Following Our Own Old Footsteps

Last weekend Bob, the kids and I made a trip...nay, perhaps even a pilgrimage....back to Nagoya. And, as our trip back to our home away from home away from home progressed, we found ourselves revisiting those places and people that defined--and keep defining--our lives in Japan, starting with....

Kozoji Buddies

We stayed with our lovely friend Sue, her delightful husband and their two girls, ages 11 and 12, who had bravely offered floor and bed space. It was 1:30pm on Saturday by the time we landed upon Sue's doorstep. The grown folks hugged each other, the adults hugged the kids, and the kids muttered and avoided eye contact. Within a heartbeat Sue had our overnight bags stowed in her genkan (entryway), and had all 8 of us wedged into their minivan.

We soon pulled up to a noodle and tonkatsu restaurant owned by one of Sue's neighborhood friends. We stepped beneath the noren curtain in the doorway, and were quickly led to two 4 person tables. With cheery determination, Sue soon had the four kids sharing a table, while we four adults settled into our own table. Peeking across at Patrick and Aya, I saw that they had pulled out their ipods, and were commiserating with Sue's girls over various games. With a quick word from Sue, her eldest daughter pulled out the menu (all in Japanese), and with her sister began translating various dishes into English so that Patrick and Aya could order.

While the kids selected various combinations of noodles and katsu (fried pork cutlets), all four adults opted for some Nagoya specialties that never disappoint--misokatsu (fried pork cutlets with a thick dark miso sauce, on this day served on a bed of steamed rice) and kisshimen (wide, udon-style noodles, served cold with a cup of dipping sauce). Four years previously, on a chilly autumn night, Sue and I had visited this very restaurant, and had savored huge bowls of steaming curry udon--thick white udon noodles swimming in a thick curry sauce. Now, so many years later, I was ecstatic to find that the food was as delectable as I had remembered.

When we were all stuffed to the gills, we waddled out the door, repeatedly bowing and assuring our hosts "gochiso sama deshita"---that it was a wonderful feast.

Gakuden, Peruvian Friends and, Oh my, the Chicken

On the heels of returning to Sue's house (around 3:00pm), we had to turn around and catch the train again, this time bound for Gakuden, where we were to meet some of Bob's former Peruvian students for a mini-reunion and dinner. Getting to Gakuden via train is considerably more time-consuming than going by car. In the past we had always been able to drive to Gakuden--which took about 30 minutes. Going via train meant taking a JR train to Nagoya station, catching the subway, and then catching another train bound for Gakuden itself. An hour and a half long process. I suddenly missed our car.

We were to meet Bob's students at a neighborhood community center. We hopped off the train and wound our way through narrow streets toward the center. Huge, new houses sat cheek-to-cheek with tiny and ancient mud-and-straw walled relics and blocks of apartment buildings. Soon enough we were entering the community center's familiar air-conditioned expanse of study tables and activity areas. Bob's students started trickling in, joining us on the patched and worn vinyl couches that faced a bank of windows. When all five students had arrived, we took a short walk to their old elementary school, where Bob had spent so many hours with them, translating between Spanish and Japanese. Bob and his former students circled the building, chatting in a rapid mix of Spanish and Japanese, with Patrick, Aya and I trailing behind, letting them reminisce. When the sun started sliding lower in the sky, we all headed back towards the main street, towards our long-awaited dinner at the sole Peruvian restaurant, La Casa Vieja.

La Casa Vieja, owned by a local Peruvian family, was one of our favorite dinner spots when we had lived in Japan four years ago. The restaurant itself is small, with a simple main door and a small lit sign advertising the name of the restaurant. On either side of the door are three huge industrial roasting machines, each containing perhaps 40 or 50 roasting whole chickens. The entire parking lot is regularly awash in the rich aroma of the spiced chicken. As we approached, one of the owners recognized Bob and came over to give him a brisk hug. The man ducked his head into the doorway and called out a woman--perhaps his wife--who grinned broadly as she recognized Bob, the kids and I, and scurried in to put together enough tables so that the nine of us could eat.

The inside of the restaurant is as unassuming as the outside. The brightly lit interior of the restaurant is taken up largely by groups of rectangular formica tables and vinyl chairs. To the right of the door is a serving counter, behind which are banks of video tapes in dark brown boxes--taped Peruvian shows and movies available for rental. One wall is taken up with a huge TV, while the other walls have a collection of Peruvian posters and smaller mementos. It is cheerful and welcoming, simple and relaxing, and from the steady stream of people coming in and out, was obviously a favorite local spot.

We ordered their specialty--pollo a la brasa. Looking at the array of teenagers in front of us, Bob and I opted to over-order rather than under-order, and asked for 3 orders of chicken. While we waited for our food, conversation flowed quickly in a mish mash of Spanish, Japanese and even English, as Bob's students--who studied English as part of their regular classes--posed various simple questions to Patrick and Aya.

Soon 3 large platters were set upon our table, along with baskets of cutlery and plates. On each large platter was a bed of crispy thin french fries, a whole roasted chicken, cut up into 8 pieces, and a salad of crisp lettuce and cabbage, topped with a light dressing. The food was delicious, fresh, simple and was eagerly and quickly devoured by all of us, the teenagers taking in thirds and fourths. We ordered Inca Cola--a neon-yellow, intensely-caffeinated bubble gum flavored Peruvian soda--to wash everything down.

When the platters were picked clean and the empty soda bottles gathered together, we paid the bill, bid our goodbyes, and waddled down the street, Bob's students behind us, chattering happily in the unique mix of Spanish and Japanese that my mind will always associate with Gakuden's lovely Peruvian people.

Osu Kannon Flea Market

When we lived in Nagoya, one of my favorite places to hunt down affordable pieces of Japanese history was the Osu Kannon Flea Market. This flea market happens, rain or shine, on the 28th of each month. Early in the morning on flea market day, the broad open area in front of the towering crimson Osu Kannon Temple fills with antique sellers of all kinds. Crowds of people from every background and walk of life mingle, shoulder to shoulder, fingering, bartering, admiring and exchanging yen beneath blue and green tarps and awnings.

I was overjoyed that this visit of ours to Nagoya would overlap a flea market day. Bob was spending Sunday as a guest teacher for the free Spanish classes in Gakuden (a continuing event, started by Bob 6 years ago, for Peruvian children whose parents wanted them to maintain their Spanish language skills). This left Patrick, Aya and I free to go to the flea market for a few hours, giving Sue and her family an opportunity to focus their weekend time on themselves.

Patrick and Aya were admittedly unenthusiastic about the prospect of wandering around in the blistering summer heat to shop for "old stuff" as they put it, but for lack of anything better to do, they joined me.

Once at the flea market, I had to exert extreme self control, rather than dash away into the stalls, leaving my less-than-joyous children behind. While I admired old photographs, carved wooden masks and painted scrolls, Patrick and Aya dutifully trudged behind me. I bought what I had been looking for--namely, a painted scroll to hang in our tokonoma (a recessed alcove designed for scrolls and ikebana flower arrangements, and a common addition to most Japanese houses). The scroll I selected (at 1500 yen, or about $20) was edged in gold silk, and featured an ink rendering of a distant mountain vista. The older gentleman who sold me the scroll added a second scroll "on the house", as he put it. The free scroll--a portrait of a Japanese man from the Meiji era--needed significant repair. However, I was not one to look a gift scroll in the mouth, and thanked the man, bowing my way out.

I turned around to survey the sweaty faces of Patrick and Aya, and elected to follow them to a nearby used clothing store. Although none of the shops t-shirts appealed to Patrick, Aya found 2 floaty shirts for 700 yen each--a bargain indeed. With all of us dripping sweat, it was time to head back down into the cool underground tunnels that led to the subway, and back to Sue's house.

Miyamoto Merriment

Back at Sue's, and reunited with Bob, we changed clothes, freshened our faces, and headed back out to nearby Kozoji Station. We were meeting our friends, brothers Kaz and Hiro, along with Kaz' new wife and baby. They were to pick us up at the station so we could all go out together for dinner.

Our evening started out like a comedy sketch. We waited patiently on the North side of the station near the "Mister Donut" shop, watching buses and taxis circle past. The possibility that we could be on the wrong side of the station occurred to us within a few minutes, so Bob and Patrick headed to the other side of the station. Lo and behold, Kaz called me and verified that, yes, indeed, we were on the wrong side of the station. However, by this time, Bob and Patrick had emerged on the South side, had not seen Kaz, and had left to return to Aya and I. Upon their return, I had Bob call Kaz back and verify his location, after which we all finally headed to the South side of the station where, indeed, they were awaiting our arrival.

Kaz and Hiro were instantly dumbfounded at how much Patrick and Aya had grown, and seemed utterly delighted to see all of us. We bowed and greeted Kaz' wife, Hiromi. Their 16 month old son took one look at us, however, and burst into tears. Ah well. Three out of four happy receptions are pretty good.

They had brought 2 cars, so Bob went with Kaz, Hiromi and the baby, while Patrick, Aya and I joined Hiro. We wound through the darkened streets, talking easily, until we came to a small Italian restaurant. Kaz had reserved a table for us, so we quickly settled around the long, low table as Kaz and Hiro began perusing the menu and the baby hid his eyes in Hiromi's shoulder.

Soon enough, food started arriving. Evidently Kaz and Hiro had ordered the entire menu, because food of all kinds kept coming. Bowls of Spinach, green bean and bacon salad, appetizers of avocado and caviar spread upon french bread rounds, several kinds of pizza, platters of spaghetti and risotto. Our glasses of ginger ale and soda were refilled before we could refuse or even notice Kaz motioning to the waitress.

Kaz and Hiro filled our plates first, ignoring our efforts to get them to eat as well. However, soon enough we were all full of delicious food, and relaxing.

The baby--Shosuke--gradually lifted his eyes to peer at me over his mother's shoulder. I surveyed the table for some ice-breaker ideas, and rested my eyes upon the basket of chopsticks and spoons that lay near me. The next time Shosuke peered at me, I slowly took a spoon out of the basket and lay it on the table within his reach--for there is nothing as irresistible to a 16 month old as putting things into, and taking them out of, boxes. Sure enough, he shyly reached out a hand and grabbed the spoon. I took another spoon out of the box and put it in the same spot. And again, he grabbed that spoon, looked confused for second, then put the first spoon back in the box. So we continued, taking spoons and chopsticks out of the box only to return them again.

After this alluring game, it was only a matter of minutes before he was playing with all of us...and in the process scattering across our sitting area blocks, spoons, chopsticks, and ice cubes. At one point he squealed with joy, grabbed the hanging black decorative curtain separating our table from the next one, and yanked half the curtain out of its rings near the ceiling. Luckily, the rings were clips, and it was a matter of a few seconds for the waitress to repair the damage.

The rest of the evening was spent basically worshipping Shosuke. Hiromi convinced Aya to feed him some dessert--in this case, raspberry sorbet. Pictures were taken, desserts of various types were devoured--cheesecake, yellow cake and in Bob's case, a type of Italian custard. We might have stayed at the restaurant all night, progressively startling more and more fellow diners, except that Shosuke tripped and knocked his chin on the table. As he began crying, this seemed like an ideal time to start packing away the mess we had made.

As I had expected, Kaz and Hiro had no intention of letting us pay anything towards the dinner, and hushed me up, as they have done many times before, when I quietly tried to contribute. With stomachs and hearts full, we got into the cars and turned back through the steaming dark streets towards the station once again.

...of course, there were many other lovely nuances on our trip. Relaxing with Sue and Makoto. Visiting NIS (Nagoya International School) and meeting up with friends and teachers once again. Driving past our old house and visiting the nearby park where Patrick and Aya used to play.

When we finally returned to Kyoto, I think it is safe to say that we were exhausted...but in the best way. And soon, we'll be ready to do it all over again.

Different? Not So Much.

As usual, I was the first person awake yesterday---mostly because someone had to be the one to get the recycling out to the pick up spot before 8am. So why not me?

I gathered up the clanking cans into the regulation clear bag with green writing, and toted them past yellow-capped students heading out to elementary school. As I saw the children passing with their red and black randoseru (leather book satchels required for all elementary school kids), their kiroo boshi (yellow hats all elementary students are required to wear for safety as they walk to and from school), and dangling water bottles, I was taken back in my mind to 5 years ago, when it was Patrick and Aya shrugging on their own randoseru, their own kiroo boshi perched on their heads. I remembered their two blonde haired heads bobbing in a sea of dark hair as they walked with their neighborhood group to school.

Then I snapped back to the here and now, the plastic bag heavy in my hand.

I deposited the bag neatly atop the small mountain of other plastic bags, and turned to walk back to our house. Neighbors coming out their doors to spray water on sidewalks or deposit their own recycling bowed their heads at me with slight smiles on their faces.

It was reassuring to no longer be on the receiving end of stares and whispers. Not that I wasn't used to it by now, this being my 3rd time living in Japan. But it is always nice to move past that stage of being a curiosity, and instead just be a neighbor about whom others are simply curious.

There is a difference.

Once back inside our genkan (the cement entry way just inside the door where one removes their shoes), I went into the kitchen to make myself breakfast.

I opened our terribly tall refrigerator and took out the plastic containers of leftover bimbimbap ingredients from the previous night's dinner.

Seasoned beef. Salted cucumber slices. Lightly simmered and seasoned bean sprouts and carrots. Two brown eggs.

I stepped sideways to lift the lid of the rice cooker...yes, there was even leftover rice. I got a dark brown ceramic bowl, layered in rice and beef, and slid the bowl into the microwave.

Then I turned to the stove and lit the gas burner under my favorite frying pan. As I poured a bit of oil into the pan, Bob came loping down the stairs. He glanced at me, bleary eyed, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

I cracked an egg into the pan.

I did a double take.

"Bob, come over here".

I could hear and feel his footfalls as he stepped behind me and said "Whoa".

The egg had 2 yolks.

Granted one of the yolks had broken a bit as it made its escape from the shell. But there they were. Two yolks. One egg.

Now I know eggs can have 2 yolks. But this was the first time one had ever graced my frying pan. I was tempted to stand and admire it for awhile, but there was another whole egg to break and fry, so I cracked the other egg into the pan while Bob hunted down his iphone to snap a picture of what he affectionately called the "twin egg".

With the "twin egg" captured in picture form, I retrieved my rice and beef from the microwave, topped it with cucumbers, bean sprouts and carrots, and slid the eggs onto the top.

A sprinkle of soy sauce, a dab of bimbimbap sauce.

Breakfast.

And you know, for all it's difference from other eggs, that twin egg tasted just as an egg should taste. Eggy.

Which just goes to show you....what we perceive as odd, strange or weird, might not be all that different after all.

3 Tastes of the Week Behind Us

First off, I'd like to apologize for the decrease in my blogness. Now that I have stepped fully into my online teacher responsibilities, I am predicting a once-a-week blog. Sad, but true.

This week's blog is a three course sampler of the past week or so, as we slowly crawl out of our re-entry to Japan newness and ease into a constantly changing approximation of a "normal" life.

1. Avoiding Teacher Brain Atrophy

Early last week I enjoyed a Skype call from my lovely Nagoya friend Sue. And in the course of our ridiculous ramblings and reconnecting of old friendship ties, she mentioned that my former school and employer--Nagoya International School--was hosting a literacy and writing workshop the next weekend, August 13th and 14th, and wouldn't it be grand and glorious if I could find a way to attend.

So Bob and I poked around our finances for a bit and decided that yes, I could attend. So on Friday night, I packed up an overnight bag, tucked large sums of yen into my wallet, and set out on foot for the 15 minute walk to our local subway station. The subway connected me to Kyoto Station, from there I took the bullet train ("Shinkansen") for 39 minutes to Nagoya, and then a 20 minute local JR train ride out to our old home stop of Kozoji. My friend Sue lives exactly a 1 minute walk from Kozoji station. Just a few footfalls and I was in front of her door once again.

The whole trip took me about an hour and a half, which I found lovely and bittersweet by turns. Lovely because the bullet train metamorphosed a 3 hour car ride into a 39 minute train zoom. Bittersweet because I was harboring a teeny spark of hope that it could be possible to commute from Kyoto to Nagoya, should a job magically appear there. Alas, an hour and a half commute (costing, by the way, a total of around 6500 yen one way) was not my idea of sanity.

But I digress.

To make a long story shorter, it was comfortable and soothing being back in Nagoya, at NIS, reconnecting with teachers I hadn't seen in 4 years. The workshop was fantastic, and exactly what my jello-ish mind needed to keep that teaching spark aflame. And of course, getting back together with my wacky and wonderful friend Sue, as well as with her lovely family, was the icing and sprinkles on the cake. After the first day of the conference Sue drove me around to old haunts--past our old house, through our old neighborhood, stopping at our old Starbucks hangout at the local department store for some frosty iced coffee drinks. This trip back to Nagoya made me realize that Nagoya had become my real home away from home, and that I'd have to work extra hard to get the same feeling about Kyoto. However, it was nice to know that, should my Japan vibe need some jump starting, I was less than 2 hours away from a fantastic battery.

2. Jumping into Virtual Learning with both Virtual Feet

This week also marked the beginning of the school year for Patrick and Aya. It has taken most of this week for both kids to really get acclimated to online learning and to being home schooled, and has not been without its share of balking, confusion, whining and hair yanking. (These are just MY reactions--the kids mainly communicated their ire with various unpleasant facial expressions and loud book-related noises.)

This homeschooling experience has already caused me to have a few revelations--which my homeschooling friends will no doubt get a chuckle out of at my expense. However, I have been a classroom teacher for 20 years, so being on the other side of the educational table, so to speak, holds certain enlightenments for me. Freedom of movement--a large component of Montessori education but slightly less so in a regular classroom, especially in upper grades--is a big plus, as the kids are free to drape their bodies on any furniture that appeals to them as they read and study. Permission is not needed to go to the bathroom, nor to get a drink of water (heck, or a glass of juice! Let's go wild!) or some crackers. Subjects can be studied in a variety of sequences and even times, as long as the work gets done.

The biggest plus, as well as the saddest sacrifice specifically for us here in Kyoto, has been the absence of the social aspect. The lack of classmates and friends is something felt keenly by both Patrick and Aya as they try to adjust to a new country and city where they know no one except for Bob and I. However the absence of classmates is also allowing them to concentrate on their studies to a tremendous degree, without the distractions of gossip/clothing/makeup/sports/whispering/note-swapping/teasing (the list goes on). The result of all this is that both Patrick and Aya are able to take in information and complete assignments with much greater success than back in California.

Only time will tell whether the drawbacks will outweigh the benefits of this new endeavor. For now, I'm going to continue to enjoy their progress, and keep my eye out for opportunities for my kids to find some buddies.....before they drive us utterly batty.

3. Daimonji Gozan Okuribi

Tuesday evening we ventured out into the thick, moist twilight, making the 20 minute walk from our tiny street to the banks of the Kamo River. It was August 16th, the week of Obon. Obon, for those of you who do not know, is the time when departed ancestors are supposed to come back home. At this time of year, all the trains are packed with people traveling across Japan, back to their ancestral family homes. There, they clean their ancestors' graves, visit with relatives and attend Bon Odori festivals, where people dance and celebrate. Lanterns or fires are often lit towards the end of Obon, symbolizing the return of the ancestral spirits back to the spirit realm.

In Kyoto, the spirits are sent on their way in a very memorable, traditional and beautiful way. At 8pm, on the 5 mountains surrounding Kyoto, huge kanji characters are set aflame on the sides of each mountain. The characters are:

Daimonji (大文字), meaning "large" or "great"

Myo/Ho (妙・法) meaning "wondrous dharma"

Funagata (舟形), which is the shape of a boat

Hidari Daimonji (左大文字), another character meaning "large"

Torigata (鳥居形), which is the shape of a torii, or shrine gate

The first fire (and the only one we could see clearly) formed the character "Daimonji". From our vantage point by the Kamo River, we could see this character slowly appear, smaller fires joining together until the side of the mountain was brilliantly lit with the single character 大. After that, every 5 minutes another character came to life on another mountain, until by 8:30pm all of the mountains were glowing.

All around us were perhaps thousands of people, lined up along the river all the way into downtown Kyoto, perched on the tops of buildings, ensconced in expensive hotel rooftop restaurants and penthouses--all gathered to witness the symbolic departure of their loved one's spirits back to the spirit realm for another year.

For me, Obon has a special significance, as it shares its week with my brother's birthday. I like to think his spirit took a little detour, just for a few minutes, and joined me along that dark river, watching distant hills glow with fire.

Seeing Hanabi--With 10,000 of our Closest Buddies

I'd like to thank all of you for putting up with my last whiny post. I do try not to whine too much, but sometimes the whining builds up to a pinnacle of whininess until it explodes out ... in my case, into a blog. So sorry.

As your reward for suffering through my whining I shall get back to sharing the wonders of Kyoto with you. Yahoo.

Last night (which was Wednesday), Bob, the kids and I set off to go to a small Kyoto suburb called Uji to see a summer fireworks ("hanabi") show. The show was set to start at 7:45pm and end around 8:45pm. One hour. Nice and compact and easy. (Fireworks shows we have seen in Japan in the past have lasted 2 or 3 hours, and resulted in permanent flash echoes in our eyes for hours afterward)

So we set off from our house for the 15-minute walk to our local subway station. 3 minutes from the house and we were all dripping sweat. I was carrying my requisite summer humidity weaponry—namely a small brightly colored towel (for sweat dabbing) and a folding fabric fan (to frantically thrash in front of my face so as to create a cooling breeze). Bob had his requisite long neck towel for sweat absorption. Patrick loped along, mysteriously sweat free in his long jeans and sneakers. Aya plodded along, discreetly dabbing at her neck now and then, cheeks blazing red.

We arrived at the subway station and purchased tickets to our next transfer point, Kyoto station.

All was well.

At Kyoto station, we transferred from the subway to the JR line, which goes above-ground to the more rural or remote areas. We purchased more tickets and started for track 10, to board a train bound for Nara.

This is when things started to get ... well ... I'm not sure I have enough adjectives for it all.

We reached track 10 at a run, since our train was set to leave within minutes and we only had 30 minutes until the fireworks were set to start.

The train platform was packed—packed, smashed, overflowing—with humans. Young Japanese women in summer yukata and ornately coiffed hair. Young Japanese men in creatively decorated and shredded jeans and t-shirts emblazoned with odd stylish English phrases. Grandparents and parents with young children. Babies. Here and there fellow foreigners. Businessmen, shopping-bagged women coming from spending sprees.

And the train? Bodies were falling out the doors. Every millimeter of space in each train car was taken up with a body part of some sort. Dozens of train agents stood, shooing people here and there, extracting overflowing bodies that were dangling out of train doors. We scooted from car to car, looking for a spot in which to cram ourselves. Aya, not at all keen on the prospect of getting smashed against strangers, began softly griping. Patrick was muttering as he ran.

We finally gave up and went to track 8, where another train was set to leave in 10 minutes. Track 8 was also crowded—although less so—with a similar assortment of people, but the train had not yet arrived, so we felt hopeful.

With a whoosh of tepid air the train pulled up—fairly empty, much to our delight. We got into the first car and stood directly under an oscillating fan that was suspended in a cage in the train car's ceiling. Out the front window, past the conductor's cab, we could see the track stretching off into the night.

And all was good. With a lurch and a squeal the train lumbered off.

Aha, but this was a local train, which meant it stopped at every micro-station along the way. It also meant that in the outskirts of the towns, where there was one track with side switches to accomodate passing trains, we had the short end of the stick and had to wait while faster express trains roared past us.

Minutes ticked by. More celebrants and random people got on at each stop, until the four of us were smashed against the glass separating the passengers from the train conductor. A young Japanese man chewed a McDonald's cheeseburger in my left ear while his giggling, hot pink yukata clad female companion tried to tickle his neck. It was all very romantic.

More minutes ticked by. 7:45pm came and went. Bob squeezed his arms up and tried to get his iPhone to load a live feed of the fireworks show.

At 8:10pm we started slowing and pulling into Uji station. The train tracks near Uji are raised above ground level, so we could look down onto the narrow streets of Uji.

Below us, thousands, THOUSANDS, THOUSANDS of people were packed on streets lined with festival food booths. Glowing blue, yellow, pink and red yukatas dotted a sea of dark haired heads. A barely perceptible blur of thousands of waving fans seemed to buzz through the crowds. There were so many people that I could not see the ground beneath their feet. I could not see the fronts of the food booths or the shops along the streets.

Aya's head spun around to look at me, wide-eyed "We're going into THAT?!" she gasped.

Even if we wanted to stay on the train, we had no choice but to be swept away on a shoulder-to-shoulder tide of humanity, swept up the stairs, past the ticket taking station clerks. All around us were station employees wielding megaphones, which bellowed and squeaked instructions and information to the crowd at decibels that threatened to shatter my glasses, if not my ear drums. Patrick kept muttering "geez. GEEZ" while Aya, wide eyed and slightly freaked out, grabbed my wrist in a pointy-nailed death grip, in an effort not to get separated from at least one of us.

We were expelled, sweaty and with megaphone imprecations ringing in our ears, onto the street in front of the station. We gathered together and made our way to a human-covered grass strip on one side. Directly in front of us over the nearby river, massive fireworks exploded and roared.

A side note, I know how patriotic fireworks make all of us Yankee Doodles feel. The booming music, the shower of light and fire. Very American. Heart swelling. I agree.

But I have to tell you, our little Fourth of July fireworks shows back at home are a drop in the bucket compared to the fireworks here folks. These aren't just fireworks. They are layered paintings, done in fire. Not one weeping willow shower of yellow and blue, but dozens of them, layered on each other. Red and orange concentric circles popping one on top of the other. Relentless repetitions of what we would call "the finale." Even arriving late to the show as we did, the variety and complexity of fireworks dazzled our eyes. For half an hour, both kids forgot their thirst. Aya forgot that she wanted a snack. I forgot that my feet were ready to melt into puddles of aching goo.

Lovely.

Once the fireworks had definitely ended however, both kids remembered they were hungry and thirsty. We made our way to a 7-11 convenience store (one place where we can get money from an ATM without being charged a service fee), to get money and sustenance. However, there were so many people jammed into the store that they had moved all their magazine racks right in front of the ATM machines.

No ATM, no cash.

No cash, no goodies.

No goodies, no peace (you parents out there know this routine, I am sure).

We considered wandering around for a bit, but quite frankly, with 10,000 people filling every nook and cranny of Uji, wandering was something that just wasn't going to happen. Perhaps moist shuffling would be the best we could hope for.

So, with just enough money for our return tickets home, we made our way around to the other side of the station where thousands of people were crammed, 10 bodies across, into neat, noisy lines aimed for the station and train rides back home. Yellow plastic "caution" tape marked off the sides of the line-up area, and every 5 feet or so there was a station agent with a megaphone, blaring out instructions once again.

Patrick and Bob, standing head and shoulders above most of the people around us, began heckling each other with mock megaphone instructions that were only slightly less obvious than the actual ones a police officer repeated every few minutes. "Listen everyone!" Bob hooted "You are in a line! I repeat, you are in a line!" to which Patrick would cackle, "Remember, it is crowded here. Very crowded! Don't forget this!" Aya, intent on not losing us, while at the same time trying to see everything and everyone, largely ignored this nonsense.

As for me, I tried to pretend I was not with Bob and Patrick—a feat made difficult since Patrick kept calling me "mom" and Bob kept cackling, "Oh, Christina doesn't approve! No no! Naughty!"

We finally made our way, along with the rest of humanity, up the stairs, purchased our tickets and heaved ourselves up to the train platform where we were once again surged towards a train car. The first car we tried to get into was full to bursting. Station agents waved us to the next car, and then the next, where we finally smashed ourselves into a narrow strip just inside the door, with Patrick's nose barely skimming the rubber door seals where the 2 doors slid shut.

This trip, back to Kyoto station, was just as crowded, but there was an air of relaxed submission in the air. Everyone was overheated, crowded. Everyone was smashed up against a stranger. The train lurched and swayed away from the station, sending most of us not in seats careening into each other. At the next station, 2 young Japanese women got on the train. Their flower-festooned yukata were wrinkled and their heavily chemically treated hair tangled into a messy nest, they looked unsteady on their feet. In a total breach of proper Japanese train manners, both of them slid onto the floor in front of the exit doors, and proceeded to doze, taking up as much space as 3 or 4 of the adults standing around them. All around them incredulous faces turned, eyes quickly scanning the collapsed bodies on the floor before looking quickly away.

Bob, always the sociologist and always out to spot a broken norm, pulled up his camera and began taking pictures, much to the muted delight of several of our fellow passengers.

From here, however, the excitement started waning. We reached Kyoto Station and tumbled off the train, stopping at a Mister Donut shop to spend our spare change on sustenance for our children. By this time it was 10:30pm. We made our way back to the subway tracks, and from there into refreshingly and beautifully empty subway train cars back to our local station.

It was a long, hot walk back home. But, as is always the case after a frantic trip out, behind the tired feet and buzzing megaphone ears, was the gathering of another experience here in Japan.

Of course, we may not ever be able to convince Aya and Patrick to board another crowded train ... but then again, we might. We have learned to expect the unexpected.

Until next time.

Virtual Bureaucracy

Hello all...

I know you were wondering when we'd get to this point in the blog: the teaching and education part. Well, your wait is over, for we are here.

For those of you who haven't had the good fortune to witness first-hand my virtual academy enrollment joy, let me bring you up to speed.

Back in November Bob flew out to Kyoto for 4 days for in-person interviews with Ritsumeikan University. That was when we realized that a move back to Japan for this job could become a reality. So I went into my usual hyper-spaz mode: I repeatedly visited websites for various international schools in and around Kyoto. I also researched alternate routes for making sure Patrick and Aya's collective brains did not turn to mush.

The sad truth of the matter: the only way we would be able to afford sending Patrick and Aya to an international school was if I was also working full-time. Without my income and/or job benefits at a school, it was a no-can-do situation.

I narrowed down my job prospects to two schools (not that there are so very many international schools to choose from here, mind you). Osaka International School and Kyoto International School. Off went the applications.

Alas and alack....no job offers.

So I went to my next plan: homeschooling through an on-line program. I pumped friends for information, cast my fishing line upon the internet sea, and came up with the best option: a "virtual academy" , which was teamed up with one of the local school districts. I emailed and called and applied and called and emailed some more. I filled out paperwork and more paperwork and voila. Patrick and Aya were enrolled.

And all was lovely and beautiful in the land of Christina's mind. One major worry--namely the education of the kids-- was checked off my list. Let's all dance and sing.

Fast forward, if you please, to now. We are on the cusp of starting the virtual academy school year. I am the teacher, or "learning coach" as they put it.

I am a teacher who is missing half of her curriculum.

And teachers are not happy when they are missing half of their curriculum.

And teachers who have previously taught early elementary for 20 years, and who are now facing teaching junior high kids are especially not happy when missing curriculum.

You get my point.

Now, I want to stipulate, the local school folks back in California have been polite and helpful.

Likewise, the Customer Service folks with the virtual academy have been polite and mostly helpful.

And from what I have examined from Aya's curriculum (the half we DID receive), the materials are high quality and challenging.

But somewhere in the ether between virtual academy ordering folks and shipping folks, chaos is reigning supreme.

For it was only after we arrived in Japan, fully enrolled, did I discover that the virtual academy DOES NOT SHIP DIRECTLY TO JAPAN. Wont' do it. Can't do it. Something all tied up with the local school district we are enrolled in and funding and I know not what all.

Around mid-July just after we arrived, I logged on to the intricate website and discovered that Aya's materials had been put on order.

I noted also that no one had corrected our addresses--so the materials were still set to be delivered to Davis, rather than to our permanent address/mother-in-law's house (which is NOT in Davis. Just in case you were wondering).

So, still feeling confident, I called the virtual academy. The polite but rather befuddled-sounding man on the phone said he could redirect THIS shipment, but I'd have to have a teacher update my information. Once this was done, I started gently prodding him with questions about shipping to Japan, which totally threw him for a loop. There was babbling. It was not pretty.

Aya's book shipment arrived at my mother-in-law's house. Two 25 pound boxes that had each caved in on one end. My poor mother-in-law had to have them repacked (especially since one contained a microscope) and sent on to us. $300.

I renewed my efforts to try to bring order to shipping chaos. I called the virtual academy people again to little avail.....I kept getting the same sentence "we cannot ship to Japan".

I emailed local school district people, who kindly updated my addresses and offered to take up the shipping slack.

However, since it is summer break, my emails are being answered sporadically...which, normally would not bother me, except that Patrick's books have not even been placed on order yet. With 2 weeks shipping time needed for each order, our time is running out.

And even with the school district's lovely offer to have the shipments directed to them (after which they would re-send them to us), I have not yet been able to get anyone to update our shipping address.

Meanwhile, last week, my mother-in-law received two 40 pound boxes, EACH of which contained A COMPLETE COMPUTER, INCLUDING 2 MONITORS. Let's do the math, shall we? My mother-in-law had, in her posession, 2 computers and 4 monitors, none of which we had requested, ordered or needed.

A small part of me thought it was very sporting of the virtual academy to be willing to supply computers as well. But since we already have plenty of computers, and since I had specified from the outset that we did not need computers, this part was getting tinier by the second.

Back on the phone I went. This time the customer service people were in their element: returning materials? No sweat! I have been informed that they will be sending my mother-in-law shipping labels, which she needs to slap onto the computer boxes, after which a nice Fed Ex person will pick up the offending boxes and cart them away.

And I felt relief that another weird crisis had been averted....

until the customer service lady said, in a lovely, lilting southern drawl

"oh, by the way, I am seeing here that 2 printers are on their way. Have your momma-in-law just refuse delivery".

Printers?! Two of them?

Sigh.

Don't worry...I'll keep you posted....

Until next time...

Once Upon a Tanabata

Once upon a time, there were two lovers. One was a weaver named "Orihime" (embodied by the star Vega) and the other was a cowherd named "Hikoboshi" (embodied by the star Altair). Sadly, these lovers are separated all year long by the Milky Way. They can only meet once a year--on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month (August).

The Tanabata Festival or "Star Festival" celebrates this single day when the two lovers can be together.

And that, my dear ones, is the bittersweet tale behind the Tanabata Festival.

Tonight, as the sun was going down, we left our air conditioned haven and ventured forth to seek out the local Tanabata festival.

But first, we had to find food. We walked a few blocks to a nearby main street (Horikawa-dori) and caught the number 12 bus towards the castle. We got off the bus, already sweaty in spite of the warm breeze, and wandered until we found a wide main road. We found a crowded ramen shop (crowds = a sign of good food, but as it was bursting with people, we had to move on), an empty okonomiyaki shop (empty shop= cause for culinary caution) , an incredibly expensive Japanese restaurant and finally backtracked to a small, brightly lit, fairly generic donburi and katsu shop.

Donburi are rice bowls with meat and other toppings. Katsu are crispy fried pork or chicken cutlets. At this particular spot, you peruse the menu, which was full of various "sets", meaning main dishes plus rice, miso soup, pickles and salad. Once you've made your decision, you go to a machine on the wall, push a button under the picture of your desired food, and feed money into the appropriate money slots. A ticket pops out. Waiters then come by, pick up your ticket, and a few minutes later come out with trays of food.

The food was not gourmet, but it was hot, fresh and plentiful. Nearly every table was full. And after earning a few curious glances at first from our fellow diners, we were in due time happily ignored. Which was dandy with us.

After finishing our meals, we wandered back up the street towards the bus stop. Just before reaching the main street, however, we came to a cement lined river cutting just below and to one side of the main road. Cobblestone walkways and patches of green grass and trees lined the river. Bridges, both decorative and functional arched overhead. And all along the river for perhaps 2 miles or more, there were Tanabata decorations and displays.

The cobblestone walkways were incredibly crowded. Between the heat and the press of the crowds, our teenage Tanabata explorers quickly became grumpy, no doubt missing the relative free range of movement and air conditioned comfort of our modest dwelling. We persevered, leading them along the wandering paths.

Tall bamboo branches, decorated with shining foil cutouts, tinkling metal bells and tightly tied Tanabata paper wishes, created forests that swam and waved above us.

These gave way to projected silhouette pictures, lit from behind and projected on the stone walls lining the river. After these were displays of intricately woven bamboo sculptures, some lit from within, other draped with silky fabric.

Along side us, in the dark shallow water, hundreds of glowing blue plastic balls floated like oversized bubbles.

We eventually came to a long tunnel of woven and arched bamboo. All along it's length of 100 feet or more were thousands of tiny lights. A brighter wide trail of lights cut a path along the top of the arch (this, I interpreted as the Milky Way). On one side of the wide path was a constellation, the connecting lines glowing blue and green (Orihime). On the other side of the wide path was another constellation, lines lit with reds (Hikoboshi). People were pressed tightly against us, their arms raised into the air with digital cameras and cell phones, some of them holding up curious small children, straining to see what all the fuss was about.

And then the pack of bodies loosened. We walked past the last display tables of Tanabata flyers, the last tents selling chips, soda and beer. We sweated our way up some side stairs and up onto a bridge, where we hung our sweating bodies over, our attention caught temporarily by a young cat, comfortably watching the fuss below him from below a bush.

The grumbling of our teenagers had given way to sweaty and rather sullen cooperation. Bob hailed a taxi, which dutifully took us to the edge of our tiny street.

And now, as we settle back into our air conditioning, resting our tired feet, I can't help but hope that Orihime and Hikoboshi had a sweet reunion, before retreating to their opposite sides of the Milky Way, apart for another year.

Drive in Japan? Yes I can!

Hello everyone.

Today's blog topic: drivers licenses. Specifically, Japanese driver's licenses. Even more specifically, MY Japanese driver's license.

Some of you will recall, during our last stay in Japan about 4 years ago, that I jubilantly acquired my Japanese driver's license on my first try (Not an easy feat. It's not the written test that gets you--it's the hands-on driving portion. Yowch.). And while I don't want to toot my own proverbial horn, I am a pretty sane driver, both in California and here in Japan.

My Japanese drivers license expired last December, on my birthday. But I was in California, so this was no big whoop.

However, once Bob accepted his current job, I knew the need to drive during this stay in Japan may arise.

I would need to renew.

Or--shudder--endure the whole testing process again.

And so off we went this morning--driver's license renewal a shining goal for the day.

A 15 minute walk to our closest subway station.

A 15 minute subway ride to Kyoto Station.

A 20 minute ride on another train line to Nagaokakyo Station.

A 20 minute bus ride to the end of the line at Menkyo Shikenjyo Mae.....

To end up--POOF--at the Japanese equivalent to the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles. Just making sure y'all got that...)

The Kyoto "DMV", as I like to affectionately call it, is housed in a sprawling gray cement building. To the immediate sides are parking areas. Behind it, the driving test course--basically, a set of city streets in miniature. Short streets with working traffic signals, strategically placed stop signs and cleverly situated speed limits, bridges, underpasses, overpasses and straightaways.

And inside the building, utter license magic. Or mayhem. Or both. I have not yet decided.

The first floor is mostly sectioned off into numbered windows and a dizzying array of side doors and hallways, all of it festooned with informational signs, largely in Japanese.

However, the first floor was not our destination. Our first stop was window 8 on the second floor. There Bob perused the kanji-laden signs atop baskets of forms, finally deciding on a white and orange form, upon which he wrote our new and old addresses in Japan. While he did this, I organized the other materials I'd need: my expired Japanese license, my current California license, my passport, my receipt for my Alien Registration Card (lovingly nicknamed "gaijin card" by most of us foreigners), and a strange green paper from our local ward office that, as far as I could see, proved I lived in Japan.

The clock struck 1pm (the second floor offices we needed were only open from 8:30-10:30am and from 1:00-3:30pm).

All around us grim faced drivers license seekers pressed in towards the windows. When our turn came, I handed my miscellaneous stack to a trim older man in a crisply pressed blue uniform shirt. With Bob translating beside me, the man sifted through my papers, and pulled aside my passport, my Japanese drivers license the orange and white form and the green ward office paper, passing the rest of the pile back to me. He then motioned for us to step aside.

About 10 minutes later, a new man at another window called my name, and handed me a clipped stack of papers, my Japanese driver's license on top. My new task: to go downstairs and navigate between a slew of numbered windows, and then return to the second floor, hopefully victorious.

And so, off we toddled, to the first window to pay 2000 yen, then to the next window, where they gave me an eye test (which, in it's speed and simplicity, seemed to prove only that my eyes were open and could focus), then to a third window to pay 3800 yen more, and finally up some stairs, around a corner, outside, up a ramp and back inside to window 8 on the THIRD floor, where I was given a red plastic tab with the number "28" upon it.

Holding tightly to my mysterious number 28, I returned to window 8 on the second floor, where I turned in my pile of stamped and signed receipts and received back my passport-- only to turn around and hear my name being called. One photograph later, I was told to return to the third floor, room 6.

Here is where the story gets even better. For after shuffling around for an hour in lines on 3 different floors and standing at 5 or 6 different windows, I suddenly found myself in front of...

a classroom.

Yes, the final requirement for me to renew my driver's license--to attend a mandatory 2 hour lecture on traffic safety.

In Japanese.

Bob, smirking the entire time, walked me to the classroom door. He was gracious enough to stop smirking while getting me a bottle of cold green tea, but then continued his smirking as he slunk away, leaving me in seat number 28 in a large classroom, surrounded by men and women easily 20 years younger than I. Men and women, might I add, much more prepared for a Japanese traffic lecture--namely because they were Japanese people who clearly understood everything being said. Whether they wanted to or not (and from the silently slouched bodies and nodding heads around me, they did NOT).

The class was spaced out nicely: lecture-film-break-lecture-film-lecture-film-leave. The lecturer--an older Japanese man with an easy smile on his face--spoke quickly but clearly, and used hand gestures to great effect, at least for me. I may not be able to read a newspaper and I may need a bit of help in navigating bureaucratic ins and outs. But put me face to face with another human and I can usually muddle my way into comprehension. Especially if hand gestures are involved.

Keeping my eyes glued to the lecturer's waving hands and listening intently to find the words I DID know, I got the jist of the 2 hours:

1. Don't use a cell phone when you are driving. Put the ringer on silent and leave it alone. Even at stop lights.

2. Don't use a cell phone even when you are on a bicycle or walking down the street. (he illustrated several dramatic accidents with his hands)

3. Don't drive in a hurry. Stay calm. (he acted out a fairly convincing example of mild road rage).

4. Always expect bicycles, scooters, motorcycles, pedestrians and other cars to pop out at you from any and all hidden pockets. From the accompanying video, I ascertained that all these hazards became even more hazardous, and prevalent, at night, or in the rain.

5. Scan the road while driving. Scan, scan, scan.

6. Accidents are nasty and to be avoided (this last tidbit I gleaned from the final video, which featured scenes of accidents (bodies and most blood removed or digitized)).

The lecturer said a few parting words. Then 2 other somber DMV employees came in holding a stack of licenses and papers. I was handed a final paper, to which was stapled my expired license. One more trip to the second floor window 8 to trade the paper for my new license and voila!

I am once again legal to drive in Japan.

When we finally made it home--back along the path of buses, trains and walking--it was 6:30pm---about 8 hours after we began our quest.

And while the day had the desired outcome for me--namely, my license--I fear the cost of today's adventure may be high.

As we unlocked our front door and came in, Bob muttered "No WAY am I going to renew my license. That was NUTS".

We'll see Bob. We'll see.