Earthquake names are interesting.  The English-speaking media seems to be calling it the Sendai earthquake, but Japanese usually call earthquakes by region names, not city names.  This one would later be called the Tōhoku Kantō dai-shinsai (the Tōhoku Kantō Great Earthquake disaster). [Note: This multi-faceted disaster has received a variety of names from media outlets.  I've settled on the name used by the national broadcaster NHK.]

Whatever its name, at 2:46 pm JST I felt the earth shake like I’ve never felt it shake before.  The quake arrived with a jarring start, and it was evident to me from the start that this was no small tremblor.  Then about 15 seconds into it, the shaking got much, much stronger and violent.  At this point, I got a bit worried and dropped to the relative safety of the space under the sturdy work desk where I had been sitting and stayed there.  Glassware and loose objects dropped to the floor and broke.  Wood trim, lamp escutcheons and ventilation ducts came loose and fell.  I could seen the windows of the lounge, as well as of the building opposite ours, flexing as if they were made of paper.  Then started the clanging of the jet bridges, which made an awful banging sound that—aside from being unnerving—suggested to me that they might detach from the building and fall to the ground.

It was three minutes before the shaking subsided enough that I felt it safe to stand up.  I didn’t know where the quake’s epicenter had been, but I knew this had been a very big one.

“It ain’t over til it’s over”

As soon as the quake ended, I had two goals in mind:  To set in motion my company’s crisis management system and to advise my family of my whereabouts and welfare status.  Back in 2001, when the attack against the World Trade Center in New York occurred, I was working at Sun Microsystems at its research lab in southeastern France. I remember the severe difficulties we had in communicating with our home office at that time.  Therefore, I vowed not to waste a minute of time in sending these messages, in case communications lines were lost or Internet access failed for some reason. By the time I tried my mobile phone, the networks were already overloaded and rejecting non-emergency calls.

Using Skype, I called our company’s central security control in the US and was, I feel certain, the first to tell them that there had been an earthquake in Japan that may have affected our office and employees.  I simultaneously belted out the news on a Skype text chat to my globally distributed workgroup:

2011-03-11 14:50
we just suffered what is expect is a major earthquake here in Tokyo
2011-03-11 14:51
I am fine
Waiting for flight at airport
i’ll let you know when/as soon as I find out more. went on for about 2 minutes and the most violent shaking i have ever experienced. in fact it still isn’t over, but just about
2011-03-11 15:03
alerted central security control by Skype – mobile phones are unusable/jammed
2011-03-11 15:04
7.9 magnitude
2011-03-11 15:15
Tokyo office is OK.  They had bookracks topple over, but no one was hurt.  Everyone is fine.
2011-03-11 15:16
They are evacuating this area so I have to depart.

Before we were asked to evacuate the lounge, we started seeing news flashes on television.  It was horrific news:  This was a very big earthquake, centered off the coast near the northeastern town of Sendai, estimated first at magnitude 7.9 but then quickly upgraded to 8.8, then to 8.9, and eventually to a jaw-dropping magnitude 9.0.  Stories were coming in of widespread destruction.  But this is when the first images, carried live, arrived showing entire buildings and villages being swept away by an enormous tsunami.  The devastation we were observing was the stuff of disaster movies, but this time it was the real McCoy.

But now was not the time for us to consider the fate of others, because it was time to follow the instructions of the evacuation wardens and leave the building. In hindsight, I think that the Airport Authority seemed a little bit out of their depth and not very communicative (in English or Japanese) about what was going on, but they did at least seem to have a plan.  The first step of that plan was to get everyone out of the airport terminal building and out onto the tarmac so that they could inspect the building for damage and safety hazards before allowing passengers back inside.  (I’m just glad it wasn’t raining.)

Around the time we were ushered outdoors, the free internet service provided by the airport went dark:  The wireless signal was present but network connectivity was lost.  Now only those of us who held 3G-capable phones had the ability to watch the news and communicate with the outside world.  I started to think about battery conservation, as it wasn’t clear when we would be allowed to reenter the building and plug back in.

I think that most passengers were under the impression that we would get the chance to depart later that day—albeit with a huge delay, but this was not to be. News trickled in that flights bound for Narita had been diverted to airports further south, or to Guam.  There was no telling how long it would take the airlines to reposition their aircraft to support departures from Tokyo.  With the exception of a few flights whose crews had already been in the process of loading at the time of the quake, everyone was going to be spending the night at Narita Airport and the following day standing in long lines to get rebooked onto new flights.

(To be continued)

The beauty of this tree holds a great deal of meaning in Japan — there are cultural references to the sakura everywhere — and the anticipation of flower-viewing season, called hanami, is palpable.

It’s palpable because it is fickle.  No one (not even the Japanese meteorological agency) seems to be very good at fixing the date for hanami.  In addition, sometimes bad weather shows up at the worst time, seriously abbreviating the bloom.

But when they’re in bloom and the weather is good, it’s definitely time for lunch in the park under the cherry blossoms (along with tens of thousands of your closest friends, all of whom had the same idea). Of course, cherry trees have been planted where they can be enjoyed most: in parks, around temples, near castles and along streams. Everyone waits until the day, once each spring, when the chance comes again to go to a favorite spot and luxuriate in the beauty. (And, usually, drink some beer or sake.)

no blossom
has ever realized
how we wait!

Soseki, circa 1520

The brief and delicate nature of the sakura is often likened to a woman’s beauty, and indeed is one of the most popular design elements on a woman’s kimono. In the age of bushido, the samurai also made connections with flowers.  Some were to be avoided because they portended ill; but the sakura in particular symbolized a life that was short but magnificent.

Also a symbol of the passage of time, the sakura is associated with April, which marks a new Japanese fiscal year for businesses and the start of a new school year for students. In effect, the sakura’s bloom and death marks the start of a new stage of life in all spheres of activity.

from evening
no sleep, tomorrow
blossom-viewing

Tekijin, 18th c.

Perhaps it’s penance for not doing any hanami last year, but for whatever reason, I did a lot of flower viewing this year. And, indeed, I was well rewarded for my efforts.

This year, on the first real peak day of hanami in Osaka, I hopped on my bicycle and rode to Osaka Castle Park, which turns out to be much closer to the area in which I live than I’d imagined. When you ride the trains too much, you think of your routes in terms of train lines and connections.  By bicycle, you merely have to think about where to park it when you get to your destination.  (This is not a trivial point. There are hordes of illegally parked bicycles in Osaka, and they routinely get swept away en masse by the city.)

The trip was not in vain, for I was immediately treated to a scene of flower petals crowned by the Osaka castle on the hill in the distance. As I got closer to the castle, the large number of cherry trees in the park became more and more evident. This year the blossoms were mostly white with a slight trace of pink, though from previous years I know that other varieties of sakura with bright red petals bloom slightly later.

People, people everywhere

Why do people really love hanami so much? Flower viewing is really a big social event. If the weather’s nice, you can expect the grounds around temples and other famous landmarks, as well as riverbanks and even local parks, to be dotted with blue tarps on which groups from work, social circles or families will be spread out for lunch amid the splendor.

In fact, the normal reserved demeanor of most Japanese goes out the window during flower viewing. It’s not unusual to see people drinking sake at an alarming rate. And it need not be said that drinking and noise seem to go together. But, on the whole, people enjoying hanami are quite well behaved.  And this is a good thing, because every season there is a remarkably large number of people who take in this ad hoc festival.

Walking through the park, I was met with more than just the flowers and the people. First of all, there was lots of grilling going on. I think that on top of those blue tarps more yakitori was being made than at the busiest yakitori restaurant on a good day — despite the fact that cooking is prohibited on the grounds of Osaka Castle. It seems that this rule is overlooked on this occasion. (For anyone Japanese to overlook a rule is itself quite unusual!)

In addition, there were all manner of people performing acts of one kind or another.  One pair of flautists was performing traditional Japanese music before a large crowd. A young woman closer to the castle was having her dog perform tricks for another crowd.  On top of this were the group tours whose leaders were running around with their tour flags held high, so as to be seen over the heads of the other tourists.

But the main players in this story are the castle, its fortress walls and the sakura that overlook what once was an important defense to Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who originally built the complex. Over the years, Osaka castle has been built, put under siege, burned, rebuilt, struck by lightning, repaired, neglected and restored. Today, the rebuilt and restored castle is magnificent, and all the more so when one sees the beauty of the cherry blossoms in full bloom near the watchtowers.

the mountain
as one tree blooming
with our spirit

Sogi, 1502

Himeji

The next day, I decided to jump on a superexpress train and travel to Himeji to see the flowers around one of Japan’s so-called “three famous castles,” Himeji-jo. Getting there was easy: I took local trains to the Shin-Osaka train station and then switched to a Nozomi superexpress shinkansen train to Himeji — a mere 30 minutes west of Osaka on this high-speed train.

I’d never been to Himeji before, but of course have heard many things about what an impressive and historic place it is. No matter what you might have heard or what photos you might have seen, Himeji-jo is even more amazing than you could imagine. Towering over the castle-city of Himeji, this citadel is far more of a central landmark than, say, Osaka Castle is to Osaka. In addition, Himeji Castle was one of the first sites in Japan to be accorded the status of World Heritage Site by UNESCO.

Built in phases during the period 1346-1618, Himeji Castle has served as the headquarter for several important families in Japanese history, yet has never fallen or been destroyed. As an amazing footnote to this last point, a firebomb was dropped on the main tower of Himeji-jo near the end of the Second World War, yet the device miraculously did not explode, allowing the building to survive in nearly mint condition to the present day. Today the castle is an important landmark and tourist attraction; it is frequently featured on television.

Immediately beneath the castle’s front gate is a park that, on the occasion of hanami season, was not only packed with spectators but also completely surrounded by sakura trees. Much like in Osaka, many people came to the park around lunchtime to relax on a blue tarp along with coworkers, friends or family. I had originally planned to visit the interior of the castle, but the line of tourists waiting to see the building was so long that it would have taken hours of waiting in the bright sunlight to make it inside, so I decided to spend the afternoon in the park instead.

Chance encounter

While I was milling around the park watching the goings-on, I happened to meet a woman from the city of Nagoya, where she recently retired as a middle school teacher. We struck up a conversation and, despite my sometimes halting Japanese, spent 30 or 45 minutes in a fun and spirited discussion about all manner of things, including the Japanese education system, calligraphy, the difficulties of learning Japanese as a foreigner, post-war Japan and, of course, Himeji-jo.

Meeting and having nice conversations with random Japanese is one of the most lovely things about traveling around Japan. My own level of Japanese is perhaps good enough to hold small talk, but I am confronted continually by an unknown vocabulary word here and there, which makes fluid conversations a bit hard sometimes. Yet, the Japanese I’ve met over the years almost universally are just as anxious about their ability to express themselves in English.  This makes for something of a detente: neither side would even think about complaining about the others’ linguistic failings. The result can make for a very enjoyable time.

Heading home

I left Himeji park in really great spirits, noticing along the way that the bridge, as well as the gate it services, are named after the sakura.  It was probably named that hundreds of years ago.

As I headed back to the train station, I realized that I had not eaten lunch, despite the fact that it was after 3 PM.  So, before entering the train station for the ride home, I stopped off at a small kissaten coffee shop for a bite to eat.  After all, the fried oysters looked particularly good.  When I entered, I found that I was the only customer; it was obvious (based on the pile of just-washed dishes) that the staff had been very busy up until just recently and were cooling their heels for a moment.  But, even though there were no other customers, as soon as I walked in the door, I was greeted with a hearty irrashai!, the customary greeting in these parts, and they got right to work on my order.

Shortly after that, another customer (obviously a ‘regular’ at this place) came in and sat at the counter, one seat away from me.  The three employees and the customer talked for quite a long time while I read a book and waited for my meal.  Suddenly, the customer offered me a beer out of the blue and I responded with a thank you in Japanese.  Well, needless to say, this started yet another long and very enjoyable conversation, engaging him and the staff as well.

It was the cap to a fantastic day and an equally memorable week.  The rain was to come in just a few days, washing the petals away for yet another year.

rain! clever me
coming to view blossoms
the day before

Kito, 1789

It was a little bit unnerving to give a talk about Japanese language and business culture to an audience that included a large number of Japanese. After all, they would all have much more experience than I do in Japanese business settings. But I tried to make the case that the differences–things that lead to misunderstandings–are extremely important, too. I was really excited to get positive feedback not only from the overseas audience, but also from the Japanese audience. That so many people enjoyed the talk made me very pleased indeed.

It’s all very regular, very orderly and, most importantly, very predictable.

But it seems to me that predictability is not the prescription for succeeding in today’s open global markets. And the Japanese themselves have seen less of this predictability, with the reduction of retirement benefits and the retraction of so-called lifetime employment in most sectors. Yet, the social structures seem largely unfazed by the new realities of the global economy, and of the severe impacts it is having on the Japanese themselves.

And so I was happy to come across a very nicely written Op-Ed piece in the New York Times this week, written by Masaru Tamamoto, an iconoclast who asks the serious question “where is Japan going?” By calling into question the discrepancy between those who cling to an aging Japan that is free from foreign influence and the potential for a Japan that is more progressive, he sheds an interesting light on contemporary problems of immigration, social class and risk-averse behavior normatives in Japanese society.

In my experience, I find that Japan has many tremendously gifted people; moreover, the industriousness of the country is beyond reproach. Yet a feeling of stagnation seems ever-present — sometimes close at hand, and sometimes more distant, but always there.  Life in Japan — not just for me, but also for my Japanese friends — is good.  But the social structure seems to demand that no one really succeed in a big way.  In the long run Japan needs and deserves more.  We’re all canaries in a gilt prison.

The original article is available on the New York Times website.

Op-Ed Contributor

Japan’s Crisis of the Mind

By MASARU TAMAMOTO
Published: March 1, 2009

Yokohama, Japan

RECENT events mark Japan’s return to the world’s stage, or at least so it seems. Tokyo was Secretary of State Hillary Clinton’s inaugural overseas destination. Last week, Prime Minister Taro Aso was the first foreign leader to visit the Obama White House. All this suggests that Washington sees Japan, the world’s second-largest economy, as a powerful nation. If only we saw ourselves the same way.

The truth is, Japan is a mess. Mr. Aso’s approval rate recently hit 11 percent, and his ruling Liberal Democratic Party is in open disarray. His predecessor barely lasted a year. The opposition Democratic Party of Japan just offers more of the same. This is largely because we have become a nation of bureaucrats. What passes for national policy is the sum of various ministerial interests, often conflicting or redundant, with jealously guarded turfs and budgets.

There can be no justification for all those mostly unused airports. Or for roads that lead nowhere. Or for the finance minister who appeared to be drunk at the Group of 7 meeting this month in Rome. Our problem is so deep that it sometimes seems that no political party can tame the bureaucracy and put in place a coherent national agenda.

But what most people don’t recognize is that our crisis is not political, but psychological. After our aggression — and subsequent defeat — in World War II, safety and predictability became society’s goals. Bureaucrats rose to control the details of everyday life. We became a nation with lifetime employment, a corporate system based on stable cross-holdings of shares, and a large middle-class population in which people are equal and alike.

Conservative pundits here like to speak of this equality and sameness as being cornerstones of “Japanese” tradition. Nonsense. Throughout much of its history, Japan has had social stratification and great inequality of wealth and privilege. The “egalitarian” Japan was a creature of the 1970s, with its progressive taxation, redistribution of wealth, subsidies and the dampening of competition through regulation. This all seemed to work just fine until our asset-price bubble popped in the 1990s. Today, the hemmed-in Japanese seem satisfied with the knowledge that everyone around them is equally unhappy.

Since the middle of the 19th century, our economic success has relied on the availability of outside models from which to choose. Our model for social security took inspiration from Bismarck’s Germany, state planning from the Soviet Union, public works from the Tennessee Valley Authority, automobile assembly and manufacturing from Ford. Much of Japanese innovation has involved perfecting what others have created. Sony is famous for its Walkman, but it didn’t invent the tape recorder. Japan’s rise to economic greatness was basically a game of catch-up with the advanced West.

So what happened once we caught up? Over the past two decades, the answer has largely been paralysis. Japan’s ability to imitate outside models was mistaken for progress. But if progress is defined by pursuing a vision of a desirable future, then the Japanese never progressed. What we had was a concept of order and placement, which is essentially stasis.

In the West, on the other hand, the idea of progress rests on establishing individual autonomy and liberty. In Japan, bureaucratic rule offered security and predictability — in exchange for personal freedom. The problem is that our current political leaders can’t keep their side of the bargain. Employment security can no longer be guaranteed. The national pension and health plans seem to be insolvent in the long run. People feel both insecure and unfree.

Signs of despair are everywhere. Japan has one of the highest suicide rates among rich countries. There may be as many as one million “hikikomori,” from teenagers to those in their 40s, who shut themselves in their rooms for years on end. Then there are all those “parasite singles” — or unmarried adults living with their parents. But by far our most serious problem is a declining and aging population. Given present trends, total population will likely decline from around 130 million to under 90 million in 50 years or so. By that same time, 40 percent of Japanese could be over 65.

If we want to survive as a nation, we must shed our deeply rooted resistance to immigration. Contrary to widespread prejudices in favor of keeping Japan “pure,” we desperately need to dilute our blood. Our aging nation will need millions of university-educated middle-class immigrants with high productivity, people who will put down roots and raise families, whose pride and success will be the affirmation of new Japanese values.

Japan desperately needs change, and this will require risk. Risk-taking is not common among the bureaucratically controlled. You won’t find many signs on Japanese beaches saying, “Swim at your own risk. No lifeguard on duty.” If that sign were to appear, many Japanese would likely ask the authorities to tell them if it is safe to swim. This same risk aversion translates into protectionism and insularity. The ministry of agriculture, for example, wants to increase self-sufficiency in food. There is not nearly enough critical thinking and dissent in the Japanese news media.

Still, the idea that the Japanese are afraid of risk has no basis in history, for better or for worse. Remember Pearl Harbor? In fact, Japan’s passiveness today is in large measure a calculated and reasonable reaction to its behavior during the Second World War. But today, this emphasis on safety and security is long past its sell-by date.

We have run out of outside models to imitate. We must start from scratch, embracing an idea of progress that is based on innovation, ambition and dynamism. Doing so will take risk — and extraordinary leadership. But the alternative is to continue stumbling down a path of decline.

Masaru Tamamoto is a senior fellow at the World Policy Institute.

I’d visited the park on several occasions before, but forgot how massive the park is—over 1.07 million square meters—and how majestic the castle appears, particularly when seen under a clear night sky. The best view was saved for last, as a crescent moon rose over the castle just as we were about to leave the park (see photo, right).

During the cherry blossom season each spring, Osaka Castle Park fills up with people celebrating the arrival of the new spring. However, on this evening it was nearly empty, save for the odd jogger or tourist.  Under the klieg lights and in the cool December air, the castle’s imposing size was quite an impressive sight.

Getting to the Ryūjin spa town was half of the fun of the experience.  Situated well into the mountains, the simplest way for us to reach the ryokan was via a combination of train (Japan Rail) and bus (Ryūjin bus).

First we rode the Super Kuroshio limited express train along the coastline from Tennōji station to Kii-Tanabe station, which takes just short of 2 hours. Then we purchased tickets for the Ryūjin bus to the onsen town at the counter just outside the station. About 15 minutes later, we boarded the bus at the adjacent bus stand (labeled in Japanese and English) and rode it until reaching our destination stop, which was a mere two minutes’ walk to the ryokan. The 1-1/2 hour bus ride into the beautiful mountains that separate Kii-Tanabe from the famous Mount Kōya was breathtaking. The vistas into the canyons were stunning, even in the months of winter.  I can only speculate how pretty it must be during the spring or autumn.

Upon reaching the final stop, we walked the short distance to the Kamigoten ryokan. The inn, built in 1657, is deceptively simple on the outside.  But moments after seeing the polished wood floors upon entering, one realizes the real beauty and splendor of the building. It’s easy to miss the reception room upon entering if the staff take you directly to your room, but it’s worth stopping to see the polished tables and the original scrolls that dot the wall in this room. Unlike a hotel, the rooms are named instead of numbered; alas, I did not remember to ask what was the naming convention for the rooms.

The Japanese-style guest rooms are beautiful in their simplicity, with immaculate tatami mats as well as a manicured tokonoma that included a rather large caligraphic scroll as well as a kadō flower arrangement.

We settled in for the evening and were told that dinner and breakfast would both be served in the room. We changed into the yukata and uwagi provided by the ryokan, which we wore for the remainder of our stay.

Before dinner, I unpacked a small 13×13 Go board that I’d brought along for the trip and set it up in the drawing room of our quarters, which overlooked a small, crystal-clear mountain stream that passes through this onsen town. The enjoyable game of Go that my brother and I played while relaxing was followed by more such games during the course of our stay. We both have a lot to learn about the game, but playing in such a rarefied atmosphere really enhanced the game, regardless of our level of ability.

Dinner arrived precisely on schedule, and I must say that it was nothing short of exceptional. The menu was:

• Boiled wasabi and soy sauce
• Itadori (Japanese knotweed) with sesame sauce
• Chestnut, ume (a pickled apricot-type fruit often translated as plum), cucumber with butterbur and miso sauce
• Sesame tofu
• Lightly grilled deer meat with tataki sauce
• Shiitake mushrooms, royal fern, carrot, bamboo shoots, pea pods (mangetout), kabocha squash (Japanese pumpkin)
• Amago trout and Ayu (Sweetfish)
• Hitomi manju (bun of rice covered with a mix of minced chicken and potatoes)
• Vegetable tempura (eggplant, kabocha squash, pea pods, shiitake mushrooms, and king trumpet mushroom)
• Wild boar nabe (“hot pot” stew)
• Devil’s tongue (arum root) jelly with sweet vinegar
• Fruit jelly with mango sauce and strawberry sauce, both locally produced

After dinner (and a slight pause for digestion), we retired to the onsen and soaked in the mineral-laden waters for nearly an hour. By the time we finished, we were so relaxed that I’m surprised we had the energy to make it back to the room!

(sleep… Zzzzz…)

In the morning, we woke up bright and early at about 10 minutes before 6 AM. You see, the ryokan has both indoor and outdoor onsen.  There are separate indoor onsen for men and women, but there is only one outdoor bath, which is intended for use by families or individuals on a one-at-a-time basis, with a 20-minute time limit.  Therefore, we woke up early in order to be the first to enter the outdoor onsen, thereby avoiding waiting in line in the cold.

Alas, we were not the first ones there: by 6:05, when we arrived, someone was already in the outdoor onsen and had locked the entry gate.  However, by around 6:20 it had been vacated again and we were therefore able to spend our 20 minutes in the stone bath that directly overlooked the stream.  By now it was starting to get slightly light outside, and the view was spectacular.  The fresh mountain air blowing on one’s face while submerged in a pool of quite hot spring water is something not to be missed.

After the onsen, we returned to the room and rested.  But eventually the clock turned to 9 AM; we knew it was time to pack our bags, check out and take a ride on the Ryujin bus back to Kii-Tanabe train station for the onward trip home to Osaka. I will always treasure this, my first ryokan experience, and hope to return again, for it was an amazing time.

Because only my mother knew of my impending arrival, the fact that I had crossed the Pacific came as something of a shock to my dear brother.  I wish I’d had a camera to photograph his face when he realized I was in town! He and I will be returning together to Japan next week, as he will be taking a reciprocal vacation there to see the sights of Asia.

Reflection. The trip home gave me some time to reflect on the outgoing year.  It’s been one of the most interesting twelve months in memory, full of milestones: leaving Skype, moving to Asia, becoming a full-time student again — all while watching the economy crumble. Though I’ve had my ups and downs along the way, I must say that this year has been a really wonderful one.  I’ve made some great new friends and rekindled old contacts.  Despite the world financial situation, I truly think that the horizons are broad and bright.

Of course, the most prominent element of this year has been studying Japanese at the Osaka YMCA Gakuin. I’ve been exceptionally fortunate to have so many kind and bright classmates. For instance, Mei Yu (photo, right) was in my elementary Japanese class from April through September 2008, and is now in one of the intermediate classes that parallels my own.  She helped me make it through our elementary class by providing really amazing encouragement to me and others in the class.

Language learning. Our instructors have been there for us all along the way.  Some are more “there for us” than others, but as a cadre I think that they are very much focused on the students. There are palpable differences between the pedagogy, or strategies of instruction, practiced in Asia and that used in the United States.  Post WW-II education styles in Europe and America have trended heavily toward the use of level-of-learning objectives and outcomes-based instruction review. Yet, my experience in learning Japanese is that the instruction method often borders upon rote learning (though I must stress that the instructional style is not entirely of this form).

For example, students may be directly influenced by their perception of success in learning and levels of expectancy–with realistically high helping to build confidence, and low (or unrealistically high) expectations helping to build incompetence. Bernat & Gvozdenko, “Beliefs about Language Learning”

Quite disappointing to me has been the lack of meaningful feedback from the instructors about one’s learning progress.  Am I shooting too high? How can I learn more effectively? These questions have been asked but largely left unanswered. I have felt, off and on, that the school’s instructors have little or no interest in whether the students succeed or fail, and that the instruction has been tailored to benefit those who already knew kanji (Chinese characters) or languages with grammar similar to Japanese, such as Korean.

When I enquired with our lead instructor about whether it would be wise for me continue in my current class or change to lower division one, I was told that she had an opinion but would not share it with me.  If I wanted to stay, I could stay; if I wanted to move, I could move.  While that afforded me ultimate latitude, I found it to be less than helpful. It took another hour of conference to get to a point where she would give me more helpful advice.  The verdict? My sights were set too high for the time available. Her advice turned out to be invaluable, but it was like pulling teeth to get to it.

All this said, I feel certain that my own lack of cultural awareness makes it very difficult to fit into the scheme that the Asian students more naturally follow.  If I take this as a learning experience and not as a “negative”, I will surely profit from it in the long run.

With all that in mind, I have my sights now squarely set on 2009, but with an eye on the past so I can hopefully avoid repeating my mistakes.

Anyone who’s spent time in Japan knows how important ofuro (お風呂, the bath) is to Japanese society and life. An onsen is very much like a sentō (銭湯, neighborhood public bath), except that the water comes from a natural hot spring, usually situated directly underneath the onsen. The idea of a public bath is completely foreign to most people from Europe and America, and those who are aware often come up with their own interpretation of a public bath, completely misunderstanding the idea as it’s practiced in Japan.

The sentō tradition extends back more than 500 years and is connected with a desire for purity that is found in the Shinto religion and, therefore, within Japanese culture.  For instance, before entering a shrine, one must purify oneself by rinsing both the mouth and hands at a temizu, which is a water pot and ladle found at the shrine’s entrance.

The word hitogomi (人混み) is Japanese for “a crowd of people” and is composed of the root words for “people” and “impurity” and underscores the connection between the two. Because Japan is a densely populated nation, anyone away from his home or office is surely forced into contact with many people, thereby coming into contact with the dirt of the city and its crowds.  Often one of the first things a Japanese person does after returning home is to wash his hands, rinse his mouth, or bathe, so that the impurities from outside may be cleansed. Purity isn’t limited to special sacred places; instead, it is extended to one’s home.

The Japanese way of bathing: rinsing, washing, rinsing again, and then finally getting into the tub, is taken for granted by most Japanese, but is almost unheard of by the rest of the world. There are many web pages devoted to teaching people the proper “way of bathing”, and it’s definitely worth reading before going to an onsen or sentō for the first time. (See JNTO guide, for example.)

Social context of bathing and sentō

The Japanese believe that bathing together is a way to break down barriers of communication between people of different social status or background. The term hadaka no tsukiai (裸の付き合い, naked companionship) (article) refers to the existence of a bond of real trust between people.  In other words, Japanese feel that when one is so comfortable and trusting of another that they disrobe and bathe together, they forge closer ties.

Nudity shows complete vulnerability, for where can one conceal weapons when one is unclothed? One does not need to hold onto pretenses any longer. The tensions of the outside world will cease to interfere while one is in this environment. This idea of closeness is an important part of both professional and social life for adults.  Equally important is the kind of closeness between mother and child referred to as skinship, which is considered to be of great importance for Japanese child development, and which is believed to be fostered through the use of sentō.

The Japanese are in a unique position then, socially. Although less-than-open about their private lives, they are nonetheless accustomed to sharing close, personal space with many people. It is impossible to escape others when traveling via public transit, especially during rush hour. Apartments and houses are often very small and close together so that more people may take up less space. If a person wishes to bathe, even such an intensely private activity may be witnessed by many at a sentō or onsen. In order to survive and thrive in such close quarters, the Japanese language provides a rather complex set of polite speech patterns, and Japanese are accustomed to being highly deferential to others, which inserts some artificial distance between people.

If this is the case, how can people reconnect with one another on a more informal basis? Of course, it’s at the bath. The bath is more than just a bath. It is a place to talk to one’s peers and friends; a place to educate children; and a place to relax and wash away cares. In essence, it’s the perfect place to reconnect with what may be lost in the daily grind.

Yes, the change to digital is progress, but it seems to me to signal the end of something, too. I have fond recollections of sipping espresso at the Luxembourg airport while listening for the ratta-tat-tat of the departure board to know when there had been a change. The word “digital” has sometimes come to mean “sterile” or “impersonal”; I find the mechanical signs more interesting.

During November, the old boards and the new boards are both operating (on adjacent tracks). You can see how the new signs, though silent, emulate the old ones in terms of how information is displayed.  Form follows function, I suppose.

And so it came to pass that, today, my bicycle was towed by the city whilst I was stopped at a cafe on the way to school.  Even though I was sitting where my bicycle was in sight, I was studying intently enough that I didn’t see that it had gone missing until I went out to head to class.

This is the second time in as many months that I’ve had a bicycle towed.  Ouch!  The fine for retrieving a bicycle is often 50% or more of the bicycle’s value, so many people do not even bother collecting the bicycle from the impound lot.  Bicycles are frequently towed from around the city’s 155 train and subway stations.  [Hint: usually it happens on weekday mornings.] When you see a notice like the one shown here, you can be assured that your bicycle has been confiscated.

According to a December 2002 article in the Japan Times, the present impoundment release fee of JPY 2,500 (roughly US$23.00) was put in place by Osaka officials in October 2002.  With around 300,000 impounded every year, only a fraction are ever returned to their rightful owners.  Many are left beyond the one-month holding period, after which they are sold off to secondhand bicycle dealers.

Alas, my bicycle is worth quite a bit more than the impoundment fee, so I needed to first get myself to class (a fast walk did the trick) and then figure out how to get to the impoundment site.  I was lucky this time, as my bicycle was at an impoundment station directly in front of the Bentencho train station, so I rode the train from school directly to Bentencho station.

Unfortunately, it’s a long way (about an hour’s ride by bicycle) from Bentencho back to my house.  Since I collected my bicycle uncomfortably close to the closing hour, it was already dark out by the time I got home.  Still, I did get it back the same day, so I was not inconvenienced the following day.  Just 2,500 yen poorer.