Modern Day Drifter

Now that I've been shamed into posting again by Whitney's new blog, I'll direct everyone's attention to the formal start of my acting career.  I'm positive that I won't receive a credit for my role in this independent movie, but please don't let that keep you from starting my IMDB entry.  And in case you were curious, our (Whitney and I) appearance in this movie wasn't accidental; we were actually recruited to be in it and play tourist extras!  You can check out photos of the set, cast, and crew on the Korea album under the Travels tab.  In the meantime, enjoy.  And hopefully I'll be able to get you guys another speaking part sometime soon.

This post was supposed to be published on 20 September, but I was unable to finish it in time.  So instead, it will appear today, on my cousin's birthday, as a tribute to his mother, perhaps the greatest soul I have ever known:

A year ago today, one of my aunt's friends, whom she had invited over for lunch, found her lifeless body lying in a pool of blood on her living room floor, clutching a recently-purchased pistol in her hand.  The police were forthright in stating that there were several signs that her death was in fact a suicide, but ultimately they declared her death an accident, probably so that my cousin could collect the life insurance benefits.  The nice thing about being human is that we can decide what we believe.  Some days I believe it was an accident, some days I believe she just couldn't take the pain any longer.

I mention her death not because I wish to tear open the delicate stitching holding together a scar on my soul, but rather because her life and the battles she fought remind me of the protagonist of a book I recently read, The Time Traveler's Wife.  Or rather, I can't help but believe that the author crafted her story by observing my aunt's life, most notably in the way that Claire, the wife mentioned in the title, tolerates her husband's faults, remaining true to the promises that she made to him and the way that she supports him at the end of his life, never wavering in her strength as she watches him die slowly, painfully, and mostly without joy.

I don't have the words to adequately convey just what she felt and what she did at the end of my uncle's eighteen-month fight against melanoma, so here I will defer to her, to a passage she wrote for a church service from which the title of this post comes and whose words I carry tucked away in a special place, physically in a pocket of my wallet, emotionally tattooed on my soul:

When my 47-year-old husband, Gene, was dying of cancer in November of 1996, we had an ID bracelet engraved for our 15-year-old son as a Christmas gift from his father.  Gene chose the inscription, "Know God's Presence Always".  My husband knew that he would not be alive at Christmas, so he gave the gift to our son in late November.

It was one of many gifts he gave our family as he struggled to beat the cancer-gifts of grace, courage, humor, and a daily, living faith.  One day we sat down to plan his funeral.  We selected favorite songs, a psalm, and several passages from the Bible.  There was one favorite passage...that Gene wanted read at the Mass of the Resurrection, but he didn't know the Bible reference or the full text of the reading....A few days later, we sat reading from a daily devotional booklet as we did each day.  It had been an especially bad day for Gene, with much suffering.  He asked me to read an extra daily devotional....Knowing in my heart that Gene would not live to his 48th birthday..., I turned to the reading for [his birthday].

She goes on to say that the passage that she found at the bottom of the devotional for his birthday is the exact passage that my uncle wanted read at his funeral but could not remember while they planned his funeral.

And that's what has hurt the most.  Knowing how strong she was, how much strength it must have taken for her to get up everyday, knowing that it would be a day filled with her husband's suffering and fading life, deciding that her only purpose in life during those last few months was to help her husband ease out of physical existence as painlessly as possible, all the while pushing on and being the crutch that he needed, only to lose that strength and courage in fighting her own battles.

As I read the last few pages of The Time Traveler's Wife, I felt as if it were in fact I who was time-traveling back to the time when I watched her make the same choices that Claire does.  And I couldn't help but cry, needing to stop every few paragraphs to let the tears dry, let the pain subside, and let the memories fade.  She was so strong.  And if she couldn't make it, if she couldn't call upon that strength one more time for herself, then what hope is there for the rest of us?

Of course, there is no answer to that question; there never will be.  But to make that choice.  To honor that promise and decide that the most important thing you can do in your life is to help another soul.  That is faith, that is strength, that is love.  And that is what makes The Time Traveler's Wife such a memorable book.  If you get the opportunity, read it and you will see exactly what I mean.  My life was blessed by having a chance to know a soul as bright and dedicated as Claire.  I only wish I had had more time with her.

At some point over the weekend, I reached the conclusion of my twenty-sixth year on the planet.  I say 'at some point' because I don't know if I should consider US Eastern Standard Time or whatever the time zone in Japan is called.  I know that I was born around 7:15 at night on 8 September 1981 US EST, but that would have been 8:15 in the morning on 9 September here in Japan.  Or it could have been on 8 September at 12:01 AM here in Japan, although that would have been just after 11 on the morning of 7 September in the US.  Or it could have been...well, you get the point.

Still though, I'm 26 years old now.  Normally, I don't consider myself a person who frets about getting older.  One of my best friends is married to a woman five years his senior and one night while we were out for drinks, after she lodged a complaint about the big 3-0 being only two months away, he responded with one of the most insightful things I have ever heard a human being say: 'In two months, you'll be two months older.'  I've more or less subscribed to this philosphy ever since, even though that's only been about ten months.

And yet.

That same friend informed me last week, two days before my birthday, that he and his wife are expecting their first child in April.  He will be the second of my closest high school friends to bring a child into this world.  He currently is the third of seven to be married, have a full-time job with career prospects, and a mortgage.

My first thought after reading the email, other than the fact that the Democratic Party of North Carolina needs to start encouraging its supporters to procreate if they want the Democrats to even out the vote in eighteen years, was that he will be a great father.  And that, no matter how much I would like to pretend that I am still seventeen years old, I am getting older.  Not in the sense that my hair is getting grey since that's nothing new or that I stay sore a bit longer after a workout, but rather in the sense that people my age are already settling down and having kids and doing what...real...people seem to do. 

And here's me, lying on my futon, six inches off the floor, in my rented apartment in Hakodate, Japan.  In twelve hours I will be back at my job, a job with zero career potential, and talking to two women in a language they will probably never use outside of the classroom.  I don't own a car.  The most valuble thing I do own is my ever-expanding library.  One of my close friends already has a four-month-old son.  Now another one, from a different friend, is on the way.  As I write this, I realize that my girlfriend's father got married and did his part in her conception when he was twenty-six.  Damn.

I have no way of knowing if my friends look at my life and entertain thoughts about how I ended up here or whether, at least according to some defintion of success that incorporates salary and square feet, my life as it stands is a failure.  But I'm not sure that I really care; I'm perfectly happy with where I am.  My twenty-sixth year was a year of adventure filled with good companionship and love.  Right now, my twenty-seventh is looking to be a continuation of the same.  And I'll take it.

Huh.  I had no idea.  Although sitting here now, I suppose I'm in a position to decide which version is my favorite, 2004 (the one on YouTube), 2005, or 2006.  I really enjoyed teaching it both summers at Kansas.  The intro in the first Kansas incarnation, The Guide To Getting It On, was priceless and the second Kansas incarnation did have a debate on the categorical imperative.  But there was something so special about that first summer.  And not just the actual performance.  The 'aerobics' practices on the second floor of Cone; my students knowing that something was up because I was wearing real, actual shoes; begging and pleading for Ro to do it–all of these memories will probably forever make it the most special of the three in my mind.  But don't worry, baby.  Seeing you perform in front of me in last year's is still my favorite actual performance memory.  You looked great.  You still do.

One of the problems with foreign language instruction in schools is that, no matter how much you study the language, you never learn ex ante the words you actually need to survive (and here I'm using the broadest possible definition of survive) in a country where that language is spoken.  For example, after being in Peru for a week and having fingernails that were longer than I am normally comfortable with, I realized that fingernail clippers were one of several things I had neglected to pack.  At the time, I could speak Spanish very well and could circumlocute with the best of them, but never in my textbooks had I encountered 'fingernail' or 'fingernail clippers'. Given my circumlocution abilities, however, and reasonably assuming that people in Peru also cut their nails, I knew that I would be able to purchase some from a store without problems.  And so, I vividly remember walking into a pharmacy in Cuzco, pointing to my fingernail, and saying 'Necesito algo para cortar esta parte del dedo.'  At which point the pharmacist behind the counter (I think everyone who works in a pharmacy in Peru is considered a pharmacist, which is somewhat frightening, but that's another matter) responded '¡Ah, la cortauña!'  So I left with my new cortauña (and expanded vocabulary: uña-fingernail, cortauña-fingernail clippers) and was able to cut my nails that afternoon, but began to realize that there are many things we do on a day-to-day basis that are never covered in language classes.

Another topic of concern for anyone moving to a foreign country that is never covered in class is the problem/adventure of getting a haircut.  Let's face it, if you are unable to effectively communicate how you want your hair cut to the barber or stylist, you are stuck with it for at least a few weeks, making it a much more serious problem than having long fingernails.  You can't exactly stick your hair in your pocket to keep it from view (and if you can, then you've either gone too long without a haircut in your new country, which again illustrates the communication problem, or you're just gross and I don't want to see pictures of you).

Now I've gotten three haircuts in Japan and each time it has been somewhat of an experience.  I know enough Japanese now that I can circumlocute more or less how I want my hair to look.  I can tell them that I only need a haircut (カットだけ) and that I'd like it to be short (ショット).  And granted, it's difficult to screw up a crew cut, but in the event that they do, I can always instruct them 'もすこし' and thereby fix the problem.  However, during my haircut over the weekend, I discovered the limits of my Japanese, at least when it relates to my personal grooming.

You see, in Japan, it turns out that they really don't like hair on the face and body, even if it is just light peach fuzz.  Being a hairy dude with thick stubble and light peach fuzz on most of my face, you can imagine what the barbers think of me.  I generally try to keep my stubble groomed and always tell the barber to ignore it, but I'd never really paid much attention to the peach fuzz.  Right up until the woman who cut my hair on Sunday decided to shave it off of my ears with a straight razor.  That's right, she actually shaved my ears.  With a straight razor.  Lobes and the tops.  And hopefully now this somewhat rambling post is coming together.  You see, I wish that I had known that this was a customary practice, or that I had learned enough Japanese to prevent her from shaving my ears, or that I had been able to ask exactly what the haircut entailed.  Now I don't look ridiculous and you wouldn't even know that my ears had been shaved if you were to look at me (even closely).  But it's just the point of it and not being able to do little things like get a haircut without being surprised or having communication problems.  But then again, maybe that's the real benefit of travel.  And after all, I've gotten a whole post out of this very amusing story.

Literally hours after Whitney and I decided that we would spend our September vacation in Laos, nine men were arrested for conspiring to violently overthrow the Laotian government.  Incredible.  Two of the men were American citizens, which is somewhat shocking since I thought we only refought the Vietnam War during Presidential elections.  Apparently they didn't get the memo that the Vietnam War is, in fact, over and we no longer subscribe to the domino theory of international relations.  We only care about the Vietnam War when choosing from a candidate pool that contains men who were legally eligible to fight in the Mekong jungles.

But I digress.  The fact remains that we're planning on going to Laos for vacation and will hopefully have a great time.  I've read on the State Department's Consular Information sheet that the only American citizens who are specifically targeted in Laos are Laotian-Americans (I suppose they stand out somehow?) and that most Americans will be welcomed with open arms.  So that's exciting.  And really, how many people plan a vacation to Laos?  Up until Sunday night, I didn't even know what the capital of Laos was (Vientiane), which is a rarity for me.  So look for those photos at the end of September.  And thanks to everyone who offered input on destinations, even if we did ultimately decide on a country that no one mentioned. 

Two crows have recently decided that I don't belong in this neighborhood.  After violently flying into Whitney's mother's head once and my head twice, I've come to the conclusion that they really are out to get me.  I emerge from my apartment and they're waiting for me.  They usually try to pull off a couple of sneak attacks while I'm walking across the parking lot, but fortunately they attack with so much zeal that I can hear the beating of their wings in advance and dodge their attempted assaults.  But I'm getting really tired of it.  So after arming myself with a small board for self defense, I've finally decided that I'm just going to go on the offensive, kill them, and hope that more don't come to avenge their fallen brethren.

Now I've done some reading on crows.  Apparently they're at the top of the avian IQ scale, so it appears I'm dealing with a very intelligent animal.  And they definitely have the advantage when they're in the air because they can quickly change course and dodge the parries from my board.  So I'm thinking that putting out poisoned bird seed might be the best option.  Now I realize that doing so might involve the sacrifice of a few perfectly innocent and harmless wrens, but I'm willing to risk it in the name of the integrity of my scalp.  However, I'm afraid that the crows will see this move coming and find a way to regain the upper hand.  So I'm beginning to doubt my own plans, which can only mean that they've already beaten me.  If only small rifles were legal here since I've had plenty of good shots from my window.  Any other suggestions? 

As if that makes it any better.  I'll never forget the "magical orange juice" at David Uzzell's when we were seniors in high school.  I'll never forget going through customs with him in Peru and hearing the customs woman say to him "Hola Keen" and laughing.  I'll never forget the chicha and him laying in the grass at Saqsaywaman musing aloud "Lee, I wonder what it would be like to die in Peru".  I'll never forget Caraz Borrachero and meeting our guide at 3 am in the middle of the Cordillera.  I'll never forget discovering "te absuelvo" in our Huaraz hotel room.  And of course, there are all of the pictures.  Every time I look at a picture of myself from Peru, I'll know that he was the one who took it.  And even though we hadn't talked in a while, it still stings, just knowing that the person who I shared some of the most formative experiences of my life with is now gone.  Te juro, Quinn.  Te juro.

Alright everyone, it's time for a poll. With my new job, not only do I get a three-day weekend every week, I also get two weeks of summer vacation in July and two and a half weeks of winter vacation in December. So I'm currently trying to pick a destination for my summer vacation. Currently, there are three leading contenders: Mongolia, Cambodia, and Thailand. Mongolia has very few reknowned things to see, but the major mode of transit outside of Ulan Bataar is horse and who isn't excited about discovering Mongolia on horseback? Cambodia has Angkor Wat, which I really want to see, and lots and lots of jungle to hike through. Which of course means that with it's violent history, there's always the possiblity of stepping on a landmine and spending the rest of my life there in smaller chunks. And finally, Thailand is really cheap and has great beaches, which sounds like a perfect vacation, but I'm not certain that I could have some great adventures there like I could in the other two.

Therefore, I'm asking for input from everyone. A few things to keep in mind: 1) Whitney will probably be going with me and we're also trying to make this decision together, 2) I'm on a somewhat constrained budget, 3) I'm not terribly interested in learning another alphabet, and 4) It's a vacation, dammit, and I want it to be a kick-ass adventure for the two of us. So please, let me know what you think or if you have any other ideas about places to visit in Southeast Asia. All comments and opinions are welcome.

So I realize I've been awful at blogging from Japan and letting everyone know how life is over here, so this post is intended to rectify this unacceptable situation.  As most of you know, I left the States (as I've started calling home amongst my Aussie, Canadian, and British colleagues) on the sixteenth of January.  I assume my flight from Raleigh to Detroit was uneventful since I slept for most of it and wouldn't know if anyone looked at me and said "He looks like he's moving really far away."  Regardless, the flight from Detroit to Tokyo was much more interesting.  Before that though, sitting at the gate in Detroit was quite the experience.  Not because of anything new or particularly interesting, but just realizing that I was about to get on a plane to Tokyo.  No fears, no worries, just excitement and anticipation.

There were two other Nova guys in the seats in front of me, so it was nice to have someone to talk to on the plane.  I can't remember exactly where they were being shipped to, but I do remember that they were within an hour of Tokyo.  Me, definitely not.  I slept for the first part of that flight and spent the rest of it listening to music and otherwise trying to entertain myself.  The following is a list of 15 observations I jotted down on my computer at one point:

1) Alaska is massive.
2) Alaska is whiter than Iowa.
3) The Pacific Ocean is also massive.
4) A 747 is a huge airplane.
5) Neither Accepted nor Step Up is a particularly good movie.
6) The Illusionist, however, even without audio, is worth seeing.
7) The Pacific Ocean is still massive.
8) Shrimp eaten on an airline are quite good.  Don't be afraid of them if they are offered.
9) Crimson and Clover may be the most perfect song ever.
10) How many flight attendants are on this airplane?
11) Additionally, how many pilots are on this plane?
12) I've been on this plane for 8 hours.
13) And we still have 5 more to go.
14) Yep, the Pacific Ocean is still massive.
15) My girlfriend is amazing.  And wonderful.  And everything I could ever want.

The last one is included because it's true, but also because I must have listened to my personalized moving to Japan CD at least three times on the plane.

Our plane landed at four in the afternoon in Japan, right on time, which I think must be the unofficial motto of Japan.  The Tokyo airport was interesting enough, but it still didn't really feel like Japan.  What I mean by that is that it didn't feel like a different place because all of the signs were also written in English.  The same is true of the bullet trains and a handful of the buildings that we passed on the way to the Tokyo train station.  I spent that train ride talking to a Canadian girl who was also working for Nova.  I can't remember where she was going, but she was definitely going to get there before I did.

At the Tokyo station, Ben, the English Nova guy who had been helping us through our arrival, put me on a bullet train to Akita, which is definitely a novelty.  But by the end, you simply realize that you're just riding on a train that happens to go really damn fast.  I ended up sleeping for half of that train ride, simply because I was pretty wiped at that point.

Akita was the last stop on that train ride, so after departing the train at midnight, I was met by two Canadians, Jason and Andrew.  We headed off to Jason's apartment so I could send a couple of "I'm here!" emails and then they brought me over to my apartment.  I should say that I was expecting to have a roommate who would have been able to help me out with going to the grocery store and such, but he moved out a week before I got here.  So I have this apartment all to myself.  Which is fine since I can't possible imagine sharing this place.  The two bedrooms are separated only by paper sliding doors.  Crazy.

I didn't do much Wednesday night, just took a shower, unpacked a bit, and slept.  I didn't have anything to do on Thursday, so I walked around Akita for a while, just looking to see what's here.  I spent that first day eating convenience store prepared meals.  When you buy them, they ask you a few questions, but my Japanese not being where I'd like for it to have been, I didn't realize they were asking me if I wanted it heated up.  And since I don't have a microwave, I spent the first day eating cold convenience store food.  Now you're probably asking why I didn't try a restaurant or two.  See, that's the problem with a non-roman alphabet.  I couldn't tell the difference between restaurants and other stores.  I probably could have figured it out, but was still too tired to try.

I did discover, however, that I didn't have to do anything until the next Tuesday, so I decided I would go ahead and head off to Hokkaido for the weekend to see Whitney.  So Friday morning I headed up there and had an amazing weekend seeing all of the things I had heard so much about and discovering her life on Hokkaido.  The highlight was definitely passing out water at a cross-country ski festival, which gave me a fantastic opportunity to practice my newly-acquired Japanese number skills.  I can count to 10,000 now.

I came back here Monday night to start work on Tuesday.  In the next few days, I'll write more about work and my impressions of Japan thus far, but for now, that's all you get.