Cheeky questions

The students at my junior high school are a contradictory bunch. They’re too shy to speak up in class but they’re not afraid to ask me some pretty bold questions.

I get the same questions every time I visit a new class: Do you have a boyfriend? Do you prefer older or younger men? What’s your type? Am I your type? Which teacher do you think is the most handsome? Do you think I’m handsome? How old are you? How much do you weigh? How tall are you? Are you wearing makeup right now? Do you like beer?

Instead of bailing me out, the Japanese English teacher forces me to answer these questions in front of the entire class.

For example, when one 14-year-old boy asked if I thought he was handsome, the Japanese teacher walked behind his desk, scooped her hands under his armpits, yanked him up out of his seat and marched him (kicking and screaming) towards me.

She stood behind him, clamped her hands down on his shoulders and said, “Look at this boy. Look deep into his eyes.”

[She paused here so that I could look deep into his eyes, which was impossible to do since his eyes were darting all over the place.]

“Do you think he’s handsome? Is he your type?”

Now, there’s no way to answer this without getting into trouble. If I said “yes,” I risked coming across as a pedophile. If I said “no,” I risked crushing the poor kid. I had a split second to choose between being a pervert and being cruel.

“Well, he’s very handsome,” I said. “But, um, he’s a little young for me.”

Bullet dodged. Jail term avoided. Cougar reputation solidified.

And then we move on to less delicate topics, like my weight. Fun!

I brake for soccer-playing pandas

I love the road signs in this town. They make me feel like I’m living in a zoo. My favourite sign is the one warning drivers to watch out for pandas playing soccer in the middle of the street.


A little further up the road is a sign that urges drivers to brake for chicks wearing little yellow hats.


I also like this sign posted by the “poop police.” The mug shot of the dog is a nice touch.


I’m not sure what this next sign means. It’s either warning people not to hang glide near the power lines or it’s an ad for a hang gliding company. (Hang gliding! Power lines! Fun!)

Undokai!

My school held its annual undokai (sports day) this weekend. Undokai is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.

It’s a huge event and everyone takes it very seriously. Maybe a little too seriously. I saw two students almost come to blows during practice last week. One boy started screaming and lunging at another boy who he felt wasn’t trying hard enough. Two teachers had to jump in and pull them apart before the punches started flying. I also saw a few girls crying during dance practice because they couldn’t get the steps right.

These kids have been under an incredible amount of pressure during the past two months. This is no touchy-feely “let’s just try our best and have fun” sports day. The only thing that matters here is winning. It matters so much that some of these kids even spent their summer vacation at school, practicing for sports day.

I’m not sure what to think about this emphasis on perfection. It doesn’t seem healthy. But, at the same time, all of their hard work makes for some incredible performances. It’s inspiring to see these kids compete at such a high level but I can’t help but feel there’s a darker undercurrent at play. They seem to be driven not by joy but by a fear of failure. I’m not saying it’s good or bad. It’s just different.

Whether I agree with it or not, all of their hard work paid off. It was an impressive day from start to finish. The students were divided into four teams (red, white, blue and yellow) and competed in all of the events as a group. There were no individual stars.


There were all sorts of different events, ranging from the ordinary (100-metre sprint, three-legged race, tug of war) to the bizarre (parents whipping the students around on a giant bamboo pole).

One of the most entertaining events was what can only be described as the "tire grab." A bunch of old car tires were placed in the middle of the field. Two teams lined up behind white lines on opposite sides of the field. When the whistle blew, each team ran to the middle of the field and tried to grab as many tires as they could, by any means possible. Punching, hitting, kicking, tackling and stealing were all fair game.

I would like to say that I just sat back and watched. But I was forced to participate. Not in the tire grab. Worse. In the 800-metre run. For some reason, girls are not allowed to run the 800 but they made an exception for me. Which means I had to race against the boys, including the male gym teachers.

Luckily, I’m a good sport. So I did it. I ran the 800 in front of all the students, all of their parents and pretty much the entire town. I’m happy to report that I did not come in dead last. I came in second last. I passed a nerdy kid who was dying in the last 100 metres.

Here’s a photo of me running the 800. This is either at the start of the race or near the end when everyone lapped me. Yes, a bunch of 13-year-old boys and one chain-smoking gym teacher lapped me. After almost two months in Japan, public humiliation no longer fazes me.


Some of the sports were judged, such as dancing and cheering. These were the main events and they were the ones that the students worked night and day to perfect. The girls danced.


And the boys did this. I have no idea what it’s called.


Despite the pressure, most of the kids seemed to be having fun. They were screaming and cheering for their teams and were happy to pose for pictures. The kids in the black suits and white gloves are the captains of the cheering squads.


It was a fun day but I’m sort of glad it’s over. I haven’t been teaching much during the past two weeks because most of my time at school has been spent sitting around watching the students practice. I think the kids are secretly relieved it’s over too.

I no longer hate volleyball

I never thought I’d say this but I’m actually starting to like volleyball. Trust me, no one is more surprised by this ironic turn of events than I am.

Up until a few weeks ago, I was a hardcore volleyball hater. Now, I’m buying kneepads so I can dive for the ball like everyone else.

Why the sudden flip-flop? It’s simple, really. The more I play, the better I get. The better I get, the more I enjoy it. I hardly even notice the forearm pain anymore.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m no superstar. I still suck. I mean, I’m so bad my teammates banned me from playing in a tournament last week. But, even so, they’re still some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Either that or I’ve got a serious case of Stockholm syndrome.

I think my teammates started to warm up to me when they realized I wasn’t going to give up and walk away. (Finally! People who appreciate my stubbornness!)

I scored a few bonus points when they found out I spent two hours on the train for the sole purpose of buying kneepads at the “local” sports store. They also found out about my secret training on Wednesday nights (turns out there is no secret anything in this town).

But the real turning point came on Saturday night when my teammates invited me out for drinks.


This wasn’t your average night out with the volleyball team. This was a "welcome party" in my honour. One of the girls baked a cake. One of the guys made dinner. Everyone was fun and friendly and went out of their way to make me feel like a part of the team.

Halfway through the night, two of the guys pulled out a pair of guitars and announced they had spent the past three weeks practicing a Canadian song to welcome me. They sat down at the front of the room, plugged in a mike, set up a sheet of music and started playing Neil Young’s Harvest Moon.


Here were two guys who could barely speak English and yet they had gone to all the trouble to learn how to play (and sing) Harvest Moon. Just for me. It was such a kind and thoughtful gesture I wanted to cry. How could I hate volleyball after that?

It’s ironic how a sport that once filled me with fear and loathing has now become the highlight of my week. Believe it or not, I’m actually starting to like volleyball!

Waiting for the typhoon to hit

A major typhoon is about to slam into my town. The outer edge of it has already arrived, bringing torrential rain and howling wind. The windows in my apartment sound like they’re about to rattle right out of their frames.

I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do. I’m all alone. Should I barricade myself inside a closet in case the windows explode? Oh my god. Oh my god. The wind is insane. It's picking up speed. It’s getting louder and louder. I have never heard wind like this before. And the typhoon hasn’t even hit yet.

Holy crap. The utility poles are shaking. The power lines look like they’re going to snap. Stuff is blowing off my balcony. Okay, I’m really scared now.

UPDATE: Well, I survived my first typhoon. Others were not so lucky. At least 10 people are dead and a gust of wind even lifted a train from the tracks. Apparently, typhoons are pretty common and generally not a big deal. But this one was scary.

A "typical" day

06:30: Wake up. Get out of bed.

06:32: Scan the bathroom for cockroaches. See one lurking behind the soap dish. Scream. Run out of the bathroom. Grab the vacuum cleaner. Chase the cockroach around the apartment until it finds a hiding spot the vacuum cleaner can’t reach. Am fully awake now.

06:35: Shower. Turn the gas line on. Hold down the knob on top of the shower heater while turning the crank on the side of the heater. Bend over and look inside the little window on the bottom of the heater to make sure there is a flame. Keep turning the crank until a fire is lit. Turn the shower on. Shiver violently under a steady stream of cold water.

06:45: Get dressed. Wear newly purchased ghetto outfit in order to fit in at school where all of the teachers wear polyester tracksuits.

06:50: Eat breakfast. Make toast by putting slices of bread on the fish grill, as there is no toaster or oven in my apartment.

07:00: Watch Japanese morning “news” on the one channel my TV actually gets. The top story is almost always about baseball, usually the heroic feats of some guy named Matsui. This is followed by a report about a horrific traffic accident somewhere. The rest of the “news” consists of press conferences with American celebrities on tour in Japan.

07:45: Bike to school. Bow to the grannies along the way.

08:20: Attend the staff meeting, which is conducted entirely in Japanese. Try not to look too confused.

08:30: Teach English. I usually teach four classes a day, alongside a Japanese English teacher. I am based at a public junior high school where the students range in age from 12 to 15. Some of them spend the class asleep at their desks; others talk with their friends. Apparently, this is all perfectly acceptable classroom behaviour. Last week, I watched one kid turn around and squeeze the blackheads out of his friend’s nose for five minutes while the Japanese teacher carried on like nothing was happening. Of course, there are loads of kids who are enthusiastic about speaking English. There are even a few who like to scream my name down the hallway. When I’m not in class, I sit at my desk in the staff room, study Japanese and inhale second-hand smoke.

12:40: Eat lunch. The school serves up a hot lunch every day (usually rice, fish and vegetables). The students eat lunch in the classroom. Two students from each class put on hospital scrubs, surgeon’s masks and hairnets, and serve lunch to the other students while elevator music blasts over the loudspeakers.

15:30: Clean the school. The school shuts down for 15 minutes every day so the students and teachers can clean it from top to bottom. The principal blasts frantic classical music over the loudspeakers. His favourite song is Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, which always makes me feel like I’m in the middle of that famous scene from Apocalypse Now. But instead of machine guns, everyone is running around with brooms, mops and rags ready to wage war on dirt and dust.

16:40: School ends. However, almost all of the students and teachers will stick around for another few hours for sports practice. These kids are mind-blowingly good at sports. They take it very, very, very seriously. I peeked in on the girls’ volleyball team and my jaw hit the ground. Each and every one of them was practically an Olympic caliber athlete. Same goes for the judo team, the softball team, the track team. It’s absolutely incredible to watch. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. They train with military precision. There are no breaks. Drills are repeated again and again and again until the kids get it right. Anything less than perfection is unacceptable. This rigorous training probably explains why so many kids are asleep at their desks during the day.

18:00: Bike home. Bow to the grannies along the way. Make dinner. Watch the evening “news” on TV, followed by Full House dubbed in Japanese.

19:30: Bike back to school for volleyball practice with the locals.

20:00: Play volleyball for two hours. Suffer incredible forearm pain and soul-destroying humiliation.

22:30: Bike home. Scan the bathroom for cockroaches. Shower. Crawl into bed. Wake up eight hours later. Repeat.

Super size my ass

I had my first real taste of culture shock the other night.

I went into town to buy a pair of baggy, knee-length shorts to exercise in because the spandex shorts I brought with me are too tight and too short for rural Japan.

I browsed the racks for about 15 minutes before I found a pair of shorts that were both regulation length and relatively stylish (“relative” being the operative word here).

I grabbed a small-sized pair to try on since all the women in this town keep telling me how “slim” I am. Seriously. They are obsessed with my weight. I hear “You are so slim!” at least three times a day.

They eye me up and down, smiling and nodding approvingly while I squirm with embarrassment. After about five minutes of this, one of them will finally say, “You. Have. Nice. Body!” It’s both flattering and creepy.

So I could be forgiven for assuming I would be able to fit into a small-sized pair of shorts. But when I tried the shorts on, I couldn’t get them up past my knees. They were so small I had to double-check to make sure I hadn’t grabbed a pair of child’s shorts by mistake.

The same thing happened when I tried on a medium pair. So I tried on a large pair. This time I was able to get the shorts up past my knees but not past my hips. So I tried on an extra-large pair. And the shorts still didn’t fit! They were stretched so tightly against my butt the seams were about to split.

All I could think was “My ass is XXL? Are you kidding me?”

Adding insult to injury, the store didn’t even carry XXL shorts. So I ended up buying a (large) pair of spandex yoga pants instead because, apparently, I can only fit into clothes that are made of stretchy material with an elastic waistband.

Like I said, it was my first real taste of culture shock.

Going buggy

So far, there are only two downsides to living in rural Japan. One is being forced to play volleyball. The other is being forced to deal with the bugs.

The bugs here are not like the bugs in Canada. These bugs are absolute monsters. They are big and hairy and have teeth and fangs. They slither down from the mountains at night and crawl in through the cracks in the walls.

My voice is hoarse from screaming every time I see a cockroach in my apartment. I can’t help it. They’re always sneaking up on me when I least expect it. The blur of a brown thing with skinny legs and long feelers zooming up the wall or scurrying across the floor makes me jump out of my skin.

I can’t suppress the screaming even though I know I should since I live on top of the town library and my ear-splitting screams probably terrify everyone quietly reading their books below.

But I’m taking steps to deal with the bug problem. I have set up several roach traps in my apartment (one is at the foot of my mattress in case any of the little bastards try to crawl into bed with me while I am sleeping).

I also have the vacuum cleaner plugged in and at the ready at all times. My makeshift bug-killing machine ruthlessly sucks up any cockroach, beetle, centipede or spider that dares enter my apartment. (I also keep a towel stuffed in the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner when it’s turned off just in case any of the bugs try to crawl back out.)

The creatures are omnipresent. You don’t just see them; you can hear them at all times. The cicadas scream all day. The crickets chirp all night. The frogs croak in the rice fields. And I am always hearing little scuffling sounds in my apartment. Or at least I think I am. Either way, I am going completely buggy.

Deciphering the ubiquitous peace sign

I’ve been taking lots of pictures here in Japan and emailing them home to my family.

My brother wrote back to say the photos were great but why was everyone in them spreading their fingers and making a peace sign?

His question stumped me. I mean, I knew that Japanese people liked to strike a peace-sign pose in pictures but I didn’t know why exactly.

So I decided to ask one of the teachers at my school (and by “ask” I really mean “play charades” since his English is about as good as my Japanese).

My question came out sounding something like, “Camera. Japanese people. Peace sign. Why?”

He immediately understood what I was getting at.

“Ahhhh . . . piisu!” he said.

“Yes! Why?” I asked, pretending to hold a camera up to my face.

“War. Bad,” he said, firing an imaginary machine gun around the room. “Japanese like peace.”

He went on to explain that younger people like to pose by making a peace sign with their fingers while older people (such as himself) generally prefer to be photographed giving the thumbs up.

The language barrier prevented us from delving too deeply into the cultural significance of the thumbs up or the peace sign. So I googled it when I got home. I found a few interesting theories, including this one that links the start of the Japanese peace-sign craze to the 1972 Winter Olympics in Sapporo. Here’s an excerpt:

“Figure skater Janet Lynn stumbled into Japanese pop culture when she fell during a free-skate period but continued to smile even as she sat on the ice. Though she placed only 3rd in the competition, her cheerful diligence and indefatigability resonated with many Japanese viewers, making her an overnight celebrity in Japan. Afterwards, Lynn (a peace activist) was repeatedly seen flashing the V sign in the Japanese media. Though the V sign was known of in Japan prior to Lynn’s use of it there (from the post-WWII Allied occupation of Japan), she is credited by some Japanese for having popularized its use in amateur photographs.”

It’s a cool little story but is it true? Did Janet Lynn single-handedly start the Japanese peace-sign craze? If anyone can shed some light on Japan’s obsession with the peace sign, let me know. I’d like to give my brother a proper answer to his question.

First day of school

I’m happy to report I survived my first day on the job as a junior high school English teacher.

Fortunately, there weren’t any classes so I didn’t have to teach. Unfortunately, I did have to give a three-minute speech in Japanese in front of the entire school at the opening ceremony. Have I mentioned that I don’t speak Japanese? Right. You can probably guess how this is going to go.

I was given a week to write, translate and memorize my speech. A very sweet, old retired teacher who keeps showing up at school in a shirt and tie every morning despite the fact that he no longer works there took it upon himself to help me with my speech.

The first day of school finally arrived on Friday. I showed up 20 minutes early but I was the last person to arrive. I sat down at my desk, which is conveniently located right next to the kitchen (“kitchen” meaning “smoking room”), and silently ran through my speech.

At 9:00 a.m. I was ushered into the gym for the opening ceremony. Most of the teachers were carrying an extra pair of shoes to wear inside the gym. I, of course, did not bring an extra pair of shoes and was told to take off my slippers before entering the gym. This meant that I was now barefoot. As if I wasn’t self-conscious enough already.

I joined the other teachers in the back of the gym. All 350 students lined up in rows near the front. There were a couple of military drills. Attention! At ease! Bow! And then all the students sang a song while the music teacher accompanied them on the piano.

The principal walked up on stage and gave a long, drawn-out speech in Japanese. And then suddenly, I heard three familiar words: Sarah Denise Marchildon. All heads turned towards me. I just stood there and smiled until I caught the principal gesturing wildly for me to come to the stage. But in order to get to the front of the gym, I had to squeeze my way through the students first. There were a lot of eyes looking down at my bare feet.

Up on stage, I set my cue cards down on the podium and adjusted the microphone. I started my speech with a big smile and an enthusiastic “Hello, everyone! Nice to meet you!” The response? Absolutely nothing. Not one smile. Nothing but a sea of blank stares.

I was caught off guard but I forged ahead in badly accented Japanese. About halfway through the speech, I asked if anyone liked English. The response? Absolutely nothing. Not one smile. Nothing but a sea of blank stares.

I pasted on a big smile and mustered an enthusiastic-sounding “Please raise your hand if you like English!” The response? Absolutely nothing. Not one hand in the air. Nothing but a sea of blank stares.

Sensing that I was floundering, the principal tried to bail me out. He jumped in front of the first row of students and starting yelling frantically while waving his hands wildly in the air. One or two students grudgingly raised their hands.

I was so rattled I completely forgot the second half of my speech so I ended up reading it off the cue cards. And then I got the hell off the stage. They may have applauded. They may not have. I honestly don’t remember.

After the opening ceremony finally ended, the students headed back to their classrooms for exams (yes, exams on the first day of school) and I went back to my desk in the staff room, mistakenly believing the worst was over.

That’s right. The humiliation didn’t end with the speech. That was just a warm-up. At 3:15 p.m. one of the teachers came running over to my desk and said it was “cleaning time.” The teacher said I should help out because it’s a good way to chat with the students one-on-one.

She ushered me into a classroom and handed me a rag. She told me to join a group of three girls who were crouched down on all fours, cleaning the floor. I kneeled down on the ground and tucked my skirt between my legs in order to avoid flashing the group of teenage boys who were pushing brooms around the room.

After about two minutes of crouching on all fours, polishing the floor with a rag, I noticed that the boys had stopped pushing the brooms around. Instead of cleaning, they were standing the corner, elbowing each other while staring at me with ear-to-ear grins on their faces. That’s when I realized that they could see straight down my top as my shirt fell forward away from my chest as I leaned over to clean the floor.

If I had known all it took was a little cleavage to get them animated, I would have worn a bustier for my speech.

By the time school ended, I was craving a stiff drink. Fortunately, the teachers invited me out for dinner, drinks and karaoke. Over dinner, a few teachers went out of their way to tell me my speech was “great” and that the students were shy but they’d warm up to me in time.

As the night went on, and the teachers became more rowdy and uninhibited, I started to feel better. Funny how a few drinks and karaoke can do that. The principal even invited me to climb Mount Fuji with him next summer and I think I’m going fishing with the 22-year-old PE teacher in a few weeks.

It was so much fun that I’m actually looking forward to going back to school on Monday.

The Hawaii of Japan

I’ve never been to Hawaii but this is kind of what I imagine it would be like. Dense vegetation, warm water, sandy beaches.

Except this isn’t Hawaii. This is Japan. This is where I live. I discovered this beach on the weekend. It’s an hour and 15-minute train ride up, down and through the mountains from my town. The beach was almost deserted except for a few hip, young Japanese surfers.


I was surprised to see so few people here. This place is about as close to paradise as it gets. But I suppose the southern part of Shikoku Island is pretty remote and hard to get to from the big cities. Which is fine by me. Ohki Beach is one of the biggest perks of rural living so far.

I hate volleyball

My first night playing volleyball with a local Japanese team was more horrible than I thought it would be.

It was like being in Grade 9 all over again. I basically stood in the middle of the court alternately praying for the ball to not come near me or ducking and screaming when it did.

Joining a volleyball team wasn’t my idea. I was riding my bike down the street my first week in town when I was flagged down by a guy driving a delivery truck. He brought the truck to a screeching halt in the middle of the street, jumped out and demanded “You play volleyball with me!” How do you say no to that?

Things got off to a bad start before I even set foot in the gym. I showed up without a pair of “indoor” running shoes to wear inside the gym. I haven’t mastered the art of Japanese shoe etiquette. There are outdoor shoes, indoor shoes, toilet shoes and, apparently, even gym shoes.

I tried to explain in Japanese that I only own one pair of running shoes (this involved a lot of gesturing and pointing at my feet while holding up one finger). I then pulled a towel out of my bag and started wiping the bottom of my shoes, thinking they would let me in the gym if I cleaned off my shoes. This was greeted with expressions of horror until one guy took pity on me and volunteered to drive back to his house in order to lend me a pair of shoes.

It went downhill from there. While we were waiting for the guy to come back with a pair of shoes, I started chatting with one of the girls who spoke a little bit of English. She asked me how often I played volleyball and I said “never.” I told her I was horrible but she reassured me that she was really bad too. And then she told me that everyone else was really bad. I started to relax a bit. I began to think that maybe volleyball would be okay. That we would all just have fun and laugh about how bad we all were.

When the guy finally returned with a pair of shoes for me, we started warming up by tossing the ball at each other in pairs. And then we had to hit it back and forth with our forearms. After about five minutes of this my forearms were hurting so badly I had to stop. Seriously. Who invented this game? What sick person decided hitting a ball against your forearms was fun?

After about 15 minutes of this painful forearm torture, the game finally began. Of course, everyone turned out to be Olympic caliber athletes. (I am learning that when people in this town say they are really bad at something what they really mean is that they are actually really, really ridiculously good.)

I was told to stand in the middle of the court where I prayed for the ball to not to come my way. Every time it did, my heart sank. Instinctively, I ducked whenever it came near me. Or I stood frozen in one spot hoping that someone else would go for it.

This went on for about five minutes until one of the guys started yelling at me in Japanese. I assumed he was trying to tell me hit the ball if it came my way. And so I did. But every time my burning forearms made contact with the ball, it went wildly out of bounds or hit the net.

At this point, I could tell they were getting exasperated with me and I was not having fun. I was almost hoping the ball would hit me in the head and knock me out so I wouldn’t have to play anymore.

And then all of a sudden the game stopped. There was an emergency huddle in the middle of the court. The girl who could sort of speak English came running over and told me to get off the court. She made me spend the next two hours in a corner of the gym by myself in order to practice hitting the ball against the wall. (It was like the scene from the Karate Kid where Mr. Miyagi makes Daniel-san clean his car for hours on end).

Did I mention that this went on for two hours? Have I painted a clear enough mental picture? Can you see me standing alone in the corner, hitting the ball against the wall while everyone else is playing volleyball?

So while I’m alone in the corner, I start desperately thinking of ways to get out of playing volleyball for the next year.

After the game ended, I tried to say things like “I am not good enough to play with you” hoping that they wouldn't invite me back. But they did invite me back. And they want me to play for the rest of the year.

Maybe they were just being polite but I felt it would have been rude to decline. Plus, I’m desperate for friends. Any friends. Even friends who make me stand in a corner by myself for two hours.

So since I’m stuck playing volleyball every Monday night for the next year, I may as well figure out how to learn to like it. It can't possibily get any worse than it did the first night, right?

Hello from Japan!

Sorry for the long break between posts. It took three weeks of begging and pleading in broken Japanese to get an internet hookup in my apartment. I finally got connected a few hours ago after much gnashing of teeth and pulling of hair. I still can’t believe it took almost month to get an internet connection in Japan!

Anyway, enough griping. On with the first post about my adventures so far. Where to begin? Perhaps I should back up to where I left off. Let’s see . . . Vancouver. Four weeks ago. On my way to Tokyo. Right. Only now Tokyo is a bit of a blur. It seems like such a long time ago.

I spent four days in Tokyo wandering amid the neon lights before flying out to my new home on the backside of Shikoku Island in southern Japan. This is where I will be spending the next year.


I live in a little town nestled in the mountains, near the ocean. It has one main street filled with lots of little shops and old buildings. There are miles of empty country roads that are perfect for cycling, running and walking. I live in an apartment on top of the town library. This is the view from my bedroom window.


It’s all very beautiful. But, holy crap, the heat! It’s killing me! It’s been 35 degrees every day with 100 per cent humidity, making it feel like 45 degrees.

What makes it even worse is that the women in this town don’t wear shorts or sleeveless tops. It’s a pretty conservative place. Apparently, showing a little shoulder or leg above the knee is extremely scandalous. So I’ve been wearing jeans with long sleeved shirts. Sometimes, if I’m feeling daring, I will wear a t-shirt and capris.

Of course, everyone is sweating buckets in their ridiculously heavy clothing. Instead of dressing comfortably for the weather, the locals all wear towels around their necks to mop up the sweat. Or they just tie the towels around their heads. I don’t care how ridiculous it looks, I am seriously considering investing in my own towel.

Luckily, there is a great little swimming hole down the street from my apartment. I am the only adult who swims in the river but I have become quite popular with the neighbourhood kids.


The weather is unbearable but at least the people are friendly. I am being treated like a celebrity. My supervisor at the board of education took me to meet the mayor on my second day here. Through a translator, we chatted a bit about Canada while a photographer took pictures of me for the local newspaper.

At one point, the mayor asked me if I had ever eaten eel. I confessed that I hadn’t. He suddenly declared that he was going to make it his mission to get me to eat eel and invited me to a party at the town hall that night.

Later that night, after several glasses of beer and sake, the quiet, mild-mannered 70-year-old mayor turned out to be quite the wild man. The more he drank, the louder he got. I have no idea what he was saying because he was yelling in Japanese but it must have been quite funny because he had everyone in hysterics.

At one point, the deputy mayor walked in wearing shorts and the mayor yelled out the only English expression he knows: “Hot pants!”

The deputy mayor (aka Hot Pants) was an even bigger character than the mayor. He would randomly yell out “heavy drinker!” and “I am Quebecois!” By the end of the night, both the mayor and the deputy mayor had invited me back to their place. Perhaps they thought I was easy because I was wearing short sleeves. Here’s a picture of me with my new friend, the mayor.


I already have an undeserved reputation in this town as some sort of star athlete back in Canada because I listed “triathlon” as one of my hobbies on my resume.

For example, I was riding my bike down the street my first week in town when I was flagged down by a guy driving a delivery truck. He brought the truck to a screeching halt in the middle of the street, jumped out and demanded “You play volleyball with me!”

Through his broken English and my basic Japanese, he told me he belonged to a volleyball team that played every Monday night and he had heard the new English teacher in town was a star athlete.

Now, I hate volleyball. I mean, I really, really hate volleyball. I suck at it and it hurts my forearms. When I see a ball heading towards my head, my gut instinct is to scream and duck for cover. But I agreed to join his team because I’m desperate for friends. I just hope they don’t kick me off the team once they find out how useless I am.

And then at (yet another) drinking party on Friday night, one of the more quiet teachers got up the courage to talk to me after a few drinks and said, “You play tennis with me tomorrow morning!” (We played for an hour the next morning and I now belong to his Thursday night tennis club.)

He also asked me to run a marathon with him in February. I think. He kept pointing at himself and me while saying “marathon” and “February” over and over.

That’s not to say that these first few weeks have been easy. It’s frustrating at times being a very illiterate and very visible minority. Grocery shopping has been the biggest challenge so far. I have no idea what I’m going to eat for the next year. I can’t read Japanese and I’m not adventurous enough to try the things that have English labels (ie. canned whale).

It’s also hard not to feel lonely and isolated at times. This is a pretty small town in a predominantly rural area where almost no one speaks English. A lot of people refuse to make eye contact with me and some have blatantly turned the other way when they see me coming. I hope it’s just because they’re shy and not because of anything more sinister.

But I'm starting to feel a little less lonely each day. I’ll probably get into a groove once school starts. Right now, I’m just filling my time at the board of education trying to learn Japanese. The first day of class is this Friday and I have to give a three-minute speech (in Japanese!!) to 350 junior high school students at the opening ceremony.

Anyway, my quick update has suddenly morphed into a long, rambling post. I guess the floodgates have opened now that I have an internet connection. I’ll be posting more frequently from now on so I'll try to keep it shorter next time. Until then!

On my way to Japan

Farewell Vancouver! I'm off to spend a year in the Land of the Rising Sun. First stop, Tokyo. Second stop, my new hometown on the rural island of Shikoku.

I have no idea what to expect. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into a big, black hole. I know it's a cliche but it really is the best way to describe how I'm feeling right now. Equal parts fear and excitement.

I figure as long as I leap into the great unknown with an open mind and a positive attitude, it will be an amazing adventure. Unless North Korea accidentally bombs Japan while firing a test missile. That would suck.

Wish me luck!

Argh! I hate moving!

The movers are coming on Thursday to put the contents of my apartment into storage for a year. This gives me one whole day to magically have everything neatly packed into boxes by the time they arrive. I don’t know how I’m going to pull this off.

I spent eight hours yesterday and nine hours today sorting, tossing and recycling. I haven’t even started packing yet. Argh! How is it possible for one person to collect so much crap?

For example, my crap collection includes:
a) My TTC bus passes from high school.
b) Not one, not two but three broken hair dryers.
c) My Ontario Place nametag from the summer I worked as a bumper boat attendant.
d) Boxes of tapes that haven’t been listened to in at least a decade.
e) Mugs, mugs and more mugs. Why does one person need 50 mugs?
f) Really ugly clothes that I hate but am inexplicably attached to and so have been unable to part with them.
g) A medicine cabinet full of pills that expired four years ago.
h) Phone bill statements from when I lived in New Brunswick.

I could go on and on. I swear 90 per cent of the stuff in my apartment is crap. Don’t even get me started on the science experiments growing in the fridge. And, no, I haven’t defrosted the freezer yet.

I feel like I’m turning into my grandmother. The woman could not throw anything away. From now on, I’m going to own as little stuff as possible so that I never have to go through this hell again. I hate moving!