Ep. 4 Weak for the Week

Once safely delivered by one of the large avians of AA, I was quickly captured by a trainer and taken to the region of Kanto, where I was deposited in a boxy house--the color of PC--to spend the next fourteen days. Given a briefing by our humble hosts, we then deposited for that most mundane of normalities, the neighborhood grocery store. But what's this? Against all past experience, the signage of this strange place was composed not of letters, but of strange lines and normal numerals. This script, strange to my eyes, takes its name from the inhabitants of this land and--as an added twist to this scrupulous script--it is not only a written code, but one spoken as well, a fantastic flash to fuddle any foreigner. Still, reason, ruled by the stomach, reigned supreme and eatable delectables were attained, soon followed by sleep. Post sagely slumbering in humble humidity, I awoke to find myself in twilight, new-roomy having difficulties sleeping as well, though both of us hunkered on past that dastardly hour of three, with minutes numbering thirty. Oh what horror could have brought such a despicable time into existence? What malevolent force would create such a monstrosity? Why, the evil of Jetlag. Still, I dreamed 'til 5:30--a time most favored by a certain pooch back home--whence I awoke, hearing voices in the house. Though I wished to slumber longer, this was a time more to my liking, a time by no means good, but better than neutral. What did I find? Some of my female cohorts had also had difficulty sleeping and had awoken at the time between evil and beigish-benevolence: 4:45. I found them ready to explore, but declined their invitation. After a day of planes and people, I required the solitude of silence for my thundrerous thoughts. Soon after, however, more trainees descended the stairs. Jetlag had put them all under a hideous curse and, destined to be unable to sleep, has risen them early from their futons. Oh, Mother Time, save us please...but that is a tale for later.

Declining a few more invitations, I slipped out into the waking world. The humidity, which had seemed as a dust in the air in the house, was like an enormous hill suddenly dropped upon me when I stepped outside. This ever present vapor would be my constant companion for the next year, but I chose to give it little heed. Such companions, one often finds, can soon be relegated to the background if one merely ignores them from the start. Everything, it seemed, was familiar yet foreign. The sky was a very Portland grey, yet the temperature was already rising past that which I had expected--indeed, still a problem I face. The roads, mind you, fair reader, appear to have been built to accommodate per-existing spaces rather than for the cars that frequent them. They are so narrow around the abode, in fact, that anything resembling an American street now seems impossibly wide by comparison.

Though they are scarcely wide enough for many cars to pass in a single direction, the sides are still frequented by bicycles, pedestrians, and all other matter of strange creatures; including umbrellas (as an aside, I experienced my first culture shock today. I left the house with no concession to the weather but my raincoat, and was stunned, after about ten minutes of walking, to realize that I was the only person without an umbrella. The thought, being a native Oregonian, had never crossed my mind and, though I carry one now, I used it as a kind of fancy cane/ pointing stick and have yet to open it). Being used to the terrible street signage from home, I was able to avoid getting lost and made my way back, alone, to the grocery store, where I bought vitals more suitable to the current day time. Returning to the house, I derdled around with some of the fellow trainees--all very nice people--until it became time for training to begin.

Thankfully, training was only a brief four hours that day, after which most of us decided to get some dinner. Our first destination was a soba restaurant. That was closed. So, looking at our map--reminding me very much of a certain comment in, "Good Omens"--we decided to go for a Chinese restaurant in the opposite direction. After all, why go to Japan if you're not going to try the Chinese food. That was also closed. And, no, we did not then go to a restaurant only to find that it had burned down, fell over, and then closed. Instead, we decided to walk towards the train station, remembering a mention of food along the way. Picture this, if you will: a road contained by what would be called almost anywhere else a shoulder behind a rail and, walking along it, eight tired, loud, friendly, amazing, westerners (read: six American, one Canadian--the other had stayed behind--and an Australian. Because no adult international journey is complete without one to liven things up) walking obliviously down the road with no particular direction in mind--minus a vague, "that-a-way" direction--and the word hooligan somehow slipping into any description of them. I'm not sure, but I might have seen some people cross the street rather than try to pass up. Shortly after we passed the entrance to an enormous shrine, we all began to feel the hunger really take hold.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let me clarify a moment: we had always been hungry. After a day of flying, six-at-most hours of sleep, and four hours of lecture, there was something ingrained about our hunger. Ever present, voracious, it was the kind of thing that wanted to devour our unborn children. Obviously, this wasn't real hunger; this was the exhaustion talking. So, when the real hunger hit (a seven second knock out of the exhaustion-hunger, I'll wager) our bodies grasped this normal, understandable thing like an iron vice. Everything else seemed out of this world, but we could still feel hunger? I don't think that I've ever felt so relieved and squaggy [hungry and tired] in quite some time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The station was still no where in sight and, I would later learn, about ten minutes off. Doable, but completely unacceptable. Not thinking straight, however we plunged on, across another intersection, when someone said, "hey, what about this place?" I've seen walk in closets bigger than this place, it's only occupants being a television, a few tables and chairs, a kitchen, a bar--the kind that you sit at, not the drinking kind--and the chef, who looked vaguely like some Japanese combination of Chef Bouyardee, the Quaker Oatmeal guy, and Gusteau (from Ratatouille). It was a ramen restaurant and, deciding to dive right in (after checking with other people who had better grasp of the language) I went with a shio ramen [trans. salt ramen]. It was basically ramen noodles and vegetables in salt water, and it was delicious. It was a little odd to realize that there would be no take home containers (on second thought, that was my first itch of culture shock, but I was really too tired for it to have any lasting effect). For those of you who don't know, in Japan it is considered polite to slurp your noodles. As it cools them for you, it is considered impolite to blow on them; but twenty-some-odd years of manners and culture are hard to work around. Even the people around the table who had studied Japanese, even the one with both the Japanese and American passports, couldn't make themselves slurp. Except for me. When entering a new culture, you can either embrace it fully, reject it wholly, or do something in between. I want to work on doing the former as much as possible, western manners be darned. And it was exhilarating. There's always something so much fun about trying new things, seeing them in a new light, and in many ways it made my day. I went to bed that night proud that I had slurped my noodles, a fact which, in hindsight, was sort of an odd thing to ever be proud of in any situation.

The next couple of days passed by in a blur. I walked with some friends to Starbucks at the station the next morning, and one of them tried McDonalds. Fresher, and more fancy, is how she described it. The Japanese are great at making things easier for everyone. Because there are so many foreigners, and so many children, they have menus in many restaurants and other venues that have pictures of what each meal looks like. All that you have to do is point, smile, and be polite, and they will be more than happy to help even someone as virtually illiterate as me. As it is almost dinner time, I need to be going, but I have one last observation for now (more will be written later). In American, we tend to worship the idea of beauty. Open any ad, go to any mall, watch any channel, and soon enough the idea of youth as perfection will show up. Well, if we have the religion, then the Japanese have built the temple. On the way to the station there is a gigantic salon stretching two stories, fronted with an entry way held up by gigantic, faux marble pillars. One cannot help but be reminded of the temples of old in its presence, and I pray to whatever god resides there that my feet never cross that threshold.

This elder-land, however, does contain its fair share of temples, however (though, in this case, the proper word is shrine). One such structure, sitting less than a mere mile--though more than a fouloderous foot--away is the ever imposing, though never enclosing, Hikawa Shrine. Favored by the great Meji Emperor himself, this colossal compound features a pond filled to the brim with Koi fish. That's right, it has Green ones, Gold ones, ones that climb on rocks--though those last might actually be turtles. Spanning the pond is a small bridge, bright red, like the rest of the shrine. But I am getting ahead of myself. The grand entrance lies just off the main drag, situated at a great intersection, and right across the street from the local team's store. It positively dwarfs the surrounding trees, this great, red, Japanese gate. When entering a temple, always enter through the gate, not around it, for only by going through the great pillars can the human soul be truly purified.

Past the gate lies a straight, paved walkway bordered by trees. At one point in time, they may have been part of a larger grove, but as they have been relegated to the position of blurred scenery by passing cars, their influence is somewhat lessened. And yet, there is still something majestic and magical about them, for they are still part of a sacred place. At the far end, one enters into the shrine compound to find a narrow path sided by gravel. All around are miniature shrines where one may worship, though knowledge of their meaning escapes me. As such, it seemed strange to even think about approaching one, leaving many corners of the compound as yet unexplored to me. Across the aforementioned bridge lies the temple itself, an imposing red building dedicated, or so the great oracle Wikipedia told me, to the Shinto god of storms and the sea. Before entering, however, the body must be cleansed as well as the soul. Please note that anyone who wants to visit one of these places with me must purify themselves, or I will expect them to stay outside. To start, take a ladle with your right hand and fill it with water. Then, pour a little water onto your left, to wash it. Next, take the ladle into your left hand, and use it to purify your right in the same manner. Then, with the ladle in your right hand, pour some water into your left, and drink it to purify your mouth. Lastly, with the ladle in both hands, tilt it up so that water cascades down the handle, purifying the ladle. Only then will you be pure enough to enter into the shrine itself.  Mostly, it is a large courtyard, though five trees grow within it around a central shrine, with a further place of worship in the back. Pictures are welcome, though one must never take one that faces directly into the shrine itself. All in all, it is a holy place, where many come to find peace.

Once leaving the shrine, I found a zen garden, and explored a little bit. Upon leaving, however, I found a peculiar butterfly which just wouldn't leave me alone. At first, I thought it to be all black, but on closer inspection it was in fact an incredibly dark purple, with iridescent wings and two small red dots, one on the underside of each wing. It flew around me, darting at me and then moving on. I know not why, nor not what kind of butterfly, but I have taken it as some kind of sign from the Shinto gods. Once again, I know not what kind, but I have never seen a butterfly of quite that size, nor one that acted in such a strange manner to anyone.

Speaking of the fauna, I shall soon start up a xenologue about the flora and the fauna that I have encountered. And now, some more picture:

 Here are Brendon and Chelsea, two of my fellow trainees. Brendon is from Canada, Toronto area, and Chelsea is from Nebraska.

This is my futon [foo-tone, not foo-tawn] in my part of my room (205, yeah). It is a very thick mattress that is put on the ground and slept on.

 This is new roomy, Cameron. He is from Canada, Toronto area (apparently, people from that area don't pronounce the last 't').

 One of myself with New Roomy, because guy contact is apparently uncomfortable for some people.

This is the only indication that I have as to the layout of my new apartment. It's 7 tatami mats in size. Note the bookshelves (plural).

Lastly (speaking of books), anyone familiar with this book should be able to recognize it, as well as the significance of the fact that the tear on the side there is its first. For those of you who have not read, "Good Omens" yet, shame on you, it's a fantastic book, and the tear is a testament to a) how long I've had it, b) how many times I've read it, and most importantly c) how long I have gone without losing it. Well, this has been another exciting Adventure in the Austentatious. If you liked it, tell your friends; if you hated it, tell your enemies, and if you don't care, then tell everybody.

Ep. 3 A Long Journey

When last I wrote and episode, I was listfully living on the eastern side of a western ocean. Now, this courageous non-caped crusader has nimbly navigated the curvature in order to land one day ahead and eight hours behind, a fact that has left a certain blue simian slightly befuddled--and forgotten in luggage already shipped forward. The current time is 7:11; the place: the East Aeon training facility. The next ten days should prove interesting, but will they be as hellish as the flight across the Pacific? Only time will tell.

So, things started off fairly well yesterday. We got to the airport on time, security was easy--I was picked for random screening, so they scanned my computer. The poor TSA person was very confused until she realized that I had the thing off. Whoops. That flight was not too bad, although I was sitting next to a crabby, old, Hispanic woman. Naturally, the first thing that I said when she sat down was, "Good Morning." She the looked at me a little terrified, and proceeded to tell her friend three rows behind her, in Spanish, that she wanted to switch seats because I was weird and she didn't want to sit next to me. What a great way to start the day.

The landing was a tad fast into LA, but not the worst I've ever had. I looked at my ticked, though, to see what gate I was to go into, and I didn't have one. So, when we disembarked, I looked at the screen and couldn't see my flight. Naturally, I then went to the information desk, and was told to take a bus from a gate just down the way to get to my terminal. That way, I wouldn't have to deal with LA security. As I was walking away, I over heard the information lady tell a woman to follow me. As such, I waited for this person, who turned out to be one of the most interesting people that I met all day. She was on her way to Yellowstone for a new-agey religion conference on how to save the world. I don't remember the name of the religion, but it was passed down to some old guy many years ago by some Cosmic Overseers--as I'm rereading Good Omens at the moment, a certain scene came to mind. My initial reaction was a bit of disbelief and a brief thought that this woman might not be all there, but then I checked myself. I don't tend to have those thoughts when talking with someone about their faith when said faith doesn't involve space aliens, so why should I think her looney just because her faith does? I just think that she was glad someone was willing to hear her out without judging, and we talked all the way to the terminal, where we parted ways.

Well, I managed to find my terminal, especially thanks to the help of an airport employee--the poor man had sprained his arm, and was leaving work early that day to go to the doctor, which I really hope went well--and soon discovered the free WiFi. Using that, I was able to let several people know that I had landed. Soon after, however, the situation started to turn towards the less pleasant as what seemed like five-thousand Japanese children--all wearing matching warning-cone orange shirts--descended onto the terminal and proceeded to yell, scream, and monopolize all but a few seating areas. As such, I moved to a quieter portion of the terminal, and happily read until they started boarding. At that time, they asked if certain people were in the terminal--including me! Apparently, since my flight to LA was with a different carrier, I had to re-check in when I arrived. I had tried to do so when I got there, but the person behind the desk had unhelpfully informed he that he didn't work with the airline. Anywho, so I am reading my book when I hear them ask for, "blah blah blah, blah blah blah, McCain, Schock, blah blah blah..." Now, my first thought was that it might be John McCain, but I squashed that idea. After all, there are probably thousands of McCains, and why would that one be going to Japan? Sure enough, however, it was John McCain, and he wouldn't stop staring at me. I guess he wasn't expecting to see a shorter guy in a purple sweatshirt and a red backpack, but it was kind of creepy. I almost pulled my eyeballs out on him. Anyway, he got his stuff worked out first, then got in line and quickly passed through, being, "important" and all. I, on the other hand, being economy class, expected to wait my turn. I dutifully went forwards, though, to check in, and talked a little with the lady behind the desk. She looked exhausted, and I wished her a less exhausting day, and wouldn't you know it, she scanned my ticket there and then and sent me onto the plane. I guess there really is something for being nice to people.

The next eleven hours were relatively hellish. The seat-belt sign was on for about 75% of the trip, and there were a chorus of five screaming babies. I think that there was about an hour combined period where one of them wasn't making noise. Still, the ride passed eventually, we landed early and zoomed through customs and immigration. I then waited for about an hour for a trainer to pick me up and take me to everyone else--I was one of two arrive in terminal 2, while everyone else was arriving in terminal 1. By the time we arrived at the training house, it was around 8:45pm, but most people were chatting on the way over. We then got our room mates, got our food, and went to bed.

This has been another exciting episode of, "Adventures in the Austentatious." If you liked it, tell your friends; if you hated it, tell your enemies; and if you don't care either way, tell everyone.

PS: Crossing from today into tomorrow.

Xenologue 2: Friends

 This is Mo Copeland. She is the current head of school at Oregon Episcopal School, which I attended for twelve years--yes, college was quite a culture schock coming from that. She also happens to be my boss--well, Anne Weston, her assistant, is my boss, but the boss of my boss is my boss...which I guess makes Mo my boss^2--when I work at the switchboard there. Now that I'm off to Japan, it will be up to this heroine to hold the hallowed halls together. To aid her, and her trusty sidekick, she has assembled a crack team of engaged educators and adamant administrators to combat the dual evils of ignorance and poor administrative work.

This is my friend Kaitlyn, holding up a certain excellent book. I have known Kaitlyn since first grade, and this year will probably be the longest we have gone in that time without seeing each other in person. She is an amazing friend, and an awesome writer, and will soon be moving to Seattle to start on neuroscience grad-school. Who knows, she might one day be able to figure out just how my mind works.

Lastly (for today, more coming later) this is my Kindergarten teacher, Nancy Moldoon. Her daughter was friends with my sister, and she and my mother have kept in fairly good contact. I don't really have any bad memories of Kindergarten, so I would say that she did an excellent job taking care of me while I was there.

But wait, soon there will be more...

Xenologue 1: Family

 First off, we have my mother, Dorothy Schock, and my two dogs. My mom is an aesthetician and published novelist from Portland, Oregon. Pictured with her are our two dogs at Summer Lake.

 This is my sister, Alexa Schock, on her 25th birthday--note the tiara. She is a preschool teacher in Portland, Oregon who will soon be embarking on a quest that will hopefully end with her attaining her masters degree.

 These are my mom's and my dogs. The one on the left, Domanic (pronounced Domanique--it's my sister's fault) is mine. I have had him since the last day of fifth grade, making him eleven years old right now. Currently, he is probably one sad little boy. The dog on the right is Monkey, because she looks like a monkey. I think that we were channeling the future ghost of Stephen Pastis when we named her.

 This is my dad's dog, Karma. It was a very nice picture, until Photo Monkey photobombed. As such, it has been put away for the duration of training. Karma is eight years old, and still full of energy.

 This is my dad, Michael Schock, sitting in his office in Hood River, Oregon, posing with Photo Monkey. He is a stock broker, and quite good at what he does. He also enjoys many of the outdoor activities made possible by his scenic environ.

 This is my step-mother, Angela Schock (ne. Burns) posing with Photo Monkey in the kitchen. She is the head of staff for someone in Hewlett Packard, and she and my dad are about to celebrate their one year wedding anniversary.

Lastly, this is me at my dad's Toastmaster's group. The plaque with the rock--a piece of the Blarney Stone, actually--was bestowed temporarily to me because I gave the best table topics speech, while the scales were given to me for being the best evaluator. Never mind that I didn't know that I was to be an evaluator until I got there and my dad volunteered me, but I guess that years of improv have paid off.

Ep.2 Enter Photo Monkey

This is Photo Monkey, whose awesomely super power is that he will appear in pretty much every photo that will debut on this blog. He's small, he's blue, his chest is emblazoned with the massively manifesting moniker, "Las Vegas," and he's ready for adventure. He will return either Friday or Saturday, posing with perfect people and precious places that I'm leaving in the stupendous states.

I'm going to be honest here, I find this whole thing weird and ultimately self serving. I know that a lot of people my age like to think of a blog as some sort of diary, but I'd rather describe it as some sort of dairy: somewhat public, serves those who know about it, but ultimately goes back to the person in charge of the operation. That being said, I will continue the blog, as numerous people have requested one so that they can keep up to date on my health and goings on. It still feels really weird, though, and I would like to request that someone put some sort of question in the comments that I can answer in the next post. Please also keep in mind that there is a poll at the bottom of the page--because the question kept being chopped off at the top of the page--so feel free to vote on whatever silly question I have.

(This last part should be familiar to those in improv, but I think that I'll start using it here as a kind of catch phrase anyway.) This has been another thrilling adventure in the Austentatious; if you like me, tell your friends; if you hate me, tell your enemies; and if you're completely ambivalent, then tell everyone. May this find you well.

Ep.1: Introduction of Insanity.

To misquote Dr. Seuss, "I know what I said and I said what I meant, an Austin is faithful 100%." I told myself that I was going to start a blog before departing for Japan--a week to be precise. That idea failed miserably. So, I told myself that I was going to start the blog six days before I departed. The life happened--specifically errands galore. But, it is still six days before I leave, and gosh darn it I've started this darn thing and done a post. I might be disorganized at times--I prefer the term slightly absentminded--but when a deadline looms large I will get the job done in advance. In this case advance is about two hours, but that's a tiny detail.

Anyway, let me introduce myself. My name is Austin Schock, and I am currently 22 years old. I was born at exactly 10:00pm on April 15th, 1991, which started my trend of punctuality and the string of complaints that, by the time I eventually die, I'll be lucky to say that I broke even on my birthday. For those of you who don't know, April 15th is tax day in the USA (which kinda sounds like a really bad government jingle). Anyway, in less than six days I will be departing the land of my birth at ungodly:early AM for Japan where I will be teaching English in a small city an hour north of Tokyo proper, and no, I'm not on the road to Viridian City, the place will be closer to Cerulean City. This blog will not, however, be about my experiences working in Japan, because in the Japanese culture the employees are seen as an extension and public face of their workplace. Were I to complain about my place of business on this format, it would be akin to complaining about close familial issues on this very public place--read: very rude and somewhat offensive. Rather, this blog will be my way to express my experiences as an American living abroad. I will be living there at a minimum until September Fourth, 2013, and hope to post at least once a week, if not more often. This week, as I attempt to figure out the format, I hope to post a bit more often to help me practice afore I go, and when I get there--assuming that I'm not too exhausted by customs and travel. I know that one of the posts will detail friends and family that I'm leaving behind, but that must wait until I have enough pictures to do what I want to do. I'm also thinking of starting a video blog, just to try out that format as well...wow, this ending is really rambly. I'm going to need to figure out a better way to end these...anyway, that's it for tonight. I will try to answer all and any questions left on this page. To whomever is reading this, may it find you well, and may this be an exciting adventure for us all.

-Austin Schock, 13/08/2013