Hmmm, nice.

Of all the trains I have ever had the pleasure to ride on Japanese trains have to be the worst.

In Wales the train system is pretty shoddy, but generally ride-able. The announcer normally has either a soft lilting valleys voice, or a reassuringly local Cardiff twang. Either way he's as apathetic to the whole train experience as you are, which gives the ride a very comradely feel.

On the London Underground the drivers are unequivocal and pretty much pissed off all the time. And who would blame them? One time I was catching the central line train home to Shepherd's Bush. The train pulled in and came to a strange juddering stop before rolling back a foot or two. Everyone got on, and after sitting on the tracks for five minutes the driver made an announcement on the PA system: "Sorry for the delay ladies and gents, this is due to an idiot who decided to try to throw himself in front of the train. Unfortunately he missed. We're going to have to stay here for a few minutes while we make some checks on the train. You can thank the joker in the third carriage wearing the denim jacket."

In Washington D.C. the drivers really just don't care. They're not annoyed; they're just 'there'. Except for one guy who occasionally drove the Red Line train that I got every morning. Imagine a cross between The Cat from Red Dwarf, Roger Moore, and Smooooth Mike Jazz, now hum "Take The A Train" to yourself. It was like being caressed all the way to work: "Gooood morning llllaydeez and gen'lmen. You are on, The Rrred Liiine, bound, for, Mmmetro Cennner and, Cooooolsville..." Now and then he'd riff depending on the time of day, "Llllaydeez and gen'lmen. Thisss, is Chinatownnnn. If you're goin' t' th' movies I'm afraid you're gonna be late. If you hurry, you might make - the eight peee em showwww...Yournextstop: Ffffunky Town"

It seems though that in Japan, Toyama at least, there are no such niceties. As each train approaches a deafening electronic "hwooooooooooo" will thrum through the station, and your body. When the train does arrive and sits on the platform for ten minutes the driver will squack at you from tiny speakers which have been strategically placed to pierce your soul from every angle. It will take him at least two minutes to convey the pertinent information about the train and where it’s going, so loudly that conversation is impossible. This piercing staccato will repeat every two minutes until you get to your destination. Robin plugs her ears with her fingers, I wince while looking out the window, and we both dream of Smoooth Mike Jazz.

"A maternally crazed gorilla would come in handy at this very moment."

This morning the doorbell interrupted my toilet scrubbing. Not a disaster at all at that point, but when I opened the door my heart sank – she was middle-aged and Japanese and she was carrying the Good News Bible. Jehovah’s Witnesses are not something you’d think to expect in Japan, the land of Shinto and general non-Christianity. But there she was, smiling in all her dental-inglory, willing me to accept the truth and the light. As with most conversations I have with Japanese people I started off on the defensive, as my language skills are shameful.

“Do you know Jehovah?”
Well, not personally.
“Have read the Good News Bible?”
Ah, I’ve certainly read of it.
“Would like to read pamphletto?”
Ah, no sorry, I’m not actually a Christian.

To which she looked rather crestfallen and a little bemused. “Thanks for the offer though, really” I said. And off she went with many sumimasens and gomenasais (excuse me’s and sorries). I wanted to be mean to her. I wanted to be sarcastic and rude, but of course you can't can you? They’re just trying to be nice; they really do want to save you. Besides, she’s traipsing around on a Saturday morning in Toyama (i.e. in the rain), she could do without abuse.
“Get the hell out of my tiny porch way!” I wanted to shout “How dare you patronise me with your arrogance! Do I come to your church and politely ask you to renounce Jesus and all his works? Do I come and bother you at home just to remind you how wrong I think you are?”

Don’t get me wrong here; yes I am an atheist and yes if I’m wrong I’m going to really regret it come the big day. But really, if God has a design, and we were all meant to believe and follow his rules – don’t you think he’d have made sure of that? Doesn’t Free Will get in the way? I don’t believe in conversion, you either have faith or you don’t; it’s not something that can be introduced to you on a doorstep. Also, if He’s all He’s hyped up to be, he’ll give me the benefit of the doubt. A few years ago I might have continued this into a general rant against religion, or more specifically the church, but I’ve come to the realization that it really doesn’t matter what I think in this regard. I’m of the Tyler Durden School, from the eminently quotable ‘Fight Club’:

Tyler: “How’s that working out for you?
“What?”
Tyler: “Being clever”
“Great”
Tyler: “Keep it up then”

Until of course you try to bring it into the courts. Or government. Or school. Then we might have a problem. But I’m not going to get into that.

When you keep a blog, an online diary if you will, you sometimes forget that other people, even people you don’t know, can and do read it. I recently discovered that people as far afield as Quebec, Canada, and Victoria, Australia, have read my blog. I also noticed that more people in the US, than in the UK, and as many people in France as the UK have read it. Which gives me pause – why are more French people reading my blog than my friends and family from home? Ah well, it’s actually quite a thrill to think that Australians are taking time out from their hectic schedule of surfing, drinking, and staging racist protests on beaches to learn of my antics. Which is nice, because sometimes I feel I’m writing to the ether, that really, it is my diary. Then I remember that people I know have mentioned stuff I wrote. People do read it, and this really came home to me with a thunk this past week in an email from an old friend whom I have not seen since the bad old days when I worked for ‘the man’:


“Well Geoffrey, you may be surprised to receive two emails from me in such quick succession but it would be remiss of me not to rebuke you for your clear betrayal of a friendship forged as it were from the despair of having a crap job and no-one better to talk to. I am, or course referring to your blog, for in your recent reply to my heartfelt congratulations you provided me with the URL to said blog. As I have recently started one myself (still very much a work in progress) I thought I would take a look at the work of a fellow (more experienced) blogger. Yours is indeed a blog of the highest quality and I congratulate you - I will now be a regular visitor. However, as I do when I visit all blogs, I decided to refer to your debut entry, to see how it all began as it were, and what should I find? Well I have taken the liberty of copying and pasting the offending passage below:

"I used to get regular updates like this (although these probably won't be regular - I can be tardy, as most of you will know) from a friend who is doing a degree in Paris, they would be so long and interminably dull that I'd rarely get through a whole one without wandering off in search of, well, anything else"

I am hurt, dear boy, and currently straining to hold back the tears. I can think of only one suitable punishment and that is that on no account shall you ever be removed from my mailing list, so be prepared to receive updates on my amazingly fascinating existence until the end of time!
On a lighter note, I notice that you are teaching English in Japan. (Previous updates form your good self have suggested this may be the case but I appear only to be on your mailing list from time to time and was therefore not entirely sure) As this is something I am considering doing as of the end of my degree I was wondering if you would recommend it? I'd imagine your blog probably will tell me all I need to know but I can't be bothered to sift through all of it."

Stinging. Witty. Pithy. Certainly pissy.

I am tempted to start a feud – a literary punch-up in the style of Martin Amis and Julian Barnes, or Tom Wolfe and, well, everybody else – but of course my Parisian friend is right. And I heartily apologise. Also, I'm no Martin Amis. 'Shame.

Vive la mort, vive la guerre!

Today was the winter sports day for the 1st and 2nd grades at my school. Japan is very much at one with the ‘gender role’ and so on this day the sports were Judo and Kendo for the boys and dancing for the girls. The girls were up first; the warm up act for the bamboo-wielding, people-hurling boys. They put on a nice whimsical show, some cutesy jazz-hands and cartoonish dancing to Disney songs. Though i did enjoy class 22H's pretty funny ‘Chicago’ number.

And onto the boys who, after all, were the top billing.

These boys – so quiet, so unwilling to display any enthusiasm in class for fear of ridicule - quite willingly threw themselves into the whirling slashes of each others bamboo swords. My perception of them from class totally changed: no longer will I consider them the entertaining distractions to teaching I once did, for beneath those aloof exteriors lies the samurai lust for violence that Japan seems to keep so well hidden. The boys, whom I thought to be sensitive clowns, turn out to be capable of the most blood-curdling screams of violent intent. As they skipped around the gym floor, part scorpion, part rearing stallion, and thunderously stomped their feet to deliver crack after shattering crack upon their opponents heads, arms and shoulders, I felt intimidated and ashamed. Wrapped up warm in jumpers and coats, travel mug of coffee and digital camera in hand, I stood – a mere teacher of English to these ferocious Asian gladiators.

The stickiest situation since Sticky the Stick Insect got stuck on a sticky bun

Every Thursday morning I have a battle of wits on the bus. Yes, Thursday mornings are when I go to my special school. And yes, I have a battle of wits with a mentally disabled person. This is not particularly fair you may say, but it is harder than you think. The fare for the bus ride must be paid at the end of the journey, rather than the beginning, and there is always a queue of excitable peopele scrambling for change. Most of the people on the bus are attending appointments or classes at the special hospital so it all takes some time, and I like to sit and wait, rather than rush to the front and spill all my money on the floor and then be totally unable to actually count when I do get to the machine. Which has happened. There is one girl however who also likes to sit and wait and get off last – and every week this severely handicapped girl and I have a 'wait-off'. Normally I am the one to crack first – after all, have you ever tried to stare down and impose your will on a vulnerable person? It’s impossible (unless of course you are Ming the Merciless), and every time I have to stop myself from doing it “Geoffrey Davies!” I say to myself (always the full name when in trouble – a habit picked up from mothers) “what do you think you’re doing? Let the poor girl go last if she wants to, for shame Geoffrey, for shame...”
(Reading this makes me think that maybe I actually belong on the ‘special bus'.)
Recently however this girl has not been joining in, she’s been leaving her game at home and scrambling to get off with the rest of them – in short, I win. Ha!

This special school, - it garners a lot of blog material you think? A blogging friend of mine (who for now shall remain nameless as others have resentfully commented how often he, or - er - she, has been mentioned in this blog) and I had a discussion about how once you start writing a blog suddenly everything else becomes material for it. This came from an argument we had a few minutes before. We were talking about the previous night when we had exactly the same thought at exactly the same time: what excellent blogging material! Then we argued about who had dibs on it. The argument was not won by either of us, so, like Mussolini in the Aventine secession, I am seizing victory:

Last Saturday night Brad and I went out for a curry before meeting up with some other JETs at the Pot Still - the local pub-themed pub (has a pool table, darts, and sells Guinness, Bass and Heineken, all at extortionate prices). As often happens so soon after pay day Santoshi was full of other JETs and, well, to cut a long story short, Brad and I and the English crew – Jake, Emily, and Emily – ended up out on the town.

We also picked up a Singaporean and Dutchman at the Pot Still, both of who work in oil and were in Toyama on business and had spent the last few days in their hotel bars wishing they’d met up with us sooner. The Singaporean, Vejay, was such a big fan of Liverpool FC that he’d had the badge and “You’ll Never Walk Alone” tattooed on his entire back. He was awfully flush with his money, buying bottles of vodka and flashing his Rolex everywhere. But he was a fun sort of guy that you want to have around when trying to have fun. He was a total letch though. After showing us photos of his beautiful wife and kids back in Singapore he then started to describe his sexual adventures whilst travelling the world on business. The Dutch guy, Raimi from Rotterdam, was quiet, but in an engaging European kind of way.

At 1am we were trawling around Toyama looking for a decent nightspot, and eventually decided on the red light district. Among the various clubs, and signs listing ‘massages’ by the hour, we came across a bar we know called ‘Penny Blacks’, or as the JET community calls it, The Russian Bar. Its main clientele, obviously, is Russian, so it’s a little shady. However, any bar that only serves beers in multiples of three can’t be that bad, can it? Well apparently it can. After a few beers Emily wanted to dance so we went to the floor (about three inches away, it was that kind of place). Three grunty-looking Russian guys were on the dance floor, not dancing – just standing there, among the crazy Japanese girls. “You, Russian!” shouted one at me as I tried to dance, very badly. “Uh, no, British!” I called back, and resumed my 'dancing'. “No, Russian! You Russian, you dance with us!” and he pulled me over to them by my hand. Okaaaay, thought I as he kept hold of my hand. I looked for escape routes while Emily looked on, slightly perturbed. "Oh, Emily, look – over there!" I made exagerated motions of waving at somebody at the bar, said lovely talking to you to the Russians, and made our escape. Several minutes later we judged it safe to go back to our table. On the way one the Russians, rather sulkily, put a stool in my way. I walked round it and back to the table. Whilst standing next to the table another of the Russians danced into the back of me and then, as I turned to apologise, offered me out. Then the Singaporean dude said he used to box in the navy and offered to hit him for me. And then it was time to leave.

The next morning I felt like a Frenchman had moved into my head and was trashing the place with his drunken arty friends.

Happy as a Frenchman who's invented a pair of self-removing trousers.

The other day Max, Brad and I were at the Toyama Golden Bowl discussing that most important issue of our time: why we never got to bowl the much-lauded "Golden Bowl", that ball reserved for the great and good, and ceremonially handed out every so often to those of note to try and score one strike in front of their peers. We’ve seen it handed out a few times, each time to be totally fluffed by those bowling it. Give it to us we cry! Are we not most faithful and high-rolling customers? We also noticed that day that everyone apart from us had a special fruit machine effect happen on their screens, a kind of fruit lottery. We watched it happen all around the alley, yet totally miss us.

We decided it is a race thing – they wont give us the “Golden Bowl” because we’re not Japanese, perhaps we’ll try to attack them with it? (Maybe they think we’re Russian?) This led, as it invariably does, onto our positions as foreigners in Japan and our treatment by Japanese “Maybe this is what it’s like to be black” suggested Max. Then I scored a strike, and the fruit machine effect happened to us.

We are constantly, it seems, thinking in racial terms. We instantly assumed it was because we were foreign that we didn’t get the special fruit machine treatment. Obviously it was based on your scoring ability. We still think they’re not going to give us the golden bowl treatment though.

Stange Things are afoot at the Circle K

Everyday a funny little man in a pale blue turquoise tracksuit comes into the staffroom and hands out a small pot of yogurt to select teachers from a transparent plastic box strapped to his chest. He has come in everyday for months, leaving his little gifts. After months of wonder (and sneaking suspicion as to why I am always left out) I asked my head of department what was going on. Apparently, the teachers have ordered these little yogurts, as little snacks if you will. I can understand this as I bring a yogurt to work in my lunch most days. They can be very handy little fillers. But, I asked my Japanese colleague, why the man? Why the silly plastic contraption? Why order-in an easy, and readily available, dairy snack everyday? I was slightly perturbed by the idea that there is a company devoted exclusively to delivering individual yogurts to people all over Japan. Who thought of that niche market?

- So, Mr Bank-manager, my idea is to deliver one little yogurt to all teachers in the land. Imagine! Tiny yogurt joy! All I need is a start up loan...
- [Bzzzz] Joyce, call security

The Fundamental Wrongitude

It occurred to me this week, while I was explaining why you cannot say "another example" before "for example...", that most of them just do not understand. It was a revelation - I'd been fooling myself for the last five months that I was actually teaching them something. My main clue was when I asked the teacher to explain in Japanese what I had just said, to make sure they got it. She said no, it was ok, they understood. Which was a Big Fat Lie. Even the teachers don't care.

In the homework I set them every week they make the same mistakes over and over again, regardless of how many times I teach them the correct way. For one assignment I had them write an argument. While introducing the homework I explained to them all for ten minutes why you should not, at least at their level, begin sentences with And, But or Because. I even wrote the guidelines on the homework, in very simple easy English. In fact, it was the basis of the homework. I even offered them them extra marks if they did it correctly (and most of them really need those extra marks). Of the 210 students I teach maybe four got the extra marks.

They'll spell a word wrong, even though that word is in the essay question, 0.5 centimetres above where they are writing. Then they'll spell it wrong again, but in a different way - IN THE SAME LINE!

At my special school this week the dude in charge of the elementary kids devised a shop game involving cards with different items written on each that the kids had to buy and sell (3oo dollars for an apple, I ask you!). Most of the products were, of course, wrong - the 'Meet Shop' sold hamberg, and the 'Drugstor' sold eye lotion. The dialogue he had prepared for them, however, was even worse

A: Are there [bandage]?
B: Yes there are
A: How much money?
B: X dollar

This was the format, regardless of the singular or plural nature of the product being bought. "Are there hamberg?" No, there are most surely not. After ten minutes of me correcting his spelling he was so disheartened that I spent the next 20 minutes teaching his total wrongness to poor retarded children.

Now. You're looking at now, sir. Everything that happens now is happening now.

There is little in this life more wonderful than a 100yen tie. In Japan there are hyakuen (100yen) shops everywhere. They are the equivalent of your local pound stretcher, or dollar store. They sell literally everything. Need coffee filters? 100yen. Need an umbrella? Stationary? Underwear? Bike accessories? Fuses? Instantnoodlesgardenwareslipperskitchencleanertoolstoystapes-
thingsemblazonedwithBritishorAmericanflags? Everything. It doesn’t seem to have the stigma attached to pound stretcher or dollar stores either – it’s mostly quality stuff too (apart from the shelf brackets – dont get them they’re rubbish). The crockery is Sainsbury’s or Kohl’s quality but at low low prices. Almost everything is 100yen (well actually, 105yen), so much so that the few items that are more are pointed out to you at the till: “This 30 piece tool set is 200yen – is that ok? And this twelve shelf mahogany corner unit, you do know it’s 300 yen, yes?” The great irony of course is that everything has ‘Made in China’ stamped all over it.

In class today we had a quiz – a map with arrows etc pointing at various Asian countries and the kids had to shout out in English what each was. We got to China and the teacher said “well, I don’t need to tell you what this one is” and quickly moved on. Also, they frowned slightly when I answered their “what did you eat in America” question with “Chinese food, I’ve really missed it.” And it gots me t’ thinkin’. They really don’t like China here. Understandable of course, but they do go on about their unique Japanese culture, most of which came from China (tea, sushi, miso soup) and their unique seasons (apparently Japan is the only country that has four seasons).

Before Christmas I was asked by the librarian to write something for the library 'newsletter' (a 50 page glossy magazine) that they’re giving out at graduation. She showed me my predecessors effort and told me to follow that. So for your edification:

(Bear in mind that it’s written for a parent/student audience. Also, you may have read some of this before in a different form...coughcough)


An Occidental Oriental
Geoff Davies

Introduction
I have been in Japan for nearly six months now. So far the most notable thing about me is how tall I am. Almost all of the students at Kureha High School have asked me how tall I am, and all of them have been amazed at my answer of 190cm. Where I come from many of my friends are the same height. In fact, many people are over 185cm. So, where do I come from, The Land of the Giants? No, I am from Wales, a small country that is part of the United Kingdom. The UK is the home of soccer, rugby, cricket, and parliamentary democracy.

Adaptation
It has been a strange experience, getting used to life in Japan. When I first arrived I was highly intimidated by how much my predecessor here, a Canadian girl called Mariette, seemed to know. I thought I would never know as much or be able to find my way around as well as her. Over time however I started to figure things out, I learned what I needed to know and how to do things like pay bills, work the ATM, go shopping, and a few essential Japanese phrases. Eventually things didn’t seem quite as daunting as they did when I first got here.



Bowling in Toyama






However much you might get used to life in Japan there are things that will always stand out for a foreigner: vending machines everywhere; individually wrapped everything (fruit, candy, cookies); people saying ‘sumimasen’ or ‘gomenasai’ all the time; queuing in strict lines for train doors; strange foods often uncooked; students wearing blankets in class but wearing just a thin jacket outside in the snow; loudspeakers blaring music in the street; people yelling into megaphones in shops, malls and the bowling alley.

As I was stumbling through the snow out of the train station the other day I found that I had lost my train ticket. I did not notice it before because I was so wrapped up in coats, gloves, and scarves to battle the cold. I stopped and looked around me, almost instantly a ninensei student from my school skipped up to me with my ticket in her hand. This is the thing with being a foreigner in a small city like Toyama – almost everybody knows who you are and what you’re doing. From the teacher who sees you holding your girlfriend’s hand in the street, to the student who sees you shopping for groceries, to the neighbours who see you in town with your friends on a Saturday night. I do it too – I notice foreigners all the time in Toyama, I can’t help it because they stand out so much. Some foreigners find it annoying that everybody knows them, however other foreigners find it comforting.

A facet of Japanese life that is a constant amazement to me is the ability and energy of the school children. When I get to my school in the morning, at around 8.15am, there are always many students already there, practising their musical instruments or studying. When I leave in the afternoon the students, who have had seven lessons already, are getting ready for their after-school club activities, usually sports, music, or academic clubs. When they get home from school around 6 or 7pm they might then go to a cram school or study at home until as late as 11pm. This workload would never be tolerated in the UK, but the pressure in Japan to get into good schools and universities means that many students have to work extremely hard.
I have travelled a little in Japan so far, I would like to travel more but it can be difficult finding the time. So far I have visited Tokyo, Kyoto, camping and the onsen in Toga, the gassho Houses in Gokayama, Kanzawa, Shimao beach, and Shiminato. I have also climbed Tateyama and Mount Fuji. Of all the places I have been my favourite by far was climbing Fuji in the dark. It took most of a day by bus to get there and in order to see the sun rise at the top of the mountain we had to start climbing at night. We finally reached the summit at 3am - I have never been so cold, hungry, and tired, or so happy to pay 500 yen for a small can of hot green tea.

While I’m in Japan I plan to travel more – to see Osaka, Hiroshima, Okinawa and the Sapporo Snow Festival. While I am in Asia I also hope to visit some of the other countries around Japan such as Thailand, Vietnam, South Korea and Russia.



Visiting Kanazawa
Anecdote
Unfortunately my anecdote is a prime example of how easy it is to misunderstand and be misunderstood in a foreign country. It also demonstrates the importance of being able to read Japanese train signs.

It was very late on a Saturday night and I was at the train station heading home from visiting some friends. I was a little out of sorts and very tired because I had been up late the night before as well and it was very cold. I trudged up the stairs and down the stairs to the platform and got on the train and buried my face into my coat collar. After about five minutes I realised the train was totally empty, but I didn’t think it was strange because it was very late and the train station wasn’t very busy. All the train doors closed. Then all the lights went out.

I became very concerned, in the dark and all alone. When the engine started, I realised I’d got on the wrong train, that this train was finished for the night and that I was about to spend the night in the railway yard! I got up and tried the doors, but they were all locked. Then I ran from one end of the train to the other. Suddenly a man in uniform saw me and wildly motioned me to get off the train. I didn’t know what to do, because I didn’t know how to get off the train while all the doors were locked. After a minute the man walked down to me, talking rapidly in Japanese, and took me by the arm. Suddenly I remembered that the Japanese signal for ‘come here’ is the same as the western signal for ‘go away’ and I was very embarrassed. He pushed me out of a tiny door in the driver’s cabin and I was finally off the train.



Camping in Toga 　

Its been a while as they say, the reason for this of course being Christmas – ah Christmas. It really becomes apparent to you that you might really have left home when you spend more than one Christmas in succession away. Despite the disapprobation of my family I chose to spend the hols in the US this year. It seems it is twice as expensive to travel to the UK than it is the US from Japan; it makes sense geographically when you think about it. It is, however, about two days worth of travel. Jet lag meant that for most of the hols we were knackered by 6pm, in bed by 9pm and up and about at 3am. We spent Christmas and New Years Eve trying desperately to stay awake. By the time we had readjusted it was time to come back. I am nodding off as I write this (though that might be because this is a tad dull no?).

So, Christmas with the Burfields was a laugh-riot; Larry and Sharon are some of the nicest and welcomest people I know (though of course I know they’re reading this, so I’m bound to say that. Incidentally I learned over the break that quite a few unexpected people read this blog. I was much surprised on shaking one of Robin’s relatives’ hands to hear “Great to see you Geoff, say, I laughed my ass off over that clap your hand song!” Several of Sharon’s co-workers apparently also find a strange comfort in my ramblings. I’m trying awfully not to get stage fright). A Burfield Christmas is much the same as at my house – lots of sitting down, snacking, drinking, generally relaxing, punctuated by family meals (Sharon’s chilli – mmm chillllliiiiiii) and board games. It’s also reassuringly western. I say this in contrast to Japan of course. It was great being back in a land where I didn’t spend every single morning in pain after smacking my head on my own doorway; where I didn’t have to bend way over to do anything that involved sinks; where I could wander to the shops and ask about products; where I could work out by reading whether this sauce or soup is infested with some fish-related affront; where I could buy clothes and shoes that fit me; or, if I were so inclined, make idle chit-chat with the natives.

We spent the ten days in Columbus trying to get in as many of the things we couldn’t do in Japan – we saw ten movies at the cinema, we went out for pizza, giros, Red Lobster, decent coffee, we slept two feet off the floor. We got haircuts (you can of course get your hair cut in Japan but you really wouldn’t want to). Robin went to the dentist (you do not want to do that in Japan); I drank more decent beer than is good for me. We spent a few days in Washington DC, where we met up with some friends, saw museums, and I got to go back to the funnest place in toyland, the Hawk n Dove pub.

We also spent a day or so in Tokyo seeing my friend James and his lovely fiancée Hiromi. James, the kind of man who can use the word ‘Byzantine’ properly and quite easily in conversation, was in fine form

06-01-08_03-35.jpg
Originally uploaded by pedroalhambra.

It was just like old days, but without the drunken violence.

The first day or so back in Toyama was taken up by general unpacking and grocery shopping, and in a general sense of foreboding at the coming first day back in work. Being back in Japan has pretty much cemented our opinions against staying a second year. It took not long for work to get back to the constant effort it is, except for the entertaining opening ceremony: the Principal gave a stirring speech on the perils of influenza, with colourful ‘virus’ props. It would have been more effective I think had the speech not taken place in the gym, where the students stood in only their school blazers in temperatures below zero. I muffled a cry of disbelief as a student interrupted the venerable principal halfway through his speech by collapsing from a fever and having to be dragged away by some teachers. Somehow the word ‘ironic’ just doesn’t do it. Here’s an idea to ‘the man’: illness should not something to be endured in school; neither should temperatures of -3 degrees C.

Robin, the other day, showed me once more the ways she is generally cleverer than me. We were discussing church weddings. “Church to me” said my esteemed partner “is just architecture, I’d really rather just admire the buttresses…”

Though we differ in our beliefs in the divine (some versus none) we’re both generally uncomfortable with the establishment of religion – churches. I, particularly, am uncomfortable with the trappings of religious ceremonies when you’re not religious – christenings, weddings etc. People want the white wedding in the lovely country church, but really, when was the last time they went to church, other than for the banns and the rehearsal? The ‘faith’ community can be of great benefit to society, despite their sometimes-divisive beliefs, but it is a sad and hypocritical reflection of society for their great edifices to be reduced to merely ‘pretty places’ to get hitched in.