21 Hours Till Take-Off

Tomorrow I will be getting on an airplane and flying back to America for the first time in almost a year. It's been just shy of a full 365 days, something like 51 weeks I think. I've absolutely worn myself out with travel preparations, coordinating transportation to and from all airports involved, packing my bags, cleaning my house, and making plans (seriously, I have a two-page "to buy" list and an absolutely packed schedule for every day I'm in the States). And emotionally, I'm fluttering between being absolutely ecstatic at to see my family and friends in America, and really sad to say goodbye to a lot of my ALT friends in Japan who are moving back to their home countries. This time of the year is just full of changes, and I'm all over the place! If I can survive the next 36-48 hours, I think I'll be OK!

Getting home involves:

1) Sleeping at a friend's house near Takasaki Station tonight because I live too far away
2) Taking the 8:25 a.m. bus to Narita airport (arriving around noon) on Friday
3) Taking an 11-hour flight from Narita to Minnesota (of all places)
4) A 2-hour layover which is hopefully enough time to go through customs and re-check in, plus eat something
5) A 3-hour flight to Raleigh, landing around 7:00 p.m.
6) A 2-hour-ish car ride to my mom's house, arriving around 9:00 p.m. Friday night, 8:00 a.m. Japan time.

Basically, it'll take 24 hours to get home. Uffff. I can do it, though! Ganbarimasu!

By the way, I find it fascinating that according to Google Maps (and personal experience), it takes 35 minutes to drive the 28 miles between Greensboro and Winston-Salem. And yet at the same time, it takes the exact amount of time to drive the 6.2 miles between my house and Takasaki Station.

Goodbye!

Would You Like Rice With That Newspaper Subscription?

A few weeks ago I had a pretty unnerving experience with a door-to-door newspaper seller. I was getting ready to go to a BBQ in the mountains when I got a knock at the door. When I opened it, the guy standing there gave himself an involuntary shake (“Who’s this white girl?!”) before giving me a sorta-kinda professional smile.

“Japanese, Japanese, Japanese, shimbun, Japanese, Japanese, Japanese,” he said. He was maybe in his early 30s, wearing regular street clothes and no nametag. He didn’t offer me a business card. His white van was parked in front of my apartment building.

“Shimbun?” I asked dumbly. “Newspaper?”

“Yes!” he said in English. “Nu-su-pei-pa!”

“Daijoubu desu, nihongo wo yomemasen,” I told him, and made to shut the door, thinking that was it. (That’s OK, I can’t read Japanese.)

“Japanese Japanese Japanese ikagetsu dake Japanese,” he told me, not letting me shut him out just yet. (….just for a month….)

“Honto ni, nihongo wo yomemasen. Shimbun ga irimasen. Arigatou.” (No, really, I can’t read Japanese. I don’t need a newspaper. Thank you.)

“Japanesejapanesejapanesejapanesejapanesericejapanesejapanese! Chotto matte kudasai.” (….rice…wait just a second.)

He bounded down the stairs and I shut the door, immediately grabbing my cell phone to call my Japanese friend who was on his way to my house to pick me up for the party. Unfortunately, his English isn’t all that good over the phone.

“Hey! Where are you?” I asked. “There’s some guy at my house. Will you please ask him what he wants, and tell him to leave?”

“Nani? Nani?” (What? What?)

I repeated myself slower, but by this time, Newspaper Man was back, carrying a 5- or 10-kilo bag of rice with him.

“Nevermind,” I told my friend. “Just hurry up and get here.”

Newspaper Man stepped into my entryway where I take my shoes off, and shut the door behind him. Oh no. Luckily he stayed there, and didn’t try to come all the way into my house. (Sure, the entryway is considered public property in Japan, but you’re not supposed to shut the door!)

“Nanika u . . . ura . . . ure . . urimasuka?” I stumbled over the Japanese word. (Are you selling something?)

“Sou desu!” (Yes!) He started chattering away in Japanese again, and I interrupted him in English.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want a newspaper subscription, even if it is just for one month, I don’t need one, I can’t read Japanese, and what’s that rice all about? Will you please leave?”

“Dou imi, dou imi? Wakarimasen.” (What’s that mean? I don’t understand.)

“Irimasen! Sayonara!” (I don’t need it. Goodbye!)

He put the bag of rice at his feet and switched registers from polite to casual, putting the bag of rice at his feet. “Hitori de sundeiruno? Kare ga iruka?”(Do you live by yourself? Do you have a boyfriend?)

“Kare ga inai, hoshikunai!” I matched his register. (I don’t have a boyfriend; I don’t want one!)

“Nande?!” (Why not?!)

“Iranai. Shimbun mo iranai. Sayonara.” (I don’t need one. I don’t need a newspaper either. Goodbye.)

I wish I knew how to say, “Please go away,” or “Please leave,” in Japanese. He was crouched down in the entryway like he was going to stay for a while, the bag of rice (whose purpose I still didn’t understand) lying like a well-trained dog between his feet. I was hoping if I just said “goodbye” often enough he’d get the picture. Obviously he didn’t.

I tried in English anyway. “Please go away. My friends are coming in a few minutes to pick me up. Please go away. I don’t want anything.”

Of course he didn’t understand, and I was getting frustrated with this failing conversation that I didn’t even want to be having in the first place. It’s not like I had invited him in. He smiled sleezily and pointed at his face.

“Ore ga? Iranai?” (What about me? You don’t need me?)

“Iranai yo!” I lost my temper. “NANIMO kaitakunai, NANIMO hoshikunai, SAYONARA!” (NO! I don’t want to buy anything, I don’t want anything, goodbye!”)

I pointed at the door, pointed at him, and pointed at the door again. “Sayonara!”

I think he got the picture that time. He picked up his bag of rice, and with a half-hearted “sumimasen,” walked out the door. I double locked it and waited for my friends to come.

The next day was Saturday. I was hanging my laundry out on my balcony around noon when I saw that familiar white van pull up. Newspaper Man got out, glanced up at me, and hurriedly walked to my neighbor’s door with his head down. When she didn’t answer, he scuttled back to his van, slammed the door, and drove away in a hurry. I haven’t seen him since.

Whatever happened to the polite Japanese not wanting to intrude on anyone? Why push the issue of selling a newspaper to a girl who can’t even read it, even if she does get a free bag of rice with a one-month subscription? Why not just say, “Oh, excuse me,” and walk away as soon as she says, “No thanks”? Why try to force the issue? And why get all personal?!

***

By the way, the polite version of “Please go away” is “Kaitte kudasai.” Or you want to be a bit stronger, “Kaere!” Things I wish I had known . . . 

Nothing Too Special

Nothing terribly exciting is happening, but here are a few of the normal things that have been going on.

1)   I’ve had a terrible cold for the past week and a half! It started in my head, moved to my throat, has now settled permanently in my nose, rendering a trash can full of tissues. Gross. I’m ready to be able to breathe! I went home from school early last Wednesday and missed my Japanese class, much to my teacher’s chagrin (this is the second time I’ve missed class in three weeks). That night one of my friends biked over from Maebashi to bring me ginger ale, throat drops, and lemon tea, which was much appreciated and helped a lot. The nurse at school finally convinced me to go to the doctor, so I went with her after school yesterday. The doctor’s visit was all in Japanese, but it was super quick (20 minutes from in to out) and super cheap (1480 yen for the visit plus 4 different kinds of medicine). I hope I get better soon: it’s been 10 days now! Come on!

2)   It’s been unbearably hot recently! Hot like you take a cold shower, step out, and are immediately covered in sweat again. During the winter’s frigidity, I had forgotten what the summer was like. Now I remember. The rainy season is over, and 90-degree mugginess has arrived. I come home from work, close myself in my bedroom, and turn on the air conditioner. Classrooms at school are sweltering, even though they’ve got the ceiling fans on. Only the staff room is air conditioned, and thank God for that. But we are all suffering.

3)   I haven’t gone to the track-and-field club after school for almost two weeks! It’s terrible! I just don’t feel like being outside and running recently. On Saturday, the big Rikujo Taikai (Track-and Field Tournament, kind of like Field Day in elementary school) was held. I really wanted to be there all day to cheer for my track friends, but I had to miss the morning to teach a class. I arrived in time for the all-class relays, which were done under a drizzly sky. I even met two girls’ mothers, and was happy that I knew who their kids were!

4)   The kids are starting to give their "Reflection" after cleaning time in English!  This started when the VP wasn't there one afternoon, so the secretary and I became in charge. For the past three days, the kids who clean the staff room are trying their best, and it's so amazingly cute! They come up with sentences like, “Today, clean-shimashita. Tomorrow mo fight-o shimasu! Gokurosama deshita. Thank you!” Today it was, "Today wa chotto slow deshita. Kondo motto fast shimashou." You tell 'em, Hajime!

5)   I have a story about a crazy newspaper seller guy, but I'll write that later. 

6)   I’m going home in three weeks, yo! In the meantime, here are my plans:

July 2: Fourth of July/Canada Day BBQ at Onogami Onsen Park

July 3: Japanese Language Proficiency Test (JLPT), Level 4

July 8-10: Fuji Lakes trip

July 15: Takasaki ALT Farewell Party

July 16: International party at Gunma University in Kiryu (my new Vietnamese college girl friend invited me)

July 20: Last day of school for summer break!

July 22: I’ll fly away, oh glory . . .

Tentative U.S. Schedule:

July 23-25: Sleep

July 28-30: Wilson

July 31-August 4: Lake Gaston with the fam

August 2: My 29^th birthday (eeeek!)

August 4-8 (?): Winston-Salem/Greensboro

August 9-10: Wilson

August 10: Depart from RDU

August 11: Arrive in Japan. Sleep for three days. 

I'll try to write interesting blog posts during all my travels. Thank you for being interested and for reading. :) 

Food to Eat

I'm going back to North Carolina from July 22-August 10. I just hope three weeks is enough time to eat all of this:

Breakfast

• Mom’s Homemade Waffles & real bacon
• Frosted Mini Wheats, Honeycomb, Lucky Charms (I can get the healthy stuff here in Japan)
• Blueberry muffins on Sunday morning
• Grits, eggs, and biscuits with sausage gravy
• Cream cheese, salmon, tomato and caper bagels
• Everything delicious at Jan’s Diner in Greensboro (with Eddie)
• Everything delicious at Smith Street Diner
• Mangos and jicama with lime juice and salt

Lunch

• Ham, tomato, lettuce, pickle, and bacon sandwiches
• Arby’s roast beef sandwich and curly fries
• Cheeseburgers at Beef Burger
• Homemade Mexican food from my previous TAT clients J
• Anything at all from La Vaca Ramona
• San Luis (with Kathy)
• Chick-Fil-A
• Wendy’s
• Cheeseburgers on the grill, potato chips, baked beans, and pickles
• Pizza from New York Pizza on Tate St.
• Pho from Pho Hien Voung
• Panera Bread (with my mom)
• Jack’s Corner  

 Dinner

• Fried chicken, sweet tea, and dinner rolls 
• Garden vegetables: green peas, green beans, summer squash, tomatoes, corn on the cob . . .
• Bobbi Jo’s roast with carrots and onions and potatoes
• Rusty’s homemade macaroni and cheese
• Spiced apple rings
• Peas with baby onions
• A real ham
• Mom’s lasagna with lots of ricotta cheese
• A steak and a baked potato from Fleming’s
• Tuesday night tacos at La Azteca (if that’s still its name)
• Plain applesauce
• Frozen pizza and/or Papa John’s
• Natty Greene’s or M’Coul’s
• The Filling Station

Dessert

• Angel food cake with strawberries and whipped cream
• Lemon meringue pie
• Pound cake
• Greek baklava from Jack's Corner
• Greek yogurt with fruit
• A cold watermelon and a cold cantaloupe, lightly salted

 I think if I eat all of this, I will have a good dose of North Carolina to keep me going, and I’ll be good to go back to Japan for another year. Before perhaps I head off to South America . . .

My Weekend in South America

I spent this past weekend in Ota City, Gunma, with my new Brazilian friend Ana Cecilia and her family: her Peruvian husband and model-beautiful-but-still-kind-of-whiny 12-year old twin girls. It was such a breath of fresh air to be around Latin Americans again, chattering away in Spanish and eating delicious South American cooking! I had met Ana and her friend Emy at the DMV a few weeks ago and exchanged phone numbers with the promise to keep in touch. Finally we decided to meet on Saturday at Kumagaya Station in Saitama, 50 kilometers east of Takasaki and a 20-minute drive from their house.

When they came to pick me up, the first thing that struck me was that Ana and her daughters were all wearing spaghetti-strapped tops! In this country of super-short skirts but always-covered shoulders, seeing bare arms was a shock. It was just like being back in America! I know that’s a weird thing to say, but it was nice to see them so very comfortable and free in this hot weather. I have succumbed to Japanese modesty and keep all my tank tops in my dresser drawer. 

As soon as I got in the car and we all had made our introductions, I was immediately peppered with questions about my life in Japan, my life in America, what I wanted to do while I was in Ota. Everyone kept interrupting and talking loudly over each other and there were a lot of light-hearted insults thrown around. Ana’s husband, Augusto, prefaced most of his questions with, “Now this is something I read on the Internet, and I’ve always wanted to ask a real American about this . . . “ before throwing out statistics about American foreign policy, President Obama, World War II, UFOs and Area 51, or the upcoming end of the world in 2012. It was a whirlwind of conversation before we even crossed the bridge back into Gunma (about a mile away). Oh, it was fun! To be surrounded by the sweet, spicy sounds of South American Spanish, like music to my ears! And I understood every word! After months of barely scraping by with Japanese, it was so NICE to be able to carry on a conversation in another foreign language I can actually speak. 

Our first stop was at a huge Brazilian shopping center/restaurant in Ota. It was about half the size of Target and filled with all kinds of things, from soap and t-shirts to whole roasted chickens and fruit. The restaurant was connected to the store, its menu hand-painted on a wooden sign in Portuguese. I felt exactly as if I had walked into La Vaca Ramona in Greensboro, except this time I was the outsider among outsiders, the American girl in the Brazilian community in Japan! But it was such a familiar feeling: I’m so used to being stared at when I go to traditional Mexican places in North Carolina. I smiled politely at the Brazilian folk sitting there, and looked around at all the new and interesting products, slightly familiar but still different.

There was a quick discussion about if we should eat there or somewhere else, and somewhere else won. We had lunch at a buffet-style Brazilian place called La Primavera a few blocks away. I had just eaten a little while ago so I couldn’t finish my plate, but I did enjoy the slices of roast beef (?), salad, white lasagna, rice and beans, and soup . . . and the continuing fun conversations about conspiracy theories and aliens.

The girls wanted to go to Aeon Mall after eating, so Ana and I sat in an open area talking while her husband and kids entertained themselves in the game arcade. We got home around 8:00 and rested for a bit before heading over to see Emy and her family a few blocks away. Just us girls went, leaving Augusto at home.

Up until then, I had been doing pretty well conversationally with the Spanish, but Emy and her husband, both from the middle of Brazil, barely speak it at all, even though they understand most of it. So I sat on the couch in their very nice upper-middle class house, listening to the swirls of Portuguese on one side as the adults talked, and the Japanese/Portuguese mix of Ana and Emy’s kids on the other side, and thought: Wow, I don’t know what’s going on. Once in a while Ana would look up and translate back into Spanish for me, but after a while I just gave up listening. There was a kid’s keyboard in the corner, so I entertained the kids (an 11-year old girl and a 5-year old boy) with “The Entertainer,” “The Nickelodeon” (is that its name?) and “Beach Ball Boogie,” that I drug out from somewhere in the far reaches of my memories and which reminded me of my brother back in 1994.

It’s amazing how similar the immigrant experience is all over the world. Back in the States, my Mexican and Central American clients would complain that their kids only speak in English and can’t think Spanish anymore; here on the other side of the world, Emy and Ana complain that their kids just speak in Japanese. It makes sense, since they spend all day in Japanese schools and have Japanese friends, but I’m sure there’s always that cultural identity balance they’re trying to achieve in school and at home. I wonder if there are the same statistics on Brazilian kids in Japan like there are on Mexican kids in America. I wonder if life is just as hard.

In any case, Ana’s kids are pretty bright to speak fluent Spanish, Portuguese, and Japanese, just like Emy’s kids speak Portuguese and Japanese. And if I keep hanging out with everyone, I’m going to have to learn a little português myself! They understand me when I respond in Spanish, but I only get about 70% of what they’re saying, and half of that is through body language. Alejandro and Emy's 5-year old son fell in love with me as the night progressed, and he kept chattering to me half in Portuguese and half in Japanese, with me understanding about every 20^th word. After a while I just gave up and said, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, oh, that’s great!” in English because I wasn’t sure what else to do.

At 10:00 p.m., the eight of us—4 adults and 4 kids—piled into Emy’s husband Alejandro’s car and drove to McDonald’s for dinner. The people behind the counter were all Japanese, but besides us, half a dozen white and dark Brazilians were in the restaurant as well. 

  

We got back to Emy and Alejandro’s at 11:00. Over the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had (my first Brazilian coffee?) we chattered on about languages, traveling, make-up, Avon, snakes in the Amazon, and how the Vietnamese eat spider legs. (No joke.) Alejandro could carry on a conversation in mixed-Spanish, so we could understand each other. Emy just speaks Portuguese so poor Ana had to translate a lot. It was still a really fun night, though!

I was absolutely exhausted and just wanted to go to bed as soon as we got home around 12:30, but the girls had rented a scary movie and wanted to watch that. So I crawled into bed with one of them beside me and the other on a mattress on the floor, and tried to sleep while they enjoyed their film (I'm not sure which one it was; I put earplugs in). I still hadn’t gone to sleep when it finished around 2:30 a.m., but I did manage to drift off for a little bit off and on until 9:45. Sleeping was almost impossible, though, because Shiori kept kicking me and shoving me to the other side of the bed in her sleep all night. This is what I get for doing the same thing when I was 12.

The morning was better, though: while the girls slept, Ana and I sat at the kitchen table in our t-shirt pajamas, sipping coffee and eating bread and eggs, our feet propped up under the table, completely at ease. It was relaxing.

Augusto came back from church around 12:30 (sorry, I was asleep when he left). The girls had woken up by then, and wanted to eat. We went first to Augusto’s mom’s shop, a little trailer-like thing that sells authentic Peruvian food. I bought camote (sweet potato) chips and banana chips, which I devoured that same day. Then we went to a restaurant for pollo a la brasa. It was just like being back in a Latina American place back in America, sitting on that bench in that tiny restaurant/store. We ordered a whole roasted chicken, salad, French fries, ceviche, and Inca Cola to drink. I kept marveling over the fact that I can sit in a Peruvian restaurant with South American friends in Japan! It’s so wonderful! Yay, diversity! 

They dropped me off at the station after lunch, and I was back in my apartment by 6:00. Ota is kind of a dull little town; I can see it doesn’t have great big attractions or anything. But it does have bilingual signs everywhere, and people in all shades of colors who speak different languages. It’s a nice break from the homogeneity of my daily life. It was really lovely for me to visit, because I felt, just for a little bit, like I was back at home. 

"American Finally Gets Driver's License"

Ever since I first came to Japan in August, I’ve heard people talking about how impossibly hard it is for foreigners to get their driver’s licenses in Japan. For a couple of months, all that talk just went in one ear and out the other, because I figured I’d just be here for a year and could use my international permit until then. No problem. I didn’t need a license.

But then I decided to stay for another year, and despite whatever strings I thought I could pull, I discovered that I actually couldn’t drive for two years on an international permit, even if I got it renewed when I go back to the States this summer. It’s a one-year deal in Japan. So, if I wanted to drive legally in this country for the 2011-2012 JET year, I was going to have to get my Japanese driver’s license.

I kept reminding myself all through February and March, “Jaimie, get your license. Get your license,” thinking of all those “it-took-me-six-months-to-get-mine” horror stories I’d heard. “Oh, I’ve got time, I’ve got time,” I threw back, wondering why I always repeat things twice when talking to myself.

In May, though, I got serious. My international permit would expire on July 31. Time was not on my side anymore. So I started reading blogs, the Gunma JET site, and any other website my friends would send me, trying to get ready.

The process in Japan is a little bit different from in the States. Back home, when I was 16, I took a summer driver’s ed course in high school, took the written test, took the driving test on a real road (OK, so I failed it twice, but hey, I was 16), and that was that. Renewing it has been easy: just a trip to the local DMV, answer a few questions, get a bad photo taken, and voila! License to drive. Now that you can’t drive till you’re 18, I don’t know how the process works, but that was my experience back in 1998.

Here, most Japanese people spend something like $3,000 on a rigorous driving school. They take these classes for six months, take a 50-question written test, take a closed-course driving test, and then they’re good to go.

Foreigners only have to take a 10-question written test (that a moron could answer) and the closed-course driving test (which is what everyone fails repeatedly).

I first started this process on Thursday, May 12. The Saturday before, I had gone to the practice course in Takasaki to see what I was up against. I drove it a few times; it didn’t seem too bad. So I walked into the DMV feeling pretty confident that I’d pass the first time.

But I didn’t even get through the door that day! The stern-looking man behind the counter took a look at all my papers, identification cards, passport, NC license, alien registration card and the duly-made copies of all of them, and determined them to be insufficient proof that I had had my driver’s license for the requisite three months before coming to Japan.

The last license I got was in 2007. It doesn’t expire till 2015. But they wanted to make a big deal of the fact that I had traveled outside of the U.S. in 2008, 2009, and 2010. I had stamps for all of my travels but one, where Immigration had scanned my passport instead of stamping it. Because of that one missing stamp, I was sent home in a huff on the first day with an order to bring back more proof.

What I brought back the next Tuesday was an English-speaking Japanese teacher from my school. I explained (with her interpreting) that the DMV was just being stupid, that if I got my license in August and didn't travel until the following July, and then went in and out of the country a few more times, that I was obviously residing legally in the United States, and that I was driving the whole time, and don’t be nit-picky. Of course I said all of this deferentially and politely. And it worked.

My interpreter left, and I took the paper test alone in a room with a less-stern-than-the-other-guy officer guarding me. The questions were like: “If the traffic light is green, but a police officer is standing in the middle of the road with his arms out, must you stop?” Or, “Is it OK to drive after you drink just a little alcohol or take just a few drugs?” You answer by putting a large O in the box if it’s correct, and an X if it’s wrong. I passed 8 out of 10, which could have been due to the poorly translated English, the double negatives that I thought too much about before answering, or because I just didn’t know (ha).

I waited in the lobby for about an hour before I was told to go down the hall to the practice course. “Look, but don’t go outside,” I was warned. So I went down the hall and into another wing, which looked down on the course. This is a picture of it:  

That day, it was me and about 10 or 12 other foreigners from all over the world: China, the Philippines, Nepal, Bangladesh, Brazil. I talked to a couple of people and was slightly shocked that some were there for their 8^th or 9^th go. So it’s true what they say about foreigners taking forever.

Talking to the other drivers (in a lovely mix of English and our bad Japanese), I realized that the driving test has nothing to do with your actual driving ability. What it is about is following the rules to a T. Just to move a few feet, you have to follow these steps exactly in order, or you lose points: 

1)   Inspect the car from the outside before getting in.
2)   Look both ways before opening the door.
3)   After you get in, a) adjust your seat, b) adjust the center mirror, c) put on your seatbelt, d) check your mirrors, e) put the car in Drive, f) release the emergency brake.
4)   Put on your right turn signal. Look in your right mirror. Look behind your shoulder. Pull out and go.

I wonder how many people actually follow these steps when they drive every day. For the test, though, you have to know these rules! If you turn on your turn signal a second later than they want you to, or if you don’t brake three times when slowing down from 50 km/hr, or any number of tiny details, you lose points. And if you do something really stupid like hit a curb during the crank or the S, you automatically fail.

After everyone takes the test, you all go back to the lobby and wait for the officer to come out. He holds up a big whiteboard with numbers written on it. If your number is there, you passed. If your number isn’t there, you didn’t.

I thought I drove OK that first day, but obviously I didn’t. Only one person passed.

The second time I came back, I thought I’d be all right. I did all my preparations and was going OK, until I came to the S curve. I hit the curb. Automatic fail. My new Spanish-speaking Brazilian friend Ana (whom I met that first day) got her license, though, and I was happy for her.  

The third time’s the charm! But after we all congregated in the lobby after taking the test, the officer came out empty-handed. “Kyo imasen,” he said. (Today, there’s nobody.)

I was beginning to think I’d never get that damn thing. I’d already gone to the practice course twice (and spent 150 bucks on it). I was tired of failing and tired of trying. I was also mad because they don’t tell you what you do wrong during the test! They just pass or fail you without letting you know what you need to improve on. When you ask, they say, “This is a test, not driving school. If you want to know how to improve, go to driving school.” Ouch.

A few days after my third try, I went to Maebashi to meet with a girl who had taken the test 11 times. She gave me a detailed course printout with copious notes and a lot of great pointers on what to do during the test. I left thinking maybe I could do it in less than ten.

On Thursday, June 2, I went back for the fifth time (fourth driving). There were only four of us that day: two college-aged boys from Shanghai and a graduate-student from Nepal. We chattered away in an English/Japanese mix, with one Chinese boy interpreting for his friend. We were all fairly confident we’d all fail, especially the Nepalese guy, who had been told as soon as he walked in that he wouldn’t pass. “It’s only your second time,” he was told. “There’s no way you’ll get it.” What if he’d have driven it perfectly, though? Would they fail him just because he hadn’t had enough experience? Do they just want you to spend a lot of money? 

The English-speaking Chinese boy went first, with his friend and me in the backseat. It was his first time, and you could tell. He seemed unsure of the course and didn’t know quite what to do. He left the car door open when he got out, and didn’t put the E brake on like you’re supposed do.

Then it was my turn. I did all my preparatory work, checking my mirrors and adjusting my seat and all that, then pulled out onto the course. As I drove, I counted mentally the hateful sound of the officer’s pen striking the paper, as he marks off mistakes. It seemed an awful lot. As I rounded the last curve to go back to start, he started scribbling even more onto his paper. “Great, just great,” I thought. “Well, maybe next time.”

But lo and behold, when the four of us congregated in front of the counter like beggars waiting for a scrap of bread, the officer held up a sign with the number 5 scrawled on it. That was me! I couldn’t believe it for a second. Then I did a little jump and a little dance and blew kisses at the officer (SO un-Japanese of me!). Since he was the kindly man, not the mean one, he smiled and wasn’t offended. He walked me through some paperwork and told me to come back soon to get my picture taken and the real license issued.

Today is Sunday. I go back tomorrow afternoon for the last time, and I will walk out with a real Japanese driver’s license! I’m still not exactly convinced I need a car next year. . . I wonder if I could save my 25,000ish yen a month (about what I spent just to get the license) and save it instead. But am I really disciplined enough to bike or take the bus all the time, everywhere? At least, now that I actually have a license, I can make that decision myself and not have it be made for me.

By the way, I was Skyping with my mom this morning, and my stepdad stepped in just to say, “Hey, I was reading in the Japanese papers this morning: ‘American Finally Gets Driver’s License.’” Thanks for giving me a good title! :)

Sports & Clubs

This is just a quick note to say how much fun I had after school yesterday with the track team! Japanese junior high schools are packed with club activities (what we'd call sports teams, except these kids don't try out, they just join): baseball, softball, volleyball, basketball, track & field, tennis, judo, kendo, table tennis, brass band, art, home economics. . . there are probably more but I can't think of them right now. The school day finishes at 3:55, and club activities go from 4:00-6:00 p.m.

Since we've been having such nice weather recently, I've felt the pull in my bones to get outside and DO something! Honestly, I've always been kind of anti-sports: my physical activity usually consists of yoga or mountain climbing, not chasing a ball around. But recently I've really enjoyed throwing Frisbees or kicking a soccer ball, so I figured I'd try my luck with sports at school.

I changed into my snazzy track pants and t-shirt and went out on the playing field, which was crawling with students! The basketball team was running laps, the soccer team was out playing, the softball and baseball teams were playing, too, each in their own corner of the field. I wanted to run with the track team, since I did such a good job at it in 7th grade in 1995 (school record: 1 mile in 7:02!!!). The track coach actually wasn't there; instead, one of the 3rd grade girls was leading the 30 students through practice.

First we ran around the perimeter of the school to warm up, then we did stretching excercises. We lined up and skipped halfway down the track before taking off in a dash to finish. We did these weird walking excercises to stretch your hamstrings. And we ran a little bit more.

Later, everyone in the team split up: some dragged out heavy mats and poles and practiced high jump, some got shot puts and started thowing them, some jumped over hurdles (hu-ru-du in Japanese), and others just ran laps. I skipped around from group to group, doing a little jumping, a little shot putting (terribly), discovered I can't do one pull-up on a bar, and finished off playing jump-rope with 7 first and second grade boys. The whole experience was in about 70% Japanese and 30% English. I was so impressed with the students' ability to go through with practice even though they didn't have anyone there yelling at them. Sure, there were some girls who ended up gossiping on the high jump mats instead of actually practicing, but overall, everyone was doing something.

When I said goodbye to everyone, one girl said, "Mata kitene!" (Come back!) I was so inspired that I went directly to Saty after school and bought another pair of track pants so I can join again! Now my schedule will be: Monday and Wednesday, Japanese class; Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, track practice!

Maybe I should try out all the other sports, too. . . maybe I'll discover I'm not as incapable as I thought I was. It's actually fun!