One of the questions on the English questionnaire I gave to all my new students asked for "Your future job" and "Your dream." I told them anything was okay for their dream, it didn't matter how far-fetched. Although a few kids said their dream was to be a pro ball player or a singer, the majority of students filled out both lines with the same thing: clerk, cook, beautiful wife, etc. There is something undoubtedly depressing about seeing the line, "Your dream: Office lady." Yet there is also something refreshingly honest about it. I work at a non-academic high school, which means most students will go to a junior college, if they go to college at all. No one even aspires to go to a national university; when I asked some of the other English teachers about it, they were emphatic: "Not from this school." As someone inculcated with the idea of The American Dream -- anyone can be president! -- this seemed shocking and kind of mean.

But on the other hand, if my students aren't embarrassed about their future jobs as O.L.s, if they feel they are accomplishing what they can with their given skills, isn't that better than feeling ashamed because you are a janitor and not a senator? I was reminded of this recently when I visited Meiji-Mura, an architectural museum with various amusements, including a track where you could ride around on a modern version of one of those olde-tyme bicycles with the big front wheel and tiny back wheel. The man who ran the rental stand was dressed in a suit and had perfectly neat hair. He was courteous and kind and could ride those bicycles (which were really very awkward) like nobody's business. He had a pride in his work that I admired, a pride surpassing my own feelings about my objectively-more-respectable job. I doubt he would have written, "Your dream: Olde-tyme bicycle rental man" on a questionnaire given to him in high school. But then again, I wouldn't be surprised if he had.

Happy Children's Day! I celebrated by going hiking, which -- since I don't live next to a mountain or drive a car -- involved an hour-long bike ride each way. I may now have calves of steel. On the way back, we stopped at an onsen, which was packed with kids and babies. Watching a bunch of babies happily splashing away in what is basically a giant bathtub is a pretty great way to spend Children's Day, I have say.

In honor of Children's Day, I decided to review a candy I normally would never buy because it's sold with the kids' candies, a section which includes things like Ultraman gummies and Hello Kitty lollipops, invariably displayed from around knee height down. But within the enormous bag of snacks I won at the sushi party, I found this: Chocoball Apple Pie, which promises, "It's like having a piece of apple pie with vanilla ice cream..." above a very-'50s picture of apple pie a la mode. I was intrigued.

I had seen the line of Chocoball products before, but never trusted it enough to try it. I blame the mascot, a big-beaked bird named Kyorochan. For some reason I cannot currently explain, I just didn't like her face, which always looked a bit smug to me. Why should a wing-less, flight-less, scarf-bedecked bird look so smug? I thought. But now I understand. It's because she has invented a chocoball candy that's like having a piece of apple pie with vanilla ice cream. It's pretty incredible, actually. In a tiny ball of white-chocolate-covered crunch are the subtle tastes of apple, cinnamon and vanilla, neither too sweet nor artificial, with the crunchy center providing a sort of pie crust sensation. It even smells like apple pie. Kyorochan, I salute you.

Once again, Japan has provided me with a bizarre, Wonka-esque candy experience, but this time it is actually good, a realization of all the candy fantasies I had while reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when I was a kid. From now on, I might have to start getting eye-level with the kids' candies more often.

In December it will snow more than it has in 60 years. You will stare out your apartment window thinking, Yes, real weather. This is why I moved away. You will trudge to work listening to the Peanuts Christmas album and everything around you will seem so very quiet, softened by snow. You will think of great swathes of marshmallow.

In February, still huddled next to the smelly kerosene heater you are trapped with in the living room, never venturing into the other, unheated rooms to do more than quickly pee or wash dishes, you will wonder how long this can possibly last. It won’t be snowing, but a fierce and ugly wind will pummel you on your bike ride home, sometimes combined with giant spattering drops of rain which you cannot protect yourself against because it is not humanly possible to hold your umbrella upright in that wind. You will attempt it once; your shoulder will ache for a week before you realize why. You will, on a fairly regular basis, curse the wind as well as Ibuki-san, the mountain from whence it came.

In March you will take a wonderful, glorious trip to Los Angeles, where the sun is as yellow and sweet as a Meyer lemon. Everyone there will complain about the unseasonable cold. You will chortle, thinking of your apartment, remembering the first time you saw your breath inside. While you are away, it will snow in Japan. In March. Snow. You won’t want to go back.

In April everyone will tell you how wonderful April is, the cherry blossoms, the cherry blossoms. But during the week the trees are in bloom, the wind will blow and the rain will pour and then everyone will tell you how the cherry blossoms are all going to fall down in the rain. You will scowl your way to your first hanami, cherry-blossom-viewing party, because it is cold and the sky is gray, making all your pictures of cherry blossoms look dull. You will curse Ibuki-san, just for good measure.

In May the people who told you April was wonderful will now say May is the best month, really. The first day of May will be warm and perfect. You will wear short sleeves and relish the sensation of sweating. During Golden Week, you will have a solitary picnic in the sun next to a pond, reading magazines and loving the world and its inhabitants. But then: rain. Gloom. One day after another, broken by only the occasional weak-sunned day. And now there will be nothing to look forward to, that’s it, all the presents have been opened, because June is the rainy season and July and August are horrible, hot and sticky and dotted with typhoons.

You will be demoralized by this weather, the prospect of another month and a half without sun. You won’t sleep well. You won’t be able to write. You will sit in your apartment, staring out at the soggy day, thinking about how much you miss your boyfriend and how nothing is right with the world. It’s the weather. The weather.

You will decide there can be nothing better than spending the rest of your days under a Meyer lemon sun. The thought of this reward, like the promise of a lovely piece of cake if you’ll take just one bite of your brussel sprouts, please honey, will propel you through another year of weather. This No-Thank-You Bite of weather.

With the recent dismal weather, I needed some candy to cheer me up. Specifically, I needed candy presented by a flightless bird named Kyorochan. It’s true—while once I was annoyed by dear Kyorochan, I have now come to love her lack of wings and penchant for wacky costumes. When browsing the kids’ candy aisle, I couldn’t resist the Chocoball Gateaux Chocolat, mostly because the package featured Kyorochan dressed as a painter. With a beret. Holding a fork in her beak instead of a paintbrush. Ostensibly in an apartment in Paris. But the cake in the tableaux is missing, apparently because it has been whisked away to Japan and turned into Chocoballs.

Gateaux Chocolat comes in various packages, undoubtedly to trick small children into tricking their parents to buy more than one pack of the exact same candy. Having no children, I was forced to trick myself into thinking I also needed the package featuring Kyorochan pondering the clouds, thinking, “I found a cake cloud.” (At least I think that’s what it says.) You may not be surprised to hear it tasted the same as the other package.

But that taste was…yummy! Good, not-overly-sweet milk chocolate covering a crunchy chocolate center. A package was just enough to eat in one sitting, a sitting spent crunching and staring at the picture on the front. Which is probably how a lot of kids eat Chocoball, come to think of it, except they most likely sit there imagining Kyorochan’s jet-setting life in Paris, whereas I know the picture was actually taken in her Tokyo apartment which they just decorated to look like Paris for the shoot.

It should be noted I had to wait five minutes for a three-year-old girl to make her candy choice before I could get down on my knees to browse the kids’s candy. Her dad, standing nearby, kept asking, “Are you ready?” and she kept shaking her head no. I pretended I was looking at the gum until she finished. I can't fault the girl for taking her candy seriously.

It should additionally be noted that I just looked up the word kyoro and found out kyorokyoro means shifty or restless. It’s possible Kyorochan is evil after all.

My most recent purchases.

I have a problem. An addiction, actually. Every time I leave a recycle shop, I find myself with a new set of tiny plates or bowls. Considering I can't very well go back to the U.S. with five suitcases full of crockery, it's a rather ridiculous habit.

How did this happen, you ask? I blame it in part on six months without thrift stores. I've been a regular thrift store patron since high school and have always used my at-least-monthly visits to dispel the desire to pick through a jumble of inexpensive and potentially amazing goods. But I didn't visit my first recycle shop -- Japan's answer to the thrift store -- until I had lived here for several months, so my first half-year here was a barren time spent running my fingers over shiny rows of nicely-displayed, truly amazing and fantastically expensive goods. I was like an archaeologist at a natural history museum: admiring the clean, well-lit bones but missing the thrill of the dig.

Now that I know the location of three recycle shops in biking distance, I make the trek whenever I have a sunny weekend day. I've found an old, low writing desk, a small go (Japanese chess) board which I use as a bedside table, a bright red kimono printed with black and turquoise cranes, several hand-painted wooden dolls, an abacus. But really what I've been buying are small plates and bowls. Like, a lot of them. And I know I won't be able to stop myself from buying more in the future.

How many tiny plates and bowls can one girl possibly use, you ask? The answer -- according to my crockery-addled logic -- is A LOT, at least if you are cooking Japanese food. In a traditional Japanese meal, every dish is served in individual portions on separate plates or bowls, so if you have the basic combination of soup, rice, pickles and two side dishes, that's already five pieces per person. Add to that the fact that you are supposed to use different dishes in different seasons (glass bowls, for example, are often used in the summer to evoke coolness), and you've got yourself a dangerously towering pile of tableware.

What are you going to do with all of it when you leave Japan, you ask? An interesting point. As there is no question of me leaving it behind for the person who will live in my apartment after me -- not after I dug through all those jumbled piles, made all those bike trips with an outrageously heavy basket, escaped from that creepy man who kept squeezing by me in the narrow aisles -- I have taken to additionally stockpiling packing materials. A year from now, my dishes are taking a sea voyage; I hope they'll be ready.

At least they'll have plenty of company in that box. Assuming it's only one box.

Cybele at Candy Blog posted today about Gimme Your Stuff, an international-swap blog. I'm interested in sharing the Japanese love, so I hereby offer the following:

+ Japanese candy (see the candy archives for ideas, though I can't guarantee everything is available).
+ Japanese fashion and craft magazines.
+ old kimonos.
+ funny t-shirts with bad English. (Though clothes run 1 or 2 sizes smaller than in the US and Australia.)
+ cute socks.
+ stickers and stationery.
+ cotton fabric, trims, buttons, etc.
+ ...the list goes on. If you're interested, contact me with what you want and I'll let you know if I can find it.

In return, I'd like regional food products from where you live; food or craft books/magazines from your country; craft supplies from your country; basically anything interesting I couldn't find in Japan or the U.S.

Please note: I take no responsibility for your enjoyment (or lack thereof) of candy containing large amounts of rum and/or beef. Thank you.

UPDATE: I am no longer living in Japan, so the comments for this entry are closed.

It's raining, I've been stuck at home all day with severe back pain, my weekly massage was just cancelled* and I'm out of Almond Chocolate Fried. I doesn't get much worse than this.

Until Christian missionaries from Spain and Portugal began arriving in Japan in the 1500s, fried foods were unheard of, as oil was not an ingredient normally used in Japanese cooking. But, happily, this nanban ryōri ("southern barbarian cuisine") was embraced, leading to such delightful inventions as ebi fry, tempura and Almond Chocolate Fried.

Part of me bought this candy for the sheer thrill of purchasing a food so prominently labeled with the word "FRIED." There are no KFC-like euphemisms here; fried foods are called agemono, fried things. No one is pretending these almonds weren't bathed in oil at some point, and I appreciate the honesty. Other selling points were the description ("Big fried almonds coated with rich chocolate, indescribably delicious!") and the promise of a "Fragrant & Tasty" candy. Those are my two favorite features in a food, you know.

A giant almond that has been fried, coated with a crisp sugar shell, then cloaked in a thick layer of milk chocolate tastes a lot like chocolate with a giant hunk of toffee embedded in it. This is a good thing. I believe it was wise of the candy-makers to wrap each piece individually in foil because otherwise it would be too easy to eat the whole package in one sitting. One deliciously fried, one-quarter-of-your-daily-caloric-intake sitting.

* I've been tutoring a Japanese masseuse who wants to practice speaking English so she can work with foreign customers. All I have to do is speak in English to her and I get a free hour-long massage every week. Best. Trade. Ever.