Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

with love from England and Newfoundland
via Riviére-du-Loup (Christmas 2010)

Dear friends and family,

Another year, another Christmas letter. Unfortunately, the fact that it’s being written at the last minute from the other side of the world (what else is new?) means that I risk infringing on the privacy of those nearest and dearest to me. (Sorry, daddy, but by the time you’d proofread this, I’ll be in Bangkok.) So, I’ll be brief.

Mom is working, singing, and “computer-ing” with confidence. (Now, to convince her and dad to join Facebook.) She is my source of information on everything familial, arts and culture, and Regina-related. My teachers can’t get over how わかい (young) and きれい

(beautiful) she is. 

Dad hunts (______), shoots (______), kills (______) and provides for his (_______) family/deer/pucks/zombies. He continues to maintain a mustache and a fleet of Hondas, neither of which fails to impress my elementary and junior high school students.  

John is a moneyman by day and a wildman by night. If you haven’t heard his band’s latest stuff, you should: http://thewildmen.bandcamp.com/ Most of my female students are in love with him. わかりません (I don’t know why.)    

Scott is a student, philosopher, and concerned citizen. He takes after his older brother in his ability to impressively articulate his complex criticisms and concerns about the world. My students call him “Scott-o.”

When I’m not Skyping my family, I’m whipping up worksheets and surprising students, hiding out in my teeny-tiny apartment getting domestic with my one stove-top burner and combination microwave/convection oven, or listening to CBC Radio podcasts in the great outdoors while pondering my bizarre but blessed existence.

In less than six hours, I’m off to Thailand to throw a bikini on a sun-starved body fueled for the past month by spicy chili, homemade eggnog, creamy green curry (none of which I made – I have good neighbors!), rich restaurant food, fudge, and peppermint brownies. (Fun fact: some Japanese people don’t care for peppermint or root-beer because the flavours remind them of medicine.) 

With dreams of English Christmas Eve church services and Christmas Day movies, beach parties, meditation, snorkeling, and elephant rides, this Christmas could be my weirdest yet, but here's hoping it’s a merry little one, nevertheless.

And, of course, I wish the same for you!

Lots of love,

Echo    

with love from China, America, Canada, New Zealand, Russia,
and the Philippines (who'd I miss?) via Japan

Turning Japanese

At a performance review one year ago, a certain Canadian was told that she is “too Japanese.” In true Japanese style, her supervisor’s assessment was both complimentary and critical; that “you are liked because you are very kind – too kind” and that “you care about others – you care too much.” To make matters crystal clear, her boss concluded, smiling, “I think you are very Japanese.”

So, dear readers, what do you think?

She eats raw broccoli and the skin of her fruits.

She doesn't own a rice-cooker nor does she consider rice a breakfast food.  

She has good days and bad days where chopsticks are concerned.

She's not a fan of natto. 

She prefers water to tea.

She loves to sing karaoke.

She gets called by (not her) name by locals mistaking her for one of the other blond foreigners in town.

She doesn't walk around the teachers’ room brushing her teeth after lunch or clip her nails at her desk in the morning.

She doesn't own a portable electronic Japanese-English dictionary. (She probably should.)

If there's even the slightest chance of rain or snow, she's got her umbrella. However, she will not use it to hide from the sun.

She will go without, rather than accidentally purchase a lotion with skin-whitening agents.

She's sometimes not sure whether to bow or shake hands.

She misses chocolate milk. And cheese.

She wouldn't dream of asking for a doggy-bag.

She refuses to eat KFC on Christmas Day.

She hangs out at school considerably less than her Japanese counterparts and constantly feels guilty. That said, she has no intention of not taking all twenty of her paid leave days.

Her automatic impulse is apologetic.

Her default picture pose involves the peace (victory?) sign.

After a busy day bustling with people, she looks forward to coming home to her quiet apartment, which she's never thought of as lonely because it lacks a husband and three children under the age of six.

She’s twenty-six, not married, and not looking.

She sets a good example for her students by finishing her fish – head, bones, and all.

She won’t eat while walking, unless she’s being a tourist in another part of Japan.

She's got the requisite sweet tooth, but misses the intensity of such flavors as peppermint, vanilla, and root beer.

Nakedness is nothing new.

She's still a baby when it comes to reading, writing, and having a conversation in Japanese.

When it comes to communicating, she’d rather use a written combination of poorly conjugated hiragana and katakana than open her mouth to speak.

She understands more than she can articulate.

She doesn’t drink much at work enkais, knowing she’ll learn so much more through sober observation.

She sometimes pushes the “flushing sound effect” button in public washrooms – not for her own comfort, but out of consideration for others.

If you consider sugar a drug, she’s four for seven as far as the Vapors are concerned.

Some Things You Never Get Used To

the presence of raw eggs in Japanese cuisine. Actually, the omnipresence of eggs in dishes, in general. (I am not complaining. For the record, one of my favourite foods in Japan is oyakodon 親子丼 – meaning ‘parent and child’ – a delicious mixture of chicken, egg, and sliced scallions served on rice.)

mochi* pretending to be cheese. (Again, not complaining. Anything that mimicks the deliciously gooey texture, if not the flavour, of melted cheese, is a-okay by me, as the Real McCoy – expensive and unpopular -- is a rarity in rural Japan.)

mayonnaise pretending to be cheese. (This one, I’m less okay with. Whether it be on pizza, slathered thickly on sandwiches, or as a main ingredient in various meat and “cheese” breads, mayo is not, and never will be, cheese.)

individually-wrapped everything (think: Halloween-candy portions all year ‘round), including the equivalent of maybe three Pringles’ worth of small, spicy shrimp rice crackers

the use of umbrellas for sun and rain

the bone-chillingly cold water in the washrooms, or the arbitrary availability of soap

the terrifyingly “mind over matter” art of sitting seiza (on your heels, with numb feet folded under you)

when rags that were, minutes earlier, racing lint, crumbs, and hairballs along the floor, are next used to dust off counters, desktops, and windowsills

student-enforced discipline including shouts of “shizuka” (“Be quiet!”) during especially rowdy elementary school lunch-hours, and junior high girls walloping their male counterparts (hard!) when they drift off in class

the cutting of fingernails in the morning staffroom**


And some things you do…


elementary school kids cruising (and, on occasion, wobbling) around the playground (typically, a versatile gravel lot) on unicycles with slightly deflated wheels

students sprinting through unheated winter hallways from toasty classroom to toasty classroom wailing “samui, samui” (“It’s cold, it’s cold!”), only to throw open the windows of said rooms after returning from P.E. moaning “atsui, atsui” (“I’m hot, I’m hot!”)

spelling “colour” and “favour” without the “u” and referring to the United States as “America”

high school students wearing school uniforms, regardless of the day of the week

elementary school girls wearing shorts and knee-high socks that never quite meet, even in the darkest days of winter

the style, for females in general, to wear clothing that leaves the knee to mid-thigh exposed

cold rice and raw fish

sitting through all manner of meetings, ceremonies of all sorts, sermons, speeches, and street talk where, when it comes to deciphering what’s going on, anyone’s guess is better than mine

not eating or drinking on the street (when I do, it just feels weird)

watching boys in their baseball uniforms and girls in their volleyball attire (i.e. gym shorts and wind-breaker jackets) scurry/trudge through the snow to/from the gym

the brotherly closeness of boys at school, the manner in which they link elbows, hug, hold hands, and drape arms over shoulders (when they aren’t punching, pulling, or dragging each other across the floor, of course)

the graceful, elegant, expressive movements of even the most manly hands

commuters in suits on bikes with umbrellas (even though the use of umbrellas while cycling was outlawed back in October 2011)

my microwave/convection oven, which, on a miraculous day (like Holy Saturday) will bake a delectable chocolate cake, but which usually resigns itself to partially heating leftovers or 
making radioactive toast

the people and perspectives of rural Japan

the challenges of reading at a (near) Grade 1 level

the graciousness and generosity of others (I need to be so careful not to take them for 
granted)

the daily post-lunch souji*** sessions, where students change (or partly change) out of their 
uniforms and into the P.E. clothes, get down on their hands and knees, and clean dirt off the floor with a once-white rag (or, at least, push it around until the fifteen minutes is up)

the fact that what appears to be brown bread is far more likely to be chocolate-flavored

songs and musical cues to signal 6 am, 6 pm, the arrival and departures of trains, the entering and exiting of a conbini (convenience store), and just about anything else you weren't aware needed a soundtrack

the remarkable lack of litter on public transport, in the street, in Japan, in general

not understanding everything all of the time and being perfectly okay with it


*Mochi is glutinous rice pounded into a gooey, gluey goo. See July 20^th post for pictures. 

**Apparently, there is a Japanese superstition that if you cut your fingernails at night, your parents may die before you see them again. I don’t follow the connection, but I don’t follow a lot of things. As far as the significance of clipping nails at school is concerned, I think it’s merely something that didn’t get done at home. I’ve also seen some of my teachers brush their teeth upon arriving at the office.

***Because schools in Japan don’t generally employ a custodian, it is the job of the staff and students to keep their classrooms, corridors, toilets, library, and gymnasium clean. This involves collecting the trash, sweeping, wiping the floors, scrubbing the toilets, shaking out carpets and banging chalkboard brushes, shoveling snow and filling kerosene jugs in the winter, and weeding and watering plants in the spring and summer. Souji was strange to me when I first arrived in Japan, but when everyone participates, a concerted effort is made not to make a mess in the first place.

Crazy

my students’ intense love for a word they are not encouraged to use (and love all the more for that very reason) and me, fantasizing about the pedagogical possibilities: 

       Second-grade junior high school girl: “He is kurayze. Hiroto is kurayze.”

          Me : “Really? Is he crazy?”

          A gaggle of girls: “Yes, yes. He is kurayze. Bery, bery kurayze.”

          Me: “Are you crazy, Hiroto-san?”

          Hiroto: “Yes, I am. I am kurayze.”

          Or, sometimes, “No, no, no. Not kurayze. I’m not kurayze. They are kurayze.”

After a significant span of time hardly playing my violin followed by an even lengthier period of pre- and post-op recovery for my nearly good-as-new thumb, my violin’s first foray out of its case was during an elementary school music class “mini-mini concert” in front of two Grade 2 teachers and their 40+ students, who gasped and “sugoi”-ed and cheered “encoru”-ed after a variety of Canadian and Japanese folk songs and popular melodies.

crazier: unlike legitimate concerts that a performer prepares for, and, in some cases, obsesses about, the appearances I find myself making in Japan are, in general, so impossibly improvised that it’s no wonder I don’t worry anymore. In this land of non-stop preparation, my spontaneous “on a hope and a prayer” approach is decidedly un-Japanese (and fairly un-Echo, as well.)

Sports Day, when my Mochigase Junior High School girls wear yukata*, shake pompoms and dance to Avril Lavigne

Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your chorus. 
No way, no way, I think you need a new one.

while my boys do this:

Kumitaiso or "human construction" is an integral part of Japanese PE.

this:

and this:

a pyramid of 47 of the 48 boys at Mochigase Junior High
(one first-grader had a bit of a tumble in the previous attempt and is
getting checked out by the school nurse in the background)

then, they all do this:

The class that leaps together, keeps together.

instantaneous bonding with the librarian upon discovering Japanese translations of the “I Spy” series, a book of Shel Silverstein’s poems, “Harry the Dirty Dog” and “Oh, the places you’ll go” by Dr. Seuss in the Mochigase JHS library

the serene and genuinely pleasant presence of those teachers who unhurriedly inhabit a Friday night staffroom, the fact that, after finishing PTA choir practice at 9 pm, I am among them, and the realization that, long after I’ve gone for good, they will remain, seemingly oblivious or indifferent to their lives outside of school

how much my kids love John, and how kakkoii (cool, good-looking) he is to them

probably helps that I think he's pretty kakkoii, too

how applicable “working hard or hardly working” is to the lives of JETs, the Japanese, and corporate workplaces, in general

the shocking stuff that spills out of mouths after a few drinks have gone in

the volume and variety of experiences that I’m exposed to, often without time or trouble to fully absorb or appreciate them

that I’ve signed up to write the JLPT 5 (Japanese Language Proficiency Test) beginner test as motivation to study, yet still don’t…much

the scarcity of free time and the amount of it that I fritter away on Facebook

the cacophony we foreigners are capable of creating at Copo Hestia at 11:44 PM or 2:35 AM of a Saturday night and the resigned resilience of those few nameless, faceless Japanese tenants in our unfortunately resonant residence

getting stung by jellyfish in the Sea of Japan not once, twice, but thrice. It might have something to do with the fact that I swim when I shouldn't, but if you saw these pristine, deserted beaches and beautiful, blue water, you'd risk it, too.

Totally worth it!

1. Return flight to Osaka via Calgary – Vancouver – Shanghai: $921   

2. Cab fare from Kansai International airport to the OCAT bus station after missing the last shuttle bus due to a delayed flight: ¥17,200 (around $200)

3. Memories of spending the wee hours sweating in a pool of streetlamp light outside OCAT like a homeless person with ninety pounds of luggage: priceless

basically, my entire journey from Canada back to Japan, with the possible exception of a Regina – Calgary car-ride with my parents, which was lovely, but which they likely considered crazy (I’ll fly all the way next time, guys. Promise!)

that I’ll be spending my second consecutive Christmas (third in my life) away from Canada and family, and instead be in Thailand with North American friends, and how different that same bit of information makes me feel, depending on how it’s framed

the things you can buy from vending machines in this country

French fries, anyone?

how several days’ dishes amount to very few when you’re only home on weekdays for breakfast

how quickly I kill pantyhose

procrastination parading as patience and vice versa

how human are hardwired to forget the uncomfortable, the awkward, the mediocre, but (generally) do a bang-up job of recalling the amazing and the awful. A blog for another time, perhaps, but trust me on this one. 

that August is over

that September is over

that October is over

that the following conversation is true and happened to a friend of mine in Toronto in early November:

          Subway employee: "That flower on your jacket is sexy." (re: poppy)
          Me: "Lest we forget?"
          Subway employee: "What are you talking about?"
          Me: "What are YOU talking about?"


*As far as I can tell, yukata and kimono are pretty much the same, except that the former is made of cotton or linen (and the latter, silk) and thus worn during the sweltering summer.

We Are The World

a child's artwork from an international collection
celebrating Amnesty International's 75th anniversary,
as seen at Tottori's TIME Festival last November 

Sometimes internationalization means being taught how to make a paper airplane when you think you’re making a paper crane.

Sometimes it means several elementary school teachers and your principal on their computers and electronic dictionaries, searching for English translations of the various Japanese-specific vegetables (i.e. gobo = burdock root) you’ve already accepted as unknown but edible.

Or taking a deep breath and indulging the innocently rudimentary English advances of a middle-aged farmer as your JTE and eight of your thirteen-year old male students observe curiously, unsure of whether to erupt into hormonal laughter or act cool about something that is apparently completely normal in their ALT’s (i.e. your) world. In short, it means pretending to be comfortable in a situation even when you want to crawl under a rock and dig a hole to Canada. 

Or finding yourself in exhausted conversations about your home and native land – about ice hockey, maple syrup, “Bancoobah,” the Rockies and “aulola.” And as much as you once thought you’d dispel (or, at least, avoid contributing to) the stereotypes, you’ve now mostly happy that they exist. It makes the late-night talks in smoky bars so much easier when you can nod and smile, and then, in turn, “ooh” and “ahh” over the wonders of Japan – sumo, sushi, Kyoto, Mount Fuji, and sakura blossoms, respectively. Common ground, however superficial, is nothing to turn your foreign nose up at.

Or attempting to continue the following conversation

Mother: Echo-sensei desuka? (Are you Miss Echo?)

Me: Hai. (Yes.)

Mother: Echo-sensei wa Kitty suki desuka? (Do you like Hello Kitty?)

Me: (laughing) Hai, daisuki desu! (Yes, I love her!)

with the mother of a third grade elementary school student you can’t put a face to, but who has apparently gone home to talk about your Hello Kitty pencil case and matching notebook. How to explain that the former was cheap and necessary, the latter a coincidental gift from your Japanese teacher? Easy. You don’t. Instead, you love Kitty for all she’s worth.

Sometimes internationalization means momentarily abandoning a mountain of notebooks that won’t correct themselves in order to humor your bored Kocho-sensei (Principal) in a brokenly bilingual conversation about European travel, fear of heights, and ancient Japanese architecture (none of which either of you has vocabulary for in the other’s native tongue) as the rest of the staffroom continues working – shuffling papers while listening with various degrees of interest – as you both smilingly struggle to give and grasp meaning through gestures, guessing, and good ol’ Google.

Sometimes it means joining your Mochigase junior high school students’ parents in twice-weekly rehearsals of a choral arrangement of this popular Japanese pop song to be performed in front of their children, spouses, and friends at the annual school cultural festival in November.

Or piecing together an “international medley” of Ikimono Gakari (see above song), Michael Jackson, and Funky Monkey Babys on your violin for Kawahara Junior High’s cultural festival.

Sometimes internationalization means finding yourself heading to Coca Cola West Park on a sunny Saturday morning to watch your Mochigase Junior High School girls play volleyball, not realizing what a mission you’re about to embark on. It means propitiously bumping into your track-and-field Kawahara boys in the parking lot and, after they’ve recovered from the tremendous shock of seeing you, harassing them into giving you directions to the volleyball courts with a vague promise to come watch their races later (you do). It means hustling over to the gym, only to be waylaid by a team of giggling girls nervously testing out their English on your back (“Hello. Hello. Nice to meet you!”) just as you’re about to enter the building. You stop. Turn. Smile. Ask them how they are. Where they’re from. Do they play volleyball? What time do they play? Explain that you’re there to watch a game, but you are late. Apologize and say goodbye. Enter building, hoping to find someone to ask, or better yet, someone to follow to your destination. No such luck. There are parents and toddlers, coaches and players coming and going from somewhere, but it’s not obvious. In an attempt to avoid your first gaijin smash of the day, you do what you know – you approach a group of junior high boys and start speaking to them. Slowly. Using sentences straight out of their textbook. “Excuse me. I want to go to…” Wasting no time, they call over their team’s resident English expert. “Can I help you?” he asks with feigned confidence. You ask simply. He answers. You thank him sincerely, and race away up the stairs as his teammates sugoi* and burst into hearty applause. You enter the gymnasium, pick out your team from the eight currently playing, slip into a seat with a sigh, and settle in. 10:26 AM. The game finishes four minutes later. Sugoi, indeed.

*Sugoi! is an exclamation expressing amazement, approval, or surprise. It’s been explained to me as “wow!” “that’s great!” and “no way!”       

       

Oops...! I Did It Again

Not long after arriving in Japan, a friend introduced me to the concept of the "gaijin smash." Although a number of definitions exist, the one that best serves my purposes is the following found on urbandictionary.com: "when a gaijin (foreigner) breaks Japanese cultural conventions intentionally or mistakenly..."

I would like to preface this entry by explaining that I rarely seek to purposefully break the rules. I just happen to be a pro at doing it accidentally.

shot by a compliant, but confused fellow first-year JET
"Why do you want a picture of this...?"

Hit me, Baby: this overly enthusiastic pose in a squatty-potty outhouse near Higashihama Beach was taken sometime in early August 2011. It would take another few months to realize I’d been using it backwards.

Hit me, Baby (December 7^th): walked into (and around) Kawahara Daiichi Elementary School’s library with my guest slippers on. Extended staring and whispering ensued before I realized my error. No shoes in the library.

One more time (March 7^th): while preparing to play a violin concert at Saigo ES, I confidently waltz into a carpeted multipurpose room with my indoor runners on, only to be whispered at apologetically by a teacher a few awkward seconds later. No shoes in…carpeted rooms?

Hit me, Baby (August 23^rd): couldn’t find the restaurant hosting my Mochigase Junior High School welcome enkai and showed up twenty minutes late. While I’d been told tardiness to such parties is a no-no, it didn’t seem like a big deal. Still, I vowed not to make the same mistake twice.

One more (September 10^th): after an incredibly hot and humid Undokai (Sports Day), my JTE at Kawahara Junior High School dropped me off at home thirty minutes before our enkai was scheduled to begin with a warning not to be late. I took heed, downed a couple litres (literally) of water, and headed back out into the scorching late afternoon sun. Without showering. Without even changing out of my brand-new 100% polyester school track shirt. Not only was I not late, I was early enough to observe the arrival of virtually every other teacher; showered, changed and nearly all noticeably late (my JTE included). I also learned that while hydration is a beautiful thing, it can also be a painful one if not timed properly (i.e. go to the toilet before every tipsy teacher decides to make a ten-minute toast to goodness knows what, occasionally slurring surprisingly articulate apologies in your direction consisting of variations on the theme of “Echo-sensei, I’m very sorry, I don’t speak English.”) 

Time (September 11^th): two consecutive nights, two enkais. So much money! So much raw fish! So much Japanese! Why did I agree to this?! Wait a sec, there’s a lull in the conversations. That must mean the speeches are going to start soon. Not without my using the restroom, there’s not! Turn to my neighbor, try to get his attention. “Um…sumimasen. Toy-re wa…?” (“Excuse me…where’s the toilet?”) Crap, I’m saying it wrong. He doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about. Point up the staircase. “Ee deska?” (“Is it okay?”) He confers with a few nearby teachers, then shouts something to the restaurant owner. Really? We need to check with the owner before using the facilities?! Note to self: in the future, use the washroom at home beforehand and then hold for the requisite two hours. Okay. The owner seems… reluctant, which is weird, but if I don’t go now, I’ll be in trouble in an hour. Okay, scoot out from under the table, and up the stairs. Cute little landing. Must be a second-floor for when they’re really busy. Now, where’s the ladies’ room? I only see one door… Flick on the light. A washing machine. A sink. A table and chairs. Homey. Very homey. Too homey. Oh my gosh! I am in someone’s home. I am in the restaurant owner’s home. I want to melt through floor right now. I want to… I wanna pee. I need to. It’s not going to get any less awkward if I don’t. Turn a handle…bingo. Postcards on the walls. A calendar with symbols I’ll never be able to read. Yup, this is totally someone’s home. I have unwittingly trespassed into a stranger’s home and am now using their toilet. Well, it’ll make a good story, if I’m ever stupid enough to tell it.* Get back downstairs. The teacher sitting next to me has gotten beer-rosy while I’ve been away. “So…how do you like Japanese-style living?” He could be insinuating any number of things, but I’m going to give us both the benefit of the doubt and pull the blonde card. Smile and giggle and pay as many simply-worded compliments as possible. Pretend we gaijin do this sort of thing all of the time – march into private facilities. I don’t know what else to do…?       

Hit me, Baby (March 22^nd): Showed up at Mochigase, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to find this:

No wonder my kids spell deer "b-e-e-r" and frog "f-l-o-g."

It’s the start of March/April’s (yes, I’m getting lazy) International Board. And it’s been like this since I hastily put it up on Friday the week prior.

Writer’s note: there have been others, and there will undoubtedly be more. However, they are easier to admit to with time. Stay tuned…

Lovin' Life

I’m coming to appreciate the validity of the popular wisdom, “Do what you love. Love what you do.” Despite having no desire to make a career of the classroom, the moments of magic – the power of pubescent voices – both beautiful and boisterous – blending together in a raucous rendition of a school song that will soon be sung no more, a teenage boy’s bashful smile as a result of well-deserved praise, squealing seven-year-olds upon discovering that “Echo sensei, fastest foreigner at (insert one of four elementary schools here)” is back and looking forward to a post-lunch game of tag – are undeniable, and materialize just often enough to make a person wonder if maybe she couldn’t fall in love with this line of work, after all.    

Or, it might just be that it’s a gloriously sunny Friday afternoon (the current typhoon season heralds the onset of autumn and deliciously cool breezes have already erased the memory of sweat and stickiness, allowing maximum enjoyment of the diminishing daylight hours), the air conditioning is on (in part to drown out the nonstop noise of the soon-to-be-new-school construction just outside Mochigase Junior High School's temporary building), the students are either off at a city-wide sports competition or in their classroom studying for high school entrance exams, the teachers (those that aren’t responsible for students in an athletic club activity) are more relaxed than usual, and I am at rare liberty to sit quietly at my ancient laptop and get nostalgic about the firsts of my lasts in Japan. 

Whatever the reason, I’m blessed to feel this way, especially after a crazy busy month of staying late to encourage speech contest participants, practice Gr. 2 level kanji in the library with kiddies in the after-school program, ponder over “extra enjoyable” activities and worksheets at my teachers’ request, and slap together dozens of the unnecessarily labor-intensive point cards (modification is only a matter of time) that my students have come to know, love, and actively pursue in exchange for key-chains, inflatable beach volleyballs, miniature stuffed animals, and other prizes from Canada.

Whatever the reason, I am happy to be here. 

One Week

(Apologies to Ed Robertson for butchering a classic)

It’s been two weeks since you frowned at me

Come home from there next year or I’ll be angry

Three days since you laughed at me

Sayin’ unpack that suitcase, I want my prezzies

Five days since the waterfall

I realized how rusty and weak is my front crawl

Yesterday, went to bed early

But it’ll still be a week ‘til I am jet-lag-free

Freeze the time and watch dragonflies

And think about goodbyes

How strangely sweet and sad they can be

I was missed here, now missed there, although I like it that you care

Like making lists of all things I want to do and see

Hot like Tottori where you ooze sweat

That’s just what you get

Climate change is alive and well

So many homemade cookies

Bruises on both knees, there’s no connection

I tripped and fell

Gonna make a pie, that’s such a lie

I’d like to see somebody try

Love my apartment, but it truly is a bachelor pad

Gotta get a guy, ‘cause then you’ll try

My PE teacher likes to sigh

He wants to talk to me

My speaking skills are so bad

How can I help it that I still haven’t learned Nihongo

Trying hard not to act as if I know

I’m the kind of girl that people want to talk to

Can’t understand why that is? Walk in my shoe

I have the tendency to want to spend time alone

I have a history of being super lame

It’s been one week since you smiled at me

Took my glasses in hand and fixed them for free

Six days since you surprised me

Custard banana croissant – I’m so lucky!

Two nights since dancing at DNA

You asked me how I thought it was, I said, “It was okay.”

Today, went to the hospital

Despite what you may think, my life is never dull

Tottemo tanoshikatta des yo

That’s the extent of my local lingo

When folks ask “How was Canada?”

I say, “Sugoi, na!”

I hope that means I had a good time

Now, like my teachers, I am busy

Just like I like to be

Speech Contest is at the end of the month

Like Kurayoshi, just don’t get there

It’s not the train fare

The fact is time is money I don’t have

Gonna do my best to travel more

But sometimes traveling’s a bore

Just wish someone would discover teleportation

Gotta find a room in which to tune

Many a moon, at least since June, have gone by since

My violin’s been played

How can I help it if I still haven’t learned Japanese

Trying hard not to act like a big tease

It’s tricky when your hair is blonde and eyes are blue

Smile, be attentive, polite – that’s what I do

I have a tendency to want to try to blend in

I have a history of following the rules

It’s been three weeks since I started this

Next time I’ll give BNL a big miss

Same time since I started school and said

You kids are so cute, but you think you’re so cool!

Three days since my undoukai

I realized they would be my last, and wanted to cry

Yesterday, you just smiled at me

‘Cause it poured rain for hours but we still played frisbee

It was humid as heck, but we tossed a frisbee

It’ll be winter soon, so let’s go play frisbee

Bird Stadium, home of Gainare

Home

Airdrie, Alberta. Apples in natural, pie, and board game varieties.

cinnamon-y goodness

Brainy brothers who bond by brawling. The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. Brownies. Biking.

post-battle

Confident, capable cousins I’m consistently chuffed to claim. Cinnamon buns and cider. Crêpes in Cupar. Canada World Youth reunions near Calgary. Chopstick champions.

The food was not conducive, but they were such good sports!

Dancing in the dark. Date with daddy. Derrick Jensen’s disturbing discourse.  

dad and daughter dug it

Eatmores, and Rolos, and Mars, oh my! Erica’s elegantly earthy earrings. Endgame.

Erika Folnovic designs -- get yours today!

Friendly, familiar faces. Folk fest fancies and fun. Family.

Rosie and the Riveters radiant in Regina

Getting “shanghaied” in Shanghai. Guns and gold. Girl talk. Greasy pizza. Garden goodies.

a story for another day

HUGS! Holding hands. Hymns by heart. “Humidity” (ha!)

(photo unknowingly courtesy of Dennis Hendricksen)

Insufficient sleep. Ice Burgs and Ice Cubes at the Ice House Tavern. “I think you should stay.”

Dangerously delicious and impossible to finish,
I passed on the big-as-a-dinner-plate Burg and
contented myself with this (still sizable) Cube. 

Junior Mints. Jannah and Jocelyn. Joy.

stuck with me and still smiling

Kebabs at Katepwa lake.

tah-dah!

The Lancaster. The Lorax. “Let it Grow.” Long dresses. Lasagna.

What are we growing on our future tree?

Maple Creek’s street festival. Mosquito bites and mead. Monster cookies and Mega Munch. Munschworks. The Mercury. Moonlit motorbike rides.

The Shoeless Joes were sweet, but the party didn't get rockin'
until three generations of Fettes hit the dance floor.

“Nobody said it was easy…”

Overwhelming conversations. Old-age obligations, oil, overpopulation, and other obstacles in an otherwise optimistic life. Omiyage overload.*

*Imagine, if you will, a photo of nearly 40 lbs of:

pennies, puzzles, Rider gear, 

keychains, cookies, candies, beer

(...I'm procrastinating with the unpacking.)  

Pike lake pastimes and pleasures. Paula, Paige, and a pair of Pats. Pad Thai. Prioritizing.

two charming members of an eight-person
(plus supervisors) crew

Quiet time? Qu'est-ce que c'est?

Re-connecting with my roots. Ruby Rebecca. Rodger Dodger & Grandma Good-food. Robin's Donuts. Red raspberries. Rye and the Vats. Rider pride.

the thirteenth man couldn't save this game

Second-hand shopping sprees. Sour Patch Kids. Seriously silly Star Wars-y spectacle. 

Should we set the stage for a similarly sensational stadium
or skeptically sidestep a second slippery slope?

   

“Try to do something that isn’t completely mindless and meaningless.” Tickling the ivories. Touching elbows outside the courthouse. Tearing up at Tim Horton’s.

Unsuccessful s’mores. Unexpected visits. 

Voting – a right I hope those who are eligible (I'm not) will exercise in Regina on October 24th. 

This shirt traveled to Tottori via Calgary
(where it received a lot of confused attention)  -
 Vancouver  - Shanghai  -  Osaka.

Waffle cones at Milky Way. Walks around Wascana lake. “We are fun together!”

X marks the spot where I’ll come back to stay some day.

one of my favourite places on the planet

Youngsters tell it like it is:

“You have a mustache.” (Shammah)

“And a beard.” (Bénie)

“Your hair is nice…and weird.” (Katie)

Zoom: “an onomatopoeiac sound that indicates swiftness” (thanks, Wikipedia!) and captures, in a word, the essence of my near-month-long holiday.