Hm, I just deleted a very involved post, so here's an abridged version:

I went out in Shibuya (which is home to the busiest pedestrain intersection in the world, featured in Lost in Translation amongst others) last night which was lots of fun. My Canadian roommate Krista, who has been here since April and knows her way around, took me to an Izakaya where I had my first raw seafood (tasty and dipped in large quantities of sodium) and grilled an octapus and egg pancake at the table (spatula in the left hand, large mug of frothy and bubbly apple drink in the right).

I continue to be pleased with my NOVA branch; my coworkers are friendly and have treated me to such kindnesses as lending me books and offering to spot me some cash while I wait for my advance. Additionally, the administrative staffers (four Japanese women) are really awesome and sharp and good natured, particularly when compared to stories I hear of the status quo at most branches. The best part of my branch, though, is obviously running up the fire escape to the fifth floor every period (classes are 40 and 45 minutes long with 10 minutes in between) and smelling lovely aromas from the bakery on the first floor.

The title of this post refers to the paradox of Japanese street etiquitte I've noticed. On one hand, there is the uber-health-conscious act of wearing surgical masks in public. While visually it comes across as a little creepy (I think), I certainly appreciate the consideration of those who are ill and are keeping their germy selves within as small a radius as possible. On the other hand, there are a good number of Japanese men who cough and spit and make amazing sounds and produce amazing substances seemingly at will and with no consideration for others. Odd, no? I've decided to adopt the if-you-can't-beat-em-join-em mantra, so snot rockets on the Chuo line here I come!

In other news, let's pretend we're bunny rabbits. NOVA Style, totally.