New Years in Tokyo

Whitman College hires native speakers to work in each language department― similar to my job now really― my last two year at Whitman it was Yuriko Otomo. We became friends through Japanese Department gatherings, bonenkais and other parties. Both in Japan now, Yuriko invited me and a few other Whitman alumni to her family’s home in Chiba― near Tokyo― for New Years. Eager to get out of Yamaguchi Prefecture I quickly RSVP’d “Yes”. I was to arrive on the 29th, noonish. In order to arrive in Chiba noonish I would have to leave Hiroshima by bullet train by 6am, leaving Iwakuni by 5am, long before the local train would be running to take me to Iwakuni, I would ride my bike. I went to bed at 8pm, up to 2am, after packing, breakfast, and cleaning I left the apartment at 4. I rode my bicycle that had been totaled by the accident a few weeks before, if you tried to turn while pedaling the pedal would hit the front tire and send you over the handlebars, no worries of it being stolen, I would have to ride carefully. The night was cold, but electric, I was energized for my voyage, light snow fell on the way to the station. Parking my bicycle on the far side of the station, I ran on to the first train of the morning to Hiroshima. Few riders this early, too early for the businessmen even, an unusual bunch really, for Japan anyways. A woman and daughter, likely off to visit family for the New Year, a younger man who looked as though he had spend the night in the bars around Iwakuni, quite possible― there is no official bar closing here. One man took out an electric shaver and cleaned up, unheard of at normal hours, the woman and daughter got up and moved to the next car. The ticket bullet train ticket clerk in Hiroshima looked unhappy to be awake at 6am, and frustrated with my lack of Japanese finesse. I found a seat on the train, an isle to myself, and fell asleep. The ride to Tokyo was a hazy amalgamation of sleep and staring at the Japanese landscape fly past at 300 kilometers an hour. Arriving at Tokyo Station was an immense shock to my system, I had left relatively small Hiroshima in the tranquil early morning hours and arrived in massive Tokyo at the lunchtime rush. Swimming upstream through the crowds packing the labyrinth of floors and tunnels of Tokyo Station, I eventually found my way onto an express subway headed to Chiba. A transfer in Chiba City, and I made it to Mobara Station at 11:48 perfect timing. I waited on the curb until 12:10, then found a payphone to call Yuriko. Five minutes later I heard “Nate!” from behind me and saw Yuriko running toward me. She led me to the other Whitman folks who had come, Albert and Jennifer, both of whom I recognized by didn’t know personally. We put our bags in the back and climbed into Yuriko’s Mazda, first stop, a karaoke joint. I started to become nervous for the agenda of the days ahead― a few times I had been to karaoke, and had a good time after a few drinks, but I had never thought anyone would go in the middle of the afternoon― the place was overrun with elementary aged kids. Shit. Yuriko asked me to accompany her to her family’s kimono shop to pick up a few things, gladly.

“do you like karaoke?” Yuriko asked me,

“sometimes.... maaaybe, after a few drinks,”

“watashi mo” [me too]

We laughed, glad we understood each other. We picked up the items at the shop and took our time buying obentos [prepared lunches] and walking back to the karaoke place. Yuriko and I ate lunch and listened to Albert and Jennifer duets. When they had lost interest in MIDI (that is to say resembling cell phone ring tone) versions of Japanese pop songs and Bon Jovi, we headed off for Otaki, Yuriko’s home town. 
Yuriko's family's house is a beautiful Japanese style house surrounded by gardens and perimetered by a high stone wall, the gate intentionally absent, as a sign of a welcoming home (as explained in Japanese by Yuriko's father). Across the yard was the family's first kimono shop, where her father would later show me a bullet hole in the ceiling from a US fighter plane in WWII. 

 Yuriko's family's beautiful home in Oatki.

Otaki-town resides in Chiba Prefecture, on the east side of Tokyo bay, and the most direct route, by air,  between downtown Tokyo and open Pacific Ocean. During WWII United States planes would fly over Chiba Prefecture in route to drop bombs on Tokyo. On the return flight, looking to reduce weight and conserve fuel, planes would drop their remaining bombs on Chiba, it would have been a very scary place to live. 

That night we went to an onsen bathhouse situated in the mountains that surround Otaki-town. The winter air was crisp, but the onsen was hot and the cold air felt good. The next day we toured Otaki-town and Otaki Castle, which Yuriko's grandfather had helped build, the "Otomo" was carved in stone at the foot of the castle. We visited "furui ie" [the old house], an Otaki-town landmark owned by an Otomo family friend. The furui ei was a 130 year old house, built and maintained true to traditional Japanese style, and with a level of craftsmanship that left me staring at the joint work of the staircase for several minutes. At the time the house had been built, it was intended to serve as both a residence and a shop for the home owners. The architect and builders assumed the shop owners would seek additional help with the shop, a maid really, but this practice was illegal in Japan at that time. Therefore, the carpenters built a hidden room on the second floor, accessible only by a ladder from the first floor, hidden behind a false wall, the maid would remain hidden if the authorities were to ever investigate.

That night we went to an ishiburu [stone bath], a geo-thermally heated "bath", the floor is covered in soft pea gravel, the walls and ceiling cedar. When you arrive you change into a yukata [a robe, kind of], then you lay on the rocks in the hot room and sweat, very cool. 

Here are some more pictures from around Otaki-town:

 Largest "pre-modern" Daibutsu in Japan. 

Completed in 1783. 

This Buddha is carved in a common pose for a Medicine Buddha.

 The Daibutsu, as well as these Gohyaku Rakan [500 Rakan]

are on Nokogiri-Yama [Saw Mountain].

All from the end of the Edo era (late 1700s).

 Pathways were carved through the mountainside as well.

 

Pathway leading to:

 Kannon Bosatsu Statue.

 Ringing the bell at Otaki Castle in honor of the New Year.

RIP Fuji Bicycle

Sorry there are no pictures to go with this story, it wasn’t really an occasion for photos. My next post will be more visual, promise.

Names have been changed, if you think it’s you, it is.

When you live and work in a foreign country, everyday activities often become massive convoluted adventures that leave you unable to remember with what or where you started. Chance encounters with friendly people lead you to temples on remote islands, true story, and a trip to buy a liter of milk ends with a firework show, also true. Most of that is all well and good, and probably part of the reason you left familiar shores in the first place, it does however make it difficult to truly relax; when trips to the grocery store require a dictionary, you’re never completely “turned off”, as it were. So in this jungle of words that absolutely must end with a vowel, it is important from time to time to converse with fellow native English speakers. In that spirit, JETs like to get to together to celebrate holidays, speak normally, and exchange stories that begin with “No, no, no, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me….”  

On my way to one such event, Andrew’s birthday dinner, I was riding my bike to Fuju Station, to catch the Sanyo train to Obatake, where Andrew and his wife, Michaela, were to pick everyone up in their car. I do live along a train line, this is my schools justification for why they have me live 15km from school and won’t allow me to drive, but it’s the slowest and most infrequent train in the prefecture, and taking it often results in long layovers at the stations of either end of its line. I found that a 5 mile bike ride to Iwakuni Station, or Fuju Station, can save me from a lot waiting around. I was riding to Fuju as many people were still making their way home from work, the streets were pretty crowded and I had to stick to the shoulder, it was getting dark. Up ahead I saw a car creeping out from a cross street, doing that jerky can’t decide to go or not movement, where they could have gone if they had made the decision quickly, but ultimately will wait too long, and then pull out in front of everything at the last minute and cut everyone off. I slowed down. He stopped his jerking and settled, wasn’t going to go. I started to move to pass in front on him and he decided that now was a good time to get moving. I locked the tires, no use, slammed into the side of his car and felt my rear fly up and my face hit cold steel. Lying on the pavement I looked up and heard his car start to rev away, then he pulled over, decided he better not, I guess. I could taste blood, my knee hurt, an old man with thick glasses, the driver, walked over to me,

“nihingo o wakarimasuka” [do you understand Japanese?]

“sukoshi” [a little], I replied.

He walked away. Yeah, thanks for the help I thought as I picked myself and my bike up, it wouldn’t roll; fork was bent back so that the front tire was touching the frame. I picked it up and leaned it against the guardrail. The old man was talking on the phone, police I assumed, I spat some blood on the ground toward him, he seemed to get the message…I’m not real happy with him, he walked away. I could hear distant sirens for some time before they arrived, medics first, then one police car, then another, and another, the place was swarming with activity. Police were marking the ground with chalk, measuring, interviewing, inspecting his car and my bike; meanwhile I was busy trying to explain that I wasn’t going to go to the hospital.

The medics struggled in English, “ummm…Hospital. Let’s go.”

“no, no, no… no thank you,” I said.

“Why?” another medic jumped in.

Why? Because I don’t want to, I thought. Granted, I felt like I had just been blindsided by a linebacker, but nothing was broken, I knew that. My knee hurt, but I could walk; my lip was bleeding, but my teeth were all still there. The hospital would be a nightmare.

“watashi wa daijyobu desu” [I’m okay], was all I could think of.

The medics eventually left and I began sorting things out with police. Japanese police don’t assign blame in such instances, they write a report and let insurance companies deal with blame, but it was becoming clear that they believed he was at fault, that was a relief. After nearly two hours of talking with medics and police I finally got the go-ahead to leave, the driver had never said another word to me. I picked up my bike and started to walk home, but was quickly stopped by a man who I thought was a spectator but turned out to be the driver’s nephew, he spoke good English and was kind enough to give me and my bike a ride home, which was much further than I had realized, it would have taken at least a couple hours with my swollen knee. When we got to my apartment he offered to take my bike back to his shop to take pictures for the insurance company, my cynical side knew this was a bad idea, never let someone else have control of the primary piece of evidence, but my cynical side was too exhausted, “Yeah. Sure.” I went to bed.

My swollen lip, black eye, and limp made it impossible to keep from my coworkers the next day, who promptly told the assistant principal, who told the principal, who called the Yamaguchi Board of Education; nothing is your own business when you’re a JET. That afternoon a teacher told me I had a visitor waiting downstairs. I assumed it was the police, damn, how is this going to look? But, to my surprise, it was the driver. He had brought me a box of sweets and had come to apologize and wish me a speedy recovery, claimed he was to shaken up to speak immediately after the accident. HE was shaken up!? I resisted the urge tell him to keep his sweets and open his damn eyes next time. A few people later told me the coming the next day with a gift is customary in Japan, so I guess we’ll just chalk the whole thing up to a cultural experience. All is well that ends well.

By the way, I ended up getting x-rays to confirm my back was all in the right place, all good, his insurance bought me a new bike, and I eventually got my old bike back from the nephew as well, good for parts.