Back to the Mines

Well, we've returned from our first sojourn back to that strange, far-off land that made our passports and most of our clothes (well, the clothes were probably made in Malaysia, but you know what I'm getting at). Our minds are still...fuzzy. Keep waking up at 5 in the morning, thinking it's time for dinner. Still getting adjusted to eating squid eyes, traffic on the left, shoes on our hands, etc. With all the confusion, we're having trouble assembling all of our recollections into anything coherent, but here are a few scattered impressions, mostly variations on the themes of Reverse Culture Shock and Reverse Reverse Culture Shock:

To define our terms: reverse culture shock is what expats suffer when they return to their home culture after living in a foreign country for an extended period. Think Brooks from Shawshank, you just get institutionalized. All of a sudden simple activities like eating a Chocolate Chip Pig-in-a-Blanket on a Stick seem weird for some reason and you start to long for some good old-fashioned sea urchin. Reverse reverse culture shock, which is a sociological term that I pulled out of my ass, is...well, that's pretty obvious, I guess.

America is big. Not just the dinner portions, which are dinosauric, not just the Midwest, which is still as full of nothing as it ever was, but the rooms stretch to obscene sizes, kitchens the size of tennis courts, hallways like bowling alleys. Even Jenn's brother's 4-room apartment, which is by no means inordinately large, seemed to have miles of unused floor space. The bathroom was half taken up by the toilet, shower, and sink, and half completely unused, something not only unheard of but actually physically impossible in Japan. An interesting side effect of getting used to different spaces (and consequently, furniture being at different heights and widths), Jenn and I spent 3 weeks in a state of extreme clumsiness, constantly tripping on chairs and tables that we were expected to be somewhere else.

We had a hell of a time breaking some habits we've formed over the last year and a half, most notably our conversational habits. Jenn and I have a fondness for discussing filthy things in the middle of a crowded train, graphically discussing sex or the quality of a recent poop, all generously sprinkled with four-letter words, secure in the knowledge that no one around will have any idea what we're talking about (and if they do, there's no chance in hell that they'll say anything).

I've gotten much worse at interacting with strangers. Every time a waitress or cashier asked me how my day was (and Lawrence being a friendly place, this happened a lot), I was struck dumb. What do I say? What do I do? What does this person want from me? Inquiring into the personal well-being of a total stranger is right up there with public nose-picking in Japan (public farting is fair game, but that's a matter for another blog post). Plus, I kept bowing to strangers and making weird hand gestures that, while a sign of politeness in Japan, are a sign of a seizure or extreme funkiness in the rest of the world.

Within 2 hours of getting back home, a whole list of things I hate about Japan began composing itself in my head: Japanese milk is terrible, sickly-sweet and the last inch of the carton is prone to clumps that plop into coffee and almost scare me enough to dump it (almost); Japanese bread is completely wretched, bland and white, thick as a pocket dictionary and nowhere near as tasty; and everywhere, always with the bowing and the apologies and the horrible little jingles that play inside and outside every shop for hours and hours and hours and hours.

But then, there are the things to be happy about. The anonymity, for one thing, is refreshing, and it increases proportionately with odd or unruly behavior: you could wander the streets in a chicken suit and never get a single glance (if you're into that). We know where everything is in the grocery store, and we don't have to stress about being able to read the labels on food (knowing for sure that we just won't be able to). And more! Something more rational coming next week. For now, please enjoy this weird, intensely foul beverage that, believe it or not, comes from the good old U. S. of A.:

Well done, America! Japan's got nothing on you for Most Disgusting National Food Product!