I grew up in the Inland Empire of Southern California where it only gets cold in the mountains. Friends and family might dispute that, but these are people who need coats when the slightest wind picks up, who start eying the thermostat longingly when there is the tiniest bit of chill in the air. Inland Empire residents could tell you all sorts of things about hot, but don't let them try to tell you about cold -- they will lie and not even know they're doing it.
They say it's cold here. I don't say it's cold here, oh no. It is only cold for the short time I spend in my home; the rest of the time I might as well be back in California. Because almost all of my students are just like those Inland Empire wimps from my past. When I arrive in the classroom first thing in the morning, the classroom temperature is a little chilly, but tolerable. When my students arrive, one of them invariably nudges one of the taller kids, who then stands on his or her tippy-toes and switches on the thermostat. Within a few minutes, we all might as well be in a Turkish bath.
"Will someone please switch that off?" I plead and this is met with a chorus of aggrieved wails -- "Noooo tee-cha -- very cold!"
Minutes pass. I grow more and more miserable. I peel off my jacket, then my sweater. I roll up my sleeves, fan myself, fish around in my bag for an elastic band and put my hair up. I crack open a window and lean out; I grab someone's water bottle off a desk and splash a little on my neck. But God forbid I should suggest that the thermostat be turned down!
I'm a cheapskate and a firm believer in saving energy, but most of all, I warm up quickly when I'm teaching. My students, on the other hand, cannot get warm no matter how hot it gets. The windows steam; sweat beads up on my lip; my face turns a nice shade of rose, but they sit huddled in their sweaters and coats, shivering. I can forgive the handful of kids from Dubai and Nigeria, but not the Turks or the Russians. I've heard that it is snowing in Istanbul right now and it is definitely snowing in Moscow, but here in our little southern outpost it last snowed decades ago, a mere frosting, by all accounts, that barely made it to the ground. "You can't possibly be that cold!" I rave, fanning myself. I see the looks on their faces: You can't possibly be that warm!
Last week one boy narrowed his eyes at me. "Tee-cha, where you from?"
"California."
He frowned, and the others gave me suspicious looks. "California hot, right? Surfer place. Swim sea."
"It's hot all right, but I still want that thermostat turned down." What else can I say? I may be from California, but when you're hot, you're hot.
Personally, I think they're spoiled when it comes to room temperature: in September and October, they were quick to turn on the air conditioner. I wonder how they'd cope without central heating and air conditioning, and I find myself wondering what their parents' electric bills must be like.
And I remember Hokkaido.
Hokkaido is the northern-most island of Japan, and take it from me, in the winter it is cold there. There are places in Hokkaido where the snow is two meters deep and the icicles hanging from the eaves are easily that long and as thick as a man's thigh. Now, winters are cold all over Japan with the possible exception of Okinawa, but only in northern Honshu, Japan's main island, and Hokkaido do houses tend to be centrally heated and insulated. A friend from Tokyo once assured me that she could bear the winter cold outside in Hokkaido, but not the winter heat inside. I thought she was exaggerating until I went there one winter myself.
I've gone through some hot summers in Japan. I lived in Kyushu, Japan's southern most island, where the temperatures can reach 40 and feel a lot hotter what with the high humidity; I spent almost ten years in a house without air conditioning when the only way to get cool was to hop in my kids' wading pool in the garden and eat popsicles all day long. But never have I suffered from the heat as badly as I did that winter I visited Hokkaido.
Boarding a train in Sapporo one snowy afternoon, I was grateful for the blast of heat that met me as I settled into my seat. I took off my scarf, then my coat, noticing that all the other passengers still had theirs on. Five minutes later, I took off my turtleneck sweater; the heat was not nearly so welcome as it was when I first got on the train. Ten minutes later, I pinned my long hair up and peeled off my cotton turtleneck shirt. People around me began nudging each other and craning their necks to look at the crazy foreigner stripped down to her undershirt. Everyone else was still bundled up in winter coats and scarves, though a few brave souls had removed their mittens.
Ten minutes later, I was panting and close to collapsing. I'd managed to take off my hiking boots and pull off my leg warmers and socks, and the seat next to me was piled high with my discarded clothing. What could I do? I had another thirty minutes left to travel. Should I go into the tiny toilet and strip down to my long-johns? Or should I sit there until I keeled dead over in a faint? Finally there was nothing for it: dressed in my sleeveless undershirt and jeans, I shoved my sockless feet back into my hiking boots and made my way to the end of the train. Pulling open the door, I stepped into the area between the train cars and stood in the refreshing cold, tasting snowflakes. It was heavenly.
Daijobu desu ka? asked the ticket collector, regarding me warily. I told him that I was okay, but I found the heat inside a little oppressive.
"But it's cold out here!"
"I'll go back inside when I've cooled off."
He shook his head. "You must be from one of those northern countries. What are you, Russian?"
"No."
"German?"
I figured honesty was the best policy. "American."
"Ah. Up north?"
"Well... no."
"Which state?"
I bit my lip. "California."
"Ah."
I saw suspicion in his eyes, but what else could I say? When you're hot, you're hot.
