May Journal

May 3, 2004 Mon. 11PM

On the way to work I heard two guys talking on the train. As the train slowed to a stop, one of the guys said, “Yeah, I think this is it” in English. I turned around and saw two fresh foreign faces, unmistakably new to Japan. When I spun around, our eyes met, and they asked me, “Is this Koshien?”

I said, “No, this is Nishinomiya. Koshien is the next stop, but during the weekdays it doesn’t stop at Koshien. You’ll need to get off at Amagasaki and catch a local train west and go two stops.”

They looked at me like I was a goddess. “You must’ve lived here forever,” one of them said in a thick British accent.
“Just seven months,” I said. And then I realized: Somewhere in between October 16th and now I had learned the train system pretty well. They reminded me of the time when I was completely lost, meandering about, desperate for any English speaker to point me in a vague direction of my apartment. “You guys new to the country?”

“Yeah,” one of them said. “Just flew in on Friday. We’re looking for our new office. Got any advice for us?” (What a loaded question.)

“Learn Japanese. Now. And stay away from the blue stuff.”

We all got off the train at the Amagasaki stop, and I helped them get on the right train. They thanked me profusely, as I used to do when I was new and someone saved me from more frustration and premature wrinkles. I wished them luck, watched them peruse their maps as they waited for the local train, and thought to myself, boy, are those guys in for a lot of lousy food choices and reluctant taxi rides.

Got an e-mail from Pam tonight, who claims to have dumped all her Japanese already. I’m happy for her, but I still keep expecting her to walk through the door at any moment.

May 9, 2004 Sun. 11:30PM

Went out with Eri and new staff member Anna (Japanese) today after work. Heather, Jeremy, and I took them to our favorite Izakaya in Amagasaki (which was nameless before tonight, because we couldn’t read the writing –now we know it’s called Murasaki). It was a blast… those chicks are a blast. They both speak English well but they make some funny mistakes sometimes. (Eri asked me tonight at dinner, “Susan, what does penis mean?” This, of course, sent me into a fit of laughter, causing me to spill beer on my button-down light blue shirt.)

They laugh at us, too, though. Not just when we try to speak Japanese, but our loose grip on Japanese customs. I’m fairly sharp at using chopsticks, having eaten enough California rolls in my day to feed a small army, but I overestimated my ability tonight when I picked up a large blob of hot kimchi. It was almost to my mouth when –kerplop!- it decided to grace my shirt instead. Moments later, after our ice cream parfaits had arrived and were subsequently eaten (by everyone but me), I reached across the table to press the waitress call button (an idea that really should catch on in the States) for our bill and accidentally knocked over the parfait glass, sending splatters of vanilla ice cream everywhere. It would’ve been a lot less embarrassing had I been drunk.
When we all went to the counter to pay the bill, I hit the restroom. When I walked out, the cashier was handing Heather the change and looking at me strangely. I could see the wheels turning… he was wondering why these four normal-looking people were choosing to associate with a messy food-stained American. He said something to Eri while looking at me, and on the way out I said to her, “So what did he say?”

My suspicions were right. “He said this is a respectable place. Please wear a clean shirt next time.”

May 11, 2004 Tues. 9:15PM

Made one of my famous cultural faux pas tonight again. I was on my way to the International Plaza to do some e-mailing, and I decided that I just couldn’t sit in front of a computer screen for an hour or so on an empty stomach. I ducked into the local Sunku’s for a ginger ale and an onigiri (triangular chunks of sushi with a surprise in the middle… a very cheap and tasty meal substitute) and proceeded to eat my onigiri while walking to the plaza. Well, let’s just say that walking and eating simultaneously are not for the timid here in Japan. They really hate that for some reason. It’s one of their little nuances, things they consider rude that most people I know do on a daily basis.

So I’m walking and eating, my onigiri in one hand, drink in another, backpack slung over my shoulder and whistling, knowing that in two weeks I’d be on a plane headed homeward to see my cats. Then I noticed that everyone I passed was staring at me. Occasionally I stare back, but I’ve learned to ignore it mostly. When I reached an intersection and had to wait for the little green stick figure to light up (as opposed to the little red one) signaling for me to cross, I found myself standing beside an unpleasant looking man who in no way tried to hide his unpleasant stares. I looked at him. He looked at me. I took the last bite of my onigiri. I continued to look at him. He continued to look at me. Our eyes met for what seemed like hours. Then, suddenly, without any warning, I let out the biggest burp known to man. I mean, it was a winner. A resounding boom that probably caused vibrations in nearby cars. A vociferous clamor such as my esophagus has never felt, and undoubtedly an assault on this man’s ears. It was like a slow-motion roar.

I was legitimately surprised and instantly proud. The man was so disgusted and dumbfounded that he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. It immediately put his staring to an end, as he averted his eyes to the street.

When the little green stick figure appeared, I ambled across the street, whistling. I don’t normally take such joy in offending people, but in a land where it’s acceptable for men to piss on the street but unacceptable for women to wipe their noses, a satisfying belch is made even sweeter by the horrified glares of an old Japanese fart.

By the time I’d reached the plaza, I had thought about that event enough to where I really had a good laugh. Now I know why my friend Keiko said before I left the States, “Japan will never be the same, Susan.”

May 16, 2004 Sun. 9:30PM

Of all the mistakes Japanese people make while speaking English, perhaps the funniest occurs in their pronunciation problems. The most difficult distinction seems to be the l and r sounds. (For example, one may recall Yuki’s rendition of, “If you’re happy and you know it, crap your hands…”)

A high level student named Takuya insisted on discussing politics with me today. Evidently he had been staying abreast of the John Kerry/George Bush saga, and as I am the only American in the office, he decided to ask me some probing questions.
“So how do you feel about American erection?” he asked.

It took me a second. “The what?”
“The American erection. I want to know about this.”
“The American erection? Hmm. Well, I…” I wasn’t sure how to respond. Obviously, he meant politics. But a thousand tongue-in-cheek responses came to mind, none of which he would pick up on. “I’m not sure I am the right person to ask, Takuya.”
“There will be an erection this year in your country, yes?” he said.
“I have no doubt there will be,” I said.
“There is a presidential erection every four years, yes?”
“Well, I don’t know about with Bush, but with Clinton it was a lot more often,” I said.
“Eh?” he asked, puzzled.
“Nothing. Yes, it will be this year. In November,” I said.
“Do you participate in erections?” he asked.
“Uh, I have before, yes.”
“Will you participate in the erection this year?”
“I don’t know. He’d have to be a hell of a candidate. I don’t vote for just anybody, you know.”
“Me too. I don’t bote for just anyone. I am discliminating and serective.”

I don’t know if my mind was just in the gutter or if it’s something peculiar about discussing politics, but that last remark sounded a little bit perverted to me.

May 23, 2004 Sun. 12:45AM

Have just returned from my friend Michael’s sayonara party. It was a blast. I was a good girl and stayed away from the blue stuff; however, this did not seem to prevent me from singing to my heart’s content when the karaoke got cranked up. Jeremy and I sang our favorites together, “Take on Me” (by A-ha, my favorite song in the world) and “Summer of ’69.” Those songs will always remind me of Jezzer.

In addition to karaoke, this was a Nomiholdai night, which means all you can drink. They wouldn’t allow just certain people to do it, everyone had to order it. There were so many beers on that table throughout the night, we could’ve had a kick-ass symphony had we all circled our fingers around each glass.

As per my usual post-30th-birthday custom, I had a few black-outs, but I definitely remember standing on the table and doing the famous “South Carolina Booty Shake” at Heather’s request (see footnote). Also, Eri got a picture of me playing mock drums with my chopsticks, right after I had dropped a significant chunk of rice on my shirt without noticing the stain. Damn, will I ever be able to go out in public without a bib?

Meredith and I went home together, and I slept on one of the benches of the local midnight train to Kobe. She said as I was lying down on the bench, “So who taught you how to sing?”

As with many things Mere says that are snotty, I detected a hint of ridicule in this question, even in my drunken state. “Nobody. I guess I was just born with an amazing talent. I didn’t notice you getting up there to sing, hotshot.”
“I choose not to embarrass myself,” she said.

A typical Meredith comment. Does that mean she thinks I embarrassed myself, or that she is such a bad singer that she would most certainly be mortified?

It doesn’t matter. Some people were just meant for the microphone.

Footnote: No, there is no such thing as a “South Carolina Booty Shake” to my knowledge. But these people don’t have to know that, do they?

May 25, 2004 Tues. 2:30AM, Japan time

Finally on the plane to Detroit. Damn, overseas flights are long and they suck. I am a magnet for cryin’-ass kids. To pass the time I usually read, but I also played I Spy with myself, and when that got old I played I Smell. Mostly due to the sick kid behind me. He must’ve had the fish.

Anyway, I realize that now I am an expert on airports and overseas flights. I am the Jedi Master of airports, nothing can stop me from completing my flying mission. Not delays, not long lines or snotty airline officials, not even a language barrier. I know all, I see all. I have lived half my existence in an airport by now; I can tell you the quickest way to any gate from any destination, and I can give you perfect directions to any women’s restroom this side of Jupiter.

I have a few thoughts about airplanes and those that ride them. One is my pure disgust of people who bring infants on overseas flights, but that will require several pages to accurately describe. The other is my abhorrence of people in first class. They are so snooty with their comfy seats and prematurely served drinks. Why should they get to board first? And why should they get a free paper? And why on earth does anyone need their own personal video monitor? I hate them! I hate them, I tell you!
My ankles are swollen (why I don’t know) and my hip, as usual, is killing me after a 13-hour flight. What comforts me, though, is the thought of eating a big barbecue sandwich at the Beacon, drinking a beer with Chip at the NuWay, and of course, seeing my little furballs.

It also comforts me to pretend that one day all flight attendants will form a mutiny against parents who insist on bringing their screaming children on planes. Where is the duct tape when I need it?