The 2,000 Kilometer Trek Across Japan For Tohoku

For those not used to the metric system, 2,000 kilometers is around 1,200 miles.  That's how far my husband and I drove in a 1956 Ford F-100 last week.  Cart before the horse--again.  Let me back way up.

When I first came back to Japan in late March 2011 to volunteer with post-disaster relief work I didn't know of this man who would play such an important role in my life.  Fast forward six months, an ex-boyfriend living in Tokyo tells me, "Got someone I want you to meet."  I'm not thrilled by these meetings he springs on me, mostly because my ex and I are just learning to get along again after a 20 year "we're not speaking to each other" phase and I'm not convinced I can read him.  Born gambler that I am, I agree to go meet mystery man and my life is forever changed.

It's September 2011 and I need a visa sponsor in order to stay in Japan to continue my work.  It's not supposed to be this hard to find a sponsor, is it?  Offers fall through, people who swore they would move mountains for me don't, and I'm annoyed and angry and confused.  Mostly angry, though.  When my ex tells me "this is the guy" I mentally roll my eyes.  But, (exhale) I'm desperate.  So, on this fateful day I plunk myself down in front of this man and start talking.

I'm not six sentences into my request and he says it.  "You need a visa sponsor?  You want to keep working up in Tohoku?  Sure.  No problem."

That's it?  Yes.  That's it.  We became fast friends.  I think the world of this man.  Truly.

And, it's precisely because I think so highly of this man that when he tells me he's loaning me his 1956 Ford F-100 for me to continue my PR work in Rikuzentakata I don't dare say no.  We go over details, me making sure, twice and three times, "You're really okay giving up this truck?" and getting the same answer every time.  "You won't blend up there in this thing.  Not that you do now," and here he guffaws.  "The truck itself is PR.  People will know it's you, and people will know what you're doing, and this thing alone will get reporters up there."  He's right about the part this truck will not blend.  Reporters?  I'm not convinced.  "I'll put a giant sticker on the doors with a saying....something about Rikuzentakata.  That should make it doubly hard to miss."

At the end of this conversation, I have agreed to drive this truck from Kyushu, the southern island of Japan, all the way up to Rikuzentakata, some 2,000 kilometers away.  By myself.

Which doesn't happen.  I don't dare drive this thing alone.  Too many men cried foul, or more specifically, "You're a girl!  You can't drive that thing all by yourself!" not mincing words.  I want to spat, "Don't be an ass" but don't because I've just been told by my visa sponsor that this truck should "probably not be driven over 80 kilometers (50 miles) per hour."  You've got to be kidding me.  "And, don't break down on the road because we don't have any spare parts."  Right.  This is going to be a very long drive.

So, I recruit my husband to make the drive with me.  He's up for these types of adventures--one of the many reasons I married him, and we embark on this trip, our second honeymoon.  With one remaining request to my sponsor.  "Does the truck have a GPS?" I ask him.  "No.  Why?"  Here, I ponder how forthcoming my answer should be, but decide he will find humor in my honesty decide to come out with it.  "My husband doesn't like the way I give directions."  It's true I have this tendency to say things like, "Oh, you wanted to turn .... there," pointing to the road on the left as we whiz by.  (My husband hates this.)  "I'll get you a GPS," my sponsor is spot on.  "Otherwise you'll fight."  I didn't actually say that we'd fight but I choose to compliment him on his keen skills of observation and graciously accept the free GPS.

And so we drive.
And he's right.  This truck does not blend.  Cars that blitz past us slow down, gawk at the truck, read the sign and wave.  And take photos.  And roll down their windows yelling, "Hang in there!" and "Good luck!" and "We're still thinking of you!"  A guy on a Harley passes us and gives us a thumbs up.  This happened all the time.

At rest stops every hour and a half (because this thing was a beast to drive) we'd inevitably come back to the truck with people snapping photos, looking in the windows.  When we'd walk up, there would be silence at first, and then some brave soul would ask if either of us spoke Japanese.  I had this terrible cold that week so I sounded horrid but covering my mouth squawked out answers to all of their questions.  And listened to their stories.  This too happened over and over.

It took us four whole days to drive from Kyushu to Rikuzentakata.  We didn't fight.  We made it.  I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.  My sponsor is right about how much press this truck will get, and in turn the city I work in.  I'm grateful all over again.

For Dawn

My Facebook page has been riddled with comments from those supporting and opposing the US Supreme Court's impending decision on gay marriage.  I have friends with strong opinions on both sides of this argument.  Both sides are convinced they are right.  That's part of the problem but not the one facing me right now.  My dilemma has to do with how to explain this critical ruling to those here in Japan.  Let me explain.

Homosexuality in Japan, for all practical purposes is a non-issue.  As in, I know no one in Japan who has come out.  Let me restate this:  of all the Japanese I know here, there's no one who is openly gay or lesbian.  Does this mean I run in a limited circle of people?  Do I have, say, ten friends?  Twenty?  No.  I know a large number of people.  I hobnob with many different groups ranging in age, income, interests, political beliefs, etc.  That no one I consider a friend, co-worker or acquaintance has "come out" says something.  Being openly gay in Japan is still a no-no.

Certainly, there's a trend in the Japanese celebrity community that include a significantly large number of transvestites.  Others are transsexuals.  They're wildly popular, this group.  Some are gay, openly stating their preference for men.  This is okay.  This is the world of television and hype.  For normal men or women, however, to prefer the same sex is not okay.  That's real life.  In real life, you marry, have babies, and live like normal people.  Gay in Japan?  No.  Not here.

If I post a banner on my Facebook page, the red and orange flag I see so often, I will get asked the question, "What's that?"or "What's that for?"  And, to that, I say what? 

"I support the rights of those who are gay to marry." 

It's a simple enough answer.  Except, here in Japan it's not.  Just last week after two years here I was asked for the first time about the fact I did not take my husband's surname.  To the question "That's okay in America?"  I answered, "Yes."  I knew my answer didn't register.  Why didn't I take his name?  Why wouldn't I take his name?  There's no simple answer that would make sense here in Japan.  I don't like fumbling my way through questions like this.  My answer to why I support those who want to marry their partners, regardless of what sex they are puts me clearly in a position where I oppose many of my friends and relatives.  I can live with this.  Trying to explain this concept to those here in Japan is an entirely different matter.

Surely there are those around me who are gay and lesbian here all throughout Japan.  What must it be like to have to remain silent?  Are they married?  Do they have children?  Are they happy?  Would they come out if they could? 

I've put a lot of thought into what I would say if I were asked why I support gay marriage.  Here's my answer.  As I see it, there are two reasons why there's so much opposition to the idea of gay marriage.  First, the Bible (evidently) says homosexuality is an abomination.  Among the things we're "not" to do, we're not to "be with" someone of our own sex.  Or, so (evidently) the Bible says.  My problem with those who take this passage and say, "See, it's wrong" is that I don't see these same people saying, "See, lying, infidelity, premarital sex, not loving your neighbor, taking the Lord's name in vein" and every other "sin" is "equally wrong."  I wasn't taught that one sin is worse than another.  A sin is a sin is a sin.  And, while I'm at it, let me throw it out there.  Slavery was okay in the Bible.  If we read the Old Testament literally we should all be keeping Kosher.  Women are to stay silent in the church, right?  Working on the sabbath?  Aren't we supposed to get stoned for that?  Then there's my favorite:  men aren't to covet their neighbor's wife (wives?), slaves, sheep (or animals/possessions).  Right?  It doesn't say women can't covet.  Be careful what you say about taking the Bible literally.  I get to do it if you get to do it.

Then there's the second reason.  (I'm going to get graphic for a moment.  Skip down to the next paragraph if you don't want sexually explicit details.)  I honestly think if it weren't for the fact those of us who are straight can't get over the sexual images we assume take place during acts of love making/sex among those of the same sex--men giving each other blow jobs, anal sex between men, and women going down on each other--if we could some how disconnect these images from the discussion, then, and here I can see plenty of friends I know saying, "we'd all be fine."

But, we can't.  I know plenty of men who can't get over the mental imagery of men taking part in sexual acts with men.  This is what's not okay.  This combined with religious dogma and you've got a very powerful argument against anything having to do with homosexuality here in Japan as well as the US and other countries.

The roots of homosexuality in Japan are not steeped in religion.  There's no common knowledge Christian dogma here on how the Bible calls homosexuality an abomination.  Trying to explain why this topic is so charged in the US is difficult when there's no religious basis from which to build the argument.  In fact, I'd be very concerned over how the Christian God would be perceived in trying to explain all this to the Japanese around me.

There's a Japanese word I love.  The word is kechi and it means small, petty, cheap, persnickety, trite and all of the above.  In short, it's not a personality trait to strive for.  For me, it comes down to this.  My God is not kechi.  My God doesn't hold a score card, keeping tabs of each good deed ("star for you here") and each bad deed ("X for you here").  There's no tallying when I die.  I imagine my post-death conversation with God to be something like this.
"Did you try?"
"Yes."
"Did you fail?"
"Yes."
"Did you try more than fail?"
"I think so.  Yes."
And here, I'm hugged.
"Good girl."

I can't explain to those I live alongside here in Japan any of this without making Americans sound like a collective group of whiny, uptight, self-righteous, "I'm right and you're wrong" religious fanatics, a group of people who can't get over mental images of what they perceive "gay sex" to be.  Not the way the argument is going now.  I don't want to do that.  I don't want to portray a god, your god, any god as being kechi.  For those in Japan for whom coming out is a non-issue (as in, it can't happen), what a foreign book of rules has to say is so incredibly irrelevant it's insulting to those who are trying to live with their secret. 

My friend Dawn wrote something on her Facebook page that said something to the extent, "Seeing all these banners make me feel supported."  So, this is for you, Dawn.  I support you.  I will stumble my way through trying to make myself sound coherent all while not trying to destroy the perception I project about those American Christians who are opposed to gay rights and gay marriage.

Spring Baseball

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On this first day of spring, I am standing outside watching two elementary school teams play baseball.  It’s freezing, grey skies threatening to break open pouring down buckets of what will surely be cold rain.  In the baseball field before me boys aged eight through twelve battle each other with skill and strategy.  Proud parents stand around in what I can only describe as a combination of holding vigil and controlled cheering.  Every inning brought on new questions and insights.  Today I’m an observer of an entirely new phenomenon:  baseball.

How is baseball a new phenomenon?  I’ve grown up playing it, I’ve gone to games, I have my opinions on which team I’m loyal to.  Today’s baseball game was, simply put, different.  What I have to say about these two hours would make for an interesting thesis, my cultural observation radar picking up signals from all directions. 

First, I notice the difference in the coaches.  The one shouting instructions to the team I’m here to cheer on and watch is a friend.  His voice carries in the plastic megaphone, and I hear almost a gruffness in his voice.  It’s not that he’s angry.  It’s more that he’s being, I suppose, commanding.  Like a father you dare not disobey, the boys take every command with a hearty “Yes!” as if they’re honored to be spoken to.  The coach for the other team is almost kind, contrasting the two styles in a way that surely no one will miss.  He compliments the boys, cheering them on, encouraging, throwing in a suggestion here and there.  My friend does not compliment.  Neither does he out right scold, but he is not at the moment exuding “nice.”

I ponder this.  On one hand, even those who are not parents should be able to see the benefit of encouraging children.  We thrive with encouragement.  The difference between a kiss on the forehead followed by a “good job” and “the look”, silently admonishing while forewarning what might happen with mouthing back—these personify child psychology 101.  Kids simply do well, better when encouraged.  I wonder why my friend, the coach on our team isn’t fuzzier with his warmth.

But, I get it.  Once these boys reach middle and high school, there will be no warmth from their coaches.  I assume my friend is slowly working towards thickening the boys’ skin, especially the older ones, so once they hit the rigid hierarchy of the real world they will be prepared.  I see the coach’s point.  The mother instinct in me kicks in right away, and I want to say, “Let them be boys as long as they can.  They’re just kids.”  The truth lies somewhere in the middle but this is not my call to make.

Then there’s the difference in the make up of those of us “in the stands.”  Support for “their” team is comprised of mothers.   Only mothers.  I see no dads watching this game today, even though it’s a national holiday.  Our team has more dads than moms.  This fascinates me.  All of the dads are out on the sidewalk chain-smoking, sure not to be on school property lest they defy the sacred baseball field.  They’re standing or squatting off school property, their cigarette smoking sometimes blowing towards us, and at other times away from us.  The women are inside the green mesh wall separating the field from the sidewalk.  We’re careful not to be too loud, but clap with every strike, hit, and run scored by our team.  We cluck quietly with every walk offered by our pitcher, every successful base stolen by our competition all the while making sure the boys don’t hear us.  The dads on the other hand, all baseball players themselves, call out to their boys.  At one point a dad behind me warns the third baseman (base boy?), “He’s about to steal!” when the boy on second base is about to make a run for it.  Their voices half-scolding, “Come on!” and half-complimenting, “Nice catch!” are silent only when the other team does something well. 

The mothers on our side all shivering with hands in pockets wonder together what happened to yesterday’s sunshine and warm breeze.  Soon we see two dads bring out long canvas bags.  I know what these are.  We’re about to get wind protection.  I’m secretly thrilled.  Any barrier from the cold will be a welcome relief.

Four of the dads erect an open-air hut—a gazebo without walls—but then I see each dad take a long leg-pole holding up this canopy and walk towards the head coach and the team.  The dads look as if they’re carrying Cleopatra herself as they march over placing the protective cover over the men and boys.  No relief for us, evidently.  We’re only the moms.

I mention this only to say the coaches on the opposing team are out in the open, standing on the sidelines with a constant stream of comments to the players.  The mothers, however, are standing under a similar canopy-concoction.  Protect your women, right?  Of course our dads will value the comfort of the coaches over that of the cheering mothers, myself included. We’re all here for the teams, coaches and players alike.  You’re cold?  That’s your fault.  Or so I imagine the dads’ reason collectively.  

The boys themselves out in the field seem to be calling out something to each batter in the box.  I can’t make out their words.  I can’t even tell if I don’t get what they’re saying because:  1). this is “baseball talk” which I don't speak, or 2). this is yet another version of the local dialect, or 3). between those whose voices have changed and others with higher ones there’s an octave difference making it difficult to hear.  Certainly it can’t be me who doesn’t get it.  Of course not.  I assume it’s something similar to what I’ve heard American baseball players say, their “Hey batter batter batter” which in hindsight actually sounded more like, “Heeeeey, batabatabata.”  I ask one of the dads later and he confirms I’m close. 

“The boys are saying, ‘Hey batter, hit it to me.’”

“Is it a taunt?” I ask.

“No, it’s not that.  Maybe a distraction.  When you hear that from seven different directions it can be a lot of noise to block out.  There are some teams where the boys will say, ‘Hey batter, I’ll bet you can’t hit it to me.’  The coaches are supposed to stop that, though.”

The other team didn’t call out the same phrase.  Theirs stopped at “Hey” but here the chorus of “Hey”s coming from every which direction at complete random intervals was distracting, even for me. 

I could write much more about this day, but I’ll leave you here, buzzing still with the calls of the boys, coaches, and dads ringing in my ears.

What I Really Think: The Ipponmatsu Debate

Let me be clear.  I'm not writing on behalf of Rikuzentakata City Hall, nor have they asked me to speak out on this topic, and this post is by me as an individual.  These are my thoughts, my opinions, my feelings. 

Today's topic is Rikuzentakata's Ipponmatsu.  Translated into English as the Miracle Pine, The Lone Pine Tree of Hope, and several other similar words strung together, it's about the one pine tree that stood its ground when 70,000 other of its tree siblings were washed away by the tsunami.

First, a brief history lesson.  Ancestors of those living in Rikuzentakata now planted pine trees meant to serve as a tsunami barrier along the coast of Hirota Bay, the ocean facing an expansive flat land leading into the town.  This was in the 1600s.  More pine trees were added to this initial planting, and over the past 300 plus years, the number grew to 70,000.  Paths were created so lovers could stroll at dusk.  Park benches were strategically placed.  By all accounts, this pine grove was peaceful, beautiful, and serene.

The key word here is "was."  All but one of the 70,000 pine trees were blown to bits by the tsunami, sending large trunks into buildings, cars, and people.  Even today there is a large pile of this wood in town almost white now with two years of sun exposure and salt bleaching.  They remind everyone who drives past the mound of what was.

Ipponmatsu, the miracle pine is the one tree left standing.  Or, again, was. 

The short version is this:  this tree, the miracle, the lone survivor died.  Its roots steeped in salt water, the tree was declared dead in the fall of 2011.  The city spent a good amount of time deciding what to do.  On the one hand, the perseverance personified by this tree gave hope to those who were left in the town and to those visiting.  "Life goes on" is what it says.  "If I can withstand a massive wall of water, you can defy hardships as well" is the message it sent out.  The city could cut it down, the tree having served its purpose.  Or, it could attempt to preserve it.  But, how?  How does one go about "preserving" a 27-meter tree?  And who pays for this?

Politicians, businessmen, and visitors to Rikuzentakata made similar suggestions on their trips:  "Why don't you leave old city hall (or the gymnasium, or the library, or the museum) as a monument?  That way people can come here for generations and see what the tsunami did.  It would be like Tohoku's version of the Hiroshima Memorial."  There's some sense to this.  Showing just what the tsunami did, that there was a beat up, bent out of shape car in the lobby of city hall mixed in with chairs and desks and broken glass, that the floor of the gymnasium was covered with several inches of ocean sand with various kinds of artifacts and debris strewn around the floor--this would show the power of the waves, that a robust evacuation plan is a must, that every city everywhere must put time into creating a strategy for how to survive a disaster.  What these same politicians, businessmen, and visitors did not take into account is this:  people died here.  For those still living in town who lost family members, friends, and colleagues, these grotesque buildings are reminders.  Every time they see the gaping monuments they're ripping off the band-aid keeping them together.  Save the buildings?  So others can visit and learn and understand?  What about those with band-aids?

The problem with the analogy with Hiroshima is that no one who made the decision to keep the dome in its place is left to ask how these decisions were made.  Similarly, almost all of Hiroshima was wiped out, hundreds of thousands of lives lost.  It was war.  No apples and oranges comparison here.  Apples and spaghetti, maybe.  War and tsunamis are both disasters.  Apples and spaghetti are both food.  The comparison ends there.

Rikuzentakata City Hall decided to preserve the tree.  The cost for this was unprecedented:  preserving the tree required new technology, multiple processes, and a task no one had ever undertaken in Japan to date.  The price tag is somewhere around 1.5 million US dollars.  That's a lot of money for a tree.  Yes.

Critics say, "If you're going to raise that kind of money, why don't you build temporary homes faster instead?"  Others have said, "You're creating a cyborg."  Still others have said, "You're taking away money from other projects donors might give to."  Here's where I roll my eyes.  Dear people.  Do your homework before you cast stones.  Please.

The only criticism I might agree with is the "cyborg" comment.  Fine.  It's no longer a "tree."  So what?  The tree died.  Would it have been better to cut it down and leave a gaping hole, a stump that would rot, or a plaque reading "here's where the miracle pine was"?  That provides hope?  To whom?  How?

True, the cost for the preservation of the tree is steep.  But, as far as I'm concerned those who don't live here, who don't have to muster up faith and hope and the will to go on need to back off and take a seat.  The Metropolitan Government of Tokyo just spent a huge amount of money luring the Olympic Committee to host the 2020 Olympics.  I live in Tokyo.  As far as I can see, we're fine here.  We don't need tourist yen injected into our city to survive.  Why is no one writing about that?  Where are the reporters (foreign and Japanese) who question whether this was a justifiable or smart use of funds? 

If money was being taken away from other projects, if donors all of a sudden stopped showing up at Rikuzentakata City Hall offering assistance all because of the Ipponmatsu I, too, might question whether all this publicity on one tree was a good thing.  This is not the case.  I've personally worked with organizations still interested in helping the city.  Right there is proof money is not drying up.

As for "build temporary houses faster".... oh, honey.  You really have no clue, do you?  We would be building homes faster if we could.  Typical of what the city faces is this:  thirteen months from three government ministries for paperwork approval to build public housing.  That's the problem.  Not a tree.

Without selling papers, magazines, finding and keeping sponsors for television and internet news, the media can't and won't survive.  I get that.  I do find it rather tedious and tiresome, however, that some reporters have to go out of their way to butcher a story to guarantee sales.  It's the name of the game, I suppose.  Sad, really.

Tales from Rikuzentakata: "That's All I Did."

No spin.  No embellishing.  This is a story without preservatives.  Made with all natural ingredients, it comes straight from the front lines of disaster-stricken Rikuzentakata. 

Teiichi Sato is a man who looks like he chops down trees in his spare time.  Barrel-chested, salt-and-pepper hair flying in all directions, he's quick to tear up and quick to recover.  He's one of the victims-turned-survivors from the tsunami that wiped away the City of Rikuzentakata, his store and home included. 

Mr. Sato will be the first to admit his mind did not belong to him for a month after the tsunami took away everything he owned.  "I wasn't myself.  I didn't know what to do.  My mind?  It was white.  Like that screen on television, black and white static.  I had nothing."  Today, he is the proud owner of his seed store selling literally seeds and seedlings.  How anyone can stay in business selling only seeds, competing with the giant box-stores selling the same seeds for less--this is a mystery to me.  I don't ask questions.  His income, he tells me is "Less than what most people make around here" but this doesn't seem to bother him.  Personifying stubbornness, a fierce will to live, and commitment to survival, the hostility he showed to his customers two summers ago when he was working through this PTSD is all but a memory.

"I wanted to get this story out from inside me.  That I rebuilt this store, if you can call it that....that I rebuilt it from scraps of debris that I found all over town.  That I rebuilt my store to show that even someone normal like me can start over.  That even someone like me who lost everything can still live.  I wanted to get this story out but it was too painful to write it in Japanese."
I nod as I listen.
"So I wrote it in English.  And then Chinese."  Here he drops the bomb.  "But I don't speak, read, or write English or Chinese."  He laughs.  "So, I looked up words in the dictionary one after the other, and then started putting together not knowing at all whether my English was correct.  Then I heard of an English teacher who was holding classes here in town once a month and I asked for help.  He and I worked through my manuscript, polishing it so it was presentable.  And then I published it.  It's not high prose, but it's readable."  He says this as if it's no big deal at all to write a book in two languages he doesn't understand.  He did the same thing with the Chinese document.  "Dictionaries are really helpful," he says, nonchalantly.  "Get a native speaker to check your work, and" he claps his hands together, "just like that, you've gotten out what was pent up inside.  That's really all I did."

That is most definitely not all he did.  It never occurred to me here is where I would found the one person I know in my life who wrote a book about a terrible and painful experience in two languages he neither comprehended nor ever used.  The result is a short book revealing grief and hope in ways only he can retell and capture.  I won't spoil it for you.  Don't buy it if you're not interested.  If you are, however, here is a true, first-hand account of a victim who turned himself into a survivor out of sheer will.  Read and weep as many have. 

Please contact me at amya@city.rikuzentakata.iwate.jp if you are interested in purchasing a copy.  Each book costs 1500 yen.  You will need to pay via bank transfer.  I will provide you with details.
It's worth it.  Take my word for it.

More Firsts in Japan: Pulled Over by Cops

The memorial services marking two years since a giant tsunami tore apart most of Tohoku are next week.  This means the hotels along the coastline are booked with press and visitors.  That means I'm staying in a hotel far inland, and hour and a half each way to Rikuzentakata City Hall where I work.  I'm okay with this.  I listen to books downloanded onto my iPhone as I drive safely tucked in my car in my own personal space.  With no one around me this is precious alone-time I crave. 

I'm deep into my book, listening and driving when my other phone rings.  I see it's someone who's in New York City and know I need to answer this call.  Not having time to unplug my headset, type in my password and stop the recording, log into my other phone and plug in my headset, on a whim I pick up the phone and put it to my ear.  One hundred meters down the road, I see a blue car pulling up next to me, hear a honk, look in my review mirror, and a few seconds later see it's a police car.  Crap.  Not good.  A cop is saying something to me over the loud speaker which I don't really hear--I'm talking on the phone after all--but I get the gist.  I'm busted.  I don't curse the way I would normally, not wanting to mystify the person in New York with my foul language but tell him I have to go and hang up on him.  I see a young officer in the mirror jump out of the cop car, come to my window which I roll down, tyring to smile as he says, "You can't talk on the cell phone."  I nod.  "Please bring your license and your phone and follow me."  Oh joy.  This is the first time I've ever been pulled over by the police in Japan.  I push aside the temptation to record this new experience as an anthropologist might, observing the process and noting it for future generations, instead deciding to be humble, obedient, and cooperative.  I will not pick a fight the way I've been known to with Tokyo cops.  I will not.

I sit in the back seat of the police car as the driver-cop says again, "You can't talk on the phone while you're driving." 
"I know," I reply and decide not to apologize right off the bat.  Clearly, my not-so-pleasant experiences with Tokyo cops not entirely out of my system, I sense in myself the combativeness starting to ooze out.  "Control yourself" I say in my head.  He takes my license, reads my name and asks if this is me.  "Yes."
"This will be a fine.  That's it."  Here, I decide this is his way of saying I won't have points shaved off my license.  I've been told of this dreaded points-system, something every driver fears.  I've heard rumors about a license with points increasing my insurance rate, delaying the ability to obtain the coveted "Gold License" showing what a wonderful driver I am.
"Thank you," I say showing I am indeed capable of being remorseful and appreciative.
"You can pay your fine at any bank or the post office."
"I understand."
"What do you do here?"  For a split second, I contemplate whether I should offer up my title at Rikuzentakata City Hall or say I work for my visa sponsor.  I go for the former.  "I'm the Global Public Relations Director for the City of Rikuzentakata."  The cops look at each other.  Are they contemplating whether this qualifies for an exemption?  In the States, I've been known to conjure up tears when I want to get out of a ticket.  It's worked and I'm not adverse to using this method to prove how sorry I am, worthy of a warning but not a fine.  I've been told this won't work in Japan and decide not to tempt fate although I'm positive I could make myself cry on cue if I absolutely had to.  Before I complete this thought I also realize in giving them my title, I must now inform the mayor, deputy mayor and several other people in city hall of this traffic stop.  I immediately start writing the e-mail in my head, appropriately apologetic, explaining why I took the call, etc.  I can visualize the mayor, half-annoyed and half-amused laughing as he tries to scold me.  City hall will be buzzing with this news when I arrive tomorrow.  Great.

I'm handed the form I'm to take to the bank or post office to pay my fine.  I lean in, looking at it.  I decide to try something.
"I've never been stopped in Japan so I don't know how to do this," I say, and then, "Can I pay this at any bank?"
"Yes," the driver-cop tells me very politely and I wonder if he's just a bit sorry he pulled me over.  I allow myself a quick fantasy about how he'll have to explain to his superior who will surely read my title and yell at him for "not finding a way to let her go."  A girl can dream.
"Once you pay the fine, that ends everything.  It's not like you'll be on trial or anything," and here it takes everything I have not to crack up.  A trial?  For talking on a cell phone? 
"I see."
"You must pay this by March 11th," he says, pointing to the date on the form.  "This much," he says, pointing to my fine.
"I will."

They go over the paperwork, ask to see my phone, take down the model number (I kid you not) and then ask, "Was this a work-related phone call?"  I decide I will give them all the details.  That I've been playing phone tag with this man who's now in New York, that this has to do with children in Rikuzentakata, assistance for them, etc., etc., etc.  (Just a few guilt-inducing facts in case it registers.)  Maybe I'll end up on some list of people not to pull over?  Again, a girl can dream.

"Please sign here," and I'm handed the form which I sign.  And then, "And here," he points to the space above my signature, "Explain why you took the call."  I look up from my signature blankly.  He understands my confusion.  "Say that you had an important call to take, that it was about work."  Oh.  I get it.  I explain myself in the best Japanese handwriting I can muster up, adding for good measure the call came from the US.

When it's all done, I take the rest of the drive slowly and continue writing the e-mail to the mayor in my head wondering just how much of a scolding I'll get.

Life in Japan.  And so it continues...