Futatsu Nama, Por Favor

What’s The Japanese for “Paella”?

At a Spanish restaurant in Ginza with three students and two other teachers, I find myself in the curious position of trying to translate Japanese to Spanish.

“Dos cervezas, por favor,” says one of the other teachers. “What does that mean?” says one of the students. “’Dos cervezas, por favor’ wa ‘Futatsu nama, onegaishimas’ desu,” I answer. “So nan’ da,” she says, understanding.

We order paella, pollo asado, and sangria. Lots and lots of sangria. A pitcher (about a liter) of sangria is 2,100 yen--so we spend over sixty dollars on three pitchers of sangria. There are six of us all together, but only three of us are really drinking. (The other three pour out a single glass each and nurse their drinks all evening.) I am drunk after the first two glasses, but I keep drinking. And drinking. And drinking.

The Spanish food and drink makes me homesick and I get drunk and speak Spanish and Japanese and English. And I come home on the train, drunk and happy.

Note to Self

Still unable to sit for long enough to pen a decent Tokyorosa entry, I continue to send myself emails from the train.

@ mitsukoshimae:
do not rush

Mitsukoshimae is one of the stations on the Ginza subway line. At least ten times a week I have passed this station, but it wasn’t until last night that I noticed the sign: A red slash through a running stick figure and the caption “Do not rush,” in English and Japanese below.


they're country boys- they get on the train & take off their shoes.

Tokyo is a big city, but it is set in a country that, outside of Tokyo, is just that: Country. The people outside of Tokyo are country people. When I came back from visiting the Ex-Student in Okayama, I was talking to two of the Japanese teachers. They asked me what the Ex-Student was like and I said, “He’s from Bizen. He’s country.” They asked what I meant. I explained, “You know country boys. They get on the train and they take their shoes off.” They laughed and laughed, understanding.

Ex chking weather evry am, a sailor,s habit
a woman in kimono too drunk2 answer her own keitai 2am kitasenju

If you recall, the Ex-Student was a sailor. He had gone to a marine college straight out of middle school and had spent five years learning the ins and outs of navigation. I found it one of his charming habits that, as a sailor, he kept a very careful eye on the weather--even when he lived in Tokyo. He watched the weather on television every morning before leaving the house and would, at the drop of a hat, recite the day’s forecast.

Last autumn, outside of Kita-Senju or Minami-Senju Station, I stood behind a young woman in a gorgeous kimono. We had both missed our last trains and were waiting in line for taxis. It was close to two a.m. and I was tipsy (tempered by the cold), but she was so drunk that she couldn’t figure out how to answer her own cell phone. I’m not quite sure how she was managing to remain upright. Her cellphone rang and she flipped it open and slurred, “Moshi-mosh’.” She waited, then pressed a few buttons. “Moshi-Mosh?” She flipped her cellphone closed. It rang. “Moshi-Mosh’,” she slurred, then she flipped her cellphone closed. It rang. She flipped it open. “Ima doko?” she slurred. Where are you now? “Moshi--Ima doko?” She waited, then flipped her cellphone closed. This was still going on when she climbed into the taxi.

Soon

Everyone knows I'm leaving Tokyo in June. My replacement is already picked out, a chubby American boy whose essay for The Kaisha uses the phrase "borne on a tide of." He's been in Japan for the last year, teaching at another Kaisha branch.

Anyway, one might be inclined to think that the students will miss me, but it's like Seth used to say: "Foreign teachers are like puppies. Everyone loves you when you first arrive and they are sad when you leave, but once the next foreign teacher gets here, everyone forgets all about you."

And it's true. And I'm glad.