Traffic safety is very important in Japan, for bicyclists as well as drivers. All cyclists are required to have headlights on their bikes. It's also illegal for people to carry umbrellas or talk on cell phones while riding a bicycle — ordering a pizza while riding your bike down a crowded sidewalk isn't likely to end well. So we were pretty amused by the guy we saw riding his bike a few nights ago. His bike had no light, save for the penlight in his hand, which he bobbed side to side as he rode. Not a legal solution, but one that got the job done — we could all see him coming.

On my way back to the office last week, I had an unusual cabbie. For one thing, he was chatty, unlike the other Japanese cabbies I've encountered. For another, he looked very much like one of my bosses back in Washington, if my boss had been Japanese rather than of Mediterranean descent. It was the second time he'd been my driver, and both times I noticed the resemblance immediately.

Occasionally, we come across Japanese versions of familiar faces from back home. What's interesting about these occurrences is that they cover a wide variety of Western features. My boss looks nothing like an old client, American Idol-era Clay Aiken, or Steven Spielberg, yet we've seen Japanese versions of each of them. And, as a general rule, Japanese features are pretty homogeneous, so it's not like we're keying off of similarities in hair or eye color. It would be easy to say it's a trick of the mind, that it comes from needing some connection to home, but the first J-Clay sighting occurred while we still lived in America. The likenesses must come from somewhere more fundamental than that.

Anthropologists and ethnologists probably have researched this phenomenon and come to some conclusions about why we see the familiar in the apparently unrelated. For us, the non-scientists, it's just a part of the ongoing adventure — who are we going to see next?

Even though I've lived here for almost a year, I'm still dealing with my stash of completely impractical shoes on a daily basis.

You see, while my Doc Martens combat boots, open-toed strappy sandals with three-inch heels, and knee-high zip-up boots are perfectly fine for an American life, they're not so great in Japan. Living here means taking your shoes off whenever you enter your house, someone else's house, and many restaurants. Most Japanese wear simple slip-on shoes or low shoes like oxfords that can be tied loosely enough to slip off and then on again with the aid of a shoehorn (everyone has a shoehorn). Mules and ballet flats are popular choices for women. They're often worn with very short socks so that when you take them off, you're not walking around in your bare feet or sticking them in community slippers.

I, on the other hand, am usually the last one into or out of the house or restaurant because I need to unzip or untie my boots. "I'll catch up" is my new mantra. The three-inch heels are generally fine, but being open toed, they don't really lend themselves to even tiny socks (although that doesn't seem to stop the Japanese). After an ego-destroying trip to try buying pants, I haven't tried to purchase any kind of clothing in Japan, so I'm still working with what I brought, practicality be damned. Also, I love my shoes, so they're staying.

Why shouldn't a car wash be tiny and pink?

In Japan, nothing says "Now Open for Business" like a big colorful target-on-a-stick:



These signs were announcing the opening of a new hair salon. Seeing them always makes me want to play Katamari Damacy so I can roll them up.

Shortly before I left Washington, I had dinner with a couple of friends. One of them had lived in Japan as a child, and she spoke of the strong sense of community that pervaded Japanese society at the time. It still exists today, as evidenced by things like the yakudoshi ceremony, the call for volunteers to man the neighborhood recycling collection point, and the reminders that keeping the parks clean is everyone's responsibility.

It's also evident in the neighbor gifts. When a family moves into a house in a new neighborhood, they make the rounds to introduce themselves and say hello. They also bring a small gift to each of the new neighbors. It's a nice custom, albeit one that could, at times, take the new residents by surprise. Our new neighbors did a double-take when they came by last week. I don't know whether the foreign face or the loud woofs and massive dog heads caused it. We exchanged pleasantries and they gave me a small wrapped gift — and one more link to the community.

Convenience stores equal convenience food. Hence, grilled-ham-on-a-stick:

Because we eat rice for breakfast most mornings, we like some variety in our toppings. Matthew usually eats some combination of nattou, soy sauce, and aonori (finely ground seaweed that comes in a shaker), maybe with an egg, while I have umeboshi or milk and honey. Now, thanks to one of his students, we have a brand new bag:



It's Gohan Desu Yo!, literally "It's Cooked Rice!" Gohan Desu Yo! is a seaweed-based condiment, lightly sweetened and flavored with small amounts of fruit and other stuff. You scoop it out of the jar with your chopsticks and mix little bits of it in with your rice for a nice, savory, seaweedy flavor. It's pretty addictive; I was actually glad to get off my milk-and-honey kick so that I could eat it. It's also a lot of fun to go around saying Gohan Desu Yo!

We both already wear glasses, so we don't need to worry about this happening.

According to a common stereotype, the Japanese are a reserved, unfailingly polite people. They are loath to disrupt harmony, and consequently refrain from saying things that could offend someone, even to the point of talking completely around a possible point of contention. So it's always surprising to me when we're showing our small photo album from America to people we meet, and one of their first comments is some variation of: "Wow, you guys used to be kind of chunky, didn't you?"

In America, such a comment generally would be regarded as clueless at best and completely boorish at worst. Here, those topics seem to be rather common bits of small talk, along with your apparent state of health. "Hey, you're not looking so good these days. How's the family?" Then again, I'm sure there are things Americans talk about openly that would take a Japanese person aback.

We're not offended by the questions, and are in fact kind of happy that people ask them ― it makes us feel more like part of the community and less like outsiders. Although I'm not sure what to make of the door-to-door solicitors who exhorted me to hang in there (Ganbatte ne!) after learning that we have no children. I suppose it's a step up from the usual condolences about about our presumed infertility.

Hey, remember this bit of bloggery from way back?

One particular type, however, strikes fear in me as an American: loudspeaker trucks advertising candidates in upcoming elections.

Well, the campaign trucks started making their rounds yesterday morning, driving back and forth across the bridges spanning the Waga River. They are manned by multiple people: one drives, the others take turns announcing the candidates' names and requesting votes in the most formal of Japanese registers. And the non-drivers wave to passersby, their fluorescent-jacket-clad arms sticking out of the windows. All day long, and into the evening. The past two days, multiple candidates' cars have been out at the same time, resulting in a cacophonous mingling of messages. At one point late yesterday, they were competing with the ishiyakiimo (stone-grilled sweet potato) truck.

Campaign laws in Japan apparently limit rather strictly the number of printed materials and television and radio ads that candidates can have. As a result, they focus more on building local support by direct interaction. And using the loudspeaker trucks. Fortunately, the campaigning only lasts about twelve days, so we'll soon be back to the normal sounds of Kitakami.

If I could vote, I'd vote for the ishiyakiimo guy.