ネイティブが教える英会話のジェムスクール☆Teachers☆

Sitting in a cozy little shop in beautiful Uwajima, I savored a bowl of tai meshi ochazuke, the warm broth melding perfectly with the fresh sea bream and rice. There’s something about the flavors here—simple yet rich, like the fertile waters that make Uwajima’s seafood some of the best in Japan. The locals, always so affectionate and welcoming, made the experience even more special. I can’t wait to go back.

  

I recently visited the Muroto Schoolhouse Aquarium in Kochi, and it was fascinating to see how they repurposed an old elementary school into a unique aquatic exhibit. Instead of demolishing the building, they cleverly transformed its existing facilities—turning the communal sink into a hands-on touch tank for sea creatures and converting the school pool into an open-air aquarium. It was a creative and sustainable way to breathe new life into the space.

Unfortunately, due to the cold weather, the sharks had to be relocated to a warmer shelter, but the experience was still incredible. Seeing how a once-abandoned school became a thriving educational attraction made me wonder—what are some other ways neglected buildings could be creatively reused?

  

Finally got to watch Nosferatu after it failed to get a theatrical release in Japan, and it was worth the wait. With winter’s long nights and creeping chill, Robert Eggers’ take on the 1922 classic feels even more haunting. Every frame drips with gothic dread, from candlelit interiors to the decayed, shadow-drenched landscapes that feel plucked from a fever dream. Bill Skarsgård’s Orlok is grotesque and otherworldly—a true monster rather than a romanticized vampire. Eggers’ signature historical detail makes the world feel grimy and lived-in, yet strangely hypnotic. Nosferatu lingers like a ghost, the kind of horror that seeps into your bones—perfect for the season.


  

Ume blossom season is just around the corner, and I can’t wait to see the first signs of spring unfold. These delicate flowers, ranging from pure white to deep pink, bring a sweet fragrance to the air and a quiet beauty to parks and shrines. Unlike cherry blossoms, ume blooms a bit earlier, often while the air still carries winter’s chill, making them feel like a promise of warmth to come.

This year, I’m looking forward to exploring some new spots to enjoy them—maybe a hidden temple garden or a quiet mountainside grove.

  

Spent the afternoon at MIMOCA in Marugame exploring the works of Genichiro Inokuma. His vibrant abstract compositions blend everyday life with a sense of curiosity and playfulness. It was fascinating to see how his style evolved across different periods, balancing bold colors with delicate forms. A truly inspiring collection that invites you to see the world through his eyes. The perfect way to spend a rainy day.

  

As winter lingers in Japan, a delicate yet powerful fragrance drifts through my neighborhood and quiet streets. This is the scent of Wintersweet (Chimonanthus praecox), a flower so potently sweet that you will often smell it before you see it. Its pale yellow, waxy blossoms cling to bare branches, blooming in the cold months when most plants remain dormant.

Wintersweet has long been cherished in Japan and China for its resilience and beauty. In haiku and poetry, it symbolizes perseverance and the quiet promise of spring. Its fragrance—rich, honeyed, and almost intoxicating—cuts through the crisp winter air, a reminder that warmth is on the horizon.

Beyond its poetic associations, Wintersweet is often planted in traditional homes and gardens, where its scent welcomes visitors with a sense of nostalgia and seasonal change. However, for those sensitive to strong floral scents, it can be overwhelming and may even trigger allergies—I’ve learned this firsthand! A single branch placed in a room can fill the space with its lingering perfume, a natural incense that requires no flame.

For those who love seasonal beauty, spotting (or rather, smelling) Wintersweet is a quiet delight of winter in Japan. Have you ever followed a scent only to discover this hidden gem?  

This weekend, I found myself revisiting the works of the legendary David Lynch after hearing of his passing. I watched some of his films and interviews, reflecting on the strange, magnetic energy he brought to the screen.

Growing up, Lynch’s work was a staple in our household. My dad introduced me to original recipe DUNE, with its sprawling deserts and surreal visions. Meanwhile, my mom and I bonded over Twin Peaks, navigating its dreamlike absurdity together. These moments shaped me, fostering a deep love for the bizarre, the unsettling, and the inexplicable beauty that lives within chaos.

Lynch had a way of making the strange feel familiar, and the familiar feel strange, a gift that will leave a lasting mark on anyone who’s experienced his art. It’s bittersweet to say goodbye to someone who taught so many of us to embrace the bizarre and absurd with open arms.

  

For my first hatsumode of the year, I returned to Daisho-in, a place that always feels deeply personal. Nestled within its sprawling grounds is a Tibetan shrine—the closest thing I have to a home shrine here in Japan. Sitting in its quiet presence, surrounded by the familiar symbols and vibrant colors of my faith, felt like reconnecting with a piece of home.

I also picked up this year’s paper-cut seal, its intricate design a reminder to carry mindfulness and intention into the months ahead. Each visit to Daisho-in feels like both a spiritual grounding and a way to honor my roots, even from afar.


  

There’s something magical about walking through Hiroshima’s Dreamination during the holidays. The lights stretching down Peace Boulevard turn the city into a glowing wonderland. Each display feels like a small escape—playful shapes, intricate designs, and the soft hum of festive energy in the air. It’s the kind of place where time slows down, and you can just take it all in. I wandered through with a warm drink in hand, letting the lights guide me, feeling a little brighter with every step. If you’re in Hiroshima this season, don’t miss it—it’s the kind of magic that stays with you.

  

Recently, a co-worker and I made the trek through the seemingly endless winding mountain roads of Tokushima to visit Nagoro, the Scarecrow Village. Hidden deep in the Iya Valley, this place is unlike anywhere else—a surreal combination of art, nostalgia, and eerie charm.

The highlight of our visit was exploring the abandoned elementary school. The building, frozen in time, still held artifacts of its past: dusty chalkboards, faded textbooks, and rows of tiny desks. Adding to the haunting atmosphere were the life-sized scarecrows scattered throughout the classrooms, “documenting” the school life of its final two students.

As we were leaving, we had the good fortune to meet Tsukimi Ayano, the artist and creator behind the scarecrows. She was kind and truly fascinating, her work serving as a poignant reflection of rural Japan’s struggles. Nagoro, like many villages in Japan, faces depopulation as younger generations leave for urban centers. The scarecrows stand as a tribute to the people who once called the village home, preserving its memory in a way that is both beautiful and haunting.

The journey was long, but the experience left a deep impression—a powerful reminder of the resilience and creativity that thrive even in the quietest corners of the world.






  

This weekend, I found myself with a handful of extra-ripe persimmons left over from preparing hoshigaki (dried persimmons). Rather than let them go to waste, I decided to turn them into a simple persimmon jam—and it was a breeze to make!

With just three ingredients—persimmon purée, sugar, and lemon juice—I simmered the mixture until it thickened into a beautifully smooth, golden-orange spread. The recipe was quick, easy, and resulted in something perfect for toast, pancakes, or even as a topping for yogurt.

It felt great to make use of every bit of these seasonal fruits, and now I’ve got a jar of rich, autumn flavor in the fridge to enjoy all week! If you’ve got some ripe persimmons on hand, I highly recommend giving this a try.

  

Over the weekend, I had the pleasure of watching Cats of Gokogou Shrine, a deeply thoughtful documentary by Kazuhiro Soda and Kiyoko Kashiwagi. As someone who loves quiet, observational filmmaking, I was completely drawn into this serene world set at Gokogou Shrine in Ushimado, Okayama Prefecture, where the filmmakers themselves live.

The film focuses on the stray cats that call the shrine home, capturing their daily lives with an affectionate but unsentimental lens. These aren’t house cats playing up for the camera—they’re independent strays, sunning themselves, roaming the grounds, and competing for fish scraps from locals. While Soda avoids anthropomorphizing them, their presence reveals so much about the balance between humans and animals in this small, aging community.

One of the more striking moments for me was watching volunteers from the Street Cats Control Association trap the cats for neutering. It’s a bittersweet act of care, meant to prevent overpopulation but also aiming to eventually eliminate the cats from the shrine entirely. It made me think about how coexistence often requires difficult choices, both for the cats and the people.

What I loved most was how the film subtly connects the lives of these cats to the challenges facing the town itself. Ushimado is a community in decline, with an aging population and fewer young residents. The parallels between the impermanence of the cats’ lives and the fragility of the town are poignant without ever feeling heavy-handed.

If you’re a fan of documentary filmmaking that finds beauty in the everyday or if you’re curious about the subtle ways humans and animals interact, this film is a must-see. More than a documentary, it’s a meditation on life, change, and the connections that sustain us.

  

After much anticipation, I finally dove into Brian Evenson’s A Collapse of Horses, and it was absolutely worth the wait. Evenson’s collection of stories is eerie, disorienting, and haunting in the best way possible. Each story pulls you into a world that’s slightly off-kilter, where reality feels fragile and every twist challenges what you think you know. His writing is sharp and atmospheric, full of unsettling tension that lingers long after you’ve put the book down. If you’re into dark, psychological horror that blurs the lines of reality, I highly recommend it!
  

For Godzilla Day, I decided to revisiting the original 1954 Godzilla movie, a timeless classic that laid the foundation for all kaiju films. This first Godzilla isn’t just a monster movie; it’s a powerful reflection on the devastating impacts of nuclear war, resonating even today as we grapple with technological advancements that bring about both progress and peril. The haunting soundtrack by Akira Ifukube amplifies the eerie atmosphere, making every scene feel both epic and tragic.

Watching Godzilla stirs up great nostalgia for me. I remember Sunday afternoons spent with my younger brother and father, diving into tokusatsu films. Those afternoons were filled with excitement and a little bit of awe as we watched these incredible creatures come to life on screen. The charm and thrill of Godzilla and other Japanese monster movies remind me of simpler times, and it’s amazing to see how these themes still strike a chord today.  

This weekend, I had the chance to explore Hiroshima’s Motomachi Public Housing Complex—a monumental piece of post-war architecture and a symbol of Japan’s resilience. Built in the 1970s, Motomachi was envisioned as a “city within a city,” offering not only housing but a true community space with schools, shops, and recreational areas. Wandering through its vast concrete corridors, I could sense the ambition of that era, a time when building upward represented hope and progress.

Though years of wear have softened its once-vibrant energy, the ongoing revitalization efforts bring a sense of renewal. With modern updates and green spaces, the complex is re-emerging as a lively part of Hiroshima, reconnecting with the community it once served. Seeing Motomachi today, I was reminded of how cities, much like people, grow and adapt, carrying forward their history while opening up to new possibilities.



  

I recently visited a local ramen and yakitori spot, Tenya Wanya in Busshozan, thanks to a recommendation from my students. With the weather transitioning into fall, it was the perfect time for a warm bowl of ramen. Their chicken-based stock is what they’re famous for, and it was hands down some of the best ramen I’ve had in a long time—rich, flavorful, and comforting. I definitely recommend it! I’m looking forward to trying their yakitori next, though I’ll have to make reservations for dinner since it’s quite popular!


  

Over the weekend, I had the chance to see the legendary Japanese female rock band OOIOO live in Okayama. Their performance was nothing short of electrifying, filled with the experimental energy and genre-defying sound that has made them iconic. The way they seamlessly fused complex rhythms with raw, powerful vocals was mesmerizing, drawing the audience into their unique musical world. Each member showcased incredible talent, creating an atmosphere that was both intense and uplifting. It was a rare and unforgettable experience to see such a groundbreaking band live, leaving the crowd buzzing with excitement long after the show ended.

  

On a recent excursion to Matsuyama, I had the good fortune to find Sapp Burger. A narrow restaurant with just a few tables decorated with plenty of American knick-knacks and memorabilia. The young cook banged out some of the most authentically American food I’ve tasted in a long time. Everything was done to perfection. 10/10!!

  

Just watched Alien: Romulus, and it was fantastic. The movie perfectly captures the aesthetic and claustrophobic feel of the original Alien, which came out 45 years ago. It’s amazing how, even after all this time, the original Alien can still deliver that same eerie tension and suspense.

Romulus nails the dark, gritty visuals and that feeling of being trapped in space with something terrifying lurking just out of sight. If you’re a fan of the original, this one absolutely lives up to the legacy. Still one of the best sci-fi horror movies ever!  

This weekend, I dove into the world of Yoichi Yokoyama’s manga, and it was exactly the kind of escape I needed. Yokoyama’s work is nothing like the typical comics you might be used to. It’s bold, abstract, and visually striking, with an energy that practically leaps off the page.

Yokoyama’s visual style is what really sets his work apart. He uses thick, almost mechanical lines that create a sense of relentless motion. The panels are packed with intricate details, often depicting scenes of construction, travel, or transformation, where everything seems to be in constant flux. The characters in his stories are often faceless or heavily stylized, blending into the chaotic environments around them. This gives his work a surreal, almost otherworldly feel, as if you’re watching a series of complex, moving sculptures.

What’s fascinating about Yokoyama’s manga is how it challenges traditional storytelling. Instead of focusing on dialogue or character development, the story unfolds through the sheer force of the visuals. Each panel flows into the next with a rhythm that feels urgent and intense, pulling you deeper into the experience. It’s more about feeling the momentum of the images and getting lost in the abstract world he’s created.

Spending my weekend with Yokoyama’s manga was a refreshing break from the usual routine. It reminded me how powerful visual storytelling can be, especially when it breaks away from the norm and pushes you to see things in a new way.