Best. Photo. Ever.

I’m traveling around Japan with my family right now so I wasn’t planning on updating my blog until after they left. But then my friend Linda sent me a photo too awesome to keep to myself.


That’s Linda sitting beside George Stroumboulopoulos. Linda’s photo is great but the story behind it is even better. Since I’m too busy to write anything right now, I’ll let Linda tell the story in her own words (think of her as a guest blogger while I entertain my family). Take it away, Linda:

I went to The Hour last Wednesday . . . During the shows, I chatted with audience members. At the regular show, I chatted with a couple. They wanted to take a photo with George using their camera phone. I offered to take a photo with my camera and email it later. The guy happened to know how to use a SLR so he said he could take a photo of me with George. I was thrilled because people usually freak out when they find out it isn’t a point and shoot camera or the photo always comes out bad. I hate to admit this, thinking that nobody would know how to use my camera, I was actually going to leave without meeting George.

Your photo/sign: We were at the end of the line. Had there been other people behind us, I'm not sure that this photo would have happened. I chatted with George for a bit about career stuff (he's the real thing and such a sweetie). When it came time to take a photo, I asked if we could sit in the interview chairs. George was happy to do that. After the photo, I said "I think I'll send this to my friend Sarah. She's teaching English in Japan. She'll get a kick out of this." I have no idea why I said that. That thought hadn't crossed my mind, but the words just came out of my mouth!

To my surprise, George asks if I'm referring to Sarah Marchildon. Still surprised, I think I replied with “yes, Sarah from the Suzuki Foundation.” I can’t recall his exact words, but I think he said “Oh, Sarah's a nice girl/lady.” Then a light bulb goes on in his head and he suggests that we take a photo of us holding a sign. That started the search for a pen and paper. After a minute of going around the studio, George comes back with a pen and paper, but he then realizes that pen ink might not photograph well. So, he excuses himself and runs to the back area (to the control room? office area?) in search of a marker. While George is looking for a marker, my "photographer" is busy checking out my camera (he's never used a digital SLR). My "photographer" is itching to try out my camera and he suggests to take several photos of me sitting in George's chair while we wait for George to reappear (BTW, close up, the chairs are not a true red).

A few minutes later, a lady comes out from the back area and asks me if "Sarah is spelled with an 'h'." I confirm that it is and she runs back to tell George. A few minutes later, George (sporting a smirk on his face) walks out with a “Sarah We Miss You” sign. We do a few takes -- the photo I sent you is by far the best one.

After the "photo session", I thanked him for everything. As George was heading to the back area, he shouts out, "say 'hi' to Sarah for me and tell her that we miss her."

(Thank you, Linda! The photo and the story made my day. And, thank you, George. You have officially knocked Claire Martin out of her reigning position as my favourite CBC personality of all time.)

Nothing puts the "fun" in dysfunctional like a family trip to Japan

I’m going to Kyoto tomorrow to meet up with my mother, my aunt and my brother who are here for a whirlwind tour of Japan. So exciting!

Our jam-packed itinerary will take us from the quiet temples of Kyoto to the bright lights of Osaka to the rugged mountains of Shikoku. But the real fun will start when the four of us travel to my little town and spend eight days together in my apartment. I can’t wait!

Ever wonder what your former high school classmates are up to?

Okay. I admit it. I sometimes google the names of my former high school classmates to find out what they’re up to now. I’m not a stalker. I’m just curious about what the people I spent five of my formative years with are doing with their lives.

Well, this week there was an article in the Toronto Star about a former high school classmate of mine by the name of Rami Tabello. It turns out Rami’s fight against illegal street signs has made him something of a local celebrity. I didn’t know Rami that well back in high school but I loved this quote from the Star article:

Self-employed, he calls himself a "professional speculator. I play the stock market and bet on horses for a living but I don't consider it gambling. I take advantage of inefficiencies in the betting market on horses. It's a systematic financial approach."

Awesome.

The elusive Japanese raccoon

Apparently, my town is infested with a ridiculously cute species of raccoon. I have never actually seen one of these raccoons but I know they exist because there are lots of road signs warning of their presence.


I’m not sure how accurate the artist’s rendition is. But if the road signs are to be believed, these raccoons must be pretty cute and cuddly.

I hate saying goodbye

Today was an emotional day. This morning, my school held a graduation ceremony for the Grade 9 students who will all move on and go to senior high school next month.

It was supposed to be a happy occasion but, for me, it felt like a funeral. I knew that after the ceremony ended, I would never see these kids again.

In seven short months, I’ve become incredibly attached to some of the Grade 9 students. I’m probably breaking some sort of secret teachers’ code by admitting this, but I have favourites. These are just a few of the students I will miss the most.


This is Kasumi. I liked her right from day one. My first week on the job consisted of little more than going from class to class to deliver a 20-minute presentation about my life in Canada. Some kids slept through the presentation, others seemed genuinely interested. But no one reacted with as much enthusiasm and curiosity as Kasumi.

She “oohed” and “ahhed” over every picture. She asked so many questions that the other kids started snickering every time her hand shot up in the air. But she didn’t seem to care that they were making fun of her. She had a rare kind of self-confidence that doesn’t come easily to most 15-year-old girls.

Kasumi was bright and clever and hilariously funny but she wasn’t a very good student. She failed most of her classes and had to take the high school entrance exam twice. Still, she was one of the few students who spoke English so well that she was able to hold a conversation with me. Unfortunately, she wasn’t tested on how well she could speak English. She was tested on how well she could memorize and regurgitate the textbook and there was nothing Kasumi hated more than studying.

Still, no one loved speaking English more than Kasumi. We’d talk in the staff room between classes. We’d talk in the hallways. We’d talk while we were supposed to be cleaning the school. We’d talk long after the final bell had rung.

We talked about boys and hairstyles and high school and music. She gave me a huge hug every time she saw me. She told me she didn’t get along with her parents and said she wished I were her mother. I told her that if I ever had a daughter I’d want her to be just like her.

I saw Kasumi for the last time this week. Just before I left school, I pulled her aside and told her she was smart and funny and beautiful. I told her to study hard at high school so that she could do whatever she wanted in life. I told her she would be amazing no matter what she did.

It was the first time I saw her without a smile on her face. She pulled me in for one last, long hug. My chest tightened and I could feel a lump rising in my throat. I knew if I didn’t get out of there that instant, I would dissolve into a sobbing mess.

So disentangled myself from her embrace and walked out the door. I was about 100 feet away when I heard her call out my name. I turned around and saw Kasumi waving at me from a window. I walked back. I gave her a few more words of encouragement. I took her picture. She tried to smile. I turned around and started walking away again. When I looked back, she was still waving at me. And then I rounded a corner and couldn’t see her anymore.


There were two mentally disabled Grade 9 students at my school. Takuya and Yuya had their own classroom and a special needs teacher. The other teachers took turns teaching them regular subjects like math and science and art.

I taught them English with a Japanese teacher a few times a week. Their level was pretty low so we’d usually just play games or do fun activities in English (like the time I taught them how to cook Kraft Dinner). It was a wonderful experience.

Takuya and Yuya were completely dependent on each other and their teachers, so there was a real feeling of warmth and love in the room. This created an incredibly positive learning environment. Unlike the regular classrooms, there was no academic pressure and no discipline problems. With a student to teacher ratio of 1:1, I had a chance to really get to know them.

It took a while for them to warm up to me but once they did their personalities came shining through. Yuya let me into his world of imaginary people. Sometimes when he was stumped on a question, he’d get down on the floor and whisper the question into the ear of an imaginary friend and then furrow his brow in concentration while he waited for a response.

Takuya was the class clown. He was always cracking jokes and Yuya was there to smack him in the head if he ever crossed the line (like the time he pointed out that my breasts were larger than the Japanese teacher’s). There were days when they were completely unresponsive and I wasn’t sure if I getting through to them. But they always seemed happy to see me and I was always happy to see them.


The boy on the left with the white gloves and the tongue hanging out of his mouth is Tomoaki. This is the kid who nicknamed me “nipples.”

I don’t even know where to start with Tomoaki. He made my life both a living hell and an absolute joy. He was the most exasperating kid inside the classroom but he was also the most fun kid outside the classroom.

He was a terrible student. The worst. But this wasn’t entirely his fault. Tomoaki was the star of the baseball team, which meant he could get away with murder. He didn’t have to take an entrance exam to get into high school. He didn’t even have to pass his classes. All he had to do was to show up and play baseball.

This meant that he had absolutely no motivation to do well at school. So he’d spend all his time in class sleeping or talking with his friends or yelling out “Nippluss!” from the back of the room. I’d march over to his desk and ask him to do something and he’d flat-out refuse. He’d wait until my back was turned and yell out, “I want you!”

But once class was over, he would suddenly morph into a sweet and charming boy who would pretend to be sick so that he could sit across from me in the staff room. His English was terrible but he liked to impress me with his vocabulary of swear words and dirty talk. While most of the other students were shy and reserved, Tomoaki would scream my name down the hallway.

After the graduation ceremony today, Tomoaki pulled me aside to shake my hand and say thank you. I was touched. I felt like he was on his way to becoming a mature young man. And then he walked out the door, blew me a few kisses and, with a mischievous grin lighting up his face, yelled out “Nippluss!” one last time.

Sigh. I really am going to miss these kids. Even Tomoaki. School just won’t be the same without them.

My mom is on CBC Television tomorrow!

My mom is the star of a documentary about Toronto’s mental health crisis response team. It airs on CBC Newsworld tomorrow between 10 a.m. and 12 p.m. I’ve already seen it and it’s really, really good. Not that I’m biased or anything.

Here is the official press release from the National Film Board of Canada:


If you have time, it’s worth checking out.

I can't believe I get paid to do this

Now that final exams are over, my classes are becoming a lot more relaxed.

How relaxed? Well, when I proposed a lesson based on little more than eating chocolate chip cookies and reading trashy magazines, my supervisor actually went for it.

So I showed up at school the next day armed with three-dozen cookies and a stack of Cosmopolitan and Glamour magazines.


It was the first time any of these kids had seen an American magazine. They grew more and more animated as they flipped the pages. Most of the text was too difficult for them to read but there was one English word they all recognized immediately. They pointed to the headlines and bombarded me with questions:

“What does ‘sex fantasy’ mean?”

“What does ‘the sex he’ll die for’ mean?”

“What does ‘naughty sex tricks’ mean?”


I have never seen these kids try so hard to read English. Each article opened up a new discussion. The Japanese teacher even got into the spirit of things and volunteered to translate some of the more raunchy paragraphs. I don’t think she was censoring herself either. While translating an article about the “Girls Gone Wild” phenomenon, she kept pretending to lift up her shirt and flash the students.

Why can’t my classes always be this fun?

The decision

After thinking long and hard, I have decided not to stay in Japan for another year. It wasn’t an easy decision to make but it feels right.

I love Japan. I love the people. I love my small rural town. I love my students. I love the food. I love almost everything about this weird and wonderful place. I feel like I’ve been on an all-expenses-paid fantasy vacation for the past seven months. But I think I’ll be ready to move on once the year is up.

Plus, the David Suzuki Foundation agreed to extend my leave of absence until October 1st so that I can travel for two months before I return to Vancouver. It was the proverbial offer I couldn’t refuse.

Still, I’m a little freaked out about my decision. I’m worried I will regret not staying a second year. It’s impossible to know how I’m going to feel five months from now. Will I wish I had stayed or will I be excited to head home? I don’t know.

All I know is that my time in Japan is limited. So I’m just going to focus on enjoying every single moment it while it lasts.

A nice way to spend a Sunday morning

There’s no real story behind this photo. I was just hanging out on the beach with my supervisor’s daughters. We were doing the usual stuff you do down by the ocean. Walking along the shoreline. Skipping stones across the water. Hunting for shells. It was a nice way to spend a Sunday morning.

We heart George: Part II

My sisters went to CBC headquarters last night to watch George Stroumboulopoulos film The Hour in front of a live studio audience.

They didn’t bring a camera the last time they went to see the show so I had to draw a picture instead (circa June 2005).


This time they brought a camera so I can actually post a real photo of them rubbing shoulders with George. This picture was taken last night. I think it bears an uncanny resemblance to my drawing from two years ago.

It's my party and I'll sleep if I want to

Today is my birthday. I have some very exciting plans to celebrate this special occasion. I am going to bed at 8 p.m. and sleeping for 11 hours straight!

A good night’s sleep is all I really want for my birthday. Does this mean I am officially old?

Random acts of ridiculousness

One of my favourite things about living in Japan is the way the most routine, mundane events have this magical ability to descend into absurdity.

For example, I was invited to yet another drinking party with my Japanese coworkers a few weeks ago. These parties are about as routine as routine gets. You eat, you drink, you listen to half a dozen speeches, you get hit on by all of the male teachers who are too shy to speak to you unless they are completely drunk. And, finally, you endure hours of bad karaoke before stumbling home for the night.

These parties were fun and exciting when I first arrived in Japan but lately they had begun to feel like a chore. So when my coworkers invited me to join them a few Fridays ago, I didn’t really want to go.

Sure enough, the party started out routinely enough. I ate, I drank, I listened to half a dozen speeches, I was hit on by the entire male teaching staff. But just when I was about to write it off as another ordinary night out, things started to get ridiculous.

The PE teacher, who had been sitting next to me all night, was getting progressively more drunk. The more she drank, the more she opened up. Eventually, she started talking about her son. I should mention that I am friends with her son. We play on the same volleyball team and he always drives me home after practice. He’s cute but he has a girlfriend.

This girlfriend, however, is the bane of his mother’s existence. Not only does she not like her son’s girlfriend, she is actually afraid of her.

“She has big muscles,” she said, making a fist and slapping her own rock-hard bicep. “Scary!”

She then did an impression of the poor girl, which led me to believe her son was dating a) a sumo wrester, b) an Olympic weight lifter, or c) a drunken gorilla.

Then she asked me where in Japan I wanted to go. I listed off a few places -- Hokkaido, Okinawa, Mount Fuji, Hiroshima.

“Let’s go to Hiroshima!” she said. “You. Me. My husband. My son. Together, let’s go! We will eat okonomiyaki! We will drink beer! We will stay in a hotel! Okay?”

I told her it was an excellent idea and then added, half-jokingly, “but your son can’t bring his girlfriend.”

The next thing I knew, she whipped out her cell phone and started speaking to someone in rapid-fire Japanese. The only words I could make out were “Hiroshima” and “Sarah.”

She hung up the phone and explained that her son was on his way to the bar to pick us up and take us to her house so that we could start planning the trip.

I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight. I hadn’t drank nearly enough to think that showing up on her family’s doorstep in the middle of the night and dropping a surprise trip to Hiroshima in their laps was a good idea. But there was nothing I could do. This runaway train had jumped the tracks five minutes back and, like it or not, I was going along for the ride.

I had time for a quick drink to steady my nerves before the PE teacher’s son pulled up in front of the bar. He helped his mother into the back seat and I rode shotgun. A few minutes into the drive, the PE teacher and her son started having an intense conversation. Once again, the only words I could make out were “Hiroshima” and “Sarah.”

With a trace of annoyance in his voice, her son turned to me and said, “So my mom says that we’re going to Hiroshima together but I can’t bring my girlfriend.”

I was mortified.

“I swear it was your mother’s idea,” I lied.

“Sure it was,” he shot back.

This was followed by an uncomfortable silence. But things smoothed themselves out by the time we pulled into their driveway. I was ushered into the living room, where I met the PE teacher’s husband for the first time.

All four of us sat on the floor with our legs tucked under a small, heated table. We ate and drank and talked for hours. I was worried the PE teacher wouldn’t remember any of this on Monday morning but she kept her word and we ended up going to Hiroshima last weekend. I felt like their adopted daughter the whole time.



This is what I love most about Japan. The random adventures and wonderful people that pop up when you least expect it.

Mr. Suzuki, your house is on fire

I was in the middle of teaching a seventh grade English class this afternoon when I was interrupted by the earsplitting wail of an air raid siren.

“Be quiet!” the Japanese teacher yelled.

The students stopped what they were doing and sat up straight at their desks.

The air raid siren sounded twice more and then a man’s voice came over the town loudspeaker.

He was speaking so frantically I couldn’t understand what he was saying. All I heard was, “Blah, blah, blah. BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH!!!!”

I started to panic. Had part of Japan been leveled by an earthquake? Was this a warning that a tsunami was on its way? Had North Korea declared war? What the hell was going on?

“Mr. Suzuki’s house is on fire,” explained the Japanese teacher.

“They’re announcing that somebody’s house is on fire?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“Yes,” she said.

“What? Why?” I said.

“So that everyone knows,” she said.

I asked if we were supposed to go and help or something.

“No,” she said.

“So, let me get this straight,” I said. “They just want everyone in town to know that Mr. Suzuki’s house is on fire?”

“Yes,” she said, looking at me like I was a complete moron.

And then we went back to teaching as if nothing had happened.

My surreal life

I was sent home early from work today because, apparently, I am sick.

I didn’t actually realize I was sick until the principal told me I was. I walked into the staff room after playing baseball with some of the kids and was told to go home immediately.

I was completely bewildered. “Go home? What? Why?”

“You are sick,” the principal said.

“Sick? What do you mean? I’m not sick!” I said.

“You are sick,” he insisted. “You are very cold today.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I had spent the entire morning shivering at my desk despite the fact that I was wearing three sweaters and a pair of double-layered long johns under my pants. I even wore my winter jacket and wool scarf to class. But I wasn’t cold because I was sick. I was cold because there is no heat in the school.

“I’m always cold,” I told him.

But he wasn’t giving up.

“You have many nose water,” he said.

I couldn’t argue with that either. I had been sniffling all day. Not because I was sick. But because it’s tree pollen season.

“I’m not sick,” I said. “I’m fine. Really.”

But no matter how times I repeated this, the principal refused to budge.

And then it hit me. Wait a minute, I said to myself. What am I doing? The principal of the school is giving me permission to play hooky. Why am I arguing with him?

“Um, okay,” I relented. “I guess I’ll go home then.”

It turned out I didn’t have a choice. While I was outside playing baseball, the principal had phoned my supervisor at the Board of Education and ordered her to drive to school to come pick me up and take me home.

My euphoria turned to panic. Three months ago, I made the mistake of telling my supervisor I had a sore throat and a fever. She kidnapped me and forced me to stay at her house so that she could take care of me. However, “taking care of me” meant that I had to share a bed with her hyperactive 7-year-old daughter, which meant that I got no sleep and left her house feeling worse than I did the night before.

I did not want to go through that again. Especially when I wasn’t even sick. The whole thing was getting ridiculous.

“No, no,” I said. “Please call her and tell her I’m not sick. She will be so worried about me.”

But it was too late. She was already on her way, probably weaving through traffic and driving 50 kilometres over the speed limit.

About 15 minutes later, my supervisor rushed into the office looking like she was expecting to see me in convulsions on the floor.

“I’m not sick,” I told her on the drive back to my apartment. “The principal is crazy.”

She dropped me off and I apologized profusely for the inconvenience.

Two hours later, my doorbell rang. My supervisor had returned with some ginger tea.

“It’s good for sore throat,” she said.

I give up. Apparently, I am sick.

Four days in Seoul

If I had to describe Seoul in 15 words or less, this is what I would write: Seoul has lots of concrete buildings, good food and hard-working riot police.

It’s not exactly the most profound description ever written but I was only there for four days, which was barely enough time to skim the surface. My first impression of Seoul was made on the 50-kilometre bus ride from the airport to the city centre. The crowded highways were fenced in by rows of towering concrete apartment complexes that went on for miles in every direction.

I suppose this is what happens when you try to cram more than 20 million people into one area. Although it wasn’t the most aesthetically pleasing city in the world, it was definitely buzzing with energy.

My favourite part of the trip was the food. Korean food is hot and spicy and unbelievably delicious. My friend Sony, who now lives and works in Seoul, took me to a barbeque restaurant the first night I was in town.

Barbeque restaurants have a grill set into the table, on which you cook strips of meat. After the meat is cooked, you put it in a leaf of lettuce and load it up with pickled vegetables, sauce and raw garlic. Then you roll it up into a little package and eat it. Yum!


Sony took me around to all of the main tourist attractions. We went skating.


We went to a palace.


We sampled Seoul's famous nightlife.


We even went to the aquarium, which had a strange assortment of household appliances doubling as fish tanks.


What was even weirder was that we kept running into hundreds of riot police everywhere we went.


The most surreal part of the trip was watching four busloads of riot police pour out onto the sidewalk to break up a protest of four people. Yes, one busload of riot police for each protestor!

I later learned that the government has a “zero tolerance” policy against potentially violent rallies. The four-person protest we saw didn’t look like it was about to become violent but I suppose “zero tolerance” really means “zero tolerance.”


Another highlight of the trip was meeting up with my friend Lee. Lee is a Korean who came to Vancouver for a one-year internship in 2005. We swam on the same swim team while he was living in Vancouver. Lee offered to be my personal tour guide and translator for the weekend.

I took this picture of Lee on February 10th. I asked him why there were still Christmas decorations up all over Seoul. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t know. Maybe they are just lazy.”


Not only was Lee my personal tour guide and translator, he was also the perfect ambassador for his city. I experienced the warm Korean custom of being pushed, shoved and stepped on wherever I went. But Lee felt badly that no one apologized whenever they pushed me or stepped on my feet or cut ahead of me in line. So he took it upon himself to apologize on their behalf, which meant I couldn’t move two feet without Lee pulling me aside and saying, “I’m sorry.”

He said he was so impressed by the way everyone in Canada always said “sorry” for the slightest grievance that he has made it his personal mission to transform Korea into a more polite society.

Lee also took me out for a traditional Korean breakfast, which was centred on soup, rice and kimchi.


Anyway, I’ve just skimmed over the highlights. We had many more adventures but these are the only pictures I have that don’t totally suck. Overall, it was a fun trip but way too short.