7 November 2003 (12 Kheshvan 5764)
I never imagined that there could be a worse torture in Japanese public transportation than noisy (and stupid) announcements coming from loudspeakers and metallic noise of rock music leaking from head- and earphones, until I experienced the overuse (or abuse?) of perfume by a female passenger sitting beside me on my trip by Shinkansen between Kobe and Tokyo this week. Since the seats, including mine, were all reserved, and there was no vacant one where I could escape, I had to stand for almost three hours the worst torture I had ever experienced in Japanese public transportation. On the following day I found my neck rather stiff; it did not take me a long time to realize that this was due to the fact that I maintained an unnatural and asymmetrical posture to keep as much distance as possible from the source of this olfactory "noise".
In ordinary situations of our daily life olfactory "noise" constitutes a worse torture than auditory or visual "noise" when we cannot distance ourselves from its source, e.g., when we are sitting in reserved seats. Visual "noise" is the easiest to cope with; you have only to close your eyes. Auditory noise is not unsolvable, either; we can either ask the maker of the noise to stop it, use earplugs or protect ourselves by listening to your favorite music with head- or earphones.
On the other hand what can we do against olfactory "noise" except for leaving its source physically? But when we do not even have this choice, we are left with no choice other than suffering from the "noise". Even if someone notices that he or she is disturbing others with his or her "noise", there is nothing he or she can do except for leaving the place physically, which is not always possible. Carrying a gas mask or wearing it in public is still very rare.
Although I do not like nor have fallen in love with women with thick makeup, they do not bother me as long as they are not my girlfriends. But those who put heavy perfume are liable to torture me. As their sense of smell becomes gradually paralyzed, they may use more and more perfume without even noticing that they are bothering others and with the reverse effect of distracting people instead of attracting them. Can someone propose non-perfume sections in public places and transportation systems? The smoke of cigarrettes, which I also detest, is not the only source of olfactory "noise".
14 November 2003 (19 Kheshvan 5764)
At this time of the year there is one thing that has been giving me the same kind of "headache" every year since I started teaching in a few universities in Japan in April 1994. It concerns the selection of textbooks to use in my courses in English for the new academic year starting in April.
First of all, the abundance of choices can often be a curse rather than a blessing in life in general and in the selection of books in particular, especially when we have to choose one out of so many as quickly as possible. Furthermore, we can never dispel the doubt that we might have missed something better since we could not check all the available choices. Every time I am invited to some TEFL-related event organized, e.g., by the British Council in Osaka, I realize that TEFL is a huge industry of which Hebrew would not even be able to dream. We are drowning in the sea of English textbooks published for this lucrative market called Japan. A large number of inspection copies I receive from publishers every year would not constitute even one millionth of the whole reservoir.
A more fundamental reason for the "headache", however, seems to lie somewhere else. Since my courses in English are obligatory ones, students are allocated purely mechanically, regardless of their level of proficiency. This leads to what I consider one of the worst problems of TEFL in Japanese universities; with no placement test, all the students, including those who do not need further study, are mechanically required to study English for two years. As a result, good and bad students are all mixed up in one class. Worse still, we can never know in advance what the average level of those who are allocated to our courses until we actually start teaching. Under such a circumstance, how can we choose textbooks that will suit our potential students? If these courses were at least elective, we teachers could predetermine a target audience and choose appropriate textbooks accordingly; those students who find the courses too difficult or too easy have only to leave and try somewhere else.
To make all English courses elective may not be so practical, but it will be possible at least to divide students on the basis of their proficiency into several levels, including exemption from further obligatory study, which does not preclude participation in elective advanced courses. To give the same thing equally to everyone regardless of his or her ability is not necessarily equality; true equality would be to give each and everyone something that befits him or her most according to his or her ability.
21 November 2003 (26 Kheshvan 5764)
At the age of 40 it is rare to experience something one has never experienced before in one's life. Such a thing, however, happened to me this week. Quite surprisingly, I was proposed by an Israeli friend of mine to make a fictitious marriage. Although I myself once proposed marriage to someone I was head over heals in love with when I was 29 (and unfortunately was rejected), I have never been proposed marriage by someone who is not even my steady girlfriend, and a fictitious one at that.
My initial reaction when I received this proposal by email was the thought that something must be wrong with my reading comprehension, with her or with both of us. So I checked the sentence in question again and again, but there seemed to be nothing wrong with me. Although she added to explain that she wanted to help me get a permanent visa to stay in Israel even without a job, and she is quite attractive in many respects, I naturally declined her proposal courteously, thanking her for her good will to sacrifice herself for me.
Although I am not so desperate as to make a fictitious marriage in order to live in Israel, her self-sacrificing friendship (without anything romantic) touched me deeply.
28 November 2003 (3 Kislev 5764)
Kobe is my favorite city in Japan. It is for this reason that I live here in spite of the fact that I teach in Osaka and Kyoto. I cannot say, however, that I know the city well enough except for the city center, though I have been living here for almost six years. I am more or less familiar with the eastern part of the city as I pass through it by train four times a week, but the western part remains mostly a terra incognita for me.
I had a chance to get acquainted with this unknown part of Kobe in a most unexpected way. This week I went out drinking in Osaka with two friends of mine who also studied in Jerusalem and came back to Japan some time ago. We did not pay attention to the time as we enjoyed shmoozing. When we did, it was around twelve midnight. We rushed to the station. I somehow managed to take the last train bound for Kobe. Unfortunately, I fell asleep in the train, and when I woke up, I was in the eighth station after the one where I was supposed to get off; it is located in the westernmost part of Kobe. Of course, there was no train at 1:30 AM to go back to the city center, nor could I afford to pay $50 to take a taxi. I had no choice but to return home on my own.
Even though it is only about twenty minutes by train, I had no idea how long it would take to come home from there on foot. Anyway it seemed a crazy idea to go on foot at that time of the day. So the first thing I did was to find some deserted bicycle. Fortunately, I found one but with almost flat tires near the station. Thus I started my unexpected journey, which turned out to be much longer than I had imagined, mainly because I have no sense of direction. When I managed to arrive home, it was 4:30 AM, three hours after I had left the station. I was totally exhausted, but I was quite happy as I had a chance to see and feel the unknown part of Kobe, though in a strange way.