Leaving the hotel
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The next day, we were supposed to meet our supervisors at the hotel and then go to our schools to meet the rest of the staff and begin the settling process, which I found is a very, very long process. In fact, by the time I’m settled, I should be ready to leave. So the meeting room in the hotel is all set up, air conditioned and a Japanese dude is running around giving all the ALTs glasses of water. There are seating charts, so the supervisors will not have to waste time going to meet the wrong ALT. We all sit facing forward, away from the doorway. It feels like I’m playing a game of hide-and-seek or something, where I’m waiting for someone to come around from behind to meet me. This next part is fitting for me, if you are aware of my habits concerning punctuality. Everyone’s supervisors begin to arrive and the meeting starts at 9:30, and everyone’s supervisors have come except mine. The director of Osaka prefecture, who had dinner with us last night, rattling on and on in Japanese, occasionally saying something in English, but almost exclusively in Japanese. So I didn’t know what the hell was going on.

I had been really nervous about meeting my supervisors, so I was practicing my polite Japanese phrases that you use to introduce yourself. I had even attended an hour long session on business manners at Tokyo orientation. It’s complex to explain, but there’s a lot of bowing. So about 25 minutes into the meeting, this young, attractive Japanese woman—hair still wet from the shower—comes in and offers me a weak handshake. “I am T, pleased to meet you,” she said, and sat down. I said, “Hajimemashite,” (A fancy hello), and skipped the rest of the routine. Immediately, she pretended I wasn’t there and began reviewing some of the papers set on our table. I think she was embarrassed, as punctuality is a huge thing in Japan. Soon after her, Hg-Sensei arrived, a man I had had email correspondence with prior to coming. I later said my, “Doozo yoroshiku onegaishimasu,” which is Japan talk for “you are awesome, I suck” or “you are very good looking, I am not attractive.” You get the idea.

They had thought the meeting started at ten, so they were very sorry for being late. I did my best to be polite and was very scared of offending them. I’m always very self-conscious about my manners, since my father has helped me realize how rude and ungraceful my social discourse is. That’s one thing that’s unique about me: I hate manners. I was excited to see that Shakespeare agrees with me: “The prince of darkness is a gentleman,” (Twylfth Night). If I ever act sloppy around someone, it is intended as a complement—it means I trust them and my way of showing my honesty. Usually, if someone is offended by my relaxed manner, they’re not someone I want as a friend. I didn’t think that the Japanese would jive with this, but later, I discovered I was wrong.
Hg-Sensei asked me if it would be all right if we stopped for coffee. The Japanese are big fans of iced coffee, “aeesu cohee.” He also asked if he could smoke, and I of course said I didn’t mind at all. T-sensei avoided making eye contact with me and sat up straight in her chair, apparently taking interest in the floor and the table. Her cheekbones were out of control. She must have drinken plenty of milk growing up. Hg sensei sat back in his chair and tried to blow the smoke out of the way. He spoke very relaxed English, with a mild accent. He reminded me of my Uncle Jim—never in a hurry and seeming to enjoy everything he was doing, as though he were forever sitting in a Jacuzzi.

I bought my first train ticket with them, which wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be. At the train station, one of the mechanics was fixing the ticket machine that you use to enter the station and it looked like a Rube Goldberg experiment inside—pullys, wheels and all sorts of gizmos. All that just to eat your ticket and spit it out on the other side. I think I impressed them with my manner, and even got a few chuckles out of them. They seemed to be very easily amused. The key was not to try to hard. My only flop was trying to describe a Saturday Night Live skit where Will Ferrel walks in wearing a Speedo with the U.S. flag on it.

Walking from the train station to the school was maybe a ten minute walk, but it was hot as hell and humid too, and I was wearing my backpack, so my pit stains had wrapped all the way around my shoulders, and there were blotches of sweat on my pants too. I was wearing a long-sleeve shirt and tie with slacks to make a good impression, but I was only impressing them with my sweating ability, so I gave in and rolled up my sleeves. I was dripping sweat off my nose despite my efforts to wipe my face dry.

I dropped my bags in a room by the main office, where my other two bags had safely arrived. Whew. Then we met the rest of the office, and I said my fancy Japanese phrases to all 8 of them. I also met H-Sensei, who I would be staying with until I found an apartment. He had initially wanted me to move in with him. He actually had built a new addition to the top of his house with a separate entrance that was recently finished, which was to be for the new ALT, as my predecessor told me, and also warned me not to take him up on the offer. He lowered the rent significantly, compared to other apartments, but she said he would try to live my life for me if I did. I told my prefectural advisor, Mr. K, who acts as a sort of go-between with the prefecture board and also as a kind of hold-my-hand guy for the other ALTs. I found out that he gets no additional income for doing this, and he’s a really nice guy in addition to being the only black, English guy I’ve ever met. So he advised me to lie about having an American girlfriend that was going to visit me very soon, and that I also wanted my privacy, and I did. Later.

All but one of the 8 English teachers went out to eat with us to a really nice and what I found out was a very expensive Japanese style restaurant. I rode with Y-Sensei, who is a really nice guy. He’s about 5 feet tall and speaks English like a game show host who’s flexing his stomach. He puts on a station with American rap in the car. I love this guy. He’s the only guy 40 plus that cranks the beats.

At the restaurant, we slip our shoes off and sit in our own separate room. Y pulls me aside and explains the Japanese garden in the middle of the restaurant to me. “You, see, it has trees and, ah, stepping stone? Do I make myself clear? Stepping stone?” “Yes, stepping stone?” “Ah. And, the arrangement is…ah…creative.” “Artistic?” “Yes, yes, that is the word. Artistic.” “With those trees, it must take many years to make the garden,” (I have to speak slowly and very clearly, which is very unnatural for me, and I also filter out large words and idioms). We go back inside and he tells me about a garden in Kyoto that’s made entirely of stone. I don’t quite know what he means.

The table we sit around is low to the ground, but there floor beneath it is cut away so that if you don’t want to sit Japanese style—crosslegged—you can drop your legs in. About half the people sit like me. In the center of the table, there are round grills. Y-Sensei recommends some things to me, and I don’t really know what they are. I know I’m getting some kind of beef and a vegetable dish, which turns out to have a raw egg on top when I’m served. I observe table manners, and I remember that you can’t stick you’re chopsticks in the food because that’s what is done with rice at funeral ceremonies. I look around and see people set them across bowls or with the tips up on the chopstick stand provided.

I entertain the guests with lame stories about America. I explain that we have a similar grill that we use when we have barbecues. Y-sensei asks, “Ah, so you do the barbecue on a…on a deck?” “Yes,” I deftly reply, and everyone gasps, impressed with my vast, expansive knowledge of American culture. Whenever I speak up, which is rare, the entire table stops their conversations and hang on every word I say. It’s a bit disconcerting, but I use my public speaking skills to slow down and make eye contact with everyone. One strange thing, is that there are frequent gaps in conversations, and everyone will sit in silence, staring at a spot on the table, waiting for someone to say something. If that happens in America, someone will almost immediately say something, make a joke about the silence, or make a stretching noise or something to avoid the dreaded silence. I like that they’re comfortable with the silence.

The food is amazing. The best beef I’ve ever gotten. The vegetable dish has a more discreet flavor, but also good. When we’re finished, I hear them discussing the bill, and, although my Japanese is shaky, I think I heard 12 man en, which is about $1200 dollars. Yikes. What a welcome meal.

At the end of the meal, T-sensei said they had gone in on a gift for me—a hanko, which is a stamp the Japanese use in place of a signature. You don’t want to loose your hanko. Usually, foreigners get their name in katakana, the phonetic alphabet for incorporating foreign words, but they had gotten me an actual kanji hanko. I later told other ALTs this, and they told me that was very rare to get. The first character, “bu” means warrior or samurai, Y-sensei explained. “This character is, ‘rai,’ which means ‘to come.’ So it means, ‘a warrior is coming!’” This got a laugh from everyone, and another when I told them that I am a descendant of the Vikings.

Back at the office, H-sensei has some lessons and texts that he has me look over. Another English teacher that I don’t know comes in and apologizes for missing my dinner. I notice several mistakes on H-sensei’s lesson, but I don’t mention them, since I was warned by my predecessor that he’s pretty arrogant about his English ability. I smile and say it’s very good. I get the feeling that that’s half of my job—saying, “Very good.”

Later, Y-sensei and T-sensei show me around the school. I feel a bit awkward walking because Y-sensei leads me and T-sensei seems to insist on following behind me. I?m used to walking next to people, so I try to wait up for T-sensei or to let her go before me in doorways, but this turns out to be awkward. Y-sensei excitedly approaches any group of students he can find, and explains that I am the new ALT in English. Then he asks me to introduce myself. I slow way down, and speak loudly and clearly to the point where it feels like I?m singing a Broadway musical in slow motion. We approach several groups of students and make our way to the gym, where girls are playing badminton and boys are playing some intense volleyball. This is the biggest group I?ve spoken to yet. ?Heeeelllloooo! My na?? I?m cut off by students trying to answer, ?Hello.? So I repeat it, and gesture for them to answer with a deafening, ?HELLO!? I introduce myself and then Y-sensei approaches a student and says, ?I know you have many questions for Mr. Bly. Please, ask him a question.?

There is always a long pause after he asks them to ask me a question. It feels awkward to me because all the other students are quietly standing, waiting, not one whispering to another or anyting. At last, the girl speaks. ?Eigo de?? (In English?). ?Yes, please,? Y-sensei asks, and I wait, smiling. Another long pause.

?How old are you??

?Ahh, a very good question. I am 25 years old.? This is very exciting to them, and deserves a brief conversation.

The next question is always the same whenever it is a girl. Without fail, it has always been, ?Do you have a girlfriend.?

I panic?this is a critical moment. Through my experience in teaching, I know there is no right answer to this question. Both yes and no are equally defeating.

?Yes, of course. I have many girlfriends.? This is very funny to the girls.

Y-sensei picks up my lead, ?Oh, yes, there is Lucy, Mary, Jenny??

We were a hit.

When it?s time to go, I say my formalities to the staff, ?Oisogashi tokoro arigato gozaimasu?Shitsurei shimasu?? I try to remember the phrase you use when you leave early, but I can?t. I hit my head getting into H-sensei?s car, and he says to me, ?You have come to a land of dwarfs!? and laughs. Whenever he laughs, he waits for me to smile first, and then tenses up his face, his eyes disappearing in a mass of wrinkles.

At their house, they put me up in a nice room upstairs and shows me around the house. It is a beautiful house with both Western and Japanese elements. He also shows me the apartment that was intended for me, and says that if I have friends or relatives that they are welcome there. He really is a very nice man, if a bit arrogant.

Ms. H?s wife is a very neurotic woman. She chatters on and on in Japanese?speaks no English, and I can?t really catch any. One morning, H-sensei told me that she doesn?t sleep very well at night?sometimes only 2 or 3 hours. ?That is why your laundry is done this morning!? he says, doing his odd pause-smile-laugh. I appreciate that she speaks Japanese to me?sometimes people will not speak at all if they don?t think I can understand, but she speaks so quickly and repeats herself over and over. I don?t think she realizes how poor my Japanese is.

My first night there, immediately before dinner, I tell H-sensei that I?d like to go for a run because I?ve been caged up for the last week. He is very excited and asks, ?Oh, running is your hobby?? ?Well, yeah, I guess it?s one of them, yeah.? ?Do you have a good sense of direction?? ?Yes. Yes I do.? ?Ah, I will accompany you on the bicycle. How far would you like to go??

And so he takes me to a large manmade pond and to some nearby temples through the crazy streets of Kishiwada. Japanese streets don?t usually have names, and the city isn?t laid out in a block pattern, so anything goes, really. I don?t remember street names anyway, so it?s no better or worse for me. The streets are ridiculously narrow. Our one-way alley is about as wide as their two-way street?no exaduration. Of course, are much smaller. They remind me of Bonsai trees?just like the normal thing but smaller. In fact, I?ve found everything in Japan is smaller, faster and has Internet access.

We wind around lots of streets and I memorize the way by spotting landmarks. Right by the vending machine, straight by the lady with the hose, left when a dog crosses the road, etc. I?m blown away by the temples, when we arrive. They are beyond description. H-sensei leads me through the temple area and I feel like the white, American slob I am in shorts and a shirt half-soaked in sweat. People are praying at these small shrines that look like wells. When they approach a temple, they pause in each doorway and bow very purposefully. I came back with my camera, and that seemed very ironic to me, that I would take pictures of Buddhist temples?Buddhism preaches nonmaterialism, and my camera is the opposite, a relic of the information age.

It?s hot here. I take as cold a shower as I can before eating, but big blotches of sweat appear on my thighs, back and chest.

My Japanese level is probably at the most frustrating level it will get to. When I listen to the H couple talk, I can pick out just enough words to completely misinterpret everything. Example, I might pick out of a one minute talk, ?Bly-san?bicycle?work?jump?green.? So I figure H-sensei said, ?Bly-san rides bikes to work and jumps over a fence that is green,? when really he said, ?Pass the soy sauce.?

He and she both are intensely into nutrition, and H-sensei explains that this is because they see lots of T.V. shows in Japan about health. He drinks a shake in the morning with leeks and other vegetables, takes plumb extract supplements and other witch doctor supplements, and they make their own yogurt.

His wife is an excellent chef. She was worried about what I would eat, but I say, ?Whatever you cook, I will eat.? A funny thing about Japanese culinary customs: They take the utmost care in preparing a meal that comes in tiny, neat packets, organized like an obsessive compulsive man?s (or woman?s) suitcase. But when it comes time to eat, it?s really time to eat. Slurping noodles, spilling off the plates and picking up dishes to get that last bite of rice. Mrs. H burps frequently and without embarrassment. This is very relaxing for me?I hate the Western standards of good manners. It?s an ironic pattern that reminds me of how I used to play with Legos as a kid. I would set up a beautiful structure, stand back to look at it, and then my sister and I would scream, ?Let?s wreck it!? and suddenly we were Godzilla or King Kong. You say, ?Itadakimasu? before eating, and then you destroy your food. I have no problem adjusting my eating habits to this standard.