Within Close Range: Summers on the Edge

Although a good distance from other homes and a couple of miles from anywhere, all I had to do was sit back and listen to the sounds of life happening all around: the Northwestern train keeping to its schedule, the Cliff Swallows swooping to their nests, the harbor’s baritone foghorn warning boats buried in the mist.  

Even the sailors at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center to the north chimed in, daily drilling up and down the parade grounds, grunting, rhyming, singing, marching.

Their cadence hovering in the air like ancient tribal chants. 

Some summer days, I’d lay on the lawn overlooking the lake, close my eyes and take great comfort in the familiar sounds of the sailors’  strong, low voices and the marching band practicing its spirited battle hymns; miles away, but strong and clear, carried to my ears by the lake winds cutting through the thick air that smelled of fresh cut lawn and freshwater fish.

Such lazy, summer days, watching thunderstorms roll across the lake, exploding like silver-white fireworks and fireflies lighting the night with their flashy mating calls, assuring one of life within the pitch-black woods.

Long days invading nights and late nights of Ghost in the Graveyard and Sardines, leading to a world of different hiding places where we squatted, whispering above the crickets and cicadas charging the nights with their own measured songs. 

Each Fourth of July, after we tired of fighting the local crowds, we’d stand at the edge of the bluff, with the comforts of home just steps away and watch the fireworks from Chicago to Waukegan, “Ooohing" and “Ahhing", mimicking the crowds miles away and slapping at mosquitoes determined to disturb our private celebration.

Mom would unfreeze boxes of brats and burgers to feed a small army, which would eventually arrive with empty stomachs and pockets full of bottle rockets, sparklers and Roman candles ample enough to light the skies and disturb our quiet neighbors long after the distant celebrations had ended.

These school-free, care-free days lingered.

But never long enough. 

Days when we’d climb up and down the bluff where the path used to be, before the lake rose and stole chunks of land, leaving little but sand and swallow’s nests and killer ledges for daring leaps by reckless kids who took to the skies, then aimed for the beach. 

Planting our feet (and our asses) in the soft, thick sand - hot on the surface, damp and cool just below. Wriggling toes further into the moist earth before bounding forward again, all the way down the bare-walled bluff, to a rugged line of boulders Dad had dropped on the beach in his failed fight against this inland sea.

Warm, still nights with a moon so bright we could see our way down the bluff to the beach and wade into the glassy water up to our chests. Swimming further from shore, feeling strange patches of warm in the perpetually cold lake,  I’d scan the sparsely lit shoreline for signs of life, then turn to the dark of the calm, quiet water and wonder what lurked just below my feet.

Then I’d look to a sibling to put me at ease and swim closer until I could see their smile in the moonlit night and feel the motion of their strokes in the water.

Endless days spent layered in sand and chlorine. Brown and blissful. 

Sleeping until noon, or the smell of breakfast cooking made it to your room.

Or your class schedule arrived in the mail.

Within Close Range: Grand Safaris and Sunday Afternoons

Dad routinely rallied the family into the Pontiac Grand Safari station wagon for destinations unknown. The adventure often began after church and Golden Bear pancakes, when all the genuflecting and fidgeting (which not a prayer in the world could have stopped) was over for the week and stomachs contented for the moment.

Children were dispersed from fore to aft in the enormous, paneled wagon. Mark usually sat between Mom and Dad in the front, Chris and Jim took over the center, and Mia and I were allotted the very back seat, facing rear traffic, the perfect spot for making faces at innocent travelers and gesturing to passing truck drivers to sound their horns.

When a willing trucker tugged the cord and blasted his horn, Mia and I would dive below window-level and there, on the wagon’s stained carpet flooring, we’d squirm and giggle until the semi rumbled past.

We almost always knew an outing was coming by the mere action of Dad steering the car from its usual route. Most of the time, I'm not sure he had any specific directions in mind, other than anywhere but home. 

He and Mom always managed to find some place special: a faded, old amusement park on its very last go-round; an old-fashioned soda fountain and ice cream parlor in a long forgotten neighborhood; an orchard serving cold, sweet, back-teeth-tingling cider and fresh made cinnamon sugar donuts, thoroughly warm and wonderful.

Early on in each journey, a voice from somewhere to the rear of the station wagon would call out, “Dad, where are we going?”, all of us knowing full well what his response would be.

“I'LL never tell!" he’d dutifully reply like the start - and finish - of a grand soliloquy, as all eyes in the back of the cavernous station wagon looked to  the rear view mirror, to Dad’s dark, playful eyes, for a clue.

Which would never - EVER - be forthcoming.

Hearing those three words from Dad electrified imaginations because it meant something wonderful lay ahead; some place where five children, from toddlers to teen, could be delighted and diverted on a Sunday afternoon. 

Somewhere we could be all together in the moment and in the memory.

Occasionally, however, the excitement waned with the miles and things turned ugly. Once, Dad got so fed up with the carload of chaos that he actually followed through on the rarely-executed parental threat: "Any more fussing back there and you can ALL walk home!"

In the middle of rural Illinois, on a stretch of road where a solitary farmhouse lay amid dormant, desolate cornfields for as far as the eye could see, Dad made each of us exit the auto, including little Mark, who had to be torn from his usual place of residence on Mom's hip.

I don't remember seeing Mom's face during our expulsion.

My eyes were focused on Dad.

He wouldn't.

He couldn't.

He did.

I watched the Grand Safari disappear over a small grade and then the horizon, then I looked to my brothers and sisters, all silent and still. Without comment or tears, I turned toward the barbed wire fence enclosing the field before us and leaned, hard, wishing the farmhouse there in the distance was my REAL home. 

Besides some surely tattletale-worthy grumblings, few words were spoken as we stood by the quiet roadside. There was, however, some serious finger pointing as to who finally pushed Dad over the edge. The nail-bitten and dirty-digit majority likely pointed to his namesake, James the Third, truly uncanny in his ability to “engross” a captive audience. Yet each of us, well aware of our roles in this road trip gone wrong, knew the truth.

We were a perpetually moving mass of turmoil.

And understandably, Dad occasionally needed to subdue this rowdy, 10-legged beast with five mouths.

This particular approach was very effective.

By the time Mom convinced Dad he’d made his point, the meek Easter sun was beginning to sink toward the pink horizon (In other words, about five minutes.), Mark was becoming a heavy weight in Chris and Jim's arms, the blood on the knee of my thick, white leotards (from leaning against the barbed-wire fence) was beginning to dry against my skin and all promises of a happy outing had been extinguished.

Dad, however, had a huge smile on his face the moment he stepped out of the station wagon with a camera in his hand and it remained there through the entire, very quiet trip home.

Very fun, Dad.

That night, I consoled myself in chocolate bunnies and marshmallow chicks and the knowledge that each time Dad turned the wagon toward another weekend adventure, all past car trip hardships were like semis in the rear window -  big and blustery, but soon left far behind.

 And all I could see was just ahead.

“Where are we going, Dad?” would come the question from the back of the Pontiac.

“I’LL never tell,” came his faithful reply, leaving five young faces grinning and giddy.

Within Close Range: Annie, Annie, Are You All Right?

Mrs. Waldeck, in the nurse's office at West Campus, blamed Dr. Scholl's and platform shoes.

I blamed bad eyes and big feet. 

Its zenith was during high school.

When awkwardness and voluntary invisibility were my social norms. 

And where, with hellish irony, publicly bumbling and stumbling became my accidental past time.  

Of the many mishaps, there are those which will vanish amid the incalculable missteps I took through my teens. Yet there are other moments which left vivid memories and filled my young mind with self-flagulating, self-awareness.

Built in the early 1970s, Lake Forest High School's West Campus was a giant, brick and cinder block monstrosity which was designed with all the charm and comforts of a state penitentiary. Built to house the freshman and sophomore classes, the new facilities quickly became known as "The Rock."

It was sterile, uninviting, uninspiring, practically windowless, colorless (except for the primary colored lockers) and completely joyless. 

It's warden, Mr. Kleck, the West Campus Principal, who was secretly given the nickname, "Banana Fingers" by the students for his freakishly enormous hands, roamed the academic dungeon in his plaid polyester sports coat, smelling of cigarettes and body odor and wielding his insignificant power with what appeared to be more brawn than brain.

Normally wishing to remain far beneath the high school radar, I would have steered well clear of Mr. Kleck had it not been for my destiny with a cement staircase and errant clogs.

I don't remember why we weren't in our baggy, elastic-banded gym shorts when we were leaving gym class that day - except that it had something to do with health or hygiene. We were likely watching an outdated State of Illinois Board of Education documentary on the hazards of smoking. I do recall something of medical diagrams, mildly graphic surgery footage and interviews with cancer victims, including the unforgettable image of a man with a permanent breathing hole cut into his larynx... from which he was blowing smoke rings.

After the film - or whatever mortifying health topic we were discussing that day - the entire class set off for their respective locker rooms down separate cement staircases (one for boys and one for girls) to pick up books and head to their next class. 

I never saw the last step.

Somewhere before the first landing, the clog on my right foot attempted a rather daring, but foolish mid-step escape, getting only as far as halfway down my foot. As this happened, I had no choice but continue in my forward motion, landing my half-clogged foot at the metal edge of the cement step. 

The next I knew, my body lurched forward, parting the crowd of surprised friends and new enemies ahead of me. Most managed to elude my unbounded free fall. Others were strewn to the sides of the steps, against the cinder block walls. 

I plunged through the unsuspecting and somehow came down hard on my back. Aware of little but the grim, fluorescent-lit stairwell ceiling above and the cold, cement floor below.

The stunned and wounded soon roused me back to the moment as they began to regain their feet and regroup. I tried to do the same, but was suddenly shoved back to the cold concrete by our gym teacher, Miss Bradshaw.

"You can't move," she said.

"I'm fine," I replied as I attempted to sit up a second time.

"No," she explained and then proceeded to spew out some jibberish about injury and liability, "I mean I can't let you move. Kelly, run and get Mr. Kleck."

"I'M FINE," I screamed loud enough for surrounding faces to grimace and as my voice echoed off our cement surroundings.

"I'm sorry, Anne," replied Miss Bradshaw. "It's school policy. Mr. Kleck has to make sure you haven't been injured and you're safe to move."

So there I lay, waiting for the dreaded Banana Fingers' diagnosis, while the remainder of the class was shooed on their way. 

I thought about how the news of my nose dive was already spreading like wildfire through the bleak, inhospitable halls.

It seemed like an eternity before hurried footsteps could be heard, but finally we saw Mr. Kleck as he trotted up the first flight - banana fingers first - to where I was involuntarily prostrate. His figure soon loomed over me like an oppressive cloud of Aqua Velva and brown plaid and his giant cigar-shaped fingers moved toward me, shadowing my entire, horrified face, like a scene from a Sunday afternoon Svenghoulie movie.

Holding back the urge to belt out my best B-movie shriek, I simply shuddered and answered all the necessary questions, while demonstrating the workings of all moveable body parts. Eventually, I ensured both Mr. Kleck and Miss Bradshaw that there would be know need for an ambulance - or lawyer - and slowly made my way down to the locker room and then off to my next class, achy and avoiding all eye contact.

By the end of the day, I was relentlessly teased by all those who called me friend and to make matters worse, not two weeks later...

I did it again.

It was almost a carbon copy of the last incident, except this time, people were starting to wonder about me, especially Mr. Kleck who (post-plummet) made me go to the nurses's office where Mrs. Waldeck met me at the door, shaking her head and scrutinizing my footwear.

So it should have come as no great surprise when later that year I found myself unwittingly visiting Mrs. Waldeck again.

It was a beautiful spring day and the sun was finally shining after months of cold and grey and everyone was anxious to break out of the pen and breath fresh air. There were still patches of mud-colored snow and ice everywhere and an early spring rain had made the new grass in front of the school bright green and slick. I was thrilled to be able to shed (albeit prematurely) my layers of clothing for a brand new pair of white Calvin Klein jeans and my big, beefy snow boots for Dr. Scholl's "exercise" sandals.

I was out on the lawn with Jean and Megan, who were in with in health class with me, during which we were learning (with far less seriousness than should be afforded when being taught to save a life) the basics of CPR.

To help us in these real world, lifesaving scenarios we had "Annie", a CPR training manikin with a spiffy red track suit and the ability to inspire far more giggling and sexual asides than careers in the health industry. One of the first things we were taught was how to approach the victim in order to determine what the problem might be.

The introductory phrase we were instructed to use was, "Annie, Annie, are you all right?" And then, after receiving a response - or in this case, not, we were to try to revive Annie by shaking her a bit. If there was no response and breathing had stopped, we were to proceed with cardiopulmonary resuscitation - at least that's how I remember it. To be perfectly honest, it was far more interesting listening to the Jean and Megan than our CPR instructor.

With class over and lunch over and Tony Ballotti (West Campus's most legendary maintenance man) taking his final bow for yet another memorable lunchtime Elvis impersonation, Megan, Jean and I headed outside with some others to bask in the sun and toss around a Frisbee.

I should have second guessed the latter decision.

As I was chasing after a poorly tossed disk (MEGAN!), my wooden sandals with their single, red leather straps, hydroplaned across the wet grass, putting me into an uncontrolled forward slide at the end of which my feet found the sky, while my butt contacted the earth and slid another few feet before landing in a grassy puddle.

My back slammed down hard against the earth, knocking the wind out of me. I sat up almost immediately trying to find my breath and when I looked up I saw Jean and Megan racing my way.

Megan ran to my side and knelt beside me.

"Annie, Annie, are you all right?" she said as she shook my arm and convulsed with laughter. 

Jean grabbed me with a brute strength her five brothers would have been proud of and lifted me off the ground. I guess I should be grateful that she could only think of the Heimlich Maneuver at this very moment and will never forget the strange sensation of my innards being bear-hugged from behind, while I attempted to both breath and control laughter.

Frightening, yet funny as hell.

With Jean still applying pressure from behind, I did all I could to get "Florence Nighten-mare" to release her death grip. I raised my arms about mid-torso and gave the international hand signal for, "FOR GOD'S SAKE, STOP DOING THAT!” She finally released her hold as I slipped to the ground once more, exhausted, muddy and humiliated, BUT breathing. 

Still shaken, my two "rescuers" led me arm in arm across the lawn, past snickering peers, who got an even bigger laugh when I passed and revealed my grassy, mud-stained ass and "big girl" undies now exposed thanks to that lethal combination of white pants and puddles.

When Mrs. Waldeck looked up from her desk and saw me arriving at her doorstep, yet again, I couldn't tell whether the expression on her face was disgust, pity or anger.

It certainly wasn't surprise.

Megan and Jean left me, straining to keep their faces straight, with a juicy story in each of their back pockets which they would retell for decades to come.

Mrs. Waldeck took me to the back room of the nurse's office where I could wash up; and while she was cleaning my scraped, caked and bloody elbows, I heard her mumble something about playing pinochle (instead of Frisbee) and putting all of the latest fashionable girls' shoes into an enormous pile and burning them.

After offering the horribly unsatisfactory suggestion that I slip on my gym shorts for the remainder of the day, Mrs. Waldeck recognized the look of ultimate despair on my face at the thought of having to walk down the halls and expose myself to even further ridicule. Instead, she led me gently to the phone and suggested I call home to see if my mother might bring a new pair of pants. Not surprisingly, my mother was no where to be found, so the day's humiliation was, sadly, not over.

It was a year lousy with bumps and bruises, including a broken wrist gotten while illegally off-roading with my brother and his buddies the following summer. Much to the dismay of my parents and educators, the years ahead would continue to be riddled with minor mishaps of the clumsy variety.

“Slow down,” Mom would remind me time and time again.

But I never did and never have.

Too much going on.

Just West of the Midwest Chapter 1: The beginning

(Student/Teacher artwork)

Long centuries ago, when the world was a shadowy mist, the islands of Japan were born of the sea. Among the many gods inhabiting the misty abode were Izanagi and Izanami.

One day, while they were standing on the Floating Bridge of Heaven, talking with each other, Izanagi said: 'I wonder what is down below us?' This aroused Izanami's curiosity, and they began to think how they might find out. 

Taking the Jewel Spear of Heaven, Izanagi lowered it into the air and swung it around in an effort to strike something, for he could not see through the dense mist. Suddenly, the spear touched the ocean. When Izanagi raised it, salty water dripping from it was dried by the wind, becoming hard, and forming an island in the middle of the sea.

'Let us go down and live on the island,' said Izanagi. And so they descended from the Floating Bridge of Heaven to live on the island.

~as told by Morton Wesley Huber in his book, Vanishing Japan, published in 1965

This blog is dedicated to my girlfriends: Audrey, Caralyn, Catherine, Jean, Maria, Megan and Betsy, to whom I wrote these shared journals. Without their kudos (the best coming in the form of laughter) and encouragement (especially in rereading their letters twenty years later) I never would have been inspired to document the good, bad, brazen and bizarre experiences during my two years in Japan.

To my Shintomi Family, who never failed to share their love and their lives with me and, who never - ever - questioned the many hours I spent at the Board of Education Office writing these journals when I really should have been working.

And then, of course, to Sam, who helped me live it and then joyously re-visit it 20 years later.

August 11 to December 13, 1990

Getting the Hell Out of Dodge

This is the first officially unofficial correspondence to all my dear friends back home since arriving in Japan just seven days ago. I've been here in Tokyo for an orientation with 1,500 JET, AETs (Japanese Exchange in Teaching, Assistant English Teachers) from across the English-speaking globe. Sadly, 100% of all the attractive, English-speaking men I've met here are going to be everywhere BUT the village where I'll be employed. Even sadder is that this piece of news made top priority in the lineup of what is and what is not going on in my life. But I have to be honest in saying to all of you, I'm hoping the next year proves to be far more... abundant, shall we say, than the past male-starved millenium has been for me in Chicago.

Climbing our way back to higher ground, or at least to sea level... my time in Tokyo has been very interesting. I've only been able to catch a glimpse of this populous metropolis, this eensy-weensy economic powerhouse, but my first impression is that it is very glittery, very crowded, very, VERY expensive, expansive and a feat in organized chaos. Personally, I can see a weekend sourjourn here during the year to explore its darker "Blade Runner" feel, but after the past five years struggling to make ends meet in the big city back home, I'm looking forward to a little country livin'.

My rural haven will be south of Tokyo.

On the island of Kyushu.

In the prefecture of Miyazaki.

Shintomi Cho, the town where I'll live and work, is a tiny farming village of about 19,000 people ("tiny" for Japanese standards) and is best known for the vegetables grown there.

It's said that the region where I'll be residing is where the Gods initially descended from the heavens and reigned over the country and I'm anxious to explore everything from the volcanic crater of Mt. Aso to the wild horses and monkeys roaming Nichinan Kaigan.

While in Tokyo, I've had a chance to see Graham.

If you'll think back to the onset of all this, Graham (who was a participant in the JET Program during its first two years and is now living here in Tokyo) is the reason I'm writing to you from half-way across the world. As you well know, ever since the latter part of his tumultuous relationship with my sister, Mia, I had become his sounding board and, in turn, he was obligated to listen to me gripe about my miserable existence.

Graham knew I was struggling - working three dead-end jobs (the total income of which put me snuggly just below poverty level), trying to finish my Masters in English at DePaul University.

Dealing with past due bills.

And a fucked-up-friend-turned-temporary-roommate.

Wanting desperately to get the hell out of Dodge.

"Have you ever thought about going to Japan?" was how he began the conversation.

I hadn't.

But leaving behind my insolvent, sexless, sorry-ass subsistence in the Windy City had me instantly thinking about it.

After all, I'd travelled.

Explored.

Why not Japan?

The next thing I knew, I was filling out my application to the Japanese Ministry of Education for a year's employment in the JET (Japanese Exchange in Teaching) Program and crossing my fingers.

Admittedly, this exciting, new prospect made it very difficult for me to concentrate on all the books and notebooks piled high in my pint-sized apartment in Chicago. Be that as it may, in a few, short weeks, I was expected to take the comprehensive exams which would determine whether I would earn my M.A. in English, or find myself in exorbitant debt for naught - as us literary types like to say.

Despite the daunting task of cramming a Dickensian proportion of literature into my brain - while at the same time trying to keep my lettered ass above water on the reality homefront - I mustered up enough resolve to buckle down and concentrate.

I got through my exams and continued in my daily struggles (trying not to put too much hope on my getting into the JET program) until the day I received a call from a sugary-voiced lady from the Japanese Consulate in Chicago who informed me I had made the final cut and was scheduled for an interview.

This was it, my ticket outta here!

Don't be nervous, I told myself repeatedly, don't panic and whatever you do, Anne, for God's sake.... don't screw this up.

When the day of the interview came, I was led into a large banquet hall where, along the back wall, a long table with a starched, white tablecloth stretched from one side to the other. Behind the table with pens and clipboards, pitchers of water and stacks of files, sat a panel of (if I recall correctly) somewhere between 8 and 80 people, all reviewing my incredibly unremarkable dossier.

The next thing I knew, I was in the thick of it.

"Yes, I've travelled abroad." 

"No, I don't think being far from home will be an issue."

"I'd much prefer being located rurally. This way, I feel I could get to know the people, the culture and even the lanuage better."

"No, I don't speak a word of Japanese, but I'm anxious to learn."

"I think international understanding is vital to the fabric of our global community."

I was on fire!

And not just my stomach, which was smoldering with coffee, cigarettes and a steady diet of cottage cheese and baked potatoes (both filling and cost effective!).

I felt it. 

They saw it.

I even made them laugh (or at least smile). I showed them a confiident, poised individual dedicated to a common cause. 

I was a "Let's Do This Thing!", never-say-die, woman-of-the-nineties - which my research and pep talks with Graham assured me would go over well with the my Japanese interviewers.

It did.

I was accepted into the program soon after and started making plans to wrap things up in Chicago as tidily as posiible. My about-to-be-former, far-too-well-to-do-to-be-freeloading friend was told she needed to find other living arrangements. 

I gave my notice to all my places of employment, started selling my furniture, packing up my life, and reassuring remaining friends, family - and myself - that all would be well.

At least better than what my life had become in Chicago.

Which left me so destitute that if it hadn't been for the love and generosity of my Aunt and Uncle (my father, having his lion's share of financials woes) I wouldn't have had a penny until my first paycheck in Japan.

And so, here I am in Tokyo, staying in one of the top hotels in the city, where we are being treated - dare I say it - like media-hounded celebrities. (This program has received a lot of press in Japan - both positive and negative.)

It's just too bad we're having to endure a tortuous amount of terminally uninspiring seminars attempting to prepare us not only for our new jobs, but our new lives in this ancient, unfamiliar culture.

The good news is that I've found another workshop-challenged cohort in my new British friend, Sam, who'll be living in the city of Hyuga, about 45 minutes north of me.

STOP right where you are my friends. Sam is short for Samantha and although she isn't a he, she and I have instantly bonded and are happy to begin our adventure together as a "we."

So what exactly is it that "we" have gotten ourselves into?

(Student Artwork)

Sponsored by the Japanese Ministry of Education, the JET program was not only designed to promote international understanding (a lofty task, indeed), but even more important, was created to advance the efforts of teaching and learning English as a second language.

Most Japanese kids begin taking English classes very early on and are required to study through high school. The problem is that for as long as anyone could remember (at least since the American occupation in post-WWII Japan), Japanese students have been taught the language by rote - memorization and repetition. In addition to what most now consider an outdated and incredibly unsuccessful teaching method, the English being used in the textbooks is so awkward and archaic that it has little to bear on the real world or real language.

So, the JET program gathers English-speaking persons from around the world and scatters them among the classrooms of Japan where they work alongside Japanese English teachers in order to bring a new energy and inspiration to uninteresting, outdated textbooks and ineffective teaching techniques.

Some people love the idea, while others both openly and inaudibly (the Japanese don't like to cause public scenes), yet indubitably express their disapproval - the quietest outcry coming from the teachers who only know the language as it reads in the textbook; and we were assured that each of us will likely encounter at least one of these "teachers by rote" in our roster of classroom partners.

The most valuable thing I came away with from the seminars we attended this week was that there is clearly a lot of work to be done and high expectations on all parts. On the whole, however, I think we can make a difference and I'm excited to get started.

So, onward ho.

To Shintomi-cho, on the eastern shores of Miyazaki Prefecture, on the largest of the southernmost islands, Kyushu.

My new home away from home.

I'll write again once I've settled in.

Just West of the Midwest Chapter 2: Just West of the Midwest

With the orientation behind us, twenty-three of us boarded a plane bound for Miyazaki City, the capital of the prefecture where we would be employed. After landing, claiming our baggage, and moving as a nervous pack of science rats through a giant maze, fellow participants in the experiment began to scatter as each found their respective town representatives, or (if you insist on continuing with this analogy) "pieces of cheese."

After exchanging strained and anxious smiles with Sam from across the room, I found myself chin to forehead with Yamamoto-sensei (sensei, meaning teacher), who will be working with me at one of the three middle schools I'll be teaching at: Tonda, Nyuta and Kaminyuta Chugakko.

               (Oki-Hosa (l) and Yamamoto-sensei.)

He was joined by two other gentlemen (Oki-Hosa and Kuranaga-kacho) from the Board of Education where I'll be stationed before the school year begins and where I'll have a desk when I'm not scheduled for a school visit.

If anything can be said about this unexpected detour from a hot shower and a deep sleep, it's that I now have the bowing and proper greetings down flat.

I found quick comfort in the fact that these men seemed as nervous as I.

Although the town had been assigned an American AET the year prior, she was of Japanese-American descent and far less, "exotic-looking" than what had just walked through the airport gates. And what did they really know about this conspicuously-sized American gaijin (gaijin, meaning "outsider," though if you ask most tactful Japanese, they'll attempt to make it sound far less insulting).

We made it through introductions (Yamamoto-sensei acting as translator) and before there was time for an uncomfortable pause, the entire JET entourage was led into a large room at the airport for a press conference.

Despite the unexpected arrival of "Aunt Flo" (who had just barged onto the scene with a bloody vengeance), the completely overblown media attention, AND the overwhelming desire I had to slither from the scene, the televised event passed without international incident.

Afterward, the two cars they sent for me (in case I overpacked...which I did) were packed up and I settled into the back seat of the lead car.

Breathing a long sigh of relief.

Knowing I was soon headed to my new apartment.

Where I planned to unpack, unwind and sleep for an exorbitant amount of time.

As we headed north to Shintomi, the surreal nature of everything that had happened over the past week suddenly began to fade and the reality of the situation became as clear as the spotless windshield I was gazing out of as the Japanese farmland whizzed past.

Holy crap, Batman. I'm here... and for a year!

During the half hour ride, Yamamoto-sensei restlessly thumbed through my file - which I have since learned was copied and given to nearly every member of the Town Hall and nearly every teacher/faculty member where I'll be team-teaching.

Who subsequently shared it with just about every member of the village who is old enough to read.

Yamamoto-sensei attempted to break the ice by asking a lot of questions about my life - marriage being near the very top of the list. In other words, at 27 years old, why am I not?

As attempts were made to keep the driver and passengers from experiencing a moment's silence, I smiled, answered their questions, and occasionally gazed out of the car window as we whizzed past the scenery of Japan's Pacific coast.

Thick and green to its very rocky edge in one place.

Long stretches of desolate beaches a few miles further along.

As we left the highway for smaller, narrower streets, I saw the coastal scenery quickly replaced by flat meadows, thick with yellow, creeping to the edge of a river.

On the other side of which - more yellow, stretching to meet a range of misty mountains.

Down the road a bit, as my tired gaze grew more gauzy and my hosts more comfortable in the silence, we passed one rice paddy after the next, neat and tidy.

Perfect rows.

Perfect stillness.

Each patch perfectly reflecting the surrounding trees and tropics, sun and sky. Making my mind wander toward visions of patchwork quilts, windswept prairies, rows of young corn, "knee-high by the Fourth of July."

Thoughts of home.

We passed fields upon fields of ripening vegetables - daikon and cabbage, sweet potatoes and carrots, each pungent and promising; and one watery channel after another where, Yamamoto-sensei explained, eels (a staple in Japanese cuisine and Shintomi's economy) are raised.

As we passed a moist, green pasture scattered with grazing cattle, I noticed buildings appearing in greater frequency. First, it was merely a weatherbeaten, old farmhouse or outbuilding at the side of the road, but soon the streets began to fill with tiny shops and modest houses.

Faded but orderly.

Well-groomed and practical - if not beautiful - schools and offices playgrounds.

Yet amid the unassuming architecture, I noticed everywhere shadowy shrines and inviting gardens - the elegant undertones of customs and colors - which made me want to wander aimlessly and as soon as possible.

As we wound our way through town, all of the gentlemen in the car pointed at places of interest and of use, but I wasn't really listening.

My mind was reeling with how utterly unfamiliar this was going to be from the last five years I spent floundering in Chicago.

I'm up for a World of different.

However, at this point in my adventure, the only thing I wanted to encounter was my apartment.

And a pillow.

My hosts had their own agenda.

First, I was paraded through the corridors of Shintomi's Town Hall. 

If anything could be said about this unexpected detour from a hot shower and a deep sleep, it's that I now have the bowing and  proper greetings down flat.

And this is no easy task, my friends, for there are many complexities which make up the Japanese Office Culture.

This industry of industry.

This world of uniformed workers, where business cards are handed out like handshakes and three-tiered greetings, as well as ceremonious departures are as much a part of life as crew cuts, white shirts, green tea, exercise, ties clips, white gloves, parasols and sensible shoes.

Walking through the town hall for the very first time, surrounded by my pint-sized, Board of Education posse, I was led into a machine gun round of official, formal introductions with every Head Hancho from every department.

The final, official, formal greetings of the day was at the Board of Education office where I'll be working. There, I met the Superintendent, a soft-spoken man who quietly arrived, presented the rest of his staff, showed me my desk and then quietly disappeared into the crowd of curious bystanders.

So there I stood in my new office.

This peculiar environment of pushed together desks with thick, yellowing, plastic desk-protectors, folders, forms and neatly stacked file cabinets.

My new bosses and co-workers hovering silently nearby as I swayed with exhaustion.

I was soon whisked away by an expanded posse of SIX.

Both little, white cars now filled to capacity.

Added to the evening's entourage are Board of Education staff members: a young woman, Akiko-san, a middle-aged woman, Yoshino-san, as well as Hiejima-kakaricho, the office's chief clerk.

Within moments of leaving the Town Hall, our tiny parade pulled up to Shin Machi Shin Danchi and my apartment complex, which looks about as welcoming as a cell block.

With no traces whatsoever of the simple, elegance of Japanese architecture I'd envisioned for months prior to my arrival, I have to admit I was a little disappointed.

This disappointment was immediately vanquished when I saw I had little to complain about. My apartment is very spacious.

More room than I need, really, especially considering multiple generations of Japanese families regularly share one the very same size.

I have three rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom which boasts (there is a God) a good, ol' sit down, Western toilet. I've quickly discovered that this is more of a luxury than I had ever, in my wildest dreams, imagined. I don't know if this applies only to the more rural parts of Japan, but nearly everywhere I go and have to "go" I am forced to practice the fine art of squatting over a porcelain hole in the ground.

Because of this ungainly position, it's probably fortuitous that someone, somewhere in Japan invented a little recording device for public bathroom stalls. Devices which has been designed to play music to veil the potentially embarrassing sounds associated with relieving oneself.

I've even heard the recording of a toilet flushing used for the same purpose.

Go figure.

As unaccustomed to squatting as I am (especially where no tent is pitched), bathroom visits have also become a muscle-burning workout, during which time the grunts and groans one hears emanating from my stall might be seriously misconstrued.

The Western toilet, however, is about the only thing familiar about the apartment.

Two of the rooms, divided by a screen, have tatami floors where I spend most of my time. Not only because this is where I unroll my bed each night, but because this is where my heating/ac unit is installed and being a sub-tropic region with cold winters and hot, humid summers this will surely be my favorite fixture in the apartment.

It certainly won't be the florescent lighting installed in the ceiling of every room - the turning on of which casts a morbid pall over my complexion.

And my mood.

... nor will it be the Japanese-style bathtub.

What could be so different about a bathtub, you ask?

Ah ha, my friends, this isn't the long, low receptacle we've all come to know and love; where one soaks in hot water and Mr. Bubbles after a grueling day.

The official story is that you're not supposed to wash off in a Japanese-style tub at all, but suds yourself up outside the bath (which resembles more of a box), rinse, and then step into the tub for a soak.

Before any of this can happen, the water must be heated.

That's right. After I fill the large, plastic box with H20, I've been instructed to ignite the pilot light (situated on the side of the tub), turn the dial to the desired temperature... and wait.

About 30 minutes.

The water in the kitchen also requires heating.

And there is no oven.

Only a two burner stove top.

A rice cooker.

And an itsy-bitsy washing machine that might be able to squeeze in one pair of jeans.

The grand tour of my new digs felt like a scene out of Woody Allen's "Take the Money and Run."

Convicts chained together.

The entire Shintomi Board of Education shuffling from room to room.

I began to feel the weight of the past days on my eyelids and was trying to figure out how I could gently persuade my gang to 'git.

What was I thinking?

The seven of us piled back into the cars and headed off to a local restaurant for a welcome dinner. It was here I met Junko-san, a quiet, apologetic type, who'll be assisting me in teaching a series of adult English classes at the Community Center. 

(l to r: Luranaga-kacho, Yamamoto-sensei, Oki-Hosa, Yoshino-san, Akiko-san and Junko-san)

She relieved Yamamoto-sensei of some of the translating duties as we dove into a feast of fresh fish and cold beer. This is definitely something I WILL NOT have to get used to. Every morsel and every sip of it was heaven sent.

Throughout the evening, I felt anxious glances greeting my every motion. Their unspoken curiousness and unasked questions were palpable. How would I handle hashi (chopsticks)? How long will it be before we can communicate with each other? How can she put away that much beer? How does someone of that size not collapse under the sheer weight of herself?

Actually, their genuine concern for my comfort was of great comfort.

The only instance that brought a moment's worth of awkwardness was when I first sat down at the restaurant. As is customary whenever I sit on the floor, I crossed my legs.

Keep in mind, I was wearing shorts and tights.

I had failed to notice that all three women were sitting primly and properly on their knees, with their hands folded gently on their laps, and would have continued to be utterly ignorant of this unseemly, unfeminine posture had it not been for Yoshino-san, who approached me quietly from one side.

And slipped a handkerchief over my... how do I put this delicately?

Crotch.

Not a word was spoken about it (not that I would have understood it anyway) and I made an effort for the remainder of the evening to at least attempt sitting with my legs folded to the side.

I did try sitting on my feet in the same manner my female companions, but soon discovered that the leg flailing brought on by cramps caused by maintaining this position for more than 10 seconds would have proven far more embarrassing than an innocent, little groin shot.

When the dinner was over, I was relieved to learn that the women (Junko, Yoshino and Akiko) would be taking me back to my apartment, while the men continued celebrating my arrival at a local Karaoke bar.

The Karaoke bar, if you are not familiar with it, hails from these parts and can be found on nearly every corner of every community - large or Lilliputian.

They are usually small, dark establishments which serve (at least in Shintomi-cho) an array of alcohol - as long as it's whiskey, shochyu (a local fermented beverage made from sweet potatoes) or beer.

A fixture in nearly every karaoke bar is the Mama-san. Usually in her 50s, dressed in a dazzling kimono or a baffling brocade suit (better suited for a sofa), caked in make-up without looking like it, this tiny, but near-terrifying presence lords over the bar with polite yet stern solemnity, making sure that patrons are well-served and, if over-served, rowdiness is kept to a minimum.

And then, of course, every Karaoke bar is equipped with music videos and microphones.

Now, the kind of music played here is not something a buck will buy you from an old juke box, but a series of sappy sounding, sing-along melodies played on a video screen, ranging from traditional Japanese ballads to obscure renditions of American Jazz standards.

At some point in the evening, each person (and EVERYONE is expected to participate) is handed a microphone and asked to sing their chosen song to a captive and politely captivated audience.

Sometimes you might find yourself standing on a small, spotlit stage and other times, you're able to hide in a dark booth in the corner. Either way, you are socially obligated to belt out a tune.

For those of us not familiar with the traditional Japanese songs, most local establishments have a handful of Western melodies, such as "Yesterday" (Which, by the way, offers a five minute video of naked Japanese girls writhing on the screen); "My Way," "Love Me Tender," "I Left My Heart in San Francisco," "Moon River," and the ever-popular, "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer."

I wish I could say that I am able to perform this ritual in the unassuming shadows.

But that would be silly.

It's become painfully obvious that I don't go unnoticed doing anything - anywhere in Shintomi.

However, I've learned that the drunker my audience, the more appreciative they are.

And the drunker I am, the better I think I sound.

So I've learned to hold off on my song until the end of the evening.

With that said, my first evening in Shintomi finally came to a close.

As the men from my new office continued on with the celebration, Akiko, Yoshino and Junko brought me back to my apartment and after making sure I was settled in, left me on my own for the very first time since I set foot in Shintomi.

As soon as the door closed, my exhaustion morphed into nervous excitement.

I circled the apartment.

A few times.

I unpacked my things.

I called Sam, who was also feeling anxious and nervous.

Which made me feel much better.

So did a soak in the tub.

That's right.

I soaked IN the sudsy tub for an hour.

Protocol be damned!

Then I tossed and turned on my futon until I heard a neighborhood rooster crow early the next morning.