Chinese tourists taking pictures of American women in a Japanese festival. That was my Sunday.

A small community recently welcomed us in and allowed us to become one of their own. Apparently, this also means that during the down time between the most difficult, hot, drum-riddled parade I've ever taken part in and more drumming/cheering as the world's largest tug-of-war took place not twenty feet away, my friend Mary and I would be asked to perform in front of all of them. “Karate, do karate,” they coaxed, smiling and pushing us toward the center of the crowd. “But I've only been to san (three) classes,” we stuttered in broken English, “Iie. Iie. Sukoshi!” No. No. Only a little! They tried to pull us in two or three times and finally we couldn't avoid it any longer. We scouted out the two young women who we had met in karate class and had first introduced us to this happy group of families from the Tsuboya neighborhood (hidden down a cobblestone street in the heart of the largest city in Okinawa, Naha, the Tsuboya district has been the center for Okinawan pottery since the era of the Ryukyu Kingdom and is also the location where I currently throw a few pots a couple times a month). Maiko and Hiroko reluctantly joined us in the open circle as dozens of our new friends looked on, smiling and clapping.

The day began at 8 a.m., after the pleasant/death-defying/now familiar fifteen minute bike ride along the city streets connecting our neighborhood, near the school, and the aforementioned district o' fun. A few women stood at the front of the community center, below a curtain of white and blue uniforms, dressing young girls and boys. As they helped Mary and I into our traditional Japanese attire, I couldn't help but be reminded of the mothers that had helped me and my little ballerina friends prepare for the next dance competition backstage when I was a child. The longer I'm here (which hasn't been long at all), the more I realize how little difference there is between America and that foreign place of your choice (of course, not in all instances, but anyway). Besides signs I'm not sure about, a language I can barely understand, and a culture I'm still getting to know, it's like any other place at its base. So...I guess I might as well have moved to Tennessee.
At the other end of the day, after hundreds of thousands of people had pulled a forty ton, 200 meter long natural fiber rope for nearly twenty minutes, we won. The crowds lept onto the rope, cutting off good-luck pieces to take home, and dispersed. We jumped into the bed of a truck with twenty adrenaline-rushed children and ten or so festival-wearied adults. It wasn't your average truckbed, but we were certainly sardines for the short ride back to the community center on the other side of the city. I'd get into the story of the tug-of-war, the east and the west sides, with fourteen communities each marching toward Kokusai-dori (International Street) for the final celebration, the strength & skill required to perform the hatagashira (which the men did the entire walk from Tsuboya to the tug-of-war), or the ancient reasons for this post-harvest festival, but I wouldn't know where to start or what to tell. The parade had taken up most of the day and as I craned my neck around the little sleepy heads bobbing around the back of the truck, I could see the orange-pink-purple-and-blue sunset over the East China Sea as we passed Naha Port (despite the fact that I live on a very small Island, the city is busting at its concrete seams and there is very little as far as nearby beaches and ocean views go).

Two days later I asked one of my oral communication classes to discuss this festival, as it is the city's largest and most popular. These teenagers are spitting images of my high school classmates. Except if they aren't Japanese they're Chinese or Taiwanese, but anyway: bright, funny, tired, sarcastic, helpful...and often with too many other more important things on their mind (the test they just had or shortly will have, that guy or girl they ate lunch with, what their parents expect of them, the creeping closer college monster, etc.). No one had gone to the festival. Oh cultural paradoxes. They either live out in the suburbs, were hanging out with friends, or were studying to point of unconsciousness (which is usually the case, even in class). Needless to say, it was kind of a dud. But that'll happen now and again.

I went out to dinner a few days ago with some of my coworkers from the high school English department: Yukiko, Ken, and Trevor (beside Mary, Paul, and I there are two other foreigners teaching at the school, one being American Fad, and the other being Canadian Trevor). It was a Japanese buffet of soups, puddings, seafoods, meats, and vegetables galore and a low table at which we sat on tatami mats and talked for hours, chosen by dear Yukiko, my sister in small stature and dark hair (the students call us twins). Each dinner-mate taught me one useful Japanese phrase (I have so much to learn. Everything to learn.) and shared a story or two about their time at the school. At the end of the night, Ken (Kenney, 'cause he's cool) made the assertion, based upon everything I'd told them over dinner, that my three short weeks in Okinawa had been “dense” (I'm beginning to thoroughly appreciate the word-choices made by ESL speakers). And I would have to agree. I've fit well over three weeks of adventures and friends into my time here so far. I'd like to think my life is dense, has been and will be. Dense with good things. I'll keep working on that. I hope you get a chance to, too. Tutu. Toodaloo.

P.S. I love you. And more photos can be found in the links section to the right.