Life in the Shataku

The Shataku (literally 'company house') where we're living, looks a lot like a nondescript concrete block from the outside. It's already thirty years old (ancient by modern Japanese standards) and it isn't lovely. Inside, too, it's showing it's age. The o-furo bath has to be hand-cranked to light the gas and the storage in the tatami rooms consists of traditional o-shiire, a sliding door behind which lies a cavernous space separated by a deep shelf, suggesting a time when everyone rolled up their futon neatly each morning and packed it away next to clothes cut from soft, foldable fabrics which were stacked neatly on top of each other.
The kitchen screams 'galley' and we've had to buy Japanese furntiture to fit - a kitchen dresser for our crockery, a microwave oven that can fit above the rice-saver. There's just room to squeeze the three-part trash can next to the fridge. I think it's the first kitchen I've ever stepped foot in that has cupboards under the kitchen floor.
The trash can isn't working. Here, the rule is you have to separate trash into up to eleven varieties. So we're short eight trash cans. For the moment, we stick it out on the balcony with the washing. It won't offend anyone opposite (we overlook a vast cemetery), but we do have to watch the crows who recognise the official, red 'burnable refuse' bags.
In other respects, shataku life is rather pleasant. You see your neighbors often. Kids play together downstairs in the yard/car park area. Friends call by to introduce their new babies. Acquaintances exchange gossip in the elevator. Because most of us have recently returned from assignments overseas, we realize the value of sharing information which could be helpful to newcomers. I've discovered which day is 'market day' at my local Jusco (when I can buy produce discounted to Y98 - less than a dollar for wild yellow-tail fillets or a head for grilling), where to find the local (and only) pediatrician, how many 3-yr olds are available for playdates in the building, who teaches Japanese.
My home economics guru upstairs has offered to teach me how to make kimchi on Tuesday. She's also advising me on my quest to find organic food, although she has warned me not to get my hopes up. Apparently less than 0.1% of Japanese produce is organic. So far at my three local supermarkets (all within walking distance as I don't yet have a car), I've spotted organic tofu (made from imported Chinese beans), organic black sesame seeds and 'pesticide-free' milk. I'm buying 'Tasmanian' beef which I hope is grass-fed. But what I really want is a Farmer's Market where I can find fresh, local, organic produce. And cheese. Big, huge chunks of the stuff. The search continues ...