I shouldn't complain while on vacation, particularly in a city as lovely and full of hidden treasures as Kyoto. We are "living the dream," after all. Still, I can't help but reflect on the fact that while we are able to relax here and float on a not-insignificant amount of money for a while, there are certain comforts that we left behind.
For one, the house we are living in might as well be a meat freezer. Joel insists that it's not that bad, but he has a higher tolerance for cold than I do (I am from Houston, after all). The place is an old, wooden two-story house in a charming little neighborhood with a canal running through it. However, being old and wooden (and with virtually no windows), it is actually colder inside than outside on sunny days. The little time that I do spend in the house (we spend most of our days sightseeing around town) is spent darting between the bedroom with the tiny (gas-powered) space heater, the miniscule bathroom, and the living room, where I can sit on a heated mat but have to occasionally sit on my hands to warm the dexterity back into them.
As previously mentioned, we share the house with three other people: a French couple who are both teachers and an Irishman (who, I later discovered, is a chef). Because we spend so much of the day out of the house, I mostly see them in the early morning when I am working on my blogging or the humanitarian news digest I work for part-time (when our wifi isn't down). The French woman prepares a hot breakfast for herself almost every day (and occasionally cooks for two), which she arranges on a tray and takes back up to her room to eat. She is very polite but does not seem to be one for much conversation (though she is openly distasteful of our landlords). Her boyfriend, on the other hand, is very friendly and helpful despite his shyness. He has offered us tips on what to visit, where to rent bicycles, and a cheap multi-day bus pass option.
The Irishman usually comes through very quickly on his way to or from work, though we occasionally hear him singing in the shower or playing guitar in his room. He is very cheerful and exudes a kind of friendly nervous energy, if that's even a thing.
When we are not taking a day off to rest from being sick (Joel and I have taken turns battling various wintry respiratory ailments), our days tend to follow the same pattern. In the evening after dinner, I ask about the plan for the next day.
me: So what are we doing tomorrow?
Joel: I thought we could do [X].
me: Oh, okay. What is that?
Joel: It's [insert brief explanation of X here].
me: Ah. Where is it?
Joel: It's on the [X] side of town.
me: Will we take the train?
Joel: No, we can walk there. (or) Yes, we'll have to.
me: Alright then.
The next morning, I wake up early to read and meditate. Joel wakes up about an hour later, and I work on the computer while he makes our lunches. Then we bundle up, head out, and go see whatever we'd planned to see that day. Joel always knows where to go, so I follow his lead absentmindedly, taking pictures of things I think are pretty or interesting and occasionally complaining about the distance. We tour our selected site, eat our packed lunch on a bench, and head home for a break. Usually we will venture back out for dinner, then come home for showers and bed.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
After having to share someone's living space for a month (for whose gratitude adn generosity I am immensely grateful) and seeing as much of our friends as possible before we left Korea, the routine and tranquil character of our life here is a (chilly) breath of fresh air. It also helps that Joel does almost all of the planning and preparation, and I basically just have to wash the dishes. While I am truly enjoying our time here, I underestimated how quickly I would begin to miss our friends back in Korea. Facebook, while a fabulous tool for keeping in touch with people whom you would have just resigned yourself to losing touch with fifteen years ago, also allows us to see in vivid detail all the fun our friends are having without us. Is a life of bumming around Japan a fair exchange for slogging through a mostly crappy job where you are overworked and which you attempt to forget about on weekends by drinking too much? Most definitely. Still, I feel a twinge of nostalgia when I see our old crew plan trips to Muju to ski or invite one another to play soju-supplemented games of Settlers of Catan at the Alleyway.
I am also having to work to get used to the idleness. I have basically held a job steadily for almost the last nine years, so being suddenly and intentionally unemployed has been a bit unsettling. I still do a bit of work for a daily aid and humanitarian news digest every weekday, and I have recently started up my own professional blog, so those activities help. But each day I find myself having to tell myself that we are not in imminent danger of starving or being homeless, despite being (mostly) unemployed.
Joel and I actually discussed this briefly on our walk to Senkou-ji the other day. He said that I'm weird for feeling weird about not working. Then I playfully reminded him that it was that instinct that has kept us fed and sheltered these five years. We laughed about that.
Ah, marriage.
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