When you commute for a few hours every day, the usual amusements tend to lose their flair. Reading books, listening to music, and eavesdropping on conversations simply don't pass the time very well, anymore.

Today, I tried to keep myself occupied by balancing unassisted for the entire duration of the train ride, which can become somewhat tricky after 25 minutes on the twisting and spiraling Yamanote line, where every bump and curve reverberates through the dozen or so train cars, viciously trying to toss unattached passengers to the ground, into the walls, or into each other.

It's a pleasant challenge.

When the train is crowded it's not so hard to remain standing, but on a relatively empty train, to stand without assistance requires mental focus and anticipation--you've got to feel the track, baby.

This balancing act helps to shorten the ride, but of course, the best position on any train is seated and fast asleep--though if one perseveres to stay awake, and concentrated on interpretation, there are plenty of wonderful conversations to drop in on.

Tonight's ride home included a squinty eyed old man commenting on how the youngsters in Japan these days love their "cellphone computers," which he finds useless.

He then went on to comment upon America's president, followed by my hair--which he found that, despite being dirty, was quite interesting, and perhaps something that the young women in Japan would find attractive.

I enjoyed his laugh, the same way I enjoy my grandfather's laugh; the laugh of a man who has lived four of my lifetimes and laughs because he is happy, because he loves me, and he knows there is much for all of us to learn.

Perhaps he also knows that the laughter of an old man has a calming effect.

It helped to bring me out of my self-depreciating mood--at least temporarily.

That laugh told me not to take things so seriously, not to worry about fluency yet, not to be so hard on myself for something that takes in nearly infinite amount of time to master.

And even though every day I've been studying for hours and hours, and every day I converse for hours and hours, I can't shake the nagging little cloud that follows me around, constantly raining on my head saying, "You don't know shit."

Which is true.

Despite all the progress that has been made, all the times people have told me I speak Japanese just fine, I know, in my head and in my heart, that I still have a long, long road ahead of me.

Despite all of the dreams I've had in Japanese, and all of the times I catch myself thinking in Japanese instead of English, I know that there is still so much farther to go, and all the studying that my brain can do in a day is no replacement for time--which is what language learning requires.

It's hard not to get down on yourself.

You see, there's a plateau one reaches in every discipline, be it physics, writing or computer science: the flat place at the top of a big hill where nothing new is learned, and on the horizon looms everything that has yet to be done--but that horizon is oh-so-far away.

That place, for those studying a foreign language, is a desolate, wide, deserted place, that just wrecks the inside of your mind.

People think you are fluent.

People expect more of you than you can offer.

People are asking the tough questions, now.

People are speaking their real speed, now.

Your new friends aren't friends with you simply because you are foreign, anymore. They are friends with you because they like you--gaijin or not--and your ability to communicate properly and functionally directly relates to the preservation of those friendships.

You are no longer cool just because you are from America.

No one cares about that, anymore.

Right now, believe me, I'm running for that horizon, trying desperately to grasp at anything I can in order to increase my language efficiency--and though I've improved tremendously, as I mentioned before, the road is long and arduous, and the pitfalls are many.

Just turning on a TV can be quite depressing when you realize you've studied for almost four years and can hardly understand anything.

But that's TV, right? Don't worry about that, they say...

...

Ah, the laughter of an old man.

He knows that nothing really matters, he knows I should just laugh, too. Oh, and he knows I'm not as crafty as I think--he knows I'm listening, and he knows I understand. The wink he gave me after mentioning my hair told me so--and even if I don't have faith in myself, he does.

So I suppose there is hope, after all.

They don't sip on malt liquor here.

No, Tokyo's less privileged--those who can't afford the nomihoudais and all night, alcohol-fueled karaoke sessions that so many salarymen enjoy nightly--prefer to take pulls off of "One Cup," an aptly titled drink that is--literally--one cup of hard alcohol.

With a convenient snap or screw on lid, "One Cup" can be easily concealed in a coat-pocket or a pair of large hands; however, hiding alcohol on the street is completely unnecessary, considering there are no open container laws in Japan--though what fun is that, really? There's nothing naughty about drinking in front of police when it's legal.

But, besides being the drink of choice for Tokyo's poor, "One Cup" does have some other commonalities with the malt liquor that infects the same demographic in America. Just as there are endless varieties of 40 ounce brews in the back of your neighborhood convenience store--High Life, Mickeys, Camo XXL, etc--so too are there endless types of "Cups" to choose from.

The original, "One Cup."

The (perhaps?) more potent, "Supercup."

The "1.5 Cup."

And of course "2 Cup."

These humble, colorless, odorless delicacies for derelicts exist nearly anywhere food can be bought in Japan--from the tiniest "Conbini" to the largest of department stores. They fill shelf space in Family Mart, just next to the Jack Daniels; they are across from the milk in AM/PM, and they are buried in aisle four of the alcohol section in Shinjuku's most bizarre and sprawling department store: the labyrinth like Don Quixote.

And if it's not weird enough that you can buy a drink called "One Cup" in a store named after a 17th century Spanish novel featuring an idealistic and impractical protagonist, just consider that you can also purchase a Hello Kitty brand vibrator, a motorcycle helmet, your groceries, Marijuana scented incense, soil for potting, and even that saddle shaped massage machine you needed--all while listening to the stores jingle repeat endlessly: "Don Don Don, Don Qui! Don Don Don, Don Qui!"

Of course, if you just walked a few blocks from Kabukicho to pick up a "One Cup," that's fine, too.

I ate bukkake the other day--and if you're not laughing now, that probably means you are one of the older members of this reading audience, but fear not, UrbanDictionary has a wonderful NC-17 definition waiting for you.

For those of you who know what it means--well, yeah. I ate it.

Honestly, I ate bukkake, and actually, it wasn't half bad for cold noodle dish eaten on a breezy, 40 degree day--though I confess that foreknowledge of the word's archaic definition did somewhat spoil the meal, and my Japanese host's constant giggles and harassment didn't help my digestive system much, either.

But I ate it.

And though eating a bowl of soup that just happens to share a name with the act of multiple men shooting sperm onto the face of an adulterous female buried head deep in sand is disgusting, the ride home actually managed to top dinner in terms of sheer hideousness. Thankfully, however, the smell polluting the train car was originating from someone else's colon.

At first I thought it was my dinner making a surprise visit, but no, the smell was radiating from a homeless man sleeping in the corner; undoubtedly taking advantage of the Yamanote line for it's heat as it looped endlessly around Tokyo.

Though the train was crowded, the man enjoyed a two person buffer zone on each side--the usually coveted seats were empty.

It was the first time I had seen one of Tokyo's incredibly docile homeless ride a train in such a blatantly American way.

Disapproving looks stabbed at him from every direction, society reminding him that he was not wanted, not needed, and that this was not his train--and yet, he snored, peacefully, happily outside the reach of their hierarchy, the humbling demands of their language, and their millions of identical salary men.

He did not need their approval. He dreamed as the train went round.

He dreamed; and he stank.

Ok, just a quick little note. Last week I bought a web cam so I could do video conferencing with my distant friends and family, but I have also set the camera up so that you can see what's going on in my apartment through the world wide web. I've added a link to the camera on the right hand side under "Other Skeet." So for all you voyeurs out there, enjoy!

It's not how they do it in America.

After two days of intense entrance examinations, here they stood. An auditorium full of parents--parents representing their sons and daughters, all 1000 of them who had just completed those exams vying for one of the only 200 available positions in Chiba's premiere middle school--all of them watching and waiting for the results.

It's not how they do it in America.

With a few quick words, the curtain was lifted from the stage and the mob surged forward--Tokyo's salary-men, office ladies, and housewives--all pushing toward the large white lists, hanging there much more solidly than paper is supposed to hang. Hopefully, their child's name was somewhere on this list.

It's not how they do it in America, I can guarantee. There they simply mail you your results, typically weeks later.

But here, it's instant gratification. Cries of joy came from many parents who could rest with the knowledge that the long and arduous road through Japan's private education system--ending, ultimately in acceptance to a top university--would continue; at least until it was time for high school entrance exams. Other parents sulked off quietly, back toward the wintery wind blowing in from the gaping auditorium doors.

And there I stood, in the background, unimportant, ignored, a fly on the stone wall.

But as I said, it's not how they do it in America, and a fly, I truly was not.

The dean of the entire Matsudo Junior High and High School system, a man I had never met, was also, in the midst of the chaos and tears, a fly on the wall. He was however, not observing the wave of human beings straining their eyes and adjusting their spectacles as they tried to spot their family name. No, he was observing me.

Quietly, John was pulled aside by the vice principal, who informed him that my collared shirt and tie, covered by a grey sweater, needed to be tucked in. The vice principal, of course, was informed by none other than the top dog himself, the dean, who had spotted me a mile away.

It's not how they do it in America.

I had made my formal introduction to the vice principal not but an hour prior, and yet he couldn't ask me himself--nay, couldn't tell me himself--to tuck in my shirt-tails. Which, excuse me, are worn out in this semi-formal style.

But, then again, it's not how they do it in America.

Truly, I can understand how some blacks must have felt, in a room surrounded by white men and women. Unsure if they are all staring at him, criticizing his clothing or his hair, perhaps it's his smile--not big enough, or too big--or the firmness of his handshake. Perhaps it's the way he's standing. Perhaps it's nothing at all. Perhaps it's simply him.

Perhaps he can't even stand there, alone, against a wall, doing nothing more than respectfully observing an event he was invited to, hands clasped behind his back, without being accosted for something he could never have anticipated.

What's next?

The unknown is what is the worst. Tomorrow it might be my earrings, or the bracelet on my left arm. Maybe tomorrow it will be the ongoing issue of my hair, unresolved as of yet, but of course "dirty" and unwanted. Cut it. You know you have to cut it, right?

Maybe Monday my jeans won't be blue enough, or they will be too blue.

Maybe I have no idea what will happen next, what they won't like about me.

It's the unexpected that has me tiptoeing around, and although being the minority is fun, at times, I can truly say I understand the feeling of being helpless in a society that has been rejecting every part of my being despite my best intentions, since the day I arrived. And though it's not everywhere in Japan, and by no means everyone, the few who have rejected me have made me feel quite unwelcome during my first week back in a foreign land.

"Youkoso Japan," my ass.

It's not how they do it in America, or at least, not how I do it.

Had this been my first trip to Japan, I would be back home, by now.

But after a while you learn to deal with these things, the unexpected and the uncontrollable, the cultural differences and the biased attitudes that radiate from those few needles in the haystack who happen to occupy the uppermost positions of authority.

You can only smile and do your best, and know that your character is hardening due to your efforts. That how I do it, in America, Japan, or elsewhere.

Just incase you feel like sending me something...

Brett Wertz
Leopalace Hiratsuka 104
2884-3 Kamihongo, Matsudo, Chiba, Japan
271-0064

Thanks in advance. (And yes, the apartment company that rents to me is called "Leo Palace," though I have no idea who Leo is, and this place is hardly a palace... but anyway.)

Just a little plant; though actually, more like a little baby tree. Just a little treasure to add some literal life to my apartment.

Carrying it home on the train, sandwiched between a hundred black-suited salary-men, "I just can't seem to shake this feeeeeling," echoed in the little space between my ears; a bright and sunny melody suitable for the end of what had been a bright and beautiful day.

Despite the scowls on the faces of these sleepy men, "I just can't seem to shake this feeling." I was dancing, off in my own world, dancing for only myself, a smile spread across my face, thinking of the ones I loved--their faces dancing, too.

And then silence.

Pausing that kind of thing on a crowded train--that kind of movement, that kind of smiling, gleaming, forget-your-worries and just love kind of thing--and realizing you are truly enveloped in silence is more than spooky, it's a hollow and empty nothingness, ringing in your ears.

And then un-pause, dancing yet again.

"I can't seem to shake this feee-ee-eeling...!"

Then pause again.

A cold and dead train car, yet full of so many breathing bodies, sucking in the crisp night air, turning the train into a sort of lukewarm sauna on wheels.

Un-pause.

"I can't seem to shake this feeeeeling!!"

What feeling, exactly?

Pause again, to think.

I pulled a plastic bottle from my bag and sipped what apparently is the number one sports drink in Tokyo--that is of course, if you trust the judgment of "Ranking Rankqueen," a little bodega buried beneath Shinjuku station that offers all of its products by category, be it soft drink or ball point pen, ranking them from one on down to five.

I, of course, can afford only the best of tastes, so I purchased their top pick, which, I can only assume was selected by a staff who adheres to a stringent voting procedure; scrutinizing every detail of the product. Their conclusion? This week, the best sports drink in Tokyo is none other than Pocari Sweat.

Hmm, Pocari Sweat.

So that's what that unshakeable feeling was.

Sweat.

The kind that runs down your back, drips off your ass and then down your leg to the floor because you are wearing a coat, slammed into a train like a sardine, with a few hundred of Tokyo's most exhausted employees for a 40 minute ride home--and your hands are stuck too, so you can't even be bothered to wipe the sweat.

Drip, drip.

Un-pause.

"I can't seem to shake this fee-eeeeeling....!"

Whitopia.

Say it aloud, and think about it for a moment.

If you pronounce it the way I do, it comes out as "White-oh-pee-ah," which sort of sounds like a contraction of "White" and "Utopia."--of course, if you agree with that interpretation, you aren't only pronouncing like me, but you're thinking like me now, too (a dangerous prospect!).

But what would a Whitopia be, exactly? A place where only white people lived, I suppose.

The truth of Whitopia, however, is a lot less fantastic than the strange, minority-lacking land that we had imagined. Whitopia is simply a laundromat near my apartment. They are pretty good at making your close white, hence Whitopia.

The other truth about Whitopia is that I am the minority there, not the majority. But then again, I'm the minority everywhere I go here. Nothing new.

Besides Whitopia, my house is also near Highway 6--a nice four lane thoroughfare--where, today, an ambulance, sirens blaring, roared down the road, yet no one pulled over. The ambulance was, in fact, getting passed by the other cars as it sped humbly down the road, adhering to the posted speed limit.

Perhaps it wasn't such an important injury... who knows.

Highway 6 happens to lead directly to Kita-Matsudo station, and each day, many cars (and ambulances) can be seen, but so can a lonesome golfer, diligently practicing his technique each night in the alley behind his apartment--from puts to drives, he works all the forms.

And though every night he's busy slicing away in that dark alley, I wonder if he ever actually gets a chance to move from the damp cement to the greens, and really get some practice--because I've seen a lot of stuff in Japan, but never a golf course.

Perhaps those barren "green spaces" are a luxury only whitopia can afford.

"It's definitely coming, definitely."

He laughed that fast, high-pitched, choppy Japanese laugh, oh so familiar to me, yet so foreign.

And what is it, Kyohei, exactly, that is going to "definitely" be paying us a visit here in Tokyo? Oh, nothing too important, he informed me; just a magnificent earthquake, one so large and destructive that it would rip the city in two.

"It's coming," he said again, giggling.

Ah, after those few short weeks in America, I'm welcomed back to Japan by earthquake forecasts. Just another little thing you don't really have to worry about in Nebraska, and so quickly forget.

But what's so funny about impending doom, I wanted to know; though Kyohei never informed me. Perhaps the simple fact that the inevitable was on the way, and there was nothing any of us helpless, little human beings could do to stop it.

Don't worry about me, though, and certainly don't worry about things collapsing on my little nogign: I live in the countryside--well, that's what the Japanese call Matsudo; though I don't quite understand the moniker, considering the city I live in is half the size of Lincoln but contains more people than Omaha.

But I suppose since my neighbor does grow onions in his back yard, we can call it country--and truth be told, it is much different than the college area I lived in last year; there just aren't as many people here. (But don't get the impression it's not crowded, ha!)

I'm still settling in here, still getting used to Tokyo life again, and this time around I recognize my culture shock and am trying to embrace it. My Japanese speaking skill has deteriorated slightly, making conversation a bit more tricky; I've forgotten how to walk in completely packed areas; I'm relearning how to navigate the trains; and I'm still getting used to carrying an umbrella with me everywhere I go.

But despite the rain, the weather is pleasant.

50 degrees the day I arrived, and only about 40 degrees today.

Funny thing was, yesterday all the Japanese swore that it was going to snow.

"You know you can't go out tonight! The trains will shut down! It's going to snow!"

80 percent chance said the weather forecast! 80 percent! But when I stepped outside yesterday morning, my Nebraska bones told me no snow could possible come. I felt the cold, fresh drizzle on my face and sniffed the still above-freezing air, and immediately knew that there would be no snow.

But how! How did I know, they asked. How was I right and the weatherman wrong.

"It's because of Nebraska," I told them.

And why! Why are you wearing a short-sleeved shirt and light jacket, they asked.

"It's because of Nebraska," I told them.

And why, why do you seem so .... not yourself, they asked.

Again I replied, "It's because of Nebraska."

Four hours of wait on the tarmac in Omaha, an hour in a plane, another 12 and a half hours on a plane, a one hour car trip, and here I am, back in Japan.

There's a whole lot on my mind right now, so hopefully I'll be able to crank some coherent stuff out sometime relatively soon.

I miss you all a lot; this is going to be a long stay.