Thursday, July 16, 2009. 10:20 p.m. EST

Well, I'm home.

At 4:45 a.m. JST on Wednesday (which was 3:45 p.m. on Tuesday in EST), I locked my door at Maison Iwakuni one last time, pushed my luggage down the stairs because I couldn't carry it, and got into a taxi headed for Kansai International Airport. I eventually nodded off, but I stayed up long enough to watch the 5:00 a.m. sunrise one more time. The sky was brilliantly clear, a fine day for a send-off.

At the airport I returned my rental cell phone, checked-in and had to remove fourteen pounds from my luggage into a cardboard box labeled with my name and final destination, then grabbed my last bamukuchen (small doughnut-shaped butter cake) and ate it at the gate.

I stayed awake for the flight to Narita International in Tokyo. As the plane made a circle out over the ocean, I saw the length of Japan spread out below, from coast to coast at the narrowest part of the island. It was beautiful, breathtaking. Right below us were volcanic plains, a huge stretch of ancient black rock, and then the white lips of the sea kisses its shores. I watched it all fall away under clouds and slipped back into sleep.

I woke up in Tokyo and was on my connector to Chicago in no time. About an hour into the familiar 13-hour flight the stewardesses served lunch. I ate without thinking, ordered a glass of red wine, and promptly fell asleep after consumption.

Five hours later I woke up over the Pacific Ocean. It was completely dark outside the windows. The lights had been shut off in the cabin -- mandatory JALways naptime -- and I could see stars winking at me in the unadulterated night sky. I read the book I had purchased on Shinto religion until I got tired again and fell back into sleep.

I breached consciousness again long enough to watch the little airplane that represented us on the map shining on the huge screen pass over Seattle, Washington. The sky outside suddenly began to lighten from deep cobalt to purple to pink and finally into a dazzling kaleidoscope of orange, red, and a clear bright blue. We flew into America on the morning tide. For the rest of my life, I will never forget those colors, the simple beauty above the clouds.

Again I fell asleep and woke up when we were just an hour and a half out of Chicago. I stayed awake, at the second the plane stopped I whipped out my Blackberry, turned it on for the first time in almost two months, and it immediately exploded. Texts, phonecalls, emails, everything. It buzzed and beeped like crazy, attracting all sorts of unnecessary attention to myself.

I blew through customs after nearly destroying my luggage again (opening and closing an already-stuffed-to-the-brim bag sucks), re-checked it and ran to my next flight, a U.S. Airways flight to Philadelphia. I slept through that ride too. And from Philly to Hartford, my fourth plane in 31 hours, I got completely sick and nearly vomited on the plane.

I ran off the last plane, through the gate, down the hallway at Bradley International Airport, and into the arms of my teary mother waiting for me right outside security. I was nauseous and tired and my entire body ached and my right shoulder was killing me but nothing mattered because my brothers were squeezing me and my Dad was rubbing my head and my mother was crying, "You did it, you did it, you did it!"

I did it.

We collected my bag, fought with the U.S. Airways personnel because my extra box was left in Chicago even though I checked it, then drove home. I took the best shower of my life, changed into more comfortable clothing, showered gifts on my family, ate pasta with homemade tomato sauce that my mother prepared with such love and care for me, shared a bottle of plum sake with my mother, then passed out on the couch in my living room, full and happy and exhausted.

I've been home for 24 hours now, alternatively taking naps and having food thrown at me. Stepping on the scale this morning confirmed what I thought I saw in the mirror: I lost a ton of weight in Japan. Thirteen pounds to be exact. In seven weeks. When I visited Christilynn this morning to give her the gifts I bought her, Mrs. B told me I looked emaciated compared to how I looked when I left. Nervosa and then a diet of lighter foods would do that to you. But I still don't understand -- I ate, I remember having huge pastries and huge bowls of ramen and grilled meat and Japanese McDonalds' french fries. Thirteen pounds?

Since this morning's revelation everyone has been trying to feed me. Mom took me to Panera for lunch and Lauren and Nikki took me to KFC. I ate what I could, and now at the end of the day I'm full and sleepy.

Rain is slapping my windowpane. Even the way the rain falls is different here -- the sound is different. I couldn't tell you what. When I walked down the street to Christi's this morning, I noted the difference in the sounds of nature around me. The wind, the birds. In Japan the cicadas were screaming and ravens were squawking. Here the birds are chirping calmly, bees are buzzing, and it's a bit quieter. The thunder isn't as resounding either. Perhaps Raijin and Fuijin work harder than the gods of storms do here.

I miss Japan. I miss waking up and jumping on my bicycle -- even if it did lead me into the path of a moving vehicle. On that note, my arm is killing me. Now that I don't have to do much with it I've been trying not to use it too much, to let it heal. I tried taking a glass down from a cabinet with my right arm and immediately regretted it. Thank God I still have some of the relaxer patches the doctor gave me in Japan.

I miss my friends, the persistent ringing of the temple gongs, the peacefulness of the shrines. The bamboo trees, the bright flowers, the huge flocks of obnoxious pigeons flying into the path of my bike tires. The Kamo River, the lights and sounds of Sanjo and Shijo. The little room where I had class every day, reading aloud and discussing the craziness of Heian courtiers.

My mother said I seem like a different person coming home. Physically, besides the dramatic loss of body matter, my hair is darker. The black faded to the brown that my hair was before I started dying it crazy colors. She said my eyes look brighter, too. Emotionally, I couldn't tell you where I am. But she said that the way I've been speaking since I came home and the way I've been carrying myself seem very different. Almost more mature, as she put it. Maybe that's true.

Reverse culture shock will take a few days to get over. I'm not used to the brash impatience of the retail and fast-food workers here or hearing all this English. My brain is having a bit of glitch switching over.

As I sit here on my big comfortable bed, sipping some of the umeshu I brought back with me, listening to my brothers argue over a video game and the puppy bark in the next room, I feel so glad to be home. I do miss Japan, and I know it can't be "Sayonara." I will go back. I feel it in my bones.

"I haven't a clue as to how my story will end. But that's all right. When you set out on a journey and night covers the road, you don't conclude the road has vanished. And how else could we discover the stars?”
- Nancy Willard



~Owari~

Wednesday, July 15, 3:03 a.m. JST.

Yesterday was my last day in Japan.

In the morning I took my last ride along the Kamo River, in all its watery glory. The last time Debbie, Lisa, and I will ever jump on our bikes and pedal and sweat our way to class. I’m going to miss going everywhere with them…

The exam went well, and afterwards all the students and teachers had a farewell party. I went to the bike store with Lisa to sell back my beloved bicycle, but lo and behold they offered me only 100 yen for it (that’s only like $1) and so I said no thank you.

In the afternoon, after class, Lisa came with me to Nishi Hongwanji for one last visit. A service was going on, and we crept in the back of the room and kneeled down just as the monks started beating their drum and chanting to the Buddha. We sat quietly for a while, listening, before Lisa turned to me and said, “You seem ready to tackle anything now. I’m glad to see you so upbeat.”

I said my final thanks and goodbyes to Buddha and left the temple with tears in the corners of my eyes.

I got home with just enough time to shower and dry my hair before Lisa came to help me into my yukata.

Yukata: a Japanese summer kimono. Light and cotton, but still capable of raising one’s body temperature. Extremely hard to walk in, do not even attempt running. Geta are no good for mobility faster than 5 miles per hour. Might I also add that it took us half an hour to outfit me correctly.

The end result:



A big group of us plus Maeguchi-sensei and Fukai-sensei went out to dinner at this upscale shabu-shabu restaurant. I wasn’t going to drink, but an umeshu soda and an Asahi beer weren’t in my future anytime soon after my departure, so I bought one of each and sipped them slowly through the dinner, relishing the taste. We ate and talked and laughed as a group for one last time, and after racking up an impressive bill we headed out to the Gion Matsuri.

The Gion Matsuri is the highlight of Kyoto’s summer festivals. The entire downtown area of Kyoto was closed off for pedestrians in their yukata and junpei. The streets are lined with food stalls, game tables, and on the main streets several uprooted shrine idols. The idols from certain shrines are removed and places here for people to worship and observe. Most are crowned with a dozen young men in junpei playing flutes, bells, and drums. Paper laterns are strung up everywhere and the night is bathed in the mystical glow of tradition and celebration.

Some of the houses in the old kimono merchant district were open for viewing, and we were lucky enough to get to slip into one. The family who owned one house let us traipse through the old wooden structure, viewing valuable family heirlooms like plates and wall hangings, as well as how they way to daily living. In the back of the house was a well filled with slick black rocks with a basin of water set on top of them. Driven deep into the rocks was a hollow bamboo tube. When the water was poured over the rocks, the sound of the water trickling deep into the earth could be heard through the tube.

I honestly did not know what to do with myself. Here I was, walking down the streets of Kyoto, Japan during one of its most famous festivals, wearing traditional Japanese garb. My fan in one hand, a chocolate-covered frozen banana in the other, and my camera tucked in to my obi, I felt happy. Really, truly happy. I’ve been so fortunate to come here, and as my mother and friends seem to keep beating into my head, so brave. I feel like I’ve learned so many things that can’t be expressed on paper, that can only been demonstrated with sight and sound.

The sights, the sounds, the food, the smell, the air, the people – I’m going to miss everything about being here. I’m going to miss my friends, my teachers, my classes, the way of daily living that I adopted here. I’ll miss the convenience store playing a little tune every time someone walked through the door, the ramen shops, the endless amounts of shrines and temples, everything…

I got back from the festival late, after walking all the way back to the dorm from Shijo-Karasuma with Nico and Lisa. My next task was to figure out what to do with my bike – I couldn’t leave it in the dorm, and no one wanted to use it. So I took it out for one last drive, up and down Horikawa dori, and then finally left it leaning against the wall near where the monks of Nishi Hongwanji live. I left the keys in the lock. I felt kind of like I was throwing a puppy in a trash can as I walked away, but it was time, and if I wasn’t going to use the bike I wanted someone good to have it. I hope one of the monks is looking for a vehicle.

I said my goodbyes to everyone in the dorm – Lisa last, and I had said goodbye to Debbie earlier that day when she left the Matsuri – then took my last shower in Japan and prepared to leave. So many hugs and tears, and good memories to go with them. Everyone has been so good to me, so kind and encouraging. I can’t express how much I want to thank them, or how grateful I am to them for helping me survive these 6 weeks. I remember, on May 30, that I didn’t think I was going to make it.

But I did make it. And now it’s time to fly home.

Ja matta, Nihon.

Monday, July 13, 2009. 9:30 p.m. JST.

To my classmates’ shock and horror I got back on my bike today. My newfound masochism is just too delicious to resist. Thankfully I made it to school and back without any mishaps. Of course my arm still hurts, even though the swelling has gone down a bit, but I still can't do much with it, like wash my hair with two hands in the shower. I look forward to the day when I can do that again. I still can’t squeeze the back break on my bike so I’ve been using the front, which emits an eardrum-rattling “SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” every time I use it.

I made my way over to Nishi Hongwanji again right before it closed. I ditched my shoes at the bottom of the wooden steps and padded into one of the main buildings, back to my spot in front of the altar, the spot where I’ve sat in solemn silence so many times, searching my heart for peace. Debbie is right, it’s impossible not to find comfort and tranquility in these places, to not leave with a clear head. I sat on my knees in the traditional style, very still, staring at the altar. This time the gold doors that typically close off view of the temple’s idol were open. Inside there was a stone statue of the Buddha, all black, his hands raised in prayer and his face frozen in a soft, contemplative smile.

I stared at this idol long enough for several groups of elderly Japanese women to enter the room, sit somewhere beside me, worship, and leave. I could feel their eyes on me, probably wondering what a tired-looking Caucasian girl was doing there in front of the Buddha. The quiet and incense were soothing, and I allowed my thoughts to drift away. My bubbling anxieties melted. I fingered the prayer bead bracelet on my wrist.

These words flickered across my mind: “Do not let your heart be troubled.”

I walked out of the temple a little slower than I had entered it. My arm hurt a little less, and I noticed that my eyes were watery. Tears? But I hadn’t felt like crying while I was inside. Or now, I didn’t feel like crying now either. It was a strange a feeling as I cautiously stepped down from the main building and slipped my silver shoes back on.

My silver ballet flats have carried me everywhere – up Fushimi Inari, Kiyomizudera, through Sanjusangendo, Yasakijinja, and into countless courtyards and gardens. I wore them almost every day. Now they are black on the inside and kind of stinky. The outside is scratched and marred and a little torn. I will unfortunately have to toss these shoes in the gomibaco (garbage) when I leave because there is no room in my suitcase, and even if I did want to take them home they would make everything smell and be difficult to clean. I wore them on my birthday, too, and I was wearing them when I got into the car accident. I suppose retiring and burying my pilgrimage shoes in Japan is fitting.

For dinner I went with Lisa and Debbie to the Kyoto Station ramen shops for my last bowl of Kyoto-style ramen. Turkey meat, bamboo shoots, green onions, noodles all steeped in warm, delicious dashi broth. Afterwards we got ice cream, mine green tea and Lisa’s toasted soybean flour, and wandered along the Sky Walk that runs across the top of Kyoto Station. When we came down we got caught in a sun shower, and once the rain stopped the sky looked like white, gray, and blue tie-die, all swirled with color. To the west the sun was setting and the sky was pink and yellow and orange, and at that moment life felt so beautiful and perfect.

The three of us took some silly pictures, I spilled my ice cream down the front of my dress, and we finally made the walk back to the dorm once the air had cooled and the sun had set a little more. The sky visible over Nishi Hongwanji as we rounded the corner onto our street was beautiful. The clouds behind the setting sun were a brilliant white, reflecting the dying sunbeams, and the clouds in front of it were a dark gray, almost black, contrasting sharply with the white and periwinkle behind them. It was beautiful.

I really am going to miss Japan. I’m going to miss Debbie and Lisa, and everyone who made this journey special, who made my survival possible.

I’m so much different from that girl who ran down Horikawadori in tears carrying a shopping bag of toilet paper and shampoo, without any direction or idea how she would survive for the next seven weeks. The girl who stood in a phone booth at five in the morning and cried and cried to her parents in America on the other end of the line. The girl who took that first wobbly ride on her newly-purchased orange bicycle and felt in her heart that first drop of liberation from her sadness.

I couldn’t tell you where or when the pieces fell into place. Maybe after the accident. Maybe before, but I didn’t notice. Maybe little by little, to the point that now, at the end of my stay in Japan, I’m starting to see the ways in which I have changed, or rather, the ways in which I have reverted back to my old self. The girl I used to be before I let the craziness of pain and anger and confusion and worldly bullshit take over my spirit.

I feel free, confident, my heart full and yet still light. This is a new kind of determination, a new strength.

I can feel in it my very bones that things have shifted and clicked into place.

Sunday, July 12, 2009. 11:15p.m. JST.

I pulled my last fortune from Ishiyamadera. It reads:

"The person who holds this fortune is set in a tough conflict, and although there is much to lose, your prayers for strength have not gone unanswered. You will find joy. [Someone in your life] who is sick will get well. The person you are waiting for will come to you. Difficulties will be overcome. You will emerge from your battle victorious. Reflection, MISTRUST, taking a signifcant other, and a difficult journey will all resolve well."

Four similiar fortunes. I should also mention that the last two fortunes I drew, the one above and a fortune specifically for love, both said that my prayers to the Buddha have not been in vain. After almost seven weeks in temples and shrines, candles and incense, something recognized what I was doing even before I realized it myself.

Hm. I don't believe in coincidence.

Sunday, July 12, 2009. 6:04 p.m. JST.

My arm hurts like hell. I still can’t lift or do much with it. Last night I kept waking up because I would roll over onto it and the pain would shock me into consciousness. It’s wrapped and has one of the patches the doctor gave me on it right now, but it still feels like my entire arm has fallen asleep. Maybe it is asleep and it’s just sleep-walking or rather sleep-arming its way through my day, typing keys and scratching bug-bites unconsciously.
Saturday I went out shopping with Sarah to get the last of our souvenirs. We spent lots of time in Loft, the beautiful bastard offspring of Walmart and Ikea, only it’s ten billion times better and has everything you ever wanted in your entire life. We walked around Shijo, spent another huge amount of time in the Junkudo book store because we’re both literature fiends, and ended the day at a little coffee shop on Sanjo. We sat near a wall-to-wall window on the second story, watching people bustle across the intersection outside and chatting about college and future plans and writing. It was comforting and I felt very peaceful. Spending time with Sarah is always fun – I’m going to miss her when we all leave on Wednesday…
At night more KCJSers joined us for a yakitori dinner, then we headed out to Kamo River to watch fire spinners, listen to the drums, and watch the water float by. We sat there talking for hours, and again I felt this sense of peace. I had survived a car accident, and I had made it to live in this moment, sitting between Lisa and Sarah on the rocks along the river and watching ducks and the occasionally plastic bag float down the rapids.
I let myself sleep in this morning, then went to meet Lisa at Kyoto Tower to run some errands together. We ate lunch at the McDonalds nearby – Lisa got a fillet of shrimp sandwich and I got a juicy spicy chicken sandwich, both of which looked pretty AND tasted good (Lisa looked very satisfied), and for some bizarre reason I ordered white grape juice that made me feel wonky afterwards. I will miss Lisa so much… She’s was there for those times when I was running around the deep end of the pool, contemplating the flying leap in. She’s helped me a lot and I honestly don’t think I would’ve been able to right my head if it weren’t for her. I cried a little when we parted ways afterwards.
I wasn’t back in my apartment for more than an hour before Debbie rang my doorbell and regaled me with the story of her morning studying by the Kamo. A guy weaving hemp bracelets gave her one and asked her out, and of course the way Debbie tells tales are always amusing so I was cracking up and smiling. We decided to give our patronage one last time to the café down the street, the one we call “Bad Day Café” because we used to go there when we had bad days for a slice of cake and some time to think. We talked over our cake about plans for the rest of the summer, how packing is going (I’ll admit, my suitcase is a little overstuffed…), and our respective relationship issues. Debbie also has been there for me – she was with me in the jitensha lot when I totally broke down at the beginning of the program. We biked home in the rain, got soaked, and then changed and went to eat ramen.
After cake we went to Nishi Hongwanji across the street and sat for a few minutes in one of the big rooms before the altar. When we left, Debbie said, “It’s impossible not to feel calm and collected when you walk out of these temples.” She’s right, too. I’ve found a comfort in temples and shrines here that clears my mind and renews the strength in my heart. I have only one life. This time is the only time I have.
I bought a bracelet of prayer beads. On the biggest bead is a little gold picture that I can't quite make out but what looks like one of the gold symbols hanging near the altars of most temples. The beads are a russet red-brown and fit snugly around my left wrist. I suppose I've totally converted now.
I’ve been reflecting a lot on the accident ever since it happened. I was so close, and something so much worse could have happened to me.
Somewhere in my head I’ve drawn a parallel with myself and Gandalf the Grey’s in The Lord of the Rings. He gets knocked out of the game, only to pick himself up and return stronger and more determined than ever. Unfortunately I didn’t get knocked out quite as epically as Gandalf – for me it was a silver car filled with Japanese businessmen, not a demon on fire with a flaming whip. I guess what I’m trying to draw a parallel to is the white light that totally consumed my vision. “The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass…” he tells Pippin while the two are discussing death during the siege of Gondor.
Silver glass. White and silver lights, from end to end. But then the curtains closed again and I found myself staring at not white light, but gray sky and black pavement. The ring on my finger, the twelve numbers of the clock. It just wasn’t my time.
“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”
I will do everything I can with mine.

Friday, July 10, 2009. 10:52 p.m. JST.

I haven’t been able to write these past few days.

I was hit by a car.

Halfway through our lunch break I started feeling queasy, that same awful nervous stomach I’ve had for about half my stay here and that I’ve been blaming on all the seafood. I knew there was no way I would be fully functional during the last hour of class for the day, so I told a classmate I wasn’t feeling well and headed home with plans to take a nap and then force-feed myself some ramen (again).

I got on my bike and managed to get down the Kamo to Karasuma. That’s twenty minutes of mindless pedaling. I felt disgusting inside, like something in my chest was going to bubble up and break me open. Heart and soul splattered all over the pavement. I crossed the big Karasuma intersection and moved so that my bike was on the outside of the sidewalk, closer to the road, so that when I passed the side-streets I’d be in the biking lane.

And that’s when I got hit.

I wasn’t even going that fast. The side-street was small – about one car wide – and since there were no street signs or lights I automatically had the pedestrian right-of-way. Japan has that too. But the sad part of this story is this: I saw the little silver car before the driver saw me, and yet it took so long, a second or two, for me to respond and apply pressure to my breaks. It also didn’t help that my breaks are kind of shitty to begin with.

I squeezed the right hand break, the back tire, and I barely slowed. So I tugged down on the left hand break for the front tire with all my might and unfortunately this was in vain because I collided with the car anyway.

They say that your life flashes before your eyes right before you die. I saw mine, crystal clear. Did I…?

It was like looking through a window at a scene beyond it while simultaneously looking at your own reflection in the pane. I saw the silver car, the face of the man sitting closest to where I hit – the driver on the front right side of the car (Japanese cars are funny like that). I saw his face, panic etched into every inch, and my own face, my own eyes, wide, for a split second before my front tire swerved to the right and knocked into the side of the vehicle. I threw my arms up to protect my face. My right shoulder hit first. And then my cheek was against the warm metal and my vision was painted a shimmering silver. My entire body – from head to hips – slammed into this little silver car and was plastered there for a split second. My breath was knocked out of me and I could almost hear my brain rattle into the front of my skull. I barely had time to register what had happened, then the world was whirling away and I was looking at the cloudy sky. I had desperately tried to remain on my bike, gripping the frame with my knees, and all this did was pull the bike on top of me as I crashed to the pavement, a tangled mess of bicycle, backpack, umbrella, and girl.

Superimposed over all of this was my reflection – my life. The images were crystal clear and yet far-away-looking, like those misty white orbs that show up in photographs sometimes. So many images flew by me, but the ones that stuck, the ones that are haunting my memory even as I type this…

My time was up. My left shoulder, followed closely by my head, then the rest of my body, hit the pavement, my bike crashed on top of me, and for I don’t know how long I lay stunned and my vision was filled with white light, like I was seeing stars only they were all blending together to make one big glinting mass that filled my entire face.

This is really sad but I have no idea how long I was like that. Seconds or minutes, I don’t know. When I came to I was staring directly at the back wheel of the car.

I moved to get up. My body felt like lead, and only then did I remember my bike. I reached for it and found, as I rolled painfully over onto my back, that a middle-aged Japanese man had dragged my orange death machine off of me and propped it against a nearby sidewalk planter with an ugly-looking tree in it. My umbrella and backpack had been loaded back into the basket on the front.

The man held out his hand to help me and with a burst of adrenaline I somehow got to my feet. My hand trembled in his. He asked me if I was alright. The driver of the car had rolled down his window and was frantically asking the man standing with me if I was alright. I looked around and noticed that the gaijin-car collision had attracted a crowd. I was being stared at like I haven’t been stared at here yet. I turned to the driver, told him in Japanese that I would be alright – my head was spinning too fast for me to accept a stranger’s hospitality – and with a quick apology he drove away, running a red light further down the road, I might add.

So that was it. I had been told that pedestrian accidents in Japan typically end like this.

I stumbled to where my bike was and sat down on the planter next to it. The man who had helped me asked me if I was alright, and I told him I just wanted to sit down for a while. He asked if I could get home okay, and I replied that I lived about five blocks away and would be fine. Then he went on his merry way.

I stared at the pavement where I had fallen and cried and cried. My body was shaking, convulsing. I felt cold; I was shivering, and it was boiling hot and humid outside. People were staring at me as they walked by. My entire body ached, my head hurt, I had seen my life flash before my eyes…

Did I almost die?

I didn’t give myself any more time on that sidewalk. I (unwisely) got back on my bike and pedaled as hard as I could back to the dormitory. I dropped my bike in front of the door and went to punch in the door code. I noticed that my hands were scratched and bloody and that I couldn’t raise my right arm. At all.

That’s when I exited shock mode and the gravity of the situation hit me. I was able to punch in the code, fly up the stairs and tear open the door to my apartment before the real pain settled in. My entire body ached like I had… well, been hit by a car. My shoulders hurt – I couldn’t move my arms up to heart level or keep them raised for long. My chest, my stomach, my rib cage, my neck, my back… All was on fire, all hurt. My jeans were frayed in places. Bruises were starting to form on my hip bones and knees – ugly green and purple bruises. My head was throbbing. And this was all the preliminary damage.

I fell down onto the floor of my room and just laid there, my heart thudding in my throat, in my ears, my chest, everywhere. It hurt too much to move. One thought kept running through my head, like some awful morbid ticker…

If I had been going only a little bit faster, would I have stopped in time? If I had been maybe three feet ahead of where I was when the driver noticed me and I pulled the breaks, would I have ended up in front of the car? What if he didn’t stop at all? What if the little silver car or the red truck behind it hadn’t seen me? If one missed me, would the other? If any small detail had been different, would I have walked away?

A new kind of ache wrenched my gut as I lay on the floor. I felt a cold sweat coming and I knew that I was going to pass out. So I let myself pass out.

I woke up the next morning – on my floor – with the same traumatized feeling. I fought with my body, my spinning head, my mother on Skype, trying to clean up and get pants on and get out the door to class. I still couldn’t raise my right arm and getting the pants on was proving the more difficult task. My back felt like someone was driving a knife under my shoulder blades and my head was spinning, my neck cracking with every move I made. I didn’t want to miss class but I didn’t even consider getting back on my bike, so I resigned myself to being late, and asked Jennifer to take the bus with me to the Kaikan. In case I passed out or fell down or starting crying blood, or something. She agreed and when I got to the Kaikan I had made up my mind to tell the directors.

Of course they balked and I started to cry because I was drawing attention to myself and I was still in shock. Shore-san immediately took me to see a doctor.

A whole new round of crazy unfamiliarity began. At the door they made us take off our shoes and put on special slippers to walk around in. Shore-san helped me fill out my paperwork and we watched cartoons on health advice on the flat screen TV in the waiting area. After what felt like forever a very tall gray-haired doctor ushered us into a smaller room and starting poking my back and working my shoulders.

Left shoulder, a little sore. Right shoulder, EXPLOSION OF PAIN. Therefore, x-rays.

First, a very kind young nurse ushered me into an even smaller room with a huge plastic slab and lots of lights and machinery in it. She pointed to the plastic buttons on the front of my shirt and told me that I couldn’t wear the shirt during the x-ray. The shirt that I had labored so hard to get on me that morning was equally labored at to get off with the combined efforts of myself and a nurse that picked up and mirrored my anxiety. Once the shirt was off, she pointed to my undershirt, a black camisole with plastic on its straps, and the metal clips on my bright pink bra, and told me again that they weren’t good for the x-ray. Two minutes later, after working around my shoulder and finally deciding to just pull both shirt and bra down around my waist, I was standing topless in an uncomfortably well-lit room in Kyoto-Japan with a nurse staring at me with such pity on her face.

She mercifully threw a thick cotton robe around me and told me to stand against the huge plastic slab. I did, and she made me turn my head to one side and grip two bars on either side with my hands. Since I couldn’t grip the right one, she placed her hand on my back to support me, and then the entire apparatus began to rotate horizontally and I squeaked far too loudly.

She left the room and I heard the machine whir into life. Something was moving around above me, behind my back, but I couldn’t see it, and the mechanical sound made me think of some torture device in an old James Bond movie. After a few minutes the nurse came back and told me to turn onto my back. I pushed myself and rolled over with the least amount of grace possible, slamming my right shoulder into the side of the apparatus. She patted my shoulder and helped me situate myself in the middle, and then left the room again.

This time I got to see the awful thing with red lights move around above me, but this time the plastic bed I was laying on moved to. It was endless – move, move, stop. Move, move, stop. I stared directly into the square moving around above me like a restless firefly and began to cry again. I felt ridiculous, laying on a moving bed of plastic, half naked, with a huge cotton robe flung about me, getting pictures taken of my bones, in a place thousands of miles away from everything that was familiar.

Again, after a length of time that felt longer than it should have, the nurse came back, helped me onto my stomach again, and pressed her hand into my lower back while the apparatus righted itself, and me. She helped me redress and went back to wait with Shore-san for the x-ray results.

I didn’t break any bones, but the worse damage is to my right shoulder and upper arm. The doctor recommended painkillers and these Japanese-style icy hot pads that have some sort of pepperminty medication on them that helps relax the muscles. He said it’ll be about two weeks before the inflammation goes down completely, and I can move my shoulder like I used to. He told me to rest and not strain myself too much so my back and ribs and everything else that was busted can have a chance to heal without stress.

I’m determined to make it these last few days. I have four full days left, and about 30 hours of travel before I’m safe and sound in my home sweet home in the USA. It’s just amazing that I managed to go this whole time without an accident, and then in the last week fate decides to have one more go at playing chicken with me and my bicycle. At random times a shudder runs down my spine and I remember the feeling of my entire body ricocheting off the car and then sprawling onto the unforgiving pavement.

Something or someone must be watching out for me, because the girl who trips over her own two feet walked away from a collision with a motor vehicle.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009. 12:02 a.m. JST.

Today my class went to a candy shop and made candy with this nice old man that Drago called "the Japanese Willy Wonka." The candy I made was ugly-looking, but very delicious.

Less than a week and I'll be boarding a plane back to the states. It's a very strange feeling...

Think about where you were at 9:30 a.m. this morning. That is, 9:30 a.m. Eastern Standard Time on Tuesday, July 7.

And then think about me standing on the bank of a river in complete darkness, surrounded by nothing by the sounds of frogs and cicadas and warm, thick air.

Cue Billy Joel's "River of Dreams."

I had been thinking about doing this for a while. Before me was the Kamo River in all it's dark nighttime splendor. There was so little light -- the big buildings were far away, beyond the houses on the river's edge and barely shedding any light pollution on the dark crystalline waters. Only the moon, slightly veiled by the low clouds, sending her pale, shimmering light down to guide me on my journey across the water.

There are two places along the Kamo where stones have been placed in the water to make a sort of stepping-stone bridge. The stones are close enough together to make this bridge and yet far enough apart that you could easily slip and fall into the water.

It was dark. I had a chu-hai in me and was slightly tipsy. I decided that tonight was the night I would finally cross the water and stand on the opposite shore.

I took my first few steps and nearly fell twice.

I stopped a quarter of the way over and thought about why I wanted to do this so badly. Why did I want to walk on the opposite shore so much?

Because it was a place I hadn't stood before. Because maybe I'd find something there that I have never noticed before.

I took a few more steps. The moon hid behind the clouds. Nothing but black water rushing past the stones, swirling over and away and making me slightly dizzy. I kept going.

Halfway through I stopped again and stood quietly, listening to the water rush downstream. I was getting tired -- it was late. The air was muggy and thick and I damp, my hair was plastered to my forehead and cheeks. The soft wind did nothing to cool the flush that rose in my face. I could turn around and go back to my bike, ride home, and go to sleep. I could give up here and do this some other time.

But when?

Seven steps later, each one careful, deliberate, strong, more like leaps than steps, I was standing on the opposite shore on a dirt path. I turned around...

The other sore looks so different from that perspective. The shore I was looking at was the one I rode along every morning, the one I knew by heart and the one whose dips and curves and bridges and cobblestones that I relished gliding over every day. From here I could see the expanse of grass and trees more clearly, the reeds that line the shore and the flowers that speckled the path. It was so beautiful, and so wonderful...

And so I returned to that shore. The one I know. The one I like best.

I was searching for something -- something sacred I lost. Something I never wanted to lose and something that only the hardest, most soul-rending things could take from me.

With all I've experienced here, with all I've done and seen and been through, I've found it, that missing widget that makes Alexa -- Alexa.

Monday, July 6, 2009. 5:36 p.m. JST.

What do you when you’re anxious and a little sad and have a nervous stomach that won’t go away?
Do something drastic. Get a haircut. In a foreign country.
Around 3:00 today I ended up at a salon called Earth near Kyoto Station. Jennifer went with me. I told the stylist, a very handsome guy by the name of Kito, that I wanted layers and bangs and asked him to match the hair color growing in my roots. The end result:



Let’s see what went on here.
The salon took my belongings and locked them up in a cute little cupboard by the front desk and handed me the key. They then ushered me over to Kito, who GENTLY washed my hair, GENTLY snipped away the dead ends and about three months worth of growth, and GENTLY slashed some pretty outrageous-angled layers into my hair. Then he coated my still-damp tresses with two coats of brown dye that started out the color of my roots. After thirty minutes of sitting still, he led me over to the hair-washing basins, where he put a cheesecloth over my face (presumable to keep the water from splashing my face, but this also hid the fact that I pretty much fell asleep during this process), GENTLY rinsed out the dye, GENTLY massaged my head for about fifteen minutes, GENTLY applied leave-in conditioner, and then probably gently woke me up to lead me back to the salon chair.
Let me just say here that this whole thing cost relatively nothing. They were giving out coupons in front of the store and it only cost about 5000 yen. Something that would cost about $200 in the states.
He blow-dried my head and the first thing my mind said was that I looked like I was Japanese. Or Katy Perry.
It feels nice to not have all that hair on my head. It’s a little more layered and shorter than I would have liked but at least it’s less to tie up and deal with in the morning.
I did this on an impulse, a whim. I felt like I needed to change something physically about myself, to mirror the metamorphoses I feel inside myself.
I haven’t been eating much the past few days. My stomach just keeps tying itself in knots. I also skipped my lunch break today to nap, so when I showed up tired and frazzled at Steve’s door asking to borrow his translation of the Heike tales that are due tomorrow, he decided enough was enough and brought me to this little okonomiyaki place down by Kyoto Station.
It was very small, and they cooked the meal right in front of us. Of course they handed us an English menu right away and we then VERY surprised when we ordered in Japanese. I ate a decent amount of yakisoba and we both got an Asahi beer and toasted to what we hope we be good grades in our classical Japanese class. The three other patrons and the cook and waitresses were eager to talk to us in Japanese – I suppose it’s not every day a foreigner walks in who can speak Japanese fluently. There was even a little gasp from a group in the corner when I asked for the check: “Sumimasen, okanjou okudasai!”
One week. That’s all I’ve got left.
Kaguyahime, is this how you felt?

Sunday, July 5, 2009. 10:38 p.m. JST. (9:38 a.m. EST, USA).

Hours later, after talking with Lisa and doing hentaigana translation with Jennifer, I’m feeling a little better than earlier. But I still feel sick to my stomach. Maybe it’s the gross ramen I ate…
I’m thinking about everyone back home, their Fourth of July celebrations specifically. Boston fireworks, grilling, drinking, my family, my friends… I hope everyone had fun. Mine was spent walking around Osaka and eating octopus and soymilk ice cream. It was a simple Saturday – I won’t get many more of these as my life nears my senior year in college.
I bought a ring in Osaka yesterday. It was the only one of its kind and I thought it very fitting. It’s a silver band with the roman numerals from 1 to 12 engraved on it. I wear it on my right ring finger like a wedding band – I am married to time, afterall. Always waiting, wishing, bound to my unshakeable faith. Hope, as I have seen, is the star brought on the morning tide… by, of course, Time. My constant lover.
I forgot an integral part of the Kaguyahime story – the end. The people from her original country come for her. The Moon people – yes, she’s from the moon – come to earth, tell her that her punishment is over and that she has made up for her digressions, and that they truly want her to come back with them. She pleads with them to let her stay with the bamboo cutter and his wife, but eventually they throw a feather robe over her shoulders that reminds her of what she has missed, and she again finds happiness and peace when she returns to the moon.
I guess I’m going back to the Moon soon. But my heart has yet to find that peace with leaving, that peace with going and doing and finding and knowing. Who knew I would find such comfort in a child’s fairytale?
From the depths of my piles of papers, flash cards, books, and cables on my desk I found my fortunes from Yasakajinja and Fushimi Inari. Yasaka’s reads (my novice’s translation):

“You will find days of enjoyment once you find the light in your own reflection. Once you make the choice to use your effort, the success will last forever after. Although you have much strength, your desire will be achieved if you truly know
your battlefield.”

And Fushmi Inari’s fortune:

“Time time is almost up for you to pay (as in pay a due or punishment) with winter cloudsand whirlwinds, leaving to reveal the place where stars shine forever without change.The disposition of Providence is to bless your heart with prosperity, but only after youhave proven your strength.”

Both fortunes mention light (hikari) and strength and effort explicitly. Compare this to my previous fortune from Sanjusangendo, which told me that I would be happy after what it called a “delay.” My time to prove my strength? The Sanjusangendo fortune also uses the kanji hikari. Light. When I return, will it be dark? Or will I find myself bathed in the moon’s light?
Ah, well, the moon will be in its last quarter phase. So a little I guess.
My mother is Skyped me while making poached eggs. I haven’t had a decent egg or cup of coffee since I left. I so miss American breakfasts – although melon pan will do.

Sunday, July 5, 2009. 1:27 p.m. JST.

I missed all Fourth of July celebrations this year. Ah.
Yesterday was spent in Osaka with Debbie and Lisa. We went to the huge aquarium, saw a whale shark and tons of deep sea fish, ate a lot of street food, and rode the giant ferris wheel. I freaked out a little bit at first and squealed every time Debbie got up and rocked the cart, but it was fun.
I would absolutely write more here but I have a tone of hentaigana to translate and my fingers are shaking as I type. I’m nervous. I couldn’t give the exact, specific, well-thought-out reason why, but my body is reacting to something that’s swimming through my thoughts.
I have 10 days left here. What will I do?