It is like clockwork now, these plane rides across the Pacific. They are as familiar to me as riding in a car to the doctor’s office in Spartanburg. I am currently on the plane, and I couldn’t wait until I got "home" to tell the first story of my return.

Obviously it will take some adjustment to slip back into Japan-mode. After going so long without using the language, my vocabulary recall is not as shit-hot as it used to be. When I got to my seat and realized it was a window seat and not an aisle seat as I requested, I decided to go ahead and sit in the aisle seat, reasoning that whoever was assigned this seat would oblige me after I explained my bladder situation to him or her.

When the true occupant of seat 31-A approached, he was a Japanese man who spoke very little English. I attempted to explain my situation, but unfortunately I never learned how to say "I have a very small bladder" in Japanese. (Note to self: Must learn how to say "I have a very small bladder" in Japanese.) All I could squeak out was, "Watashi wa toire ikemasu." (I go to toilet.)

"Ah," he said.

I pointed to the window seat. "Is the window seat okay?" I said, in Japanese. He looked at me quizzically, and at that point I knew I had either said something wrong or I had a booger, for the looks people give me on those two occasions are often the same.

The Japanese flight attendant was standing near us and overheard. "You just asked him if he was a good circle," she said. (Note to self: Mado = window. Maru = circle.) "Besides, everyone has to sit in the assigned seat for security purposes."

Damn. Bad news for the bladder.

He waited patiently as I gathered up my carry-on and book and retreated to the window seat. I was going to protest, but I decided to be a good little circle and just shut the hell up.

And now I really have to piss. Bad.

What a strange weekend.

I was met at the airport by Byron and Jeremy, my two best buddies in Japan, who claimed they didn’t recognize me at first because of my short Flock of Seagulls haircut and my now-girlish figure. Byron said he recognized my guitar first.

There are just too many details to put on here, so I’ll narrow it down to a mere few lines: Friday night we went to Nishinomiya beach for Auzzie buddy Aaron’s sayonara party. Was accosted by several former students, one of them being Michiya, the bicycle salesman who smells and can’t speak enough English to fill a paper bag. He was really tanked, and when he saw me he nearly dropped the log he was carrying on my foot to embrace me. The smell of sho-chu and B.O. almost knocked me down. Brings back memories.

Sunday we went to Aaron’s second sayonara party (when did he become so popular?) in Amagasaki, my old stomping grounds. Saw the old gang in one place, sitting around a table with our shoes off ordering nomihoudai (all-you-can-drink). Just like the old days. Amagasaki is still the same old stinky shithole, as Heather always called it, where the only nature to be seen and appreciated is the lone tree outside the train station and a petulant flock of pigeons that peck all the dog turds on the sidewalk. It was so good to be back.

Did I really just spend the last seven months at home recovering from an illness? After a few days with the old fellas I feel like I never left… like being at home was a long and complicated dream involving a lot of needles and Jello brand snack-paks.

Unlike the old days, this time around in Japan I find myself navigating the trains like an old pro. Before, I got lost approximately twice a day, sometimes in my own apartment building, but this time I am hopping on and off trains like Frogger on the logs. Of course, this time I am living in Osaka where there is enough English on the train schedules to help me get by. Before I was living in Kobe, where the only English in the entire city was a Nakamura’s menu, which I got translated and gave to them just so I could learn what was on their damn menu and wouldn’t have to keep ordering raw squid by mistake.

And of course, the roommate situation now makes the old one seem like a Turkish prison. I am living with my old buddy Jeremy, whom I worked with at Amagasaki and sang many a karaoke duet with back in the day before my voice earned me the nickname "Bea Arthur’s Mini-Me." (I gave that nickname to myself, actually.) I know he will be an outstanding roommate for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I’m fairly certain he will not try to bonk guys I am going out with. After my last roommate in Japan, that is refreshing.

I told mom about my living arrangements only days before I came back. I knew there would be a lecture about living with someone of the opposite sex. She mustered the most menacing look she could, stuck her fist in my face, and said, "Keep it platonic, kid."

Yes, mom.

I went back to my old apartment in Kobe, Notorious #602, a few days ago for my old roommate Simona’s sayonara party. She was the best roommate I had while in Japan. She never insulted Americans, she never talked crap about me behind my back, and she never tried to bonk any guys I was going out with. (Those roommates shall remain nameless.) The apartment was the same. It was like I never left. The same bathroom bulbs were burned out, the sink still smelled, and the balcony view was still breathtaking.

Simona was the exact same too. We went to a bar in Sannomiya and while I chatted the evening away with my old friend Sam (who only ever talks about airplanes and pooing) she proceeded to get plowed. They ended up kicking us out after she broke a couple of glasses and knocked over some chairs as she fell off her bar stool (three times). She puked in the cab on the way home and then passed out on the cold, hardwood floor of the apartment while talking to herself. Ah, just like the good old days.

Jeremy left yesterday for Tokyo and now I’m hanging out in the apartment by myself drinking a few Chu-hi’s, working on my laptop and listening to the sirens outside.

Just like the old days.

I have been here just shy of a month and have already had three doctor’s appointments. Since I now live in Osaka, it is not feasible to travel a couple of hours to go back to my old hospital in north Kobe, even though I’d love to see my old doctor, Dr. Yamamoto, the strange little muppet-like doctor who really took me under his wing last year. My Japanese isn’t that great… I’m still at a low-intermediate level, but stick me in a doctor’s office and my fluency is almost outstanding. Funny how I can say in Japanese, "My thyroid cancer was a papillary carcinoma and since its removal I have been on 125 milligrams of replacement hormone therapy," but I am always forgetting how to ask what time it is.

Sunday evening my old coworker Karen and I will be going back to Ohama, one of our favorite little hangouts in Amagasaki, to see all the "girls." We will be the only foreigners, the rest are all people we met while teaching English. I’m sure this, too, will bring back a flood of memories. Sachiko will be there, the dirty old lady who likes to teach me bad words in Japanese. I’ll let you know what I learn on Sunday, provided it is appropriate enough for my dad to read.

Jeremy and I have been roommates for almost a month and my predictions were right. He is a great roommate and has not yet made any romantic gestures towards any guy I might be interested in (although this probably has more to do with his heterosexuality than with his kindness as a roommate). He doesn’t even bitch about how I don’t do dishes much. He just does them himself. He’s a saint, I tell you.

It’s no Amagasaki, but Rokkomichi, my new school, is pretty cool. I slipped back into my old teacher-mode like not a day had gone by. I taught a student the other day named Akira, a 40-something bachelor with a funky pair of glasses and a distinctly Western attitude. He’s a jazz concert promoter and plays trumpet in a band. I asked him what concerts he’s promoted here, thinking I would never have heard of any of them (Japanese jazz is not exactly at the forefront of my list of interests). He said a few names, no one I’d ever heard, of course, and then he said, "Hubbie Hancock."

"Who?" I asked.

"Hubbie Hancock," he repeated, and wrote it down on a piece of paper.

"Herbie Hancock?! Oh my God, really?" I said.

"Yes, we are good friends. When he come to Japan we always get together and pray some tunes," he said.

It was a comment I never expected to hear out of a Japanese person’s mouth. It was damn funny.

I was sitting here studying Japanese a while ago when I found the word "ben" in the dictionary. In Japanese, the word "ben" means the following: 1) convenience. 2) transportation service. 3) dialect. 4) feces.

Jeremy and I laughed our asses off. He said, "You mean every time we’re speaking Osaka-dialect we’re also speaking Osaka-feces?"

"Yep, and every time we go down to Sunku’s for Chu-hi’s we’re apparently going to a feces-store," I said.

Ah, Japan. These are the things that make me love studying the language. Just think of all the feces jokes that are gonna come out of this one.

Well, our quaint little town of Amagasaki is now on the international map. Just minutes from my apartment there was a massive train wreck the other day. The whole world must’ve heard about it because I got several emails and calls asking if I was okay. I am happy to report that none of my friends were on that train, but sad to report that the death count is around a hundred and still climbing. A train wreck is highly unusual in Japan, and one this devastating is almost unheard of. The trains are the most reliable thing in this country. My friend Byron said, "They can’t depend on the sea because of the typhoons. They can’t depend on the land because of the earthquakes. But by God, they can depend on those trains." Well said.

I was studying Japanese again tonight when I asked Jeremy, "Hey, you know how ‘binto’ means box lunch? Well, ‘bentsu’ means bowel movement."

"Oh yeah?" he said. "Well, they have a lot in common." It cracked me up. I know how he feels. I’ve been here a month and a half and I’m already sick of tuna onigiris and Chu-hi’s, which I would’ve killed for when I was home in the States. Jeremy’s been here a few years. I can’t imagine how sick he must be of Japanese food. (See, I knew some more feces jokes would come out of our study of Japanese.)

I have now been here long enough that my slovenly ways are starting to infect Jeremy. Our trash is piling up pretty high. It was funny watching Jezzer lift up his long leg and stomp his big foot down on the trash to pack it down. "See? It’s not full, we have loads of room," he said. So now we have a little joke about the trash. It’s kinda like on that episode of The Simpsons when no one wanted to take the trash out and Homer would precariously place a banana peel on top to balance it just right so that it wouldn’t fall, because if it fell that would mean he’d have to take the trash out.

I hope we never get that bad. But Jeremy does have an awfully big foot, so maybe we’ll save some money on trash bags.