I am very lucky to have been touched by so many people over the years. Truth be told, I would not have been able to complete this work if it had not been for the support, compassion, encouragement, and wisdom of the following:

In my hand was the possible answer to my prayers. It was a large manila envelope with my name unmistakably printed and a familiar return address. It was battered, dirty, covered with stamps and ink, and exhausted from its journey. Mysteriously, it had appeared on my desk, and I hypnotically stroked it with my fingers.

No one interferes with your life once you are out of your parents’ house. I figured I would get through high school, go to college, and be handed a lucrative job right after receiving my diploma—a job that would be adventurous and make me a famous and wealthy network executive.

Of course, I had always envisioned my wife to be gorgeous, intelligent, raised by upstanding people in the community, and as enamored with me as I was with her. Our children would be perfect. First, a girl who would resemble her mother, and then a strapping boy like me. My wife and I would watch them grow up, leave the nest, have boastful careers, get married to the perfect people, and give us grandchildren that we would spoil. And then, inevitably, my wife and I would be secure in the knowledge that we had lived a happy and fulfilling life. End of story. But if the past year had taught me anything, it was that nothing is ever as easy as it seems and not everyone gets everything they wish for.

I turned the envelope over in my hand, staring at it as if it were Pandora’s box.

There was no point in putting it off any longer. Inhaling deeply, I ripped open the flap and reached inside.

“Mihara! Mihara!”

The tinny, automated voice pierced right through my disjointed dreams. Still drowsy, I eyed the mounted speaker above the electronic sliding doors of the train car like it was a pestering child and wondered at the genius of my decision to travel, as I now felt like I’d gone twice around the world to find myself.

I straightened up in the narrow-cut, fabric-covered seat as best I could to bring life back into my body. My left leg had the sensation of pins and needles, and I stretched it to its full length in the aisle for relief. The prickles began to subside, and once I could stand without losing my balance, I wrestled my bag free from the tight overhead compartment, the green canvas scraping my cheek as the weight of the bag hit me directly in the face. The air in the packed car was stale with just a hint of an antiseptically deodorized stench. I yawned, mindful to cover my open mouth with my hand, unable to remember the last time I had slept comfortably in a bed. I had been anxiously waiting for the announcement of the Mihara stop since my trip started. I had missed my flight to my final destination, which had caused a lag in getting settled and had deprived me of rest. What I wanted most was to take a hot shower, especially because it was rainy and cold outside. The unrelenting downpour that I watched from the window did not improve my mood. After two days of nonstop travel and exhausting waits in airport concourses and railway depots, the end was finally near.

My father’s parting words from my last encounter with him continued to loom in my head. Why is it so easy to remember bad or unhappy memories and so difficult to focus on the positive when we are by ourselves? All through my trip, I kept thinking about what he’d had to say to me.. But I realized that escaping his tyranny was the only option, and I knew I was going to prove him wrong, just as I had done before.

The train wheels shrieked with resistance, and the car shook slightly. The rain abruptly halted as the concrete and steel infrastructure of the depot’s tunnel swallowed the train. We pulled alongside the platform, and I lost my balance, lurched forward, and landed on the floor. Slowly I picked myself up, my calves aching from their cramped travel confines, and brushed the grit of the aisle from my clothes. I had never been this tired before.

The only instructions I had received earlier, when I had frantically called to explain my wearisome delay, were to disembark at the Mihara station. Afterward, I called home to provide an update on my status and location. I would call again when the opportunity presented itself. Knowing everything was fine made me feel better.

I moved through the open doors of the train with the shuffling crowd and desperately tried to make sense of the direction signs posted around the depot. Everything around me—the yellow signs with arrows pointing who-knows-where and the green signs with running stick figures—was incomprehensible and swirled in a world of chaotic nonsense. My only choice was to follow the crowd and hope I would arrive at the exit. Despite my exhaustion, being thousand of miles from home, and knowing no one, I smiled, but my fear quickly consumed my exhilaration as I continued down the platform. I retreated into a bottomless sea of doubt, engulfed by a foreboding feeling.

They’re not going to like me.

All the months of preparation and conversations with my family, some encouraging, others not, ran through my mind. Had I accepted out of confusion and rushed my decision? Was I afraid of what awaited me at home if I failed here?

At the bottom of the stairs, I saw two familiar words carefully printed in bold black print on a white placard: David Fletcher.

Two grandfatherly men gripped either side of the sign with knotted fingers. Their short, slim bodies were half hidden behind the placard, so all I could see were their faces with kindness and wisdom etched in each wrinkle. Suddenly, the man on the right did a double take and elbowed the other. I watched them mumble to each other, and their faces lit up as they began waving at me.

“Hello,” I said when I reached them. “I’m David Fletcher.”

“We thought so,” said the man on the right, chuckling. “We were sure we could recognize you, especially since you are so tall and have blonde hair.” He stared closer at me. “And blue eyes, too! You are exactly what we thought you’d look like. I am Mr. Doi, and this is Mr. Shoji.” His voice was soft, reeking of kindness and a child’s curiosity. I understood every word perfectly—obviously, he was comfortable with English.

“Mr. Fletcher, do you have any other luggage?”

I froze, wondering where all of my possessions were—somewhere between here and fourteen other time zones, no doubt.

“I was told in New Orleans that my luggage was going to be delivered directly to my apartment.”

“Oh, yes, it was. I’m sorry. It’s there now.” Mr. Doi blushed and lowered his eyes, clearly embarrassed by his absentmindedness. It seemed they wanted to make as good an impression on me as I wanted to make on them. “The car is right outside. This way, please.” He nodded toward the exit.

The rain continued to fall, and a brisk wind blew through my open coat. Because it was mid-March, I knew that spring was not too far way and the remaining cold temperatures would only be temporary. Mr. Doi opened his umbrella and escorted me to the open car door. A young man with a round baby face sat quietly in the driver’s seat. He nodded to me and smiled.

“Mr. Doi,” I asked once we pulled into traffic, “how far is Hongo from here?”

“It is the next town over. It will take about fifteen to twenty minutes to get there. How was your trip?”

“Very long,” I said, yawning again. My muscles ached, and I was starting to get a headache.

“I’m so sorry about that. Would you like to take a short nap before we arrive?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

My body fell limp, and I pulled my coat tighter around me. I turned my head toward the window and rested my pounding head against the chilled glass. Then I closed my eyes and drifted off to the sound of the three men in the car speaking softly in an unfamiliar language. It was a language that I was anxious to understand and, like it or not, would be a significant part of this next chapter of my life.

I dozed off for a few minutes, but a visual of my father’s disgust continued to reappear in my head. His verbal disapproval was joined by his finger wagging in my face.

“Mr. Fletcher, we are here.” Mr. Doi gently roused me, touching his hand to my shoulder. He had opened the car door and was waiting for me to climb out.

I looked past him to the concrete, contemporary-style three-story building, scanned the surrounding landscape, and then noticed a petite woman in her fifties standing alongside a car parked next to ours. She smiled, but not warmly—more like the serene grin of a cat before it pounces on its prey. The woman’s eyes were small and hot, like black coals, and they stared straight at me. Her eyes matched her hair, which was pulled tightly into a bun that crowned her head. I stepped out of the car and was greeted by her shrieking laughter. Insecure, I felt the top of my head and realized that my hair was standing up. I quickly attempted to plaster it down with my hand as her hyena giggle mocked me. Mr. Doi ignored her.

“Mr. Fletcher, this is Mrs. Yamaguchi. She works in the Utilities division here at the town office.”

“Hello,” I said, nodding.

She eyed me coldly and offered a condescending mimic of my greeting. Mr. Doi shot her an angry glance, and she composed herself quickly.

“Mr. Fletcher,” Mr. Doi began, “I am afraid that your apartment will not be ready until tomorrow.”

I breathed heavily, not trying to be rude, but the strain of travel had left me drained, and I was beginning to lose my strength. “Why is that, Mr. Doi?”

He blushed again as he had at the train depot. “There is a plumbing problem that we hoped would be fixed in time for your arrival. There does not seem to be any water. My sincerest apologies.” My face must have told of my displeasure.

“But, it will be ready tomorrow,” he said with more resolve. “We have arranged for you to stay with the Yamaguchi family. Mrs. Yamaguchi’s son is your direct supervisor. You will meet him later tonight, and her husband will also meet you at their house once he finishes work.”

I nodded, too tired to think of a response.

“She does not speak English, but her son does. Enjoy yourself tonight. We will see you in the morning at the Board of Education.”

“Thank you, Mr. Doi.”

I angled my lanky frame into Mrs. Yamaguchi’s car. The woman was a horrible driver and accelerated thoughtlessly in the rain, veering too much to the right, then to the left, and back again to the right. I wondered if this was her first time behind the wheel. It also seemed as if she felt she’d been sent to perform an inconvenient errand.

The city was soaked and dripping. It was difficult to see the road through the heavy rain, and the veins in my head tightened with all the jerks and quick turns. Petite, pristine homes, all of them roughly the same size, hugged the roadside. Even though they all looked the same, somehow they held some secret distinction. Their blue roofs and white walls held a clean presence against the dirty, wet gravel that lined the small streets.

Suddenly, we stopped next to one of the homes and parked under a covering.

With little pretense, Mrs. Yamaguchi slid out of the car and brusquely motioned for me to follow her. Inside the house, we walked down a cramped hallway, and she pulled back the sliding door to a room. She pointed to the canvas bag in my hand and then to the floor of the room. I set the bag down and followed her impatient, curled finger as she motioned for me to follow. She slid back another door. Behind it sat a toilet, and beyond the toilet was the bathroom, a small, stark, white room with wooden-planked floors. On one side of the room was a small plastic tub filled to the rim with steaming water. I stared stupidly and then shot Mrs. Yamaguchi a pleading look, unsure of what to do. She cackled and with mean energy, mimed the gestures of scrubbing, washing, and scooping water out of the tub with a plastic cup and dumping the water over herself while rattling off incomprehensible instructions. I still was drowning in my own bewilderment when she gave up and left. I closed the door behind her, undressed, approached the tub, and splashed the steaming water all over my body. It felt like the hug of a long-lost friend.

I rubbed away the grime and sweat of the past forty-eight hours and let the heat relax my muscles. I knew I would sleep well.

I wrapped myself in the robe Mrs. Yamaguchi had set out for me and returned to my room. After I dressed, I walked down the narrow hallway to find her rummaging around in the kitchen. Dinner was already prepared, with generous platters of fried chicken, rice, shredded lettuce, thin slices of rolled ham, and slices of white cheese on the wide kitchen table.

It was a welcome sight to see food that was familiar, and I was surprised to see she had been thoughtful enough to lay out a plate with a knife and fork. She saw me enter and pointed for me to sit down at the chair next to the kitchen table. I began to eat, sleepily chewing, propping myself up with my arm against the table.

Mr. Yamaguchi soon arrived and acknowledged me with only a slight nod before sitting down to eat. He never said a word to me or to his wife through the entire meal, but when I caught him staring at me, I saw the daggers in his eyes. I was beginning to feel that the couple’s ire went beyond their forced favor of putting up a stranger in their home, but I was too tired to care. All I wanted to do was finish my dinner and crawl into bed.

After dinner, I pushed myself away from the table and smiled at them both. Mr. Yamaguchi grunted, stood up indignantly, and motioned to my room at the end of the hallway. I nodded and held my smile, but he kept his serious expression, like a parent disciplining an unruly child. This was something that I had grown accustomed to, living with my father, but I had not anticipated this behavior here. Maybe moving here to work was going to be a bigger challenge than I had thought.

From behind the closed the door of my room, I heard my hosts arguing in the kitchen. I lay down on the mattress and closed my eyes. The coolness of the sheets and warmth of the comforter were welcoming, so my muscles finally relaxed. My last thought before drifting off was of my father’s voice, echoing sarcastically in my mind: Welcome to Japan, David.

I was slumped over a drafting table, feverishly sketching the exterior of a house as the paper beneath my pencil involuntarily expanded and grew sideways. Broken televisions were strewn about the stark white room, and crashes of glass from other broken sets sounded in the distance. I was startled, and my pencil slipped, causing me to inadvertently draw an unnecessary line. I scrubbed at the paper with the eraser, but the mistake refused to disappear even as the paper crumpled and tore.

“You idiot, look what you did,” squeaked a short, stocky man who scampered toward me. His face had an orange glow due to his fake tan.

“I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.”

A tall, blonde woman made of plastic approached both of us, her face frozen in a smile. She spoke through her teeth because her lips were immobile. The stocky man, whom I presumed to be her husband, pressed his hand somewhere on the small of her back, which made her breasts enlarge and then retract. Once the breasts had reached a size he liked, the man removed his arm from her back. “Perfect,” he said as he gazed dreamily at the adjustment.

“Honey, I want this house done in fifteen minutes,” the plastic woman said to me haughtily.

“I’m trying.” I scribbled, nervously drawing a straight line with my pencil, which had suddenly turned into a large crayon. Sweat streaked my temples as I erased what I had drawn, but the wax started to smear.

“Why did we ever hire this idiot?” the man complained.

“Because his father entrusted us with him.”

“I do apologize for my son’s ignorance,” my father said suddenly as he walked toward us. “He has spent his life doing origami and Japanese calligraphy, which has made him neglect his studies.” He produced a roll of plans. “Here are the finished plans you’ve been looking for.” The couple grabbed the roll, smiled with relief, and left me to face my father’s condemnation.

“Do you need a refresher?” he asked.

“No,” I pleaded, knowing what was coming, the tears unavoidable.

“Stop crying and get the books.” My father pointed a stiff arm to the open bookcase behind me.

I strained as I reached for the necessary books, but the bookcase, like my paper, expanded, accumulating more books as it grew taller. I climbed up the shelves and caught myself from falling as the books shifted and gave way underneath my feet. Shelves loosened and collapsed, crushing me under the burdensome weight. The crash was deafening.

The door to my room was open, and my eyes met a young man’s. He was probably in his early thirties and stocky, with a very round face and short spiky black hair. His eyes were furious, and combined with the disagreeable scowl on his face, they made for a most unpleasant greeting.

“My name is Yamaguchi. Breakfast now,” he ordered and then slammed the sliding door shut.

Groggy, confused, and troubled by my dream and the sudden unpleasant encounter, I shuddered as he left. I felt refreshed after my sleep, even though I was still disturbed by the occurrences within this household. What is going on? And who was the angry young man I just met? He said his name was Yamaguchi. Is he the Yamaguchi I am supposed to meet from the office? The one who is my direct supervisor?

As I dressed, I noticed something I had not seen the night before: a large portrait hanging on the wall, of a stern Japanese man in his military uniform. It appeared his gaze was fixated solely on me, thinking only unkind thoughts.

“Ohayo gozaimasu,” I said, entering the kitchen, wishing my hosts a good morning. Being so tired the day before, I had not attempted what little Japanese I knew. No one responded.

Leftover cheese, ham, and chicken from the night before were set out on square blue plates on the table for breakfast. Feeling uncomfortable, I forced down a few cold bites and cast quick glances at the solemn faces staring back at me. My earlier visitor eyed me with disgust.

“Excuse me,” I confronted him, “are you my supervisor?”

“Yes. And you remember to do as I say. No questions! Do you understand?” he commanded.

“Yes, sir,” I said meekly and smiled.

He stared at me firmly and then resumed eating without uttering another word.

I ate a few more pieces of cheese and ham and then retreated to my room to pack and tidy up. Uneasily, I looked back at the glaring picture of the soldier, trying to discourage the thought of it being an ominous omen of my stay in Japan.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Yamaguchi entered the bedroom without knocking and pointed her bony finger, directing me down the hall. I retrieved my canvas duffle bag and followed her to the car parked out front. The day was brilliant. The sun kissed the myriad rice fields that dotted the countryside, and the radiant green sprouts of the rice were nestled comfortably at the base of the azure skies. On the sides of the mountains, the cherry blossoms were in bloom, and the hills were covered and dotted with precious pink flowers. Despite the breathtaking background, the tension in the car made me too uneasy to enjoy the view. We drove in silence, and all that I heard was Mrs. Yamaguchi’s persistent breathing, full of bother and annoyance.

Mr. Doi greeted me in the lobby of the Yakuba, or town office, where all the city officials worked. It was a rectangular, flat-roofed, off-white, three-story concrete building with a very contemporary design built in the 1960s. Each level had floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on either the main shopping district of Hongo or the mountains and river in the distance. I knew my father would have hated the building because he disliked contemporary design.

“A building should have character. Contemporary is bland, sterile, uninviting. Now, if I had designed this…” he would always begin. I was happy he was not around so I wouldn’t have to listen to his criticism.

“Today you will be introduced to each department,” said Mr. Doi. “There are five departments housed in the Yakuba: Kyoikuiinkai, which is the Board of Education, Kikaku Kaihatsu-bu, or Planning and Development, Koueki Jigyou-bu, the Utilities area, Zeimu-bu, which is the Tax Division, and finally, Nyukoku Kanri-bu, also known as Immigration. In addition, the mayor’s office is located on the top floor.”

The Board of Education, or Kyoikuiinkai, was located on the second floor. We climbed the stairs, and Mr. Doi knocked on an office door.

“Hai?” called a voice from inside. We entered and exchanged greetings with Mr. Shoji. He smiled warmly.

“Mr. Fletcher, would you like some coffee?” Mr. Doi asked, gesturing to the plastic gold coffeepot that sat on a wooden side table. I soon realized that Mr. Doi was one of the few people who could speak English at the Yakuba.

“Yes, thank you,” I said and lifted a white ceramic mug from a nearby tray. “And please, call me David.”

“Debito,” Mr. Doi said.

“Debito?” I asked.

“Yes.” Mr. Doi smiled. “In Japanese, words and names which are foreign to us fall into our own phonetic alphabet. Let me show you.”

He retrieved a piece of paper from Mr. Shoji’s desk and wrote my name in English. Then he carefully printed it in katakana, the alphabet the Japanese use specifically for foreign words. Underneath each letter he wrote its associated sound. He explained that instead of saying “David” and spelling it D-a-v-i-d, with katakana, my name was spelled De-bi-to. I must have looked unconvinced, so he continued to explain that with this particular alphabet, each consonant must be accompanied by a vowel. Also, in spelling a word, the Japanese spell it as it sounds: “D-a” is pronounced “de,” “v-i” is pronounced “bi” because the Japanese have no letter V and B is the closest in sound, and “d” is pronounced “to” because each consonant must be followed by a vowel and the last “d” in my name is pronounced more like a T.

“So, this is your name,” he said.

I picked up the paper and stared at my new identity. A new beginning and a new David.

I had learned prior to my arrival that the Japanese have three alphabets: katakana, hiragana and kanji, which is the most intricate. The majority of Japanese writing is composed of kanji. Mr. Doi continued his lesson by showing me how to address people according to their occupation. He said to place “san” at the end of a person’s name, no matter if the person was male or female. If the person was a teacher, I should address him or her as “sensei” and not “san.” Doing so was an important acknowledgment of social position and a sign of respect.

“Will the students refer to me as ‘sensei’?”

“Yes, they should; however, the other teachers may address you as ‘san’ since you are their assistant and technically not a teacher.”

“Who at the Board of Education should I address as ‘sensei’?”

“I’m actually the only one.”

“I hope I can remember all of this,” I said, bewildered.

“I’m sure you will. Well, it is time now for your introductions,” he announced and started to lead me out of the office.

“Oh, before I forget, I have something for you and Shoji-san,” I said. “I was so tired from traveling that it slipped my mind to give it to you yesterday.” I rummaged through my bag and produced a small white box tied with a red ribbon.

“Debito, you should not have done this,” Doi-sensei said as he humbly accepted the gift. Japanese people, I’d learned during my preparation courses at the Japanese Consulate in New Orleans, like to exchange gifts. This usually takes place during the beginning of a business relationship, and because the Board of Education had hired me and covered my travel expenses, I felt it was necessary.

“You’ve done so much to bring me here, and I wanted to show my appreciation for this opportunity.”

“Thank you.” He hesitated before unwrapping the box, as if its presentation was gesture enough of my gratitude, then he untied the ribbon and removed the teakwood vase I’d selected at a shop in Jax Brewery in the French Quarter. His smile registered immediate approval.

“It is most beautiful, Debito.” He placed it on top of the bookcase in Shoji-san’s office. Shoji-san nodded. He thanked me repeatedly in Japanese. Then he turned to his desk, pulled out a long thin box, and handed it to me. I opened it and saw that it contained business cards with my name printed in English on one side and in katakana on the other.

“Debito, these are necessary in initial meetings with people that you will be working with. Everyone uses business cards in Japan.”

“Domo arigato gozaimasu,” I said, thanking them both.

“Now let’s review your introductions,” said Doi-sensei. “First, you will be introduced to the mayor, Ogawa-san. He is anticipating your arrival. When you are introduced, you must say ‘Yuroshiku onegaishimasu.’ It means, ‘Please take care of me.’ It is a common greeting exchanged between two people when they first meet.”

The mayor’s office was located on the third floor. I waited with Doi-sensei and Shoji-san in a small, stark reception area. It was furnished with the same Danish modern chairs and vinyl couches that lined the hallway, a décor that obviously had not changed since the building had been constructed. The smell of cleaning fluid and stale cigarette smoke permeated the air.

The mayor’s receptionist, a short, older Japanese woman wearing thick eyeglasses, spoke briefly with Doi-sensei before buzzing the mayor on the phone.

“Hai?” he called. The receptionist escorted us in.

The office was painted bright white and had dark-green linoleum tile aged from years of wear. Darkened rays of sunlight emerged from the early morning clouds and illuminated the wall of tinted windows that over-looked Hongo. The mayor was seated behind a large wooden desk, its surface orderly and clean, except for the open file folder he had been perusing. On the wall opposite his desk, hanging over one of the black vinyl couches, was a framed aerial photograph of the mountains.

The mayor inhaled a last drag off his cigarette and crushed it out in the flimsy aluminum ashtray on his desk. He rose, bowed, and offered me his business card. Thankfully, I had the business cards imprinted with my name and offered one to him. He invited the three of us to sit and converse, which we did through Doi-sensei’s translation.

“Debito, the mayor says your presence is essential for Hongo’s future. You will help prepare our community for internationalization, especially with the 1994 Asian Games coming next year.”

“Asian Games?”

“Yes. They are exactly like the Olympics but limited to all of the countries in Asia. We celebrate the event every four years. A year and a half from now, Hiroshima, which you know is the capital of our prefecture, has the honor of hosting this competition. In fact, Hongo will host the bicycle races. In preparation, a track is being built in the mountains near here. Come, look.”

He led me to the picture of the mountains, pointing out an area that captured the skeleton shapes of buildings and roads. “This photograph was taken a few months ago. The winding road is the bicycle track. The building here is the new international hotel that is being built next to it, and there is the new airport, which will open this fall.”

“An airport? Here?”

“Yes. We expect many people from around Asia and Australia to attend the games. A new airport had to be constructed. Also, a small botanical garden will be added adjacent to the hotel, and we have future plans to construct a performing arts theater. Much is being done to publicize the event and the festivities before and after the games. The Board of Education has been charged with scheduling and arranging the public appearances of the Asian Games officials in town. These responsibilities we take on in addition to our regular jobs.” He lifted his jacket lapel to reveal a cloisonné pin no larger than a penny. I looked at the distorted square with the stick figure of a man trapped inside.

“This is the symbol for the Asian Games.”

I peered closely at it and began to realize I had arrived at a very good time, especially in this prefecture, where such a monumental event would be taking place.

“We are all very excited, especially since we are getting involved more than we originally thought. And you can definitely help us, especially with preparing for those guests who will be coming from English-speaking locations.”

“I’ll be happy to help as much as I can.”

The more I spoke with Doi-sensei, Shoji-san, and the mayor, the more I realized the Yamaguchis’ unwelcoming reception might not be a true representation of the community’s opinion of Americans. These people really do want me here. What made Yamaguchi-san and his family dislike me so much? Their reaction to my arrival was quite different from this.

Our meeting with the mayor ended, and we went downstairs, where I was introduced to so many people, I could not possibly remember their names or the divisions in which they worked. We toured the other areas in Yakuba, with Kyoikuiinkai as our last stop. When we entered the office, two men and a woman greeted us with the obligatory bow.

“Kale wa Debito desu,” said Doi-sensei, introducing me.

They bowed. “Yuroshiku onegaishimasu.”

The elder of the two men, Tanaka-san, was guardedly polite and acted accommodating. He was the assistant director of the Board of Education. He resembled Doi-sensei, but he was a good foot taller and younger by at least ten years. The other man, Hashimoto-san, was Tanaka-san’s assistant. He reminded me of a Chinese bulldog, his small eyes and tired-looking face covered in folds of creamy white skin. Standing behind Hashimoto-san and Tanaka-san at a subservient distance was a young woman, Maehigashi-san. Doi-sensei introduced her as the lead secretary. She looked like the majority of Japanese women I’d seen so far: short, slender, with her fine black hair bobbed and straight.

“Debito, others are absent right now as they attend to various business errands. You can meet them tomorrow. I am sure by now you have enough names in your head to sort out.” Doi-sensei glanced down at his watch. “Now, it’s almost noon. You must be hungry and a little tired.”

“I am, sensei.”

Once outside, I got my first clear view of the city. Hongo was skirted by mountains, centuries-old sentinels protecting the mind and spirit of the townspeople from unwanted demons, a feeling of soft serenity painted on their snow-capped landscapes. This thought brought me great comfort, since I was now a resident of the town, too. Brisk air rushed down from the mountains, and I breathed it in deeply, letting it cleanse my mind and calm me. Doi-sensei and I walked down the busy main street, which was only one lane wide.

It was a street filled with confusion. Most of the shops were openfronted; their trestles displayed their goods, and their signs were written in kanji. The fragrant air was a mixture of dried salt water, bananas, and pears. Without Doi-sensei’s direction, I would easily have gotten lost. No sidewalk existed, so everyone freely roamed the street. Small canals, doubling as gutters, flanked the street on both sides and were covered by long, flat pieces of metal.

The townspeople, mostly women dressed in their aprons, who were walking or riding bicycles and scooters, turned to stare as I passed. Some giggled shyly, covering their mouths with their hands. I was the main attraction in a town where so few had ever seen an American. I was in a fishbowl where everyone could stop, take a look, point, and comment. This embarrassed and yet flattered me at the same time. Realizing that I was a new addition to this booming metropolis of 11,000 people in the vast Japanese countryside, I had no choice but to accept my new reality. I bowed my head slightly and smiled, which sent the housewives into more squeals of giggles, and they hid their faces behind their hands in shame. But I had to admit after spending so many months looking for a job and having no one pay any attention to what I had to offer, this was a refreshing change.

Surrounding our walk through the street was a whirlwind of sounds: the put-put of scooters, the mixture of conversations, all jumbled because of the foreign pronunciations and the rapidity of the different dialogue exchanges. The street was definitely rural, yet it had an urban feel and created its own excitement along a one-mile stretch of this sleepy town. As we continued to stroll, I noticed other shops were glassed-in structures, very pristine and orderly. These particular shops sold kimonos and home décor, and I could smell a hint of jasmine in the air when their doors swung open. It was quite the contrast to the open-front markets, which were essentially organized chaos with their displays of fruits, vegetables, and fish. Lining the streets, in between all of the shops and restaurants, were vending machines, each one selling something different. Most of them contained soda or canned coffee, either hot or cold, while others stocked batteries, noodle packages, beer, and sake. Apparently, children were responsible enough and knew not to buy from the ones that dispensed alcoholic beverages.

We found a small sushi restaurant and sat at the bar. Doi-sensei ordered a plate of sushi for us to share, and we talked more about my job at the school. “The new school year starts in two weeks,” he said.

“Yes, I remember reading that the school year begins in April and ends in March.”

“Correct. You will be able to use this time to prepare. We have assembled a set of books for you to look over so that you may familiarize yourself with the lessons for the chu gakko, or junior high school.”

We discussed my schedule in more detail. I was to work on Monday afternoons at the Kominkan, the city’s community center, where I would teach English to a small group of local housewives. Tuesday through Friday, I would be teaching at the chu gakko and have sporadic office time at Kyoikuiinkai.

“It will be your responsibility to prepare the lesson plans for the housewives. The teachers at the junior high already have their lesson plans. You will primarily assist the teachers in the classroom with pronunciation of English words. Sometimes they will allow you to instruct by yourself,” commented Doi-sensei.

My stomach knotted as I pictured myself unable to communicate with a group of unruly preteens. A vision of my father materialized, shaking his finger and warning, I told you so.

“Debito, are you all right?”

“Yes, sensei. It sounds like a challenge—one I’m looking forward to tackling.”

After lunch, we walked back to the Yakuba, and Doi-sensei drove me to my new apartment. The two-story, cream-colored complex with its flat roof and shutters and balconies trimmed in chocolate brown was similar to most American apartment complexes. My unit was one of six apartments in the rectangular structure, upstairs at the far right. Inscribed on the side of the building in capitalized brown letters was the word YOSHIDA.

Doi-sensei pointed out a blue bicycle chained at the foot of the stairs. The front fender was starting to rust where the paint was chipped.

“This is yours to use whenever you wish.”

“Thank you, sensei,” I said, removing my canvas bag from the car. I looked around at the neighborhood and noticed it was quiet and shady on the street. A few small homes, none of which had yards, were mixed in with other apartment buildings and a few shops. All the structures were either wood or stone—warm and inviting with small porches that led to sturdy sliding doors. The roofs were slate and curved up on the ends. The smell of stir-fry drifted from the restaurant called Pony on the corner.

There was no elevator, only a single set of stairs leading up to the second floor. My apartment was # 201. I paused before entering. Beyond the door lay my new home—a private, familiar space when I would need to retreat. I sprinted inside, forgetting to remove my shoes.

“Debito!” Doi-sensei exclaimed. “Your shoes!”

I jumped back onto the black slate floor, remembering that the Japanese were very particular about segregating their inside and outside environments. To enter anyone’s home with outside footwear went against social decorum, as well as cleanliness. In fact, the space smelled something akin to Lysol and looked to have been thoroughly cleaned.

The apartment was an efficiency unit and consisted of a small foyer laid with stone and a single room that was carpeted. A small cupboard to store shoes was in the foyer. What the apartment lacked in space, it made up for in functionality. Immediately to my left was the kitchen, a galley design equipped with a small, two-burner gas range, minimal cabinet storage and counter space, and a metal sink under which a dorm-sized refrigerator was housed. To my right were two narrow doors with a yard-long space between them. The first door opened to a coat closet, the second to the bathroom, which, thankfully, contained a western-style toilet and shower. I was relieved that I would have the ability to take a regular shower and not have to splash myself with water from a tub as I had done at Yamaguchi-san’s house.

The living room-bedroom area sat beyond the kitchen and contained a bistro-sized glass-top bamboo dining set with two matching chairs, a wooden desk with a swivel chair, a TV, VCR and CD player, and a single bed doubling as a couch, which was covered with a thick quilt and decorated with pillows. The heater and air-conditioning unit was poised high over the head of the bed. A small alcove beside the bed provided a chest of drawers where I could store my clothes. I drew back the curtains hanging on the far wall opposite the main entry to reveal a set a sliding glass doors. Beyond the sliding glass doors, was a sliver of a balcony, big enough for dining al fresco, that overlooked the cityscape. The view of the rooftops and the mountains beyond Hongo was quite remarkable. In the middle of the living room was my luggage, delivered just as they had said.

“Debito, does this meet with your approval?”

I smiled. “It’s perfect, sensei.”

“Wonderful. Then I will leave you to get settled. Enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you, sensei.”

Once the door closed behind him, I immediately unzipped my suitcases. I felt both relief and excitement as I got myself situated and unpacked. This was the first time I had lived on my own, beyond the security of the college dormitory. It was liberating to know I was supporting myself and now able to assert my own independence. Who knew I would have to go halfway around the world to finally have my own life?

By the time I’d finished, a few hours had passed. I was famished and decided to venture out for dinner. I walked to the market I remembered driving by earlier in the afternoon. Like the main street near the Yakuba, my street was not much larger than an alley. There were no sidewalks, so I had to walk along the edge of the street, trying to make sense of the town and find my bearings. Eventually, I reached the broader road that was lined with commercial vendors. I found the market; its name, Sun Your, struck me as amusing. I selected a head of cabbage, spinach, bananas, oranges, salmon steaks, sliced meat, legs of chicken, and milk. Feeling adventurous, I added a chopped octopus. I am so glad I am open-minded about food. Dad would never be able to survive here.

I made my way to the front of the store to pay, feeling the stares of the other patrons. Just as I made it to the cashier, I heard a familiar voice.

“Debito-san!”

I quickly turned to see Doi-sensei.

“Hello,” I said, happy to see someone I knew in the midst of strangers.

“I stopped by your apartment after I left work to see if everything was all right, but you were gone,” he said. “I thought you must have gone shopping for food. Are you finding everything you need?”

“Yes, thank you.”

While we talked, two women came up behind him and smiled at me.

“Debito, allow me to introduce my sister, Yoshitomi-san, and her friend, Hirata-san. They are both going to be students of yours.”

“How do you?” asked Yoshitomi-san, her English very broken.

“I do fine,” I replied. She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. I realized that this was a gesture most Japanese women performed.

“I am pleased to meet you,” Hirata-san said, then bowed. Her English was better.

Yoshitomi-san was taller than her brother, her round face decorated with dark-rimmed spectacles. Hirata-san was the same height as Doi-sensei, but her face was thin. Their glossy black hair was short, bobbed, and straight.

“I’m pleased to meet you both,” I said, returning their bows.

“You are buying groceries, yes?” asked Hirata-san.

“Yes, for dinner. I plan on cooking tonight.”

“You cook?” Hirata-san asked with surprise.

“Yes, of course.”

“Most Japanese men do not cook. Women do the cooking,” she said.

“I’ve actually been cooking since I was quite young. I used to watch and help my mother in the kitchen.”

All three of them stared at me, obviously having trouble processing what I had just explained.

“Well,” Doi-sensei said, changing the subject, “let me give you our phone number in case you needed anything.” He asked his sister for a pen and scrap of paper, which she produced from her purse. He scribbled a number down and gently handed the paper to me. “Enjoy this rest of your evening, Debito.” We said our good-byes, and I placed the paper with his number into my pocket. The two women left the market and whispered in the same way I’d seen the townswomen whispering and giggling when Doi-sensei and I had walked to lunch earlier that day.

Back at my apartment, I stocked the refrigerator and cabinets with the groceries. I found a plastic cutting board and laid the chicken out, trimming strips of meat off the bone. After rinsing the knife, I chopped up two cloves of garlic and diced a large onion. The repetitive motion was relaxing to me, and for the first time in two days, my mind and emotions began to settle. The long days of travel had exhausted me, capped off by the tension-filled night spent with the Yamaguchi family. I was happy to be in my own space, away from the chaos and disorientation of this new experience, doing something familiar. The more I chopped and diced and sliced, the more grounded I felt.