Japanese people really can’t stand the cold!

“How are you today?”

“I am cold,” my student replies.

I smile and say good, but in my mind, I am shaking my head. It is seventy degrees in the classroom, how in the world can he be cold? But he is. 

The first morning with a touch of chill I walk into a classroom full of students in layers.  Underarmor, their usual long sleeve uniform shirts, school sweater or other light weight jackets, and school blazer on top. They say they are freezing. I keep a straight face, but inside I am giving them the raised eyebrows of disbelief.

For a country that has yet to embrace the concept of central heating, I find it baffling how intolerant Japanese people seem to be when it comes to the cold. And it is not just my students. I saw scarves and light jackets already out when I was still trying not to sweat through my thin t-shirt in the last days of summer. Now, with autumn clearly knocking on the door, the stares have increased when I walk around my neighborhood in shorts. Aren’t you cold, the neighbors ask (in Japanese). No! I think the weather feels great. I am just excited not to be drenched in sweat from just sitting and doing my best not to move. Soon it will be time for a light jacket, then winter will be here and I will be just as layered and freezing as my students, but for now I plan to enjoy every moment of fall before pulling out my sweaters.

Watching rice grow

When I moved to Wakayama the rice fields were empty.  Vast areas of winter browned grasses and weeds that turned mottled green as spring slowly worked its warmth into the soil. 

And then the grass and weeds were chopped and tilled, revealing rich brown soil.  Then came the flooding.  The cocoa powder soil was saturated.  The water stood several inches deep.  When the water cleared you could see snails sliding across the surface of a mud like dark fudge.  The fields stood flooded for quite a while, some were even re-flooded, until it seemed they were meant for mosquito breeding rather than rice growing.

But in early summer the green shoots started to appear.  Neat rows of the most vibrant green in strange geometric patterns to maximize space in fields that weren’t perfectly square.  I happened to see the machine used to plant the rice.  It was a strange, hunched looking insect that pulled the seedlings from a square patch on its back with its many mandibles and shoved them into the soft mud behind itself.  I was fascinated as I watched it crawl through the flooded field on tall, narrow wheels.  Imagine the precision and gentleness needed to transplant tender blades of grass without destroying them. 

As the days grew longer and hotter, the tiny green blades grew taller and thicker.  Soon the expanses of flooded fields became oceans of green.  During the day egrets and herons stalked through the blades, like white ships lost in a rippling green sea.  At night frogs sang from the swampy darkness.  I watch the growth of tadpoles to pollywogs to tiny frogs at the edges of the fields that I passed on my way to word. 

August became September without any change in the temperature.  But there was a change in the rice.  Instead of blades reaching straight to the sky, the heads were bent from the weight of young rice.  As the days imperceptibly shortened, the tiny grains of rice grew bigger.  The heads sagged, moving sluggishly in the gentle breeze where just months before they had danced at the slightest whisper of wind.  Their color changed too.  The bright, spring green had darkened in the summer sun but now had an almost yellow tint.  It was almost harvest time.

Unlike planting, which seemed to take months to get started, harvest moved quickly.  Whole swaths of plants disappeared in a day.  What had once been a sea of green reaching to the horizon was rapidly falling to a very unique combine.  This machine was more like a beetle, square and solid.  Its mandibles, sweeping the ground in front cut the rice in neat swaths.  The cut plants were then carefully laid on their side and fed up a conveyor to have their precious seeds removed.  The now stripped blades were then deposited behind the machine to be collected later.  The harvester moved in tight squares, working from the outside in, until there was nothing left but straw yellowing in the fall sun and bleached stubble protruding from the rich, brown earth like thin yellowish bones.

Now the air was filled with the smell of fall.  The straw was gathered into clumps to dry.  Hung or stacked, the soft smell of decomposing plant material wafted from the fields - like the smell that clings to your clothes after a day raking and playing in the leaf pile.  Mixed in, and eventually overpowering, is the smell of smoke.  Haze clung to the fields and valleys beyond as what is left from this year’s harvest is fired to return nutrients to the soil.  Despite the still warm days, visions of smores, hot coco, and hay rides floated around my brain as the smoke rose into the blue sky.

Finally, the soil was tilled one last time, turning under what was left of the rice plants, exposing the shallow, thick roots now reaching for the sky like sad, tiny fingers in a sad juxtaposition.  The weeds will return in time.  Perhaps there will be snow to cover the naked fields.  Then it will all start again next year.  The only difference is, I won’t be here to watch the rice grow.

The art of giving gifts

Gift giving is a highly stylized art in Japan. Like food, dressing, tea, and any other culturally important event, the Japanese have steeped the exchange of gifts and trinkets in formality and panache. Bows, paper, and even the gifts themselves hold special significance. Every detail, down to the folds of the wrapping paper are ritualized. It is beautiful, yes, but incredibly frustrating for foreigners. Mendokusai.

I have always been a generous person. I give gifts because I want to, not because of social obligations (for the most part). If I see something that reminds me of a person, or something I think they would like, I buy it. These Just Because gifts have no ulterior motives – they are just something I wanted to share with a special someone. Maybe it is food, a trinket, or a gag; but whatever it is, I give it without thought of getting something in return. I don’t keep tallies. 

But this type of gift is a huge problem in Japan. Just Because gifts cause extreme stress and confusion. A gift, any gift, requires a gift in return. And quickly delivered. So when I give a teacher a folder from Ishiyamadera – the place where The Tale of Genji was written – because we have talked at length about the book, I get two in return later that day. When I give another teacher treats for her daughter’s brass band concert, a good luck gift, I get a memo pad and stickers in return. I appreciate these things, but I wish the givers could understand that I did not want anything in return, only to share myself with them. I did not mean to cause them stress or discomfort. I did not want them to spend money or time trying to find an appropriate response gift. I wish they could understand that sometimes we just give because we want to. Because watching them with whatever trinket made us think of them is a gift in and of itself. That sometimes a smile between friends is the greatest gift of all.

Adventures in adulting: Getting a haircut

Living in a foreign country and not speaking the language can make many mundane things incredibly frightening. Trips to the grocery, bank, and post office are monumental tasks that take hours of mental preparation. Doctors and dentists are only sought in true emergencies because the mental stress of trying to get through the visit is worse than the pain or illness. Even something as simple as a haircut takes courage, strength, and a willingness for it all to come out wrong. 

This weekend I got my hair cut.

It took me two months to get the courage to go. This was my third haircut in Japan and by far the most necessary. Summer sun and near constant washing from constant sweating really did a number on my hair. Part of the delay was a worry about funds.  We have had a lot of holidays recently and I have traveled quite a bit. But the larger part was fear. I just wanted a trim, but I had no idea how to communicate that to the stylist.  But finally I bit the proverbial bullet and walked to the salon near my house.

Japanese salons are very different from those I have visited in America. Despite offering the same services, both countries go about it in a completely different way. I was greeted at the door, given a consultation, and presented with a price before a single strand was every cut. I talked with three people before I was ever shown to the barbers chair. My purse was locked in a locker since there were no counters at the individual mirrors. It seemed that everything was designed to be a shared space with stylists filling in where needed instead of being tied to one customer as in the US.

My consultation involved a lot of gestures and onomatopoeia, but I hoped by the end of it that the young man that would be my stylist for the afternoon had at least some idea what I was looking for. I was ushered to another chair and the haircut began. With dry hair.

This was a little confusing for me. I have never had my hair cut dry before. It wasn’t impossible, but there was a good deal of hair floating around. It clung to my nose and the poor stylists clothes. Japanese hair, from my experience, is much coarser than mine.  The hair follicles themselves are much thicker. I don’t think my stylist was quite prepared to deal with my gaijin hair. But he managed it. We got through the cut and moved to the wash.

It was heaven. Pure heaven. Fellas, let me tell you something; women don’t pay forty or fifty dollars for a haircut. They pay that for the scalp massage they get with the wash.  There is just something about having another person wash your hair and scratch and rub all over your scalp. And this, like so many service related things, is soooo much better in Japan. I will admit, the lack of human contact in this country made me enjoy the ten minute pampering that much more, but it was also a very thorough and concentrated massage.

Afterward I was escorted back to the cutting chair and given a brief shoulder massage before my hair was blown dry and styled. In the end I looked fabulous. The cut was just right and I felt much more relaxed after my brief massage.  

I will still have to screw up my courage next time I need a haircut. Or to go to the bank.  Or the post office. But I am glad to be staying in such a caring, attentive, and helpful country.

Wakarahen: Public vs. private behaviors in Japan

They always tell you to be ready for new things when you are in a foreign country.  Each culture has its own set of ideas for what is appropriate and inappropriate in any situation.  You accept that there will be some things you find difficult or nonsensical, that you will probably be offended by or offend other with, unintentionally of course, at some point or another in your travels.  This is just part and parcel of being a world citizen.

When I came to Japan, I did my best to study up on some of the little, everyday things that might come up.  No wearing shoes in the house.  Check.  Blowing your nose in public is rude.  Check.  You should cover your mouth when you laugh.  Check (sometimes).  Don’t eat or drink while you walk.  Big fat X on this one.  No talking on phone while riding public transportation.  Check.  No one calls anyway.

I was prepared for all of these things and many more I was sure I would discover when I got here.  I did not want to offend anyone or make them more uncomfortable with my presence than I had to.  What I was not prepared for, however, where the things Japanese people do that go against my American ideas.  Mainly things I consider private behaviors that are unabashedly public here in Japan.

Because I am living rather than just traveling in this wonderful, exotic land, I run into many cultural differences the average traveler will never experience.  Still, after a year, these things still throw me for a loop.

I think the one I see most often, almost every day I am at work, is teachers brushing their teeth in the staffroom after lunch.  Now I am all for good dental hygiene, but it is a little awkward to see and hear someone walking around the office brushing their teeth.  At both of my schools, my desk is by the communal sink.  So it is even more awkward when the teachers spit, rinse, and spit again right by my workspace.  It is not that I have anything against clean, healthy teeth.  There are several dental professionals in my family.  But this behavior is strange and a little upsetting to me. I feel like oral hygiene should be attended to in the bathroom, not the office.  Something that takes place behind closed doors when you are not in the comfort of your own home.  But then again, many aspects of hygiene are far more public in Japan than in America.  Taking a bath for example…

While we are on the subject of personal care, another private behavior comes to mind.  Blowing your nose in public is considered bad manners in Japan.  Most guide books cover this.  Instead, there is a constant sniffing and snorting all through cold, flu, and allergy season.  This is annoying, but you learn to tune it out – or wear headphones.  No, the culturally upsetting thing for me is how men will casually pick their noses here.  As an avid anime fan, I was often confused by the prevalence of this habit in a certain type of male character.  Usually a somewhat disreputable or immature would be seen with a finger almost constantly up his nose.  Probably the best example of this is Gintoki Sakata from Gintama.  While he is the protagonist's protagonist, he is also considered, immature, lazy, and foolish.  Otosan would call him a jabronies.  Maybe man child is more PC.  I thought this was just a tell for a certain type of anime character, like a tsundere with a sharp tongue or an otaku with glasses and a headband.  Needless to say, I was shocked when I saw it in real life.  It is not something happening everywhere, of course.  But every once in a while you will see a certain type of man shamelessly digging for gold in his nasal cavity in front of the whole world.

I must admit, many of the behaviors that I find uncomfortable are perpetuated by men, or boys.  My male students will routinely undo their pants and tuck in their shirts as they stand to answer my questions or otherwise participate in my classes.  This has to do with the fact that their uniform shirts should be tucked in at all times, especially when speaking in front of the class, but shirts seldom stay tucked once initial roll has been called and they take their seats.  Custom dictates that they should address me with a school appropriate appearance.  To do this, they have to tuck in their shirts.  Which they do, while they are talking.  This is always very uncomfortable for me since it involves them undoing belts and buttons.  No one else seems phased by this behavior, though, and since I have even seen adult males do it, I assume it is not as culturally shocking to them as it is to me.

Over the past year I have come to understand that there is a definite difference in how Americans and Japanese see male nudity.  In America, seeing a shirtless man is not a big deal, but changing and rearranging of clothes tends to take place behind closed doors.  Not so in Japan.  And it is much more than just tucking in shirts.  Men and boys freely strip down in many semi-public places, much to the embarrassment of foreign females.  When I participated in an evening of kendo, I was asked to change in a backstage area – even though I was just putting the uniform on over my clothes.  When I came out, I was confronted by a group of middle aged men stripping all the way down to their tighty whities in clear view of wives, mothers, daughters, and me.  Once I was finishing up class just after the bell rang.  I was waiting for the Japanese English Teacher, who was discussing a recent test with a student, so we could return to the teachers room.  I was erasing the board while I waited.  When I turned around the boys, high school boys, were halfway out of their uniforms as they changed for gym.  I bolted.  This was not my first experience with students changing in the classroom – I would often show up for my first grade class last year to find boys and girls in various stages of undress.  While still unsettling, it was in no way as shocking as turning around to find a room full of half naked teenage boys. 

I will admit Americans can be a little prudish when it comes to nudity.  Okay, very prudish.  We seem uncomfortable in our own skin.  It is something that I find sad, but also a habit I have been unable to completely break in myself.  I have gotten to the point where I can go to the public bath without too much anxiety, but the Japanese acceptance of nudity can still leave me speechless.  Especially when it comes to children.  It is nothing to see a naked child in a public park.  During summer they run through the fountain at Osakajo.  On the beaches you see boys and girls like little Asian Coppertone ads, their bare bottoms so white compared to their tan torsos, as their Okasan rubs them down after a swim.  Seeing this is jarring, but it also reminds me how different our countries are.  Growing up I ran naked through sprinklers set up in the front yard far into elementary school. This was in the 1990s.  Things like that no longer happen in America.  We have become jaded.  Too afraid, too protective of our precious children.  And with good reason.  America can be a frightening country.

But that is a discussion for another time.  Instead, let me close with this… While I may find some Japanese behaviors unsettling, I understand this does not make them wrong.  Just different.  I wish I could address and/or stop some of them from happing in front of me (especially the ones involving male students), but I realize calling attention to them would only cause confusion.  In many ways I feel pointing out these differences would destroy some of my purpose in being here.  I wanted to get out of my cultural box.  It was my choice.  And, uncomfortable or not, that is what I am doing.  It is also what I am doing to the Japanese people around me when I eat and walk or laugh wholeheartedly without covering my mouth.  After all, a little cultural discomfort is good for everyone once in a while.

The foreign language section

I have always been an avid reader. I would read anything I could get my hands on. My love of books led me to write when I couldn’t find the stories I wanted or when the characters didn’t behave like I thought they should. But for a while I had stopped reading. Books were expensive and I didn’t have money for more than a few dozen a year. I could have gotten a library card, sure, but there was more to it than that and I don’t really want to go into it. Suffice it to say, I just wasn’t reading.

But that all changed when I came to Japan. I started downloading books on Japanese culture and history on my Kindle. This kept me occupied for a while ate up the minutes on trains and busses, but that cold lump of circuits and megabytes has never held my interest like a real book. And I had precious few of these. I ran out in a matter of months.  So I slid back into the habit of not reading. I wrote, people watched, or just day dreamed as the world slid by the windows on my long public transit journeys.

Then I moved to Wakayama. On one of my first recon missions, I found a Book Off – a chain of used bookstores. On a whim I stepped inside and asked for the foreign language books. Eigo no hon wa doko desu ka? It took the clerk a minute to realize I wanted books in English and not books on English, but then he led me to a small section in the back corner of the store. 

I guess the foreign language section of any used bookstore will always look the same – a strange conglomeration of genres, topics, and languages. It was the same at the small, cozy bookstore I worked at in college. Cookbooks, textbooks, nonfiction, children’s – all nestled together on one shelf. A kaleidoscope of shapes and interests. Running your finger over the spines, it is impossible to get a sense of who the previous owner was.  It is like literary schizophrenia. And it is beautiful.

Standing in front of the foreign language section in this Japanese bookstore, I wondered what kind of gaijin traded these books. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, One Hundred Years of Solitude, a book about the crown princess of Japan, Gone With the Wind, a Sookie Stackhouse novel, and Harry Potter in three languages. So many books that tell so many different stories. I take home as many of the fiction titles I can find that interest me – Opera Book Club books and best sellers mostly, but some classics and some obscure titles from authors who probably no one has ever heard of. Walking to the counter I have an arm full of reader’s ADD. And I wonder what they will think of me when I bring my own assortment of books to trade in.