Road-tripping along Route 42

I’ve never been a huge fan of tiki-touring (traipsing) around the countryside.  I’m a terrible passenger.  If I’m not driving, every little thing starts to bug me.  Cramped spaces, mindless chatter, irritating music, and weird smells can destroy any chance of a memorable time for me.  And to top it all off, I get motion sickness.  

A few weeks ago I agreed to go with some people for a spot of sightseeing.   We were planning to head to a place called Tategasaki.  I’d had a quick nosey on the internet, and found some wonderful pictures of this rocky formation, with big beautiful waves lapping up its’ sides.  The colour of the ocean reminded me of and this might sound a bit odd, the colour of the water in the toilet bowl, when you put that blue disc in the cistern and it turns the water into a cartoonish indigo blue colour.  Of course unlike the sea, the colour fades with every flush.  Hmmmm, it’s probably just me then.    

So as the day drew closer, I began to consider our mode of transport.  I soon realised that we’d all be stuck together for several hours in someone’s van.  My excitement of the impending trip quickly evaporated.  I wonder if they’d let me drive?  Maybe.  Probably. Definitely not.  Maybe I could nod off for a few hours and wake up when we arrive?  Even I would be offended if someone I just met did that. 

Again, the language barrier hit me smack in the face.  What will we talk about? Will they understand me? Will I understand them? It’s these situations which make me rue the lack of self-directed study on my part to learn Japanese.  I’ve been happily coasting along, throwing out phrases here and there (mispronounced and out of context most times), but mostly relying on others to translate for me.  If you ever come to Japan and you intend on working and living here, do yourself a huge favour, and learn the language. 

However, all these worries amounted to nothing (as they usually do in my case).  I had a great time with these people.  We were a party of six, consisting of my friend, ‘Bridget’, her boyfriend, ‘Pete’, and three people I’d only just met that morning.  ‘Dave’ was Pete’s best friend.  He was accompanied by his wife, ‘Mary’ and their 15 year old daughter, ‘Lucy’.  Both Bridget and Dave were fairly competent in conversational English.  There were a few misfires throughout the day that fortunately we all laughed about.  Several things I had said got lost in translation and a few times I just nodded without really knowing what was being told to me.  I’m sure it was the same for them as well.  We soon found some common ground though.

We all hopped into Dave’s 7 seater (such a big car for a family of three, I thought) and set off down the road.  Pete and Dave kept us entertained, and I understood bits and pieces of their conversation and thankfully laughed at the same time everyone else did.  I think they actually tried to talk at a slower pace and added in English words here and there to help me along.  I was very grateful for the attempt at inclusion. 

After a while the road began to incline more sharply.  The next few kilometres were up, around, and through the mountains.  I hate roads like that and so does my stomach.  As we rounded what seemed like the 6^th or 7^th corner, Pete and Dave chimed in with the perfect melody line, ‘the long and winding road’.  Ah, Beatles fans. We just hit common ground and the laughs were a great distraction and kept me from casting up my breakfast. 

Dave insisted on playing his CD collection, which comprised of English albums by well known English artists.   I knew once again it was for my benefit and was grateful to be cruising along to music I could sing to.  I turned excitedly to Bridget at the beginning of each song to ask if she knew it.  She would smile and say ‘no’, although she was very pleased for me that I did.   

You learn a great deal about people from the music they listen to.  These guys were into the Rolling Stones, Queen, Eric Clapton, Wings, Police, Hall and Oates, Abba and of course the legendary Beatles. These guys were Rockers!  They joined in the choruses and even incorporated a bit of Japanese for the lines they didn’t know. It was hilarious.  You would never guess it to look at them.   Stranger still was listening to Mariah Carey’s Greatest Hits (of all things), as we were negotiating the many twists and turns along the narrow mountain road.  Music easily traverses cultural barriers and unites all kinds of different characters. 

Out of nowhere, Pete asks me about the line, ‘Domo Arigato, Mr Roboto’ from Styx.  ‘Do you know?’ he says.  Um, yeah? I never ever thought I’d be asked about that from an actual Japanese person though.  What do the Japanese think of that line? It’s crazy how popular that phrase is.  The translation is a simple thank you to a fictional character, who answers to the name of Mr Roboto.  But when a non-Japanese person says it and usually in a joking way, is that offensive? I wasn’t sure.  I’ve always thought of it as a ridiculously harmless song.  But then again how do I feel when I hear or read Japanese English?  Does it offend me when it makes no sense? No, not really.  Most times it’s a bit of a laugh, and kind of cute.  

So finally we arrive to the spot where we must leave the air-conditioned comforts of our Van and go by foot the rest of the way.  I’m told the trail takes about 30 minutes.  It’s approximately 10.20am at this point.  Once out in the open, everyone immediately noticed that the temperature had risen quite significantly.  24 degrees was supposed to be the high today and I think it was safe to say that we’d already reached it. 

The trail was great and I have to say I was impressed that the small forest animals had heeded the memo I sent out a week before and politely kept their distance, remaining well hidden until we left.

When we finally arrived at our destination, dripping with sweat before lunchtime no doubt, we were far from disappointed.  Tategasaki is simply breathtaking.  To me it’s the Japanese Version of the Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland.  Nothing comes close to Nature, when she gets the creative juices flowing.  

Tategasaki means shield or at least the first part of the word does anyway.  Whether it’s because it resembles a shield or is some kind of symbolic ‘protection’ for the area, I’m not quite sure.  It’s a rock formation of vertical stone columns jutting out at varying heights, the top covered with some lush vegetation.  Overall the sight is magnificent.  I mean it’s so beautifully untouched, as you can only go so far before the rest of the way is cordoned off, and there are no idiots in Japan, idiotic enough to jump the barrier.   On a clear summer’s day, it’s quite lovely.   I think there are boats that can take you there, but it doesn’t look all that safe.  While the waves crashing up against the rocks look amazing from a distance, I would imagine that up close they'd be a bit dangerous!
    

As we were walking along, Bridget, Mary and Lucy became fascinated by several pools of water that had some recently hatched tadpoles swimming in them.  Pete told me that they were ‘Frog children’.  That’s a great example of Japanese English and I’m not in the least bit offended.  Technically he is correct.  We have those at home too.  They smile and I walk away laughing. 

After a few minutes of ‘gazing’ and snapping photos we returned to the trail and headed back to the car, bound for Kumano.  We stopped for a quick bite to eat before setting off again for Nachi Falls in Wakayama Prefecture.  It’s about an hour and half away by car, although it didn’t feel like a long ride at all.   I was particularly excited about going there, as I’d seen some pictures on the internet of the Falls and a three storey pagoda nearby.

   

We walked through the big Torii gate, the entrance to the Shrine where the Falls were.  Sightseeing in Japan is a whole new experience for those not used to walking significant distances.  Nowhere in Japan have I been to visit a site where it was easy to get to.   One does not simply ‘drive thru’.  Usually you have to walk a fair bit, cross bridges, ascend and descend steps, and sometimes even bypass the local wildlife before finally arriving at your destination.  This standard mini endurance test makes the destination all that more worthwhile to see, once you finally get there, of course.

From the very top of the stone steps, you already have a splendid view of the gently cascading Falls.  Once you reach the proper viewing platform at the bottom, you can then fully appreciate just how high the Falls are.  This is reportedly the highest falls in Japan.  While it isn’t the highest I’ve ever seen, it is still a remarkable sight to see, and well worth the trip.  There’s a definite ‘serenity’ about the place, and at the very end of the platform, facing the Falls, the second Torii gate is firmly rooted and you obviously can go no further.  I’d never seen that before, a gate that you can’t actually pass through.  If you did try, you’d end up in the water, presumably get fished out by the locals before being smartly escorted off the premises I’d say. 

I stand there surrounded by the smell of incense burning and watch as several people are praying nearby, or reading their Omikuji (fortune purchased for 100 yen).  Some people look to be extremely excited, while others are quite subdued.  I guess they were hoping for better fortunes.  The great thing about this whole process is that you can easily get rid of a two-bit fortune, as the wind will happily take it away for you.  Tie it on the stand provided, ask for it to be gone, and then be content that your life will not follow that ill-gotten path. 

I had never purchased an Omikuji before, because it’s written in Kanji/Hiragana but after much urging from the group, I selected one for myself.  Pete opened it and told me that I had been granted a ‘little happiness’.  That sounded okay to me, I guess.  He quickly scanned the piece of paper, and as I waited for my ‘little happiness’ to materialise I noticed his look of concentration quickly evaporating only to be replaced by a frown that had me fairly concerned.  When I asked him what the Omikuji foretold, he told me to tie the fortune to the stand, and everything would be alright.  Come again?  The others looked on and smiled stiffly at me, and told me not to worry.  Worry about what? All I got in response was ‘It’s okay’. 

No one wanted to be the bearer of bad news and I most certainly did not want to be in receipt of any.  Oh well, no need to worry, it left with the wind right?

The kindness and generosity of Japanese people is truly humbling.  If you come from a ‘user pays’ mentality, it is difficult at first to be on the receiving end of such gestures.  I spent approximately 500 yen yesterday which is about $6 NZ dollars.  My lunch, my dinner, the petrol there and back, and my Omikuji (even that) was all paid for by the goodwill of my travel companions.  I mean, I was even given an Omiyage which is a souvenir gift you usually buy for family, close friends or neighbours that stayed home.  All I needed to do was pass it on and they would be none the wiser, assuming that I bought it for them.  How ridiculously awesome is that?

One thing I’ve tried to learn in Japan is how to accept the generosity of others, to show them sincere gratitude in return, and to stop and do NO MORE.  Enter and exit the transaction.   

Japan is a culture that just keeps on giving.   So, you have to adapt to how things are done here.  They also show tremendous humility when accepting kindnesses from others, and as a giver, you’re left feeling really good about yourself!  Everybody wins, when you have the right attitude instead of trying to compensate somehow and messing up the whole thing.  You’re not running up a debt, and they’re certainly not collecting on one.  

When someone chooses to be nice to you (and I’m only talking about when you’re in Japan, in this type of situation), I don’t believe that there is any expectation attached on their part that you are now obligated to return the favour at some stage. 

There have been times where I’ve felt guilty over someone’s generosity, and frankly that’s not their problem.  It’s mine. 

Too often we become willing passengers on some kind of self-imposed, misplaced guilt trip that we end up undermining the good deed that was done to us.  Why can’t we just convey our heartfelt thanks and leave it at that?  It’s not supposed to be a game of one-upsmanship. 

We all bring something to the table.  Does that also imply that what we bring must be of equal value to each other, so no one feels bad? We’ve got to learn how to accept the kindness of others.  Today you’re a recipient.  Tomorrow you might be a donor.  You’ve got to learn how to be comfortable in both roles as it’s inevitable that you will have many opportunities in life to play each one.

All in all it was a great day out, with some truly wonderful, kind-hearted people. 

Road-tripping the Japanese way certainly has its advantages.  Everything is purposeful.  There’s no mucking around, no straying, no flaking out.  You go from A to B and back again, and that’s how I like it.  Of course there’s a time for throwing caution to the wind, but there’s also a lot of sense in having a plan and sticking to it, satisfied that at the end of the day you achieved what you set out to do.    

I’m hopeful that they’ll let me drive next time.   

‘You’ll find life is still worthwhile, if you just smile’ – Nat King Cole

I remember a few years back watching this tooth whitening advertisement on TV.  A middle-aged Dentist walks into the waiting room, only to discover that his next patient is a gorgeous Supermodel.  She flashes him a sparkly smile, and he returns an equally sparkly grin, as he ushers her in to the next room.  The next scene sees the Supermodel reclining back in the dental chair, and the Dentist slowly approaching her with the standard silver chain and paper bib.  He opens the clasp at one end of the silver chain bringing it instead around his own neck and clipping it securely to the paper bib on his chest.  For some reason, it got taken off the air.  I thought it was hilarious. 

Yesterday, I went to the Dentist to have my wisdom tooth pulled out.  After my HALF HOUR appointment, I left the clinic with a slight tingling along the right side of my mouth, and the offending tooth was handed to me inside a tiny, orange, ‘tear drop’ plastic capsule shaped like a mouse, complete with whiskers and eyes!  A novelty meant for younger patients no doubt.   

I was astounded at how short the procedure took and that unlike my past experiences with dentists back home, I was in absolutely no pain or discomfort afterwards.  The dental team, bless their hearts do not speak English, and as I don’t speak Japanese, it has been a problem in the past explaining my ailments, and them in turn explaining what they can do about them. 

The receptionist is a lovely lady who was ready waiting this time with several handy strips of paper, a single sentence, in English, written on each one, about my appointment.  As I lay in the reclined chair, she held up the first strip of paper for me to read.  It read, ‘Now injection anaesthesia’.  I nodded that I understood.  The Dentist injected anaesthesia in and around my tooth without much fuss.  I was waiting for the needle to go in, but I didn’t feel a thing.  The next strip of paper read, ‘Finish injection anaesthesia’.  I nodded again but was a little bit nervous as I couldn’t be sure that the surrounding area in and around my tooth had in fact been put to ‘sleep’.  In the past, the effect of the anaesthetic was tantamount to swallowing a loaded tranquilizer gun, like the ones used by illegal poachers, on large, wild animals.  Maybe the Dentist would wait a while, until the anaesthesia really kicked in.  He didn’t.

The next strip of paper held in front of me read, ‘Extraction tooth’. I blinked a few times to acknowledge the message although was still a bit apprehensive and maybe a little panicky at this point.    I started chanting in my head, ‘they know what they’re doing… they know what they’re doing’.  Maybe, now’s a good time to pray.    

In the next 5-7 minutes, the dentist used several steel instruments that were carefully laid out on the trolley and brought them to my mouth.  He was very fast and still no pain.  The dental assistant came at me with her suction hose, and then a short time after that, the receptionist showed me another strip of paper that read, ‘Bite hard gauze 30 minutes’ quickly followed by the final strip of paper, ’30 minutes after, gauze garbage’.  The dentist then put a piece of gauze in my mouth and signalled to me to bite down on it. 

All of a sudden my chair was brought back up to its’ normal position.  The Dentist turned away to write some notes, and I’m sitting there wondering why we’ve stopped.   The Dental Assistant then hands me my glasses to put back on my face.  I’m a little confused, what just happened? I look down at the trolley and am astonished to see, lying there amongst the discarded instruments on a square piece of gauze is my tooth!  There’s very little blood on it and I know they didn’t have time to wash it.  I can’t even taste any blood in my mouth!  My mouth doesn’t feel swollen or tender.  I’m not drooling or self-consciously covering my jaw with my hand.  I’m not doing anything that I’ve done in the past following a dental procedure.  Wow. 

By this time, everyone had moved off to their designated areas in the clinic.  I rose from the chair and thanked the Dentist who was still scribbling in my notes.  I’m surprised to find that I’m not suffering any temporary speech impediment.  I’m talking normally, with the exception of the gauze stuffed at the back of my mouth. 

I honestly cannot believe that it’s all over.  My appointment was at 4.30pm and I’m back in the waiting room, discussing a follow up appointment with the Receptionist, and it’s now 4.55pm!  I said to the Receptionist that the appointment was very ‘fast’, and she gave me a half smile and nodded.  I was very impressed, but this is obviously the norm here.  The Receptionist then hands me a paper bag of antibiotics and another containing only 6 tablets for pain relief, if I need any later.  She had written the instructions in English on the outside of each paper bag, so there was no way I could get it wrong.  This was truly the best dentist appointment ever.  There were no big dramas, or over the top warnings that I might experience this or that.  No x-rays, no ‘call if pain persists’ comments.  Very low key, very simple, and very quick.  The next thing I know, I’m sitting at home in front of my computer, kicking back and listening to some upbeat songs, while waiting for my toast to pop up, that I fully intend to wash down with a hot cup of black coffee.  Later I destroyed a cute tub of choc mint ice-cream.

When I spat the gauze out of my mouth, I couldn’t help but have a closer look.  It was a little bloody, but well below what I would’ve expected from a tooth extraction, especially a wisdom tooth.  I’m amazed.

I don’t know if I’m relaying anything incredible, but past experiences with all things dental, have never been anything but traumatic for me.   At the end of each consultation, I’d be clutching my mouth with one hand, an empty purse in the other, vowing never to return. 

The local anaesthetic used back home is highly potent, compared to whatever the dentist used yesterday.  I’m convinced now that the anaesthetic needn’t be so strong.  Whatever the dosage of anaesthetic was yesterday seemed to be more than sufficient for the purpose of immobilising the tooth, so it could be extracted easily.  Maybe it’s a completely different formula altogether.  I don’t know, but if so, NZ should place an order for a shipment to head south.    

I’m all for copying another country’s practice if it means less pain and suffering for the average citizen, like me.  It’s difficult enough having to recover from whatever procedure you went through, without also having to deal with the effects of the anaesthetic.

Back home, it takes almost half a day for the anaesthetic to completely wear off, and in all that time, you can’t eat or drink properly, and if you did, you certainly wouldn’t enjoy it.  You can’t do anything, because you feel as if you’ve been ‘knee’ed’ in the face, so you just sit there, dabbing at your mouth with a tissue every five seconds, praying that the painkillers (you’re tempted to overdose on) will mercifully take effect soon.  It’s a pathetic sight really, which annoys me, as having now gone through the Japanese system it’s a situation that could easily be avoided by employing the ‘less is more’ approach of anaesthetic that they use here.   

I acknowledge that I’m no expert in this field and there are obviously other factors that need to be considered.  However, when it comes to pain, I’ll happily go with the option that offers less of it.

Yesterday’s procedure set me back 1100 yen.  That’s approximately $13 NZD!  Of course it’s heavily subsidised with a Health Insurance Card, but still, that’s ridiculously cheap.  Back home, extracting a tooth, usually costs between $150-$200, and that’s if it’s straight-forward.   If you go to an Oral Health department at a hospital, where tooth extractions cost around $40, you’ll have to compete for an appointment with several hundred other people who want to save a few precious pennies as well.  If the clinic opens at 8.00am, you’ll need to be there at 4.00am to ensure a place.  It’s like queuing up for concert tickets to see a band that you don’t even like.  You know they suck and you’d rather spend your money on something else, but you’re left with no choice but to go.

And yet even the cheapest deal in NZ (which is also the most inconvenient) is still significantly more expensive than Japan.  You have to wonder, what your $40 DOESN’T cover, for the fee to be so much lower than what is usually charged by Dentists in NZ. 

I’ve been to the Dentist 12 times since I’ve been in Japan.  All those visits combined add up to approximately 4520 yen which is $54.99 NZD.  Using a conservative estimate, that’s slightly over a third of the cost of a tooth extraction in NZ!

Verdict:  If you’re a foreigner living and working here, take advantage.   Get the smile you’ve always wanted for only a fraction of the price. 

As you can see, I’ve been taking full advantage of the dental benefits here, hence my 12 trips already to the Dentist! I'm just getting started.  

How can you breathe with those things?

So the bird flu has reared it’s very ugly head again in China.  Apparently a few cases had also been reported in Taiwan.  I hope they can contain it this time (or better yet eradicate it) before more lives are affected or worse, lost.  Which brings me to the issue of surgical masks, worn by the Japanese from time to time.  I know it’s not the smoothest of segways, but there you have it.  It’s been a slow day.      

Apparently, the mask has been standard issue here for quite a while.  I thought it had only become prominent amongst the Japanese in the last decade or so, in response to the first bird flu scare, followed by SARS and the swine flu, several years ago.  However, when I spoke with one of my Japanese colleagues about it, she told me that as a student (which would have been over 40 years ago), she remembers, that she and her classmates had to wear masks, when they weren’t feeling well and also when interacting with others who were operating under the same conditions. 

So the mask, as you can see is well established here in Japan and seemingly not going anywhere anytime soon.  From pre-schooler to pensioner, the mask is worn by all.  In my opinion it’s right up there with the Kimono.  Not as a national costume of course, but as an item that clearly identifies Japanese people, to foreigners.  I don’t know if it’s as prevalent in other parts of Asia, but whenever I think of masks worn in public, I’m thinking only of Japan.    If you’re boarding a flight from an overseas port (which I have), and half the passengers are wearing masks (which I’ve seen), it’s more than likely that you’re bound for Tokyo.

I confess I’ve never worn a mask.  As far as I know there is no scientific evidence to support that wearing a mask is effective in keeping germs at bay or that it prevents others from catching whatever it is that you have. 

Of course that isn’t the real reason for my refusal to don a mask.  I would look absolutely ridiculous with half my face obscured looking as if I was paying some morbidly strange homage to the late Michael Jackson.   Incidentally, I also possess the kind of vanity that Narcissus himself would’ve beamed at (if he ever managed to tear himself away from his own reflection of course).  I’ve never been a follower of fashion but the mask is not really the ‘look’ I’m going for.   

I haven’t had the misfortune of being sick in Japan, but I would much rather apply Vicks to my nasal passages than have them sealed off completely with a piece of disposable cloth.   I had noticed during winter time that my work colleagues were more wary of me than usual.  I suppose it seems rather odd to them to see my face, completely exposed, all the damn time.   As if I could wipe them out with one misdirected sneeze.  Surely not. 

I do not believe that ‘Germaphobia’ is an affliction that Japan suffers from.  Prevention rather than cure seems to be the prevailing attitude here.  And if there’s something to be gained by wearing a mask, however small, (even if it is purely psychological), I suppose the Japanese are willing to pursue it. 

I remember a gangly looking boy at Junior High School last year, would always wear a mask, as if it was part of the school uniform.  He never went anywhere without it.  To me he will always be the half-faced kid with the floppy hair.  Sometimes his fringe grew so long, you couldn’t see his eyes either!

I was talking one day with the School Clerk about it, as I was concerned for him, thinking him to be a poor, sickly creature.  She laughed and said that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him.  He suffers from a case of ‘bad teeth’, is all.  Safe from prying eyes he managed to keep them well hidden behind the mask (for almost three years!).  Thankfully for the image obsessed teenager, the mask is a versatile accessory. 

One day, in the middle of winter, I was running late to class.  The Japanese with the utmost respect are freakishly punctual.  Ask anyone who has ever caught a train in this country.  The integrity of the Japanese Railway System is nothing short of outstanding.  The railway timetable is not a guide.  It is gospel, and woe to unbelievers who think otherwise.  Trains run ON TIME, EVERY TIME.  How this massive network of squiggly colourful lines, manages to successfully transport millions of people to their destinations and back again, each day, and on time, defies logic.  Or at least the kind I’m used to. 

So anyway, as I was saying, I was running late to class.  I slowed down as I reached the last classroom at the end of the corridor, and as the bell sounded, I slid the door back and slipped into the room.  The students are already standing behind their desks, and the teacher simply smiles my way and instructs the students to greet me.  At this point I’m extremely embarrassed and a little out of breath.  I avoid looking directly at the students and fumble through a weak apology for my tardiness.  I know that the students don’t understand what I’m saying, but it’s poor form to not say anything, even when your audience has absolutely no idea what’s coming out of your mouth.  The teacher instructs them to sit down, and I try to get myself into some kind of order before the lesson begins. 

Today, the students are about to sit a spelling test.  The teacher presents me with a list of 10 words, that she has asked me to repeat three times.  I peruse the list quickly, and nod to her in acknowledgement.  The students patiently wait for me to begin.   Their notebooks are open to a fresh page, pencils are sharpened and erasers are on standby. 

My head finally comes up, and I have my first proper look at the class.  Blinking several times, I survey the classroom before me.  If there was ever a situation where a ‘double take’ was justified, this would be the moment.  Twenty-five pairs of eyes, staring directly at me.  Twenty-five concentrated looks.  Twenty-five faces seemingly all missing a nose and a mouth.  Twenty-five adolescents, each wearing a frickin’ mask!   

Over the past week, a significant number of children had been absent from school due to illness.  It was winter after all, this was to be expected.  The school had even closed its’ doors for one day, when a third of the students had come down with influenza.  This information however, gave me little comfort. 

I was smack in the middle of Japan's answer to 'The Village of the Damned'.  

The sight of twenty-five masked adolescents staring square at you is a bit unnerving. The girls are each wearing two piece sailor suits, in a shade of black that could easily trigger a bout of depression, complete with double white lines around the wide collar of the top, pleated skirt and white knee high socks. The boys resemble a group of dishevelled, dishonourably discharged naval officers wearing standard black trousers paired with a black stand collared tunic.  The gold buttons are not polished, name tags are pinned carelessly and trousers haven’t been pressed since the first day of school.  However, it’s the blindingly white, menacingly sterile masks adorning each face that has my attention. 

I am convinced that what I’m looking at is an insidious reincarnation of the Von Trapp children.  Could the hills be any less ‘alive with the sound of music’? 

    

Now, I do not subscribe to the gross misconception that all Japanese children look the same.  But today it’s virtually impossible to ignore their dark, sombre uniforms, their jet black hair, pale complexions and of course the white mini hammock hung from ears in lieu of palm trees, stretched across their faces, from cheek to chin!  

I would say each word three times, followed by a brief reprieve while all heads lowered and hands scribbled furiously.  Then suddenly the heads would slowly rise, and the eyes would once again be on me, in anticipation for the next word.  I would pause for about two minutes between each question, to allow the students time to write down their answers.     

Following question eight, I stared down at the list of words perhaps a few seconds longer than I should have.  When I looked up, all twenty five pairs of eyes were boring into my face!  I must have looked startled (or freaked out) because in the next instant, as if by remote control, every single student tilted their head to the left, ALL AT THE SAME TIME!  The mechanical-like movement was executed with calculated precision.  I was both mesmerised and filled with foreboding dread.   My breathing became shallow and I reverted to a childhood habit of comforting myself in times of distress.  I began to cry. 

Suddenly a crackling noise sounded from the intercom as if it had just been switched on.  I looked up pleadingly towards the direction of the static.  The class remained motionless.  With absolutely no control over my breathing or my tears, and feeling faint, I leaned back against the blackboard.  And then, the sweet voice of a small child could be heard flowing out from the intercom overhead.  The message was in Japanese.  No doubt it was not intended for me.  The sweet voice was playful and light-hearted as you would expect from a small child.  However, it clearly did not reflect the situation currently playing out before me.

The students remained in a catatonic state (with the exception of their eyes, of course, which remained locked on me, the reluctant target), no apparent signs of life, nothing to detect any acknowledgement of the message, no reaction to my tears, nothing.    

Now, seemed as good a time as any, to absolve myself of the current situation.  As the message from the sweet voice continued, I decided to exit, stage left and prayed that I could make it to the door before the onset of a massive coronary claimed me. 

I moved away from the blackboard and slowly inched closer to the door.  Twenty-five pairs of eyes tracked my agonisingly slow trek towards freedom.  Then suddenly, the sweet voice stopped as if it instinctively knew that its message had managed to captivate all in the room but one.  I could sense the disapproval of the small child with the sweet voice at my futile attempt to flee.  I came to a complete stand still, terrified at what would happen next.  I was trapped.  The voice returned, dropped now to an audible whisper.  A few sentences more were uttered and then the message ended with two frightfully simple words, where translation was not required.  The small child took a deep breath before its’ sweet voice whispered, ‘She knows’.  I let out a shriek, as the room suddenly lit up behind me.  Slowly turning around, I watched as each student slowly rose from their desks.  A sea of malevolent green eyes glowing fiercely at me!

If there was a large mirror hanging on the back wall, behind the students, I’m sure I would’ve caught my own shocked reflection staring out at nothing but empty desks and chairs!  Or worse still looking into the mirror and seeing the pale little boy from ‘The Grudge’ staring back at me, meowing like a cat!

This is what comes of watching too many Japanese Horror Movies. 

Side Note:  The teacher had faded into the wall when all this took place and could not be relied upon to assist me.

The test was not completed and was rescheduled for later in the week.    

I can appreciate now why the Halloween and Friday the 13^th movie franchises were so popular, no matter how cheesy the storylines became.  Nothing scares you more than a face hidden behind a mask, yeah the one you can’t actually see.           

Dining out in Rural Japan

Kazu and Kappa.  Are they….

• The current, undisputed, Tag Team Champions of the WWE. 
• The latest movie by Dreamworks, about a pair of washed up Clowns from Belarus.  Scheduled for release this summer.  OR 
• Two eateries in a little known corner of Japan that I frequent and want to write about. 

Kazu is a tiny little set up in Kiinagashima, Kihoku Town in Mie Prefecture.  It’s so far off the beaten tourist track, that it’s rarely presented with an opportunity to feed a hungry foreigner, unless of course, said foreigner lives in the next town over. 

A dear friend brought me here to sample what she described as the best Yakisoba this side of Osaka, and I wholeheartedly concur with her sentiments.  Kazu serves two main dishes only.  Yakisoba and Ramen.  One kind of Yakisoba and one kind of Ramen.  Up to you what you do with the various condiments on the counter.  Season it how you want.  What is initially put in front of you though, is already flavoursome and absolutely delish!  Why mess with perfection?

There is a meal quota set each day (and when I mean set, I mean set in the kind of concrete they use to make highway bridges), that runs out well before 6 o’clock each evening.  People rush there in the late afternoon for an early dinner, and some of them unfortunately are turned away because the allotted number of meals for the day have all been cooked and eaten.  You might be thinking how is turning away customers with chunky purses and fat wallets good business sense?  Well I guess, when you know you’ve got something really special, you can afford to politely shut your doors when there’s nothing left to serve, confident in the knowledge that people will keep coming back.  Anyway, there’s only the one nice old lady doing all the cooking and I’m sure after 8 hours of being stuck in a cramped kitchen with little ventilation, she’d be a little tired.    

People who are disappointed to find that they’ve missed out, are momentarily discouraged, eyeballing the lucky few sitting on the stools, slurping on what could have been their bowl of Ramen, or chopsticking through a hotplate of Yakisoba that they could have been enjoying had they come in earlier.  No one is cursing the nice old lady behind the counter who owns and operates the business.  People thank her, bow out, determined to improve on their time tomorrow. 

I’ve had the good fortune of sitting on one of those stools, as wannabe patrons have been turned away.  It’s a great feeling. You feel very little pity for them as you turn your attention back to your steaming hot, mouth-watering dinner.  First in, first served I say! 

The place is set up like a bar (minus the alcohol of course).  There is a long counter which sits approximately 10 people at any given time.  It separates the nice old lady taking orders and cooking the meals, from her devoted but ravenous customers looking on.  You watch her move around within her space, opening the fridge, gassing up the stove, grabbing her ingredients, tossing this, sprinkling that, stirring, simmering, her hands becoming a blur as steam rises from the element, and a lovely aroma that causes you to salivate fills the air.  In no time, your Yakisoba or Ramen is ready, and plopped on the counter in front of you.  You sit there grinning like a toothpaste model who’s still on the clock, as you throw out the one phrase in Japanese you can say just as well if not better than the locals, ‘Arigato Gozaimasu!’.

The bonuses are that you can order a bowl of rice to go with your meal, or a side plate of Gyoza (Chinese dumplings with a lot of garlic).  But these meals really don’t need any more propping up.  They’re heaven on their own.  And it’s all so affordable!  

Whatever loose change you might have in your pocket, is more than enough to cover your meal.  In terms of atmosphere, there’s no mood music or dimly lit candles.  The décor is forgettable.  But that’s not the reason why people flock to this small shack of a place.  It’s the food, which is how it should be.  A feature wall or resident DJ is hardly going to make up for dinner being shit.  I’d happily eat Kazu’s Ramen or Yakisoba, on the roof of a condemned building, they’re that good.  I mean, Kazu is near a rickety old railway line and pretty much located in the middle of nowhere, far from the main road.  You have to actually be heading for it, as there’s virtually zero chance of you finding the place by accident.  And yet it remains popular, current and above all profitable.

The overall experience probably takes only 30 minutes, and that’s if you’re a slow eater.  Japanese people are great with time.  They are efficient, expeditious, and track time with the acuity of a Japanese Bullet Train.  They exemplify themselves! So there’s definitely no time to waste time.  You eat, you digest a little (the rest you can do in the car on your way home), you thank the nice old lady for the lovely meal, pay her and you leave.  That’s it.  Functional and practical is what I like about Japan.  All the boxes have been checked.  Great food, excellent service with next to no waiting time.  What more could you want?     

   

  

Kappa is a café in Kiinagashima that is strangely filled with indigenous ‘artefacts’ from all over the world.  Perhaps these are pieces of a collection that the owners had accumulated over years of globetrotting to wild and exotic places? I don’t know.  There doesn’t appear to be any order to how they’ve been arranged, with a wooden maori tekoteko carving from New Zealand leaning up against the wall next to a small statue of Buddha from Thailand.  

The building looks more like a well lit log cabin with a high ceiling and big windows.  When you enter you have two choices.  Turn right and you sit with the smokers who care little about their future lung capacity.  Veer quickly to the left and you turn into a side room made up of four tables separated by less than sturdy partitions.  This is the space for recovering second-hand (pre anti-tobacco laws) smokers.   It’s cosy and although the partitions offer little in the way of sound-proofing, you do get used to the sounds of other people chatting and laughing around you.  It’s hardly going to put you off your meal, unless of course you’re one of ‘those people’. 

There’s usually music playing in the background and interestingly enough, they’re mellow English songs from the 60s and 70s.  You can enjoy a meal while Elvis serenades you with a ballad, or take a short break from talking, knowing full well that the Beatles are going to fill that gap in quite nicely.   

I think in Japan, the service is exceptional.  The baseline of service here is higher than most other countries’ five star treatment.  I haven’t had any negative experiences where people have been rude or insensitive, where I’ve been left waiting without explanation, or been overcharged, short-changed, overlooked or ignored.  It’s this level of attention that I’ll definitely miss when I leave.   

At Kappa, like most other restaurants and cafes I’ve been to, any transaction between customers and staff, begin and end with respect and gratitude.  It’s such a delight to dine out in Japan, because you can be assured of being treated well, whether you deserve it or not!

One evening I had gone to Kappa with a friend and we had each ordered a meal with coffee.  It was great and two hours later we were still happily chatting and laughing away.  The waitress had come to clear away our dishes and asked us if we wanted anything else.  My friend ordered another coffee, but I instead wanted to have a hot cup of green tea not realising that Kappa didn’t serve hot green tea.  It wasn’t on the menu.  When the waitress explained this, I quickly apologised and asked for my water glass to be refilled instead.  A few moments later she returned with a steaming hot coffee for my friend and a hot cup of green tea for me.  She had explained that the owner had overheard our conversation (the partitions are very, very thin).  He then instructed her to make me, my first choice.  And it was free! Being in Japan, I’ve definitely had my fair share of random acts of kindness.  But let’s break this particular one down for a moment.  I scored a free hot cup of Japanese green tea, which is not on the menu.  There was no financial gain to Kappa for doing this for me.  They weren’t bound or obligated to fulfil my request.  Instead they made a choice to do this for me, because they wanted to, and because it seemed like a small thing to do at the time, and because I asked.  I don’t really know why.   But I’m extremely grateful at having been the recipient of a good turn.  I know that you won’t get this everywhere in Japan, but I think to get it even once, warrants some applause and acknowledgement.  I’d never get this back home, even if I offered to pay for it.  You just can’t stray from the menu. 

Evidently ‘straying’ is permitted here.  Japanese people are definitely not ‘flouters’ of the rules.  They are a nation of structure and order and very proud of it.  But they are also a country that is charitable and kind-hearted, and that shows more often than not.   Their reputation of such things precedes them.    Yes, businesses here want to generate dosh, but I suppose they’re wise enough to know that serving a free cup of hot green tea for a girl who didn’t bother to look at the menu, is unlikely to put them in the red.   

Yes, English is my first language. No, I don't know everything.

As you may have already deduced, I am an English Teacher in a nation that does not speak English.  It’s a rather glorified title that I fall short of in several areas.  Apart from being a native English speaker, I didn’t actually excel in English at school.  I enjoyed it, but my affections were not reciprocated, for English, as a core school subject, didn’t seem to like me back.  I vaguely remember learning grammar in Primary School (Elementary School), practising writing and printing, reading, answering pointless comprehension questions about the reading, and having at least three spelling tests a week for six years!

From all that, I can honestly say that I can spell (redundant now with spell check), I love to read (who doesn’t?), my penmanship is abysmal (I have been typing all correspondence for years now), I know that ‘i’ comes before ‘e’ except after ‘c’ (still applicable unless you’re texting or using social media which is pretty much all the time) and everything else… just is.

   

I guess it’s the nature of the game that change is constant, as language transforms with such rapid fluidity.  While it is relatively easy to adapt when the language is your own, it’s an entirely different and rather scary affair altogether, trying to impart this knowledge to a non-native speaker, let alone teaching it to them! God! What was I thinking? I think ‘moonlighting’ rather than ‘teaching’ would best describe what I’m doing in Japan.  Many a time I’ve been caught out by my Japanese colleagues with innocent questions about sentence structure and grammar points and all I can come up with is the standard, shamefully inadequate reply, ‘it just is’. 

If I had a dollar for every time I saw a look of confusion etched across a colleagues’ face after uttering those pathetic words, I’d be sunning it up in Bora Bora right now, on a luxury yacht, feasting on traditional Tahitian fare, taking an endless number of ‘selfies’ on the latest smartphone, while tweeting to all and sundry my dramatic list of First World problems. 

Maybe this phrase, closely followed by its’ unabashed definition needs to be included in the current school curriculum? And just what is the definition of this frustratingly absurd phrase? Google doesn’t seem to know.  I checked. 

I imagine that deep in the heart of the Amazon Rainforest, exists a small, black, stone of true insignificance resting idly on the forest floor.  Free from worry and safe from the prying eyes of the annoyingly curious people, to this very day, it has remained unturned.  I believe the elusive definition may be under it.  

Incidentally it’s surrounded by dead cats.   

There once was a panda called Jack, who tried to jump on my back....

One day, I was conducting a lesson to a group of fourth grade students at Elementary School.  These kids were about 9 years old.  The lesson, wasn’t really a lesson, if truth be told.  We ended up playing several games, which is a good introduction for teaching English to children I guess, as learning any new language can be daunting and a bit frustrating at times.    

I was not expecting, however to be given a few life lessons myself in the hour I spent with this spritely class. 

So our first game of the lesson was a very basic variant of the ‘Captain’s Coming’ game.  Colours in English were used in place of the usual commands.  ‘Red’, ‘Yellow’, ‘Blue’ and ‘Green’ were the sides of the classroom, ‘hitting the deck’ was ‘Purple’, jumping up and down was ‘Pink’ and riding piggyback was ‘Orange’.  I had been informed by the Class Teacher at the start of the lesson that one student was absent from school.  The class roll totalled 20 boisterous students, so I made a mental note that as there were only 19 students for the game, whenever I called ‘Orange’, I would pair up with the student left with no partner.   

All 20 students with the exception of one, I would describe as being typically cute and of slight frame and build as one would expect in a Japanese child.  In general, Japanese adults are small. Japanese children however, are microscopically small.  The one child who isn’t, for the purposes of anonymity, we’ll refer to as ‘Jack’.  Jack is cute of course, but of a more generously rotund frame than his peers.  He is absolutely adorable, and reminds me of a baby panda, albeit one who is at least 3 years old.  He is both confident and popular, and a cheeky grin regularly occupies his chubby, wubby face!  If there was a picture of him, framed in a meme, it would have the words ‘Oh, bless!’ written above it.

   

The game begins with a few rounds, so that the students can familiarise themselves with the colours.  In no time, children are seen sprinting from one end of the classroom to the next.  Shrieks of laughter can be heard after each instruction is called out.  Suddenly, I call out ‘Orange!’ as kids are seen frantically scrambling to grab a partner, quickly deciding who will get hitched onto whose back.  I scan the room for the ‘partnerless’ child, when I spot Jack standing on his own, shuffling his feet, contemplatively looking at his friends around him.  Oh, bless!  I call out his name and when he turns to look at me, I gesture for him to come over.  He stands in front of me, and I’m a little surprised that given his popularity, that he was the one left to fly solo.  Facing my back to him, I crouch down and tap my back with my hand, signalling him to jump on.  He hesitates and I turn around to offer him a reassuring smile.  He puts his hands on my shoulders and hops on, and then for the life of me…I can’t stand up!  I couldn’t even raise myself enough so that I could extend my legs to use as leverage.  I had no idea how much this kid weighed.  All I knew was that whatever it was, I couldn’t lift it!  By this time, I was sweating profusely, but despite my efforts, I remained stationary, like a frickin’ statue.  For the love of all things sacred (like my self-respect) someone press play!  I was painfully embarrassed at this point, trying to understand how after years of intermittent exercise and training, I was still sadly lacking in basic human strength! 

If this boy gets treated for depression later in life, the blame will be laid at my feet.  Wouldn’t it have been better to quickly call out the next set of instructions before anyone noticed that he had no partner? Why did you have to try and be a hero?  During this one sided conversation with myself, hapless but heavy Jack hopped off without much difficulty.  He moved to stand beside my crouched figure.  I slowly turned my head, fully expecting to see the tear-stained, broken face of a Panda.  Instead, Jack was grinning and scratching the side of his face.  He then began examining his fingernails for ‘epithilials’ and the grin was promptly replaced with a concentrated look.  Wow.  Just like that, he’d clearly moved on to more interesting things, like the state of his pudgy hands.  A failure of epic proportions, I thought on my part, and this kid could give a shit!  Looking around I noticed some of the class staring back at me, patiently waiting for the next set of instructions, while other children were still tenuously hanging onto the backs of their partners.  All were totally oblivious to my irrational, internal garble of a minute and a half ago.   I quickly stood up and called out ‘Purple!’. The game resumed and ‘Orange’ was permanently shelved.  Jack suffered no flashbacks of the offending incident and counselling was deemed unnecessary as well as highly inappropriate.  I did not lose my job, although was gently advised to ‘chill out’. 

So the life lessons learnt and committed to memory on that day were as follows.  Number one, kids in general, the world over, are a lot more resilient than we adults give them credit for.  Number two, try and get over things as quickly as kids do.  Life need not be so stressful.  And last but not least, Number three, as an adult, try not to ‘over compensate’ when assisting a child.   Your efforts may prove agonisingly disappointing to you and comically irrelevant to them.  Please do not try this at home.  You will only look like a fool. 

'In the end, only kindness matters' - Jewel

The younger generation these days are often portrayed (sometimes justifiably so) as self-absorbed, spoilt little heathens, with a grossly distorted perception that merely having a pulse guarantees you success, wealth and status in the world.  Hardly a glowing reference!

Today, though I was both humbled and relieved to observe a ‘member’ of this group extending kindness and good will to others.  I need to remember not to paint them all with the same tarnished brush.  Generalisations are almost never helpful. 

I was at one of my Elementary Schools, having lunch with the 4^th grade class.  Japanese school lunches are fabulous if you discount their high caloric content!  Who would’ve thought that a bowl of plain white rice could be so spitefully deceptive?  

One of the boys had asked if after lunch I would play Dodgeball with them. Japanese kids go mental over this game!  I reluctantly agreed but my reservations are valid for two reasons.  Number one, I don’t know the rules, although I pretend to and number two, I have visions of getting hit in the face, and dropping ungracefully like a felled tree to the ground, only to be swarmed by little children with their grubby little hands poking and prodding me, while the little boy who threw the ball is sobbing inconsolably in the corner of the playground, waiting for the authorities, wracked with guilt for having killed the teacher.

So while pretending to play Dodgeball, I witnessed several times, the kindness of a 6^thgrade boy for a shiny, new 1^st grader.  How that little body managed to not get trampled on is anyone’s guess.  Japanese children are small anyway but this itsy bitsy scrap of a child looked like he still needed to be swaddled and pushed around in a pram. 

There are two teams in Dodgeball with several rock melon sized balls being thrown about between them.  A line is crudely drawn in the dirt with an obliging foot, to separate the two teams. The aim is to catch the ball on the full or to stop it (in one movement) with your knees.  If you can’t do either, try and ‘dodge’ it.  Whoever has a ball, tries to throw the ball in such a way, that the receiving side cannot catch or stop it.  You’re out if you drop the ball, are hit by the ball, or like me, simply get tired.  That’s the way I understand the game to be governed anyway.  I was impressed to see that many of the kids could throw a ball with both power and accuracy and thankfully my face was not an intended target.   

So I’m standing in the middle of the playground watching this game that I don’t really understand and I see this 6^th grade boy comfortably catch a ball.  Instead of throwing it back he hands the ball off to a small 1^st grade boy, who has largely been ignored by everyone else.  His face lights up, as he runs awkwardly to the line before dispensing the ball to the opposing side.  The throw was hardly spectacular, but you get that when the ball weighs more than you do.  Not knowing what else to do, he quietly retreats to the back.  The 6^th grade boy walks over to him and appears to be instructing him on the rules of the game (if only I could speak Japanese).  The 1^st grade boy quietly nods and the 6^th grade boy pats him on the back.  A few minutes later, a ball flies through the air towards the 6^th grader and the 1^st grader immediately runs to him with arms wide open.  The 6^th grader passes the ball to him again, and this time, with a little more confidence, the 1^st grader runs back up to the line and releases the ball in a throw that only a mother could be proud of.  I thought to myself, what a lovely thing this young boy is doing for an even younger child.  It’s not his brother, I checked.  I have to say Japanese kids are very well behaved and well mannered.  Of course there is the odd tantrum and tears that you would expect in human beings still so young and immature, but on the whole, they are pretty good.  Perhaps it’s a testament to Japanese culture which promotes respect for oneself and others.  It is nice to see. 

I know it may seem like a small thing to write about, but in all honesty, the way the world is going these days, maybe we do need to start ‘sweating the small stuff’ again.  Well the good stuff at least.

Who said Japan was running out of people?

I love Kyoto!  I am extremely grateful that I live in the Kansai Region where the likes of Osaka, Kyoto, Kobe and Nara are only a stones’ throw away from my humble little town (NB:  stones’ throw meaning a one hour car ride, followed by a 2-3 hour journey by train!  In Japan, that’s nothing to write home about, so I don’t.).

During my last trip to Kyoto, I had seen the posters plastered everywhere about a special exhibition coming to town in a few weeks’ time.  The exhibition was Vincent Van Gogh: a Paris Perspective.  The Japanese refer to Van Gogh as ‘Go-ho’, don’t ask me why.  If you said that word with a Glaswegian accent, that’s probably the closest description of how the Japanese say it.  If you try to pronounce it another way, it would sound as if you were chasing off a female, you have little respect for.  Anyway, it’s difficult enough for the Japanese to pronounce Proper Nouns in English let alone have to deal with a highly complex language like Dutch!  Van Gogh’s name contains two sounds that the Japanese find challenging to form at the best of times.  ‘V’ sounds like ‘B’ and ‘F’ sounds like ‘H’.  There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this and I’m sure Google would happily spit something out for you, if you asked nicely.    

So, anyway, I’m looking forward to returning to Kyoto to see the brilliant works of this talented, world renowned artist. 

Well, I returned in a fortnight, and the exhibition was fantastic.  A number of self-portraits and other works painted during Van Gogh’s time in Paris were expertly displayed on the walls of the gallery.   It was well worth the 1400 yen entry fee.  However, I was once again reminded of the ridiculously crazy number of people living here.  Apparently, the population is in decline.  Not that I noticed.  

I did expect to queue up for my ticket.  It is a rare thing indeed to find myself at the front of any line in Japan.  Most often I can barely see the velvet rope.  However, it always works out in the end as it did on this occasion and after a short time of waiting I found myself in front of the ticket counter and out of the rain.  However, what I was not expecting to see was half of Japan already in the gallery!  Shuffling along in a queue is tolerable if you know what’s waiting for you at the end.  Shuffling along in a gallery full of fine artwork that you can’t see because of the countless bodies in front of you is not.  I wanted to get close enough to see the detail of the brush strokes, but my efforts proved futile against the constant stream of people in and around me.  In such an atmosphere, you are not afforded the luxury of staring at a picture till the cows come home.   

On the one hand the scene before me demonstrated art appreciation at its’ monumental best.  On the other hand, appreciating art in a densely populated country like Japan does seem to have its’ drawbacks.   Japanese people love their galleries and museums, and it’s great to see them turn out en masse to support such places.  But attempting to enjoy these experiences alongside them has literally cramped my style.  Freshly pressed clothes are wrinkled in minutes in such close proximity to so many people.   If I had to ‘metaphorise’ it, I would say that it was more like a box of matches rather than a can of sardines.  Everyone conducts themselves in an orderly fashion, eyes front, feet together, while secretly seething inside, that for all their compliant ‘following of the arrows’, they still can’t see a damn thing!  And yet you know for certain that you would walk into a broom cupboard without hesitation if those blasted arrows pointed to one.  Priceless.  

Everything here is on a grand scale, so it’s not a case of the venue being too small.  It’s simply that despite the wide and open spaces of such facilities, there are just too many people to accommodate.  I guess the Japanese are accustomed to attending events where ‘standing room only’ usually applies.  Through their eyes, it is a minor inconvenience that need not spoil everything else. 

I decided at that point that I was going to be pro-active and get up close and personal to these Van Gogh’s.  Being the Year of the Snake, I tried to assume the form of one by slithering around people, and trying to contort my body so that I could fit into the gaps that were left vacant by people that had moved on. 

Imagine, if you will, a non-Japanese woman, significantly taller than the average Japanese person trying and failing miserably at discreetly manoeuvring her way through a room full of Japanese people, as if she was a frickin’ ninja!  It was nothing short of comical but ssssssseveral times my efforts were rewarded and I was ssssssurprised to find myself directly in front of a painting!  While admiring one of Van Gogh’s Self-Portraits, I suddenly remembered that I had the song, ‘Vincent’ by Don McLean on my ipod, in my bag.  Then I did a strange thing, although if truth be told, it wasn’t entirely out of character.  I put my headphones on, powered up my ipod, found the track and pushed play.  I walked around from one room to the next with this depressing song blaring in my ears, as Vincent Van Gogh tracked my movements with his hauntingly sad eyes, from one Self-Portrait to the next. 

Note to Self:  Never do that again.   There’s quirky and then there’s weird.  This is not quirky.