Saturday, November 12: “We’re turning purple!”

Saturday morning was a combination of trying to ignore the Yebisu beer headache from the night before and a failed attempt to make it to the first Peace as a Global Language conference seminar of the day. Luckily Kavitha and I inundated ourselves enough with makeup and sugar before we left so that when we entered our classroom just before the door closed in our faces we were ready and rarin’ to go. Or so we thought.

Instead of learning how to research across language barriers, “Bridging Cultural Bridges Through Interviews” was an excuse for an impudent American to harangue us about his “fabulous” method of coercing timid ESL students to audaciously lambaste themselves toward perfect strangers and ask for their personal opinions on race and politics. Hmmm, I think I’ll be leaving that one out of my research methodology.

Kavitha and I left our self-appointed cultural guru and his attacks on French culture (and his glib apology for it) and headed toward the mecca of Japanese hamburgers, otherwise known as Mos Burger. Being the Starbucks of hamburgers in Japan, I was prepared to pay a little more, but when I started to ask Kavitha for train money for the ride back to Osaka, I realized that my trips to Mos Burger might be few and far between.

Heading back to the conference we were both hesitant at what to expect, particularly since our morning introduction to Peace as a Global Language as a whole was pretty sketchy. I was just proud we had stuck it out as long as we had.

But with fortitude and a lot of Diet Coke to tide us over, we headed toward a seminar called “The Media and NGOs” sponsored by the Asahi Shimbun and the Japan Times, two of Japan’s most highly regarded newspapers.

The hour and a half that transpired was filled with piquant discussion on how non-governmental organizations are portrayed in the media and how human rights campaigns trope through the drudge that is sometimes required when demanding a captive public audience. It was absolutely fascinating to listen to reporters that actually sit on the front lines of these debates and demand a modicum of integrity and dignity to their stories. From people dressing up as seals to demand foreign citizens rights (I would refrain from suggesting this tactic to anyone reading) to assuaging the courts’ ineptitude to recognize the status of refugees, the panel had a galvanic affect on me. Afterwards I immediately thrust myself into the panelists faces and thanked them profusely for their time, opinions and willingness to share their ideas with people like me. Luckily, I found a receptive audience myself in a lovely staff writer for the Japan Times who thought my research project and work at Nishiakashi prison was fascinating, so we are in a dialogue currently about future groups to study and possibly doing a piece in the paper itself. How thrilling!

The day ended perfectly after this fantastic experience, when Kavitha and I left a fascinating lecture on lexica gender differences in Malaysian newspapers. (Did you know that 70% of the time men are portrayed as the aggressors and women are subsequently perceived as victims due to the media’s choice of verbs? Pick up your local newspaper and underline each verb and see who it refers back to.)

A hop, skip and a jump later we found ourselves in another room, right in the middle of a blazing discussion on democratization in Southeast Asia with the iconoclast Paul Scott of the Steering Committee of the Alliance for Reform and Democracy in Asia (ARDA). If you think the name of his organization is gargantuanly long, just wait until you hear what they have on their plates. ARDA is adamant about their goal to, “advance democracy, human rights, good governance and the rule of law across Asia and throughout the world.” So from Bhutan to Vietnam you will find grassroots organizations distributing the Asian Democracy Indexes (ADI) on behalf of ARDA to determine how each country ranks as far as free and fair elections and every other trait under the sun that even alludes to a nation being democratic. He exclaimed excitedly that while American is turned purple with all the blue states becoming red and vice versa that we’re not even noticing the rest of the world’s fuchsia hues.

The stories Mr. Allen told were fascinating, from regimes legitimizing torture to Burma honestly believing it is the most democratic nation in the world. But what drove me remain passionately engaged throughout the hours was not only his razor sharp wit or his ability to forthrightly say anything that was on his mind was the demure opposite disposition sitting next to him, Mr. Sarwar Bari.

Bari is the director of Pattan, a Pakistani NGO that aids grassroots recovery efforts and women’s rights movements. Bari attended this conference amidst millions of Pakistani’s in turmoil after October’s earthquake and quietly expressed his disappointment at the world’s lack of peace. He didn’t criticize, except for the aptly-directed ill-will toward Washington, but rather educated those of us sitting in his captivated audience about the truth of Pakistani, and all Arab politics. His atheism did not cloud his views, but rather wiped the cobwebs away from our vision so that we too could understand that in Pakistan, there is no animosity between Sunni and Shi’ite Muslims at the community level, but rather in international misunderstanding about secular politics. His passion made his grey hear fall into his face and the thick veins in his forehead pump with vehemence. The room lay quiet after he finished pleading with us to pay more attention to this part of the world. With 87,000 dead and a country in shambles, what else was there to do for him but to seek for assistance, the only way he knew how, by the humble act of quietly breathing, “we need your help.” Never in my life have such small words meant so much.

My train ride home was filled with ideas on what to do next year. Do I continue in my plan to go to law school? Should I wait one year and volunteer with Pattan? Or maybe even dedicate my life to the grassroots efforts of noble causes? My time here in Japan has left me with many more questions swirling in my head than the answers I have come to seek, but I am certainly grateful for the rare opportunities that I have already had in my time here.

Friday, November 11^th: "Salsa…….OK!"

I had been looking forward to the weekend the entire work week, not simply because of the time off, but because I was anticipating Peace as a Global Language, a conference at my friends university that was right up my alley as far as research goes.

I sleuthed through Osaka’s and Kyoto’s monorail, train, subway and bus systems to finally arrive at Kyoto Sangyo University in the pouring rain on the drab beginning to the weekend. My friend Kavitha and I met and we headed off to the first speech of the conference, a panel on grassroots non-governmental organizations, which is exactly what I am researching for my Fulbright project.

With sponsors like the Japan Times and other major newspapers and businesses in Japan, we expected an elite group of panelists challenging each others’ core values and an intriguing discussion in front of hundreds of rapt audience members. In reality, what the 40 conference-goers received was four small-scale older activists spouting their resumes out loud, like verbal detritus. As though temporizing the event was going to make the small audience any more interested in why an 87-year-old man was obsessed with motorcycles and radio antennas and how that had anything to do with peace.

Kavitha and I raced to the bus and just laughed the terrible plenary panel off as we tried to catch up with each other over the growls of our hungry stomachs. Two hours later, soaked by the rain and chilled to the bone with the night air, we resorted to something so low that I am embarrassed to even include it in my blog. Yes, my friends, we stopped at a McDonald’s and I scarfed down a double-cheeseburger. My first, and unfortunately not my last. I’m not sure if it was the fact I hadn’t eaten all day, or the terrible three-hour long panel discussion, but McDonald’s Japan has me convinced that they know hamburgers.

Food aside, Kavitha and I were on a mission to find A Bar. Not just any bar, but “A Bar,” an establishment on the Kyoto night scene that everyone seems to know but no one has directions for. After calling friends, asking seedy bar owners, accidentally walking into a brothel and then getting propositioned to be prostitutes (several times) we wound our way through the streets of downtown Kyoto. Three staircases and a whole in the wall later I (literally) we had found the infamous bar and were happy to simply be out from the rain and in a warm room. The bar consisted of a 30 foot by 30 foot room with four wooden tables filled to the brim with drunk locals and a few foreigners. As we walked in, Kavitha and I were ushered to the only two open “seats” in the bar, which meant we were saddled up at a table with a group of 12 rowdy Japanese drinking Yebisu beer. Rather than insult our host who wore a black Megadeath t-shirt and vibrant tie-dye boxers, we sat down, ordered a Yebisu beer for ourselves and were instantly barraged with multiple “what is your name?” questions from our table-mates.

We instantly realized the brilliance of A Bar. Over kanpai’s (Japan’s tradition of “cheers”) and introductions, we met people from all over Japan, from all walks of life and laughed at the language barriers that seem to disappear after a couple beers. Of particular help were the only guys our age in the bar, Rudy, a perfectly fluent English-speaking Kyoto-ite who let us speak to him with our terrible Japanese, and Phillipe, a Quebec native who had met his friend Rudy when he was bartending in Cancun year earlier. A Bar was most definitely a random assortment of strangers and friends.

No sooner had we sat down, however, when an older Spanish gentleman sat next to us and asked us if we spoke Spanish. With the only words in the language I knew, I said “no habla espagnol,” and whether the fella was just drunk or misunderstood he thought that was a signal to start peppering the conversation with Spanish, primarily asking if we liked to dance. My friend and I unfortunately admitted that yes, we love to go clubbing, and so for the next three consecutive hours he would saunter to our end of the table, throw his hands up into the air and scream out, “salsa…OK!” We could only fathom from his drunken yammering that he was attempting to salsa in the tiny bar itself but simply didn’t have the coordination in his state to do so, so we just laughed hysterically at this 40-year old’s antics.

Several hours, many beer bottles, and a cheap taxi later, we strode up to Kavitha’s dorm, thankful for a warm place to sleep and for our new-found friends who we had departed through sad good-byes and trading cell-phone numbers. It will never cease to amaze me how easy it is to make friends in Japan, particularly when a quaint bar, ample drink, and good conversation is involved.

Wednesday, November 9^th

Wednesday was full of firsts for me, which seems odd considering I have been in Japan almost two whole months.

I was amped to begin my official Japanese language classes, almost a month after regular classes resumed for the second semester at Osaka University. I had planned on playing undergrad for the semester, but when the college’s language program found out I was indeed a kenkusei (researcher), they gasped in astonishment and immediately directed toward me to the classes specifically for researchers.

So after getting all the paperwork filed and paying the tuition fee, Wednesday was my first official class. Once again the nervousness of my back-to-school days resumed as I marched amidst the changing leaves on the grandiose Suita campus of Osaka University. Realizing that I had misread my schedule and was two hours early, I took the opportunity for a nice mid-afternoon jaunt and a chance to do a little research for my project.

I headed to JICA, the Japan International Cooperation Agency. This is a Ministry of Foreign Affairs funded agency that operates in multiple countries abroad with the goal to empower local non-profits and NGOs with volunteers and assistance in developing countries. I was hoping to research the way in which JICA interacts with NPOs and NGOs and was expecting the quaint non-profit atmosphere of mildly eroding facades and overworked volunteers that one usually greets when walking foot on grassroots organizations.

Instead, an imposing granite building faced me as I turned the corner onto JICA’s headquarters. With I.M. Pei-inspired architecture, strict guards, and a modernist vapid lobby that could have housed my apartment hundreds of times over I wondered if I had walked into the wrong building. I kindly walked up to the receptionist, handed out my meishi and explained in Japanese that I was a researcher who was hoping to learn more about the organization. After receiving my day-glow yellow “visitor” tag, I sat nervously awaiting whatever awaited me behind the steel elevator doors.

Out came a young gentleman in his early thirties abounding with exuberance to have someone interested in JICA and, in my opinion, to be away from his desk for an hour or two. He immediately welcomed me to JICA’s library and we discussed the many things that JICA accomplishes. From South Africa to Cambodia, this organization uses Japanese government funds to distribute trained volunteers to local organizations for a variety of goals, such as creating sustainable farms to building schools. It was all so fascinating, particularly the way that this government organization had mobilized the use of NGOs and NPOs in an incredibly organized and successful fashion. JICA was my Mecca, as far as my project was concerned because it gave me an outline of how successful non-governmental organizations work with governments to achieve their goals.

As we were leaving, my new-found JICA friend explained to me that the Osaka office was actually a 7-story dormitory for international volunteers and then invited me to the nightly dinners at 6 p.m. to interview trainees and alumni of the program that come to share their experiences. He was excited that this could be a part of my research and I wanted to leap with joy at someone, particularly a government official, opening up the doors for me and my project. It really doesn’t get better than this!

So with a smile as big as Tom Cruise’s idiotic guffaws on Oprah (I had to throw in a cultural reference, its been ages since I’ve dumbed myself down by reading People) I skipped to my first language class in Japan, anxiously anticipating what awaited me.

As I walked in the room I immediately knew I was out of my league as the other students were troping through lively conversations in Japanese at garishly high speeds. My automatic response to any Japanese conversation I don’t understand is to simply nod my head and say “hai” in order to somewhat belie my nescience and avoid betraying that I’m a Japanese novice.

I knew, however, that intermediate Japanese was not the place to do this. As our professor, an exuberant young woman who believed that immersion was the key to all language barriers demanded that we get in groups and introduce ourselves with the all-too-familiar jikoshokai, or self-introduction.

As luck would have it though, I sat next to two wonderful Korean engineering P.h.D. candidates, Park and Ryu, who teased me over my love for karaoke and became instantly enamored when they learned that I was a Fulbright fellow. Since flattery always makes me squeamish I retorted with my typical comeback of, “well I actually had to pay the commission to let me be a fellow, otherwise I think I’d be flipping burgers back in the Midwest.” So immediately the three of us had a rapport and we clung to each other like Japanese school children on the subway, with my Korean friends translating the advanced Japanese for me in a filial manner. To be honest, it was just so adorable I grinned from ear to ear.

As we exchanged tables and discussed recent trends and topics in Japanese culture, I met another Korean woman and a beautiful Sri Lankan princess. When these young women heard from Park and Ryu that I like to sing, their inquisitive natures peppered me with questions about Japanese songs that I like and where do I sing? So with my rough Japanese, I told them that in America, our walls are much better insulated so I actually belt it out in my bedroom, dorm room, and often as I’m wailing down the interstate. This amazed them, particularly that singing in the shower is so prevalent. But I mean really, don’t we all sound great in a tile shower belting out, “Respect” or “Natural Woman?”

I was delighted at the day’s successes, even when I had to fend off winks from an extremely forward American researcher in the class who thought that just because I was a foreigner, I was going to be swept away at his “sly” winks every 30 seconds. Not so fast Bob. I’m a lady.

As I walked off into the sunset with my new Korean friends, we all laughed about our new Japanese language class and anticipated getting together again. I was reading in my “Life in Japan” book that Osakans are some of the funniest and easiest people to get along with in the world. Generalizations aside, I believe that this quality transcends to the foreigners who choose to spend their years here, and I’m so grateful that I can be one of them!

Tuesday, November 8^th: Off to Prison

Tuesday was spent frantically planning for my English lesson for Nishiakashi Prison. I use any excuse or opportunity to interject that I “have to go to prison,” simply for the hilarious looks of disbelief and crazed wonder similar to the likes of, “what has Kristin gotten herself into this time?”

Unfortunately, I was not accompanied to the prison on this occasion, so after missing a train, platform hopping, getting on the right train, and then having the dreaded announcement that someone had jumped on to the tracks, I eventually landed in Nishiakashi, an half hour late for my lesson and only with Kit-Kat bar to tide over my growling stomach.

As I approached the prison, the atmosphere was much different the second time around. With sunset creeping up earlier and earlier, it was pitch black and no street lights exist for miles, so I walked humbly up to the front of the prison gates. Unfortunately, since I was late, the last guard shift had ended and rather than be greeted by my front gate buddies, I was instead barraged by the search lights reaching toward the sky as though some lawless prisoner had taken flight in the literal sense.

Had that been the only change from my last venture to the prison, I would have been happy. But amidst the brilliant sheets of light the searchlights shed on the area, my ears quickly attuned to the high pitched screams coming from male voices inside the prison.

In life, there are moments, split-seconds where the hairs on our arms stand up straight and that inner voice tells us to turn around and run. But considering I was a half-hour late and this was the most incredible research opportunity I had in a lifetime, I had only one choice. One foot in front of the other, I slowly made my way toward the side entrance of the prison, trying with all my might to avoid the screams, and I almost ran into one of my students who had finally given up on me and was about to leave.

My last remaining student is a wonderfully kind man, short and stout, who’s admiration for my class is partly because he really wants to learn English and partly because he thinks I have “pretty eyes.” Pick-up lines aside, I led him back to the room and for an hour we sat and learned phrases like, “I do laundry two times a month” and other such attempts at normalcy as I tried to ignore the men’s voices wailing on the other side of the wall.

As we discussed, “I go to work,” my student immediately stopped reciting his English, turned to me and said, “I don’t like my work. I don’t like it here.” I knew that the atmosphere in the room had changed and so I slowly closed my book, and turned to look him straight in the eyes. I asked him, “why do you not like it here?” And with the only words he could utter he said in a short, quiet burst of courage, “I don’t like what they make me do here.”

Never in my life have I experienced the millions of emotions that ran through my body that instant. I came to Japan to research human rights, and amidst papers, classes, informative interviews and newspaper headlines, I never thought that I would come so close to the debate as I had that instant. Fear rung through every bone in my body like a bell, yet I almost felt a maternal compassion toward my student, as if giving him a hug would wash away all our fright and insecurity.

As our lesson ended, he walked me out and thanked me once again in formal Japanese, which I still do not feel that I deserve, teacher or not. As we walked down the stairs and was about to leave the compound, he turned to me and whispered the word, “jisatsu.” Suicide. As I walked down the long, dark corridor, gleaning the only light that shined from the outside world, that word echoed through my mind. It still haunts me. I now know that this opportunity has transformed from that of “something to pass the time until I begin my real research” into a life-changing experience rife with harsh realizations.

Wednesday, November 2^nd

After a full day of recovery from the trip to Tokyo (don’t vacations always deserve some kind of limbo period where one rests from resting?) I was once again in the mood to hob-knob as Mrs. Fulbright made her way West to Osaka to meet with the Kansai group of Fulbright alumni.

Heading toward the north end of downtown Osaka truly makes you feel as if you are entering the presence of greatness. A vast government center where consulates of nations you did not even know existed proudly show their colors, I knew that I was simply lucky to be invited to an event held in the shadow of these diplomatic buildings.

Realizing that the four Kansai Fulbrighters were the only foreign researchers present at the event made it an even more fantastic opportunity as I was able to meet numerous Japanese men and women who had traveled to the states. I met the architect of the Akashi bridge, which compares right next to the Golden Gate in its aesthetic beauty and grandeur, and after geteing an earful of my awe, he offered to take my friends up into the bridge sometime. How fantastic. I also met some lovely Japanese businessmen who were having an intellectual discussion about sake and beer, and when asked about my preferences I had to tell them about my Kyoto experience where I had the best $260 bottle of sake that yen could buy. One man found this so hilarious, and unfortuante that sake wasn't being served at the event, that half an hour later, as I was discussing the recent election with two political scientists, I was interrupted with a hand in my face, holding a glass of sake. My new-found friend had left the party to find a convenience store to buy sake for yours truly. Now that is what I call being a cultural ambassador!

As well as meeting lovely Japanese professionals, I had the pleasure of holding an intimate conversation with Mrs. Fulbright herself and the General Consul of Osaka, a wonderful, humble man, who regardless of diplomatic status, immediately wanted to meet all my colleagues and invited us out for lunch.

Just as surprising and equally impressive was the fact that I met one of this General Consul’s colleagues at the consulate who just so happened to need people who were interested in local non-profits and NGOs so as to help maintain relations with the consulate and the community. Well you certainly don’t have to pull my leg considering this is exactly what I came to Japan to do, but I almost jumped with excitement as the General Consul heard word of my work at the prison in Kobe. Inquisitively he asked me about my experience with wide eyes and asked if I would be interesting in working with his office further in this area. But of course, my dear sir, you certainly don't have to pull my arm to convince me to work with the American Consulate!

Literally jumping and hopping with excitement, my friends embarrassingly tried to keep me in toe after the event ended and I had finally found the connections I needed to truly begin my research the way I had hoped. How ironic it took an American consulate, but one need not bite the hand that feeds it, and I am in a country where I am constantly thankful at every opportunity that is given to me!

Sunday, November 6^th

Today Osaka battled taifun-like showers as the red and yellow leaves fought one another to stay on the trees only to tumble down to kiss the cold, wet pavement. Osaka University celebrated its 46th annual Machikane Festival, a tradition that brings our clubs, performers and cooks out into the elements to celebrate the mountain that shadows over our college. As I sat in the dank library composing my thoughts amidst its aging, musty books I could hear the shouts of my friends outside cheering on bands and performers almost as if the sound of their shrill voices would warm the air.

Reflecting over the past eight days bring a vivid smile to my face as I embrace the memories that are already life-long and the friendships that seem as though they will last a lifetime.

Tuesday, October 25^th: Kristin goes to prison!

My adventures began last Tuesday when I ventured to Eastern Kobe to start my work as an English teacher to the staff at Nishiakashi Prison. With my complete lack of knowledge in teaching English and the butterflies that pitter-pattered in my stomach I felt as though I might faint as I walked up to the high-security prison only after an hour and a half train and bus ride to the compound. Luckily the prison was nothing as I had imagined with its Spanish-style architecture and brick road. I felt like Don Quixote riding up to meet imaginary evils as the prison staff greeted me with, “I speak English Ms. Teacher,” and smiles from ear to ear. Of course in a white-collar prison the atmosphere is somewhat-less execrable than I had imagined, but when you look in to a room and immediately the door is slammed in your face with grim eyes, one knows they have entered an entirely new world.

Of course, I was also taken aback as I learned that I was neither the first English teacher, nor in an all-female environment as I had been led to believe. Sitting in a room full of men with muscles so large they could be mistaken for karate masters and admitting that this was my first time teaching English was more intimidating than taking on a 400-pound sumo wrestler in a crowded arena. All eyes watching Kristin sensei, we began to realize that rather than a class full of beginners, as my piebald students ranged from near-fluent English speakers to those who couldn’t introduce themselves. I realized I was pedogically-impaired when my lesson on introductions and Halloween was thwarted to try and catch each mosquito in the room with a loud, “smack” of the prison guards’ hands. Hands so large that they could crush a man in one fell swoop, so who was I to argue…at least they learned the word “mosquito” in English?

In the least, I now know the ins and outs of the prison in case a riot breaks out or I need to flee for my immediate sanity. While this opportunity left me completely bereft of hope and energy on the train ride back to Osaka, I now know that this is going to be a wonderful learning experience for me and in the least a rare opportunity to see the inside of a system so often kept out of the public eye.

Friday-Saturday, October 28th-29th

Thankfully, after recovering from my trip to prison (how fun is it to be able to say that?), two of my fellow Fulbright Kansai colleagues accompanied me on a weekend trip to the metropolis of Tokyo for a reception to honor the late Senator William J. Fulbright. Without him and his wonderful wife, I would not be here today, so the three of us knew it was a wonderful opportunity to graciously say thank you, meet other alumni and see all the sights that make up this fantastic city.

Rather than spend hundreds of dollars on a shinkanesen (bullet train) ticket, the three of us took the adventurous rout and began our journey with the yako bus, which departs at 11 pm from Kyoto and lands in Tokyo’s happening Shinjuku at 5:30 in the morning. Sadly, it sounded better in theory because with cramped quarters, sauna-like heat and not nearly enough time to catch up with one another before we departed, we were actually threatened to be kicked off the bus. We of course did not know this at the time until our nearly fluent friend Kenny informed Kavitha and I that our hysterics were not nearly as funny to the rest of the bus as they were to ourselves, but hey, it’s all a state of mind right?

Luckily, for a few hundred yen, we scored tickets to an indoor onsen, where one is able to luxuriously bask in saunas, steam rooms, cold baths and hot tubs…the perfect end to a night of fitful rest. Feeling refreshed Kavitha and I headed to view the Diet, Japan’s national law-making body, the Imperial Palace, Imperial Gardens, Tokyo Fountain Plaza and what is a trip to the center of Tokyo without a stop at Ginza where my cohort in crime and I gave in to our Tiffany & Co. desires and had fun oohing and aahing at the shiny items protected from us behind the glass.

As Kavitha and I dolled up for the reception that night in our shoebox of a room, we realized that our room peered directly in to the 7^th floor of an office building, complete with cute young salary-men. Considering it was a Saturday night and there were two lovely ladies next door several of these white-shirted gentleman thought it would be hilarious to sit at their desks and oogle at the foreign women putting on make-up. Likewise, we found it just as funny and laughed and waved at each other through the thick-paned glass that separated our all-too alternate universes.

Hair curled and nails painted, we all left for the reception with a nervous anticipation that accompanies a gathering that can make or break one’s research opportunities. With our meishi (business cards) in tow we listened to Mrs. Fulbright, a fabulous, beautiful woman describe the life of her late husband who founded the program which brought us to the country and hob-knobbed until the wee hours of the night and the lights were turned off on us. Aside from balancing wine and trading meishi, the three fellows and I were surprised to hear our names as all of the 2005 grantees were called to the stage to give an introduction which every single other researcher had known about. But of course, with flare and guile reminiscent of Elizabeth Taylor, we proudly spoke about our projects and I in my night of no sleep and one drink of wine with no dinner somehow yammered on about how lucky I was to be here…and how lucky I felt to be in the presence of such fine people…and finally how lucky I was to be here. Oh yes, beget the gorgeous outfit I’d poured over, I’d just made a fool out of myself in front of the bi-national commission and diplomats.

All is well that ends well I realized as I met a nice young researcher who happened to be researching a similar form of human rights. Michael informed me of his interest in foreign workers and my ears immediately perked up because my wonderful mentor and advisor at my alma mater, St. Olaf, had studied just that years earlier. When I asked if he knew of my professor he not only knew of her, but had met her and loved her work. What a small world, when you can travel 7,000 miles away from home only to discuss those you left!

To celebrate our evening of successful schmoozing we decided to celebrate Halloween in Roppongi, a popular hot spot where all young people gather in the wee hours of the night. Sadly, after our yako bus traversing the day before, these foreigners did not make it the whole night and wound up out our hotel thankful for a bed and happy to have friends by our side.

Sunday, October 30^th

When you are twenty-three years old and the first thought that enters your mind when you wake-up in the morning is what part of you aches the most, you realize that yes, you really are old. When you have to put an entire tube of concealer under your eyes to not look like Frankenstein’s wife…that’s when you look old, however. And Sunday I did so without regret as my friends and I ventured around Tokyo.

After a 2 hour lecture in Japanese that nearly killed me due to the fact that a) it was in Japanese and b) it was in Japanese, I ravaged the streets of Ginza to find a fantastic Indian restaurant with my accompanying friends. Feeling refreshed and up for adventure we embarked on a journey to the famed Harajuku, where teenagers dress in make-up and gothic-inspired gear that would even make Elvira cringe. Amongst J-Crew stores and Gap look-alikes these teens proudly wore their anti-establishment colors, and Kenny and Kavitha and I were excited that we could take part in a crowd of thousands of Japan’s teenagers and the only place in Tokyo where they feel free to be themselves.

Next stop: Shinjuku, where the lights rival Times Square and the pedestrians often win fights over cars. At each stop-light, thousands of people migrate in a multi-directional nightmare that could leave one dizzy if not for the hundreds of television screens pitching new movies, the latest music and hilarious animation that we have come to know from Japan.

We ended our night once again in Ginza at an Irish pub and were once again thankful to be able to share liquor and stories. Even though I had only slept several hours over the past few days, being able to experience new sights and sounds with friends is something that will always make me feel young, whether 23 or 83, and I cherished every moment of our night together.

Monday, October 31: All Saints and Sinners

As thousands of children donned costumes and masks in America to celebrate All Saints Day, or Halloween as we know it, miles away I found myself in the middle of one of the most fantastic shrines in all of Japan: Meiji Jingu. While most torii, or gates that majestically herald the entrances of Japanese shrines with bright orange lacquer, Meiji Jingu’s bare wood and mild ornamentation made my experience at this shrine all the more significant. With chrysanthemums the size of our heads lining our the gravel path and the fall colors changing almost before our eyes, I realized I had found my most treasured place in Japan. It is one of the moments in time where you simply stop, close your eyes, breathe in the quiet, forgetting all your indiscretions as the air thick with the pungent smell of bamboo and cypress seeps in and makes way for the faint sound of the stream trickle over your body until you are at complete relaxation with the world.

The only place in Japan that could be the mirror opposite would have to be the national Diet, where Japan’s laws are consecrated and which buzzes with bureaucrats and red tape to boot. After trying and failing several attempts, my fellow future law school colleague and I snagged our way on a tour on the grand building. Ironically, the Diet is not even a century old due to fires and the fact that this fine nation’s power was restored to the emperor as late as 1868, so to leave a place where millennia of spiritual follower had trespassed to a building that was so new and obviously foreign in design (Prussian-inspired) was quite a shock.

Luckily however, my friend Kavitha and I were in good company, as we were led on a bilingual tour at the behest of a dozen American state and local legislators who just so happened to desire a tour of the Diet at the same time. In the middle of learning how the emperor is the only one who may enter the grand staircase and that the building was painted black during World War II, were met San Jose lawyers and Kentucky senators who were pleased as punch to see two fine young ladies studying politics in Japan. We all giggled at what a coincidence it was and I was sad to part ways with our fraternizing friends as our insightful tour ended, complete with iconic photo in front of the building.