Lake Tazawa and Lady Tatsuko

The second part of our first 3-part bus trip was an interesting study in contrasts. Our trip had actually started with a short stop at a cherry-blossom lined valley, where we bought snacks, took pictures, soaked in the sunlight, and distracted a large group of elderly people playing croquet. After going from that to the beautiful river, still bathed in sunshine, I thought for a while that the sun would stay all day. It didn't. And while the lake we traveled to next, called Lake Tazawa, was beautiful and interesting as a tourist, I was dismayed at the grey clouds which erased all the color that had dazzled me just an hour earlier. Such is early spring in Japan, I suppose.

(The beautiful sunny beginning of the day.)

Lake Tazawa has many claims to fame. First of all, it is the deepest lake in Japan. It's maximum depth is 423 meters, or roughly 1388 feet, and because of its depth it never freezes (Wikipedia.org). It's depth also causes the water to be a beautiful, rich blue color. It is flanked by Japan's largest ski resort, Tazawa Ski Area, as well as several famous onsen, or hot springs (Wikipedia.org).

It is also famous for the golden statue of a beautiful woman, named Tatsuko. The legend surrounding this statue says that Tatsuko was a woman of great beauty. Fearing the fleeting nature of such beauty, Tatsuko prayed at a shrine for 100 nights that her good looks would remain. On the last night, she received a message to drink from a holy spring. Perhaps because of her vanity, instead of granting her everlasting beauty, the drink turned her into a guardian dragon to watch over the lake (Oh Tazawako Blog). However, maybe in the end she received her wish, now that her image has been immortalized in the form of the gold statue, made by Yasutake Funakoshi in 1968 (semboku.akita.jp).

(The Golden Tatsuko. This picture belongs to a friend of mine.)

If you were to google image search Lake Tazawa, you would find hundreds of beautiful landscapes, with clear skies, deep blue water, bright white boats, and the golden charm of Tatsuko. Unfortunately, as I mentioned above, by the time we got there it was cold and grey. Although the lake was still beautiful, it was mostly due to the fact that nature can never really be plain. As such, my pictures are all quite monochromatic.

Our time was short. As we filed out of the bus, we were all handed a prepackaged bento, or boxed lunch. These were actually quite tasty, consisting of rice, Japanese pickles, fried potato dumplings, noodle salad, hamburger patties, fried chicken pieces, and fruit. As we munched, we gazed out at the mountains hovering over the expansive lake. Close by was a small shrine, flanked by beautiful stone lanterns decorated by engraved kanji characters, as well as two stone lion guardians. Many people bought fortunes printed out on thin strips of paper called omikuji. Tradition grants people a fail-safe against bad or bland fortunes, by allowing them to tie the strips of paper to near-by ropes. This is supposed to erase bad luck, and create a blank slate for another chance at good luck (Wikipedia.org).

(The shrine at Lake Tozawa. You can see the stone lantern in front there, just on the sand.)

(A close up to show you the kanji inscribed in the lantern.)

(The stone lion guarding the shrine.)

(The numerous  fortunes bought and tied at the shrine for better luck.)

Having finished our meals, Justin and I went to greet the golden Tatsuko, and had our picture taken beside her. Reaching her required a bit of dexterity, as we crossed over jagged and wet rocks. I think perhaps you cannot reach her if the tide is high. Thinking back now, I hope we didn't commit a culture faux pas by going all the way out to her.

(Me and Justin beside the beautiful Tatsuko.)

When we loaded back on to the bus, I think we spent a mere 45 minutes at Lake Tazawa. Someday, I hope to return on a nicer day. They offer boat trips, which sound lovely, and I wouldn't mind going to one of the onsen or the ski resort to gaze down at the beautiful, deep blue that Tatsuko calls her home.  

Blue River and Roaring Waterfall

We have come now to a post that I have been dreaming of and dreading since I first got the idea for this blog. While I treasure nearly every experience I had in Japan, there are a few that rank in my absolute favorites, and the first AIU bus trip is one of them. I have been excited to tell everyone about the beautiful places I visited, but also worried about accurately portraying how amazing it all was. I cannot delay the plunge forever, though, so here it goes.

AIU does something that I wish every university, college, and high school did: they organized field trips. Who doesn’t love a good field trip? Why don’t teachers do this more often? Because AIU was so invested in the international experience, part of our tuition money went towards bus trips during which the school took you to various tourist locations in Akita prefecture. Unfortunately for us, these outings, which were usually numerous, had either been cancelled or squished down to a meager two trips. This was due to fear of the frequent aftershocks from the big earthquake. Still, each trip was filled to the brim with fun, and although they were much too short, I was grateful to be on them at all.

The first trip consisted of three parts. The first of those parts was a visit to a Shinto shrine near a staggeringly beautiful river fed by a roaring waterfall. This excursion was the first thing I had really “seen” in Japan, and it left me with a sublime feeling I have yet to encounter since. The day was starting out perfect, with the first sunny, blue sky since we had landed. When the bus pulled up, we were all let out and set free to roam and explore. Before us lay a stretch of grasses, leading up to a mostly obscured river between two wooded hills, crossed by a bright red suspension bridge. Although the landscape was touched here and there with splashes of bright green, over all the colors were muted browns and pine greens, for it was still early spring. Northern Japan, like Colorado, wakes from winter slowly. Most people headed for the most noticeable landmark, an island-like precipice rising from the bank, topped by a few trees and a shrine marker. Justin and I made our way to the main shrine, into the pine trees toward a trail that wound up the side of the hills.

As we crept through the torii, or the gate of the shrine, a feeling of blissful calm settled over us. Justin and I said little, content to soak in the warmth of the sunlight, and watch as the rays burst through the trees to dapple the ground. Many people went up to the shrine bell to ring it and perform the claps and prayers of Shinto tradition. I wanted to, but we hesitated. We were unsure of whether we should partake for the sake of the experience, or hold back because neither of us actually believed in the Shinto religion. Out of respect, we chose instead to wash our hands with the basin provided, admire the bell, but move on.

(The little basin where you wash your hands and rinse your mouth to purify yourself.)

(A signpost at the shrine).

The path along the hills was actually quite green. Below us, we could finally see the river clearly, and I was startled by its beautiful and rich blue color. At times deep cobalt, at others bright aquamarine, I wondered at the mineral in the water that must turn it such a perfect shade. Understandably, I took many pictures, and some of my best work was found on this walk.

(The beautiful blue of the water. I wonder what makes it so blue, and so milky.)

The path was just as beautiful as the water. Every bend seemed to offer up a new gem of natural beauty. At one turn there was a small cave surrounded by new spring leaves. Justin and I crossed the suspension bridge, delighting in the bounce it gave to our steps. On the other side, there was a natural bowl-like groove in the stone that had filled with water, and someone had put a ladle there for drinking. The water was cold and clean and pure in taste. A cacophony of rapids sang below us. New tree leaves hovered silently in the golden air like sprites. Little springs trickled down the sides, teasing at the great spectacle waiting for us at the end.

(The little cave along the pathway.)

(Turquoise rapids.)

(A little spring falling down the mountain side, bathed in a column of light.)

For the most part, we had meandered down the path at our leisure, but then suddenly people were running past us in the opposite direction. Finally, someone paused to inform us that it was time to go, but that there was an awesome waterfall up ahead. “If you run, you can make it.” Not caring for the odd looks from other visitors, we instantly broke into a run, praying we would find this waterfall before we were dragged back. We made it. Although we were out of breath, it was so worth it.

(Roar, baby, roar!)

The photo above does not communicate how big and grand the waterfall was. Its powerful waters broke against the rocks and threw a cool spray over its spectators. Surely this lord of water was the inspiration for the shrine. Its proud turbulence belied the peaceful ascent we had taken to reach it. Thoroughly pleased, we turned back to that tranquil path, before boarding the bus once again, ready for the next stretch of our trip.

It may seem strange that such an uneventful experience could be among my most favorite memories of Japan. After all, we didn’t really do much at this river. But the scene was so picturesque, the shrine was so peaceful, and the waterfall was so amazing, that it has come to embody the essential beauty of Japan in my heart. Although I do not practice Shinto, I can understand why one would find such a perfect place worth worshiping. 

My Host Family

Many people who study abroad, especially high school students, usually do so while staying with a host family. I've always been a little jealous of these people. It sounds so cool to go home every day to a family who is delighted to have you and your foreign-ness there. Plus you have people who are actively invested in your study abroad experience, as opposed to being entirely responsible for your own experience. As you know, I stayed in the dorms during my study abroad. Of course, I had my roommate, Mai, there to hang out with every night, but, being a student herself, she never felt really responsible for the experience I was having.

However, just because I stayed in the dorm does not mean I lacked a host family. In fact, AIU had a host-family system set up, where you signed up and they matched you with a family who had also signed up. I immediately put my name on the list, noting that I didn't mind if they only spoke Japanese. (My Japanese is pretty good.) This program was on a first come first serve basis, but I think because the earthquake had reduced the number of exchange students severely, everyone who signed up got matched up. Justin, being shy, did not sign up, but luckily my host family adopted him with open arms.

The experience of having a host family varied between students. I had one friend who did a lot of fun things with her host family, but she said it was awkward because she spoke no Japanese, and they spoke no English. Sadly, a few people were never even contacted by their host families. Fortunately, I could not have imagined a better host family for me and Justin.

Our host family consisted of an 8 year old girl, Miu, and her parents, whom we called “Miu-Mama” and “Miu-Papa.” On our first visit, merely a preliminary interview-style meeting, they eagerly asked us where we wanted to go and what we wanted to do. They spoke no English, and although my Japanese skills were meager at first, they were patient and easy to talk to, and over our subsequent visits my language abilities increased substantially. Justin and I first just wanted to get to know them, and so we proposed a meal together. It was determined that we should eat the local Akita specialty, a dish called kiritanpo, at their house.

Kiritanpo are rice dumplings made by pounding cooked rice until lightly mashed, and then molding it around a wooden skewer and cooking it over an open flame or grill. These can be served on their own, or are commonly added to a stew along with vegetables like cabbage and carrots, as well as chicken. This country meal is very popular and famous in Akita, and you can find prepackaged kiritanpo to send to your relatives at nearly every tourist attraction in the prefecture. Despite the fact that it was already quite warm in Japan, Miu-Mama happily agreed to make the dish. At my request, she even cut off the chicken skin that seems to plague all supermarket chicken in Japan.

(An assembled kiritanpo hot pot. The white tubes in the middle are the kiritanpo. This is a public use photo.)

On the day of our first real visit, our host family picked us up in the tiny parking lot at AIU. There they met my roommate, and I secretly relished in watching their very Japanese introductions, with all the bowing and the “hajimemashite” (nice to meet you) phrasing that I practiced for hours in first-semester Japanese class. Justin and I got into the backseat of the car with Miu, to discover they had brought along their adorable miniature poodle named Mocha (for his coffee coloring). To my delight, he instantly curled up on my lap.

Our host-family’s house was gorgeously clean and simply decorated. It was quite big for a Japanese house, but that was to be expected in a country-town like Akita. Miu showed us her room with childish enthusiasm, and then Miu-Mama brought out a plate with cheese and crackers, as well as a platter of expensive cookies. (Japanese people often buy pricey cookies and hors d’oeuvres for the sole purpose of hosting guests). Then, while the kiritanpo cooked, we played Wii bowling and Justin showed Miu a rhythm game on her Nintendo DS called Ouendan (which is very fun and highly recommended). Miu instantly became a wiz at it, and could barely tear herself away to eat.

Joining us to eat was a family friend who quickly became another member of our host family, the beautiful Nepalese Rashmin and her adorable, 2 year old, half-Japanese daughter, Koena. Rashmin was a welcome addition, not only because she was friendly, but also because she spoke English and could help me with phrases I didn’t know how to say in Japanese. Together, we sat down and chatted over our kiritanpo, which was warm and delicious. I loved the texture of the rice dumplings soaked in broth. Miu-Mama and Miu-Papa told us about their jobs, and Miu told us about school. Justin and I talked about AIU, traveling after the earthquake, and the United States. We all cooed over Koena, especially whenever she tried to do the hand-sign for peace, a beloved gesture in Japan and absolutely necessary in any photos. Koena knew to do it whenever a photo was taken, but she could only hold up her thump and first finger. Her utter confidence in the gesture made us giggle every time. The whole scene was simultaneously ordinary and exhilarating. I felt like I lived there, and the day seemed much too short when we finally were driven home, with promises to meet up again soon.

(Me, Justin, Miu, and little Koena. You can see her here trying to make a peace sign. <3 )

In various subsequent posts, you’ll read about more meet-ups I had with my host family. Each visit is a cherished memory, and I feel uncommon warmth whenever I think of them. I hope to stay in touch with them, though I have been quite terrible at it so far. Life gets in the way, but I really want to maintain our friendship. I know that they added richness and delight to my trip abroad, and I hope that Justin and I returned some of it. Japan can seem a very unwelcoming place to foreigners, especially in the countryside where many people have never seen a non-Asian face. However, Miu and her parents proved that there are some who will welcome new people and new cultures with smiles, and believe the exchange to be an act of both giving and receiving. I think that eager openness is at the heart of traveling, and what I think AIU strives to embody and promote. 

(All of us around the delicious kiritanpo. Miu-Mama is holding Koena.)

Hina Matsuri

Hello, my long awaiting readers (though you may be few). After a terribly long absence, I am finally back, with a new blog post. First, I would like to apologize for the delay. I know that, personally, it drives me crazy when a favorite blogger or comic artist suddenly disappears and doesn’t post anything new for months or sometimes years. I never wanted to be that person, but in the end my personal life just became too overwhelming to maintain posts. Of course there was university, but there was also the stress of a new job, as well as my boyfriend’s hip surgery, which rendered him completely helpless for a long time. A few other incidental stresses worked together with these major ones to sap not only my motivation to write, but also, quite honestly, my happiness. Only recently have I overcome a bout of mild depression, and I am trying my best to keep up my spirits. I really think devoting myself again to this blog will help. Writing has always been a sweet escape from the stresses of daily life, but reminiscing about fun times abroad is also a nice reminder that I have a good life worth appreciating.

So without further ado, I would like to return you to the tales of my trip to Japan, to talk about one of my favorite Japanese cultural traits: matsuri, or festivals. Japan is really a country of festivals. There are so many, that it would be impossible to count. The most common kind of festival is the kind often seen in anime shows. These are local festivals that celebrate some deity or another, and usually include cordoned off streets filled with stalls selling everything from finger foods to masks and fans. There are also often carnival-style games, floats, and street performers. In a later post, I will describe my own experience with such a celebration.

 Some festivals are celebrated nation-wide, such as Obon, a festival for one’s ancestors, Tanabata, a wish-making festival, or kodomo no hi, a celebration of children. In some regions the dates and various traditions of these festivals vary, but they are all observed with at least a few similar customs. During Obon, family gets together to share in a feast and remember relatives, as well as visit family graves and place food before the stones, which are often pretty sculptures made of sugar. There is also usually a dance, which varies by region, to honor the dead. At the end, paper lanterns are floated down rivers to carry the spirits back to the realm of the dead. (Wikipedia.org).

Tanabata is a festival which celebrates the meeting of two lover deities, Orihime and Hikoboshi, embodied in two constellations, which are, in the West, Vega and Altair, respectively (Wikipedia.org). These two lovers are only able to meet once a year because of the distance separating them in the sky. During this meeting, people write wishes to the gods on pieces of paper and then hang them from a strip of bamboo (Wikipedia.org).

Kodomo no hi, or children’s day, is exactly what it sounds like: a day to celebrate children. The tradition is to raising carp-shaped flags called koi no bori, one for each child. The different colors and sizes designate age. Originally, this day was only for boys, and only the male children were celebrated, but it was changed in 1948 and was deemed to celebrate all children. However, the festival remains mostly geared towards boys (Wikipedia.org).

Luckily, girls get their festival, as well. This festival, called hina matsuri, was the first festival I encountered in Japan. Hina matsuri translates into “doll festival.” The origins behind this festival stem from the belief that dolls contained real spirits, which could turn malignant if not respected (Wikipedia.org). To this day, many Japanese people carry the suspicion that dolls having feelings and must not be insulted.  However, the main purpose of the holiday is to display a specific set of dolls and admire their beauty. The dolls depict an emperor and empress, as well as their entourage, including ladies-in-waiting, guards, musicians, and even their luggage and pack animal. These dolls are set out in a specific order on a stepped platform covered in red cloth. A complete set is often very expensive, and is usually a family heirloom, passed on from mother to daughter. (If any of you have seen the original seasons of Pokemon, these dolls are the dolls that Misty and Jesse compete to win in a particular battle competition.)

AIU had a set of dolls displayed in a special tatami room. People were welcome to come and look at it, though at the time I was still new to the school and too timid to inspect the dolls closely. Fortunately, when I went to go look with a friend, some school officials and the lady who had generously lent AIU the dolls were preparing to pack them up (the festival was at an end). They invited me and my friend to help put them away, and allowed me to take a few pictures before they went back to sleep in their boxes.

I was most struck by the amazing attention to detail that went into the dolls. As you can see in the photos, the clothes are absolutely gorgeous, with tiny details that seem like whispers from a bygone age of craftsmanship. The tea-set is so detailed that the whisk for the matcha powder looks practically usable. I wasn’t sure what I expected the dolls to be made of (perhaps porcelain) but they were actually made of high quality plastic, which made them feel so light and delicate in my hands. The set even included two trees, as well as two cherry blossom-print lanterns which would turn on if plugged in. I felt so lucky to have the chance to handle the dolls and appreciate them up close, and I have since become determined to own a set myself someday. I will celebrate this beautiful matsuri with my future daughter.

(The Emperor in his regal kimono. I love the pattern on his kimono and also his hat.)

(The Empress with her delicately painted fan. This fan was only a bit bigger than a quarter, and yet not a line on that heron is misplaced.)

(One of the royal attendants. This one is in a sitting pose, cradling a small stand with two tea cups.)

(The royal tea set, complete with hot water in the center, a ladle on the right, and a tiny whisk on the left.)

I was delighted to have experienced this festival, as well as a few others, during my stay in Japan. If you are interested in catching a few festivals yourself, I recommend traveling to Japan during the summer months, when festival saturation is at its highest. It seems like you cannot go a single week without a local festival breaking out (often as local as individual neighborhoods), and many of the major, national ones occur in the summer, as well. Hina matsuri is in March, Kodomo no hi is in May, Tanabata is in July, and Obon is in August. Of course, there are many other festivals during every part of the year, but summertime is like one big celebration, when hard-working students and salary-men and women escape the pressures of responsibility to don a yukata and watch fireworks. 

Parties under the cherry blossoms

When I went to Japan, spring was just spreading over the island nation. Of course, Japan is probably most famous for its beautiful sakura, or cherry blossoms, that bloom across the country like a pink wave. They begin as early as the end of January in the far south, and finish as late as May in the northern island of Hokkaido. In Akita, the cherry blossoms arrived in late April, just after I got there, as if an earthquake-shattered Japan was donning her best kimono to distract me from the shambles around her. Cherry blossoms bloom quite suddenly, with entire trees bursting into cloud-like fluff seemingly overnight. Just as quickly as they appear, they fade within a couple weeks, gently sprinkling their petals over the ground like tears until they are spent and green leaves has taken their place.  

The Japanese love sakura more than any other flower. It has been depicted in paintings, lauded in poems, and glorified as the national flower. The sakura mark the 100 yen coin. It is a popular girl’s name, Sakura have even been made into sweets. The blooming of the cherry tree is both a happy and melancholic event. As the harbingers of spring, it represents renewal, harmony, growth, and beauty. However, their rapid disappearance carries symbols of death, impermanence, and letting go. This duality is a common theme in the Japanese religion*, especially the Buddhist elements.

One of the positive associations with the sakura is the tradition of hanami, or flower viewing. “Flower viewing” is a literal translation, although there is no real, concise English equivalent that communicates the same concept. Hanami is hanami. It is the tradition of going out with family or friends to sit under the blooming cherry trees to watch and appreciate their beauty. It is a chance to feel a sense of oneness with nature. It is also a party, often including lots of drinking, picnic food, and rowdy behavior.

The hanami has a long history in Japan. Although records of the gatherings are found in Japan’s first historical texts, such as the Nihon Shoki, dating them as far back as the 3^rd century, the tradition is said to have really begun in the Nara Period (710-794), with its full form and sakura-only focus beginning in the Heian Period (794-1185). Like many beloved Japanese traditions, it began as an activity for the wealthy and high class, and eventually found its way into the hearts of the common folk. It is so firmly rooted in the culture that it is enjoyed by nearly everyone in the nation, and news stations even have daily reports in the spring to show exactly where the sakura are beginning to bloom. Schools take their students on hanami outings, families crowd the parks with their children, eating obento (packed lunches) beneath the shade, and friends gather together to drink and enjoy the brief time of the cherry tree in full bloom. The tradition of hanami communicates the same sentiments of the sakura, perhaps even more so. It especially emphasizes the idea of “ichi go, ichi e,” which means “One moment, one encounter.” English speakers may be more familiar with the equivalent of “carpe diem,” “seize the day,” or “live in the moment.” The sakura are a brief beauty, and the hanami is the best way to enjoy them while they last. (http://thinkjapanblog.com/sakura-hanami-flower-viewing.html)

In a culture where many people are disregarding their heritage and old traditions, hanami and the love of sakura is one example of a tradition that continues to remain strong even in the face of constant technological development, busy work schedules, and endless distractions. Even the most overloaded salary man, the busiest housewife, and the most absorbed gaming or texting teen gather together to enjoy an afternoon of hanami. Hanami and sakura are the essence of Japan and the Japanese people.

For someone from dry Colorado, the sheer number of cherry trees and the culture surrounding them was completely astounding. I spent a lot of time trying to take as many pictures and videos of the blooms as I could, always aware of their ephemeral nature. I watched the gradual invasion of green with apprehension, despairing at the scattering dead but still beautiful petals on the ground.

 I delighted at discovering how many different kinds of cherry trees were on the AIU campus. Below, you can see a small sampling I collected. The shapes are so beautiful and distinct, and yet they all carry the same emotional symbolism. Someday, I will do a small, watercolor painting of this shot. According to Japan-Guide.com, there are over 100 kinds of cherry trees in Japan. The different kinds range in the number of petals, their general shape, the way they hang on the tree, their color (white to bright pink, as well as yellow), and the location and length of their blooming period. Some of them are wild, but most of them are cultivated. I think the three below are called imose, soushunzakura, and akebono, from left to right. (Those are only my guesses!) (http://www7b.biglobe.ne.jp/~mainn/sakura/sakura.html)

The scattered trees around campus were beautiful, but there is nothing like seeing dozens of trees clustered together. My trip to a town called Kakunodate was the perfect chance to see that the beauty of sakura grows exponentially with each additional tree.

 Their splendor made the rainy days of early spring as far from dreary as possible. And yet, I did not feel the rumored sadness when the last petal fell. The lush green that had replaced the pink was just as gorgeous. Perhaps I am not familiar enough with their passing, or the intense heat of the Japanese summers, but I felt only invigoration from the blooming of the sakura, and the green summer with its new flowers continued the inspiration. I think I focused on the symbolism of rebirth and somehow missed the melancholy meaning of death. All I know is that the memory of those beautiful pink and white clouds springs to my mind’s eye with ease, the feel of the petals lingers of my fingertips, and the curious floral yet fruity taste of sakura ice cream still dances on my tongue. The sakura may be evanescent, but the delight of my memories is constant.

Below are some of the best pictures of sakura I (or my boyfriend) took while in Japan.

(Me by the pinkest sakura I could find.)

(A pathway near the river at Kakunodate.)

(The white cherry blossoms lining the river. I wish it had been sunnier.)

(A set of three pictures from a particularly scenic rest area on a bus trip. Sakura under a blue sky are so beautiful!)

(Sakura petals on the ground.)

The background of my blog is another picture I took, up close. Can you spot the spider I also managed to photograph?

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*Many people distinguish between Shinto and Buddhism as Japan’s major religions; however they have become so intricately linked over the centuries that they are almost a single, uniquely Japanese religion.

Nihon Buyo

My love for Japan is based mainly in the traditional aspects of its culture, which survive alongside the hyper-modern, technology dictated lifestyle of the average person. Japanese people, especially the young, have a fading interest in such traditions, and many fascinating older aspects of the culture are only kept alive through tourism and the sometimes fanatic interests of foreigners. At my school, the Japanese culture department was taught by one charmingly neurotic British guy. Even I had to do a bit of teaching myself, when many of Japanese friends didn’t know how to don a yukata (summer kimono). Luckily, a few Japanese people still continue the old fashions, such as the instructor for the nihon buyo club. In fact, nihon buyo is one tradition that is experiencing a resurgence in the Japanese population, with people taking classes for entertainment as well as health reasons.

Nihon buyo, which translates as Japanese traditional dance, is a gorgeous art form, the many faces of which have captivated my curiosity since I was young. Dating back to the Heian period (794-1192), it has changed over time and influenced or drawn influence from several other forms of dance. Many types of dance were originally designed for daily use, particularly Shinto rituals. Although many of the traditional dances people watch today are performed as both stage art and ritual, such as dances by shrine maidens, or only stage art, such as noh, nihon buyo is one of the only forms designed for the stage from the beginning. It draws elements from various other forms of dance, such as bugaku (a form of dance performed for the Imperial court), nohgaku (from noh theater), as well as a variety of folk dances that vary based on locality. Elements of nihon buyo are incorporated into kabuki buyo (dances for kabuki plays) as well as other, traditionally inspired free form dancing.
(Source: http://www.nihonbuyou.or.jp/english/about/index.html)

This kind of dancing is designed to be performed in small spaces, and thus includes small, precise, and measured movements. The use of props, such as fans or poles, is common to help accent and dramatize the moves—the long sleeves and bright coloring of the kimono or yukata also help. The dances are choreographed so that each step flows easily in the next one. Whatever position one’s foot is in, the next position can be easily reached, and the arm movements will echo the movement of the feet. There are often subtle moves that are made in preparation for future steps, such as discreetly placing one’s foot behind the other in anticipation of a fluid turn. There are also independent movements of the hands and neck, and ideally the dance should be performed with a look of placid thoughtfulness on the face. Overall, this form of dance is very refined and delicate, and for some people it may be boring. However, for those with a longer, more observational attention span, it is a beautiful form of art, full of expression in every movement of the body.

Being a fan of most traditional Japanese culture, particularly dancing, this is the first club at Akita International University that I joined. Any other club came second to it, and luckily a lot of my friends joined as well. Including my roommate, I also had friends in the club from Taiwan, Malaysia, Hungary, and the Netherlands, which made getting over any embarrassment easier. The senpai* (senior members) of the club were all very nice and helpful, and the sensei (teachers), while sometimes relentless in their practices, were easily approachable when you needed a particular step explained. I only wish we could have met more frequently, as we only met once a week. Although I was only able to perform once, the experience was one of my favorites in Japan.

The club was split into several groups; one was for the new students, two other groups containing senpai performed more advanced dances, and then our single male member, who was new as well, performed his own dance. The above picture is of my group, ready for our performance, around the one guy. The new students worked on a dance accompanied by a folk song that every Japanese person grows up knowing: Sakura Sakura. It is a song that beginners on instruments play and that little kids learn to sing for concerts. Musicians often rework the melody to try to modernize the song, keeping its place firmly rooted in the culture.

Here is a recording of the song.

Here is a translation of the lyrics:

Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms,

Across the spring sky, as far as you can see.

Is it a mist, or is it cloud? Fragrant in the air.

Come now, come, let’s look, at last.

As you can see, it is a short song, like many folk songs, with a simple melody and simple, poetic words. I wish our recording had been as lovely as this one, but for some reason our sensei insisted on using an outdated, poor quality tape recording. I even own such a tape myself now, courtesy of my sensei as a gift at the end of my trip. What am I going to play it in, since I don’t own a tape player? No idea, but it’s a nice keepsake regardless.

As beautiful and graceful as nihon buyo is, learning it is not so delicate. The moves were difficult and sometimes felt quite awkward to my foreigner’s feet. We had to bend our knees slightly in the traditional feminine style, which made my calves and knees hurt in the beginning weeks. This was always difficult for me, and my sensei was always reminding me to bend lower. (I think it’s because I was taller than the other girls.) Our first lesson didn’t involve explanations of each individual movement, but rather was a sink-or-swim plunge that involved watching the senpai perform it once, and then giving it a go ourselves until we figured it out. The fans require a special technique to open them, which made them unreliable at times, especially since our practice fans were worn out and tended to stick every once in a while.

Eventually, after extra practicing on my own with fellow members, we finally got the dance down and were ready to perform it at a student festival near the end of the semester. I invited my host family (who I will tell you about in a later post), and they said they were really impressed, describing our performance with complicated words that were definitely out of my vocabulary! I was sad to be done with the club, but I have many pieces of memorabilia that keep the experience fresh. I have pictures and recordings of our performance, as well as a tape recording, my tabi (Japanese socks), and a pretty dancing fan that I bought for myself in the Asakusa neighborhood of Tokyo. I can even remember the dance moves, a year later. Although I am far from achieving the grace of the dancers I admire so much, it is comforting to know that despite being a foreigner, I can still perform dances with origins dating back a thousand years, and not look like a complete idiot. If you ever travel to Japan, I highly suggest going to a performance or, if you can, maybe try a lesson or two. In the meantime, here are some videos of my club's performances! I apologize for the horrible video quality; it was filmed on my dinky camera by my boyfriend in a crowded room.

(I am in the front on the right.)

(My friend from the Netherlands doing his awesome one-man dance. The difference in style is pretty cool.)

(A few senpai performing a really lovely dance with streamer fans.)

(Here are some videos of girls performing nihon buyo at a festival I saw. They're much better than me, and  the youngest ones are so cute!)

*Many people who might be familiar with common Japanese words may have a problem with me writing "senpai" instead of "sempai." I also write "tenpura" instead of "tempura," and "kanpai" instead of "kampai." Why do I do this? Because it's the correct phonetic translation. The 'sen' in 'sensei' is the same character/pronunciation as the 'sen' in 'senpai.' There is no single 'm' sound in Japanese, but there is a 'n' sound, written like: ん. It just sounds like an 'm' when next to a 'p' sound, but that doesn't reflect the transliteration properly. So, this is how it will be written in my blog, no matter what. 

Toilets and Munchies

In the United States there are a lot of little annoyances that we ignore; those insignificant problems that bug you in the moment, but later become an afterthought. There’s an attitude of “deal with it,” which is fine, because, really, no one should waste her time being upset about such trifling incidents. On the other hand, in Japan people go to the next level to erase any discomfort or inconvenience you might be feeling. Examples of extraordinary care and concern can be found in nearly every aspect of Japanese daily life, and just like the annoyances are forgotten in the U.S., sometimes I wonder if the conveniences are forgotten in Japan. Their usefulness and rarity were certainly not wasted on me, and there were some amenities that stood out in particular.

Let’s start with toilets. The Western-style toilets in Japan are awesome. The high tech ones come with a button pad mounted on the wall, allowing you an array of options to make your business as enjoyable as possible. There is a water spout option with adjustable angles, which helps wash away the mess from your private bits. It can follow up with a good warm air-drying, leaving you feeling cleaner than any meager piece of paper could accomplish. Some toilets include a button that plays the sound of running water to camouflage any…uh, unfortunate sounds that might happen. There was even a massage button, but when I pushed it nothing happened, so I’m not sure what is supposed to occur. (Does the toilet seat start pulsating or send rotating spheres along your buttocks like those massaging chairs? Or maybe it’s just an undulating, high pressure spout? I have no idea.) The most appreciated feature, however, was the heated toilet seat. During the winter months and still cold early spring, a freezing cold toilet seat is enough to deter you from the bathroom for even the most urgent call. So the addition of a heated seat is happily welcome. For Japanese people the warmth of their toilets seems to be an important thing, because even non-electric ones are covered in some sort of fabric to keep your bottom warm. The electric ones include a programmable timer, so that it doesn’t waste electricity (or money) during times of infrequent use, such as when the user is asleep. My boyfriend was so fond of these toilets that he often scorned our low-tech dorm bathrooms and insisted on traveling across campus to the library to use their fancy ones. They’re that awesome.

Just as Japan cares about what should be kept warm, they also care about what should be kept cool. One of my favorite places in the mall near campus was a specialty cake shop called Fujiya, whose mascot is a supposedly cute girl licking her lips in anticipation.

(To me she’s a little kimokawaii, or cute but creepy.)

Fujiya sells Western-style cakes, with their most popular being strawberry shortcake. Although a bit pricey, I would often pick up a slice of some sweet treat or another, for around 400 yen, as an afternoon pick-me-up, or a surprise gift for my roommate. The slices would come in their own little boxes with a handle for easy carrying and a tiny spoon for eating, but the most impressive part was the small icepack slipped inside. I have never bought a cake in the United States that came with such a courtesy. Even specially made cakes for birthdays are simply put in a cardboard box, so that the icing is less than perfect when it gets home. Of course, higher priced bakeries probably do provide some sort of cooling method, but Fujiya is not overly expensive. Even if you only spend a few dollars there, they still strive to make sure your cake looks as good when you open it as it did when you bought it. The icepacks don't look cheap, either. 

The Japanese also care about variety. In the U.S., vending machines never have any pull over me, because their options are simply too limited. What kind of syrupy soda do I want, even though they’re all variations on each other? Which sugary or salty, vastly unhealthy snack food should I choose, even though they all taste like sweet or salty cardboard? Compared to the U.S., Japan’s vending machines are godly. Their drink vending machines include the usual array of dark and light sodas, as well as some sodas unique to Japan, such as Calpis or Qoo. On top of that they have various juices, a selection of teas including oolong, black, green, milk tea, and fruit teas. They have different flavors of coffee drinks and chocolate drinks. They even have a kind of drink that includes fruit soda filled with fruit jelly squares. Japanese drink vending machines offer both cold and hot drinks, and while some of them are the standard bottle or canned kinds, they also have some that dispense your drink right into a paper cup! My favorite drinks included the addictive Ty-Hi Milk Tea (hot or cold), creamy matcha tea, and frothy hot chocolate (which was often sold out because it was so tasty).

The paper cup vending machines often had options that allowed you change the ratios of espresso, water, sugar, milk, or froth. The warm drinks are sold in extra thick steel cans to provide insulation.

For food, Japanese vending machines went beyond simple candy bars and chip bags. They had assorted pastries with different fruit flavors (melon bread being one of the best), a large selection of instant ramen for your middle of the night cravings, chocolate biscuit treats, Kit-Kats in flavors you’d never find stateside, and pretzel sticks that were the savory equivalent of Pocky. Japan even had vending machines that sold hot food, with everything from hot dogs to fried chicken to grilled rice balls (called onigiri). The one below also has french fries and takoyaki, or pieces of octopus inside balls of batter and covered in a savory-sweet sauce.

The vending machines even say hello (or good morning/evening depending on the time), and thank you for your business in a cheery female voice.  At my school, during mid-terms and finals they said “Otsukaresama desu!” or “Good work!”

Japan’s courtesy could be found in the most unexpected places. Sidewalks are covered in rows of bumps to help blind people move about easier. Shopping carts in grocery stores and suitcases have wheels that swivel in every direction, so it’s never a struggle to move them in any way you like, even in tight circles. Much better than lifting those ungreased, broken-wheeled carts at Safeway whenever you need to move to make room. Ice-cream stores provide guests waiting in line with paper flavor menus, so you can choose faster. Iced-tea orders come with individual packets of liquid sweetener for easy dissolving. Malls have attendants at entrances to help you locate what you need, instead of just providing a map that might be hard to read.

These every-day amenities stem from the fact that the Japanese are a very polite people. In everything they do, they are concerned with being unoffensive and avoiding any discomfort for their guests. They are very hospitable by nature. This attention translates into the entire service industry, even when there are no actual people there to serve you. It is as if the entire country is trying to say, “irasshaimase!” or “welcome,” even if you are just walking down a sidewalk or buying some munchies to get through tests.  Personally, I wish my toilet seat would be a bit more courteous and learn to warm up next winter. 

The Highs and Lows of Being Somewhere Foreign

Although I have been traveling to far away places since I was 6 years old, for the most part I hadn't experienced anything extremely foreign. Most of my travel experience has been to either Alberta or California, with the occasional trip so somewhere new, like Hawaii, Arizona, British Columbia, and Mexico. Canada, while retaining an entirely different essence than the US, has never pushed my comfort zone so far as to feel “foreign.” My trips to Hawaii and Mexico were so tourist oriented, that the walls of my resort hotel or cruise ship kept me from really experiencing the uniqueness of those places. So when I went to Japan, the sensation of being in a truly foreign land, built up by a lifetime of dreaming, obsession, and hype, was intense.

The understanding that I was even going to Japan didn't really dawned on me until I was on the train traveling from Narita Airport to Tokyo Station. Looking out the window as we moved through the relatively uncrowded outskirts of Tokyo it finally hit me that I wasn't just going to Japan, I was there. And it was so different. The trees, roads and houses were crowded together with only loose whispers of order, making the careful city planning of Colorado cities seem obsessive-complusive. The roofs of the houses spread out passed the walls into the pointed corners so characteristic of East Asian architecture—giving even the cheapest, smallest house a traditional flair reminiscent of shrines and pagodas and samurai castles. The signs and billboards we passed were written in a language that, despite my years of learning it, I could not decipher in the brief moments they flew by. It was exactly as I had expected it to look, and yet everything was a surprise. I was bouncing in my seat, nose pressed against the glass like a child. Turning to my boyfriend, Justin, who was also studying abroad, I said, “I can't believe we're here.”

This excitement was enough, for a while, to counteract the fact that I had just flown across the Pacific Ocean on a cramped airplane and had managed very little sleep. It wasn't until we actually got to Tokyo Station—the biggest and most crowded train station in the world—that the other, scarier side of being in such a foreign place began to take its toll. My language courses had not prepped me for the plunge of being surrounded by people who only spoke Japanese. As my weariness sunk in, I suddenly could not remember anything I'd learned, and anybody who talked to me sounded like an alien under water. Not to mention that speaking Japanese to a native still made my palms sweat and my heart beat like a percussionist on crack.

Navigating Tokyo Station, even with the supposed “help” of my boyfriend's brother who lived in Tokyo, was a nightmare. For a small town girl who is used to cities of 3000 and can barely handle her university of 30,000, it was terrifying. People in Tokyo Station don't watch where they're going. They are focused on getting to their destination as fast as possible and they don't notice anything else—even two dumb foreigners with two huge suitcases each, standing in everyone's way looking completely lost. Some guy even intentionally tripped my luggage. Justin's brother adopted this hurried mindset, too, and completely forgot (or didn't care to find out) that I had no idea how to buy train tickets, or get through the check points, or where to go. When I tried to explain, I was rushed past the check point anyway, quickly told “It's okay. It's okay.” Luckily no one checked our tickets on the train we took to get to dinner, because I definitely did not buy one.

This was not going as I had hoped. Justin and I had traveled to Japan shortly after the big earthquake in March 2011. After a month of not knowing whether we could go at all, we finally got the green light a mere week before we were supposed to leave. Having to rush all our preparations in one week, we had no time to really understand what would happen once we got to Japan. All I knew was that we were going to eat with Justin's brother in Tokyo before getting on to a bus to take us north to Akita province. As such, when we got there we were completely clueless.

After my illegal train trip we found ourselves in Akihabara, where we were supposed to eat. In case you don't know, Akihabara is a neighborhood of Tokyo that specializes in the crazier side of Japan. It's full of shops that sell everything you could possibly obsess over—anime, electronics, video games and arcades, maid cafes, porn, candy, toys, karaoke, alcohol. All of this is advertised with signs of bright, glaring neon that hover over the densely crowded streets filled with every kind of person you can imagine. It's a place I've long wanted to visit, but after the confusion of Tokyo Station, its intensity was overwhelming. There was too much too look at, it was too bright, too crowded, I was tired and my feet hurt. Our luggage was heavy and cumbersome, and dragging it through such a crowded neighborhood was like trying to maneuver a semi through rush hour L.A. traffic.

When we finally reached our restaurant—which was supposed to be sukiyaki (my favorite Japanese dish)--Justin and I were cranky and exhausted, and more than a little hungry. The meal was certainly not sukiyaki, and was instead some overpriced assortment of tough cuts of beef, cooked over a table grill. The portions were inadequate, and yet they were so expensive I couldn't bear to order more.

Justin's brother and his wife were anxious to make the most of our brief time in Tokyo before we left for school, so we made a pathetic effort to go a neko cafe, or a cafe where you enjoy food with cats around. It sounded cute, but when we got there it was closed. Despite offers to try something else, Justin and I just wanted to go wait for our bus and sit down. So we did. With our butts cooling on a cement ridge around the sidewalk, we waited until our bus came and left without much ceremony. We would, after all, see them at the end of our trip.

The night bus was nice and quiet and dark, and I slept with my head in Justin's lap, despite my misgivings about public affection in Japan. (Cuddling and kissing in public in Japan is not as accepted as it is in the United States). I was tired, and at the moment I couldn't care less about what people thought of me using my boyfriend as a pillow.

When we arrived in Akita and at our school, Akita International University (AIU), some of the exhilaration began to return. The campus was beautiful, and the welcome committee was full of friendly, warm, energetic people. Exchange students from all around the world were chatting in groups, already making friends. We were shown our rooms, where the novelty of being in the dorms again brought back memories of my freshman year of college, when I first felt the delight of striking out on my own. I set up my futon rental in my bunk bed, crawled into it. Although I was not used to sleeping on a thin mattress on top of a wooden bed frame, I fell asleep instantly, ready and excited to take on the next day which would, hopefully, be much better than my first day in Japan.

Introductions and new passions.

Hajimemashite. (Let me introduce myself.)

Guraui Kyandesu desu. (My name is Candace Graue.)

Douzo yoroshiku. (Nice to meet you.)

During my beginning Japanese class, back in my freshman year of college, we practiced self-introductions, or jikoshoukai, relentlessly. Every person was introduced to every other person a dozen times, followed by careful practicing of the Japanese bow: not too high, not too low, and with hands on the thighs for women. I had no idea that this beginner’s language course, taken on a whim, with all its introductions was introducing me to an entirely unpredicted, and therefore terrifying, direction in life.

Although I love “living in the moment” and going on spontaneous adventures, when it comes to the important, big parts of my life—career, marriage, children, lifestyle—I like to plan down to the smallest detail. I did not go into college with no idea what I wanted as a career, as many of my fellow students often do. Since my freshman year of high school I knew I wanted to be an English teacher. The more I learned about education and the issues surrounding it, the more I believed that this was my calling, my place to make a change in this world—even if it were only  through students I taught. I believed that through education, particularly English, a child’s mind could be opened to endless interests, causes, cultures, and viewpoints. They just needed the right guidance. With that passion burning in my heart, I entered college knowing my path, how to get there, and what to do in the meantime. On top of that, I knew how many kids I wanted, what their names would be, where I’d live, and what kind of house I wanted. I even knew what kinds of pets I would adopt and what I would name them. I would teach, I would live, and I would write—another passion of mine that began as early as elementary school.

But my interest in Japan and its culture and language did not diminish, and I continued to take the language courses and even studied abroad in Japan, despite the fact that these classes had no value towards my English and Education degree. Then, when I started to apply to the School of Education at my university, I came to realize that despite all my fervor for education, getting the required degree meant a lot more money and time in college than I felt was right. It meant taking on a huge amount of debt, spending an extra year and a half in school, only to go into a career that at this time is not hiring—in fact, it’s mainly cutting jobs. It was then, with a heavy heart, that I changed my Education double major to a Japanese one, feeling like I was cutting out a part of my soul for the sake of my future financial well-being.   

That’s not to say I am unhappy with a Japanese major. But after spending 6 years knowing I was going to be a teacher, suddenly not having that goal anymore left me hollow. What, I asked, would my passion be now? What would I do with a Japanese degree? Teach English in Japan? Translate? I needed that fiery motivation that kept me going through all the annoying little stuff, knowing that every small step was part of a bigger, happier picture.

Luckily, my trip to Japan for a semester and a year of pondering my future, has revealed to me a potential, new calling, one that draws on everything I believed in as a someday teacher. I still believe that people need to open their minds, to embrace curiosity, and to explore. And after traveling to Japan and a couple other countries, I think that exploration of other cultures and places of the world is particularly important. Only by exploring different ways of life can you ever truly understand yourself and the country you live in. You can never have perspective without experiencing the other side, first. Surely, this is the most important lesson I have taken from learning about and experiencing Japanese culture. Lately, I have started to think that I can still share this ideal with the world in ways other than teaching. And to be honest, I miss being tin Japan, or anywhere foreign, so deeply that is almost physically hurts in the center of my body.

So in order to explore this revised passion, I want to write about culture. Not just Japanese, but culture around the world, and even here at home. This blog will help me begin that path, and maybe find that plan I so desperately need to feel secure. Maybe I will inspire other people to go beyond their comfort zone and embrace different ways of life. This is not a travel blog, though there will be posts about travel. It is not a food blog, although I love tasting food from different countries. It is just going to be a blog about curiosity for the world—and everything that goes with it. I hope to visit many other countries as soon as I can and continue to share my experience through my writing.

Something else Japanese has taught me is that literal translations often don’t effectively communicate the same meanings. The literal translation of my opening jikoshoukai is something like “I am beginning.  I am Candace Graue. Please treat me well.” As an introduction, this translation into English isn’t much help. But for this, I believe the literal meaning works just as well. To both my future readers, and my future itself: I am beginning, please treat me well.