Takao must lack a large enough population to merit city loudspeakers. Fuchu, however, is peppered with them. In the mornings and evenings and maybe the middays, too, I don't know, the city pipes muzak like Billy Joel's Honesty (on strings) through these loudspeakers. The experience is almost surreal, and not a little unnerving.

In the past 10 days or so I've discovered a new train line that leads to Fuchu. There are now four relatively distinct ways for me to get to work, which is good since I'm always running just early (late?) enough to catch one or the other. This fourth way, however, is a bit tricky; it includes an eight minute long, u-shaped pedestrian trek. This little trip is pleasant during the daytime, but sometimes confusing in the dark, meaning the ratio of times-I've-gotten-lost-thereby-missing-my-last-train-home-and-having-to-flag-a-taxi to number-of-attempts is 2:2.

Long-awaited Golden Week is here, so students who aren't affluent or determined enough to travel during this peak season take the holidays as opportunities to show up for a little extra English action. This deviation from pattern is nice in the sense that the regulars mix up their (and consequently our) schedules a bit, but frustrating in the sense that I wish we could all just go to the beach instead of bathing, hour after hour, under the unforgivable flourescence of NOVA's teaching cubicles.

I learned Japan's version of Rock Paper Scissors and proceeded to win a free drink at Koki's, a 380 yen bar in Kichijoji, after a match with the waitress. Hurrah. That same day, unrelatedly, I learned that The New Yorker has been using umlauts to differentiate betwixt . . . well, you can read about it if you want. Weird, though.