Originally this blog was created for a Japanese class assignment, which duly explains the mumbo jumbo in previous posts. I thought about deleting them. I didn't. Feel free to peruse, attempt to decipher or copy/paste into google translator. Though, there's not much of substance there.
I'd rather leave the past where it sits and move on. I actually began writing a personal journal starting in January. I'll start from there and post until I've hit the present. Is that considered cheating? Am I blog cheater? A wannabe informal columnist forsaking the title that is, "Blogger?" So be it.
I really believe this story is worth telling, otherwise I wouldn't bother with it at all. It's the story of a young love, but mostly its a story of international relations and culture brought into bed. You think when you snuggle into your stolen futon with your husband that it's just you and him... but actually, U.S. Immigration is spooning you both, snoring loudly. This is our challenge. I hope you find it as hilarious as I do.
January 20th, 2010 Wednesday
I feel like I swam out too far in a lake, not noticing until just now. As I look back I realize how far I’ve come, but look ahead and the next shore is still a long ways out. For a minute I can’t decide whether to swim back or continue to the other side. And I’m a terrible swimmer.
Since I came to Japan I’ve been suspended in this limbo between shores. Shores separated by language, culture, childhood and adulthood… is it time to grow up already? They asked me at the ward office if I’d like to use “Hayashi” while I’m in Japan. That would certainly complete the façade. I’ve managed to hide myself in this country almost entirely.
Except from Tetsuya. I can’t ever hide from him. He knows me too well. Living in tiny, one room studio apartments both in the U.S. and Japan has well seasoned us to each other. He grounds me. He keeps me sane in this fantasy world.
In Japan I’m a celebrity. I’m a star. I’m stared at wherever I go and at times randomly photographed on the subway or at the bar. People want to talk to me, ask me where I’m from. “Japan,” I say, straight-faced. Japanese people are unbelievably gullible. They take everything at face value. This also means that they believe every stereotype they’ve ever heard, no matter how ridiculous.
“America is so dangerous! How many guns does your family own?”
“But I thought Americans ate McDonald’s at least three times a week! How can you not like it?”
“Sure I know where Iowa is!” he waves his hand broadly from left to right, “It’s in there somewhere.”
“You’re from America? Do you know John?”
There are so many good ones, (so-to-speak). Unfortunately the “best” ones were likely said at a party and forgotten, tossed away with the empty cans and bottles.
Drinking is religion here. There are manners, if only a few, and immense pressure for everyone to lift their glass full of frosty nama chu beer for the kampai! Of course, I have no qualms with this sect and consider myself devout. Even now I sip my cheap red wine, a nice change of pace from the atsukan Tetsuya retrieved from the restaurant and that I’ve been savoring for the past couple of weeks.
Eight o’clock looms over my head. Tomorrow I have my third day of work at the western-style bar and grill up the Tsurumai line. “Shooters,” as it’s called, boasts an entirely American menu, written exclusively in English and provides comfort for those of us stranded on this island of ramen noodle shops and CoCo Curry Houses.
You’ll honestly walk into a Curry House and decide what you’ll have on the menu based on what item you prefer fried and slathered with the same mild brown sauce over rice. There is no other sauce. Just three or four pages of Japanese brown curry dishes with assorted meats or vegetables. Though, in all fairness to the Japanese, the restaurant never seems too busy.
Ramen, on the other hand, is a godly creation here. Entire television shows devote themselves to sending little-known celebrities to various noodle shops around the country to sample the local flavor. The essential shot includes the celebrity, gearing up for the taste, preparing the audience. “Okay, here we go!” The camera zooms in. He slurps up a mouthful of noodles. American mothers would squirm at the sound. With his cheeks aptly full, he turns to the camera and squelches out a sound, “umai~!!”
But I’m detouring here. I was talking about a lake. That’s right. A lake. I’m treading water in this immense lake. At this point I’m not entirely sure how I got here. It started somewhere when I decided to study abroad at Chukyo University. Does that mean it started in America? Maybe it started when I met Tetsuya. Or maybe when I started learning Japanese in high school. In any case, I’m here and I’m trying to figure out where I’m going, what it means and how it will all come together in the end.
I hope it does, anyway.
I'd rather leave the past where it sits and move on. I actually began writing a personal journal starting in January. I'll start from there and post until I've hit the present. Is that considered cheating? Am I blog cheater? A wannabe informal columnist forsaking the title that is, "Blogger?" So be it.
I really believe this story is worth telling, otherwise I wouldn't bother with it at all. It's the story of a young love, but mostly its a story of international relations and culture brought into bed. You think when you snuggle into your stolen futon with your husband that it's just you and him... but actually, U.S. Immigration is spooning you both, snoring loudly. This is our challenge. I hope you find it as hilarious as I do.
January 20th, 2010 Wednesday
I feel like I swam out too far in a lake, not noticing until just now. As I look back I realize how far I’ve come, but look ahead and the next shore is still a long ways out. For a minute I can’t decide whether to swim back or continue to the other side. And I’m a terrible swimmer.
Since I came to Japan I’ve been suspended in this limbo between shores. Shores separated by language, culture, childhood and adulthood… is it time to grow up already? They asked me at the ward office if I’d like to use “Hayashi” while I’m in Japan. That would certainly complete the façade. I’ve managed to hide myself in this country almost entirely.
Except from Tetsuya. I can’t ever hide from him. He knows me too well. Living in tiny, one room studio apartments both in the U.S. and Japan has well seasoned us to each other. He grounds me. He keeps me sane in this fantasy world.
In Japan I’m a celebrity. I’m a star. I’m stared at wherever I go and at times randomly photographed on the subway or at the bar. People want to talk to me, ask me where I’m from. “Japan,” I say, straight-faced. Japanese people are unbelievably gullible. They take everything at face value. This also means that they believe every stereotype they’ve ever heard, no matter how ridiculous.
“America is so dangerous! How many guns does your family own?”
“But I thought Americans ate McDonald’s at least three times a week! How can you not like it?”
“Sure I know where Iowa is!” he waves his hand broadly from left to right, “It’s in there somewhere.”
“You’re from America? Do you know John?”
There are so many good ones, (so-to-speak). Unfortunately the “best” ones were likely said at a party and forgotten, tossed away with the empty cans and bottles.
Drinking is religion here. There are manners, if only a few, and immense pressure for everyone to lift their glass full of frosty nama chu beer for the kampai! Of course, I have no qualms with this sect and consider myself devout. Even now I sip my cheap red wine, a nice change of pace from the atsukan Tetsuya retrieved from the restaurant and that I’ve been savoring for the past couple of weeks.
Eight o’clock looms over my head. Tomorrow I have my third day of work at the western-style bar and grill up the Tsurumai line. “Shooters,” as it’s called, boasts an entirely American menu, written exclusively in English and provides comfort for those of us stranded on this island of ramen noodle shops and CoCo Curry Houses.
You’ll honestly walk into a Curry House and decide what you’ll have on the menu based on what item you prefer fried and slathered with the same mild brown sauce over rice. There is no other sauce. Just three or four pages of Japanese brown curry dishes with assorted meats or vegetables. Though, in all fairness to the Japanese, the restaurant never seems too busy.
Ramen, on the other hand, is a godly creation here. Entire television shows devote themselves to sending little-known celebrities to various noodle shops around the country to sample the local flavor. The essential shot includes the celebrity, gearing up for the taste, preparing the audience. “Okay, here we go!” The camera zooms in. He slurps up a mouthful of noodles. American mothers would squirm at the sound. With his cheeks aptly full, he turns to the camera and squelches out a sound, “umai~!!”
But I’m detouring here. I was talking about a lake. That’s right. A lake. I’m treading water in this immense lake. At this point I’m not entirely sure how I got here. It started somewhere when I decided to study abroad at Chukyo University. Does that mean it started in America? Maybe it started when I met Tetsuya. Or maybe when I started learning Japanese in high school. In any case, I’m here and I’m trying to figure out where I’m going, what it means and how it will all come together in the end.
I hope it does, anyway.
1 comment:
Hey girl! Damn, you can write! This is much better than ダーリンは外国人. As far as stereotypes, My favorites have been that we kiss each other on the mouth for a greeting, and that if I want to see you in Iowa, or Da in California, it's no big, because we don't really live that far apart.
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