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It's really easy to learn the names of the months in Japanese. Basically, you just need to learn the numbers one through twelve and add the word for month, gatsu, to the end of them. So, January is 1月, or ichi-gatsu. Pretty easy, huh?
What's not so easy is believing that it's already the last day of the first month of 2009! The last thirty-one days have involved traveling in Bali and returning to Japan; finding out that I'm officially invited back to teach for a second year; getting the flu and getting over it; and finally deciding to disregard the guilt and awkwardness of reading books at my desk at school because, let's face it: there's nothing better for me to do.
And, finally, though I'm not as proud of it as I was of my December creation, here's my English bulletin board for January. The light reflecting off the laminated papers makes it a little difficult to see what's on it, but I dedicated the month to information about President Barack Obama and Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
Well, maybe. After all the time that I spent today agonizing over the Wikipedia article on frostbite, I still feel pretty ignorant as to exactly what qualifies as frostbite and at what point it becomes seriously threatening. And let me abate the fears of my parents, who are undoubtedly my most devoted readers, by saying right off the bat that everything turned out okay in the end and that as I'm typing these words I have full feeling in all of my extremities and, as far as I can presume, nothing's going to have to get amputated any time soon.
However.
When I arrived at school this morning, I didn't give a lot of thought to the numbness in my feet. It's cold here in Japan and, as of late, it's quite common for my fingers and toes to get a bit chilled on my morning bike ride to work. But when, an hour-and-a-half later, I still had no feeling in my left big toe, I began to wonder if I should feel alarmed. Mostly, I just felt stupid for not having warmer shoes. Like I said above, I know nothing about frostbite; born and raised in San Diego, California, I remember thinking it was a rare and special occasion if I could see my breath while outside (nowadays it's a rare occasion if I can't see my breath while I'm inside). My ignorance, coupled with my embarrassment at not having upgraded earlier to more adequate footwear, prevented me from mentioning anything to anyone. I just told myself that if I still couldn't feel my toe by lunch time, then I would really start to worry.
I might as well come forward with the already obvious: this is not a very interesting story. By the beginning of third period, my feet were entirely back to normal. And yet, through this experience, I was struck once again by just how starkly different my life in Japan is from anything and everything I've ever known before coming here. As I sat on the floor in the teachers' locker room, poking my toe with my finger and marveling at the way my finger could feel my toe but my toe could not feel my finger, it was another one of those hajimete moments. And, despite my then-fear of ensuing amputation, I couldn't help but feel slightly amused.
And Mom and Dad, rest easy: on my way home from work, I stopped at the store and bought a new pair of boots. They are very warm and should keep my toes nice and toasty on future morning commutes.
So, I'm sitting on my bed in my room, lookin' up stuff on the internets, when suddenly it feels like the earth beneath me has a chill and gives a little shiver. My bed jolts suddenly and violently, followed by a series of smaller, less detectable jolts. Oh the thrill of living in Japan!
I'm always a little surprised and not a little amused when I meet Americans who aren't from California who think that we Californians must have it real rough: what with all the earthquakes we're always having. The truth is, folks (and I hesitate here, for fear that my confession will strike a sudden surge in immigration to California, causing the Golden State to at last buckle beneath the weight of its many inhabitants and finally drop off into the Pacific), that I lived in California for twenty-three years and only once -- that's right once -- in my entire time there did I feel an earthquake. True, I didn't live right above a fault line, and perhaps I'm just not very sensitive to the things. But, in general, Californians don't go through their daily lives agonizing that the ground beneath their feet is unstable. They don't Velcro their china to the shelves. For most Californians, earthquakes just don't occupy a lot of space in their daily thoughts.
Before I came to Japan, I'd felt one earthquake in my life. Since moving to Japan, I've felt...well, lots. And I love it! There's something truly exhilarating about being reminded that the earth beneath you is big and powerful and constantly moving and changing. I think I often take the earth for granted. When I feel an earthquake, it's as if the earth is saying, "I'm here. I'm quite large. Don't forget me."
Okay, I won't.
When it rains in the morning, I have the option of taking a taxi to school on the Board of Education's tab.
Yesterday morning when I left my house, it was not raining. There were ominous clouds in the sky; but, no rain, no taxi. So I hopped on my bike and took off, already running a bit late for my visit to Yamazaki Minami Elementary School.
I wasn't more than two minutes from home when I started to feel the gentle patter of light precipitation on my cheeks and forehead (the only parts of me that were exposed, since the rest of me was securely bundled up against the biting cold). I considered just turning around right then and calling taxi from home; but, for some reason, I'm really stubborn when it comes to riding my bike and I don't like to take a taxi unless it's absolutely necessary (i.e. typhoon), so I just pressed on.
I was cycling like mad in the hopes of making it to school on time (I'd managed to get out the door about fifteen minutes later than I should have), so although my fingers and toes were numb with cold, my torso was sweating profusely. I panted heavily as icy droplets of rain continued to strike my face.
I was about half-way to school when looked down at my arms and realized, with great shock and amazement, "It's not rain, it's snow!" I was riding my bike in the snow! Wet snowflakes had accumulated on the arms of my jacket. They were sparse and very melty, yet unmistakable as snow nonetheless. I became aware of the fact that I was laughing, loudly and delightedly and probably much to the wonder and discomfort of the high school students who passed me going the opposite way on their bikes. At this precise moment, the word that sprung to mind was: hajimete, "for the first time." It was my first time riding a bike in the snow, and I doubt it will be the last.
In other news, on Tuesday I returned from my winter vacation to South Asia. Having spent two weeks surrounded by people from countries in which strangers are friendly and nearly everyone speaks English makes returning to life in Moka especially difficult. But as I look back fondly on my time spent in Thailand, Malaysia, and Indonesia, I feel my experiences have left me feeling refreshed and determined to face my job again with renewed energy and optimism.
For more on my travels to Bangkok, Chiang Mai, Kuala Lumpur, and Bali, please see my Picasa web page.
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