This strange life that I have created in the inaka

My daily 6:40am iPad alarm starts to ring, alerting me of another 24 hours ahead of me in this strange life I have created in the inaka, or countryside, of Japan. Without budging, I can already feel the rain drops falling for the umpeenth day outside my balcony. I am thankful that for once my recently laundered clothing is not hanging outside on the line to dry. I turn on my pocket wi-fi, check email to discover mostly junk, read the latest world news, and scroll through the lives of those whose days seem to be busily moving along in a much more interesting fashion, in a world where the time distinctly comes and goes.

I dig myself out of the blanket cocoon in which I have engulfed myself during the frigid night, in preparation for the cold chill that is about to zap my half asleep body to attention. I look out my living room windows to the same gray misting skies that draped over my head the morning before and the morning before that. I am barely sure if the calendar page has ever flipped or if I keep awaking to the same moments again and again and again. I then press the hot water button and start my now predictable morning routine that has been perfected over the last eight months.

Out the door by 7:20am with my electric green and purple road bike in tow and I am off, trying to avoid the almost constant bumps of the narrow small-town roads, but without a car in sight to dodge. I pass a few small uniformed children whose eyes peek up at me from underneath yellow floppy hats, and manage to break before crashing into the neighborhood gang of cats that always seem to sprint out of nowhere. 

Soon I hear the familiar, and almost comforting sound of hundreds of beeps of train passes entering and exiting the train station. I add my BEEEEEEP to the collection and make my way up and over the tracks, not without noticing the somber echoes of pristine white sneakers, high heels, and black and brown leather dress shoes marching to the same beat, on the same pavement, all headed to the same train.

Left, left, left, right, left. The mood is serious, almost as if we are all knowingly headed to our own, well-rehearsed versions of hell. Without fail, and always perfectly on schedule, the speakers begin to blare the flute and trumpet recording that lets me know I have seconds to spare before missing my lifeline to a prompt arrival time to school.

Once inside the train, the silence is deafening. The marching feet have stopped and I slowly move my head to subtly peer to the left and right of the cabin. As usual, I catch a few surprised gawkers who have yet to see such a foreign looking woman on their morning train, but I am mostly surrounded by a sea of closed eyes hovering over white surgical masks and twitching hands desperately trying to keep hold of oversized newspapers, books that are read back to front and right to left, cell phones, and gaming devices. I notice the boy next to me has fallen asleep mid-sentence, with manga in hand and music still blasting his eardrums. With each stop, he looks up in a daze, remembers that he is mid-sentence and makes a valiant attempt to continue, but within seconds is fast asleep sinking further and further down the train door.

Juo desu. Juo desu. I have arrived to my destination and the doors open to yet again the perfect rhythm of marching feet entering and exiting what feels like a temporary graveyard. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. I swipe my train pass and stumble through a storm of umbrella-carrying students in a variety of solid shirts, plaid skirts, and monogrammed knee-high socks, accessorized with bow ties, jackets, vests, and low-hanging backpacks flashing bright colored words like Princess, Playboy, and New York, and from which dozens of Disney-themed stuffed animals and trinkets hang. Most manage to successfully navigate the station with their necks cranked down, still entranced by one of the dozens of phone games I have seen that requires constant attention and impressive finger agility.

I have walked this same winding route every Thursday since August alongside the hordes of uniformed students making their way to the high school. After months of this routine, we have become almost robotic in our motions. Right at the station, right after the shrine, a quick left after the hill, continue past the vending machine on the corner, right at the hair salon, continue up the hill, left at the stairs, right at the intersection, another left and another quick right, down the stairs, and straight to school.

During this weekly walk, I anticipate seeing the young woman and her adorable small daughter waiting on the corner for the school bus and I can tell she anticipates seeing me. We always give one another an awkward smile and a half bow as I trudge up the hill and as she sees her daughter off to kindergarten. Minutes later I expect to see another reoccurring character on this walk, a hurried man in his early 30’s on his way to work walking my same route, but in reverse.

Short, slim, clean-shaven, well-dressed, and regularly sporting a fitted black trench coat, black dress pants, black leather shoes, and a look that says, “Yes, I know that we see each other every Thursday in the same place as we hurry past one another, but please, don’t say anything to me. I am very shy and uncomfortable with the idea of speaking to you.” I have begun to take this look to heart and now keep my head down and continue walking up the hill, passing groups of slow-moving, pigeon-toed students cheerfully gabbing away in Japanese about things I can’t understand.

Down the steps I go and soon see a glimpse of the largest building in town, the high school on the hill where I serve as an Assistant Language Teacher. As I make my way past Ken-Ken, a ramen restaurant I have never seen with its doors open, and up the school driveway into the main entrance, I look down at my black pants, black leather dress shoes, and hear the sound of my own marching feet enter the building.

Click. Click. Click.

I may not ever be close to being Japanese, but I sure have blended well into the Japanese uniform and this painstakingly efficient, orderly, methodical, and more and more predictable lifestyle. I take off my outdoor shoes, switch for my indoor shoes, and make my way down the dim-lit hallways to yet another day of teaching the ins and outs of English verbs, pronouns, idioms, and greetings.

What a strange life indeed.

Originally written on March 19, 2015.