Yesterday it rained. The bus smelled of wet children.
Today it was sunny. The bus still smelled of wet children.

Every morning, I have to dodge hordes of uniform-clad elementary school students as I make my way to work. They fight and bite at one another like snapping turtles. Each one of them is just tall enough so that the brims of their hats hit the funny bones in my elbows when they push and shove their way through the crowd of passengers.

The cramped aisles are filled with their screeches and laughter in slurry Japanese for about six stops until we reach their school. They race one another to get to the exit even though there is barely room to breathe in there, let alone sprint. They look like a school of little fish -- all the same color, all the same height. The doors open and they tumble out en masse; a few of the brave ones wave at me and yell, "HARRO!"

Once they've gone, the bus continues on its route.

I'm never sure if the silence they leave in their wake is relieving or unsettling.







The temperature climbs and the humidity only intensifies it.

The blistering uphill walk to my high school has me looking like a sweaty mess by the time I finally step through the front doors. The other teachers -- even the ones who've driven to work -- don't look like they've fared much better than I have if the sweaty-oily gleam to their faces is any indication.

It's hot.

It's really hot.

But it is not yet July 1st, so the air-conditioners have to stay off.

The Japanese government has mandated that air-conditioners in public buildings have to stay off until July 1st. It's like this every year in Japan: they don't turn them on when it's hot; they turn them on based on the calendar. As if this weren't ridiculous enough, once that shining date arrives, air-conditioners must stay at a depressing 28-degrees whenever they're in use. That's 82-degrees Fahrenheit for those of you not up on your Celsius.

After cleaning myself up in the bathroom, I get to my desk and grab a little paper fan. The other teachers are wiping themselves down with the sweat rags they carry in their back pockets. My vice principal sees me furiously fanning at myself. He has the power to turn on the air-con. He has the power to end this suffering.

"Aww, it's hot, isn't it..." he says, then thrusts something into my hand. "Here. Here's a bigger fan."

He walks away.

The air-conditioner stays off.



...six more days 'til the end of June...







"How was your test?"

"YES."

"No, no.  How was your test?"

"What did she say?"

"I don't know.  Gah!  English is impossible!"

(laughing)  "I said, HOW was your test?  Was it easy?  Difficult?"

"Ah!  I understand.  'NO!'"

"...wait, which one is a No?"

"What?"

"Which one was a 'No'?  'No' it wasn't easy?  Or 'No' it wasn't difficult?"

"....YES!"







I kick off my shoes at the entrance, and throw my bags against the wall.  The sliding paper doors within my apartment like to get stuck in their tracks at the most inopportune moments -- especially when I really need to use the bathroom.

Though it's hot outside, the floors of my apartment are tatami mats which keep things a bit cooler inside.  

But not by much.

I flop on the bed and stare out the window.  The head of my bed almost faces North, which is taboo in Japan because that's the direction they lay dead bodies.  It works well with the layout of my apartment though so I don't intend to change it. I sigh and close my eyes, listening to the crows taunt a little old woman and her puff-ball of a dog.

I wake up, not realizing I'd fallen asleep.  The sky is dark now; the air is cooler.  In the early summer months, the frogs come out and sing at night -- but they'll soon be replaced by the rattling and endless buzz of the cicadas.  

I will myself to get up and change out of my work clothes before I start on dinner.  My fingers gravitate toward the air-conditioner remote, but stop just before I hit the kanji character for "On."  

I smile to myself before I set the remote back down.

The frogs sound better than the hum of the air-conditioner anyway.