The steady blur of scalloped roofs and powerlines rushes past me, the train's wheels clicking against the track as it turns a wide bend. The car is quiet, its passengers minding their own behind cell phones and small booklets in a language I cannot read: Japanese. 

I grip my luggage with one hand and loop my other through a rubber strap hanging from the ceiling to steady myself when the train hits occasional bumps. I peer out the window, ignoring the vacant stares of an elderly woman next to me. Though her eyebrows are drawn over thick-lensed glasses, I know she means no ill will—or, I can only hope she doesn't. I'd probably have a hard time not looking at someone that is so clearly out of place, too. Not out of malice, but simply out of curiosity and caution. 

My blonde highlights are certainly not the only reason I look different. Everything about me screams foreigner. From my baggy grey sweats and red college hoodie to the plastic American flag luggage roller leaning against my calf. With the pasty white color of my face and blotchy makeup smeared from hours of travel without a touch-up, I'm sure my appearance screams "noisy, disruptive white girl." 

A voice over the intercom announces our arrival at Kyoto station, the largest city since I flew into Osaka. I still have a way to go before I arrive in the secluded, rural countryside of Omihachiman. Thank goodness the trains are programmed to also announce arrivals in English. The airport was relatively easy to navigate too, with signs written in English and Japanese script. So far, Japan has been pretty tourist-friendly.

I've never been great at learning languages, but I've won several awards for my English ability. Spelling bees throughout my primary school years and debates throughout high school and college are what kept me on teachers' good sides. It was a no-brainer for me to use my talents in the English major program at MSU, but I was pretty directionless after that. Unless I become a teacher or an editor, how can I use English for a career in the real world?

One of my advisors put in a good word for me with the JET program, and I was graciously accepted thanks to my educational history. But beyond that... I'm clueless when it comes to Japan, its culture, and the behaviors of the people here. No one has been outright xenophobic, but a college classmate had warned me against those tendencies that seethed under the hospitable exterior of Japanese citizens. 

I really try my best not to judge people before getting to know them myself. 

When the train hums to a stop at the small station in Omihachiman, I turn a hesitating glance to the elderly woman, offer her a smile (to which she responds with a surprised blink), and step onto the platform with my things. 

As the train rushes behind me, I follow the English signs to a set of stairs that leads to the main area of the station. The warm April air swirls around me, sweet and a little oily—probably just train station musk. 

I whip my phone from my pocket for the hundredth time in the last twenty-ish hours to review my arrival directions again for the thousandth time. Skipping past the planning stages, finances, and plane tickets, I scroll to the part where I meet my temporary host family while the JET program ambassadors finalize my official residence. 

Haneda Oyako and Haneda Junjo are the two names stacked in bold letters on the directions PDF. Will they be holding a sign? Will they recognize me? 

As young children and the elderly pass me on the stairs as I struggle with my suitcase, I'm reminded that anyone would recognize me with how I'm dressed and what I'm carrying. A chuckle combines with the grunts that I huff as I lug the suitcase to the very last step. 

A high-pitched and nasally voice says something speedily in Japanese, and before I can register who it is, my suitcase disappears from my grasp, sending me stumbling forward. 

"Ah! Sumimasen! Sorry, sorry," the voice chides. Her tones are clearly nervous, but not at all aggressive. "Are you Mia?" It's hard for me to understand her behind her thick, bouncy accent, but "Mia" stands out for sure. 

I nod as I catch my breath, then lift my head to see two short and skinny Japanese people—a man with a combover wearing grey slacks and a bright orange sweater, and a woman (to whom the voice belongs) with short black hair silvering at the roots and an outfit that I could see my mom wearing in her garden: khaki overalls, a flower print t-shirt, brown boots and a circular straw hat that is held to her back by a thread that ties at her neck. 

"I am Oyako, and this is my husband, Junjo," she says with wide, smiling eyes. "We have been so excited to have you in our home. Please, allow me." She gestures to my suitcase, which is in her small hand. "We will drive you from here, about ten minutes. But first, are you hungry? Do you like Japanese food?"

Every single word she speaks takes a moment to register, since her enunciation on certain vowels and syllables isn't anything like I've heard before. For instance, "drive" is "dooribe" and "first" is "fasto." It's a miracle I can keep up, but then again, I did take a speech therapy class or two that had me listening for different speech patterns. Phonetics were never my passion, but I can already tell it'll be a daily part of my survival here. 

"Yes," I say. If sushi counts. That's about the limit to the Japanese food I've consumed. 

Oyako claps her hands together and my suitcase slides away. Her husband catches it and she laughs. "How about some snacks? We have conbini, er, convenience store at the front of the station. They have lots of good things to eat. I'm sure you will like!"

I follow her through the revolving security doors, past an unusual glossary of assorted vending machines. It isn't long before I'm standing outside a small store called "Lawson," written in English in capital blue letters. Oyako rushes in, but I decide to stay behind with Junjo.

He's not much for conversation, and I am perfectly okay with that. If Oyako is a whirlwind, Junjo is the stagnant breeze of an abandoned basement. Perhaps he simply doesn't know English? If that's the case, I don't blame him for keeping the small talk to a minimum. 

After a minute or so, Oyako appears with a small, bulging bag. Her brown eyes are wide as she lifts my hand and slips it into the loops of the plastic. "Japanese flavor chips, cola, and sweets." 

I mumble my thanks and she grunts in response, but her expression lights up with a pleasant smile.

I'm led into a very small parking lot, where few cars are parked. Theirs is a narrow red Toyota van. Junjo slides my suitcase into the back and Oyako opens the side door for me. It's very clean, as though they got the interior professionally detailed specifically for my arrival. 

A child naps in a car seat on the side opposite me, hair matted to her chubby cheeks. I can't help but smile as I buckle in. 

"Madoka," Oyako says. It takes me a moment to realize that's her daughter's name, and not an attempt at conversing with me in Japanese. 

I simply nod and smile to show my understanding. 

"So, JET program?" she asks as her husband slides into the driver's seat. Each of their buckles click in, then the van hums to life. 

"Yes, do you know much about it?" 

"Hmm," she drones. After we turn out of the small parking lot, she laughs. "I was taught English through JET program. My teachers were great! Teaching job is so hard. I teach the first grade math and science. JET teachers teach all grades. It must be so hard."

I laugh awkwardly. Is she trying to make me feel better? I've not even started teaching, and it sounds as though she's already sharing her condolences. 

Quickly, she turns around to look at me. Her hat twists against the headrest, disturbing her hair. Her smile is encouraging. "Don't worry. My teachers seemed like they loved their jobs. I'm sure you will, too."

Junjo clears his throat, but Oyako continues. Maybe clearing one's throat isn't an indicator of conversation here.

I can't understand what she says, so I just smile and nod. 

I make a mental note to look into language exchange programs. Maybe the office will have flyers.

Though orientation is only a day away and I have confidence in my English, something within me starts to crack. I almost hear it. A tiny voice, sending doubts through my system like poison. My biggest strength becomes my greatest weakness. How helpful is English in a place that doesn't speak it?

The question finally sinks to the base of my stomach, heavy like lead:

Can I really do this?