WARNING: This post is pretty freakin' long. Scroll down to see pictures, or exit your web browser if you're not up for it. Okay then...

This past weekend Beth and I went to South Korea. I flew in to Seoul on Thursday via Asiana Airlines, while she came the next day. The flight from Tokyo to Seoul is only around two hours, but if I calculate all the time I spent in preparation and transit, it was a twelve-hour process. I woke up before 6am, which is a time I really didn’t believe existed. I guess I just always assumed when I go to bed, usually around midnight, my clocks enter into hibernation mode along with me and start working again when the sun is well into its ascent into the sky. But the legends are true, and there really is a time between late-night senseless eBay shopping and 8am.
 
Anyway, it was raining in the morning, so I grabbed an umbrella and raced to the train station, where I intended to grab a taxi to take me to the bus station. From there I could take a bus straight to Narita Airport. But there were no taxis. I suppose that they too don’t believe in the mythological hours before “I want a bowl of cereal but I’m going to be late to work.” There was no way I could get to the bus station in time to catch the bus, so I stood there in the rain cursing under my breath. Then I moved under the awning at the station entrance because it made no sense to stand in the rain. I mustered a resigned and theatrical sigh and walked into the station to take the train, swiping my transit card without breaking pace. You’re probably thinking, “Mars, dude, what’s wrong with taking the train?” There’s nothing wrong with taking the train, but I wanted to avoid all the transfers and confusing train schedule signs. Plus, I didn’t map out ahead of time the train route since I thought I’d be taking the bus. I got most of the way through the trip to the airport before Beth helped me out by looking up the information and texting it to me. (I’m still true to my nonsensical archaic ways and so my mobile device, even here in Japan, is an old school flip phone) Once I got to the airport I breezed through check-in and immigration. There were no useless body scanners, no shoes to remove, no arbitrary pulling aside this character or that dude with the suspicious walk or crazy eyes or fanatical shouting “Death to the West,” just the usual precision and Japanese work ethic.
 
I landed in Seoul before 4pm and was greeted by snow flurries. Indeed, it was much colder in Korea than it has been in Japan. My first night’s stay was arranged through Couchsurfing, a website I like to use when I want to meet locals and stay on a budget. My hosts were a Korean couple about my parents’ age. (and in fact they have a daughter my age and a son a little younger than my brother) Hana, the lady who I contacted to stay with, informed me she had to be at a university and would not be able to spend time with me that evening. Her husband would instead entertain me. I was instructed to grab a specific bus line on the fleet of Airport Limousine Buses. When I got through Immigration and Customs at Incheon Airport in Seoul, I easily found the bus terminal and bought a ticket to Olympic Park, where my hosts’ apartment is located. Public transit in Korea is amazing. It’s clean, accurate, simple to navigate, and provides information in three, sometimes four, languages: Korean, Japanese, English, and Chinese. Phenomenal.
 
Each stop was announced as we approached it, however I didn’t realize that there was a buzzer to press if I wanted to get off at a certain stop. I thought the bus just stopped at each place, but that was not the case. And so, my stop came and went, and after twenty minutes or so I asked the girl next to me if Olympic Park would indeed be soon. She said we passed it, but someone called the driver and was following the bus in a car looking for an American. So the driver whipped to the side of the road and let me out. He stood to wait with me but looked anxious, so I encouraged him to continue on his route since he had a schedule. There was no good reason for him to wait with me.
 
In a few minutes a car pulled up driven by Hana and her husband, whose name I never got. They both got out of the car and she hastily said hello and apologized that she had to leave, which I already knew. Her husband waved his hand for me to follow him and we descended into the subway without him saying a word. We hopped on and off three or four trains before exiting the subway and surfacing to the stop where I should have been in the first place. We walked around the corner and down a quiet yet well-lit street and entered an apartment building. My host finally spoke, pointing to the building number as he recited it.
 
I was shown around the apartment, which I found to be nicer than most any other place I’ve ever stayed. It could be that I’ve just always lived in or visited dumps, but really it’s just that this was a really awesome apartment. I had the whole upstairs to myself, which was more space than I needed and much too kind of my hosts. Hana’s husband then turned on the bathroom light and we both acknowledged its existence. He then turned on a light to a bedroom, and then turned on the light in the next room, and proceeded to show me how to work the television. “Internet,” he said, followed by “television.” He plugged in some strange device on the floor. It looked sort of like a humidifier and rice cooker combined, and it had tubes extending from its base to a mat on the floor.
 
We sat on the floor and used the television stand as a desk, and he helped me review my tentative itinerary, making suggestions and liberally crossing off items on my list of ideas. After we planned out two and a half days’ worth of sightseeing, shopping and dining, he got up and announced bedtime. I moved myself to the bedroom, and he gave me a look that kind of looked like confusion wearing a cloak of death. He pointed to my backpack which was on the floor, and then nodded towards the other room. Saving the details of the rest of this awkward exchange, basically I misunderstood and was not supposed to be in that bedroom, but instead I was to sleep in the room with the television on the mat with wires coming out of it leading to the space machine. That little machine, by the way, seemed to be a heating device that heated the mattress based on wherever I was laying. The floor also was heated. Heated floors are heavenly.
 
As I was getting myself together in the morning Hana came to the door to greet me. She had prepared a breakfast consisting of vegetable gimbap, a sushi-like food that evolved from the Japanese occupation of Korea in the early part of the 1900s. (look it up if you don’t believe me) She also served miso soup, pickled vegetables, and bread. Her husband left for work and we sat and chatted for a while. We ate fresh persimmon and apple slices while we talked about the differences of the north and south of the Korean Peninsula, various countries and cultures, social welfare, careers, personal interests, and food. I asked her what she did before becoming a college professor and she said with a hint of shyness and coyness, “I worked for the government in social welfare.” I come to find out that she was a top dog in the Korean Ministry of Health and Social Welfare. She showed me her office which was decorated with several photos of her with the Korean president, his wife, cabinet members, and so on. She proudly showed me two awards she had received during her tenure, explaining that they are the highest honors one can receive for the service for which they were given. You’d better believe I’d have those awards enlarged and displayed on the side of my house. And as you might imagine, by this point I was feeling humble, impressed, and wishing I had at least worn a collared shirt or had my hair cut prior to my arrival.
 
On with my day. Hana is an extremely busy woman, and this weekend was no exception. She said she is like my mother in Korea, and packed my backpack with fruit, bread, and gimbap. After she showed me her garden and her collection of miniature treasures from various business trips and vacations around the world, she walked me out and wished me well. We had one of those long goodbye exchanges where each party keeps coming up with things to say to prolong the conversation just a little longer.
 
Using Korea’s fabulous subway system as my mode of transport, I first ventured to just outside Seoul’s downtown area, where I wandered around just soaking up the intensity of this massive city. The sun was shining but the chill in the air made my lungs burn a little as I hiked along the pavement. I made my way toward the North Seoul Tower, stopping along the way to check out an animation museum and stopping at a small tea house for a cup of chamomile. The tower is accessed by cable car and offers a 360-degree view of Seoul and the surrounding mountains. The elevator ride was quick, but on the way up I was instructed by the attendant to look at the ceiling to watch an absurd promotional video featuring an elevator launching from the tower to outer space. It was a slightly hazy day, and the glare on the windows of the tower’s sunny side was no help. But the view was impressive, and it gave me a better idea as to how big the city really is. I met and chatted with a couple from Switzerland, but otherwise spent the time quiet and solo.
 
After the tower I walked down the hill and made my way to the subway. From there I rode to Namdaemun Market, a dizzying cluster of street vendors and shops and more people than I care to be around at any given moment. If there was something you’d want to buy, and that thing happened to be a knock-off a real thing you might want to buy but don’t want to pay for, Namdaemun Market is the place to go. Shoes, handbags, clothing, electronics, health and beauty products, trinkets, brick-a-brack, souvenirs, cookware, you name it. It’s there. To be honest, the market was too intense for me, and really I just preferred the people watching over actually buying anything, so I didn’t stay too long.
 
I made my way over to Itaewon, a neighborhood of Seoul that caters to, and is home to, many expats and foreigners. In general, I found no need in Korea to speak anything other than English, with the exception of an occasional Japanese expression. The level of English knowledge and ability seems to far surpass that of Japan, although Seoul is a major city and the same could be said about Tokyo.
 
I found my way to a small vegan café called Plant, which I had read about online. Unfortunately everything on the menu board had garlic in it, and I wasn’t interested in feeling sick for the night. There I met a friendly girl from South Africa and we chatted while I slurped on a smoothie and devoured a huge slice of pumpkin cake. From there, I bought a few magazines at an English bookstore (I got them to read the articles, I swear) and walked up and down the busy main street before heading to a hostel we had reserved.
 
Beth’s flight would come in this evening, and I was to meet her at the bus stop near the hostel. I stayed nearby, walking a few kilometers around the area and again soaking up the atmosphere. There was on one section of town with four Starbucks within a five-minute walk, all on the same side of the street. People were out in force, shopping and eating and laughing and freezing in miniskirts. I went to wait for Beth at the bus stop, and I waited for nearly half an hour. No Beth. I decided to race back to the hostel to get a map to make sure I was where I should be and there she was, already at the hostel. I guess I wasn’t where I should be. But at least she was safe.
 
The next day we wandered the nearby streets before making our way to Gyeongbok Palace, a massive complex of beautiful buildings and structures originally built in the 1300s. As with most stories in Asian history, much of the palace was destroyed some 200 years later, but it has been under reconstruction since the 1800s. (I think, anyway.) While we were there we caught a glimpse of the Changing of the Guard, which happens daily. Later, Beth would have her picture taken next to a straight-faced and fierce-looking bearded guard. He looked like he could take down a rabid bear, so I just stood back and operated the camera. While we were there we met a young Scottish fellow and spent some time chatting with him. We ate at a restaurant near the palace and we talked a lot about economics and technology.
 
We parted ways and headed for Bukchon, a traditional Korean village with lots of charm and just as much souvenir shopping. It really was a cute and somewhat peaceful place to visit, juxtaposed to the hyperactive buzzing city all around us. And we bought some socks.

We made our way to a vegan restaurant for dinner (I had a tofu burger) that was attached to an animal rescue shelter. Unfortunately the shelter was closed when we were there, but we did get a glimpse of a cute pup that a man had in the café. (they have a section where patrons may bring their pets to dine with them)
 
After this we went to Itaewon, where I had gone the day before, and we perused the streets and shops for a few hours, visiting an English bookstore, a vegan café, and multiple souvenir shops. We also bought some more socks. Once the cold and fatigue sank in we decided to call it a night and head back to the hostel. On our walk from the station we stopped at a sidewalk shop – most were closing down for the evening – and bought some more socks.
 
The next day we ventured to a whole other side of the city to seek out a vegan restaurant we had heard about. Taking no chances, we grabbed a taxi as we came out of the station. The rain and distance to the restaurant would have been a perfect recipe for misery and frustration. The restaurant itself was an unassuming little hole in the wall on a narrow side street away from the noise of traffic and people. A short older woman greeted us and said a bunch of stuff in Korean, pointing at the menu board and at the kitchen and at some stuff hanging on the walls or something. Shortly thereafter a woman came in and greeted us in English. I believe she was the owner. We gave our orders (I had the hot pot) and soon we had steaming bowls of vegetable-y, noodle-y, rice-e goodness. The hot pot was not a misnomer, and came out to me bubbling and humming and gurgling. Even after waiting an eternal few minutes for it to cool, it was still almost too hot to eat. But I persevered, blowing and fanning each spoonful so that I could devour it as quickly as my appestat requested.
 
The owner lady chatted with us for a while before having to leave. We paid the little Korean chef lady and left, destination Incheon Airport.
 
We arrived at the airport with about an hour to spare, and we needed all of it. The lines to get through immigration were long enough to take the wind out of Galileo’s sails. Moving like molasses, we trudged along and scoped out the most promising-looking security checkpoints so that we could expedite our passage. I was pulled aside for something in my bag: face wash that did not meet the 100ml limit. I’m just happy they didn’t confiscate my socks.

Hello everyone. It’s been a month, and I’m guessing (hoping, praying, wishing) you’re chompin’ at the bit just itching to know what I’ve been doing. I’ll make it easy for you: not much, really. But I’ll give you what I have to offer.
 
Every time I mention an earthquake and how it’s the biggest one I’ve felt here so far, it seems there is another one that creeps up just to prove its worth. So there have been several since I last wrote: some little more than a hiccup and some that feel a little more intense. I am still fascinated with the sensation of them. I pause what I’m doing and I focus on the vibration, looking around the room to see the furniture, plants, dishes, walls jiggle around. Thankfully there haven’t been any larger ones around here.
 
A few weeks ago Beth and I attended an African drumming performance and presentation that was held at a community center just down the street from us. There is a Japanese woman who is married to a Kenyan man and they live in Kenya but were visiting Japan. We took some seats right in the front row of the auditorium. The guests came out and the lecture began. And we understood nearly nothing. The man spoke in Swahili, while two women translated to the audience in Japanese. Perfect. This is what we gathered from the hour-and-a-half lecture and Q & A: “This is a spear. Is it heavy? Yes, it’s very heavy and it’s made of something. Large animal. You throw the spear like this. Lion. These are the sounds of some animals found in Africa. This is some device that is used in Africa, and here is another device with some sort of purpose. Lion. Giraffe. This is what I’m wearing. Lion.”
 
The drumming, not performed by the Kenyan guest but by a Japanese man who studied in Africa, was fun and engaging. The audience was encouraged to get up and dance and sing along, and many of us did. A Japanese man in a suit who was already dancing with the crowd had encouraged me to get up, and so I did. At the end of the performance he reached out to give me a fist bump, to which I presented my open hand for a shake. He transformed his fist into a shake-ready palm, but not before I closed my fist to prepare for the bump. We did this a few times before finally having a few bumps and an awkward shake. We got to talking, and he told me he’s a city councilman and has visited Lancaster on several occasions. I wish I got that fist bump on the first try.
 
Speaking of drums, I recently asked my head teacher if it would be okay to practice on the school’s drum kit either before or after hours. He gave me the OK, and encouraged me to take advantage of it. I’ve only tried one day to practice and it was a bust. One of my English teachers, who I like very much and think we could be awesome pals, got the music room keys for me. I went upstairs and down the hall and around the corner and back down the hall and up more stairs and down the hall again because I realized I was on the wrong floor, and I opened the door. I felt as though I was sneaking around someone’s home without permission. It was a home filled with tubas, xylophones, trombones, flutes, and guitars, but still. I’d love to live in a place like that, provided the HVAC system is adequate and there is a grocery store within walking distance. Anyway, when I found the drums, they were in pieces and scattered around the room, so I didn’t play them. I did tap on a xylophone and a keyboard, but got scared being there alone and messing with something that was not my intended purpose. So I got the hell out of there and returned to my desk.

Beth and I went on a lovely lunch date at a place called まめのはなとうふりょり, or Mame no Hana Tofu Ryori, or something like "Faithful Flower Tofu Cuisine". I had a coworker of mine make the reservations, since they were necessary and I would fail miserably had I tried to call myself. It's a small, fancy place that is only open for a few hours a few times a week. It has a monthly set menu, which consists of eight or nine little courses. The restaurant is run by a retired couple who I guess just wanted to make awesome food from tofu. We had a private tatami room in the corner of the building (their house) which had two walls of floor-to-ceiling glass that looked out into a quaint Japanese garden. All of the dishes were outstanding, but some were just a notch above the rest. Our particular favorite was the yuba make, tofu skin sushi something or other. There was a light soup and pickled vegetables, and a tofu au gratin dish that were also pretty darn stellar. We were also served juice, fresh wasabi, hot green tea, and a dessert of fresh fruits and fruit jelly. All this and more, plus amazing service, all for under twenty bucks each. You won't find that in the States, my friends.

I'm a tea drinker, and Japan is all about tea. It's also all about Starbucks, but it's at heart all about tea. So I went to a tea ceremony to which a Japanese friend of mine had invited me. The experience was really cool, if not a bit intimidating. Everything has a purpose, and every movement has a way to be done and a time to do it. I sat between two elderly ladies, both of whom were very helpful in explaining how to do everything. The one to my left didn't seem to thrilled to be sitting next to a foreigner, but the lady to my left was sweet and smiley and talking my ear off, even though I understood little of what she said.

The same friend who invited me to this offered to take me to a tea ceremony class, taught by the same sensei who conducted the ceremony I just mentioned. I went with her and her daughter, who is also training to become a tea...person...I'm not sure what they're called exactly. Everything, again, has its purpose. Upon entering the room you are to bow and look around to admire the space and appreciate its role in the tea making process. You scoot across the threshold on your knees, positioning yourself then at 45 degrees, and rise, right leg first, to your feet. You cross the room diagonally, making sure to cross the black fabric edges of the tatami mat panels always with your right leg. (You cross with your left upon returning) Then you place yourself in front of a wall hanging, admire it, then look up to the left at some flowers, admire them, then down to the right at incense. Admire them. Bow. Lift yourself, about face, return to where you entered the room, and pivot right. Walk up to the tea preparation station, and get down to business. Awesome. There are a lot more details, but those are the bigger details of the process.
 
My elementary school kids continue to make me happy. Seriously, if I don’t end up adopting like fifty little Japanese kids it will be a miracle. I am delighted to see them every week, yet just as stressed out creating lesson plans, as I’m always concerned I’ll have a bum lesson and they’ll be bored or uninterested. I should ask my friends who are teachers back home, at what point do you stop caring? I think that’s the key to making it easier. But I don’t know if I have it in me.
 
The other week I watched a documentary called “Jiro Dreams of Sushi.” It was released in 2011 and follows then 85-year-old Jiro Ono through his days at his $300-a-plate sushi restaurant located in a Tokyo subway station. I’m a little late to the game; I’d been familiar with the title but had not made a point to watch it until this month. I found the film to be adorable, charming, sad, funny, and an interesting look into some of the many facets of Japanese culture. If you have 81 minutes and nothing to do, you can find it on Netflix. And if you want to eat at his restaurant, you’ll have at least a month wait.
 
This past Saturday our neighbor and friend LeeAnne hosted her annual Thanksgiving dinner. I should say, this woman is an incredible example of all the things I’m not capable of managing, such as planning, preparing, and cooking for 30 or so people, or having already mapped out what Christmas movies she’ll be watching this year, schedule and all. I admire that. She’s also been a great friend, and she’s a genuinely caring and kind person. Those are the kinds of people I like to be around. I hope I’m invited to her Christmas movie-watching. Anyway, the dinner was fun and we got to meet a lot of nice people, as well as spend time with other folks we’ve been getting to know.
 
On Sunday, Beth, LeeAnne and I took a trip to Tokyo to do some shopping and to visit some of LeeAnne’s friends. Our mission was simple enough: Visit a bookstore, visit a stationary store, visit a ramen restaurant. The bookstore we visited is several stories high – maybe seven or eight – and it has a foreign section, which was our target. I ended up purchasing two books, both by Japanese authors. One of them was recommended to me some time ago by a friend of mine, and the other was small and cute and pretty affordable so I couldn’t pass it up. I’ll give my review once I read them. The periodical section was a bit lacking, but I guess I can’t really fault the bookstore. It had a lot, but not the kinds of publications I’m interested in. I was on the fence about buying a copy of The Nation or a special edition of The Economist, but I chose neither, as both had sticker prices in the $20 range. $20. For a magazine. I’ll stick to the internet in that case.
 
On the way to our next destination we stopped at a guitar shop, which has a giant Fender Stratocaster propped in the store window. It has to be at least ten feet high, and the strings on it are as fat as my thumbs. (disclaimer: my thumbs aren’t unusually fat, but they’re the plumpest digits on my hands) LeeAnne helped Beth get a cell phone set up while I perused all the things I want but can’t afford or justify buying. Music shops in Japan are a bit frustrating, as all the instruments are locked or tied down to the display stand, and you have to get someone’s attention to have a look at a guitar, and that’s a process as they’re all busy doing guitar store stuff. But then they eventually come over, and they unlock the guitar you want to see, tune it, wipe it down, and prepare a stool for you and position it just so and they get a little amp and cable and all these other courteous things which really just make you impatient and sap your energy. Then they stand there and watch you while you play or inspect the instrument. So I didn’t bother to ask to see anything at this particular store. I let my imagination do the playing for me.
 
Itoya, the stationary store we visited, is located in a major shopping area in Ginza (I think) and is an astonishing twelve stories high. I was not prepared for the enormousness of this place. Nor was I prepared for how crowded it would be. The flow of shoppers funneling in and out was enough to make my head spin. The first floor was beautifully decorated with bright, cheery, encourage-you-to-spend-money holiday spirit. This floor had mostly greeting cards and seasonal items for sale. Each floor had its own theme: Home. Desk. Travel. Craft. Fine Paper. The selection of writing utensils was mind blowing, but in the end I walked away with only a handful of postcards and a few greeting cards. Send me your mailing addresses, please.
 
We made our way to Tokyo Station, part of which is housed in a beautiful brick building dating back 100 years or so. Inside this massive transit hub are a variety of shops and restaurants. LeeAnne found out about a ramen house which is completely vegan, and so we set off to find it somewhere within the tangled spaghetti hallways and mobs of people who abandon Japanese courtesy to rival the aggressive shithole that is New York City. Here we were met by LeeAnne’s friend Ben, an American who has been studying Japanese for a decade and is living in Yokohama, and Hokuto, a Japanese guy who has several successful business ventures including some sort of magician service.
 
The restaurant is apparently really famous or popular, as the line extended well into the station. We stood in the cue for not quite half an hour before being seated in the small but well-lit and chic cavern. Our orders were taken promptly and our food arrived remarkably fast. We were sitting side-by-side at a counter-style table, so none of us faced each other. Hokuto sat in the middle and he entertained Beth and I with some impressive coin magic. His sleight of hand is top notch, and he continued to make coins disappear in my hand only to reappear in another hand or on my shoulder. Japanese and magic. Who knew.

Well my friends, below you can see some shots that go along with this story. And on your Thanksgiving Day, just when you're waking up at the crack of dawn, I'll be in South Korea. More later.

Oh, and I got some cute origami books and paper. Look at this little red fox:

​I was sitting at school the other day and felt the biggest earthquake I’ve experienced here. It took me by surprise, and I felt and heard everything around me shaking. It lasted for maybe 20 or 30 seconds, and I watched as the desks and filing cabinets jiggled about, while my coworkers and the students went about their business as if nothing happened. I guess that is to be expected when you’re accustomed to frequent tremors.
 
This past weekend included a visit to Nikko, one of the most popular tourist destinations in Japan. Nikko is situated in the northern part of Tochigi prefecture and is known for its breathtaking landscape in autumn, as well as its many shrines. One of the most fascinating facts about Nikko’s shrines is the history of them. Toshogu shrine is home to one of the oldest known references to the three wise monkeys (see/speak/hear no evil) and the infamous sleeping cat, along with being one of the most grandiose and lavishly decorated shrines in Japan. It also gets all kinds of mad props as a World Heritage site, a national treasure, and all that awesomeness. This stuff dates back to the late 16th and early 17th century, folks. Get excited.
 
The train ride from Sano to Nikko is not that long. I think it takes less time to get there than it does to get to Tokyo. Being as Nikko’s annual fall festival was on this particular weekend it was exceptionally crowded, but we expected that. Have a look at the photos below to get a glimpse at this town’s beauty. I have little else to say right now. Carry on.

Shinkyo Bridge:

Amazing set meal at a vegan restaurant with seating for about a dozen people:

Toshugo photos:

Some pictures from Lake Chuzenji and nearby Kegon Waterfall:

There are several phases one goes through when experiencing culture shock: honeymoon, anxiety (aka negotiation or crisis), adjustment/recovery, and acceptance or mastery. Some of these also apply when returning to one’s home or familiar environment. I remember hitting a low point back in 1997, about a month into living in Brazil. I was 18 at the time, and had never been out of the country before. I knew I missed my friends and family. I don’t quite recall how or when I got through it, only that I eventually adjusted. Maybe it was when I had a better grasp of the language and felt more confident navigating the city where I stayed.
 
Here in Japan, I can’t necessarily say I’m experiencing anything like that, and I’m not even sure I’ve felt the honeymoon stage. I have had ups and downs, but generally as a response to the day-to-day hiccups that I’d expect anywhere. But I have acknowledged that there are plenty of things I miss back home, as fine and settled as I am here.
 
I miss music. Yes, I have a laptop chock full o’ songs and albums of artists I like, but I miss having music all around me. I miss playing with my band, and I miss my friends in that band. On that note, I’d like to point you to another friend’s website, joshgraymusic. Josh recently released an EP, and I really enjoy it. And it makes me happy to see my friends doing the things they love. The album has several original tunes, capped by an interesting and well-crafted cover of “Punk Rock Girl” by The Dead Milkmen. It's in compound time! I encourage you to check out his music, support him with a CD purchase or digital download, and go hug a friend. Following that, you should also see what our mutual friend, Joe Jack Talcum, is up to these days. He’s got some solo shows in the works, and the Milkmen have a Halloween show in Philly for those in the area. That’s another thing I miss, and I’m bummed I won’t be joining them for the evening.
 
I’ve also missed out on several friends’ weddings, and that makes me sad too. I like weddings. And I love my friends.
 
And, I do miss the familiarity of home. I miss knowing where I’m going, I miss the ease of verbal communication, and I miss understanding what’s on a menu. And finally, I miss: skateboarding with Donovan, Jeremy, Mike G. and Co., hanging with the ABG crew, walking around with my parents on their property, hopping in a car whenever I need to get somewhere instead of depending on a bus, writing music with Adam, Mike and Jason, occasional jams and chilling out with Adam H., Amazon shopping, (the Japanese version is a far cry from what the U.S. has) Vegan Treats in Bethlehem, chocolate chip cookies from The Seed, dinner at Rice and Noodles, lunch with the Development team at Tabor, dog sitting and babysitting for my last boss, walking around Philly or sitting around the house or playing Scrabble with my dear friend Joe, visiting friends in different cities and states, being able to always find shoes that fit me, dairy-free dark chocolate, my old roommates in Lititz, chatting with my brother about whatever, goofing around with restaurant servers where they actually get the joke, reasonably priced fruits and vegetables, and all the other little things and big things I can think of.
 
And now, what have I been up to lately? Let’s see.
 
School has been going pretty well, although I find that I am in the dark a lot of the time. I have learned that if I am not persistent and annoying about asking what’s going on, I will be forgotten. But I’m having fun anyway. The junior high school students really like me for the most part. In class they are generally polite and engaged, save for a few problem students who seem to be uncontrollable. At recess I make an effort to play with them, if they don’t ask me first. I usually play volleyball, but sometimes it’s basketball or soccer. I think I am generally a disappointment in basketball though, as I haven’t yet scored a basket. I believe they see my height as something of an asset, yet I haven’t matched that expectation. Half the time I can’t even tell who’s on my team since they all wear uniforms and they move around so quickly. It’s like we’re one big team, and I’m okay with that. When I pass the ball I just look for whoever seems most genuine and I figure, “they must be on my side.” Nobody has complained yet.
 
At my elementary school it’s even better, as the students are just thrilled to see me. And show me something that is cuter than a third grade Japanese student, and I’ll clean your house for a year. Throughout all grades, English class starts the same. The teacher greets the students: “Hello/Good morning everyone.” The students respond: “Hello/Good morning XXX Sensei.” I repeat. “Hello/Good morning everyone!” They respond in kind: “Good morning Marshall Sensei.” And let me tell you, hearing 30 adorable, enthusiastic, pint-sized Japanese kids in unison saying this line is enough to put a smile on John Boehner’s saggy face. If he had a real heart, anyway.
 
Last weekend my girlfriend and I visited Asakusa, an area of Tokyo with history and culture and rickshaw operators. We ate at an excellent vegan restaurant called Kaemon. It offers set meals, where you choose a main dish that comes with soup and various side dishes. A set meal is like a combo meal or value meal. Burger, fries and a cola, for example. They call them sets here. A set meal. Set.
 
The big attraction in Asakusa is Sensoji, a temple built for the goddess of Kannon, which was completed in 645. That’s a long time ago. There’s also a large shopping district, filled with local goods and Made In China goods. It’s a colorful, warm and crowded area. One notable takeaway is that despite the funnel of tourism in this area, there was nary a beggar or hustler to be found. The only complaint, and it’s not my complaint, was the number of rickshaw drivers competing for our business. Yes, they offered pamphlets and called to us to offer a ride around the city, but they were still polite and hardly obnoxious, and bowed and said “thank you” when we declined. In China I was hounded so aggressively by taxi drivers, tour guides, rickshaw operators, and other vultures that it made me angry and annoyed. At a visit to the Forbidden City, I raised my fist at a man who was pushing himself against me, blocking my way as I walked. He backed down straight away, but I don’t think in that moment I was bluffing.
 
After a visit to the Tourist/Culture Center, we watched some taiko performers on the street. Some of the drums played are so big that they are mounted on a tall frame, and the players’ arms are over their heads as they whack the hell out of them. The sound is thunderous and commanding. For those that are familiar with my drumming technique, imagine me trying to play a drum in that fashion. You’re smiling now, I can tell.
 
We also went to a drum museum, which I found particularly enjoyable as visitors were permitted to play a significant part of the collection. If the drum’s description had a little music note next to it, it was fair game. Beth and I were the only two people in the museum, which was contained in one big room, so we had a fun time tapping, shaking, pounding, hitting and thumping around. Drums, people. Sheesh.
 
For dinner, we found another vegan-friendly restaurant called Café Byron Bay, named after the Byron Bay in Australia. It was a small, cozy if not cluttered place, with a warm vibe. The staff and patrons sitting at the bar invited us to the conversation. The server, a young fellow from England, seemed a bit scattered, but friendly. He said there were only two copies of the menu in the whole place, and he couldn’t find the other, so he asked to borrow back the one we were given. The same thing happened with our carafe of water. Only one in the place, and he needed to pour some water. Our meals were amazing. I had Japanese red curry – garlic and onion free to my delight – and Beth had the yellow curry, different but equally delicious.
 
Before catching a train back to Sano, we returned to Kaemon for dessert: chocolate soy ice cream for me, and the coffee flavored for Beth. In case you cared to know.
 
Anyway, enough of this babbling. Have a look at the pictures below. Thanks for sticking around.

Sorry for the delay. I’m sure you’ve been eagerly awaiting the latest news from the future. Life has a way of making us busy and crazy and lazy, doesn’t it? Anyway, the last time I checked in was just before my 36th birthday. I spent the day working at my junior high school. Just as I was packing up to leave for the day I was told by one of my English teachers that I was to help a student with a speech. So I stayed to help the student, who I like just fine, with her speech. That set me back an hour for my celebration. When I got back to the apartment, I was instructed to begin a birthday present scavenger hunt which my girlfriend had so sweetly and creatively prepared. I got really good at it (the apartment is really small anyway) and finally got to my gift. Then our friend and neighbor LeeAnne came up to visit with a big plate of vegan brownies. It was a nice, low-key birthday. It was the second time I spent a birthday abroad, 2006 in Bacharach, Germany being the first.

This month was a big one for many students here in Sano. Each school hosts a Sports Day similar to Field Day in the States. But here the event is different in many ways. First off, there is no grass field as one would expect. Instead there is a dirt field next to the school where the students compete for the day’s events. The competitions themselves are also very different. There is no singular sport where students compete individually, but there are team sports and games. Students compete for their homeroom class, and after each competition awards are announced from last to first place. When last place is announced, the students cheer wildly for themselves and each other, all the way up to first place.

The most fascinating element of the day for me was the collective efforts of the students, staff and teachers to put the day together. They all help out carrying chairs from inside to the field, setting up tents, painting lines on the dirt field, operating the PA system and so on. The day started with the student body marching to a live – and impressive – student orchestra. There were local politicians and other notable faces in attendance (I honestly didn’t know any of them, but how would I?).

I also went to Tokyo Disneyland. Not on Sports Day but on the following Monday. It’s the first time I’ve ever been to, or even cared to go to, Disneyland. The idea of it never really thrilled me, and since I can get motion sickness from watching the shaky footage of a home movie, it never really made much sense for me to go to a happy place full of rides. But I went with Elizabeth and our neighbor LeeAnne, who by the way is a Disney superfan and sings only Disney songs – in character – any time we go to karaoke. She’s not like crazy psycho fan who dresses as a princess and uses Cinderella tampons or something (as far as I know) but she definitely knows her stuff.

We arrived at the happiest place on earth and found it to be really really busy, especially for a Monday. But maybe time doesn’t matter when you want to put a smile on your face. And since we have been in the Halloween season since St. Paddy’s Day ended, there were lots of people dressed in character. The outfits were amazing, and very convincing (I did not know there were so many Asian princesses, but then again I can probably count on one hand how many Disney films I’ve actually seen). It was a cosplay convention for cute and sexy cartoons, and it was decided then that I too was a Disney fan, at least when it was in the form of short frilly dresses, thigh high stockings, strappy heels, and impractical hairdos.

Then I got sick on the carousel. Yes, the mundane horsey ride thingy that just goes in a sluggish little circle and plays twinkly music made me dizzy and gave me sweats and the feeling that I might either fall over or throw up on Mickey. Neither happened, but it slowed me down a good bit and made me kind of grumpy, apologies to my companions. But, I did manage to get on a few other easier rides such as Splash Mountain, the flume ride, with no trouble.

This past week was Silver Week here in Japan. I traveled with Melissa and Elizabeth to Izu Peninsula. There is so much to say about this place, but I will try to keep it brief and let the following photos do most of the storytelling.

We left Sano for Ito Sunday morning, stopping off at Atami to visit a castle along the coast. The castle isn’t a castle like you and I might think of a castle, but it’s a sort of tall, not-so-huge-building-compared-to-a-European-castle-but-still-impressive-by-itself-castle-even-if-I-don’t-really-think-to-call-it-a-castle-castle. In fact, the castle was built as a tourist attraction, and the town never actually had a castle. But there are model displays of other castles around Japan. And the view from the top is stunning. The coastline is not low and flat as it is on the east coast of the U.S. It has steep, rocky cliffs covered with trees, and occasional white sand or rocky beaches. We took a taxi there, and taxis in Japan are expensive beyond reason. We decided to take a bus back to the station, as it was much cheaper. We boarded the bus, on which we had to stand as it was packed also beyond reason. On the way the bus stopped several times, letting off one or two people only to pick up ten or so more. We were packed like salty little fishes in a square steel can as the bus bounced along the narrow, twisty roads along the coast, jostling us left and right as we approached our destination. The man in front of me kept pushing his way back, and several times his hair grazed my nose. I was tempted to kiss him on the neck to discourage him from pushing back any further, but decided to be quietly annoyed instead.

We continued on to our destination, K’s House Hostel and Onsen, located in Ito. There we met a friendly Swiss guy who showed us to a lovely little restaurant a few minutes from the hostel on foot. The restaurant was run by a couple I think, and a lady took our order (and made for us several modifications to the otherwise meat-heavy menu) while a man cooked an amazing meal. It was a cozy little space where you had to remove your shoes before entering the dining area to be seated on cushions at low tables. We loved the food and the hospitality, and definitely would go back.

We stayed nearby for the rest of the evening and Elizabeth and I reserved the private onsen for a little while. While K’s House had a come-as-you-are policy for its public onsens, it is common for onsens to refuse entry to anyone with tattoos. In any case, we squeezed into the small stone slab pool of natural water from nearby hot springs and enjoyed a soak. While the concept is nice, I found it difficult to hold a conversation as the running water is just so loud that I can’t understand what is being said without yelling.

The next day we went to Shimoda and took a cable car to an overlook to hike around and enjoy the view of the surrounding beach and ocean, then we headed to Shirahama Beach. This time we were sure to be early to wait in line to get seats on the bus. Sure enough, the attendant and driver packed us in as tightly as they could.

The beach was lovely, relatively small, and flanked by tall, steep rock cliffs. The tide seemed strong, the water choppy but warm. The three of us set up camp at the top of the beach – it has a curiously steep slope – and Beth and I went down to the water. We explored the area a little bit before resting on our towels while Melissa went for a walk, only to decide to leave and check out the town. As the sun worked its way toward the horizon, we gathered ourselves and went back to the station and headed back to the hostel. It was dark by the time we were on the train. It gets dark very early here. We changed back at the hostel and walked along the coast to find dinner at Hamazushi, a chain of train sushi restaurants that have order screens in English. You just push the button to order whatever you want, and it arrives at your table on a conveyor belt a short time later. There’s one at the mall in Sano, and we visit it frequently, having our usual kanpyo, inari, kappa, and wasabi nasu sushi.

While we waited for our number to be called we popped into a Seven Eleven to pick up a few things for snacks the next day. I got curious about the Japanese anime porn so we amused ourselves at the magazine rack for a few minutes.

The next day we went to Jogasaki Coast to hike along the water. I can’t even describe how beautiful it is there, so have a look at the photos and captions which sort of show its majesty, but only through the limitations of my little camera.

After a lovely hike we went to Mount Omuro and took a sky lift to the top to walk around and again enjoy breathtaking views of the area. There we met an Italian guy who is working as a computer programmer in Tokyo. The four of us found a small, modest restaurant right there in the tourist trap, and to our humble delight the server offered to alter some menu items for us so that we could have meat-free meals. The menu is very simple, each guest ordering one of maybe eight main dishes and getting a “set” – an appetizer specific to that day, and a dessert as well. We were told the appetizer, which consists of five small portions of various dishes on a single plate, would not suit our diets. However, the chef prepared from scratch two special plates just for the two vegans at the table. We were thrilled. The food was amazing and the hospitality was unparalleled. In fact, omotenashi, a word meaning Japanese hospitality, is everywhere here. The United States has nothing on Japan in the way of customer service. And, tipping here isn’t a thing. You don’t do it. It isn’t expected. But you still get amazing service. I suspect I will be quite annoyed and disappointed back home, where hospitality is not a guarantee, only an add-on to the basic business-customer transaction. Anyway. The experience was memorable, and I hope to return there again.

We had to make our way to the next hostel in the town of Kawazu. It’s a small town, known for its hot springs and national parks with waterfalls and excellent hiking. The owner of the hostel met us at the train station. She is a petite, lively, happy Japanese woman the same age as me, with a husband and two young children. The hostel is part of their home, and the living room, kitchen and bathroom are all shared spaces with guests. Imagine having a household share with up to twelve other people. But it was cozy and inviting, and I we liked being there.

Until the spider.

Elizabeth and I had a room to ourselves, which was unexpected but offered when we arrived. We gladly accepted. Melissa shared a room with a young German guy who was hardly interested in us and spent most of his time on his phone in his bed. Another room had four people who were traveling together: three Americans and a Canadian, all working for Japan’s JET program.

Beth was stirring. She couldn’t sleep. Then she grabbed me – clenched me – and gasped. Gasped. Gasped. “There’s a big spider over there.” GASP. CLENCH. “It’s the biggest spider I’ve ever seen.” GASP! CLENCH. GASP! CLENCH. “I think it’s on the outside of the door.” I peered over to the sliding paper doors that separated us from the hallway and fumbled for my glasses. I put on my sunglasses. I took them off. I found my glasses and put them on. “It’s definitely on the inside.” GASP! GASP! “How can you tell?” she asked. “I can tell by the shape of its silhouette.” GASP! We turned on the light. She grabbed her phone to use it as a flashlight, and I told her to stand back because she’ll freak out otherwise. She did. The spider ran. It moved quickly. The Americans and Canadian asked if we were all right. They brought over bug spray, and I chased the spider across the room, spraying it the whole time with no effect. It ran under Beth’s pillow and up the wall, then behind a door. I grabbed a brochure for Shimoda. When it reappeared, I whacked it, and it exploded like a little grenade. Its legs just flew off its body like they were bullets in a German Luger. I gathered them up and disposed of the spider corpse. All the commotion gave me a headache, and we went back to sleep.

The next day our host gave us a ride to the bus station and we took a bus to some waterfalls where we hiked in the forest along crystal clear waters. We caught a bus to the train station and then came back to Sano, arriving after dark and feeling exhausted from our adventures.

Be well, friends.

Life has been busy lately, but I assure you I am still alive and kicking as I write this post. Or maybe I’ve hired a ghost writer to continue this trend on my behalf post mortem. Either way, it’s a method of entertaining myself while regretfully robbing you of the minutes you’ll spend reading this nonsense.

The greatest news as of late is that my girlfriend arrived here in Japan. She flew into Narita from Norway by way of Turkey. She had just spent over a week exploring the colorful postcard beauty of the picturesque Norwegian landscape before coming here to soak up the flat, monochromatic and dusty hues of Sano, Tochigi. I imagine the adjustment must have felt to her like opening Door Number Two and winning a Hoover upright, only to be shown behind doors Number One and Three the brand new Lexus and $500,000 cash prizes she could have had. Well, she hasn’t complained yet, and I’m as happy as a clam at high tide.

The Monday she arrived was a whirlwind. It was my first official day at my junior high school, where a school assembly in my honor would leave me nearly in tears. I get choked up really easily, and all it takes is just the right amount of nostalgia, kindness, or stock photography of infants with their mothers to have me sobbing like there’s no tomorrow. I walked with my principal, vice principal and head teacher to the gym, swapped my indoor school shoes for a pair of indoor slippers and wondered why my indoor school shoes were not appropriate as indoor gym shoes, and I squeezed my toes into the tiny slippers and shuffled my way across the floor to the stage. I climbed a few stairs to the stage, curling my toes so as not to lose my ill-fitting slippers that would otherwise jettison off of my feet like bottle rockets, and stood in front of a crowd of nearly 600 students. A student greeted me on the stage, her back facing the audience. She turned the podium’s microphone to face her and read a welcoming introduction to me (this is where I got a little choked up) in excellent English. She then repeated it in Japanese. I was announced to the audience and a summary of who I am was delivered. I was asked to speak and so I repeated the same stuff that was just said about me, and my head English teacher translated that same stuff, and this broken record continued for the rest of the week with each class I visited. Rinse, repeat.

Most of my day was spent sitting at my desk and staring blankly at a filing cabinet while teachers frantically ran in and out of the staff room. I had no classes to attend, and the teachers are so busy they had little time to entertain me. I pretended to be busy, partly so I didn’t look like I was slacking but mostly so I could trick myself into feeling I had purpose.

The interesting thing I find about Japanese culture is the amount of individual responsibility everyone is given, yet how they function as a unit versus a group of individuals. When lunchtime arrives, everyone kicks into gear to transform each classroom into a mess hall – students and teachers eat in the room together and there is no cafeteria – and the group prepares the meal for everyone. Nobody eats until everyone has a meal and is seated. Together they begin, and together they finish. As for me, I’ve been eating with the principal and other staff, as I’m not sure I’m allowed to eat with the students. The reason for this, as it was explained to me, is that since I can’t eat the school lunch (it always includes meat and other things I don’t have in my diet) and I instead pack my lunch, it would seem unfair that I would eat something different than the group. Every student, teacher, nurse, and staff person gets the exact same meal, the only exception being those with allergies. In that case, parents, who are sure to get the monthly lunch calendar well in advance, will go to great lengths to prepare a meal for their child that looks just like what everyone else is eating, so that they too appear to have the same meal. So for now, I’m hidden from the students, when normally I would be eating with them, talking and getting to know their names and personalities. Ah well.

I left school early so I could catch a train to the airport to meet my girlfriend. I arrived with time to spare before her flight was scheduled to arrive, and then was granted an extra hour to spare as her flight was delayed. There were no trains on the schedule (as far as I could tell; Japanese transit still confuses me) that we could catch in time to take back to Sano, but I found that there was a bus that ran later, so it would work out. I waited, killing time at the customs exit while anticipating the moment she would walk into the room. As I thought about it, my eyes welled with tears (Mr. Emotional, I know) and I felt overwhelmed. The board’s status changed. Delayed. Delayed. Arriving. Arriving. Arriving. At Gate. At Gate. At Customs.

And there she was.

Only a month had passed, emails and letters and Skype calls and video chats exchanged, and finally she had arrived, smiling and carrying a backpack so heavy I wondered if she had packed a few Norwegians to bring along. What was in that thing? I never thought to ask.

We rode back to Sano on a nearly empty bus, my head spinning in disbelief as I reacquainted myself with her voice, scent, touch. She was here all right, and it made me happy. Our friend picked us up at the bus station and delivered us to our little cubic habitat a few kilometers away. The details of the rest of the evening will not be disclosed.

Perhaps the biggest news I have to share with you is the last step to my integration into the East. Yes my friends, I finally used a squatter. I thought I could avoid it. Back in March I managed two weeks in China without ever having to figure out how to relieve myself on anything other than a Western style toilet. On the one occasion riding in a smelly, filthy overnight train I almost used one, but the offensive stenches that accosted my nose upon entering the train restroom made my body tense up so badly that there was no way any muscle was going to relax. I think, as I attempted to unzip my pants just to urinate, that my genitals shouted, “Put me away, you lunatic! How could you dare expose us to this foul air?!” I lasted over a month here in Japan with immaculate timing as I entered the restroom at the Board of Education and found the Western toilet stall unoccupied. On those occasions when it was in use, I simply pretended to check my hair and walked back to my desk before checking the stall again in another half an hour.

But this time, I had no choice. My junior high school has no Western toilets, only squatters. And I had to go. I had gone so far as to research online the process of hovering over a porcelain hole in the ground, but still felt confused and intimidated by the process. What if I pee on my trousers? How am I going to hold myself up without losing my balance or getting tired and falling in? All these questions caused me a great deal of stress. I approached the stall. I entered. I stared straight down into that dark abyss with courage, and confidently loosened my belt buckle as if I’d done this a hundred thousand times before. I kicked off a shoe, and slipped one leg out. I’d be damned if I got these pants ruined. How would I explain that to my coworkers when I walked back into the staff room? I stepped over the hole, not letting my fears of being snatched up by a serpent and dragged to Fukushima get the best of me. And I succeeded. And I tell you, friends, since then I’ve logged several more squatter excursions, and I hope you will also have the courage to tackle one of life’s great challenges. It’s not all that bad, I promise.

Most of the week I attend a junior high school, but on Friday I go to an elementary school. There, I have more responsibilities, yet still very little direction. I am in charge of the lessons, and I conduct the lessons, and I’m not entirely sure I’ve figured out what the hell I’m doing. Again I found myself sitting at my desk with no clue as to what I should be doing, but when I am supposed to go to a class for a lesson, two students from that class appear at the staff room door and address me. “Marshall Sensei” they say. And they stand nearly at military attention as they wait for me. They gather my materials for me and carry them, and they lead me to the classroom.

On my first day there I ate lunch with the students in grade two (that school’s principal doesn’t mind that the students see I pack my own lunch). I was offered a desk that came up to just below my knee, and I shoehorned myself into the chair to join them. Two students conducted an inspection of the other students’ lunches, and made some announcements or something that other students repeated. When every student had wiped their hands and was ready, we began. I proved to be quite a distraction for their little ten-year-old brains, and as they stared at me I tried to look as casual as possible as I ate my meal that they were not allowed to have because it was different. Some students asked me questions, but I did not understand. We managed well enough by pointing and nodding and making gestures, which is how I get through most of my days anyway.

At the weekend my girlfriend and I visited Oizumi, a town with a large population of Brazilians, as well as Peruvians and other nationalities. It was nice to be able to communicate and to be able to read ingredients (we went grocery shopping), and if the town itself had more appeal beyond the delicious milk-free bread and Guaraná soda, I might find myself visiting more often.

The next day a group of friends celebrated a birthday with three hours at a local karaoke club. I’ve gotten over the fact my voice sounds something like a mix of Kermit the Frog and Gordan Gano and so I tried my best damn rendition of Depeche Mode and Talking Heads songs, and that’s good enough for me.

Next week we’re going to Disneyland Tokyo.

Oh, and I love Japanese stationary:

My work days, until the end of the month, require me to go to a municipal building in the nearby town of Tanuma. The building will soon be replaced by a commanding, brand-spankin' new monolith in the center of town (at least what I think of as the center; I'm not really sure, but this is the internet and anything is truth here). But for now, we've gotta commute there. I start off by leaving my apartment and riding as hard as I can — I've got it down to three minutes — to my coworker's apartment across from the train station. From there, we ride together to Tanuma and then walk to the junior high school, where we each have another bicycle parked in its bike lot. We then ride those bikes to the Board of Education, where we sit for eight hours on inadequately padded chairs while finding ways to pass the time. We study Japanese, work on lesson plan ideas, and shop for furniture online.

The bicycle parked in Tanuma is known as a mamachari; tried and true, and comfort at its finest. The bicycle loaned to me for everyday use is a typical two-wheeled machine with gears and a seat and tires not too fat and not too thin. Neither bike is designed to fit me, but the former wins out. I decided to swap the bicycles so that I could ride daily in moderate comfort and also have a cute little bell on my handlebars. So one Sunday morning I rode to Tanuma. I rode as hard as I could for over half an hour, sweating out half my body weight and feeling the burn in my legs as they slowly turned into tubes of gelatinous fibers. I battled traffic, hills, bumpy sidewalks overgrown with sharp weeds, and the expected hot and sticky Japanese air. Finally I arrived to the school where my bike was parked. And was greeted by a gate.


My heart sank. There was my mamachari, my cookie cutter comfort bike, my pimp ride, sitting just behind a huge metal gate, just hanging out with my coworker's bike. I thought to myself, "self, you're not leaving here until you have that bike. You will climb over that gate and heave that bike onto the street with all your might and you will grunt and growl like a maniac when you do it, but you're getting the mamachari. You'll look good on the mamachari. Get the bike, man." I considered my prostate health, and general discomfort, and decided there was no way I was going to ride back on that hard seat and risk the woes of temporary erectile dysfunction. Spoiler alert: I got the bike. And it wasn't even an issue. The gate, a giant slatted door wide enough to let three Japanese automobiles pass through, or one American car, wasn't even locked. There was a little chain tossed around the fence and the gate, either to keep it from swinging open or foil unobservant burglars. In any case, I hurriedly slipped through the gate and swapped the bikes. I didn't want anyone questioning my motives. A car with two women pulled up next to the school just as I was tidying up the crime scene, and so I casually pulled out my water bottle and took a calculated swig of hydration. I intentionally didn't rush out of there so I didn't look suspicious. I know what you're thinking. Smart move, Marshall. You are a genius, a master of reverse psychology, a wizard of the mind. Or you think too much and are way too paranoid and preoccupied in your own head.


Moving on.


In a personal challenge to see how much I can manage to keep myself from becoming dehydrated and drying up like a salamander on a campfire skillet, I joined my coworker and friend, who will henceforth be referred to as Melissa, on a hike up another mountain. We chose another blazingly hot and humid day to ride out to the mountain and trek along a paved road up to an overlook point. Drenched in sweat and having uttered at least four score and seven F-bombs because of the persistent mosquitos and gnats (I'm guessing they were gnats, but they could have been tiny birds – this is, after all, Japan, a world miniature against all comparisons), we made it to the resting point. A bathroom. A playground. A bridge that went nowhere, crossing only a section of the parking lot, existing for no other reason than to just be there. Maybe it's some sort of Buddhist bridge or was designed by influence of Rod McKuen.

But we could've taken the train. Not a real train, but a diesel-powered cart with faux train engine panels and a hilariously phony train whistle sound. They ride up and down the mountain on a schedule, carting families and people smarter than Americans who decide to hoof it to the top. I opted to ride it down, and a friendly, grandfather-esque man showed us to the trolley and we boarded. He crawled into his high perch — I think he had to use a stool, but I'm not sure — in the conductor's chair, and gave an obligatory toot of train whistle artifice. Even though we clearly could not verbally communicate with him and were the only two people on the not-really-a-train train, he diligently announced something on the loudspeaker, like a tour guide would do. "And to your left are some mosquitos that'll leave you scratching in pain and discomfort for the rest of the night. Straight ahead you'll see some other fools on foot, which will soon be out of sight, in their cars and nearly home by the time we hit the bend, since we're puttering along slower in this vessel than a blind dog with three broken legs and nowhere to be."

On this same mountain there is a fire. An intentionally lit fire. On a mountain. Covered with trees, which are things that generally burn. It's part of a festival that celebrates something that I didn't quite understand or bother to find out more about, but it was apparently a big enough deal to hold a festival attended by the mayor and some cutesy girl pop group, and it happened a few days after our sweaty little outing, and it looks like this:

Again, since this is the internet, the details surrounding this event are anything you want them to be, and I encourage you to come up with your own version of the story.

I'll leave you with a few pictures with no captions. For now, I have to go hydrate.

When I was about 15 or 16 I was attending a punk rock show at Bareville fire hall. My friends and I walked down the street to a Turkey Hill minute market, and I recall a car full of d-bags with too much testosterone and only a hint of a neck (the variety of which I would later regularly see in college that would cause me great confusion as to why women find this attractive, but that's irrelevant right now) being rowdy, and one of them asked our group if we were Amish. At the time I was wearing a faded t-shirt of the album Machine Head by the kickass rock band Deep Purple. I wondered then and I wonder now if Amish people ever get to really experience the power of electric guitars, Fender amps and pyrotechnics.

Anyway. This past week has been a whirlwind of an adventure; a roller coaster of discovery, emotions, reflection, and sweating through my shirts. Early upon my arrival in Sano I attended an impressive fireworks show held in the nearby town of Ashikaga. There were droves of people. I'm not a fan of crowds (Gandhi, the great mover he was, did not like crowds as he knew ya can't control a mob, and I share his sentiments on that, but not his wardrobe choices) but here in Japan there's something about them that isn't threatening. People are calmer, happier, just looking to have a nice sweaty evening out eating donuts with chopsticks and occasionally dressing like sexy cartoon schoolgirls. So I didn't do my usual verification of adequate nearby exits, and it was refreshing. Check it out before reading on:

I also had the uncomfortable pleasure to dance in a Sano City parade. Apparently, and maybe this would have changed the negotiations of my contract a little bit had my employer reviewed this detail with me, the city employees, as well as other organizations and groups around Sano, participate in this annual festival. Each group had its own attire and ours (shown below) consisted of a blue robe thing (hell if I know what it's called) and a white ball cap. My head isn't designed for ball caps, so you can imagine my (well-controlled) horror when vain little me was handed my urban jungle fatigues. But hey, I can roll with it.

I was told the dance itself was easy and I'd just pick it up and follow along. Wrong. So twenty minutes into this parade my mouth was as classically colorful as the fireworks last weekend. But I can deal. And actually, it was a lot of fun. The spectators again were lively, their big brown eyes full of joy and their little bellies full of mochi. At the end of a series of dances performed to traditional Sano songs — whoa, just as I was typing that there was an earthquake, second one since I arrived — a lady with a microphone, kimono, and camera crew approached me and Melissa, the other ALT from Lancaster, and asked for an interview. Our boss was standing nearby and I grabbed him and said, "we need you." He happily translated for us when we were asked our thoughts about the festival (in hindsight I should have responded that I was expecting something more along the lines of Carnaval; plastic surgery, crime and all). So a week here and we're basically famous.

The following day I was invited by Hiro, my new friend from downstairs, to go to the river with his friend Chris, an American guy who's been here twenty years and learned Japanese by ear because he needed to find a job. I thought about my short swim trunks — just shy of being a little questionable, and DEFINITELY not appropriate for business meetings — and the company I was with, but let it go. I was accepted whether or not my ass cheeks were at risk of an afternoon cameo.

There were a lot of people out to enjoy the sun, water and scratchy weeds this day, and Hiro was curiously the only Japanese person there. There were people from India, Peru, Brazil, Bolivia, and the United States of Goddamn f'ing America, son. I made friends with a Brazilian guy (who was clearly Brazilian yet said his father is American and his mother German, hmm) and we chatted in Portuguese. He speaks Portuguese, English, Spanish, and Japanese. Pretty impressive really. That's a lot of grammar rules to keep straight.

Later that evening my supervisor stopped by to bring me a laundry pole to hang my clothes out to dry. My apartment has a little balcony which is essentially just designed to do that, and to house the air conditioning units for the apartment. She reminded me of the festival and so I rode my bike (or rather the bicycle that was issued to me by the Board of Education) over to the festivities and strolled around a bit. The day before it was dancing, and tonight it was groups of people carrying these shrines and following some chants and song. I bumped into some of my new pals and joined them on the walk. There was a little float of taiko drumming and just as I was saying how that's something I wanted to learn, a man pulled me over and handed me a Shime-daiko drum, similar in appearance to a talking drum but played differently. He asked me to join in, so I did, and he explained to me the technique and rhythms before each song. Then he said, "and smile: camera!" And before I knew it there was a lady with a video camera within arm's reach, focus set to my skull. I quickly put on my best cheese, thinking how my girlfriend always says I look miserable in photographs. It's true. I'm working on it. The band cheered me and handshakes and bows and high fives were exchanged, and they gathered around for some group photos. Again, famous.

Further up, there was live music and some games and other festival activities. I walked to the stage to watch the performances, and there was a middle-aged Japanese man on stage with (I think) a Gibson Les Paul and shredding some ear-splitting, hold-onto-your-underwear-lest-they-be-torn-to-shreds-and-found-in-the-next-zip-code guitar riffs to some prerecorded backing tracks. He announced his last song and bent down to cue his iPod® or something, I don't know, and the unmistakable opening grooves of Deep Purple's "Highway Star" came blasting out of the PA system. Curiously, it wasn't like a karaoke song with the vocal track removed, but rather the actual song just turned down in volume enough so that Jumpin' Jack Japan and his buttery guitar solos could be heard over the music. He started to sing along and I thought, "this is okay, yeah." But as I watched his mouth and listened to his words I realized he had no damn clue as to the lyrics of the song, and at times would just sort of fade out all together, the concentration hanging on his face like a baby koala clinging to its mother as it's ferried around the eucalyptus canopy. And the audience loved it. They cheered, they threw their fists in the air, they screamed and applauded. Even over the slightly dissonant solo that battled the original one on the actual song, which could be heard plain as day to any discerning fan, they cheered. I looked around for a telltale beard and horse and buggy, but saw nothing.

Japan, you're welcome at my place any time.

I'm in Japan now, and for those friends back home who might read this, the future is pretty amazing. When you're here it's like the present, only more humid and filled with vending machines and lots of bowing. It's as if people are on strings attached to their backs and something is manipulating them like a puppet master, creating a sea of bobbing marionettes. Or like those toy birds whose heads move back and forth in a dish of water. People bow to each other over and over and over again in the same conversation, even long after it ends. They bow to doors when they pass through them. They bow to faces they can't see on the other end of a phone conversation. Impressive.

I haven't started my teaching assignment yet (I'll be at a junior high school most of the week and an elementary school once a week) but I am working at the Board of Education for this month, which is really hanging out in an office practicing hirigana while waiting for instructions to meet with people (we met the mayor yesterday, pretty rad), or fill out paperwork, or travel to nearby places to fill out other paperwork, and bowing at everyone and everything. But as things calm down I'll be using the time to study or prepare lesson plans or something. Or whatever I'm told to do.

Speaking of work, people don't mess around with it. They're on time, and then a clock chimes, and a meeting begins, and then people bow a whole bunch and go to their desks and sit there until another bell - the lunch bell - chimes. Then they turn the lights out and turn on a television, and promptly an hour later the TV is turned off and the lights turned on and they're back to it. No dillydallying here in the future. I like it.

I bought a plant for my room. And sorry Mike, there will be no Japanese girlfriends.

A view of Sano City, where I'm living, from a mountain overlook. We biked and hiked our way to it.

And sometimes there's a Toshiba just chilling alongside the road.

And when you're 6' 1", your knees become familiar with the feeling of being pressed against a wall while you're just trying to relax.

More later.

Sherwin will be playing a final show at our favorite local spot, American Bar and Grill, on Friday, July 17th. I'll be moving to Japan for a while, and I don't know what the band has planned post-Mars. I imagine the guys will continue on with some sort of project, maybe find a replacement drummer, but none of that has been discussed as far as I know. More details to come as things progress.