Takuya and Tomomi Get Married!

Back in September, my friend Takuya told me he’d be getting married in January, and asked me to sing at the reception. I felt really honored to be invited to this—my first—Japanese wedding, and was pretty sure the singing thing was just a joke he said over a few drinks. It turns out he was serious, though, which cranked my nervousness level up a notch. Now, not only would I be the only foreigner in a crowd of Japanese guests, following whatever unknown etiquette and wedding protocol there is, but I’d be playing the piano and singing a solo, too!


OK, so being the only foreigner isn’t that bad, since I am pretty often. Usually, I’m with a group of friends, though, not venerable family members and business acquaintances! I felt pressure, like the weight of the entire American culture was resting on my shoulders, and I’d better not mess up. Plus, Japanese girls are always so beautiful in their cute expensive dresses (or kimonos) and elaborate hairstyles that I was afraid I’d be frumpy and foreign and unattractive beside them. Weddings are formal and stiff enough anyway, which makes me uncomfortable, but being stiff and formal in another culture is even scarier.

I think I prepared more for this wedding than for any other one! I bought my dress two months beforehand, spent too much money on a piece of sparkly rayon/polyester to cover my shoulders, watched countless YouTube videos on how to do my hair (but which I never really mastered), fretted over what jewelry to wear, and polished my shoes in preparation for the big day. I wrote out a two-minute speech in bad Japanese that one of my friends re-wrote in good Japanese. I even did the Japanese gift-giving tradition of money in a special envelope, since they don’t do gift registries here. And of course, I practiced playing and singing every day.

Choosing which one to do was hard, since I’d feel ridiculous singing the traditional wedding pop songs most people suggested. I finally settled on a nice arrangement of “Be Thou My Vision” by the Martins, since my brother sang that song (although not that version) at my sister’s wedding back in 2002. I really wanted to play a piano piano, but they didn’t have one at the wedding hall. So I had to make do with a keyboard that my school was nice enough to lend me.

In retrospect, I didn’t need to worry half as much as I did, but on the day of the wedding, I so nervous it was hard to breathe. I took a taxi to the wedding hall at 9:00 a.m. and ran through the song twice with Takuya playing guitar. It went OK. But my hair that I had so meticulously put up in the morning was coming undone, and I had to ask one of the wedding hall attendants to re-do it for me. Then I remembered I hadn’t practiced my speech, so I started working on that while sipping the coffee that one of the attendants brought me. Another girl brought me a small cup of nihonshu sake, which helped me relax a bit. I kept telling myself that Takuya and Tomomi are doing a whole lot more to be nervous about than I am, but it didn’t really help.

The whole vibe to the wedding was different than a traditional ceremony in the U.S. (for obvious reasons). Instead of a church, the wedding venue was a beautiful brick hall with a small chapel upstairs and a large room downstairs with big glass doors that led into two meticulously maintained gardens. There was no priest or pastor; instead, an attractive woman with a voice like silk guided us through each part of the ceremony as the master (matron?) of ceremonies. There were no bridesmaids, groomsmen, flower girls, or ringbearers, either, just the employees of the chapel, who glided around efficiently, making sure everything was running smoothly.

The wedding ceremony itself was held in the chapel, big enough to seat the 50 guests with about five chairs left over. Before the bride and groom walked in, we watched a short video that had copious pictures of their wedding rings in it. Then the great doors opened and Takuya, together with his parents, walked in with a long red ribbon strung between them. In the same way, Tomomi and her parents entered the room a moment later (no one stood up, but there were many pictures taken), also with a ribbon. There was no bridal march; instead it was all Japanese pop, albeit romantic Japanese pop. At the front of the room, the ribbons were taken from them, and Takuya and Tomomi stood in front of the room by themselves. They read their vows aloud from a card, together in one loud voice. All I really understood was “Today in front of everyone” but I'm sure it was very nice! After they exchanged rings (given to them by one of the black-attired attendants), they held their left hands up in front of the guests, who clapped. Takuya planted a chaste kiss on Tomomi’s forehead, then the new couple, as well as their parents, signed their three separate certificates and held them up high in front of the room. There was a lot of bowing, picture-taking, and reserved clapping, and it was over.

After the ceremony came lunch—a delicious 6-course affair of smoked salmon, soup, butter fish, yuzu sherbert, roasted chicken, and rice in broth. It’s a shame I was too nervous about my impending performance to do more than just nibble at the plates as they were set before me, delicious as they were. I tried to make pleasant conversation with the people at my table—a couple from Takasaki with their 9-year old daughter, a 38-year old man from Osaka, and a 28-year old guy, the easiest to talk to because he could speak Spanish, too. We watched well-wishing videos from Takuya’s brother in New York and his friends in Chile, and a slideshow of Takuya and Tomomi growing up—so cute! Then for about half an hour, friends and relatives went to the front of the room to make speeches, none of which I paid any attention to but all of which I’m sure were kind and interesting. What I did keep noticing was the hip-looking photographer with the chinstrap beard as he slid around the room taking pictures . . .

Then it was my turn! I took a deep breath, said to myself, “I can do this,” and walked the million miles across the room to sit at the keyboard. Takuya picked up his guitar; I flipped the “on” switch on the keyboard. We shook hands gravely and said, “OK, let’s do this.” I pressed the keys, prepared to hear the song wafting from the speakers.

Nothing happened.

I tried again.

Still nothing.

“Sho-sho o-machi, kudasai,” I said politely (please wait just a second).

Two attendants rushed over to see what was wrong. While they fiddled with switches and plugs, Takuya told the audience, “This is Jaimie’s first Japanese wedding, and she’s really nervous, so let’s give her a loud round of applause to make her feel better.” Everyone started clapping and I started laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. My nervousness began to slip away. That’s when I noticed that some well-meaning person had mistakenly plugged the pedal into the power outlet, and vice versa. So I did a little switch-a-roo, and we could start for real.

The whole thing went off without a hitch! After the first verse ended, a few people burst out into spontaneous applause—because it was so good, I hope, not because they thought it was the end. I even hit the high note without too much trouble. No one could see my right leg trembling on the pedal, even though they might have been able to hear some of the wavering in my voice. The thing is, though, as soon as I was actually playing, I was mostly okay.

When the song was over, it was speech time. I had forgotten to bring my notecard up to the front, so in my broken Japanese, I said:


“Thank you so much. The truth is, when Takuya asked me, ‘Please play at my wedding,’ I thought it was a joke. Because everyone was drinking. But, it wasn’t a joke. Really, I feel very happy to have been invited here. (Switch to Spanish) It’s an honor to be here. I hope you are always very happy. (Back to Japanese) Forever, forever, I wish you happy. (Spanish) Congratulations. (Japanese) Thank you.”


When I sat down again at my table, I felt so relieved that it was over that I downed a glass of beer. Finally, I could relax and enjoy myself.

The rest of the afternoon went by quickly: there was a long, outdoor dessert buffet loaded with wedding cake, cheesecake, chestnut pie (similar to pecan pie but less sweet), assorted jellies and puddings, sweetrolls, ice cream, and other deliciousnesses just waiting for me to eat all of them. I also caught a picture of Mr. Photographer with my own camera while he wasn’t looking . . . but shhh, don’t tell him.

Finally, all the speeches were over, the tears were shed, the final “omedetous/congratulations” said. It was time for Party #2.

Most of the guests went home, but about twenty of us went to meet Takuya and Tomomi at a restaurant in Takasaki. One of the wedding hall employees, a beautiful 27-year old girl, came too. We hung out there, snacking on izekaya food and drinking assorted beverages until 6:00 p.m. There I learned that while I’d been sneaking glances at the photographer all day, he’d been sneaking glances at me, too. “He really wants to meet you,” Sanae confided in me. “He told me.”

So, at Party #3, this time in downtown Takasaki, I found myself sitting across from Yuu Inoguchi, suitless and camera-less but still hip in his olive green sweater and black hat. We ignored most of the other guests, who were busy knocking back as many beers as possible, to begin the getting-to-know-you process. His English is just about non-existent, so we relied heavily on my so-so Japanese, an electronic dictionary, and Takuya (“Como se dice ~~ en japones?!”), whom we called over often. Throughout the course of our conversation, we discovered that we like a lot of the same things--movies, outdoorsy things, mountains, reading in the park, that sort of thing. And it was really fun to talk with each other. I don't have any illusions--we just met after all--but I am smiling with possibility. If nothing else, we'll be friends, and having new friends is always great.

So, in the immortal words of Takuya Sato, “The past is the past, the present is the present, and the future is the future."

Happy Happy Wedding Day!

Prologue

I have a travel diary that Eddie Knight gave to me back in 2002. On the first page I wrote (in somewhat incorrect Spanish):

“January 9, 2003: Today I received my passport. It’s the symbol of total freedom: I can travel anywhere in the world, with the wind at my back and the ground at my feet. I can buy a ticket and go to Spain, to Canada, to Ethiopia, to Russia, to Switzerland, to France, to Ireland or England. With this liberty I can come and go anywhere I please. My only concern is that I won’t have enough money, and that I’ll have to wait years and years before the moment arrives in which I can go to the most beautiful country in the world: Spain.”

Luckily for me, I was in Spain that summer, but my worry about funds was valid: I was running pretty low by my fifth week there. This is a theme that seems to repeat itself in all of my travels . . .

This travel diary has been with me not only in Spain, but also in Bolivia, Mexico (twice), Japan, and most recently, the Philippines. I only have 18 pages left. I wonder what words will fill its pages . . .

***

Chris and I decided to go to the Philippines just a few weeks before winter break. We bought our tickets (Tokyo-Taipei-Manila), and, with the invaluable help of his parents in the U.S. and his relatives in Manila, planned our two-week itinerary and booked hotels. Granted, a lot of our planning was last minute and involved several 4:00 a.m. calls across the globe, but we finally got it all sorted out. We would spend four days in Manila, four days in Boracay, four days in Cebu, taking several day trips throughout, and fly back to Tokyo from Manila after this 13-day adventure. Unfortunately, the best laid plans and all that, things didn't go quite as we planned.

***

“Remember,” Mark told us both on separate occasions before our trip. “If you get sick of each other, just say, ‘I need to have a few minutes,’ and get away from each other. Don’t bottle it in and keep being mad.”

This was dubbed “The Mark Brophy Moment.” 

It's excellent advice for anyone traveling together for an extended amount of time. Luckily for Chris and I, we only needed it twice. ("I need my Mark Brophy!!!") And strangely enough, instead of never wanting to hang out again after spending 1/24th of a year together, we have been able to come out even better friends than before. 

Here begins my Philippines tale. 

こんーこんーこんーこんにちは。 日本語勉強

I’ve been taking a lot of Japanese classes since I came to Japan.

I had that one community class with just me and the talking-so-fast-I-couldn’t-understand-a-word teacher from August to December 2010.

Then I started the private tutoring class once a week to prepare for the JLPT.

Then I got a different teacher at the community class and things went better.

And I was doing the mail-in JET course as well.

So in case you were wondering why my Japanese is so breathtakingly good (冗談！), that’s why.

I took the JLPT Level 3 on December 4, and I am fairly certain I failed miserably. I ran out of time on the reading section, guessed my way through the kanji part, but maybe have a fighting chance on grammar. Mmmm, so maybe it’s not so breathtakingly good after all . . .

On top of all these classes, I started a new one in Tamamura on December 2^nd. Unlike my other classes—which basically consisted of one or two students per teacher—this is an actual class class, taught by certified JSOL (Japanese ESOL?) teachers and with enough students to fill up a decent-sized classroom, about 15. Every student except one is female, and together we represent the U.S., Peru, the Philippines, and China. This class, unlike the others I’ve attended, facilitates guided conversation. The teacher gives us handouts on different topics, then we talk about them in groups and as a class. So far, I’m really enjoying it, especially because the main teacher is a hoot. She’s Korean, tall, beautiful, and stylish, and speaks Japanese like a pro. Plus she has a sneaky habit of making fun of us students when we can’t speak correctly. I’ve been the butt of several of her jokes. I’m sure she’s laughing with me when I make a mistake . . . right?

However good the class, though, it’s still a pain to get to. I’m going with two other girls from Maebashi, and all of us have to jump through several hoops to get to the south side of Takasaki. One girl has to ride her bike half an hour to Maebashi Station then take the train one stop away to Shin Maebashi Station, where I pick her and the other girl up. The other girl takes the train, too, but the bike ride is shorter. We all ride together to Gunma Prefectural Women’s University, where the class is, then I take them back to Maebashi Station before driving back to my house. I always knew I hated driving—working at the CNNC did it to me—but I doubly hate it in Japan. Why can’t there be more convenient trains in Gunma?! But since there’s no ginger, we just suck up and bear it.

To make my life a little less stressful, though, I’ve dropped out of my other two Japanese classes. I now have my Monday and Thursday nights free again. And I’m biking to school every single non-rainy day, too, which is making me a much happier person.

After this class finishes in February, I’ll probably start up my other classes again. I just want to use the winter to relax a little bit before life speeds up again in the spring. 

Music Japanese Junior High Schoolers Like

One of my last 3rd grade (14- and 15-year olds) lesson plans was on My Favorite Song. This was immediately following the Stevie Wonder lesson plan in the Total English book. Needless to say, they were not too impressed with Mr. Wonder, with all due respect. After listening to four Stevie Wonder songs and filling out a 5-question sheet on each one (this song is happy/sad/angry....the rhythm is fast/slow/medium...I give it a 1-10, etc.), we did the same with our favorite songs. Their song choices were interesting to me. I had expected a wealth of Arashi and AKB48 (idol pop music) but was astounded by the variety of their choices.

I haven't listened to all of them, but I've probably seen 30 or 40 of their recommended videos on YouTube. It seems like students really love Greeeen and Nishino Kana, as well as Exile, Funky Monky Babys, and Monkey Majik.

Here, for your listening pleasure, are some of the ones I enjoyed (and others that are just funny).

Enjoy!

Song for You - Mongol 800
Future Gazer - Fripside
Chocolate Disco (チョコレートティスコ）- Perfume
Sazaesan's Opening Theme (Japanese cartoon)
Iindeska (いいんですか）- Radwimps
Yell - いきものがかり
Oyoge Taiyaki-kun - およげたいやきくん
Even if (たえおえどんなに) - Nishino Kana (西野カナ）
Love Song - Funky Monky Babys
Miso Soup - Tegomasu

Thank you, guys!

If anyone wants my entire list of about 100 songs, feel free to ask. Because nothing beats YouTubing unknown J-Pop songs when you've got nothing else to do.

Tsukimi Part Two, But This Time It Was An Eclipse

            Last night, Saturday, December 10, 2011, from 9:30 p.m. to well past midnight, there was a full  lunar eclipse seen here in Japan (and throughout the rest of the world, for all I know).

            Mark and I got together the same team from September’s Tsukimi—Mr. K, the 60something hippie, Ryo, the nice Chinese guy, Ms. M, Mark’s Japanese teacher (this time, without her 16-year old daughter), Mark, and me. Unfortunately, Sho is in Canada and couldn’t join us, but our friend H from Australia came in his stead; not exactly the same, but quite a worthy substitute.

            Before leaving for the park, Mark, Ryo, H and I feasted on Ryo’s mouthwatering nabe—a huge hot pot filled with carrots, spinach, mushrooms, cabbage, mochi, and I don’t know what all else—to warm ourselves up. I put on about eight layers of clothing and we brought blankets and hot drinks to keep us warm. Then we went to the same baseball field in Maebashi, this time to watch the moon go black. It was deathly cold, but sitting in a circle with five other people kept us toasty warm—lukewarm toast, maybe.

            At first, it looked like someone had spilled ink on one side of the moon (an analogy stolen from Mark, I believe). Just the corner of it was turning black. As the shadow fell over more and more of the moon, though, the color changed to something in-between red or brown, not black. I was actually expecting the moon to be completely blotted out from the sky, so I was surprised when even at full eclipse (full shadowing?) the shape of the moon was still visible.  

            As we sat under the starry sky, we told moon stories like we did last time at Tsukimi. Gradually the conversation moved to moon songs, so H sang us a song in Spanish about a man who wants to die under the moon, Mark recited “Hey Diddle Diddle,” and I sang “Moon River.” (Audrey Hepburn would have been proud.) Since the six of us we were representing six different countries—Japan, Canada, the U.S., China, and Australia/Colombia—the topic of national anthems came up. So there we were, sitting in a near-freezing baseball field, watching the moon be swallowed up by shadow, each of us singing a few lines from our countries and talking about what it means. It was a fun night.

            Towards midnight, we were getting drowsy and it was getting to be colder than we could handle. A couple of us were lying back in the grass staring upwards, when flash! a shooting star darted across the sky. In the excitement of seeing a shooting star for the first time in years, I completely forgot to make a wish.

            We didn’t stick around long enough to see the moon become unveiled. Instead, satisfied by our Brazilian snacks, hot tea, and moon viewing, we retired to our separate houses, to await the next moon event that will bring us all back together again. 

Team Tsukimi

(All photos credit Liang Hongbo. Thank you!)

Ketchup

Well, let’s see what’s been going on. In no particular order at all:

1. I’ve been listening to a lot of NPR. I like to stay posted on current events.

2. I’ve been reading too many books at one time. Currently I’m swapping between Dickens’ David Copperfield, a Sookie Stackhouse novel, a children’s manga series called Ochibi San, a Julio Cortázar short story in Spanish, and Stephen King’s Four Past Midnight. I like diversity in literature.

3. I’ve been watching a lot of movies, namely, Paranormal Activity, which made me think my apartment was inhabited by demons and prevented me getting any good sleep for about a week. But then I realized that things weren’t moving around by themselves, so I calmed down a little bit.

4. I’m taking the JLPT on December 4, this time Level 3. I’m planning on failing, which means I’m not studying nearly as much as I should be. I just find it impossible to inhale as much kanji and vocabulary as I need in order to pass it. But, like they always say, ganbarou……ne?

5. I want to go look at autumn leaves! I just haven’t gone yet.

6. Since the weather is so nice, I’m riding my bike to school more often. I say hello to Kohei and Ryosuke every morning as I cycle by their house. At the traffic light, I usually run into Misaki, and from Mitsudera Park to the school there’s a steady stream of students to say good morning to. I don’t know why they still act surprised when they see me, though. . . I’ve been riding my bike off and on for months.

7. One terrible thing happened today that I didn’t find out about until later. A 2^nd grade student, a fellow member of the track-and-field club, got hit by a car on her way to school this morning! She is OK, but her left arm and shoulder got hurt pretty badly and had to be put in a sling. She came back to school this afternoon (just to pick up her assignments with her mom) after spending all morning in the hospital. Needless to say, she was still a little shaken up, but seemed to be doing all right. I love that brave little Moe!

8. For the most part, school is going pretty well. My 2^nd grade teacher had to suddenly resign due to health problems, which upset that grade a bit. She’s been replaced by an assistant teacher, who is slightly panicking but still doing a fine job. They say it’s just for a little while, but I also hear that it’s really hard to find a full-time English teacher mid-year. We’ll see if anything changes before the end of the school year in March. Some days I get upset at school because I have so much work to do, and some days I have time to tranquilly sip a cup of afternoon coffee while reading a book. It just depends on what week it is.

10. And last of all in my list of news, one of my Japanese friends is leaving on Sunday to go abroad to Canada for a year. We had a big farewell party for him with a lot of ALTs, which was both fun and depressing at the same time, as farewell parties are apt to be. Later, he told me, “It’s funny how one little incident can change the direction of your life. Two years ago Shinji invited me to have dinner in Shibukawa. If I wouldn’t have gone, we never would have become friends again. Then I wouldn’t have gone snowboarding. I wouldn’t have met Graham and Peter and Jacob and Kaitlin. And I wouldn’t have gone to Canada. And now I’m going to Canada. Just because me and Shinji went out for dinner.”

So now I’m thinking about those things, too, and tracing my life events back to their origins. Where would I be if things had been different?

Upcoming Events

November 13, International Bus Tour, hopefully to meet more Spanish-speakers

November 19, Wine Festival

November 22, ALT Thanksgiving Dinner

November 23, a day off (and my dad’s birthday)

Peru

One fine evening a couple of weeks ago I was walking around downtown Takasaki by myself, feeling hungry. Not wanting to be the girl who sits alone at an actual restaurant, I ducked into Sky Turk, a fast-food type restaurant run by a Turkish guy who works alone selling kebobs and pitas. I was the only customer in the restaurant, besides a college-aged Japanese boy chain smoking at the counter (a personal friend of the owner, I later discovered). The owner, who speaks pretty good English, started to chat with me, and soon found out that even though I live in Japan, my heart is still in some Spanish-speaking country.

“Spanish?!” he asked, incredulously. “Do you know Mr. So-and-So from Peru?”

I actually didn’t know Mr. So-and-So from Peru, and told him so.

“Well, that’s just something we’ll have to remedy,” he said, although not in those exact words.

A week later, I showed back up at the restaurant to meet this famous Peruvian. He’s a nice-looking guy somewhere in his 30s, who has been living in Japan off and on for several years now. Not only does he speak his native Spanish, but perfect Japanese and English as well. We sat down at a table and immediately started chatting in Spanish, while the Turkish owner and ubiquitous chain-smoker gawked at us and murmured, “I don’t understand a thing” over and over in Japanese. It was nice to be able to communicate fluidly in a foreign language for the first time in a while, although I noticed my espanol is taking on some distinctly Japanese characteristics. Mr. S and I decided to get together the following week and enjoy all the Peru Isesaki City has to offer.

I’d been to Isesaki a couple of times before, but only ever with Japanese people. It was actually kind of natsukashii (nostalglic?) to be back at Isesaki Station without having Shogo there. This time, though, I got to see the South American side of the city.

Mr. S and I took the train in and walked a couple of blocks to El Kero Peruvian Restaurant. It’s a little place about the size of my apartment (not very big, I mean) crammed with wooden tables and chairs and Peruvian decorations all over the walls. A television hung from the ceiling in one corner, blasting Latin American hits from across the years. How can I describe the feeling of listening to Elvis Crespo sing “Suavemente” (throwing me back to Cuernavaca, Mexico in 2001), while studying a menu of Peruvian food in some little city in Japan?

We split roasted chicken, some kind of cold sliced potato/mayonnaise deliciousness, a salad, and a beef/vegetable dish. It was truly delicious! After lunch, I mentioned coffee and dessert, and he told me he knew of just the place. Unfortunately, since we had taken the train and not driven, we would have to take a bus across town to get there.

So we walked back to Isesaki Station, just barely caught the bus, and got off about a kilometer away from where the Peruvian Cafe was supposed to be. Twenty minutes later we were still wandering around, but after asking a few people for directions we finally got on the right track.

We’d been walking around for another fifteen or twenty minutes, cracking jokes at how long it was taking and how no one knew where it was.

“Ja ja,” Mr. S said. “Ahora sólo falta que esté cerrado!” (Now all we need is for it to be closed!)

When we finally got there, I noticed four heavy-set Peruvian men standing on the other side of the street looking at the restaurant with their arms folded over their chests. The place is called Mi Casita Peruvian Café, and it’s the kind of place that serves sandwiches and cakes and hot beverages. I felt a little awkward, but tried to go in, anyway.

Yep. That’s all we needed. It was closed.

Mr. S called across the street, “So what’s up? It’s closed?”

“I don’t know,” they called back. “We’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes but they won’t open.”

I looked at the closed glass door. Hidden behind the random Christmas swirls was the schedule. Sundays were 9:00-1:00 and 6:00-10:00.

“Looks like they’ll be closed another three hours,” I said.

“Well, damn,” one of the men swore. “I’m starving. Now what do we do?”

“Do you want to go here? Do you want to go to McDonald’s?” asked another guy.

“I don’t care, as long as I can eat something.”

“Hey man, did y'all eat?" A third man, taller and leaner than the other guys, directed himself at us.

“Yeah, at this place called El Kero. Do you know it?”

“Never been. Is it any good?”

“It’s delicious.”

“All right, let’s go, then. Hey, you guys need a ride back to the station?” the driver looked back over his shoulder as they started to go off.

“That would be great,” Mr. S replied. “We’ve been walking for a long time.”

“Well come on, no problem. Y’all can sit in the back. If we were back home you two could sit up front but you know here the cops’ll see you and pull us over.”

“Tell me about it.”

The five of us piled into his Honda Fit—four beefy strangers, Mr. S, and me. Two of the biggest guys got in the front, and the rest of us squashed together in the back, me pressed between Mr. S and the passenger side door. Reggaeton poured from the speakers; the men’s chatter rising above it.

“Hey man, you got Facebook?” the driver called back to ask Mr. S.

“Yeah, I’m on there,” Mr. S replied. “Look me up.” He gave his name.

I repressed a sudden desire to burst out laughing at this macho man talking about Facebook. Instead, I concentrated on the rest of their conversation, now on to complaining why the previous restaurant had been closed, but so full of unfamiliar words and slang that I could only catch the basic gist of what they were saying. Something about having to call the owner and complain. “I ain’t gonna do it, YOU do it.”

Ten minutes later we arrived back in downtown Isesaki.

“You can let us off anywhere,” Mr. S told our new friends. “We can walk from here.”

“OK, cool,” said the driver, and turned left down one of the streets. “Is here OK?”

“Sure, it’s fi—” started to say Mr. S when suddenly “Oh SHIT!” cried the guy sitting in the front. “It’s a one way street!”

And it was.

Even though the road was two-laned, it was meant for two lanes of traffic going in the same direction. Our lane just happened to be empty. To make matters even worse, a policeman sat in his police car in the lane beside us. He was sandwiched in between two other cars, so he couldn’t stop us, but

“Oh shit, what if he gets my license plate?” whined the driver.

He gunned the car, and took a succession of turns through little side streets until he felt he had gotten sufficiently far away. He stopped again a few minutes later to let us out, this time on a two-lane street.

“I’m really sorry,” Mr. S told him. “It’s our fault you had to stop.”

“It’s OK,” said one of the guys in the back. “It’s his fault for being a dumbass and going down a one-way street.”

“I didn’t know it was a one-way street!” shot back the driver.

“Muchas, muchas gracias,” I said, the first thing I’d said since getting in the car. I opened the door and got out onto safe ground. “Adiós.”

“Adiós.”

It was kind of these strangers to offer us a ride back to town, kind of them to have pity on us for being one of them, and kind of them to risk getting a ticket for reckless driving. Let's hope nothing happens to them.

We only had an hour or so in Isesaki before we had to head back to Maebashi, so we went to a little Peruvian store near the station and looked around. It was similar to the Mexican stores back in North Carolina, except that there weren’t any Mexican products. There were lots of spices and teas I didn’t recognize, shelves full of dusty plastic-wrapped books in Spanish, and assorted South American snacks and beverages. I got some camote and banana chips again like I did when I was in Ota. Then it was time to go.

What a fun day it had been in Peru! But it was time to go back. We walked to the train station, bought our tickets, and took the train back to Japan.