Faith In Humanity

This past weekend was what I might term the archetypal weekend in the Kansai area. I woke up late Saturday morning, cursed the lack of insulation in Japanese domiciles and staggered down to the Starbucks to defrost. On the way, I bumped into Jake The Foreigner, my go-to guy and partner in crime here in Shiga- given that he's one of oh, five English speakers I know, we hang out quite a bit. He was headed down to the Yamada Denki (The only electronics store for miles around- if it needs batteries, the only place to find it is Yamada) to buy himself a new camera, as his is rapidly on it's way to kaput.

So we decide to go grab some lunch after he takes care of his photographic needs. We head to a little "Italian Restaurant"- I use the scare quotes for a reason. It's your typical Italian fare, of course. Lasagna, Ravioli, Squid Ink Spaghetti...

Yeah. Squid ink. All reports point towards two things with the squid ink- one, that it's delicious, and two, that it stains your mouth, gums and teeth a sickly zombie black. We decided to dodge that one- but a big Brazilian (maybe, he was speaking Portuguese) wasn't so lucky/attentive. So when they brought out his hot, steaming plate of purplish-black noodles, he didn't even have the wherewithal to try it. He just bolted for the bathroom, came back with a sour look on his face, and sent it back to the kitchen. This, of course, prompted a flurry of activity. The chef came out. The manager came out. They swarmed the table, apologizing, and quickswitched the offending dish for something big, and red, and meaty-looking. In a way, I'm laughing at the guy- he didn't even try to eat any, and it was still steaming when it was ferried away back to the kitchen. In another way, I kinda feel sorry for him- he probably had no idea what he was ordering (the menu was in Japanese and Italian) and I know exactly what it's like to be the absolute center of attention out here- it can be rough sometimes. Especially when you're confused. I'm sure adding "disgusted" to that litany doesn't help any.

All ended well- the waitstaff saved face by swapping plates, the manager didn't have a dine-and-dash, and the big guy didn't eat any squid ink. I'm definitely going to have to go back and try it, though. Maybe closer to Halloween, when a jet-black mouth won't arouse AS MUCH attention.

After lunch, I finally made it to the Starbucks. Inside, I spotted a Japanese Culture Lesson in the making.

Here, Playboy is just a brand. The person wearing this shirt? One of my students. My MIDDLE SCHOOL STUDENTS. The cultural reference for this sort of thing simply doesn't exist- they don't know or care that it's a magazine of prurient tastes.

So anyways, like every Saturday, a college band was out in front of the Starbucks, jamming away. Unlike every other Saturday, today it was cold and rainy. This did not stop the band. A member recognized me (I kinda show up every Saturday- it's free) and charged over, ecstatic that I came back. Five hours pass, and I'm still hanging around with the band. Next week, they're having a big rock concert at Ryukoku University- three train stops down- and they want me to show up and hang out. I think I'm being adopted- which is fine, as people my age are as rare as foreigners in this part of Japan. The university student population is a fairly closed group- I'll report more next week as to how this "in" works out.

After the epically long chat and freeze session, I wandered back over to the Japanese class that's offered every Saturday. Fun stuff- review of some old grammar, some new vocab, same old stuff we worry about every week. It was refreshingly normal. Next week, on Sunday, there's a barbecue up in the mountains to watch the leaves change and get our culture on.

Called it an early night.

Sunday, I went back to Kyoto with some natives. Headcount was seven Japanese folks and two foreigners- Jake and I. Destination of the day? Sanmizudera Temple, a huge Buddhist temple on the mountain. Out in front of the temple, I noticed something that I haven't yet seen in Japan...


This monk is female. I knew they existed, I just hadn't seen one yet. Also interesting is that she's panhandling- just like in Tokyo, you can't beg for money unless you have a license, and you can't get a license unless you're a Buddhist monk- these guys aren't allowed to work.


The temple itself is notable for two things. One is its incredible view.



The corollary to this view is that it is the most famous suicide spot in Kyoto. Since the temple is built up on a cliff, it's a popular place to fling yourself to the abyss. Our friend Masa made sure to tell us that it was "mostly people who sick did, so it OK." Err, yeah. Evidently, most of the jumpers had terminal illnesses of one kind or another. So, no worries, right? Except for this next thing.

The other notable feature is it's natural spring, which people come in droves to drink from. It jets out of the cliff face, and there's this cool little shrine just below it. Three little waterfalls cascade over a covered walkway, and people stand on said walkway and reach out with silver cups on long sticks to catch the water from the spring.

Supposedly, this magic spring cures illnesses and grants long life. Interesting dichotomy here between the magic cure-all spring and the springboard balcony. Hope all these people KNEW that there was a curative fountain just a little further inside the temple. Maybe they need bigger signs- probably cut down on the suicides a great deal.

After the temple, we went to a really cool coffee shop- another five-dollar cup o' coffee, of course- that's just above the Sanjo subway station. Outside the coffee shop is a big Zen garden that they were in the middle of raking when we walked past- which is one of those magic tricks that isn't spoiled by knowing how it's done. It's still awesome.

Final stop on the Kyoto Tour was a trip to yet another Italian restaurant. This place was one order of magnitude (read: 10x) more expensive than Squid Ink Salieri's, It was worth it.

Since we went on a Sunday night, the place was ENTIRELY EMPTY except for our crew. I don't mean there were one or two other people- I mean that we were alone with the waitstaff. The restaurant's on the fourth floor of a ridiculously modern building jutting out of the Kyoto landscape like it fell from the sky. It looks like a giant cheese grater- the exterior is all aluminum mesh panels backlit by green lights. The restaurant was a white-walled, white-floored room lit from every angle by crazy orange light. The place glowed. It was the kind of restaurant you shoot hip-hop videos in. Using my Queer Eye for the Straight Guy Trivia Knowledge, I led the group through the ordeal of wine tasting and cheese appreciation- if you ever want to feel cultured, go to Japan and take your Japanese friends someplace vaguely European. As their culture has no concept of using a fork, let alone which fork to use when, you come off like a champ every time.

Another Culture Lesson: If you go somewhere where they serve food that doesn't look like noodles or rice, your Japanese friends WILL take pictures of the food. And the table dressings- the candles, the silverware, the whole nine yards. They will take pictures of you eating. The waiter will take group pictures- and they will email you the pictures when they get them downloaded.

On the train ride home, Jake and I met some very special folks. Two Westerners in business suits sauntered up to us, and started making small talk. This is nothing new- here in Shiga, meeting another foreigner is an event unto itself- one that merits wine and cheese, no less. Jake started to ask who they were- and I spied the nametags, and stopped him. "These," I said with my best pious smirk, "are Mormons."

And they were. Two Elders straight out of Salt Lake City, on mission to Convert Japan. They tried to hit us with a sales pitch, but we derailed them by asking about their methods, how they were trained, how long they were going to be here, et cetera.

Turns out they're on two-year contracts. The older one, who's on his way out, trains the new guy, always in pairs. There is always one master, one apprentice. Sounds a little Sci-Fi for me, but whatever. They gather converts (and this is sneaky, no matter what your intention) by advertising FREE ENGLISH LESSONS. The people who show up instead get a sermon. To be fair, half the sermon is in English. Neither one has taken any serious Japanese courses- they just get a week of Missionary Training before they "ship out". Evidently, there are five thousand Mormon missionaries in Japan. They whipped out their translated Book Of Mormon- since it's all in Kanji, it's absolutely huge.

I mentioned that I, too, was a minister, and that should I convert I would shame and dishonor all those whose marriages I had sanctified. I didn't mention that that was exactly two people. Either way, it blunted their missionary zeal.

Today, I taught AGAIN at Hayama-Higashi Elementary School after my morning classes at Hayama Middle School, and then took the time to go out and buy kerosene for my space heater. It ended up being twenty dollars for 35 Liters. Not sure how the conversion on that works out to gallons, but it seems a fair price, as my heater only takes three liters at a time. I should be warm for awhile.

My coordinator came over to teach me how to use the space heater, and noticed my PSP lying on the table. First words out of her mouth: "Do you know 'Puyo Puyo'?" Puyo Puyo is a ridiculously addictive puzzle game that's picked up a bit o' popularity both here in Japan and back in America. When she found out I had the game, she insisted we play.

So today, I played video games with my boss until 7 in the evening. I love this job.

pax.

EDIT: I forgot the most important part! They have the "Three Second Rule" here in Japan. Somebody dropped a piece of food at the Hip Hop Italian Restaurant, and someone else dove for it and said "San-Byou Rule!" I had to ask-and when I did, they were as surprised as I was that we, too, had a three-second rule. Some things are universal.