whoops.

"When you were here before, 
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel, 
Your skin makes me cry

You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so fuckin' special

But I'm a creep, 
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here

I don't care if it hurts, 
I wanna have control
I want a perfect body 
I want a perfect soul

I want you to notice 
when I'm not around
You're so fuckin' special
I wish I was special

But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here, ohhhh, ohhhh

She's running out again
She's running out
She run run run run...
run... run...

Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You're so fuckin' special
I wish I was special

But I'm a creep, 
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here

I don't belong here..."

Weeks of careful planning and psyching myself up for something I thought could potentially be pretty cool crashed and burned in a wreckage of molten metal and flames and looked a little something like this:

(in Japanese, outside of the JR Akihabara station as the sun sets)

"See you when I get back."

"Hey---wait."

"...what?"

"Can I talk to you alone? For, like, five minutes?"

"Uh..........why?"

"Just like--I just do. is that okay?"

"Sure, I guess."

"Okay."

"So, uhm.....what?"

"Okay. So, I'm sure you already know this but....when I'm with you, I'm really happy, and you make me smile....I haven't met anyone like you before."

"Oh."

"And....I really like you."

"............oh." The wind blew. His shoulders stiffened up and his skin lost a shade. "....wellthankyouyouseethethingisI'mverryflatteredbut.....IhaveagirlfriendbutI'vereallyenjoyedspendingtimewithyoubye." He stuck out his hand, for a handshake.

".....oh." I shook his hand. "I just wanted you to know."

"Okay. See you later."

"Yeah--hey, have a good Summer vacation."

"Yeah." He stood and looked at me for a moment in affable disgust as though I had turned inside out, but he still wanted to keep that polite, Japanese smile on his face. He left, and the sun set. 

Excuse me for believing that taking a foreign girl you just met out to dinner alone multiple times, giving her things, talking to her on Skype into the wee hours of the morning, and never even hinting at the fact that you may have a girlfriend allows one to misconceive you as being single.

I am done with Japanese men, I am done courting anyone, and if some rich, beautiful, 30-something record executive with a few houses and a motorcycle wants to propose to me, then you know what, I'll think about it. No, you don't even get an answer yet. I'm going to sit and mull this over in my head for a good week or so to determine if your kind should have a chance at marriage with me or if you all deserve to fucking die.

It was as though he officially terminated whatever relationship we had with each other. "Oh, I'm sorry, your transaction with Yohei has been denied. Thank you for using our services, goodbye."

A handshake? 

A handshake??

Perplexed and bewildered, I got on the train to Takadanobaba, a 20 minute extension from the train I could have taken to get home. I was heartbroken for about 30 seconds before I realized that if he had, indeed, said something to the effect of "Oh, really? Why, what an ironic happenstance; I too have feelings for thee!" then I would have been ready to abandon everything I really cared about, torn up the business cards I've been collecting, and prepared to be barefoot and pregnant on a goat farm somewhere out in Aomori. If I would have had a semi-stable non-career-related reason to stay attached to Japan, that would have been potentially very dangerous for both my psyche and my wallet....especially if it was to be with a guy that takes strange foreign girls out to dinner and never once mentions my name. In a few, insensitive words, I think that motherfucker just saved my life.

I was positive I had misconstrued every friend signal, come at everything from the wrong angle, and made the world's most foolish ass of myself until I talked on the phone to my mother who, although slightly bonkers, made a few good points as to how I probably couldn't have construed our situation to mean much else. 

But what could I expect?

He's pretty, 

he's Japanese,

and he's only 20.

If those weren't solid indications to keep the fuck moving, then I don't know what are. At least now I know. 

So fuck you, Japanese male population. I hope you feel some semblance of guilt the next time you scratch your head and wonder how some foreigner who hardly speaks your language could have possibly misconceived you to be single.

WHUT. MY LIFE....WHUT.

"Why all the people always seem to be just be on vacation

What do I get from it? I don't get anything at all."

Hot, tired, and really confused from the past few hours, I stumbled downstairs to watch Humi eating my donuts and Masa eating some half-priced pastries in front of the t.v.. I got a spoon for my yogurt and on my way back to my room, this random dude, maybe late 20's, blonde, kind of tall with sort of a belly, with what I may have possibly misconstrued as a slight gay lisp, says, in fluent English,

"Oh, hi there!"

 "Oh....hey?"

"You must be Alex." Whutttt how do you know my name.

"Yeah...totally."

"Neil." Neil shook my hand with the intensity of someone who is probably not gay.

"Nice to meet you."

"How long have you been here?"

"Oh you know....about a month or something. What about you?"

"About two years."

"Oh, jesus. Do you like it?"

"Not really. I'm too lazy to move. See you later." He smiled and slammed the door to his room. I blinked and ate my yogurt.

"Same boy you've always known

Well I guess I haven't grown."

Today, I got up at 9 to go meet Adrian Ho and his friends at the JR station in Ueno.

Usually when you are in a foreign country and are lucky enough to meet up with someone you know, you have most likely been close to them for a long time; at least, long enough to know that they have been traveling abroad, and close enough to the point where they would go out of their way to meet you. I met Adrian Ho 5 years ago in a Tae Kwon Do class in Bellevue, Washington. I knew him for one week. We went to dinner once, he introduced me to the Bawls energy drink--a precious fad of the days of old--and we kicked and punched our way through our severely short physical friendship. I found him on Livejournal soon after we met. I have long-since quit Tae Kwon Do, and most of my days now consist of sitting around on my ass eating yogurt and granola streaming old re-runs of Rosanne off of Youtube. But a year or two ago, Ho found me again on Facebook after we had sort of stopped talking, and due to the expansion of digital social networking and constant status updates, we discovered that we would be in the Tokyo area around the same time this Summer and, like every few years, we agreed to meet up.

I love good friendships, and I love nothing more than good friendships that don't really make sense. We got together and walked with the friends he came over with, other architecture majors from the University of Oregon in Eugene, and laughed about the old Tae Kwon Do dojo and the teriyaki chicken we ate and that one, long-lost picture of Ho in a grocery store holding a bunch of bottles of olive oil that is still somewhere, taken by my outdated camera possessed with the spirit of my dead grandmother. Ho explained that the dojo nearly went under--the IRS apparently got on the owner, Lee's ass about paying employees on the table and, unable to deal with the pressure, he left the dojo to one of the senior students and ran off to Portland. Said student really fucked things up for awhile before it was sold to another student, and apparently now things are as orderly as ever. I never really gave a fuck about that dojo, or Tae Kwon Do in general, but it was nice to hear the news.

I wandered around with Ho and these strangers like I had known them all my life. There was another stranger among them who was slightly out of the loop--a Chinese girl named Jen who knew Ho since she was a baby in Hong Kong. After growing up in China and living stateside for a few years, she decided to do exchange in Tokyo, leaving her fluent in 3 languages. Whawawhoawa. The 5 of us roamed the streets of Ueno, eating street vendor food and looking at cheap sneakers. I ordered yam soft serve ice cream....because I couldn't help myself. It was purple, and delicious, but I still wasn't really able to shake that aftertaste of fresh-baked yams. After a while, we found the entrance to a zoo! YAY!! So we spent $6 and gawked at lions, tigers, bears, monkeys, rhinos, and hippopotami to our hearts' content. I got some doughy panda themed snack and it was delicious. My shoulders slightly sunburned, I wandered around the zoo like a true American tourist--tank top, waterbottle, camera out, glossy eyed, overwhelmed look on my face the entire time. My favorite part was the sugar glider exhibit. I LOVE SUGAR GLIDERS!!! There was also a slow loris--a few in fact!! I lol'd as I was reminded of Llama, but couldn't get any pictures seeing as how they were in the nocturnal animal display hut. Zoos are so exciting, yet so melancholy at the same time. I really get a kick out of seeing exotic animals--especially tigers that are inches away from my face separated by a thick sheet of glass--but watching all of them pace monotonously around in circles in their hand-fed, cement paved environment makes me really, really uncomfortable. I try not to think about it. I just focus on how adorable the red pandas are. I DIDN'T KNOW THESE WAS RED PANDAS. A thousand internets for whoever can tap that reference.

Exhausted and overwhelmed from the excitement of staring at caged animals, we had some okonomiyaki-type food and split up, because I needed to go meet an acquaintance for a favor in Takadanobaba.

Though essentially West-Shinjuku, there's something about Takadanobaba that really weirds me out. Maybe it's the way it smells, or the way the people look. Maybe it's the abundance of rats in the street. Whatever the case, it's somewhere I would generally rather not be. But I made an agreement with a friend of a sort-of-friend that I would buy them lunch in exchange for their help. After getting off the train in Takadanobaba, I had to find Waseda University. Following along with my normal philosophy of "eh, I'll find it," I realized that this procedure often doesn't fly, especially in a portion of the city that is kind of creepy and you aren't fluent in the native language. I ended up getting directions from two policemen, an older, grey-haired woman on a bicycle, and two university students to the co-op. Albeit a supposedly repressed society, Japanese people are SO FUCKING NICE. Each one of these people went out of their way to walk me at least a block to point me in the right direction so I didn't get lost. Fortunately, my Japanese is good enough so that I can keep up with small talk and be a charming foreigner before they realize how bizarre I really am. I arrived at the co-op, and called my contact (who shall remain anonymous for now, because when we actually do meet up, their identity will give some of you some SERIOUS lulz) and he agreed to meet me. Unfortunately, as it turns out, there is more than one co-op on the Waseda University campus, and after waiting an hour, I called again to find out that he had waited for me in the other one forever, wondered why he couldn't find me, and had other business to attend to. I lol'd, because I had nothing better to do than wait outside in the warm Waseda darkness anyhow, and Tanashi is really close to Takadanobaba so I really didn't give a shit. I'll meet up with him later. As all of this waiting was happening, I noticed that there was some dude in glasses with a backpack and a nalgene bottle also waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He was also waiting at the top of the stairs when I came outside, and when I set forth on my path to return to the station, he walked in the direction I was going. Figuring he was probably just waiting for somebody too, because fuck, I can't be the only person waiting for somebody else at a damn university, I turned and exited the other way. It was the long way out of campus to the street, but it was a pretty night, and I need the exercise anyway. 

I'm walking briskly for about 15 minutes or so because, that's just kind of how I walk, when the same dude scares the living shit out of me by coming up behind me and asking where I'm going. As weird as it is, I'm kind of used to this, because I guess I'm sort of a novelty as a pasty American, and occasionally Japanese people will come up to me and ask me where I'm from, in return detailing their brief and irrelevant trip to Chicago or wherever. But I soon realized this was a little weird, because it is not just a hop, skip, and a jump from Waseda to the station....this guy must have followed me at least ten blocks. I felt honored as I recognized my first official stalker.

He followed me the remaining six blocks or so to the station, telling me that he spoke broken English and that I was very beautiful and that we should go to karaoke right now. I yawned and told him I had dinner plans with nonexistent friends. He asked if I was single, and I went on to tell him all about my blonde, Swedish boyfriend Jörgen, captain of the water polo team, who I've made up in my head for occasions such as these. After explaining that I don't have a phone, a computer, electricity, or running water and that there's absolutely no way to contact me in my commune on the farmlands of downtown Tokyo, he gave me his e-mail address, which I stuffed into my pocketbook full of all of the phone numbers and e-mail addresses I have acquired from strange men throughout this trip, none of which are Yohei's. 

Dazed and confused, I walked back to Big Wave 21 with the two donuts in a bag I had had with me the entire time, which were intended for the person I was to meet but now had no one to savor them and chomp them down. I regretted not giving the donuts to the policemen, the grey-haired lady, and the two university students. I walked into the door and saw Humi in the kitchen, cooking up his usual lavish, overly-complicated dinner. 

"Humi, do you like donuts?"

"Herro, Alex! How are you! Yes?"

"Here's some donuts. I don't want them." 

"Rearry???" His stunned reaction to the gift of stale donuts was amusing. "Thank you! Thank you for donuts!"

"Yeah, no problem."

 

So tired

"Can’t you see that I am losing my marbles
It’s marvellous losing another, losing another."

It had been months since I'd last seen Katsue Park, a friend I made at the EF school in Evergreen when I volunteered as a language parter for foreign students. Since I was in the area, it was a no brainer that I had to go see her. I took the train 2 hours to Yokomaha, where I waited on a stiff, blue plastic bench on the train platform until she greeted me. I was so excited and filled with overwhelming bubbly happiness, and we babbled on about how we had been in the past few months. We had debated on speaking in either Japanese or English, but instead she ended up speaking in Japanese and I spoke in English....which is pretty much how our friendship works, I guess.

After we came to the conclusion that we were both hungry, as well as each having the mindset of morbidly obese diabetics, we decided to go get ice cream. Which generally means, in Japan, something strange. I can't remember what it was called, but it was a mountain of green tea ice cream teamed with azuki beans, rice cakes, and wiggly squares of green and white Jell-o. After pouring sugar cane syrup all over it, I attempted to finish it all, and failed. Next time I shall conquer. Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me...twice....whatever Bush said.

The Yokohama area, especially Minato-Mirai, was really beautiful. Nestled in a wide harbor, the towering buildings reflected off of the grey water as rain fell in torrents upon the sleek grey asphalt. The view from the entrances of the massive shopping malls were stunning, the city lights glittering beneath the darkening sky. The malls themselves were worthy of being gawked at. Stories upon stories stacked up on each other, weaving escalators and staircases winding up the sides of the buildings, massive skylights shining overcast light onto the slick floors of the lobbies. 

One of the things Katsue insisted I check out, much to my EXTREME AGREEMENT, was the Pokecenter Megastore in one of the malls. I drooled and leapt for joy as I hugged plush Pichus, marveled at Pikachu cookies, leafed through Charmander notebooks, and gawked at some of the weirder items such as Pokemon computer mice, DS styluses, and instant curry. I spent a little more than a fortune picking up various items for my friends....who I'm so sad couldn't experience the glory with me. One day....we shall all go back. 

Epic girl talk ensued over super-authentic China Town dim sum. We discussed the usual--jobs, classes, and of course, romance. She said that at her age, she was getting slightly worried about being unmarried, and that the last fling she had was in Olympia with a young man my age. I was pissed that she wouldn't tell me who it was with....considering it's Olympia, and the kid was probably in my class, I would most likely be able to match a face to a...situation....but sadly I was denied access. In regards to my Yohei situation, she gave me a speech in English telling me to "just be an aggressive American, and don't give up. Don't take no for an answer. Wear sexy clothes you wouldn't normally wear. He won't be able to say no. What have you got to lose? If he says no, you can be sad, but it's part of life experience. Just go up to him and tell him you want his ass." This was slightly unsettling considering two years ago Katsue couldn't even introduce herself in English. But I know she's right. Everyone's right--Mayra's right, Jake's right. I'm gonna tell that rat bastard how I feel about him over a plate of tacos when we go out for Mexican food. Then I'm going to hand him the adorable squeaky stuffed panda toy I bought him in China Town, give him puppy eyes with extra cleavage involved, and he won't be able to say no. If he says no, that makes him an asshole. It also gives me grounds to publicly embarrass him when I'm famous.

After dim sum, we wandered the long stretch of Moto-machi, a curvy road lined with world-famous designer shops such as Tiffany's and Louis Vuitton, and lavish bakeries and cafes. Katsue pointed out an apparently famous American grocery store called Union, and I made a beeline right for it. Upon scrounging the aisles delighted in the sliced cheese and cereal boxes, I found just what I had been dying for. 

"TACO SHELLS!!" I cried, tears almost streaming from my wide eyes. Yes, taco shells. But not just the shells--seasoning, salsa, even tortillas if you felt like chewing instead of crunching your delectable homemade Mexican atrocity. But what was I to do? I had a massive garish Pokemon bag full of all the day's purchases. I didn't want to risk carrying shells, easily broken, 2 hours back home to Tanashi--let alone shredded cheese that may go bad and ground beef which would almost definitely spoil. Heartbroken, I came to terms with my decision to return later on. Katsue patted me on the shoulder and told me that there was also an American food store hidden somewhere in the depths of Shinjuku that she would help me find, and that all was not lost. I did, however, make it out with one proud purchase--a jar of spicy pasta sauce. Earlier on in the month, I bought spaghetti, only to realize that I could find nothing in any grocery store even resembling tomato sauce. However, now, that is not the case. I happily swung my jar in its plastic bag as we stepped into a Starbucks for coffee--or rather, a caramel steamer for me, because I have a psuedo-caffeine allergy; also, I am a huge bleeding vagina. But I got a chocolate chip cookie so that's okay.

We talked of my potential transfer to Tamagawa, but the immense cost of tuition that would stand in my way. The sun went down as we discussed college, high school, weight loss, and brothers and sisters. I love Katsue so much--she's so nice to me, and she's also totally bonkers. At 37 years old, she's pretty much more of a sister to me than my own (estranged?) sister ever was.

On the way back to Shibuya from Kikuna, I sat on the train holding my massive orange Pokemon bag and umbrella. The rattling of the train upon the rails shook the car, and the lights of the subway tunnel flashed again and again as they zoomed by. I inhaled as I watched a tired businessman slump against the hard edge of the train seat. I think it's something that maybe happens to everyone as they're growing up, whether they're conscious of it or not. Every few years or so, you find yourself in a situation where you can take a step out of yourself and realize what you've become. It's almost as though you can feel that you've grown. I like to call it leveling up. Which probably, in itself, demotes me a few levels. 

The last epiphany I had was in Hawaii with Glyndyn, on our graduation trip. We lay in our separate queen beds staring up at the ceiling, the darkness pouring in through the open window, curtains billowing from the warm tropical wind. The sound of distant sirens and people laughing down below echoed up to our room from outside. It was that night that I came to a conclusion--every so often, I get myself all pumped up, telling myself that things are gonna change, now, Man. This is a new way of life. Everything's going to be different from now on. But I realized then, that just because you tell yourself shit's going to be different, nothing is going to change unless you really put forth the effort to make it change. I told Glyndyn this, staring into the darkness, hands behind my head.

"That's killer dank, Dude," she replied eloquently, yet undeniably sincerely, and fell asleep.

Ugh.

I have been refraining from writing this for 4 weeks because I never gave a shit. But if you wish, you can watch as I scrape up all of the memories from my "academic" routine at Tamagawa as I possibly can. Be forewarned that this will be full of ass kissing, an account only suitable for the eyes of an off-kilter professor. I also warn you that it will be dull, and probably not worth reading. I wouldn't read it. 

"Well I don't think I'll make it through another day

It's eight o'clock and all ain't well
My brain hurts so much it's startin' to decay
And I'm livin' in my private hell
Didn't somebody tell me this would be so great
Be the best thing I ever had?
How come they never told me 'bout the word "exaggerate"
How'd somethin' so good get so bad?
'cause hey, I gotta know
Am I slow?
Where do I go from here?
Do abc's
And 123's
Mean that much to me, that much to me, me, me, me, me, me, me

Be cruel to your school
'cause you may never get another
Be cruel to your school
In the name of rock and roll."

I was admittedly reluctant to join the Tamagawa program. But in the end, I was more than happy with the friends I made, things I learned, and experiences I came away with. I thought that making a daily account of everything that happened in every class would be repetitive and monotonous, so I combined the things that affected me the most from my experiences at school into this journal.

At first, I was slightly overwhelmed by the schedule that Kathy Riley handed us. After getting lost on the train system for a good chunk of hours, even after the amazing welcome party the students threw for us, it was a little distressing to have to arrive at school, which was 2 hours away from where I was staying, at 9 in the morning on many days. But I learned to get up very early and catch the train to make it to school on time, so although I was often quite tired in the morning, for the most part I made it to classes on time and ready to interact with the students. 

The first class we experienced was one of Mr. Rowland's English classes. Diana and Rory went to visit one of Kathy Riley's classes. The students were maybe first or second year students, and they were hesitant to really engage in conversation with Alec and I. The students' current assignment was to take photos and information about their favorite musicians and compile them into a sort of scrapbook compilation they could use as a guide when giving presentations. We were split up and put into groups with the students as they practiced giving their speeches. Among the favorite artists were bands like Mr. Children, a Japanese group, and Green Day, an American band. The levels of English ranged from beginner to high intermediate, and it was fun helping the students along when they had trouble with forming sentences. It was also very handy to help in Japanese as well. It was interesting to see how some of the students worked hard and were very passionate about using English to describe their favorite artists, whereas some were just blatantly apathetic about the assignment altogether--one student explained to me in a bored, monotone droll that she would rather be hanging out with her boyfriend. The students were overall fairly shy, but I hope we helped them with their English.

One of my favorite activities came from one of Mrs. Riley's classes. The students were a bit older, maybe third and fourth years, and we sat around in a circle asking each other the questions from the Inside The Actor's Studio questionnaire survey. It was a really amazing way to expand both English and Japanese vocabulary, to break the ice, and to learn things about the students. We went around in a circle each asking a question from the list, such as, "What is your favorite word?", "What profession would you like to attempt someday?", and "If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say after you die?". Some of the answers turned out to be quite humorous--for example, Rory confessed that he's always wanted to be a dinosaur--and I learned from other students that they would like to be poets, ice skaters, and film directors. 

In another intermediate English language class, the four of us completed one of the English language grammar quizzes that the students were assigned, and ironically some of our answers were different from those on the answer key. It kind of made me realize that English is an infinitely difficult language, because there are so many different ways to phrase one thing and get one idea across. We listened to the professor's enthusiastic lecture as the students were called upon at random and struggled filling in the proper English grammar. 

Another one of my favorite activities was in an advanced-intermediate English speaking class which Noriko, one of the friends we made from the culture club, was in. Each student went up and wrote their names on the board for us, explaining what the kanji meant and how it related to them as people. I found it fascinating, considering that my name is relatively boring...and my last name is made up. The students made kanji for our names--mine are far too complicated for me!--and we played a word game in which you must say a word, then another player starts a new word with the last letter of the previous word. I kept track of all the words, and in the end it turns out I knew most of them in Japanese. This also turned out to be a good place to talk about visual kei music with some of the students in the class who were fans. 

One of Rowland's communications classes was quite interesting because, not only did it focus on learning English, but it also had an emphasis on the practice of interviewing other people--what kind of questions to ask, and that you should not remain silent for too long, etc.. The students went around and interviewed other people in the class, trying to find out information to fill out their chart. Most of them seemed surprised when they found out I was in a band.

Mrs. Suzuki's non-verbal communications class was also a lot of fun. Four native students at a time went up in front of the class to demonstrate a non-verbal sign, such as "okay", "eating", "good job", etc.. Afterward, we would go up to the front and demonstrate the differences in the American gesture. We came to find that Americans tend to have an extreme amount of hand gestures for just about everything, including a wide range of those strictly for vulgar use. There were many that the Japanese students didn't know. 

The sustainable agriculture class was very interesting, mostly considering the almost vulgar teaching style of the professor. The students were also a bit older in this class, my age, so it was easy to talk to them. We sat in threes, a pair of Japanese students to each American. It was nice to just kind of talk about what they were studying in a casual setting, and find similarities in our interests. There were also snacks, which was really thoughtful. Diana and I made two good friends from that class. 

The class that was probably the most confusing was an economics class taught by Mr. Oda. He was very enthusiastic and a wonderful teacher, and the students loved him very much, but he spoke so rapidly that I pretty much had no idea what he was talking about. We were supposed to participate in an activity in which (I think) three students compared the social effects of speaking and listening across cultures. Rory and I were grouped with a young Japanese man who had trouble explaining in English what we were supposed to do so, for the most part, we just sat there and tried to communicate as best as we could.

One of Mr. Rowland's seminar classes in which we compared the possible stereotyping of Japanese characters in American movies was one of the most interesting. We watched clips from movies, old and modern, with Japanese characters, and then sat in groups discussing their portrayal. In a lot of respects, the students remarked that the portrayals were, though slightly stereotypical, more or less accurate. In other cases, such as that of Japanese people being notoriously short, and the female character being loud and overbearing, they assessed that the portrayal was untrue. It was very cool coming from an outsider's prospective, where almost all the views a foreigner has of a certain place or more or less stereotypical until you can really become involved in the culture. 

Mrs.Riley's seminar class contained an activity in which we watched a short film in English about the comparisons between male and female social interaction, universally. Upon discussing it with the students, I found that in most cases, the differences between males and females--for example, men unconsciously interrupting conversations, women being more versed on color names, etc--were more or less the same in Japan. One of the differences was the more reserved nature of women in conversation in Japan. Another very interesting thing about this class was the food anthropology presentation given by a guest speaker--I believe she was Bulgarian, and was also fluent in English and Japanese, which was really amazing. She gave a slide show presentation on local and gourmet foods, delicacies, and food that most of the Japanese students thought was a native Japanese food, but actually isn't. It was very welcomed to hear a presentation on something so seemingly irrelevant at first glance, but food anthropology is really a big part of all of our lives. The differences in the food since I've gotten here, for example, have been staggeringly different.

The most interesting thing Diana and I participated in was going over to the elementary and junior high quadrants of Tamagawa, and watching the younger kids interact bilingually. We got to see the elementary school children line up, hundreds of them in one room, and practice singing for their concert. It was incomparably adorable. It was also fascinating to watch some of them come up to Diana and I and start confidently speaking in English. The levels of English vary so deeply within Tamagawa--some students younger than eight years old were having fluent conversations with me, whereas some my age cannot even introduce themselves completely. Sitting in on the classes was a lot of fun. The English language activities, such as those involving naming the names of weather and food, were very smart and the students looked like they were having the times of their lives. The next day, all four of us went to the junior high hall, where we sat in on a class of, again, extreme varying English levels. But the International Baccalaureate students were all very studious and dedicated, while still letting their personalities shine through. Their assignment to create an invention and advertise it in English led to some ingenious ideas and hilarious posters. 

The classes ran for a few hours each, and we had maybe three of them or so a day, five days a week. It was a little heavier than the 'few hours for three days a week' I thought it was going to be, but making friends with the students made it worth it. Each class, we each stood in front of the class and got into a routine of introducing ourselves. I would give my little spiel about how I'm studying Japanese and rock music, and we would usually be paired up with some students to do an activity. Because the students were all studying English, I don't feel as though I learned any Japanese in this respect. But I feel like I helped the other students become a bit more relaxed in their speech through conversation with a native speaker. Among the students in the classes we visited, I met a girl named Hikaru, who is a big Marilyn Manson fan like me, and we have been keeping in contact. Diana and I also met young men named Tomoya and Toshiki, who we sometimes go to Machida to play music with in the studio. We have also been hanging out with two young men named Atsushi and Yohei, who have become good friends of ours, and we see them often. So, because of the classes, we have made a good deal of friends, and because of this we have been improving both our Japanese and our English outside of class, which I think is invaluable experience that cannot be taught. 

The chat sessions were my favorite part of each day--the hour would come, and students from both the cultural comparisons club as well as the friends we made from classes would come and we would talk casually in both English and Japanese about our experiences in Japan so far. The chat sessions would bleed into lunch, and we would go to either Rindo, the main dining hall, or Mos Burger to eat. It was very helpful having our Japanese friends there to help us order the food...it's more difficult than it seems. As for the Japanese lessons, they essentially mirrored the chat sessions; there was no strong structure to the lessons so much as a casual exploration of what we wanted to learn. At this point, I usually spoke to the other students in Japanese, and had them help me out when I didn't understand a particular word or phrase. This exercise proved to be extremely useful, and it helped me get into the groove up speaking conversationally outside of class.

The cultural comparison club students were so nice and generous, leading us from place to place and giving us advice. We had many excursions after class; going out to eat, karaoke--we even went to Hello Kitty Land. The welcome party was very thoughtful and fun, and the farewell party was just exquisitely amazing. There was endless food, a slideshow, and the students presented each of us with a scrapbook of memories for us to take back to America. In the classes, I feel as though I contributed a good deal to the English speaking skills of the students, especially to those at a lower level. But where I really learned about comparing cultures socially and improved my Japanese was outside of class, when the friends we made took us out and helped us through the difficulties we had as foreigners in a strange place. I appreciate every one of them, and I still keep in contact with them. Because of the cultural comparisons club, I have new, close friends I will never forget. Because of the presentation class, I have a group of musicians I can play locally with. And because I met a particular student from the sustainable agriculture class, I have accidentally fallen in love. I feel that I have a great connection with the Tamagawa program now, and would like very much to come back and participate next year. The students are dedicated, kind, and thoughtful, and the teachers are enthusiastic and always willing to help. I would recommend this program for any student looking for an unforgettable experience in a heartbeat.

pizza.

"My weight is 500lbs."

This is also for my mom. The new Pizza Hut specialty debut - pizza with shrimp and mayonnaise filled hot dog crust.

Ohhh my god.

Why yes, I'm aware that I just posted, but I had to document what just happened because it was one of the weirdest things I have ever experienced in my life.

"Soy un perdador; I'm a loser, baby."

As is per my usual routine, at 1am when my internet went out for 5 minutes, I decided to get up and go wash my face and brush my teeth. I was halfway through, when I realized I left my toothbrush in my room. So I walked up to the long, community mirror above the big pink sink. I arrived just in time to see Passive-aggressive Mom Girl coming from the other direction. We both simultaneously ran our toothbrushes under the sink, and started brushing our teeth at the same time. It wouldn't have been that bad, except for I have a knack for finding humor in awkward situations, especially those I have personified as characters in my life without their knowledge. We stood there for maybe a minute and a half brushing our teeth, silently, every so often stopping to spit and run the faucet. Then this.

Mom-girl: >:(  *brushing vigorously*

Me: *looks over* : )  *brushes vigorously*

Mom-girl: *brushing* >:(

Me: *brushing* : ) pfffttttt..... *drools toothpaste out of mouth trying not to laugh*

Mom-girl: *brushing* >:(

Me: *brushing* :)  *failed contained giggling* hehehehhehehehhh....

Mom-girl: *spits* *keeps brushing* >:(

Me: *brushing* hehehehehhhh....heheheh....hheheh.... : D

Mom-girl: *brushing* >:(

Me: *violently spits toothpaste all over mirror* BAHAHAHAHAHAHAAH!!!

Mom-girl: >:(  *spits, rinses toothbrush, walks away*

As if the weird silence between us wasn't awkward enough already, I can't wait to see what happens tomorrow.

The blog post no one wants to read

Moonlight over Tanashi

"So goodbye yellow brick road
Where the dogs of society howl
You can't plant me in your penthouse
I'm going back to my plough."

I rolled over in bed at around 10:30 this morning when my alarm went off, brushed a spindly spider off my shoulder, and slammed on the snooze button. After rinsing and repeating a few times, I got up for good at around noon, checking my e-mail and Facebook and all the routine, monotonous things that keep me attached to my social networks in America. I decided to take the train to Shimokitazawa, because I heard it was pretty cool.

I spent god knows how many hours wandering around the narrow streets, looking into bohemian shops with straw hats and woven almost-ponchos hanging from pegs lining the walls, young men and women with teased hair routinely mumbling "irrasshaimase," in unnecessarily nasally voices to every new costumer that passes through their doorway. Bars, gyoza shops, sushi restaurants. Shrimp pasta, I think is what I ordered. That's what it tasted like, at least. Men with their shirts unbuttoned too low, women with overdyed hair and wedged heels that will give them ankle joint problems someday. Back to being purseless, which I prefer, like I used to in high school, I grabbed a wad of cash from my pocket and bought a strawberry cheesecake ice cream cone from a Baskin Robbins, the only familiarity in my day reduced to a "sutoroberi chisukeiki aisu kurimu kon". A saxophone player honked away on a side street. A group of men in fedoras left a cloud of overpowering cologne in their wake. I coughed.

Hours later, I found myself wandering the dimly lit streets of Tanashi, a cigarette constantly burning in one hand, the other jammed into my pocket. It crossed my mind how badly I want Mexican food. In your average American city, even in the towns with one road and half a gas station, you can find even a sleazy excuse for a Mexican restaurant, a handful of servers that may or may not speak English ready to throw a plate of seasoned rice and beans at you, topped with a glorious taco, enchilada, burrito, tamale; whatever hard-to-pronounce ethnic morsel you prefer. If the bartender has eyes for you, he might even throw in a free margarita. 

The untied shoelaces from my boots clicked along on the sidewalk as I blew smoke into the black sky, someone on a bicycle passing me every five to seven minutes. In my walk I passed twelve apartment complexes, seven car dealerships, and four motorcycle dealerships. In between them were a few McDonalds' and generically named Chinese restaurants. It's the only street that has so far reminded me of Southern Oregon. Tanashi; home of bicycles, racists, condos, and car dealerships.

Still craving enchiladas, I found myself crossing the street at the same time as a young family leaving one of the Chinese restaurants. The mother was holding a toddler. I always feel weird when I find myself smoking around little kids. I tried to pretend that I didn't have a cigarette, coughing on my own smoke as to prevent the kid from getting a lungful of half-American, half-nicotene poison. I like to think I saved that kid a trip to the doctor when he grows up and ages, and the doctor says that he was this close to getting lung cancer, but thank god he didn't inhale one more breath of the foul toxin. He'll wonder who to thank, and somewhere I'll be smiling in my grave.

On my way to nowhere, I stumbled upon a group of people yelling outside of a van pulled over to the side of the road, that had apparently been rear-ended by one of Tanashi's faithful motorcycle owners. The driver of the van was steadily getting enraged over the hardly-noticable dinged fender, his bushy eyebrows raising higher and higher with each defensive remark the motorcycle driver made. I sat on the curb, lit up another cigarette, and watched the debate.

There is no Metropolis. There is no Utopia. There is no golden city, no haven of dreams. It's not Los Angeles, it isn't New York City, it isn't Tokyo, not Prague, not Paris, not Madrid, not Amsterdam. There is no perfect town, no perfect city, no place where you can waltz into the city limits with a briefcase and a smile on your face and be promised a job and security and a home and a wife and a family and happiness. There is no place where you can start from the ground up and build yourself an empire of wealth and prosperity. There is no place where people will willingly sit and listen to your problems without asking for $250/hr. Nobody cares about your poverty, your miscarriage, your cancer. And certainly, nobody cares about your dinged fender. 

A silent cop car with lights flashing pulled up behind the scene of the automotive fiasco. I ducked out before I could somehow get pulled into the mess as the American who distracted the motorcycle driver, causing the accident. I mumbled some string of expletives as I realized that I'm running out of lighter fluid, and that I also can't have a goddamn enchilada.