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.”

The object of my affection

The object of my affection in Tokyo is very cute. Admirable qualities also include punctuality, honesty and reliability.

The object of my affection is a very smooth operator, yet I don’t have to worry about any guessing games.

The object of my affection is also very quiet about my (lack of) cooking skills.

“I love it!” I said to my husband. “I just love this IC card.”

With PASMO (or Suica), I can go places. B.P. (before PASMO), I went nowhere. Actually, I did go somewhere: to my local train station where the intimidating and overwhelming subway map stopped me in my tracks. The thick lines and thin lines and dotted lines and loopy lines. Jr lines and metro lines and government lines and private lines. Bright colors and pale colors and colored codes. Adult fares and child fares. No fair. I was perpetually confused.



"Mommy, are we there yet?" my son asked me.

"No, Sweetie," I answered as I contemplated the stations C3, G10 and A9. "I'm not sure where we will end up or how much it will cost, but I'm pretty sure if we follow these letters, we might end up winning Bingo."

“Mommy, are we there yet?” my son asked me a few minutes later.
“No, Sweetie,” I answered as I continued to study the map. “Let's go home. I definitely need to return later with some professional navigating tools to help figure out the fare and plot our course. I wonder if Dad still has a sextant and compass from his sailing days.”

With PASMO/Suica, I can focus on the day’s adventure because the IC card automatically debits the correct fare. This means: no more embarrassing ticket wicket rejection. Before the IC card, I was always setting off the ticket wicket alarms; the flashing red light loudly signaling my obvious inability to figure out the correct fare. “Just me again,” I would say to the white-gloved subway officer as I gave him additional coins. “See you tomorrow.”

But then the IC card entered my life. Glorious, easy, convenient IC card. No more guesses. No more frustrations. No more hassles. No more compasses. No more pocketful of coins. No more apologizing to the white-gloved subway officer. OK. I admit it, sometimes I am still rejected at the ticket wicket, but now I easily and instantly recharge and am quickly on my way. Success! Let the Tokyo adventures begin!

“Mommy, are we there yet?” my son asked me.
“No, Sweetie,” I said as I reviewed the balance on his IC card. “I need to put more money on your PASMO. By the way, where did all your train money go? And, where did you get all that food?”
“Oh,” he said with a mouthful of potato wedges. “Did you know you can buy stuff at the conbini with your PASMO or Suica card? All you do is swipe. It’s awesome! Who wants a corn dog?”

The object of my affection is very cute. Admirable qualities also include punctuality, honesty and reliability.

The object of my affection is also full of surprises.

A photo tour of Tokyo

Shopping time! Looking for a special good luck charm for the special someone for the New Year? Then, this is the place! Good luck!  

This is my favorite find! Behind a modern hotel is a 400 year old Japanese garden! It is unbelievable. While we were there we saw a couple in traditional wedding kimonos. I could have stayed here for hours. In fact, I think I did. You gotta love the red bridge!

The Palace is only open twice a year to the public, so we headed to the East Garden. The grounds were very spacious....no Starbucks to be found!

Got sushi? I visited Tsukiji Market, the largest fish market in the world! I did not get up at 5 a.m to see the famous tuna auctions (sorry, getting old); instead I enjoyed a leisurely stroll (and many a smell) around 9:30 a.m. 

Street festivals "matsuri" are great fun! Men and women chant while carrying the portable shrine down the street. The portable shrines are very heavy;  our teenage son volunteered to join the carriers and experienced a very sore shoulder! Matsuri food tip: grilled corn on the cob dipped in soy sauce is delicious!

Cherry blossom season is spectacular in Tokyo! Traditionally, families visit this temple to pray for good luck during school exams. I will be back in June when the high school finals start!

Surround yourself in good spirits! This is the entrance towards Senjoji Temple, the oldest and most famous Buddhist temple. And, yes, those are very large wooden sandals. 

A Tokyo Triumph

Think. Think. Think.
“C’mon,” I encouraged myself in the mirror. “Think! Think! Think! You can figure this out!”
“Aren’t you an educated, clever, confident, competent woman?” I asked myself.
“Yes, I am!” I answered.
“Haven’t you persuaded your family to try new foods and eat with chopsticks?”
“Yes, I have!” I said.
“Haven’t you triumphed over train schedules? Haven’t you become proficient with the Pasmo?”
“Yes! Yes I have!” I cheered for myself.
“Haven’t you moved across the globe? Haven’t you met new friends? Haven’t you learned how to speak a new language? By golly, haven’t you had the courage and self confidence to walk around in your glory to soak in an onsen?”
“Yes, I have! Yes, I have!”
“Then,” I said to my reflection. “You can do it. You can figure out how to flush.”

No, I can’t.
Yes, it’s true. I have clearly met my match with the Japanese washlett. I believe I have tried everything and now I am simply out of ideas. Here I sit completely flustered. This is a new low.

Think! Think! Think!
Is there a wall button? To be honest, I have not had success with pressing random rest room wall buttons. Let’s just say, my first washlett experience was quite alarming. Apparently, in my apartment, the big button on the panel is not the flush button as I incorrectly assumed. It is an emergency button that summons the security team.

Think! Think! Think!
Is there a handle? Is there a sensor? No and no. I have inspected the throne area for a handle. I have waved my hand around just in case there was an automatic sensor. I have even reached around the walls for some kind of pull chain. I am stalled. I have never, ever spent so much time contemplating plumbing.

Think! Think! Think!
Could it be voice activated? I cleared my throat. “Done!” I said out loud. “Finished….Completed…Concluded….All set…Sayonara….”

Nope. It’s not voice activated.
Think. Think. Think.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

What? What was that noise? What did I do? It’s a floor button! The button on the floor runs the water! You did it! You competent, confident woman!

Take that Toto. You may have intimidated me, you may have even surprised me by warming my seat, but you did not defeat me.

Now, if I could just learn how to ride my bike in high heels while holding an umbrella and cell phone while carrying groceries… now that would be a true Tokyo triumph.

Soy to the World

“Sumimasen (excuse me)…” a colleague of my husband’s said to me.
“Hmmmm,” I answered. I had just put a forkful of pea pods into my mouth.
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW.
Alright, yes, I was intensely chewing because I was nervous. Very nervous. I was the only spouse who had come to this dinner. The only spouse.
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW.
Second, I was intensely chewing because I was hungry. In the dim light of the restaurant, I couldn’t identify anything on the table that I liked to eat, or could successfully eat with chopsticks, except for these pea pods.
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW.
And, third, I was intensely chewing because I am not a good Japanese speaker. And, eating allowed me to successfully hide my lack of fluency. Instead of speaking, I smiled. Or nodded. Or arched my eyebrows. Or winked. And, continued chewing and chewing and chewing.
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW.
And, lastly, I was intensely chewing because, apparently, I must have put the toughest pea pods on the planet into my mouth.
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW.
“Sumimasen…” the colleague said to me again. “We were noticing how you eat edamame. We are curious. In Japan, we squeeze the beans into the mouth like this. We would never eat the pod.”
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW.
GULP.
Eda what? A WHAT? Squeeze the beans out? Don’t eat the pod? Edamame? This isn’t a pea pod? THIS ISN’T A TOUGH AND HAIRY PEA POD? No wonder I’ve been chewing this thing for hours. I was really beginning to think something was terribly wrong with my teeth.
“Hmmmm,” I answered as I quickly thought of what I should do. This is a little embarrassing. What should I do?
1. Laugh at my mistake, head to the restroom, wash out my mouth and escape out the window.
2. Tell them I am on a very unique and strict Edamame Diet.
3. Panic.

I have my integrity. I have my pride. I have my strong bicuspids. I will not be humiliated by a legume.

“Oh really,” I said. “That is very interesting because in my part of America, we chew the dickens out of these beauties. Itadakimasu.”
CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. CHEW. SWALLOW. SWALLOW AGAIN. AND A THIRD TIME.

Just for the record, edamame is a tasty treat, if eaten correctly.

Also, I will be staying home during the next company get together.

the "Hai" and Bye

The waitress looked at me.
I looked at my husband.
My husband looked at me.
We looked at the waitress.
Although my husband and I have some Japanese language skills now, we did not understand a word of what she had said to us.

At anxious moments like this, I start to panic. I know I should say something, but what? Quickly I thought of my options.

“Moo ichido onegaishimasu.” This is the ideal response. It is a Japanese phrase. It is very polite. It is easy to say. However, I have had very little success with this phrase. For me, moo ichido actually brings mo’ trouble. I am implying that I will understand the next time around or the time after that, but I usually can’t. In fact, one time at a coffee shop, the Japanese associate actually asked if I could please speak in English.

“Ashita wa ka-yoobi desu.” Tomorrow is Tuesday. According to my sensei, this statement is one of my best sentences. At first I was thrilled. But soon I realized my best Japanese sentence is quite useless. First, it states the obvious. Second, I can only use it on Mondays.

“Kore wa pen desu.” This is a pen. I like this sentence. You can say it anytime and just about anywhere. When feeling overconfident about my Japanese skills, I can also remark that the pen is blue and short and beautiful and writes well. Unfortunately, pen conversations are usually one-sided.

“With a little milk and sugar, thanks.” OK. I admit it. Out of desperation to say anything, I have sometimes just answered with this English line. Granted it is not very helpful at the gas station or at the post office, but, frequently, I do get a cup of coffee with a little milk and sugar that settles my nerves. Then, I can usually muster up a comment on today’s nice weather. I’m pretty sure the post office personnel think I’m a high-strung meteorologist.

I looked at the waitress.
The waitress looked at me.
I looked at my pen. And, just when I thought it was time to mention my beautiful, short, interesting writing pen, I heard my husband say “Hai” (yes, that's fine.)
“You understood what the waitress said?” I asked in disbelief.
“No idea,” he admitted, “but from the context of the situation, I knew she had to be asking if we wanted our bill or if we wanted to bring home the leftovers. The context is key.”
He said “Hai.” We paid the bill. We said “Bye” and we left. No drama. No pantomiming. Just Hai and Bye. Just Hai and Bye.

Hai and Bye. It’s simple. It’s easy. It’s conversational. It’s very agreeable. It’s a bit adventurous. It works!

“Hai” I said to my hairdresser who then gave me a fantastic shoulder massage. “Hai” I said to a clerk at a favorite store who then presented me with a point card. “Hai” I said to the barista at my local café who then warmed up my cookie. He warmed up my cookie!! “Hai” I said to the hairdresser who then surprised me by chemically straightening my hair.

Just to warn you, sometimes the Hai and Bye can become the Hai and Sigh.

Welcome to my world

“Take off your shoes! TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES!”

As a foreigner in Tokyo, sometimes it takes me a few days to commit a faux pas. Other times, like this time, it only took seconds.

It was my first time stepping into a Tokyo store. My first step was clearly a misstep.

“Irashaimase! IRASHAIMASE!” the saleswoman cried out to me.

“Ira what?” I stammered. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Is it the shoes? Do I need to take off my shoes?” Just a few days earlier, at my sensei’s home, I mistakenly wore outdoor shoes indoors. I didn’t know that I needed to change into house slippers. Then, I mistakenly wore the house slippers into the toilet room. I didn’t know I needed to change into toilet slippers. I was not going to experience another slipper slip up. I took off my shoes.

“Irashaimase!” the kind saleswoman said again.
“Thanks for telling me,” I replied. “I got it now: no shoes.”
“Irashaimase,” another saleswoman said to me.
“Yes,” I said to her. “I’m taking my shoes off. I got the message.”
“Irashaimase,” another saleswoman said to me from across the floor.
“Wow. You too? From way over there?” I said as I held up my footwear for all to see. “All set now, ladies. No need to tell me again. My shoes are off. Now I know: irashaimase means no shoes.”

Irashaimase, however, does not mean “no shoes.” I learned that on the second floor when two salespeople approached me at the top of the escalator.
“IRASHAIMASE!” they said together in a very, cheerful sing-song way.
“IRASHAIMASE!” more salespeople on the floor repeated.

What is going on? Did I walk in on a department store musical? I am definitely missing something. Everybody is telling me the same message and I don’t know what it is.

What could irashaimase possibly mean?

Irashaimase! IRASHAIMASE! Your zipper is down! YOUR ZIPPER IS DOWN!
Irashaimase! IRASHAIMASE! You don’t wear white after Labor Day! NO WHITE CLOTHES AFTER LABOR DAY!
Irashaimase! IRASHAIMASE! Don’t look now, but Brad Pitt is behind you! BRAD PITT IS BEHIND YOU!
Irashaimase! IRASHAIMASE! You have spinach in your teeth. SPINACH IN YOUR TEETH!

“Irashaimase means ‘welcome’,” my sensei patiently explained me at my next language class. “They are welcoming you into the store. It has nothing to do with shoes or Brad Pitt or spinach.”

Irashaimase. Love it. Live it. It’s everywhere.
“Irashaimase,” I enthusiastically said to my husband when he came home from work.
“Irashaimase,” the clerk said to me at the coffee shop.
“Irashaimase,” the security guard said to us when we walked by the construction site (welcome to my secure area?)
“Irashaimase,” the crossing guard said to our friend. (welcome to the pedestrian walkway?)

So, now when I’m greeted with irashaimase, I know exactly what to do. I offer a polite bow of thanks and then walk around confidently with my head high, my teeth clean and my shoes on. While living in Tokyo, I may be clueless, but I certainly will not be clueless and shoeless.