Finding Myself

I’m not going to lie. There are many reasons I decided to live in Japan. And yes, the cliché applies. I am hoping to “find myself” here. Or, at least discover a little more about who I really am. I spend a lot of time turning over dreams, hopes, and thoughts in my mind. I do this mostly before bed or between stations on the train.

But, sometimes you find things you didn’t even know were lost. Sometimes you find these things in the most unexpected places. For me, it was a small, missing link to my identity and it was in Hong Kong.

At the end of October, I had the chance to travel to Hong Kong and meet my parents for a brief adventure in a fascinating city before we all headed back to Japan. Just a few blocks from our Hong Kong hotel was the Ohel Leah Synagogue. On the Sunday morning, we decided to go and check it out.

Once past the security, we found our way to a building that was fascinating both in terms of architecture and history. An Iraqi family, the Sassoons, built this Hong Kong Synagogue at the turn of the twentieth century. It was fascinating inside. The metal work was traditional Iraqi motives and the parokhet was adorned with evil eye designs.

The idea that a Sephardic, Iraqi family could be so influential in a mixed Jewish community was inspiring. I have heard so many stories from my family about being second-class citizens in Israel, about discrimination and racism. Israel has never had a Sephardic Prime Minister. There are reasons for that. And yet here was a story about an Iraqi family having the influence and means to build a beautiful synagogue in Hong Kong.

More inspiring was the idea that Sephardic and Ashkenazi Jews could form a community together that viewed diversity as its strength, and worked to accommodate various traditions without competing stories of oppression. Persecution sometimes is used as rationale for trying to preserve one set of traditions over another, and at great expense. But here, it felt as if there was a value placed on preserving the unique aspects of the various members of the congregation.

There was something even more inspiring. A reassuring realization, perhaps. The Sassoon family was originally from Iraq. They lived in India for some time and settled in Hong Kong. And yet, they were Babylonian Jews. In fact, it seems that the Jewish people from Iraq had a reputation for traveling and living in other parts of the world. Maybe, they didn’t maintain their identity in spite of their dispersal. Maybe, the Diaspora is integral to the identity of the Iraqi Jew along with the change and adaptation that goes along with that.

I spend a lot of time contemplating the preservation of my identity as a Babylonian Jewish woman. Trying to figure out how to hang on to that unique history, knowing that if there are any Jews left in Iraq now you could probably count them on one hand. I acknowledge that I am part Ashkenazi. But I always feel a strong pull to identify with my mother’s side of the family because I feel as if it is a community and a history that is disappearing so quickly. Maybe even a sense of urgency is attached to this.

But maybe, this is something I shouldn’t worry about. Maybe this is the designed fate of the Babylonian Jew; to move on and grow in new and unexpected ways. And so maybe, nothing has been lost, but only changed. Maybe.

I ♥ Hong Kong

If I were a billionaire, I would buy a condo in Hong Kong. What a fantastic city! Not that I got to really see that much of the place. I only had four days at the end of October to get there, explore, and make my way back home. But, what I saw, I loved.

Early, early on the morning of Saturday, October 20th I headed out to catch a shuttle bus to the airport and meet my parents in Hong Kong. By mid-afternoon I was taxing to the arrival gate. And I swear, the moment we landed I could smell food. Hong Kong is a culinary adventure. There’s so much to do, see, smell and taste.

Our first destination was Victoria Peak. I guess our thinking was the fastest way to take in as much of the city as possible was to get up as high as week could. The setting sun highlighted the hazy view of Hong Kong, the harbour, and Kowloon.



That night we crossed the water to Kowloon in search of a seafood supper and the hustle and bustle of the night market. The things for sale there were touristy and cheap, but the energy was good.


The next morning, we headed out to find a historic synagogue in Hong Kong. It was beautiful, fascinating and worth it’s own story, so I will leave it at that and hopefully get to telling you more about it soon.


Adventures beckoned us in every direction. We choose random adventure and hopped on the first double-decker tram with a destination we didn’t recognize.


We rode until we tired of it and then took the subway back to the ferry port and crossed back to Kowloon for Jade Market shopping, dim sum and incense infused temples.



Dinner and a sunset were enjoyed at a small island fishing village.


Politics and free speech seem alive and well in a Hong Kong under Chinese rule. Dinnertime arguments over politics waft through the air along with the smell of fried fish. The newspapers are full of strongly worded anti-government editorials and even the Falun Dafa practitioners felt comfortable enough to protest.

The next day belonged to Buddha. We woke up early to make our way to one of the biggest Buddha statues in the world. Buddha was beautiful, the chanting from the temple was mesmerizing and the vegetarian lunch one of my all-time favourite meals.



Hong Kong is a fascinating mix. Rich urban, poor rural. Fishermen and businesswomen. Diverse people from around the world. And, lots of English.

On our last night we took a nighttime cruise aboard the Aqua Luna. What a beautiful illuminated and illuminating city.


More pictures here.

Take My Parents to Work Day

I can’t sleep. I often can’t sleep at night. It seems to be a habit of mine to suddenly remember reams of things I need to do tomorrow and yet be too lazy to get up and write them down so that my mind can relax. Add to that the fact that I know all of my friends and family are just getting up for the day back home, and it’s even harder to shut off and relax.

So, I will attempt to do some catching up on an owed blog post.

It’s been a month since my parents were here. Still, the memories of their visit are fresh in my mind. We traveled and just had time to catch up and chat. And, I took them to school with me.

Now, I must say it is a little awkward to have your parents tag along with you for a day of work. Questions, stares, etc. And well, it always seems a little strange to be introducing coworkers to mom and pop. It sort of eats away at your sense of expertise and confidence. But, it would have been utterly impossible not to introduce my parents to the people I work with everyday. In the end, it was actually fun.


We arrived at the school early on the morning of November 8th, so that my parents could officially be introduced to the kocho sensei (school principal). There was some tea and chitchat. After that, my parents and I were marched in to the staff meeting to great applause. My father was asked to give a small speech. It was lovely and his attempts at Japanese phrases sweet (I am not one to talk, as the situation is the same for me.)


Then came the best part. My mother and father joined one of my second year English classes. My supervisor, Maruhashi sensei, and I decided it might be a good idea to have my parents join the students for some group work activities. It worked out wonderfully except that my mother distracted her group with talk of Japanese baseball players (where she picked up this knowledge I will never know) and my father slowed down his group with lots of questions.



We had a great time and the students loved it. They were energetic and eager to show of to our guests. I have to say that, as awkward as the morning was, my cheeks were sore from smiling.


I can hardly wait for Noah’s school visit. The girls are going to go nuts.

On Traveling Well…

Always try to have a map, even if you don’t know your destination.

Or, try not to worry about it.

Okini Osaka

Long weekends might not be as rare as you think here in Japan, but they are still precious. If you take the train out of town as soon as you finish work, you can get a good two and a half days of touring somewhere. Heck, if you add one more day of paid leave, you might just have enough time to check out Hong Kong or Seoul or someplace else. Yes, you can cram a lot into a long weekend.

And so, because I’ll likely only be here for the year, it seemed like a good idea to head to Kyoto for the Labour Thanksgiving Day weekend at the end of November. The funny thing is, however, it doesn’t seem to matter if you are in Japan once in your life or for a lifetime, that’s THE weekend to see Kyoto. Everything, everything, everything was booked up more than a month in advance. Sonia brought in the big guns and had the travel agent for the school where she was working do some serious digging around for a hotel. And, low and behold, he did it! He found us a great little place in Osaka, just a 30 minute train ride away from Kyoto. And a huge breakfast buffet to boot.

The next trick would be finding a way to meet on the train platform at Tokyo station to catch the shinkansen bullet train. Sonia had about ten minutes to navigate a busy and confusing station and I had to find a way to get up to the platform without an actual ticket in hand. Again, we managed and were off on our adventure.


Saturday was Kyoto day. A quick train ride and Sonia and I were transported from one Great Japanese metropolis to another.

I must admit that Kyoto could have a little better organized on our parts. We didn’t know which temples we wanted to see, we didn’t have a map, we were completely left to our own devices. I had high expectations and not really any means of achieving them.



We accomplished less than we might have liked that day but what we did see was grand. The trees in the gardens surrounding the palace grounds were painted bright yellows and reds. We were able to make our way to a couple of temples. The Ryoanji Temple grounds were breathtakingly beautiful and the Zen garden strangely fascinating. We even made time to sit and enjoy a traditional temple yu-dofu lunch. And we managed to catch sunset at the Rokuon-Ji Temple’s Golden Pavilion. Striking. Although, it was just a stream of people. We wrapped up the evening with a stroll along Philosopher’s Walk. (I make it sound so lovely. We were also snarled at by a mean dog with sharp teeth, got semi-lost on the transit system, and ended up, in a moment of desperation, at an Italian buffet for dinner.)





The next day was all about Osaka. Our first destination was the castle. To get there we had to walk through several terrific parks, leaves ablaze. Up, up, up until we reached the magnificent building. The square was full of life and the warm sun made it feel like a summer day. It was a lovely place to relax and enjoy takoyaki. And, when I say enjoy, I mean it this time. Osaka is known for it’s takoyaki (doughy octopus balls) and it is obvious why. Unlike the takoyaki I had had in Ota or at festivals, this stuff was actually good. Really. It wasn’t too oily and actually had a slightly crispy exterior. Oh, and it wasn’t buried under mayonnaise.


The people in Osaka were very kind. Maybe too kind. We asked one man for directions and found a personal escort who wouldn’t take no for an answer. At one point, we decided we wanted to take a detour and check out another park area. It was a real trick to turn back before we reached the destination originally inquired about.

The shopping in Osaka is great too. Lots of fun. Especially in America Mura, the hip shopping/hangout part of the city. This is were fashion comes to die… Or, be reborn, depending on how you look at it. It’s certainly isn’t the least bit American. I don’t think I’d ever seen a man in red and black striped tights, with really short leather shorts, a leather jacket, white boots, pink nail polish, triangular sunglasses, and a purple mohawk in America. Well, not in this decade.


Dotombori Street, although touristy, was alive with fabulous energy. There were restaurants and theaters all along the strip. Smaller, more traditional eateries, and even temples, filled the nearby alleyways. A little further still, were the hostess bars. Some of the action spilled onto the streets. Around a corner and we spotted one woman being repeatedly groped as several men said their goodnights.



Through the doors of one coffee house, and we were in another world. The café was the width of a train car. The walls were paneled with richly stained wood. The smoke hung in the air, illuminated by chandlers and sconces. Mostly older men sitting with mostly younger women who were wearing pearls and sporting big updos. Not much conversation to be found here. A pile of women’s fashion magazines suggested feminine boredom. But the teacakes were divine, the strawberry juice fresh, and the hot chocolate made from real cocoa. It turned out the owner studied English in Seattle 15 years ago and was eager for English conversation. Between serving drinks and cleaning tables he keep returning to chat.

The next morning it was time to say goodbye to Osaka. Sonia and I made our way to the “Floating Garden.” Not a bit of greenery in sight up there, but the view of Osaka was amazing from our perch high about the action.



Okini Osaka - Thank you, Osaka.

See lots more photos!

Riding the Rails

I enjoy simple things: the feel of the radiant heat from the kerosene heater in the teachers’ lounge, the crunch of leaves under my bicycle tires, the smell of a freshly peeled mandarin orange. It doesn’t need to be fancy to impress me. So, spending the day riding along an old section of Japanese railroad was truly magical.

Caitlin and I met Minoru Urano in very serendipitous way. Having overheard a mixed up English/Japanese conversation we where having, he stepped in to translate. And then, he sat down with us. It was a simple as that. And before we knew it, Caitlin and I had made a wonderful Japanese friend who takes pleasure in showing us some of the less-obvious gems around Ota.

Last Sunday, Minoru-san and his wife, Tsugio, took us for a tour of a unique stretch of railway.

We boarded the “train” at Omama. Only it wasn’t a train because it wasn’t made up of a series of cars. Rather, it was a locomotive/car. Just one. Caitlin and I were the only foreigners on board, and we may have been the only people younger than 60 and older than two for most of the ride.



The little railcar sputtered along. Some of the stations were so small, there was no place to buy or deposit a ticket. Just hop on board and pay before getting off. So small was this operation, in fact, that when one man was late boarding, a yelp from some of the passengers brought the thing to a screeching halt. Never in my life did I think a train would ever slam on the breaks by request like that.

We rode the rails for hours, gazing out at the mountains and rivers as we went. The fall leaves still clinging to the trees as they fade from brilliant yellows and reds to a crisp golden hue as if baked in the oven.



Over the course of our adventures, we stopped at the Tomihiro Art Museum in Azuma, a railcar restaurant for tempura and soba, a small festival is Ashio, and an old copper mine site. We even warmed up at one station that provided public baths. At one point, we ended up on a train with tatami mat floors and a lounge car. Fun, but it was a serious pain to take my shoes on and off for one stop.


At 5:30, with the flip of a switch, the string of tiny train stations were brightly illuminated with strands of Christmas lights and other seasonal decorations. As we approached each station, the train’s lights were switched off, making the Christmas lights seem even brighter.


Album

IOU

I am currently way behind on this blog thingy. I owe stories about:

Nikko
Halloween

Anything else?

Consider this a to do list.

On Earthquakes…

If even the ground beneath my feet is not stable, what is?

Tsukiji

A person who willing wakes up at 4:30 am to wade through fish guts is:
A) Completely out of her mind
B) Tired for the next week
C) A tourist (a Japanese person would never do this of her own free will)
D) All of the above

Hooray for brave parents and a willing Japanese friend. We found a hotel in Tokyo for the Friday night so that we could wake up early, early on Saturday morning and head over to the Tsukiji Fish Market. It was worth every sleep-deprived minute.


Tsukiji was fascinating: The many kinds of fish and seafood, the frozen tuna that was the size of seals, the morning rush of activity you find in any real market. The market floor was wet and the rain outside just added to the puddles. So, we rolled up our pants and wadded in. And for the most part, it was pretty clean.



The tuna was the most interesting. The carcasses were huge and everywhere. Frozen blocks in rows and sliding along concrete floors, on carts and little trucks, or scooped up in cranes, saw blades slicing through the frozen flesh or being chopped with axes. The thawed meat was a deep red. Many of the fish had chunks cut near where the tail would have been to allow potential buyers to peek at the quality of the fish.

And these were no crude fishmongers, let me tell you. Rather, they were savvy businessmen and women cutting deals on their cell phones between cleaning and shucking the fish and seafood.


Tsukiji is a real, working market. It’s very hectic and we constantly had to watch our step to avoid being hit by passing vehicles or a flying fish head. Tourists used to be allowed to attend the morning auction, but no more. And, I can’t say I blame them. Can you imagine if your workplace was a tourist destination? Cameras flashing as you file paperwork or go about your daily business?


Not all of the fish is fresh, or Japanese. We found a box of Canadian prawns. And, the Japanese seem to have a thing for some special varieties of Canadian mushrooms. (That’s my next campaign, “Free The Mushrooms.” Why is it I’ve never seen these things at home?)




Of course, you can’t go to Tsukiji without eating sushi for breakfast. We patiently waited about 20 minutes in the rain for a counter seat at a little sushi place. My rice bowl was piled high with tuna, salmon and sea urchin (uni). And you know what? For the first time in my adult life, it was really unappetizing to chew and swallow those chunks of raw fish. I don’t know why.

Click here for more photos.

… And a funeral

Yes, I am well aware that I have been neglecting my blog. I’m sorry. Life here has been very hectic, what with school, my parents’ visit and some of my own homework. I’m actually very much looking forward to the end of November. Remind me sometime, I owe you some posts and pictures about Hong Kong, Nikko and Halloween. For now though, I am actually resorting to this forum more as an act of catharsis than to keep friends and family in the loop.

A few hours ago I returned home after attending a Japanese, Buddhist funeral. I was there among the mourners.

The experience of being part of the school community has been wonderful and an honour. It’s been a pleasure to share in the learning, the achievements and celebrations; even taking part in the cleaning activities is a joy. But sometimes there is struggle, loss and sorrow. For Ota Girls’ High School, that time is now.

Over the weekend, the school’s office manager was found dead. I wish I knew enough to be able to articulate the details but with language issues and a mysterious story to begin with, there isn’t much to tell you. He went missing several days ago. I understood something about a strange car accident, and head trauma. There was an autopsy, but it was inconclusive. What is certain is that the man I called Jimmy Joe San (Jim Cho San) is gone and we are all feeling his loss.

Jim Cho San (his work title) was very good to me. He spent hours going over reams of paperwork when I first arrived to secure my new apartment, he organized a fabulous office party to welcome me to the school (honestly, it could have been my bat-mitzvah, it felt that special), he had a reassuring presence and a wonderful smile. And, although language was a barrier, we communicated often about many things. He was one of my guardians at the school.

And, for all of this I owed him much thanks. I did thank him regularly, but I had intended these last few weeks to find a special gift to let him know I really appreciated everything he had done. Now, it is too late.

I feel guilty. I feel guilty for feeling guilty, as if I somehow have twisted this horrible situation to be about my bad feelings. Perhaps I should think about it this way: Life is very precious and very fragile. We never know when someone may enter our life or leave it. We should take every opportunity to let people know that their work means something to us, that we are grateful, or proud, or touched. And, that we should make these gestures whenever the urge strikes us and never put it off.

The funeral was difficult. I wanted to say goodbye, to meditate a little, to share my sorrow. Instead, I felt stressed, self-conscious and confused. Each guest is expected to participate in a short ritual in front of the family and other mourners. I spent most of the time caught up in anxiety over the 30 seconds I would endure. I lamented about my inappropriate dress. My dark grey pants might just as well have been bright red in the sea of black suits, black dresses, black shoes, black ties, black handbags, and black pearls. I gave my donation and ended up with two gift bags in return. How is it that I am still receiving things after Jim Cho San’s death and how can I make things equal somehow? My feelings of indebtedness seem very much increased by the ceremony.

I think that’s why I wanted to sit down and write this now, despite all of the other things that need my attention and the owed posts for events now long since past. I guess I’m hoping in someway that Jim Cho San can read this, can hear my thoughts. I want him to know that I am thankful for his kindness. I want him to know that I was looking forward to the soba noodle lessons we had laughed about him giving. That I was looking forward to his warm smile tomorrow.

I’m in!

Well, if I want to be in that is. It seems after a slightly stressful audition/class I have been accepted into a local Japanese pottery class. I’m not one hundred per cent sure I’m as excited about the class as I was before, but I am absolutely thrilled that the sensei will have me.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned to some people in my cooking class that I like pottery and that I was hoping to find a class here. Well, with a Japanese sort of eagerness to welcome and guide that never ceases to amaze me, one student called up a friend of hers who does pottery and handed me a handwritten sheet of information on classes in Ota.

I had an English teacher at school help me with the initial phone call. I basically had her communicate who I was, that I have taken some pottery classes and that I’d like to enroll for the Tuesday night class. The response was not exactly what I expected. It wasn’t a yes, we have room, or no, sorry the class is full. Rather it was a request to come in for a one on one lesson to see if I liked it and the teacher liked me. Okay…?

The truth is I’m not sure I did like it that much. It was very frustrating. I was instructed to make a bowl on the wheel. But, I had to do it EXACTLY the way the teacher wanted me to. For example, don’t just wedge the clay, wedge it THIS way; don’t just score the clay, score it THIS way. That, combined with the fact that the wheel I was using was just a little wee disk plopped down on the table and powered by hand, was enough to make me crazy (I don’t even like kick wheels, that’s how spoiled I am.) On the positive side, I did learn some new techniques and might one day be equipped with enough knowledge to make a round vessel in the caves of Afghanistan.

Today, I had to go back to glaze my bowl. It looked okay. It was round, solid. The kinds of things I look for in my pieces. And the glazes were all new and lovely to me. Again, new techniques had me tenuously gripping the delicate foot ring of the bowl while lowering it into suction-griping glaze. The bowl and I made it though. A real feat for me – my friend Erin can attest to the fact that I have a tendency to drop my pieces… usually a lid I have made to measure while it is still soft and malleable.

I was invited to come to class next week at 7 pm. And, it was nice to see that the other students were busily working away on their own pieces, with the occasional assistance from the teacher. Decisions, decisions, decisions…

Mushroom Madness

So, the other day, I get a ride home from a guy who’s been living and working in Japan for about 8 years. He started as a JET in Ota and told me a story from his early days in Japan. Apparently, what he thought was going to be a day of mushroom picking on the mountain was a ceremonial procession of mushrooms. How interesting it all sounded. A mushroom ceremony here in Ota? Who knew?


Well, apparently anyone who bothered to read the many posters plastered all over town knew. I, of course, cannot read Japanese. I was only able to discern that there was event coming up on October 7th and that it was in Ota.

Using my cunning smile and foreign charm, I was able to get someone at a small, local restaurant to explain when and where the event would take place. Lucky I asked someone in the food business too because he knew the English word, “mushroom” and that’s when I put the puzzle together; the mushroom march would be this weekend!


Caitlin and I were at the Daikoin Temple at precisely 11 am for the kick off of the event. There were dignitaries on hand and the temple looked especially festive for the occasion.


The local media were there too, cameras often panning over to the two foreign women in attendance (yes us.)




And at the centre of it all was a group of young men and women, probably high school students, who were going to march baskets of mushrooms from Mt. Kanayama in Ota to some place in Saitama (the whole march, including pit stops and a long lunch break, was maybe four hours, at a snails pace.)


The outfits were traditional, right down to the footwear.


Mushrooms ready, banners and weapons poised, the reenactment began.




We followed the marchers from the Daikoin Temple, out the gates and along the busy streets all the way to Ota city hall.



And, the stars of the show? These funny looking mushrooms. Apparently, a sight to behold, and smell.


For being such loyal followers, Caitlin and I were rewarded with bowls of mushroom soup, and rice with mushrooms for lunch.