What's wrong with this picture?

A closer look.

To clarify, this mall is called "La La Garden" and the restaurant is called "Steak Someday."

For fifteen bucks, this sake had BETTER be like jingle bell!


So i had my first day of work on Wednesday, and taught private English lessons to the following people:

*A former head of a pharmaceutical company's Quality Control and Animal Testing division.
*A depressed dentist in a Hawaiian shirt.
*Two bubbly girls with crushes on Hayden Christiansen.
*A housewife who explained to me the color and consistency of camel meat.
*An auto mechanic who told me that Sydney, Australia has "a lot of gay."

It's a pretty good deal, getting paid to talk to all these characters. I'm still afraid of kids' classes, though.


Wednesday night after work, I dragged my roommate to a bar I had passed on the street called The Lockup. It was in the basement of a building, and we had to walk through long blacklit corridors with fake stone walls while "scary" stuff lit up and made noise. At the end of all this was a door with no knob or handle, next to which was a sign in illegible Japanese. While a statue of a man in an electric chair buzzed and flashed behind me, and the alien-in-a-vat-of-toxic-waste to my left did the same, I pushed the door, pulled the door in every direction, and pounded on the door, all to no avail. We spent an awkwardly long time standing there trying to figure out what to do, and finally gave up.

Just as we turned around to leave, the door opened, and a smiling Japanese girl in a red vinyl outfit invited us to come in. I don't know whether she was screwing with us, or if we were failing to follow some instruction on that goddamn sign, but she had a TV monitor right there at her podium, from which she had been watching the whole thing.

Next, we were handcuffed and led down more low-ceilinged "rock" corridors to a jail cell with a low table. We took off our shoes, sat on the floor, ordered drinks and snacks, and were "locked in."

And that was The Lockup. Overall, it was pretty cool. Next time I'll come with more people, and a bottle of liquor with which to spike those weak-ass drinks.

The thing that weirded me out the most that night was not the atmosphere or the drinks or the curry powder they gave me with my french fries. The waitress in the red vinyl getup was taking our drink orders when we hit a communication barrier and she didn't know what Jen was talking about. At that moment, it was like someone flipped a switch, because the waitress's high-pitched cutesy Japanese serving voice suddenly switched to "Do you speak English?" in a low mature voice with an American accent. She wrote down Jen's order and switched back to a high, nasal "Shoushou machi kudasai!" ("one moment, please!") with a big, sarcastic grin.

I didn't like her one bit after that.

I am now a card-holding registered alien. I have an apartment, a job, and a Japanese bank account with direct deposit. I have a membership card at my local video store. I have a brand-new blue cell phone.
I live here.

When I got out of work a few days ago, it actually wasn't raining, so I walked the few blocks to Sketchy/Awesome Shinjuku to do some exploring.

After a short while, Shinjuku became more sketchy than awesome, as I got tired of having flyers shoved in my face and hearing "Harro! Baybee!!" So I went to catch the next train home, but not before I got a couple pictures in:


I also have noticed that because of space constraints, stores in Tokyo often have stuff overflowing into the street, which occasionally means that you will see things like shelves of fireworks on the street with no one supervising them.
Oh, Japan.

Fast-forward to today. After recovering from yesterday's "celebration" of the end of training (Kirin Ichiban is wonderful), I decided to do a little more exploring around my neighborhood. Well, my apartment's location is even better than I thought, because a 20-minute walk can get me to the awesome monstrosity that is the Saitama Super Arena. Aside from the Super Arena itself, there's an underground mall in there, with bizarre sloped floors and little carnival rides, an outdoor courtyard with a stage area for concerts and food and souvenir stands, and The John Lennon Museum. I'll be sure to hit that up when I have some more free time.

I hopped on a train to go back to Omiya, hit up some conveyor-belt sushi for lunch, and walked to the Hikawa Shrine, which is a TEN minute walk from my apartment. It's not really a shrine, it's more like a huge park with shrines scattered around. I'm getting tired of writing, so here are some pictures:





The turtles owned the place. I was watching a crowd of them (and probably talking to them like a dork), when a Japanese guy and his friend asked to take pictures with me. I posed with one, then the other.
I'm famous.

It also might have had something to do with the fact that on my three-hour epic walking tour, I saw ZERO other non-Japanese people. This isn't to say that there are no foreigners around, but they all seem to be in the well-known commercial areas of Tokyo. When you're in the outskirts, especially in the residential areas, a foreigner strolling around is a little more weird, and I get the vibe that people don't quite know what to make of me. It's kinda cool to be so special, but what this also means is that I can't do so much as eat a meal without feeling like I'm being watched.

Alright, it's getting late. Tomorrow's my first day of work, in which I'll have some sort of "sub duty" until the official departure of the person I'm supposed to replace. Wish me luck.

Goodnight.

So to answer your question, yes, shi-tzu's and dragons CAN be friends.

Anyway, as fun and hilarious as Japan can be, it also has its frustrating moments. One occurs when your train line randomly shuts down and the explanatory announcement is in mumbled old-man Japanese. And the thing about asking people for help is, well, they WANT to help, but they're not very good at it. Saying that your Japanese is bad will only elicit a repeat of the same long, convoluted explanation which you will never hope to understand. And no matter how futile the situation is, most people won't give up until a resolution is reached, making the whole process very long and uncomfortable for all parties involved. So as for the train incident earlier this week, it ended with me being a full half-hour late to work, then showing up all flustered only to be asked by my boss why I didn't get a "chienshomeishou" (a paper lateness explanation) from the station workers.

Another thing that's already starting to piss me off is the lecherous stares I get from weird old Japanese men on the train. I can't begin to understand why a man a full head shorter than me thinks he has the right to do this. The secret weapon against Japanese train perverts is, of course, looking them directly in the eyes with the fiercest don't-even-think-about-it look you can muster. This scares the crap out of them, because direct eye contact is so rare and confrontational here. I've already had to do this a few times, and I'm getting sick of it. It's especially weird when you're drifting off to sleep with your headphones on, you open your eyes for a second, and there's a gross dude right there watching you.

But don't worry about me. If you've ever been to Japan, you'd know that I'm definitely in the 98th percentile for Huge Scary Women here.

In other news, Japan apparently decided a long time ago that the ABC song in traditional form is too hard, specifically the fast "LMNOP" lyric. So they revised it to sound something like this. Sing along if you like:
A B C D E F G *rest*
H I J K L M N *rest*
O P Q R S T U *rest*
V W *rest*
X Y Z *awkward end*
Needless to say, I completely botched it in my demo lesson today, first singing it with the original LMNOP lyric, then, recognizing my mistake, singing it again but completely leaving out J and V. My trainer then sat me down in front of everyone and took about ten minutes to explain to me all the myriad reasons why it is important to learn the lyrics to the goddamn alphabet song, while I sat there nodding my head.

That'll do it for stories today. On Monday, I have to teach my very first real classes, which will be...
*drumroll*
1. A 30-minute "class" in which I sing songs and dance around with (read: at) a group of 1.5 to 2 year olds and their moms.
2. A 40-minute "class" in which I read oversized childrens' books to, and play games (for example, "jump up and down" and "put the foam letter in the hole") with, a group of 2 to 4 year olds and their moms.
3. A 60-minute class of 9 to 12 year olds, who will surely disrespect me from the get-go and continue to do so for the entire year.

Should be hilarious. I'll keep you updated.

And here's a picture of the area I've been walking through every day to get to work:
Yeah, Tokyo's pretty cool.

In her teaching demo, Christine is teaching vocabulary for "Parts of the Body" to three coworkers pretending to be Japanese children. The flash cards are laid out on the floor.
Christine: "Jesse, please give me toes and elbows."
Jesse: "Okay."
Jesse hands the cards to Christine.
Christine: "Catherine, please give me legs and nose."
Catherine hands the cards to Christine.
Christine: "And Greg, please give me..."
Christine looks down at the one remaining card on the floor. It reads "Head."
Christine: "...the last card."

Living up here in Saitama means you leave home in the morning and don't come back until you're good and ready to wrap up the day. So if you're wondering why I haven't posted anything in a while, that's why. I'm not home very much, and when I am, I'm tired or busy.

That said, here's the lowdown:

Training is half over. I've learned pretty much everything there is to know about teaching adults, and tomorrow I start training for a series of classes called "Kids' English World." I'm not really looking forward to being an English-speaking clown, but what can you do. It's a living.

These last couple nights have constituted my first official weekend, after having a full week to get my bearings and recover from jet lag. This was a special weekend because Monday was Umi no Hi, a Japanese national holiday that loosely translates to Sea Day, Ocean Day, or the less awkward Marine Day. After work on Saturday (yes, I work Saturdays), I rushed home to change my clothes and get ready to "celebrate the ocean."

I met Danika from Skidmore and her new Japan friends in Yokohama Chinatown, and we took in all the noisy, hilarious, and crowded sights before heading toward Yamashita Park at dusk for a fireworks show. Well, in true Japan fashion, the entire city had the same idea, and the park was full to capacity and then some. So we wandered around, trying to find a good viewing spot by jumping barriers and circumnavigating little clumps of agitated policemen. But everywhere we went, we were confronted by a new sea of Japanese people in festive Japan-wear, and I started to get nervous about the prospect of getting out alive.
Luckily, the fireworks show was right near a train station. Unluckily, said station has only one train line, and is at the last stop of said train line. I did the math in my head, panicked, and left about a third of the way through the event, leaving behind my lovely standing-room-only, obstructed-view spot in a corner of a cement park.

Japan, why must you take pictures of everything with your cell phone? WATCH THE DAMN FIREWORKS AND PUT IT AWAY.

The next item on the agenda was to attend an overnight party at my friend Johan's house, in a beach town called Kugenuma Kaigan. When I saw Johan, Tom, Dino, and Aki for the first time in over a year, old memories of debauchery flooded back to me, to be replaced by new ones over the course of the night and into the next day.

Lessons Learned:
*Walking into a 7-11 at 3:30 am with shoes made of sand and no pants will earn you disapproving looks from everyone in the store.
*Before using empty fireworks shells as fuel for a fire, make sure they are all empty.
*Be wary of any snacks with dried fish as their main ingredient.
*And yes, you do have to clean that up.

Until I recover from jetlag and adapt to these new things called "work" and "exercise," my posts are gonna be kinda lame.

Yesterday was my first day of training to be an "English teacher" (I use the term loosely). Accordingly, last night was my first night of going out with coworkers and bosses for "a pint," which, to my British trainers, apparently means five pints. Running, beer-filled, down the streets of Shinjuku at midnight to try to catch the last trains is something that everyone should experience at some point in their lives.
And the next morning, in true Japan fashion, we went back to work hung-over and fatigued, pretending that none of it happened.

Today I had my first Idiot American moment. It involved me being the only whitey at the conveyor-belt sushi place, incorrect use of the hot-water tap, and a very grumpy Japanese businessman. I'd explain, but it would dishonor my family name. You understand.

Apparently, making Japanese people laugh is like shooting fish in a barrel. An approximation of the Japanese TV show I watched earlier:
Woman: "You look pretty!"
Other woman: "I don't know."
ROAR OF LAUGHTER from the audience.
Woman: "blah blah blah blah blah." (incoherent Japanese)
*pause*
Man: "Yes."
LAUGHTER AND APPLAUSE.
I got annoyed and turned it off.

On my last work-free day, I decided to go explore Harajuku. It was a Sunday, so the goth kids and the embarrassing tourists were out in force. Here are some of the highlights:

Since I felt like such a turd walking around with my camera among all the middle-aged white tourist guys (tee shirts tucked into jeans...cringe), I only took a few pictures of the Harajuku kids.

The terrible screeching I heard was coming from this guy (girl?). His speakers pumped out awful pounding sounds while he wailed into the microphone. The Fanny Pack Coalition was eating it up.










So were these girls.











This dog was not a fan.

Because "Don't Litter" just doesn't have any pizazz.

I passed by a Kentucky Fried Chicken and noticed that Colonel Sanders was looking suspiciously...Asian.

Thanks for reminding me.

...

Oh, Japan.

Jetlagged and STRUGGLING to stay awake at 12:30 am. I caught myself thinking "Thank God I get to sleep in tomorrow," but then I remembered that my job will allow me to sleep in EVERY DAY. Yes, Mom, I loopholed my way out of personal responsibility once again.
Anyway, I went for my inaugural walk around the neighborhood today to check things out. I also discovered that I can post pictures to this thing really easily. Click for a larger version. You're excited.



Here's the street that I live on, and the van on the left which was blocking the entrance to my building in the most awkward way possible.



The door to my building. I don't know what Bonn Wohnung means, but it's not even close to Japanese. And you can see me in the reflection, looking indecent (according to my observations today, Japanese women don't expose their thighs even when it's so hot that your eyeballs are sweating).



I'll be walking down this street every day, to and from the train station. This is the "from" view.



My train station, Omiya, largest station in Saitama and a short walk from my apartment. It's a monster, and I love it.



Why the squirrel, Japan? Why?



Tee hee.



And my favorite purchase from the 100-yen store.


I did more walking today than I had over the past two months. I also was gawked at pretty frequently, had an awkward conversation with a guy trying to sell me an apartment, and was helped in the electronics store by a man with the grodiest hands ever. I can't even describe the horror.

My mind is shutting down. I'm off to bed (Western-style, no lame futons for THIS girl).

P.S. My toilet seat is heated.

Japan Part II

"Yokoso! Welcome to Japan!" said the billboard after I had finally deplaned.
"I'm back, you bastards." I replied, aloud, to the geisha in the photograph.
She smiled demurely.

After twenty hours in transit, I made my way to the Narita Express train bound for Shinjuku in Tokyo. Before I could get on, however, I had to wait for a small crowd of uniformed-and-white-gloved workers to straighten every headrest cloth, wipe down the trim of every window, and double and triple check their work. Oh, Japan.

As I waited, I went to the nearest kiosk to pick up a bottle of Pocari Sweat. The kiosk was called "Let's Kiosk," and the first sip of that awful stuff was so full of nostalgia and happiness that I had to fight back a tear.
I'm a loser.

Only in Japan can you have upholstered seats in train stations, as the Japanese do not share America's enthusiasm for recreational defacing of public property.

And then I was on the train. Everything is a blur when you've been on a plane for 13 hours. I scrawled notes in my obnoxious Japanese puppy-themed notebook, my leg pressed uncomfortably against the leg of a well-dressed Japanese guy who was, predictably, asleep on the train, and predictably, in possession of a cow-print cell-phone.

Daylight turned into night, Shinjuku turned into Omiya, and after handing over my first-born child to my landlord, I slept my first night in my new home on the other side of the world.