I finished classes yesterday. The past four months, especially December, have been really good. I owe a lot to the students. The intensity of their world has a way of making my world seem somehow less real and more exciting. Theirs is a world of action and adventure with stories and words that make sense. I find that kind of honesty refreshing.

For example, the grade eight kids at Minami who stood up at the end of the last class of a long day and sang "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." I wasn't expecting that sort of thing at all. I kind of got all bunched up inside. The teacher told me afterward that it had been their idea, a thank-you from them to me. I don't think I told them this, but that was when Christmas started for me this year.

Or, the grade two kids at Kamibun who gave me handmade Christmas cards. The messages scrawled inside were, "Thanks for teaching us English," or "I had fun with Mr. Jon." Things like that. That put a smile on face, too.

Then there's the cool new game at Awa elementary school. About a month ago I was having fun booting this soccer ball up as high as it would go. Then the kids would run around with out-held arms, trying their best to catch it without getting whomped in the head. When I returned for my next visit the kids all came up to me asking for the Jon Super Kick. That's pretty cool, right?

I suppose what these little events have in common is that they were moments when the kids could get beyond what they didn't know and find a way to communicate in a way that they do know. I like to think that if there's anything I've been teaching in the past year and a half, then it's that you don't need to know the present progressive of a verb to say what's on your mind. Usually, what needs to be said can be done better with a gesture, a song or a smile.

In a way, that's what Christmas is about: showing as opposed to telling. When people want to show they care, they'll volunteer some time over the holidays, get dressed up in Santa outfit for the kids, or spend three days in the kitchen preparing a turkey. Maybe that's what makes it such a special time of year: people stop all their talking and start actually living, one of the few times of the year when adults get a chance to live with the intensity of children.

Merry Christmas everyone. Talk to you soon.

Karaoke screen, Karaoke Old New. (taken by Jon)

'Tis the season for karaoke. I've already been four times this holiday season, with the distinct possibility of two more visits. At this point, all I want for Christmas is to never have to sing Wham!'s "Last Christmas" ever again, as long as I live.

Friday's version was with one of Nancy's co-workers. By chance we met him in the lobby of Karaoke Old New. No one is really sure how, but him and two of his friends made their way into our karaoke room. That's when "Last Christmas" happened, the eighth time this holiday season. It's the new fruit cake.

When we finally managed to lose the party crashers, we could get down to some real singing. Britney Spears, Madonna, Oasis, and Green Day -- nothing but the oldest and newest at Karaoke Old New.

They way undercharged us, too. Two hours of singing and two drinks each, plus the six lemon chu-hi's they accidentally brought, only cost 1000 yen per person. Now that's what I call Christmas spirit!

Today's classes are about Christmas. I start by telling them about the reason Christmas is celebrated and the orgin of Santa. I slightly touch on the commercialization of Christmas especially here in Japan. Next, I play "T'was the Night Before Christmas" on the stereo. I got ahold of a version with an old man's voice set to music. It is really nice; really Christmassy. When I was cleaning my house last weekend, I stumbled across a children's story book of Clement C. Moore's poem. It works really well because the students can look at the pictures as they are listening to the song. Then I teach my students how to make snowflakes. They really like it. Lastly, we use the snowflakes to decorate Christmas cards while we listen to Christmas music. Immediately after class, I give all the students a word search, a small Christmas card, and a Christmas sticker. I have finished one class and have two more to go. I am really enjoying today's classes.

Stone mountain path, Yokogurayama. (Jon)

Basho writes:

On the first day of fourth month, we paid our respects to The Mountain. In ancient times the name of this mountain used to be written to read Mount Two Disasters, but when the Great Teacher Kukai founded the temple, he changed it to Sunlight. He must have foreseen the future a thousand years ahead: today the light from this place illuminates the entire heaven, its beneficience fills the whole land, and the easeful home for all four classes of people is peaceful. Awestruck, i was barely able to take up my brush:

"Ara touto aoba wakaba no h noo hikari
(Look, so holy: green leaves young leaves in the light of the sun)"

Sunset at the harbour, Minami Susaki. (Jon)

Boats, Minami Susaki. (Jon)

Boats, Minami Susaki. (Jon)

Boats, Susaki City (Jon).

Yesterday was a horrible day. Here, in translation, is a conversation that took place at the desk directly in front of me:

Koji: "You talk to him."
Waka (shaking head frantically): "No, no, no."
Koji: "Say something in English."
Waka: "No, I can't. It's too scary. You already told him, anyway."
Koji: "So you're not going to talk to him."
Waka (giggling): "No I can't. You're better at that sort of thing."

Koji, who speaks fearlessly to me in whichever language is more convenient, wanted Waka to talk to me about the year-end party. Waka, who fearlessly takes a poop in her pants if I so much as look in her direction, was unable. She says "Hello" like an ambassador and "Good morning" poses no problem. She can even point at various objects, concrete nouns such as watermelons, and deftly hurdle all four -- I mean five -- syllables: "Wa-ta-me-ro-n." That's not bad for ten years of English education.

Later in the day, at the supermarket, I asked the information counter people if they had any old boxes I could use to send Christmas presents in. The woman I talked to froze upon my opening my mouth. First she blushed the most stupendous shade of red. Then, she started to giggle. And giggle. And giggle.

I asked again, "Furoi hako ga arimasu ka? Kurisumasu purezento wo okuritain kara." Maybe she thought I would disappear if only she could just keep on giggling, because when she noticed I was still there and still wanted old boxes, she really freaked out. She sort of buckled over, like she'd seen a bear, and, not knowing what else to do, did what all good people do upon seeing a bear: she pooped in her pants. When she finally got the stink out, she called a conference with the five other women working the information counter. Thank God I heard Nancy calling. She found some boxes piled up behind the tills. I got to leave the conference early.

This kind of crap happens every day. At this point in my Kochi life, I'm almost certain that it isn't culture shock that's pissing me off. I've studied the language hard and, although I don't speak the emperor's Japanese, I know more than enough to get by. I've studied the culture, too. I may not be the most practiced in how low to bow or what level of language to use, but it's not like I'm visiting temples in my sneakers, running around blowing my nose with one hand and stuffing cheeseburgers into my gob with the other. When people actually do give me the chance, I usually manage to have a normal, everyday conversation: good places to go fishing in Shikoku, was Yukio Mishima gay? and why squid sashimi is as appetizing as spitballs for breakfast. We're not discussing the finer points of Japan's re-emergent military program and the possible effects on Sino-Japanese relations, but who wants to talk about that anyway?

Probably, what's pissing me off is that I live in a small town in the middle of nowhere and I'm the only person who's different. As if that wasn't bad enough, people take every encounter with me as an opportunity to rub that difference into my face. Instead of saying "Ohayo" they say "Good morning". Instead of "Genki?" they ask "How are you?" Instead of "What did you do last night?" they ask to confirm the size of my sniffer: "Your nose is really big, isn't it?" What happens to those language skills -- those communication skills -- when I need a couple of used boxes? Where's that friendly "Good morning" camaraderie when there's a staff party that everyone but me has been invited to, not because I don't understand the language, but because I only visit the school once a week and just plain old didn't know?

But, like I said, yesterday was a bad day. I let all the little irritating things about this place get to me. I let myself fall victim to the idiotic comments and rude behaviour, rather than dealing with them outright. I should have asked Waka what she wanted to talk about. I should have asked the information counter people if they could understand my Japanese. Or at least I could have offered to get them some toilet paper. I really am sorry about that.

Nancy trying on sunglasses in Kobe. (Jon)

When I first meet a new elementary school class, I always do a short talk on Canada. "Canada is a big country," I'll say and spread my arms wide. "Canada is a cold country," I'll elaborate, pretend to shiver in the night. "There aren't many people in Canada, either. Tokyo's population is the same." I tell them that last year the coldest day was -52.3 degrees Celsius, that ice hockey is the most popular sport and that I've seen the northern lights every year of my life. I'll say that there are cows everywhere and that buffalo burgers are delicious, but not as tasty as moose sausage.

I've had entire question periods devoted to moose. How big is a one year old moose? How about a three year old moose? Oh, oh, oh! How about a seven year old moose? How big are moose horns? Where do moose live? Did you ever see a moose? What does a moose smell like? Where do moose sleep? What do moose eat? Do bears eat moose? Did you ever see a bear and a moose at the same time? Are moose scary? Do moose have mommies? How do you make moose sausage?

I never give the entire recipe -- only that it works well to mix the moose meat with some pork. Then they ask what Japanese food I like. I tell them I love sushi, except for eel because it's too slimy and squid because it's too squishy. I don't know the Japanese for slimy or squishy, so I resort to wild mouth gestures. They must think I'm a real weirdo.

Japanese food isn't all sushi, though. Like Thanksgiving turkey and beef stew, the best foods are seasonal. Now it's nabe time.

Last month Nancy and I were invited to our first-ever nabe party. We drove into the mountains west of Sakawa to a beautiful country house perched at the edge of a night-black rice paddy. Various small flour heaters were set to high, but the air was still freezing inside. A basketball-sized crab, flown in that morning from Hokkaido, was chilling on some ice. After serving us green tea, our host stepped outside to prepare the crab. We took our seats and waited for the other guests to arrive.

Between sips of beer, we added chopped crab, fish, shrimp and chicken to a large clay pot, the nabe, filled with a seaweed broth simmering on a portable stove located in the middle of the table. In went the vegetables: Chinese cabbage, green onions and shiitake. We ate five-ingredient sushi rice and waited for the nabe, which bubbled contentedly as the center of attention.

For the next three hours, we ate Hokkaido crab from the nabe, taking what we wanted with a our own dirty chopsticks, spooning broth with a blackened ladle. Similar to a fondue party, we ate slowly to savour the warm conversation and the fresh crab. Laughing the night away, I ate more crab than at any other point in my life.

When no one could eat anymore, our host dropped a big pile of fresh udon into the leftover broth. She added the last of the crab, too. I waited a moment to digest before slurping into some udon. By this time I was sweating: the room was hot from the bubbling soup but I'd also eaten too much. The slightest movement left me over-exerted and short of breath.

Since that first party I've had two more nabes this winter. Being part of a group of people gathered for the express purpose of eating until they can't move anymore has been fantastic. Each nabe also gives me something to talk about with my elementary students. Is a Korean kimchee nabe as delicious as a Hokkaido crab nabe? they want to know. Is there nabe in Canada? Which is more delicious, nabeyaki ramen or nabeyaki udon? How about sukiyaki? Did you ever eat a squid nabe? How about moose?

Actually, that's a good question. How about moose?