April 26, 2008
It all started when Gabe came over on Sunday. Well, I guess it all started when I was born into this clearly inferior body. Growing up, I mocked my younger brother for having allergies to grass, dust, cats, and I would often frolic just outside his window, rolling in the yard while petting dusty cats, just to make him mad. When I moved to Tennessee, however, all that changed, and I realized that there are many types of grass in the world, and the particular type in Nashville was trying to kill me.
Perhaps I'm being melodramatic, but anyone who knows the pain of hay fever knows that it's nothing to sneeze at. (Rimshot.) When I got to Japan in late summer, I informed my teachers that I didn't *usually* have allergies, having experienced them in only 1 of the 5 states in which I spent the majority of my childhood.
I even survived cherry blossom season here in Japan, and while my Japanese co-workers wore those creepy Michael Jackson masks to protect themselves from intrusive pollen, I stayed relatively comfortable. I had itchy eyes occasionally, but only when I was outside or someone was rubbing a flower directly in them. But something bloomed in the past week that absolutely floored me.
See, last Sunday, Gabe visited my apartment. He is a free spirit with a very strong presence -- just the type of person I always get along with. The type of person who will find a baby wild asparagus growing in the parking lot outside my house, and unsheathe it from his pocket with a flourish as he enters my house. That's the free spirit part. The strong presence part comes in when, apparently upset with my lackluster appreciation for his grimy Parking Lot Salad, he grabs my face and shoves the asparagus in my mouth. And you know what? It was delicious.
Anyway, on this particular trip, he also brought me a branch of a beautiful flowering dogwood that mysteriously looked like one that used to be attached to my neighbor's tree. It looked really nice on my table, though, and I went with it. Then the sneezing began.
The next day, I described the tree to a Japanese friend who informed me that it was called "Hanamizuki." Now, I later googled to find that she was spot on, but at the time, I thought she was just yanking my chain. You see, I recently learned the Japanese Going To The Doctor Words in my class, and Hanamizuki also translates directly to "Runny Nose Tree." Japan is really a laugh riot.
Well, I suffered through it for a few days, telling myself it wasn't hay fever. It was a cold. And it would go away on its own. Every morning, I would emerge from the shower feeling reborn and miraculously cured, only to step out into the harsh light of day and be suddenly able to feel individual pollen molecules striking my eyeballs with all their flowery might.
I finally grew tired of coming to school looking like I'd just watched the final scene in "Old Yeller," but I couldn't justify missing any classes. I found a free spot at the end of my workday, and asked if I could leave school to get this taken care of.
This set off a flurry of activity akin to what I think would happen if I just casually mentioned I'd recently lost my foot -- like literally lost -- and could I get some help looking for it in the parking lot. Supervisors running past, saying they thought I said I *didn't* have allergies. Teachers wringing their hands at who had the free time to escort me. Maps were printed; translations of my symptoms were written on memos. A teacher I'd never spoken to before shoved two pills in my hands and made me promise to take them with lunch.
I hate making a big deal. One of the things I definitely won't miss about Japan is being able to be a Big Girl and taking care of things all by myself. I really just wanted one person to tell me where the place was, and I'd wing it the rest of the way.
Well, so fast forward to 30 papers being signed and stamped to get permission to leave campus during school hours without taking a paid-vacation day (ridonkulous), and I'm out biking around town, looking for the Ear, Nose, and Throat Guy. Tears are running down my face (from the Killer Death Pollen), and I end up driving past the nondescript doctor's office 3 times -- even after stopping for directions FROM SOMEONE ON THEIR WAY INSIDE who sent me in a different direction.
Somewhere along my travels, however, I start experiencing dry mouth. I also start getting a weird dry sensation in my nose. It then occurs to me that I have broken the cardinal rule of going to the doctor. Don't take medication for the symptoms you're about to try and show the man! Within minutes, my nose has transformed from running like a faucet to being so painfully dry, I consider drowning myself in a nearby drainage canal to get some relief. I stop at a vending machine for some water for my Sahara mouth. I feel pitiful. How am I going to convince this guy to give me some real medicine?
I get to the office finally, fill out some paperwork, probably incorrectly, and settle into the corner. I pass the lady who told me to go 3 blocks over. I try to smile and act like I was the one who made the mistake. I take one of the only open seats next to a man and his son. Not 30 seconds later, I am overcome with another delightful side effect of the mystery meds some teacher gave me. I am sleepier than I've ever been, unable to keep my eyes open. I hold a book open in front of me, and try to angle hunch over like I'm reading it, as I try to take a nap. But instead of the nice, restful nap of babies, I fall into the endless loop of being just about to fall asleep, jerking awake, flailing all my limbs out, straightening up, and turning to the nice man beside me, trying to smile in a way that suggests I am not really a lunatic. Then doze off slowly and repeat.
At some point in my 2 1/2 hour wait, they turned the air conditioning off. Not because it was cold, but because this is Japan, and if the emperor tells you to stop circulating the stagnant air in a stifling room filled to the brim with sick people, by gosh, you do it. So now I'm sweating, which I didn't think was possible after taking those insta-dehydration pills, but I'm able to nap for 30 second intervals, so whatever.
I somehow hear my name called, and drowsily shuffle into the next room, hair matted, and probably with a huge red spot on my face where I held my head up with my hand. Now I see why the place is packed. Beyond the waiting room is...one chair. One doctor, a few nurses, and a rainbow of scary equipment.
The doctor reads my note, asks me a few things, and I try to answer. He asks me how often I sneeze. I think and say, "About 10 times a day." He furrows his brow and says, "That's not very much." I wonder if he thought I said "10 times in my whole life," because, um, 10 times a day indicates some type of problem to me. But, hey, I'm a Drugs-Cure-All Westerner, so what do I know, right?
He lunges towards me with some object, and I instinctively open my mouth, but he goes for my nose. It hurts. He squints inside. He's not happy with what he sees. Probably because it's still excruciatingly dry. I take the medicine wrapper out of my pocket and show it to him, as if it might explain something. Then...he does the worst thing ever.
Now, I recently read a friend's blog entry where a doctor (you may want to back away from the screen, boys) shoved a Q-tip up his, er, special parts. Now, I myself possess a completely different and diametrically opposed set of reproductive organs, so I won't insult all men by saying I empathize with that kind of discomfort, but I think I can sympathize.
You see, this doctor apparently feels it necessary to shove a contraption so far inside my nose, I am at risk of forgetting math. And then he turns it on. Its purpose seems to be to blow air, but I can't stress enough how much my nose did not need air blown into it. I grip the handles on my chair and try to writhe quietly. Perhaps this is an integral part of the diagnosis. Perhaps he is simply trying to dry my nose to such a point where it would crack and fall off, and he could prescribe me a new one. How I wish to be back in the waiting room, falling asleep on the shoulder of the poor person next to me.
At some point, I guess he figures it won't get any drier, and he prescribes me a few pills, eye drops, and heavenly nasal spray. But my adventure isn't over yet.
No, he leads me over to a sort of trough with strange contraptions and tubes, and hands me one. Now...this contraption looks suspiciously like a pipe. And not the kind Sherlock Holmes uses, either. The glass kind that smells like Otto's jacket from the Simpsons, if you catch my drift. It has a little reservoir thing connected to all these tubes, and on one end are two prongs with holes. I am hesitant to do anything with it, for fear that I would stick it in my ear or something, only to discover it was actually his bong collection that he just wanted to show to me for Westerner street cred. But he quickly answers my wonderment by, guess what, shoving it into my nose.
Now I am confused. Is this...giving me medicine? By now, the pills I'd taken were wearing off, and my nose is returning to its normal, runny state. And, unless I am mistaken...it seems to now be pooling up in the reservoir? I think of that quote from the Ghostbuster's movie that Peter Venkman says: "Somebody blows their nose, and you want to keep it?"
The doctor comes over to me to explain my eye drop and pill dosage. I realize I don't know the proper social graces in this situation. Is it impolite to talk to someone while holding a glass pipe inside your nose? Should I take it away while he's here, or am I being given some necessary medication? Should I try to answer, even though my voice will be really nasal?
I leave it in, and he wanders off. Soon, a woman sits next to me and expertly inserts another bong into her nose. I wonder how many noses this thing has been shoved into today. I wonder about their cleaning methods. I wonder, again, what the hell it's actually doing for me...or to me.
I finally leave the clinic, medicine in tow, and bike back towards the safety of my pollenless home. When I reach my neighborhood, my eyes are watering so badly, I can only steer with one hand, while I rub them furiously with the other. But there's a good song on my iPod, and I'm happy I've finally gotten my hay fever taken care of. I bike dance around the last few corners. Hey, I may be listening to loud music and unable to see, but that doesn't mean I have to practice bike safety.
April 23, 2008
Dear Laughing Male Students in My Class,
Hello! I want to offer my sincere apologies for what happened earlier today. You see, I was teased a lot as a child, and I've spent a lot of time fending off drunken hecklers in comedy clubs, so I have knee-jerk responses to certain things.
Now, sometimes people have the giggles. Anyone can understand that. But I repeatedly stopped my lesson to ask you self-consciously what was so funny. I checked my fly, I spun around to see if there was chalk on my pants. Nothing. This made you laugh harder, which again, I understand. I do look funny when I'm paranoid.
In my defense, I did try to work with you. I did that funny "Pretending to Strangle You" thing Kevin promised was Comedy Gold in all his classes, and it *was* pretty funny, but that didn't stop you. I even asked the other teacher in the room, and he said he didn't know what was so funny, either.
So I want to state publicly that it may not have been the most "mature" thing to stop class after your fourth outburst of laughter, stomp over to you two, and ask if you were lovers. Yes, maybe I shouldn't have turned to the rest of the class, pointed to you, and asked "Boyfriends?" Furthermore, let me be the first to admit that making a little heart with my hands and holding it over your heads was probably going too far.
To that end, perhaps the other teacher should not have agreed with me and wished the two of you luck on your future happiness together. In the harsh light of day, I see that this type of humor appeals to the lowest common denominator. I mean, a gay joke? Really, I could do better.
But I'm sorry to say that the speed at which you both turned bright red and shut up for the rest of class only suggested to me that Negative Reinforcement is sometimes the way to go.
Please feel free to mock me any time outside of class. I'll even give you a topic: I apparently eat donuts made only for stupid people.
--Lauren-sensei
Dear Old Man I Passed On My Bike,
Hello! I'm really sorry that I almost ran you off the road. You have every right to use the same space I do, and I realize we have to "Share The Sidewalk" as non-car-using brethren.
I just want to explain to you WHY I came so close to running you down. Tonight was my first night, after 7 months of trying, that I was finally able to bike without touching my handlebars. AND I didn't even need to hold them out at my sides like a tightrope walker from the '30s.
I finally perfected balancing my weight, and I can hang my hands limply at my sides, as if to say, "What? I'm just sitting here, relaxing on my bike." I think we can both agree that only n00bs need to steer.
So, you see, I was challenging myself to see how long I could go without touching my handlebars, and I had just topped my previous record by keeping my balance for an entire street block AND while going over a speed bump. I'm sure you understand that personal safety and the safety of others come second to this Bike Challenge I had just mastered.
I'm just glad you weren't there 5 blocks ago when I was swerving my bike to the beat of the song playing on my iPod, or Bike Dancing, as I like to call it.
--Lauren
April 22, 2008
Dear Girls Who Wouldn't Stop Looking at Me at Mister Donut Today,
Hello! Um, I'm not sure who you are or who you think I am. Your tans and creepy clown makeup suggest to me that you are not my students, as I'm fairly certain they eat, sleep, and bathe in their school uniforms.
I just wanted to let you know, so as to avoid any humiliation on your part in the future, that I can hear you talking about me. In fact, I can see you pointing and whispering, too. I'm pretty nice, usually, even to scary Japanese clowns. But it's kind of annoying when you stand up and try to hide behind that pillar and peek your head around the corner to get a better look. Come on. I can see you. You're right there.
Also, when I stand up to throw away my tray and you run off, I can see that, too. My *cat* tries this tactic, and he also routinely eats his own fur. No, I was not coming towards you. I don't know what is so funny about me eating a donut. Well, I can't read Japanese. Maybe I was eating a poison donut, or there was some sign somewhere that said "Only Stupid People Eat This Donut," but let me assure you: it was delicious.
I'm curious as to what was so interesting about me. It's not like I'm the only foreigner in this town. In fact, maybe you weren't being rude at all. Perhaps you had me mistaken for that delightful Scarlett Johansson minus the Hollywood ego and perfect breasts, and you just wanted a closer look. I just can't be sure. If this is the case, I'm sorry that 2 hours later when we passed on bikes and you pointed and cracked up again, I rolled my eyes and sighed so loudly, you almost drove into the path of a passing motorist. I'm also sorry I kind of wished you had.
I usually don't mind being the Token Outsider, but there's only so much a person can take when trying to enjoy a delicious circular dessert.
Thank you for your time,
Lauren
April 15, 2008
My 50-year-old female Japanese teacher told me my "W"s are sexy. It took me a second, but I realized it's because I make them rounded and loopy with the top ends pointing inward. So, you know, it kind of looks like boobs.
This is why my Japanese teacher is the coolest ever.
April 11, 2008
Sometimes when a kid at school runs by me at a ridiculous speed, I feel like it's my teacherly duty to say something to him. Unfortunately, I don't know the word "slow" in Japanese, so I always just tell him to run faster.
I love my job.
April 09, 2008
My motto has always been "jump and the net will appear." I'm not actually as gung ho and brave as people seem to think. I just see situations where the benefits of doing something and possibly failing outweigh the monotony of doing nothing. Stand-up comedy, quitting my job to be a closed captioner against the wishes of my then coworkers and boss, moving to California into a sight-unseen apartment, even though life in Pittsburgh was comfortable and familiar. I like to mix things up. I'm no stranger to failure, but it's resulted in more than a few cool stories and memories.
But although I hesitate to admit it, I always had a backup plan, or I thought I could formulate one if I had to. Quitting, moving back in with my parents, going back to school -- the last bastion of hope that twenty-somethings who don't know where to go next seem to fall back on.
Japan is different, though, and that might have been part of the allure for me. There is no crying and running back home. There is no quitting your job without deportation. I figured it would be a fun challenge for myself to sign up for a country where I have to get a classroom of teenagers to learn something from me in a different language. Let's see if I can figure out a train system in Japanese, even though I can't decipher the English one in New York. Getting a meal at Chili's and Applebee's is so easy, it's become blasé. Why not try sitting in a restaurant where the menu contains only incomprehensible scribblings?
Okay, sometimes the net doesn't appear, and you're stuck eating pig intestines at a tiny mom-and-pop ramen shop -- with the mom and pop standing right there, hands clasped, asking how delicious it is. But would I have a story if I'd gone to McDonald's? Would I know whether or not I liked pig intestines without that experience? No, I wouldn't.
My parents came to visit me about 2 months ago. We had a great time, and I took them all around the hotspots of Tokyo. I actually surprised myself. The part of my personality that's from Mars (as opposed to Venus) confidently sauntered around the city, assuring my mother with rolled eyes that, yes, I was sure I knew where we were going, and, no, we don't need to ask for directions.
At the end of their trip, I dropped them off at Narita, and suddenly, my role as a lost, bumbling water buffalo came cascading back to me. I think I said aloud on the escalator, "And how the hell am I supposed to get home from here?" likely frightening passengers around me who weren't used to people talking to themselves.
I had put on a confident front for my parents, mostly so they wouldn't accost poor elderly businessmen with questions to double-check my navigational abilities. But now I was back to regular Unsure Me, positive that my attempts to travel home, alone, on a route I never traveled before, would end with me shivering, naked somewhere in a gutter.
Well, you'll have to tune in next time to hear if I do. For now, here are some pictures!
April 07, 2008
It's a beautiful day, and although I find it hard to tear myself from the intriguing claws of the internet, I'm always appreciative once I get outside and start riding my bike around. I think it's the shoes. I often get the urge to take an afternoon constitutional around school grounds, but doing so means a stop at my shoe locker and a flashback to grade school where certain parts of the floor were made of lava.
As is joked about, you really do need to change your shoes in Japan when you go indoors. So there's a part of the floor designated for walking with your indoor shoes and a part for outside shoes, and in between is a purgatory of sock-walking while you ferry your shoes to and from a locker. For a normal human, this probably isn't an ordeal, but I'm far from normal.
First off, I'm like 8 feet tall. Okay, 5'7", but in Japan, no one's counting. I'm enormous. On days when I wear a suit to school, I just can't pull off the Jerry Seinfeld look that so many people go with and wear a black suit with sneakers. I just can't. So I wear my only dress shoes, which unfortunately have 3-inch heels. Luckily for no one, my shoe locker is on the very bottom row, so every time I change my shoes, I look like Godzilla bending over to awkwardly extract tiny footwear from a ground-floor apartment.
That was a long tangent, but I really hate changing my shoes. Anyway, so I talk myself into leaving school grounds for lunch. Yes, an egg-salad sandwich at 7-11 again. They're cheap and filling. It's such a nice day that I want to sit outside, but I don't know where to go. If I were younger, I might just plop down next to 7-11 or on a curb somewhere, but frankly, I get enough awkward stares just by being myself, even if I'm doing 100% the right thing. People don't eat on curbs in Japan. Not even the homeless.
I decide to explore a few-block radius, which, in Japanese, is pronounced "getting lost." I keep my bearings pretty well, but I don't see anything promising. I find one playground with a bench, but there are a half dozen mothers having a picnic with their small children there, and I don't want to impose. Or, you know, frighten them away. We don't need to re-enact any scenes from "Little Children," if anyone but me actually saw that movie.
I pass a little French bakery, and I'm about to keep going until I spot a little table out front. It's one of those black gardeny tables located in something of a gardeny garden, where you can't really tell if it's a table or just decoration. I decide to press my luck. If I buy a dessert there, maybe I won't feel guilty about eating my whole lunch at the table.
I walk in and order a strawberry cake (not to be confused with Strawberry Pie). When we were in Kansai, Kevin pointed out how weird it was that everyone in the big cities assumes we're on vacation, and scrambles to find English menus or wrings their hands with shame, looking left and right for someone to help them talk to us. This made us feel bad, for the most part, because we COULD understand a little, and the effort spent looking for a translator was usually wasted. Yeah, we know you're here at the table to take our order. We know you're telling us the price of the hotel room. Don't sweat it. Combine that with the fact that we're pretty good guessers, especially building on Kevin's Kanji abilities, Gabe's Japanese, and Jamie's...rhythmic grunting.
But here in my countryside town, they must assume I live here, and they just shout rapidfire Japanese at me. I point at a cake and say "strawberry" and "please." How many questions could there be? A lot. I assume they're asking about a box. I gesture that it's for me, and I get the feeling that's unheard of, as this seems to be a store primarily for getting treats for others. She begins wrapping the cake in a box with a special notch that prevents it from sliding. She asks another question. Lady, I got nothing. I'm gonna eat it 10 feet away from you in about 30 seconds. What do you want from me? Ooh, maybe she's asking "for here" or "to go"! I answer in Japanese, "Is it okay to eat over there?" pointing to the gardeny table outside. She nods like she understands, but who can be sure?
She tapes a piece of wrapping paper to the top. She ties the box with a fancy cloth ribbon. I really start to feel bad. Maybe I should just pretend that it's a present for some king somewhere and bike off with it, so they don't see me ruin their craftsmanship.
I pay the lady and thank her, wishing the shades were drawn, so I could eat out the front window without their prying eyes. Sheesh, all I wanted was a table to eat my damn egg sandwich and some Pringles. Now I have a prized cake wrapped in a work of art.
I take a seat at the maybe-just-decorative table and try to eclipse my lunch from the staff inside. I enjoy the beautiful day, eating, while reading my book. I smile at people as they pass, and they stare back at me, possibly because I'm a foreigner, possibly because no one actually eats here, as it's a cake gift shop for others, very possibly because I'm sitting at a decorative garden feature, pretending it's a real table.
I come to dessert, and I carefully unwrap my cake, as if to let the staff inside know what I appreciate their hard work so much, I will save the fancy wrapping for some other date.
Then I see what they must have been asking me over and over. Hidden in the cake-slide-prevention notch, there's a hard mass of something wrapped in a tissue. I take it out of the box, and it's frickin' dry ice! Now I really feel like a moron. I wasted their ice on a cake pilgrimage a whole 10 feet away. That stuff's valuable in the states. I sheepishly hork down the cake. It's delicious. And very cold.
Biking off, I'm ultimately happy I had this little adventure. I always am, which I guess is what fuels me to keep getting into moronic situations like this instead of sitting in the corner of my house, shaking, sucking my thumb, and eating reheated pizzas for every meal. But who knew life was such a production?
The story doesn't end there, though. I stop by the grocery store to pick up ingredients for my new favorite dinner I have named Mini Mexican Sloppy Joes, which is actually just hamburger meat and salsa on dinner rolls. I grab some strawberries for dessert (are we seeing a fruit theme starting to emerge in my food-based demise?), and I head to the front to pay.
The woman says something to me that I don't understand, and it's new. I usually just pay, hand them my point card, and get out. I remember having been given dry ice before to keep my popcicles cold, and with the day's events, I immediately assume she's trying to protect the integrity of my berries.
I confidently decline, and she looks at me as if I shouldn't be. I hear her say something to the effect of, "Not even one? It's only 2 yen." Even though that's cheap for free refrigeration, I really live right around the corner. She shrugs and gives me a strange look as she hands me the receipt.
I get to the bagging area and realize...she didn't give me a bag. In an apparent attempt to save the environment, they've begun to charge for plastic bags, and I now have a basket of groceries and nothing to bring them home in. I grab a few complimentary produce bags, and then a few more, and I end up walking to my bike clutching each of my items wrapped individually.
So much for my guessing abilities.
April 03, 2008
I'm about to go to lunch, when my friend hits me up with a quick important question on gchat. I answer him, typing with one hand and my bag over my shoulder, the international symbol for About To Leave.
Two teachers approach my desk, and I can feel their awkward glances to each other in my peripheral vision. They either don't want to interrupt my hard work, or they feel bad for noticing that I am gchatting instead of doing hard work. I'd feel guilty if there were any work to do, or if I hadn't been sitting at my desk for the two weeks of spring break. With nothing to do.
The man is really cool. He has spiky hair, and he always tries to talk to me, even though he spends more time typing things into his translator than actually getting his point across. But darn it, he keeps trying to include me as part of the office, and I really enjoy his company. The woman has a habit of over apologizing for everything, as is common here. If she places a stack of papers near my desk, and a week later, a gust of wind blows one to my area, she gasps, bows deeply, and apologizes for the rudeness of her sub-par paper-laying abilities. This is madness, you say? This is JAPAN, I respond, and kick you into a pit.
Spiky sensei finally breaks the silence. "Today, do you have a lunch?" I cheerfully answer that I'm grabbing lunch at a nearby convenience store, a little worried that today is a special teacher's bento day. On certain days, a prepaid lunch is provided for me, and I have to scoot around mysterious foodstuffs for 10 minutes until I've scattered it in a way that it appears I have eaten something. He nods, satisfied. Maybe he was just curious.
The woman, Sumima sensei (a hilarious pun I just made up (trust me) from the word "sumimasen," one of the 30 ways to apologize in Japanese), wrings her hands before asking me a favor. Could I help her out by grading a few student compositions? I over enthusiastically comply, as if to say, "Why, I'm only sitting here gchatting because I'm depressed that I'm not an integral part of society. I would LOVE to have some actual work to do, and more if you have it!" And I'm actually kind of telling the truth.
She breathes a sigh of relief, and they excuse themselves. Having answered my friend's question online, I stand up and head out the door. At the front entrance of school, Spiky sensei meets up with me, also apparently leaving for lunch. "Convenience store lunch, ne? Sumima sensei and I will be going to a restaurant. There are noodles, hamburgers, and salads. Very delicious."
For an instant, I'm paralyzed with fear. When he had asked me my lunch plans before, had it been...an invitation? It kind of made sense. I leave for lunch at the same time every day, and I've never been questioned about it. Had I rudely not read between the lines? Should I have downplayed my lunch, so he understood that I would of course prefer noodles, hamburgers, and salad over half an egg sandwich from 7-11? Should I have made it clear that, while lunch *is* the only thing all day I actually look forward to, my plans were not set in stone?
I waver for a minute, second-guessing myself. No. Maybe he wasn't inviting me. And if I press the issue now, it will LOOK like I'm asking to be invited along, which I'm NOT. I mean, I'd like it, of course. I'm torn between turning down an invitation and barging in on someone else's lunch plans. Which is happening here, and which is less rude?
I predictably choose the most awkward route possible by bowing goodbye, taking a few steps in the opposite direction, and spin around on my heel, exclaiming, "Um, noodles and hamburgers, huh? So it's a pretty good restaurant?" Something lights up in his eyes, and he points to me. "You? You would like to come?" At this moment, Sumima sensei walks out to join him. He turns to her. "Lauren sensei [something in rapidfire Japanese]." The woman sucks air through her teeth, the international symbol for Making a Tough Decision. I get it. They weren't inviting me. Right? I backpedal. "Oh, but if it's too much trouble." Sumima sensei pipes up. "We do not...have much time to eat."
I'm still unsure what this means. Do I take an unusually long time to eat? I'd be holding them back? They're already going to the restaurant. It's not like they'd planned on chugging a calorie drink for lunch, and I waltzed in suggesting a five-course meal. But I take the hint. "Ah, I will go to the convenience store then!" I cheerfully wave goodbye.
I walk away with a peculiar feeling. Was I supposed to feel awkward, or were they? Had I rudely imposed, or had they just rudely announced their lunch plans and denied an invite? *Do* I take a really long time to eat? Did they think I was just going to be chatty and ruin their noodles, putting them behind on their workdays? Or were they also beating themselves up for not being able to oblige an invitation? Do they feel bad for not having enough time to eat with a friendly (and witty and attractive and nice-smelling) co-worker?
I guess that's why everyone in Japan just apologizes to each other all the time. Maybe no one knows who's supposed to feel more sorry?