...my style was considered too 'dangerous'

This is going to take a while before it get's going so just bear with me guys. I'm going to rant a lot here and I know it's a controversial subject but... just deal with it. I'm really not trying to make a statement here - it's just something that came up in a conversation a little while ago and I want to get it off my chest (no pun intended). 

Let me start this off by saying I am by no means a feminist. Well, at least not the militant type. I guess you can say I am a believer in gender equality. I do believe that women can do anything if they put their mind to it and they deserve equal opportunities and equal wages. That being said, I know that men and women will never be - can never be - completely equal. That's just nature for you. We can change society but we can't change nature - we can't change who we are. Nature intended women to carry and nurture their young while men went out to hunt. That's how it's always worked and while stay-at-home dad's are becoming more common as time goes along (and there's nothing wrong with that) it's only natural for women to be more family-oriented and men to be more career-oriented. Genders have different roles to play and there's nothing wrong with that. We should just accept it as it is instead of trying to change something that's basically set in stone.

That, however, does not mean we should accept sexism. See, sexism and gender roles aren't the same. Sure, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference and there are people willing to grab their torches and pitchforks as soon as someone dares to point out the differences between genders - or dares to point out that there are differences - but those people are fanatics and I'm not going to go off on a rant about that. I honestly didn't plan to go on a rant at all but due to the nature of my story I feel like I have to. And that's sexism for you.

Yes, I know that both men and women are affected by it and I am aware that often we tend to gloss over sexism that's directed at men. We have debates about the wage gap, public breastfeeding and domestic abuse directed at women... while barely acknowledging that many domestic abuse victims are men. We all agree that rape is a terrible and serious subject... unless it's a woman raping a man - then it's apparently funny (I'm looking at you 'Wedding Crashers', you disgusting piece of rubbish). We glorify girls who are tough and fight to achieve their dreams, we admire them and look up to them while looking down on boys who cry. I could go on and on about how women aren't the only ones oppressed and how sexism works both ways but today I'm going to talk about me.

I think we can all agree... okay, maybe we can't but let's just pretend. Let's pretend that we can all agree that women have to deal with a lot more than men. We have to pay more attention to how we dress, who we hang out with, where we go and what we do - apparently it's a woman's job 'not to get raped'. We are the ones who have to make sure it doesn't happen. Not the men who - you know - actually do it. It's strange but it's true.

From a very young age girls are taught to be modest. We are taught to cover ourselves and not let too much show. If you wear clothes that are too revealing, too tight, too sexy then you're apparently asking for something... and that's your fault. I don't know about everyone else but when I shop for clothes I tend to label them in my head: too ugly, too prudish, too slutty, too ugh!, too girly... Sometimes I really like a dress or shirt or a pair of pants but I choose not to buy them because 'it would make me look like a whore' and I don't want to give someone the wrong idea about me. I know it's stupid. The clothes do not make the man - or the woman for that matter. Wearing a shirt with cleavage doesn't make me a slut - I'm still the same person acting the same way I always do - but still, I have to avoid looking a certain way if I don't want to be mistaken for a whore. And that's something men don't really have to worry about.

You might wonder why I started this rant and if it's actually going anywhere. Well, I'm getting to it... soonish.

See, I have a... somewhat curvy figure... and I like to wear clothes that show that off. I'm not trying to impress anyone - it just makes me feel good about myself when I look into the mirror and like what I see. Sadly, most of the clothes that suit my body and make me feel good about myself have cleavage... and when you have cleavage you tend to turn a few heads... and then those heads might make some rather crass remarks about your body...

Let's go back to Japan for a moment. The year was 2014 and it was Summer. Summer in Japan is super hot so for most of the time I would wear long, flowing skirts and sleeveless tops. I liked my clothes and by European standards they were pretty conservative. Not totally conservative but I wasn't wearing skimpy mini-skirts like all the Japanese girls around me. Apparently in Japan it's really popular to show off your legs so girls love to wear mini-skirts. And by mini-skirts I mean belts. Seriously, those skirts were so small you could literally see their underwear while they were walking up the stairs... or down the stairs... or just walking... or standing... or doing anything really. I didn't like to have random Japanese girls' panties in my face every time I went up the stairs but it was something I had to get used to. Nobody else seemed to mind so why should I... 

So one day, in Japanese class, I was sitting around in my long skirt and top when my teacher came up to me and said:

'Oh, umm... Grete... about your clothes... I feel like I have to say that your way of dressing is a bit... dangerous.'

I blinked and stared in amazement. I understood she meant that my style was too provocative and therefore dangerous for me but... why? I wasn't showing off my legs, I was wearing flip flops and my top - while it did have a stooping neckline - was far from sexy. It was just a normal summer top! I have never in my life tried to look super sexy or be very provocative. I just knew my strengths and weaknesses and preferred to show off the former while disguising the latter. 

'Here in Japan girls don't... show off their chest like that. I'm sorry, I don't want to offend you but since your mother isn't here I feel like I have to be like a mother to you and protect you.'

Uh... great... Yeah, that was really sweet... Except that it really wasn't. Why the hell were girls allowed to walk around practically pantsless while I had to burn all my V-necks? In fact, why was it anyone's problem what I was wearing?! It was hot, I was suffering and I wanted to have as little clothes as possible! But that was a big no-no. I was dressing too 'dangerously'! And that kind of ticked me off. Why wasn't I allowed to wear what I wanted? I was hot and it made sense to wear small tops (that might've showed off a little bit of cleavage). Why was anyone bothered by it? It was none of their business! 

After that I started realizing that apparently my clothes really were too 'dangerous'. I would see guys staring at my chest on the subway, at school, on the street... Thankfully this was Japan and me being a foreigner made me more scary than sexy. Like a flesh eating zombie with a nice rack - confusingly sexy but you wouldn't want to touch it with a ten foot pole. The stares were getting annoying though. I learned to live with it - it was really nothing new for me.

What was new was the time I was in Kyoto and a random middle school student ran up to me and took a picture of my cleavage. I was just standing around, taking in the wonderful view when suddenly there was a short Japanese boy in front of me. He had a camera in his hand, pointed at my chest. There was a small 'click' and before I could even react he ran off, never to be seen again. I didn't get angry. I was just confused... and surprised. Was my chest really such a big deal to deserve a photo? Well, apparently it was. Who knew. 

I can't say it didn't affect me though. Sure, I wasn't going to change how I dressed just because people were staring or warning me or even taking pictures. I loved my clothes and I liked the way I looked in them. It wasn't anyone's business how I dressed or how much skin I was showing. But still... Isn't it sad how a piece of clothing can turn a person into an object? How a shirt or a dress can be considered 'dangerous'? How I have to critically look over every article of clothing I have and decide whether it's okay to wear it outside? The worst part is that it shouldn't be my problem. My Japanese teacher was wrong: my way of dressing wasn't dangerous. An article of clothing can hardly be considered dangerous and me wearing it poses no threat to anyone. What's dangerous is the person who interprets my choice of clothing as a message. Who looks at me and thinks I'm trying to get attention, that I'm looking for something - or someone -, that I'm asking for... for what exactly?
I know I tend to wear clothes that may be considered too 'revealing' and I've gotten used to the fact that sometimes guys forget where my eyes are when they're talking to me. I don't even mind it that much anymore. What I do mind is people telling me I should change my style because it's either 'distracting', 'provocative' or 'dangerous'. Instead of me changing the way I dress some people should just change the way they think. Why don't we just spend more time teaching boys that no matter what kind of clothes a girl wears it doesn't mean she's easy or a prude. If a girl wears revealing clothes it doesn't mean you have a right to call her names, try to grope her or snap a picture of her breasts. I know sexism won't go away just because I want it to - it has always been there and will never disappear completely. But really, could we just get over the subject of clothing already? Can't we just all agree that women have the right to wear what they want without being treated as a slut or a prude or a weirdo by men and other women? No? Well... okay then... Guess some things never change...
I guess I should be happy though. At least I won't get stoned to death on the street for flashing my neck... and showing off my ankles isn't a public scandal anymore. Times have changed and I realize I live in a relatively liberal time. But for some reason I still feel like women have to deal with the same prejudices we've always had to deal with. I don't know if there's any way of actually changing that. Lectures don't work. Increasing awareness doesn't really do it. Radical feminism definitely isn't the answer. I guess... all we can do is start to improve thing little by little by telling our brothers, sons, friends and others to treat women with respect? Sure, yeah, let's do that. Oh wait, that would require everyone to agree that there actually is a problem and that's never going to happen. Not to mention that there are plenty of women who are bigger chauvinists than men. Women who do believe that a woman's place is in the kitchen. That a lady shouldn't go to a bar. That a victim of assault probably 'had it coming'. I would love to say that conservative homemakers are a dying breed but they're not. As long as there are people there are going to be chauvinists and sexism will always be around. Guess I should just be happy that I get to experience more freedom than a lot of my peers around the world. 

...it snowed on Christmas

'What? When was that?' I hear you all gasp in disbelief.

Yeah, I know. It's kind of sad, isn't it. I live in cold, cold Estonia - a frozen wasteland for most of the year. It starts snowing in October and if we're lucky the snow melts in April. But for the past few years there's been no snow on Christmas. Because that's just what the weather is like here. For the past few weeks it's been snowing, raining, snowing and raining again. Sometimes it doesn't rain or snow but the ground freezes over so everything is nice and slippery. It's the weather's way of saying 'I hate you and I hope you die but I'm not going to work super hard to achieve it.' Yup, Estonia: a place where even the weather is passive aggressively trying to kill you.

But let's rewind a bit and go back to Japan. 'Another Japan story?!' I hear you moan in disappointment.  Yeah, another Japan story. This is my blog so just deal with it.

The year was 2013 and I was in Japan. Christmas was approaching fast and the semester was ending. This meant that a lot of our friends were leaving Japan and a lot of others were going back home for the holidays. There was only a small group of us left which meant the apartment building was going to be pretty empty and quiet. I didn't have the time or the money to go back home so I opted to stay. That being said, I did feel a bit sad and uneasy doing it. A lot of my close friends were leaving the apartment building and I had no plans for Christmas - it looked like I might be spending the holidays alone and that was a whole new level of sad for me.

Thankfully, one of the Finnish girls - Minna - contacted me and proposed we hold a Scandinavian Christmas Party for the other students. I was all for it. After all, I didn't have anything else to do and I was pretty psyched about the fact she considered Estonia to be a part of Northern Europe. Take that, people who call us Eastern Europe! We're further north than Denmark! Also, take that, Denmark!

'Why don't we cook some traditional Christmas foods and invite everyone over,' Minna suggested, 'I'm sure you know some traditional Estonian recipes that everyone would like.'

'Yeah... let's do that...'

Traditional Estonian Christmas foods, eh? Umm... sauerkraut? Oh wait, that's German. Bloody sausages and black pudding? Pretty sure those are German as well. Meat... jelly...? Ugh, I wouldn't even know where to start with that and I haven't eaten it in ages. Pretty sure it's disgusting. I honestly had no idea what to cook because... it's pretty hard to find traditional Estonian recipes that are purely Estonian. Historically we were slaves! We didn't have food, let alone recipes! We ate twigs and dirt and the occasional rat on Christmas! Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad but seriously - Estonian cooking has a lot of German and Russian influences and to find something truly original is a difficult task. What exactly is a 'traditional Estonian dish'? Kama? Uh... sour cream? Rye bread? Sadness and misery? Pretty hard to plate that though... 

None of those things were freely available in Japan. In fact, if you want real sour cream in Japan you have to send out a 100-man search party and hope they return within a week. Or you can go to a bigger mall and spend an hour (at least) looking for it in the dairy section only to find a miniature packet stuffed between a box of sesame-flavored soymilk and some sort of weird string-cheese looking product that's apparently made of seaweed. Because most food products in Japan are either made of rice or seaweed.

Anyway, it took me a while to finally figure out what to serve during the Christmas party. I couldn't figure out any traditional Estonian foods that I could have prepared without an oven and with the raw materials available to me so I decided to do what I always do in these situations: bullshit my way through it. I made a salmon dip with cream cheese, smoked salmon and onions, cut up some rye bread and I guess we also had some mashed potatoes and meatballs. And mulled wine, I think... Honestly, it's all kind of fuzzy but I do remember the 'authentic traditional Estonian salmon dip'. It was great and technically it was a traditional Estonian dish because it was traditionally made by me - an Estonian. That's how it works, right?

So we got our stuff ready, spent half a day cooking and in the end we had a relatively large group of people attending our Christmas dinner. Everyone was sitting on the floor and eating off plastic plates but we were pretty content with it. At least we weren't alone and it wasn't as cold anymore. We listened to some Christmas songs and just enjoyed each other's company and in the end headed off to karaoke, like we always did. My memories might be a bit fuzzy but I'm pretty sure it started snowing as we were walking to the carwash-karaoke place that we always frequented. Pretty sure...

The snow was pretty much gone the next day but it didn't matter much. At least for a moment we had a white Christmas and that made Japan feel much more like home. Sure, a part of me still missed my family and friends but at least it felt like Christmas. What did not feel like Christmas was the karaoke. Sure, we sang some classic Christmas songs like 'All I want for Christmas', 'Last Christmas' (by Wham!!!!!!) and 'I'll make a man out of you' (What? That's not a Christmas song, you say? Well, I say it is and you can just shut your mouth when you're talking to me!) and it was great fun but it was definitely one of the more unconventional Christmas things I'd ever done... Not to mention that we preformed what must have been the worst rendition of 'What does the fox say' in human history. Truly - we took a snapchat and sent it to one of the student who'd already left. She hated that song... and we loved that. Oh, good times! 

But what was the moral of this story? No moral, really. I just decided to remind myself of simpler times. Back when the grass was green and... oh wait, it still is.... in December... a few days before Christmas... Oh well, I guess it's something we need to get used to now. Honestly though, even though I'd love to have a white Christmas it's not 100% necessary for me to enjoy the holiday. What's important is spending time with your loved ones, keeping old traditions alive and just having a good time. So yeah, even if it doesn't snow this year I'll still have a good time because I'll be spending the holidays with the people I care most about in this world. And that's all that matters. 

...I rediscovered the joys and horrors of driving

I got my driver's licence right before graduating from High School (technically). The year was 2009 (I think) and I barely made it. No, seriously. During the final exam there was a moment when the guy next to me turned to me and said: 'You know you could have killed us right now, had you moved even an inch further'. Yes, I knew. I also knew that I was a horrible driver. So how did I get my licence? Well, I had had a pretty bad cold a few days before the exam and when he was lecturing me on how reckless I'd been I couldn't help sniffling a bit. My eyes were also red and a bit puffy so I probably looked like I could start crying any moment now. I didn't feel like it - sure, flunking would've been bad but it wasn't going to kill me (reckless driving might probably do that) - but he didn't know that. I think he just felt sorry for me. Or maybe he was tired. In any case, he let me pass and I got my licence.

Did I have a car, though? Nope. Both my parents did but they drove automatics. I'd learnt to drive stick. But hey, it was easier to switch to an automatic. Not that I had many chances to go driving. Long story short: for eight years I basically avoided driving, doing it only a few times a year and even then I kind of sucked at it. I really, really hated driving. It just made me feel nervous and insecure and stressed out. So it was no wonder that when my parents told me at the beginning of Summer that I had to re-learn how to drive stick-shift, I was less than happy. I was downright terrified. Were they insane?! I could barely drive an automatic, let alone a stick-shift... But then again, I really needed a car and the only one available to me was a stick shift...

So one weekend my dad came over and promised to teach me to drive. It would be my first time driving stick-shift again since the day I got my licence... eight years ago. What could go wrong! Some say that it's like riding a bike: you never really forget how to do it. I wouldn't know. All I know that as I got behind the wheel and got everything ready I felt more than rusty. I knew that I should know how to do this but... my body was not used to three pedals... What was that third one called? A clutch? Ugh, what a stupid name for a stupid thing.

Honestly, learning to drive again kind of felt like my first days on the job. I knew I should've been able to do it. I had studied it before... And everyone else made it look so easy. In theory I knew everything I needed to do. But in practice... I was clueless. All the time I was driving my mind was going: 'Am I doing this right? I'm not, am I? I'm going to get myself killed. Why am I even doing this? Do people even realize how inept I am at this?' But nobody did. Or at least they didn't say so. My dad even told me I was learning fast... but then again, he is my dad, meaning he's prone to praise me.

For the first few times I was driving, my dad was sitting next to me, giving me pointers and just reassuring me that I wasn't completely messing things up. It worked out pretty well. So when I finally had to drive on my own for the first time I was understandably nervous. It wasn't a short drive either: three and a half hours from one end of Estonia to the other. That did not seem like a fun endeavor but it was one I couldn't avoid. I needed to get back home to Haapsalu and go to work the next day.

My first drive alone was... relatively okay. I didn't feel comfortable and was kind of terrified most of the time but I survived. I didn't enjoy a minute of it but I managed. 'Great!' I thought, 'Now that this is over I can finally relax and get back to my life.' Except that I couldn't relax. I had a car now. And my parents lived over 300 km away. If I wanted to visit them I would have to drive. No taking the bus anymore. I would have to accept the fact that I was the not-so-proud owner of a car and I couldn't just leave it sitting around uselessly.

The first few months were pretty hard to be honest. I barely drove anywhere but since it was summer I didn't really have a reason to. I drove to see my parents maybe once or twice a month and that was basically it. I went to work on foot, went to the store on foot. My car was slowly sprouting roots... There was this weird nagging feeling in the back of my mind, like there was a certain reason I wanted to avoid driving but I just couldn't remember it.

Fast forward a few months later and I finally realized why I wanted to avoid driving. I have road rage. And I'm a pretty bad driver. Those two things don't work well together. The road rage I got from my mom. I hate it when people who drive in front of me are going slightly slower than I am. And I hate it when people are driving behind me. Like in general. They don't have to be close or anything, just the fact that I can see them from my rear view mirror pisses me off for some reason. Get off my road, you ass!

Sorry... I just can't help myself.

I hate it when people drive their tractors on the road. I hate trucks. I hate it when people go 90 km/h on the highway (which is the speed limit but... come on! Nobody drives that slow unless there's ice or snow on the road!). I hate it when people go faster than 120 km/h (What's your hurry, jerk! You're going to kill someone like that!). I despise people who tailgate! Seriously, if you are one of those people you should just not get into a car. Ever. Take a bus! And I hate it when people are afraid to drive: so what that the roads are covered in ice, we're in the middle of a snowstorm and the visibility is close to zero - that's no excuse to go under 90 km/h! Oh yeah, and I realize that I'm a hypocrite because in the beginning I was insecure and afraid but... I can't help myself. Basically, while I'm driving I hate everyone and anyone who isn't me. Road rage turns me into a terrible person and I don't really like it.What's even worse: I turn into a lunatic. I start talking to myself while driving... like a crazy person.

'What? You're really gonna cut me off here? How's it feel being a piece of trash, you bastard?! Hey, hey, you in the red Subaru, why are you going so slow?! Get off the road if you don't know how to drive! And where are you in such a hurry, Mr.Black Toyota?! You're easily going over 110! I hope a dragon eats you! Or that you get pulled over! You're gonna kill someone like that!'

That's how I sound like when I'm driving... alone. When someone is with me I do try to keep myself in check but when I'm alone I just go all out. I don't like it. I don't like the raging madwoman who I become while driving. Sure, I might not be the sweetest or kindest person even when I'm out of the car but at least I'm calm and understanding... kind of... But when I'm driving I'm just ready to see the world burn. Especially cyclists. God, how I hate cyclists! But to be fair, I hate them even when I'm not driving. They are just human garbage who do not belong on roads. Any roads. I curse the man who invented the bicycle! It is the devil's vehicle - in fact, I'm sure the road to hell is paved with and ridden by bicycles. But that's beside the point.

One thing I did discover after I'd gotten over my initial fear of driving, was that I actually enjoyed it. Sure, long drives are still annoying cause I have to sit still for three hours doing nothing productive but at the same time it gave me time to relax. I don't have to do anything (other than drive, that is) and I can just blast my music, sing along and take things slow. I don't have to worry about my job or my apartment being a mess or anything else - I'm just in my safe little driving-bubble and until I reach my destination nothing else exists but me and the open road. It is kind of therapeutic. Even with my road rage there are times I feel like I'm floating on clouds and nothing else matters. Not to mention that I love the freedom that comes with having a car. I can go wherever I want whenever I want - no more waiting for the bus or looking for a ride. I'm my own master and that feels amazing!

But...

There's always a but...

It's not all fun and games. Having a car is like having an expensive pet. You constantly need to make sure it's working properly, that everything is in it's rightful place, you can't leave it out in the cold for too long - when it's below freezing you have to drive just for the sake of driving to warm up the engine - and when you go to an unfamiliar place there's always the issue of parking: where, how and how much. But the worst part? I know this is going to sound cliche but it almost brought a tear to my eye the first time I saw it. Gas prices! Funny how I never cared about them before I became a car owner. They are horrible! Truly the worst part about owning a car! You just stand by and watch while you pour your money away. And for what? For it to be burned up in the next few weeks. Gone. Gone forever...

Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. If I wouldn't be better off just walking everywhere or taking the bus... And then I realize that if I had to go back to the days before I had a car I would probably be pretty miserable. Once you get used to having a car  you can't really go back. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to suck it up and get used to the fact that once every few weeks I throw a huge load of money into a metaphorical fire. Doesn't mean I have to like it though. In fact I feel almost physical pain every time I see my money draining away while I fill my car up with gas. Can't we just have like... solar-panel cars already? 

...whiskey happened

Oh, whiskey night! Oh, the madness! The humanity! Oh, sweet, sweet whiskey night! So many memories... Should I even talk about whiskey night? I don't think I can actually put into words what happened on whiskey night. Sure, I can try to tell the story, describe what happened as best I can remember but it would only be a pale shadow of the real thing. Okay, before any of you let your imagination run wild, it was all (mostly) harmless fun. Everything was (kind of) under control. Nobody got (seriously) hurt. And we were all able to laugh about it later. So yeah, it was nothing too crazy. But it was by far one of the most awesome parties of the Spring semester. It was memorable for so many reasons. So, so many reasons... But let's start from the beginning...

After the relative success of wine-and-cheese night we decided that we should have these small parties more often. But we wanted to have a different 'theme' every time. Turned out that a lot of us had never tried whiskey so the Americans decided to educate us poor fools. Whiskey night it was then. Just like last time we bought our own alcohol - I decided to go for a bottle of honey whiskey because the real thing tastes like  hatred in a bottle - and got some snacks (and some tipsy toffee again).
Now, to be quite honest I don't remember how the night began. I guess we had a few drinks, listened to music, talked about random stuff and just generally had a good time. I don't know when things got out of hand... or what happened first... Was it the lipstick? Or the epilator? Or the wall? I have no idea how things turned out the way they did! My memories from that night are disjointed and hazy, with occasional bright flashes in between. I guess it's best to start with the wall because that one is my brightest memory and I'm pretty sure it happened relatively early in the night.
Let me just set up the backdrop here.
My room was one of the biggest among the students and I had one of the longest balconies I've ever seen. It wasn't big, it was just really long and narrow. There was an apartment occupied by a random Japanese guy to the left of mine and our balconies were separated by a thin wall, just for the sake of privacy. Now, during the course of the night it got really hot and stuffy in my room - I think it was May or something - so we opened the windows and a few of us went to the balcony to cool off a bit. It was there that two girls decided to show off their dance moves. I was still inside so I'm not sure about the details but I saw some of it and heard the rest. Anyhoo, as the girls were dancing one of our male students showed up and told them that they had no idea how to twerk - so he decided to show them how it's really done. And he did. He started twerking, pushing the girls into the corner of the balcony against the separating wall. I guess the girls decided to hop aside at the last moment or maybe he was just too... uh... enthusiastic?... but what happened next sent us all running to the balcony. There was a long crash, a bang and next thing I knew there was a hole in the wall separating my balcony from the next one. A giant gaping hole...
It was just an unfortunate accident and I wasn't even angry (honestly, at the moment it happened I thought it was hilarious). Besides, these walls were made to break (in case of fires or earthquakes) so it was only a matter of time it happened. Still, even in my drunken state I was pretty sure my neighbor might get pissed so I tried to fix the problem... as well as a drunk person could. I got out some superglue and tried to glue the missing piece of drywall back to it's original place. A sober me would have known it was a futile effort but sober me was long gone by that point in time. After messing around with the glue for a while I only managed to get my hands dirty and glue a piece of paper onto my arm but the wall was still falling apart.
On to plan B then! Duct tape! Yeah, that worked about as well as the superglue, only now there was a piece of tape stuck to my pants and I was covered in dust. I remember someone trying to help me put the wall back together and someone laughing and taking pictures behind my back. Because that's what friends are for. I was just curled up in the corner of my balcony, trying to fix an unfixable wall, unsure whether I was crying or laughing (I was doing both.... because it was just that hilarious for drunken me). After a while I decided to abandon the effort and head back inside because I felt like something interesting was going on there.
I don't know how or when the epilator made it's way into my room. I guess it all started on the topic of pain and a few of the girls were determined to show how much more shit women have to deal with in their daily lives. So we offered to shave the legs of the guys just so they could feel what it's like to have your hair ripped one one by one by an electrical device. The guys... were not very happy with this turn of events because even the alcohol didn't manage to numb the pain. There was lots of swearing and screaming going on and ten minutes later one of our Japanese friends had silky smooth legs. He says that a few days after the party he was walking along the street and heard a couple of girls behind him comment on how nice and smooth his legs looked... so I guess we did him a favor? So yeah, whiskey night was also the night we shaved a guys legs with an electrical razor. Thankfully hair grows back...
The last thing that happened was lipstick. Not quite sure who's lipstick it was or how it all came to pass but we decided to have a little drawing competition... that only ended once the lipstick was almost completely gone. I'm not going to go too much into detail about the lipstick - things were written and faces were painted and I distinctly remember the guy who's legs we'd shaved looking like a creepy clown, topped off with a tiny had I'd bought for Halloween. And there was one girl going: 'I'm gonna make you look beautiful!' while she was drawing on people's faces.
The next morning was... just such a mess! Not only did my room look like a herd of stampeding buffaloes had passed through, I also felt like death had grabbed my by the throat and tried to suck the life out of me sometime in the middle of the night. I looked around my room wondering at first why I was even up. Then I remembered that I had to go to school. Then I wondered what had happened to my balcony... and I remembered. Then I wondered why there was lipstick on my curtains and walls... I decided to disregard it for a moment and headed to the bathroom.
What awaited me there was... a nightmare. Apparently there was more than one clown-faced person at the party. My first thought was 'Why is there lipstick on my eyebrows?!' followed by 'And why is there lipstick on my ears?! And arms?! And neck?!' I had twenty minutes before I had to go to school and those twenty minutes were spent in a frantic panic as I was trying to clean the lipstick off my face and body. There were still a few red spots on my arms when I left the apartment but I could pass it off as a rash if I needed to.
I thought I had it bad with my red eyebrows and painted face but honestly, others had it much worse. Some had lipstick on their legs, shoulders and god knows where else. And the same girl who'd been making people look beautiful the previous night looked pretty crestfallen in the international center. When asked what was wrong she shouted in despair: 'Someone drew swastika on my leg with my very own lipstick!'. Yup, that was pretty bad alright.
Suffice it to say that everyone was a bit... uh... ashamed about what happened last night. The guy who broke my wall looked very, very sorry. And everybody else tried to hide the lipstick-marks on their bodies. But in the end it was all good. We had fun, went a bit wild but everyone survived and we had another fun story to talk about for months to come. 

...I found what I was looking for

There are days I feel like a zombie at work... like nothing is going right and I'm just a huge failure as a physio... And then there are days when I feel like punching the air and going 'YEEEEEEAH!' and doing a little victory dance and maybe a back flip. Today was one of those days. I'm probably not making much sense but just trust me when I say that today has been a good day. One of my patients, who until now made little to no progress, started walking today and I can't even describe how happy it makes me. Sure, he needs a crutch and I have to support him a bit but he's finally walking! And I feel like all the work we did is finally paying off.

Sorry for the long introduction by the way, I just needed the world to know how happy I am. The thing I really wanted to talk about is one of the worst years of my life (so far). I know, with this utterly positive introduction it's hard to believe I'm going to talk about something so dark but just stick with me for a little while and it'll all become clear.

This is the story of how I started studying physiotherapy (or physical therapy for all you Americans out there... even though those two things aren't exactly the same...).

The year was... uh... 2012, I think. I had just gotten my BA in psychology and I even got accepted to the Master's program. Only problem was that I didn't know if that's what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I liked psychology but... There was always that 'but'. I felt like I wanted to do something more... practical? physical? I don't know. I was kind of lost and didn't know where to go. It was also the year I first went to Japan - for two months as a volunteer - and I've already talked about how lost and confused I was during that period.

The decision to start studying physiotherapy was honestly just a spur of the moment thing. Whenever anyone asks me why I chose physiotherapy I answer that I wanted to do something practical, something where I could actually see the results of my work and so on... Honestly, as I was making the decision I wasn't even thinking about those things. It was the last day to send applications, I was in Japan and I knew I could study for free - so I enrolled in the program. I hardly had any idea what a physio actually does, I just knew I didn't want to become a nurse or a health inspector or anything like that. It was one of the biggest but least planned out decisions of my life and I wasn't even sure why I was doing it. So yeah, that's the horrible truth: I never actually planned to become a physiotherapist.

Funny, how sometimes the road you take blindly is the one you're meant to walk on.

The first year (minus one month) of my studies was the worst in recent memory. I was positively miserable. I truly hated every moment of it. See, back when I was in high school I didn't have to work very hard to get good grades. I just kind of breezed through high school without putting any actual effort into it. University was a bit more difficult but most exams were multiple choice tests so even that wasn't too bad. Physiotherapy however was another matter. For the first time in my life I actually needed to work hard to achieve something and I was not used to it. For the first time I had to stay up all night studying, had to revise something over and over again only to forget it a moment later, for the first time I actually failed an exam... and it was horrible! 

What made the first semester even harder was the fact that I felt like an outsider. I had just come back from Japan and a part of my soul was still there. Also, since I'd missed the first few weeks of school I didn't know any of my new schoolmates. I felt like they'd all formed groups already, hanging out and going to lunch together and I was kind of the odd man out. I'm a hopeless introvert so trying to make new friends is always difficult for me - that's why I barely talked to any of my fellow students for most of the first (and even second) semester. My heart was still pulling me toward Japan and I just felt that I'd made the worst mistake ever coming back to Estonia.

So, in a nutshell: I was unhappy with where I was, struggling in school, barely talking to any of my peers and longing for something I'd already lost. It was a bad time. I was certain physiotherapy was not for me and I'd made a mistake choosing to study it. Also, it was cold all the time. I was pretty bad off, especially during the Fall. I was constantly tired, stressed beyond belief and just really, really unhappy with the way things were. There were days I would go to school, come back and just crawl into bed, only emerging to go to the bathroom or get some food. I was just not feeling it anymore ('it' being everything). Yup, it was definitely one of the worst years of my life... or at least half a year. 

'Why didn't you quit your studies then?'
Because that's just not who I am. I'd made my bed and had to sleep in it. Sure, I wanted to quit. I really did, but it felt wrong. I knew it would make me feel like even bigger a failure. Still, by the time February rolled along I was so ready to bolt that I was looking for any way out of my situation... and that's when I stumbled upon the exchange program that would eventually lead me to Japan again. So yeah, my decision to go study in Japan was made because I was just not feeling living in Estonia anymore. But that is kind of another story. Anyway, for most of my first year of my physiotherapy studies I was miserable as all hell... Didn't help that I got a job in a bar and had to work nights. The only thing it did was make me so tired that I didn't have energy to think about how I was failing in life.
And then it was May.
May marked the start of my first internship. We had to do them every year in different places - we got to follow a physio around and try our hand as a physio. The first internship lasted for a month: two weeks were dedicated to children's physiotherapy and two weeks for adults. For my first two weeks I was working in a children's ward. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I can't stand children. I just can't stand them and try to avoid them as much as I can. Those two weeks didn't change my attitude toward children... but it did change my attitude toward physiotherapy.
Even though I wasn't doing much, even though I was only a student, even though I had been miserable for most of the year - despite all of that I suddenly felt... alive. I finally saw what being a physio was really like and I felt like this was what I was looking for. Even though I'd made the decision to study it for all the wrong reasons I had chosen something that in the end made me feel... useful and needed and just... happy.
Not gonna lie, during the next two years of studying there were times I wanted to bang my head against a wall just because what was going on in school but at least now I knew why I was doing this. I knew where I was headed and that helped me get through exams, long days in school and everything else that used to bring me down. It wasn't all fun and games and even the internships weren't all equally great. But I finally knew that this was what I wanted to do. It sounds corny but I just wanted to be useful. To... uh... make a difference, however small. Yeah, that does sound corny so I'm gonna move on.
 Fast forward three years and I'm finally working as a physio. The road here has been long and hard but I'm here and I'm happy. It's what I've been looking for. Sure, it's not always rainbows and sunshine. There are bad days. Then there are horrible days. There are days I feel like a complete failure... And then there are days that make it all go away and make me feel like a million bucks. See, I know that I'm no Mother Theresa and most days I'm barely making a difference but it doesn't matter. However small that difference is, even if I make just one person feel a bit more confident walking down the street, I already feel like I've done something that matters. And I can't even explain how amazing it feels when you see a person, who's this far been in a wheelchair, take their first steps with you. Even if those steps are small and unsteady and it looks like they're about to fall down any moment - even then it's a huge thing. Especially when you see that person's eyes light up as they're finally walking on their own. Any time someone says 'I never thought I'd be able to do that' I'm reminded why I chose to stick with this profession. Some days I really, really love my job. And some days I love it a little bit less - but I still love it.
Sure, I'm young and haven't been working for long. Who knows, in a year I might feel differently. In five years I might feel jaded. But right now I love it. I get to work with people and at least try to improve their lives. It doesn't always work but when it does it feels amazing. And the people... I've met some of the nicest most amazing people during my short time working as a physio. Okay, some of them are hard to deal with. There are those who aren't even sure why they've come to get therapy ('I dunno, my wife made me come') and there are those who don't care about changing anything ('Why should I bother with walking? My wife pushes me around in my wheelchair and I don't want to go out') and there are even those that become hysterical by the mere thought of walking. There are those who have already lost all hope and those who hope for miracles (and expect you to deliver). But that all goes away when you get that one patient who just brightens up your day, either because of their personality or because they achieve something they never thought possible. That one day you get a patient to walk or go up a flight of stairs makes all the bad days seem like a distant memory - like it never happened. It's those days that make me love my job. And as for the bad days, I guess they exist so I could learn from them.
So, to sum it up: I made a choice for all the wrong reasons and it turned out to be one of the best choices I've ever made. This 'worst year of my life' lead me to so many wonderful things. It was the year I was most miserable but also the year I made the right choice concerning my future and the year I decided to go to Japan to study (which was one of the most amazing experiences of my life). I guess what I'm trying to say is that sometimes something that felt completely wrong in the beginning might turn out to be exactly what you need, you just need to fight through the bad stuff and keep going. I guess that first year was like climbing a monstrous mountain: it was excruciating, hellish and there were times I thought it would kill me but once I reached the top and saw the view it was all worth it. Yeah, I'm happy I didn't quit halfway through. I guess sometimes clouds do have a silver lining.
Also, one of the reasons I love my job is the view. I just can't get enough of it. 

...a 'sophisticated' night turned salty

Back to Japan with my stories. So, the year was 2014 and it was I think sometime in April, in the middle of Spring semester. It all started with cheese.

See, we had this one French exchange student who was the most french person you'd ever meet. Really. Mostly because of his accent but also because everything he did was just so very... french (sorry, Percy, if you're reading this but you really are the most french person I've ever met... and I've met a total of 8 so that's saying a lot!). Anyhoo, during Spring break he decided to go home for a little bit (or he needed to go but whatever...). Before he went Mary begged him to bring back some quality French cheese and he agreed, being the generous person he is.

Fast forward a few weeks. I was going to the store one afternoon when I saw Percy on the way back to the apartment. I think it was his first day back - at least I hadn't seen him before. I greeted him as usual and asked about his trip. As I was leaving he went:

'Oh, and tell Mary I hate her now!'

'What? Why?'

'Because I brought her the cheese and now.... now my entire suitcase stinks! And all of my clothes too!'

'Oh...'

Honestly, that sounded a bit inconvenient but I thought he was being overdramatic. It was only cheese! And I was sure the smell would be gone in a little while. When I got back to the apartment I told my gang of friends that Percy had the cheese and we all agreed that we should have a sophisticated wine-and-cheese night. We thought it would be best if I took a hold of the cheese because my room was the designated party-room anyway, so a little bit later there was a knock on my door and Percy handed me the cheese.

Oh. MY. GOD.

Now I understood why he was so angry at Mary. Words cannot describe the rancid smell the cheese gave off. It was like week old roadkill that had been eaten and then regurgitated by some diseased demon-pigeon and was slowly rotting away. It was... something hellish. And here's the thing: when Percy gave it to me it was wrapped in paper, covered in saran wrap and put into a plastic bag... and it still smelled like the deepest circle of hell! I in turn wrapped the plastic bag in saran wrap, then in tinfoil and then put another plastic bag on it and shoved it into my fridge. Didn't help. Every single time I opened my fridge I was assaulted by the smell again. I felt violated... But I tried to stay positive: after all, it was only for a few days.

We decided to have our sophisticated wine-and-cheese evening on a Thursday. We got some wine, grapes, some more cheese (this time conventional 'Japanese' cheese) and a bunch of other snacks. I think it was also the first time me and Tytti made our 'tipsy toffee'. It was supposed to be regular toffee but we had a few glasses of wine while making it so we deviated from the original recipe a little bit. Basically we just put whatever we had on hand into the mix. Nutmeg? Sure, that works. Cinnamon? Yup, sounds good. Mysterious Japanese spice that doesn't have a label anymore? Yeah, why not. Chili? Yup, gotta have that chili in there! Honestly, it sounds bad but the result was delicious and that's not only the wine talking.

On Thursday we set everything ready and began our night in a quiet and sophisticated way. We had some wine, tried the rancid French cheese (which was delicious by the way) and just relaxed a bit. Honestly, the first hour or so was pretty tame and it looked like we could pull this 'sophisticated' thing off... And then alcohol happened.

I don't know how or why it happened but suddenly a party of eight turned into sixteen or so and it seemed as if everybody was invited. Didn't matter - we had enough room and enough cheese to go around. Soon we were playing silly party games that for some reason were much more fun than they originally seemed. I think a part of it was the fact that we had three Finns in the bunch and they get strangely competitive while playing any kind of games. Really, we were playing 'Who Am I?' (or 'Amnesia' or whatever it's called in different places) and they got really into it, yelling and even threatening their co-players with violence. Yup, Finns are pretty bloodthirsty when it comes to competitions... except we weren't competing... but whatever. 

Soon all thought of 'sophisticated' went out the window and we were just one hot mess. How did it happen, I don't even know. I just know that at one point wineglasses were tipping over, post-it notes went flying everywhere and there was a heated debate about the toffee. Some said it was caramel, some said it was fudge, Tytti and I insisted it was toffee and it all turned into a drunken 'You don't know what'cha talkin' about!' shouting match. We still had to go to school the next day but it seemed as if we'd all conveniently forgotten it. I have to say though that it was one of the more tame parties I had in my room - even with the shouting and promises of violence.

The next morning was... interesting. My room was a mess, I felt like I'd eaten a bunch of sand and as I went to the bathroom I discovered that the floor was covered in salt. Well... that was interesting to say the least... Why was there salt on my floor? Uh... I think it had something to do with someone spilling a bit of red wine one someone else's yukata and everyone throwing some salt on the stain. In the end we successfully managed to cover my room in salt but at least the stain came out. Thank god Japanese wine is 99% water!
To be honest, not much of note happened that night. We just had fun and stayed up too late. But that was the first of our weekly parties so I thought I'd mention it. Just as a prelude for what's to follow. Main point of this story: we tried to be sophisticated adults and failed hard. I guess it's borderline impossible to be sophisticated as an exchange student. Or maybe it was just us... It was probably us. 

...we ran out of change

At work we have a radio in our work space and that radio is always tuned to a specific station. It's one of the more popular (?) stations that plays both retro music and recent hits. You could have a song from the 70s followed by Justin Bieber's latest 'hit' and there's not much talking which suits us just fine: wouldn't want to listen to a talk show while trying to help an overweight patient walk. I think it would just be distracting. But why did I even start talking about the radio? Well, because they play a lot of Robbie Williams... and every time I listen to a song of his I'm reminded of the one time I kind of went to a concert of his.

The year was 2013. It was Summer. And I decided to volunteer again. A friend recommended that I could try to volunteer at a concert - they were always looking for people to work in the booths serving drinks - and as it happened Robbie Williams was coming to Estonia that summer. I'm not a huge fan but I generally like his songs. He is this weird kind of artist for me in that I don't particularly love any of his songs but he also doesn't have a single song that I dislike. I could probably listen to most of his songs without wanting to switch stations but I don't have any of his songs in my playlist. But I can't deny that he is a pretty big name and I was pretty pumped that I would get to see him for free. Sure, I had to work during the concert but if I was lucky I could maybe work in a booth close to the stage so I would still get to see the concert. Besides, I was still getting payed for this so I was content.

When the day of the concert arrived I headed to Tallinn and got my free T-shirt and coin purse. The organizers showed me to my booth which was right on the side of the stage. It was a pretty good spot: not too close but I could still see what was going on onstage. Perfect! The day was starting off just great... and then they introduced me to my booth-buddy. Yeah, we had to work in pairs because the workload would have been too much for one person. My booth-buddy, however, didn't look like he'd be much help. He had no experience serving drinks and was shocked when he found out that if the keg of beer ran out we had to switch to a new one on our own. I had been working in a bar for a while so I knew that switching kegs was a pain in the ass but it was not rocket science. I offered that I'd do it myself if it was too difficult for him and he looked relieved at that.

Before we even begun serving drinks I noticed a few... issues. In addition to serving beer and cider we also had bottled water, lemonade and energy drinks... that we had to pour out into cups. It was strictly forbidden to serve anything in bottles. Even water. It seemed a bit... odd, considering most people don't usually down a 0.5 L cup of water in one go. You want to save the bottle so you could take a sip every now and then. But no. Apparently plastic bottles are a tremendous safety hazard and thus were completely forbidden in the concert grounds. I could already tell this was going to create some issues.

Another thing I noticed was that the organizers had given us about 50 euros worth of change. That didn't seem nearly enough. We could only take cash and most of the drinks were around 1.50-2.50 €. I had a feeling that we were going to run out of change pretty soon. But the organizers assured us that if we ran out we could just call them and they would bring us some more. Okay then... I guess I had no other choice but to trust them.

Sure enough, just a few minutes after the gates were opened we ran into our first 'What do you mean you don't sell water in a bottle?!' person.

'Sorry, but we're not allowed to sell bottles.'

'But that's stupid!'

'I know.'

'But I don't want you to pour it into a cup!'

'I understand but-'

'I'm going to another booth!'

Well, good luck with that... None of us were allowed to sell bottled drinks but people kept going in circles, trying to look for a way to get water in a bottle. I had several people come to me going 'Hey, the girls in the other booth wouldn't sell us a bottle of water. But you guys will, right?' No, we couldn't. We weren't allowed to. But nobody seemed to believe us. They seemed to think we were doing this on purpose. Like we were just mean people who didn't want anyone to have bottles because... reasons, I guess...

Soon enough we ran into our second problem: we didn't have enough change. Sure enough everyone was paying with 5 and 10 € bills and we ran out of change pretty quickly.

'What do we do now?!' my booth-buddy asked with a panicked look in his eyes, 'Do we close the booth? We can't serve people anymore!'

I suggested we call the organizers. After all, they told us they would help if we ran out. So while he was making the call I kept on serving people. I told them we didn't have change and most of them were understanding of the situation. A lot of them went through their wallet and found the exact amount to pay for their drinks. Some of them told us to just keep the change and not worry about it. And then there were the assholes.

'What do you mean you don't have change?! I want my drink and I want my 50 cents back!'

'I know and I'm sorry but we just don't have anything to give back. If you could just find 4.50 in your coin-purse-'

'Why should I?! You guys should have organized this thing better! Didn't you consider that you might run out of change?!'

'Well, we're just volunteers here. We didn't organize anything...'

'Sure, sure! I bet you were payed to say that.'

'Uh... we are actually being paid to serve drinks-'

'Then why aren't you doing that?! You know, you really suck at organizing this thing! Next time you should put more work into it!'

Yeah... sure... except there wouldn't be a next time. I understood that people were angry - they just wanted their drinks and we weren't being very helpful. But at the same time there was not much we could do. We weren't the ones organizing this event and all the booths had the same problem that we did. We were just as upset about it as our customers. But angry people rarely care about who to take their anger out on - they just want someone to know how they're feeling and are willing to tear out anyone's throat to do so. It's easy to take your anger out on some powerless server who's only crime is to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As I was trying to calm the angry mob gathering in front of the booth, my buddy ran to me in a blind panic. Apparently the organizers had also run out of change. They had had 300 € worth of change and that was all gone already. We were on our own. My booth-buddy, who turned out to be terribly neurotic, decided to solve our problem by taking money out of our tip jar. You can guess how happy that made me.

Relief came when the concert actually started. Nobody wanted drinks anymore and the booth was pretty much empty. I took the chance to take a little walk and see the concert. I could still hear everything from my booth but I wanted to get closer. The concert was actually pretty awesome. I remember there was a lot of gold, fireworks and shiny things. People were loving it and honestly, it was pretty awesome. I don't regret going to volunteer in the slightest, even though it was a pain in the ass for most of the time.

The worst part was yet to come, though. After the concert was over we were not allowed to serve drinks anymore. Any drinks. Yes, that meant water. People were still on the concert grounds, looking for a sip of water, but we weren't allowed to give them anything. We were supposed to stop selling drinks exactly at 23.00. I decided to push the limit a bit and at 23.10 I was still selling bottles of water... until our supervisor came along and told us to stop... We did, but there were still people around and those people were not happy campers. Some actual quotes from these thirsty people:

'What do you mean you can't serve me? I just want some beer, you heartless bitch!'

'Okay, I get how it is. Name your price. Everyone has a price.'

'What if I jump over this counter now and choke you for a bit. Would you give me water then?'

Yeah, lovely people. Honestly, I was called a bitch several times but the most offensive quote was from the guy who asked me what my price was. I was so pissed that I just threw a bottle at him for free and told him to get lost. We weren't supposed to sell water but nobody said anything about giving stuff out for free.... I think that was a given but I hoped two bottles wouldn't be missed...

Honestly, I think it was idiotic that we couldn't even sell water to people who were obviously thirsty after several hours of jumping up and down. The nearest store that had water was several km away and it was only natural people wanted some refreshment before heading off. Still, rules were rules and we were meant to follow them even if they made no sense. I guess sometimes that's just how the world works. In the end we managed to avoid getting choked (or stabbed) by our customers and as the dust settled we realized that even though my booth-buddy had given out a sizable amount of our tip jar, we still had a bunch of money left.

'What should we do with this? Should we just give this to the organizers as well?' he asked with a look of confusion.

I think that was the most idiotic thing I'd heard all year and that was the year I was working in a sleazy bar. I tried my best to make my face look blank and explained to him how tips worked. I'm sure he wasn't a complete moron - he'd probably (hopefully) tipped someone in the past as well - but he'd never received a tip and didn't really know how to handle it. In the end though we split the meager amount of money we'd accumulated during the course of the night and I had enough cash for a bus ticket back home.

So, in the end I think the night was largely a success: I got paid, got to see a concert for free and I even had enough cash in the end to get back home. Would I do it again, though? No. Not unless it was organized better. You wouldn't believe how angry people get when you deny them bottles, water or change. Really, people! Just relax and don't shoot the messenger! It's easy to take out your anger on the person standing in front of you - even if you know they're not the root of the problem - but one must always remember that venting on someone powerless to stop you is kind of a asshole thing to do. So just don't.

...I started stalking Japan

Now, something I have come to realize in the past few years is that for me Japan is like an ex-boyfriend. Hear me out. At first I had a crush: I'd heard so many awesome things about Japan and it looked amazing and even though I knew there was a cultural and a language barrier I didn't care. I wanted to be with Japan. So, one summer I went and had a little summer romance with Japan - and it was amazing! Japan was so gentle and sweet to me and I fell in love. The main reason being that I was a volunteer in a tiny village in Hokkaido. I was basically a celebrity there with my blonde hair (yes, I was blonde back then) and round eyes and the fact that I was volunteering - doing something to help the village and the environment - made me even more interesting in the eyes of the locals. The people working with us treated all the volunteers with respect and kindness, treating us to dinner, giving us ice-cream and taking us to hikes around the area. Yes, I fell in love with Japan during that Summer. I was heartbroken when I had to leave and I knew I had to get back. So I did. I went back for a year and for a while everything was magical. I loved being there and I was happier than I'd been in the past year when I was constantly pining for Japan.

But, like in most relationships, after the 'honeymoon phase' is over, you start seeing the person you love for what they really are. You see all the annoying little habits and the weird things they do and you start having disagreements and arguments and all that jazz. Suddenly it's not all rainbows and butterflies anymore and you feel like the relationship isn't really working out anymore. You feel like the person you're with has changed but that's not really the case. The annoying habits and character flaws were always there - you just didn't want to see them. That's what happened to me. At first I loved everything Japan had to offer and turned a blind eye to all the negative things around me. By the end of my year abroad, however, I was explosively angry and ready to snap at anyone. I was sick of it all. All the tiny little things that I barely noticed before just annoyed me to no end now: people walking slowly, people standing in doorways, the heat, the stuffy weather, the lack of rye bread or sour cream...

I remember one time I blew up in school. Mary and I were coming back from class and headed to the elevator. Our classroom was on the 12th floor and we were kind of in a hurry to go get some sushi so it was only natural we didn't want to walk down. Turns out we made a mistake, however, because the elevator stopped at almost every floor with people constantly getting on and off. I was getting a bit annoyed with the constant stops but there was nothing to do about it. It was only natural that people would take the elevator down form the 8th or 6th floor... And then there was this one girl who stepped into the elevator on the 6th floor and stepped off on the 5th floor... Just this one girl. Two stops for one person. This wasn't the first time I'd seen someone take the elevator to go up or down one floor but by that time I was so sick and tired of everything that I was just looking for an excuse to blow off some steam and I went off on a rant... while a bunch of Japanese people were still standing around me in the elevator.

'God, I've had it with these fucking lazy people who refuse to take the stairs! You don't need the elevator to go down one fucking floor! For fuck's sake! They're wasting everyone's time! Why can't they just fucking walk?!'

The doors opened and the Japanese guys standing behind me got off. Before the doors closed one of them turned to me and went:

'I totally agree.'

Well... I hadn't expected that... I'd gotten so used to the fact that most of the students barely understood English that I didn't believe anyone in the elevator would understand my rant. That was... awkward... And I felt kind of bad about blowing up like that and talking shit about their fellow students but... I guess if the guy agreed with me it couldn't be that bad.

Anyway, by the time I had to leave Japan I was more than ready to do so. It had been way too long and when I finally got home I felt like I could breathe again. I was free, independent and rid of an oppressive relationship that wanted to suck the life out of me. Yeah, I was good without Japan. It had been fun for a while but I was over it. Completely and totally over it. When my friends and family asked if I was planning to go back I told them that it was extremely unlikely I would do so any time soon.

Two months later...

It's funny how quickly you start to feel nostalgic about a relationship that you know wasn't working. I had not forgotten any of the things that ticked me off in Japan. I had not forgotten the death-glares from the locals or the slow-moving people on the streets or the hellish weather in the Summer... but sometimes I would look at old pictures and I would miss it. 'It wasn't all bad,' I found myself thinking. Then I would remember the bad stuff and I would stop.

Some more time passes and now I'm just confused. The rational part of my mind knows that my relationship with Japan wasn't working. A part of it was great but in the long run it wouldn't have lasted. We were just too different. But then I see my old pictures or some friends post videos or status updates about Japan and it just feels like a knife to the chest. Every time I see a random picture of some random Japanese city I just feel a sense of longing that is too strong to ignore and I start thinking that maybe I made a mistake by leaving. Maybe I could have made it work... Maybe...

I did go back to Japan last May for a little while and it felt like going home again. I thought this 'one night stand' would cure me of my longing. For a short while it did... and then it started again. The pictures, the movies, the music... everything reminded me of how awesome and beautiful Japan was. And again, a part of me knew that I was just being nostalgic. I was again trying to ignore the reality and was living in a beautiful memory of my own making. 

This week I hit a new low. It used to be that I would go over my pictures from Japan and reminisce about the 'good old days' but now... now I'm watching videos. Apparently there are sites where you can watch a live feed from different places in Japan.... and I spent almost half an hour watching a feed from Shibuya crossing. Yup, half an hour just watching Japanese people cross the road while thinking 'I wish I was there right now'. It was nighttime in Japan while I was watching it... I missed nighttime in Japan. Now I keep looking at different sites with live feeds from different spots in Japan and I just feel nostalgic and... and I kind of feel like going back there for a year... or more would be a pretty good idea. Even though I know it's crazy and I would have to give up everything. I know I'm not going to do it but a part of me really wants to. 

In a way I could compare living in Japan to dating a typical Japanese pretty-boy. It's all fun and games in the beginning and you get carried away because he is so 'different and mysterious and cool'. Then you start living together and you realize that you are just too different to work - so in a fit of rage you quit and run away. But when you return home reality hits you and you start doubting yourself, thinking you've made a mistake. 'Sure, he was a bit racist but who isn't? Sure, I wasn't ever good enough for him but was he ever good enough for me? Maybe I was the one at fault here? Maybe I should have been more willing to bend to his will? Become more like him?' In your mind you know it's all bullshit: compromise is important in a relationship but you shouldn't have to change who you are. It wouldn't have worked. He wasn't the bad guy and neither were you - you were just too different... But when you see pictures of him you can't help thinking 'Damn, I still can't believe how good-looking he is...' and pictures of your two together make you sigh and think 'I wish I could go back in time to that very moment...' 

My romance with Japan is still not completely over. I can't deny that deep down in my heart I still love it but it's a hopeless love. I know I could never spend my life in Japan. I can visit once in a while. I can still be friends. Leaving will always hurt a bit. But in the end it's the right thing to do. I will never get a 'happily ever after' with Japan because even if I would choose to spend the rest of my life there I doubt I will ever be accepted as one of them... and that will just break me in the end. But a part of my soul and my heart will always belong to Japan. 

...I couldn't do anything right

Have any of you ever had the 'pleasure' of working with someone who is convinced that you're doing your job incorrectly - even before you've actually done anything. For example: you need to paint a window frame and there's this one guy trying to 'teach' you by demonstrating all the things you shouldn't do. 

'Now, when you start, make sure the brush isn't dry. And hold it like this, facing down. Not like this but like this. And don't just start from the middle, you need to start from the corner.'

'I wasn't going to-'

'And you need to make sure to hold it like this. And remember to wash it after...'

It's like the person trying to teach you is convinced you're a complete moron that's gonna start painting the frame by smacking it with a dry brush and then pouring acid over it. By the way, this isn't a random example - this was a real conversation that took place over a year ago. 

The year was 2015 and I'd decided to visit my friend Mary in Hawaii. I was going to be there for almost two months, doing strictly tourist things... I was totally not there to work because I didn't have a work visa and that would have been illegal and I was only there to visit a friend. Anyhoo, since Mary had a job working in her parents' air tour company, I needed to find something to keep myself busy during the day. As luck would have it, I found out about this older couple who were just moving back into their house in Kauai after living on the mainland for several years and they needed someone to help them out. I decided that hey, I wasn't doing anything of importance anyway so might as well lend a hand. They just needed someone to help them clean up, do some organizing, repaint the windows and do some simple yard work. It didn't seem too hard and since I'm an altruistic and helpful person I contacted them and offered my help. 

The first few days were actually pretty okay. I had to do some vacuuming, clean a leather couch and do some other easier household chores. The people I was totally not working for seemed pretty nice and even made me lunch every day. Sure, I only had two options - chicken salad or chicken sandwich (every single day) - but hey, it was still nice of them to offer. However, even on the first day I noticed that the guy I was totally not working for had a habit of over-explaining things.
'Now, when you clean this couch, you want to make sure to get all the edges like this and be careful not to put too much oil on the rag and don't just pour the oil on the couch - you need to put it on the rag first and then work it in...'
'Yeah, I wasn't going to-'
'And make sure to wipe the surface clean first. You can't put oil on it if it has dust or anything else on it.'
'Yeah, I know. I was going to clean it-'
'And just make sure to...'
So yeah, before I could start doing anything I had to listen to fifteen minutes of him going on and on about how I shouldn't do things. It was like he was convinced I'd suffered serious brain damage and had no idea how to do the most arbitrary things like cleaning a couch.
It got worse, however, because when it came to painting, he must have had some really bad experiences with mentally challenged painters. He kept explaining things that didn't need explaining - at least to most people. Like 'make sure to wash the brush after you're done' or 'just tip the edge of the brush into the paint, don't submerge it completely'. Who the hell would shove a paintbrush completely into the bucket? Well, apparently he was convinced that I would.
'And make sure to hold it like this, tip facing down, because if you hold it the other way the paint will start to drip.'
...Yeah, I know how gravity works. But thank you for the reminder.
'And make sure to get all the edges like this. And then spread the paint out. You don't want any lines here - you want to make it look as natural as possible. And make sure to brush like this... well, maybe not like this but you should avoid this from happening...'
At the same time he was trying to show me how to do things 'the right way' while actually failing to do it the way he was describing it. Not to mention that every time I would finish a job he would be convinced that I didn't do it right so he would come and inspect it, all the while talking about all the different ways I could've screwed things up. One time he came to inspect my paint job and was convinced I'd taken too long and the paint had already dried.
'See, now the paint is dry and there are still lines here. You should have put another layer of paint on top so it would have evened out.' He then proceeded to put his finger on the freshly painted surface to prove his point. Problem was: I had just painted it and it hadn't had the opportunity to even out... He left his fingerprints all over the surface, leaving me to repaint it... again... This went on for days. I had a feeling he just wanted to prove to me that I was doing everything wrong. And the weird thing: he wasn't a bad guy. He just really wanted to show me how capable and smart he was. He wanted to teach but didn't take into consideration that I wasn't a complete moron. Sure, I didn't have much experience painting window frames but even an idiot could tell that it's a bad idea to leave a wet brush lying on the ground or paint over a dusty surface.
It was even worse when I had to assemble a shelf. I was almost done with it and it looked pretty good when the guy showed up and was convinced I hadn't done it properly. He proceeded to disassemble it, read the instructions to me out loud and put it back together only to discover that I, in fact, had not made a mistake and everything was in order. Did I ever receive a 'sorry' after any of those episodes? Nope! None whatsoever. He would just quietly slink into the shadows and that was it... until the next time he wanted to tell me how I was doing everything wrong.
Long story short: after a month of helping these people out, I was ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. It was way too much: the work was hard, the guy kept rearranging his garage every few days so I had to lift a bunch of boxes from one shelf to another and the next day back again. He also had a hard time throwing stuff away. He had several kilos of screws. Just screws. God knows why he needed all of them but he made me pick up every single one of them from the garage floor because 'These might be useful later'. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.
I was supposed to help them for a whole month... but I quit earlier because I just couldn't handle it anymore and I really wanted to enjoy the last week of my vacation. I sent them a letter saying that something urgent had come up and I couldn't help them out anymore. I never received a reply... Oh well, at least it was fun for a while... And I know all about sandpaper now.  

...cultural exchange killed a part of my soul

Back when I was studying in Japan, our school had this thing called 'cultural exchange'. The point was to bring Japanese students and foreign exchange students together during lunch (which lasted for like an hour) and have this little 20 minute talk where Japanese students could ask questions about our respective countries, cultures and anything else and also practice their English. In return the foreign exchange students had the opportunity to make new friends. In theory it was a great way to bring people together, increase their awareness of other cultures and help foreign students find their place in the school. In practice it was a horrendous train-wreck of awkwardness and cringe.
Oh sure, not all of the sessions were like that. I did have like two meetings with Japanese students that were kind of okay... But most of the time I felt like a part of my soul was dying when I was talking to these people. Not that they were bad people - the whole situation was just so. incredibly. uncomfortable...
Here's the thing: we, the foreign exchange students, didn't have a choice. We had to do it. The school demanded it of us. Our names and countries of origin were put on a schedule and Japanese students could come along and sign themselves up to talk to us. Oh sure, you could just not show up but it was kind of... frowned upon, I guess. And since I hate people frowning on me, I had to go. Every. single. time. Oh, how I regretted it.
The main problem I had was the language barrier. The sessions were supposed to be held in English but a lot of the Japanese students participating were really struggling. They were either too shy to try to speak in English or they really didn't understand anything and my Japanese wasn't nearly good enough to be able to bond with them or find common ground. This resulted in a lot of awkward silences and the Japanese students fidgeting around while looking confused and trying to remember some random English words. Here's what a generic conversation went like:
Me: 'So... what are your hobbies?'
Student: 'Uh... huh? What...? 何...? Uh... '
Me: 'Your hobby? Do you have any?'
Student: 'Any? Uhhh... What... any mean?'
Me: 'しゅみは何ですか?'
Student: 'Ah! Oh! Right! You have hobby?'
Me: 'What? I was asking you- Oh, whatever. Nevermind.'
Then there was this one time when I was having a really awkward conversation with a Japanese guy who kept nodding at every word. His English was actually pretty okay but he kept leaning closer and closer as if he had trouble hearing me and I was leaning further away because I was getting creeped out... and I also had pretty bad coffee breath. Then there was the usual question almost every single student kept asking me:
'Do you have a boyfriend?'
'No, I'm single.'
'How old are you?'
'Twenty-three.'
'Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?! And no boyfriend?!'
I'm not even joking here. That was their reaction. Apparently in Japan being single at twenty-three is as good as being born without fingerprints: you hear that people like that exist but you've never actually seen one.
The worst session, however, happened during second semester. I was supposed to be the one in the exchange but since we already knew how awkward it could get, Mary decided to join me. She didn't have anything else to do and I guess we were hoping it would be more fun this way. We were wrong. So, so wrong. Two seconds in we realized that the two girls who signed up for the exchange basically didn't speak any English... but they still wanted to try. What followed was the most awkward and excruciatingly slow conversation I've ever had in Japanese.
First we tried talking about their majors. They seemed extremely confused when we asked them anything in English so we tried mixing in some Japanese to make things go smoother. This... kind of worked... maybe...? After some awkward silences and us trying to rephrase the question in a simpler way we found out that the girls were English majors. Well... That was... interesting. I had the urge to tell them that they would probably do better in any other field but... it would have been too mean - and they probably wouldn't have understood me anyway. So, we still had fifteen minutes to go and - as always - we decided to bring up the subject of hobbies (because it was a tad more interesting than talking about the weather).
'So, what are your hobbies?'
The girls exchanged a confused glance and whispered to eachother in Japanese, trying to figure out what we had just asked them. We repeated the question in Japanese.
'Ah! Hobby!' one of the girls went triumphantly, 'My hobby is shopping!'
'Uh... okay...? Shopping. Great. And yours?' I turned to the other girl.
'Ah... umm... my hobby is eating.'
Eating? Really? Like... what people do to survive? She does it as a hobby? I blinked a few times and tried to think of something to say to that. Something that wouldn't be super sarcastic.
'Um... Do you mean you like cooking and trying different things?' asked Mary, trying to be helpful.
'No. Eating.'
Ah. Wonderful. Her hobby was eating. Breathing too, probably, but I guess she was nervous and forgot to mention it. During my time in Japan I got to ask the hobby-question many times from many different people and honestly, some of the answers they gave were just depressing. Especially the girls. Sure, there were some that had genuinely interesting hobbies and did something fun or exciting but in many cases their hobbies were 'shopping', 'magazines' (no idea, what they meant by that - guess they just really liked reading magazines... but not books!), 'TV', 'make-up' and 'clothes' (not designing clothes or anything like that - they just liked to buy clothes and make themselves look pretty).
I'm not sure many of these girls understood what a 'hobby' really is. Sure, it is defined as an activity you do for the sake of enjoyment and I'm sure many people enjoy eating but... It shouldn't be something that keeps you alive. Just like sleeping isn't really a hobby. Or bathing. Or peeing. Those are just things people do because they're either detrimental for our survival or just necessary to function in society. I think I can safely say that I didn't really get much out of the whole cultural exchange thing. Most of the time I got looks of disbelief when I told people I was single or confused looks when I told them I was from Estonia. Nobody ever knew where Estonia was. But that's a whole other story that I'm not gonna rant about today.