Mr. Kobe taught Japanese culture when I attended an American school in Japan.

He was a no-nonsense, no-humor disciplinarian.

I was a no-sense, questionable-humor eighth grader.

If anyone remembers the 1982 movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High , Mr. Kobe was my Mr. Hand … and I was his Jeff Spicoli. I spent half of his class in double-secret probation with my desk pulled into the hallway. (Getting a low “A” in Mr. Kobe’s class remains one of my finest academic moments.)

Mr. Kobe flashed into my thoughts two Sundays ago as my wife, her twin and I somehow got lost among the 37 million people who live in the Tokyo metro.

We couldn’t find a subway connection amidst the surge of commuters coming and going in every direction. Why, Mr. Kobe, didn’t you push me more during Kanji lessons?

Fort

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