Adequate Sleep

I wish I could say that I slept like a baby, but I didn’t. The air mattress was, in a word, adequate. I wouldn’t give much beyond that—although it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Air mattress technology has had some fascinating advancements since my days as a Boy Scout, including battery-powered fans that inflate the things for you. That’s a solid win in my book. Yet, if it were up for an Oscar, the air mattress wouldn’t even make the shortlist for Best Supporting Role. Still, it was great to sleep in our house and wake up in it. The air was cool, and the humidity was much higher than I expected. Despite all of this, I was happy to get up and start the day.

Daily Luxuries

I wandered into the kitchen, plugged in the electric kettle, and started making coffee. Unlike the hotel room, there was no grand sunrise, no golden hour to watch the sun move across the morning, at least not from the comfort of our house—but it was a good morning. It felt fresh, the way it can only feel when you’ve slept in the open air.

After a few minutes, the water was ready, and I poured it into the waiting cups that already had their blendy-sticks’ worth of coffee in them. I brought Joy’s coffee over to her, and we both enjoyed a cup from the comforts of our air mattresses. We plotted out the day and confirmed just how excited we were about our bedding finally showing up. As a matter of fact, the only thing remarkable about the day ahead of us was how unremarkable it was going to be.

We planned on getting on the bus and heading down to Otaru Station for lunch so we could get back in time to receive our new delivery, put it all together, and sleep on real beds in our bedroom. It was such a divine thought that we forgot just how mundane it was—daily luxuries we take for granted.

Being Seen

We spent the morning just enjoying our new house and the quietness of our surroundings. We both went out and took a little walk around our immediate neighborhood. One of our neighbors on the street behind ours waved and said “Hello” in English. It was actually very sweet. That one word said so much. He wanted us to know that he saw us. We bowed and said “Konnichiwa” to let him know that we saw him too. It was a lovely exchange. Clearly, word travels fast that they have new neighbors, and judging by the few interactions we had, most were happy to see us.

Just to speculate a little bit, they were happy to see new people coming into the neighborhood to help take care of things and keep it running. An uncomfortable truth playing out across Japan right now is that the country is experiencing a population decline, and places like our little Mogami neighborhood are on the frontlines of that experience. Several houses are empty and/or abandoned, and as a result, there are fewer people to carry out the daily maintenance tasks residents are responsible for. Our neighborhood is getting older, and it can feel like an uphill battle just to keep the weeds in check or the street passable in the winter.

That doesn’t mean the people there are immediately accepting of outsiders who move in. They want to know that people coming in aren’t causing more trouble or making life harder. They want to know that outsiders are going to show up and do the work to be part of the community. Still, judging by the reaction we’re receiving, it looks like we’re at least on the right path.

A Game of Thrones

Joy goes out into the gardens to do some more weeding, and I start tackling the toilet room. As we discovered, our bidet isn’t working, and I am on a mission from God to get it functioning before we have to go back to the States. Fortunately, we have several more days left, but it’s not a problem I want hanging over us when we leave. I want to be able to enjoy my throne in all its glory, because the simple truth of the matter is that Japanese toilets make the American toilet experience seem like we’re a bunch of backwoods barbarians still using pages out of the Sears catalog as our primary source of personal hygiene.

Granted, they’re not as advanced as some Arabic bathrooms, but that’s a whole different post for another day. For now, suffice it to say that I just want my Japanese toilet to be fully functional, so I don’t have to make it a priority for my return trip over the winter.

As it turns out, the bidet appears to have stopped working some time ago, and there’s no salvaging it or fixing it. It must be replaced. Great. That means we need to buy a rudimentary tool set—which I’m enthusiastic about—and we’re going to have more trash to deal with, which I’m significantly less enthusiastic about.

The thing about the trash piling up in our shed is that we have no idea how it needs to be sorted. I do know, however, that I don’t want any food waste left in the house when we leave, which means figuring out how to sort our trash and when it needs to be picked up. That’s probably a “tomorrow us” problem.

Everyone Rides the Bus

For now, it’s time to head into town for lunch. We walk down to the bus stop just on the other side of the junior high school and wait. An old woman walks up to the bus stop as well. We all bow in acknowledgment, and I gesture for her to get in line ahead of us. She bows again and moves to the front.

The bus pulls up. Armed with our Kitaca cards, we get on and make our way toward town, watching folks get on and off along the way. I look around the bus and take in the sights. I want to know who rides the bus here in Japan, and as it turns out, the answer is everyone—young, old, rich, poor, mothers, fathers, foreigners, children. Everyone.

In America, public transit carries a negative connotation. Somehow, we’ve associated it with specific demographics that are deemed unsavory by another very specific demographic. We don’t prioritize it or even try to make it more efficient or functional, and as a result, everyone in America who has taken public transportation seems to have at least one negative story or experience involving buses or trains. Here, it’s just part of daily life, and I think it works particularly well because of the level of mindfulness baked into Japanese culture.

At one point, the bus was full, and an elderly woman with a cane got on. I stood up and offered her my seat. She bowed in appreciation and sat down. One of the things I resolved when we arrived in Japan was that we didn’t want to be the kind of foreigners who are oblivious to the needs of the community and the people who live here.

The thing no travel blog or travel guru tells you is the unwritten rule that as a foreigner—especially one who cannot quietly blend in (I am 6’2”, 300 lbs., and white; there is no blending in in Asia)—you are constantly being watched in public. Probably more than everyone else. So, what do you do about it? Don’t give people a reason to hate the space you’re taking up. Dress modestly, act right, and don’t be rude. The unofficial mantra is that we are ambassadors of our country and guests in theirs. Don’t give anyone a reason to think all of your nationality is awful.

I digress.

Something Familiar

We got off the bus and decided that today we wanted to eat something resembling home, so we went into Otaru Station and enjoyed a nice, sit-down lunch at Burger King. Afterward, we got back on the bus and headed home, just in time to greet the delivery driver from DCM. He smiled, and we helped him unload the truck.

All told, there were a lot of things: two bed frames, two mattresses in boxes, four pillows, heavy winter comforters, a matching duvet, and pillowcases. Joy and I hauled everything upstairs and started putting it together. The humidity ticked up a bit, and I was sweating just standing there. It wasn’t hot, but when the humidity touched my skin, condensation happened.

Midwestern Communication

Confession time: I grew up in the Midwestern region of the United States. Culturally, this means there are two fundamental truths about Midwestern men that I don’t think anyone outside the region fully appreciates. First, it is socially acceptable—and expected—to bitch about doing things. It’s not that we don’t want to do them; it’s that if we can’t bitch while doing them, how are we supposed to communicate later when we’re standing in the garage drinking beer with our friends?

It’s a game of one-upmanship to see who had the worst day or experience. If you’re out there smiling while mowing the lawn, assembling furniture, or even just going to work, people will wonder what’s wrong with you. Are you some sort of psycho? Nobody wants that. Jeffrey Dahmer was a Midwesterner who didn’t bitch about anything, and deep down, it unsettled everyone. We all knew he was hiding bodies in his freezer.

Second, we absolutely must brag about how much money we saved on any particular deal. It doesn’t matter if it’s a case of ranch dressing that will live in the back of our Ford Fusion all winter (the added weight helps with traction on icy roads, too); if we got it on sale, we have to brag about it—for the same reason we have to bitch about whatever project we’re working on.

Deep down, I think this unsettles my partner to the core of her being. Her own Protestant work ethic, while not dissimilar to my Midwestern one, is different. Where I must bitch about everything, she puts a smile on her face, puts her head down, and powers through. You don’t talk about it; you just do it. Quietly.

So, this usually means I assemble while she hands me tools and parts. It’s a good arrangement, but it creates a bit of friction we’re both aware of. I try to temper my bitching, and she tries not to ask too many questions. Still, moments happen. While I’m putting together an important framing piece, the little hex key slips from my hand and hits the floor. (I hate the term ‘hex keys.’ They’re Allen wrenches, not whatever marketing term someone clearly named Allen invented—I’d be proud if a whole series of tiny wrenches that everyone hates were named after me. Screw you, Allen.) I grunt and mutter, and Joy immediately jumps into action, asking what’s wrong because she wants to fix whatever caused those noises to erupt from my face. I’m now annoyed because I have to stop my train of thought to answer her, which derails a whole other thought process, and things snowball from there. Suddenly, we’re having a deep conversation about my physical and mental health, which is doing absolutely nothing to help me assemble these beds any faster.

Normalcy

I’m pretty sure Joy eventually got up and decided to attend to something she’d meant to do elsewhere in the house. I can’t say that I fully recall her leaving, just that she was absent from the room after a while. After the Don Quijote incident, we learned when to give each other space when the other is overwhelmed, and that’s what she needed in that moment. I respect that.

Three hours later, the beds are fully assembled. We have nothing else to do for the rest of the day, and life returns to a slower, more low-key pace. I took my first shower in the new house, and it felt glorious.

I don’t remember what we did for the rest of the night, but I do remember crawling into bed—our beds slid together—under real blankets, in our designated room, in our house. It felt perfectly normal.

It was a good, mundane day that gave us a glimpse of the rich life we’re building here, and that was amazing.