If I told my mom I was moving to the government-subsidized housing projects in New Orleans, she would understandably fear for my safety. But after a month of living in the analogous “prefectural housing” here in Yamagata City, I am delighted to report that living here is a outstanding joy. The twin apartment buildings cater only to Yamagata prefectural employees; as such, my neighbors are mostly schoolteachers and government workers. On the other side of our living room wall live Oli and Lindsay, two JETs from Great Britain—more importantly, the only English-speaking people for a mile in any direction.

It’s a traditional Japanese-style apartment. Yes, the toilet flushes. No, it doesn’t have a seat. Yes, we have running water. No, there’s no hot water in the kitchen or at the bathroom sink. Yes, we have an enormous cube-like bathtub. No, it is not fun to sit in it and boil our skin off from the adjacent gas-powered inferno generator. We have a sizable back patio, it conveniently overlooks my weed garden (a work in progress! Just give me a few weeks) and the apartments across the street.

Inside the apartment, most of our floors are covered in tatami mats. The tatami grass is very beautifully woven and it even smells like fresh-cut grass. The mats are also profoundly delicate, so no shoes or heavy furniture are allowed on them. And Angie’s favorite feature: in socked feet, one can get a running start and sli-i-ide across the room on the mats, but only in one direction. Thanks to the grass weave pattern, any attempt to slide perpendicular to the grass blade direction results in an immediate nose dive. Our downstairs neighbors especially appreciate our repeated testing of this theory.

Sliding doors and windows made of flimsy paper are fun and all, but the most prominent feature of our new apartment is the low, LOW ceilings separating each room. Angie says they’re just barely high enough to accommodate her, but the bruises on my head suggest otherwise for myself. I have hit my head multiple times on: bathroom ceiling, kitchen stove fume hood, bedroom entrance, living room entrance, and the inside of my closet. Angie’s parents are smart, they hang a tennis ball in the garage to keep from pulling in the car too far; I’m going to enact a similar plan here at home. Orange warning streamers and hi-bounce balls on strings will soon paper the entire apartment, if it means I won’t have to smash my head again.

Our list of furniture items is quite brief: a few shelves, a few drawers, a coat rack and a devilish contraption called a kotatsu. It is our living room “table” rising a whopping 14 inches above the floor, requiring us to kneel at it for eating or card games of Spite & Malice (thanks to Dee’s tutelage). Its underside, however, houses a secret heater unit, which I believe is to be used in case of wintertime emergency, if we need to grill our legs and feet in preparation for eating them.