New Direction

Dear Reader(s),

You may have noticed that I almost never update my blog anymore. As this blog had been devoted mostly to the absurdities of living abroad, once I returned to my homeland I simply was not inspired to write. Or at least I had a lot of trouble finding appropriate topics. So after some thought, I have decided to try going in a slightly different direction, at least for the time being, with a series I've titled "Things That Piss Me Off." I realized that although living in New York does not typically provide me with the absurd situations I found so commonplace in Japan, it does provide me with many opportunities to be pissed off.

Warm Greetings,

MatchaMonkey

Lessons Learned the Hard Way

I've been reflecting on life a lot lately. I've had time to, seeing as I'm unemployed, and I've been examining a lot of the decisions that have led me to this point. I've been working on a list of some of the lessons I've learned the hard way in my 28 years, in the hopes that I can keep others from repeating some of the mistakes I've made.

(1) Don't drink on an empty stomach; you will regret it.

(2) "International Studies" is not a lucrative major.

(3) In the same vein as the above--No one's going to pay you for being able to read Camus in the original French.

(4) Don't mix cold medicines with alcohol. You may wake up to find your car rotated 90 degrees in its parking space.

(5) Maybe almost always means no.

(6) No seriously--do NOT drink on an empty stomach, no matter how good an idea it seems at the time.

(7) Be sure you know what you're doing before you start cooking and eating your own oysters.

(8) Beer forgotten and left in the freezer will become a sort of beer slushy and make a really big mess all over your other food.

(9) Don't allow filming while playing Dance Dance Revolution. You will be laughed at by your "friends."

I've made these mistakes so you don't have to. Avoid these common pitfalls and you can lead a happy and rewarding life.

Picture Post Part I--Brooklyn

So this last weekend I went to an arts festival in the Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn. As New York continually gentrifies, the artists keep pushing farther afield to find the next cheap, gritty, and as-yet-undiscovered neighborhood. Bushwick in Brooklyn is one such neighborhood. Prior to this weekend the only stories I had heard of Bushwick were from a friend whose apartment there had been broken into something like 3 times in the space of a year, so I was interested in seeing what the neighborhood actually had to offer. The way the festival was organized, I ended up getting a much more intimate look at Bushwick than I had expected--artists displayed their paintings, drawings or photography on their own apartment or studio walls, so the most interesting part of the festival was seeing into all these artists' homes (not to mention the free alcohol that was generally on offer).

One festival stop stands out in my mind. It was an apartment shared by two young women, quintessential young artists. Their small but brightly painted apartment was decorated with photography, paintings, and mobiles, and they each sat on a different couch, chain smoking in front of a coffee table displaying an antique type writer. One of them was clearly on something--she claimed not to know what was going on.

From that stop, we visited an artist in his workshop who made installations from found objects. After that, we proceeded to rooftop exhibit, which turned out to be a great place to end up since it offered views of Manhattan like this:


I believe if I lived in this building, I would spend all of my time on the roof. There was some very friendly graffiti to boot:

New Cost-Cutting Measures at BoA

I realize that the banks have fallen on hard times. Stock prices are way down, liabilities exceed assets, and no one really likes or trusts you at the moment. That, however, does not excuse what happened to me this morning.

This morning, I merrily gathered my laundry to be washed since I was down to only "nice" outfits. As I opened my roll of quarters, the quarter on the end flopped out, revealing a nickel behind it. A nickel. In my roll of quarters. I was angry, not only because I had been cheated out of 20 cents, but because a nickel isn't worth anything when you're trying to do laundry.

And then I started to wonder, what exactly is one supposed to do in this kind of situation? Go to the bank and demand a quarter? What reason would they have to believe that you hadn't just stuck the nickel in the roll yourself? Furthermore, the 10-block walk north is hardly worth 20 cents to me.

Well played, BoA. You just created more value for your stockholders. So when I hear that BoA's stock price is starting to go up, I'll know it was achieved 20 cents at a time.

MatchaMonkey remembers: Janet Reno

I have a knack for running into random celebrities on my travels. Technically it's only happened twice, so I don't know if that qualifies as "having a knack" for something, but I'm going to stick with it.

After graduating college, I went on a two week vacation with some friends to Ireland. It was a wonderful time in my life; I had just graduated from college, was heading to Japan in a month, and the world seemed full of promise and adventure. My friends and I were enjoying the sights of Dublin in between pints of Guinness. One outing took us to Dublin Castle, where, after touring the inside of the castle, we were relaxing for a moment in the vast courtyard. After a few moments, one of my friends said, "Hey, look--it's Janet Reno."

I chuckled to myself, assuming that this of course was a joke, just my friend's random sense of humor. I assumed there must be someone who looked sort of like Janet Reno. I looked up to see a woman wearing a bright blue suit, and not just looking sort of like Janet Reno--looking exactly like Janet Reno.

"Oh my God, it is Janet Reno," I said. And my friends and I watched as she walked across the courtyard, entourage in tow.

---------------

Later that same day, my friends were enjoying yet another pint at yet another real Irish pub. It was crowded, and we were seated at the bar in a back room of the pub. Of all the pubs in Dublin, Janet Reno came a short time later to this one. She sat, with a friend, at a table near the back of the room in which we were seated.

My friends and I instantly started debating whether or not to send her a drink. In the end, we decided not to--in order to respect her privacy, or something like that. In retrospect though, man, I wish we had sent her that drink.

Chindogu

Dear Reader(s),

I know it's been a very long time (3 months to be exact) since I last updated the blog. This is due to the simple fact that I recently became a graduate student. For those of your considering graduate school, a word of warning: it requires a lot of work. Like more than you've ever done it your life. Sleeping...eating...bathing...buying toilet paper...All of these things become luxuries that you will do in you "free" time. What I'm trying to say is that blogging, at least for me, gets pushed way down on the list of priorities, thus explaining my 3-month hiatus.

Why am I choosing now to break my silence, you ask? It's simple. I saw an article on nytimes.com today that I could not pass up commenting on. The article, entitled "Fearing Crime, Japanese Wear the Hiding Place," is about the recent invention of a couple of fashions designed to prevent crime. How can fashion be used to prevent crime? Well, when your skirt unfolds into an uncanny representation of a vending machine behind which you can hide from would-be attackers it's simple.

All in all a pretty good disguise, if you ask me, though a little impractical since you'd have to wear your vending machine convertible skirt at all times to ensure safety. One tip I would like to offer any prospective buyers of this product: if you do find yourself hiding from attackers behind this false vending machine, be sure to do a better job of hiding your feet than this model has done. It would be a shame to be given away by a pair of bright white sneakers.

I was a little less convinced by this design:


This convertible backpack is supposed to make a small child look like a fire hydrant. I'm not convinced. I see a lot more child than fire hydrant. And standing next to an actual fire hydrant doesn't really help the matter either.

It really only highlights a few key giveaways: (1) real fire hydrants don't wear jeans; and (2) real fire hydrants don't have small boys attached to them.

So while I applaud Japan's never-ending pursuit of innovation, I think this invention could use a few more days in the laboratory.

Rampant Consumerism

If I've said it once, I've said it a million times: if you leave America and then come back after a couple of years abroad, things that you may have never noticed before become very apparent. You've seen me gush about the amount of green in America, for example. Recently I've become aware of the rampant consumerism promoted on American TV. Now I'm sure these observations are by no means ground breaking, but I like to point out absurdity wherever it lurks.

One of the first commercials I saw after returning from France was for KFC's Chicken and Biscuit Bowl, a concoction consisting of fried chicken, cheese, corn, gravy, and a biscuit all served on a bed of mashed potatoes.

Imagine the horror this image caused a person accustomed to dining on only the finest French cheese and wine. I am amazed that companies can get away with marketing such blatantly unhealthy food. The sad part is, this doesn't even come close to the unhealthiest food being marketed these days (see also the Wendy's Baconator or McDonalds Deluxe Breakfast).

I have to say that my favorite fast food campaign, the one that I really love to hate, is Taco Bell's "Fourthmeal." Yes, Taco Bell, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that 3 meals a day just isn't enough for today's active American; what is needed is a "fourthmeal" between dinner and breakfast. Many Taco Bells are open until 2 or 3AM to provide more people with their much needed "fourthmeal." Let me tell you something--I've seen a lot of Americans in my day, and the last thing most of them need is a midnight snack consisting of fried "Mexican" food.

Fast food companies aren't the only ones trying to sell us things we don't need that may actually be more harmful than helpful. The other big offender is--you guessed it--drug companies. Recently, a drug to combat RLS (Restless Leg Syndrome for the uninitiated) has been introduced and marketed on TV. Feel free to disagree with me, but as a "sufferer" of RLS I can say that it's not something I've ever felt the need to cure. In fact, a nurse once told me that the leg shaking caused by RLS was a way for the body to expend excess calories, something it would probably need to do after a Fourthmeal or Chicken and Biscuit Bowl.

On a recent commercial, I noticed some alarming side effects for this drug: "Side effects may include dry mouth, ..., increased urges to gamble, and increased sexual urges." Now I ask you, which is worse: having a leg that shakes from time to time or being a compulsive gambler? I imagine the conversation would go something like this:

"Hey Jim, how's your RLS?"

"Thanks for asking, Bob. This new drug I'm taking is really doing the trick. My leg no longer shakes and I no longer have that creepy-crawly feeling in my legs."

"That's great to hear."

"Yeah, the only problem is, I now have a compulsive urge to gamble. Can't quite seem to control it. Funny story actually--I went to Vegas last weekend and lost my family's savings. My wife is threatening to leave me."

"Because of the gambling?"

"Well that certainly doesn't help, but she's more concerned about the sex addiction I've developed. Ever since I started taking this drug, I can't seem to suppress my desire to have sex with strangers. I joined a group, but so far it's proving impossible to control, especially with my weekly visits to Vegas."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that Jim, but at least your leg doesn't shake anymore."

"Amen to that."

Morality Quiz

I was concerned that when I moved back to the United States, I would no longer have anything to write about on the blog, that I would have to resign myself to writing my memoirs of Japan and France. Oh how the events of last week proved me wrong.

Living where I do, there's basically no work available for a trilingual monkey expert, so I have had to look for work that I am, shall we say, overqualified for. The sad part is, I am usually rejected from such jobs. Last Sunday, I perused the classified for jobs that someone might possibly hire me for. There was one ad for temporary work to help stock a new store--Bed Bath & Beyond--opening soon in my town.

They were doing the hiring en masse at a hotel in town. So I went to the hotel at the appointed time and joined about 15 other people filling out applications in a small conference room. The application was normal enough; and when I turned it in, I was given a survey to fill out. At first, I thought nothing of it, figuring it to be a survey about the interview process or the company itself. But as I opened it up, I realized it was a survey of a completely different nature. It was a multiple choice and true/false morality quiz.

I hope my readers can appreciate the utter absurdity of having a morality quiz; for, as anyone who does well on tests can tell you, you have to mark what you think the teacher wants you to mark and not what you feel is the correct answer. It's all a game to score the most points. This is only the absurdity inherent in the test, however, and it does not compete with the absurdity of most of the questions.Most of the questions centered unsurprisingly on shoplifting and taking from one's company. They problem was that these accounted for 2/3 of the questions and the same thing was asked over and over.

Here is a sampling of the questions from the multiple choice portion of the quiz:

I have shoplifted in the last week.

A. Definitely true.
B. Somewhat true.
C. Somewhat false.
D. Definitely false.

So far, so good...

I believe all adults shoplift from time to time.

A. Definitely true.
B. Somewhat true.
C. Somewhat false.
D. Definitely false.

My friends shoplift.

A. Definitely true.
B. Somewhat true.
C. Somewhat false.
D. Definitely false.

I believe it's ok to use a company phone for personal calls.

A. Definitely true.
B. Somewhat true.
C. Somewhat false.
D. Definitely false.

I believe it's ok to do something illegal on my lunch break.

A. Definitely true.
B. Somewhat true.
C. Somewhat false.
D. Definitely false.

I believe it's ok to drink on the job as long as it doesn't affect my performance.

A. Definitely true.
B. Somewhat true.
C. Somewhat false.
D. Definitely false.

And my personal favorite on the multiple choice:

Would you lie to get ahead?

A. Definitely true.
B. Somewhat true.
C. Somewhat false.
D. Definitely false.

I love this question because if you think about it, there is only one possible answer. Either you don't lie to get ahead and don't think it's ok, in which case you mark D. Or, you do lie to get ahead, but don't want to admit that to a prospective employer because it will keep you from getting hired, in which case you mark D. It's a self-fulfilling question.

The test got a little tedious after a while (there were 80 questions like that), but at least it was clear what answer you were supposed to put. On the true false section, things became a little less clear.

True or False? A main cause of people stealing is the social condition of the individual and not the individual himself.

Dear test makers, I believe this question is slightly out of the scope of the true/false format. I am pretty sure that politicians, religious leaders, psychologists and sociologists have spent many years researching and debating this issue. I was not prepared to declare it definitively true or false today, without warning.

True or False? Living on the streets requires that you take what you can and not worry about anyone else.

I'm sorry, test makers, but I have not lived on the streets and therefore cannot answer this question. The only thing I know about life on the streets is that I would most certainly not survive.

True or False? I believe life has been unfair to me.

At this point, I could barely contain my laughter, but decided it was best not to openly mock a morality quiz, so I held it in as much as possible. I had not expected to face such harsh questions about my life, and in true-false format.

I finished the quiz and turned it in. Eventually I was called for my interview, where I pleaded for a job like I never had before. The result? No call-back. Either I'm not qualified to stock shelves or I'm just not moral enough.

MatchaMonkey remembers: Mount Fuji

Almost a year into my stay in Japan, a friend visited me for a couple of weeks. We made all the usual tourist stops: Osaka, Kyoto, and Tokyo. After seeing all that Tokyo had to offer, we consulted our guide books and came up with one last stop: Mount Fuji. Mount Fuji can only be climbed by amateurs in July or August, and we happened to be there at the end of July. This was our chance to climb Japan's highest mountain, and we decided to take it.

We were no fools; oh no, we were going to do this right. So we took one afternoon to sit in a cafe in Shibuya and read about how to do Fuji-san right. It was decided that we would climb at night and arrive at the top in time to see the sunrise, we would we would wear appropriate shoes, and we would have mountain climbing provisions such as oxygen. Once all of this was decided, we headed out to equip ourselves for the climb. We each bought the following items: a can of oxygen, one Snickers bar, and a bottle of water. Incredibly proud of how smart and well-prepared we were being about the whole thing, we headed off to Shinjuku bus station to catch the bus to the mountain.

We arrived at Mount Fuji just after the sun set. I was wearing a pair of boots, jeans, a t-shirt, and a light jacket. We looked at the souvenirs available a base camp. They included, of course, a Mt. Fuji Hello Kitty. We would each buy one the next day after successfully climbing the mountain, we decided.

And so somewhere around 8 or 9 o'clock we headed out. It was cloudy but not raining. As we set out on the path, our conversation went something like this:

"This so awesome! We're climbing Mount Fuji!"

"I know. I bet none of our friends are doing anything nearly this cool right now."

We continued climbing, singing, and excitedly chatting for about the first hour. At some point, it had begun to rain slightly, but this did not phase us. After all, we were fully prepared for anything the mountain could throw at us. We had cans of oxygen. That meant we were prepared.

At this point, we reached the first ranger station on the mountain. A Japanese ranger who happened to be standing outside the little guard hut spotted us and waved us into the hut. We went in and sat down for a cup of tea. There were four Japanese rangers there, and though I couldn't understand them completely, they seemed concerned.

Japanese ranger: "Oijidjif pants wunejros rain."

Me: "Pants good. We fine. Don't worry."

Japanese ranger: "Tonight yspoauew no climb. Top wiydbrtn dpierbvt."

Me: "We want climb. Together ok."

Japanese ranger: Sharply sucks in breath while looking at naive girls with concern.

We left the hut and I turned to my friend.

"We can totally climb this mountain. I hate how Japanese people always baby foreigners, especially girls. I wonder what exactly he was saying, anyway."

And so we continued our upward journey. At first the climbing was fairly easy; there were "stairs" and the rain was light. My jeans were getting pretty wet, but that didn't phase me. We did not, however, see many other people on the mountain. I remember passing a couple of guys, who said "It's nice to see some chicks on the mountain," as they passed us.

As we entered the third hour of our climb, conditions steadily worsened. The wind had picked up drastically; rain was coming at us from all angles; and the stairs had disappeared and been replaced by steeply sloping naked mountain. Keep in mind also that it was dark and approaching the middle of the night at this point. Our morale began to wane; the singing had stopped and been replaced with hopeful utterances that those lights up ahead were the top. But each time we reached a set of lights, we only saw more ahead, higher on the rocky face of the mountain.

At this point, our climb was starting to resemble something out of Into Thin Air. At times, we were climbing nearly vertically on the rock face, slashed by wind and rain. It was dark and hard to see, and I feared that I might slip and fall. Our Snickers bars had long ago been consumed, while the wildly unnecessary oxygen tanks clanked about in our bags.

At around midnight, a drastic decision was made: we would stop at a hut to rest for an hour before continuing. The path up the mountain is dotted with huts where hikers can rest for an hour or two, or stay the night, all for a price. When our trip was in the planning stages, we had sworn that we would not stop at one; now, were dying to reach the next one. Just after passing the sign saying we had reached 3,000 meters, we came to a hut.

Inside it was packed. There was at least one tour group staying there, along with many independent hikers. Our original plan was to stay for an hour, but this changed after my friend began talking to someone from the tour.

"There is a typhoon," she said. "They have closed the top. You cannot go up there tonight. This is my second tour of Mount Fuji; the first time the weather was bad too. I wanted to see shooting stars. A friend told me you could see shooting stars. Maybe next time."

So what we thought was a little rain and wind was actually a typhoon, which went a long way in explaining why the rangers had seemed so concerned about us at the bottom and why there was virtually no one else on the mountain. Given this devastating news, we decided to spend the night in the hut. There was barely enough room for us. Since we hadn't planned on spending the night on the mountain, neither of us had anything to change into. We peeled off our wet, cold jeans and settled in to our futons.

We woke up early the next morning to fog outside. Since we had only slept a few hours, our jeans had not come close to drying. Allow me to tell you, in case you don't already know, that few things compare to putting on a pair of cold, wet jeans in the morning. It was one of the most miserable moments of my life.

We decided to tag along behind one of the tour groups for the trip down. I was surprised to learn that the path down was not the same one we had climbed up the night before. Oh no, the path down was wide and covered with gravel and included no "cliffs." It took us less than two hours to descend and it was an easy walk.

We found ourselves once again at the gift store at base camp, waiting for the bus to come. A very important decision was made; although we had not made it to the top, we decided that the events of the night before merited a Mount Fuji Hello Kitty charm. Hello Kitty in hand, we talked about trying to climb the mountain again the next year. But you know what they say about Mount Fuji: A wise man climbs it once; only a fool climbs it twice. I have not yet been foolish enough to go back.

Japanese fashion revisited

A few posts ago, I debated the merits of Japanese fashion versus French fashion. At the time, I found it very difficult to choose between the two. Now I am back in the land of matcha and Monokuroboo, and I can see that I was viewing Japanese fashion through rose colored glasses.

A new style has become popular while I was away: high heels, preferably gold with lots of charms dangling off of them, worn with thigh-high socks and short, rolled-up shorts. No one, no matter how skinny and refined, can pull this off without looking like a whore. Though Japanese girls are skinny, they suffer another problem that prevents this outfit from looking good: they cannot walk. People who have been to Japan will know what I'm talking about here, but for those of you who have not, let me explain.

Japanese girls have a gait that is best described as "pigeon-toed." When they walk, their feet point inward, causing their knees to buckle and giving the overall impression that their legs cannot support their 90 pound frames. Each step seems to take a ponderous amount of effort. I spent three years trying to figure out why they walked this way. Some suggested it was the result of years of sitting seiza style, with their legs folded underneath them in the Japanese manner. Others suggested that it made them seem helpless, and therefore sexy. Whatever the reason, it does not make for an attractive appearance, in my opinion.

So apart from generally making one appear to be a hooker, this new style of dress calls attention to the mechanics of the Japanese female walk. The high heels add to the illusion that the girl is about to topple over. The socks highlight the knees as they knock against each other. And the few inches of thigh revealed by the short shorts? They remind us that those legs have not seen the sun...well, probably ever. French fashion wins, hands down.

Scene from a holiday in Provence

I recently had a two week vacation. I spent the second week in southern France, a place I had been many years before. It was more beautiful than I had remembered, and after the week was over I dreaded heading back to the dreary north. But I digress. I am here to relate a scene I witnessed one sunny afternoon in Monaco.

My father and I had decided to visit the principality during our stay in the south. Since the palace was closed and we were tired of walking, we decided to take a tour of the country on a "petit train." It was a 30 minute tour offered in 10 different languages. In front of each seat were earphones and 10 different buttons allowing the passenger to choose his preferred language. Each linguistic option was represented by a flag. This being Europe, English was represented by the Union Jack and not the good ol' American flag. This presented no problem for my father and me.

After a few minutes, two plump, middle-aged women approached our car and sat down. As soon as I heard them talk, I recognized an accent I had not heard for years--that of my home state.

After speculating for a few moments about what "the others" in their group were doing, they turned their attention to the earphones in front of them.

"I guess these are the languages," one of them said, examining the flags.

"Where's my language?" the other one asked.

"Well let's see... It says here they offer the tour in 10 languages. That would be quite an oversight if they didn't have English."

"Maybe it's in one of the other cars," one suggested. This explanation must have seemed logical to them, because they started to get up to change cars.

Then the light bulb went off.

"Hey wait a minute. What does the British flag look like?"

"I think it's that one," the other one answered. "I sure am glad you caught that. That was some smart thinking." With that, they settled back in and tuned to the British English channel.

Sex sells

Living abroad has made me aware of how puritanical the US can be. While I think people in the US can be a bit prudish, sometimes things can swing just a bit too far the other direction when, for example, one is living in France. I have no problem with the naked breasts displayed in advertisements around town, and the lack of open container laws can be quite convenient at times. But I was recently confronted sexuality being used in a way that left me, well, confused.

When you buy a train ticket in France, it generally comes with a convenient little ticket holder. Normally I wouldn't give these little envelopes a second thought, but on a recent trip this image caught my eye:And I asked myself, "Is that supposed to be what I think it's supposed to be? Because I think it's supposed to be a condom and yet it is on an envelope containing my train tickets."

Hoping to clear up my confusion, I decided to read what was written on the envelope:
For those of you who don't speak French, that translates as "A few grams of plastic, having to do with fidelity, and that you should be interested in using..." My suspicions were confirmed. And then I opened the envelope, at which point it only got better:
Hello Mr. Smiling Condom! How nice to see you with my train tickets!

Now, I don't know what French people normally do on trains, but I have never associated condoms with train travel. Which brings me to the crux of my confusion: how is safe sex supposed to encourage me to take the train and use my frequent travelers' card? Granted, I don't know much about advertising, but I thought the idea was to encourage people to buy your product. Condoms=train tickets just does not compute. Are they telling me that if I don't use my SNCF (National French Train System) card when I take the train I risk catching an STD? Looking at the wording on the envelope, they seem to be saying that just as you use a condom to symbolize your fidelity to a person, so should you use your SNCF card to symbolize your dedication to taking the train. The problem with this is that condoms and fidelity are not two things that are necessarily linked. Quite to the contrary sometimes. So, advertising department at the SNCF, good effort but try a little harder next time.

You win universe, you win

Once, while waiting for a train in Japan, I noticed the sound of birds chirping. "My, that's odd," I thought to myself. "I've never heard a bird chirping while walking outside in Japan. It must be because they've all chosen to congregate inside the train station. I guess when you don't have trees, this is the next best thing." After a while. I noticed that the singing did not vary in any way... the pitch, volume and melody were constant. Of course! It was merely being played though the speakers. There were no actual birds.

More recently, I was shopping for groceries in France. While in the produce section, I noticed that my thoughts were drowned out by the sounds of the rain forest. More specifically, it sounded like a large bird of prey was attacking a spider monkey. Not one to be fulled twice, I knew there were no actual birds or monkeys in the store. By the way, is there some research that shows that sounds of nature make people want to spend more money? Because personally, it kind of made me want to duck and run for cover. I didn't know who that bird was coming for after it got done with the monkey.

After living abroad for almost 4 years, 3 of them in Japan, I assume any nature that I see or hear is contrived and fake in some way. Bird songs are taped, trees occur only in neat rows.

One day this week, I was on my way to the store when I heard a very loud bird chirp. I jumped and took the earphones out of my ears. There were lots of people walking around, and at first I thought that a person must have made the noise. I looked around for the culprit, but the noises didn't seem to have a specific source. Then I realized that they must have installed speakers in the square. I looked around to figure out where they were. Maybe they got some of those fake rock speakers, I thought. The sounds were quite loud, and I was unnerved by it all. I looked and looked for the speakers, to no avail. Just when I was about to give up and go inside, I realized that I was standing next to a tree. I looked up, and sure enough, there was a bird. The bird chirping was coming from an actual bird.

I may never recover from what Japan has done to me.

Le best-of, part deux

Category: Best trains

First place: Japan. This was yet another close one between France and Japan. In the end, however, Japan was able to edge out France mostly due to the lack of strikes. Japanese trains are pretty convenient for traveling short and long distances. They are safe, clean, and reliable. In three years in Japan, I experienced one delayed train, and it was only 5 minutes late. The problem with Japanese trains is that they can be fairly expensive, especially for long trips. And although they have the famously fast Shinkansens (Bullet Trains), they only serve a few large cities.

Second place: France. Were it not for its infamous strikes, France could actually have taken this one from Japan. The train system in France is fairly extensive. Fast trains go many places, not just the largest cities. In addition, it's inexpensive, especially if you're under 25.

Third place: The US. Again, a category in which the US doesn't even deserve to place. One of the things I miss the most when I'm in the US is taking the train.

Category: Best postal system

First place: I didn't want to do this, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to give out a tie in this category: Japan and the US. Both systems are efficient and reliable. Japan's post offices are slightly better in that I've never had to wait in line for more than 3 minutes. The US's post offices are slightly better in that the staff is generally very knowledgeable. I've never, for example, asked a US postal worker for a particular form, and then had to wait while they consulted their superior amidst lots of hmming and awwing and sucking in of breath. This exact situation may have happened in Japan.

Third place: France. No surprises there really. I've never waited in line for fewer than 10 minutes at a French post office. Usually it's closer to 30 minutes. Then when I finally get to the front of the line, the person "helping" me usually acts as though I'm keeping them from something much better they have to do. Smoke a cigarette? Chat with someone on the phone? I don't know, really. And then, god forbid I ask for something slightly unusual. International stamp? What's that?

Category: Best food

First place: France. I really wanted to give this category to a surprise victor, but France has undeniably excellent cuisine. Again, the cliche is proven true. France has several edges over other countries in this category. To begin with, not only is the haute cuisine delicious, the common man's food is excellent as well. I swear, even the lettuce is better in France. They can out-sandwich the rest of the world. Second, they have cheese. You have not lived until you've seen the cheese aisle at a French grocery store. Not only is there an incredible variety of cheeses, most cost less than 2 euros.

Second place: Japan. I have to confess to being somewhat impartial in this category since I am such a fan of tofu. Japan has some great tofu dishes: agedashi dofu, mabo dofu... Japan also does fish and rice very well. Japan gains points in this category for two additional (and surprising) dishes: karaage and the MOS Burger. Karaage is essentially fried chicken, but Japan manages to do it exceptionally well. It's crispy and juicy and bite-sized. The MOS Burger is the most perfect hamburger ever created. I never liked hamburgers before, because they never lived up to my expectations. I wanted them to be juicy and tasty and satisfying, but they were usually dry and dull. Then I had a MOS Burger, and my world was forever changed. It was everything I imagined a hamburger could be and more. Japan loses points in this category for its overall lack of variety and because it is a cheese-scarce country.

Third place: The US. It was very hard to figure out where the US fit in this category. On the one hand, there is an unparalleled variety of food in the US. On the other hand, traditional American dishes come up short when compared to French or Japanese cuisine.

Job Creation

France has interesting and creative ways of dealing with unemployment. The 35-hour work week is one method they use. Instead of creating more jobs, this practice just means that stores are closed more often than they should be. Another thing they do is create superfluous jobs. I came face to face with someone given such a job the other day.

I am a teacher. Teachers need lots of copies of things so they can teach. When I began my job here, I was given a card so I could make copies in the teachers' room. This card only allowed me to make 250 copies, however, which is not nearly enough for someone who teaches 10 classes a week. I looked around at the teachers I worked with and noticed that they had seemingly endless mountains of copies and wondered where they came from. Finally, one of the other assistants clued me in.

"There's a guy on the first floor. It's his job to make the copies. Just give him your document and he'll copy it for you."

This sounded strange to me, so I held out until my card ran out and I needed more copies for a class to go see him.

Last Monday morning, I approached the door to his office. There was a sign posted on the door with his picture and the hours he worked. I timidly knocked on the door and then entered.

"Hey, um, I heard you made photocopies here," I stammered.

"Well, that depends," he replied. "I don't make copies for students."

"Um, actually, I'm not a student," I said defensively. "I'm the English language assistant."

"Well in that case, you need to fill out the sheet over there." Great. There's even bureaucracy involved in getting copies made. I got a sheet and began filling it out. I needed 30 copies of an article. At the bottom, there was a place for me to put when I would pick them up. I didn't write anything, since I was hoping for my request to be fulfilled immediately. I handed him the form.

"You didn't put when you would pick them up. You must allow 72 hours, so you can pick them up Thursday morning."

Speechless does not begin to cover it. THREE DAYS? FOR 30 COPIES? I didn't have a choice however. I was late to class, and this man did not seem like he was in the mood to be argued with. And besides, with zero copies left on my card, he was my only hope. I couldn't afford to piss him off. Without saying a word, I wrote the date at the bottom. Then I thanked him and left. After all, he may have been the one with a completely useless job, but I was the one
dependent on someone with a completely useless job.

Le Best-of

Over the past few months, I've been giving out awards in my head. I've lived for a significant amount of time in three different countries, and am always asked to compare them. While it's impossible to say which one is the best overall (they are all their own versions of hell), they each have their strengths and weaknesses. So in my head, I've begun judging them in different categories. Here is the first installment of "le best-of" for France, Japan, and the US. Prizes were also given for second and third place, with explanations where possible.

Category: Best grocery stores

First place: The US. Hands down. It wasn't even a competition. At an American grocery store, you can choose from a massive selection of products at any time of the day or night. Waiting at the cashier is minimal considering the number of customers at the average grocery store. And did I mention the fact that you don't have to bag your own groceries? I know it makes me sound lazy, but I really like having my groceries bagged for me.
Second place: Japan. Competition for second was fierce, owing to the fact that both Japanese and French grocery stores suck. But in the end, the Japanese edged out the French, mostly due to the fact that Japanese grocery stores are open on Sundays and later than 8 on weekdays. They also sell cute toys sometimes, which further helped them to edge out France. Japanese grocery stores are great if you're into making Japanese food. Otherwise they can be a bit lacking. Also, they are known to sell out of major foods, like onions.
Third place: France. France needs some serious work in this area. Though the cheese, yogurt, chocolate, and wine aisles at any French grocery store are a sight to behold, this is not enough to make up for the fact that you can't buy food on Sunday, or that at peak times there are usually just two cashiers open, creating lines that snake around the store, making it impossible to maneuver while shopping.

Category: Best-dressed

First place: France. Originally I was going to make first place a tie between France and Japan, but then I remembered some of the fashion disasters I saw in the land of the rising sun, and decided to give it to France.
Second place: Japan. Japan could be a strong contender for first if its populace did not feel the need to staple dead animals to the collars of its coats, wear skirts so short I could see, well, everything, or put pink hearts on everything.
Third place: The US. The US doesn't have any business being in this category. I can't think of a single first-world country I've been to where the people were dressed worse than they are in the US. Of course, we're talking about the general populace here, since there are individuals in the US who dress quite well. But as a whole, they have a lot to learn.

Category: Best showers

First place: The US. Hands down. American showers are, for the most part, enclosed spaces where one can bathe without fear of flooding the entire bathroom. The water is pressurized, and usually warm. Someone weighing more than 150 pounds could fit in an American shower.
Second place: Japan. The Japanese don't take showers in the same manner as Americans; they shower as a prelude to a bath. Still, the spaces that are set up for such "showering" can handle getting wet and are generally large enough for a normal human being.
Third place: France. You know how sometimes on a sink, there will be a spray hose you can use to clean dishes? In France, this device is also referred to as a "shower," only instead of being attached to a sink, it's attached to a bathtub. What stands between the "shower" and the rest of the bathroom? Nothing. So, while showering, you have to contain the spray to as small an area as possible, preferably the bath tub. For me, that is a nearly impossible feat. I happen to be lucky enough to have a real, enclosed shower. It is barely large enough for me to fit inside (and believe me, I'm not that big), but I can't turn around once in.

Category: Best customer service

First place: Japan. Japan ruined me for life in terms of customer service. People in the service industry always behaved professionally. People may have tightened up when they saw my white face approach them, but once they realized I sort-of spoke their language, they were more than willing to help. I may have felt discriminated against because I was white, but I never I was discriminated against because of my sex or age. Service in restaurants is especially good. All you have to do is press a button and your server is there. The check is always ready, placed in a special container on the table. You can stay as long as you want, but you never have to wait around if you want to leave.
Second place: The US. I actually had to think about who would get second place between the US and France, which is saying something. I always get the impression that people working in the service industry hate their jobs. I can't say that I blame them, I've had to deal with American customers before, and that's enough to make anyone hate life.
Third place: France. No surprises there, really. Ever tried to eat in a French restaurant? It's nearly impossible. Not only is service usually slow, people generally know very little about their chosen field. The man who helped me at France Telecom was unable to open a phone line. I once asked for an international stamp at the post office, and the woman didn't know if they sold international stamps or not.

Category: Worst weather

First place: Japan. One morning, I left for work. My school was a few blocks away, so it usually took me about 7 minutes to get there on my bike. When I left the door, it was sunny. Two minutes in, a few dark clouds appeared. Somewhere around the fifth minute, there was lightning and hail. By the time I reached my school, it was snowing. Unfortunately, I'm not exaggerating. In Japan, I had to invent new words for the kind of weather I experienced: thunder snow (ok, that one was already around, but I had never used it before), death hail, death sleet, death heat wind... My naming system probably could have been a little more creative, but "death" was usually the best word to describe the weather.
Second place: France. Wind and rain, everyday.
Third place: The US. When I got off the plane a couple of days ago, it was 75 and sunny. In December.

There's more to come. To be handed out in later posts include the awards for best postal system and best trains. If you can think of any categories you'd like to see addressed, feel free to post them here.

En greve

Dear People of France,

I'm trying to be a better, more emotionally mature person. I heard that one thing emotionally mature people do is talk to people they have a problem with instead of bottling up their emotions. So I would like to use this forum to open my dialogue with you.

There's something that's been bothering me. You see, yesterday, I decided to take the train to the bigger city 30 minutes away. I got up early on a day I didn't have to work and made my way to the train station. When I got there and looked at the departures board, I noticed that every single train was delayed. As I turned to my friends, one of them sighed and said, "Oh, I guess there is a strike today." Luckily, we were able to get on a train soon thereafter, but the journey was unnecessarily uncomfortable since we had to stand in a crowded car the whole way there.

Now, People of France, I'm sure what you're thinking at this point is that I'm being unnecessarily whiney. Sure, the train was crowded, but I got there, didn't I? True, I do see your point, but I counter by asking if torturing someone is more humane than killing them? Have you ever ridden in a space meant for 4 people that was filled with 20 French people? Of course you have, you're French. So you know exactly what I'm talking about. Furthermore, since when does randomly delaying a train constitute a strike? That's just being annoying. If you really wanted change you would stop the whole system until you got what you wanted.

This is not, however, my main beef with the situation. The strike only affected local trains, and not the fancy ones that run between major cities. So effectively, the workers at the SNCF were hurting the people who are the most like them--working class, just trying to get to school or work on time, while the tourists and businessmen remained untouched by the inconvenience. And so I ask you, people of France, why do you do this to each other? Why take out your hate on your fellow countrymen? How will you ever get along with people from other countries if you do not first learn to love each other?

Stop the hate. Stop the strikes. Learn to love.

Bisous,

MatchaMonkey

Living in France is a full-time job

I am supposed to work 12 hours a week, though it usually ends up being a modest 1-5 hours. Yet somehow I am always busy--rushing somewhere, filling out papers, waiting for something to re-open after lunch. It's a good thing I work so little, because, as it turns out, just living in France is a full-time job. If one were to break down how I spend my time during the week, it would look something like this:

Teaching: 5 hours
Preparation for teaching: 30 minutes
Dealing with French people (or waiting for the privilege to do so): 35 hours

I am beginning to understand why the French demanded a 35-hour work week: they needed those other 5 hours to deal with their fellow countrymen. Thanks to my liberal education, I entered France with an open-mind. I wouldn't want someone to believe all the stereotypes about America, so I gave no credence to the stereotypes about France. This was my first mistake. France is, in fact, a parody of itself, right down to the guy wearing a striped shirt playing the accordion.

I recently decided to get a fixed telephone line and Internet so that I could communicate with the outside world. Armed with the 5 official documents I would need to do so, I arrived at France Telecom bright and early one Monday morning. After 30 minutes, I was lead to believe that my phone line would be working in 2 days and my Internet in less than 10. Upon hearing a dial tone when I picked up the phone, I foolishly believed that my phone was working. It was not until a week later when I tried to make a call that I realized it was not. I took a deep breath and returned to visit my friends at France Telecom.

"Your phone number doesn't exist," the lady said when she looked up my account. "Your account is here, but you phone number is not in the computer. It doesn't exist. I don't know why." Well if the woman at France Telecom can't help me open a phone line, who can? "We'll have to look into it and call you back," she said and sent me on my way.

Two days later, I got a message on my cell phone saying that they had reset my account. The phone did actually work this time; now all I had to do was wait another 10 days for the Internet to kick in, a period of time I already considered absurdly long. And so I waited... and waited... and waited. After two and a half weeks there was still nothing, so I took another deep breath and headed back to France Telecom.

"Everything looks normal on your account; your Internet should work," was the explanation I got. "We can't help you. Here, call this number." This number, by the way, costs 34 centimes a minute (40 cents). So I went home and called the number, and after talking to two people (my case was so difficult they had to put me on with a specialist) for about 30 minutes, I had Internet. Good thing I had nothing else to do and could afford to go to France Telecom and sit on the phone for so long. Work could have really gotten in the way of that.

Teacher knows best

I've now gone from one end of the English-teaching spectrum to the other. In Japan, I considered it a good day when my students were able to answer the question, "How are you?" This is not an exaggeration. And even that was usually only completed after ample supplication with stickers. My current students can express complex thoughts in English and require no further motivation than the knowledge that they have done a good job. The downside to this is that I have to be on my toes a lot more than I did before. The students throw questions at me that I have no idea how to answer, questions like "What are the rules for syllable emphasis in multi-syllable words?" You know, the kinds of things that are interesting and useful, but that almost no native English-speaker could answer off the top of her head. I am adept enough at fending off these questions with a quick "Ummm, let me check on that and get back to you next week," but I have significantly more problems with spelling. As I have mentioned before, I cannot spell. If my life depended on my ability to spell, I wouldn't last a day, nay, an hour. You can see then why I chose to become an English teacher and why I'm so good at it.

While my grasp of linguistic vagaries and spelling may be called into question, in a class of French students, I am the infallIble expert on one subject: American culture. Last week in class, we talked about the educational systems of France, England, and the US. The duty of talking about the American system naturally fell to me.

One of the last things I presented to the class was the American grading system. In France, marks are out of 20. There are no letter grades. I wrote the letters A-D and F on the board, and then gave the approximate percentage each represented. I then turned to the class and asked if there were any questions. A woman sitting in the front of the class perked up. I remembered her from the week before: she was one of the older students in the class, being in her 30s. She reminded me of some of the older students I had been in classes with in the US; she acted as though she had seen more and knew more than the other students there, which, to be fair, was probably true. The problem arose from the fact that she felt the need to prove herself by speaking often and questioning everything. The woman edged forward in her seat and raised her hand with confidence.

"You forgot the 'E'," she said--not "Is there an 'E'?" or "Should there be an 'E'?"

But I was just as ready to burst her bubble as she was mine. I let out a small chuckle and turned to the class.

"No, I didn't. There is no 'E'."

The reaction of the class to this statement would best be described as perplexed.

"But why not?" chimed in several students.

"There just isn't," I replied, and left it at that.

Qu'est-ce que c'est ce bordel!

Bon. I now find myself on the other side of the world both from where I was last week and where I was 2 months ago. As I made the trek yesterday from London to France, I was reminded again why I like to travel: it's never boring. Case in point--it just took me almost 3 minutes to figure out how to type "@" on this French key board. I'm sure the people around me were wondering why the girl in the monkey shirt was just staring blankly at the keyboard. And while French keyboards probably deserve an entry to themselves, today I'm going to focus on the last 36 hours of my life as proof of the adventure that is international travel.

10:30 am, Tuesday: After saying goodbye to my English friend, I made my way through the gates at the train station to board the Eurostar (Chunnel). It was 15 minutes before the train's departure, but I should have realized that boarding an international train in Britain would take longer than usual. The biggest hold-up in the boarding process was the guy working the luggage x-ray machine who tried to convince me that I would have to take off my shirt in order to be able to board the train. After telling me that my jacket would have to be x-rayed, he contiued saying "And you're T-shirt too miss. You'll have to take off your shirt." Remember that he's British, and therefore very capable when it comes to deadpan delivery. I was confused, and definitely not in the mood to joke. "You're joking, right? I'm not taking off my shirt," I said, hoping that would be he end of it. "No, I'm sorry, but we're going to have to x-ray your shirt." I was jet-lagged, in a hurry, and definitely not in the mood to be messed with. "What, this?" I said, pulling at my shirt, "but there's nothing underneath it." "Yes, please put it in a basket to be x-rayed." I said no one last time, honestly at a loss for what to do. At last he smiled and waved me through. "I'm tired and not in the mood to be messed with," I said curtly as I walked through.

11:00 am - 1:20 pm, Tuesday: My seat on the train was next to an old man. I didn't really pay much attention to him until he offered me "a sweet," as in "Here Deary, would you like a sweet?" I guess he decided to treat me like his granddaugter for the journey, because he spent it telling me stories about his life before and after the war (as in THE war). I would come to find out that he was German, kept as a POW in Britain; that his brother was a world-class cyclist before the war; that he walks his dog 3 times day; which of his relatives had died recently; and several stories of irony and near-death during the war.

1:30 pm - 12:00 am, Tuesday: A teacher met me at the station. She took me to her house in the northern French countryside. After feeding me, she let me have the run of her house, so I chose to watch tv. Let me say that there's nothing more bizzare than watching South Park in French. Did you know that "Christmas poo" in French is "le caca de Noël?"

10:00 am, Wednesday: I moved into my temporary home, the dorm. Definitely temporary. I would describe the overall look of my room as "monastery chic." There's a bed, a desk, and a tile floor. The bathrooms are down the hall, and they are unisex. In addition, there are no seats on the toilets. I thought I left my toilet woes behind when I left Japan.

3:00 pm, Wednesday: I almost cried in the supermarket. Having failed to pack certain essentials, such as toothpaste, I had no choice but to try to find a store. This proved harder than expected, and the pain of the excursion was exacerbated by the fact that my knees hurt so bad from carrying my luggage that I could barely walk. As I walked through the store, I thoughtlessly grabbed some fruit to snack on later. I was standing in line, when the old lady informed me that I was in the wrong line. I was standing in a line for carts when I had a basket. At first I thought she was just trying to cut in line, but then I realized that all the basket people were in fact in one line. I waited in line, only to learn that I had failed to weigh and label my fruit. The cashier sighed as she pointed to my un-labelled fruit. "I'm sorry," I said, "Can you tell me where the machine is?" She sighed again and said "Next to the fruits and vegetables." Thanks for your help, Madame, et va te faire foutre.

Which brings me more or less to the present, where it's nearly midnight on Wednesday. I must now say "Bonne nuit," and head back down to the monatery. A la prochaine.

On America

Coming back to America after 3 years in Japan, I've noticed many things that never caught my attention before. My friends are probably pretty annoyed with some of my observations--sometimes I must sound like an alien who's landed on earth or someone who traveled from centuries ago and accidently ended up in modern times. While I like to think that I used sound educated--often discussing politics or making witty observations (I do flatter myself here), now most of my conversations go a little more like this:

Me: "Look at all the trees."

Friend (turning to other friend): "Since returning from Japan, MatchaMonkey won't stop talking about the trees."

Me: "Ohh, look how green. Were there always this many trees? I mean, there are trees, like, everywhere."

Friend: "Yes, there were. So what do you think about this war in Lebanon?"

Me: "...it's just SO GREEN. There's even grass! Look at the grass!"

Friend: "How do the Japanese feel about this war? Whose side are they on?"

Me (drooling on car window): "Treeeees."

Besides the abundance of trees, I have picked up on some interesting things about American and Americans that I never noticed before.

People smell. I mean this in a good way. As I mentioned before, it's generally frowned on if you smell to sweet in Japan, but in America everyone seems to be wearing distinct perfumes. I like it.

Portions are huge. I don't know how I used to eat so much. Now I can hardly finish a meal if I go to a restaurant. Not to mention the fact that I can't get a short at Starbucks.

It's incredibly green. I constantly feel like I've been dropped in the middle of a rain forest. There are so many trees and so much grass.

People are naked. While I think the Japanese are a little overly conservative in their dress code (exposed lower back or shoulders are taboo), I think many Americans could stand to cover up just a little more. I know it's hot and everything, I but I really don't need to see your stomach or ass hanging out of your clothes.

...The rest of my observations are too numerous and mundane to be named here... The streets are wide, the cars are big, the food is cheap, the people are talkative, etc. You knew all this already; I just forgot it for a little while.

Sayonara

On my last day at school, I sat fanning myself in the sweltering heat. I only had two more hours to survive--ever--in the 90-degree teachers' room heat. As I got up from my chair, the teacher who sat behind me (the one who assumed white people don't like crab) stopped me.

"Hey MatchaMonkey, you look like a Japanese person," he said.

"..."

"The way you were fanning yourself--you're very good at fanning yourself--made you look Japanese."

And with that, I knew I could leave. I knew I had learned enough to be able to leave Japan satisfied with what I had accomplished there.

Farewell Speech

Now is the season of farewell parties and making speeches. For the past year I have been teaching at two schools. At one school, my "base" school, people are very nice to me and treat me with respect. That is, until, they decided to schedule my farewell party on a day I told them I couldn't come. The other school, however, I refer to amongst my friends as "the evil place." I can't quite put my finger on it, but something about that school causes your soul to die bit by bit, until there's nothing left. I have a particular dislike of the place because of how I'm treated there. When it's convenient for them (i.e. when they need someone to teach 5-7 classes in a row) I'm a real teacher; when it's inconvenient for them I'm suddenly not their teacher and not their problem. They don't, for example, inform me of schedule changes or of the content for the lessons I'm going to teach. The final straw came last week, on a day when I was teaching 6 junior high school classes. A teacher informed the students that I was leaving soon. One of the students asked if the students could have a party for me, to which the teacher replied "No, because she's not a junior high school teacher."

Ironically, the party for this school was planned for a day when I could attend. All in attendance were English teachers, so I decided to give my speech in English as it would allow me to express my true feelings. Japan is a country known for subtlety, and I decided that I wanted my speech to be a subtle but truthful representation of my feelings. If you're a native English speaker, it has all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, but if you're not, it has all the right phrases to make it sound like a nice speech.
Without further ado, the speech as I delivered it the other night:

-----------

Good evening everyone.

Some of you may not actually know who I am. My name is Matcha Monkey, and I have been teaching at XXX Junior and Senior High School two days a week for almost a year now. Unfortunately, I did not have the opportunity to get to know many of you as well as I would have liked to, as I usually had 5 classes or more a day, lots of papers to grade and planning to do for my work at my base school. Unfortunately that left us with few opportunities to interact and I'm very sorry we did not have the chance to talk more often.

I really enjoyed working with the students at XXX. They were always enthusiastic, kind, and treated me with respect. It's a shame I can't have a proper farewell party with them as well, as they greatly influenced my time at XXX. I will definitely miss the students.

Next year, I will be teaching university students in France. I'm sure that the skills of perserverance and independence I learned thanks to the teachers at XXX will serve me well there as well.

There are no words that can adequately express how I feel about my time with you.

Thank you.

-----------

Given that many of the teachers told me what a nice speech I made, I assume they didn't pick up on some of the finer nuances of the language I used. It doesn't matter to me though; I feel like I got a load off my chest.

In hospital

While Japan may be lacking in many areas, there are a few things it manages to place on every block--convenience stores, vending machines and hospitals come to mind. Within a three-block radius of my apartment, there are about 4 hospitals. Under normal circumstances, having so many hospitals would not be necessary. These hospitals do not, however, conform to the image that an American might have of a hospital--a large place where one goes only if something is broken or death is imminent. A Japanese hospital is a small affair, and one goes there for just about any illness, be it a cold or something more serious. In addition, the hospital is only open during certain hours, say for example from 8:00 to noon, Monday through Friday, because people don't get sick on the weekend or in the afternoon.

A while back, I had to get a medical form filled out. It was a very simple one-page form, asking for things like my weight, but it had to be signed by a doctor. I was not looking forward to completing this task, since like most Americans, I have an innate fear of hospitals. In the end, I would have to go to the hospital 5 times to get the form completed.

The first time, I asked around to see what hospital people recommended. One was recommended to me. I looked at the hospital's website, and decided to go on a Monday which was a holiday since otherwise I would have to take vacation from work to go. On the website, it said nothing about being closed on national holidays, so I assumed it wouldn't be a problem. Wrong. After waking up early on my day off and driving to the hospital, I found it closed due to the holiday.

The second time, I decided to try a different hospital. I consulted my trusty JET handbook, which indicated that it was open for a period of time in the morning and a period of time in the afternoon. I decided to go in the afternoon. However, as I approached the door, I noticed that the afternoon hours had been x-ed out in marker. I headed in anyway, and consulted a nurse, who said they in fact no longer open in the afternoon.

For my third trial, I decided to head back to the first hospital on a normal day. I went after work, since it was supposed to be open until 5. I arrived at 4, and got to see a doctor at 7. I showed him my form and explained what needed to be filled out. "Ah, the doctor who does that kind of thing leaves at 5. If you come before 5, you can see him. I can't do it." Keep in mind, I had been there since 4 and had explained to the nurses what was required in this form.

For the fourth time, I decided to head to the university hospital, the biggest hospital in town. According to the JET guide, it was supposed to be open from 8am to 12am. 12am, based on my understanding, meant midnight. I know we learned that kind of thing in frist grade, but I had a shaky grasp on it even then, and wasn't too sure. Finally satisfied that 12 am meant midnight, I headed off to the hospital after school. I knew something was wrong when I entered an empty lobby, with no one at the reception desk. I looked around for a while and finally found a sign indicating that the hospital was open until 12pm, i.e. noon.

A few days later, exasperated and in tears, I decided to take some vacation time and head back to the first hospital. I arrived just as they opened for the afternoon session, and told the nurses exactly what I needed. It took approximately 10 minutes. Two weeks of frustration, 5 trips to the hospital, a couple of hours of vacation, and all it took were 10 minutes.

I bring up the subject of Japanese hospitals, because this weekend I went to visit a friend in the hospital, and it was one of the more bizarre experiences I've had in Japan.

I asked my friend when I could visit him, assuming there would be visiting hours, but he told me "Any time is fine." I arrived at the hospital at 7pm, expecting it to be pretty empty. It wasn't pretty empty; it was completely empty. I walked up to the front doors and all the lights were turned off. I tried the door, assuming it would be locked, but it opened when I pushed. There was no one at the front desk, nowhere for me to sign in.

I headed through the dark lobby and into the elevator to get to my friend's room. I didn't know which room he was in however, so I called him to ask. "Room 302. I'm the only person here." Sure enough, all the other rooms were empty and he was the only patient.

We talked for a while, and then he needed to ask the nurse a question, so he pressed the buzzer. No one came. At first we thought she was on her way; then we thought she had fallen asleep; and a last we came to realize that perhaps she wasn't there. My sick friend had been left alone in an open, unguarded hospital. Our suspicions were confirmed when we saw a car pull into the parking lot a little while later, and the nurse got out of it and ran upstairs.

There are two morals to this story. The first is, don't go to a Japanese hospital if you can aviod it. The second is, Japan is a third world country. Well, maybe that's going too far. I doubt there are many empty hospitals in third world countries. But the level of efficiency and the number of hoops that have to be jumped to get a simple form filled out is the kind of thing one would expect from a much less developed place.

Lies, all lies

Each workday begins with the morning meeting. I usually take advantage of this 2-5 minute period to stare blankly at the wall; I consider it a warm-up for the day ahead. Last week, my practiced wall staring was broken when an interesting phrase was mentioned in the meeting.

"...rei no mondai..."

Loosely translated, "rei no mondai" means "the unmentionable problem." I immediately perked up. This sounded juicy.

"So we had a PTA meeting last night to explain the unmentionable problem to the parents, and we'll have an assembly today to explain things to the students," the vice principal announced.

I wasn't able to glean any further information about what the problem was, being unmentionable and all. So after the meeting was over, I asked my supervisor what all the fuss was about.

"The sprinklers in the gym aren't working. We asked the Board of Education for money to fix them, but they didn't respond, so we assumed they were sending the money soon. When the fire department asked if we had fixed the sprinklers, we told them we had, since we thought the money was coming soon. The newspaper found out about it and published an article that was very critical of the school. But they didn't mention that we had asked for money from the Board of Education." Ironically enough, they were planning on gathering the students in the gym to explain to them that if there were a fire in the gym they would all die, but that this was not the school’s fault.

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Before we progress any further, I’d like to back up and explain something about Japan, and my school in particular. They are extremely by the book. If a teacher goes on vacation, he has to tell the principal and vice principal exactly where he will be and when. No one sneaks out of school early or without taking vacation (myself excluded, of course). When it comes to the relationship between the teachers and the administrators, the name of the game is full-disclosure. This does not extend, however, to the relationship between, say, the school and the fire department. Why tell someone the truth when it actually matters, when lives are at stake?

To recap, here is a list of things that are allowed and things that are forbidden at my school:
Having dyed hair (as a student): forbidden
Smelling “sweet”: forbidden
Failing to tell the foreigner what to do in the event of an emergency: allowed
Painting one’s nails: forbidden
Not telling the principal where you’re going for vacation: forbidden
Lying to the fire department about the sprinklers: allowed
Having pierced ears: forbidden

Sleeping at one’s desk: allowed

Cultural Differences

There are two things about the Japanese that never cease to amaze me. The first is their ability to get off on things that are, in the grand scheme of things, entirely inconsequential. It takes very little for them to think that they are unique. The second is the seemingly endless supply of factoids they have about other countries, and how they apply them to the foreigners they meet. For example, after introducing myself as an American to another teacher, he responded by saying, "Ah, American.... I bet that means you eat a big breakfast. I heard that Americans eat breakfast." Simply telling someone where I'm from will produce such a list of "factual" information.

This week, I was doing the obligatory lesson about differences between Japanese and American schools with a junior high school class. I was mentally prepared to talk about such exciting topics as what students can wear to school, what students study, what kinds of after school activities they do, and the like. Of course, in class, the conversation took a much different route. First we talked about food, a favorite topic of the Japanese.

"So, Matchamonkey, is it true that American students eat in a cafeteria?" the teacher asked.

"Yes, that's true. We can buy or bring a lunch," I explained.

A student in the front row gasped at this revelation. "Yappari, amerika-jin ha okane mochi da ne." Just as I thought, Americans are rich.

Anyone who has ever bought lunch from a school cafeteria knows that you do not have to be rich to afford it. Au contraire, it is usually those of lesser means who buy food from the cafeteria. If Japanese kids never had the experience of buying a school lunch, I would understand why they might assume you would have to be rich to buy a lunch everyday; however, most Japanese students pay to have a school lunch everyday. Yet, they almost always apply the assumption that all Americans are rich to the fact that some people buy their food from a cafeteria...

At this point, the conversation took a turn for the dull.

"In Japan, we have 10 minutes between classes. How long do American students have between classes?" the teacher continued.

"I don't remember, and really it depends on the school..."

"She says it depends," the teacher explained to the students in Japanese.

A hand shot up in the back of the class. "Um, in our first year textbook it said that Americans only have 5 minutes between classes," a student countered in Japanese.

"Yes, Matchamonkey, in their textbooks it says that you only have 5 minutes," the teacher prompted me in English.

"Well, really, it differs..."

"But it is shorter than in Japan, I think. Their textbooks said 5 minutes," she continued.

"But, um..."

"Yes, they have less time than Japanese students," the teacher stated to the class in Japanese.

I don't know why it mattered to them that they have longer breaks between classes. I don't know why I fought it either.

The Kiwi

Each location in Japan has a specialty, so as to facilitate the selling of souvenirs. One town, for example, might be associated with a kind of food (Osaka and okonomiyaki), another with a historical tale (Sado Island), and another with traditional Japanese culture (Kyoto, Kanazawa). This practice extends to every location in Japan, no matter how large or small. Whatever that place is famous for is then packaged and sold to tourists in many forms, often involving Hello Kitty at some point.

I live in a town of about 50,000 people. It's in a relatively rural area.

When I taught at junior high school, the students had an assignment where they has to write about what their town was famous for. As I said, it's a small place, so all of the students pretty much wrote about the same things. I learned that their town is famous for the tsubaki (camellia), which is its official flower. Although there is a stone carving of a camellia near the town center, I have yet to see a live one. I learned that it was also famous for its massive new town hall. I doubt word of the size of their town hall has spread far beyond the borders of the town, but they were obviously proud of it. And lastly, every student wrote about how their town was famous for kiwis.

Kiwis...

This might not have bothered me so much, had it not been for the following things:

(1) Literally every student mentioned it.

(2) In all my exploration, I had never seen anything in town that did not fall under the category of ugly building or rice paddy.

I let it sit for a while, but whenever I went to a new part of town, I looked for these elusive kiwi trees. I was unsuccessful in my ventures, and finally my curiosity got the better of me. I decided to ask Umeda-sensei about the matter.

"Um, Umeda-sensei, I have a question. All of the students write about how Nonoichi is famous for kiwis. Where are they? I want to see some kiwi trees."

"Hmm... Maybe there are no kiwi trees in Nonoichi," she replied.

"Then why do the students write about their town being famous for them?" I continued.

"Well, Nonoichi's sister town is in New Zealand. That is why we are famous for kiwi fruit," she explained without batting an eye.

Let's go over that logic one more time. Nonoichi's sister town is in New Zealand. New Zealand is famous for kiwis. Therefore, Nonoichi is famous for kiwis and can sell kiwi products as if they were home grown.

If you can find my town on a Japanese map, there will usually be a little picture of a kiwi, indicating that any presents bought here should feature the kiwi fruit. You can definitely buy kiwi wine, if nothing else. But don't go looking for the kiwi trees; they're thousands of miles to the south.