An American in Japan

2006-04-12T20:24:00.000+09:00

Amanohashidate: The Bridge to Heaven

“Kavitha, WHAT are you doing? Are you sick, cuz girl you look crazy!?!” I shouted to my friend as we were on top of a mountain on the Sea of Japan. After stepping on a bench to see the view of the sea from the summit, my friend had immediately bent over as though she were going to be sick…until I realized that everyone else was doing the same thing. I knew Japanese people were a little crazy what with their dressing up as anime characters and drunk salarymen on the trains…but honestly, folks.

What I didn’t realize was that for millenia, visitors at the Bridge to Heaven have been doing this very same thing. Supposedly, it gives one the ultimate view of the tree-covered sandbar as it sweeps up toward the heavens. Amanohashidate (say that ten times fast), as it is known in Japanese, is one of the Nihon Sankei, or three most beautiful sights in Japan that have been worshipped for centuries. My buddy and I had used our Spring Break to join in on the affordable train fairs that are offered for young travelers, such as the “youthful 18” ticket that allowed us to travel for 5 very long hours to the northern end of Kansai, on the Sea of Japan.

What we didn’t realize, was that even after soaking in the amazing sights, walking for miles on the tranquil sandbar, visiting omiyage (local traditional souvenir/gift) shops and seeing temples was that the island literally shut down at 5:30. On the dot. We couldn’t even find a convenience store, which are as prominent in Japan as Starbucks in the states (it’s true, if Starbucks made “across the street from one another” stores popular, Japan perfected it)!

So hungry and tired, Kavitha did the only thing possible: stowed away on an express train, pretended to be asleep and made it back to Osaka in a quarter of the time it took us to get to the Bridge to Heaven. Seriously…why hadn’t I thought of it before? We’ve both paid an arm and a leg (and probably a spleen and kidney) in transportation costs in this country and the trains have an explicit “no waking foreigners up because they might curse at you in words you don’t understand” policy, so fortunately it worked to our advantage. Unfortunately (or fortunately?) for Kavitha and I, we have consciouses that work overtime, so we’re going to put our illegitimate train-hopping ways on the back-burner…

…at least until there’s another adventure to tackle!

2006-04-12T20:01:00.000+09:00

February 6-8^th: A Flurry of Fun at the Sapporo Snow Festival

I am your typical Midwestern girl, just like my profile states. I rode my bike to the local pool and roasted marshmallows regularly during our numerous camping adventures in the summer. In the winter months I would nurse my cold hands back to life by drinking gallons of hot chocolate after endless hours of vigorous sledding and creating snowmen. It was, if you will, the most quaint and vivid Americana experience a young, wide-eyed girl could wish for.
Decades later, transport me to an industrial, concrete city of 8 million, with no grass or snow to think of, and the word “claustrophobic” comes to mind. So when I heard of a literal winter wonderland that existed far North in Sapporo, the thought of frolicking amongst snowflakes immediately leapt me out of my winter blues!

Hokkaido is known for its vast natural elegance, complete with volcanic national parks, lavender fields spanning hundreds of miles and the Sapporo Snow Festival, claiming the world’s largest ice sculpture festival.

Kavitha and Yeon Wha, two of my fellow Fulbright gals, joined me in this adventure as we flew to this remote island (Japan’s largesse train system doesn’t even attempt to transcend this remote respite.

Unfortunately, even after living in a part of the nation where 10 below is warm for the winter, Osaka’s warm weather quickly acclimatized me to being used to 50 degree temperatures. Translation: Sapporo was friggin freezing! Even after immediately traversing the negative wind chill to buy long-underwear and extra mittens, I still had to wear two coats just to survive.

But Hokkaido’s meibutsu, or specialty, is boiling hot butter corn ramen. This particular fare is so infamous that Sapporo boasts a Ramen Alley, a street filled with just these kinds of vendors, all competing against one another for your business. Amidst the steam pouring from each store’s stoves, the brilliant neon lights and the screaming women clamoring on how their ramen is the best in Hokkaido. Needless to say, it was a difficult decision, but the three of us descended upon an old ojiisan’s (grandpa’s) stand and the smell was decadent. Whether it was the hours of travel, bitter cold or simply being among friends, it was most definitely the best ramen I have ever slurped up!

After wiping the soup from our faces and prodigiously thanking our new friend for the wonderful meal, we trotted off to the Susukino Ice Festival and the 56^th Annual Sapporo Snow Festival. With flashing lights, rock stars, hot chocolate and cameras, we tackled the hundreds of ice castles and snow statues that covered the streets. It was a beautiful sight but I still have to give my allegiance to the St. Paul Winter Carnival Ice Palace (gotta give props to my fellow Minnesotans!).

After drinking green tea to warm ourselves and getting a good night’s sleep, the three of us ventured out the next day to take in all the sights of Sapporo. With our faithful and handy Lonely Planet guide in tow, we checked out the Sapporo sights: the Old Government Building with its beautiful baroque architecture and official archives; the Sapporo Beer Factory, complete with taste tests of the barley and hops used in the production of the nation’s first brewery; the Clock Tower and its centuries old clock that withstands earthquakes and the University of Hokkaido. Whew!

After an exhausting day of sight-seeing, girls just wanna have fun. So we treated ourselves to a big bag of popcorn and a movie: “Pride and Prejudice.” Needless to say, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single girl in possession of a few yen must be in want of a good chic flick! Ya gotta love Jane!

The following day, after getting up early, we once again braved the cold to traverse up Mount Moiwa, which boasts a lovely view of Sapporo. Once we finally found the ropeway entrance that takes visitors to the summit, we were greeted with a zamboni-like machine that pulled an authentic sleigh to the observation deck. I felt like I was in some sort of bizarre science fiction and was waiting for someone to jump out and say, “You’re on candid camera.” Luckily, the trip was short, and the girls and I warmed ourselves up with coffee at the top of the mountain before once again braving the storm and taking in the amazing scenic views from 532 meters above sea level.

After that journey, we were wiped out and ready to head back home. With enough frostbite, pink noses and snowballs to satisfy me, I was happy to embrace Osaka as my home!

2006-04-12T18:34:00.000+09:00

Saturday, February 4^th: From China to

America

and back again!

After a wonderfully long and exhausting day of catching up with the other fellows and dining with the entertaining executive director of the program, we were all up for a day of exploring Saturday. Our thirsts pointed us in the direction of Yokohama, the metropolis adjacent to Tokyo, filled with towering brand new business parks right on the bay and boasted the nation’s largest Chinatown nestled in the middle of its 8 million residents.

So our little gaijin group of myself, Kavitha, David (our Nagasaki dude), Takara and Takaaki (our T’s from Sendai) are gathered together to handle our way through the fumbling Tokyo metro system to get to Yokohama. Unfortunately, of our pseudo-intelligentsia groupies, none of us had actually taken notice to figure out what to do and where to go when we arrived at Yokohama Station. Three subway stops, two confused station attendants, one information booth and plenty of random pedestrians later,
we found ourselves on our way to Landmark Tower, the tallest building in Japan standing at 972 feet tall and hosting the world’s fastest elevator, speeding up to the observation deck in less than 40 seconds.

Our little group was astounded at the beautiful views of Tokyo Bay and Mount Fuji and it made me anticipate climbing the mountain when my friends and relatives begin to visit me in Japan!

But before getting ahead of ourselves, our local guide Takaaki was adamant that we check out Yokohama’s Chinatown. This city within a city spans many a city block and is complete with hundreds of restaurants and even an authentic Chinese dragon that goes from storefront to storefront followed by fireworks. It was incredible to inhale the smell of Chinese sweets such as roasted almonds and take our time searching through the millions of tchochkes like sequined shoes and beanies. This place held everything you one could possibly conceived of when thinking of China!

David and Kavitha and I were dead set on finding a fantastic Chinese restaurant and after hours of searching and looking for just the right spot we’d found our heaven: all you can eat for an hour and a half. It was one of those restaurants where the food revolves in front of you, half teasing you to pick up every tasty-looking morsel just to see what those around you would say. Societal norms be damned because the three of us ate more than we had ever tried in our lives, more or less in Japan. We ate everything from rice pudding tapioca to spring rolls to beef and broccoli and egg drop soup. All of it was certainly delicious and lived up to its high expectations!

So the only way to top a phantasmagorically scrumptious trip to the Far East? Why to return to America, of course! At least in the form of Roppongi, the notoriously gaijin part of Tokyo where all the young clubbers and hip-hop goers retreat to. It is a land where English is spoken incessantly, bouncers hussle you in front of every door and dancing sensually to the music is passport to fun and fantasy...the perfect end to any Tokyo adventure!

2006-02-16T18:24:00.000+09:00

Wednesday, February 2^nd-Thursday, February 3^rd: Come, gentle night bus, come, loving, black-brow'd night bus…

In efforts to reach Tokyo in an economic fashion for my Fulbright mid-year conference, my wonderful gal pal Kavitha and I chose the infamous “night bus” in all its regalia to take us to our destination. Little did we realize that with the upcoming akiyasumi, or the two-month long spring break most colleges had sprung on its students, we were surrounded in Kyoto Station by hopped-up teens sporting the latest 4 inch boots, gelled hair with snowboards and Louis Vuitton purses in tow.

The night bus is something of a rather eponymous variable in Japanese culture. Akin to a Greyhound in the states, we must remember that the Japanese people are much shorter than their American counterparts, meaning that two lovely 5 foot 9 inch women can barely squeeze into seats that barely accommodate the thousands of 4 foot 10 inch ladies that frequently use these buses. With my heels on, I literally am double the size of many Japanese woman, creating a sort of albino Bigfoot anomaly that has more than once been cause for havoc and impromptu photo shoots. Oh yes, the words, “mite” or “look!” are emphatically shouted when I walk by just so avid onlookers can take in the frightening giantess that happens to grace the presence of many Kansai inhabitants. Thank God we were headed to Tokyo, where 1 in 10 residents marries a foreigner, and therefore is used to this strange spectacle!

Unfortunately, Kavitha and I were so ecstatic at the end of classes and kanji quizzes that we did not realize how early our bus would land in the phantasmagorical land of Tokyo. At 6:17 A.M. we were shortly shoved off our night bus and forced to reckon with the fact that we were in the middle of Tokyo for almost an entire day before we could check in to our hostel. But fear not, Starbucks was to the rescue! As your prototypical gaijin, we headed to the nearest over-priced coffee joint and relished in the free, heated environment of mass globalization for over three (yes, count ‘em three) hours until the stores in the glamorous Ginza opened for our perusal. Just imagine seeing two foreigners, hopped up on caffeine with no sleep and no showers for twenty-four hours gossiping over the latest news and excitedly pouring over the vast expanse of consumerism that is Ginza, and you’ll realize why few Japanese patrons actually chose to sit next to us at the crowded Starbucks….folks, this was a desperate situation!

Finally we decided to lug our luggage to the historic Asakasa where our hostel had been arranged. After a forty minute train ride, half an hour of searching, ten minutes of phone calls, and two minutes of Kristin throwing down her gargantuan suitcase in the middle of the street and crying for desperate help did we find the “luxurious” Khaosan Hostel. Imagine a prison cell…now imagine sharing a prison cell, one shower an sinks with no running water with 25 other people….that was the loveliness of our hostel. Despite its low price of $20 a night and free drink tickets to the nearby (20 minutes) bar, the place had no walls, little heat and foreigners that had been living there for months. If this was hell, we were certainly in its 9^th ring!

But, other Fulbrighters were quick to rescue our despair. After a quick shower and cat nap, we met up with friends and found a lovely restaurant in the nearby shopping district of Ueno, where we shared our tales of research and adventure for the past five months. With fabulous $3 glasses of wine, spectacular Italian-Japanese cuisine, and enough laughs to last us years over, we realized the close ties that we had formed with one another as we wined and dined one another. After all, when in Japan, do as the Japanese do, which means you must simply embrace your surroundings and let your friends melt away your fatigue and hunger with laughter and kinship!

2006-02-01T17:17:00.000+09:00

February 1st, 2006: Get your parkas: truthiness is the new black!

As I prepare for my trip to Tokyo, in great anticipation of joining my fellow Fulbrighters for our mid-year conference a melange of feelings has washed over me. Jumping on my suitcase, cramming in warm sweaters for our trip up to Hokkaido, the Northernmost island of Japan, to partake in the winter festival celebrations, sending off the last of letters and packages, I realize that in the midst of my life in Japan, something extremely significant has happened, and it almost slipped me by...

Hell, folks, has frozen over.

What? When did it happen? It started when truthiness, that word that defines, as the thoughful Stephen Colbert poignantly put it, the feeling in your gut rather than anything that can be claimed as fact, took precedence over anything concrete. Sure, James Frey fell to a million little pieces, Oprah supported, flip-flopped and then yelled. The Senate droned on and on and on about Alito, Bush wiretapped us all to figure out who's dating who and why....and now, W has seen the light...

The U.S.? Addicted to oil? Gosh, where have I been for the past 23 years...I must have been living under a rock in the Arctic Refuge...or hiding in my ginormous pimped out H2.

Or maybe, just maybe I was protesting for the freedom that all women want: the right to have men butt out of my reproductive private life and leave the abortion debate to my own choosing, rather than Sammy becoming the deciding factor.

Gosh, I'm gone for five months, and the country goes to pot (actually, it would of, but the Supreme Court ruled that we can't do that medically any more without fear of retribution).

So, I'll just put on my parka and ice skate over to Tokyo, where I am amicably joined by optimists, bright-eyed brilliant minds who still believe that the world can be saved. And we are going to do it, through medicine, education, human rights, economics, literature...and never give up, no matter how low our approval numbers drop, how often we are called traitors for questioning fundamental beliefs and no longer will we sit idly by and let our nation be destroyed by pundits.

I left America to study human rights....I never thought that the best place to do so would be right where I started.

Love,
An [extremely frustrated] American in Japan!

2006-01-28T14:58:00.000+09:00

January 28, 2006: In a post-modern feminist’s world

I am known for being loud, over-the-top, animated…and the words “Kristin” and “drama queen” are often used in the same sentence. In America, this makes me a wild child, in Japan, I am a rambunctious “seikyo” foreigner. Seikyo means forward in Japanese, which brings a very interesting topic to light. Back in the good old U.S. of A., a woman who grabs life by the horns and obtains what she wants is admirably ambitious. In Japan, this makes you exhibit male qualities that leave the opposite sex running for the yama (hills).

So why, in a nation as democratic and advanced as Japan, am I labeled “seikyo,” or forward? Why is this negative? Just because I don’t sit back, shut up and listen to my male elders, does that make me so outside of the pre-existing box that I’m a rude, overbearing enigma?

In America, of course, I understand that not anytime soon will the Republican rebel-rowsers be knocking at my door asking for contributions. I bilk marriage for law school, women’s rights rule over men’s egos, and antiquity and decorum be dammed when it comes to wearing high heels while vacuuming my living room…as Maureen Dowd (my heroine, about whom Salon.com’s Rebecca Traister writes, “You can love her or hate her, but you can't dismiss her”) says, “our Hoovers are turning on us.” Well I’d rather have the fat sucked out of me instead of my female charismatic values, also known as my God-given rights (take that Falwell and Alito).

Campus Progress critiques Dowd as criticizing the patriarchal boundaries but while living within them. Am I doing the same thing? In America, if I wanted something, I went for it! I wanted a man…I tagged and bagged him (kudos to you sweetie). I wanted to go to a fantastic college that was financially out of my league. I made sacrifices. I wanted to work for the Democratic presidential candidate, the leading female senator in Minnesota and the 2004 Nobel Peace Prize winner: I campaigned, I convinced and I conceded.

Unfortunately, us modern fem-Nazis (as my girlfriends in high school used to call ourselves) are nastily chided from all sides. The right call us lesbians at best and “anti-Christian immoral” women who ignore God’s place for us in the world [gag me]. The left, even the progressives, pettily accuse us of accepting the “gender games.” Others, like Katha Pollitt, a woman I respect greatly, of The Nation wrote, “The young women I know--most of whom, contrary to stereotype, have no problem calling themselves feminists--are so far ahead of where I was at their age, so much more confident and multicompetent and worldly-wise, I only wish I could hire one to renegotiate my girl-money salary for me.” While Pollitt claims that Dowd believes the age of Aquarius to be dead, alongside it’s “Feminism is Dead polemic.” Harsh words. But do they ring true in the new millennium for women in America and the world?

It seems that in an age where Germany’s Angela Merkel, even Chile and Liberia where Michelle Bachelet and Ellen Johnson Sirleaf rule respectively and respectfully, that the only country that is steeped in a male patriarchy is the land of Starbucks, Botox and boob jobs. I’m not professing that feminism led nowhere, after all, my mom is still a tried and true hippie to this day still questioning my affinity for dresses and Dior, but are we really where we wanted to be? That is the question I believe Dowd to be asking, and we still ponder why? Why are we amazed at the Indira Gandhis, Margaret Thatchers and leaders with two X chromosomes that can be counted on one hand?

The answer was poignantly discussed in a recent New York Times column: “Women's successes in Liberia, Chile and Germany are being celebrated in part because this kind of achievement is still rare. In most countries, women have yet to achieve the critical mass at the lower levels of government that will be necessary if their ascension is to be seen as part of the normal course of politics.

In Japan, my joie de vivre trumps my femininity, unfettered by Asian, or even American convention. I refuse to uphold values that still continue, regardless of geographical location or boundary, to bind my values and dreams. I want to be the next Merkel, Bachelet and Johnson Sirleaf…whose poetic largesse and strong intellectual charisma led them to the top spots in their own countries. If that makes me seikyo, so be it. At least I’ll do it with dignity, and a little feminine finesse to boot!

2006-01-26T02:31:00.000+09:00

January 25, 2006: Foreigners, assimilation and the basic of all rights

“I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.”-Robert Frost

Immigration versus assimilation. This topic transcends borders, from France and America to the far sea of Japan. What makes someone indigenous? Native? Why do some countries welcome foreigners and others create concrete walls of precaution to protect themselves from these “threats” (as Bush, Rove, Cheney and the rest of the White House cronies would have us believe them to be)?

Living in Japan as a five foot eight inch Caucasian woman, I obviously stick out in the massive Osaka crowds. I politely ignore the stares on the trains, laugh off the jibes in subways and calmly rebuke the negative jingoist comments I can often understand in Japanese. I never in my life thought that I would experience discrimination that I had read that existed in America or heard first-hand from my friends who experienced outright bigotry. Fortunately, the Midwest somewhat sheltered me from this harsh existence that many others experience, so my first-hand knowledge at being an outsider was the moment I entered the geographic borders of Japan as a “resident alien.”

The conversation is a fluid and timely one in our lives. We are still learning lessons from Paris’s riots, groping at understanding the subtle differences between Shi’ites and Sunnis, and commemorating Martin Luther King’s dreams of a day when the content of our character pushes aside color and creed. For now, however, we live in a time where the pugnacious nature of racism is truculently inevitable.

In Japan recently, one of the Diet (parliament) members proclaimed that Japan is a “homogenous” nation. Furor erupted from the Brazilian, Korean and Chinese communities (to name a few) who celebrate their ethnic diversity while embracing their inherent “Japanese-ness.” So why do some nations value the idea of a melting pot and what provokes others to forego this diversity?

The Economist from last November explained that “hyphenating beats segregating” in America, a nation whose stars and stripes better assimilate Arabs than France or other European nations. The article describes “assimilation” as the ability for minorities in America to have equal opportunities for education, income and advancement, i.e. social, educational, commercial, political equality. While I virulently inveigh that we as Americans have a long ways to go, I remember a conversation I had with an Arab-American friend of mine, Razi, several summers ago.

We met at a conference for young leaders concerned with American’s image in the world, and Razi was a representative from Dearborn, Michigan; the location of the nation’s largest Arab population. Being a deftly and embarrassingly ignorant Midwesterner, where the only diversity I ever experienced was the variety of cowboy hats I saw each day, Razi patiently described his reactions after 9/11, his Muslim faith and how he appreciated every opportunity to explain his views to an ignorant person (i.e. me). He truly believed that Arab-Americans had an opportunity those in other nations did not, even if he did get hassled by the FBI and frequently pulled aside at airports.

So why do nations like France and Japan not possess mechanisms that allow this same kind of understanding? I am not about to proclaim from a soapbox that American is the epitome of equality and understanding, but at least our nation was founded upon the shoulders of men and women who knew these borders were transient; a melting pot, an Ellis Island of good will toward all man and womankind, with a few bumps along the road of course (like Bush’s immigration plan).

My brilliant and insightful tomodachi Takara (Sista in Sendai) has highlighted the fact that in Japan, a place where thousands of years of culture meets tomorrow’s trends in technological and scientific advances, still has vast difficulties using archetypal images for minorities, from African-Americans to Korean-Japanese. And according to the Economist’s pre-requisites for assimilation, Japan certainly exudes arenas where fairness in social, educational and some political equality, at least for a modern, capitalist nation-state.

So what must be done? I too, am in a lover’s quarrel with the world, as Frost so poetically had inscribed on his epitaph. Therefore, I do not feel that we can simply envisage walls and borders. Rather than America alienating Vincente Fox and our Mexican neighbors, rather than Japan eliminating educational rights to foreign children, instead of ignoring the poverty of Arabs in Parisienne tenements, we need to inclusively create political equality for our increasingly globalize world. David Ardo, a human rights researcher colleague, highlighted in a recent Japan Times article how Japan must exhort lawmakers to support legislation that promotes the rights of gaikokujin, or foreigners and extend basic human rights to all peoples living within the borders of Japan. We must cede this bombastic idea that foreigners are a threat, and instead embrace the diverse qualities that they bring to our lives.

Only then can we truly embrace the ai, or love, that Frost, spoke of…the whole world over.

2006-01-25T00:09:00.000+09:00

January 24, 2006: A Room with a view...and so much more!

After a month long absence, I admit it is high time I get my writing into full swing and once again return to blogging. My holiday season was filled with warm wishes and wonderful family reunions as I traversed the world over to meet friends and family back in Rapid City, South Dakota. The season is never complete without passing away the hours with my mother cooking sugar cookies and cheesecakes, going to the quaint church my grandparents founded, checking out the latest happy hour specials in local, po-dunk bars with high school friends and simply remembering how blessed we all are for the opportunities we are given.

I sit here reminiscing over these warm tithes, of memories filled with beautiful, blinking Christmas lights, mugs of hot chocolate, and the brilliant white snows that graced the Black Hills while I was home. Rapid City will always be my home, and my mother said to me once I returned to Osaka, “Kristin, I am slowly learning that I need to let my children grow their wings. I can’t be your mother forever.” What an honest realization. For so long, I have thought that my life would be found within the memories encapsulated in South Dakota. I used to feel like Romeo, desperately proclaiming, “there is no world without Verona walls” when I thought of leaving my nest. Now, however, I have found the world to be flat, just as Thomas Friedman claims. Japan is really not so far from America is from France is from India, etc, etc, etc.

Of course, this bold realization also came with the arrival of my LSAT score, several days before Christmas. Sometimes, one wishes that Santa really would forget addresses, or not visit homes without chimneys, because the big guy upstairs was obviously not concerned for my Christmas wishes when I opened up my inbox and was filled with mixed reactions to my disappointing LSAT score.

Alas, my friends and family were right by my side to alleviate my woes with their support and I have now decided, much like Lucy Honeychurch, in E.M. Forster’s A Room with a View, that I have my whole life ahead of me to determine my course. I have now signed up for the Foreign Service exam should I want to pursue diplomacy as my friends at the American Consulate in Osaka have suggested. The GRE is another item on my To-Do list, considering I always wanted to obtain my Master’s in Public Policy. I might even spend next year teaching in China or writing in France. Who knows? The wonderful thing about life is that it is glorious and difficult all at the same time, as Forster wrote. We learn the instruments as we go along, and this is one heroine who has many things to check off her life’s To-Do list.

Ciao!

2006-01-13T23:44:00.000+09:00

Sunday, December 19^th

After a fitful night of fabulous taiko, I once again had the opportunity to have my Osaka gents escort me to yet another concert, this time to hear the wonderful group Ikari play. First things first, however. I was on a mission to get my cell phone to work again, regardless of me having not paid the bill for month (how long does the gaijin excuse work…one, two months?).

So I marched to Yodobashi Camera in downtown Osaka, had my list of vocabulary all prepared and the longer I stood waiting in line watching hundreds of consumers purchasing new ketai’s, my confidence shrank lower and lower. My friends warned me that I might be SOL, but I thought I could try right?

Luckily a kind gentleman came to my assistance, and as soon I rattled off my problem in Japanese, he ran off to help me, leaving me anxiously awaiting the outcome. Unfortunately he came back with a car charger and a grin a mile wide, proud that he could understand my awful Japanese. I felt like Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke;” “what we have here is a failure to communicate.”

An hour and a half later, my cell phone back to normal, I met my buddy Alex and we ran the 12 blocks to Liberty Osaka, a museum recently re-opened to support local human rights movements, which happened to be the host of the concert. Just before the concert started, we were seated (I always love to make an entrance) and the proud, anthem-like drum beats filled our ears. It was so powerful to see groups of otherwise disenfranchised minority ethnic groups coming together to celebrate something so primal, so Japanese. It was moving.

An afternoon of taiko cannot end without wining and dining with the taiko greats. Or so my friends convinced me as we traveled to Nara to dine at the home of the leader of Wudaiko Hiryu, Minehide-san. This is a gigantic man, bubbling with crude jokes and a personality that could fill the Parthenon. I was so honored at simply being invited, but was even more astounded as Shingo, another member of the group, joked with us that his house was called Minehide-jo, or Minehide’s castle. I understood immediately what he meant. With Jeep Cherokees sitting in the garage and a three story home complete with 60-inch flat screen HDTV, it wasn’t a castle but a palace!

With open arms and plenty of sake to go around Minehide warmly greeted us and we immediately settled around the kotatsu, a Japanese table with a heater underneath, to warm our hands from the cold and begin the fabulous meal of nabe. Nabe (literally meaning “pan”) is a traditional Japanese treat, where a large bowl with a soup base is placed on the dining table and everyone partakes in adding ingredients like mushrooms, cabbage, beef and onions. Each one taking his or her turn to stir the pot and serve one another. It is the ultimate communal dining experience, and for a nation that prides itself on integrity and social discretion, it is wonderful to simply sit, drink sake and share a meal with friends where no one cares who has “double-dipped” (George Costanza from Seinfeld would LOVE this culture!).

Amongst many cups of sake, red wine and cold beers, we somehow got through the language barrier and erupted with plenty to talk about, from food to sports. It was so wonderful to be in a home environment, complete with dogs in Santa suits and children running rampant. Unfortunately, the scene got a little too comfortable when my friend blurted to Minehide-san that I had a small crush on one of his group members, a young man named Makoto. Well, when a loud, gruff, practical jokester is armed with information like this, the only thing he can do is call Makoto on his cell phone, tell him there’s a foreigner who’s in love with him, and to get over here ASAP. Literally.

So an hour later, as I was trying to convince everyone that I was supposed to be making my way to Kyoto to meet friends, Makoto shows up, joins us, and is egged on by Minehide-san. The class clown even proceeded to put in a video of one of the group’s concerts and every time Makoto’s image graced the screen Minehide would cry, “Kristin-san, you see Makoto…eh?” with a grin a mile wide on his face. I couldn’t tell if it was the sake or the nabe, but things were definitely getting warm in the home, so I decided to graciously thank them for the meal and leave for Kyoto.

Or so I thought. Minehide took Makoto aside and asked him to drive me to the train station. With Makoto chain smoking during the inappropriately long drive to the station, I began to realize that I had no idea where I was. This feeling hit me hard as the car stopped in a covered garage and Makoto got out of the van. “Well this is the nicest train station I’ve ever seen,” I thought to myself, and no sooner had the thought entered my head did I realize where we were. Makoto had taken me to a love hotel, Japan’s equivalent of a seedy place where couples get it on. Before I could demand he take me back, he had a receipt for a room payment in his hand and was holding the elevator with a look like, “c’mon Kristin, what are you waiting for?”

So I did what any rational, confident twenty-something feminist would do. I screamed at him to leave immediately and drop me off at the next stop or I would hurt him severely. Oh, and who did he think he is? As his smile turned into a look of pure fear, he ran to the van and I quickly got out my cell phone, yelling into the microphone what had just happened as my friends laughed on the other end and Makoto tried to find the nearest station.

Very long story short, I made it to the station, but decided to go home after the eventful night. As it turned out, Minehide had dared Makoto to take me to the hotel and the poor kid fell for it…hook, line and sinker. It’s certainly a night I’ll laugh about for a long, long while.

2006-01-13T22:51:00.000+09:00

December 17^th, Saturday: A funny thing happened on the way to the taiko…

…when my local taiko gurus, Alex and Joe, graciously invited me to a fantastic Kodo concert before I left for Japan. I anxiously anticipated the event with bated breath. Since my time here in Japan began, my affinity for taiko, Japanese drumming, has skyrocketed, particularly since Kodo is one of the most world-renown groups in this genre, and they have a couple buff cuties showing off their muscles of steel of which I have developed an unhealthy crush. So, off to Southern Osaka I traversed to meet my boys and a few of their friends.

Or so I thought. As I tried to call them to ask where on earth I was going (you know Kristin and directions; my geography genes must have come from the paternal side of my family with my continued lack of public transportation know-how), my cell phone made a funny noise and died. But not before I received a dry e-mail from my cell phone provider stating I hadn’t paid my bill in several months. Uh-oh!

Not that I’m a delinquent or anything of the sort, but hey, things come up right? Now my friends and family will constantly laugh and tell you that when it comes to numbers and myself, we’ve never gotten along. More of a love-hate relationship. Heck, I barely passed math in college, what with my “Gateways of Mathematics” class where Professor “Paco” let us discuss our feelings on math. Yes, really.

But this time I had an excuse. Since moving from my friends’ place into my new apartment, my provider still hadn’t figured out the change of address. So on that fateful Saturday, they simply got fed up with me and cut off my service. It’s actually quite embarrassing and reminded me of those cliché TV episodes where you see the struggling artist return to his/her apartment only to find out the electricity has been shut off. (That reminds me, I must pay my electric bill.)

So after asking plenty of random strangers and almost missing another Kodo concert, I arrived at the hall just in time to meet my friends and rush inside. Of course, Kodo never disappoints, particularly since after the concert they came out and mingled with the audience. Merry Christmas to me!

2005-12-15T00:57:00.000+09:00

Wednesday, December 14^th: All You Need is Ai

“All you need is love.” That was a mantra touted in the 60s after the legendary Beatles crooned to their teenage fans. Not only did the mop top boys transform the definitions for pop cultural icons and establish themselves as music heavyweights, but their messages ring true today, particularly in times of rampant war and political divisiveness.

Therefore it seems most appropriate that Japan’s national kanji for 2005 is 愛, ai, or “love.” Since the great Hanshin Earthquake in 1995, a new kanji is voted for annually to represent events and feelings amongst Japanese. Many polled claimed that they chose ai because of the Royal Princesse’s marriage to a commoner, losing her imperial title and privileges for none other than love.

But I think the idea transcends the literal meaning, as was displayed to me beautifully tonight at a Fulbright reception I attended in Osaka.

With the holiday cheer wantonly festooned throughout Osaka, complete with elaborate department store displays, jolly Santas in red suits, and “Happy Christmas” signs displaying the seasonal pride, I skipped through downtown Umeda to attend a lecture on “Postwar US-Japan Cultural Relations : John D. Rockfeller III and the ‘Dulles Peace Mission’ of 1951" by the fascinating Matsuda Takeshi.

Surrounded by professors, salary men, retirees, current students, Europeans, Japanese and Americans I realized how truly blessed I am to be in an environment where free cultural exchange runs wild. After the brilliantly engaging lecture, the 2005 grantees and the American Consul General were honored at a fabulous reception where we were able to discuss our projects and introduce ourselves, in complete Japanese of course.

I met several Osaka University colleagues who were excited to hear about my human rights research, one woman so much so that she invited me to speak at her lecture tomorrow on “Cultural and Linguistic Diversity: Facial Expressions.” If there is one thing I have learned in Japan, it is that the Japanese often use monotones and straight faces when they speak. Compare this with my overly animated feelings that I emote and my buoyant voice, it is no wonder that I am usually stared at as though placed in display in a museum. While I usually laugh it off as, “oh don’t worry about the silly gaijin (foreigner),” I am quite excited to be in an intellectual environment and hear how other foreigners and natives view the dichotomies between the very different ways in which we engage one another.

Another example of “ai” was when the Consul General himself, who I admit I have a bit of a crush on, asked me to join the consulate in the future to “debrief” them on the local human rights environment in Osaka. You certainly don’t have to pull my arm for that one! Trying not to swoon, I happily accepted, and also agreed to begin to organize video-conference lectures with some of my colleagues back in the states who would be interested in providing their opinions on a miscellany of Japanese subjects. How exciting! The idea of asking my former professors and friends to represent present their views to a rapt audience of interested foreigners!?! That is exactly what Senator Fulbright envisaged when he wrote about being a “cultural ambassador!”

Before I could jet home with a smile a mile wide, I was once again given the effulgent gift of sake. At the last Fulbright reception one of the kind alumni overheard I enjoyed this Japanese rice wine and ran to a nearby convenience store to purchase a bottle for me since this was the one item the bar was lacking. To my avid surprise he presented me with the bottle and we kanpaid (said cheers) together. My friend remembered my love for this delicate drink and once again we opened a bottle together.

The evening concluded brilliantly. My three months in Osaka have literally flown by, like the brisk winds that have brought winter to my home in Kansai. As I sit in my cozy apartment, surrounded by my makeshift decorations of Christmas lights and two foot tree, I am so thankful that in Japan, there is plenty of ai to go around.

2005-12-15T00:53:00.000+09:00

December 13, 2005: Popping the Bush Bubble

For those of you who also happen to live in a bubble (or possibly under a rock or in an Iraqi cave) the title of the blog is referring to the now infamous Newsweek article depicting W. as bubble boy, intimating that the president is so isolated that he is completely cut off from the rest of America. And the world. And reality.

We knew that the president was comfortable disassociating himself with his critics, but when he doesn’t even read the newspapers or magazines, as he admitted this week to NBC’s, Brian Williams, he is just as dislocated and illiterate as the half of the nation that doesn’t even open up a book each year. From battle ships to naval academies, Bush seems to surround himself with a cadre of safe, unassuming supporters, enough so that even Condy has warned others not to upset Dubya with bad news. Bush makes those of us who are open to new ideas and ready for verbal combat seem like warriors, when in reality, this is precisely the reason why democracy exists. A democracy with grandiose public forums where ideas are traded, problems are discussed and issues are resolved daily.

It is engagingly piquant (and downright timely) that historian Doris Kearns Goodwin has published a historical multiple biography of the genius behind Abraham Lincoln’s political savvy that allowed him to create a Team of Rivals. Rather than protect himself behind yes-men like ours truly, Lincoln’s cabinet encompassed a fathom of diverse and head-butting gentleman whose combined knowledge created one of the strongest cabinets in history. You can guarantee that Secretary of War Edward Stanton did not claim that we go forth into war with “the army we have and not the army we want.” And no one every heard Secretary of State William Seward claim that torture is an effective interrogation tool.

If only more vocal critics like Maureen Dowd and Newsweek’s own Evan Thomas and Richard Wolffe would transcend the media and go straight to the public, forcing us to demand the truth. The facts. After all, the president answers to us, even if he won’t listen to us. I constantly find myself having to justify America’s presidential choice to inquisitive Japanese who wonder whether I, too, live in a bubble alongside W. I always jest by saying that I left the states precisely because of his lack of connection to the American people (well that, and he mistook Africa for a nation), but unfortunately that does not solve the problems inherent in the status quo. If we continue to demand transparency in our government, maybe, just maybe, W. won’t seem so washed up. After all, bubbles are fun to poke and prod, but with a little pressure, they can pop easily!

2005-12-06T02:20:00.000+09:00

December 6th: We Meet Again

Returning from Tokyo today after a long weekend of LSAT testing, bithday celebrating, and story-telling has left me tired but thrilled to have a large hurtle in my law school applications process completed. The test went well and it was wonderful to meet up with friends in Tokyo, which is one of my favorite cities in Japan, a place that emits electricity that one cannot help but seize and run with.

So now I embark a petite adventure: attempting to blaze my way through the last few weeks' adventures including Thanksgiving and ponder my latest thoughts and experiences through the written word. As the holiday season has arrived head-on, my sentimentality has taken me by storm as I am so thankful to have the opportunity to be in Japan and celebrate the Christmas spirit.

Thursday, November 24^th: A Very Thankful Thanksgiving

There are certain moments in space and time, where we have the rare clarity, a split-second moment, where we can lucidly sit back amidst the fantastical banter and joy that comes with enjoying the pleasures of life, and think to oneself, “life cannot get better than this.”

I was truly blessed with a wonderful Fulbright extended family once I arrived on the island of Honshu Japan, and on Thanksgiving day, most of the Fulbright Fellows gathered in my quaint Osaka apartment to share our adventures, trials, tribulations, and antics that we encountered the past three months.

Early in the day, I met the fabulous Takara as she arrived from Sendai, which is an 8-hour bus ride away. As we giggled about everything from Japanese men to female couture, we girl-talked our way back to my apartment to start cooking food to accompany the thaumaturgical masterpiece of the 12-pound turkey we had found in nearby Kobe. Joined by my fellow Kansai chica, Kavitha, we opened up a fabulous bottle of California red wine, and created scintillating dishes like bruschetta, gingered fruit salad, Takara’s family macaroni recipe and the time flew by as slowly and surely the other fellows joined in the merriment.

The months that we had not seen our fellows immediately melted away as we laughed about Luke and Katrina’s Hiroshima adventures, and David’s exploits in Nagasaki. Alex and Joe, our resident taiko drumming experts, arrived with their near-professional cooking skills and culinary creations of Kahlua-flavored stuffing, yams and sour cream mashed potatoes. It was as though an explosion of fantastical food had burst in my kitchen, complete with loud peals of laughter and wide-eyes at the fact that we had managed to procure a traditional, American-style meal.

After the turkey was carved and our plates were loaded with ample food, we sat down together and took a moment to go around the table and say what each of us was thankful for. With classical music in the background, the intoxicating smell of turkey and pumpkin pie filling our nostrils and candle-light flickering off each others’ faces, it was a perfect moment in time, amongst all the clamors the world places in our path, to carve out a fleeting glimpse of utopia; our own petit microcosm of friendship and caritas.

Bing Crosby had it right: there is not place like home for the holidays, but when you are surrounded by beautiful, compassionate people, experiencing adventures together, Japan can be my home away from home any day of the year.

2005-12-03T07:47:00.000+09:00

December 3rd: T-1 Day Until the LSAT....

If you've noticed an apparent lack of attention to my blog, this time I have a better excuse than, "my dog ate my blog." When in doubt, blame the LSATs! I leave in a few minutes time to Tokyo, via the shinkansen, where I will be taking the exam at Temple University. If I weren't so nervous about a test that could possibly determine the rest of my life, I would chuckle at the ludic analogy of naming a university "temple" of all things in the land of shrines and toriis, but for now, I think I'll let the butterflies in my stomach do the talking and just jam out to the now all-famous pink iPod!

Keep me in your thoughts and prayers. This is going to be one interesting experience and I anticipate plentiful blogging of this experience and my fabulous fellows Thanksgiving when I return.

As they say in Japanese, ganbatte, or good luck!

2005-11-16T00:03:00.000+09:00

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.

2005-11-14T01:31:00.000+09:00

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.

2005-11-14T01:29:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-11-13T21:13:00.000+09:00

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.

2005-11-13T21:06:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-11-07T00:39:00.000+09:00

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.

2005-10-28T15:51:00.000+09:00

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.

2005-10-28T15:47:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-10-24T15:41:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-10-24T15:32:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-10-24T15:27:00.000+09:00

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.

2005-10-24T15:17:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-10-16T22:36:00.000+09:00

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.

2005-10-15T21:06:00.000+09:00

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.

2005-10-13T22:35:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-10-11T23:49:00.000+09:00

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.

2005-10-10T21:06:00.000+09:00

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

2005-10-10T20:56:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-10-10T19:53:00.000+09:00

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.

2005-10-09T21:48:00.000+09:00

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.

2005-10-07T01:39:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-10-05T23:38:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-10-05T21:26:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-10-02T21:39:00.000+09:00

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.

2005-10-02T20:31:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-10-02T20:29:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-10-02T20:06:00.000+09:00

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!

2005-09-26T17:50:00.000+09:00

Day 14: Monday, September 26th

There is a euphemism in the United States claiming that men never ask for directions and that women are all too eager to do so. Now while I am not one to join sides, I rarely hesitate to ask for help in the middle of nowhere. Now imagine you are an ocean away, barely speak or even comprehend the language, and have taken 6 trains too far from even the remote destination you can dream of. Oh yes, today was that day.

I had planned to meet my Fulbright advisor at a location and train station I had never before ventured. Mistake number one. I am usually extremely adventurous, so I figured that I would be able to maneuver my way through the monorails, subways and trains that make up Osaka’s transportation system. Oh how I was wrong.

I believe that travelers have all experienced the, “whoops I got on the wrong train,” dilemma, have immediately jumped off, and hopped on the correct train. Sadly, I have not quite figured out how to do this in Japanese. After asking the 2^nd train engineer, “hopping” on the wrong train the 5^th time, and being two and a half hours late from meeting my advisor, I had to take matters in to my own hands.

What wonderful adventures await foreigners while abroad. I decided to hail a taxi, and just my luck the nearest one made a dramatic James Bond-reminiscent U-turn, and the automatic passenger doors opened (oh yes, didn’t you know that in Japan you dare not open or close the doors of a taxi?). I asked the aged, balding cab driver if he knew where Ikeda bank was, and zipped away as if running from armed bandits.

Now who would have thought that Yamata-san and I, during the course of a 4,668 yen cab ride (that’s almost $50 folks) would talk about the lovely Hanshin tigers, Japanese food, Hurricane Katrina, President Bush, law school, karaoke and his children. Had I never stopped and asked for directions, I never would have met this wonderful man. And while our ways parted abruptly as he dropped me off at the bank and my advisor was long gone, it just reminded me once again how quickly this country can surprise you. After my near-hysterics throughout the many train stations of Osaka during the day, Yamata-san absolutely brightened the entire afternoon with his kindness and grace with which he put up with my terrible Japanese.

Lesson learned: I think next time I’ll map out my travels ahead of time. Enough “I’ll plan ahead when I need to because adventures are cool” business for me!

2005-09-26T17:49:00.001+09:00

Day 13: Sunday, September 25th

One has never truly experienced Japan unless he or she is enlightened by the beautiful temples and shrines that adorn the dramatic forest-encrusted hillsides. After taking a marvelous course at St. Olaf about Japanese art history, I could not wait to venture to these places with the Fulbrighter who lived in neighboring Kyoto.

After an uneventful train trip and awkwardly full bus ride to meet her, Kavitha and I started our day at Ginkakuji, or the silver pavilion. This is one of Japan’s most famous temples, but was oddly without frills, due to the fact that its designer died before ornamenting the simple building with frivolous silver.

We continued down the “Path of Philosophy” to gaze at smaller temples like Honenin, Anrakuji, Reikanji and a small, out of the way shrine called Ootoyo, whose torii, or gates, were ornamented with large rats. Kavitha and I were amazed at the way tat homes are nestled right up next to these serene places of spirituality and worship, which I could only venture to reason that it is due to Japan’s lack of space.

We found our favorite temple in Eikando, a center for Pure Land Buddhism, which boasts an amazing sculpture of the Amida Buddha looking over his shoulder. It was simply beautiful. The main temple had a fortuitous gold-encrusted alter, silk screens with lions that jumped out at you, and a high perch that overlooked the foothills of Kyoto. It was amazing to me that this had all been created in the mid-9^th century, when American was not even a footnote in world history.

Of course no trip to Kyoto is complete without seeing the Heian shrine, which is a bit ironic, because it is the first thing you see when you are in the city. Imagine a gargantuan torii, or gate, that is the skinny sister to the Arc du Triomphe. Now imagine it painted bright, day glow orange. This thing is absolutely amazing, and as you pass under it you are immediately filled with a mystical sense of sincerity and awe. The Heian shrine is still a working place of worship, so as my friend and I crossed the enormous grounds and took in the surrounding buildings and cherry blossom trees filled with pieces of white paper messages tied to each branch, we saw the evening’s prayer begin. I immediately felt a sense of awe at the majesty that Japan possesses. While I am a proud Presbyterian, by no means, does my rinky dink church compare to the magnitude of the Heian shrine. Amazing.

To wrap up our evening, Kavitha and I ventured into Shijo, which is the Ginza of Kyoto, where in between Armani and Louis Vuitton stores exist men holding signs for brothels. Not particularly my cup and tea but it certainly makes one realize the diversity that exists in a cultural center like Kyoto, which is the former capitol of Japan.

I have already planned many more trips to Kyoto, including next weekend’s venture to see the Louvre’s collection of 19^th century painters at one of the local art museums. I know that I will have plenty to explore in the Kansai, but Kyoto’s fantastical cultural scene, mixed with its backdrop of the Higashiyama hills makes it one of my favorite places in Japan already.

2005-09-26T17:49:00.000+09:00

Day 12: Saturday, September 24th

Still in search of a cell phone: no wonder the Energizer bunny kept going, he didn’t have a cell to call and ask for help.

2005-09-26T17:48:00.000+09:00

Day 11: Friday, September 23rd

If an unenlightened person were to see thirty grown men, in their underwear, beating upon drums and screaming, one might assume they would be an NFL initiation or Woodstock part 3. Of course this is an oversimplification and overtly naïve view when discussing the world of taiko, one of the most fantastic forms of the arts that I have ever seen.

Friday evening I traveled to nearby Kobe to see Kodo, one of the world’s foremost taiko groups in concert with some of the Fulbrighters. Taiko is a traditional Japanese artform that combines drums, dance, and various musical interpretations to create one of the world’s most exciting inventions since sliced bread. And I am a big fan of sliced bread!

Even though it took me 3 hours to get to Kobe (when it is usually a 45 minute train ride), and I missed the first two minutes of the concert due to the obvious language barrier, and I almost died thinking I wouldn’t get to see the concert, the big guy upstairs was watching over me. One of our concert-goers knew I was missing from the bunch and had convinced one of the ushers to let us in even after the performance started, and I snuck to my seat hunched over like an old woman who hasn’t had any calcium in the last 40 years (which unfortunately is quite prevalent in Japan).

Awe-inspiring doesn’t even graze the surface of how fantastic the performance was. Not only does Kodo perform the traditional pieces of music with extremely large drums, but they included the shamisen, much like a harp, dancing, comedy and theatrics with a way that I had never seen in my life.

I was so invigorated by the performance that I asked my fellow Osaka Fulbrighter, Joe, if he knew of any taiko workshops I could attend, and there is one in Kyoto in November that I am hoping to check out. Joe himself is an amazing performer, and I hope that he opens my eyes wider to this world!

2005-09-26T00:16:00.000+09:00

Day 10: Thursday, September 22nd

Anxiety comes in doses. In my twenty-three years that much I have learned. But meeting the person who will directly influence whether your research is a success or failure leaves more to nerves than one could possibly explain.

I woke up nervous not only because of the previous day’s negative experience with the alien registration office, but also because I became sick with a nasty cold (are they ever nice?). Unfortunately, that led me to a night fitful of restlessness which allowed me to oversleep an hour and completely miss meeting my Fulbright Osaka buddy at the city ward office. So in the middle of intense heat, attempting to breathe through my one nostril that worked and attempting to not hyperventilate from coughing, I actually convinced the ward office worker to give me a temporary alien registration card. Haha. Kristin: one, city ward office: 0.

I didn’t realize things were as bad as they were until numerous strangers approached me with sorrowful looks asking, "daijyobudesuka," or "are you ok?" I was just happy that the immigration office acknowledged my existence, but was now worried I would miss meeting my advisor for the Fulbright project. My professor is one of the leading political thinkers in Japan, so a good first impression was almost unspoken.

Round two in Kristin vs. the world began when I realized I had to run to the Osaka University Co-op to pray that they had not rented the apartment of my [Japanese] dreams. Given that Japanese apartments are miniscule and that Osaka has some of the highest real estate values in the world, I was happy I found a place where the bath and toilet were separate and I wouldn’t be cooking in my closet. Unfortunately, they now informed me that I needed a honshouin, or co-signer.

At this point, I had to meet my advisor. As soon as I walked in the building I heard, "Howaito san. Howaito san" The wonderful law school office manager had “prepped” everyone that an American girl would be playing law student for the next year, and so I could not believe the kindness of this man, or the fact that he led me directly to my advisors office explaining how excited the university was to have me. Now THAT is a homecoming.

The nervous tithes in my stomach dissipated once I saw the smile on my advisors face. A man in his early forties, with thousands of books piled to the ceiling in his office and an enthusiasm that went far beyond his age and agility, I knew we would get along. He is the sweetest, nicest, not very good at speaking English guy I could have ever met in my life. Not only did he think I was really smart for being a Fulbright (still preposterous I tell you) and tell me he was going to introduce me to his wife who leads human rights groups around Osaka, but he also invited me to some of the seminars of his colleagues that are extremely exclusive and for upper graduate students. Oh thank god. But it gets better.

My advisor asked me if I had any questions, and so I just ventured and asked if he had any ideas about honshouin. He said he not only knew what they were, but that he would be happy to be my co-signer. We immediately left the office, marched right up to the co-op, he translated everything for me, got them to reduce the price of the apartment, and finally, offered to help me open a bank account the next week.

Kristin: 2; mean people: absolutely zero.

If there is one thing that I have honestly learned in my two weeks here in Japan, it is that one should never underestimate the power of kindness. Of course this idea transcends boundaries, but I have come to honestly depend on the compassion of Japanese strangers and the crazy stories of what doing so generates.

2005-09-26T00:11:00.000+09:00

Day 9: Wednesday, September 21st

There are three words in the English language that strike fear and anxiety no matter ones age, occupation or status. “I’m sorry, but…” can leave one dumbstruck for seconds, minutes, reaching for anything they can cling on to for dear sanity. Unfortunately for me, my grip is lacking.

Today my three favorite people in Osaka joined me in traveling to the Moriguchi ward office to obtain our alien registration cards: Joe, Stacey and Mike. I felt like Dorothy and Toto, skipping down the yellow brick road, with passport and id photos in one hand, and gaily holding my buddy’s hand in the other. Well, at least that is how I pictured it in my head.

Instead, imagine a dirty, dank, cement office with floors that looked as if they haven’t been washed for ages and a woman that screams, “next please.” Now imagine that you don’t actually understand a word anyone around you says. Oh yes, that is how my first experience of becoming a legal alien started. Oy. Vei.

While the process wasn’t entirely difficult due to the wonderful language abilities of my buddy Mike, I kept insisting that the woman who held my life in her hands wasn’t understanding me when I asked for a temporary alien registration card and she declared they had no such thing. Hmmmm, hurtle number one.

But my overly optimistic attitude skipped right out the door, exclaiming that we must have just over-thought the whole process and proceeded down the road to open our bank accounts.

Now of course, there are only two places in the world where banks make it difficult to take your money: the first being Japanese banks that open at 9 am and close at 3 pm for no clear reason, and the second I am still looking for in vain just to make myself feel better. As I sat down with my temporary alien registration card, excited to give away some of my grant money to an official-looking person, she took one look at my piece of paper and a small glint appeared in her eye. Or maybe that is just how I replay it in my head. She turned to her supervisor using some rare form of Japanese meant to invoke fear in the minds of foreigners, and turned to me and said, “I’m sorry, but…” Ahh, but of course. I wasn’t actually a legal foreigner because immigration did not give me the right forms. I truly experienced what it meant to be a minority.

But that is exactly the reason that I have come to Japan. Not to get angry, but to understand why discrimination exists, how it continues, and find methods to alleviate it and possibly prevent it from happening in the future. One illegal alien without a gaijin card at a time. Or so the story goes.

2005-09-22T00:09:00.000+09:00

Day 8: Tuesday, September 20th

Space. Good old American free space. From getting in to a car and driving aimlessly (not of course with gas prices as high as they are now) to walking for miles in uninhabited forests, never ever again will I take the idea of space for granted.

My wonderful Fulbright buddy Joe accompanied me in our search to find apartments in Japan’s second largest city. It is one thing to go apartment hunting in America: so many choices, different sizes and price ranges and areas to choose from. In Japan however, your choices are as follows: small and smaller.

Not that I’m claustrophobic. Okay, not that I’m an overly dramatic claustrophobic, but when your closet is your kitchen is your shower is your bed, I think it’s time to keep looking. As Joe and I attempted to maneuver through the apartments near my Osaka University campus, we not only forgot to take our shoes off, but also forgot to leave our spoiled American expectations combined. At least our college housing advisor, Yukiko, was a sweetie pie. She was very excited about these apartments, and while I do believe that living without termites and cockroaches is a major plus, it doesn’t necessitate the bare minimum of my expectations. Lesson learned.

On to LeoPalace21: an ultra-modern, ultra-hip, ultra-expensive form of housing in Japan, where the word “corporate” is an understatement. As you enter the lobby, the white walls, blaring Japanese pop music, and the blindingly shiny floors make you instantly forget you're in Japan and transport you to “2001: A Space Odyssey.” While Hal’s computer voice didn’t come over the intercom, we were led up a white staircase where the adorable, handusomu Minakata-san waited for us. Let me preface his description with these words: a bless the hearts of Japanese everywhere. This young man did not speak a lick of English, but he tried to desperately to engage us in conversation that Joe and I couldn’t but help stay three hours to not only chat about unbelievably expensive apartments, but about the Hanshin Tigers baseball team and Bob Marley. When one of his co-workers finally attempted to help him with our language barrier she exclaimed, “you are such good Japanese speakers.”

Joe and I laughed about our “good” language skills all the way to a ramen shop, the epitome of Japanese cooking. As we hashed our day over pork ramen and fried rice, the owner of the restaurant, with an accent thicker than Arnold Schwarzenegger’s, attempted to engage us in conversations on politics and sports. Unfortunately, either due to our fatigue or our lack of language capacity, the only words Joe and I could get out were “hai” (yes) and “hai.” Wow, now aren’t our vocabularies impressive?

I was so thankful for Joe’s company back home that I didn’t care that we hadn’t actually settled on an apartment. Sometimes it isn’t the destination, but the journey that’s half the fun!

2005-09-21T23:51:00.001+09:00

Day 7: Monday, September 19th

My friends had a day off from their busy work schedules to show me a little of Osaka and I was so excited for their offers as my official tour guides. We were still joking about the day prior, about an incident that happened on Respect for the Aged Day in Japan. Japan is renowned for their honor of aged persons, and in doing so, a national holiday was declared in their honor. Unfortunately, not all people observe this day, as I noticed first-hand when my luggage was dropped off by the takyubin, the most amazing invention since wireless internet and chocolate cake. The takyubin is a delivery service that serves all of Japan, and you can have bags, suitcases and precious items delivered to the hour of your choosing. Amazing! Unfortunately, my delivery man was about 65 years old and hunched over. While he attempted to carry a year’s worth of my belongings up four flights of steep stairs in blistering heat he kept screaming, “jyuudesune…jyuu…jyuu.” Of course the poor man was complaining about my suitcase being heavy. My weight-lifting boyfriend and athletic dad could barely tackle it, how could this poor man do it himself? That certainly gave me a new appreciation for Respect for the Aged Day.

As my friends and I attempted to lighten the morning mood, we passed by the Osaka Jazz Festival on our way to a luscious Indian food restaurant. Now I am an enormous Jazz fan, but when it includes salsa dancing and the song, “Tequila,” I had to wonder what my sinus medicine was doing to me when my friends explained that in Japan, even salsa is considered jyazu. Chalk it up to one more thing Kristin didn’t know about Japan.

As we entered Umeda, Osaka’s downtown, I was amazed at the crowds and particularly, at the mass of French culture that I saw. Patisseries, bakeries, shops demonstrated that the Japanese obviously have an affinity for French fare. At least that’s one thing we have in common. As I climbed the 9^th story of Comme Ca, a beautiful, minimalist stone structure in the world’s first train station/shopping center, I entered my nirvana: the dessert floor. The Japanese are renowned for their cooking prowess, but the gateau that I saw were cakes filled with fresh fruits and flowers to the point of overflowing. Here I was thinking that I would lose weight in Japan due to the small portions, but when it comes to vices, sugar is most definitely mine. If there is one thing I would recommend to tourists entering Osaka, do not miss the cakes of Comme Ca!

In addition to gorging on French food, the rest of the day was spent purchasing Japanese language books, maneuvering through crowded stations and simply enjoying the company of my friends. The last of which can never be underestimated.

2005-09-21T23:16:00.000+09:00

Day 6: Sunday, September 18th

Since both my new roomies worked at their jobs teaching English my first day in Osaka, I took the initiative to explore my new surroundings. My travels began on a blistering day, where the humidity was equivalent to my core body temperature and had to constantly prevent myself from jumping in to the neighboring river to keep from melting.

As I walked down the narrow streets of Osaka proper, I realized two things: (1) bicycles are extremely numerous in Osaka, and (2) pedestrians by no means have the right-of-way. Just because one is walking does not mean that they are free from potential hit-and-runs both by cars and bicycles. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about without understanding Japanese, attempting to decipher angry screams from frustrated drivers nearly made me fall over with exhaustion.

As I placed one foot in front of another I did happen to notice a silver, miniscule van stop right in front of me, and before I knew it I heard, “heh-ro, heh-ro.” A petite Japanese man in his mid-twenties who identified himself as Misaki asked me what I was doing in Osaka. When I responded that I was a kenkyuusei, or research student, at Osaka University, he proceeded to ask if I was, indeed, American. The cynic in me wanted to respond with, “Je suis Francaise. Je ne parle pas Japonais,” but this young man was so innocent I told him that yes, I was Amerikajindesu. He wanted to know where I lived, and I said “far away from here,” and I said it was nice to meet him, attempting to get as far away from him as possible.

Ten minutes later, as I was still wondering the streets of Osaka, I hear a breathless voice yelling, “Kurisuten! Kurisuten.” Misaki had run back to his business, obtained a meishi (Japanese business card), and somehow wondered the streets trying to find me. It was the most adorable thing I have encountered so far in Osaka, aside from the millions of small puppies that catch my eye. For his efforts I gave him my e-mail address and realized that not all Japanese are afraid of foreigners, and that maybe, just maybe, I still had “it.”

The rest of the day was filled with becoming lost, going in circles, and partaking in the fascinating culture that is Hello Kitty, but it gave me a wonderful appreciation for my new home. Even when I arrived back at my friends’ apartment building and realized I had not been given the correct entrance code, I did not fret. That is, until a massive animal that resembled a mutated sewer rat attempted to nestle in to my knee. My friend Mike told me, after I ran back to Osaka, begged an unsuspecting pedestrian to use his phone, and obtained the correct entrance code to the apartment, that my new furry friend was a tanoki. Japanese stories abound with myths regarding this creature’s ability to shape shift and, according to my friend, beat upon its genetalia like taiko drums. Now I’m no percussionist, nor am I a fan of mysterious creatures, but I do know that if a dirty, unfamiliar creature attempts to say hello anywhere within a one-block radius of me, the first thing I do is scream, and the second is to make sure I don’t have rabies. Call me paranoid, but I’d rather be foaming with passion for my research project in Osaka instead of foaming at the mouth!

While my friends and I laughed at the day I encountered I was simply thankful to have kind, compassionate people in my life that were willing to put up with my eccentricities and put me up for the night. Amen to Minnesota nice!

2005-09-21T22:18:00.000+09:00

Day 5: Saturday, September 17th

My last morning in Tokyo consisted of waking up with my ears still ringing from the dance music the previous night. What a way to end my time in Tokyo!

My fellow Kansai chica Kavitha and I were going to ride the train together, because she is living in Kyoto, which is just a hop, skip and a jump away from Osaka. We asked our nearly fluent Fulbrighter Kenny for some advice on getting to the train station to catch the world’s fastest bullet train, the Shinkansen. We figured that half an hour would be plenty to arrive, catch some grub and relax in our expensive reserved seats.

What we didn’t realize, however, was that our hotel was a good 5-minute walk from the shinkansen station. Instead, we accidentally took the local train that went all the way around Tokyo to get to it, about an hour and ten minutes out of the way. We just died when we this out, only after missing our scheduled shinkansen, running to the bathroom only to realize they were Japanese-style in-ground toilets, rushing to grab crackers and sushi from the vending machine and making it just in time before the next train left.

When we got on the train our eyes encountered two luxurious, plush, spacious reserved seats including foot rests, food, and warm hand towels. This was as close to first class as I would ever get. Unfortunately, several minutes in to the ride, one of the female conductors discovered when checking our tickets that we were on the wrong train. That mistake made us head to the dreaded unreserved seats...9 cars away! To make things more exciting, between cars 9 and 1, Kavitha and I proceeded to lose her tickets in a bag we threw away, so we had to search every trash can in each car until we finally found her tickets and were able to go back to the inimitable unreserved car. It. Was. Hilarious.

It was a sad goodbye when she left at the Kyoto stop, but I was extremely anxious to see my awaited home away from home: Osaka. The suspense was limited because when you are on a train that travels at 220 kilometers per hour, Osaka is merely minutes away from Kyoto. After I arrived at the station, took the wrong train, got off on the wrong stop, got back on the train, went to the wrong suburb, and finally took the local which stopped at every platform from here to infinity…I made it to Furukawabashi. Although the journey was quite unique, it was the most amazing feeling to see my friend Stacey waiting for me, ready to take me to she and my friend Mike’s apartment.

That night, aloft tatami mats and amidst the night life that is Osaka, my head hit the pillow filled with thoughts of a long day’s journey into a new, year-long adventure.

2005-09-21T22:01:00.000+09:00

Day 4: September 16th

Friday was the best day and night of my entire experience in Tokyo. After realizing that I had not bought omiyage, or gifts, for the Fulbright cutie pies I frantically rushed around Tokyo looking for some inexpensive items. Of course, my friend Takara and I were sidetracked by clothes, nail polish, and cafes, but what is a girl to do in the world’s largest city?

As I said goodbye to the wonderful Fulbright office, I was saying HEL-LO to a great night of enjoying the town with my fellow pals. We started off by going to a ritzy restaurant near our hotel, where the water was ¥ 630, or so we thought, until we realized that it was our lack of Japanese language ability, rather than hefty wallet size that was hindering our evening!

We all decided to try out, what else, but Japanese karaoke. Oh yes, put a mike in front of me and I become an animal who craves the spotlight. Diana Ross ain’t got nothin' on me. It was so great to see all my new friends make complete idiots of ourselves, although I have to say, that my friend Joe and I’s rendition of “Dangerous” could be a hit on the Fulbright pop charts.

As the night grew long, we decided that we had to visit the infamous Roppongi, an area of Tokyo where many foreigners to go drink and dance. As we arrived, it felt as though we had entered another world where English was once again a useful language to know. We began the Roppongi party by dancing teaching some Japanese men how to dance, followed by some dancing at popular spots like Gaspanic and the Lexington. Everyone from U.S. military officers and German exchange students were mingling as though it were the world’s largest melting pot. But in a place with so many people, I was bound to run in to some fellow Minnesotans, a group of St. John’s college students, my alma mater’s football rival. Then again, when your own football team’s quarterback runs 80 yards to make a touchdown in the opposing team’s end zone, having rivals is the least of your worries.

While the passed away, it was wonderful to be able to meet people from all over the world, and I had to remind myself over and over that I was in Tokyo, Japan. The revelry kept me from realizing how precious the time is we have to be with our friends, because the very next day we all departed for our new homes for the rest of the year. All I knew as I laid my head down to my pillow the next morning is that Japan is one adventure after the next.

2005-09-21T21:51:00.000+09:00

Day 3: Thursday, September 15th

After not nearly enough sleep to recover from the previous night’s reception, all the fellows gathered at the JUSEC (Japan U.S. Educational Commission) office to listen to two current Fulbrighters discuss their experiences in Japan. Ken, a P.h.D candidate from the illustrious and laid-back Berkeley spent his year as a Fulbrighter in Hokkaido, the northern-most island of Japan researching the human rights efforts of the Ainu. The Ainu are indigenous to Japan, but experience vast discrimination, and it felt comforting to know that other Fulbrighters share my interests. Ken was joined by Allison, also conducting her dissertation research on divorce in Japan. She informed me the night prior about Koizumi’s own divorce, which astounded me. Now, how can such a great politician, with some of the world’s most famous hair, ignore the birth of his youngest son? The idiosyncrasies of the Japanese culture are so fascinating, and that is exactly the reason why I am here!

We discussed everything from the nuts and bolts of the grant to how to get an apartment, alien registration, good places to buy books, and earthquake safety 101. Afterwards, a few of us made a sad attempt at using our Japanese to cash our first official Fulbright checks. Imagine a group of ten foreigners entering three wrong banks before they find the right one, and then each one after the other asking the teller, “money please have check.” I just chuckled to myself when the tellers smiled patiently. I mean c’mon, we get to have a little gaijin (foreigner) license, right?

The evening was supposed to be spent with a group dinner, but Kavitha, Takara and I just happened to stumble upon the bright lights of Ginza after we got off the train. Just imagine it: enough money burning a whole through your wallet for two months rent, and miles upon miles of Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Tiffany’s and other Park Avenue stores at your disposal. It was almost too much to bear. The girls and I instead spent an astounding $5 to create our own hanko, which is a stamp that has your name in kanji, or Japanese characters. I was so excited to see the machine carve out the symbol for shiroi, or white. Obviously, cheap things amuse me.

After that difficult night (sarcasm noted), the girls and I craved American food and so we went to the koban (police station) to get directions. Unfortunately, the police officer was so intrigued by our being foreign women that he gave us the wrong directions and the taxi driver just could not believe that a police officer could have done that. So after completely embarrassing ourselves in front of the taxi driver and becoming lost in Ginza, the cutest construction worker actually walked 3 blocks to get us to a T.G.I. Friday’s. Now I literally know the meaning to “thank God it’s Friday.”

So as us chicks bonded over drinks and our stories of applying to law school, we agreed that working with the United Nations would be the coolest job in the world, and that this was going to be one helluva year because of the friendships we’d already forged.

2005-09-19T10:59:00.000+09:00

Day 2: Wednesday, September 14th

My first full day in Japan consisted of waking up, bleary-eyed, forgetting where I was for a split-second, and then realizing that the reason I couldn't understand the other voice at the end of the wake-up call was due to the fact I was actually in Japan. Not America.

I met five of the Fulbrighters at breakfast, all wonderful people with very individual interests and unique projects. Takara is a beautiful, petite Southern girl whose lively, bubbly personality makes her seem larger than life. Kavitha is a great Midwestern girl who graduated from Northwestern and deferred Columbia law school to research women's employment rights. Woah. Kenny is a hilarious and absolutely brilliant Stanford grad who's obviously going places, like med-school next year. Joe is my Osaka buddy, he will be studying taiko drumming in Osaka. He has this rye sense of humor that is hilarious and he's so passionate about the arts that it's aazing. Yeon Wha is a stunning New York girl who graduated from architecture school in five years. I felt so out of my league, especially when compared to the fact that these kids were in their Sunday best, while I was ready to start orientation in my Adidas track suit. Not all that comforting.

We entered the Fulbright office, and it was almost as bright and buzzing as the advisors that we had come to know by e-mail. Miyuki, my advisor, is petite, quiet and an absolute cutie-pie, for lack of better words. I also was able to meet the director of the Japanese Fulbright program, David Satterwhite, who is a bright American man who has thousands of stories about his travels to other countries, and also just happens to be a fellow political scientist. The other three Fulbrighters, Roxanne, David and Luke arrived and we all immediately bonded as we listened to each other explain their projects. Each one sounding more interesting than the previous. From brain death to education, Faulkner to suicide, everyone's projects are going to be so interesting to see throughout the year.

We convened for lunch. Ahh yes, my very first traditional Japanese lunch. There are only so many words that can describe what a crawfish head tastes like, or rather raw tuna, or battered fish-tail, or jellied fish eggs. While it was fun to listen to everyone talk about their lives, just a glimpse of what we will come to hear throughout the year, I drank my wonderful green tea and was thankful that at least the atmosphere of traditional tatami mats, screen doors and scrolls was appetizing.

Later that night, dressed to the nines thanks to the fashion-savvy New Yorker, Yeon Wha, we all left for the annual Fulbright reception, where all the grant recipients are met by the Japanese Education ministry, the ambassador to Japan, and many other Fulbright alumni and community supporters. It was simply wonderful. I met Marc, a fellow Koizumi (the Prime Minister of Japan) lover and we gushed about his political attributes, including the all-too famous hair. I met Sony executives, mayors and other wonderfully supportive and intelligent people. Near the end of the evening, I was in a circle of lecturers, the ambassador and two of my Stanford-grad and Northwestern grad Fulbright colleagues, when several of the officials asked me, "are you really from St. Olaf College?" I happily said that yes, I was a proud Ole graduate, and right in front of a sea of Ivy Leagers and other intelligentsia, they exclaimed, "St. Olaf, yes. That is a very good school. We know it well. You are very good if you to go to St. Olaf." I just laughed and couldn't believe that thousands of miles away and amongst some very well-respected people, that my little St. Olaf had them all smiling in awe. Ahh, the pleasures of having a beautiful alma mater.

As we hiked back to the hotel that night, our voices raw from laughing so hard, barely able to keep our eyes open and craving American liquor, we all knew that we had already created some wonderful friendships.

2005-09-18T16:46:00.000+09:00

Today's the day. This is the first time I have actually had to sit down and write in my blog, and to really reflect over my first few days here in Japan. They have been amazing, with some twists and turns that have already made for some great story-telling.

I left the states Monday, which of course Tuesday in Japan, and even though I did not even go to sleep the night before I left, I almost missed the flight from Rapid City to Denver. I was so worried because I had about a minute to say good-bye to my mom and dad and my boyfriend Greg who escorted me to the airport. I thought I was about to completely lose it. So in between Kleenexes and getting full-body searched, I was a bit in shambles.

When I arrived in Denver I was informed that my flight had been changed and that I had two minutes to get to the gate, so I figured I was obviously experiencing some evil form of de ja vu. But things changed when I arrived in the luxurious LAX international terminal, where Japanese Airlines put me up in the VIP lounge before leaving the continent. The ride over was long. Ten and a half is just about impossible to humanly stand when crunched into a small seat with terrible in-flight movies. As the plane took-off it finally hit me that I was about to embark upon an entirely new world, and I pondered this as I saw the California coastline get smaller and smaller.

When I arrived at Narita Airport, my lovely seat-mates, Koji and Sachiko wished me luck in my new life in Japan. I breezed through immigration, luckily, and rushed to the baggage claim to realize that because of my flight change, "Kurisuten Howaito san not have bagaji until sree days later." Now those are not fun words to hear after you've been up for 47 hours, but the kindness of the Japanese people shined through as the tall Koji informed me that he and Sachiko wanted to take me all the way to my hotel in Tokyo. Now who can get caught up in lost luggage when you have cuties around like that?

When I got to the stop for my hotel, I realized it was near Ginza, the ritzy part of Japan where Chanel and Cartier are everyday names. Since stores close around 8 p.m. I walked to the nearest department store to purchase the necessities for one who\'s luggage has disappeared, and was immediately overwhelmed. As I found the only pair of pants in the store above a size 2, I flipped the tag over to read that they were 13,600 yen, roughly $136. Even Casio and Timex watches, that can be found in Targets for $10 were hundreds of dollars here.

As I entered the lobby of the HOTEL Villa Fontaine, my wallet much lighter, I felt like royalty staring up in to the 8-story atrium that reflected the Tokyo skyline. I realized that the only way this poor college grad could afford to stay here was because of the generous Japanese government. Yay for diplomatic relations. As I drifted to sleep in my silk duvet, after a nice foot massage and cup of green tea, I felt like a queen. If only my first night in Japan could be this good. I knew that my year was going to be amazing.