Beautiful

Two random things to know about me: first, I've been a Gordon Lightfoot fan since I was old enough to sing along to the radio (my father used to put us to sleep whistling "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.") Second, I love the word "beautiful."

There is one thing about living in a place like Seattle; it's an amazing place for music and just about every singer who ever was and is or will be popular comes through here on a regular basis. So I guess I have to give Seattle its props, because if not for it, I'd have been living in Little Rock and not here, where my lifelong dream of hearing Gordon Lightfoot live came true.

After a short marriage and a move to Seattle, my husband left, only a few months after I had gone back to school. I was stuck in a strange place and under a lot of stress. I had no idea if I'd have enough money to survive. And so when I saw the concert announcement, I fought with myself over whether I should "waste" money on something "frivolous." But I bought two tickets anyway, and I'll always be glad I did.

I asked another older coworker if she wanted to come along, and we headed north to Tulalip Casino that night. I was terribly excited . . . people always ask me, including some of my students at Lingua Espresso, if I've met Bill Clinton since I'm from Arkansas. Of course I have, and who cares? Arkansas is a small state and Bill Clinton is a politician. Gordon Lightfoot, on the other hand, is a poet. We had drinks (me a few, her MANY) and then went out to find our seats, just chairs set out on the grassy ground in front of the outdoor stage. We were randomly seated next to two guys about my age who were as excited as I was (and who looked sorry for me having to shush my drunken coworker on one side and listen to the music on the other). If only those who write about "eyes shining with happiness" could have seen mine that night, listening to "If You Could Read My Mind," and "Carefree Highway," and "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," and "Beautiful" as the moon rose over the mountains. That last one is a special favorite:

At times I just don't know
How you could be anything but beautiful
I think that I was made for you
And you were made for me

And I know that I won't ever change
We've been friends, through rain or shine
For such a long, long time

Laughing eyes and smiling face
It seems so lucky just to have the right
Of telling you with all my might
You're beautiful tonight.

At some point during the concert, I reached out impulsively and took the hand of the guy next to me. He squeezed back and put his arm around me. Not too tight, nothing inappropriate. We just reveled in the music like little kids and held hands and sang along softly, and to each other at the song's end:

Well, I must say it means so much to me
To be the one
Who's telling you . . .
I'm telling you . . .
That you're beautiful.

It was a beautiful blessing to be able to share that song with someone that night. I think he was a gift from the universe, personally. I call both men and women beautiful, because beautiful is not just a physical thing. There have been many people who have passed through my life who are truly beautiful, and I tell them so now, not being as shy as when I was younger. Each of my rare close friends has been beautiful in so many ways.

I never saw that guy again, and I didn't intend to, so I wasn't sad. He was there for that night. I never saw the coworker again, either. When I was younger, I would have gotten so upset over her drunken antics that it would have ruined the experience, but I let it go in favor of drinking in the bigger picture. The bigger picture was, is, and will always be . . . beautiful.

Some Enchanted . . . Texting?

The other day at work, one of the staff told me that another therapist had said that I was "cute": I have to say I was a bit flattered, because he isn't completely hard on the eyes himself and seems to be a deeply gifted person. Shortly afterward, yet another therapist asked me if I was currently dating anyone. "No," I said, "but Such-and-Such thinks I'm cute, apparently." "No, no," she said. "He is already older than you, and is not wealthy enough to support a woman. Forget that. I want to introduce you engineers, people like my husband works with." "So," I said, trying to change the subject as I spent a good deal of my life running from the "bird in the gilded cage" thing, "where did you meet your husband?" "Cupid.com," she replied.

Aigghh! I seem to be the only one I know who does not use the Internet as a dating tool. I only use it extensively for work and business, such as my job at Lingua Espresso. The whole Internet Dating thing has freaked me out for a long time. My first excuse is that I'm 37, old enough to remember the times when the public lacked both awareness of and access to the Mighty Internet. And when such things started really picking up popularity in the 90's, online dating was still considered by many to be the realm of the desperate and those who were looking for "kinky" partners to participate in sex with multiple piercings or monogamous fluids.

And of course, I did not consider myself desperate: from age 16 to age 32 I dated constantly, hardly ever coming up for a breath of fresh air in a quiet space by myself. Nor was I looking for especially kinky kicks. Also perhaps, I was stubborn about the fairy tales I was raised on: when the time is right, the right person will find you and you will find him. I wasn't so backward as to believe "Some Enchanted Evening" would really start playing at that exact moment, but I wasn't against the possibility either.

But in a very short time, the world has moved on. "Normal" people find dates and marriage partners using Match.com and Cupid.com and eHarmony.com and GodKnowsWhatElse.com. More than half of my friends and acquaintances have been with at least one person met in cyberspace. What happened to your friend's friends? Your co-workers? The person you accidentally trip over while searching for the perfect apple in the supermarket? I don't get it.

But then, I'm suspicious by nature and I like my privacy. My cell phone irritates me, even. And Facebook.com and MySpace.com drive me nuts: every time I try that someone I've been running from for 13 years finds me and tries to pin me down into explanations or nostalgic wallowing in things I don't really wish to claim anymore. Besides, how do you trust that someone in Miami or Des Moines is showing a current picture? Isn't lying about their addiction to painkillers? Isn't sleeping on his mom's sofa? I mean, those things can happen to the people you meet face-to-face, but you generally find out faster if they're close by and available for the kind of getting-to-know-you stuff that the Internet simply doesn't provide.

Well, I have friends who argue that for mature adults, Internet dating has it's good points, like getting to know someone's personality before you decide the outer-trappings aren't your "type." Hmmm, maybe. But these are the same people who will still rule out the Internet Hopefuls if they don't match the body-type in real life. Not to mention friends who remind me that among my many relationships, there are several less than stellar examples of "great guys."

In any case, the Universe has brought many wonderful people into my physical (not cyberspace) life, and "Some Enchanted Texting" just doesn't have the same "ring" for me. Not that I'll never do it, but . . . it still gives me goosebumps

No Children Allowed, Please

There's not much I like about Seattle; but I try never to go too deeply into that subject, fearing that the ranting might never end. I wouldn't want my Lingua Espresso students to think I was in abject depression either :-) My latest challenge here (and they have been many) is thinking about a new apartment. It's not enough that with the rest of the economy falling, Seattle still wants $1000-$3000 a month for a little apartment, no water or electric paid and no parking. It's not enough that for what you pay for a miserable crackerbox here could rent you an air-conditioned house and yard and body servants in Little Rock. Now, it seems you can't have dogs either.

This was extremely odd to me, as I searched tonight on Craigslist for apartments in the Ballard/Greenwood area. Because as revolting and tacky as Seattle can be, they DO love their dogs. The whole city is knee-deep in dogs, dog apparel, fancy pet stores, doggie daycares, you name it. Dogs are welcome in stores, in parks, and people always smile when I have my girls--Fannie and Bess--out in their stroller. So what is this thing about no dogs? Pet deposits I understand, but why no dogs at all? Well, apparently, they could cause damage and make noise.

Hmmm. They can cause damage and make noise. That's understandable, but so can those common-sense impaired little beings we call CHILDREN. Now, I'm not against having children. The reason I don't yet have children is best discussed elsewhere (perhaps in a blog called Baby Daddy), but it has nothing to do with hating them. And besides, my dogs ARE my children in many ways, and I know I'm not the only one who feels like that.

I have loved my pets more than I have loved most people, and I still ache for the loss of them more than the loss of most friends and lovers. People say that "dog" is "god" spelled backwards and that to know true unconditional love, you should get a dog. And they are absolutely right. With the exception of a 10-day-old kitten named Olivia Moses that I raised on a bottle, dogs have been the most fully loving creatures I have ever known.

In the eyes of your dog, you are the best thing since sliced bread. Your dog will beat the marriage vows any day, "for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health," morning breath, total lack of commonsense, and a habit of drinking all the milk and putting the carton back empty. Your dog will never hold a grudge, never lie to you, and always want to be with you. Okay, your dog will occasionally do something annoying like pulling the stuffing out of your pillow to wake you up or peeing on the carpet if you don't take her out when she wants. On the other hand, she won't talk back to you, drive drunk in your car, run off and get pregnant or hooked on heroin, or get "dangerous" tattooed on her butt. She won't even go to counseling and blame you for the peeing on the carpet thing!

I got my first dog when I was 22 and in graduate school. Her name was Christabel, from the poem of the same name. She was a little Lhasa Apso, and loved by everyone (including Olivia Moses, the cat who THOUGHT she was a dog). When Christa was 4, my first husband and I got Boudin, a tiny poodle/pom. When we divorced two years later, I could not keep both and let him take Boudin. It broke my heart. It was like giving up a baby. No, she wasn't perfect; but she was my baby. She was with my Ex in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina hit, and it almost drove me nuts until I found out that he had taken her away safely when so many pets were left to die. A year after my first divorce, I finished school and had to start working fulltime. Christabel was so lonely that I made the difficult decision to find her a home with a good family with kids who could be with her all the time. It was as complicated as a human adoption, and I wept when the family that adopted her drove away. I felt like I was doing the best thing for my child, but I felt like a criminal too.

Several years, later I tried again with Augustus; but Gus was high-strung and only six months old when he broke away from me and ran up the street towards my friend's house, a familiar path for him. He died in my arms only a few minutes after the car hit him. I thought it would kill me. An elderly neighbor was kind enough to take him out to his farm and bury him there as I kept sobbing that I couldn't just leave him without a proper burial. Then Kewpie Doll, my little pug came, and had to be adopted out too. She was a ball of energy and needed constant playmates, bless her heart. She is still happy and healthy in Arkansas. Finally, life settled out to give me more time at home. I brought home Fannie at 5 weeks and her half-sister Bess at 4 weeks. They are each other's playmates and my little companions. They can try my patience sometimes, but they are loving, darling, devoted creatures who live to love and be loved.

So the question is what to do? I need to get another apartment closer to my new work, but the idea of giving them up, especially when they depend on me totally, is a terrible thought. No one would expect a person to give up a needy, screaming, human child (who like a dog will also eat items on the floor) because he might cause damage and make noise. But I am expected to give up two little fluff-balls who like to ride in a stroller? Well then, maybe the landlords should have to give up their human children, due to all the possible damage and noise. Yeah; that should go over well.

Writing to Communicate in English: What's in an Essay?

Tonight I began my second term of teaching Writing to Communicate in English for Lingua Espresso. I really enjoyed my students in the first term, so I am really looking forward to the new group this summer. The course is made up of eight lessons where I teach foreign language speakers, usually Japanese speakers, to write an English essay. I use a wonderful book, Writing to Communicate, 3rd Edition, by Boardman and Frydenberg. We begin by dicussing the smallest unit of essay writing, the paragraph, and end up writing one complete essay over the course of the eight lessons: all the way from introduction paragraph to conclusion paragraph. And we "meet" via Skype: all the discussion is done and all the short homework assignments are delivered by computer!

I really enjoy teaching writing classes for several reasons. First, I like building interesting essays the way a carpenter likes building beautiful furniture. And I like being able to help students to do this as well. In the case of my Japanese students, English essays are often different from typical Japanese writing. English essays tend to move in a quick direct line, instead of a slow spiral. So sometimes my students are intimidated by writing in English. I'm able to show them that when you break it into small parts, it's really very easy to put a English essay together--and enjoy doing it.

I also love teaching writing because my students teach me as well. Because in their essays, they write about their lives, their countries, their opinions and interests, I learn a lot of new things. For example, until I began teaching Japanese students, I knew very little about Japan, especially modern Japan. In my writing class, one of my students decided to write about the importance of Tokyo Tower as a national monument. In the process, I learned much more about the hopes and dreams and sorrows of the post-war Japan that built the tower. I became interested in a movie, Always: Sunset on Third Street, that the author talked about which included the tower. And I could almost imagine the tower at night, lit in a different color at the changing of the seasons.

Finally, I love to teach writing because I love to meet the writers. All writers are fascinating people in various ways. Many teachers never learn much about their students outside of class. Math teachers, science teachers, and history teachers, for instance, may never know their students personal stories, their likes and dislikes. But English and writing teachers get to read the essays that reflect who the students are, what they think, and even what they did on their last summer vacation (the oldest topic in the essay book). As a result, we tend to get to know our students better and perhaps to even form stronger bonds. I am always happy when an old student pops up on email to ask a question or just say hello.

All my writers and former students are welcome to check out my current writing course at www.linguaespresso.com. We will be giving another presentation of the first lesson next Saturday, July 19th at 10:30 am, JST. After that will continue on a lesson a week for eight lessons total. Contact Yasuro Kawata at yasuro@linguaespresso.com to confirm a spot in the class!

A Tale of Big Sky Country

Generally when I travel, I keep a travel journal and send it to my friends when I get home. Last fall, I drove from Seattle, Washington, to Missoula, Montana, deeply in thought about my future as a massage therapist. I took my dogs Fannie and Bessie with me as I often do. As I know some of my students at Lingua Espresso never get to see much of the less urban United States, I thought it might be fun to share this.


Oct 1

A lovely trip, but tiring. All the way from Seattle to Missoula, which is not quite as far as Baton Rouge to Russellville, so all in all, not bad.

I left Lynnwood to traffic, traffic, and more freaking traffic. But as soon as I transferred to I-90 towards Spokane, thank you Jesus, no more traffic. It was like riding the wind. And a lot of wind there was. After the green mist of the Cascades, I was suddenly in what I guess you’d call High Desert. The Columbia River Basin, I think. Anyway, in large part, it would make parts of Utah look pretty. But there was the wild wind, and huge windmills in the distance. A few hours from Spokane, things start to grow again. I saw cows and horses and field crops for the first time since Seattle. Then Spokane, flat but encircled by near mountains. I saw a Thor street and a Freya street. I loved it: I wonder what city founder who had a thing for Old Norse mythology? Spokane set off no bells. It seemed a pleasant bit of cow town, though.

In a few miles, I passed the Idaho border. I thought Idaho was a big potato field. Wow, was I wrong! Coeur de Alene is so lovely I can hardly describe it. Oh, the mountains and the beautiful green lakes and the houses perched up amid the trees. Then, the most difficult part of the trip: the Coeur de Alene National Forest. The roads are no worse than the Ozarks, but the mountains loom so high, you almost feel crushed on your little rut of road. Also, it was foggy and rainy, so I took my time. The leaves were turning, which reminded me of Arkansas only bigger and wilder. The girls were good, and mostly slept until this leg of the trip, when they suddenly woke up and decided to play “Who Gets to Sit in Mommy’s Lap.” After the forest, we passed a few scenic little towns I’d like to stop in on the way back. The only area I saw with “Booger Holler” type signs, like “Come See the Famous Silvertown of the Blank, Blank, Whatever!”

Between that area and Montana, we came out of the deep mountains and there were clearings on the sides of the roads, creeks, and rivers, rushes, and pools. Many loops of the Clark River, which runs through Missoula. Absolutely gorgeous. My favorite scenery, I think of the whole trip. No wonder the trout like it there.

Who knows when I actually crossed into Montana because I never saw a sign. But we made it safely to Motel 6 by 6 pm. Everyone here is extremely friendly and normal. What a relief after Seattle. The Motel 6 girl even called to make sure I liked my room! At Motel 6!

I took a look at the phone book and quickly realized that Missoula is already saturated with massage therapists. At least 43 in Missoula alone, and there is a massage school here. That was the first not-good sign. That, and as pretty as it is, no bells were going off.

We were tired, so we ordered a 10 dollar pizza, thought a lot, watched X-Men, took a bath, and went to bed. My window looks out on a big, blank, golden hill. Beauty here is very simple.

Oct 2

Wow, did I sleep late! Ten o’clock! Either I was really tired or I really needed sleep. Anyway, I didn’t wake up anxious like I do so often, so that was nice. I hurriedly got the girls ready, and set off. I left them in the car while I had a biscuit at Cracker Barrel next door (I gave the girls the sausage). I asked a lot of questions and watched people. The people who live here truly love it. But there are an unseemly number of old people on tour buses (reminds me of Bebe). Then Starbuck’s, where I got friendly directions to the main shop part of old downtown.

I put the girls in the stroller, and we checked out shops. As in Seattle, they got a lot of looks and smiles. I was in one metaphysical store for two hours. I talked to a lot of people and rather confirmed what I was feeling: Missoula is not the place I’d feel at home. But I made some good friends. There is also a LOT of wonderful, cheap local art. I bought a photograph of willow roots waving underwater. It is fascinating.

On the way back to the car around 3, I stopped at a gift shop type place to buy postcards. A girl came running in breathless in a coat, hat, and muffler and introduced herself to me. Apparently, she is an art photography student at UM, and they have to do a special project on something unusual. She was riding her bike, thinking, saw me with the dog stroller, and came rushing back after us. She interviewed me about me and the girls, took lots of pictures of them in the stroller, etc., and I gave her my card to email me if she gets picked as a finalist in her class. I was so happy to be able to help someone just by being there. She was so excited and so sweet.

I took the tired girls home, walked and fed them, wrote the postcards, then went to eat supper at the Iron Horse, which I saw on the Internet as an area hotspot. I always eat at the bar, if they have one, if I’m alone, because I often meet interesting people. As it happens, I met a nice psychologist, who after supper, walked me down the five blocks to the Clark River, telling me the history of the buildings, what had been there and had been torn down, etc. From the bridge over the river, we could see the UM nestled up against the side of the mountain. The lights were beginning to twinkle, and it was nice. He told me a lot about the area, since he’d lived in Missoula since 1984. As I knew, the population has more than doubled since then, as has the school enrollment. Condos are going up like crazy, and the city is not as relaxed as it once was. Property values are going through the roof. He bought his log house and land for 60K in 1990; the value is now 275K. But that was another confirmation. I’m trying to leave the land of condos, not move someplace that is becoming the town of condos. Montana has no sales tax: but sometimes they make up for that by simple raising the base prices. Very clever J

I thanked him, got his card, and came back to do dog duty. Interestingly enough, the girls had managed to find and consume an entire bag of beef jerky; except the packet that says “do not eat” (thank God). All that was left was half the wrapper, all smudgy from being licked. Those were some THIRSTY girls, by the time I got home, little devils.

I think I’ve seen everything I need to see here. But, I’m going to take the girls on that riverwalk tomorrow, and maybe do some photography if the mood strikes me. Then, I’ll do some of the business reading I brought with me.

After today, I believe I have been looking too hard for a place to call home, because that is what I crave. I think the important thing now is to do my research on starting a business in general, be ready to make financial moves, and I think the WHERE will become more apparent as graduation in June gets closer. I do not believe it will be the Southeast or the Northeast. I am thinking the Northwest or the Southwest. I sure got a good feeling when we passed through Albuquerque last winter: but who knows. I’ve been taxing my brain so hard, with all the stress about money, job and survival, kicked into overdrive when my soon-to-be-ex-husband left me two months ago.

Oct 3

Today I took the girls down to the Clark River. They were restive today, and “talked” a lot while in the stroller. Still, I got out leashes, and they had a nice walk. Then, back to the stroller. I took quite a few photographs. There are huge, brass trout “swimming” in the rocks by the river: very cool. Also, I rode the Missoula Carosel, the only one hand built since the Great Depression. It was a beautiful piece of work. The last place we went downtown was the Monte Dolack Gallery. Oh, my gosh. You have to look this guy up online at www.dolack.com. The gallery was amazing. His art ranges from serious to humorous, most of it set in the Montana area. The print in the window, “Dancing With Trout,” made me fall out laughing, which is why I went in in the first place. The lady there told me to let the girls out, and she gave them water while they ran around. Then the man who runs the gallery came up with his dog, Emma, who is ten. These babies were too much for Emma, who growled at them (I don’t blame her; they can be worse than two-year-old humans). I bought cards and a small print, but mostly I just enjoyed looking. I could have looked all day. And the people were so nice to Fannie and Bessie. They said that used to be, everyone took dogs everywhere. Recently, though, it’s changing with the influx of Californians. Which makes me wonder: is California a human breeding station? How do the residents of one single state “invade” at least 6 of their neighbors over two decades or so? And why can’t they stay put? Goodness knows their neighbors don’t want them; they’re all pretty vocal about that. Well, say what you want about Arkansas, but at least we’re not a Mongol horde, taking over Mississippi and Tennessee with ruthless abandon. All right, don’t say “Who would want Mississippi?” That just ruins my rant J

I did look in another gift shop, but I resisted boots. Oh, how I love boots of all types! Thank you Lord, for shielding me from spending money I don’t have in a boot-crazed haze.

Then hotel, napped, read business materials, bathed girls, repacked stuff, etc., etc. We leave early tomorrow for Spokane.

Oct 4

Well, the Dunn genes kicked in. Once we get started on the road home, we seem to lose our minds. I did 12 hours of driving, and canceled the night in Spokane.

I stopped in Wallace, Idaho, this amazingly old and historic little silvertown in the mountains. It was too early in the morning for much to be open, but I got postcards, took some pictures, etc. Jules, I think you would love exploring a town like this. There are all kinds of tours during normal hours: mines, the town, the old bordello. And all kinds of tracks and trails to bike and hike.

Then, I pressed on to Spokane, and turned down South, heading for the Palouse. Here, I did feel totally at home, and fell in love with Colfax, a town of about 3000. It’s about 10 minutes from Pullman, a town of 27,000 which hosts Washington State University. Even in winter, the rolling wheat fields are beautiful. Every once in a while, down in a fold, you see a farmhouse and its group of trees. The sky looks like it goes on forever; I haven’t played the cloud game in forever, but I looked out the window and saw a huge swan sail by. I couldn’t linger long, so I turned up 27 W to join again with I90 in about 120 miles. That was the loneliest part of the trip. Weird and wonderful at the same time. The grain fields fall away to scrub in some places, there is almost no traffic on the road, and if you stop and get out, the silence will knock you over as if it were a sound in itself.

After that, you enter the irrigated part of the Columbia River Basin, and there are orchards, vineyards, potatoes, and lots and LOTS of onions. Demographically, you change as well. While Missoula, Northern Idaho, and Pullman are nearly 100 percent white, the area becomes very Hispanic in this region. Finally we reach the interstate, then it’s almost 3 hours more to Lynnwood. It would have been less, but the crawl from Seattle to Lynnwood, what should be a 10 to 15 minute drive, took an hour. My mood dropped despite me. I detest this place, and didn’t want to come back. Well, I want my school, just not the rest. I was on the road 12 hours total.

I don’t know what God and the universe have in store for me. I know I don’t want to live in Missoula or anywhere near Seattle and I felt a STRONG attraction to the Palouse area. I might have to get a job somewhere and buy a house to make me look better to lenders. I might be able to get a small business women’s loan from the SBA . . . in my situation, that loan option looks best right now. I am trying to be as STRONG and POSITIVE as possible, even though my debts and lack of knowledge in some areas tries to drag me to despair.

And that’s about it. Except one thing. One rant, you might say. It’s about signs. In the Idaho mountains there are signs that say “Beware of Fallen Rock.” Now, that’s not quite agrammatical, but I’m not sure it’s sensible. I’ve seen signs for “falling rock,” but never “fallen rock.” So, forget about the rocks that might fall unexpectedly out of the sky, just worry about veering around the ones that are already sitting placidly in the road? I don’t get it.

In the Cascades, the signs simple say “Rocks.” What the crap does that mean? Yes, hills are made of rocks. What about it? That’s like putting a big sign next to a lake that says “Water.” Yeah, duh. Now, if it said, “Beware of Huge Monster Lurking at Edge of Water,” that would make sense.

Signing off,

Lynna

Dinner in Jamerica

One of my best memories of growing up is eating dinner as a family. Each person had his own chair, and my sister and I took turns saying grace over the food before all four of us telling about what we'd done that day. I've lived alone quite a bit over the last twenty years or so, and I have often missed that kind of connection that springs up between people when they share food.

But several months ago, while teaching English for Lingua Espresso,I met someone who has become my closest friend, and we share lots of teasing and stories and sometimes arguments over food. For example, take what I like to call "The First Battle of the Cherry Pits." Cherries came into season a few weeks ago, and I bought a bag for us as a treat. I adore cherries, and we never had them where I lived growing up. Washington, on the other hand, is cherry paradise. My friend is Japanese, and when we're at home, we generally eat sitting on the floor at a folding table. "Hey," I said as we were gobbling cherries, "want to see me eat a cherry Arkansas-style?" I plucked the cherry, discarded the stem, sucked away the fruit part, and spit the cherry neatly a few feet past him. "Ha!" he said, pulling over a small trash can and putting it an even distance between us. He chewed, aimed, and missed. I laughed . . . which is when, sadly, I discovered that my friend has quite a competitive streak. Because after much spitting and laughing on my part and spitting and yelling on his part, I won 4 to 2. He sulked for days :-)

But we share many other foods quite happily . . . okay, not always happily. Since my friend is Japanese, I was introduced to many Japanese foods for the first time. Take miso soup, or as I like to call it, "woodfish soup" because the dried bonito he shaves into it looks like wood to me. The first time he gave it to me, I thought I had gone to heaven, and as I watched tofu and sea vegetables swirling up in the steamy liquid, I thought "here is the future, and it's better than reading tea leaves!" Of course, when I said that, he just shook his head and said "Crazy white woman." "Shut up!" I replied, because I can be good at sulking too when I choose :-)

I'm also crazy about kimpira; add lotus root to the mix, and I might fight even fight you for it. I enjoy a good sake quite a bit and eat a lot of nutty brown steamed rice, but I do have my limits. I used to be a huge cook, and I'll try most anything once, but umeboshi plums make my whole body pucker up and natto makes me nauseous (so of course he has to stir the nasty foaming stringy stuff right in front of me).

I cook for us as well. He loves my lasagna (seasoned tofu instead of ricotta cheese)and my Mom's famous cornflake chicken. He even likes my baked cheese grits, a Southern specialty. But what he really loves is Mexican chicken casserole and . . . chips. That's right, chips. I always serve them as a taste/texture contrast with that dish. Little did I know, he would be salivating for them, dreaming about them, ranting over chat that he's developed an American obsession for Tostitos, and it's all my fault. I haven't come up with a food he hates yet, though he has accused me of eating more than my fair share of the raspberry yogurt (Who is he kidding? He drinks the stuff with a straw, practically!)

A few days ago, we went to Seattle's International District (the "ID") to stock up on rice and meats. I marveled over chicken feet that were as big as my hand and asked again if I could get a pet sea cucumber and keep it in his bathtub (he said no; sigh). I bought catfish among other things to cook for our supper. This was an interesting choice for both of us. Arkansas LOVES catfish, fileted, battered and fried and served with hushpuppies and onion rings and ketchup. This Chinese-style catfish was sort of sliced horizontally with tail intact, skin on, definitely not deboned. The Japanese on the other hand, eat most anything that comes out of the water, especially fish, but NOT catfish. So we were both a little puzzled as to exactly what to do with it. But, I broiled it with salt, pepper and olive oil, served it with curried chunks of sweet potatoes, and he deftly dissected it with chopsticks: joint effort, very good meal. Okay, not as good as the 200-plus potstickers we made last month . . . but that's another story :-)

Myths About Learning English as a Second Language

Having been an English geek all my life and an English teacher for many years, I sometimes wonder at the many myths about what makes a good English teacher. The qualities of a good teacher and the qualities of a good English teacher are varied and complex, especially when one adds in the qualities needed to be a good English teacher for second language speakers. But there are two things that I DO know about teaching English as a second language that are quite simple: (1) just being a speaker of English does NOT make you a good English teacher and (2) taking a few lessons from native English speakers (Americans in particular) will NOT make a foreign language student fluent overnight.

For the last year, I have been honored to teach English to Japanese students at Lingua Espresso, so I have been exposed to these myths quite frequently when I look around at other English language learning schools and the students who are seeking instruction. I am proud to say that we do not support such myths at Lingua Espresso. For example, we certainly know that just being a speaker of English does not make one a good English teacher. I have taught plenty of native speakers of English who had little knowledge of how the language works, or had terrible grammar, or who didn't speak good standard English, or who simply did not have the skill to pass on information to other human beings. Did they speak English? Yes. Could they teach it? No. Not well. Being literate, or being able to read and write, does not necessarily make you a good teacher of a language. If it did, no American would ever be out of a job: everyone would happily be teaching English for extra income.

Which leads me to another odd belief: that any speaker of English can teach the American English that many foreign language speakers seem to want. This is simply illogical and untrue. If you want to be sure to learn the dialect, the expressions, and the vocabulary of American English, an American teacher is your best choice. Why would you choose an English teacher in the Philippines, for example, if what you wanted to learn American English? English is spoken in America, England, Canada, Scotland, etc., but believe me, it does NOT all sound the same.

Now let's say you want to learn American English and you find an excellent teacher with solid training. Will that teacher be able to make you fluent in a few weeks? Sadly, no. That is impossible. Learning any language requires study and practice: that is just a fact. Some students who admire America seem to think that learning English from an American, especially light-skinned and fair-haired Americans, will immediately make them fluent. Not true. Whether you have blonde hair and green eyes like one of my coworkers, or red hair and brown eyes like me, you just do not have the power to make a student fluent in six lessons: both the teacher and student must work diligently on the learning process.

At Lingua Espresso, we choose teachers who have shown--by education or teaching experience or both--that they will be able to convey language knowledge to second language speakers. We choose teachers who speak American English without the foreign accents of another country or culture. And we don't claim to make anyone fluent in a matter of weeks: when we assess a student, we are very truthful in suggesting what a student will need to work on and in revealing that more than one lesson will be needed: we never claim to work miracles, because learning English overnight is impossible. However, we are passionate about what we do and helping our students learn good English using the best textbooks and tools. We care about our students and their progress and get just as excited as they do when they meet an English goal, such as making high marks on the Speaking Section of the TOEFL.

So if you're interested in learning English, check us out at www.linguaespress.com. Because we teach English, not mythology.