New to me

"Can you repeat that?" I said to a Japanese friend of mine. "I don't think I understood you."
"The money," my friend said again. "The money must be fresh."

Fresh money? Fresh money? Is there actually sour money in Japan?

In my attempt to avoid making any mistakes (or at least obvious mistakes) at an upcoming Japanese wedding ceremony, I asked my friend to teach me about Japanese wedding customs.

"As a guest, please wear a formal dress," she said. "And, your husband needs to wear a suit."
Got it. Easy.

"You need to say omedetougozaimasu (congratulations) to the wedding couple and their families," my friend suggested.
Got it. I can do that. Easy.

"You do not bring a present."
Got it. OK. That's actually good news. I wasn't looking forward to running around Shibuya searching for waffle makers, blenders and salt and pepper shakers.

"Here, wedding gifts are money."
OK. Back home, I would write a check, but in Japan, you present gift cash. OK. Sounds easy enough.

"Please enclose the cash into a special festive wedding envelope."
Special wedding envelope? Got it.

"And," my friend said very seriously, "this is very important. The money must be fresh."

Fresh money? Fresh money?

"Can you repeat that?" I said. "I don't think I understood you."
"Fresh," she said. "New cash. No wrinkles. No creases. No folded corners."

It was at that point that we both noticed the clothes I was wearing--a wrinkled shirt, a creased skirt.

"Well, at least no folded corners..." I said as I tried to straighten my attire.
"I think," my friend suggested. "To be safe, I think you should iron the money."

Iron money? I can't iron money. First, I would be too nervous. Second, what happens if I burn it? If it is bad luck to present wrinkled money, it must be terrible to present charred, smoking, holey yen.

I got it.

"Here you go," I said to my dry cleaner the other morning. "Five business shirts. One suit jacket. One pair of trousers. And, some wedding gift money. Little starch. No wrinkles. See you Wednesday."

When in Tokyo...

I remember when I first walked through our Tokyo apartment, I was very pleased, relieved and impressed. I was impressed with the friendly neighbors. I was impressed with the location. I was impressed with the sliding doors in the rooms. And, I was very impressed with the large soaking tub and technologically advanced toilet.

“You can heat the seat,” my husband said.
Heat the seat? Amazing!

However, it was when I saw the laundry room that I became less impressed and more intrigued.

“That is certainly a strange looking microwave,” I said. “And, why is it in the laundry room?”
“That is the dryer,” my husband quietly said.
The dryer? That is the dryer?
“That dryer looks like it can only handle one person’s load,” I said. “We are a family of five. We need four more.”

I admit it, back in my home country, I was spoiled. I was the proud owner of a quick, efficient, super-sized dryer. Once in awhile, it would swallow socks, but that was the price to pay for convenience and warm, fluffy clothes. Every Wednesday and Sunday night, I would throw, shove, push, ram, and jam clothes into the bowel of the machine. “What are you trying to do?” my husband asked me one night when he saw me knee-deep in the dryer. “Are you stomping grapes to make wine?”
“Nope,” I said as I crushed wet clothes under my toes. “Just making room for some bath towels. I know I can fit more in here.”

“You can keep up, can’t you little guy?” I encouraged my new petite dryer. “You are like the little engine that could. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.”

It tried, but it really couldn't.

So, as I have learned, when in Tokyo do as the Tokyoites do. Instead of battling or becoming frustrated by this little dryer, I joined my neighbors and set up a laundry line and drying rack on my small patio. All was well except my timing. Unfortunately, I hung up my first line of clothes the night before a typhoon. The next morning, after the storm passed, I had to knock on door of my first floor neighbor.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said. “But I believe the storm blew my pajamas onto your patio picnic table. And, those are my socks on your barbecue grill...and....those are my....”

I admit it. Even with the laundry line and drying rack, I still can’t keep up with the dirty laundry of my family (I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.) With three active sons (not to mention messy noodle eating), I constantly have clothing and sports gear drying outside and inside the apartment: on the line, on the kitchen stools, over the desk chair, on the ping pong table, on the sofa.

“What are you doing?” I asked my son the other afternoon.
“Dad said I could watch TV for an hour.”
“You know my TV rules,” I scolded. “If you are watching TV, it must be for two hours and you must spread out your arms. I’ve got sweatshirts to dry,” I said as I draped the hoodies over his shoulder. “Remember to rotate your arms every ten minutes or so. Now, where’s the dog? I need him to help me air dry this sweater.”

It is around this time of year that I visit my home country. I look forward to seeing friends and family. I look forward to sharing our Tokyo photos and adventures. I look forward to experiencing my home culture again. But, what I really look forward to is reuniting with my dryer.

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.