Sunday, October 23rd

We all have our blonde moments in life. Unfortunately for this brunette however, mine always happen to be in front of large groups of people and extremely noticeable. This past week I had an audio/visual epiphany so grandiose that it is beginning to make me question my efforts to get into law school.

It all began last Tuesday, when a suited NHK (Japan’s public television) salesman came around to my apartment demanding money for the free TV service his company provides. I tried to insist I did not have to pay because my TV was not working for some reason. I plugged it into the wall socket, but all I saw was white noise. He of course did not believe that I was a college student who did not watch TV (I had trouble even saying it out loud myself) and thought I was a foreigner trying to pull one over on him. Eventually, between the language barrier and my ridiculous notion of my TV not working, he gave up and slammed the door in my face.

Several days later life came full circle when I was complaining to a friend about how my TV wasn't working. Patiently listening to my technical woes, my friend asked me, "well have you got the antenna cord?" I think my look of blind disregard for what he was talking about was what made him laugh, or the fact that I am so completely stupid that I didn't even realize that just plugging in my $50 used TV wasn't enough...I needed to be hooked up to an antenna. I literally felt like crawling into a nearby cave and just living like a pariah under a rock, but instead laughed it off and headed to the holy grail of electronics: Yodabashi Camera.

In this 9-floor megastore of technical gadgets I found my antenna cord and remote control which now allow me to enjoy plenty of Japanese variety shows and soap operas...which are much funnier than in America. Even if you can't understand Japanese, the melodrama and terrible acting is actually worse than “Days of Our Lives” and “Passions” back in the States. And I didn’t even think that was even humanly possible to beat. Fortunately for me, however, it is possible and provides for endless hours of entertainment.

Saturday, October 22nd: Jidai Matsuri

October 22nd is an extremely important and festive date for Japan, particularly Kyoto. Each year on this day, the Jidai Matsuri is held, which is the Festival of the Ages. This is a glamorous city-wide parade that proudly presents Japan’s rich heritage of millennia old history and traditional couture. From white-faced geishas to ornamented horses, regal shoguns and katana, or sword, exhibitions, the parade holds everything you think of when it comes to Japan and concludes at the massive Heian shrine which towers over Kyoto proper.

Amidst the havoc of thousands of people, I met my friend Kavitha, and two of my now favorite people in Japan. Yotei, a tall, skinny, economics major led us throughout the city complete with official tour guide map and a running commentary on local folklore. Wataru, a history major, gave us all the dirty details on each part of the parade with his keen wit and laid-back attitude. He could have fit in America any day of the week with his mechanic shirt, ski-cap and baggy pants, except for the fact that he was a perfect gentleman, holding doors and umbrellas for us ladies. They also happen to be Japanese tutors, which makes them patient when we ask, “so what’s that mean” every two minues and have the greatest senses of humor in the world (i.e. they laugh at my ridiculous jokes and think I'm hilarious).

Before watching the end of this illustrious celebration, however, Wataru and Yohei insisted that the group head to one of Kyoto’s most fantastic temples, Kyou Mizudera. We booked it across town sharing stories of our time here in Japan with two other students that were with us, Koe, a Taiwanese citizen who just so happens to be the most adorable 5 foot person in the world, and Heather, a New Yorker who absorbs Japanese culture like a sponge. The six of us were huffing and puffing as we climbed the hill to the summit of the temple, which has a dramatically breathtaking panorama of Kyoto. It is so difficult to describe the feeling that such a beautiful thing imparts with its visitors, but when viewing something so profound on a sunlit, clear day with new friends, laughing and enjoying oneself, I have to say it was some of the most fun I have had in Japan yet!

After viewing the parade, Yohei and Wataru escorted us ladies to a traditional soba restaurant, where the noodles are made are extremely thick and very fun to slurp, which is what one does to signify the dish is delicious. Of course, watching four foreigners learn how to slurp with the assistance of two very patient Japanese men providing us with the instructions is one thing that I would personally laugh at if I were to see it, but luckily the shopkeeper and his adorable son who had just finished baseball practice enjoyed serving us.

As we parted ways for the day, I told Yohei and Wataru in choppy Japanese that they are in fact my favorite Japanese guys, and they laughed at the silly foreigner exclaiming that we must get together soon! Every day in Japan is a fresh adventure and meeting new people is only just around the corner!

Thursday, October 20th: The Prodigal Daughter

I am a self-proclaimed spend-a-holic. My family, friends, professors and local neighborhood kids will admit to it. I Kristin White cannot budget. Its simply not in my genes (actually it is, my father has a Ph.D. in mathematics but I can barely count to 10). So when my grant organization gave me a chunk of change the first week I landed on Honshu island, my eyes immediately opened as wide as saucers and I had to hold my hands over my eyelids to keep them from popping out of my head.

This of course comes from a girl who loves to clothes shop, treat her friends out and this leads to bizarre circumstances. I am on a first-name basis with all my banks (note the plural), am often on congenial terms with the shopping stores I frequent, and have even sunk to the level when I got my first delinquency notice from Dominos pizza. And I don’t eve like Dominos.

So when you tempt a fashion-savvy foreigner with the shopoholic culture of Osaka, where clothing is just as, if not more important than food, it creates I tad of a problem.Of course having an inkling to spend in a nation where banks are frequented every day and the average citizen carries around $1,000 with them is not easy for me to take. Surmount that with the fact that key money, or non-refundable housing deposits, reach up into the thousands, clothing in shockingly expensive (and small) and food can cost you an arm and a leg….you begin to feel as though you could drown in a sea of financial sorrows.

Throughout the past month I watched my bank account dwindle further and further down until zeros were being left off bank statements and I needed to carry around a paper bag to breathe properly. Particularly discouraging is the fact that my bank has an ATM on campus, right next to the co-op I frequent every day. If God is testing me, he is doing an excellent job.

So how do I save money? Why go to my favorite bar with friends where we can all talk about how poor researchers are! The Humming Bird is a quaint reggae bar right next to campus, complete with black lights, Bob Marley memorabilia and great people. The bar owner is a former New Yorker who, after living in Japan for several years, tried to make a semblance of a life back in the US’s largest city, and found he missed Japan so much he moved right back to Osaka. Even without the free drinks, food, and lively banter he provides, I have found it so enjoyable to sit with friends and hear stories about their home countries.

From Italian stories about Matteo’s German-speaking, Italian-born grandmother to rants on Gorbechev and the fall of communism by the Russian-Orthodox Dmitri, I have spent countless hours at “my bar” trying to solve the world’s problems with friends and drowning our own with good drink. The most wonderful thing about it is that I am living in more of a melting pot of Japanese, Italian, Chinese, French, Russian and so many more cultures here than I ever had in my small hometown or quaint liberal arts college. And the only way all of us can communicate? Why Japanese of course! Of course I am always missing jokes and my default word is “nani,” or “what?” Over kanpais (the equivalent to "cheers" in the States and the clinking of the glasse) our language bobbles only makes us laugh all the more and realize how truly lucky we are to have the opportunity to research in Japan!

Wednesday, October 19th: I am legal!

I am legal! I am legal! I am legal! Oh god, it’s never going to get old! As of today, I now have in my possession a beautiful, shiny, holographic piece of plastic that proves I am no longer stowing away in Japan. I am now, in fact, a legally registered resident. To say I am excited that this bureaucratic mess is behind me is the understatement of the century!

But oh the poor fool bereft of language and will. At least, that seemed to be the circumstance for the sorry Englishman in front of me in Toyonaka’s city hall. Whoever would look to me for Japanese language help, obviously hasn’t heard me speak. But when the gentleman in front of me heard the national health insurance officer explain that because he hadn’t paid his insurance premium in 8 months he was ineligible for services, he simply stared back with a blank expression and turned to me as if I could cosmically alter the universe to help him. Luckily he had a Japanese friend with him to serve as his language life preserver and it made me so pleased to know that even if I do not understand half the things that are being said to me, I am still confident enough to take these adventures into my own hands and independently conquer whatever hardships cross my path.

I officially became a resident in the city of Toyonaka as I trekked over to the town’s foreigner registration center for them to write in my beautiful shiny new address on my equally pristine, alien registration card I had obtained earlier in the morning across town. What joys a simple piece of plastic can give a person, I had now known until today, unless you count the numerous times you’ve misused your fathers credit card (sorry dad if you’re reading this…I love you!).
Then again, speaking of fools, I certainly caved in to my foolish desires when I bought my $5 hanko, or Japanese name stamp, in Ginza my first week in Japan. Since most Japanese citizens have names written in kanji, the beautiful, calligraphy-like symbols that represent words and ideas, each hanko is usually the symbol of each person’s name. I, of course am not Japanese (with a last name like White, you rarely would think otherwise), and therefore thought it would be fun to purchase a stamp for the symbol white, or shiro. It’s poetically simple, with only a few strokes of the brush (白) and found in some of my favorite haikus, so I thought it would be easy to ask a store to etch the kanji for white into the ivory hanko.

Of course I never thought of the repercussions of creating such a simple kanji, when most foreigners simply write their name in katakana, the alphabet that is used to describe foreign words. In katakana my name is simply, Kurisuten Howaito and looks like クリステン・ホワイト...easy, right? Well my clever shenanigan has cost me a chuckle or two at many of the institutions that require bureaucratic paperwork to be inked in your red hanko. The bank and I had a laugh together as I explained that in America, my last name actually is the color.

Today, however, the Toyonaka city official, who was barely any older than I was, did not find it so cute. Between going back to his desk for drinks of water and leisurely phone calls to his girlfriend, or at least some sort of significant other that required the phone to be glued to his ear, he did happen to notice my hanko as I stamped the mountain of health insurance papers I had to sign. As I walked back to my seat to await his ever-so-needed approval, I saw maneuver over to his colleague, point to the red ink, and they both laughed out loud hysterically. I of course think it is funny as well, I mean we must have a sense of humor about life, right?

My sense of humor found me walking myself up to the counter, saying thank you, and coyly responding, “watashino hankoha tanoshii desuyo!” Which translates to, “so you think my hanko is fun, huh?” At first he was absolutely shocked that I had heard what he and his “I-haven’t-quite-hit-puberty-yet” friend had said. As the look of disbelief subsided, however, his dropped jaw turned in to a smile, recognizing that he had found a sparring partner fit for another round of laughs. It was a wonderful sense of accomplishment and pleasure as I continued to hear his guffaws echo down the halls as he laughed to himself, scratching his head at how this foreigner had pulled one over on him! I think I’m going to like Toyonaka city!

Feeling a renewed self of accomplishment I decided that tonight was the night to break in my new kitchen. Of course it helped that my stove and toaster had been dropped of, but details are details. I headed to the local food coop and was in awe of the adventures in food that await me throughout the year! I picked up as much dairy as my little basket could handle, including the ingredients to make rolled eggs, a particular favorite recipe of mine that uses mirin, a clear sweetener, sugar and soy sauce. Luscious. Not so luscious was the fact that immediately when I put the pan full of eggs on the burner I began to question my chef’s skills as the smell of burning something or other immediately filled the apartment.

Since I am particularly proud of my cooking talents thanks to the wonderful women in my family who have instilled this love in me, my heart sank as my first meal was about to become a disaster. But as luck would have it, it was the $1 pan that was the culprit and not I, as I had to quickly make do with scrambled eggs and toast. Who knew that $1 store jam would be so good? Obviously not the person who thought that a 100 yen pan would suffice. Of course this is only the beginning in my Japanese culinary adventures and regardless of the burning metal and dropped eggs, it was the best meal of eggs and toast I have ever had!

Tuesday, October 18th

When staying in a new place for the first night, it is often difficult to fall asleep with the thousands of thoughts running through your mind all the while attempting to acclimate yourself to the sounds of the new environment. Luckily I had fallen in to a deep sleep just as I was woken by a loud blaring noise coming from my kitchen. Falling out of bed (literally) and feeling my way through my apartment I realized that it was not 11:30 PM when I had gone to bed, but somehow 7:30 in the morning and a man in a suit was at my door. I immediately knew that the gods of luggage had found me when the Kuroneko delivery man said he had my gigantic piece of luggage, and would I come out and get it because it is too large. Oh yes, my suitcase was too large for this gargantuan of a man to handle.

Not even minutes after I happily trotted back to my bedroom with my delivery prize I heard another screaming buzzer noise, this time knowing that it was my apartment’s phone. Moments later I had two kind Yukawa delivery men assembling Ikea-style furniture in my building’s hallway. It was certainly a sight to see before 8 AM! I screamed with delight as my apartment turned from a vacant lot where bugs came to die in to a posh, metropolitan’s dream. Leather couch, glass coffee table and art-nouveau shelving units later I was in fact an apartment owner…with furniture! I was so excited to tell my girlfriends of the news as I hurriedly sped off to class, not realizing me it had taken 4 hours to organize all my doodads and dollar store finds to make my apartment feel like home.

Now I am a self-proclaimed political science geek. Obsessed, passionate, whatever you want to call it, politics and finding a way to improve the society that surrounds us is the name of the game for me. That is why when my beloved disheveled Technical Japanese professor came to class today raring to talk about Japan’s recent election, he looked as though he was going to burst through his flannel button down shirt.

Unfortunately at 1 in the afternoon, when a class is more interested in what they ate for lunch than who won the election, it’s a beautiful day outside with birds chirping amidst the shining sun, and for some of us it is the only time we see our friends, it makes things a little more difficult. Even more so when our professor started his powerpoint presentation with a picture of Koizumi and one of the students asked, “who’s that dude?”

Yes folks, politics 101 is an introductory class in any college, but when you’re working with a bunch of foreign students who are only taking your class because it’s in English, you’re job is much more difficult. Combine this with the fact that Yamada-san tries so desperately to come across as an expert, or at least one that would know more than we do about the subject, it makes his tireless efforts that much more adorable. While attempting to ignore the chitty chat banter of the girls behind me and the sighs of boredom from students staring out the window, Yamada sensei immediately drew the class’s attention when we heard a loud slap! I wasn’t sure if I was the only one that had noticed at first, considering I was quite possibly the only student standing at attention, but our teacher had physically left a red-mark the size of a peach on his head. Trying to say “privatization” with a thick Nara accent, which makes these Eastern Kansai residents say “l” instead of “r,” and combine that with the fact that even the most highly verbose person stumbles on the five-syllable “privatization,” it was a recipe for disaster.

“Plilatisation” was what most of us heard, and amidst stifled howls of laughter, my now favorite professor trooped on with the discussion like a sergeant leading his troops into battle. With his hand towel he constantly dabbed at the beads of sweat running down his face, and he proceeded to inflict self-wrought pain with his palm every time he incorrectly pronounced “privatization.” Considering our entire discussion was surrounding Prime Minister Koizumi’s policy to privatize the post office in Japan, this made for an extremely long and dangerous class period that left me thankful for national health insurance and for the fact that Yamada-san was my professor.

Monday, October 17th

I do not consider myself a movie connoisseur. I enjoy the classics, like the almost-goes-without-speaking “Casablanca,” “To Kill a Mockingbird,” and even Audrey Hepburn gets to me in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” But that does not an expert make. Even my best friend, who practically knows the theater attendants by name and gives me the dirty details on each film currently out has not yet made a film savant out of me.

I did not expect my lack of movie knowledge to come in to play, however, in my advisor’s Japanese politics class. As we were in the midst of a discussion on public servants I was waiting to join in by keenly observing the profound, “public servants are good” (the few words I knew how to say in Japanese). Without warning, my professor turned to me and asked me if I liked baseball and “have you seen that movie?” I almost didn’t have the heart to tell him that I had no idea on earth what he was talking about as his expression was full of awe, his smile brimming at the seems with the wrinkles on his forehead about to pop off his head. Not thinking I hesitated, and he proceeded to find the English translation to, but of course, only the most topical way to introduce public servants in Japanese politics: “Field of Dreams.”

I too was miffed as to how the correlation was clear. I tried to find some sort of remnant of understanding in the other students’ faces, but they too were as confused as I was (although I am happy to admit I was happy that for once we were all confused as to the words that were coming out of Kawata sensei’s mouth). To be honest, I still have not quite figured out why he thinks that baseball is an inherent metaphor to politics, but I did tell the class that I happily attended a Hanshin Tigers game and that yes, Japanese fans are much louder than American fans. Kawata sensei nodded in complete agreement, almost as though my words made sense to him, as if in some other cosmic universe computers turned on and wheels started churning the information that linked politics to baseball. All I know is that if politics had $2 hot dogs and beer until the 8th inning, a whole lot more people would be going to the polls!

Unfortunately I did not have the time to divulge on this topic with my professor because I had to rush off to my apartment to receive the delivery man who was bringing my gigantic suitcase from my friends’ apartment across town. The suitcase was so large that at the drop-off place earlier that morning, the kind shopkeepers’ eyes popped out of his head and he attempted to call the Kuroneko (black cat) delivery center to see if they had the manpower to transport a bag that could actually hold a kitchen sink (or two). Luckily, the luggage gods were watching over me, and the shop owner was happy to take my money, which left me anticipating the bag’s arrival later that night.

I waited and waited and waited some more until I eventually realized that delivery companies probably do not operate until midnight, and then I became worried. Had they lost my bag? In my head I hammered through the different scenarios that could have happened. Did national security want to inspect it? Had I written the wrong address? Did someone realize that the bag itself was probably worth more than the items inside and sell it on the black market? Of course I wasn’t worried about the bag itself, but the things inside. My research? My electronics, or even worse…my favorite pair of pants? (A girl’s got to have her priorities straight, folks). I went to bed with ridiculously neurotic thoughts dancing in my head. It left me thinking that when a black cat crosses my path next time: I’ll be sure to avoid it!

Sunday, October 16th: The ignorance of the masses

My entire life I have always had a refulgent affinity for French culture. Aside from the French blood that runs through my veins and my sybaritic obsession with their fine cuisine, I am consumed with wonder at the fine works of art this country has produced throughout the centuries. While I profess that I am by no means an expert, I can tell Monet apart from Van Gogh and enjoy everything in between. This is why I could barely hold still when I learned that Kyoto’s Municipal Museum of Art was hosting a collection of the Louvre’s 19^th century paintings. On the last day of the exhibit’s viewing in Kyoto my friend and I met at the massive building that houses Japan’s own time-honored national treasures and waited patiently as lines of interested onlookers were in our same position.

What I did not realize was that this experience was going to evoke more frustration at Japanese culture than a reverence for that of the French.

I find it extremely contemptible that a nation so predisposed to social convention and masking illicit feelings with calm façades would allow 73 of the world’s most beautiful paintings to go virtually unnoticed at the eyes of the 5,000 visitors that peppered the museum’s halls. Yes, the crowd that traveled to the museum today was large, but the aesthetics of this masterful collection were abhorrently destroyed by the fact that hundreds of people were allowed in at once, clamoring to be as close to each painting as possible, pushing, shoving, and even yelling at each other to see each piece.

Ushered around with security guards yelling for visitors to move along, careful not to spend too much time at each painting, impatient viewers nudged and even verbally assault those who chose to stand in front of each piece of art more than 30 seconds. Not only that, but large pieces such as Vernet’s “Deer Hunt” and Franque’s “Allegory” are quite large paintings that kiss the corners where the walls and ceilings meet, but the majority of the viewers were so focused on attempting to come within inches of the paintings physical matter, that they lost the overall meaning of the piece. When in the Louvre, MOMA or even the Minneapolis Institute of the Arts, a true art connoisseur takes his or her time to take in the breadth of the piece, not simply the depth. Rather than peering over the partitions that separate us from the historical pieces or even attempt to touch noses to glass-encased artwork, it is important to stand back and assess the work as a whole, not only within each piece, but in the exhibit as a whole. That is the entire responsibility of the curator, but unfortunately this was one of the most poorly curated exhibits of which I have ever partaken. It was so disappointing it was stunning. Rather than search for words, which could have not even left my tongue due to the language barrier, I stood appalled at the masses of people that were being herded like cattle through the exhibit, with nearly 50 people in front of each painting. It wasn’t an art exhibit, it was a race to the finish to buy the cheap, plastic souvenirs at the end.

Never have I been so frustrated. I had looked forward to this exhibit since coming to Osaka, particularly with my fascination for French culture and proud French family history. Bumped and bruised from being pushed from painting to painting I realized that cultural barriers transcend beyond that of language and cuisine but exist in the very fabric of life that we come to know so well in our own familiar environments.

What I find so diabolically forlorn is the fact that many of the pieces were full of awe and wonder and in any other setting or under any other curator would have been exquisitely appreciated. Like a fine diamond, one has to take their time to examine each crevice and line to see all the ways in which the piece was put together. From brushstrokes and facial expressions to foreground and colors, one could spend hours, days even weeks studying a particular painting. With the desolate sadness of paul Delaroche’s “La Jeune Martyre” (The Young Martyr) to love’s perfection that fills Cupid with joy in Picot’s “Cupid and Psyche,” each of these pieces was meant to be examined carefully. We all make choices in our lives for particular reasons, and each artist’s brushstroke or sculptural shaping gives us an insight in to the human condition. Unfortunately the only human condition I saw today was one of morose disregard for the truth and an impatient desire to see as many paintings as possible in as little time necessary.

Heartbroken and crestfallen I left Kyoto tonight with a new energy to truly appreciate life. We have so little time on this earth and so many wonderful things to do and beautiful things to see that “stopping and smelling the roses” does not even come close to the way I want to embrace life and everything it holds dear.

Friday, October 14^th: Yahooooooooooooooooooooooooh!

There are moments in place and time where miracles are witnessed. For me, one of life’s joys includes watching the bright eyes of an enraptured child witnessing something for the first time. You see the corners of their mouth begin to form a wide grin as they are slowly and engagingly seeing the world open itself further into the wonders of the mind.

I am 100% sure that is exactly what I look like to each Japanese person who happens to pass by me on the street or sit across from me on a train. Each morning I wake up, I constantly reiterate the fact, “I can’t believe I’m in Japan,” silently as I do ordinary things in an extraordinary country. Whether its sending an e-mail through my cell phone or knowing which train to get on, each is a minor miracle in the life and times of Kristin White, and my grin is the only evidence that what I’m experiencing is real rather.

Unfortunately, these triumphs are not that impressive to the every-day Osakan. For example, this morning I walked in to my bank, took my number to wait in line, walked over to the self-serve counter, filled out my withdrawal slip, sat patiently, heard them call my number, and confidently strode up to the window, said good morning and asked to withdraw money from my account. I was so proud of myself I literally almost threw up my hands in the air to praise hallelujah when I was jolted back to reality, with the woman staring at me blankly telling me to please kindly take my seat.

Okay, so my mid-air fist pump completely identified me as an American, but c’mon folks. We’re taking about history in the making. The minor everyday tasks in our lives when transplanted in another country can take hours, days even weeks to accomplish. The fact that I was able to walk out of Sumimoto Mitsui with yen in my hand was one of the most exciting and liberating events that I didn’t even mind the hit-and-miss collision I had with the bicyclist on the way out of the bank. Of course, it wasn’t that exciting to the old man that I had just completed my first ever withdrawal in Japan, he wanted to know why on earth some random foreigner was trying to trying to play chicken with his bicycle, and as he sped off muttering some cuss words under his breath, I still couldn’t help but enjoy my newly-found independence.

With a full wallet I headed to Topos, a discount store similar to the likes of Wal-Mart. I am not a fan of large, corporate institutions (it must be the small-town South Dakotan in me), but Topos had been recommended on several occasions for cheap goods that one would find being made in foreign countries for dirt cheap and then marked up several hundred times so as to obliterate any notion of fair trade. I succumbed to a moment of weakness in this fluorescent lit expanse of “everything under one roof” store and purchased the piece de resistance for my apartment: a stove. An obvious necessity, I found one for $30 similar to my Coleman I use camping in the Black Hills with the attitude that I’m pretty much “roughing it” when it comes to Japan, so a miniature stove lit by gas canisters is as high-class as I was going to get. A toaster oven and set of closet shelves later I was out the door high on the fact that Topos delivers and I had almost completed the never-ending search for household items.

My mind brimming with ideas for recipes to make with my newly-bought kitchen appliances, I bustled over to Osaka University to pick up my meishi, or business cards. While Japan has an extremely high cost of living, I never expected it to impact the market of meishi. I realized that I should never make assumptions as the bill for my meishi read: 22,750 yen. As an American, anything with 5 figures almost brings one to tears, but I nearly cried aloud when I realized that the co-op wanted me to pay nearly $1.14 a card without them actually being made of gold or autographed by the prime minister. Sadly, the co-op did not realize that a research grant does not a millionaire make. I tried in stunted Japanese to explain that this price was too high, and my attempts obviously failed as I walked away from the desk with the girl quizzically asking her co-workers what on earth was going on.

Frustrated beyond belief, I parted a sea of Japanese college students with a mind-numbing like awe, mostly because they saw the frustration on my face and made warning comments to their friends similar to, “watch out she’s…gonna blow!”

Luckily I didn’t have time to think about this problem because I jettisoned off to the popular hot-spot Namba to meet Yorikawa-san, who was interviewing me for a volunteer position to work at an all-female prison teaching English. Navigating my way through subways, train stations and masses of foreigners reminiscent of New York’s Ellis Island, I met the adorable Chieko and we discussed my potential research opportunity. The prison I would be working at was in neighboring Kobe and while teaching beginning and advanced language classes to the female guards, I would have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see a world few Japanese see, more or less foreigners. As an avid supporter of human rights efforts, this opportunity would not only allow me to observe the way corrections facilities operate and how offenders are treated, but through the eyes of its female population.

Before leaving the downtown Osaka scene, I was on a mission to wangle Yahoo Japan in to coming to my apartment to install internet. I arrived at the holy grail of Japanese electronics: Yodobashi Camera. If you were to combine America’s Best Buy chain with the world’s most technologically advanced, state-of-the-art electronics, you would find 9 stories of the world’s most high-tech, mind-boggling toys all in one place. Amidst the blur of widgets and gadgets spiraling to and fro to lure unsuspecting customers to buy expensive items I found the Yahoo office. Within half an hour I had made a friend of the young girl helping me and was signed up to have the installation gurus head to my apartment to work their internet voodoo. Talk about small miracles! I couldn’t help but skip out of the store with a new confidence and independence.

Wednesday, October 12: Early bird gets the...coins?

Growing up in a quaint, Midwestern community inundates you with the essential aesthetics of small-town America. That is, everything except roosters crowing at sunrise as nature’s own alarm clock. Of all places in the world to find this noisy spectacle, Osaka Japan was certainly not first on my list.

It started one early morning as I lay in bed going through the items on my morning’s to-do list when I heard what sounded like a turkey hacking up a bag of gravel. Several minutes later, however, I understood that yes, indeed, this was a rooster heralding the sun’s arrival in the only way it knew how: by waking the dead.

Since then, this rooster has proceeded to creep in to my sleep, interrupt my wonderful REM cycles, and motivate me to get up earlier each morning. Not that I’m complaining, except for the fact that I would much rather wake to the sound of waves crashing compared to nails on a chalkboard.

Wednesday, after recovering from another morning of caterwauling fowl, I happily greeted my new refrigerator in to my apartment. No welcome home ceremonies, but I felt as though it was thoroughly deserved. I could now officially claim to live in my apartment without people coming in to take a peep, noticing the lack of furniture and with wide eyes ask, “Kristin, I think you’ve been robbed!”

Unfortunately, instead of staying in my apartment to make sure the refrigerator was real and not a figment of my imagination, I was scheduled to meet my lovely Fulbright advisor. I really do think that this man is the kindest person in the world, and if I weren’t already confident in the faith I have, I wouldn’t put it past others to create a religion around him.

Kawata sensei had a wonderful offer for me: he had spoken to the board of trustees at the law school, and they unanimously agreed to allow me to assist them in writing the English brochure for Osaka University’s law program. I was so flattered! He and I even worked together on one of his transcendentalist readings from an obscure Maine author. I had to explain what “backwoods” are and what the phrase, “a long and narrow winding road” translated to. It made me feel immensely better that he needed help because he is one of the most educated men I have met and reads political theory in four different languages. So now I officially have homework for the weekend, but now that I’ve graduated from college, this is the good kind of homework!

My third task of the day was to have meishi created, which are Japanese business cards. Within Japanese culture, intricate levels of hierarchy exist between social groups and therefore it is near impossible to speak to a stranger before the formal exchanging of the meishi. Of course, it really is impossibly for me to speak to strangers either way, because I do not think they make meishi that possess magical powers of speech ability, but I was up for the challenge.

After ordering 200 cards (or was it 2,000? I really couldn’t understand) I popped over to the law school office just to make my rounds and lo and behold, miracle upon all miracles they had my fate in their hands…(drum roll please) they had my Osaka University username and password. This gave me the ticket to unabashedly use the internet, which is the pinpoint of my woes since my apartment is not internet friendly, read: it will take me another millennia to get it installed.

So what does one do with countless hours of internet at their disposal? Why incessantly e-mail friends, family, and any other victim that has an e-mail address. Ahh, the little luxuries that life affords us. I really do wonder, despite my apparent dependence upon technology and material goods, what people did without the internet?

Instead of spending the entire day cooped up in a library, however, I wanted to be in the beautiful outdoors, and the new student fair at Osaka University’s Suita campus was the perfect excuse for a lovely walk. Unfortunately when I arrived I realized that “fair” meant a table filled with goods that even the salvation army would be skeptical at accepting considering the dishes, clothes and other random odds and ends could have been run over by countless semi’s before meeting their end at the “new student fair.” I guess I have a few things to teach the Japanese.

I chuckled to myself as I walked back about the cultural difference between fairs (back at St. Olaf we gave away goodies, made cotton candy, dunked willing victims in a dunk-tank all the while with a band playing the background music as you met new friends and signed up for silly events like River Dancing club).

Weary as I was after a long day of walking and errands, my energy immediately perked up when I walked through my front door to receive the call I had been waiting for: I had been selected to volunteer at Nishiakashi in Kobe. Nishiakashi is an all-female prison that is looking to teach English to its staff. My contact at the prison and I chose a time to meet to discuss the mutually beneficial situation of me possibly observing the environment, particularly since my research emphasis is on human rights and local government, so this opportunity is right up my alley!

While it had a been a long day, it was certainly a fruitful one. Although I smote the rooster that rose me that morning, I really do believe that the early bird gets the worm, or as they say in Japan, “hayaoki ha sanmon no toku,” waking up early will earn you three coins!

Tuesday, October 11: The good, the bad, and the really, really embarassing!

I have learned in my twenty-three years that the only constant in life is change. I realize this again and again when I begin to become comfortable with the routine, because the routine will, inevitably, throw you for a curve ball so far in left field that even Steve Bartman, i.e. “the infamous bloke who ruined the Cubs’ first chance for a World Series bid in 50 years,” couldn’t catch it!

In my failed attempts to install internet, one of the wonderful Fulbrighters came to my rescue with the information that many companies will accept a national health insurance card, even without an official alien registration card, which seems to be the source of all my Japanese woes. So off I ventured to the Moriguchi ward office to purchase my national health insurance fearing the horror scenario that had ensued only weeks prior regarding my alien registration card. Fortunately, even though it was raining outside, the sun was shining on me, because I was immediately heralded to a wonderful old man who mistook me for a Spanish speaking Latina (yes I, the whitest girl in North America).

As we kibitzed our way to the health insurance office, the local official told me he wondered why I couldn’t even say, “no habla Espanol” correctly and led me to the only woman, a petite girl my age, who both spoke English and who was the only employee in the building not appearing to die of boredom. Ten minutes later I skipped out the door (literally) to the tune of 1,390 yen, which is exactly what I am paying for national health insurance. Oh yes, for as little as $14 a month folks you too can be insured in the likes of Medicaid and Medicare. And we wonder whey the federal government has a spending problem? But you certainly won’t find me complaining.

Off to Osaka University I traveled via the illustrious monorail, which is timely, fast, and several stories off the ground so that you can see the daily lives of those unfazed by a public train on stilts riding by. Dentists performing teeth cleaning. Manicurists pampering. Families eating. It’s all a day’s work when peaking in to the lives via the monorail. It never ceases to amaze me, and I’m not alone, as the 7- and 8-year-olds join me staring out the windows, our breath making foggy circles on the glass as we peak in to the lives of others.

At Osaka University I obtained my first formal documentation that I am in fact a legitimate student when the librarian gave me my library card. I felt like a little kid in a candy store with all the books at my disposal. I was dead set on walking around to browse the stacks mentally noting which corners I would come to call my own throughout the year.

I tromped through the rain after my literary escapade to meet Mina-san, the ever-so-patient apartment director who had offered to alleviate my apartment woes by tracking down some odds and ends that had been misplaced. Like remotes to air conditioners and heaters. It wouldn’t have been so bad except for the fact that I couldn’t actually check my mail because the mailbox gremlins gave me the wrong combination, I was melting from the 90 percent humidity, and at night my drool was freezing to my pillow and my breath turned in to ice crystals after leaving my mouth. Okay, not really, but you see why Mina-san was worried.

After driving me to the apartment, standing in the pouring rain and repeatedly telling me that everything was “daijobu” (okay), he demanded that I sit in the back of his sardine-can car like he was carting around royalty. Now who’s going to correct him? My friends do call me a drama queen. It just made me so thankful that I had rented through his company, even if it did through a few curve balls now and then.

I met my friend Saya back on campus, or rather she ran after me for a block screaming “Kristin-san” with her umbrella held high above her head in an inspiring awe of acrobatics. She was intent on informing that class had been cancelled for the day, and I while I was extremely disappointed because it seemed to be an increasing trend with my professors, I mirrored her look of sheer joy with a happy sigh.

So what does one do with a free afternoon in Osaka? Why shop for furniture of course. A friend had told me of an Ikea-inspired store called Yukawa and I figured it was a perfect excuse to explore Eastern Osaka. I had to physically restrain myself from not crying with joy when I arrived in Shonai in one piece and not taking any wrong trains. Yes folks, you are witnessing history. I, Kristin White, did not miss a train or take the wrong line.

Yukawa is, I believe, a wonderful blend of invention and necessity. Plastic tables made in China sit next to hand-crafted woven rugs; what an international blend of free and fair trade! While I tried to shove aside my American materialism, I spent two hours in the story simply browsing. I “ooh’d” and “aah’d” at the fact that a table could be $20 without either a) missing a leg or b) having a freakishly bizarre fraternity horror story to go with it like, “dude, you should’a totally seen what we did on that thing one night, man.”

Generalizations aside, I found some wonderful furniture for my apartment and walked out the door with a smile from ear to ear. Actually, in reality, it looked more like this: a loud American saying “arigatou” repeatedly as she attempts to exit through the entrance, not realizing the automatic door doesn’t open, and proceeding to leave a distinct image of her face on the previously sparkling glass. Don’t worry folks, I’m okay. That is where the national health insurance comes in handy!

To conclude my day of mass consumerism, I arrived at the 100 yen store, which I have now proceeded to exploit my enthusiasm upon friends, family, neighbors, pets and bored strangers. It’s really that good. These stores differ greatly from their American counterparts. Read: they actually sell items worth buying. For $1 one can buy hair dryers, wine, ties, silverware sets, hand painted pottery, picture frames and plants in addition to all the plastic trinkets we’ve come to know and throw away after thinking, “why on earth did I buy that?” I realized that it will take me several trips back to “Can Do” before I can feel somewhat confident that I have exhausted my shopping skills.

Sunday, October 9^th:

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”
-Henry David Thoreau

Sunday was a day filled with great pleasure and pain and the dichotomy between the two was not as wide or unrelated as I would have hoped.

My morning began with another bright and beautiful day as I was off to meet William, in Temmabashi very near downtown Osaka. Once again, as my luck would have it, I went to the wrong station (who knew there were two Temma’s?) and ended up in a lovely little familial neighborhood filled with shops and eateries. I browsed my way through the Tenjinbashi mall, with a lovely surprise call from my parents, when I suddenly stumbled upon a park, an oasis in the middle of a concrete jungle.

I decided to embark upon this urban adventure and discovered a sight that I had heard much of, but only hoped it was a myth from across the sea. As I walked through Kizu Park, it was filled with laughing children, families picnicking, and a carnival complete with ferris wheel and screaming teenagers. Walking along the sidewalk I saw a sight familiar to city-dwellers, construction, but when I looked again, I realized that these blue tarps were not being used to protect scaffolding, but instead to protect the poor, disillusioned souls that I often see sleeping at train stations and subways late at night. I had happened upon a trend that is increasing in Japan: homeless shanty towns.

What broke my heart was what I saw further. As the sidewalk wound past this miniature city of poverty and depravity, it ended at the large headquarters of KTV, a large TV station in Osaka. It highlighted one of the most intriguing questions in Japanese culture: why many deep, pervasive societal problems are masked or completely ignored. When one asks a Japanese commuter why homeless men and women sleep in the subways, they will answer you with a straight face, “we don’t have homeless people.” While the United States is still finding ways to deal with our homeless population, I would hope that at least the majority of Americans realize or admit there is a problem. I could not fathom why a news station, whose employees have to walk past these homeless souls each day, would be a part of the same culture that denies their existence. This has troubled me ever since that morning.

I continued my day’s journey to Northern Osaka, where I was going to meet a fellow North American in the hillside suburb of Ikeda. I could not remove the images of the tarp covered shanties as I was meeting a fellow expatriate to examine the material contents of her sayonara sale. A sayonara sale is extremely prevalent in Japan when expats leave the country to return home. The sale allows these world travelers to sell or even give away household possessions because the Japanese charge to take away large items and this culture is obsessed with bigger and better, therefore negating any value for used goods. That is good for me, but I could not get the pictures of the homeless I saw out of my head, and was constantly reciting Henry David Thoreau’s writings on the value of nature over materialism.

Here I was, concerned with purchasing items for my new apartment, when there are people all over the world who are suffering. The victims of natural disasters such as Katrina and the Pakistan earthquakes. Our heroes in Iraq. Prisoners of war. These images churned through my head as I tried to put aside the mundane details of life and focus on Thoreau’s words, “love must be as much a light, as it is a flame.”

That is exactly why I am here. To shed light on the issues that intrigue political scientists, sociologists and those concerned with human rights. I have made it my goal in life to help others and while it plagues me that there are those that suffer, I dedicate my life to discovering the problems that cause these issues to subsist.

“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined.” -Henry Davd Thoreau

Saturday, October 8th: Of bars and bumming

Being a college student makes you extremely adept at staying up until 4 in the morning only to get up hours later. Kavitha and I spent the night prior discussing life, family and the crazy stories that Japan has already emblazoned in our lives.

We took our time in the morning to get ready for a lovely day of jazz in Kobe for the annual Kobe Street Jazz Festival, one of the largest in the world, and a leisurely day of shopping. As we ate our French pastries for breakfast, which are prevalent due to Japan’s affinity for French cuisine, we impressed ourselves with our transportation skills by jumping on several express trains that zipped us straight to the main district of Kobe, Sannomiya.

There we met another Fulbrighter, Kenny, who toured us around the Barbarian District, a quaint, European-inspired area of Kobe where the majority of the jazz bands played. To our surprise, however, the event cost 4,600 yen, almost $50 for 4 hours of club-hopping good times. While we retorted how expensive this admission fee was for music that inspired for and by the working class, we decided that our budgets could not afford this expense, and instead soaked up the humidity as we explored Kobe.

After the three of us had melted in to the sidewalks due to the 90% humidity, we decided to shop. Kavitha and I were extremely impressed that Kenny was game, considering most men we know immediately erupt in hives when they come within a 500-mile radius of a mall. We scoped out every store, shop and booth in and around the Kobe area, exploring Chinatown, underground cafes, bookstores, flower exhibits and of course the fashion-savvy department stores that Japan is renowned for, like the exclusive Tokyu Hands.

After an exhausting day of browsing and bumming, we decided to hit up the Hub, a lovely British pub in central Kobe, known for its happy hour, fish and chips, and expats galore. While we taught Kavitha the fine art of ordering beers in a crowded bar, it was wonderful to sit and relax, enjoy each others’ company and argue politics, all three of which I thoroughly enjoy! Although we missed out on a fine afternoon of Jazz, it was just as precious to get to know my fellow colleagues in a more intimate environment, away from classes and research. After all, the only other thing that college students have refined to an art aside from attending classes on an hour of sleep is enjoying a cold beer and the company of friends. And you certainly don’t need a degree for that!

Friday, October 7^th: It was the best of times and the worst of times…

In one of the most overused, but passionately articulate phrases of all time, Dickens really nailed it! Some days we feel as manic depressive as a cat on Ritalin, and others we feel as though nothing in the world could bring us down.

Unfortunately, that is not how I felt Friday morning, when I careened around Osaka as though I held the entire world on my shoulders; a puppeteer attempting to disentangle the strings that were my “To Do” list. My misadventures began when I traveled the hour long journey from Furukawabashi to Osaka University to meet my apartment administrators to discuss the fact that they did not put the remotes for my air conditioners in my apartment. But Kristin’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day (reminiscent of Judith Viorst’s Alexander character) began when I missed the meeting. Rather than tell me that they would take care of the problem, they used Klingon-type Japanese to explain that I would have to purchase 2 remotes for my air-conditioners. I asked in my rudimentary Japanese where I could buy these devices, and the entire office staff which had gathered to point and laugh at the silly foreigner, all looked at each other and in unison said, “shopu desu.” Of course, at a shop. Now why hadn’t I thought of that?

Off to the university store to create my meishi, or business cards. I was caught off guard when the employee told me that no, the most technologically advanced country in the world could not use a USB key to extract my pre-made business cards. So the technologically unsavvy Kristin decided to head to the library to print out a copy of my meishi. That is when I encountered even more barriers, including the fact that I didn’t have a library card or username and password to log on to the library computers. After using my gaijin card (the ineffable excuse that I have no idea what is going on) I cunningly convinced the librarian to give me a card, and then she gave me directions to obtain my necessary password. Unfortunately, the cyber media center has changed buildings three times, so I went on a brisk tour of the campus attempting to find this office and when I did…drum roll please, I was told that God has to be consulted, Prime Minister has to okay it, and that in two weeks time I will finally have permission to use a computer at Osaka University. Whew, glad that was easy!

To abandon my sorrows, I decided to find internet for my apartment, which is so archaic it does not even have a phone jack. So it just so happens that YahooBB had a kiosk in the local department store, and the absolutely adorable Minami, who could not only speak excellent English, but guided me step,-by-step through the application. After an hour of discovering that YahooBB is a great deal and that Minami’s birthday is October 19^th, he consulted Shingo, his “English speaking friend” who chatted me up on the cell phone. Shingo, to my sadness, retorted that without my official alien registration card, I would not be able to obtain internet, which meant that I would have to wait until the day of Minami’s birthday (how ignominiously ironic) to get my registration card, and then 3-4 weeks to install internet. Argh.

Once again, Kristin was frustrated. To the point where I either needed to eat an entire chocolate cake (which I have been known to do before) or find someone to talk to. Luckily, my buddy Kavitha in Kyoto, came to my rescue and we went out to eat together at a fine ramen establishment. As we kibitzed with the shop owners, the older man and woman were convinced we were so adorable they offered to give us a Hanshin Tiger emblazoned bike. Now who could resist that? As Kavitha and I walked home and I rehashed my ridiculous day, it was so nice to be able to speak to someone in English. While we searched the entire suburb of Moriguchi to find a drinking establishment sans drunk business men singing karaoke, we knew we were luckily to have the friendships we had already formed and laughed at the fact that through each trial and tribulation, we still had our humor to keep us company.

Thursday, October 6^th: Sojourn in to beauty

Some mornings are so absolutely stunning that you jump out of bed ready to take life by the hands. Thursday morning was certainly this kind of day. As I awoke for my last two classes of the week, “Cultural and Linguistic Diversity” and “The Japanese Legal System,” the sun’s rays warmed my face and the faint sound of children’s voices wafted in on a gentle breeze.

For the first time since I have been here in Osaka, I was thrilled to pop out the door and notice that the humidity had lifted its strangle-hold on the city to reveal the beautiful forests that litter the mountainsides surrounding the city. With not a cloud in the sky to block the sun, the blue hues from above reflected brilliantly over the Yodo River which I cross every morning to come to campus. Breathtaking doesn’t even describe the feelings that filled me as I took in each sight, constantly remembering how lucky I am to be on this earth and this fantastic country.

As I sojourned to my first class, I noticed a sign on the door notifying us that class was cancelled for the week. On any normal day that would have irritated me because of the wasted 6,600 yen ($6) and hour and a half I had spent coming to campus. But not today. Instead, I used the extra time to walk around campus, and tripped over the most beautiful garden just waiting for me to sit casually and gaze at it. It was filled with tall trees clustered against the backdrop of the Kii Mountains, almost as if my little oasis melted in to the high peaks themselves.

I then decided to walk around Northern Osaka, instantly realizing what a perfect moment in time it was as the sun heated my back and I casually strolled around each little suburb as if it were my own. I ended up in Hotarugaike in the most fabulous 100 yen shop, the equivalent to our U.S. dollar stores, filled with awe at the extravagant merchandise they proudly displayed. Unlike American dollar stores which are flanked with plastic trinkets and objects never to be desired, Japanese 100 yen shops overflow with everything from wine and hand-made plates to jewelry and house plants. I browsed as long as I could stand tolerable before eating up my entire wallets worth of money and decided that this was indeed the best dollar store in Japan, at least for my purposes!

After arriving back on Osaka University’s campus for my Japanese Law class, I realized after 20 minutes that the professor was indeed not coming, nor would the class even be held this semester. Rather than letting my thoughts drift to the fact I was extremely disappointed, instead I thought about life’s little pleasures. That a simple walk around a beautiful city could open oneself to an entire country, represented by its kind people and intricate customs. We all have our bad days, regardless of culture or creed, but it takes a strong initiative to just go outside each morning ready to tackle the monsters in front of us, sometimes even in another language, and be proactive about the way we see life. For some of us we call it faith, for others it is our own determination. For me, my happiness lies in the innocence provided by mother nature and the fact that Japan never ceases to amaze me.

Wednesday, October 5^th Fashion savvy and ready to roll

They say you should walk a mile in someone’s shoes before you criticize someone. That way, when you criticize them, you are a mile away from them and you have their shoes. I of course am not clever enough to come up with such witty euphemisms, so I give credit where credit is due: one of the most thoughtful gurus of our time, Jack Handy.

The only difference is that in Japan, women, old women, young women, teenagers, obasans and hippies all wear high heels. We’re not talking the tiny “kitten” heels that a tall girl like me can handle. Think more along the lines of 4 inch Manolo Blahniks that we saw Sarah Jessica Parker wear on “Sex and the City” and feared that if she fell from that height she would risk severe head trauma.

Japan is one of the fashion capitols of the world, so obviously when you see high heels, mini skirts and fur-cuffed jackets in 90 degree weather, you really wonder whether beauty is pain. I saw this firsthand after only three weeks of Japanese cuisine when I noticed my jeans becoming loose to the point where they sit at my knees, like some gangster who has fabulous boxers to show off.

So off I ventured to the lovely Comme Ca, almost an institute in Japan where clothes are beautiful and just my luck, fairly reasonable. As I walked in I was immediately attacked with questions by the English-speaking sales associate, Kishigawi, who literally followed me around the store for an hour asking me all about American culture. In all actuality Kishi must have seen how gaunt I looked in my sea of denim and figured I just needed some good fashion sense.

Unfortunately when every woman in Japan is a size zero from near starvation it leaves little to Western females in terms of clothing options. I was either going to have to walk around in a paper bag, or fit in to Barbie’s clothes, and frankly neither really sounded interesting. So my final option: pay an ungodly amount of money for jeans that literally have spandex to form a “tight and round” bum. I mean really, how did I live without them?

So in my new jeans that actually fit (at the price they should have thrown in a Toyota sedan or at least a Honda motorcycle), I skipped over to my new apartment to meet Mr. Delivery Man and piece together my first furniture in Japan: a mattress and frame.

While waiting for Mr. Delivery Man I decided to clean the apartment, because you never really know without talking walls. I realized Mr. Clean needed to call in his artillery when I saw elaborate spider-infested webs in the bathtub, which is one thing this arachnophobe was not prepared to handle. After attacking the nasty creatures with the shower head on full blast and feeling mildly victorious I got on my hands and knees with orange cleaner. Later of course, I found out it was toilet bowl cleaner, but I figured, if you don’t want it in the john, you certainly don’t want it on the floor. So in between my ballet-dancing across the floors with paper towels attached to my feet and singing “Walking on Sunshine,” it was sheer luck that I heard the delivery man pull up.

When I saw the delivery man on my apartment’s video screen he looked white as a ghost. I don’t blame him, he probably thought I was going to con him in to piecing it together himself (okay I thought about it) but when service people see a foreigner like me coming, they usually go a runnin' the opposite direction.

So off to work I went. Literally. With (my new) jeans cuffed, my hair up, and the sweat rolling down my neck I whipped out the adorably miniature allen wrench and screwdriver that came with the frame. I sat in the middle of my living room floor in an ocean of silver-painted metal parts attempting to decipher what on earth the Japanese directions were telling me to do. So only after taking it apart 3 times (I know, I should work for hire), I finally got the sucker put together. I even saved the petite tools that came with the frame...some sort of ridiculous sentimental keepsakes that I’ll tell my children someday, “and these I used to put a bed together in Japan.” Or maybe I’ll just leave that page out of the scrapbook and relish in my own feelings of accomplishment, which I feel as though I could swim in for miles!

Tuesday, October 4^th : Let there be light!

The five-minute rule. Any generation X-er, or “Saved by the Bell” TV show connoisseur, would know that this is not really a rule, but an excuse for bored teenagers to cut class if it doesn’t begin the millisecond the bell rings. I, of course, would never, ever dare to think of partaking in such menial behavior (okay, it crossed my mind). On my second day of classes at Osaka University, however, the six students in “Technical Japanese: Social Science Research Skills” used our French, German, Canadian and Japanese backgrounds to have a highly intellectual discussion on the subject. (Side note: it just so happens to be a popular phenomenon in Canada as well).

So in the midst of meeting the beautiful, shy Saya, who, it turns out, is another law student, the outgoing Lillian, a fellow North American, Jean the Frenchman and Jorg, the 7 foot German engineer, the class turned out to be a wonderful international ground for meeting people. My favorite part of the class was when our professor rushed in to the room, immediately admitted that no, he has never been a teacher before, and proceeded to introduce himself for 45 minutes. We’re not talking, “I was born on a dark and stormy night” kind of story or even, “I used to walk 10 miles to school in the snow without shoes” anecdotes either. He was just extremely excited about every detail of his life. And why shouldn’t he be? Yamada-san is an adorably stout, squat man of 40, with the amorous disheveled look that many in the academic world wear so well. The whole shabang: papers coming out of his suitcase as he's failing to knot his off-kilter tie with one hand and drink a coffee in the other. What scared all of us in the class, aside from the fact that none of the foreigners understood Yamada-san’s Japanese, was that we might actually have to produce our own jikoshokai, or self-introduction. It was a wonderful mood lightener when Taki, a native Osakan, followed 45 minutes of bushwhacking jungle tales with, “I am Taki. I live in Japan. I like economics.” We all had a hearty laugh outside after class about the enthusiasm of our professor, and we immediately whipped out our cell phones to trade numbers and make plans for next week. Saya and Lillian were not only astounded that my apartment did not have electricity, but equally horrified that I had not visited Namba, where the infamous Osaka night life begins (and never ends).

After saying goodbye to my new friends, I hopped over to my quaint apartment. Just for fun I decided to test my language skills and see if I could manage to call my utility companies to turn on water and electricity. Well wouldn’t you know, but if you actually pretend to speak Japanese, even just a little, that Kansai electric is actually quite kind. Of course, hysterical peals of laughter from the other end of the phone are a tad unnerving, but at least it proved that the operator hadn’t given up and hung up on me. Ahh, the pleasures of independence. Right now, the most venerable feeling I have experienced yet, is the sheer joy of turning on my light switches to discover (drum roll please) light! Edison must have had a hoot when he invented the light bulb! For the next 20 minutes I literally ran around my apartment, testing every light switch once, twice, three times and simply stared up at the ceiling with eyes as big as saucers with the satisfaction that I, in Japanese, had accomplished a fairly large goal. Gosh, think how I’ll react when I install internet!

Monday, October 3^rd: First Day of Class

No matter how many times we’ve done it, there is always an air of excitement surrounding one’s first day of school. From new backpacks and pencil cases to challenging professors and new campuses, one is never remiss in new opportunities for challenges and exploration.

Now take that setting and extrapolate it to a new foreign culture, where you can barely speak or read Japanese. My first day of classes at Osaka University were hectic considering I had taken the morning to officially begin the move-in to my new apartment. This included ordering furniture including an uncalculated splurge on a beautiful leather sofa, trying to figure out how on earth I would convince these women I needed it delivered to my new apartment, and then rushing out of the local department store realizing that I had told them I would assemble it myself. Hmmm, nice try Kristin.

But off to my Fulbright advisor’s zemi, or seminar, I went, not realizing that I did not know where it was. Luckily, my advisor is the sweetest man in the world, which also means he is very patient with me. When I walked in his office door, I heard “Kristeeeee” yelled throughout the piles of books, and knew immediately things would be okay. As he escorted me to our seminar he told me that this would be like kindergarten for me it was such rudimentary political theory. The idea of kindergarten in Japanese, however, makes my mind swirl.

I could somewhat follow my professor’s introduction to the class as he commented on Koizumi, and of course I attempted to ignore the fact that my cheeks burn hot pink at the near mention of Japan’s cutie pie Prime Minister. After his words, in usual Japanese style, the first student gave her synopsis the assigned reading to the class, followed by one question from each student. Unfortunately, with my lack of language skills, I can barely ask where the bathroom is never the less understand political theory in Japanese. Additionally, many Osakans use Osaka-ben, which is very informal, slang-like speech, so I practically needed English subtitles just to remain in my seat and not run screaming for mercy. The kicker? My professor asked ME to start the discussion.

And Kristin is off, excitedly explaining that in America we have campaign spending limits currently set at 2,000 dollars. In Japanese, this would translate to “ni sen en.” Unfortunately, I could not recall if that was the exact number (forgive me St. Olaf polit sci department!) so I began to say, “ni sen…etto” (etto meaning ‘um’). So when put together, my first words on my first day of school were the following, “in America we give two cents.” Goodness gracious, I could have used about that much in common sense to realize that the kids’ uproarious laughter wasn’t my cleverly cunning wit (as I had hoped), but at the sad, pathetic American who really has her work cut out for her this year. But in good spirits, I did happen to lighten the mood and start the class. It was a great beginning to my year of learning at Osaka University!

Sunday, October 2nd: Sun Towers and Khatak

In lieu of classes beginning the next morning, my Osaka buddy Joe and I vowed to visit his home for the year: Minpaku, or the National Center of Ethnology located in the beautiful Banpaku Kinen, the expo memorial park in Northern Osaka. Joe now has the “in” that lets us view some of the museums wonderful exhibits, like today’s special exhibition on Indian silks.

To get to Minpaku, one has to walk through an enormous park that hosted the world expo in 1970. One of the remnants of this festival is a four-story tower showered in white, known as the Sun Tower. Its existence is imposing from all directions, including the monorail which takes you to the entrance of the park, where this gigantic sculpture seems to stare at you with its vapid eyes that reflect the clouds above it. Osakans sure know how to make an impact!

After passing through rose gardens and other sculptures that grace that flutter around the park grounds, Joe and I entered Minpaku, with its pristine modernist walls and clean lines. We walked straight in to a lecture on kathak dancing, a beautiful Indian dance where the hands are luminously graceful and gesture the emotions of stories and myths from ages past through tabla drums. These are not drums, but loops of tiny tinkling bells attached to the ankles that percuss the rhythms of Hindi music. Luckily, the lecturer invited several of us to join her dancing, so Joe and I adventurously attempted to thwart the idea that white people can’t dance. We had a wonderful time attempting to tell traditional Hindu metaphors of Vishnu and Krishna with our hands, and had a blast being the only foreigners dancing alongside our instructor in front of a crowd with hundreds of Japanese. It was especially a treat to be introduced to the distinguished teacher and dancer afterwards to hear her say, “ahh yes, the two best dancers of the group.” Joe and I laughed it off as we walked home, but were glad that we could be cultural ambassadors for an evening.

Saturday, October 1^st: Kinkakuji

Since arriving in Japan I had been waiting impatiently, biting fingernails, twiddling my thumbs, bouncing up and down until I could see world-renowned Kinkakuji, or the Golden Pavillion. A national landmark so beautiful that its golden-encrusted outer walls were re-plated only a decade ago so as to further instill the perfection and grandeur of this building on the souls who walk its path.

I traveled to Kyoto to meet my temple-viewing gal-pal, an adventurous Fulbrighter studying women's rights, and even amidst hours of late trains, missing her at the entrance, humidity that made your bones sweat, and hoards of tourists, the grounds were absolutely amazing. I could completely understand why someone would give up a life's worth of earthly desires and abandon everything familiar to devote oneself to Buddhism. It was almost sacrosanct to walk the grounds and see the worshippers attempting a private conversation with their own personal buddhas as they lit incense and rang the bells of devotion. I certainly felt as an outsider looking in, but am extremely thankful for the opportunity to observe the beautiful, age-old tradition and buildings that concretize these ideals.

As we left Kinkakuji, nearly speechless in amazement, I was excited to meet a group of other Fulbright researchers that were living in Kyoto for dinner. While living in a foreign country, particularly one so distinct as Japan, it is wonderful to simply “get away” for an evening, speak a language you know (or at least people can understand you without thinking you’ve just broken out of the loony bin) and enjoy each others’ company.

We found a whole-in-the-wall restaurant with a quaint atmosphere and for three hours the conversation flowed about everything from the absolutely fantastic projects that people were pursuing, to attitudes of foreigners in Japan, to great places to eat and drink. Hour after hour we kept ordering more food, the conversation becoming livelier and rowdier as we realized what a rare treat it is to find a large group of people who all share your same ideas and yet are so diverse. From fantastic nikujaga (much like meat and potatoes) and sake to steaming hot crab cakes and ice cold Kirin beer, it was a feast, and at $42 a head, it was worth it. No matter what culture you’re from, good food and great conversation are priceless!

Thursday, September 29^th

When one accepts a research grant that wills you to study for part of your stay, you take it in good stride, even after millions of hours of studying, honors theses, all-nighters, and professors who could walk on water but still never convince you they were right.

But that is the life of a kenkusei, or research student, in Japan. I, knowing full well what I had “gotten in to” met up with the other nervous international students at Osaka University to take the mandatory dreaded placement test for Japanese. As I walked in the room and looked around me, I proved once again that yes, I really must be the only American attending Osaka University. At least I recognized the blank look as though the test struck the fear of God on the faces of each student was reassuring, considering how nervous I was to show my apparent lack of Japanese language skills.

After what seemed like millenia of being tested on words and characters that I thought only existed in the Lord of the Rings movies, I patienly awaited my monorail passage noticing a few of the other international students waiting for the ride. I ventured to ask one of the other students what he thought of the test, praying that he spoke English. Mr. Italy informed me with a thick accent that yes, “eet was extreeeemely deefeecult,” and that no I shouldn’t go home crying. Instead, he offered to be my own personal Osaka tour guide, listing off great places to dance, drink, get cheap furniture and find used bikes. Now THAT you cannot find in a language class or electronic dictionary.

So with a new-found confidence I headed to the graduate school campus, Toyonaka, to register for my classes. The overzealous, over-achieving Kristin popped her head up again as I browsed through the catalogue’s vast offerings and I couldn't help but get excited by what I saw. From Cultural Diversity, Technical Japanese for Researchers, Japanese Law and International Public Policy, I bit off more than I could chew and signed up for five classes. Not much considering most college students take 8 or 9. But for a girl who sends props to the big guy upstairs forgiving me a year off between college and law school, I couldn’t figure out what had gotten in to me to sign up for so many classes. But hey, whether you’re a researcher, an academic, or just someone who lives to learn, I know it is going to be a fantastic opportunity. And if I can meet some more Italians inviting me to go dancing out of it, I figure it’s worth giving a try!

Wednesday, September 28^th: Thank my lucky stars…

For people who are willing to take an entire day out of their schedules and help the language impaired such as myself. I woke up early to make the 3 transfers that were necessary to make it to Kobe without disaster or ending up in China considering my lack of technical geographical and transportation skills.

I met my buddy and straight away he took me to a large national bank to open up an account. I was so excited I was brimming with anticipation at viewing my new checkbook and shiny ATM card. But of course, Kristin’s bad luck ran strong as the bank manager directed me that I had traveled to Kobe in vain, and that yes, I must take the 2 hour train ride back to my home of Moriguchi to open an account. So what did I do? Rather than stomp off showing my American way of dealing with nutcases, I employed the suave techniques of my friend’s near fluent Japanese. He kindly informed the manager that this poor foreigner had traveled near and far to open a bank account without luck. As I wiped away the fake tears with my handkerchief the manager was a) sorry for me or b) just plain sick of dealing with me at that point because Kristin came back with a check book! Ahhh, independence, with the help of some wonderful translators at your side, is refreshing.

The rest of the day breazed by as I purchased a cell phone, for 0 yen!!! Oh yes, in America my friends, we are getting royally hoodwinked, because I received a fabulous camera, video, e-mail capable phone for the lovely price of $30 a month. Oh, the luxury of the technologically savvy Japanese!

To celebrate, Kenny and I wound up in Hanshin land, Hanshin Tigers land. With fans dressed up in tiger outfits, drunk to the near point of impairment, and clamoring around for their mini-bats to make gigantic waves of noise, I knew that I had found my home away from home. Where else can you scream to the point of being mute, drink as much as you want, and make friends from half a world away? Why at a Hanshin Tigers game of course, where ushers are used to direct the songs and routines of the fans so that it seems more theatrics than sportsmanship. Either way, it was a wonderful way to end my day in Kobe, and made me so thankful that even though I can hardly speak Japanese, the language of baseball transcends borders!