Sundays are mid-shifts for me at Wako, which means that I work from just before noon to just past 7:00. It's not a bad time slot, really—I get to sleep in a little and the stores are still open when I get off. Wako is Narimasu's satellite school, and though many of my co-instructors claim it to be too small and slow for their tastes, I've grown to like it. The students at Wako seem more charmingly eccentric, which if nothing else helps me remember their names.

I know things are looking up when I walk in and see Susumu's name on my schedule. Though he's actually an engineer on the Human Genome project, he'd easily be mistaken for a college freshman, with his wide grin and slouching posture. Susumu signs up for tons of classes at Nova, but that's not the reason we all love him. The man never stops laughing. And not nervous laughter, either. Bellowing, uncontrollable hyena laughter. He'll burst out cackling at just about anything—verbs, photos, clouds. He's the only Japanese person I've ever met who seems genuinely happy. And somehow, due to a quirk in scheduling, it's been months since I last had a class with him. Every weekend, hearing his raucous laughter drift into my teaching booth, I'd secretly curse whatever scheduling software the staff uses. What I'm getting at is, this is shaping up to be a great day.

It begins a pair of 7Bs, the second-lowest level. There's nothing wrong with 7B—most Nova students start there. Some graduate out of it almost immediately, while others, well... I'm all set to teach lesson 18: "Which," when a weird conversational tangent during the warm-up causes me to throw caution to the winds and improvise a lesson based around "When," instead.

This is almost cruel, I have to admit. "When" is a conditional, and conditionals aren't taught until level 5, so it's a bit like stopping in the middle of an arithmetic lesson and switching to algebra. I only do it because both of them are trying to make sentences like "When it's raining, I can't play tennis," and I figure they just need a little more help. It goes quite well, actually, although the younger of the two keeps switching to Japanese and trying to hide behind her hair. Which 7B students do every day, mind you, so at least I know I'm challenging her. I don't do this sort of thing often, you understand, but if you don't invent your own Nova lessons from time to time, you'll go crazy. The official textbook is an early-80's edition whose lessons on telegrams, disco dancing, Muhammad Ali and the U.S.S.R. don't exactly inspire teachers (or students) to great heights.

Next up is Kenjiro, my favorite high-level student. He apparently takes Business English classes in addition to his Nova classes, so his rate of progress is nothing short of astounding. But progress isn't everything. What makes Kenjiro such a joy to have around is the relaxed way in which he uses what he's learned. Most Nova students speak English like they're spitting out watermelon seeds, proofreading each sentence in their heads three or four times before speaking, and limiting themselves only to constructions from the textbook. They're terrified of making mistakes, and as a result, try to speak as little as possible, which of course slows their learning process to a crawl. But some students—and it doesn't really matter what level they are—can speak freely and comfortably, concentrating on getting their meaning across rather than obsessing over syntax. They're the ones who really make the job worthwhile, because you know they'll not only retain what you teach them, they'll use it.

Kenjiro appears on my schedule twice today—a bit unusual, in that Nova tries to spread the teachers around, but it happens every so often. Both classes are one-on-one, which allows him to receive my full attention. He's got plenty to say. He's been thinking of applying to study English at the University of California at Hayward, he tells me, and he wants me to help clarify something he's heard about America. Is it true, Kenjiro asks, that the name of the university you attend, like Yale, or Stanford, will make a big difference in finding employment? Is it true you shouldn't leave your apartment after dark? Is it safe to park your car on the street overnight?

I don't get asked stuff like this every day, but it does come up. My first inclination used to be to shrug it off, American-style. "Nah, that's all exaggerated. The U.S. is awesome. Come on down." But it only takes a few weeks of living here for that kind of glib superiority to fade. The fact is, Japan is a beacon of social stability, a place where eight-year-old children can spend a day at Tokyo Disneyland unaccompanied, where graffiti is nonexistent, where police officers spend most of their time helping people find addresses. This place has problems, don't get me wrong. I'm just saying it's nice to be able to walk home late at night without having to look over your shoulder. Ever.

I tell Kenjiro that America is kinda classist, but that unless he's planning to work alongside people who own yachts named after their mistresses, he won't really have to worry about the stigma of attending UC-Hayward. And that if he drives a used car with a factory-installed radio, he can safely park it wherever he likes.

1:20pm. At long last, Susumu. My class with Susumu has him paired with some new guy whose job is about to transfer him to the Netherlands for three years. He doesn't really want to go, but at least some kindly instructor has donated her Lonely Planet: Amsterdam book to him. He mentions that he's leaving in two months; "Are you excited?" I respond. His face scrunches up in confusion. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

Alas, there are no Nova classes on small talk. I decide on lesson 33, "The Yes/No Game Show," in which the object is to answer yes-or-no questions without saying "yes" or "no." It's a load of fun and it encourages students to expand their question-response vocabulary. Susumu giggles nonstop, and all is right with the world.

Lunchtime! I dash off to the nearby Royal Host restaurant and order the club sandwich, which is identical in every way to the club sandwiches you'll find in America, except it costs twelve dollars.

Back to work. I've been assigned my first "Special Voice," which is a group conversational free-for-all usually attended by higher-level students. In regular Voice, the students pick the topic (invariably, "What city are you from?"), but Special Voice is a themed discussion led by the teacher, and it's twice as long. Sadly, Nova never promotes them properly, so the attendees are consistently taken aback. "What? We have to talk about New Zealand today? I thought this was a regular Voice."

And thus, a double-length regular Voice it is. Personally, I love Voice class, so that's just fine by me. We spend the first half discussing the American congressional system (seriously), with me trying to explain how conservatives can simultaneously campaign for a smaller, non-interfering government, but still try to legislate gay and abortion rights out of existence. Voice students are often very curious about U.S. politics, and the war in Iraq comes up pretty much every week (most teachers usually switch to "Okay class, today we're going to learn about idioms!" at that point, but you know me). The second half is a less spirited discussion of taxicabs (seriously), which I pick to enable the slower students to contribute. Voice is attended by students of widely varying skill levels, so ensuring that each person gets to participate is often quite daunting. Still, that's what they pay us for. Besides, I have a B.A. in Communications.

Only two classes left to go, and the first is a rare treat. Kazumi is only 12, and would normally be enrolled in Nova's Kids program, but for whatever reason her parents decided to sign her up as a regular student, despite the fact that she speaks no English whatsoever. None. Why is that a rare treat, you ask? First, because Kazumi is the most adorable child in human creation. Every time she gets an answer right, I give her a big thumbs up sign—she flings up her arms and yells, "Yay!" Also, she seems to have the intelligence of some sort of genetically engineered super-child, able to grasp completely unfamiliar concepts after only one or two examples. Please remember, some of the "easiest" stuff in English is actually so complicated it's barely explainable. Try to follow this one, for example: "Okay, so we use 'many' with things we can count, like cars and trees, and 'much' with things we can't count, like milk and rice. Right? So, like, you can't say 'How many water is in the glass?' You have to say 'How much,' as in 'How much sugar would you like,' or 'How much corn,' since corn is non-countable for some reason—so is broccoli and toast, now that I think about it—but anyway, it's pretty simple once you get the hang of it, since everything fits into one category or the other… Well, almost everything. I mean, you'd say 'I ate too much pizza' since it's non-countable, but when you're ordering pizza, you'd have to be able to count them, so you'd need to specify how many pizzas you wanted—I mean you can count pizzas, but it still behaves like a non-countable substance when you're talking about a portion of one pizza, as opposed to pizzas as discrete objects, so basically… Are you following all this?"

She just nods sagely. And I remind myself that Japanese doesn't even have plurals.

I hold up a card with a picture of a potato on it, and say, "How many potatoes would you like, Kazumi?" She answers, "Three potatoes, please." "Right. How much milk would you like?" "I would like a lot of milk, please." "Excellent," I say. "What about this card?" Kazumi stares at the card I'm holding for a moment and says, "How much broccoli would you like?" I look at her with undisguised amazement and say, "That's excellent!" Her arms shoot up like little pistons.

"Yay!"

It's 8:20pm, and due to the weird duty roster on Sundays, I am now the only teacher in the office. My lone remaining pupil is Nobuyuki, a hard-working student with a black belt in karate and what appears to be an endless supply of wide-collared disco shirts. It's late and we're both tired, so we spend almost 15 minutes on small-talk; Nobuyuki has just leveled-up to Level 6, and he's nervous about the difficult new material that awaits him. I pick one of the mid-range ones—"How X Is It?"—because I know he can handle it and I'm good at explaining that particular lesson. He does fine, and is noticeably relieved. I tell him we'll work on pronunciation next time as I wave goodbye. He smiles and waves back.

In the staff room, I check off "How X Is It" in Nobuyuki's folder, scribble a few recommendations for the next instructor, and grab my bag. It's been a long day, but I know it'll be a while before I have this many of my favorite students in one shift, so I try to savor it as best I can. The elevator doors close behind me, and I immediately start removing my tie.