions towards said presents are permitted - before the day in question ('What will you have to look forward to??') so there was a certain naughty joy in opening my package on Birthday Eve. Coming from so far away, both weight and size was restricted, so this package, by dint of necessity, contained only the bare essentials for a happy existence (make-up, hair-dye, candy, a Lady Gaga poster). Further delight was granted in the form of a Tinker Bell card, which sings when opened. Angelic. I hope they experienced this at Customs, I sincerely do. It would bring joy to the most stoic of Japanese hearts. And, it would be just like them to take issue with my birthday pineapple lumps, when they have already let a consignment of illegal drugs (contraception) slip through their security. This was in fact that first piece of mail which reached me from home - a self-addressed, self-stamped envelope containing naught but a month free of fertilization. It having been some months since I compiled these envelopes, I experienced some confusion in coming across, amongst myriads of incomprehensible advertisements for pizza (although, comprehended that they were about pizza, didn't I?) not only mail in English, but mail in my own handwriting. Had I sent myself a congratulatory message? Was I posessed of a second personality, whose sole function was to ensure continued foetus-foiling? But no - simply the efforts of a more sensible past self bearing fruit (or not, as it were). Pregnancy in Japan (shudder) - not to be contemplated, as am currently living off Frosties and JellyBelly's which perhaps does not comprise sufficient nutrition for infant (other reasons include; utter fear and revulsion at prospect, genuine lack of impetus or desire, and probable alcohol-induced infertility). But I digress. A long way. I have digressed so far that have forgotten original thread. Must revise.
Ah. Yes. Package: thank you, family, for that small (though it cost $40 to post) piece of home on the anniversary of my existence. Appreciation all round. The second pre-birthday delight came in the form of the digital appearance of one Ally Garrett and one Diane White in my living room in Japan. People have told me before but I never really acknowledged the truth of it: Skype is genius. It is free! It has video! You can see, real-time, the expressions of derision that form on your best friends' faces when it becomes apparent that a month of dictating to Japanese children has left one with a distinct American twang (apparently I roll my 'r's now. When I say my name it sounds like Zac Efron(m?) is saying it)! You can also see yourself, so can observe own emotions when describing life in Japan. Most revealing. Perhaps overly so. But it really was indescribably wonderful to chat with friends from afar as if they were in the same room, to feel no fear that the conversation would be equal in price to that of a small car, and to be able to observe, with own two eyes, that they are not doing homework/watching re-runs of Shortland Street/inspecting breasts for lumps and/or lopsidedness, whilst doing so. One of the best birthday presents I could have received. Those who have not invested in the necessary software and teachnology - do so. It is one tehcnological advance for which I can express unadulterated approval. (Most amusing, too, was my ignorant insistence that, every time the camera froze, some energetic action from the subject would stimulate the camera back into action. Resultant shaking of head/hands/entire body followed by dizziness and anger pure entertainment. Highly recommend).
Anahwah, that was last night. After Skyping, I ate a Big Mac, read Harry Potter and fell asleep, all sources of great pleasure to me (I am a simple soul). This morning, felt somewhat disillusioned by Japanese birthday, a sensation which is bound to ensue from the combination of lack of edible foods for breakfast/dire hair day/having to get up at 6am. But, boyfriend had supplied me with no less than four different types of chocolate, no doubt anticipating my mood, and so I was thusly sweetened. Bike ride, train ride, bus ride, all uneventful, though felt like demanding subway seat from old woman on account of birthday. Refrained. Actually am realsing that henceforth, there is little to tell about this 23rd life anniversary of mine - the simple fact being that Japanese people don't give a damn about the occasion. Here, everyone's birthday, regardless of actual birth date, is celebrated in unison on January 1. A typically Japanese initiative - respecting the collective over the individual, refusing to make oneself stand out, 'The nail that sticks out is hammered down' type-logic. When I told the teacher I work with that it was my birthday the next day, she simply nodded and carried on somewhat awkwardly, as if this was akin to declaring the next day to be the commencement of one's menstruation. When I unabashedly made 'It's My Birthday Tomorrow' the subjest of a game of Hangman, the puzzle was solved with absolutely zero fanfare, as if I had written 'I have an umbrella'. All my efforts to be lauded for the admirable acheivement of being alive were thwarted.
And so, the end of the post. In summation, only people who are not Japanese care that is my birthday. And only I care with any particular enthusiasim (yay ME). But, boyfriend is wining (beering?) and dining me tonight, and tomorrow night plans are afoot for drunken revelry with gaijin who, like myself, consider any occasion ripe for unadulterated imbibing. Happy Birthday to me, I say. I'm determined that my 24th year will be greeted with some fanfare, at least. In a country where 'Respect for the Aged Day' is a legitimate national holiday, I'm sure I'll be able to find some reason for which September 15th should inspire similar veneration. 'Respect for Scarlett Day'? I think so.
In typical rule-breaking form, my birthday began yesterday, as I had the dual pleasure of opening a package from home and Skyping with two best friends in Wellington. In my family we have a very strict rule in which no presents are to be opened - indeed, not even vague allusions towards said presents are permitted - before the day in question ('What will you have to look forward to??') so there was a certain naughty joy in opening my package on Birthday Eve. Coming from so far away, both weight and size was restricted, so this package, by dint of necessity, contained only the bare essentials for a happy existence (make-up, hair-dye, candy, a Lady Gaga poster). Further delight was granted in the form of a Tinker Bell card, which sings when opened. Angelic. I hope they experienced this at Customs, I sincerely do. It would bring joy to the most stoic of Japanese hearts. And, it would be just like them to take issue with my birthday pineapple lumps, when they have already let a consignment of illegal drugs (contraception) slip through their security. This was in fact that first piece of mail which reached me from home - a self-addressed, self-stamped envelope containing naught but a month free of fertilization. It having been some months since I compiled these envelopes, I experienced some confusion in coming across, amongst myriads of incomprehensible advertisements for pizza (although, comprehended that they were about pizza, didn't I?) not only mail in English, but mail in my own handwriting. Had I sent myself a congratulatory message? Was I posessed of a second personality, whose sole function was to ensure continued foetus-foiling? But no - simply the efforts of a more sensible past self bearing fruit (or not, as it were). Pregnancy in Japan (shudder) - not to be contemplated, as am currently living off Frosties and JellyBelly's which perhaps does not comprise sufficient nutrition for infant (other reasons include; utter fear and revulsion at prospect, genuine lack of impetus or desire, and probable alcohol-induced infertility). But I digress. A long way. I have digressed so far that have forgotten original thread. Must revise.
Ah. Yes. Package: thank you, family, for that small (though it cost $40 to post) piece of home on the anniversary of my existence. Appreciation all round. The second pre-birthday delight came in the form of the digital appearance of one Ally Garrett and one Diane White in my living room in Japan. People have told me before but I never really acknowledged the truth of it: Skype is genius. It is free! It has video! You can see, real-time, the expressions of derision that form on your best friends' faces when it becomes apparent that a month of dictating to Japanese children has left one with a distinct American twang (apparently I roll my 'r's now. When I say my name it sounds like Zac Efron(m?) is saying it)! You can also see yourself, so can observe own emotions when describing life in Japan. Most revealing. Perhaps overly so. But it really was indescribably wonderful to chat with friends from afar as if they were in the same room, to feel no fear that the conversation would be equal in price to that of a small car, and to be able to observe, with own two eyes, that they are not doing homework/watching re-runs of Shortland Street/inspecting breasts for lumps and/or lopsidedness, whilst doing so. One of the best birthday presents I could have received. Those who have not invested in the necessary software and teachnology - do so. It is one tehcnological advance for which I can express unadulterated approval. (Most amusing, too, was my ignorant insistence that, every time the camera froze, some energetic action from the subject would stimulate the camera back into action. Resultant shaking of head/hands/entire body followed by dizziness and anger pure entertainment. Highly recommend).
Anahwah, that was last night. After Skyping, I ate a Big Mac, read Harry Potter and fell asleep, all sources of great pleasure to me (I am a simple soul). This morning, felt somewhat disillusioned by Japanese birthday, a sensation which is bound to ensue from the combination of lack of edible foods for breakfast/dire hair day/having to get up at 6am. But, boyfriend had supplied me with no less than four different types of chocolate, no doubt anticipating my mood, and so I was thusly sweetened. Bike ride, train ride, bus ride, all uneventful, though felt like demanding subway seat from old woman on account of birthday. Refrained. Actually am realsing that henceforth, there is little to tell about this 23rd life anniversary of mine - the simple fact being that Japanese people don't give a damn about the occasion. Here, everyone's birthday, regardless of actual birth date, is celebrated in unison on January 1. A typically Japanese initiative - respecting the collective over the individual, refusing to make oneself stand out, 'The nail that sticks out is hammered down' type-logic. When I told the teacher I work with that it was my birthday the next day, she simply nodded and carried on somewhat awkwardly, as if this was akin to declaring the next day to be the commencement of one's menstruation. When I unabashedly made 'It's My Birthday Tomorrow' the subjest of a game of Hangman, the puzzle was solved with absolutely zero fanfare, as if I had written 'I have an umbrella'. All my efforts to be lauded for the admirable acheivement of being alive were thwarted.
And so, the end of the post. In summation, only people who are not Japanese care that is my birthday. And only I care with any particular enthusiasim (yay ME). But, boyfriend is wining (beering?) and dining me tonight, and tomorrow night plans are afoot for drunken revelry with gaijin who, like myself, consider any occasion ripe for unadulterated imbibing. Happy Birthday to me, I say. I'm determined that my 24th year will be greeted with some fanfare, at least. In a country where 'Respect for the Aged Day' is a legitimate national holiday, I'm sure I'll be able to find some reason for which September 15th should inspire similar veneration. 'Respect for Scarlett Day'? I think so.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Japanatomy
Before one (me) moves to Japan, one (me) hears much said of the "Japanese" way of thinking and behaving and reacting, which includes - but is not limited to - the Japanese Smile, the Japanese Sharp Intake of Breath, the Japanese Work Ethic, the Japanese Reaction to Foreigners, the Japanese Subway Code of Conduct, the Japanese Subway Grope, the Japanese Breast Fixation, and the Japanese Criticism (which is to say, silence, followed by the Japanese Smile). Essentially, when you move to Japan, and particularly when you take up employment in a Japanese institution, you must rethink both your general manner of behaviour and your ability to assess a situation. The fact of the matter is this: if you (I) think you (I) are working hard enough, you probably aren't. If you think you are dressing demurely, you are probably a saucy minx. And if you think you are doing your job well, you are probably instructively moribund (yes, moribund).
This is difficult for anyone (me). In New Zealand, if you are doing a crap job, you will be told so. This information may come in the form of a written or verbal warning, an icy shoulder or semen in your coffee (extreme cases only, or so I am reliably informed), but it will come, and due opportunity will be given to rectify shortcomings (Aside: unless the amendments to the Act are permitted, and then if you are in the first 90 days of employment then you will find yourself out on the street with no explanation - but I digress). The practical machinations of NZ law (impractical as they may be) were of zero interest to me whilst I resided therein, so why now? Why indeed). The Kiwi Karacter is brazen, bold and bolshy and even the most reticent employer/co-worker/nosy stranger on the street with no pants on will grab you by the scruff of your neck and rub your face in your failures.
Not so in Japan. As an email from my supervisor (sent to a posse, rather than just to me, would be on plane home, locked in bathroom, rocking back and forth, if t'were for I alone) informed me, the Japanese smile, while it may appear to be a symbol of encouragement, is in fact an awkward reaction to the fact that something is terribly wrong, and you are at fault. Like babies with gas, this smile appears as a physical reaction to intense discomfort. So, to quote the aforementioned supervisor: "I’ll give one easy advise: As you know Japanese people are so shy and not too many words but just smile (even for JTEs); “Japanese smile” sometimes shows “OK” “agree” but sometimes “not good though I don’t say clearly”. You see? Even when he is giving advice about the omnipresent "Japanese Smile" he shrinks from directly addressing the less pleasant elements... He is "Japanese Smiling" in an email! A rare talent.
All of this is a long-winded (gassy baby) explanation for why I am frankly terrified and uncomfortable from the moment I step into the entrance hall of the school and replace my outdoor shoes with my indoor shoes, to the moment I don my sunglasses, undo two buttons on my blouse, and leave. It is hard because the staff are so welcoming, the students so intelligent and interested, and the novelty of teaching so great, that I instinctively feel relaxed and at ease and able to be myself entirely - I have to force this discomfort upon myself in order that I should quell my instincts and remember that quoting Eddie Izzard whilst instructing third years on possible examples for inclusion in their essay entitled "Why I prefer Camping by the Sea over Camping in the Mountains is NOT OK ("I'm covered in bees!); using "beer" as a Hangman word in NOT appropriate and taking a photo on my iPhone of the student's t-shirt emblazoned with the legend "Pills, Pipes and Needles" (illustrated with a picture of Winnie the Po(thead)o with a jar of honey) is a POSSIBLE breach of privacy.
The problem is that reliance upon that internal gauge that tells you whether you are doing a good job and pleasing those around you or whether you are mortally offending an entire community (NB: did that in the weekend, by wearing a sheer top, breasts are contraband items here) is not advisable. The safe assumption is that your interpretation of the social cues surrounding you is inherently wrong. Specifically in the case of the unassuming JET, you could consider yourself a grand success, practically the adopted daughter of the principal, and then find yourself refused in your request to re-contract. And there is no definitive way of knowing where on the scale you teeter, for even a request for advice or feedback will be met with the ubiquitous nod and grin.
So that is where I stand - on eternally unstable ground. All confidence in myself and my abilities must be tempered by the realisation that I am, and always will be, an alien.
On a more positive note, today I was told by one Japanese teacher of English (who spent some years living in Canada and is therefore capable of greater inter-culture communication than weakly upturned lips) that when I was teaching I "looked like a queen". I took the more conservative regal interpretation over the Priscilla Queen of the Desert option, because even though I wear more make-up than all the other teachers combined, I don't think I've reached drag-queen levels. I glowed from the compliment all day (and preened and fanned myself and was generally very un-Japanese and smug) even though the question of which queen exactly could lead to some contradictory possibilities (headless, traitorous, short and round, festering, with rotten teeth, dying of the plague etc etc).
In a vanity inspired solely by my red hair, I have quietly (and now world-widedly) decided upon Queen Elizabeth I as my teaching persona. And if she can conquer the Spanish, I can conquer the Japanese. Even if they smile at me.
This is difficult for anyone (me). In New Zealand, if you are doing a crap job, you will be told so. This information may come in the form of a written or verbal warning, an icy shoulder or semen in your coffee (extreme cases only, or so I am reliably informed), but it will come, and due opportunity will be given to rectify shortcomings (Aside: unless the amendments to the Act are permitted, and then if you are in the first 90 days of employment then you will find yourself out on the street with no explanation - but I digress). The practical machinations of NZ law (impractical as they may be) were of zero interest to me whilst I resided therein, so why now? Why indeed). The Kiwi Karacter is brazen, bold and bolshy and even the most reticent employer/co-worker/nosy stranger on the street with no pants on will grab you by the scruff of your neck and rub your face in your failures.
Not so in Japan. As an email from my supervisor (sent to a posse, rather than just to me, would be on plane home, locked in bathroom, rocking back and forth, if t'were for I alone) informed me, the Japanese smile, while it may appear to be a symbol of encouragement, is in fact an awkward reaction to the fact that something is terribly wrong, and you are at fault. Like babies with gas, this smile appears as a physical reaction to intense discomfort. So, to quote the aforementioned supervisor: "I’ll give one easy advise: As you know Japanese people are so shy and not too many words but just smile (even for JTEs); “Japanese smile” sometimes shows “OK” “agree” but sometimes “not good though I don’t say clearly”. You see? Even when he is giving advice about the omnipresent "Japanese Smile" he shrinks from directly addressing the less pleasant elements... He is "Japanese Smiling" in an email! A rare talent.
All of this is a long-winded (gassy baby) explanation for why I am frankly terrified and uncomfortable from the moment I step into the entrance hall of the school and replace my outdoor shoes with my indoor shoes, to the moment I don my sunglasses, undo two buttons on my blouse, and leave. It is hard because the staff are so welcoming, the students so intelligent and interested, and the novelty of teaching so great, that I instinctively feel relaxed and at ease and able to be myself entirely - I have to force this discomfort upon myself in order that I should quell my instincts and remember that quoting Eddie Izzard whilst instructing third years on possible examples for inclusion in their essay entitled "Why I prefer Camping by the Sea over Camping in the Mountains is NOT OK ("I'm covered in bees!); using "beer" as a Hangman word in NOT appropriate and taking a photo on my iPhone of the student's t-shirt emblazoned with the legend "Pills, Pipes and Needles" (illustrated with a picture of Winnie the Po(thead)o with a jar of honey) is a POSSIBLE breach of privacy.
The problem is that reliance upon that internal gauge that tells you whether you are doing a good job and pleasing those around you or whether you are mortally offending an entire community (NB: did that in the weekend, by wearing a sheer top, breasts are contraband items here) is not advisable. The safe assumption is that your interpretation of the social cues surrounding you is inherently wrong. Specifically in the case of the unassuming JET, you could consider yourself a grand success, practically the adopted daughter of the principal, and then find yourself refused in your request to re-contract. And there is no definitive way of knowing where on the scale you teeter, for even a request for advice or feedback will be met with the ubiquitous nod and grin.
So that is where I stand - on eternally unstable ground. All confidence in myself and my abilities must be tempered by the realisation that I am, and always will be, an alien.
On a more positive note, today I was told by one Japanese teacher of English (who spent some years living in Canada and is therefore capable of greater inter-culture communication than weakly upturned lips) that when I was teaching I "looked like a queen". I took the more conservative regal interpretation over the Priscilla Queen of the Desert option, because even though I wear more make-up than all the other teachers combined, I don't think I've reached drag-queen levels. I glowed from the compliment all day (and preened and fanned myself and was generally very un-Japanese and smug) even though the question of which queen exactly could lead to some contradictory possibilities (headless, traitorous, short and round, festering, with rotten teeth, dying of the plague etc etc).
In a vanity inspired solely by my red hair, I have quietly (and now world-widedly) decided upon Queen Elizabeth I as my teaching persona. And if she can conquer the Spanish, I can conquer the Japanese. Even if they smile at me.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Japanniversary
Today, moist and cloudy, 32 degrees, air like paste, heralds the one month anniversary of my arrival in Japan. It seems incredible that that much time has passed - in keeping with the typical traveller`s cliche, it seems only a short time ago that I was boarding the plane with nothing but 1000 kilograms of largely disposable luggage and an open mind.
A month later, I now feel like a seasoned resident. Despite the fact that a large part of the communication I encounter daily still passes me by, I am comfortable in my city, confident in my ability to find myself again, should I get lost (near daily occurence). My commute to school has become routine rather than an occasion to count the minutes and check and re-check train schedules and bus-timetables - I am now one of many who plug into their iPod, open their book (currently Wuthering Heights, being reread for the enth time thanks to the joys of iBook) and tune out the universe. I now carry a sweat towel rather than dabbing surreptitiously at my forehead with the backs of my hands. I sprint for the incoming train despite knowing that the next will arrive in precisely three minutes. I like to think that I am being accepted by those who commute alongside me, this last being determined by the fact that nice old ladies now fall asleep on my shoulder rather than standing up for fear of sitting next to me. And I can squat with the best of them (this is conjecture, have not asked about nor observed specific technique).
Even though my routine has become familiar, nothing is boring. New things become clear to me every day, I find myself in more and more peculiar situations, I am suprised anew daily at life in Japan. The supermarket alone remains a new frontier; don`t even get me started on the underground shopping malls.
Now, enough of this sentimental retrospective. I know that I have been reticent in my blogging as of lately, due to sad lack of internet in my flat, but (all things going to plan, which is rarely the case) internet is due to be installed TODAY so if God (Buddha) is smiling, there is, at this very minute, a skinny and awkward Japanese man poking around my knicker drawer in my flat, having completed the task of connecting me with the world at large. At this point I am so greatfully anticipating the ability to watch Grey`s Anatomy online in bed, he can have the knickers as a gift. I recommend the leopard-print ones.
Today, Kaisei first graders have internship experience, which takes them out of school, and therefore out of my classroom. I am thusly located in the Board of Education computer room, Coke Zero at one hand and my iPhone at the other, precisely perched beneath the airconditioning vent, with five hours in which to leisurely recount to you, faithful 19 readers, the events of this last week. WARNING: I am so delighted to be in an environment in which it does not feel like my skin is melting away like hot yoghurt that I am feeling magnanimous. This means that the following blog will contain at least some information that you would probably have a better first day of spring NOT knowing. Be brave.
THINGS I HAVE DONE OF LATE:
1. 6 Hour All-You-Can-Drink Karaoke Commnecing at 12am
You do not need details. We danced on tables. We took off clothes. I stole a hat and had a minor mental breakdown at approx 5am. Good times had all round. Following day, death. Death and many, many Kit Kats.
2. Watched Kendo
For those of you out of the loop, Kendo is a sport in which highly padded young Japanese men (and, more recently, women) in baggy trousers take to each other with bamboo swords while screaming at the top of their lungs. I witnessed it as part of a sports day, in which five Sapporo Senior High schools met at various locations to indulge in various sweaty pursuits (WATCHING was a sweaty pursuit). My high school being of the academic bent, participation is a matter of honour more than competition - future physicists and biologists do not great baseballers make. But the Japanese attitude is one of optimism and eternal eagerness and so even anticipation of ultimate failure does not dull their enthusiam (possibly would have been more successful netballer/waterpolo-er/tennisplayer/human being in general if had had same attitude. Alack). It is quite something to see the students, so earnestly subdued in the classroom, attack as though they want to cut the other in half and dance amongst the entrails. The oral aspect is as much a part of the sport as the physical, and so the noise is deafening when the competition takes place in a high school gym. Despite the violence of the sport, it is beautiful to watch, like a dance. And they look like something out of a samurai movie - Tom Cruise, but without the cripplingly embarrassing awfulness.
3. Visited Parks
This may sound like nothing out of the ordinary, but for the past week, hemmed in by highrises, I had been craving greenery and water. I would show anyone who could be coralled into it, the location of my family home in Devonport, stranded at the end of a peninsula, in order to justify my longing for the coast. Sapporo is essentially landlocked - two hours dirve to the nearest port feels like an impossibility when you a. can`t drive and b. don`t know anyone with a car. So I asked for recommendations and ended up, on Saturday and Sunday respectively, in Nakajima Coen and Maruyama Coen (coen being the Japanese word for park, congratulations on your newfound biological bi-lingualism). And these parks, despite being stranded in the middle of the city and surrounded on all sides by train stations and convenience stores, are truly beautiful. Nakajima Coen boasts a lake, whilst Maruyama Coen contains both a zoo and the Hokkaido Shrine, all of which I dragged boyfriend around. Visiting these parks felt like leaving the fifth biggest city in Japan behind and getting back to something familiar, something green. Although it was the weekend, the parks were not busy, and it was a zen and soothing experience. I felt more myself after visiting them (typically, feel more affinity with NZ landscape and beauty now that have left it behind, must address this tendency to be constantly contradictory). Even with crows visibily scoping out babies with a view to lining their nests therewith and the heat slowly squeezing my brain out of my pores, the discovery of this (albeit limited) nature in Sapporo made me feel all the more a proud resident.
4. Purchased laxatives
Those of you unfortunate enough to know me well will know that my digestive system is the bane of my existence. It does what it likes. It is like a petulant child with ADD. It rejects all kinds of good food on a whim (an URGENT whim) and witholds white bread like a ransom. The day finally came when my body had jealously guarded all input for no less than six days (yes, gross, you were warned) and a Japanese chemist needed to be visited. Here, at this essential juncture, my faithful phrase book failed me. This small blue book, shamelessly stolen from boyfriend, has accompanied me everywhere and furnished me with such phrases as `May I have stamps please?` and `Don`t touch me!` (awkward moment in which to stop, open handbag, rummage around and turn to contents page, but). Though it contains such gems as `rash`, `pedicure` and `oxygen treatment`, at no point therein did the publisher see fit to provide the traveller with the translation for `laxative`. As such, I was forced to enter the chemist, approach the smiling older woman behind the counter and announce, with zero fanfare `I am constipated`. To her credit, she did not pause nor laugh. Even though I`m sure I was the highlight of her day and the subject of ruthless subsequent dinner party conversation, she swiftly provided me with what I needed. The box was, of course, all in Japanese, so I think it is some testament to my faith in human nature and the extent of my stomach pain that I blindly swallowed three of the hot pink pills (laxatives here are pretty, the results less so). Had been told that Japanese medication was weaker in dosage than Western, so general rule of thumb was to double intake. Can faithfully now inform the reader that this was not good advice with regard to this particular product. One or two would have sufficed. More than sufficed. Three led to a fifty minute sojourn and the use of nearly a whole roll of toilet paper in our unventilated bathroom. Such a waste of the delicious Pad Thai boyfriend had created for dinner.
(LOL).
(Am feeling much better now, thanks for asking).
Think that this post has degenerated ever so slightly. No need for bathroom humour. And as I have unadulterated internet access today, it is a great occasion to catch up on news of the world and favourite blogs. And Bejewled Blitz.
Will let you know tomorrow whether skinny, awkward Japanese-man`s knicker drawer investigation bore fruit in the form of wireless internet access. Fingers crossed. Also, for your future reading pleasure, will be my first experience of a professional Japanese baseball game. Stay tuned.
In the meantime, those of you in NZ, have a beautiful first day of spring and spare a thought for those who long for grass (the underfoot, rather than underhand, kind).
A month later, I now feel like a seasoned resident. Despite the fact that a large part of the communication I encounter daily still passes me by, I am comfortable in my city, confident in my ability to find myself again, should I get lost (near daily occurence). My commute to school has become routine rather than an occasion to count the minutes and check and re-check train schedules and bus-timetables - I am now one of many who plug into their iPod, open their book (currently Wuthering Heights, being reread for the enth time thanks to the joys of iBook) and tune out the universe. I now carry a sweat towel rather than dabbing surreptitiously at my forehead with the backs of my hands. I sprint for the incoming train despite knowing that the next will arrive in precisely three minutes. I like to think that I am being accepted by those who commute alongside me, this last being determined by the fact that nice old ladies now fall asleep on my shoulder rather than standing up for fear of sitting next to me. And I can squat with the best of them (this is conjecture, have not asked about nor observed specific technique).
Even though my routine has become familiar, nothing is boring. New things become clear to me every day, I find myself in more and more peculiar situations, I am suprised anew daily at life in Japan. The supermarket alone remains a new frontier; don`t even get me started on the underground shopping malls.
Now, enough of this sentimental retrospective. I know that I have been reticent in my blogging as of lately, due to sad lack of internet in my flat, but (all things going to plan, which is rarely the case) internet is due to be installed TODAY so if God (Buddha) is smiling, there is, at this very minute, a skinny and awkward Japanese man poking around my knicker drawer in my flat, having completed the task of connecting me with the world at large. At this point I am so greatfully anticipating the ability to watch Grey`s Anatomy online in bed, he can have the knickers as a gift. I recommend the leopard-print ones.
Today, Kaisei first graders have internship experience, which takes them out of school, and therefore out of my classroom. I am thusly located in the Board of Education computer room, Coke Zero at one hand and my iPhone at the other, precisely perched beneath the airconditioning vent, with five hours in which to leisurely recount to you, faithful 19 readers, the events of this last week. WARNING: I am so delighted to be in an environment in which it does not feel like my skin is melting away like hot yoghurt that I am feeling magnanimous. This means that the following blog will contain at least some information that you would probably have a better first day of spring NOT knowing. Be brave.
THINGS I HAVE DONE OF LATE:
1. 6 Hour All-You-Can-Drink Karaoke Commnecing at 12am
You do not need details. We danced on tables. We took off clothes. I stole a hat and had a minor mental breakdown at approx 5am. Good times had all round. Following day, death. Death and many, many Kit Kats.
2. Watched Kendo
For those of you out of the loop, Kendo is a sport in which highly padded young Japanese men (and, more recently, women) in baggy trousers take to each other with bamboo swords while screaming at the top of their lungs. I witnessed it as part of a sports day, in which five Sapporo Senior High schools met at various locations to indulge in various sweaty pursuits (WATCHING was a sweaty pursuit). My high school being of the academic bent, participation is a matter of honour more than competition - future physicists and biologists do not great baseballers make. But the Japanese attitude is one of optimism and eternal eagerness and so even anticipation of ultimate failure does not dull their enthusiam (possibly would have been more successful netballer/waterpolo-er/tennisplayer/human being in general if had had same attitude. Alack). It is quite something to see the students, so earnestly subdued in the classroom, attack as though they want to cut the other in half and dance amongst the entrails. The oral aspect is as much a part of the sport as the physical, and so the noise is deafening when the competition takes place in a high school gym. Despite the violence of the sport, it is beautiful to watch, like a dance. And they look like something out of a samurai movie - Tom Cruise, but without the cripplingly embarrassing awfulness.
3. Visited Parks
This may sound like nothing out of the ordinary, but for the past week, hemmed in by highrises, I had been craving greenery and water. I would show anyone who could be coralled into it, the location of my family home in Devonport, stranded at the end of a peninsula, in order to justify my longing for the coast. Sapporo is essentially landlocked - two hours dirve to the nearest port feels like an impossibility when you a. can`t drive and b. don`t know anyone with a car. So I asked for recommendations and ended up, on Saturday and Sunday respectively, in Nakajima Coen and Maruyama Coen (coen being the Japanese word for park, congratulations on your newfound biological bi-lingualism). And these parks, despite being stranded in the middle of the city and surrounded on all sides by train stations and convenience stores, are truly beautiful. Nakajima Coen boasts a lake, whilst Maruyama Coen contains both a zoo and the Hokkaido Shrine, all of which I dragged boyfriend around. Visiting these parks felt like leaving the fifth biggest city in Japan behind and getting back to something familiar, something green. Although it was the weekend, the parks were not busy, and it was a zen and soothing experience. I felt more myself after visiting them (typically, feel more affinity with NZ landscape and beauty now that have left it behind, must address this tendency to be constantly contradictory). Even with crows visibily scoping out babies with a view to lining their nests therewith and the heat slowly squeezing my brain out of my pores, the discovery of this (albeit limited) nature in Sapporo made me feel all the more a proud resident.
4. Purchased laxatives
Those of you unfortunate enough to know me well will know that my digestive system is the bane of my existence. It does what it likes. It is like a petulant child with ADD. It rejects all kinds of good food on a whim (an URGENT whim) and witholds white bread like a ransom. The day finally came when my body had jealously guarded all input for no less than six days (yes, gross, you were warned) and a Japanese chemist needed to be visited. Here, at this essential juncture, my faithful phrase book failed me. This small blue book, shamelessly stolen from boyfriend, has accompanied me everywhere and furnished me with such phrases as `May I have stamps please?` and `Don`t touch me!` (awkward moment in which to stop, open handbag, rummage around and turn to contents page, but). Though it contains such gems as `rash`, `pedicure` and `oxygen treatment`, at no point therein did the publisher see fit to provide the traveller with the translation for `laxative`. As such, I was forced to enter the chemist, approach the smiling older woman behind the counter and announce, with zero fanfare `I am constipated`. To her credit, she did not pause nor laugh. Even though I`m sure I was the highlight of her day and the subject of ruthless subsequent dinner party conversation, she swiftly provided me with what I needed. The box was, of course, all in Japanese, so I think it is some testament to my faith in human nature and the extent of my stomach pain that I blindly swallowed three of the hot pink pills (laxatives here are pretty, the results less so). Had been told that Japanese medication was weaker in dosage than Western, so general rule of thumb was to double intake. Can faithfully now inform the reader that this was not good advice with regard to this particular product. One or two would have sufficed. More than sufficed. Three led to a fifty minute sojourn and the use of nearly a whole roll of toilet paper in our unventilated bathroom. Such a waste of the delicious Pad Thai boyfriend had created for dinner.
(LOL).
(Am feeling much better now, thanks for asking).
Think that this post has degenerated ever so slightly. No need for bathroom humour. And as I have unadulterated internet access today, it is a great occasion to catch up on news of the world and favourite blogs. And Bejewled Blitz.
Will let you know tomorrow whether skinny, awkward Japanese-man`s knicker drawer investigation bore fruit in the form of wireless internet access. Fingers crossed. Also, for your future reading pleasure, will be my first experience of a professional Japanese baseball game. Stay tuned.
In the meantime, those of you in NZ, have a beautiful first day of spring and spare a thought for those who long for grass (the underfoot, rather than underhand, kind).
Saturday, August 28, 2010
This post is about my iphone
...and as only a few of you will know (shamelessly smug) typing extensively on the small screen is awkward, cramped and probably arthritis inducing. So this post is nothing but a WASP-ish wireless demonstration of the extent of my means in Japan. As I am currently still in bed, it was also written naked.
More on Monday when I am more appropriately shod and have access to both keyboard and chair.
Have a wonderful Sunday.
Heaps of love,
iScarlett
More on Monday when I am more appropriately shod and have access to both keyboard and chair.
Have a wonderful Sunday.
Heaps of love,
iScarlett
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