Tempus Fugit

This weekend we got our first proper snow of the season. On Saturday it rained and drizzled and froze and culminated in a slushy mess at the foot of the driveway, but on Sunday the snow came drifting quietly down in great clumpy flakes. I tried to explain the significance of this to my nephew; he quickly reminded me that at six months old, he's not quite interested in snowmen or sledding yet. In fact, he's not concerned with much beyond bottles and rattles and his auntie's dangly earrings.

I'm rather enjoying Nephew at this age. He's a profoundly happy child. Every time someone pulls a face at him he bursts into laughter, and he stares at me in awe whenever I play the guitar. (He seems to prefer John Mayer to anybody else. We might have to work on this... Sorry, John Mayer.) But as much fun as he is right now, he's growing like a weed. Every time I see him -- which is pretty frequently -- he has a new trick. His newest trick is the fine art of Mobility. Yikes, baby boy!



And while we're speaking of people growing too fast, my students -- most of whom I met two years ago when they were barely sophomores -- are now well on their way to graduation. When I first started teaching at my current school, I taught 10th grade. The following year, I moved up to 11th grade. This year, I'm teaching seniors. The result of my professional evolution has been that I've had the same base group of students for three years and am now inextricably attached to them. I'm up to my eyelids in college application essays they want me to look over and have already written a couple dozen letters of recommendation, but I still can't quite wrap my brain around the idea that they are leaving.



Of course, I plan to thoroughly enjoy them between now and May, and they're making that pretty easy. Not only are they behaving like angels, they're also working harder than ever, in class and out of it. Every year for Thanksgiving, our school has a massive food drive to benefit the community. The kids pour their hearts into fund-raising for it, and this year, of the 28 kids in my AP class, 18 of them were directly involved in the senior class's primary money-maker -- The Senior Auction. As a proud supporter, I went to the auction and "purchased" a trio of my boys. Their task in return for the money I paid was to each perform a soliloquy from Hamlet for their classmates. They did a fantastic job. In addition to their assignment, they also brought me a mass of roses, a box of chocolates, and a latte; made me lunch; and prepared a little N'Sync dance number for the class.

I love these kids.


For who would bear the whips and scorns of time?

Keeping the Adventure Alive

When I was preparing for my blind leap into the Land of the Rising Sun, my mother had two reservations:

1) She was a little bit nervous about her innocent baby flying to the other side of the globe, into a foreign culture, with no knowledge of the language or customs, to a town she'd never heard of, with a somewhat sketchy job, all alone, for an indefinite amount of time.

2) She'd never gotten the chance to do something cool like that.

Before I moved overseas, I had always been a bit shy, a bit on the fringe of things. Some of my friends would strongly disagree with this, but they are only my most intimate of friends. The average classmate or coworker of mine knew little to nothing about me and had probably never had a conversation with me.

Then I moved to Japan.

Part of my motivation for going overseas was the need to stretch my wings. You know the feeling you get in your legs if you sit in a cramped back seat of a car for too long? That feeling that makes you want to do jumping jacks and run around in circles? It was like that, only it wasn't in my legs; it was in my whole life.

So I stretched.

I don't think I really noticed the change 'til one day i was at Starbucks with Don (our usual pre-work ritual) and he asked me a funny question: "So what's it like to be the only girl in the office?"

"I'm not the only girl in the office."

"Yeah, you are."

"No... there's Erica, and both our bosses, and the Japanese staff... There are lots of girls in the office."

"All right... What's it like to be the only hot girl in the office?"

"What?! Just drink your coffee."

This very brief conversation led to deeper contemplation on my part and, eventually, to a total paradigm shift. It was true -- looks aside -- I was the only girl in the office who ever did anything. because I wasn't particularly attached to my roommates, I was out with guys from the office every night -- 80s night once a month at The Metro; fish & chips at the pub; Bruce Lee movie nights; nabe parties; discovering new hole-in-the-wall bars in Shi-jo; karaoke marathons 'til 4 a.m.; Christmas caroling (my god, whose idea was that?!); a thousand beers in dimly lit izakaya; loitering around San-jo bridge when we couldn't afford anything else; and train beers every single night after work. Inintentionally and for the first time in my life, I was right in the hub of the social scene.

For the most part, this was due to the perfect balance of yin and yang that was my friendship with Don. No one alive is more unlike me than Don. We were therefore an inseparable and flawless team. He hatched a scheme, I hopped on board, and in three seconds flat, the shenanigans were in full swing and anybody who was anybody was with us -- the idea man and his hot sidekick makin' the magic happen.

Don is going to hell for being irreverent at the Kobe earthquake memorials... and several similar offenses. I'm going to hell for laughing.

You can imagine my dismay when I got home and had no Don and therefore nothing to do. Nothing to do. I now have to create all the trouble I get into on my own, which is an awful lot of work.

However, one thing I did decide was that I needed to share the new, adventurous me with my mom, who doesn't think she is adventurous at all. Today, my mom and I went white-water rafting for seventeen miles down the Hudson river. Seventeen miles. Go, mom!

:-)

We Interrupt This Blog...

to bring you my very first...

Good Food & Good Times Alert!!

If you have a mouth, chances are that you like good food. That's why I've decided to interrupt my regular programming for the day to bring you a special good food alert. If you don't have a mouth, don't worry; we'll be back to the regular hoo-ha in a day or two.

I'm currently writing from the beautiful city of Chicago, Illinois (that's "ill a noy") where I'm visiting my old college roommate. More on her and the city in general later, but right now it's time for a review of the restaurant and the club where we went last night.

Alhambra -- 1240 W Randolph

Last night we dined at Alhambra, a middle-eastern restaurant on the north side of Chicago. And what a night it was!

For starters, the ambiance of the place is to die for. It's nothing like the real Middle East -- no wmd's in sight -- but it was just like a Vegas version of the Middle East. If you've never smoked hookah while watching a neon-lit belly dancer, now's your chance.

The food was just as impressive. The girl next to me ordered lamb. When it arrived, she took a bite and said, “Hey! I ordered lamb and this is chicken!” Take a quick peak at her plate (below) and you’ll see there are only two options:
1) she’s right and they slaughtered some kind of massive, mutant, chicken monster with inch-thick bones, or
2) this is the mildest and most tender lamb you will ever eat.

I ordered the lobster. Jealous? It was excellent and even came garnished with a little lobsterito. I felt a bit guilty that his young life was snuffed out just so he could sit atop my ravioli; I also hoped the big lobster filling said ravioli wasn’t a close friend or relative. Incidentally, after we finished our meal and were all out on the dance floor gettin’ arab wid it, the waiter cleared our places. For some reason, he left my plate. This meant that my little boiled friend had to sit there for the rest of the evening and watch all the festivities. Here’s a somewhat morbid picture to illustrate:

All in all, we had a fantastic time, so if you want the humas without the Hamas, head on down to Alhambra for a hookah of a good time.




The Underground

This is the hottest club in the city, or so we were assured several times on the way to The Underground. I’ve been to a few good clubs but I’m certainly no connoisseur, so I asked a cute Italian guy with us to explain exactly how The Underground got that title.

Basically, it comes down to two things.

1) It’s extremely difficult to get in. The above-mentioned Italian guy had a friend -- presumably a very wealthy friend -- who had reserved a VIP table. The reservations were for 11 o’clock, but since we were shakin’ our money-makers over at Alhambra, we didn’t get there ‘til after 12:30. Italian guy was afraid that because we were so late, we might not get in. There was also some concern about whether or not I would be able to get in, as I was wearing jeans and sneakers instead of the customary booty-hugging mini-skirt and stilettos. But have no fear, dear reader – even in sneakers I am hot enough to get into the hottest club in Chicago. We walked right past a long line of discouraged and dejected plebeians in their mini-skirts and into the club. This has gone completely to my head, by the way.

2) It’s also extremely expensive. Or so I’m told. Because we were at a VIP table, all our drinks were charged to the table, and I couldn’t even tell you what the cover was – Italian guy just handed the bouncer a wad of cash and he let us all in. Thank you, Italian guy. Thank you, bouncer.

Once you get past the security and the sticker-shock, The Underground looks, sounds, and smells like most other clubs. It’s full of sweaty, slutty, beautiful people, some of them dancing to remember, some dancing to forget.

The VIP table wasn’t even a table in the strictest sense of the word. It was actually a wooden crate on the floor near one wall. It’s primary purposes were holding drinks and marking territory, both very important aspects of a night out at the club. Having a table also allows you the privilege of a little chicky who comes around and pours your drinks, which saves you the trouble of crowd-surfing up to the bar yourself.

Just like the vicious bouncers, the rest of the staff at The Underground are incredibly diligent, especially the woman who buzzes around with a broom and towel and cleans up broken glasses and split booze. This is the first time I’ve seen such a woman in a club, and her no-nonsense efficiency contributed greatly to the safer booty-shaking of all. Thank you, broom lady.

Best for last: the most unique and impressive feature of The Underground is a gigantic Lite-Brite version of a map that stretches across two walls and includes all the countries of the world, plus lines of latitude and longitude. Seriously. The compulsion to stick little colored plastic pegs in the holes will distract you for half the evening. It’s fantastic.



Party on, my friends. Party on.