In Japan, the price of living is pretty much what they say it is. Darned expensive. I am lucky because I am currently mooching off of my fiancé who is JET. As far as housing goes, I can’t give you all a realistic price since his place is well subsidized and nowhere near what the usual rent would be. First off, I will describe the yen. It comes in these denominations
1 yen - a flimsy, tin-like coin
5 yen - a more solid, gold coloured coin, with a hole in the middle
10yen -an even more solid, copper coin
100yen - a silver coin, about the size of a quarter
500yen - the biggest coin of all, light gold
1000yen - the smallest paper note
5000yen - the next smallest paper note
10000yen - the biggest paper note
If there is anything larger than the 10000yen note I don't know what it is. Japanese people, I've heard, usually carry about 20000yen with them at all times. This is roughly equivalent to $225 CDN. I don't know about you guys but I was lucky if I had a quarter in my wallet back home. The disarming thing is that loose change in your pocket could easily equal $20. I'm sure this has prompted many people to carefully search under couch cushions. You could come up with next month's rent. I will now relate the costs of some items and irritatingly switch between the yen value and dollar (CDN) value. It keeps you on your toes.
At the supermarket, particularly near the fruit section, I become depressed. The price of apples (my absolute most favourite fruit in the world) is about 2 dollars CDN per apple. Oranges are about the same and grapes go for about 4 dollars per tiny bunch. Actually most fruit are in the realm of the pricey. So what do I end up buying? It’s sad but honestly, I buy peaches that aren’t in their prime so to speak. The supermarket in my town (remember, I only have one!) usually sells fresh ones for the bargain price of 2 for 398yen. When these fresh peaches pass their peak they are packaged into trays of two or four and sold for a lower price. For instance, I picked up 4 not-so-fresh peaches today for the great price of $2! The drawback of this is you need to eat them...FAST. Apparently fruit was meant for the rich (and possibly famous). Perhaps the fruit all have diamonds and gold embedded in them. This could account for the sky high fees.
Video rentals go for what they do back home. Ie, Too Much. After some painful interaction, I managed to open an account, paid 200yen for the membership, was told something about 2 weeks (???) and then went to go pick out a video. I chose "Oceans 12" but, to quote Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, I chose unwisely. Unbeknowst to me some videos are dubbed into Japanese while others are just subtitled. Guess which one I chose? This misguided choice cost me 515yen. Like I said, pretty standard.
For a cost that caught me by surprise, I will now introduce the train. I'm fortunate to live fairly close to the town's train station. To ride into the nearest city (Tokushima), a ride that takes about an hour and fifteen minutes, it costs me 2120yen or about $23 round trip. Yeow, after the economical subway of Seoul this is painful indeed! (a similarly distanced trip would cost $1.50) I've bravely taken this trip twice though both times I felt like I was getting royally ripped off.
Gas is also quite expensive, going for about 140yen per litre. I pulled up somewhat shakily (my standard skills are still not up to snuff) and asked for a full tank. I drive a Mitsubishi Minica, a car so small that I routinely lose it in parking lots bigger than 2 spaces. The grand total? 3014yen! The cost to fill a mid-size sedan back home. I shudder to think what it would cost to fill a hefty, gas-guzzling, environmentally unfriendly SUV.
The last thing I can think of that costs more than usual is lodging. Want a hostel? Sure, it'll be close to $40 bucks for a standard bed. From this you can deduce what an actual hotel would be. If you can't, I don't have a lot of numbers for you but I think they start at $100. It would be good to know someone if you want to come to Japan, that way you can crash at their place instead of paying an astronmical bill.
Aside from the things I've mentioned, prices in Japan are somewhat similar to prices back home. I'm sure if you scoured the country you'd find bargains...even with apples. But this is what I've found in the 3 weeks I've been here.
Stay tuned because I'm visitng Kobe on the weekend. I will update when I return. Cheers,
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Three times daily
Going back to Japan now, just a short post about the interesting "alarm" system they have going here.
In Sadamitsu, a melody plays three times a day. It's a different melody each time. At 7am I wake up because of the unfamiliar music that is being played ALL over the town. I'm sure that everyone in every household can hear it. It's not overbearingly loud but at the same time, loud enough to interrupt sleep. I suppose its purpose is to wake people up in anticipation of the workday (yay work!). It also plays, without fail, on the weekends. I suppose to wake people up in anticipation of their days of rest (yay rest!).
At noon another melody plays, this time one that I recognize as "Edelweiss" (from that beloved and celebrated movie, which all people love, the Sound of Music *sarcasm sarcasm*). The purpose of this notification? To tell people that it's time to eat lunch maybe? Or perhaps just to herald the oncoming of midday. Or it could be both! Yes, I've solved that mystery!
The last, again unrecognizable, song plays at 5pm. I was told yesterday that this is because it's time to go home. I haven't noticed that this prompts a huge onslaught of traffic but my house is also on the top of a hill and nowhere near a main street anyway. Also, in a town of this size, there really is no rush hour. Traffic flow seems to remain the same no matter what time of day it is.
If anyone ever comes to visit me in Sadamitsu, you too can experience the wonders of the thrice daily melodic alarms. I wonder if this is a regional thing? Or if bigger cities have them too? Food for thought.
In Sadamitsu, a melody plays three times a day. It's a different melody each time. At 7am I wake up because of the unfamiliar music that is being played ALL over the town. I'm sure that everyone in every household can hear it. It's not overbearingly loud but at the same time, loud enough to interrupt sleep. I suppose its purpose is to wake people up in anticipation of the workday (yay work!). It also plays, without fail, on the weekends. I suppose to wake people up in anticipation of their days of rest (yay rest!).
At noon another melody plays, this time one that I recognize as "Edelweiss" (from that beloved and celebrated movie, which all people love, the Sound of Music *sarcasm sarcasm*). The purpose of this notification? To tell people that it's time to eat lunch maybe? Or perhaps just to herald the oncoming of midday. Or it could be both! Yes, I've solved that mystery!
The last, again unrecognizable, song plays at 5pm. I was told yesterday that this is because it's time to go home. I haven't noticed that this prompts a huge onslaught of traffic but my house is also on the top of a hill and nowhere near a main street anyway. Also, in a town of this size, there really is no rush hour. Traffic flow seems to remain the same no matter what time of day it is.
If anyone ever comes to visit me in Sadamitsu, you too can experience the wonders of the thrice daily melodic alarms. I wonder if this is a regional thing? Or if bigger cities have them too? Food for thought.
Monday, August 22, 2005
The differences between MEN and WOMEN
In a departure from the usual Japan posts I thought I'd take this opportunity to expound on the differences between the fair and not-so-fair sexes.
I'm not an expert on the subject, nor do I possess a degree in psychology specializing in sex differences in the brain. These are merely my observations about the topic based on my experiences in relationships both romantic and platonic. And here they are! (disclaimer: The following is not representative of either the whole female or male genders, they are only examples…and a lot of it is tongue in cheek)
1. Communication
Where women are avid and almost obsessive in their desire to communicate either with their significant others or with other women, men have a more diffident, casual stance about it. That being, don't reply or acknowledge until the other party thinks you're dead. There are exceptions, namely if the man has a better half who is threatening him into communication. When I asked one of my male friends about his inability to reply to emails, he responded: "But I have nothing interesting to say!" Well, neither do I. I keep a blog to bore people to tears. Emails and phone calls don't need to be wildly entertaining, just to let us know you're THERE. With all the communication mediums out there (email, internet, texting) men should be very scared....
2. Washing the dishes
Okay, not a fun and exciting task but, trust me, women don't have a whale of time doing them either. I confirmed with a girlfriend of mine that leaving dirty dishes in the sink to pile up only aggravated us more rather than the intended effect of aggravating our boyfriends into doing them. Perhaps there really are sex differences in the brain and women are more prone to putting soap onto a sponge and then rubbing the soapy sponge onto used dishes or cutlery.
3. Taking laundry out of the machine
I do my fiancé’s laundry in addition to my own. Why? Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but I honestly don’t mind. One time I fell ill and he decided to help me do my own laundry. Since I’d already started the wash, all he needed to do was hang it up to dry (in Asia, we don’t have dryers). He went about it and finished in a suspiciously short amount of time. Later, when he’d left, I got up to inspect what he’d done. I almost laughed outloud because the sheets I’d washed were piled in a clump on top of my drying rack. Okay guys, you heard it here first, objects of the cloth variety don’t dry well when bunched up and, when in humid areas such as Korea or Japan, can even start smelling moldy. Ya might as well leave them in the washer. But it’s the thought that counts.
4. The famous “Oh go ahead. I’ll be fine.” – It’s a fine line
Men take note, when your lady says to you go ahead to do something, you need to study EVERYTHING about the way she said it and the activity you’re taking part in. My beloved and I were hiking in Grouse Mountain a few months ago and I’m like a snail when it comes to hiking anything remotely difficult. I know he’s much faster and told him to go ahead and that I’d see him at the top. I think I actually meant it at the time too. So, he went. The hike was gruelling. The longer it went, the more I expected to see my fiancé waiting to make sure I was alright. Nope, nowhere in sight, that rat bastard. When I saw the sign indicating I’d made it half way (after about an hour and a lot of sweating) I just about started crying and then contemplated going back down. Yeah, that’d show him, he’d really start to get worried then wouldn’t he? I actually ended up making it to the top but got progressively more and more pissed off as I went. Sure, I said go ahead but I mean c’mon, where the hell is he? I related this story to my friend’s fiancée who heartily agreed that I was right to be mad.
Sound irrational? That’s because it is, it’s the beauty of being a woman and saying things you don’t really mean, but not even realizing you might not mean them at the time. Your best bet is to stay put whenever there might be danger of your girl becoming angry. (note: if in a shopping mall “Go ahead I’ll be fine” really means go ahead and will likely even be suggested by the female. We can entertain ourselves for hours by shopping and your presence probably only hinders the experience)
5. Leaving cabinets open
Oi! If there is something that gets on my nerves its cabinets, particularly kitchen ones, being left open or not quite closed. This may be something specific only to myself. If I’m eating dinner and notice that a cabinet door has been left open I’ll stare at it until I can’t stand it anymore and then get up and close it. If my fiancé is cooking, I will actually stand in the kitchen to close the cabinet doors as he opens and then abandons them.
Men appear to operate by the standard: “Well, I’m going to open it again at some point, so why bother closing it?” Dishes and cups deserve their privacy too, so be a pal and close the cabinet doors.
6. Video games
For awhile everytime I called a close male friend I could count on him to be playing his Playstation while he talked to me. This phenomenon remains a mystery to me. The appeal of these games? You’ve got me. I’ve tried to play but I quickly get bored when I can’t pass a level and lose interest, this goes even for the ever-lasting Super Mario series. Perhaps I just lack ambition. Shooting games such as “Doom” and, I can’t even name another one, cease to be amusing after the first two levels, I get sick of pressing one button on the controller over and over. I once sat through (I was attempting to read at the time) my significant other playing the same level on a racing game about 50 times and each time the same horrible euro-pop track emerged. That song is now embedded into my brain for all time.
I will admit to being very fond of a game called “The Sims” but when I offered that up as a video game I played I was met by scorn from my male friends who informed me that it wasn’t really so much a game as Barbie for the computer. Having loved Barbie as a child I could see why I enjoyed the Sims so much. What’s not to like about watching your character learn to feed themselves and play the piano? But still, I can’t play this game with the same devotion that men give to their Playstations.
And these are a few of the things I observe on a daily basis. Thanks for reading.
I'm not an expert on the subject, nor do I possess a degree in psychology specializing in sex differences in the brain. These are merely my observations about the topic based on my experiences in relationships both romantic and platonic. And here they are! (disclaimer: The following is not representative of either the whole female or male genders, they are only examples…and a lot of it is tongue in cheek)
1. Communication
Where women are avid and almost obsessive in their desire to communicate either with their significant others or with other women, men have a more diffident, casual stance about it. That being, don't reply or acknowledge until the other party thinks you're dead. There are exceptions, namely if the man has a better half who is threatening him into communication. When I asked one of my male friends about his inability to reply to emails, he responded: "But I have nothing interesting to say!" Well, neither do I. I keep a blog to bore people to tears. Emails and phone calls don't need to be wildly entertaining, just to let us know you're THERE. With all the communication mediums out there (email, internet, texting) men should be very scared....
2. Washing the dishes
Okay, not a fun and exciting task but, trust me, women don't have a whale of time doing them either. I confirmed with a girlfriend of mine that leaving dirty dishes in the sink to pile up only aggravated us more rather than the intended effect of aggravating our boyfriends into doing them. Perhaps there really are sex differences in the brain and women are more prone to putting soap onto a sponge and then rubbing the soapy sponge onto used dishes or cutlery.
3. Taking laundry out of the machine
I do my fiancé’s laundry in addition to my own. Why? Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but I honestly don’t mind. One time I fell ill and he decided to help me do my own laundry. Since I’d already started the wash, all he needed to do was hang it up to dry (in Asia, we don’t have dryers). He went about it and finished in a suspiciously short amount of time. Later, when he’d left, I got up to inspect what he’d done. I almost laughed outloud because the sheets I’d washed were piled in a clump on top of my drying rack. Okay guys, you heard it here first, objects of the cloth variety don’t dry well when bunched up and, when in humid areas such as Korea or Japan, can even start smelling moldy. Ya might as well leave them in the washer. But it’s the thought that counts.
4. The famous “Oh go ahead. I’ll be fine.” – It’s a fine line
Men take note, when your lady says to you go ahead to do something, you need to study EVERYTHING about the way she said it and the activity you’re taking part in. My beloved and I were hiking in Grouse Mountain a few months ago and I’m like a snail when it comes to hiking anything remotely difficult. I know he’s much faster and told him to go ahead and that I’d see him at the top. I think I actually meant it at the time too. So, he went. The hike was gruelling. The longer it went, the more I expected to see my fiancé waiting to make sure I was alright. Nope, nowhere in sight, that rat bastard. When I saw the sign indicating I’d made it half way (after about an hour and a lot of sweating) I just about started crying and then contemplated going back down. Yeah, that’d show him, he’d really start to get worried then wouldn’t he? I actually ended up making it to the top but got progressively more and more pissed off as I went. Sure, I said go ahead but I mean c’mon, where the hell is he? I related this story to my friend’s fiancée who heartily agreed that I was right to be mad.
Sound irrational? That’s because it is, it’s the beauty of being a woman and saying things you don’t really mean, but not even realizing you might not mean them at the time. Your best bet is to stay put whenever there might be danger of your girl becoming angry. (note: if in a shopping mall “Go ahead I’ll be fine” really means go ahead and will likely even be suggested by the female. We can entertain ourselves for hours by shopping and your presence probably only hinders the experience)
5. Leaving cabinets open
Oi! If there is something that gets on my nerves its cabinets, particularly kitchen ones, being left open or not quite closed. This may be something specific only to myself. If I’m eating dinner and notice that a cabinet door has been left open I’ll stare at it until I can’t stand it anymore and then get up and close it. If my fiancé is cooking, I will actually stand in the kitchen to close the cabinet doors as he opens and then abandons them.
Men appear to operate by the standard: “Well, I’m going to open it again at some point, so why bother closing it?” Dishes and cups deserve their privacy too, so be a pal and close the cabinet doors.
6. Video games
For awhile everytime I called a close male friend I could count on him to be playing his Playstation while he talked to me. This phenomenon remains a mystery to me. The appeal of these games? You’ve got me. I’ve tried to play but I quickly get bored when I can’t pass a level and lose interest, this goes even for the ever-lasting Super Mario series. Perhaps I just lack ambition. Shooting games such as “Doom” and, I can’t even name another one, cease to be amusing after the first two levels, I get sick of pressing one button on the controller over and over. I once sat through (I was attempting to read at the time) my significant other playing the same level on a racing game about 50 times and each time the same horrible euro-pop track emerged. That song is now embedded into my brain for all time.
I will admit to being very fond of a game called “The Sims” but when I offered that up as a video game I played I was met by scorn from my male friends who informed me that it wasn’t really so much a game as Barbie for the computer. Having loved Barbie as a child I could see why I enjoyed the Sims so much. What’s not to like about watching your character learn to feed themselves and play the piano? But still, I can’t play this game with the same devotion that men give to their Playstations.
And these are a few of the things I observe on a daily basis. Thanks for reading.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Humidity and its consequences
Humid heat is one of the things I just can't bear, but bearing it I have been since I don't have any other choice. Though I suppose I could always jump on a plane going home to where it's currently about 9 degrees and raining (Calgary has had one of its worst summers in history). I suppose Korea's climate should have prepared me for this but even that wasn't quite as bad as the misty heat you experience on this island.
I come from a city near the Rockies in Canada. Calgary is an extremely dry city. To the point where your skin will start turning white from lack of moisture and this happens no matter how much you moisturize. This is what I grew up with and where my body is comfortable. When it's hot in Calgary it's still alright. Whereas in humid areas, you can sweat just by standing outside for a few minutes. I tested this, and its true! Thank goodness we have an air conditioner or air kon which I've actually started calling it. Without it I'd cry on a daily basis.
Personal suffering aside there is another downfall to humidity and it has to do with spices kept too long in one's cupboard. Oh yes, I found this out yesterday. Lately, I've taken to cooking, figuring at the age of 26 I'd better be able to feed myself let alone others. When I first arrived at this house, a lot of condiments had been left. Curry powders, salt, pepper, oregano etc. Among these one was labeled "House Seasoning" which I figured was an all purpose deal. I hadn't bothered with this bottle and probably would've continued to ignore it had I not noticed a tiny fly crawling on the outside of it. Upon closer inspection it was revealed that the fly was actually on the INSIDE of the bottle. Somewhat grossed out, I picked up the offending container only to realize I was holding a breeding ground. There were actually a handful of flies crawling around and within the spices clumped at the bottom of the bottle were tons of larva.
It was probably one of the more disgusting moments of my life. Not knowing what to do with it, I set the House Seasoning on the table and then wondered how the hell I was going to throw it out. If you remember from an earlier post, garbage is all separated here. While the bottle would've qualified for the "plastic" category I had good reason to believe that the colony inside wouldn't. There was no way I was opening up that thing to comply with the garbage rules. I didn't want those flies taking up residence elsewhere.
Basically the moral of the story is, if you would like to experiment with flies of the fruit variety, buy House Seasoning, let it sit for at least one summer and voila, the little critters will pop out of nowhere. This would've been useful back in high school when we were trying to cultivate the flies.
I come from a city near the Rockies in Canada. Calgary is an extremely dry city. To the point where your skin will start turning white from lack of moisture and this happens no matter how much you moisturize. This is what I grew up with and where my body is comfortable. When it's hot in Calgary it's still alright. Whereas in humid areas, you can sweat just by standing outside for a few minutes. I tested this, and its true! Thank goodness we have an air conditioner or air kon which I've actually started calling it. Without it I'd cry on a daily basis.
Personal suffering aside there is another downfall to humidity and it has to do with spices kept too long in one's cupboard. Oh yes, I found this out yesterday. Lately, I've taken to cooking, figuring at the age of 26 I'd better be able to feed myself let alone others. When I first arrived at this house, a lot of condiments had been left. Curry powders, salt, pepper, oregano etc. Among these one was labeled "House Seasoning" which I figured was an all purpose deal. I hadn't bothered with this bottle and probably would've continued to ignore it had I not noticed a tiny fly crawling on the outside of it. Upon closer inspection it was revealed that the fly was actually on the INSIDE of the bottle. Somewhat grossed out, I picked up the offending container only to realize I was holding a breeding ground. There were actually a handful of flies crawling around and within the spices clumped at the bottom of the bottle were tons of larva.
It was probably one of the more disgusting moments of my life. Not knowing what to do with it, I set the House Seasoning on the table and then wondered how the hell I was going to throw it out. If you remember from an earlier post, garbage is all separated here. While the bottle would've qualified for the "plastic" category I had good reason to believe that the colony inside wouldn't. There was no way I was opening up that thing to comply with the garbage rules. I didn't want those flies taking up residence elsewhere.
Basically the moral of the story is, if you would like to experiment with flies of the fruit variety, buy House Seasoning, let it sit for at least one summer and voila, the little critters will pop out of nowhere. This would've been useful back in high school when we were trying to cultivate the flies.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Driving in the Land of the Rising Sun
And in passing, why does this particular country get the moniker "Land of the Rising Sun"? Well, actually, I know the answer to that, it's Japan's location in relation to China. That is, farther East, where things begin. Korea gets stuck with the piddling name "Land of the Morning Calm". I guess it's calm since Japan stole the entire sun rising thing, but I digress.
By the time I arrived in Japan, Will had already secured a car. A tiny, white Mitsubishi Minica. Have no idea what it is? That's because cars of this ilk generally aren't manufactured in the States. It's very small and known here in Japan as a k-car (kei-car?). K-car's aren't just Mitsubishis but any car that has a small engine. Those with smaller engines are given yellow licence plates, instead of white, and I think have a break on some taxes. I swear you could fit this car into your pocket.
Japan, as most of you know, operates on slightly different driving rules, that is, they drive on the left hand side of the road. Or to North Americans, the WRONG side of the road. I don't see why the entire world couldn't all drive on the same side but there it is. At first it was strange to look at cars and see the steering wheel situated on the right side of the car but you get used to it surprisingly fast. Since I'm following traffic most of the time, it isn't hard to figure out where you're supposed to be. If I was alone on the road then I think I'd run into some trouble. Traffic lights are also reversed. The red light is on the right and the green on the left (which leaves yellow in the middle as usual). Then, in bigger places, there are some funky lights where the solid red stays but green arrows light up underneath it and traffic seems to proceed as normal. The meaning of this? Who knows? To spice up life maybe?
Driving a colleague home one day to a place called Koyadaira which is high high up in the mountains, I discovered that small mountain roads are only one lane. What happens if one meets oncoming traffic? Well, you slow right down and stay to the side as much as possible to see if both cars are small enough to squeeze through. If you're lucky there is a dip or shoulder in the road to swerve into to let the other car pass. If you meet a truck it is your responsibiity to back up and make room for it. The truck takes priority over all other cars. Luckily, I was just a passenger and Will was the one who had to stress about curves and oncoming traffic. I continued to usefully gape at the narrowness of the road.
In this country, cars are inspected every 2 years. This is called shaken. In order to continue driving your car, you must pass shaken, if you don't then no more driving until you get a better car. While this could be a good thing (you know if you pass that your car is in pretty good condition) it makes quite the dent in the pocketbook, anywhere from about 72000yen to 128000yen per shaken. I believe that if the car is older, and therefore needs more maintenance, then the cost of shaken goes up. *note: if you're interested in price conversions, look up the universal currency converter online*
Our little Minica went through shaken just this past year and won't need another until 2007. At that point who knows how much it would cost? But it's always nice to have some mobility, no matter what country you're in.
By the time I arrived in Japan, Will had already secured a car. A tiny, white Mitsubishi Minica. Have no idea what it is? That's because cars of this ilk generally aren't manufactured in the States. It's very small and known here in Japan as a k-car (kei-car?). K-car's aren't just Mitsubishis but any car that has a small engine. Those with smaller engines are given yellow licence plates, instead of white, and I think have a break on some taxes. I swear you could fit this car into your pocket.
Japan, as most of you know, operates on slightly different driving rules, that is, they drive on the left hand side of the road. Or to North Americans, the WRONG side of the road. I don't see why the entire world couldn't all drive on the same side but there it is. At first it was strange to look at cars and see the steering wheel situated on the right side of the car but you get used to it surprisingly fast. Since I'm following traffic most of the time, it isn't hard to figure out where you're supposed to be. If I was alone on the road then I think I'd run into some trouble. Traffic lights are also reversed. The red light is on the right and the green on the left (which leaves yellow in the middle as usual). Then, in bigger places, there are some funky lights where the solid red stays but green arrows light up underneath it and traffic seems to proceed as normal. The meaning of this? Who knows? To spice up life maybe?
Driving a colleague home one day to a place called Koyadaira which is high high up in the mountains, I discovered that small mountain roads are only one lane. What happens if one meets oncoming traffic? Well, you slow right down and stay to the side as much as possible to see if both cars are small enough to squeeze through. If you're lucky there is a dip or shoulder in the road to swerve into to let the other car pass. If you meet a truck it is your responsibiity to back up and make room for it. The truck takes priority over all other cars. Luckily, I was just a passenger and Will was the one who had to stress about curves and oncoming traffic. I continued to usefully gape at the narrowness of the road.
In this country, cars are inspected every 2 years. This is called shaken. In order to continue driving your car, you must pass shaken, if you don't then no more driving until you get a better car. While this could be a good thing (you know if you pass that your car is in pretty good condition) it makes quite the dent in the pocketbook, anywhere from about 72000yen to 128000yen per shaken. I believe that if the car is older, and therefore needs more maintenance, then the cost of shaken goes up. *note: if you're interested in price conversions, look up the universal currency converter online*
Our little Minica went through shaken just this past year and won't need another until 2007. At that point who knows how much it would cost? But it's always nice to have some mobility, no matter what country you're in.
Centipedes
I find that any new country I'm in seems to have its own share of wonderfully exotic and rather disturbing insects. They can range from those with long wings, long legs, long bodies and so on and so forth. Are you noticing a trend here? I hate any insect that's long. In China, it was very fast and wily centi or millipedes. In Korea it was the occasional cockroach (hey I'm from Calgary, we don't have roaches there) and what they called "meh-mi" or cicadas which if you haven't heard, can be deafening in the amount of noise they make collectively. I hate bugs. I probably have one of the girliest reactions to them, ie screaming, making a fuss, leaping onto couches, chairs, tables, you get the idea.
Yesterday in the living room of our house, a weird 'plop' noise interrupted my reading. As my gaze wandered the room to see what it could've been I noticed this black, very long centipede making its merry way across the floor. It was even disgustingly coloured, being a pale beige on the bottom, black on top with red tips. Being the proactive person that I am I immediately drew back in horror then whined while pointing at the offensive creature,
"Will! Ew...look!"
He accordingly looked up, though he should really be immune to my whining tones, and heroically grabbed the bug spray. Then he sprayed the centipede within an inch of its life. I've never used bug spray before, but I think I should invent one that causes instant death rather the prolonged agony this one provided. At first the newly sprayed centipede didn't seem affected by the poison. He scurried on even more quickly, seeking refuge behind the bookcase, so Will attacked with the can again. After a little more scurrying, the insect started in on the most horrific writhing and convulsing that I've ever seen. It curled and uncurled at an alarming rate, rolling onto its side, back, then front again. Transfixed, I couldn't stop staring at it, wondering just how much pain it was in. The performance wore on, with the centipede's curls growing gradually slower and sometimes stopping completely. Finally, Will couldn't stand it any more, and took it to its watery grave.
Sometimes I wonder if there'll be any karmic retribution. Will I come back as a centipede in my next life so I can experience the wonders of being slain via poison? I like to think I'd be smart enough not to enter people's houses.
Yesterday in the living room of our house, a weird 'plop' noise interrupted my reading. As my gaze wandered the room to see what it could've been I noticed this black, very long centipede making its merry way across the floor. It was even disgustingly coloured, being a pale beige on the bottom, black on top with red tips. Being the proactive person that I am I immediately drew back in horror then whined while pointing at the offensive creature,
"Will! Ew...look!"
He accordingly looked up, though he should really be immune to my whining tones, and heroically grabbed the bug spray. Then he sprayed the centipede within an inch of its life. I've never used bug spray before, but I think I should invent one that causes instant death rather the prolonged agony this one provided. At first the newly sprayed centipede didn't seem affected by the poison. He scurried on even more quickly, seeking refuge behind the bookcase, so Will attacked with the can again. After a little more scurrying, the insect started in on the most horrific writhing and convulsing that I've ever seen. It curled and uncurled at an alarming rate, rolling onto its side, back, then front again. Transfixed, I couldn't stop staring at it, wondering just how much pain it was in. The performance wore on, with the centipede's curls growing gradually slower and sometimes stopping completely. Finally, Will couldn't stand it any more, and took it to its watery grave.
Sometimes I wonder if there'll be any karmic retribution. Will I come back as a centipede in my next life so I can experience the wonders of being slain via poison? I like to think I'd be smart enough not to enter people's houses.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Awa Odori
Over this past weekend, Japan celebrated a holiday called "Obon." It's a time to celebrate your ancestors and is rooted in Buddhist religion. As Japanese legend tells it, a buddhist disciple, wanting to save his mother's spirit from hell, went to the monks and made offerings to save her. Thusly she was saved, went to heaven or zen and her son danced in celebration. (this was an extremely condensed version of the legend) As I understand it Obon is when people travel back to their hometown to be with family. Kind of like our Christmas...but without the religious overtones and gifts.
Remember the part where the disciple danced? This is probably one of the more integral parts of the legend since the major attraction during Obon here in Tokushima-ken is the Awa Odori festival. Literally translated Awa Odori means Tokushima and Dance respectively. I heard from someone that the dance was boring but after witnessing it over the weekend I couldn't disagree more. It's a delight to watch.
Awa Odori is a classical Japanese dance accompanied by similarly classical instruments such as drums, flute, shamisen (a stringed instrument), and gongs. Though there are conflicting beliefs on how the dance came about, I choose to believe it was to welcome the spirits during the Obon season. Traditionally, the dance had men and women doing separate parts. Today, women can perform the men's role but the opposite doesn't occur (when does it ever in any society??) The men, wearing a short yukata (summer kimono), white shorts, a headband and a strange version of tabi (socks meant for Japanese flip-flops), dance low to the ground, a fan in one hand and chanting. The steps are slow but deliberate and look deceptively easy. It's not. You need a good deal of coordination to be able to carry off the dance with the grace that these dancers showed. The women wear colourfully decorated, full-length yukatas, a straw hat, and in addition to the tabi, they also wear zori (traditional flip-flops with two wedges on the bottom). Their dance is performed with straighter posture and both arms in the air imitating the act of picking flowers. The amazing thing is, the women balance themselves on the very tips of their zori the entire time while dancing. With my sense of balance having fled when I stopped ballet, I would've fallen many times over.
The men dance their part first, followed by the women in a very well choreographed set of lines. While they dance they repeat a chant, started by one dancer and followed up by the group. What they say translates to: "Fools are dancing and fools are watching too. Both are fools ,why not dance!" (sorry, the translation sounds so cheesy, you have to hear it in Japanese where it goes perfectly with the music and dance). After the dancers come the musicians, egging the dancers on and occasionally stepping up the tempo to entice the dancers the move more quickly, which was my favourite part of the dance.
In Tokushima City, where I first watched Awa Odori, it's a formal affair. The streets are roped off and the spectators kept a good distance from the approaching dancers and musicians. While this was a great experience, I rather enjoyed Sadamitsu's more casual approach to the festival. The streets are fairly small and narrow so there isn't too much room to sit and watch. As a result, people mill around and you're right next to the action. Everyone has a front-row view and therefore, can enjoy it more. I also enjoyed the sno-cones they sold at virtually every block. Small streets equals easy access to the refreshments being sold during the festival. Nothing screams a good time like readily available snacks and sweets.
All age groups are included in Awa Odori, from toddlers to the elderly, and they all look like they're enjoying themselves immensely. This is the key to a successful performance and it made this former dancer want to kick off her western-style shoes and join in.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
I am an Amazon
In Canada, I am of average height or a little over the mean. My size is almost always readily available at any shoe store and clothes of the medium variety generally fit me quite well.
Then I went to Asia.
In China, I had the great pleasure of realizing I was now an 'extra large.' I could still manage to find shoes though my feet were close to being too big for the country. In Korea the infamous 'one size fits all' certainly didn't fit me, always being too tight to wear out in public. For the most part, girls in these two countries were tiny. Thin, to the point of looking fragile, and throw in small bones to complete the picture of waifishness. Although my two Korean-born parents are of the aforementioned small boned elite, I, being raised on wholesome eggs, vegetables, milk and good ol' Alberta beef, came out much larger than either my mother or my father. How exactly this was possible with my genetics is the object of much speculation since cousins of mine, also born in Canada, aren't quite as Amazonian as I am. I'm taller than all the women and some of the men, on either side of my family. During my growth spurt, my grandmother would look at me with a mix of awe and horror.
"How are you going to find a man tall enough for you to marry?" She would often wail. At this point I was only about 13 and still had a lot of growing left in me. My grandfather was also bemused by my vertical achievements.
"Hmm, you aren't tall," He addressed my mother (who clocks in at a bare five feet), "And Jin isn't really above the average (5'8"). What happened to your daughter?" Let it be known that as height goes I'm really a modest not quite 5'7". In Asian standards...HUGE!
Now in Japan, I'm confronted by something new to make me conscious of my size. I'm not sure if it's because the house is old (people seemed to be smaller long ago) but everything is situated very LOW. To wash my face in the sink, I have to really stoop. It's interesting fun to have my butt sticking way out just so I can reach the faucet. The same goes if I want to wash the dishes. If there's a lot to do my back starts getting sore from hunching over. I think I may take to sitting down to chop food to avoid any back stress. I'm close to touching the top of the doorways and the chains for turning the light on are always hitting my head. Though that last is also partly due to my habit of getting in the way of everything. Like I mentioned before, I tower over most of the girls I've met here and am probably comparable to a lot of the men. It's great to be a giant. I almost expect my voice to be deeper.
Then I went to Asia.
In China, I had the great pleasure of realizing I was now an 'extra large.' I could still manage to find shoes though my feet were close to being too big for the country. In Korea the infamous 'one size fits all' certainly didn't fit me, always being too tight to wear out in public. For the most part, girls in these two countries were tiny. Thin, to the point of looking fragile, and throw in small bones to complete the picture of waifishness. Although my two Korean-born parents are of the aforementioned small boned elite, I, being raised on wholesome eggs, vegetables, milk and good ol' Alberta beef, came out much larger than either my mother or my father. How exactly this was possible with my genetics is the object of much speculation since cousins of mine, also born in Canada, aren't quite as Amazonian as I am. I'm taller than all the women and some of the men, on either side of my family. During my growth spurt, my grandmother would look at me with a mix of awe and horror.
"How are you going to find a man tall enough for you to marry?" She would often wail. At this point I was only about 13 and still had a lot of growing left in me. My grandfather was also bemused by my vertical achievements.
"Hmm, you aren't tall," He addressed my mother (who clocks in at a bare five feet), "And Jin isn't really above the average (5'8"). What happened to your daughter?" Let it be known that as height goes I'm really a modest not quite 5'7". In Asian standards...HUGE!
Now in Japan, I'm confronted by something new to make me conscious of my size. I'm not sure if it's because the house is old (people seemed to be smaller long ago) but everything is situated very LOW. To wash my face in the sink, I have to really stoop. It's interesting fun to have my butt sticking way out just so I can reach the faucet. The same goes if I want to wash the dishes. If there's a lot to do my back starts getting sore from hunching over. I think I may take to sitting down to chop food to avoid any back stress. I'm close to touching the top of the doorways and the chains for turning the light on are always hitting my head. Though that last is also partly due to my habit of getting in the way of everything. Like I mentioned before, I tower over most of the girls I've met here and am probably comparable to a lot of the men. It's great to be a giant. I almost expect my voice to be deeper.
Friday, August 12, 2005
My Daisy Dukes and Culture Clash
Actually, I don't think my shorts would be short enough to be considered Daisy Dukes, at least not in North America. However, here in Sadamitsu I haven't seen another girl wearing anything quite as high above the knee. The thing I always manage to forget when I'm traveling is that customs and culture aren't the same. I mean this is obvious what with language and greetings but then you get to the more subtle differences. In this case I'm writing about something as simple as clothing. This being my third time living in a foreign country, I think its starting to wear on me.
On my first day in this town, Will and I prepared to go out to register me for my "gai-jin" card or alien registration card. Thinking nothing of it, I had put on a pair of innocent-looking Old Navy shorts. They were khaki-coloured and left a little more than half my thigh exposed. As I was grabbing my purse, Will looked at me.
"Um, maybe you should change your clothes. You know to make a good first impression."
I was indignant. These shorts were perfectly fine, thank you very much. As far as I knew I didn't dress like a ho. I'm a Canadian and we're not indecent people. Not to mention it was about a zillion degrees outside (have I mentioned how much I hate the heat?) and I was suffering from a 15 hour time change.
"You've got to be kidding me. What the hell am I supposed to wear? All my shorts look like this!" I said, exasperated while gesturing to the ones I had on.
"Just something not so short. Do you have any skirts? Please, do this for me. At least for now." He added this last as I was glaring, feeling mutinous and on the verge of saying a flat out "no." With a lot of mumbled complaints I changed into a more appropriate skirt that came down to my knees. I suppose it wouldn't have been good to be considered that trashy ho who came to join Will. I stomped back out into the kitchen ready to fight should more admonitions come my way. None came, either because the skirt was ok or because I looked like I would hit him should he find anything more amiss.
Today I ventured out of the house wearing a pair of my short shorts. Judgments be damned! If I received any askance looks I didn't notice. I choose not to notice things that would upset me. Though now I do wonder if I made bad impressions in China or Korea. In those two countries I wore whatever the hell I pleased. Clothing is just a part of it. I know I must've made numerous social blunders that the people were very forgiving about. Or perhaps they talked about me behind my back, bless the oblivion I live in! But both those times I was living in a large city, not a town where everyone seems to know your every move. When you live in a different country I think you need to adhere to some of their customs and protocol, but where is the line drawn? Clothing is one thing but what about my manners? I'm sure I'm probably the loudest girl here. Hey, I'm pretty damn loud even in Canada. Japanese women are the complete opposite of me. Sometimes you can barely hear them. I'm thinking they view me as this strange and huge amazon of an Asian girl who has a voice box to match (on average I'm about half a head taller than most girls, and alot of guys, I meet here and generally more robust). I'll also be known as the girl who wore those indecent daisy dukes.
On my first day in this town, Will and I prepared to go out to register me for my "gai-jin" card or alien registration card. Thinking nothing of it, I had put on a pair of innocent-looking Old Navy shorts. They were khaki-coloured and left a little more than half my thigh exposed. As I was grabbing my purse, Will looked at me.
"Um, maybe you should change your clothes. You know to make a good first impression."
I was indignant. These shorts were perfectly fine, thank you very much. As far as I knew I didn't dress like a ho. I'm a Canadian and we're not indecent people. Not to mention it was about a zillion degrees outside (have I mentioned how much I hate the heat?) and I was suffering from a 15 hour time change.
"You've got to be kidding me. What the hell am I supposed to wear? All my shorts look like this!" I said, exasperated while gesturing to the ones I had on.
"Just something not so short. Do you have any skirts? Please, do this for me. At least for now." He added this last as I was glaring, feeling mutinous and on the verge of saying a flat out "no." With a lot of mumbled complaints I changed into a more appropriate skirt that came down to my knees. I suppose it wouldn't have been good to be considered that trashy ho who came to join Will. I stomped back out into the kitchen ready to fight should more admonitions come my way. None came, either because the skirt was ok or because I looked like I would hit him should he find anything more amiss.
Today I ventured out of the house wearing a pair of my short shorts. Judgments be damned! If I received any askance looks I didn't notice. I choose not to notice things that would upset me. Though now I do wonder if I made bad impressions in China or Korea. In those two countries I wore whatever the hell I pleased. Clothing is just a part of it. I know I must've made numerous social blunders that the people were very forgiving about. Or perhaps they talked about me behind my back, bless the oblivion I live in! But both those times I was living in a large city, not a town where everyone seems to know your every move. When you live in a different country I think you need to adhere to some of their customs and protocol, but where is the line drawn? Clothing is one thing but what about my manners? I'm sure I'm probably the loudest girl here. Hey, I'm pretty damn loud even in Canada. Japanese women are the complete opposite of me. Sometimes you can barely hear them. I'm thinking they view me as this strange and huge amazon of an Asian girl who has a voice box to match (on average I'm about half a head taller than most girls, and alot of guys, I meet here and generally more robust). I'll also be known as the girl who wore those indecent daisy dukes.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Small town Japan
I write to you from my house (well technically not really mine, nor Will's) in Sadamitsu. A town with the towering population of approximately 5000. I should be trying to study Japanese but I'm a great procrastinator and instead decided to update my blog.
For those of you who don't know much about the geography of Japan, Sadamitsu is on the island Shikoku. There are four main islands that make up Japan: Honshu, Hokkaido, Kyushu and Shikoku. Honshu is the largest of the four and is where most of the big cities are (Osaka, Kyoto, Kobe, Tokyo) and I'm not on it. Now, I recall after being in Seoul that I never wanted to live in such a big city again. I certainly got that wish!
Sadamitsu is pretty easy to get around. Since I have next to no sense of direction this is a fortunate thing indeed. I really can't get lost, even if I take a wrong turn somewhere. The town just isn't big enough to get lost in. The main road is quite short by Calgarian standards, and is easily walkable. If you lived only in this town and never went anywhere else there wouldn't be much need for a car. While walking about the town yesterday I looked at my map and wished to visit the stationery store (I love pens and notebooks, can't get enough). I missed it during my first attempt. When I did find it I discovered it was half a stationery store and half a sporting goods store. What connection do stationery and sporting goods have? You've got me. But here I guess they go hand in hand.
On my way to the stationery place I passed by another store that specialized in "hankko" or name stamps. In Japan your written signature doesn't seem to matter much. What does matter is this thin wooden cylinder that has your name engraved on one end. You're supposed to carry it with you at all times and use it to "sign" documents (ie, car registration papers, bills, etc.) Having been in Japan for only 4 days I didn't have one yet. Will didn't know how to ask for it in Japanese so being the brazen person I am I decided this was the time to torture some poor storeowner. I went in armed with my Lonely Planet Japanese Phrasebook and a ready smile. Our resulting conversation went something like this: (note, I had no idea what the man was actually saying so it's what I interpreted he would be asking)
Me: "Excuse me *long pause* I'm foreign *shorter pause* Name stamp. How much is it?"
Man: "Is this a new name stamp?" (I found out the word for NEW later on in the day)
Me: Completely confused, my smile now cemented onto my face, "My name is Yuri. Katakana."
Man: "Yuri-san." And he writes down my name in katakana. I watched approvingly, knowing only the characters for my name and recognizing them. At this point it suddenly occurred to me that I might be doing this all wrong. What if they actually needed my last name, not my first? How do I tell him I don't want to do this right now? Not knowing how to communicate any of the above I just stood, mutely hoping I was doing the right thing, with a feeling of panic welling up that I kept quashing down.
From here I somehow managed to select the stamp I wanted, the cheapest he had, then went through some great pantomimes and sketches to figure out what time to return to pick it up.
Man: "Come back in one hour."
Me: "Eh? Tomorrow?"
Man: "No, one hour. It's easy, doesn't take long to make." After a few reptitions of this and my obviously not comprehending any of it, he gestured to the clock behind him. I looked at the clock and saw it said 12:30pm. I guess my look was as deer-in-the-headlights as you could get because he finally took a pad of paper and drew a clock, indicating 12:30 and then another showing 1:30. This I understood and jauntily took off...and came back at the designated when I picked up my hanko and with more jumbled conversation, where I think I managed to say my parents are from Korea, I somehow received a very nice case (complete with ink pad!) for free. I guess this was payment for pestering him all afternoon.
But in any case, I accomplished this much with next to no language skills. Just think what I could do if I could talk even a little. I'm going to take over Japan...
For those of you who don't know much about the geography of Japan, Sadamitsu is on the island Shikoku. There are four main islands that make up Japan: Honshu, Hokkaido, Kyushu and Shikoku. Honshu is the largest of the four and is where most of the big cities are (Osaka, Kyoto, Kobe, Tokyo) and I'm not on it. Now, I recall after being in Seoul that I never wanted to live in such a big city again. I certainly got that wish!
Sadamitsu is pretty easy to get around. Since I have next to no sense of direction this is a fortunate thing indeed. I really can't get lost, even if I take a wrong turn somewhere. The town just isn't big enough to get lost in. The main road is quite short by Calgarian standards, and is easily walkable. If you lived only in this town and never went anywhere else there wouldn't be much need for a car. While walking about the town yesterday I looked at my map and wished to visit the stationery store (I love pens and notebooks, can't get enough). I missed it during my first attempt. When I did find it I discovered it was half a stationery store and half a sporting goods store. What connection do stationery and sporting goods have? You've got me. But here I guess they go hand in hand.
On my way to the stationery place I passed by another store that specialized in "hankko" or name stamps. In Japan your written signature doesn't seem to matter much. What does matter is this thin wooden cylinder that has your name engraved on one end. You're supposed to carry it with you at all times and use it to "sign" documents (ie, car registration papers, bills, etc.) Having been in Japan for only 4 days I didn't have one yet. Will didn't know how to ask for it in Japanese so being the brazen person I am I decided this was the time to torture some poor storeowner. I went in armed with my Lonely Planet Japanese Phrasebook and a ready smile. Our resulting conversation went something like this: (note, I had no idea what the man was actually saying so it's what I interpreted he would be asking)
Me: "Excuse me *long pause* I'm foreign *shorter pause* Name stamp. How much is it?"
Man: "Is this a new name stamp?" (I found out the word for NEW later on in the day)
Me: Completely confused, my smile now cemented onto my face, "My name is Yuri. Katakana."
Man: "Yuri-san." And he writes down my name in katakana. I watched approvingly, knowing only the characters for my name and recognizing them. At this point it suddenly occurred to me that I might be doing this all wrong. What if they actually needed my last name, not my first? How do I tell him I don't want to do this right now? Not knowing how to communicate any of the above I just stood, mutely hoping I was doing the right thing, with a feeling of panic welling up that I kept quashing down.
From here I somehow managed to select the stamp I wanted, the cheapest he had, then went through some great pantomimes and sketches to figure out what time to return to pick it up.
Man: "Come back in one hour."
Me: "Eh? Tomorrow?"
Man: "No, one hour. It's easy, doesn't take long to make." After a few reptitions of this and my obviously not comprehending any of it, he gestured to the clock behind him. I looked at the clock and saw it said 12:30pm. I guess my look was as deer-in-the-headlights as you could get because he finally took a pad of paper and drew a clock, indicating 12:30 and then another showing 1:30. This I understood and jauntily took off...and came back at the designated when I picked up my hanko and with more jumbled conversation, where I think I managed to say my parents are from Korea, I somehow received a very nice case (complete with ink pad!) for free. I guess this was payment for pestering him all afternoon.
But in any case, I accomplished this much with next to no language skills. Just think what I could do if I could talk even a little. I'm going to take over Japan...
Monday, August 08, 2005
First impressions of Japan
I have now been in Japan for about 2 and a half days. I'm not doing too bad on jet lag or so it seems, maybe it'll hit me later in the week and I'll become narcoleptic.
The plane ride wasn't so bad. I had my own TV screen and could choose from about 7 different movies that were constantly looping. I could also play video games. Bad ones but games nonetheless. To me, this is high class flying. I've never had my own screen, much less video games. I spent a lot of time losing at Connect 4. That computer was just too smart for me. It made me mad.
Narita airport in Tokyo is huge and if you've been to Incheon in Seoul, it's very similar. I powered through passport inspection but got held up at the baggage carousel. I don't know if Japan is on a make-work program but there were at least 4 people hanging around the carousel making sure everything was going smoothly. Even China didn't have people doing those tasks. After sitting forlornly in my luggage cart (which was free, all that worrying for nothing) I finally hoisted my bags onto it, admist much grunting and puffing, then zipped through customs where they pretty much waved me through. I guess I don't look like a drug pusher or the like.
Will met me at Osaka airport at which point I'd been awake for 24 hours and had no idea what was going on. I couldn't seem to comprehend that I was indeed in Japan and that my Korean was useless here (it somehow registered that English was going to be no help at all). Everytime I attempted to talk, I had to stop myself from speaking Korean. Is this some defense mechanism of the brain? Or was I just really tired?
I'm now situated with Will in a small town called Tsuguri-cho. More specifically some district called Sadamitsu. After Seoul this place is tiny. No one seems to be on the streets at any time. There are only a handful of people at the train station and there is one supermarket in the whole town. No one speaks any English and I think Will and I are the only foreigners in this direct area. Oi. It's also HOT HOT HOT. I'm freakin' in a sauna. I've taken to wearing a damp towel around my neck to make it bearable, sometimes I cover my head with it and ignore any funny looks I might get. I've also taken to wearing skirts since my shorts are considered indecent here.
One of the stranger things here, aside from driving on the left hand side, is the garbage arrangement. And I thought Korea was bad where I had to buy special bags to throw trash out in. I have to have about 5 different bags here. One for clear plastics, one for coloured plastics, one for plastics not fitting into the other 2 categories, glass bottles, bottle caps, paper, food and scraps, and large things like electronics. Everything is separated within an inch of its life and thrown into colour-coordinated bags. Today when attempting to throw out a juice carton I had to consult the chart on the wall to figure out which bag it went into, this was after studying said juice carton for 5 minutes hoping to come up with the answer myself. Consequently, the kitchen is a mess of bags and garbage cans. Another slightly strange thing, our washing machine is outside the house. And the toilet has its own room, the shower and bath are together in a separate room. Why does the toilet get its own room? Is it a special toilet because I can choose from 2 settings?
Anyway, there are some random observations of Japan. I will keep you posted on the happenings here. I can't wait until October when things should be cooling down. Yergh.
Cheers,
The plane ride wasn't so bad. I had my own TV screen and could choose from about 7 different movies that were constantly looping. I could also play video games. Bad ones but games nonetheless. To me, this is high class flying. I've never had my own screen, much less video games. I spent a lot of time losing at Connect 4. That computer was just too smart for me. It made me mad.
Narita airport in Tokyo is huge and if you've been to Incheon in Seoul, it's very similar. I powered through passport inspection but got held up at the baggage carousel. I don't know if Japan is on a make-work program but there were at least 4 people hanging around the carousel making sure everything was going smoothly. Even China didn't have people doing those tasks. After sitting forlornly in my luggage cart (which was free, all that worrying for nothing) I finally hoisted my bags onto it, admist much grunting and puffing, then zipped through customs where they pretty much waved me through. I guess I don't look like a drug pusher or the like.
Will met me at Osaka airport at which point I'd been awake for 24 hours and had no idea what was going on. I couldn't seem to comprehend that I was indeed in Japan and that my Korean was useless here (it somehow registered that English was going to be no help at all). Everytime I attempted to talk, I had to stop myself from speaking Korean. Is this some defense mechanism of the brain? Or was I just really tired?
I'm now situated with Will in a small town called Tsuguri-cho. More specifically some district called Sadamitsu. After Seoul this place is tiny. No one seems to be on the streets at any time. There are only a handful of people at the train station and there is one supermarket in the whole town. No one speaks any English and I think Will and I are the only foreigners in this direct area. Oi. It's also HOT HOT HOT. I'm freakin' in a sauna. I've taken to wearing a damp towel around my neck to make it bearable, sometimes I cover my head with it and ignore any funny looks I might get. I've also taken to wearing skirts since my shorts are considered indecent here.
One of the stranger things here, aside from driving on the left hand side, is the garbage arrangement. And I thought Korea was bad where I had to buy special bags to throw trash out in. I have to have about 5 different bags here. One for clear plastics, one for coloured plastics, one for plastics not fitting into the other 2 categories, glass bottles, bottle caps, paper, food and scraps, and large things like electronics. Everything is separated within an inch of its life and thrown into colour-coordinated bags. Today when attempting to throw out a juice carton I had to consult the chart on the wall to figure out which bag it went into, this was after studying said juice carton for 5 minutes hoping to come up with the answer myself. Consequently, the kitchen is a mess of bags and garbage cans. Another slightly strange thing, our washing machine is outside the house. And the toilet has its own room, the shower and bath are together in a separate room. Why does the toilet get its own room? Is it a special toilet because I can choose from 2 settings?
Anyway, there are some random observations of Japan. I will keep you posted on the happenings here. I can't wait until October when things should be cooling down. Yergh.
Cheers,
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Musings from Gate 71
The following is from while I was waiting in Vancouver airport, bored to tears, so I decided to write an entry into my journal to be posted later...like now.
Internet is bloody expensive and being hoarded by 2 people right now so I'm recording this in my journal. This now marks the second time I've traveled internationally, alone.
I'm sitting at Gate 71, and being increasingly surrounded by Japanese people. Now, this should come as no real surprise since I'm heading to Japan but I find myself experiencing the same sinking feeling I had when I went to Korea. Oddly, I think I'd feel a hell of a lot more comfortable if I was surrounded by Korean or even Chinese people.
I'm asking the same questions, ie. What made me think this was a good idea in the 1st place?? Why am I leaving the comforts of home where I'm easily understood? Little things niggle at me too. Like, do luggage carts cost money in Narita airport? Hmm, I should exchange some cash. But what if it only takes coins? I don't have any coins! Or, what if I throw out my back trying to life that huge suitcase of mine?
Oh oh oh, more Japanese people coming, panic panic. Well, I'll write again from across the Pacific.
Internet is bloody expensive and being hoarded by 2 people right now so I'm recording this in my journal. This now marks the second time I've traveled internationally, alone.
I'm sitting at Gate 71, and being increasingly surrounded by Japanese people. Now, this should come as no real surprise since I'm heading to Japan but I find myself experiencing the same sinking feeling I had when I went to Korea. Oddly, I think I'd feel a hell of a lot more comfortable if I was surrounded by Korean or even Chinese people.
I'm asking the same questions, ie. What made me think this was a good idea in the 1st place?? Why am I leaving the comforts of home where I'm easily understood? Little things niggle at me too. Like, do luggage carts cost money in Narita airport? Hmm, I should exchange some cash. But what if it only takes coins? I don't have any coins! Or, what if I throw out my back trying to life that huge suitcase of mine?
Oh oh oh, more Japanese people coming, panic panic. Well, I'll write again from across the Pacific.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Being pseudo-Korean in Korea
Although I've been back from Korea for more than half a year now, I'll enlighten you all and what it's like to be considered a native in a country you barely know.
Having been born and raised in Canada, I know next to nothing about my Korean heritage. I can understand a little and speak even less. I can read slowly but my writing is horrendous. It's not something I'm proud of, it's just a fact. About 2 years ago, I had a sudden burning desire to fly off to the country my parents came from in order to discover more about it. Nothing would dissuade me, not threats from my mother or father, nor the continual rejections I received from Korean english schools (as I am Asian, it's assumed I can't speak English correctly). I finally landed a rather good job and took off. About 2 minutes into the flight I thought to myself, "What the hell do I think I'm doing?" and had an equally fervent desire to demand that the captain turn the plane around as I'd changed my mind.
Then, 13 hours later, I landed in Incheon International Airport. Having been awake for nearly a day, I was dirty, tired and unaware of my surroundings. I somehow managed to pass through customs causing the first Korean some surprise that I spoke only in English.
From there on, I was a sort of phenomenon in Korea. The girl who looks like us but can't speak!! How can this be? Why didn't she learn as a child? What were her parents thinking? I almost dreaded getting into taxis where I would, in Korean, tell the driver my destination. A common conversation went something like this:
"Please take me to Beomgye Station." (me in Korean)
"What?" Taxi driver's response to my very bad accent.
"Um, please take me to Beomgye Station?" I repeat this starting to feel impending doom.
"Ah! You're a foreigner!!" Taxi driver is pleased with himself for deducing this fact.
"Well, my parents are Korean, but I was born in Canada." (me in Korean again) This is where I make my fatal error.
"Korean! And they didn't teach you to speak? Why not? All Koreans should at least know how to speak their own language!" Taxi driver continues to moralize me while I realize that the impending doom has arrived and wonder why the drive seems 10 times longer than usual. Not having enough language skills to continue a long conversation I usually laughed weakly and shut up whenever this kind of thing happened. I have since learned the wisdom of agreeing with anyone who assumed I was a foreigner.
Looking Korean could have its benefits too though. I was blessed with anonymity. For instance, on the subway, or anywhere in public for that matter, I wasn't stared or goggled at like many of my Canadian/American friends. I wouldn't be approached by random people asking for English lessons. Of course, once I opened my mouth to speak then all eyes riveted to me as if I had suddenly broken out into song.
I paint a bad picture here. There were a lot of times where I was praised for my pathetic Korean speaking skills. Many appreciated the fact that I tried to talk even if I wasn't always successful in communicating my point.
Having been born and raised in Canada, I know next to nothing about my Korean heritage. I can understand a little and speak even less. I can read slowly but my writing is horrendous. It's not something I'm proud of, it's just a fact. About 2 years ago, I had a sudden burning desire to fly off to the country my parents came from in order to discover more about it. Nothing would dissuade me, not threats from my mother or father, nor the continual rejections I received from Korean english schools (as I am Asian, it's assumed I can't speak English correctly). I finally landed a rather good job and took off. About 2 minutes into the flight I thought to myself, "What the hell do I think I'm doing?" and had an equally fervent desire to demand that the captain turn the plane around as I'd changed my mind.
Then, 13 hours later, I landed in Incheon International Airport. Having been awake for nearly a day, I was dirty, tired and unaware of my surroundings. I somehow managed to pass through customs causing the first Korean some surprise that I spoke only in English.
From there on, I was a sort of phenomenon in Korea. The girl who looks like us but can't speak!! How can this be? Why didn't she learn as a child? What were her parents thinking? I almost dreaded getting into taxis where I would, in Korean, tell the driver my destination. A common conversation went something like this:
"Please take me to Beomgye Station." (me in Korean)
"What?" Taxi driver's response to my very bad accent.
"Um, please take me to Beomgye Station?" I repeat this starting to feel impending doom.
"Ah! You're a foreigner!!" Taxi driver is pleased with himself for deducing this fact.
"Well, my parents are Korean, but I was born in Canada." (me in Korean again) This is where I make my fatal error.
"Korean! And they didn't teach you to speak? Why not? All Koreans should at least know how to speak their own language!" Taxi driver continues to moralize me while I realize that the impending doom has arrived and wonder why the drive seems 10 times longer than usual. Not having enough language skills to continue a long conversation I usually laughed weakly and shut up whenever this kind of thing happened. I have since learned the wisdom of agreeing with anyone who assumed I was a foreigner.
Looking Korean could have its benefits too though. I was blessed with anonymity. For instance, on the subway, or anywhere in public for that matter, I wasn't stared or goggled at like many of my Canadian/American friends. I wouldn't be approached by random people asking for English lessons. Of course, once I opened my mouth to speak then all eyes riveted to me as if I had suddenly broken out into song.
I paint a bad picture here. There were a lot of times where I was praised for my pathetic Korean speaking skills. Many appreciated the fact that I tried to talk even if I wasn't always successful in communicating my point.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Being Type A
One of the sad things that I've come to realize about myself is the fact that I like to worry about EVERYTHING. It can be the most inconsequential thing, but if it's out of the ordinary then I start to worry. From a blemish on my foot (Oh God, it's cancer!), school assignments (Oh God, what if I failed? It'll bring down my GPA!), to money investments (Oh God, what if I go broke? I'll be on welfare! Nooo!) Life just isn't quite complete without that knot in your stomach, oh the fun of having a Type A personality.
On the receiving end of this non-stop worrying are:
1. My parents (particularly my long suffering mother)
2. Will (lucky for him he is currently in LA)
3. My friends
All have experienced my neurotic tendencies, watching until I either cry or give myself some wicked indigestion. Neither provide for great bonding moments and the parties in question most likely do not look back fondly on the event. My worrying evidently started early since my parents regale me with fantastic tales of "Yuri as a horrible baby" (my words, not theirs). Ie, at the tender age of 1, I would cry and cry and cry until I made myself throw up.
I will now outline the steps that lead to some fun worrying. We will use my foot blemish as an example,
1. Event happens - I notice the blemish and think, "Oh, what's that?"
2. Dwell on event - Hmm, that looks strange and I can't rub it off. What IS this?
3. Begin to enlarge event in head - Okay, this thing is weird. No one else has this. Maybe it's serious.
4. Decide eventual outcome of event - I'm going to die from foot cancer.
5. Share decided eventual outcome with friends/family and ask opinions - Look at this! Do you think I'm going to die of foot cancer???
You can only cry wolf so many times and now I'm usually met with disgusted looks and shakes of the head when I relate things such as I've listed above.
On the receiving end of this non-stop worrying are:
1. My parents (particularly my long suffering mother)
2. Will (lucky for him he is currently in LA)
3. My friends
All have experienced my neurotic tendencies, watching until I either cry or give myself some wicked indigestion. Neither provide for great bonding moments and the parties in question most likely do not look back fondly on the event. My worrying evidently started early since my parents regale me with fantastic tales of "Yuri as a horrible baby" (my words, not theirs). Ie, at the tender age of 1, I would cry and cry and cry until I made myself throw up.
I will now outline the steps that lead to some fun worrying. We will use my foot blemish as an example,
1. Event happens - I notice the blemish and think, "Oh, what's that?"
2. Dwell on event - Hmm, that looks strange and I can't rub it off. What IS this?
3. Begin to enlarge event in head - Okay, this thing is weird. No one else has this. Maybe it's serious.
4. Decide eventual outcome of event - I'm going to die from foot cancer.
5. Share decided eventual outcome with friends/family and ask opinions - Look at this! Do you think I'm going to die of foot cancer???
You can only cry wolf so many times and now I'm usually met with disgusted looks and shakes of the head when I relate things such as I've listed above.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Yee-haw! It's the Calgary Stampede!
It's that time of year when Calgary transforms into a veritable ranch. The business men of downtown disappear and are replaced with jeans, boots, bolo ties, and stetsons. I'm almost surprised that I don't see cows and horses alongside the cars while sitting in traffic. The Calgary Stampede and Exhibition, coined the "Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth", is acknowledged to the be the largest spectacle of its kind. This is where the cowboys come, from all over North America, for the BIG prize money, up to $50 000, in their respective competitions.
As a child growing up in Calgary I went to the Stampede pretty much every year. Back then I anticipated a day of eating junk food (corn dogs and cotton candy are perennial favourites) and rides on the midway. The Stampede grounds are typically filled with people roaming around, carnies calling for you to play their games, and lines winding around the more popular rides. Usually the day is hot and you can enjoy the sunshine (and sticky cotton candy hands) until it sets around 10pm. Calgary is very far north so as a result, we have long summer days and short winter ones.
Going to the Stampede this year, after a 2 year absence, was great! I felt like this time I took much more notice of those people dressed top to toe in cowboy regalia. You can feel the western spirit in the air. The sheer volume of stetsons is amazing! The aroma from the barbeque pits are tantalizing and it seems you just have to have that $4 lemonade the vendor selling (or conversely, that $6 Budweiser). In the distance you can hear the screams of fright and fun coming from the more daredevil rides on the midway.
I also took in the Chuckwagon races for the first time in my Stampede history. Nowhere but the Stampede can watching men control four horses while sitting on a modified chuckwagon be exciting. I especially enjoyed watching the outriders smoothly jump onto their horses. It's good ol' redneck,western entertainment at its best. It's a pity I missed the rodeo and calf-roping competitions (where the cowboy must run down an escaping calf and rope at least three of its legs together). Don't worry, the calf is not harmed in the process, just frightened.
Accompanying the Stampede every year are the various venues for free Stampede breakfasts. This includes, two pancakes, sausage, juice, and some live country music. The lines are long but for the city of impatient Calgarians we're suprisingly willing to wait our turn in order to take part in a good western morning meal. There aren't many places to sit but we make do with what we have.
This western-style revelry goes on for 10 days and when it's finished the booths and rides pack up and move on to their next destination (which I think is the more inferior Klondike Days in Edmonton). Stetsons, bolos and boots are packed up, cowboys go back to being businessmen and the city returns to its normal rather mundane self.
My life so far ..pre and now, post engagement
Hello and welcome to another installment of what I should've titled the Yuri Chronicles. I haven't updated in a sinfully longtime. I've been busy, y'know, sub teaching and obsessing about things I don't really need to obsess about. I find life just isn't all that perfect unless I'm worrying about something. The following post is a self-indulgent bit of writing that probably heralds the coming of that dreaded creature...Bridezilla.
So, a rather major event that happened last month was deciding to make it officially known that Will and I intend to get married. Yes that's right! It included the buying of a sparkly diamond ring that now sits quite happily on my formerly lonely left ring finger.
I'm a very boring bride-to-be. I'm not one who blazed through the door and shrilled out to my mother, "I'm going to get MARRIED!" No, rather I sat in a state of anxiety of how to tell my parents and ended up blurting it out during dinner, right before I sensed my father was about to open his mouth to lecture me about going to Japan. This lecture is something that had taken place on almost a nightly basis when I was still just a 'girlfriend'. Why was I going? What was I going to do there? And so on and so forth. However, upon the unelegantly delivered news, my mother and I watched, open-mouthed, as my father went through a series of emotions (and almost contortions) that ended by him declaring he was going to take out all his coworkers for lunch the next day and the emptying of many glasses of red wine. He no longer lectures me about going to Japan. This sparkly ring has solved many a problem in that department. The space he, and my mother, now give me is actually kind of frightening.
So the moral of this story is: When having a hard time trying to coexist with your boyfriend and your Korean born and raised parents, just put a sparkly diamond on your left ring finger and poof! Watch your former worries fly out the window.
Thanks for reading.
So, a rather major event that happened last month was deciding to make it officially known that Will and I intend to get married. Yes that's right! It included the buying of a sparkly diamond ring that now sits quite happily on my formerly lonely left ring finger.
I'm a very boring bride-to-be. I'm not one who blazed through the door and shrilled out to my mother, "I'm going to get MARRIED!" No, rather I sat in a state of anxiety of how to tell my parents and ended up blurting it out during dinner, right before I sensed my father was about to open his mouth to lecture me about going to Japan. This lecture is something that had taken place on almost a nightly basis when I was still just a 'girlfriend'. Why was I going? What was I going to do there? And so on and so forth. However, upon the unelegantly delivered news, my mother and I watched, open-mouthed, as my father went through a series of emotions (and almost contortions) that ended by him declaring he was going to take out all his coworkers for lunch the next day and the emptying of many glasses of red wine. He no longer lectures me about going to Japan. This sparkly ring has solved many a problem in that department. The space he, and my mother, now give me is actually kind of frightening.
So the moral of this story is: When having a hard time trying to coexist with your boyfriend and your Korean born and raised parents, just put a sparkly diamond on your left ring finger and poof! Watch your former worries fly out the window.
Thanks for reading.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Japan, otherwise known as my nemesis
So, way back in September of 2004, Will asked if I'd want to go to Japan the next year with him. At the time I was in Korea and thought this would be a good idea. We both applied to the JET programme, designed to let foreigners teach English in Japan, and then waited for responses.
In March, they came. For him, acceptance and for me, rejection. I was affronted. How could THEY reject ME? I was a TEACHER gosh darn it! Not to mention I'm just plain GREAT. After much wallowing in self-pity, including many repeated wailings of "Why didn't they want ME?" and putting Will though veritable hell, I finally realized this wasn't a healthy way to be and I'd better find another way to get to this bloody country.
With my spirits about halfway recovered, I applied to another company, similar in its structure to JET. What did I receive? An interview and then another big fat rejection. Now I was starting to wonder what forces were trying to keep me from working in Japan. Did I smell? Did I look amazingly strange to these interviewers? Luckily for me, and Will, I didn't repeat the hysterical drama of the aforementioned JET rejection.
So, I applied to yet ANOTHER school in Japan. This time not related to JET in anyway. I got an interview, went through with it and then waited for a nailbiting week (putting Will, my family and friends through a different yet similar kind of hell of "What if they DON'T want ME?") for, you guessed it! Rejection. At this point I was just plain mad. They didn't realize what they were missing by not hiring a fabulous employee like myself. Didn't they know I was the greatest thing since sliced bread to cross their path? Fools!
After my head size reduced enough to fit in my room, I then applied for a visa at my local consulate that would permit me to work while traveling in Japan. I decided that if they didn't give this to me my name must be on some sort of blacklist. Resulting from some past life where I ravaged the country. I devised evil plans where I would scream and rampage the consulate should I discover my application had been rejected. Fortunately for the consulate, I received the visa and am now ready to be rejected face-to-face in Japan, instead of indirectly through email.
In March, they came. For him, acceptance and for me, rejection. I was affronted. How could THEY reject ME? I was a TEACHER gosh darn it! Not to mention I'm just plain GREAT. After much wallowing in self-pity, including many repeated wailings of "Why didn't they want ME?" and putting Will though veritable hell, I finally realized this wasn't a healthy way to be and I'd better find another way to get to this bloody country.
With my spirits about halfway recovered, I applied to another company, similar in its structure to JET. What did I receive? An interview and then another big fat rejection. Now I was starting to wonder what forces were trying to keep me from working in Japan. Did I smell? Did I look amazingly strange to these interviewers? Luckily for me, and Will, I didn't repeat the hysterical drama of the aforementioned JET rejection.
So, I applied to yet ANOTHER school in Japan. This time not related to JET in anyway. I got an interview, went through with it and then waited for a nailbiting week (putting Will, my family and friends through a different yet similar kind of hell of "What if they DON'T want ME?") for, you guessed it! Rejection. At this point I was just plain mad. They didn't realize what they were missing by not hiring a fabulous employee like myself. Didn't they know I was the greatest thing since sliced bread to cross their path? Fools!
After my head size reduced enough to fit in my room, I then applied for a visa at my local consulate that would permit me to work while traveling in Japan. I decided that if they didn't give this to me my name must be on some sort of blacklist. Resulting from some past life where I ravaged the country. I devised evil plans where I would scream and rampage the consulate should I discover my application had been rejected. Fortunately for the consulate, I received the visa and am now ready to be rejected face-to-face in Japan, instead of indirectly through email.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Ballet and rusty muscles
So, I enrolled in a ballet class last month because I hadn't done anything active with my body since I quit dancing (10 years ago, yep, got NO tone). I excitedly bought peachy/pink ballet slippers and anally sewed on elastics for them. I've been out of the loop, not only are the slippers made from leather but they also are made from canvas! I never knew.
Because of my past experience I figured I'd be good to go in level 2. It's like riding a bike right? Once you've done it, you never forget.
Let me tell you, muscles that haven't been used in 10 years, put up a SEVERE fight when you try to force them into positions again. Trying to keep my arm up felt like I was lugging around 10 pounds, and this when it never was an issue. My balance bid me goodbye as well. Strange that I never thought about any of these things when I was younger and taking 3-5 classes a week. By the end of class I admitted defeat to my atrophied muscles and staggered out. For the next 4 days I endured the protest of over-stretched muscles from my legs, arms, adbdomen, back and neck.
I keep going back for more and its getting easier I'm glad to say. I think my muscles have thrown in the towel now. I think they'll actually be grateful in the end.
Because of my past experience I figured I'd be good to go in level 2. It's like riding a bike right? Once you've done it, you never forget.
Let me tell you, muscles that haven't been used in 10 years, put up a SEVERE fight when you try to force them into positions again. Trying to keep my arm up felt like I was lugging around 10 pounds, and this when it never was an issue. My balance bid me goodbye as well. Strange that I never thought about any of these things when I was younger and taking 3-5 classes a week. By the end of class I admitted defeat to my atrophied muscles and staggered out. For the next 4 days I endured the protest of over-stretched muscles from my legs, arms, adbdomen, back and neck.
I keep going back for more and its getting easier I'm glad to say. I think my muscles have thrown in the towel now. I think they'll actually be grateful in the end.
My random observations of children
After subbing for several weeks now, I really think that the world of students is quite amazing. The changes from grade to grade, their self-awareness. It's all been a good experience for me.
I had previously thought that I would never want to substitute teach. I didn't like the idea of just walking into a classroom and then trying to figure out how things were run and what routines the kids were used to. I still don't like that aspect but in return, I'm exposed to a lot of different methods of teaching.
The differences from class to class are substantial. One grade 1/2 class can be angels and the next will make you want to scream. Trust me, I've worked with both! I've learned a lot of patience and I've learned to laugh with the children when I make mistakes. Or maybe they're laughing at me, who knows?
What I've described above is only for elementary. Junior high is another universe. Here we see young adolescents with raging hormones and the desire to start expressing themselves as individuals. I think I myself was a rather mundane, boring adolescent since I did next to no rebelling against authority. You can't use the: "It's not nice to talk when others are talking. Make a better choice." speech with these kids. Instead, I turn into a shrew, yelling every 5 minutes at whatever these students choose to do to push me to my limit. And they'll try EVERYTHING. I have great respect for those who regularly sub at junior highs.
What I've also noticed now is the medication some students take. Be it for overactivity or emotional problems, many kids are prescribed something for a disorder. During one sub job I had to give medication out to the students at certain times. One student, who had been rather hard to control for the last half-hour before lunch, said to me: "This is why I get this way. It's because it's time to take another pill." He came back after lunch a little hyper but then settled down quickly to his work. I still don't know what I really think about meds. I still think they're over prescribed to young children.
My desire to teach stemmed from having had a wonderful teacher when I was in Grade 3. During my first year of student teaching I went through a rather harrowing practicum which I just barely survived. The second year went much better and now here I am. Just keep reminding yourself that they're only just kids and the day gets that much easier.
I had previously thought that I would never want to substitute teach. I didn't like the idea of just walking into a classroom and then trying to figure out how things were run and what routines the kids were used to. I still don't like that aspect but in return, I'm exposed to a lot of different methods of teaching.
The differences from class to class are substantial. One grade 1/2 class can be angels and the next will make you want to scream. Trust me, I've worked with both! I've learned a lot of patience and I've learned to laugh with the children when I make mistakes. Or maybe they're laughing at me, who knows?
What I've described above is only for elementary. Junior high is another universe. Here we see young adolescents with raging hormones and the desire to start expressing themselves as individuals. I think I myself was a rather mundane, boring adolescent since I did next to no rebelling against authority. You can't use the: "It's not nice to talk when others are talking. Make a better choice." speech with these kids. Instead, I turn into a shrew, yelling every 5 minutes at whatever these students choose to do to push me to my limit. And they'll try EVERYTHING. I have great respect for those who regularly sub at junior highs.
What I've also noticed now is the medication some students take. Be it for overactivity or emotional problems, many kids are prescribed something for a disorder. During one sub job I had to give medication out to the students at certain times. One student, who had been rather hard to control for the last half-hour before lunch, said to me: "This is why I get this way. It's because it's time to take another pill." He came back after lunch a little hyper but then settled down quickly to his work. I still don't know what I really think about meds. I still think they're over prescribed to young children.
My desire to teach stemmed from having had a wonderful teacher when I was in Grade 3. During my first year of student teaching I went through a rather harrowing practicum which I just barely survived. The second year went much better and now here I am. Just keep reminding yourself that they're only just kids and the day gets that much easier.
Friday, February 04, 2005
My shiftless, underachieving eye
I thought I would write here, for no good reason at all, about my trials and tribulations with my left eye. It lived an independent life, free-spirited and uncaring about it's mate, the right eye. In other words, it was lazy. It roved and had a mind of its own. It answered to no one but itself. For the 5+ years that I had it I'm sure it creeped people out to no end.
Whoever was responsible for handing out eyes must've been left with odd numbers. Instead of getting either two good eyes or two bad eyes I got one of each. Great, perfect. I should be thankful that I had two healthy eyes but I really would've liked for them to get along. In junior high my left eye (hereafter LE) began to go lazy as a result of deteriorating vision in it. My right eye (RE) remained with perfect vision. This means that I would have one eye go off and do its own thing while the other focused properly on whatever I was looking at. Makes for great kodak moments let me tell you! To compensate for my freakish eye I'd always shift so that I'd be standing towards my right side and look left into the camera. Left was LE's favorite spot. People who look at my photographs must wonder why the hell I liked showing off my left profile so much.
After years of this I underwent a surgery. the details of which I prefer not to think about. I walked around my campus with gauze over the offending LE which spurred great comments in our University paper such as: "Eye patches are not the fashion." No shit, you think I wore gauze on my eye because I thought it made me look hot? Oooh, sexy!
Today LE enjoys a somewhat lukewarm relationship with RE. They get along occasionally and sometimes they don't. Now that both eyes have prescription the gulf between them isn't so big. My eyes will never be normal but then that's no fun anyway.
Stay tuned for more pointless ramblings.
Whoever was responsible for handing out eyes must've been left with odd numbers. Instead of getting either two good eyes or two bad eyes I got one of each. Great, perfect. I should be thankful that I had two healthy eyes but I really would've liked for them to get along. In junior high my left eye (hereafter LE) began to go lazy as a result of deteriorating vision in it. My right eye (RE) remained with perfect vision. This means that I would have one eye go off and do its own thing while the other focused properly on whatever I was looking at. Makes for great kodak moments let me tell you! To compensate for my freakish eye I'd always shift so that I'd be standing towards my right side and look left into the camera. Left was LE's favorite spot. People who look at my photographs must wonder why the hell I liked showing off my left profile so much.
After years of this I underwent a surgery. the details of which I prefer not to think about. I walked around my campus with gauze over the offending LE which spurred great comments in our University paper such as: "Eye patches are not the fashion." No shit, you think I wore gauze on my eye because I thought it made me look hot? Oooh, sexy!
Today LE enjoys a somewhat lukewarm relationship with RE. They get along occasionally and sometimes they don't. Now that both eyes have prescription the gulf between them isn't so big. My eyes will never be normal but then that's no fun anyway.
Stay tuned for more pointless ramblings.
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