After a restful couple of days in Santa Monica with my grandparents, my expedition to Kanazawa began on Friday afternoon. I checked in Singapore Airlines in the Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX, discovering to my delight that I had been seated in an emergency exit row (at 5 foot 8 3/4 inches, I often find coach class seats with their lack of leg room VERY uncomfortable. It’s even worse for my dad and brother, who are both about 6 feet 4 inches). Waiting at my gate, surrounded by adorable Japanese children and their mothers, I got my first idea of what life with the Suzukis will be like. One little boy discovered a bug on the windowsill while he was playing with his toy car and was soon surrounded by a small group of kids who would watch the bug and explode into giggles every time it moved.

I flew on an enormous double-decker jet: an Airbus A380, currently the world’s largest passenger aircraft. Apparently Singapore Air was the first airline to buy this kind of plane. I tried not to think about the terrifying prospect of something so huge hurtling through the air at almost 600 miles an hour. Before I left, my brother Mark had told me that Singapore Air has a very strict flight attendant application and hiring process, and apparently they only hire really attractive women. I can contest that this is indeed true. Every female flight attendant I saw was absolutely gorgeous, and they all dressed in these form-fitting long dresses with intricate flowered patterns. I discovered in the in-flight magazine that these dresses are color-coded by rank of the stewardesses–for male flight attendants, the colors of the stripes on their ties indicates their position in the airline hierarchy. Even on the Wikipedia site for Singapore Airlines, they describe the stewardesses as an attempted “portrayal of Asian hospitality and grace.” The airline has some really nice perks, even for those passengers not sitting in the luxurious business class–we got hot towels before the arrival of the meal service and Ben and Jerry’s ice cream for dessert.

I sat next to a young man named Roo (as in Kanga) who was returning to Japan, where has lived and worked for a small trading company for the past four years, after a short visit home with his family in the Claremont area. He was really interested in how much Japanese I could understand; first he made me speak to him in Japanese (I blurted out “Nihongo ga jyouzu ni hanasemasen,” or “I cannot speak Japanese skillfully,” my phrase of choice in these situations), then he made me read an email a Japanese friend had written him aloud. It was nice of him to take such an interest in my Japanese skill, but I really hadn’t been expecting a proficiency test until I arrived in Kanazawa.

As an American living and working in Japan, Roo was a wealth of information about what life is like in Japan for gaijin (foreigners, literally “outside people”). He said that he faced a lot of discrimination in the housing market when he was looking for a place to live, as, according to him, many Japanese people don’t want foreigners renting from them or living in their apartment complexes. Even though he speaks Japanese with a good degree of fluency, Roo had a lot of trouble finding an apartment. He consulted with a realtor, and he described phone calls from the realtor to the apartment landlords that ended very shortly after the realtor explained that he was American. Furthermore, Roo said that ever since the March 2011 earthquake and tsunami, he has felt lots of tremors “all the time.” Yikes!

I couldn’t sleep a wink on the flight. The disadvantage to sitting in an emergency exit row is that since there’s no window right next to you, your head is no longer at optimal “lean against the plane wall and sleep” position. I passed the time by watching 21 Jump Street (pretty funny )and playing the interactive language-learning games on the entertainment screen. I learned how to say “I’m allergic to seafood” in four languages, even though I’m not allergic to seafood. I also browsed their collection of music, which had top 10 hits for nearly every year since 1960. Upon investigation, some of these selections seemed a little questionable–according to Singapore Airlines, the “Bob the Builder” theme song was one of the Top 10 hits of 2000.
We landed in the gloomiest weather I’ve ever seen in Japan, a dank twilight fog. I managed to get through customs with apple slices, celery, and cherries in my snack bag, even though that’s technically illegal . . . It would have been such a waste to throw them away, though, and they provided me with substantial sustenance on today’s multiple train rides.
Interestingly, the first foreign language I spoke in Japan was not Japanese, but Spanish. Two gentlemen who rode the bus with me to our hotel were returning to Mexico from a trip to China and Korea, and I chatted with them in Spanish about their trip. In retrospect, I’m astonished that I could muster the mental capacity to speak in a foreign language comprehensibly after pulling probably the closest I’ve come to an all-nighter.

 
A very sweet young bellhop (bellhopette? What’s the female version of bellhop?) helped me with my baggage up to my room. Not accustomed to people helping me with my bags, holding open doors, etc., I felt a little awkward as this delicate-looking woman heaved around a cart with my heavy suitcase. In the elevator on the way up to my room, we were accompanied by some inebriated Korean men who saw me and immediately asked, “Where are you from?” I answered in Japanese, “California kara desu” (I’m from California). “AH! CALIFORNIA! I STUDIED IN BOSTON!” one of the men shouted. “He’s an animal!” said another one of the men. “No, he’s an animal!” retorted the Boston scholar. “These two are both animals! Look out for them!” cried a third. The elevator positively reeked of alcohol. Embarrassed, the bellhopette and I disembarked. She apologized, saying that the men had had a little bit to drink (no kidding!). I said, “Yeah, they seemed a little drunk. It’s okay” in Japanese, in response to which I received my very first “Nihongo ga jyouzu desu ne” (“You speak Japanese very well,” a compliment that follows pretty much any utterance of Japanese from foreign lips, it appears.) Of course, I replied with “Mada heta desu” (“I am still unskilled.”)

I took the hot bath I had been fantasizing about since hour two of my eleven and a half hour flight to Tokyo. I fell right into the rock-solid bed and slept through the night, exhausted.

This morning I awoke at 5:30 A.M., surprised at how not-dead I felt. I got dressed and collected my belongings, each action taking a lot more mental effort than the activity warranted. I took the bus back to Narita Airport and descended the multiple escalators that led me to Narita Airport’s subway station . . . and that’s where the fun began.

 
I asked a very nice information kiosk attendant how to get to Kanazawa, in Japanese. She responded with a flurry of speech that I did not understand whatsoever. Indeed, as she was talking, I was thinking, “I have no idea what she’s saying. My God, what is she saying?!” Eventually, she wrote me a note describing the trains I would have to take, but not before I thoroughly confused both of us with nonsensical answers to her questions. She asked me if I would like to fly or take the train to Kanazawa, and I responded, “I’m studying abroad in Kanazawa, so I don’t have to take a plane.” Looking back on that awkward exchange, I feel like smacking myself in the forehead.

 
I took the Narita Express Line (NEX) to Tokyo, and from there I took the Joetsu Line Express Train to Echigo-Yuuzawa (this train had no luggage storage areas, so I had to cram my bags in front of my legs. Ouch.). In Echigo-Yuuzawa, I changed to the Hokuhoku Line Limited Express to Kanazawa. Ever fearful of getting on the wrong train, before boarding I always asked a fellow passenger “Is this the train going to _________?” This startled one young Asian-American man who replied to my question in Japanese with “English!” as though trying to use the word as a shield to fend of my onslaught of foreign speech.

I met another student from my program on the train to Kanazawa. His name is Jakob, he’s from Sweden, and he’s a junior at Columbia. We bonded over our shared distaste for cheese–such a relief to find a kindred spirit among all you cheeseophiles–, vegetarianism, and love of dogs. He has two dogs in New York, and when I asked him who was taking care of them when he was in Japan he said, “Well, I’m married, so my wife is taking care of them.” (!!!) I maintain that I’m too young to have married contemporaries.

 
We arrived in Kanazawa in the midst of the city’s biggest festival of the year. There were hordes of people in the station and on the street, and Jakob and I had to fight through huge crowds to get to our hotel. We checked in, deposited our luggage, and went out on the streets to see the festivities. It was nearly impossible to get a good view, there were SO MANY PEOPLE. We both  bought some yakisoba from a street vendor and tried to peer over the heads of the people jammed together on the street. We ultimately decided to return to the hotel and go up to the top floor dining room to watch the parade from the huge windows.

Now I’m relaxing in the hotel room I’m sharing with Emily, a girl from Georgetown. She’s also a rising senior, her family lives in San Francisco, and she applied to Whitman, so she actually knows where it is. We have no idea what the plan is for tomorrow; we’re supposed to meet our host families but we don’t know when or where. I’m going to keep an eye on my email, and hopefully we’ll find out soon.