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.
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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.
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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.