FIRST BLOG FOR A LONG TIME: WHAT HAPPENED IN 2016 AND THEN SOME

I know. I barely blog anymore. Last entry was... let me check... yikes! December 30th, 2015. I missed all of 2016 and over half of 2017! That's 20 months! My bad...? I've started the occasional blog post here in Japan, but I've only published two total, and the rest are lingering in draft form with varying amounts of paragraphs and to different degrees of completion.

So, um, 2016. What a year. A year with a lot of ups and downs and a lot going on. I guess I could give the synopsis version of last year, because even if I didn't do any blogging, there's plenty worth mentioning.

In fact, I've got a lot to talk about in general. I've written this in bits and pieces, and not consecutively at all. I'm going to break into parts; don't feel like you need to read it all in one sitting. I know I wouldn't.


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PART ONE: WHAT I DID IN 2016

January: Back to Tokyo for semester two of my first year at Canadian International School Tokyo.

Late February / early March: Applied for the position of PYP Coordinator at my school for the next year and got it! This position is like an elementary curriculum coordinator, but specifically for International Baccalaureate's Primary Years Programme. It makes me responsible for implementing the PYP properly at our school.

Late March / early April: Sarah came to visit for spring break! My dear old friend Sarah (we've been close friends for twenty years now) came to Japan for a week as her school's spring break overlapped with mine. The short version of that week is that we started in Tokyo, visited Fuji (didn't climb it though,) went to Kyoto, and then headed back to Tokyo. We visited many shrines, ate lots of local food, and just managed to see a few early-blooming cherry blossoms. It's just a fraction of all the worthwhile things to see in Japan, so maybe she can come back again some time.

Spring break was two weeks long, however, and Sarah's visit happened the first week. After that I went off to southern Thailand by myself. Shayne and I had discussed travelling together, but it never happened. She went to Taiwan and I went to Phuket (pronouced "pu-kett" - get your mind out of the gutter.) I visited Bangkok and northern Thailand in October 2012, and briefly found myself there again in 2014 when Nicole and I flew into Bangkok to take a bus to Laos, but I hadn't been to the southern part of the country yet. The rough stereotype is that the north is culture and hill treks, the south is beaches and parties. So I went with the idea that I was only going to relax on the beach and go scuba diving if I could, and not worry about soaking up the culture. All in all, I made plenty of new friends at my hostel and had a great week. And I did get to go scuba diving and even saw a cultural site to boot - the Phuket Big Buddha.

May: The second semester at our school goes much faster than the first. Usually we have no vacation time in the fall, and then three weeks off in spring. Besides the two weeks for spring break, we also have a week off for something called Golden Week. There are a bunch of Japanese holidays that all fall closely together, so usually everyone gets the whole week off. I stayed in Tokyo and took it easy, but I did do one overnight trip to Matsumoto where I rented a bike, saw an old castle, visited a wasabi farm!

May and June: Back at school, Shayne and I were preparing like crazy for the PYP Exhibition. It's the final project of elementary school in PYP schools, so as the the Grade 5 teachers, we had a lot of work to do. The students pick a topic they're interested in and research about it. It's more than just a book report though; they usually pick something broad that they can investigate and take action on. Our kids picked the topics of bullying, earthquake relief, climate change, the impact of technology, disease in poor countries, and endangered animals. They worked really hard and their exhibitions turned out great!

Late June: We had PYP Exhibition, 5th grade graduation, and then it was the end of the year. Our last instructional days were during the 3rd week of June and then teachers had in-service and housekeeping on the 4th week. I said good-bye and see you next year to co-workers at the end-of-year staff party, and headed home as soon as I could, July 1st. Got stuck in Toronto (or, technically, a Mississauga airport hotel) overnight as my flight was cancelled for some reason. I was all right with the situation - even got to see Canada Day fireworks from my window! - until I found out I wasn't given enough of a money voucher to cover both dinner and breakfast. Because stuff happens, flights get cancelled, but I shouldn't have to pay out of my own pocket to feed myself, of all things, when it's Air Canada's fault. Since then, I've been sticking to the direct MSP to Tokyo flight from Delta. 

July and August: At home, enjoying the Minnesota summer!

Late August: Back to Tokyo for year two at CIS. Teachers arrived during the last week of August and students came back the first week of September. I adjusted to my new role as PYP Coordinator and transformed the old PYP office into something much cheerier than it had been before. It now looks like half office, half classroom, because I teach my language support classes in there too. This past year (2016-2017) I taught a group of 2nd graders and a combined group of 4th and 5th graders. My day consisted of admin stuff in the mornings and language support (i.e. ELL classes) in the afternoons, with some PYP meetings after school as well. It was a great schedule and one I hope to have next year too.

September: With a slight shift in our school calendar, we suddenly got a three day weekend! Shayne, Chantelle and I decided to visit to Seoul, South Korea that weekend, which is only an hour's flight from Tokyo. Shayne taught there from 2014-2015 so she acted as our tour guide. We went to Gyeongbokgung Palace, ate Korean barbecue, and even visited a sheep cafe! (Buy something at the cafe, pet the cafe's sheep afterward. They were ever so fluffy.)

October: Got to go to Singapore for a PYP three-day training. It was a class called "Role of the Coordinator" and not only was it great to meet other people who have my same job, but I got to see Mildred!

November and December: The long haul to winter break. We haven't usually had a fall break, but it's in the calendar for next year at least. I don't have much to report on, other than all the world politics going on, which is what the rest of the blog will be about.

That's just 2016. I'll save 2017 for another time.

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PART TWO: EXPERIENCING AMERICAN DEMOCRACY AND GLOBAL POLITICS WHILE LIVING IN JAPAN

The fact of the matter is, I do live in something of an expat bubble. Not knowing Japanese, I can't read the local newspaper or watch the news.

It's kind of embarrassing, but after two years, I know far less Japanese than the amount of Indonesian I knew after two years in Jakarta. There are three alphabets, I speak English all day long for my job, and well, it's difficult! My Japanese vocabulary consists of words and phrases like: water, beer, tea, coffee, tuna, ramen, chopsticks, bridge, road, river, rain, enter, exit, north, south, east, west, please, thank you, thank you very much, pardon, excuse me, etc... I know the words for red, white, blue, and green, but I don't know any other colors. I learned the word yes right away, but no is trickier for some reason. Some of these words I can speak but can't write or read, and some I can read, but can't pronounce. For example, this is the word for rain: 雨 It looks like raindrops falling! But I don't know how to say it. I see that character and hear the word "rain" in my head. Another example is: 切, which is on many of the appliances in my apartment. I have no idea how to pronounce it, but I know that it's next to the off switch on all those appliances, so in my mind it's simply "off". On the other hand, I use the phrase "arigatōgozaimasu" or, thank you very much, on a daily basis, but couldn't write or read it. I have to admit, it's kind of frustrating being this illiterate. I'm working on learning the alphabets, but it's hard. I would probably benefit from taking a class. But... I digress. My point is that I sadly miss out on a lot of Japanese news and information because of this, even with a fair amount of English signage around.

I do have access to the Japan Times and Tokyo Weekender though, which are published in English. It's nice that in such a big city you can actually find relevant English resources. They can bridge the gap between English language and Japanese culture. However, my Facebook feed is almost entirely based on my American life, and most of the people I talk to in a day are expats too. I try my best to observe and absorb some of the political culture around me, international or local. It's almost always interesting.


HAVING CONVERSATIONS

Politics is constantly in the news. American politics are on Japanese TV but we also get the news from the internet: Facebook, Youtube, online newspapers, the Daily Show, podcasts, and everything else. I often listen to NPR through my phone as I walk to school. And we talk about it... a lot. And as expats from many different countries, we have different perspectives on different issues. I don't remember exactly when the following conversation happened, but it was probably in October last year. Some time before the election.

A particular colleague of mine (Colleague A) was going on at some length about American politics and what a shame it was and generally "mansplaining" all about it. I hesitate the use the word, because it's a bit too gendered in my opinion. (Women can "mansplain" too, and is it really a fair term?) However, this was an instance of that phenomenon in it's truest form: a middle-aged man going on about a topic he admittedly knows something about, but with an authority that far exceeds what he actually knows, for the benefit of the poor, uneducated listeners.

We were in two groups at the pub, sitting next to each other but having two separate conversations. My ears picked up at the sound of a spirited political discussion. I heard the rampant "mansplaining" and came over to join in. Anyone who knows me well knows that my default mode is one of polite diplomacy. However, when I hear things that are just truly ridiculous, I hold the speaker accountable. Especially if it's a mix of the ridiculous and the offensive. For better or worse, I often give people the benefit of the doubt for far too long and then snap into full-on debate mode. This was one of those times.

I'm one of three Americans at my school. So most of the time, when I discuss politics, it's with people who aren't American and haven't lived there. That's not a problem. The world follows American politics (it's just the way of things) and people from all over like to chime in with their thoughts, questions, and opinions. It leads to some great discussions! This was different, however, because it crossed some sort of subtle line. A conversation with two other colleagues (B and C, we'll call them) later clarified it. You know how you can criticize your own family and it's okay, but when someone else does, it's suddenly not? When you do it, it's normal grumbling and complaining. When someone else tries to do the same, it becomes an unacceptable insult. You don't get to criticize other people's families. You're not a part of it, you don't get a say. You can be well-informed. You can observe. You can even comment. But you don't get to pretend you're an insider when you're not. And Colleague A was doing this. Not an American himself, and having never lived in the US, he was opining about the election and the forces behind it with a level of assumed authority that approached arrogance.

So I stepped in and put an end to it with facts and a no-nonsense approach. And it worked because I'm well-informed, I'm thoughtful and analytical, and I'm an insider. Colleague A thought he had commentative carte blanche; however, as fascinating as our current politics are, please don't act like you have some deep understanding of the US if you've never even lived there. Weeks later, Colleague B told me that it was rather gratifying to watch it all unfold. I couldn't help but feel somewhat proud at that.

I hope that doesn't sound vindictive. It's just that, of all things, being an expat has made me something of an American apologist. I know, it's weird, and really unexpected. Tell the truth, I have plenty of criticisms about American politics and culture at the moment (which you will hear later) but there is also a voice in me that wants to shout, "Our country is complex! We don't always make the right decisions, and criticism might be due, but please! Do it thoughtfully!"

That episode was an exception to the norm though. Although some people can be insensitive, and there can be the occasional interaction that makes me cringe, the majority of conversations and interactions are very respectful. People are fascinated (and horrified) by what they see, and of course they want to talk about it.

America has a huge amount of power and resources, and, I think, a moral obligation to use both wisely. So we get held to a higher standard and are subject to the worlds' eyes on us, resulting in tons of attention, analysis, criticism, and commentary.

I believe America deserves the analysis it receives because - like it or not - we're still a hegemonic power in the word and it's really, really important for America to be held accountable by the international community. But I think those on the outside making the analysis, criticism, and commentary might feel spectacularly uncomfortable if they suddenly found their countries receiving the same sort of treatment. For example, I wonder how my Canadian colleagues would feel if an equivalent amount of airtime and media energy was spent dissecting the politics and policies of Ottawa.

It's easy to throw in your two cents when it comes to criticizing a powerful country like the U.S. It's also deserved, and important, but please, be mindful and make sure you actually know what you're talking about.


INTERNATIONAL REACTIONS

Let me draw a comparison between the perception of America in Indonesia versus Japan, as I've experienced it at least. It's not a totally fair comparison because Indonesia was then (i.e. Obama) and Japan is now (i.e. Trump.) But, I think I can pick out a few key points about how the two countries perceive America. Unfortunately, there are things about both that make me uneasy.

In Indonesia, it seemed like America was a "shining city upon a hill" to an exaggerated, uncomfortable degree. Those old myths about streets paved with gold could almost be believed if you learned all you knew about America in Indonesia. It was almost like it wasn't a real place, only a place of celebrity and myth, not a place where people actually lived and died and struggled. That celebrity status seemed flattering on the outside, but was actually shallow and insulting too.

In Japan, there is a lot more criticism, some of it warranted, some of it not. There's friendliness and coolness both. Japan and Minnesota have this in common: outward politeness masking inward conservatism. People here are very polite and nice; they're helpful to foreigners, smile at you, talk kindly with you, and... don't rent out their apartments to you and put you in the furthest corner of the restaurant, even when you and your friends are early enough to beat the dinner rush. (We call this the "foreigner corner." It rhymes! It's fun! ... Kind of...) Those things apply to how all foreigners are treated though. Concerning US expats, overall, people in Japan (as elsewhere in the world) mark a different between the US government and individual Americans. At least they do currently.

A good handful of my colleagues and friends have been in Japan through the Bush and Obama administrations. Those who have - both Americans and non-Americans - say that there was more anger, condemnation, and blaming during the Bush administration. American citizens were held personally responsible for what Washington did. But that's not the case anymore. The Trump administration is a different beast. A truly scary and unpredictable one. The overwhelming feeling these days isn't distaste, it's disbelief and pity.

In his speech about America's withdrawal from the Paris Agreement, Trump said that the world won't laugh at the US anymore. Guess what? I'm out there in "the world." Nobody is laughing at us. They're looking at us with shock and genuine concern, saying, "Hey, you guys ok? What is going on over there? And when do we need to start panicking?" You can believe that the recent heightened tensions with North Korea have Japan on edge, and some places have taken up "duck and cover" like drills again. This idea that the world laughs at America is paranoid and simply false. The fact of the matter is, the world is watching us with one raised eyebrow and bated breath.


BEING PART OF DIFFERENT COMMUNITIES

One really nice thing about living in Tokyo is that the expat population is huge. According to a very unofficial Google search I did just now, over 51,000 Americans live in Japan and about 17,000 live in Tokyo. And supposing those numbers are at least ball-park-accurate, the number of Americans in my current city outnumbers the town where I grew up. And being expats, we tend to be fairly tuned into current events and global issues that might affect us and others. And that means opportunities to vote, participate, organize, and resist.

On the official end of things, I joined Democrats Abroad, which gave me a chance to vote in the
primaries, which was very nice! I also sent my election ballot by mail to Ramsey County election headquarters and then celebrated the fact that I can exercise my democratic rights even when not in the US in person. On the unofficial end of things, there have been post-election protests. I've only been to one so far, but I'm glad that there are opportunities at all to join in and make my voice heard.

For a brief period it felt like it might be a new protest every week. Shayne and I went and marched from Hibiya Park to Roppongi for the Women's March. We chanted in English and Japanese both and followed a path laid out for us by the police. We were some of the first to march because of where we are in the world (time-zone wise) and it felt good to share that with an ad hoc community. After the the travel ban was put in place, another colleague and I were going to protest, but we missed that one unfortunately. Protests have to be cleared with the police and they had a weird window of time in the morning, so we couldn't make it. But whether in Tokyo or Minnesota, I try to keep one ear to the ground; I'd like to be ready to jump into action if need be.

I really love America, and ultimately, it's my home, but Japan is safer and more stable right now. Sometimes it feels silly to live and resist from so far away, but I have a good and comfortable life and many communities that I love. Being an expat means walking two worlds, and I feel that acutely these days. Family, friends, I have to be honest with you: I'm not really interested in living in the United States while Trump is president. I will eventually come back to the US, but not now.

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PART THREE: WHAT THE HELL?!

So, why didn't I write any blog posts for about a year and half? Because I really only write when I feel like it. I got complacent and didn't feel a need to record my experiences. But I found myself writing again out a desperate need for catharsis after the election. What you will read below are my thoughts from the Saturday, November 12th, following the election, when I found myself with too much time on my hands and too much anger to handle at a Model UN Conference. My students were busy in their sessions while we coaches and supervising teachers were hanging out in the library of India International School Japan, the hosts of the conference. Talk turned to the election pretty quickly, and there was much to say. But when the conversation eventually faded and we all turned to our own school work and computers, I still had to get my thoughts out. I pulled up Google Blogger and started a new entry. Like almost every blog entry I write, it started with an apology for not blogging more and an explanation of why I hadn't. It began very much like this very paragraph, in fact.

So this blog post has been in storage for quite a while. Certain events in the past months have prompted me to pull it out again, read it, add on, and edit it. Events such as the verdict in the Philando Castile case, and more recently, the violence in Charlottesville. The feeling of catharsis I get from writing is necessary and therapeutic. Maybe this blog is an angry fist-shake at the universe. New events give me an emotional push and the old draft form of the blog post gets a shove and sees the light of day.

In June, the Philando Castile verdict came out and my heart broke again, prompting another update of this blog post. Maybe someday it will be the name of someone I know on the news. Maybe it will be a former student who gets shot. It's not all that unbelievable. There are patterns here, and if past behavior is the top predictor of future behavior, what's to say it won't just keep on happening?

Last week, the vile resurgence of neo-Nazis in America was in the news. Maybe they've been there all along, but now they feel emboldened, like their hour has come. I find it sickening that Americans are committing acts of terror against other Americans, and all the more sickening that our president can't quite bring himself to roundly condemn them. What does give me hope is that there are more people upset and stirred to action against racism than there are people who actually want to march under a banner of hate.

It's all I can do to keep myself strong and not succumb to bitterness and anger myself. (Because, as a wise old jedi said once, I'm pretty sure it leads to the dark side.) It's difficult, and I don't always succeed, but I try to feel the anger and then let it go.

This blog - in general, I mean, not this particular blog post - is meant to share my experiences abroad. I began this blog to share my travels in Indonesia, and now Japan, not to voice my views on current events.  You might asked, "Why bother? The election was over nine months ago." Well, because, this is just so big, and things are not starting to feel normal. As I mentioned before, I wrote this originally for myself, but these are weird times we live in and I think this piece of writing is still relevant. I have a strong desire to put my voice out there.

I've put it an another font to establish that this was written in the days following the election. I'll let November-2016-me rant and August-2017-me will edit it only very lightly. If I sound angry in this rant, it's because I am. And if my words make you angry, I hope it will be a good sort of anger, not a bitter one, and that you'll continue reading to the end.


I write when I feel moved to. And what's moving me now? Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, though no acceptance as of yet. Yes, I'm referring to the - abominable in my opinion - results of the US election four days ago. What the hell America?!

Can I just vent a little bit? Like a lot of people, I'm asking myself "How did this happen?" Who are all these people who voted for Trump? And why? I suppose there are a lot of reasons. I don't want to immediately gravitate to issues of racism, misogyny, and homophobia, but honestly, these are forefront in my mind.

I would still like to believe that the hardcore white nationalists, the KKK sympathizers, the alt-right are a minority in our country. I know they are. I think a lot of people may have voted Trump / Pence because they want to burn the system down, they want to "drain the swamp," or they still believe - incredibly - the Trump's business resume is somehow relevant. But that means a whole hell of a lot of people cast of vote of support - active or passive - for those radical, dangerous, repugnant ideas, because, let's be honest, those ideas are intrinsically tied up with the Trump train. A vote to "drain the swamp" is a vote for racism, and a vote to burn the system down is a vote for homophobia, and a vote for Trump's stance on the economy, or trade, or any other issue, is a vote for misogyny. It's all tied up together. 

Truly, you never get a perfect candidate who will represent everything you want. All candidates have flaws and baggage, so we usually take the bad with good. But Trump is so repugnant, so far beyond the pale, that I believed his moral shortcomings would be enough for people to reject him wholesale. And... technically, most people did. More people voted for Clinton than Trump, which is a tiny bit of comfort, but it wasn't by all that much. I am dismayed not only by the way the electoral college has skewed the democratic process, but by the fact that it was that close! This outrages me. Not the fact that radical right-wing fascism exists, but that roughly half of the people who voted on Tuesday could give their endorsement to any form or expression of it.

[Note: Clinton's lead grew quite a bit since I first wrote this. Doesn't really diminish my outrage though. First of all, I would have liked to have seen Trump utterly trounced. That was never very likely, though. Still, it's very frustrating that the principle of "one person, one vote" doesn't hold any weight, because through the electoral college, votes from certain states truly do count more than those from other states.

My numbers were a bit off at the time of writing because not everything had been tallied then. Now, the count stands at Clinton with 65,844,954 popular votes and Trump with 62,979,879. A nearly 3 million vote lead might sound big at first, but out of (what I believe is) almost 100 million eligible votes or thereabouts, it seems dismal to me. Below, I used the figure 59,000,000 as Trump's popular vote count because that was the most accurate at that time.]

We don't have 59,000,000 members of the KKK in America, but we do, apparently, have 59,000,000 people who are willing to vote for the same man wholeheartedly endorsed by the KKK. This isn't right. 

But...

It happened. It is done. And I have had a knot in the bottom of my stomach since they colored Florida in red. 

As the election results rolled in, I was talking to my friends via Facebook and there was palpable fear in the words of the messages we sent back and forth. We felt sick. We were scared. The disgust and fear was rising in us like the taste of bile. And I don't want to hear for one moment that this is any kind of over-reaction. 

Here is a man who makes me sick to my stomach and I feel all the more sick when I think that almost half of the country cast their ballots for him. It feels like a giant slap in the face. It feels like a giant "f*** you." It's not just a matter of seeing my preferred candidate lose. That's frustrating but tolerable. This is something else. Donald Trump has said many terrible, repugnant things about many groups of people. I am outraged at the hatred directed toward Muslims, Latinos, the LGBT community, women, African Americans, and veterans (let's not forget the gross insults hurled at the Khan family and John McCain.) [Seriously, how was his campaign not over the moment he called Mexicans rapists and criminals or when he disparaged John McCain's military service to our country. I still don't get it!] I only belong to one of those groups, however, so I will speak directly to Trump's attitude toward women. Let me be very frank. The reason I say this feels like a giant "f*** you" is because should it ever happen that I was sexually assaulted - say, for example, a gross old man grabbed me by my... crotch - about half the country would say, "Well, 'que sera, que sera.' These things can't be helped. At least that gross old man wasn't using a private e-mail server." 

Passive acceptance of immoral behavior is equivalent to endorsement. I don't think it's extreme to say about half the country doesn't care about me or if I ever get sexually assaulted. Clearly it's not that big of a deal. 

[The fact that I should have to spend any time or energy denouncing sexual assault, or those who think it's acceptable, is ridiculous. It. Is. Not. Okay.]

How can I trust that this country cares about me - or the dignity of all Americans - anymore? This is a moral line in the sand. I'm a pretty diplomatic person, but there's a time and place to draw those lines. I believe this is one of those times. 

There is also the gross injustice of it all. If there's a woman you love in your life, I guarantee, she can remember the time, when, as a little girl, she learned that to be female is to be inferior. That girls aren't expected to do what boys can do, that sometimes they're not allowed to, and that women have been held back and treated like second class citizens for centuries. Children have such a strong sense of justice; I think as girls it outrages us to our core to know that people hate us for who we are. As we get older we learn to cope with the injustices of the world, and perhaps push that outrage down. But we still know it's there. Part of the way we, or at least I, cope with sexism is the belief that things are getting better. You hear it in the words of elementary-aged girls who reflexively say, "In the olden days it was bad, but now we have equal rights!" Now, we can work jobs! We can be engineers! We can be ambassadors! Still might not be making equal pay, but maybe it's on its way? So maybe, finally, we can be presidents too? Nope... Guess that was a bridge too far. 

You don't have to like Hillary Clinton. A lot of people don't, and for many good reasons. She's a typical politician who comes with a lot of baggage. I understand how people might not like her as a candidate, but you'd have to be blind to not see the injustice of a loudmouth, blustery man with no job experience getting a promotion above a woman who is extremely qualified, competent, and hard-working. As I said before, it is personal, and it is a slap in the face. 

This is one of three times in my life that I have received a shock to my system so severe that it will have changed me permanently. A gut punch that will leave an impact on my psyche and outlook forever. 

The first instance was when I was 12. September 11th brought war and terrorism crashing down around me and shattered a good portion of my childhood innocence. That was another time when fear and hatred were palpable. I couldn't understand the carnage or the hatred in the hearts of the people who had made it happen. I distinctly remember hearing planes flying overhead that night - after a no-fly rule had been immediately imposed - knowing that whatever I was hearing was official and terrifying. Things were never quite the same after that. 

The second instance was the shooting death of Trayvon Martin, which shattered the idea that I was living in a post-racial society. Memories of the story of Emmett Till - another boy murdered by adult men, his mutilated, bloody body left for all to see in an open casket - came flooding back to me and my eyes were opened to the fact that so little has changed in sixty years. My heart broke deeply and I came to realize that racial tension isn't necessarily getting worse, it's just that I'm now seeing more of it. And as the years pass (Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, Freddie Gray, Eric Garnder, Philando Castille) I all too frequently cry in rage and despair as I think about black students I've taught, happy, dorky, innocent little kids, who might face violence just because the world sees black bodies as inherent threats. 

And now, with this, I feel a level of shame, fear, disgust, and outrage I have never known before. I'm an optimistic and kind-hearted person. My natural state is to think well of others and love the world. It hurts, very badly, when this natural state gets crushed. September 11th taught me that it is possible to hate an entire nation and mass murder its people. Trayvon Martin's murder taught me that racial hatred is unfortunately alive and well. And now, this election has taught me that about half the country just doesn't care that much about the wholesale racial profiling of entire groups of people, the banning of an entire religion, the dignity of war veterans or people with disabilities, or the sexual assault of women. How is this possible?! It hurts very badly indeed. 


I was feeling such despair when I wrote that, it felt like my emotions might just let loose like an earthquake. How am I feeling now? Less bitter on some days, but no less outraged. That pit in the bottom of my stomach hasn't really gone away. I still feel sick. On other days, new events - such as the ones I mentioned above - reopen raw feelings. 

I shouldn't be so surprised at what's come out of the woodwork. I grew up in a town that had a lot of apprehension and intolerance towards people of color, non-Christians, LGBT folks, anyone out of the mainstream really. Racial and homophobic slurs were heard all too commonly and used with a lot of purpose too. So it shouldn't surprise me that there are some seriously dark strains of hatred out there.

The thing that deals a harsher blow is that my opinion of my own country is just not what it used to be. The idea that we're all equal, that we're living in modern, progressive times, that there's "liberty and justice for all," well... it's true to a degree. But not in the way I used to believe in it. 

I must admit, there is a sense of childhood betrayal, even at the age of 28. As kids we were told of the American Dream; we were told that we are all created equal, that we live in the freest nation in the world, that prejudice and discrimination were the worst things that could happen. (You wonder why millennials are more open-minded than previous generations? There's historical precedence for this, yes, but I also cite years of social studies curriculum that actively taught equality and anti-discrimination values. You can't just teach that for years and not have it sink in to a degree.) We were told that you, yes you, can achieve anything you want if you believe in it. Those ideas are still largely hardwired, but there is a growing sense that these were not truths so much as feel-good-statements. They were meant to bolster confidence rather than illuminate reality. That's true for me at least, but I wonder if it isn't true for much of my generation as well.

The "participation-trophy-generation" were told that no matter who you are or where you come from, the reward for participating in society and the economy would be a good job, a happy, healthy life, respect and dignity, you know, the usual stuff. Turns out, that's a myth. I have choicer words in mind, but let's call it a myth for now. This nation is still as prejudiced against minorities, women, and the poor as its ever been. In fact, it seems hate crime is on the rise.

But for the life of me, I can't figure out if things are actually getting worse or if this is just the process of getting older and realizing the world is bleaker than you thought. It may also be that, as a white, Christian kid, I was sheltered from the worst of the racial injustice this country has to offer. I suspect that there are growing cracks in my protective shell of white privilege. Am I catching a glimpse of what it's like out there, outside the relative safety of a suit of fair-colored skin? Because what I'm seeing disturbs me to my core.

Of course, it's a fact that we're making progress over the centuries. But I also believe we've taken a large jump back, and it's going to be all the more struggle to move forward again. I honestly used to believe in the American Dream. These days...? It's just not there anymore. I guess I grew up. I could have told you that "life isn't fair" from the time I was five, but it's only now that I'm seeing and feeling it with such a deep, emotional weight. And I haven't even faced all that much injustice myself! It's just that the cultural and political climate of the past couple of years have really shone a spotlight on things.

As I've said, this a personal journey for me and I suppose some will say, "You're just realizing this now?!" I probably should have known better. My rose-colored glasses have fallen off one eye, and now the other, and I'm just going to leave them off. 

When you're young you see the world through your beliefs. As you grow up, you color your perspective through experience and evidence. I won't lie, I don't see any evidence that the American Dream, and American democracy, are anything other than on life-support. I'd be willing to bet, too, that a number of Trump-voters agree with me. We all know that we're suffering. The difference lies in what we think the nature of it is, why we think it's happening, and what needs to be done about it.

An ivory-towered, narcissistic bully, a megalomaniac billionaire who knows nothing and cares less, is President now. Don't look away, because you know that's right. He's the last person in the world who deserves it, but we put him there because we're scared and angry. We should be deeply ashamed of ourselves. 

CHRISTMAS UPDATE - OR, SOME STUFF FROM THE LAST FOUR MONTHS IN TOKYO

Haven't sat down to write a blog in ages it seems. Indeed, apparently it was almost four months ago that I wrote my first, and so far only, blog from Japan. And now it's past Christmas and I'm trying to get this blog post out before 2015 turns into 2016. Seems like a good day to do so. It's finally started to snow and now it seems properly cold and cozy and winter-like. I like the ice and cold and snow. It's been a chilly 45-55 F in Tokyo and I expect it will be about the same when I get back. Here in White Bear Lake it's about 20-30 F. Much better for winter, and yet not too cold.

There are a couple of reasons I haven't been blogging. One reason is that from August to December we've been marching forward with almost no breaks. It's just been a progression of weeks with winter break as end-goal. There was Silver Week early on, which would have been a five-day weekend except that elementary teachers were at an IB professional development from Sunday to Tuesday, leaving just Wednesday off before classes resumed on Thursday. Silver Week refers to three Japanese holidays that occur very close together at the end of September. Sometimes the stars align and all three holidays come in immediate succession and join with a weekend. 2015 was one of those years. The next is 2026. Thanks CIS for helping me celebrate my first and possibly only five-day Silver Week with extra doses of pedagogy and best practice techniques.

The professional development wasn't all bad though. First of all we got to visit Yokohama for the three-day workshop and and even if it did feel like a bit of an extension of Tokyo, it was somewhere new and exciting for me anyway. The second night some teacher friends and I went out to eat in the Chinatown district and the next night we ate barbecue that was just as good as what you'd get at home. By the way, Yokohama International School, based on outward appearances anyway, looks like the stuff of teacher-dreams. Someday, if I'm very good, maybe I'll be there. Second of all, it was rather fun to meet other international school teachers. Some have been in Japan for ages and some had just arrived. I got to chat with a good number of people, including one who passed me contact information for an agent / realtor who specializes in helping foreigners find apartments in Tokyo. Having contacts is so useful! After my friend Shayne and I got our new apartments through him we later got a modest payment back for recommending him to someone else.

The only other break we've had was Labor Day, in late November. It's certainly true that I could take more initative to go exploring on the weekends, and sometimes I do go and explore new parts of Tokyo, but more often than not I'm sleeping in, buying groceries, and going not much further than a few stops down the Yamanote Line if I go anywhere at all. It was nice to have the three day weekend to do all of those things and make it out of Tokyo for a day trip as well. That weekend, Shayne and I decided to go to Kamakura for the day.

I feel I should explain who my friend Shayne is. The two of us have become quite close very quickly. In fact, early on people asked if we had known each other previously, but we only met in August. We are the 5th grade teachers and sometimes teach together and swap classes. She's from British Columbia and this is her second year of teaching, making me the slightly-more veteran teacher, which, believe me, was a new and weird feeling at first. But we're both new to CIS and find ourselves figuring stuff out together quite a bit. It's good we get along so well because we see a lot of each during the day. It's also nice to have a friend in the same building but I'm glad I have my own apartment. They're too small to share, and anyway it's nice to have space. But... I digress... Back to the day trip to Kamakura.

Kamakura is south of Yokohama and only takes about an hour by train. Using some sort of directions from the internet we hopped on board a fancy looking train at Shinagawa station. It was exciting! Us headed out of Tokyo, bound for a day of adventure, zipping along on a snazzy looking train. Soon after depature, however, a man came along the corridor and stopped in front of us, asking for our tickets. Um... er... tickets? We sheepishly flashed our commuter pass cards, called a Suica card, and hoped it would work. It did not. We were told to get off the train at the next stop and get on a local train. We had ended up on some sort of fancy express train too good for the likes of us and our humble commuter passes. (By the way, a Suica card is not just useful, but essential in Tokyo. I've had one from the start. It can be purchased for a specific route which you can travel as many times as you want during the month, with credit added on for any other routes you might take. The train system is a bit complicated at times because there're about a half dozen companies that run the different lines, but most of them accept a Suica card which will automatically deduct credit when you flash it in front of the sensors at the turnstile.) We were somewhere headed south out of Tokyo, but we didn't really know where we were when we got off. We didn't even know what train to take next. When the next local train pulled up we saw a double-decker carriage that came to a stop right in front of us - the so-called "Green Car".

"Do you think we can get on this one?" "I don't know. It's worth a try." Double-decker train carriages are pretty fancy for the likes of us, but we decided to try anyway. It was 50% ignorance and 50% audacity to see if we could get away with it. We found a couple of empty seats in the upper half and marveled at how comfortable said seats were, with such views out the windows. Ah! What luxury! They sure know how to travel in Japan!

We knew we were probably in the wrong section because every other person was sitting beneath a green LED light and the lights above us were red. And it's just universal, is it not, that green is yes and red is no, green is go and red is stop, green is right and red is wrong? And you don't have to speak Japanese to get the feeling that you are once again freeloading from the fancy-people's train carriage. Should we swipe our Suica cards next to that plastic bit by the light? Would that even work? We let the menacing red LED lights be and enjoyed watching the scenery pass for many miles before someone came around selling snacks and noticed that the two white girls in the Green Car looked slightly suspicious and out of place. Did we have our tickets? Um... er... does this Suica count?

And that's how we found ourselves getting kicked off of two trains in less than a hour's time. We didn't have to actually leave this train but we did get kicked out of the Green Car. We went as far as we thought we could but the door between carriages said it was to remain closed while moving. So we sat dutifully. The snack ladies followed up however, yanked the door open, and saw us into the standing-room only commuter car with the other plebeians before yanking the door closed again. As I later remarked to Shayne, we're just too poor for forward-facing seats on trains.

Kamakura itself was lovely. There are many shrines and temples, including one that hosts a giant, hollow Buddha that you can go inside of. We did a nature trek to the other temples and it was really wonderful to be surrounded by greenery and fresh air. The hike wasn't too difficult but had enough ups and downs to feel like a decent workout. We saw some fall foliage, a glimpse of a hazy Mt. Fuji in the distance, and tried some gelatinous snack on a stick. Moving on we saw statues, a money-washing temple filled with pilgrims and incense, and a temple with with red / orange tori gates. (Imagine the Fushimi Inari shrine of Kyoto or that one scene from Memoirs of a Geisha, but on a much smaller scale.) I noticed that stone statues of  wolf-like dogs guarded many of the temples, all clad in dirty weather-worn redish pink skirts. I still don't know the significance of these statues, but I hope to find out. Kamakura was lovely and I'd be happy to go back sometime. This time - perhaps - on the correct train.

Besides more workdays and fewer breaks than Bina Bangsa, another reason for my dismal lack of blogging is that I feel like there's less to report on than when I was in Indonesia. I don't think that's strictly true and the more I visit with family and friends over Christmas I realize I do have stories to tell. The truth is that life in Tokyo is comfortable and modern and predictable and mundane. (Most of the time.) East Asia is very different from South East Asia (and by East Asia I mean Tokyo, because that's the extent of my experience.) In Jakarta we used to say "TIJ - This is Jakarta" when things didn't make sense and were zany and unorganized and mixed up, and there was no explanation other than Jakarta itself exerting its chaotic powers on the world. That really doesn't happen in Tokyo. Sometimes because of weather or accidents or whatnot the trains get delayed and then we have a fragment of the chaos we used to have habitually in Jakarta. But it will never live up to the struggles of macet, banjir, or trying to get on a Lion Air (or, heaven forbid, a Wings Air) flight. Comparing Japan to Indonesia,  I'd like to throw out that marvelous phrase "same-same-but-different"  but I really can't. It's more different and less the same. Much more like home and other Westernized cities around the world. Sometimes, the expats who have been around for a number of years ask us newbies how we're adjusting to life in Japan. They seem genuinely concerned about the potential for culture shock. I appreciate it because it's very considerate of them, but I always have to answer with a shrug and say everything has been fine so far. Because it has. Any difficulties I've faced so far have been fairly minor. After two years in Jakarta, I think it would take a lot to seriously shake me up. (By the way, I miss SE Asia. A lot. More than I thought I would.)

What sort of stories do I have to tell then? I've already covered both of the times I've left Tokyo at all, in Yokohama and Kamakura. Those were fun but the first was just for professional development and the second was only a day trip. The things I have to report on will have to be about life in Tokyo. Thus, I welcome you to the next topic of this blog post: The Mundane Adventures of Danna Trying to Figure Out Life in Tokyo! Look on as she jumps through five different queues and waits for three hours at the immigration bureau! Observe as she attempts to get national health insurance, for the second time! Watch with bated breath - will the bank allow her to transfer her rent money this month, even without the proper address on her residence card?! Such drama! Such intrigue! So much red tape!

All of the things I mention above really did happen. Some of that drama was due to the fact that the school largely left us to figure out those things on our own. Apparently they're going to improve support for new teachers in that area. I hope they do so anyway. Something I've learned is that there are very specific steps you have to take in the right order. Having a residence card is key to everything. Because I was hired so late I didn't get a visa ahead of time. Others had their visas ready to go and residence cards waiting for them. I came in on a tourist visa (that was similar to Indonesia) and got my residence card soon after. The paperwork was approved by the time I arrived but I had to go through those several queues at the immigration bureau. I ended up going there three times. The second time I was very nearly about to finish the whole process but got denied because the date was missing on my form. A clerk highlighted the missing field and I tried to every so sneakily write the date in myself, but because it had been highlighted, the person in the next queue knew the error of my ways and didn't accept it. I was told I would have to have my employers fill it out and to come back again. Grrr... I did eventually get my residence card though. I finally just got national health insurance as well. I've got to say it's much simpler than US health insurance. I will pay 30% of my medical costs and the government covers the other 70%. To cover this, I have a monthly bill, which the school will pay half of. It doesn't cost much the first year, about $12 a month, but it goes up after that. The Canadians at my school sometimes complain about it because they're used to having excellent coverage and paying very little or nothing. Coming from the US, however, it seems like a very good deal to me. I also had to have my residence card before I could get a cell phone or a bank account, but I have both of those things now too. Overall, I feel I'm doing pretty well. I'm getting settled and even saving a bit of money - hooray! There's monthly rent to pay, as well as bills and groceries, food and drink, odds and ends, but without having big breaks, travel costs have been... well, non-existent. 2016 will be another matter though. There's spring break and Golden Week coming up.

My next challenge will be learning Japanese. So far I can only say "Hello," "Yes," "What?" "Excuse me," "I'm sorry," "Thanks," "Thank you," and "Thank you very much." I know the words for "red" and "white" because Shayne always orders white wine and I order red. I don't know other, such useful things "No," or "See you later." I have found that I can read certain things though without knowing how they are said. For example, by using Google Translate on my phone, I can now successfully work my own microwave and turn on the hot water for the shower, or set the fan settings. I didn't translate the washing machine but so far I've been successful. One word I've picked up  from the appliances in my apartment and elsewhere is "off" as in on/off. I have no idea how to say it but it's a useful one to recognize. In my head, I see it and say "off" even though that's not really right. I have a much greater appreciation now for what it must be like to be illiterate. It's much harder to pick up Japanese than Indonesian. My vocabulary is soooo very small and I can't figure stuff out by making good guesses; it's just not possible with a pictographic language, at least not at my level of knowledge / ignorance. I am desperately dependent on pictures and graphic design on the things I buy. I have often struggled to decipher pictures on even the most basic purchases. And if it wasn't for Google Translate I would be truly lost.

To wrap up, there's one last thing I want to mention, about how coming home for winter break has made me think about the differences between life in Japan and the US. Some of these differences are not shocking but it took a homecoming to bring them to consciousness. Chiefly I'm thinking about cars and food, the amount of time I spend in the former and the amount of which I consume the later. Both of which are more stateside. While home for break, I've been in a car every single day. On the other hand, in four months in Japan, I have been in a vehicle twice. The first occasion was on my first full day in Japan when Shayne, and another new teacher, and I were picked up from the hotel and brought to our temporary apartments (the so-called Monthly Mansions which turned out to be like high security college dorms, except not nearly as nice.) The second time was when Shayne and I moved to our new, aforementioned apartment building and hired a taxi van to bring us and our things from Shinjuku to Shinagawa. (Specifically we now live in Higashi-Shinagawa which is south of the city center and pretty close to Tokyo Bay.) Other than that I've traveled exclusively by train and walking. I took a bus once to get to the immigration bureau. I do a lot of walking in Tokyo. It's about 8/10ths of a mile to school, one way, and about the same distance, one way, to the nearest big train station, Shinagawa station, whose map of converging rail lines looks like bulging bicep. There are two stations which might technically be within closer walking distance but these are either out of the way, more expensive, have less frequent trains, or some combination thereof. At Shinagawa you never have to wait more than a few minutes for the Yamanote Line train to arrive. Granted it's crowded, sometimes claustrophobically so, but it's a great service. But my point is, I do a lot of walking these days. I knew I had lost weight when I found that unzipping the pair of jeans I had bought in August was no longer necessary, but I was still more than a little surprised when, weighing myself for the first time in four months, I found I had lost about 15 lbs! I think I must have gained about five back in Christmas food alone. Which brings me to my second point. Food.

Why are portions so excessively large in the States? Why do we eat so much rich food all the time? Foreign food doesn't turn my stomach - leastwise Japanese food doesn't - it's coming back home and eating out at a restaurant or eating Christmas potlucks which are inevitably part of the holidays. When I met a friend for lunch the other day, I ordered a burger, which came with fries. I couldn't finish it in one sitting because it was just so much. I might get a burger that size if I were in Tokyo, but the mountain of fries that came with it was excessive, about two or three times what it should have been. There's no way a human stomach should try to conquer all of that. I didn't realize how much my stomach had shrunk (figuratively and literally) until I got home.

Even when I think life in Tokyo is uneventful and mundane, I'm coming to value it by comparing it what I know life would be like if I were still in Minnesota. When I get back to Tokyo I think I'll appreciate the good food and walking to school and the train station all the more.

Winter break has flown by incredibly fast. I'll be sad to be leaving Minnesota once again but looking forward to heading back to Tokyo. And now that I'm somewhat settled, I can start to explore Tokyo and Japan more. Here's to more adventures in Asia in 2016!

FIRST TWO WEEKS IN JAPAN

Hello! We meet again blogosphere! After my two years in Indonesia, I wanted to keep doing this whole international teaching thing and now I find myself in Tokyo, Japan. I have lots to say about my first two weeks here and I see no point in starting a new blog. So if you're an aunt, uncle, or friend who had subscribed to my Indonesia blog and you now see this in your inbox, that's the reason why. Same blog, new stories. ^_^

So... Japan! My new position is a 5th grade homeroom teacher at Canadian International School Tokyo. The position came about rather suddenly. I saw it posted through Search Associates - a very good association for overseas teachers and schools - and e-mailed to find out if my American credentials would work at a Canadian school. The reply I got was along the lines of Yes, that's fine. When can we Skype? Apparently they had someone else for the job but he quit rather at the last minute and that's where I stepped in. I've known all along that I'd make a great place filler. I have international experience, four years of teaching under my belt, no master's degrees that make me more expensive to hire, and come with no dependents! A great deal, all in all, if I do say so myself. The job offer came on August 7th and I boarded my plane on the 20th - just 13 days later! A very quick change in situation, but I'm flexible and having been overseas before made it less intimidating than it might have been otherwise.

I quickly booked a flight and ended up going with Air Canada, which meant a four hour layover in Toronto (which turns out the be a really nice airport.) Air Canada was... meh. "Adequate" is a word that springs to mind. I do think I'm going to go ahead and blame them for my luggage getting soaked in the rain. Not just a little damp on the outside, but really wet on the inside too. Enough to ruin a couple books. Really, the only redeeming factor was that they had Muppet's Treasure Island as one of their in-flight movies.

For the duration of the 12 hour flight from Toronto to Tokyo I was in the middle seat of the right hand row. (At least it wasn't the middle of the middle aisle!) My seatmate on the left was a Canadian-American university student who's just finishing up her last year of study at Temple University's Tokyo campus. She had nothing but positive things to say about her adopted city and I got a lot of useful advice and encouraging tidbits from her. On my right was a middle-aged man who's a smartphone engineer who gets to travel wherever he wants for work as long as he has an internet connection. (Lucky man!) For being stuck in the middle of a row, it wasn't too bad and I had some good conversations with both seatmates, followed of course by long periods of silence, boredom, and zoning out.

By the time I arrived, I hadn't properly slept in about 23 hours. I was feeling brain dead and a bit feverish / intoxicated from lack of proper sleep. My Temple University friend helped me find my way through customs and we parted ways. At the school's instruction, I was to take a bus from Narita airport to my hotel. After purchasing my ticket, I had about 30-40 minutes to wait, so I decided to exchange money. With new yen bills and coins in hand, I stepped out of the queue to put my money away and quickly realized I no longer had my wallet. Cue panic. I searched all throughout my backpack in case I had dropped but after a frantic minute or two I realized it was gone. And I had just exchanged money, leaving the only conclusion to be I had left it on the wrong side of the exchange counter. I edged back in line and showed my face. The reaction from the money exchange people was the one I wanted: Oh hey, there's that girl. Say, So-And-So sitting behind me, that girl came back. Well, guess what? They no longer had the wallet! It was not more than two minutes since I left, had gone all of about ten paces away and back, and in that time they passed it over to the information counter. Thanking them in an embarrassed way, I went over to the information counter and inquired about my poor, lost wallet. They let me take the wallet after thoroughly checking that everything was there and said I could take it only because I fetched it so soon. They were in fact preparing to file an international report for it, in which case I would have still gotten it back but a lot later and after a lot of hassle. Needless to say, I still very pretty silly over the whole thing.

I had read stories like this about Japan before I left, of people losing items and having them returned in-tact with a bow attached to boot. It seems to be the case. My feeling overall is that Tokyo is very safe. There isn't a feeling like you shouldn't be out at night. People walk around at night all the time, and frequently you see kids - little kids, elementary-aged - walking around on their own, commuting to school or going elsewhere. For a city this size, you'd almost expect more crime, but hey - I'm not complaining.

Back to my first night in Tokyo, even though I felt exhausted to the bone upon arriving, I also felt energized in a way too. It was a feeling that began when I got on my first flight from Minneapolis to Toronto. You know, the beginning of a new adventure. Wearing my sneakers, sweatpants, and scarf, passport around my neck, flinging myself across several time zones just for the sake of trying expat life in a new place. (By the way, I'm now 14 hours ahead of Central Time.) That was a good feeling, as was the feeling of relief when I finally got to my hotel room, but mostly, my first thought was sleep...now...

The next day I had a chance to explore the hotel's beautiful traditional Japanese garden, as well as experience the sweltering humidity and cacophonous drone of cicadas, before meeting with the school's business manager who had helped me arrange all the details of getting over to Japan. I felt a little out of place in the hotel lobby. Finely dressed wedding-party members walked back and forth as I sat with my mound of luggage, typing away at a Bethel University assignment (which is still in full swing and has not kindly paused for my life transitions.) Eventually another white lady (Girl? Woman? I never know what to say) came and sat by me, although we didn't talk. When the business manager, Mr. Takaguchi, approached us and inquired if we were there for CIS, we both responded. The other white lady, it turns out, was Shayne, another new teacher to CIS who just so happens to be my 5th grade teaching partner and now good friend.

We were introduced to another new teacher and office staff, and after briefly going over this and that in the lobby, headed out in two vans to our new residence, the so-called Monthly Mansion. The "monthly" bit is correct, because you do pay by the month, but the "mansion" bit is definitely a stretch. My room is about the size of a dorm room, but includes a teeny-tiny bathroom, a burner, sink, and mini-fridge. It also came with one spoon, fork, bowl, plate, kettle, and rice cooker. It's basically a box of a room with a very narrow closet space that leads to the door. And I'm lucky to even have the closet space; Shayne apparently does not. It doesn't help that the corridors have all the appeal and appearance of a jail. Heavily locked doors that require a key card for access stretch down the non-descript corridor, there are no decent windows, and no less than eight (I counted) security cameras mounted to the ceiling on my floor alone. On the plus side, there is laundry, so there's that, right?

So I think we might take "mansion" with a grain of salt. "High-security-glorified-dorm-room" is more accurate. Then again, I've only ever heard Mr. Takaguchi call it a Monthly Mansion. According to the sign outside, it's just a Monthly Resi-Stay, which makes more sense as a name. Needless to say, the search for a new neighborhood is underway. Actually, I quite like the neighborhood I'm in right now. It has a nice feel. There are plenty of good restaurants (including great sushi, curry, and ramen places!), as many 7 Elevens and Family Marts as your heart could desire, and even a grocery story and a Seiyu, which turns out to be a subsidiary of Wal-Mart. (I traveled 6,000 miles from home only to be closer to a Wal-Mart owned store than ever before.) It also has a nice combination of energy and calm that make me think it might be nice to continue living here. On the other hand, Tokyo is absolutely huge and there are lots of great neighborhoods worth exploring. Wherever I end up moving to, I'm sure it will be good.

So far, I've mostly be commuting from home to work and back again, but Shayne and I have managed to visit Shinagawa, Roppongi, Tokyo Tower, and Shibuya as well. Shibuya was crazy by the way. I recommend doing a Google Image search to get an idea. I could spend a thousand words trying to explain the atmosphere, or... you could just look it up. If I were to use any words to describe it, they would be: chaotic, loud, busy, bright, crowded, etc. Also - honest to God - Shayne and I saw a sign for a club called Club Gas Panic. I kid you not. There's no connotation of those particular words together that is good in any sense.

What about school? I think that could be an entirely new blog post right there, but I'll try to sketch out some details anyway. Canadian International School Tokyo (which, rather smartly goes by the acronym CIS and not CIST) is in the neighborhood of Shinagawa. We go to work everyday on the Yamanote line, which is not properly the metro but the above-ground JR line.

Standing jam-packed with a minimum of four or five strangers pushing into you on the train lost all of its appeal in about, oh, two or three days. At first it seemed like something out of an color-photo "A Children's Introduction to Japan" book, but then it wasn't so fun anymore. It's damn crowded, is what it is! Believe it or not, getting on the train at 7:30 is much better than at 8:30. We left later in the morning during orientation week than we have been for the regular working day, and it was much worse and more crowded later on in the morning. People seem to have very late working schedules. It gets very busy at 8 or 9 in the morning and again at 8 or 9 at night. Leaving at 5 PM, as we usually do, is quieter and more peaceful than leaving in the evening or night. You might even get the chance to grab a seat after a handful of stops! You never get a seat right away. You generally have to wait a while to grab your opportunity. Even when the train is "quiet" it's not really quiet. It's always full. It's either just full, or insanely over-full.

According to Shayne, who taught in Korea last year, in Seoul there is a cultural standard that prizes staying late at the office as a mark of dedication, even if you're just sleeping at your desk or essentially wasting time by working as slow as molasses in January. It would appear the same is true here in Tokyo. People get off of work so late and then often head out for drinks with co-workers rather than heading home.

I got off-track though. What about school? So far so good. I really like the school, my co-workers, and kids so far. I'm very spoiled with a small class. I mean, really small. As in eleven kids. Shayne also has eleven. (!!!) We heard through the grapevine that the most troublesome trouble-makers seem to have left between last year and this and so we've got delightfully small classes of delightful children. I'm going to be spoiled this year. And with only eleven, I can get to know them all very well, and any problems that do pop up should hopefully be very manageable. Honestly, if I ever start complaining about my kids, someone ought to put me in my place.

In my class I have seven boys and four girls. Four are Japanese, four are Korean, one is Chinese, one is Malaysian, and one is South African. Shayne's class is quite similar, although she has one student from Saudi, one from Myanmar, and three kids who are Canadian-Japanese. Overall, we are both really enjoying our classes.

The school is an IB school but only teaches the PYP (Primary Years Programme.) I chose some international-flag-themed PYP displays off of Teachers Pay Teachers for the classroom walls. My wonderful nerdy kids have taken up naming as many flags as they can during breaks and lunch (which we eat together in the classroom) and quizzing each other on which flag appears on which poster. Already, I couldn't be more proud of them!

We've had one week of school so far and each day was easier and went more smoothly than the last. Shayne and I have been doing a lot of co-planning and co-teaching, and it makes sense. It's been working out well so we'll likely keep that up. Language arts and science are integrated into the PYP transdisciplinary units, but we teach math and spelling separately. Like a typical Western school, our preps are during specialist time: music/art, Japanese, P.E., Writer's Workshop, and library. The day operates on an alternating A Day / B Day schedule, but it's not worth the time or effort to go into more detail. I'll just say that the first week went well and I think I'm falling nicely into the routine of things. The only thing that's very different from what I expected is that I eat lunch with my kids everyday and supervise them during recess twice a week. Perhaps that's not so weird at a small school, but it's a bit of a turnaround from Mounds View last year.

I'll leave it there for the moment. Of course there's plenty more to say, but I think that can be reserved for another blog another time. I feel like I've been here quite a while already, but it's only been two weeks! Time flies.

A VISIT TO THE GOLDEN ROCK, OR, CRAMMED INTO A TRUCK IN THE POURING RAIN

When Nicole and I left Yangon to see the Golden Rock at Kyaiktiyo (we can't pronounce it either, that's why we just refer to this part of the journey as Golden Rock,) we learnt of the Burmese penchant for playing melodramatic music videos during the entirety of a long bus ride. From this experience, I can only strongly advise against falling in love in Myanmar because it inevitably leads to lingering, forlorn looks, rolling around on beds and staring at photographs, melancholy gazing across park ponds, and general misery. Your partner will leave you and you will despair. This particular ride featured the same artist in video after video and I came to really pity the poor woman whose fifteen separate lovers left her every single time.

We arrived at our destination in the pouring rain, and it just never let up. With no language skills and the thick, soft Burmese accent to contend with, I tried to double check we were at the Golden Rock by pointing to a small, felt poster of said rock that was hanging in the bus window. Yes, they confirmed, we were at the Golden Rock. We were quickly shuffled across the street and from one songthaew to another (the trucks with two benches on either side of the bed and a covering on top.) Fortunately it turned out that a guy from our hotel was there so he could bring us directly to where we were going, along with some others. He was a very pleasant young man with a bloody red betel nut smile. He was the one who informed us that at the moment it was only raining cats and dogs here in Mon State, but that a few days ago it had been even worse: it was raining cats and pigs.

Driving through the driving rain we were soon soaked from head to toe. A mere covering over the top of a truck doesn't really keep you dry. The young man with the red teeth (I want to say his name was Ko Ko) didn't have a place to sit so he balanced on the tailgate and got the full force of the rainstorm. I watched rivers of water run down his shirt and across his face, and yet, he remained stubbornly cheerful. The Burmese people were incredibly good-natured we learned. (I would swear we also saw people up a pole fixing an electrical wire in the rain. It went by so fast, yet I'm sure I saw it. One of those things that make you scratch your head and say, Hmmm... What exactly did we just see?)

We got to the hotel and futilely set out our things to dry. The rain just increased its pummeling of the earth and we were effectively stranded. (Forcing me to blog as it happened.) We also met a fellow stranded traveler, the German guy I mentioned in my previous post. Flo (short for Florian) had only one week in Myanmar and was going through at turbo speed before meeting up with his friend in Bali. Naturally he wasn't happy about losing a day to rain. The three of us got on well from the get-go so we spent that night and the next day together. (Flo also asked me for my blog site, which I gave him, telling him he might feature in an upcoming post. Well, just over five weeks later, it's true. Flo, if you're reading this, just want to say hi and hope your time in Bali was relaxing!)

The next day the rain let up a wee bit. We could walk around and feel merely damp instead of soaking wet, so we decided it was now or never to visit the famous Golden Rock. The rain jacket I have with me would be more accurately described as a "mist jacket", just the thing to keep you dry when you suddenly find yourself in a fierce morning mist or fog. So, basically it's crap for actual rain of any sort. I bought a $1 "Convenience Rain Jacket" from a girl who must have spotted the moment we walked into view as a tourist in need of a plastic poncho. It worked though; I just put it over my mist jacket. And when I say it worked, I mean it kept me a little bit dry in the torrential downpour.

Nicole, Flo and I got into the tourist transport truck, which had seven rows of benches, each of which was supposed to fit at least six people. Of course, it wasn't possible with people such of ourselves of Caucasian-sized limbs. Sitting down, my knees went right into the back of the person in front of me, much as someone else's knees dug into my back. Turns out having half a foot of space between rows makes it rather cramped. Flo, whose legs couldn't manage that level of contortionist folding up, ended up straddling his knees around the two Burmese ladies in front of him, which of course we had to give him a hard time about. The lady in front of Nicole found that using her legs as a backrest was much preferable to actually supporting herself, so she just slumped back and let Nicole do the work of holding her up.

Before we could leave, the grumpy truck-master (for lack of a better term) decided we didn't have enough people in our row. As is often the case, they don't get going until they've maximized their profits and overstuffed the vehicle beyond all reasonable capacity. He frowned at us and muttered something in Burmese like: "Scoot over! Go! Do it now!" We were costing him money, after all. We had to demonstrate that we literally could make about six more inches of room, and that another human body was simply not going to fit in our row. This made him very unhappy, as if he expected us to just shrink and fold in our limbs. The idea of getting 42 slight-of-frame Southeast Asians into the truck was laughable to begin with; reaching that number with big-boned Westerners thrown in was just impossible. Once we got going up the mountain road, however, I found that being so tightly wedged between so many people somewhat lessened the shocks and bumps. Only if we remained in place, however. At one point my butt slid off the seat and I had to hang on for dear life; it took me quite a while to regain the bench.

Halfway up the mountain, we stopped at a small crossroads with a scattering of buildings in order to... Well, we never found out. We stopped for about 10-15 minutes. The driver got out, went somewhere, a few buses came down the mountain road past us... It seems to be a rule in Asian transportation that you can never go directly from A to B. There is always an unexplained stop in which nothing seems to happen before you're allowed to go on. So there we were in the open-air bed of the truck, uncomfortably stuffed like sardines in a tin can, when of course it started to rain, and hard. The only thing to do was pull up our hoods and huddle. Cold, wet, but not totally miserable. We were still laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

By the time we got to the top, the rain was really coming down. We sheltered under a covered section of souvenir stalls for a while before saying, "Screw it! We can't possible get any more wet than we already are." We bought an over-priced entrance ticket, deposited our shoes at the beginning of the designated holy area and gingerly climbed the slick marble stairs up. There were only a few tourists about, seeing how awful the weather was, but there were a lot of workers there: women carrying loads of brick, and men carrying sacks of what I guessed to be concrete through the main walkway of the large holy area. (It wasn't a temple, nor a pagoda, but it was holy because we couldn't wear shoes. Calling it a "holy area" is about the best phrase I can use.) The no-shoes (or "foot-wearing" as one sign said) is a rule. Doing construction, or moving an incredibly heavy statue (as we saw a large team of men doing as we left) does not warrant an exception.

As for the rock itself? Well, let's just say that later on, Nicole joked that she felt she couldn't send her grandparents a postcard of it and have it be an accurate representation of what she saw. The postcard contained a bright, gleaming, golden photograph, and if she wanted to send something more true to life, she would have to smear it with whiteout first. It was misty, windy, wet, and generally miserable. The real kicker was that Nicole and I couldn't even go up to the rock because women are not allowed to approach it. Only men may apply the gold leaf that covers the entire thing. (The reason being that women are not on the same level of holiness as men. Where did I put those Cultural Relativity spectacles that I had to use in Tana Toraja? Ah, there they are.Thank goodness the lenses are especially thick and waterproof, or wouldn't have been able to appreciate a thing on top of that mountain.) Nicole and I waited as Flo went to have a closer look, but there was such poor visibility that he only took a minute or two. We didn't let it get us down however; we enjoyed it for what it was: a ridiculous journey up a steep mountainside, crammed into a truck with

about three dozen other people, all to see a mist-enshrouded rock sitting above some truly majestic scenery which we couldn't see, all in the pouring rain and howling wind. After about 10 minutes we left the rock to explore the rest of the area. As we were leaving, my feet flew out from under me on the wet marble (in about as cartoonish a way you can imagine,) and I fell flat on my butt. It didn't hurt (my amply-sized derrière cushioned the fall,) but it did manage to get my hitherto dry underwear soaking wet. And once your underwear are wet on a rainy day, well, there's no point in holding on to hope for warmth and comfort any longer. We spent about another 10 minutes walking to the end of the compound but literally didn't see much of anything. We headed back the way we came and got some hot tea in cups about the size of shot glasses, which only could warm us a tiny bit.

We waited with some other tourists for the truck to head back down the mountain and made friends for the day with a British guy and French girl who were fun to chat with. We waited and waited and waited, chatting to pass the time. Everyone had finished their visit within half and hour and it was a full-on monsoon by now outside the shelter of the truck pavilion. Still, no one came to drive back down for what seemed like ages. Eventually a few more people came and we were hopeful and got into the truck. However, whoever was in charge told us that we couldn't go until the truck was full. We knew that they would once again insist on getting half a hundred bodies into the truck and that it would probably take another two hours before we could fill all the seats to their satisfaction. A deal was proposed: everyone had to pay extra and we could leave sooner. And to whom was this proposition directed? The tourists of course. I really don't think they said the same thing to the locals at all. I asked if everyone would pay, and the guy said something vaguely affirmative but mostly non-committal. It was pretty obvious that it would just be the tourists who paid extra. Being white in Southeast Asia is one long chain of instances of people trying to rip you off. I don't even say that with much bile, it's just true, a fact of tourist life. We waited it out a bit longer and eventually did not end up having to pay any extra, for which I was glad. You can't stand to get ripped off all the time after all.

So, we headed back down the hill, made the same mysterious and seemingly pointless stop halfway down again, changed our clothes at the hotel, and the five of us ate lunch together (British man and French woman included). That evening we all ended up on the same bus out of town before we had to disembark in the town of Bago to catch an overnight bus to Mandalay.

So, was it worth the time, money, and wet underwear just to see a big golden rock? No, not really. Meeting Flo, chatting with our new friends while sheltering from the monsoon, laughing at ourselves crammed into truck? Yes. The journey - and the struggle - trumped the end-goal in this case.

YANGON, OR, OFF TO MYANMAR!

Four days ago...

As for the immediate only slightly out-of-date update, Nicole and I are in Laos. We've been here eight twelve days so far, and are enjoying enjoyed the charming little city of Luang Prabang. It's full of cafe lattes, croissants, old French colonial buildings, an alluring night market, and these internet cafes, so I keep on writing while I have access to a keyboard. Heaven knows I've tried tapping out my blog on my mini-tablet, but it's just not the same. (Oh, my first-world problems in a third-world country!)

As for the truly immediate update (because I clearly didn't finish the blog post before leaving Luang Prabang) we are in Vang Vieng, where there are few charming little cafes but instead a bunch of bars, restaurants, and inner tube rental places. But, like Luang Prabang, it has internet cafes, so I'm back at it again, continuing and adding on to our first few days in Myanmar...

We left Jakarta on an Air France flight to Singapore, where we were pampered with entertainment screens and an in-flight meal that contained a wedge of Camembert large enough to satisfy even the hungriest Gallic cheese lover. I ate mine and half of Nicole's before it seemed only prudent to stop. We spent the night at our friend Mildred's house. Mildred usually puts us up when we're in Singapore and is one of the most hospitable and courteous people I know. She'll go out of her way to make sure everything's okay for us. (Mildred, you're awesome!) The next morning it was off to Yangon on a Jet Star flight. We arrived on August 1st and stayed in the country for 26 days.

Coming to Myanmar I had no expectations. Not low expectations, just a blank slate. We had prearranged the paperwork for our visas, similar to what we had done for Vietnam. In Vietnam there were lines and waiting time; not so in Myanmar. The travel agency that arranged our visas must have been a good one because we got out visas immediately, after which we breezed through immigration, picked up our bags, and exited the airport all in about 30 minutes! Without a doubt it was the easiest airport experience I've ever had. And it's not as if the airport was eerily quiet and clearly underused (the way I imagine a visit to North Korea might be.) It was a normal and sophisticated-looking airport, typical of an international terminal, if a little on the small side.

We got a taxi into town and right away the thing that struck me was the appearance of our taxi driver. He was a good symbol for Myanmar in some ways. He wore a crisp, bleach-white linen shirt, starched to professional perfection. On his lower half he sported a traditional longyi and sandals. A longyi is a floor-length tube of cloth that Myanmar men and women both wear. Men bunch the extra material in the front and tie it, women fold them tightly across their midrifts, the way you would wrap a towel around yourself after a shower. This particular outfit, collared shirt, longyi and sandals was the typical outfit for a Burmese man. Some three days after arriving in Myanmar, we were at a Buddhist site called the Golden Rock. (All of this coming up in the next blog.) We had met a German guy, Flo, at our hotel and decided to take the truck together up to this particular site / sight. As we were waiting for the truck to be filled to capacity, Flo asked what we thought of the ubiquitous longyi. My opinion? I said it was great, as if the entire country had collectively said, "No; you can't make us wear pants. We refuse." I think it shows a combination of cultural pride and an attachment to tradition. Of course, people wear pants too, but the longyi are far more common. That's how Myanmar is: this odd and beguiling mixing of traditions with 21st century life. People say that Myanmar is like an untouched land, perhaps reminiscent of Old Asia and the Mystic Orient. I think it's true to a degree. It's not frozen in time - I don't think you can find a place these days that truly is - but it cherishes tradition, leaves its relics in the open for all to enjoy, and treats visitors with great hospitality, just as a matter of course. One day I believe I'm going to say I was really lucky to visit the place in 2014, when the impact of tourists was only slight. It certainly did have the feel of a place that hasn't become Westernized and holds on tightly to its roots.

But let's move on to the real purpose of this post, without me waxing poetic about the Mystic Orient any longer. We had a quick and hassle free arrival, and our longyi-clad taxi driver delivered us at our hotel: an unpolished but decent place called Sleep In, in the Chinatown district of town. After finally tracking down a money changer (an entirely respectable place found up an entirely shady-looking stairwell in a non-descript city building,) we set off to find Shewdagon Pagoda, Yangon's most famous and spectacular landmark.

We set off walking using a city map I had downloaded to my tablet. We actually started walking the right way, but the road we were supposed to take changed names and we turned around, thinking we were on the wrong road when we saw the other name. Of course, asking for directions just got us more mixed up. We were pointed in three completely different directions at different points, none of them the way we actually needed to go. Sometimes getting directions is ridiculously hard: A) We don't speak the language, and that's our problem, but B) People tend to give you the most vague hand waves ever to show you the way to go. They don't draw a little sketch showing to turn here and then turn there, they give a lazy flick of the wrist and mutter something that doesn't really answer your question. This is a known and documented phenomenon. Eventually we did figure it out though and began the long walk... only to find ourselves too hungry and impatient by 2 PM to keep it up. We hailed a taxi to bring us to the lunch spot I had picked out.

And quite a lunch spot it was. I had chosen it from Lonely Planet because it was touted to be full of good, traditional Burmese food, but nobody spoke English there and there were no labels (of course) over the pick-and-choose curries, meats and assorted unrecognizable dishes. So we had to pick blindly and ended up with chicken, fish, fish soup, and some mystery meat that turned out to be mutton. Perhaps a bit intense for our first meal in a new country. None of it was bad, per se, it was just the whole not knowing what we were eating aspect. Nicole said she was going to double-check anytime I said I had a suggestion for lunch in the future. 

From lunch we wandered back to our main attraction: Shewdagon Pagoda. We paid the entrance fee and deposited our shoes before taking an escalator up to the pagoda. We learned that they are very particular about the no-shoes thing in Myanmar. Even outside a temple or pagoda you had to take off your shoes well before reaching holy ground. (Or at least what I perceived to be holy ground; holy ground in the Theravada Buddhism of Myanmar seems to include a super-wide holy radius around all areas of interest.)

Despite it being a cloudy day and a bit drizzly, the site couldn't fail to be spectacular. Shewdagon Pagoda is a massive, thoroughly gilt, structure of intense Buddhist devotion. (Actually, it's hard to find anything religious that's not an object of intense Buddhist devotion; the Burmese are very devout and never give up an opportunity for merit-making.) It's not a pagoda in the sense of a multi-tiered flare-roofed Chinese building, but more resembles an upside down bell. The parts of the pagoda include terraces, turban band, upside-down alms bowl, bell, lotus petals, banana bud, umbrella crown, vane and a huge, sparkly diamond at the very top. The thing about almost all Burmese pagodas (Shewdagon being Exhibit A here) is that they containso much gold! Nicole and I think that Myanmar would probably be as rich as Arab sultanate if they gathered all that gold together and sold it. Of course, this would be sacrilege of the highest order. If applying a tiny sheet of gold leaf gives you good merit as a devout Buddhist practitioner, removing and selling it would probably send you straight to hell for your next thousand rebirths. In any case, all that gold makes for an impressive and imposing scene. You can't help but stare in wonderment as you walk around the base of the structure, past each station set up in honour of each of the eight days of the week. (No, that's not a typo; in the Buddhist tradition there is Wednesday morning and Wednesday evening and they're two separate days.)

Within minutes of arriving at the pagoda, a strange little monk came up and began chatting with us. Our experience with monks up until this point in time came from our 2012 visit to Thailand. The image of a public announcement poster that read, "Ladies, don't touch the monks," from the Reclining Buddha in Bangkok is still etched clearly in my mind. We were operating under the assumption that we shouldn't approach monks at all and in general, stay out of their way. The chatty little monk made us nervous, so we replied to him in as short and polite of phrases as we could until he went away. We began our walk around the pagoda and drank in the sight of it, impressed and humbled. When we had gone about halfway around the whole thing (and we were going slowly,) it began to rain and we quickly ducked into a pavilion off to the side to shelter there. A tour guide of sorts began talking to us, but we got him to go away through the same teenager-ish method of short, non-committal responses. We didn't really want a tour, and we didn't want to pay anybody for information either. Then, another monk started talking to us. Since it was raining, there was no escape. However, a few minutes into the conversation it became clear that it would be okay to talk to him. He initiated it, after all, and a genuine friendly feeling came across. He wanted to practice his English, but he also just wanted to share information about his beloved pagoda that he visits everyday. He asked us questions, we asked him questions, and before you knew it, he had his phone out (yes, monks can have smartphones!) to see if we could find each other on Facebook. More than one surreal look passed between Nicole and me as we tried to fathom the fact that a monk was trying to find us on Facebook... on his smartphone. (Unfortunately, even though we thought the friend request went through, we never did find him online.)

After the rain stopped, Anya, for that was his name, began to show us around the pagoda to many interesting spots we might not have found on our own. He showed us a photo gallery with black-and-white pictures of Shewdagon in the olden days, a walking photography tour of the important places in the Buddha's life in India (upon completion of which we were both given a Buddha image by the photographer himself), the imported Bodhi trees around the perimeter, and the secret spots to see the diamond glow at night. In certain spots (that seemed to be largely unknown to everyone else) you can see the diamond glow red at the night. Take three steps forward and it glows orange. Another three steps brings you to yellow. Someone had written it in scraggly white-out letter on the tiles, but you'd hardly notice it if you didn't know where to look.

Eventually Anya had to leave and bid us goodbye. We had become rather attached to our monk friend. We got a photo with him before he left. We were careful to to touch him though. Friendly and gracious as he was, he was a monk, and we are ladies, and ladies just don't touch monks.

Remarking how awesome the entire day had been, we took a final look around Shewdagon and headed for dinner before going back to Sleep In.

The next day it was more pagodas and Buddhist sites. We saw Sule Paya, which is, in fact, a roundabout with a golden pagoda in the middle of it. It was here that I saw one of - if not my favourite - Buddha images in all of Myanmar. This one wasn't particularly splendid or golden or ancient, but it looked loved in a way, as if the prayers directed were genuine and heartfelt, and that this made it more alive and more special than the unreachably high, impossibly big, grand Buddhas we saw everywhere else. It was one of those inexplicable things that hits you immediately and powerfully. I fell in love with that tiny, little Buddha statue and looked on at it reverently for a quite a while while devotees came to pour little cups of water over it, as is traditional.

We also visited Botataung Pagoda, originally built to hold eight sacred Buddha hairs, transported from India. (Sacred Buddha-hair relics are everywhere. And it's easy to see why. You can only get so many relics out of finger bones and so on, but Buddha hairs, like Buddha footprints, are inexhaustible.) An interesting and unique thing about that particular pagoda is that you can walk inside of it and of course, as you would imagine, the entire thing is gilt: the only thing that's not golden is the floor. So much, so much, so much gold! Dare I say it...? Maybe... too much gold? The idea doesn't exist in Burmese thinking. Gold = good. Gold = devotion. Gold = spare no expense for the most splendid ornamentation. Gold = fast road to easy merit-making. Gold = the best there is.


We went off in search of lunch after that - a pleasantly achievable task as the streets of Yangon are in a logical grid! It was a luxury to be able to navigate by ourselves as we could never do this in Indonesia. Even Singapore isn't that grid-like. We didn't find the Indian biryani shop we were looking for, but ended up at option #2: a Shan noodle shop that turned out to be cheap, delicious, and a perfect place to wait out the rain that began in earnest soon after we sat down. (It was always raining when we first got to Myanmar. We weren't dry for at least three days.)

After checking out the main market in town - an overwhelming sprawling mass of jade shops, fringed by other souvenir stalls - we headed back down the street. We bought rambutans as a snack from a street-side fruit stand and promptly ended up giving them away to woman who was begging. Rambutan-less, we continued on and this time did find the biryani shop in time for dinner, where we sketched out a plan for the rest of our 25 days in Myanmar. (It was at the biryani place I learned that in Myanmar they use party streamers for toilet paper. No joke. Their tissue really, truly looks like party streamers. Weird, yes, but I guess it works.)

That night I bought snacks at the grocery store for our bus ride the next day. I always like grocery
shopping in foreign countries because it interests me to see what sort of things they stock on the shelves. Mundane, yes, but interesting all the same. Nicole would say it was mundane, period, so I enjoyed my humble little grocery shopping trip alone.

All in all, Yangon was a great, if slightly damp, introduction to Myanmar. Not only did I enjoy seeing the splendid, golden pagodas, but the mundane things were also highly interesting to me as well. There were the market and grocery store, as I already mentioned. There was also a unique technology available on the streets: roadside telephone booths that are actually just a few land-line telephones set up at a folding table with chairs. Sure, everyone's got their mobiles, but I like the fact that you can still call from an ordinary telephone on the side of the road. It's old-fashioned things thriving in the modern world again. There were also many run-down buildings that showed that oddly alluring combination of entropy and beauty. Something about the concrete or, I don't really know what, seems to make the buildings rot and decay. Not good, of course, but it made for some arresting sights.

The next day we left early for our next destination: the Golden Rock of Kyaiktiyo in nearby Mon State, which also contains a sacred Buddha hair relic (or so they say...) It would prove to be a interesting, if entirely wet, experience.