The Long Night

I got back home after my last day at school, back to the room I had been living in for a year and a half.

And here it is.



It was a nice room. I had made it my own by decorating it with an XBOX 360, a 22-inch wide screen computer monitor and other, less important things, like curtains and a bed spread too.

Maybe my affection was at its peak because I knew that after that day my room would just be the outside of a door to me. My evil-past-self had set my current-self a hard schedule: Monday quit job; Tuesday leave home and fly to Hokkaido.

That evil self had also been the one to fill out the Moving Out form and given it to Kizuna, the manager of the guesthouse and my friend. She looked at what I’d written and said, ‘You need to fill in what time you will move out, but I will be checking you out so it’s ok to be late.’ With this in mind I wrote 11AM.

I was packing all night, except for a short nap around 2AM. You never quite realise how much stuff you own until you need to put it in boxes. I’d already sent one box back to the UK, but that was just scratching the surface. I have a bad habit of leaving packing for holidays until the morning I leave, and this had extended dangerously into moving out packing too.

By the time the sun came up I had filled several bags of rubbish and organised piles of things to send back home, take on holiday or store while I was away. Yoko came to my rescue. She gave me the key to her room saying that I could store things under her bed. She went off to work and I started shoving things under her bed.

At 9AM I had just started cleaning my room when my phone rang. It was someone from the guesthouse company and he sounded very friendly, but only at first.
“What time will you be ready to move out?” he asked.
“Between eleven’ o’clock and half past I think, I still have a lot to do.”
“Ok, I’ll be there before eleven,” he said.
I grimaced and he hung up.
I went to tell Kizuna about this but she was out. I suddenly felt alone and got scrubbing twice as fast.

Some of my belongings, like my lamp, curtains and bookshelf had been easy to give away to other people. However, coat hangers, plastic trays and odd bits of stationary are surprisingly hard to give to people. We had a table where people sometimes left things with a sign saying FREE, and eventually they would disappear. So this was where I stacked the last of my unwanted goods, then noticed that most of them I had myself received from previous tenants. Maybe they had been handed down between tenants for generations and would be until they finally became antiques.

Walking back to my room there was a strange man in the corridor. He was wearing a suit but it wasn’t doing anything for him, he looked incredibly nervous.
“Nick?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I said and continued into my room,

I wasn’t in a very good mood. It was the first day of July so it was hot and I had been awake nearly all night after a hard yesterday. This nervous man was not who I was expecting to spend my last moments in the guesthouse with.
“So, how is it?” I asked him gesturing around my room.
“Not good,” he said and pointed to my bed where my futon looked like it was cowering into a corner, “it’s a mess. How would you feel if you saw this?” He wasn’t happy.
“But they throw these away,” I argued, “Every tenant gets a new one.”
It was then that I realised this must be his first time checking someone out and that his training must have concentrated on being mean, and not futons. To prove my point I showed him the cupboard where the stack of fresh futons was kept for future tenants.

Back in my room I gestured to the one remaining object of mine, the unsealed box I was going to post that day.
“I just need to seal this up, is that ok?”
“No,” he said, “you will be charged.”
I looked at my watch, 11:01AM. It was pointless to argue so I pushed the box out of the room, gave him my key and closed the door forever.

Actually I left some things in my room, they were glow in the dark sheep that I had stuck to the ceiling. They were positioned right above the pillow, all spread out except for two who were copulating. I can only wonder what the next tenant thought when they turned out the light on their first night in the guesthouse and looked upwards.

Mr Angry Nervous came out of my room armed with a clipboard and frown.
“Where is your other key?” he demanded.
“I don’t have another key.”
“Oh, did you lose a key.”
“Yes.”
“Did you pay for it already?”
“Yes, it was over a year ago.”
He scribbled something and then went back into my room.

I had been expecting friendly Kizuna to check me out, and afterwards we’d take lunch together and discuss Godzilla. Instead I was faced with a man out to get me; maybe he wanted to prove something for his first time, like my head on a wall.

When he came out of my room again we sat down and went through some forms. I was able to answer honestly to all of the questions, apart from one:
“Has all your garbage been disposed of properly?”
“Yes,” I answered thinking about the three bags cluttering up Yoko’s room.
“OK,” he said relaxing slightly, “do you have your deposit receipt?”

Deposit! I had forgotten about that, and the receipt was either in the rubbish in Yoko’s room or already lying in a landfill somewhere.
“One moment please,” I said politely and excused myself.
I closed the door of the communal area so that he wouldn’t be able to see me scampering upstairs, which I thought might appear rather suspicious.

In the sanctuary of Yoko’s room I dug through the Burnable rubbish bag. I had kept every one of my rent receipts, but I’d thrown all of them away at some point. I searched through old wrapping paper, used tissues and eventually found the small piece of paper worth £100. I went back downstairs and asked, “Is this it?”
He confirmed that it was and I deliberately said, “Wonderful!” in such an over the top way that I hoped it would stop him wondering where on Earth I had been to get the receipt.

My deposit was £100 but he would only give me £95 because I had been late.
“By just one minute,” I protested.
“We are very strict,” he explained.
It became clear that it wasn’t my head on a wall that he wanted; it was my deposit. Getting back to the office with some of my deposit, that is what would earn him his wings. Maybe the first time he could take a whole deposit back there would be an initiation ceremony: he’d be branded by company stationary and start receiving his salary.

When it came to giving me what was left of my deposit it got a bit complicated. Translating from Yen for a moment, he needed to pay me £95 but only had two £50 notes. I had £45 in my wallet.
“Well maybe you can come to a bank with me later today,” he said.
Then I realised that if I gave him £5 and he gave me £100 then it would work out. I suggested this and he thought about it, and I mean really thought about it. “Just a moment,” he said. It was simple Maths but he was nervous, or trying to find a way around it. He even did hand gestures to himself to simulate the flow of money but eventually agreed.

After I had signed a few forms it was finally over.
“I used to teach Japanese,” he said, suddenly opening up to me, “and I’m interested in foreigners. Why did you came to Japan?”
I gave him my usual speech about Japan being an interesting country with its culture and traditions, and that like Britain it is an island with a rich history. He liked this answer and gave me my £5 back.
“Oh thank you,” I exclaimed, genuinely surprised.
“What....oh yes...yes,” he seemed to be confused about what he had just done, it was like the Angel Of Mercy had just taken control of his arm. My hand hovered over putting the money in my wallet until he said, “Take it.”

Just then Kizuna returned, saw us and remarked, “Eh?” They started jabbering in Japanese and all I could tell was that she was apologising to him. I took the moment to creep back to Yoko’s room.

My bags didn’t fit under her bed, in fact one of the slats from the bed fell out and it took me some time to put it back. I was in her room for about an hour trying to make everything nice, but arranging bags of rubbish in a neat way is surprisingly hard (Note that in Japan you can only throw certain types of rubbish away on certain days of the week). At 12PM I picked up my backpack and parcel, locked her door and put the key in her shoe cupboard.

With a box in my hand and my home on my back, the walk to the Post Office was a slow one. The lady behind the counter was staggeringly friendly and my box quickly disappeared behind her desk to start its six-week journey home.

I continued on my way to the airport, the day was only half done.

And so began my last adventure in Japan.

The Last Day of School

My last lunchtime at school was with Grade 6 and the teacher of that class, Yamaguchi Sensei, had prepared something special for me. When I arrived with my lunch the class had arranged the tables into a circle so that the kids could ask me questions if they wanted. After lunch we played a betting game where everyone got ten fake dollars and then played paper, scissors stone with each other for various amounts of money. This game was pretty fun and I thought, "Damn I could have used this in my lessons." After this we all sat down and Yamaguchi Sensei wheeled out a projector.

He had made a short video from pictures of my lessons he’d been surreptitiously taking for months, to the song of Bad Day by Daniel Powter (Not chosen for its title). There were even photos going back to the Christmas lesson months ago. The gesture and the effort he had gone to were way more than I had expected. He had always been really fun and kind, his class were wonderful to teach and had I often told him so. Later on he came up to my desk in the teachers room with the video burnt on to a CD for me and that was the last conversation we ever had.

It was an exhausting and hard day, emotionally and physically. Suddenly everyone wanted my time but I didn’t have enough left to give. At the end of the last fourth year class the kids all made a corridor for me to pass through, shaking their hands and wishing good luck as I went. Some kids didn’t really care but they joined in anyway.

The true atmosphere of the school melted away forever for me as the kids trickled home. The empty corridors grew dark as lights were turned off and doors were closed. All rooms quiet, everything waiting to be used again. But in the teachers room the lights were still blazing. It was time for a different kind of goodbye

I was busy preparing everything for Noah, trying to burn all the files I had made to a CD. At the same time I knew that I was going to have to make a speech to the teachers, my final goodbye.

The meeting started. I stood up to do my speech but it was too soon, the principal was going to say something first. I am not sure what he said, except for the bit where he said, "Probably he doesn't understand much of what I am saying," to which I smiled and everyone laughed.

The principal sat down and I was invited to begin. I spoke in both Japanese and English to try and give myself the best possible chance of expressing anything coherent. I wasn’t worried about making Japanese mistakes anymore I just wanted them to feel something; tears in words.

As I stood up to speak I saw that the faces of my colleagues all seemed to have the same expression. They were smiling, all of them, not happy smiles but kind ones. They looked like parents: nodding and smiling as their young child stumbled through the lines of his first school play. It wasn’t patronising though it was more like affection. They were letting me know that it didn’t matter what I said, they already knew.

I thanked them for being so welcoming to me, ever since day one. I told them how grateful I was for their patience with my poor lessons, complicated games and over abundance of paper, scissors stone. I told them that I would miss them and that, “When I go back to England I will probably forget Japanese, but I will never forget my time at Tomioka Shou Gakko.”
I sat down and they clapped.

Ito sensei gestured that I should leave the room with her so I stood again and we crept out. Perhaps this is a rule in Japan: at the end of the goodbye speech you must leave the room, or maybe it was just for me but it was the last in the long list of surprises of being Nick Sensei. In the office I talked to two of the teaching assistants, one of whom had started at the same time as me. They taught me the secret hand signal for Koto Sensei (the Principal) and we were using it in conversation.

At the end of the meeting I went back to my desk to carry on clearing everything up. The day was not yet over as there was a final meal for the Grade 7 staff, all the teachers who do not teach a specific year (Principal, nurse, receptionists etc). We were going to a nearby restaurant at 5:30 but at that time I was still struggling to get everything finished. The other Grade 7 teachers left early but Shibata Sensei stayed behind for me.

I was heavily burdened with stuff: things I wanted to take home, bags of presents from kids and some from the teachers. Shibata Sensei helped me and as I got up from my desk for the last time I looked out at all the other teachers. I wanted to say goodbye again and Shibata sensei said it would be ok.

“Sayonara,” I called out and they all turned, smiling and waving. I headed to the door taking in their faces for the final time.

As we walked to the restaurant Shibata Sensei said she couldn’t believe that I wasn’t going to be coming in tomorrow. I couldn’t believe it either; it was totally surreal to think that I had left the school. In truth my mind was still there, in the Teachers Room.

In those few hours I had left over a thousand people, their faces and voices never to be part of my life again. I had left a persona too, no longer to be Nick Sensei, the resident foreigner with all the subtle quirks and pains that go with being him. I had left a place; my knowledge of the school was no longer needed, everything from its layout to all the tiny associated movements like how to correctly open the PC Room door. The change was too much to take in; it takes us time to accept that the most familiar things to us are now just memory, not reality.

In the restaurant I had to sit next to the Principal but this was not where I wanted to be. I had a growing feeling that he didn’t like me and I could see why. In trying to justify why I was leaving I had complained about the salary of the job and the unfair system English teachers have to put up with – I was still angry about having to reapply for my job in April for a lower salary. I think such complaints are bad manners in Japan and the Principal saw them as selfish reasons for giving up such a position. He was also reluctant to speak English but we got through some conversations about Japanese food and where I was going to go on my trip.

Fortunately there is always a seat shuffling that happens at these meals and eventually I got around to Shibata Sensei. As usual we talked about anime and how her family all love it, she used to want to be an illustrator.

At the end of the meal the higher-ranking members left first with their goodbyes. The Receptionists, Librarian, School Nurse and I walked together to the bus stop. It was only me and the school nurse who were catching the bus but everyone stayed together. Thinking back together about the past year we all agreed that despite the plethora of English and Japanese mistakes we had somehow gotten to know each other, and it had been fun.

As the bus pulled up I hugged Shibata Sensei and Ito Sensei for the last time. As my long journey home began they waved me off.

Later on at the train station I said goodbye to the School Nurse who was as cheerful and funny as ever. Her train pulled away and with it went my last connection to the school, now condemned to memories happy and sad.

Another feeling welled up in me as I walked home, imaging someone else doing my job, teaching my kids and working with my colleagues. That feeling was regret, and it is one I will carry for a long time.

Noah

Thursday of my last full week of being an English teacher and Aizawa sensei said, “Your replacement is coming in tomorrow so please show him around.” This was unexpected news; I had asked my company that same week if they had found someone yet and they had said no.The next day was also the day of a minor school inspection, meaning that I did not have any lessons. I am not sure why inspections coincided with no English lessons, but I chose not to be offended.

My replacement’s name was Noah and he was from San Francisco. Once the Principal had introduced us and we were out of earshot of everyone else he said, “Sorry but I need to know, why are you leaving?” Evidently he had been wondering about this for some time.

“Oh I just want to go home,” I told him, “it is nothing to do with the job, this is a really great school honestly.”

During May when I hardly had any lessons due to the mass preparation for the School Sports Day I had started putting together instructions for the next English Teacher. I could still clearly remember everything that had confused me when I‘d started and so tried to explain it in English. It was quite a thick document in the end, but it gave me something to do.Noah was extremely grateful when I presented it to him, this was his first teaching job and it gave him some reassurance.

Having studied Japanese at university and visited the country many times before he could speak the language pretty well. I could tell that for this the Principal, who seems to resent speaking English, took an instant liking to him. I liked Noah too; he was cheerful, appropriately nervous but really interested and keen too.

I took him on a tour of the school first of all and then we played some English games. When it came to break time the kids stopped and starred at him, one of them even asked, “Nick Sensei, is that your father?” which was pretty funny since we were around the same age. One of the cheekier girls from class 2-3 asked me, “Is that the new foreigner?”

“It’s the new English teacher,” I corrected her.

He was a big hit with the members of staff we met; they were all amazed at his Japanese ability and I could feel an instant rapport growing. I was slightly envious, but more relieved because I felt like I was leaving the school in good hands – which they were lucky to get given the poor salary.

He stayed for lunch, which was good of him since he wasn’t being paid. We ate with a class of Grade six kids whose jaws dropped to see two foreign people walk into the room. The teacher too clearly hadn’t been warned and it most amusing for me.

He looked tired, he must have gotten up really early and it was a lot to take in. He left about 2PM and I told him how happy I was to leave the role to him, but since he had to start teaching his first lesson two days after I had gone he had a lot on his mind.

I walked back to my desk and Shibata Sensei came over and said, “It’s strange, hearing you talking English to Noah makes me realise that you are really a foreigner.” This made me smile: my Japanese might not be up to much but I had finally impressed her with my English.

Telling The Kids

Telling the kids about leaving

It was my final week of being an English teacher. All of my colleagues now knew that I was heading back to the UK but none of the kids did.

Monday: My first lesson.

I had two types of lessons, 45-minute and 20-minute. I’d decided to break the news at the start of the 45-minute lessons but at the end of the 20-minute ones. However, in my first lesson of the week I just couldn’t bring myself to tell them. I snuck shamefully out instead, pretending that I’d be back again next week, as if everything was normal.

Aside from my cowardice there was also a lack of preparation on my part. I had not translated what I wanted to say into Japanese and, actually, even in English I wasn’t sure how to say what I wanted. It was just a thank you, that it had been fun, that I would miss them and finally goodbye – but I wanted to say it with feeling because it wasn’t just a job for me.

My next lesson of the day was a 45-minute class of third years. After the initial greeting I braced myself and then delivered the news. I paused for a reaction, waited for the outcry but none came. In fact their faces did not even flicker a response, it was like they hadn’t understood or just plain didn’t care. I asked them if they understood, they nodded, they just didn’t care. I was quite taken aback.

My lesson that week was a combination of whatever spare games I had left and also a video of interesting places around the world. I made the video myself from downloaded Youtube videos. It featured Monument Valley, Victoria Falls and other areas of natural beauty as well as Machu Pichu, the tallest roller coaster in the world and scary deep-sea creatures. Having underestimated how long it would take to make I hadn’t actually slept between Sunday and Monday.

The video went down fairly well, except that the scary fish were perhaps a little too scary for the younger kids (The Gulper Eel is a real monster) and everything else was a disappointment after seeing a roller coaster climbing vertically skyward. During that second class on the Monday after we had watched the video there was a shuffling at the back of the room. The teacher of the class pulled something out from a drawer and two kids brought it forwards for me. It was a collection of letters from the kids, all sealed together with ribbon into a book. On the front cover was a picture of me: brown hair, blue eyes and bright red cheeks. “Ahhh so you already knew,” I said, relieved to discover a different reason for their cold response earlier on.

That book was the first of many I received from classes and for each one I gave a big smile and thanked them profusely. As the tower of books got bigger on my desk I started to worry about what I was going to do with them all. Then as an army of origami dinosaurs and cranes built up around the tower of books I got even more concerned.

This is a picture of all the stuff I got.


The response of the kids to my news was generally not very strong; they looked appropriately sad but that was all. There were no tears and I was glad because I didn’t want to be the cause of any. However, in a few of the classes the teachers cried a little which was touching but I wondered if it was for their own sadness or for some vicarious sense of the kids’ sadness.

The worst moment of the week was at the end of a first grade class. The teacher of the class began to shed a few tears and the kids shouted out, “Ehhh, she’s crying!” As my lesson had pretty much finished, the class teacher took over the class again. She knew that I didn’t have another lesson immediately and got all the kids to stand up and take out their recorders. They played something for me, Puff The Magic Dragon.

No matter what Meet The Parents says about this song it is beautiful and truly sad.

A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys.
One grey night it happened, jackie paper came no more
And puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain,
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane.
Without his life-long friend, puff could not be brave,
So puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave

I used to listen to it as a child; we had it on tape so as they played my mind filled in the words. “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” became my internal mantra, “if I cry then that will start them off and then everyone will feel terrible.” Imagine it, thirty 6-year-old kids starring at you from behind recorders, playing a song about abandonment and the end of childhood and all for you; you who is abandoning them. You bastard.

Suddenly everyone wanted me to sign things for them. Previous to that week only two classes had ever asked for my autograph but now they all wanted my signature on books, pencil cases, bags and even school hats. My black marker pen hovered over each hat I was given. “Won’t your mum be cross?” I asked them.
“Probably,” they said smiling.

The sweetest moment was when a girl gave me a little origami version of the character Kirby. She said, “He’s my favourite character and I’m giving him to you because English were my favourite lessons.” Fortunately the response, “Awwwww” works in all languages.

Class 2-3 were a special class for me because they had been the first kids I had met at the school; Hell some of them had even tried to insert their fingers into my posterior. My relationship with them was especially jokey; it had to be really. The lesson I’d prepared wasn’t very good and in it we had been using tiny dice. They were tiny because I had bought them, 50p for eight. One of my favourite students, a boy called Naito was in floods of tears at the end of the lesson. I thought those tears were for me but they were because he had lost one of the dice instead.

At six years old you can tell how developed kids are by the way they move. The kids who sit with their mouths open and blank expressions, who seem to move awkwardly and without purpose are lagging behind the others. Naito was one of the kids who it was easy to tell that he was there, in his head all settled and comfortable. He may have been shy and quiet but he that was because he knew it.

Some time ago I found him lying on the ground outside during breaktime. He had hurt his knee and was clutching it tearfully but not doing anything about it. Other kids, his friends I suppose, were standing around indecisively until they decided to be cruel. One boy had been hurling around his coat, throwing onto the ground as if it were some strange creature that he had just noticed clinging to his back. It was covered in sandy dirt and he held out so that the dirt dribbled from his coat and onto Naito's face. I pushed the coat aside and got one of the other boys to get a teacher.

I did everything I could to reassure Naito that he didn’t have to worry about the lost die but he continued to cry. Towards the end of the week he came to the Teachers Room with some of the other kids, a smile on his face and the die in his hand.

Once everyone knew I felt much better. I had been planning to leave for months; it had been my guilty burden. Now I could get on with appreciating the last few days of being Nick Sensei.

Telling

I had asked my company to let me be the one to tell school that I was leaving, and not let them hear it from the company or Board of education. This was because I knew it would be a shock for my colleagues to find out that I was leaving, having just started again.

However, the company had kept telling me not to mention anything yet because it might make my life awkward; the teachers might respond by trying to get me to stay, fighting for more money and a better deal for me. In the fortnight before leaving I had still not had any written word from the company to say that it was ok for me to leave and I felt disconcerted by this. I emailed the company to ask for an email simply to confirm that I could leave but their response was a little different.

I got to school on a Thursday, the principal was outside greeting the kids and he gave me a funny look - which for some reason I interpreted as there being something wrong with my trousers. Anyway, in school I put my shoes in my shoe locker and said good morning to Arai sensei. She took me aside suddenly and whispered something that sounded suspiciously like she knew I was leaving. I didn't want to confirm anything though because she might have been talking about pizza, or anything, as my Japanese is still not that good you see.

I had almost accidentally given away my secret weeks ago when the principal had asked me to write a report on all the classes; I had interpreted it as him saying that he knew I was leaving and was about to confirm it but fortunately chose to look blank instead until he said it again more simply. I don’t think that the Principal likes me very much; he doesn’t want to speak English and thinks my Japanese is much better than it is and this rather causes a problem. We talk about once every three months but I like him because he has a big round laugh that comes from his big round belly and echoes around the Teachers Room to make us feel like we are actually working for Santa.

This time though Arai sensei really did know, the company had called the previous day. She explained that only the principal and vice principal knew as well, but there would be a meeting later that day.

So the company had told the school and then not bothered to warn me of this. Aside from anger I felt panic because of this upcoming meeting; I had no responses prepared, no good ways of explaining myself in Japanese. During my free time that day I wrote out possible sentences I could use and then waited anxiously, wondering when the meeting would come.

Right at the end of the day it became clear that I had mistaken what she’d said. There was to be a meeting, but I would not be there for it. The meeting was to inform all the other members of staff but it was going to take place after I had left for the day. “Thank God,” I thought and made a speedy exit.

The next day...was awkward. As soon as I got to school in the morning people seemed to be behaving differently around me. I had no classes first period so I was in the Teacher's Room feeling nervous and avoiding all eye contact. The people in the office have always been kind and supportive to me and it was there that I sought salvation. When you go into the office you are supposed to say, "shitsurei shimasu" meaning "sorry for disturbing." The three of them looked up at me when I entered. On the left was Ishiyama sensei who is even younger than I am. In the middle was Shibata sensei and to her right Ito sensei, both of whom have good English and had always managed to make job easier.

"It's awkward" I said to all three of them, they didn't react. "Everybody knows that I am leaving, right?"
"Yes," said Ito sensei, "it was a big surprise." They all looked rather sad and I cast my eyes to the floor like a guilty kid and apologised. I explained why I couldn’t have told them earlier and that I felt like it was time to go home. This latter piece of news came as another surprise; they had assumed that I had found a new job in Japan somewhere. "No, no, no," I insisted, I didn't want them to think that I was abandoning them for a new school. That would be like betrayal.

Shibata sensei slowly began to cry. She hid her eyes with her hands and turned away slightly. "Ahhhhhhh!" I screamed in my head, "I never wanted this to happen!" I had been told that schools expected English teachers to leave, I had read in books that what seems like affection towards foreigners can simply just be politeness but all that came crashing down in those tears. It was one of those situations where everyone politely ignores the person crying; to mention it or to run away would be a mistake. I finished what I was saying as quickly as possible and made my way out saying, "Shitsueri shimashita" which seemed especially true this time.

I went to one of the few places of refuge in the world today, the toilet, and thought for a while. I felt guilty and upset; I had never wanted to make anyone upset over me, least of all people who had shown me nothing but kindness. I wanted to set the record straight somehow and explain myself properly. There was one other person who could help me do that, Arai sensei.

She had some time to talk so we sat down together at my desk; the vice principal was listening in too with a lack of subtlety. First of, I apologised for leaving and for the short notice, she nodded sympathetically. Then I went on to tell her everything; she too was surprised at my wishing to go home. She said that the teachers had assumed I would stay in Japan forever, that I would, "die in Japan." We talked about the job and she mentioned the previous English teachers at the school; there had been six that she knew of. Despite this high number though it had still been a big surprise that I was leaving, maybe she thought I was different.

During the breaktime one of the more fearless teachers came up to my desk to ask why I had decided to leave. I told her my story and this started a whole wave of other teachers coming to speak to me. I sit next to the first year teachers and when one of them asked me the same question I replied deliberately loudly so that the other first year teachers could hear too. Teachers from other year groups were straining their necks to listen; it was the topic of the day.

I made sure they understood how much I like the school, that I would only want to work there. It was just that I wanted to go home. I was being honest at last and it felt good to finally be able to tell them.

Shibata sensei and I crossed paths again later that day. She apologised to me for crying earlier and I said, "No, no, it was my fault," and I meant it. Then she said something incredibly touching, she said that she saw me like a younger brother. It was a moment of affection and in England two people in a similar moment would hug, but Japanese people don't often hug in public. I mentioned this to her and she gave a “what the Hell” kind of look and opened her arms. We hugged, and it wasn't a quick cursory kind of hug either, it was a meaningful one but it was interrupted by some kids who said, "Ehhh Nick sensei's mum?" Shibata sensei laughed and said "Yes, Japanese mother." Though it was funny, those kids had put an end to a really nice moment. Realistically though, moments like that are always ended by something and if not then they are just, sort of, hard to end; it’s the middle part that is most meaningful.

Everyone is getting used to the idea now, perhaps most of all me as the reality of my decision is becoming apparent. The kids will find out next week, and I really don’t know how that is going to be.

Heading home

So I am going back home.

I came to Japan a year and 3 months ago. I came, I studied, I travelled, I taught. Now it is time for me to pack up and go back home.

But after a year and 3 months of living a different life for yourself it is quite hard to pack up and go back to the old one. For example, I have to quit my job, which is no mean feat. Then I have to move out, pack, send things home etc. I have to close my bank account and send that money back home too and my god this paragrapgh is just a to do list of woe and I should end it now.

My company says I have to give them 30 days notice, so I did. I emailed saying that I wanted to go home and so would like to leave my job, etc etc. Their reponse was unexpectedly 3D. When I got home that day there was a call from an American guy who works as a liason between the company and the Board of Education during the week.

He asked me if it was possible to meet up, and when he told me where he currently was it was hard to refuse. He had, perhaps a little presumptively, made his way to my subway station. I agreed to meet and made my way out, grabbing my contract on the way.

I was afraid that the company might have some loophole to stop me from quitting before the end of the contract, which would be April 2009. I walked and read but couldn't find anything they could hold against me, still it was best to make sure. He had said on the phone that he would be "The white guy" at the station and I replied, "I'll be the other white guy" which was not something I had ever said before.

I was expecting him to be a smooth talking guy who would take me to a coffee shop and say, "Have whatever you like, it's on the company's account." If I couldn't decide then he would buy me the finest coffee there was, which you might think to be a deep and rich coffee made from the rarest coffee beans from remote fields in Brazil guarded by an ancient tribe dedicated to the overpowering aroma of their beans. However, for me the greatest coffee would be one laced with whipped cream, caramel, a sprinkling of cinamon, a chocolate flake and a name so long that I wouldn't even bother trying to say it.

However, when we met he said "So why do you want to go back home?" We were standing on the street at that moment, he appeared to be sweating and I couldn't really hear him because of the traffic. "Umm, why don't we go to a coffee shop,' I suggested. He nodded and let me lead the way.

The nearest place was Doutour Coffee, the one I had been to with Philip over a year previously, and had not been back to since. I get a bit nervous ordering coffee even in the UK, I don't really drink it unless I need to stay awake for some purpose. I don't understand all the different variations, I just want to be able to say "coffee please" but that doesn't get you anywhere these days. I let him go in first and he ordered something in fast flowing fluent Japanese. It was my turn and I just pointed to a poster and said in Japanese, "small please". The guy behind the counter looked at the poster and pressed a button. He asked me a complicated question and gave me a worried look like he knew I wouldn't understand. Philip had told me before that the coffee shop didn't like foreigners, but then Philip was paranoid. My companion at the time translated for me, I don't remember what it was now, but I said "no."

We sat down and I got to tell my story. I knew that his job was to pursuade me not to leave, he was like a salesman selling possible futures. I was deliberately vague and told him that I had been having a growing feeling of wanting to go back home and of having been in Japan long enough. He offered the word "malaise" to describe this feeling towards Japan, which was a good word indeed.

He asked a few more fishing questions and I told him about how I had been treated during April, as in I was forgotten by the board of education and had to reapply for my job and got a lower salary in return. He listened and then began his pitch, which ended abount an hour later. Incidentally he lived in Mito (about 2 hours away) and was actually looking for someone to replace him.

I annoy sales people because I listen enthusiastically with nods and noises of understanding. I lure them into thinking I am really interested and convinced and then at the end when they finally ask me what I think, I say "no." I told him it was a good pitch, and it was. He had listened to my complaints and offered some solutions to give more support and ways to get more money, like private tuition. However, my answer was still no. I told him that there was nothing that he could say to change my mind, but I appreciated the effort.

According to him the Board of education does care about English teachers, and so does the company. This was the first sign I had seen of this and it was too little too late, I told him. He sighed and told me that he had to call his boss to let him know the outcome of our meeting. He got his phone out and dialed the number. He began talking in Japanese and then switched to English. The call ended abruptly and he looked at his phone in distress. "Is that it?" I asked, meaning had the call ended. He nodded. "I didn't hear a goodbye" I remarked. The guy said about the person he had just called, "He said, if you can't pursuade him (meaning me) to stay and we can't find anyone to replace him then you'll have to do it." He carried on looking distressed and then added dramatically, "I've got a wife and child in Mito but..." he shrugged.

His manner and the strangeness ofthe phonecall made me think that it had been an act. Then he started to stare into space with a profoundly worried look on his face. I felt a sense of guilt rising in my stomach and then I thought that maybe that was what I was supposed to be feeling. Time passed and I couldn't stand the silence anymore. "I'm sorry, but this feels like an act" I told him honestly, "did you really make that call?" He looked surprised at the question, well accusation, he showed me the call history on his phone which said a number had been called just a minute ago. I appologised for not beleiving him and he continued to stare into space. I spent the time stirring my ice coffee, which by then was just ice.

The meeting improved after that. We talked about other things and he mentioned that he had family in Bognor Regis. He also mentioned how much he liked football and had recently wanted to support Bognor FC. He had found the website and asked a question in the forum about whether they could send merchandise to Japan. A day later or so they posted on the site that the team had dispanded and would be replaced by amateur players. He told this in an amused way; that kind of thing never happens to big teams, they just win or lose, but a dispansion is far more dramatic.

When we parted I told him that I had appreciated his attempt at getting me to stay, it was nice to be recognised by the company and Board of education. He said that we would meet again as his bosses would want him to continue trying to convince me.

Skip to our next meeting and he did his pitch again but my answer was the same. He sat back and sighed and said, "Ok then, tell me about your family, I want to know" as if saying, "Alright then so who are these people who are so great you want to run back home to them." He asked me about my friends too and the things I do with them, then he smoothly incorporated my responses into his pitch.

Then we talked about religion, movies and actors. He used to do some work as an extra in Hollywood and has met an impressive amount of big name actors. As we moved away from work stuff I realised that he was actually a really interesting guy and we agreed to meet again soon. He confessed that since he is just down near Tokyo during the week he doesn't really know that many people.

It feels a bit like enemies becoming friends, not that we were enemies, just had opposing wishes.

So the first stage is complete, but there is so much more to be done.

Daibutsu

About two hours North of Tokyo by train there is a place called Ushiku, and in it stands the tallest statue in the world. “What’s so special about the tallest statue in the world?” I hear you cry. Actually I can’t hear anything at all so I will detour away from the statue and mention this poster that I saw whilst waiting for a train to Ushiku.



The apostrophe implies that this is not an auction of actual mothers, but of things that mothers are auctioning. I can imagine that a mother’s auction is held one weekend when the rest of the family has gone out somewhere and the mothers get together to auction off all their family’s beloved possessions that were getting in the way a bit. Then the mothers feel a great sense of release from seeing empty shelves and empty wardrobes etc. Their families return home and think they’ve been robbed but “no” says the mother, “I just had a good clear out, everything you once loved is gone.”

So on with the statue. Unless you already know the answer you may be wondering what/who the statue is actually of. The first sight you see of it is from the bus:



Yes, that’s right. It’s Buddha.





The statue is pretty enormous and claims to be three times taller than the Statue of Liberty. It is so enormous, in fact, that it is quite hard to take in exactly how big it is. To deal with this problem the designers leave little reminders around of how big the statue really is. For example, there was a model of the head of the statue, scaled down 1000 times. It comes to something when you have a model of a statue.




The statue stands in a nice kind of park with some ponds, grass, flowers and lots of places to sit. There is even one of those seaside poke your head through photograph attractions, but of the Buddha. This seemed a little cheapening of the Buddha to me, especially after you have just built a 120 metre high effigy of the man why put that thing there too. They

The pond was full of carp but for some reason they were all trying to get out.



I went to the statue with Yoko and she made a bento lunch for us to eat.





We ate lunch underneath the watchful eyes of Buddha, about 120 metres under.



The statue was finished in 1995 and as such has a lift on the inside. The journey into Buddha begins with taking off your shoes and putting them into a plastic bag to carry around with you. Electric doors open in the base of the statue and you enter a small room with tiny lights on the floor. A gentle looking woman says something in Japanese as the doors close and the lights begin to fade. A story is to told over a speaker system and the light fades to complete darkness, except for the little lights on the floor.

After a moment the lights come on again and bewilderedly you walk into the next area, which is even stranger. The lights here are very soft and there is slightly spiritual but more just eerie sounding music playing. Lots of little Buddha figures sit around the room and coloured lights fade in and out, drifting around the Buddhas. Beyond this area is a corridor with curved walls and a long line of light shimmering along its length. I didn’t know what to make of it but Yoko summed it up nicely when she said, “It feels like a spaceship.”

That area ended in some normal looking stairs, which lead to an even more normal looking museum. Even though we were now standing inside the statue itself, here was another reminder for us about how big the statue is. There was a lifesize model of Buddha’s toe.



Around the wall were some amazing black and white pictures of the Buddha’s construction.





I especially like this one. There’s a certain beauty in being unfinished, like cake mixture.



Beyond the museum was the shakiest lift I have ever been in. It felt like there was turbulence but I suppose that’s absurd.

From the outside of the Buddha you can see some innocuous looking slits in the chest and arms. Once inside the statue these reveal themselves to be narrow windows to give you a view of the surrounding countryside and park.




Like all over high places in Japan there was a picture of Mount Fuji on the wall as it allegedly looks from the window on a fine day. I think it’s a lie though; I think they made the photo on a computer and just feel they have to put the Fuji viewing claim in there to keep up appearances.

So after straining your eyes to make out the outline of Mount Fuji you head down to the shop and then the lift back to the ground. However, it is not the ground you land on but a kind of graveyard with over 3000 graves.



It is a large round room with stacks of golden Buddhas, each with a name written underneath.





Behind the statue we found lots of rabbits in a petting zoo.





This one was very fond of its brick.




There was also an unpettable creature present also, a peacock.



In the children’s play area was a tall blue dinosaur and I tried to make a Godzilla attacking the Buddha picture but it was nigh impossible.



Yoko hates being photographed this is the best I will probably ever get.



We sat down by the pond and watched the large carp occasionally splash the water. The sun was still shining and we talked about life while the Buddha looked into the far distance.




But eventually it was time to go home and a few hours later in the 100 yen shop we came across inapropriately named gas cannisters for sale.



Don’t ask.