Late night run
Last night I went for a night run up the mountain behind my school. It was freezing. A fat yellow moon hung above me. I ran up the neighborhood streets, through the brigtly lit college campus and plunged into the darkness of the forest preserve. Terrifying. I ran hard and played my ipod loud. The run felt good. I felt strong for the first time in a long time.
I remember that feeling.
I miss it.
Sold my soul to the institution
Entrance exams. That’s why I’ve been too busy to write. The entrance exams for the school where I teach are a tremendous happening. We get about 900 applicants for just 140 spots. Insane! All the hopefuls are tested with standardized tests that our teachers write, participate in an athletic evaluation and are interviewed face-to-face. We have test A and test B - two rounds of this madness. We work for 12 days straight going through all the testing and scoring and reporting.
I have it easier than the other teachers. I must leave school at 5pm to pick up Kiomye. I CAN’T stay late - except on some days they make me stay and I must arrange a babysitter. The other teachers end up staying until 11pm each night, or sometimes later. There’s a nice “in it together” feeling. The school gives us excellent bentos for lunch and dinner. The teachers chat and bond and help each other out. That’s all and nice, but not nice enough to compensate for the tedium and overwork. For these two weeks, the school owns me. I may have no life outside work.
I miss my Café Absinthe. I miss my friends. My apartment is so dirty. Almost all my clothes are dirty and the dishes are piled high in the sink. I’m too tired to take care of the mess. I’m very thankful entrance exams only happen once a year.
The Violin Saga
The problem with being the only adult in the house come Christmas, is that there is no one to sneak off and buy you exactly what you want. I don't let my three-year-old go on shopping expeditions on her own just yet. Besides, even if I did, she would come come with a bounty of princess tiaras, kitty notebooks and strawberry candy. So, this year, another member of our little family stepped up to take care of my Christmas wish. Hamtaro to the rescue!
Unfortunately, Hamtaro also has difficulty shopping as well, being a hamster and all. So, After I whispered to her what I wanted and let her borrow some money, I then returned her generousity by doing her the favor of taking the money back and heading into Osaka to pick the item up in her stead.
So, on Christmas morning, sure enough, there was a lovely new electric violin under the Christmas tree. Yea! Thanks Hamtaro! It was just what I wanted.
And then I tried to play it. I couldn't get any sound out of it, at least not with the bow. When I plucked the strings with my fingertips, the headphones could blow out my ear drums. The bow only made a slight whispering sound. Dammit! Kio, Hamtaro and I I are eating ramen throughout the last week of this pay period because of this damn thing. My Christmas cheer quickly turned into Christmas guilt.
Of course, you think, why don't you just take it back? Hmmm, good idea. But you see, I live in this country called "Japan". In Japan, they happen to speak a language called "Japanese". I am not graced with the miraculous ability to speak this strange tongue. So, even small tasks like returning a violin become monumentus undertakings that require two weeks to psyche up, complete with practice scenerios with my ever patient friends whom are graced with the "gift".
Anyway, after two weeks of avoiding the problem and sighing deeply everytime the case caught my eye, I finally sucked it up and took the damn thing back.
I brought Kio into Umeda with me. She loves riding the trains out and all the attention she gets in the crowds. Also, she makes people like me. So, when I plop the violin down on the counter and slaughter some Japanese that make 1/3 of my request comprehendable - I would expect a scowl from the clerk. Before that can happen, Kio breaks out her smile and flashes her giant baby blues at the bemuddled guy. "Konnichiwa!" She gushes. Her pronunciation is perfect. Mine is... not. The clerk smiles and says something to her in Japanese. Kio, of course, understands. She answers back some shy response that we can both barely hear, but that is definitely Japanese. The clerk understands her and drops his mouth open in delight. I, of course, did not understand my toddler. But, I look at his beaming face and know my skillful mangling of his mother tongue will be forgiven for the rest of this interaction. He may even try out some English with me.
Long story a little bit longer, the problem was my bow. The shop replaced it for free and now the violing sounds great (If not painfully out of tune due to my complete inability to hear tones correctly - aren't I just chock full of fabulous skills?) Kiomye and I were both very cheerful after our excursion. We walked through the crowded underground shopping streets back to the train station in a light mood. Kiomye held my hand and sang songs at the top of her lungs as we strolled along. She seems to think that in large, bustling crowds, no one can see or hear her. They can and they do. Again, wth the cuteness making everyone around her turn and smile and gasp "Kawaii!".
Last night I spent an hour trying to make my fingers work over the strings. When I was younger, I could play rather well. Now, not so much. At least I'm still better at violin than I am at Japanese. Wait, is that a good thing?
Riding in cars with boys
(scribbled in the half dark in the bumpin' passenger seat of a dropped Lexus)I say to my friend, "Show me where the Yakuza work." So he detours deep into Amagasaki. Cece Penniston sings to a surreal club remix of "Love will save the day" as we cruise down prostitutes' alley. A long line of booths each illuminate a young woman. The girls sit on stools on the first floor of their two story shacks. They face out into the street. Big shiny smiles. Cece sings,
"Dare to be brave." I gape at each woman, trying not to let my mouth drop open. This girl with long straight tresses flips her hair back.
"You gotta be strong." She tilts her head back to laugh at our slow prowling car, flash of pale white throat. I try hard in those fleeting seconds to find the flaw that will raise me above them, but it is not to be seen.
My toddler linguist
I flipped on the TV this morning to distract Kiomye while I took a shower. Japanese kids shows – high pitched and high energy. As I stepped out of the shower, I heard the kids on TV shouting and realized I’d turned it up way too loud. So, I stumble dripping out of the bathroom to turn in down and find my daughter standing in front of the TV, jumping up and down and shouting a steady stream of Japanese at the super ranger on the screen. I try for a minute to understand what she’s saying and catch about a quarter of it. She never speaks Japanese to me because she knows I can’t follow her, so it’s moments like this that I learn how much she’s picked up.
Ugh. It’s too early in the morning for my daughter to be speaking in languages I don’t understand.
