Small town Japan brings out the inner Matt

The residence that I visited on Sunday for karaoke and tremendous amounts of food (including a blueberry chocolate tart, which everyone in the world must try), is not new. The floors are tatami-laid, the corridors struggle to fit two abreast, and the rails on which shōji (Japanese-style doors) stand have seen smoother times.

In spite of these, the house felt newer than most. This is because of the family that inhabit it.

It’s a family of six, and a family whose hospitality comes free of any need to impress. They possess a palpable sense of humour, yet no need to be funny when the silence is doing just fine. Children and parents who are conscious of others but not self-conscious, lively but not noisy. A family whose members share their belongings without thinking twice.

Others joined us. A total of two sizeable families, plus me. We sang, ate, talked, ate again, and sang some more. My stomach and I had a fulfilling time.

Bit of a cake. Context further down.

What I learn in every interaction of this kind is that true enjoyment is found in the act of bringing people together. The intimacy of community in a single space. Nothing too indulgent, nothing visually remarkable. What’s remarkable is that a rich experience comes without any need to be rich.

There was one visual treat. Beyond the windows, upon a backdrop of rice fields, roads, and a river that crept close to the hills, snow that petalled the landscape as if endless flower beds sit atop the clouds. There was intimacy in this, too. The realisation that this place wasn’t somewhere I’d come for sightseeing. I hadn’t paid money to enter through a gate, see nice things, and leave again. Rather, I live here. I work here. And these people who live here too are my friends. Two of them are my students. Students whose graciousness I wish I’d had even an ounce of when I was their age.

The value of community is not lost on them, and in my time with them I learned it to be more valuable than almost anything else.

The karaoke and food were good, but so is a movie, so is a video game. An experience of community involves far more than just the five senses. It’s an experience that I’ll treasure and not soon forget.

One thing I certainly won’t forget was the opportunity I had to help Ayami with her English homework. She’s usually too shy to talk to me, but today that shyness fell away like autumn leaves. She even admitted that she’s often shy, but that, in truth, she likes English. As if to assure me, she said most of the students in her class enjoy English and want to use it, but find it difficult.

Ironically, in that one conversation, she spoke a lot more English than I thought her capable of, including grammar she’d learnt only recently. I was encouraged by this, and I like to think that she was encouraged, too. Excluding all else, this short exchange of words was the most important. The most cherished.

This experience of community isn’t isolated. The day before this I went to a “Kids’ English theatre group’s” Christmas party. (I put that heading in quote marks because I’m really not sure what this group does. Basically, whatever they do, there’s always English involved.) There I dressed up as Santa to be the ‘final boss’ in a rock, paper, scissors ‘competition’ in which kids could earn presents. This part of the event took longer than the organisers expected, so, towards the end, Santa became a bit absent-minded and forgot how to form scissors and paper. The kids were OK with this, because it meant they could all receive a present.

We indulged in a potluck, decorated a giant cake and then ate it, sang Christmas songs in English (though next to no one knew the meaning of the words), and played games. The games were designed for the youngest of the crowd, though the older kids had the essential roles of coordinating their younger peers, leading their teams, or ensuring that I, the foreign guy, understood what was going on at every juncture. The parents and I participated in this or that, watched from a distance, or became an opponent in the aforementioned rock, paper, scissors competition.

I should mention that eighty percent of these kids were kids I teach at some point in my schedule, and that among the parents were at least four teachers I work with.

After the event while people collected their belongings, a number of the JHS and high school kids, along with some parents, were lounging around, waiting for rides or just not yet bothering to leave. We taught each other interesting English and Japanese, and found that the two languages have a lot in common in spite of their differences.

I’d seen two of these kids – Naoki and Chihiro – the previous day at school. At different times, they each approached me to ensure I knew when the party started, where to go, and what to bring. Naoki is an impossible combination of cool and hard-working, popular yet respectful. And so is his mum, whom I work with at another school. She told me that I’ve inspired him to want to become an English teacher, but specifically one who goes abroad to teach.

Chihiro’s spoken and written English is beyond excellent for her age, and oftentimes I turn to her in class when I don’t know the answer to another student’s question. We teach each other.

That day at school was one of the busiest days this year for me, but so memorable due to how intentional those kids were in ensuring that I was informed about the Christmas party. It cemented the truth of what their parents had said about them ‘really wanting’ me to come. Not to beat a dead horse, but just the privilege of knowing them makes me feel very rich indeed.

In spite of all the events I might go to, and the many people I spend time with, I never seem to grow weary. This wasn’t the case in New Zealand. I currently pin this on the difference in culture and people. It’s not a bad difference, but perhaps the average social setting in New Zealand isn’t quite so compatible with my temperament. Combined with western culture and expectations, the atmosphere of a group environment, for instance, puts pressure on me to stand out, and, in small ways, compete for attention. When you don’t – when you’re quiet or appear tired – people often comment, or question you. They ensure that the spotlight gets to you because you didn’t voluntarily call for it.

In Japan this has never happened. You don’t have to talk, and no one’s going to force you to. Yet people are ready to listen when you have something to say. Two friends – Hayato and Ryohei – are easy to spend time with because the calmess of their dispositions is such that I don’t feel any pressure to say anything I don’t want to say.

Introversion isn't the exception here, but the assumption. Yet it seems that I'm an extrovert until I'm around non-Japanese people.

It’s somewhat rare in New Zealand for me to meet someone and feel any measureable desire to get to know them more. But in Japan the opposite is the exception. The difference between grazing gazelles and boisterous monkeys. Sort of.

Not a gazelle, but nonetheless very friendly.

There is one caveat to all this pleasantry. I’m currently inbound to New Zealand, and there’s a tradition in Japan where if you go away on holiday, you bring back a small gift (usually edible) for everyone to indulge in upon your return. The more people you know or spend time with, the longer your list of recipients becomes. So, it’s important to tell only your closest friends.

But, of course, work colleagues also need to know.

Yesterday morning at school, Chikashige Sensei, whom I sit beside in the staff room, just 'happened' to be looking up New Zealand products online. He seemed to remember that I was leaving that day.

“Take care,” he said. “Enjoy spending time with your family.”

I’d already taken note of the images on his monitor, along with the cheeky expression on his face. So, in a whisper that only he could hear, I said, “I’ll bring you something. Please wait.”

“Of course!” he exclaimed, only he didn't whisper. He turned his head so that he faced the bulk of the staff room and yelled, “Everyone, Matt’s bringing us presents!”

I guess it’s a good thing that I’m rich. 

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What is it with people throwing their kids at me?

In the land of the samurai and the ninja, few things are certain.

I went to the chiropractor last week. His name is Seiji, and he did the usual job of fixing my back. There was the usual TV with the news in which a woman very courteously explained the forthcoming weather. There were the usual seats just a mite too small for me, causing my knees to protrude into the air as I sat and waited my turn. And there was the usual company of a student or two, also waiting, whom I saw at school earlier that day.

But it had been six months since my last visit here, and in that time Seiji had found a wife.

“I’m married man!” he exclaimed while applying ample palm pressure to my back. He said this while I lay face down on the bed, trying to relax but also not slide off. It was a tricky balance.

“Wow! Congratulations!” I said.

“Hahaha!” was his reply, not noticing my predicament. Everything I say seems to make him laugh.

He told me he has a kid, that his kid is incredibly cute, and that he and his wife are very happy. I said I’d like to meet his kid.

Later, as I approached the receptionist to pay, a woman carrying a baby emerged from the back door.

“My wife and my baby!” Seiji exclaimed. As it turned out, their house was part of the same building. Fair enough. But how did she materialise with such perfect timing?

“Hold baby,” he said, ignoring my bewilderment. “Let’s take picture!”

I held the baby. The receptionist scrambled to take a picture. Seiji and I went through the process of adding each other on Facebook, which, like the baby himself, I did not expect.

Seiji, baby, and me.

Nothing about Seiji is certain. He always has a new story to tell, and he loves to tell it. His stories are twice as good due to his animated gestures which go a long way in making up for his lack of English. He’s also getting better at dumbing down (and slowing down) his Japanese so that I can understand him.

Some things in Japan are certain: the peace, the orderliness, the atmosphere, the routines and the routine things to say as you greet people. Even the layout at every convenience store is uniform: that is, they all resemble Pokemarts exactly.

This isn't a bad thing.

I can, with certainty, walk into Naoko’s flower shop and say, “Indoor plant. Easy to manage. Need,” and know that she’ll provide.

I can walk into the hairdressers and say, “The usual,” and be sure that they’ll be sure what I want.

And I can visit Seiji and say, “Fix my back, eh?” and know that he’ll do a decent job of fixing it (as much as it can be fixed – which, if we’re honest, isn’t very much).

But in spite of what might be expected, there is so much that simply can't. People's reactions here are golden, and their quirks are uncontestable. It’s hard to put in words. I guess, if you’ve ever watched an anime, know that the bizarrely animated reactions of characters aren’t actually all that bizarre. They’re based on reality. One of the English teachers I work with very nearly falls over whenever I tell her something funny and/or ridiculous. She has to grab hold of the nearest desk what with her knees giving way.

Just this morning, Akiko, one of the other teachers, made a point of complimenting my Japanese. She didn’t know how to express her delight in words I’d understand, so how did she do it? She patted me on the head and clapped, and everyone else in the room stopped what they were doing and laughed at her methods.

This may be what I love most about Japan. There’s predictibility: the system is the system is the system. But within this system, people couldn’t be less predictable. The sun comes up as it always does, but then it does something totally out of the ordinary. It waves at you and says hello, and you’re like, “Wow, this country is amazing!”

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Japan is not Hamilton

I’ve been in Japan for exactly one year, so that’s nice. You know what else is nice? The kids no longer look at me funny!

About a month and a half ago when nature flipped the Spring/Summer switch and turned the humidity to full, students' attitudes towards me also flipped. No longer did they glare at me like they might glare at a ghost, make a face and then pretend they never saw me, or become so elated as to form head-splitting grins and try to talk to me in English only to realise that they can’t, and subsequently that not doing their homework has real-life consequences (which I had warned them about multiple times). Instead, their grins settled down, sort of in the way a 30-something year old settles down with kids and spouse, and it became more common for them to greet me without me having to greet them first.

Nowadays, they’re no more surprised to see me out and about the town as they would be to see me in the corridors at school. This is great! (The town isn’t much bigger than the school, so there's really no need for them to get a fright when they see me living my life.)

So, while I am one of probably four foreigners in Gotsu, at least the kids now see me as a friendly giant and not just a giant.

The elderly still give me looks, though.

East Gotsu on a cloudy August day.

I don’t blame these elderly folk. I mean, think about it. Whenever you see someone you think you know, first you look at them, and then you probably go over and talk to them. This is the same as that, just with the going over and talking part cut out. I mean, what would you say? “Hey, you’re a foreigner! Cool!”

That was meant to sound hypothetical, but it actually happened just the other day. I was perusing the yogurts at the local Youme Town (there are only 3 kinds of yogurt, so 'peruse' might be too strong a word) when an elderly man halted in front of me and said, “You. Foreigner.”

I said yes.

“What country?”

“New Zealand.” He didn’t hear me. I said it in Japanese: “Nyuu-ji-ran-do.”

“Nyuu-ji-ran-do?” he repeated. He gave me two thumbs up. “Good! Good!”

That was fine, because he talked. Usually they don’t talk, they just stare. Successive stares start to become burdensome. What I’m trying to say is, don’t get famous.

Anyway, there’s one very clear highlight about living in a small town in a super foreign country such as Japan (and just so you know, both of these criteria – small and super foreign – are necessary for this highlight to function). And it is this: ‘the opportunities to get involved with your local community’.

I put that in quote marks because it’s what almost everyone will tell you when you ask them what the highlight was of living in a town in a super foreign country. It just sounds super generic and unexciting, you know? Like they're trying to convince themselves that living in such a remote place wasn't a complete waste of their life. And they won’t really elaborate other than to list some general examples, like going to community events, watching performances, participating in [insert cultural activity here], etc. But of course, you’ve never even seen or heard of [cultural activity] before in your life, so you’ve no idea if it’s actually fun or exciting; you’re just taking the person’s word for it.

Well, let's put this matter to bed, shall we? These events are almost always fun and exciting.

It isn’t so much the event itself that makes it these things. If this event were in Hamilton (where I’d spent the last 20 years of my life before moving here), it would be pretty mundane. Hamilton is too familiar, and I’m familiar, and ‘getting involved’ isn’t even in my job description over there. Not that that last part should have much to do with it, but, hey, on a bad day it can be a motivator. If it’s my mission to attend, I’ll attend, you know?

So, if I wouldn’t go to such an event in a familiar setting, then it can't be the event itself that makes it worth going. Get me?

Rather – and it took me a bit of thinking to figure this out – it’s the act of engaging with people in a realm of unfamiliarity.

In Japan, few things are familiar. I’m also unfamiliar. So there’s something new for everyone! In these places, I see my students outside school, I meet their parents, and I meet locals who are probably related to these parents (due to the size of the town). These can be cultural events, dinner parties, festivals, sports events. The event itself doesn’t really matter. I get to be in the very centre of a culture that was previously totally unknown to me. At times like these, it feels very much like I’m in another world. And it’s addictive. Like watching a genre of film you’ve never seen before, and falling in love with it. The particular film itself doesn’t really matter; it’s the genre that you can’t get enough of.

It probably helps that the movies I'd seen set in Japan depict Japan extremely well. Everything you see there, you can see here. But movies are limited to sight and sound. Coming to the setting of these movies adds a whole new dimension. You can taste, feel and smell, and you can interact in real-time. It's a lot like playing a video game, only far less artificial because in video games your interactions are limited to what the creators meant for you to do. In fact, since coming to Japan, video games have lost a chunk of their appeal because, nowadays, real life is more interesting.

Even eating out on my own means more than just consuming food. It means talking with the staff there, sharing stories, speaking a new language, trading a new currency. They ask me why I came to Japan, they thank me for coming to Gotsu and apologise for its smallness, they (probably, due to the aforementioned town size) tell me that their kids go to one of my schools, and then, for this, they thank me again. This is half the motivation to go out in the first place - not to eat, but to interact.

A couple of months ago, we Gotsu ALTs went to Chizu's house for dinner. About a half hour after sitting down, she brought out a plate of lamb and set it in front of me. "NZ lamb," she said. "I remember you said you like lamb." It was my first time eating lamb in Japan, and it was heaven.

In a town like Gotsu, everyone’s connected, so I’ll probably see some of these staff at the next dinner party, and meet their kids, and realise that I already met their kids because I teach their kids. You know the giant tree in Pocahontas, or Avatar, or the other Avatar, with its infinite roots that ties everything together? It’s like that, though in my case the roots are a bit more finite – town size.

Sometimes these people don’t know each other, but they know me, and I know who they know but who doesn’t know them. In these cases I’m the tree. Being a tree sometimes equates to lots of pressure. In Gotsu, the moment I step out of my apartment door, I throw all secrecy of my existence out the window. The next place I go to – and even on the way there – I’m almost guaranteed to see someone I know (or have them see me, and then hear my name blurted in uncertain tones, followed by -san, -chan, or -sensei, depending on the relationship). Other than the 7/11 just around the corner, I don’t remember ever going out and not seeing someone I recognise. And even at the 7/11 I sort of know the clerks. So.

This pressure is relative, mind you. As I said before, most encounters are pleasant experiences. But there are those people you run into whom you’ve only met once and with whom you had an awkward first impression. All they know about you is that you’re awkward.

There are those people that seem to harbour negative thoughts, like why is he here, and oh it’s him again - like when I go for a run and I pass an elderly man, and he stops smoking his cigarette and just stares, and I start to wonder if I'm running wrong. And there are those people who give you the impression that they don’t want to make the effort of simplifying their Japanese or attempting to speak English. They don’t have the time for you.

Now, this is more a me problem than a them problem, because who even cares? And anyway, I can’t exactly read their minds, meaning everything in the previous paragraph could be completely false and just me being very silly indeed.

At the very least, it’s not a Japan thing. These pressures occurred in New Zealand, too; they didn’t start the minute I arrived here. It’s just that here it stands out more, because I stand out more.

The possibility of having to face these pressures was one of the fears that made me hesitatant to move to Japan in the first place. I coped well enough in New Zealand, I thought, and having achieved a stable life, why opt to move to a place where there was no guarantee?

And yet, this fear was also one of the prime reasons I did move. I mean, if it’s uncomfortable and scary, shouldn’t I do it? I think so, assuming that it isn’t also stupid – and it wasn’t. And anyway, by the time I began to get scared, I’d already got the job.

The job, by the way, is fun. This is primarily because the teachers are easy to get along with, and the students, for the most part, are pleasant and cooperative. At school and elsewhere, people are great and the food is delicious. Most importantly, I’m learning stuff and I'm helping other people learn stuff (if I wasn't doing both of these things I wouldn't have renewed my contract). I had no idea I’d ever learn a new language, let alone Japanese; and I had no intention of doing so when in university, or even afterward. I had no intention, ever, of moving to Japan and teaching English. Yet I'm very glad that I did.

To live here is an opportunity that not many people get, and that a lot of people wish they had. I try to remember this on the bad days, and I try not to take it for granted on the good.

The second year may be more difficult in this regard. The rosy tint of unfamiliarity is swiftly fading, meaning that, slowly, Gotsu is turning into another Hamilton. But then you have to remember that the kids no longer look at me funny. And this alone has me very excited.

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Gotsu

Gotsu is one of those places that some might say has one of everything. Only it isn’t, because it doesn’t have a movie theatre.

I haven’t lived in a city this small since before I was aware of my own consciousness, and then, even if I had been aware, would’ve had too small a frame of reference as regards town sizes to comment.

I took this from the carpark at one of my schools sometime last Fall. The things that look like gravestones are gravestones; you'll often find small graveyards like this adjacent to schools.

I live in an apartment that’s nestled between other apartments. Adjacent are a hotel/restaurant, a boxing gym, Route 9 (which connects Gotsu with everything else), a 7/11, and a house with a dog. I wouldn’t ordinarily consider a dog as relevant to describing one’s location, but this dog’s bark is so frightening (and so sudden, like right as I’m stepping out of the shower at 7:15am sudden) it takes a good deal of imagination to think of it as just an ordinary dog. Considering that I only hear it but never see it, and considering it’s more active at night, it could be a restless ghost.

There’s a giant community centre next to Gotsu Station, which looks to be as new to this town as me. It’s probably too large, and too expensive, as I hear the locals have complained about too many of their tax dollars having gone into its construction. Considering it’s a community centre and not a money-printing press, I can understand why one might harbour reservations.

It's also where many a student goes to study when they aren't at school, and thus where, if I don't want to be recognised, I should take care to avoid. So I have reservations of my own.

More striking than its controversial presence, however, is how vastly different it appears against every building around it. The rows of microscopic restaurants that make up the brunt of Gotsu’s ‘city centre’ have more rust on the metal than metal, and more peeling on the wood than wood. Mangled clumps of powerline look as if they’ve been grabbed and pulled from giant machinery. Cracked footpaths and uneven pavement have seen one too many earthquakes. Rust festering on pipes and stairs make you ask where the owners have gone to.

Well, as to that last point, the answer is known. The owners are inside, cooking tonkatsu.

Indeed, the interiors of these same places are healthy and thriving, and new independent businesses are sprouting up in more than a few places. But the buildings themselves – that is, their exteriors – are all in want of repair or demolition.

This includes Gotsu Station itself, which you might use if you ever choose to visit this quaint town. It looks prehistoric, both compared to other stations in Japan as well as other buildings (such as, opposite, the aforementioned community centre).

That said, there’s an ongoing effort to replenish parts of the town centre; and a new western-style-ish café, opened a couple of weeks ago and which serves great espresso coffee, is already doing its job to replenish me.

Speaking of replenishments, a little farther up the road is Youme Town, a mall which opened on Tuesday. It used to be ‘Green Mall’, but I presume Youme bought it out. It’s a good thing, because Green Mall was so old its name was beginning to take on literal elements. The revamped version isn’t all new, more like an HD remake with all the DLC included. It has new paint, a supermarket with consistency to its departments, an Indian restaurant, a good-looking bakery, and every store that had been at Green Mall, but with better textures.

Its temporary closure had left many a local stomach yearning, as it meant the simultaneous closure of Mos Burger, Japan’s primary source of sandwiched beef, and Gotsu’s only burger joint. For the last 5 or so months, whenever my appetite found itself burger-shaped, I had to drive at least half an hour to the nearest McDonald’s, or put up with 7/11’s shelved varieties (which, to be honest, aren’t terrible). Anyway, Mos Burger is back. Good.

Less crucial than burgers is the aquarium, which is decently big (likely bigger than New Zealand’s largest aquarium, anyway). Here you can watch beluga whales spin rings from their blowholes and then swim through them. You can also get really great ice cream.

There are also beaches, wind turbines, wind (often annoying), and several networks of suffocatingly narrow roads. These roads are supposedly two-way, but 8 months later I’m still having trouble believing it. You’d need a good 14 points to a turn to successfully get your car facing the other way. You’re better off finding the nearest driveway and cutting those 14 points down to a handsome six.

There are also pancakes in Gotsu, which can’t be said for most towns this size. Moreover, the road that takes you to the building in which pancakes can be had (you can’t miss it - it’s situated on a hill and taunts you with flags bearing the pancakes/icecream insignia) is very wide indeed. This town knows its priorities.

With six kinds of pancakes, it's difficult for this place to get old; and one of the varieties changes for a new one every season. A friend and I proposed bacon and banana (they have bacon and egg, and chocolate and banana, but no bacon and banana); but alas, next season’s flavour has already been decided. At the time of writing, it’s still a secret. (While the owner's kids go to one of my elementary schools, not even this is enough for him to divulge trade secrets.)

But I shall have to forego pancakes for a couple of weeks, as I’m currently on a Shinkansen bound for Tokyo, and from there a plane to New Zealand. It’s the middle of Golden Week, and half my mind is busy devising ways to ensure a seat on the next train. So, bye!

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Loads of new teachers, and a ceremony with a plot twist

In Japan, every three to seven years the teachers of one school leave and are replaced by others. I don't really know why, but that's not the point.

It’s been a week since the new school year started, such that the many new faces flitting round the staff room are now somewhat less new. In spite of Japan’s adherence to the codes of professionalism and courtesy, people’s mannerisms are never truly hidden, nor do they go unnoticed. In a way, these codes ironically serve to highlight each person’s individuality, to the point where they would make great fodder for fiction.

So it is, I decided to profile some of the not so new faces.

Prepping for a ceremony. There are countless ceremonies, one of which gets referred to further down.

Hamaoka Sensei

Miss Hamaoka is the new P.E. Teacher, but, really, she just wants to teach judo. This is hinted at on her drink bottle, which reads, “No judo, no life.” It’s hinted at in her self-introduction, which includes a lot of unfamiliar Japanese interlaced with familiar Japanese – that is, the word ‘judo’ pops up more than twice. It was hinted at by the English teacher I sit beside, who, just after I’d met them both, said, “She is Hamaoka Sensei. She is number one judo player.” And it’s hinted at by herself, who half the time can be seen going about the school in full judo attire.

Her not-so-subtle hobbies are matched only by her giant grin, which, despite the obvious glint in her eye that tells you she could wrestle everyone at the same time and win, still manages to display a full set of teeth.

Nor is it a scary grin. She is in fact very kind. And funny, and she likes to give her two cents in conversations between me and the English teachers. This usually doesn’t work out, and we all just laugh. I then attempt Japanese, and we laugh some more.

Chikashige Sensei

He’s the new English teacher, though you wouldn’t know this by speaking to him. He likes to think I speak Japanese, which isn't as frustrating as it is provoking - provoking because it gave me the fun idea of seeing how long I could speak Japanese back at him without giving away that I’ve no idea what he’s on about. Other times I do know what he’s on about, but not how to respond. Sometimes we go three whole sentences (single words count as sentences) without a single English word. Every encounter is a new opportunity to beat my record. One day I’ll be teaching him Japanese. You’ll see.

Not that he’s a man of many words anyway. “So, Matt, can you make a 25-minute activity for class?” he said hours after I’d met him.

“Sure,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said. No context was provided, but fortunately, in this case, it wasn't needed.

His tacit nature is coupled with a generally laid-back demeanour. He’s somehow very organised, which is noticeable because most of the other teachers can’t manage to erase enough things off their to-do lists or wipe enough sweat from their faces. He could be a robot (I’ve yet to see him eat).

He claims that he’s about to become a father. The evidence will speak for itself.

Kanayami Sensei

She’s the new music teacher. Her musical worth was proven at the after-welcome-party (karaoke) last week, where she sang a very harmonious rendition of… well, of a Japanese song that’s probably famous or something. I understood none of it.

But music isn’t her only talent. She can also bow super well – a perfect 76 degrees with nary a bend in the knees. Her bow contains such precision that it’s clear there’s something more going on underneath. Think of all the stuff that happens inside a piano when a key is pressed. It’s all very complicated and delicate, but all you see is the effortless down and up. She could quit music and teach bowing; though if you proposed this to her, she'd probably say something like, "One cannot exist without the other." And you'd believe her.

When all the new teachers walked on stage to introduce themselves, I remembered only hers because of her perfect bow. “Be careful of her,” I thought. “She’s too perfect.”

That about does it for profiles, but speaking of ceremonies, I’d made the mistake of thinking the entrance ceremony last Tuesday would be like all the others. That is, lots of synchronised and frantic standing, sitting and bowing, and listening-but-failing-to-understand antics. There was this; but towards the end, something happened in this ceremony that hadn’t happened in all the others: all the teachers were called to line up at the front and introduce themselves. It seems the majority of teachers hadn’t read the ceremony schedule, because, after the announcer said, “all the teachers will now introduce themselves,” they all at once flipped their schedules over (with a unanimous whoosh) and learned, by reading those schedules, that yes, indeed, they would.

Miraculously, I’d accidentally planned for this when I was bored one day during the Spring break. I’d hypothesised a scenario in which I had to introduce myself to hundreds of people, and I’d also hypothesised a short speech. (I'd decided that, if a formal introduction was ever required of me, I didn’t want to repeat my self-introduction from last August, which, in English, was something like, “My name is Matt. I’m from New Zealand. I like coffee. Nice to meet you.” I needed something new!)

This hypothetical scenario would become much less hypothetical a week later.

I recalled that speech exactly and, as the microphone passed from hand to hand, drawing ever nearer, I rehearsed it many times over in my head. Some of the students must have noticed this, because they kept smiling encouraging smiles, the way that parents smile at their children when they’re on stage and about to do something they’re suddenly too scared to do. Thanks, kids.

In short, it went well, though I did omit the joke I had planned because context (the ceremony was super formal; everyone was uncannily still). If there’s a downside, it’s that the parents of the new students now think I speak Japanese, meaning I must study fast in order to keep up pretences. I told all this to my Japanese tutor the following Thursday, who with hand to chin, said, “Mmmm, you are now in a dangerous position!”

She also revealed that my speech, which multiple students and teachers had said was perfect, wasn’t perfect, and could use some work. “They were just being nice!” she kept saying. Sensei tells it like it is.

There’s a student here who isn’t Japanese and doesn’t really speak the language. All the other students in his grade are doing tests today, but he isn’t, because he can’t. Instead, he and I are about to study Japanese together. The support teacher, who just realised she’ll also be free in that period, is currently preparing a quiz for us. This should be interesting; but I’ll be honest, I’ve a feeling that many pretences are about to be shattered.

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