San Francisco; good for your joints

San Francisco: famous for hippies, Vertigo, Full House, that Judy Garland song, that Rufus-Wainwright-covering-Judy-Garland song, cable cars, Mrs. Doubtfire and the massive bridge. Basically, it is a legend of a city and I was happy to be immersed in its colourful, liberal-themed waters.

San Francisco seemed to have aspect of city that a twenty-three year old wannabe hipster like me could possibly desire. As I began to know the neighborhoods, I planned out my daily life if I was lucky enough to be an American citizen. It would begin with early morning lectures at Berkeley, scribbling notes about muck racking American literature and ranting about saving the planet over a steaming espresso in a biodegradable cup. After several hours of this and feeling sufficiently ready to take on the real world, I would hope on the subway to the Haight; stoner capital of the city, for some Grade-A grass smoked out of a bong that looked like a post-modern vase (especially after a few hits). This would be followed up by a dazed stroll in the Golden Gate park, where hippies and homeless people lie sprawled in the sunshine, too happy or blazed to care about anything.

When the munchies began to set in, I would take a trolley car down the hill to the Mission district, and gorge myself on a Pacho Villa burrito, savouring every bite and assuring myself one again that this was the food of the gods. And then, feeling fulfilled and ready for some fun, it would be a quick stroll up to the Castro, where the men hold hands and rainbow flags blow in the wind. If you can't find someone to pick up here, you're way too straight.

And that isn't even everything. San Francisco also has City Lights; the bookstore that began the Beat generation and a wet dream for any English major worth his rock salt. Here, I forced myself to buy yet another book (the fifth in a week; I have no idea if slash how I will be able to keep this up) from the 'mmmm yeah I like it' recommendations shelf. The thin, grey eyed man behind the counter said nothing but gave me one of those 'good choice' hand gestures by making his thumb and first finger into a circle and pursing his lips. I nodded. We understood each other.

Unable to resist, I also made a reluctant tourist couple take a photo me grinning manically standing in Jack Kerouac alley with my copy of On the Road. I was amused and really, that is all that counts. Chinatown, also brilliant, spills over a few blocks away. It is always crowded, usually with withered old ladies buying sacks of breadfruit and the odd American husband-and-wife-tourist team, looking decidedly out of their comfort zone and trying to find the way out.

The homeless people of San Francisco are much more entertaining that in Los Angeles. Here, they love you even if you don't give you money, and if you do, they might even reward you for it. I threw a few quarters at a smelly woman in the Mission district and she was so stoked that she jumped up and began a kind of wasted tap dance. The best part was that she wasn't wearing any shoes. Everyone in San Francisco has a favourite homeless person story. My personal favourite

is the man with crazy eyes who we spotted on the subway. He had a boom box above his head which was playing Kid A at full volume and he was yelling the lyrics to everyone in the carriage as they tried politely (terrified) to ignore him. The thing was, the words he were singing didn't make any sense, but were instead some sort of nonsense language he had made up. It took me a while to figure this out though. I guess that's Kid A for you.

Perhaps my favourite part of the city though has to be Dolares park. It is here, on a Friday afternoon, that all the hipsters come to drink red wine and talk politics. You can hear them arguing several blocks away, but by the time the sun sets, everyone has mellowed down and even the anarchists have started playing Frisbee. My favourite part was when a blonde girl stripped down to her bra and knickers and went careening down the hill in a wheelchair (I have no idea where she got the wheelchair from, perhaps some kind paraplegic swapped it with her for a case of wine) . At the bottom of the hill, it hit a bump and she went sprawling onto the grass. For a few seconds, I thought the evening might have been over, but then she stumbled back up, unstrapped her bra and, with a wasted smile on her face, began pushing the wheelchair, topless, back up the hill. No one else seemed particularly impressed or surprised and I even heard some snarky hippy girl remark "She's not as good as that naked mime that was here last week."

People, we have come a long way from Japan. And thank god for that.

More Greyhound adventures

The trip from Vegas to San Fran was a long and painful one, beginning at 3am when the Larry David-lookalike (complete with slacks) sitting next to me began bombarding me with 'fun facts' about California. Please imagine if Larry David was slightly autistic and smiled constantly without looking at you. This was my fifteen hour gambit between states and another example of the freaks that Greyhound has to offer.

Across fifteen hours, I learnt many painful, ridiculous things about California from Autistic Larry (who's name actually was David). After each fact, I would feign interest (with less and less conviction as the trip went on) with a "Oh, really?" to which he would bluntly respond "yes" and then stare out the window, grinning from ear to ear like a happy dog. After this, I would re-attach my ipod and get On the Road back on track and just when I'd gotten to the paragraph where Dean shows up again (or whatever), I'd feel a tap on my shoulder and a small part of me would die inside.

At some stage in California, I realized that this man was clearly insane. He hadn't slept AT ALL for the fifteen hour trip and would break into sporadic coughing fits several times an hour. When we stopped in the middle of nowhere for a lunch break, he ordered a Fish O' Fillet from McDonald's (the only place to get food, as usual). He then proceeded to eat the fish fillet bit but not before licking off all the tartare sauce and spitting it delicately onto the ground. After this, he crumbled the burger bun into little crumbs and putting it into his top pocket for "a wee snack." For the last three hours, my sanity was tested to the brink. Every few minutes I would hear him unzipping his top pocket and pulling out a tiny, rolled up crumb of bread. These he would chew carefully, one by one, with his eyes closed, never letting his smile fade. Then he would zip the pocket up again, carefully, and tell me at length about his favourite state.

Insane Larry: "Did you know that Klamath Basin National Wildlife Refuge contains the largest winter population of bald eagles in the continental United States?"

"Did you know that Inyo National Forest is home to the bristle cone pine, the oldest living species in America? Did you know that some of the gnarled trees and thought to be over 4,600 years old?"

"Did you know that when I was travelling through San Diego in 1978, I had a seafood buffet for $3.25. I went back six years later and they had the same buffet but it was $5.55. I refused to pay it."

SHUT UP!!!!!!

He got off at San Jose and I managed to rest my poor, fast food filled, sunburn-destroyed body for an hour before we arrived at our destination. I began the long, fruitless search for an internet cafe. To cut a long story short, there are none. The people of San Francisco are so trendy and 'up with it' that it is a city of wi fi. Your humble narrator was, however, unaware of this and so spend a long, painful afternoon walking around the downtown area with my travellers pack destroying my sunburnt shoulders with every step. At some point, I decided that ridicule was better than pain and so began to drag it behind me down the street. This did not prove to be a good idea. A homeless man with no teeth applauded me as I turned onto his corner and tried to give me a high five. I winced with pain and reattached the pack. My eyes watered for hours.

Eventually, a kindly Chinese woman allowed me to use her Internet when I went in to buy a pork bun. Somehow I made it to the gallery opening where I met up with Trey, and slumped into the corner with a plastic cup of wine. Over the next few hours, I would meet at least four people who wanted to (and probably would) save the world. I would drink a lot more and I would come across more crazy people who would scare the shit out of me. Thankfully, most of them were homeless and thus our interactions were short and relatively sweet.

San Francisco, I can feel my heart pulling away already. Damn you and your catchy cliches.

Adventures in the desert

After three days in L.A., I was screaming to leave. To be fair, it has a few treats which the New Zealander in me was somewhat partial to. For one thing, the museums are epic palaces, where the curators chuck a few Picassos in a corner gallery on the fourth floor and smirk as the tourists climb over each other to snap photos of them. My favourite exhibition involved three basketballs floating in a tank of dishwashing liquid. There was no explanation. I considered asking the Chinese woman on gallery duty, but she gave me a weary look as if to say: "Don't even think about it." Still, she surely got the better end of the deal than the woman who had to guard the bottom gallery, which featured a large red lump of copper and nothing else. This piece was labelled 'Untitled'. I walked out in disgust.

The other highpoint of L.A. is the beaches. Santa Monica and Venice are both expanses of golden sand and crystal blue water which can make you fall to your knees after a year in small town Japan. Santa Monica has one of the piers featuring carnival rides and chilli cheese dogs and screaming kids in every direction. I lay on the sand and inadvertently burnt myself to a crisp, making the next week of my trip somewhat or a scarlet nightmare. Venice Beach is much more chilled out; hippies and hipsters rule the roost and medical marijuana shops nestle between tattoo parlours and t-shirt boutiques. There are psychics and and 60 year old men with dreadlocks crowding around ghetto blasters smoking joints the size of whiteboard markers. For ten dollars, you can have your face painted onto a grain of rice or buy a custom made magic wand. I am not kidding. A little further down, marathon men lift babels and do pilates, showing off their killer bods against the palm trees. Once again, the tourist stop and snap photos. The men flex and love it.

Post-Venice, I decided that L.A. was no longer the city for me. San Francisco beckoned and the thought of food that wasn't deep fried or served between two piece of white bread was too tempting to ignore. And then, Greyhound ticket in hand, I had a revelation. Vegas! Why not? San Fran could wait a day and so I hopped on the bus at the other end of the station and off we set into the desert. The woman sitting off me was probably 70 but looked about 150 and spend the first three hours telling me about all the Broadway shows she visited in New York. Her favourite phrase was 'Oh you have to go, you HAVE to go!' in a Jewish voice that haunted me for days to come. Her second favourite phrase was 'Whaaatt?' which she screeched out every time I asked her anything, screwing up her little face and pointed to her hearing aid. After about 10 minutes, I was ready to give up. Unfortunately, she wasn't.

Upon getting to Vegas, I was accosted by the bus driver. He told me his name was Jim and that he wondered if I could tell him about New Zealand over dinner. His shout. I was somewhat speechless but being adventurous and on a budget, I accepted. I guess in retrospect this might have been a mistake; he did look slightly like a serial killer (dyed blonde hair, semi-pot belly and large glasses), but he did have a soothing narration voice.

Before dinner, Jim wanted to show me something on the top story of of his hotel. It was at this point that I had my first moment of freak out, slipping a Biro into my pocket and wiping the sweat off my forehead and trying not to think about 'it rubs the lotion on its skin.' It turned out that Jim, a tour guide first and foremost, simply wanted to show me a view of the Vegas skyline at sunset. It was sweet, really. I took a couple of snaps and tried to make my stomach rumble on cue. We had an awkward slash enjoyable meal at the oldest casino in Vegas, in which the waitress asked if we were father and son. I ordered a country fried steak which involves a piece of crumbed meat covered in white sauce. Jim had the triple cheese burger and asked me about The Lord of the Rings in between bites. He told me has was a republican and made a semi-racist remark about Obama. I ordered dessert.

After Jim waved me off on the downtown bus, I had nine hours to explore before getting back on the Greyhound. Vegas lay spread out before me, like some kind of hooker with her knickers down. What I love about it is how if you take away the fancy (ridiculous) casino outer cases, the whole place is the same. In every building, people sit around blackjack tables in their cargo pants, nervously drumming their fingers on the table with one hand and sucking down a cigarette with the other. There are ATMs in the casinos, usually proceeded by lines of people with their credit cards out. There is bound to be more people looking sad than happy and there is always one person quietly sobbing by the door. You can even get your food delivered to your slot machine so you don't have to stop your losing streak to nourish your body with french fries.

There are limos everywhere in Vegas. They seem to be full of twenty-something boys on stag nights. They spill out onto the main street, yelling about strippers and 'winning big.' No one is very impressed. Every now and then, a truly glamorous couple can be spotting; a silver haired gentlemen in a tuxedo steering his diamond studded wife through the throng of rabble outside Cesar's Palace. They have clearly seen too many Rat Pack movies and will spend their next vacation in the Bahamas.

Inside all the big casinos lie the shows. Video screens show you what campy delights you are missing out on as you trek from one dire room to another. Cher's up there, somehow still belting out 'If I could turn back time' amidst a shower of glitter and screaming fans. At the Bellagio, you can see Bill Cosby, back from the entertainment dead with another wacky stand up show about 'those darned kids.' Worse still is Better Midler. Her concert, 'The Showgirl must go on," Is the sensation of Vegas, and you can't turn your head without seeing it flashing around somewhere. In the show, Bette (Sixty-three), runs around in her bra and knickers, dancing with a pink feather boa as a bunch of men in G-strings chase her with a massive butterfly net. The song she is singing is called "Big knockers."

By 3am, I was ready to leave Vegas forever. People were up way past their bedtime and all the 'all you can eat seafood' buffets were closed. As I boarded the bus, A tiny man with a grey beard danced almost perfectly to Creedance's 'Bad Moon Rising.' I watched him from the window and once again snapped my camera. Vegas was lucky to have him; he was about the only real thing I'd seen all night.

Living the dream (or the song at least)

America.

The song "American Boy" by Estelle is destined to be the (somewhat cliched) soundtrack of the next ten weeks. Amid the tourist spots, Greyhound buses and endless slices of pizza, I try to find a 5.7 boy that's just my type; preferably Jewish, gorgeous and a social smoker. I've kept eyes open but as of yet he has alluded me. Still there have been variants of the American hero so far, B-Grade versions though they may be.

In L.A., exhausted from the lack of sleep on my twelve hour flight, I met a boy named Dwight on the train out to Hollywood Boulevard. He was a skinny guy with a lazy eye and appeared to be gay despite having just come from church. Terrified of the homeless man that sat rocking back and fourth behind me, I clung to Dwight like a life raft. I made pathetic 'wow America' remarks and made my eyes go as wide as possible and it seemed to work. He helped me find a hostel on Hollywood Blvd., a hideous place where a fat woman in sweat pants took my US $25 and took me to a tiny sweat bunk bed room, which smelled like vomit (which made sense after I looked at the floor in the bathroom). At the end of the corridor sat a black dwarf on a stool. He appeared to hate everyone.

Dwight, getting more confident by the minute, took me to a Mexican restaurant down the street and watched as I ravenously ate the smallest taco I'd ever seen. The conversation began to lull as he talked about Jesus and his lazy eye jumped around excitedly. He also slipped into the conversation that he lived in a Gay & Lesbian Co-op with three other roommates, but that he had only slept with one of them. With each sentence, I recoiled slightly, eventually making some excuse about jet lag and stumbling back to the hostel.

Hollywood Blvd. is filled with homeless people and tourists and it is hard to know which are the more repellent. The poor (literally) homeless people push trolleys down the sidewalk, desperately grabbing at empty bottles from the recycle bin and snarling at people who are waiting, terrified, for the lights to change. The quieter one sits sedated on the pavement, holding out a cup for change that never gets filled or even used. Some of them have tiny, malnourished cats that roam the three feet of sidewalk their string leash will allow them. These cats are an attempt to cull the tourists into sympathy donations, but it doesn't seem to work. Often, the cats are even more nose wrinkling than their owners. I almost stood on one of the cats as I ambled down the Boulevard. It's owner yelled at me through his mouth of broken teeth and I apologised and dropped a small america coin into his coca cola cup. He smiled at me in graitude and then spat forcefully onto the pavement.

The tourists appear in clumps; large women from the Midwest and sweaty men with Loafers herding a bunch of screaming kids towards the Disney museum. Hundreds of them stand outside the Chinese theatre, posing for photos with Jack Sparrow and the cast of Looney Toons; all of whom have disturbingly thick Mexican accents. The only food that is available on the Hollywood strip is fast food; an endless parade of pizza, burgers and chili cheese dogs. No one wants anything else. Men who know the score seduce the tourist with maps of celebrity cribs, and they head off in open top buses, their necks craned like meerkats.

The most bizarre spot on the Blvd. was Michael Jackson's Hollywood star. Two months after his demise, a gaggle of tourists could be seen stroking it and snapping teary photos. One even got down on the filthy pavement and curled herself around it like a cat. She was crying quietly and the rest of the tour stood round awkwardly, unsure of how such a crisis should be resolved.

Later on, Dwight turned up at the hostel, wondering if I wanted to take a stroll down the strip to see his favourite church. I politely declined and told him I would catch up with him tomorrow. He nodded hopefully and trundled away. It occured to me that he might have been one of the dullest people I have ever met. He was an American boy alright, but no one would ever sing a song about him.

I curled up in my bunk bed and tried to sleep. The two French boys in the bunk over proceeded to get drunk and walk around in their underwear, drowning themselves in cologne. Somewhere amid this, I drifted off, waking to sunshine and the sound of car horns. L.A. was still there, big and beautiful in a sleazy kind of way. I was in America. Finally.

Fuck Yeah.

Ms. Benes moves West

Wellington.

Winter in the capital and the sun shines bright. In the past two weeks, I have soaked up vitamin D than my entire year of glacial Hokkaido. As I write this, I wear sunglasses to shelter my eyes from the much appreciated glare and stop every few minutes to eat a piece of camembert with my eyes closed. To my right sits the converted plastic cuisine I brought back from the Far East, shimmering on the coffee table amongst my mother’s trendy ornaments. 

They are the only things in plain sight that I have to remind me of Japan and that suits me just fine. 

I have settled back into the Western World with disturbing ease. Over the last two weeks, I have  formulated the answer to the inevitable ‘How was Japan’ question—asked politely by friends and parents friends who don’t care but pretend to—down to a sharp, three sentence response. “Oh yes, it was great” I begin, my eyes wearily lighting up. I follow up the probing questions with an intoxicated roll of the eyes and something like: “I don’t even know how to describe Japan, its such a whack place!”  At this point, my voice develops a warning tone, fending off follow up questions with a tight smile. If pushed, I have a few anecdotes up my sleeve (‘Black Obama’, Run crippled boy run, Fat Teacher on Ice) and I must admit, the gaping faces of disbelief do please me somewhat. But after this, it all closes down rather firmly with concluding crap about ‘good life experience’ and some serious nodding. In and out in three minutes and no mention of those soggy Suntory marathons.

Aside from these asides, my world has become flooded by the pleasures that the East could not provide. Blue vein and olives; merlot and Shortland Street; driving and sunbathing; gay people, bagels, beaches, skinny jeans and Malaysian restaurants. The ocean is not obscured by wartime blockades, and is in fact a place to be enjoyed, even in the so called winter. There is no J-Pop to be heard and even the dub music sounds sweet by comparison. Cliché after cliché and I’m sure you’ve heard them all before. I am even tempted to quote our gay ally Judy Garland and say that there is no place like home, but that would suggest a sense of tackiness that Bombay & Elaine does not encourage. Let’s just say that I feel like I have finally broken up with a boyfriend that I always hated, and the wave of relief is awesome. 

I have begun dating a boy five years my junior; a bright wee design student with the kind of perfect cheekbones and big brown eyes that I spent hours dreaming about in my Gummo town. I laugh off the ‘cradle snatcher’ jokes and walk down the street with him arm in arm. Homosexuality is relatively acceptable here, at least on Cuba Street. We smoke cigarettes as we walk and try to avoid the pigeons.  Gutter birds they may be, but after a year of crows, I could almost kiss their gnarled little feet. We throw our cigarette buts on the street and don’t get arrested. 

The design student took me for a night out at The Ivy; the new (and only) gay bar in the city. The first floor is a garden bar where balding men in sports jackets sip vodka tonics in the corners, their pinkie fingers raised at 90° angles so that even the most intoxicated patrons get the message. They make half hearted fuck eyes as the young boys in tight jeans who bounce around at the bar and wisely ignore them. The tight jeans bounce back upstairs, drinks in hand to the dance floor. 

The top floor is a spectacularly sweaty meat market with young bucks embracing in every direction. In the centre, a wasted girl grinds away blissfully surrounded by a circle of adoring males. From time to time, one or another will peel off to try their luck with a lonely looking solo dancer, usually returning to their queen bee and trying to hide their bruised ego. The speakers blared out Spice Girls and Backstreet Boys, which I took to be some kind of 90s themed novelty night. Later, the design boy told me that this was in fact the only music that they ever played at The Ivy. He told me of a now legendary blonde jock who would break into a mad interpretative dance every time ‘Mambo No 5’ came on (which was disturbingly often).  

The middle aged men don’t venture up to this level. Their shiny domes are cruelly illuminated under the wandering spotlights. They know that eventually their time will come, usually in the shape of a teary 22 year old, dejected after failing to find tenderness from the sweaty throng a floor above. A few drinks and a firm hand around the shoulder and the two will leave together, under the disgusted eyes of the bouncer. 

Gay bars aside, Wellington is of course, no more than a stopping point between journeys. As the days go by, the novelty fades somewhat and my feet begin to itch with the promise of travel and adventure. New Zealand is a beautiful place but a tiny one. In two weeks, I will be sipping Budweiser in the Californian sun. I can almost taste the Twinkies now. 

In Urakawa, things go on as usual. Sato Sensei cancels his weekend away with his increasingly estranged fiancé when his volley ball team wins their tournament. The music tyrant schedules overtime for his terrorized brass band as the school’s opening ceremony approaches. Yukki sheds a tear and practises her phrasal verbs.  And though she feels like she’s in a play, she is anyway. Or a blog at least. 

It may not resonate in my ears and in my eyes with a McCartney- refrain, but it’s there somewhere, nestled between various organs like an appendix. I guess that counts for something. 

Insert Lionel Ritchie lyrics here

Perhaps the dinner was a wrong move. Poor Yukki, already besotted with the town’s suspiciously flamboyant Westerner, almost used up the entire supply of Skype smiley faces when I accepted her invitation to dine with the family. And why not, I thought. After a year of making the same five meals over and over again, your humble narrator would have crawled across a muddy field to get a home cooked meal. Also, with the days of my contract running out, I have become suddenly desperate to cram in as many ‘Japanese experiences’ as is wholly possible. And of course, there was the underlying flattery that after eleven and a half months in Royston Vasey, someone finally thinks that I am worthy of a dinner invitation.

What can I say, dear readers; I was touched.

I was picked up at the train station by a hyperventilating Yukki and her aunt ‘Honey’ who was by far the coolest person in the entire town. She had blonde spikey hair and a chin piercing and elaborates tattoos swirling down both her arms. She wore a T-shirt with picture of a skull and crossbones and underneath, the words ‘CREAM SODA.’ She drove a pimped out four wheel drive with gothic satin cushions in the back seat and those flat screen-TVs-in-the-seats that don’t exist outside the world of music videos and the world of people who make music videos.
As I hoisted myself in, she stubbed her cigarette in gothic skull ashtray on the dashboard and heartily shook my hand. Her grip was ridiculously strong. I winced but managed to turn it into a crooked little smile. Yukki giggled.

The rest of the family turned out to be much more status quo and after meeting Grandmother, Sister and two cousins, the seven of us sat down for the much anticipated dinner. The feast in question was nabe; a traditional Hokkaido dish of meat, vegetables and tofu that are cooked in a pot of boiling stock in the centre of the table. The whole thing would be far more delicious if each item didn’t have to be dipped in raw egg before eating it.

Half way through, possibly realizing that my meagre scraps of Japanese vocabulary had been used up, I foolishly got out my camera to take a few quick snaps of the sumptuous food. This caused a commotion as Yukki squealed and whipped out her bejewelled cellphone. For the next twenty minutes, the meal was forgotten as the entire family began an elaborate photo shoot which involved four cameras, sixteen different combinations of people and more peace signs than San Francisco in the 60’s. Aunt 'Honey' did the metallica sign. I loved every moment of it.

After dinner, Yukki took me of a tour of her house. She introduced me to her three cats and her collection of handmade dolls. She showed me her bedroom and wouldn’t let anyone else come in. I sat awkwardly in the corner wearing a pair of panda earmuffs as Yuki yelled at her sister in Japanese through the crack in the door. I showed her YouTube videos of M.I.A. and Justice and she freaked out. I guess there’s not much call for Srilankan rappers in rural Japan.

As I left, Yukki slipped me a small present, telling me to open it when I got home. After I had bowed and thanked everyone and made it back to my apartment, I opened it to discover a sparkly letter ‘Y’ dangling on a silver chain.

Yesterday was my last day at Yukki’s school. As usual, she accosted me on the train and proudly showed me that addition of ‘D.A.N.C.E.’ on her iPod nano. I smiled and nodded and pretended to be very tired. She didn’t buy it. The crunch came in third period; the last ever class and an emotional occasion even for me. In the final ten minutes, I was presented with a leaving card with messages from the entire English class, all of which were in Japanese. The exception was Yukki’s, which read in shaky English; ‘I was so happy until now.’

As the bell rang and the students began to shuffle off the gym, Yukki who had been looking ashen face for the whole hour suddenly burst into tears. She started sobbing and had to be led away down the corridor by her best friend; a tall plain looking girl with glasses who was clearly the Monica to her Rachel. Unfortunately, this was the only exit and so the English teacher and I had to follow them all the way back, keeping a good ten feet behind like a funeral procession.

We had almost made it when a group of sweaty, post-basketball Jocks burst in from the gym. At the sight of a crying girl, they started pointing and laughing and Yukki gave a high pitched wail and was veered off to the side by Monica. She disappeared down the hall but I could still hear her sobbing for a good few minutes.

At least she has Justice. That song could brighten up the Apocalypse.

Yet another Brick in the wall

With four weeks to go, I can’t help but wonder if Bombay & Elaine will survive outside of fair Japan. The odd music rant aside, B & E has developed a distinctly Asian flavour; sticky with soy sauce and steeped in the scent of cherry blossoms. How will he fare in the Western world, amidst the clatter of pronged cutlery? People say it takes a while to adapt to a new culture, especially at a young age. The poor thing is hardly walking.

My hope is that B & E will evolve as he grows, adopting to his surroundings and making new acquaintances wherever the windy world of the web takes him.

To put it in hipster’s terms, B & E is like The Wire. It relocates and picks up in a new sector as the seasons pass. The theme song changes and yet remains the same. You miss the towers but you get the docks; you keep watching it.

(I realise the audacity of comparing my humble word journal with what might well be the greatest television show of all-time, but it’s serves merely as a change to drop another pop culture reference into my already jam packed cyber-basket. Pathetic I know, but I’ve always wanted to be one of the cool kids.)

In short, it prevails.

At present, the staffroom is all a flutter for the school festival next weekend. Twenty foot long banners line most the corridors. Students cluster around them, furiously applying brush strokes to dizzying murals of trees, flowers and smiling suns. In one of these murals, someone had painted me; a little white smiley face with Harry Potter glasses the words ‘I love kiwi!!’ written above in green capitals. I was touched.

Sobs echoed down the first floor this afternoon amid the heartbreaking sound of ripping paper. Somewhere within the vast expanse of painted landscape, a teacher had spotted two stick figures (one with pigtails, one without) locking acrylic lips, while a stream of tiny love hearts rose up between them. He then proceeded to give the terrified 15 year old girls a rousing lecture about family values and the presence of small children at a family event before deeming their mural ‘unsuitable’ for the festival and tearing it up.

The girls appeared at the staffroom an hour later, still in tears and begging for forgiveness. Eventually after a long silence, he relented and allowed them to attend the festival as long as they stayed afterwards to help clean up. They accepted, teary but grateful.

The teacher in question is one of the school’s totalitarians. He has slicked back hair and watery blue eyes and suffers from intense headaches. He conducts the school band and can hear a flat note over a row of perfectly tuned violins. His practises last four hours a day and he has been known to knock it up to six for special occasions. He can be heard screaming at the brass section the whole week before they play ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ for the school graduation ceremony. To be fair, their performance was perfect.

If his head starts aching in the middle of a practise, he doesn’t stop but instead continues conducting the instruments in front of him. The more he conducts, the worse it gets and it is then that his temper really begins to rage. My students have told me that they dread the days when the vein on his forehead starts to throb. He begins to single out terrified students with his baton and scream insults at them, telling them they have no talent as they play their required solo over and over again with trembling fingers. Once, after a particularly trying five hours of ‘Some Enchanted Evening,’ he stormed out of the music room in a rage and slammed the door. The band members were too scared to move and sat petrified in their seats until he came slinking back fifteen minutes later, reeking of cigarettes.

To get an idea of how unhinged this man is, we must turn back our stopwatches to the night of last year’s school dance. The moon is full and a line of smartly dressed boys and girls in shimmery dresses snakes politely around the gymnasium. Teachers stand by the door, checking tickets and reiterating the ‘no kissing’ rule. One of these is the Music Tyrant.

Things appear to be moving smoothly. Inside the gym, the boys and girls blush and whisper to each other and some even begin to dance awkwardly under the steely supervision of the vice principal. There is a big bowl of red punch; the students are allowed to help themselves to one paper cup’s worth. Doling this out is Fat Cake Bitch; another teacher who I will flesh out at a later date. For now, imagine the mother of that friend you had in primary school who grudgingly let you play at her house after school but scowled the whole time.

Suddenly, there is a commotion at the door. The swaying couples turn around, using the opportunity to put their little arms tentatively around each other as the chaperones rush to the entrance. Cake Bitch is already there, waving her ladle.

One of the third year girls had turned up with highlights in her hair. They look sweet, if a little Blossom-esque. She clutches her tiny handbag, terrified, as the Music Tyrant towers over her, yelling and pointing with his big finger. Eventually resigned to her fate and tears ruining her carefully applied mascara, she is ushered into a corner. the Music Tyrant pulls out roll of brown paper and wraps it around her neck, her hair splayed out over the top. And then, like something out of Carrie, out comes the can of black spray paint.

There were no more school dances after that. The girl was allowed to attend the rest of the dance but her dress was covered in black stains and her hair hung limp and dead. She smelt like a fumigated house. Her confidence, I would assume, was somewhat ruffled. On Monday, her hair was back to its natural black, the same as every other student in the school.

I sometimes have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not living in a Roald Dahl book. But then I look around and realise that none of the kids are ever going to break the rules and slip a newt in their teacher’s water jug. They’d probably be deported.

And it’s not The Wire either. You can empathise with the bad guys on that.


Next week, Cake Bitch.