I was in the kitchen earlier today, warming up sweet and sour pork, while Jarrett attempted to make a phone call to his dad in the United States. After a couple attempts, he got through, and proceeded to have an internet conversation which was mostly fruitful, albeit punctuated with the minor hiccups of piggy-backing someone else's internet signal.
gomennasai, tonari
One of the topics of conversation was our individual daily alarm clocks. Personally, I find it hard to sleep after the local crow—which has the size and the requisite vocal power of a Buick—alights on my back porch and begins screaming. Jarrett, on the other hand, has a more developed capacity to sleep in the morning, and isn't waked until our neighbors drag out their futons and begin beating the ever-loving crap out of them each day.
However, we have been lazy Americans, and our futon has not seen much action. So to speak. We shake out the covers each day, and fold it into the closet, but that's all the maintenance we can muster. It's been sixteen full days in country, and we have not yet hung the futon in the sun for all to see or beaten it like an adorable but disobedient child.
Ordinarily, I wouldn't give half a crap, but the futons of Japan are a far cry from the Western futons most Americans are accustomed to. To begin with, they are significantly thinner, which lends them the capacity to be quickly folded and stowed each day. However, our already flat bed grows flatter each night that we sleep on it, and if we would simply remember to hang it on the clothesline before going out one afternoon, we could return home to find it fluffy and warm, courtesy of Mr. Sun.
As I mostly eavesdropped on and occasionally participated in Jarrett and his dad's phone call, my mind wandered to our first night in the new apa—to, when we didn't even have a malnourished bed to forsake. It may be sixteen days since we've been in Tokyo, but it has only been fifteen days since we had a bed to call our own.
* * *
Arriving at the Higashi-jujo station, we followed our leasing agent's instructions to the new place with fairly acceptable precision. There was one small wrong turn just out of the train station, but we were quickly back on the right path.
The weather was startlingly hot. Coming first from cool Oregon, then secondly by way of an oddly cooler California, we were grossly unprepared for the high heat and even higher humidity of Tokyo in August. What's worse, we seemed to be hurrying for no good reason whatsoever, and were getting incrementally hotter as we traversed the local shopping arcade, then spirited down the side streets which led us to our new home.
Opening the front door, we were initially taken by how small 20 square meters really is, but quickly seized upon the sight of the air conditioner. Hallelujah! Shoes off, bags down, reach for the remote...which doesn't work. We were literally pouring sweat down our faces and necks and back, and now our hearts were broken: the apa—to had no power.
The power was supposed to have been turned on early that morning, but that clearly wasn't the case. The water ran, but it wouldn't warm, which meant ice cold showers if we intended to clean our salty selves. The lights wouldn't turn on, which meant only about two more hours of visibility for the night. Worse yet, the pretty little air conditioner hung their, taunting us, as the curtainless windows superheated our own tiny greenhouse.
Our only option was to relax briefly, catch our communal breaths, then wander outside, where it was about half a degree lower than indoors. As luck would have it, while waiting for Jarrett to re-shoe himself, I leaned sleepily against the wall next to the front door, tilted back my head, and looked up at the power breaker.
The power breaker, of course, was covered in Japanese writing. However, there was one switch which was larger than the rest, and clearly displayed a red square. Uhhmmm. . . I pondered my options. What's the worst that could happen? Uhhmmm. . . I was crazy sleepy, and even crazier from the heat, so I risked possible explosion or Godzilla attack, stood on my toes, reached for the sky, and threw the switch.
Nothing happened.
Jarrett and I synchronously swiveled our heads toward the air conditioner, and saw the sweet glow of a tiny green light. We dashed to the remote, mashing buttons covered in kanji, until the thing kicked on, and a gentle breeze washed over our pathetic faces. We stood in its presence for about five minutes, then slowly began turning on and off lights. We had power, and we wouldn't die right away.
Deciding to let the apa—to cool down, we continued our plans for a tentative little walk around the neighborhood. We padded down the closest main road, noted the closest shops of interest to us, then reversed course when we felt like dehydrated fruit. On the way back, I noticed a home fashion store in the distance, and we made a mental note to check it out the next morning in our search for household goods.
We didn't know it yet, but that store in the distance would become our go-to store for nearly everything in our new home, and we would buy a futon there the very next day. We didn't know that we would jump excitedly when they gave us a Point Card the following week, or that everything was reasonably priced and conveniently located. All we knew was that Nitori looked promising, and we needed to get some sleep.
Back in our icy little apa—to, we pulled clothes from our suitcases, and lined the floor to make a nest. It had been a long, hard two days, and (though it was only about 8:00 PM) we had lasted as long as possible. We kept a clear path to the new bathroom, lied down on the hard floor, and fell promptly asleep.
I don't know how long it took Jarrett to wake up, but it took me about 20 minutes. The floors are carpeted, which is unusual in Japan, but the floors underneath that thin, thin carpet are hard, wood floors. My back ached and my hips hurt, and my neck was killing me. On top of everything, the air conditioner was freezing us out of house and home, but neither of us dared to turn it off.
We tossed and we turned all night, and neither of us seemed to be asleep at the same time. When first light broke, we were up and achy and ready to start the day. We had survived the very first night in our very first Japanese apartment, and we were much worse for the wear, but we had smiles on our faces and were ready to shake off the night.
* * *
Friday, August 27, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
what i like about you
One of the strangest things I encountered while preparing to move to Japan was the frequent quizzical looks, coupled with the question, “Why.”
I always answered the person honestly, though I did try to keep it light, because one thing you don’t want to discover before leaving a town is how your friend is actually a xenophobe. That’s just me, though. After an extraordinarily high number of political fights in my youth, I decided that sometimes it’s better not to know people too well. For the most part, people were simply curious, and wanted to know where the appeal was. However, I think I ended up more baffled than them.
I don’t think I’ve ever been called a free spirit or anything like that, but I do think of myself as relatively adventurous. I think this comes from moving around a lot as a kid, as well as the necessary exploration which comes with such frequent relocations. After I learned one route home from school, I’d go find another. When I finally got my own car, I frequently drove places, then circumnavigated my way home.
The first time I came to Japan, I was a bit afraid to try wandering off. After a few jet-lagged days of waking up too early for the rest of the world, I realized the same rules applied here as anywhere else: use common sense, and remember landmarks. If all else failed, I could simply retrace my steps.
All else does fail a lot in Japan. Most streets aren’t even named, let alone marked, and the number of alleyways a person could disappear down while wandering in circles seems innumerable. Recognizing funny little things—like the small door which leads down my alley or the back of a dilapidated wooden house I took a shine to—keeps me comfortable in a town where I may possess the language skills to ask for directions, but not the ones needed to understand the response. Also, if all all all else fails, I know how to write my address on a piece of paper, and hand it to a cab driver. Takushi!
None of this goes very far in answering the question of why I moved to Japan. The simplest answer I have is the one I frequently gave when I was asked the question to begin with: I love it here. I’m pretty sure that if they wanted, Japan could mount a campaign against Disneyland, and sue them for the rights to The Happiest Place on Earth. There are probably two or three things which will irritate the crap out of me by the time I graduate in a few years, but I don’t see them just yet, and they will almost certainly be overwhelmed by the things I do love.
More specifically, it seems to me as if Japan has been honing its culture for thousands of years to appeal to me directly. Every day, I see something which delights me, and makes me smile quietly to myself on the train, forgetting momentarily how tired I am, and how much my feets hurt. Here is where I elaborate:
The Food: I love Japanese curry. It’s my go-to sick food over chicken noodle soup. I love barbecued meats. I love rice. Maybe because I was raised in a house with a Japanese dad, and we had rice for dinner every night. Or maybe just because it’s starch-a-licious. All the same, Tokyo may be one of the most expensive cities in the world, but so long as you like rice, you’ll be okay. I’m not completely on board with the whole fish thing, but I am currently trying to think of Japan as a gently suggestive parent, who wants me to eat better and spend less time at Mister Donut. I have been trying to eat one thing each day which I have never had before, and it’s working out surprisingly well.
The Food, Pt. 2: the French may have the market cornered on desserts and pastries, but the Japanese have their number. Once the Japanese set their sights on something, they work at it until it’s just right. And they have been working on desserts for a long time. Bakeries are everywhere...on the street corners, in the department stores, at the train station. There are few places in Japan you couldn’t stretch out your arm and get a loaf of freshly baked bread or a croissant or tart or cake or custard. The custards are my achilles heel. Creme brulee, creme caramel, panna cotta, you name it, they have it. The 7-Eleven down the street from my apa—to has at least a dozen varieties, most for less than a dollar, each as good as anything you’d find in a nice restaurant.
The People: I’ll be honest: I haven’t traveled a whole lot. However, I feel comfortable saying that the Japanese people are the nicest I’ve ever met. And I’ve been to Canada! This past week has been an absolute swirl of first year Japanese, dictionaries, iPod apps, and a dizzying array of office workers, counter clerks, and train station attendants going above and beyond the call of duty to help out the ugly Americans. I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to my Japanese teacher, who insisted the little I knew would go a long way, and who was completely right.
Most notably, eigo o hanashimasu ka (do you speak English?) has only amounted to a small number of shaking heads. About half the time, the ask-ee will make the universal sign for very little then either try their best, or begin speaking better English than most people I have encountered in my life. The other half of the time, the person I am speaking with will disappear with a quick little chotto matte kudasai, then return with the youngest employee on staff, hoping they remember their English lessons from senior high school. All in all, the husband and I have had great luck, and the enthusiastic nature of the people here creates an enthusiastic spark in us as well. Kindness really is a cyclical force.
The Cars: they’re like little Matchbox versions of giant American cars! My current favorites are the mini mini vans, but a close second is the teeny tiny delivery trucks. Also, the license plates are way cool; since we live in a relatively small town, we occasionally see plate 77. The other day we walked past plate 5. Don’t worry, I have my eyes peeled for the first guy in town who bought a car.
The Trains: I love a culture where only 29% of the people own a car. The trains are frequently packed, but they are on time, they are clean, and they are air conditioned. Also, the different stations play cute little songs, and my kanji is getting better simply by remembering the stations I frequently pass.
The Bikes: I was so excited to get a bike, and I’ll be even more excited when I figure out how to register the damned thing, and am able to ride it places. It’s a nameless silver folding bike, yet unnamed, but it does have the cutest pink u-lock which I couldn’t resist. I loved my bike back home, but I sold it knowing that I would have the pick of the litter here. The cyclists do tend to ride a bot like it’s Thunderdome, weaving in and out of pedestrians with hats pulled down over their eyes, but I’ve learned that it’s safest to hold my gound, and let them manically swerve around me.
Health Insurance: To be honest, this is the real reason I began writing this blog post, as the whole experience of applying for health insurance nearly brought tears to both mine and Jarrett’s eyes.
We began our day by taking a train one stop to Oji, where the city office is located. I tell most people I live in Tokyo, which is true, but not completely. More accurately, the apartment is in the Tokyo Prefecture, in the town of Kita, in the neighborhood of Higashi-jujo. Tokyo is sort of like the county, and Higashi-jujo is basically only my train stop. Kita, however, is the actual city in which we reside, so everything bureaucratic required of the husband and I must be done at the city offices.
The first order of business was to apply for our Alien Residency cards. After walking through the grounds of a beautiful temple, we arrived at the building as directed, then were promptly directed to an adjacent building. Actually, we were physically taken to the second building by an information desk worker, who walked us all the way to the appropriate window. Forms, pictures, passports, yadda-yadda-yadda...about a 35-minute process which resulted in successful registration, though the cards themselves will be available in three weeks. That’s a bit of a bummer, as we can’t get phones or internet service or bank accounts until we have those cards.
Since that whole thing was over with so quickly, we wandered upstairs to fill out the paperwork for NHI—Japanese national health coverage.
Here’s how it went down: first, the obligatory do you speak English? followed by the shaking head, and the obtaining of another employee. We showed them both our passports and our receipts for having just applied for alien residency. We filled out a form with our address, then I signed a form stating that I was the head of the house, and had not worked the previous year in Japan. All of the forms were taken away for a few minutes, entered into computers, then the pair of office workers returned to us with payment slips and two little cards slid into plastic sleeves.
The payment slips were to be expected. It is health insurance, after all, and it isn’t free no matter where you go. We were told to take the payment slips to 7-Eleven each month, pay the balance due, then get them stamped. We were to pay to first slip immediately, preferably before the end of the day. Amount due? About $23.28 American after conversion. That was unexpected.
As for the cards, I asked the English-speaking office worker if these were temporary cards, and if we would be mailed permanent ones. These are your cards, he said. After saying I understood, and that I would be careful with mine, he also helpfully added, Yes. Protect yourself to do that. Beautiful. Oh, and one more thing: total time elapsed between stepping onto the second floor and successfully obtaining health insurance? Less than 20 minutes. It took us longer to take the train one stop back, walk home past the convenience store, and pay for the month.
I have to say, in all honestly, I do not know if I will ever come home.
I always answered the person honestly, though I did try to keep it light, because one thing you don’t want to discover before leaving a town is how your friend is actually a xenophobe. That’s just me, though. After an extraordinarily high number of political fights in my youth, I decided that sometimes it’s better not to know people too well. For the most part, people were simply curious, and wanted to know where the appeal was. However, I think I ended up more baffled than them.
I don’t think I’ve ever been called a free spirit or anything like that, but I do think of myself as relatively adventurous. I think this comes from moving around a lot as a kid, as well as the necessary exploration which comes with such frequent relocations. After I learned one route home from school, I’d go find another. When I finally got my own car, I frequently drove places, then circumnavigated my way home.
The first time I came to Japan, I was a bit afraid to try wandering off. After a few jet-lagged days of waking up too early for the rest of the world, I realized the same rules applied here as anywhere else: use common sense, and remember landmarks. If all else failed, I could simply retrace my steps.
All else does fail a lot in Japan. Most streets aren’t even named, let alone marked, and the number of alleyways a person could disappear down while wandering in circles seems innumerable. Recognizing funny little things—like the small door which leads down my alley or the back of a dilapidated wooden house I took a shine to—keeps me comfortable in a town where I may possess the language skills to ask for directions, but not the ones needed to understand the response. Also, if all all all else fails, I know how to write my address on a piece of paper, and hand it to a cab driver. Takushi!
None of this goes very far in answering the question of why I moved to Japan. The simplest answer I have is the one I frequently gave when I was asked the question to begin with: I love it here. I’m pretty sure that if they wanted, Japan could mount a campaign against Disneyland, and sue them for the rights to The Happiest Place on Earth. There are probably two or three things which will irritate the crap out of me by the time I graduate in a few years, but I don’t see them just yet, and they will almost certainly be overwhelmed by the things I do love.
More specifically, it seems to me as if Japan has been honing its culture for thousands of years to appeal to me directly. Every day, I see something which delights me, and makes me smile quietly to myself on the train, forgetting momentarily how tired I am, and how much my feets hurt. Here is where I elaborate:
The Food: I love Japanese curry. It’s my go-to sick food over chicken noodle soup. I love barbecued meats. I love rice. Maybe because I was raised in a house with a Japanese dad, and we had rice for dinner every night. Or maybe just because it’s starch-a-licious. All the same, Tokyo may be one of the most expensive cities in the world, but so long as you like rice, you’ll be okay. I’m not completely on board with the whole fish thing, but I am currently trying to think of Japan as a gently suggestive parent, who wants me to eat better and spend less time at Mister Donut. I have been trying to eat one thing each day which I have never had before, and it’s working out surprisingly well.
The Food, Pt. 2: the French may have the market cornered on desserts and pastries, but the Japanese have their number. Once the Japanese set their sights on something, they work at it until it’s just right. And they have been working on desserts for a long time. Bakeries are everywhere...on the street corners, in the department stores, at the train station. There are few places in Japan you couldn’t stretch out your arm and get a loaf of freshly baked bread or a croissant or tart or cake or custard. The custards are my achilles heel. Creme brulee, creme caramel, panna cotta, you name it, they have it. The 7-Eleven down the street from my apa—to has at least a dozen varieties, most for less than a dollar, each as good as anything you’d find in a nice restaurant.
The People: I’ll be honest: I haven’t traveled a whole lot. However, I feel comfortable saying that the Japanese people are the nicest I’ve ever met. And I’ve been to Canada! This past week has been an absolute swirl of first year Japanese, dictionaries, iPod apps, and a dizzying array of office workers, counter clerks, and train station attendants going above and beyond the call of duty to help out the ugly Americans. I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to my Japanese teacher, who insisted the little I knew would go a long way, and who was completely right.
Most notably, eigo o hanashimasu ka (do you speak English?) has only amounted to a small number of shaking heads. About half the time, the ask-ee will make the universal sign for very little then either try their best, or begin speaking better English than most people I have encountered in my life. The other half of the time, the person I am speaking with will disappear with a quick little chotto matte kudasai, then return with the youngest employee on staff, hoping they remember their English lessons from senior high school. All in all, the husband and I have had great luck, and the enthusiastic nature of the people here creates an enthusiastic spark in us as well. Kindness really is a cyclical force.
The Cars: they’re like little Matchbox versions of giant American cars! My current favorites are the mini mini vans, but a close second is the teeny tiny delivery trucks. Also, the license plates are way cool; since we live in a relatively small town, we occasionally see plate 77. The other day we walked past plate 5. Don’t worry, I have my eyes peeled for the first guy in town who bought a car.
The Trains: I love a culture where only 29% of the people own a car. The trains are frequently packed, but they are on time, they are clean, and they are air conditioned. Also, the different stations play cute little songs, and my kanji is getting better simply by remembering the stations I frequently pass.
The Bikes: I was so excited to get a bike, and I’ll be even more excited when I figure out how to register the damned thing, and am able to ride it places. It’s a nameless silver folding bike, yet unnamed, but it does have the cutest pink u-lock which I couldn’t resist. I loved my bike back home, but I sold it knowing that I would have the pick of the litter here. The cyclists do tend to ride a bot like it’s Thunderdome, weaving in and out of pedestrians with hats pulled down over their eyes, but I’ve learned that it’s safest to hold my gound, and let them manically swerve around me.
Health Insurance: To be honest, this is the real reason I began writing this blog post, as the whole experience of applying for health insurance nearly brought tears to both mine and Jarrett’s eyes.
We began our day by taking a train one stop to Oji, where the city office is located. I tell most people I live in Tokyo, which is true, but not completely. More accurately, the apartment is in the Tokyo Prefecture, in the town of Kita, in the neighborhood of Higashi-jujo. Tokyo is sort of like the county, and Higashi-jujo is basically only my train stop. Kita, however, is the actual city in which we reside, so everything bureaucratic required of the husband and I must be done at the city offices.
The first order of business was to apply for our Alien Residency cards. After walking through the grounds of a beautiful temple, we arrived at the building as directed, then were promptly directed to an adjacent building. Actually, we were physically taken to the second building by an information desk worker, who walked us all the way to the appropriate window. Forms, pictures, passports, yadda-yadda-yadda...about a 35-minute process which resulted in successful registration, though the cards themselves will be available in three weeks. That’s a bit of a bummer, as we can’t get phones or internet service or bank accounts until we have those cards.
Since that whole thing was over with so quickly, we wandered upstairs to fill out the paperwork for NHI—Japanese national health coverage.
Here’s how it went down: first, the obligatory do you speak English? followed by the shaking head, and the obtaining of another employee. We showed them both our passports and our receipts for having just applied for alien residency. We filled out a form with our address, then I signed a form stating that I was the head of the house, and had not worked the previous year in Japan. All of the forms were taken away for a few minutes, entered into computers, then the pair of office workers returned to us with payment slips and two little cards slid into plastic sleeves.
The payment slips were to be expected. It is health insurance, after all, and it isn’t free no matter where you go. We were told to take the payment slips to 7-Eleven each month, pay the balance due, then get them stamped. We were to pay to first slip immediately, preferably before the end of the day. Amount due? About $23.28 American after conversion. That was unexpected.
As for the cards, I asked the English-speaking office worker if these were temporary cards, and if we would be mailed permanent ones. These are your cards, he said. After saying I understood, and that I would be careful with mine, he also helpfully added, Yes. Protect yourself to do that. Beautiful. Oh, and one more thing: total time elapsed between stepping onto the second floor and successfully obtaining health insurance? Less than 20 minutes. It took us longer to take the train one stop back, walk home past the convenience store, and pay for the month.
I have to say, in all honestly, I do not know if I will ever come home.
Friday, August 13, 2010
going home
After packing up the apartment and finally hitting the road, I hoped to feel as if we were on vacation. Jarrett and I had two weeks before our flight left, so we planned a few fun stops on our road trip to California. However, despite the beauty of Crater Lake and the awesomeness of the redwood forests, I still felt as if we were on a deadline.
In California, it was lovely to have a bed again—even if it was an air mattress, it was better than the floor of our old apartment after we sold our bed, and miles above being in a car for hours on end with a bad back. As is our luck, though, Northern California refused to play along with my dreams of sun and sand, and rarely peaked above 80° our whole stay. My swimsuit and goggles remained in my cute pink suitcase, mocking me daily.
The parents house was far more relaxing than the stress of packing, and my mom proved she is the master of the going away party. We said goodbye to my extended family, went to San Francisco a couple times, hung out with a few friends, ate a lot of really good food, had some great nostalgic moments, celebrated our anniversary, and even watched a couple movies for the first time in months. Still, I couldn’t quite relax, as I kept feeling as if there was somewhere I was supposed to be.
It didn’t help that we were constantly busy. Suitcases needed repacked. Boxes needed shipped. Another suitcase needed to be purchased. Other boxes needed emptied and sent to Goodwill. Moving is a long, involved process any time, but an international move begins to feel like a never ending game of Tetris. The next thing I knew, the game was on pause, and we were leaving the next day.
We arrived at SFO almost four hours before our flight. It was either that or risk Monday morning commute traffic with nontransferable, nonrefundable, nonanythingable tickets. Actually, I’m fine with waiting in airports, and am actually quite fond of them. For me, getting ready to travel is all about getting to the airport; it’s all planning and stress and packing beforehand, but the airport is a breath of fresh air between the scheduling and the running amok around foreign lands. After checking in and checking baggage, we hugged the ‘rents goodbye, and made it rather quickly through security.
Aboard our 777, we scored the second best seats in economy class: the second row behind business class. The bathroom was close, but not too close (if you know what I mean); we were among the first in our section to get drinks and food; and, best of all, the third seat in our row was unsold. Unfortunately for me, the daft hippy in the seat in front of me threw his seat all the way back the second he could do so, and proceeded to lie back, sit up, and move about for nearly eleven hours. He was at his bounciest whenever I had a beverage. Also unfortunately, the adorable baby in the next row over divided his time between looking sweet and sitting in a basket while I was awake, and shrieking violently every time I closed an eye. I guess it just wouldn’t be an international flight without the Thunderdome-like aspect of steerage.
Arriving in Japan, it was apparent that Summer had caught up to us. The thin sweater I wore on the plane clung to me immediately upon entering the jetway, and the little people outside were running around, doing their jobs, and sweating furiously. Yet, I refused to be brought down by long flights, stupid rave pants or oppressive humidity. None of these things matter because, at their terminus, I got to pick up my luggage, haul ass through immigration as my dad taught me, and set my eyes on Japan.
It was a long bus ride / subway / train / walk to the new apartment, and we were literally pouring sweat upon arrival, but I finally had the feeling that we had arrived. I finally felt that all the studying and all the applications and all the bureaucracy and all the stress and all the injuries and all the everything was completely worth it when I set my sights upon my new mail box, reached in for my new key, and opened the door to my new home.
Never you mind that it was even small than imagined. Or that we had no power. Or furniture. We were in the cute little town of Kita, minutes from Tokyo, in the Japan I had been working so hard to get back to for the past three years. We were here, we had arrived, we were home.
In California, it was lovely to have a bed again—even if it was an air mattress, it was better than the floor of our old apartment after we sold our bed, and miles above being in a car for hours on end with a bad back. As is our luck, though, Northern California refused to play along with my dreams of sun and sand, and rarely peaked above 80° our whole stay. My swimsuit and goggles remained in my cute pink suitcase, mocking me daily.
The parents house was far more relaxing than the stress of packing, and my mom proved she is the master of the going away party. We said goodbye to my extended family, went to San Francisco a couple times, hung out with a few friends, ate a lot of really good food, had some great nostalgic moments, celebrated our anniversary, and even watched a couple movies for the first time in months. Still, I couldn’t quite relax, as I kept feeling as if there was somewhere I was supposed to be.
It didn’t help that we were constantly busy. Suitcases needed repacked. Boxes needed shipped. Another suitcase needed to be purchased. Other boxes needed emptied and sent to Goodwill. Moving is a long, involved process any time, but an international move begins to feel like a never ending game of Tetris. The next thing I knew, the game was on pause, and we were leaving the next day.
We arrived at SFO almost four hours before our flight. It was either that or risk Monday morning commute traffic with nontransferable, nonrefundable, nonanythingable tickets. Actually, I’m fine with waiting in airports, and am actually quite fond of them. For me, getting ready to travel is all about getting to the airport; it’s all planning and stress and packing beforehand, but the airport is a breath of fresh air between the scheduling and the running amok around foreign lands. After checking in and checking baggage, we hugged the ‘rents goodbye, and made it rather quickly through security.
Aboard our 777, we scored the second best seats in economy class: the second row behind business class. The bathroom was close, but not too close (if you know what I mean); we were among the first in our section to get drinks and food; and, best of all, the third seat in our row was unsold. Unfortunately for me, the daft hippy in the seat in front of me threw his seat all the way back the second he could do so, and proceeded to lie back, sit up, and move about for nearly eleven hours. He was at his bounciest whenever I had a beverage. Also unfortunately, the adorable baby in the next row over divided his time between looking sweet and sitting in a basket while I was awake, and shrieking violently every time I closed an eye. I guess it just wouldn’t be an international flight without the Thunderdome-like aspect of steerage.
Arriving in Japan, it was apparent that Summer had caught up to us. The thin sweater I wore on the plane clung to me immediately upon entering the jetway, and the little people outside were running around, doing their jobs, and sweating furiously. Yet, I refused to be brought down by long flights, stupid rave pants or oppressive humidity. None of these things matter because, at their terminus, I got to pick up my luggage, haul ass through immigration as my dad taught me, and set my eyes on Japan.
It was a long bus ride / subway / train / walk to the new apartment, and we were literally pouring sweat upon arrival, but I finally had the feeling that we had arrived. I finally felt that all the studying and all the applications and all the bureaucracy and all the stress and all the injuries and all the everything was completely worth it when I set my sights upon my new mail box, reached in for my new key, and opened the door to my new home.
Never you mind that it was even small than imagined. Or that we had no power. Or furniture. We were in the cute little town of Kita, minutes from Tokyo, in the Japan I had been working so hard to get back to for the past three years. We were here, we had arrived, we were home.
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