Co-co-aaaaaah!

My 2010 resolution is to study Japanese again. I took a bit of a break to get all the particles in order (o, to, mo, no, here we go!) But, as this recent conversation highlights, perhaps it is best if I just take up knitting.

“Yes! Cocoa!” I said to my son through chattering teeth. “Look! On the English menu. It will warm us up!”
My son and I had spied a new small shop on our walk home from the grocery store. We were really, really, really hoping to find a hot beverage to warm us up.
“Perfect!” I said to my son. “Cocoa is on the menu. This will be easy.”

Part 1. What I think I am saying:

“Cocoa,” I said to the woman behind the counter.
“Hai,” she answered. And, that is all she did.
A few moments later I tried again.
“Cocoa,” I repeated a bit louder.
“Hai,” she said again. However, instead of making the drink, she looked around her shop and then just looked at me as if she expected me to say something else.
So, I did.
“Brrr,” I said as I hugged myself and pantomimed being cold. “Brrr. Brrr. Brrr.”
She looked at me a bit strangely.
“Cocoa,” I said one more time. Then, I pointed to the menu board behind her.
After a few moments of reviewing the menu, she pointed to “cocoa” on the board.
“Hai!” my son and I both said quite enthusiastically.
“So desu,” she said. And, then she said to me, “Co-co-ah.”

Co-co-ah? If “co-co-ah” is the pronunciation for “cocoa”, then what was I saying?

Part 2. What I was really saying:

“Koko,” I said to the woman behind the counter. (“Here. This place right here.”)
“Hai,” she said. (“You got it. A bit obvious, but you are right.”)
A few moments later I tried again.
“Koko,” I repeated a bit louder. (“Here. I am still stubbornly standing here. Telling you that I’m here. In this place. In this spot. Saying it loudly.”)
“Hai,” she said again. (“I agree. You are here.”) However, instead of making the drink (which she didn’t know I was ordering), she just stood there and looked at me as if she expected me to say something else (which would make sense because I was at the counter). Unfortunately, I hadn’t figured out my mistake yet, so instead I did this:
“Brrr,” I said as I hugged myself and pantomimed being cold. “Brrrrrrr. Brrr. Brrr.”
She looked at me strangely. (No kidding).
“Koko,” I tried one more time. (“Here. Here. Here. Love the word. Could say it all day.”). And, then (it's about time) I pointed to the menu board behind her.
After a few moments of reviewing the menu, she pointed to “cocoa” on the board.
“Hai!” my son and I both said quite enthusiastically.
“So desu,” she said. And, then she kindly tried to correct my mistake, “Co-co-ah.”

Aaaah.
Yeah, you know, on second thought, knitting is probably about right.

The Sleeping Lion

This is a first.
A definite first.

“See?” I said to the person sitting next to me on the train. “See that guy over there? He fell asleep standing up.”
I didn’t wait for my train buddy to answer.
“I call that the Statue style.”

Ever since moving to Tokyo a few years ago, I have observed hundreds of passengers asleep on the train; not to mention, a variety of impressive subway sleeping postures.

“See her?” I gently nudged my buddy. “Hands folded across lap. Head tilted way back. She’s definitely a Stargazer.”

“And, that guy,” I said as I viewed a snoring young man slouched in his seat with his hat pulled over his face. “He is what I call The Cowboy.”

“And,” I continued, “Do you see the woman who has fallen asleep with her head forward and her hands under her chin? She is The Thinker. And, that guy over there? He fell asleep with his sunglasses on. He is The Poker Player. But, to be honest with you, sometimes I can’t tell. He actually could be a poker player.”

“And,” I continued, “Do you see the sleepy passenger whose head bobs side to side? He has definitely fallen asleep in Table Tennis mode.”

“And, you,” I said a bit louder to the person next to me. “You are what I call The Sleeping Lion.”

This is a first.
A definite first.

A fellow train passenger has fallen asleep on my shoulder. Deeply, deeply asleep on my shoulder.

I could not wake him with my silly subway sleep observations.

“Sumimasen, sumimasen,” I said a bit louder. “Ummm… Sleeping Lion…my station stop is coming up soon….sumimasen….”

I could not wake him with sumimasen.

“Hi, Honey,” I pretended to speak on my cell phone. “Mommy will be late tonight. I am trapped by a lion.”

I could not wake him with a loud cell phone conversation.

This is a first.
A definite first.

I have no choice. Apparently my escape will require some sort of creative calisthenics. Tuck and roll? Back handstand? Aerial cartwheel? I wish I was better at gymnastics.

“Lion, how can you sleep?” I yawned. “There is so much constant commotion…and all those calming announcements…and the gentle rumbling…and the soothing white noise…and…the….hypnotic hum...”

This is a first.
A definite first.
Shhhhh.

Tokyo Hatitude

“Aah!” I heard my son scream from behind the apartment door. “A stranger is trying to get into the apartment! It’s some kind of horrifying scarecrow in a dressy white belly shirt.”
“I’m not a stranger,” I said through the door. “I’m your mother. Please open the door. I can’t reach the handle. Quickly! This shirt is cutting off the circulation of my arms.”
“Mom?” he questioned as he spied me through the security peep hole. “You tried to buy fancy clothes in Tokyo again, didn’t you?”
“It said M size,” I defended myself. “I didn’t know that M meant microscopic.”

I know. I know. I know. I should have known better. As an American size, mature woman, I know it might be difficult for me to find designer apparel in my size (or the size I want to be) in Tokyo.

So, I’m stuck. I’m really stuck.

“I’m stuck!” I yelled at my son through the door. “Please open the door for mommy. OK, you’re right. I did it. I put on a dressy shirt that was too small for me. The collar is choking me. I need you to cut it off.”
“C’mon, Mom!” my son said. “Not again!”

I know. I know. I know. I should have known better. In fact, I learned it might be challenging to shop here when I first moved to town.
“I’m looking for a fancy dress for an event,” I had said to some mothers at the bus stop. “Does anyone know where I could buy one?”

I know. I know. I know. I should have known better. The recommended dress shop was a maternity store.
I was not expecting. And, I was not expecting that.

I know. I know. I know. I should have known better because last time I went clothes shopping, I promised myself I would never do it again.
“C’mon out so I can see,” my friend said. We were at a store in Shibuya that sometimes stocks foreigner sizes.
“What do you think?” I asked when I came out of the dressing room.
“What’s on your feet?” my friend questioned.
“Oh! Check these out,” I said as I waved my feet around. “These soft and nifty slippers were in the dressing room.”
“Those aren’t slippers,” my friend said as she looked around. “Those are make-up hoods. You’re supposed to put it on your head when you’re trying on new clothes.”
“That’s it,” I said to myself as I took off my slippers. “I am never going shopping in this town again.”

I know. I know. I know. I should have known better because again this morning I tried fashion fate and lost. As soon as I pulled the dressy white shirt over my broad shoulders, it got stuck. “I love it,” I barely whispered to the saleslady at the counter. “I love it so much that I will wear it just like this. Don’t mind my tears. Tears of joy, really. By the way, I can’t seem to turn my head or move my arms. Can you please just swivel me towards the door? Doomo.”

I know. I know. I know. I should have known better. So, that’s why, starting right now, I am only shopping for hats.
A hat keeps your head warm.
A Tokyo hat is very chic and makes a fashion statement.
A hat transforms a normal outfit into a wow outfit.
A hat hides a bad hair day.
A hat is one size fits all.

"It's all about Tokyo hatitude," I said to my son.
"Puns! Mom!," he said. "C'mon, not again!"



.

Wannabe crooner

I’m a wannabe crooner. I love songs. I love to sing. I sing in the shower. I sing while making dinner. I sing while exercising.
“Honey, are you OK?” my startled husband asked me the other day in the fitness gym.
“Fine,” I answered as I took off my headphones. “Why?”
“Oh,” he answered. “I thought you were in pain.”

OK. I love to sing, but, I admit, I don’t sing well.

But, what I lack in talent, I make up for in enthusiasm. So, when a friend of mine invited my husband and me to karaoke, I answered with a very excited “genki desu.”

I love going with genki. After nearly three years of attempts, my brain has proven to be impervious to the Japanese language. This conclusion was quite apparent when I introduced my husband (shujin) as my prisoner (shuujin).
“Sorry, dear,” I said as I shrugged.
“It’s OK, warden,” he answered.

So now instead of struggling through my limited sentences, such as, “The weather is nice today isn’t it?” or “That is a pen,” I am just going with genki—it’s simple, it’s upbeat, it’s enthusiastic, it’s easy. It’s genki.

“Genki,” I said to my friend. “But, by the way, I’m not really a good singer.”
“C’mon,” she said. “Karaoke is a Tokyo must-do.”
“You said the same thing about an onsen,” I said. “And, that was quite the learning experience.”

I remember my onsen lesson very well.
Lesson #1: the towel is small. Minuscule. “Excuse me,” I had said to the receptionist. “This is my towel? I think I’m going to need at least three more. Actually, why don’t you just give me the whole basket of towels? And, if you don’t mind, I’ll take your window curtains too.”
Lesson #2: At an onsen, you leave your towel and your inhibitions at the door.
Lesson #3: It’s really not the ideal place for conversation. “So,” I had said to my friend after we soaked in the onsen for a few minutes, “How do you cook your pot roast?” I really couldn’t help myself. It felt awkward to be in such an intimate setting without chatting. I figured at the very least we could swap recipes.

"C'mon," my friend said again.
I’m a wannabe crooner. So, I agreed to join my friend at karaoke. I stood on the stage. I sang. I even tried out an air guitar power stance.

However, apparently, even at karaoke, there are some singing standards. Soon after my set, the manager turned off my mike and handed me a tambourine.

I may be a wannabe crooner, but, apparently, I should stick to percussion.

The Table Wrangler

Yes, I had high hopes for myself when moving to Tokyo.

And, so far, I have learned many new things. For instance, I have spent a considerable amount of time trying to learn a new language. To be honest, I am still trying to memorize and differentiate similarly-sounding subway lines, train stations, streets, and shops.
“It’s Akasaka,” I said to my husband.
“No,” he said. “It’s Asakusa.”
“Really?” I said. “I thought that was Arakawa.”
“No, that is the name of our apartment manager.”
“Ahhhhh!”

Similarly, I have spent significant amount of time learning the currency—the exchange rate, the number of zeros, the best point card deals, not to mention, the pronunciation.
“Where have you been?” my sons asked me last week.
“Well,” I answered. “I went to the bank to get money and I decided to show off my Japanese skills. Big mistake. There was definitely some kind of miscommunication. I said yon-sen and ended up in a hot spring bath with nothing but a little bitty towel. So, how was your day?”

I have also learned about new food, new traditions, new schools, new maps, new counters. OK, I admit it, I gave up trying to learn all the counters.

Apparently, even after two years, there is still a lot more to learn.

“Look!” I said to my son the other day at a crowded coffee shop, “There’s an empty table! Aren’t we in luck today?”
“Look,” my son said as we sat down. “Someone left her purse, phone and ID on the table.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “You know what we are going to do? We’ll just sit here and keep an eye on the belongings until the owner returns. No doubt she will be very grateful that we were here to protect her stuff from theft.”

“By the way, Mom,” my son said. “A lady is staring at us.”

“Yes,” I answered quietly. “That happens sometimes.”

“Um, Mom,” my son said again a few minutes later. “The lady with a tray of food is still standing behind you. And, you know what? She looks like the picture on the ID card.”

“There’s no doubt about it,” my friend said later that night. “You blatantly stole her reserved table. Haven't you ever noticed that people reserve tables with their personal belongings here?”

Reserve a table with friend? yes. With a "reserved" sign, of course. But with an unattended purse and cell phone? Unbelievable.

“Well,” my friend said. “Think of it this way—Tokyo provided an opportunity for you to reinvent yourself. And, it looks like you have done that.”

Yes, I had high hopes for myself in Tokyo.

I knew I would change during our stay here. Become a Japanese cook, maybe. Become an English teacher, perhaps. Become an author, yes, hopefully. But become a dining room desperado, a coffee shop seat thief, a table wrangler, never. Yee haw.

Playing the Part

I am not a professional Tokyo tour guide, but I can play the part, and in the last few years, I’ve done just that—many times. We have hosted family, friends, colleagues and even my former boss who, I must admit, was clearly impressed with my leadership skills when I successfully led him through the side streets of Shibuya (maybe I should have had him update my performance evaluation).

With visitors in tow, I have strolled through shrines. I have meditated in gardens. I have slurped noodles and shared sushi. I have been to the top of Tokyo Tower and to the bowels of Shinjuku Station. I have cruised and I have cooked. I have taken so many pictures with Hachiko that I think it’s time that I erect a statue of myself, camera in hand, in front of the famous dog.

So I was not at all anxious with our latest set of visitors. I believed I had done it all. I believed I had seen it all, too. They couldn’t spring any sightseeing request surprises on me.

“What?” I said with surprise. “You want to do what?”

“The fish market,” our visiting friends repeated. “We want to see an auction at the famous fish market.”

Previous guests had also mentioned Tsukiji fish market, but soon lost their zeal when I explained that it was a very early morning outing. These visitors, however, were serious. They told me so.

“We are serious,” they said in unison. “We really want to see the auction.”

I always aim to please, so to the auction we went.

Yes, we woke up extra early. Yes, we checked the auction times in a number of tour books and websites. Yes, we took the first train. And, yes, we were the only ones on it.

And, yes, we missed the auction.

“No!” I shouted in disbelief at the tourist who informed me that the tuna auction was over. “No! No! No! No! I can’t believe it.”

What was a tour guide to do? What was a failed tour guide to do? Of course, there was still sushi for breakfast. Of course, there was still the market to wander through. Of course, there was still the forklift frenzy to watch. But they had woken up before dawn to see bidding.

And so…

“Tour guide services for sale,” I yelled. “Expat tour guide services for sale! Do I hear ¥1,000? ¥1,000, anyone? How about ¥500? Expat tour guide services for sale….”

I am not usually a silly morning person, but I am willing to play the part.

Mi Kasa Es Su Kasa

I’m on a mission. And not just any ordinary mission. I’m on a mission to find a new umbrella. But not just any ordinary umbrella. I am on a mission to find the ugliest, most resistible, most hideous umbrella in Tokyo.

Believe me, I’m not on this mission because I hate umbrellas or because I don’t have any fashion sense. I just need a better way to keep track of my umbrellas. Too many umbrellas look the same. Since moving to Tokyo, I have bought nearly every umbrella sold here.

Big ones, little ones, polka dotted, too.
Green ones, plaid ones, black and blue.
Cheap, expensive, fancy, plain,
And tons of transparent ones from the conbini down the lane.

“Maybe,” I said to my husband as I futilely searched the restaurant’s umbrella stand for my umbrella, “maybe, there’s some kind of honor code that I don’t know about. Maybe all umbrellas are considered shared property and that’s why mine keep disappearing. Mi kasa es su kasa. My umbrella is your umbrella. What do you think?”

“I don’t think that phrase means what you think it does,” my husband replied.

Yes, I’m on a mission. But not any ordinary mission. I’m on a mission to find more friends. And not just any ordinary friends. I am on a mission to find exciting, whimsical friends who love adorning their stemware with wine charms.

Golf ones, boating ones, shells from the beach,
Tea party, tennis themed, in the shape of a peach.
Artistic, seasonal, nautical,
Holiday, animals, tropical.

“Charms help you keep track of your glass at cocktail parties,” my mother explained. “Thank you for the gift,” I said as I studied the mini lucky horseshoe charm, “but I don’t go to cocktail parties. Really, the only thing I need to keep track of is my umbrella.”

When it rains, it pours. That’s it.

I’m no longer on a mission to find the ugliest umbrella. Now I am on a mission to personalize my umbrella with one of my many wine charms. A bit of sparkle, a bit of inspiration and a whole lot of identification. A simple, efficient umbrella accessory.

“Cell phones shouldn’t have all the fun,” I said to my husband as I tied a charm to the handle of my umbrella. “On the next rainy day, I am bringing out the horseshoe.”