Three Things to Do With a Giant Jar of Honey

May 26, 2010

I’m talking about the good kind of honey. Not the supermarket, squeeze-through-a-plastic-bottle kind. This is the honey you found at a farmer’s market or at a Co-op and splurged on. A rich, thick, delectable honey. Pure sweetness spun into liquid gold. It sticks to your spoon and sticks to the top of your mouth and makes you think of summer fields.

The problem was that they weren’t selling it in tiny little jelly jars. The only size available would, if empty, hold a month’s worth of coffee. So, you have your honey; now what? But fear not. A little creativity and that giant jar of honey will empty faster than you would believe. I humbly offer these tips.

1. Dip strawberries into it.

Admit it: you’ve been eyeballing those small, bright red strawberries they sell at that same Farmer’s Market, haven’t you? Well, go ahead and buy a pack. For an extra kick of sweetness, set out a small bowl of honey and dip them in. The honey is sweeter than sugar, and will wrap around the fruit like a glaze. It’s a simple, light, yet delicious summer dessert.

2. Add it to your coffee.

Want to make plain old coffee exotic? Add a teaspoon of cinnamon to your coffee grounds, and, after brewing, add honey instead of sugar. The unexpected blend of flavors will jolt you awake. It’s a good way to make your coffee special without spending extra money.

3. Make French Toast.

Get some thick slices of homemade bread and dip it in a mixture of egg, milk, vanilla, sugar, and cinnamon. Fry the bread in butter until brown. Add strawberries and honey instead of maple syrup. Good bread, cinnamon, honey, and strawberries swirl around for homey-spicy-sweet-tart palette of taste. I recommend eating it on an early summer evening while listening to Ella Fitzgerald.

Golden Week: Hiroshima

May 22, 2010

Hiroshima was our last stop. We arrived by ferry on May 4th and took a street car to the center of the city. Thus far, all my cities have been obscure, but I’m sure the name Hiroshima rings a bell. The iconic Atom Bomb Dome, stripped bare and mangled, sits at the beginnings of Peace Park; follow all those paper cranes until you come to the Peace Museum detailing the horrors of the end of World War II.

Hiroshima Castle

But neither Masako nor I were in any mood to visit the Peace Park or the Peace Museum. Masako had been traumatized by the museum, and I, having seen it once before, wanted to see other aspects of the city. So, instead, we went to Hiroshima Castle and Shukkei Park.

Hiroshima Castle is, naturally, a reconstruction; it was already a wreck before the Atomic Bomb dropped and finished it off. One interesting thing I noticed was that there were ruins of former military headquarters all over the grounds of the castle. In fact, one sign said that Hiroshima Castle hosted “the partially underground strategic command control room and the communication room of the Chugoku Regional Military Headquarters” during World War II. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was one of the reasons Hiroshima was targeted for the atomic bomb. This same sign also mentioned that students from the Hijiyama Girls’ High School were working in this same communication room, and they were the first ones to report the news of Hiroshima’s destruction to the rest of Japan.

Ruins of Old Military Headquarters

Today the castle is beautiful. There are green lawns and green trees and green-blue water in the moat. The “Carp Castle” Hiroshima Castle is sometimes called, and indeed, it lived up to its name. Carp swam in the moats and carp flags blew in the wind at a shrine in the castle grounds. Inside the castle, there was good English signs, and I found out interesting things about the Lord of Hiroshima Castle.* I have to say, it was my favorite castle of the trip.

Shukkei Garden

Shukkei Garden is no one’s prize-winning garden, but it was fun and, because it happened to be Green Day, we got in free. And really, how can you not love a garden where turtles swim so close you can reach your fingers into the water and stroke their smooth shells? There were several small islands and stone bridges and huge Peony flowers shaded by artful red umbrellas.

Turtles at Shukkei

But the best part was when we stopped for a snack. Masako bought a cone of soft serve ice cream and discovered that she had gotten two cones instead of one—when she bit into the paper wrapper of the second one. She had to gnaw the edges of the first cone while pulling out the paper of the second, all the while I laughed and cruelly snapped photos.


The specialty food of Hiroshima is okonomiyaki—a kind of savory pancake. Usually it’s a mixture of batter, cabbage, and meat, but in Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki, or Hiroshima-yaki, they make each layer separately and add yakisoba noodles to boot. I still remembered the first time I came to Hiroshima, as an exchange student, in March of 2005. We came to the station at noon, and the smoke of okonomiyaki filled our nostrils. But time was short, and the counters were crowded. So, we went to another restaurant and passed on our one chance to eat Hiroshima-yaki.

Okonomiyaki: Phase 1

I have regretted that moment ever since.

This time, I was bound and determined to eat Hiroshima-yaki, so Masako and I hunted down a place called Okonomiyaki Mura (Village). It was actually a building with three stories crammed with cheap-looking okonomiyaki stands, none all the different than the rest. Masako and I finally decided on one run by an old man with baseball posters.

Okonomiyaki: Phase 2

Watching the okonomiyaki cook is half the fun, so I took plenty of pictures and hastily scribbled notes (which, after three weeks, no longer make sense). Here’s the gist of it: first the man ladled a thin amount of batter, like a crepe, onto the sizzling iron counter. He piled cabbage, bean sprouts, green onions, tempura bits, and pork onto the crepe, also sprinkling seasoning, and added oil to the grill. Then he flipped the whole thing over, so that the pancake was on top and the pork was directly under the heat. The pancake acted as a lid, he explained, and steamed the vegetables. The vegetables steamed for some time. In the meantime, he put yakisoba noodles (cold ramen) on the counter and fried it up with salt and oil. The pancake went down the yakisoba. The last ingredient was an egg, which he scrambled into a yellow circle. When the okonomiyaki was arranged, pancake-side first, on the plate, he cut it into four pieces with his spatulas, painted on okonomiyaki sauce, and topped it all off with bits of seaweed.

So, now I had my Hiroshima-yaki. My purpose in this vacation was complete. I could go home a happy woman.

Okonomiyaki: Final Result

* The Lord of Hiroshima: I was trying to find out the family crest of the Lord of Hiroshima, when, lo and behold, I discovered it was the exact same motif as Lord of Choshu (Yamaguchi): a bar and three dots. The Lord’s name was Mori—again, sounding familiar of Choshu. Well, it turned out that Mori Terumoto was the Lord of Choshu—and Hiroshima—and about 5 other Domains. (Makes sense; Yamaguchi and Hiroshima are neighbor prefectures.) However, Mori lost in the crucial battle of Sekigahara in 1600 to the Tokugawa family and their allies. As a result, he lost all but two Domains, and had to give up Hiroshima to the Fukushima and later Asano families. Which sort of explains why Choshu hated the Tokugawas enough to overthrow their entire 250 long reign as Shoguns by the year 1868. Oh, the hostility that battle caused. Another loser of Sekigahara, Satsuma (Kagoshima) also helped topple the Shogunate.

Golden Week: Matsuyama, Day 2

May 22, 2010

Masako really liked the business hotel. For her, sleeping on a bed was a treat. We were both too tired to play crossword puzzles, and to be honest, I was getting a little bored of them anyway, so we just went to bed early. We’d already decided to be down for breakfast by 7:00 the next morning and leave the hotel shortly thereafter. After all, the early bird gets the worm, and the early tourist avoids the crowds.

Somewhat.

Dogo Onsen

On Monday, May 3rd, just before 8:00 AM, Masako and I arrived at the historic Dogo Onsen, an old public bath house, whose special waters had its own shrine (I kid you not) just down the lane. The sun was beginning to stroke the blue-green tiles of the roof, and there was already a line coming out the door.

Fortunately, the line was only for the people wanting the deluxe bath, with tea and a yukata (bath robe) after it. Masako and I opted for the $4 regular option. Even so, we still had to wait in line for 15 minutes to use the showers. Women sat there washing their hair, rinsing, sudsy-ing, and rinsing again. I was getting annoyed. When it was my turn, I was done in about 5 minutes. (I did not wash my hair, by the way.)

Matsuyama Bathhouse

Although the bath house seemed fairly large from the outside, the bath itself was small. The women gathered around the edges, making it difficult to find an opening to step in. The water wasn’t too hot, and there was a white fountain in the center that poured streams of water soothingly on my neck and back. On the back wall, there was some kind of picture on the ceramic tiles, but as I didn’t have my glasses, I had to go right up to it and squint.

Botchan Clock Botchan Clock

Stepping out of the bath at about 15 minutes ‘til 9:00, the line into Dogo Onsen was even longer, making a maze-like formation on the side, the kind you see at amusement parks just outside the big coaster. Crowded as it had been, we were lucky we had got there early. At 9:00, the Botchan Clock played whimsical music, and characters from Natsume Soseki’s famous novel popped out and bobbed back and forth to the song.

Ishite Jizo

Our next stop was Ishite, one of the weirdest Buddhist temples I have ever been to. It seemed like people took architectural elements from all the different sects and threw them randomly together. There were several small Jizo statues for children who died in infanthood; an elephant statue and a temple that had a needle pointing up; and round Christmas-looking ornaments hanging near red-haired, blue-skinned warrior gods painted on a wall. I didn’t really know what to make of it. Neither did Masako, though her family’s not Buddhist either.

Buddhist Caves

There were also some caves, or cement tunnels if you like, which I found by following white-clad pilgrims to what looked like a door into a hill. I climbed right on in, and Masako bravely followed, despite not really liking caves. It was cool and pitch dark in there. I could make out white pictures of something on the wall and gray looking shapes, but it wasn’t until I snapped my picture, letting off an explosion of light, that I could see the old statues adorned with red cloth, just tossed near the wall in a jumble. As we made our way through the cave, I used my camera’s flash to see what was going on around me.

Then, we went to the treasure house. I normally don’t like these things, because I can never understand what all the weird random artifacts actually are. But this time, I had Masako to explain it to me. The Major Treasure of the Temple and the reason for its name was—drum roll please—a small gray pebble about the size of your thumb and forefinger joined together to make a circle.

The Treasure of the Rock

But it’s not just any pebble; of course, there’s a story behind it. Once a very miserly rich man was cruel to a famous monk who happened to be passing through. He threw a bowl at him, and it cracked into three pieces. Later, his three sons died. Repentant, the rich man decided to go on a pilgrimage all around Shikoku to find the monk. This became the basis for the Pilgrimage of 88 Temples, which still goes on to this day. The rich man died without ever meeting the monk in person, though he may have met him in a dream. Years later, the small son of a nobleman held something in his hand and would not let it go. When he finally opened his hand, they saw a small rock with the rich man’s name miraculously written on it. If you squint at the rock, you can still the characters etched into the stone. The temple took charge of this treasure, gradually earning it the name “Ishi-te” or “Rock Hand” Temple.

After visiting a shrine where scholars gave thanks for solutions to tricky math problems and also checking out the aforementioned shrine to the water of Dogo Onsen (which did make my skin feel nice and refreshed), Masako and I caught lunch. We had Tai Meshi, a specialty of the area. Tai is a kind of fish, in this case cut into sashimi and spread over rice. There was also a bowl of yama imo and soy sauce to pour over the fish for flavor. Yama imo—how do I explain this one? The name literally means “Mountain potato,” but the only time I’ve ever seen it is when it’s been grated into a kind of slimy white goop. For some reason, though, I like it, and I rather enjoyed my Tai Meshi as well.

Tai Meshi

Now, so far, I think I’ve been very good about not boring you with a long tirade on some obscure historical figure you don’t really care about. But as we come to the Shiki Memorial Museum, I ask your indulgence just one more time. Because the life of this man really moved me.

Masaoka Shiki was born into the Meiji* era, and in many ways, he was a quintessential man of the times. He enjoyed the new fad sport of baseball, even becoming the one to coin the Japanese word for it, “yakyu.” He was a journalist and went across the seas to cover the Sino-Japanese War. He took a hard look at classical Japanese poetry and made great reforms to the haiku in particular, challenging poets to drop time-worn clichés and create new kinds of verse. He became friends with some of the greatest literary minds of the era, including Natsume Soseki (“Botchan,” I Am a Cat”) and Mori Ogai (“Gan”), and opened a salon of burgeoning poets. And he was dying.

Masaoka Shiki

When he was 21 years old, he spit blood for the first time. That image became his pen name. Shiki is a song bird with a red mouth, a symbol of his illness. This sickness continued until his death in his 40s. So can you imagine spending 20 years knowing your life is slowly spinning away? Can you imagine struggling to be involved in an exciting, tumultuous era of reform, while wracked with pain, immobilized at times? Often, the thought haunts me. If I were to live for only a short time, would I ever be known for anything? And if I, at 21, the pinnacle of youth, discovered that life was ending, would I give up or make the most of what I had?

All right. That’s all I will push on you. Now back to frivolous stuff.

Botchan Dango and Taruto

Masako and I did more sightseeing in the afternoon. We stopped at an old school that marked the first major effort of Matsushima to educate boys in the modern era, which was ironically sat inside an operational public high school (with high school students practicing baseball only a few feet away). We also saw the house Natsume Soseki and Masaoka Shiki shared as roommates, which eventually became Shiki’s salon. Between these two historical buildings, we sipped water at our hotel lobby and ate Botchan dango (three colored balls on a toothpick, with the texture of Playdough, that was surprisingly good) and “Taruto” (what looked like a slice of roll cake with a chestnut inside).

* The Meiji era: from 1868-1912. The era when Japan became modernized. Two important wars were fought at the time. The Sino-Japanese War, wherein Japan and China fought over Korea, ended with a decisive Japanese victory and a signal that Japan was no longer a backwater country. Later, in the Russo-Japanese War, Japan gained a victory over Russia, the first time in modern history that an Asian country defeated a “European” country, causing the West some degree of shock.

Golden Week: Matsuyama, Day 1

May 22, 2010

The next morning, bright and early, Masako and I crossed the Seto Inland Sea and entered the island of Shikoku. Our train made a satisfying noise as it swooped over the long, steel laced bridge. Shikoku, the last of the four main islands of Japan, is definitely the most rural. I could tell because when we came to Matsuyama, the largest city on the whole island, the station didn’t even have automatic ticket machines; we had to hand our tickets to the people working there.

(Incidentally, Shikoku means “Four Kingdoms.” There are four prefectures there. I had been to three—Tokushima, Kochi, and Kagawa—in summer of 2008. Ehime was the last one.)

Riding on the Seto Inland Bridge

Ehime Prefecture, where Matsuyama City is located, is best known for oranges. But I didn’t want oranges for lunch, so we (and by we, I mean Masako) asked the receptionist at our hotel what was good to eat and where we could eat it. She mentioned Go-shiki Somen, or 5-colored noodles, and also Tai Meshi, Tai being a kind of fish. The restaurant she pointed out had curtains of straw in alternating colors, mimicking the appearance of the somen noodles. Our noodles, however, were primarily white, with a dash of green, pink, and yellow. (What was the fifth color, I wonder?) Even so, the cold somen was delicious, and there was a piece of Tai fish and orange-flavored Inari-zushi (sushi wrapped in sweet tofu).

(Supposedly) 5-Colored Noodles

By now, we were well into Golden Week and it showed. Crowds were everywhere. We had to stand in line just to buy a ticket for the lift that took us up the hill, where Matsuyama Castle was. And when we got there, we were greeted with this announcement: the castle was full, and they weren’t letting people in at this time. Masako and I chilled with some shaved ice (mine had pieces of orange and gelatin at the bottom) and enjoyed the amazing view of the old castle, the city, and the bay.

Matsuyama Vista

Once we finally did get in, we battled more crowds. People, people everywhere, ruining the experience. It was kind of sad because Matsuyama Castle was an original castle, not a reconstructed one, and had lots of English signs, neat tidbits of history, and some cool artifacts. While reviewing my pictures, I stumbled upon a tea caddy with the Tokugawa crest on it (signifying the close relationship between Lord Matsudaira of Matsuyama and the Shogun) and old graffiti of a samurai’s head. But when I think back to the castle, all I can actually recollect is lines of people shuffling around the displays and waiting to go up and down all those steep, dark, narrow staircases.

Golden Week: Kurashiki

May 22, 2010

Me In Front of Ohara Museum

On May 1st, a Saturday, we visited Kurashiki, a small city a half hour away from Okayama. Fat carp swam in green canals, ivy grew on brick buildings, and vendors spread jewelry over black fabric on the road in the sun. Masako and I went from museum to museum. In the Ohara Museum, the classic Roman build, hid a maze of room, up and down, stuffed with classic Western paintings. Across from that, a very old and traditional house had been bedecked in models of space men and lantern-eyed cats, with a whole dragon’s erupting from the top window. A small private museum housed scarred statues of warriors and crows.

Kojima's Painting

At the Kojima Museum, Masako and I discussed what it meant for art to truly be Japanese. Mr. Kojima was born in the late Meiji era, a time when Japan was borrowing liberally from the West while still trying to maintain their own Japanese soul. One of the main works of Mr. Kojima was a large Impressionistic painting in soft pastels of a Japanese woman in a kimono surrounded by flowers in full bloom. Masako and I both agreed: we didn’t like it. It just didn’t seem Japanese. The flowers exploded every which way, crowding out the empty space, and losing some the simplicity and austerity of the Japanese heart. Another work, done in a realistic “Western style” showed a mother with a child asleep at her breast and a young girl near her sharing a quiet moment in the dark of a water mill. We both loved this painting.


Tea at a Pottery Shop

The day slipped into afternoon. We had frothy green tea and snacks in a pottery shop. Our table was an old stone well with a sheet of glass covering the top. When I looked down, I could see weeds poking out of the cracks and darkness. Around us, sweet-smelling pink orchids brushed against the shelves and shelves of brown bowls and cups. Just above were several beautiful photographs of humming birds, one bird perched on a branch of pink plum blossoms, another hovering above a lucid spear. The shop owner, while whipping up our tea, told us he took the pictures and explained how he arranged the props, lured the birds with honey, and waited hours and hours just to get that one perfect picture.

Shrine at Twilight

The afternoon slipped to twilight. We visited a shrine. At top, a strong wing blew my hair, and we could see all of Kurashiki displayed below us. But I was more fascinated with the way the sinking sun’s golden rays sifted through the purple blossoms dangling from a Wisteria vine.

Golden Week: Okayama

May 22, 2010

For seven days the weather was perfect. Golden warm, sunny, with blue skies and a light breeze. Now, I consider a seven days without rain in Japan a small miracle. That those seven days just happened to align with Golden Week was something like divine intervention—or perhaps good karma after my disastrous Yokohama trip.

On April 29th, I rode the bullet train up to Okayama with Masako. Masako is a friend who volunteers as a guide at San Gan’en, the main tourist attraction in Kagoshima City. Her English is excellent. After a half hour or so, I completely gave up trying to speak Japanese. My bumbling attempts seemed pathetic next to her very polished English. I asked if she knew what the specialty food of Okayama was. Kibidango, she said. She was planning to take some home to her kids as a souvenir.

Okayama, as it turned out, has many specialty foods. Muscat grapes and giant peaches were famous, too. I asked someone how big these giant peaches grew, and he held up his hands to indicate the size of a small pumpkin. Incidentally, this probably explains why the legend of Momotaro, the Peach Boy, hails from this area.

A Statue of Momotaro and Friends

Long ago, an old man saw a huge peach floating down a river. He brought it home to his wife to eat for supper, when, lo and behold, the peach split and out popped a healthy baby boy. The childless old couple adopted him and named him Momotaro. (“Momo” means peach in Japanese.) When Momotaro grew up, he decided to seek his fortune. Along the way, he met a dog, a pheasant, and a monkey, and gained their valuable services by sharing some kibidango with them. Together they traveled to Oni Island and defeated the demon that lived there. (“Oni” means demon in Japanese.) The four companions shared the demon’s treasure hoard, and they all lived happily ever after.

The statue of Momotaro just outside Okayama Station was a little smaller than I expected, but cute nonetheless. The station itself was a maze of small shops: places selling honey water and fresh waffles and all the kibidango you could hope for. (No giant peaches though; they were out of season.) But toward the back of the station, where our hotel was, it was surprisingly quiet. As soon as we stepped outside, the crowds melted away.

That first night, Masako and I spread our futons on the tatami mat floor and did crossword puzzles from a book Masako had bought. This became a tradition all the while we were in Okayama. These puzzles were both easy for me and hard at the same time. For instance, I knew the name for a prehistoric flying dinosaur, but can anyone spell the word “pterodactyl” off the top of their head with 100 % confidence?

Goraku-En

The main tourist attraction in Okayama was Goraku-en, a garden ranked as one of the three most beautiful in all of Japan. I’ve said it before, but honestly, I don’t understand the ranking system. There so are many beautiful gardens in Japan. Why did this one deserve a medal?

Masako and I came to Goraku-en bright and early the next morning. I remember the long, sweeping green lawns, much like the quad at my college, and the clever use of “borrowed” scenery: Okayama Castle, which appeared pleasingly miniature in the background. An old rest house was uniquely designed with a stream splitting the building in half; people sitting on the floor could dip their toes into the water. There were small rice fields gone fallow, tea bushes, and cages filled with peacocks. And there were flowers, too.

Peach Soft Serve and Wisteria

I swear, every time I go on vacation in Japan, I become obsessed with some flower or another. The first time I went to Kyoto (in 2005), I marveled at the Irises. I was inspired by Cherry Blossoms in Yamaguchi and enchanted by the Hydrangeas in Hokkaido. This time, it was Wisteria. Purple and sometimes white flowers that hung like bunches of grapes from the vines. The straw roof of a tea shop in Goraku-en was wreathed in Wisteria. I ate peach soft serve ice cream just underneath them, while Masako sat in the sun and sipped green tea.

After visiting a few small museums near the garden, Masako and I made our way to Okayama Castle. We crossed a bridge over a river, and the castle grew bigger and bigger. Okayama Castle has the nickname of U-jo or “Crow Castle,” so named for its black color. The name is also a deliberate contrast to the white “Heron Castle” of Himeji. Unlike Himeji Castle, U-jo is a reconstruction; I liked it nonetheless. Black castles are cool!

Okayama Castle

Coincidently, U-jo was hosting an exhibition on my favorite historical era: the Bakumatsu*. It was called “Aizu, Choshu… and Okayama.” But I have to say that the exhibition contained precious little on Okayama, and I already knew about Choshu (Yamaguchi) and Aizu, having visited them before. Even more disappointingly, the signs were mostly in Japanese and no pictures were allowed. However, I did snap an illegal photo of the one English sign that actually explained Okayama’s role in this turbulent era.

Basically, the lord of Okayama was actually the brother (or at least half-brother) of the last Shogun in Japan, Tokugawa Yoshinobu. This, as you might imagine, made them enemies of Choshu. There was also one local hero who made great political gains in Aizu—which came to naught when Aizu was conquered by Choshu. Eventually, however, this man became governor of Okayama.

Kibidango and Waffles

Masako and I visited another museum, but by 2:00 we had run out of things to see. So, we spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the clean, pretty town and did some shopping. Masako bought cups of clear gelatin with fruit in it. I bought kibidango in peach, Muscat, and yuzu (citrone) flavors. We shared our feast for dessert that evening.

*Bakumatsu: the time from approximately 1853-1868, wherein an alliance between Choshu (Yamaguchi) and Satsuma (Kagoshima) succeeded in toppling the Tokugawa Shogunate. Plenty more detail in my blog. Just follow the link.

Office Sobetsukai (Sniff, Sniff)

April 11, 2010

The sakura, the famous Japanese cherry blossoms, reached their zenith a couple weeks ago, and now green leaves are shooting from the branches, as the petals drop slowly, slowly down. The individual petals coast the gentle breeze like a surfer riding waves; when a stronger gust shakes the branches, they scatter like confetti. I’m a little sad about the departure of the sakura. It might very well be the last time I see them bloom in Japan.

The Japanese school year came to an end March 25th. At the same time the students plotted ways of neglecting their spring homework, the teachers were in a frenzy. After almost a month of waiting, the secret list of transferees had come out. I spent the last three days of classes going from school to school to find out which teachers were leaving and saying my last farewells. Some departures were expected, others came like a bolt from the blue.

All in all, I had four sobetsukais—or farewell parties—spanning from Friday to Friday. But the last party was by far the most poignant. On March 26th, I went to my office’s sobetsukai—my own farewell party.

For the last two years and eight months, my official place of work has been the Osumi Board of Education, which ALTs simply refer to as the office. We gathered there on Fridays and during student vacations. Our supervisor, Shibahara-sensei, takes care of us. He makes our schedule, fills out our paperwork, gives us information, logs our vacation days, and so on. And everyone in the office looks out for us during times of crisis: when we get sick, when we get in car accidents, when I lost my keys in the rain and people from the office had to climb up my balcony so I could get inside my apartment…

But due to a change in the system, none of us three ALTs will go to the office as of April 1st. Instead we will each have a base school in Kanoya: Kanyoa High School, Kanoya Kogyo (Technical) High School, Kanoya Nogyo (Agricultural) High School. (Mine is Nogyo.) In a way, it makes sense. We ALTs do nothing in the office but take up space and talk each other’s heads off. That doesn’t change my feelings, though. I like the office. I like these people and the close relationship we’ve built up over time.



Our farewell party was held at Sennari, a traditional Japanese restaurant, shoved down the end of a narrow street. The ever cheerful Ikeda-sensei stood in the parking lot and guided our car (or should I say Matt’s car) into the parking lot. Inside the restaurant, there was a large fish tank and an arrangement of flowers.

We weren’t allowed into our party’s room right away. According to sobetsukai ritual, the guests of honor must enter last, while everyone else applauds them. It occurred to me that this was probably the only time I was going to have this kind of special treatment. If some of the people in my schools throw me a farewell party come July, it will probably be an informal gathering only. What does it matter? When I’m part of these official parties, I actually feel included as a valued worker, rather than just the random foreigner hastily remembered at the last minute. It’s strange. We ALTs are about as useful as lumps of coal in the office, yet they always make it appoint to include us in these things.

As I walked into the room and took my seat under my banner, I realized for the first time how many people were leaving the office. Those leaving outnumbered those staying. The turnover rate for the office was so high. At two years and eight months, I had been there longer than all but one other departing person. (Yoshida-sensei, the youngest person in the office, beat me; he was here three years.)



Although trays of artfully decorated appetizers, sashimi, and tempura were sitting right on the table in front of us, no one could eat until the speeches were done. Akune-sensei, the “big boss” of the Osumi Board of Education, was the representative for those who were departing, and he made a long but intimate speech. Individually, he praised us. For me, he said that I took care of the other ALTs, and my heart glowed a little. Once, Akune-sensei got choked up and had to stop for a few minutes to recover. I felt like I was going to cry, too.

After speeches, we poured our drinks and toasted. “Kampai!” As at all enkais, the food on our tray was only the beginning. Course after course came: sushi, tonkatsu (fried pork cutlets), suimono (a clear soup) with a sakura floating in it, and chawan mushi (steamed egg custard). Alcohol began to flow. I don’t drink straight alcohol, so I had expected to be hitting the cola and ulong tea, but to my surprise, they had brought chuhais to the party, a kind of wine cooler with a shochu (potato spirits) base.

Midway through, there was another round of speeches, with all the departing people giving their own. I was the first of the ALTs called, and I reminisced about the past and expressed my gratitude. Although I spoke emotionally, inwardly, I felt calm. Even so, my face must have expressed some of my sadness, because Andie, next to give her speech, broke down and started tearing up. This surprised me, because Andie struck me as being fairly tough. Later, she blamed me. Seeing other people cry made her want to cry and the atmosphere here was so emotional.



Matt gave his speech last and ended with a touch of aplomb. At the very end, he thanked Shibahara-sensei personally and gave him a gift of his very favorite beer, Heinkein. Shibahara-sensei raised the bottle high and said that he didn’t intend to share. After the speeches were finished, Andie gave Shibahara-sensei her own present. It was a very nice black bag, a little smaller than a suitcase. Her teachers had suggested it, as a very useful item for travel. It turned out to be a very good suggestion. Shibahara-sensei’s face creased with joy, and then he started crying. He turned away from us, but I could see his back shaking.

Now, I hadn’t bought a present for Shibahara-sensei yet, and I was beginning to wonder how the heck I was going to compete with these presents. But I got an idea, as the party wound down. For once, I had remembered to bring my camera to the party, snatching it up before I ran out the door. And even though Matt is a semi-professional photographer and Andie is Japan’s own personal paparazzi, I had oddly been the one snapping pictures all night. I decided to make my photographs my farewell present to Shibahara-sensei and everyone else.



The formal party at Sennari came to an end around 9:30, with more short speeches and three rounds of “Bonzais!” But the night was young, and Akune-sensei was hosting a nijikai—or after party—at his house, as he was wont to do. A bus waiting at the restaurant parking lot shuttled us all to Akune-sensei’s house. More food waited for us there. Huge platters of sushi, bamboo salad, edemame and peanuts, and drinks, drinks galore, sat on the tatami mat floor. We thanked the women who had prepared the food excessively and had another toast.

For the next hour or so I buzzed around, making small talk, taking pictures, and trying to shove a little more food into my already full stomach—out of politeness, of course! By 11:00 or so, I decided to take my leave, hitching a ride with Matt. As we left, the women were just starting to bring out bowls of ramen—just in case there was the faintest possibility that we weren’t all completely stuffed.

Over the weekend, I made copies of my photos for everyone in the office and a special scrapbook for Shibahara-sensei. I gave it to him Monday morning. By then, he wasn’t drunk, so he didn’t cry. But several people in the office were delighted and thanked me warmly.

Yokohama and Kamakura

March 5, 2010

This morning I was half-woken by a thunderstorm. I say half-woken, because despite the bright flashes of lightning and the sound of thunder, my body physically refused to get out of bed and open my eyes for more a few seconds. On the other hand, I couldn’t very well sleep through it. Not when I could feel the thunder crash upon me like a tsunami and rumble through the apartment like an earthquake.

This storm, by the way, has nothing to do with the real topic of my newsletter, which is my trip to Yokohama. But it seems appropriate symbolically, given that my sightseeing activities ended up being—dare I say it—stormy.

Not that it started off with any particular trouble. The first day of my trip—Saturday, February 27th—was nothing more than travel: a two hour bus ride to the airport, a two hour plane ride to Haneda airport, a half an hour bus ride to Yokohama station, another half an hour walking in a slow daze with my black duffle bag hanging off my shoulder and my guidebook open my hand while streams of people swept by me. You know, the usual. I got to my hotel at 4:30 and spent the rest of the night reading.

The next day was Sunday, and the only full day I had for sightseeing. So naturally, it was raining. I sighed, wrapped my stuff in plastic bags, and headed out the door. Now, my hotel room was a very nice temperature: warm, but not overheated. Not so when I stepped outside. It was freezing, and I had foolishly left my gloves in the hotel room. Rather than go back for them, I pressed on for the station, thinking the weather would get warmer as the morning grew later.

That was a mistake.

I came to Kamakura Station around 9:00. Kamakura is a small, but historically significant city only a half hour from Yokohama. It was established as the base for Minamoto Yoritomo in 1180, and the government he set up later became known as the Kamakura Shogunate, the name of the age the Kamakura era. What Kamakura is really famous for, though, is the Big Buddha. I decided to see this first.



I wasn’t disappointed by the Big Buddha. Unlike the one in Nara, it did not crouch in a dimly-lit hall, but rather sat, starkly, among the cloistered pines and distant hills. There was also no fanfare leading up to the Big Buddha. I paid for my ticket… and there it was. And this is what made it so impressive. Like a mountain or a river, it needed nothing. It simply was.

Although my guidebook warned me that crowds swarmed the Big Buddha on weekends, I only saw a few people here and there. This might have been due to my timing—it was still early in the morning—but personally, I think the rain was keeping people away. It was pounding steadily on my umbrella, forming puddles in the ground. Try as I might to step carefully, my shoes splashed and the hem of my pants became wet. Rain alone I might have been all right with. Possibly. But unlike in Kagoshima the rain did not wrap me in a warm blanket of humidity. It was cold. My hand holding the umbrella slowly froze and none of the many souvenir stands were selling any gloves.



I am of the opinion that the best way to explore a city is on foot or by bicycle, wherein you can really get a feel of the physically geography of the area. My original plan had been to walk the hiking course from the Big Buddha to the north Kamakura Station, a good 90 minutes, stopping along the way to explore small shrines and temples along the way. Half an hour of standing in the rain and those plans went out the window.

Instead I took the train to Engaku Temple and later rode the bus to Tsurugaoka Hachiman Shrine. Both had interesting histories, the former having a faint connection to Kublai Khan’s failed invasion of Japan and the latter being founded by Minamoto Yoritomo himself. Unfortunately, none of these things came across in the places themselves. The temple was a temple and the shrine was a shrine, beautiful in their own way, but similar to dozens I’ve seen across Japan.

In the meantime, I was getting wetter and wetter. Shrines and temples are open buildings for the most part, and all the benches were waterlogged. I bought a hot lemon tea from one of the vending machines and briefly used that to warm my hands. It occurred to me that I was not really enjoying Kamakura. And so my plans shifted again. I’d just go back to Yokohama. There was a museum I wanted to see, and it wasn’t open Mondays (my only other sightseeing day). I’d go there.



By the time, I made it to the train platform again, the rain had stopped and flits of sunshine could be seen between the clouds. Figures.

As I sat on the heated train benches, I kept noticing the kanji for “tsunami alert” sliding across the message board, between announcements of upcoming destinations. Due to this alert certain train lines were being suspended. In fact, as I discovered upon reaching Yokohama Station, my train line was being suspended. This was not only the train that went to the museum, but the same line that took me to my hotel.

Why were the trains being suspended? Was the area closed off, too? Was I in danger? There were no English messages. Everyone in the station seemed to be going along their business as usual. But, really, what did that mean? Did people really stop what they were doing just because a disaster might hit? I imagined people hurrying here and there, caught up in their lives, right up until the moment an enormous wave blotted them out. It was easy enough to imagine. I was as wrapped up in my own life as anyone else; despite my worries, I mostly just wanted to get to my museum as quickly as possible.

Eventually, I found out the subway was still in operation, and a few minutes later I walked up to the Yokohama Archives of History. A museum my guidebook mentioned had good English signs. A museum which I hoped would mention Yokohama’s role in the Bakumatsu era, my favorite time period in history. A museum which was closed until April for remodeling purposes.

I was floored. I had cut short my trip to Kamakura for this museum, and it was closed!



I drowned my sorrows in the Silk Museum, and then decided to check out a few smaller museums in the hour or so I had left. The lady at the counter told me the three individual exhibitions were 200 yen each, but it was 500 yen for a combination ticket. So I bought the combination ticket and went to check out the displays.

Two of the exhibits had no English signage whatsoever. If it were an art museum, it wouldn’t have mattered. It was not an art museum. It was the Museum of Urban Development and a special exhibit about—I’m not even sure—a Westerner and piping in the city? Now, yes, I can read Japanese, but I’m not proficient enough to read something as highly specialized as that. At this point, I was pretty pissed off. The lady might have warned me that there was no English before I bought the ticket. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t tell I was a foreigner. I wrote an angry note (in Japanese) and stuck it in their questionnaire box on my way out.

By the time I went back to my hotel, I was practically in tears, I was in such a bad mood. Nothing had gone as planned. I had dealt with cold rain, a confusion of tsunami warnings, and now these stupid museums blocking me off from the information I craved. This was my one full sightseeing day and it was a complete waste. An expensive waste. It cost money to come to Yokohama: between transportation, lodging, and meals, it came to a total of just over 100,000 yen (1,000 dollars). And for what!

“The seminar had better be good or I’ll have thrown away my money for nothing,” I grumbled through my teeth.



I did eventually calm down and visit the famous large “Chu ka gai” or Chinatown, which was only a few feet from my hotel. While I had no particular interest in it, the bright, gilded facades eventually distracted me from my misery.

That night I tried to watch the Olympic figure skating gala, but the “tsunami alert” kept flashing prominently in the corner of the T.V. screen. I switched off the T.V. and looked out the window. My hotel was only a 15 minute walk from Yokohama Port. If a tsunami came, what would happen? I imagined a wall of water barreling down the streets. I was on the sixth story. I was high enough to survive a tsunami. Right? Or would the water pressure cause the building to collapse? What if the water came pouring through the building, filling my room like a fish tank, until I couldn’t breathe?

Such morbid imaginings did nothing to ease my anxiety.

Needless to say, a tsunami did not hit and I survived the night quite easily. I spent Monday morning walking along Yamashita Park and checking out the old foreigner district, whose lush houses were open to the public. I had wanted to check out a museum which had artifacts related to the black ships, but, of course, it too was closed. Because it was Monday.

I had a navy blue suit jacket under my coat and wore tight, slightly high-heeled black shoes instead of my comfy white tennis. Formal business wear. The shoes pinched at the toes and did nothing to cushion against the hard concrete. After a morning of walking up and down the town, blisters had formed between my toes, and I limped my way to the seminar. Stupid cheap shoes. I cursed my own stinginess.

Seminar for Returning JETs: Annex Room. So said the sign at the Pacifico Yokohama when I arrived at around noon. The top of the building crested into white waves. It was almost the same color as the overcast sky. There was a heavy fog.



At the risk of being anti-climatic, I am not going to go into detail about the seminar, which took place from March 1st until March 3rd. We checked-in, received our materials, chatted with people we knew, sat at the tables, and took notes as speaker after speaker bombarded us with information. There was information on Reverse Culture Shock, Resumes, and Grad School. There were sessions on specific careers: journalist, translator, teacher; there were Q and A panels; there was a job fair which was mostly grad schools and volunteer organizations. Start preparing now, they said. Network, they said. Join the JET Alumni Association, they said again and again.

It was a business seminar. Like any other business seminar, I suppose.

But for some reason, I enjoyed it. True, the sheer amount of information overwhelmed me in the beginning and exhausted me in the end. But I was grateful to have it. It was not all as vague and obvious as I made it sound either; there were websites and email addresses attached. Moreover, it was good to hear from people who started off like me, having no idea what to do, and ended up with interesting careers. I reflected a little during the seminar and I will keep reflecting later on.

But now, my dear patient reader, who has stuck with me through this long and tedious email, I would like to mention one last thing before I wrap up. The food. You did not think I would forget such an important facet, did you?



In Kamakura, I stopped at a small eclectic restaurant called “Umitsuki” or “Seamoon.” As I was browsing through menu, I laughed out loud. What I had thought was a simple picture of a maguro donburi (tuna sashimi rice bowl) was in fact red slices of basashi lying over rice. Basashi: raw horse meat. A specialty of Kumamoto, just one prefecture up. I did not order the basashi, by the way, opting instead for a safer vegetable and clam noodle dish, but I did use the basashi to launch into a conversation with the restaurant staff. It turned out the restaurant owner was originally from Kumamoto. The cook went to college nearby, too, in Miyazaki. The things you learn.

Most prefectures in Japan have their own special food. Kumamoto has basashi. Kagoshima has kurobuta (black pork) and shochu (potato-based liquor). Hokkaido has… every food known to man. But what Yokohama’s specialty food item was, I never found out. I was too busy gleefully stuffing myself with foreign food.

They had a Subway in the building next door to the Pacifico Yokohama. I have never seen a Subway in Japan. They had Krispy Kreme and Cold Stone! Their Italian restaurants served lasagna and gnocchi. But best of all, on the fifth floor of the World Porters building they had the most delicious Mexican food I have ever found in Japan. Japan’s concept of Mexican food is limited to tacos. That’s it. But this restaurant served pork enchiladas and chicken taquitos and mango margaritas. They had a salsa bar with homemade salsas, not that canned stuff or that vaguely spicy red sauce made with Chinese peppers that I found at a different “Mexican” restaurant. The food was so delicious. It tasted like an actual Mexican restaurant I would find at home. I was so happy.

Yeah, I know, you-who-can-eat-Mexican-food-anytime-you-want are laughing your heads off at me. Go ahead and laugh. I’ll laugh right back at your Japanese restaurants with their so-called sushi and their lack of soba.

On Wednesday, March 3rd, the conference came to a close around noon, and after grabbing lunch and some souvenirs, I went back home. Besides getting lost in Yokohama Station and taking a half an hour to get to the bus stop across the street (which, in my defense, was actually the main highway), my return trip was problem free. I got home at 10:00 PM, dropped my stuff on the floor, and curled up on my bed in a tired heap.

Three days later, I have yet to fully recover.