Noah’s Visit

My aunt Julie phoned me today. It’s such a treat to get a phone call or a hand written letter from friends and family back home. Julie is my number one pen pal, but she seldom calls.

“How was Noah’s visit?” she asked. “Why didn’t you write anything about his trip?”

I’m not sure. I’ve been busy, but this past week has been good. Have I been a little lazy? Maybe.

I think the truth is that Noah’s visit really feels more like a dream now. It has since he left Ota. It’s hard to recall and articulate dreams. But, here goes.

I am so happy to be in Japan. It’s been a wonderful adventure and one that I wanted to share with Noah. Sure, I write and call and send pictures, but I wanted him to see it, and smell it and taste it for himself.

I also wanted to see Noah. And when I spotted him on the bus from the airport, I was excited, happy, nervous, anxious, eager… And so our adventures in Japan began.

His first day here and we were already off exploring. My kind and generous friends were able to help me borrow a bike and Noah and I rode around the city to some of the more scenic spots. We even found energy to hike up a mountain. Okay it was a small mountain, but still. Oh, and we ran into some of my students, much to their obvious delight.


The next morning, we headed out early and caught the train to Tokyo. It was so much fun to play tourist with Noah. It can be easy to forget the feeling of wonder I had when I first arrived. A visitor helps me to remember. And, it was nice that Noah found a delicious sushi restaurant for us to enjoy.




Our next big outing was to the home of my supervisor’s family for something very traditional, very Japanese, and very tasty. Noah and I were invited to Maruhashi sensei’s in-laws’ to make mochi, sticky rice cakes, for New Year’s. What an honour to be able to participate in a family event like this. There was lots of pounding, rolling, tasting, eating, and more eating.






After the mochi party, Noah and were driven directly to the train station. From there, we headed south and then west by bullet train to the ancient city of Kyoto. The city was magical. Our hotel was not. The owner a little on the disconcerting side as well. He kindly showed us some maps and highlights of the city, but lectured us about the brevity of our stay. The room was cold, drafty and felt kinda dirty – a fact that was more exemplified than hidden by the car air freshener theme in the bathroom. And when I asked for a suggestion about where to eat, I was repeatedly told only the fast food spots near the train station were within my budget. The nerve. Instead, we went to Gion for 6-dollar okonomiyaki.


The next morning, the hotel owner greeted us with a genuine smile and helped us sort out rented bikes and gloves for a day of touring in Kyoto. Everywhere we went people were getting ready for the night’s festivities. We joined in the fun at the Yasaka Shrine. We ate festival food, watched people light ropes to start their own New Year’s fires at home, and squeezed into a long line to experience the ringing of the temple bell by Buddhist monks.


On the first day of the year, we went to the Fushimi Inari Shrine. So did everyone else in Kyoto, it seemed. But it was just beautiful. Rows of orange torii gates wrapped around the mountainside like ribbon and the contrast with the green trees and grey stone cemeteries was astonishing.


That afternoon we headed to Osaka and our seemingly luxurious accommodations, by contrast any way, at the Ramada. Here, we had time to relax, catch up and enjoy a slower pace of travel. We climbed up the city’s castle, enjoyed the energy of America Mura, and devoured seasonal grilled crab legs.


Our culinary explorations didn’t end there. We decided to go to Kobe for…
Kobe beef! And it was absolutely, melt-in-your-mouth delicious. It even made up for the day’s wet weather and confusion about the Earthquake museum. The man at the subway station’s ticket booth was kind enough to give us directions, but he obviously had something he wanted to articulate and couldn’t figure out how to express to a couple of English speakers. As it turned out, the main part of the museum was closed for renovations.


After Kobe and Osaka, we headed to Hiroshima, our final destination. It was modern, beautiful and moving. So many reminders of the death and destruction as well as the ardent hope for peace. On our way back to the hotel the first night, Noah spotted an old European looking building. Too old, he remarked, to have been built after the war. Sure enough, a daytime visit confirmed that this was one of the only buildings in the area to have survived the atomic bomb blast. Inside were millions of paper cranes folded by children from all around the world.


Miyajima Island and her deer entertained us the rest of the day. It was low tide and so we were able to get a close up view of the famous torii gate. The overbearing deer nibbled on our shopping bags, and jackets and tried to steal our onigiri. The grilled oysters made a tasty and satisfying snack for humans like us. Mmmmmm!






Those were the highlights. We made our way back to Tokyo for a brief stay and Noah spent a few days in Ota while I went off to work.

Noah came to class with me one morning. The students were so excited to meet him. There was screaming and laughing. Several came running for handshakes and personal introductions. You would think they were meeting a rock star.


The visit was too short. And, all too soon, it was January 11th and time for Noah to head home. That morning, I was the one who had to say goodbye and leave first. I had lessons at my visit school. Noah took a cab to the train station where the airport shuttle bus picked him up. And just like that, he was gone. Sort of.

Noah’s flight to Canada was cancelled that night. He was given vouchers for a hotel room and meals at the Hilton in Narita. For another 12 hours Noah was in Japan, stuck out by the airport, a three-hour journey from my home. It was excruciating to think that he was so close and yet so far.

Now, Noah is on the other side of the earth. And, every Friday when I get on the bus to my visit school, I have this terrible feeling as if I’ve left something important at home.

Album One

Album Two

Confessions

It’s one month into the New Year and I have to get some stuff off my chest. I am not an angel, in case you didn’t already know that. I hope none of this is too shocking.

Confession #1

I don’t like tempura. I tell everyone that, when it comes to food, I will eat anything. I can even stomach natto. Tempura, however, makes me want to puke (well, hours later.) The problem is, sometimes wonderful and kind people who insist on ordering for me take me out for a meal and they order… TEMPURA. I eat it. I lie. So there.

Confession #2

Remember that dirty and disgusting house I ended up at when I first arrived? Well, when I moved out I took a few extra little things with me. Here’s an itemized list:
- one pair of scissors
- a roll of packing tape
- a small flashlight
- 2 paperback novels
- half a roll of two-ply toilet paper
Therefore, I am a liar AND a thief.

Don’t hate me yet? Okay, how’s this.

Confession #3

I am a grumpy grinch!
Now, this just happened about 1.5 hours ago and I am waiting for the police to show up at my door and arrest me. My school has already been called, and I hope they accept my lame explanation.

Basically, this is what happened. In December, my students wrote letters to Santa in Canada via the Canada Post programme. The response letters made their way back but with several additional letters to kids in different parts of Japan and several for children in France. FRANCE!

I head to the JP post office, finally, with the best of intentions and some of my own mail and a package. Figuring out how to mail the package is a trial in itself, but we manage. Then, I try to forward these Santa letters and they explain to me that the envelopes are too big for their postal system… there is a huge surcharge for these things. I try to explain that these are lost letters; that they’re not mine. Confusion. I try to explain that I will put them in one envelope then and just send them back to Canada. They want to give me a special delivery EMS envelope. No thanks, why pay the extra to return mail? Why can’t I mail it surface mail? I am frustrated and tired of these letters, so I go to put them in the trash. NO!!! Okay, so they won’t let me throw them out there.

We start over again. This time, I stupidly mention that I am an English ALT at Ota Girls’ and try to explain that these letters are lost and were sent to me by mistake. They try to get someone who speaks English on the phone. I am trapped and have just about enough of the whole thing. We don’t get any further. More frustration. I try and fail again at attempting to toss the letters in their garbage. I leave. I spot a mailbox and think, “These are either lost with me, or lost with a postal service. I am sure they will have better luck with the postal service. After all, if I was in Canada…” My address isn’t on the letters, only Santa’s in Canada, and the indented recipients. So, I shove them in the box, not even considering the fact that I have another option: walk away, relax, and try another way at another time.

So, now the letters are out of my possession; I don’t know if the kids who originally mailed Santa will ever get their mail; my school was called by the post office to alert them that there was some confusion (great!); and I feel like crap and am waiting to see if the police will come get me for putting strange packages in the mail.

There, so how do you like me now?

I’m *** ***

Well, it’s done. I didn’t want to do it, but it had to be done. And now, only a few short months after my arrival in Japan, ***

I feel awful.

Below, is a copy of the letter ...***
---

LETTER

***

Sorry, it seemed to me to be a good idea to sensor this post for a little while. Check back in the future and maybe I'll re-post the details.

Last goodbye

It was understood that Aron didn’t have much time left. He was very old and frail. Yet, knowing how much power and strength and resilience he had possessed, part of me felt as if he just might outlive us all. Still, it was understood. And I knew, when I went to say my goodbye in July that it likely would be my last.

I knew this but I decided to leave for Japan all the same. How could I pass up the opportunity I had dreamed about? How could I stay where I was so unhappy? It was an unhappiness I know he understood. He knew I loved I him. I knew I could make him smile, even laugh.

I remember the first time I met him. Noah and I went to Florida and stayed with his grandparents in a beachside condo for two weeks. He came to greet us with one of the biggest smiles I had ever seen. He took our luggage from our hands and hauled it into the apartment. He had so much energy and so much love to share.

It was Saturday morning when I learned Aron Lander had passed away. I was on the train to Tokyo. I already missed him. I always will.

Onsen Weekend

I’m a pretty shy person. Well, I am when it comes to taking my clothes off. In front of strangers, people I know, doesn’t matter. I am possibly one of the most self-conscious people on Earth regarding my body. And, it’s not for terribly good reasons either. Just that I am a little heavier than I would like, I have all kinds of skin issues, and breasts that belong on someone three, or even four, times my size. There, I said it. That was almost as difficult as stripping down and hoping into a tiny, shared, public bath. I did that this past week too.

Saturday morning, with bags packed Reina and I rode out into the rain to the train station and headed north. We were going to Kusatsu, a famous hot spring resort town, to be exact. Along the way, we met up with four more young women who teach in Ota and the rain turned into beautiful, soft snow.


This was the first snow I had seen in Japan. It was dreamlike. White tufts on top of every branch and every rooftop. It was so calming, the facts that our mochas were bitter, our connections barely gave us time to buy tickets, and we couldn’t find the right bus to our hostel, didn’t phase us at all. For some reason, luck abounds in Japan and everything worked out perfectly.

(Luck, and ingenuity. Later that night, Natasha turned a Pringles chip can into an amplifier and our hostel room was filled with music, as well as talk, laughter, and choco snacks.)

When we weren’t sleeping or hanging out in our rented digs, we were soaking in hot tubs or seeking out our next bath. My favourite was relaxing in the outdoor pools at the Now Resort Hotel. It was wonderful to be submerged in the steamy mineral bath with the snow falling on my face. Hours and hours we spent chatting and turning into giant prunes. The toasty warm feeling lasted for some time afterwards and guaranteed a restful sleep.

On Sunday, we headed out to explore. The ski slopes were less than a five-minute walk. And, although none of us wanted to actually ski, we decided to check it out all the same. We walked into town toting our towels, stopping at souvenir shops and for free samples of steamy manju cake on the street.

At the centre of town was the Yubatake, the bubbling hot water springing forth and bringing with it frothy, yellow sulfur. It is this water that is the source for the town’s many onsen.


We found two public bathhouses that afternoon. Perhaps a novelty in their genuineness, they were not the most comfortable places to bathe. They were cramped, cold, and a touch grimy. Just a touch. Still, it was fun to discover these little places.


What was less fun, was having to strip in the freezing little change rooms. And, if I may offer a small piece of advice, I would suggest that you keep your socks on until the last possible moment. Its amazing how the temperature of your feet can effect your overall well being.

Sleep too. After an evening of onsen and slumber partying, the 7:30 am breakfast was draining. And so, we didn’t make it though the afternoon as genki as we might have liked. And by the time we reached the bus depot to catch the shuttle for the hotel next to our hostel, I was tuckered out.

The station? It was tired too, and nearly closed for the night. There was no shuttle bus. We called the hotel to find out the time of the next one, or so we thought. After several of us taking turns on the phone, a man who knew some English came to our aid. It turned out we called a restaurant. The poor woman kept telling us there was no bus where she was, and we repeatedly asked her when it would be arriving at the station. But, the confusion didn’t end there. The kind man didn’t seem to understand that all we needed was the bus and kept trying to help us make a hotel reservation for the night.

We tried to get a cab at the taxi stand. There was one, but it was minus a driver. And when he finally showed up, he announced he was already reserved. I spotted a cab stopped at the traffic light and ran over to ask if we could get in. No, apparently not. This time no reason was given, no window opened as an offer of explanation or assistance. In my frustration, I found myself in the middle of the intersection, yelling, “Takchi wa doko desu ka?” Where is a taxi? He pointed to the empty taxi stand. And so, we began our long walk back through town and to the hostel. And, just as we turned up the road towards our goal, a shuttle bus to the hotel whizzed by.

Thank goodness, we had another onsen to melt our stress away. Ah, that’s better.

On Onsen

When undressing at a public bathhouse in winter, always remove your socks last.

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.