Everything in more confusing in Japanese.  When I try to use appliances,  I cannot read the buttons so I usually just try to mash everything and hope something kicks on, it's quite comical. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesnt. I feel like Eddie in Absolutely Fabulous when she dials the phone. She just pounds it with her hand without looking at any of the numbers, it gets me every time. Cooking, for instance is much less clear in Japanese. Ingredients, measurements and directions are left to my imagination.  Speaking of cooking, my kitchen might as well be a kitchen in a hotel suite. Small fridge, even smaller stove top with tiny (although deep) sink directly next to it so that if I’m washing dishes while cooking something on the stove I am more than likely to splash suds into the pan. Oh well, I stopped being a picky eater long ago. Anyone who knows me will probably tell you I’ll eat just about anything. Jenny always likes to tell me I’m, “a snackin’ ass bitch.” It’s true what they said when I was a kid, I am a good eater. The other night I tried horse sashimi. That's right, the former vegetarian and pony lover ate horse meat, raw! It wasn’t bad really. I did it mostly for the shock value and to be able to brag about it here but also for the cultural experience. Andrew, the other American teacher and Yuji, the Japanese teacher and I went out last Saturday after work to celebrate the completion of the week. Yuji is my guide, mostly, to all things Japanese and when he said he liked it, I said, I’ll try it. I said, "I want to eat what you like to eat." This is my philosophy, to do as the natives do. “When in Rome”....precisely. So its as easy as that, plus to be picky and finicky I suspect may be annoying or even offensive and you'll only end up unsatisfied. 

Years ago when my friends Kelly, Michelle and I traveled across the U.S. in my old beat up Toyota van, recklessly almost, me with no auto insurance, Michelle with very little cash and Kelly with no driver’s license (really just more irresponsible than reckless but man did we have fun!) we stopped over night in Phoenix to visit Michelle’s Mexican relatives. They couldn't have been more hospitable or made more of an impression on me. To this day I think about them and their beautiful Mexican American home, Tio Dedo y Tia Lula. I was so impressed by the manifestation of the American dream, the votive of Guadeloupe that burned continuously and the secrecy and discrepancy of their families legitimacy as American citizens (Tio, it turned out had two names and two birthdays). There was a twenty something cousin, Pearla that lived with them. She was a Chula in all the glory of the word. Lipliner, eyebrows, and eyeliner all tattooed on.  Short and plump with hair bleached in streaks. I was beside myself to meet her. I thought she was amazing. She wanted to take us out that night, on the town and show us around. By all means. This was the point of this trip really, to see the country and enjoy local color. Really this should be the point of any trip. Michelle who is half white (Irish, I think) and half Mexican and beautiful might I add, was hesitant. This was the first time she had ever met her cousin. Pearla at first wanted to take us to the “safe” places, I think, places she “thought” we would like. These are actually the kind of places we could go to any day and more so kind of hate going to. I kept telling her, Pearla take us to the places you go. I want to go where you go. She seemed reluctant. So did Michelle. Kelly pretty much goes along with me. So after pulling up her little beat down Ford 4-door to several ranchero bars that Michelle acted bent out of shape about going into, I said, this is it. This is where we are going. This is where Pearla goes, so this is where we should go. It was this little out of the way salsa y meringue bar next to a bucher’s shop called ‘Meat Market.’ "Here we go," I thought but this is it, this is what I asked for. "Keep your wits about you and enjoy," I told myself. I’m always telling myself shit like this. It was one of the most amazing nights of my life. We danced, drank tequila and made friends with everyone in there and the next morning we rolled on to San Diego through the cruelest desert heat, a little hungover with Jack Daniels temporary tattoos on our arms eating popsicles and signing at the tops of our lungs the whole way. Pearla seemed nervous at first, it was an all Mexican bar but soon she relaxed and man did we have fun. Again we had that language barrier that I am dealing with in Japan but there is something I call the 'language that eyes speak' and that was all we really needed. Not in a sexy way but in a 'we are harmless and respect you way.' I remember thinking how funny the language issue was and how little it seemed to matter until the end of the night when all vaqueros were acting as if they didn't understand, "no" as a reply to their ask for a date. Of course, "no" is the same in Spanish. Really they were harmless and respectful if only a little persistant. I would probably never have even been able to find a place like that without a local or necessarily even been welcome, so Pearla was our golden ticket. We got invited to after hours at the bartenders apartment which was much more tame than I could have imagined. Very little furniture, boarding Mexicans sleeping, fully clothed, boots and hats and all, all over the floor, some in pairs, and Gabriella’s (the bartender) infant son asleep on the bed under the watchful eye of the television and her nine year old younger brother...or maybe that was her son too.  I had this feeling that these were my people, I just felt so much affection for them. I kept telling Kelly that and she would laugh at me but I think she believed me. 

On the reservation in Oklahoma, it was a whisper as I turned my head to Kel, “These are my people.” 

In Phoenix, at the ranchero bar and later in Gabriella’s apartment on the balcony, “These are my people.” 

In Harlem, in New York at the market on 125th St.,  late night buying beer when the woman in line behind me asked, “Excuse me, are these all purpose potatoes?” to myself, stalled as my friends were out the door already shouting to me to hurry up, “These are my people.”  

In Ecuador, in the mountains listening to ghost stories and local legends about ‘El Diablo’ it was a look in Justin’s direction and a confirmation later. “I know babe,” he said, “These are your people.” 

I don’t have this feeling (yet) about the Japanese people. Nor do I suspect it will come. I’m not saying this is a bad thing or even that it was something I am looking for or require. I suspected as much really even before I left. I joked before I left that I don’t even like Asians. Gawd, I kid, I kid!  This is my mere observation. Not that I don’t think this culture is beautiful and fascinating with lots to offer, I just don’t have this same feeling of affection or maybe its infatuation or sympathy. Though to say 'sympathy' sounds like I pity those people and that's not what I want to express at all.  I don’t know. 

Though to be fair what the Japanese people lack in my adoration or infatuation or whatever it is that I am drawn to in certain cultures, they make up for in a safe environment  that has honest and kind people who I can trust and are willing to help me every step of the way in any way they can. I know enough to know that I couldn't exactly say this about most cultures, sadly not even my own.  Also let me just say, that I have met some really wonderful and fascinating people so far. I think perhaps that it is the Japanese style to revel yourself slowly and little by little and people that I have so far overlooked or underestimated occasionally surprise me with depth I wouldn't have imagined. 

This entry feels kind of full of shit....for the record, I dislike this entry. 

All I know is that I don’t know anything. Blah! 

 

It hasn’t stopped raining all weekend and everything in my apartment is hot and sticky, after a through cleaning I am left feeling hotter and stickier than ever. My hair is trifling. The words hot mess come to mind.

I didn’t do much this weekend because of the rain, also because I am short on cash, payday is Thursday. Rode my bike when the rain let up and read lots. Reading three books currently and they all belong to different times of the day. Obama’s, Dreams From My Father in the morning after breakfast and usually before work when I am sharp and focused, the book is beautiful and I couldn't put it down until I acquired the next: Will Ferguson’s, Hitching Rides With Buddha (I just started this one, the German lent it to me, have I mentioned the German?) it's about an English teacher who hitchhikes his way across Japan, north to south, following the cherry blossoms. I read this one most of the day here and there when I get a chance. And finally, the short stories of O. Henry at night before bed. 

I am not drinking, one because of the money and two because it seems pointless here. Wait, is there ever a point? My head hurts due to the pressure in the air and my new fake elbow apparently kills in the rain. Also, I am bored with beer and sobriety is my new diet strategy.  

On a more positive note, I read up on Shinto shrine ritual and visited a shrine today. I rang the bell to get the gods' attention, said my prayer then clapped twice to let the gods know I was finished and then slowly backed away (in the rain) so as to not turn my back on the gods. I guess this really pisses them off and if there's one thing I don't want to do in Japan... 

I prayed for a certain unborn child I know. And it's not mine or my sisters so everyone can just relax.