ON THINGS THAT SHOULD NOT BE
So I saw a kid (anyone under 18 is dubbed a "kid" in my mind) on a moped today. Nothing new. When you turn 16 in Japan, you can get a moped/scooter license, though you can’t drive a car until you’re 18. This moped was…different, though. It had bigger tires than most mopeds, it had a speaker (or something - somehow music was coming from it), it was painted purple. I guess the only way to describe his scooter is to say that it was pimped out. I didn't even know it was possible to pimp out a scooter, but somehow this kid did it. He pimped out his scooter. There is one sentence that I have never even fathomed I would EVER have a reason to...well, to even imagine or give frame to. Who pimps out a scooter? In my head, as I was passing him while he was soaring down the road at 20 km/h (what is that in mph? like -2 or something?), I had a conversation with this kid. "Kid, you may think you're cool, but you're not. You may wear your uniform collar up and unbutton the top button, but let's face it: a uniform is just not a cool thing. You may ‘pimp out’ your ‘fly ride’ and make it ‘hard for the ladies to resist,’ but let's face it: you still drive a scooter, and scooters are just not cool. And you may think you're a big man, that you're cool because you can drive, that you're a rebel since you dye your hair a light shade of brown, that you're hip and happening. But let's face it: you're 16, and that's just not cool."

ON NEIGHBORS
So I think the kid across the street thinks I’m insane. I’ve noticed lately that he stares at me as I go to and from my car and to the dumpster across the street from me. He’s probably about 6 or 7 years old, and he just stares and occasionally smiles. I’ll smile at him, then go about my business. I always think he goes away, so I’ll feel free to start muttering to myself (things get stuck in my car, going over what I need to do, letting out general frustration). Suddenly, I’ll look up, and he’ll still be there, staring at me. And this is like 2 or 3 minutes later. He just stares. And I KNOW he’s thinking something like, “Foreigners ARE crazy” or something like that. And I don’t think I’m helping matters. I just smile at him, wave sometimes, and continue on my merry way, hoping I do not prove to be his family’s topic of conversation at the dinner table. “Mom, guess what the gaijin (foreigner) did today?”

I’m learning that kids in Japan can be like that, though. The other day in the store, a young mother came in with 3 kids under the age of 5. They saw me and immediately started saying, “Gaijin, gaijin!” I smiled and tried to not look scary. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have, as it only encouraged them. For the next 15 minutes, I had the pleasure of being followed, neigh, stalked, around my small local convenience store by a 5-year-old, a 4-year-old, and a 3-year-old. Every time I went anywhere, they’d follow me. And anytime I’d pick up anything, they’d gasp, and one would be sent running to tell their mother what the gaijin had just picked up or put in her basket. Sometimes, they would skip the formality of running and just bellow across the store. “Okaasan! (Mom) The gaijin is getting milk! Gaijins like milk! Now the gaijin is getting rice. Gaijins can eat rice!!” I was tempted to really blow their minds and start picking up random crap from every aisle. “Mom, the gaijin is picking up prunes! And dog food! And a hammer! And maxi pads! And diapers! And floor lint!”

ON BEING YUMEINA (famous)
On a side note, everyone in town knows who I am and what I do. At a restaurant, one of the waitresses mentioned to some of the people I was with that she knew who I was. They were talking and I mentioned that I had been to an island for an English camp, and she immediately volunteered the name of the camp and said she'd read about me going to it. I am getting slightly concerned that maybe people know other things. The papers probably have headlines like, "Gaijin Sensei Goes Poo in Squatting Toilet For First Time Ever. No Mess Reported On Scene." I need to learn Japanese so I can read what they're writing about me.

ON THE JOYS OF FOREIGN FOOD
If someone tries to get me to eat sashimi (raw fish) ONCE MORE, I WILL create an international incident. Just a fair warning. I had a Welcome Party for Y-gakko’s the other night, and a few days later, I went out with one of my Adult Conversation classes. Both times, there was sashimi. (Cultural note: at these parties, we don’t actually have full course meals. They order many little appetizer type things, and we all eat a little. So at one party, we may order up to 15 dishes, and there will be just enough food for everyone to try 1 or 2 of everything). For me, eating raw fish is no good (the taste isn't what gets me - it's the consistency). I am so ready for Fear Factor after all this - I have learned to tone down my gag reflex. I pretend I'm a seagull gulping things down whole. Raw fish. Yuck. If God had intended for us to eat raw fish...um...uh...He wouldn't have let us discover fire. Yeah. That makes sense, right?

As an addition to the above paragraph (this is now several weeks later), I would like to say that I should have realized there were far worse things than raw fish. I was at yet another welcome party (all right, already. I feel welcomed enough, dangitall!). At this one, they were actually trying to be culturally sensitive and ordered some “American” food (no matter what they say, though, no American pizza I have eaten has ever included hot dogs, red and green peppers, and tomatoes). They also insisted I try some Japanese food, though, so I gamely went along with my newly established rule in Japan of “try anything once.” Everyone hits a certain point in their life, though, where they become a rebel and break some rules. I hit this point when a new dish was brought out to me. Basashi. It looked like thin slices of raw beef. I just knew in the back of my mind what this really was. I had heard rumors that Japanese people ate this. Putting all cultural sensitivity aside, I had to put my foot down. I know when it’s time to re-evaluate my life choices, and that time came when someone tried to serve me a plate of raw Mr. Ed.