Happy J-Day

Saturday started kind of bad, then it got worse, then it got better, then it got worse and worse, then it got a lot better, then it got slightly worse, and then it got better again. Overall, I’m glad I didn’t commit suicide that day.

Bad.
The day began, as they often do, with the alarm waking me up long before I was ready to get out of bed. I had planned to get up early, have breakfast, and stop by the apartment office to pay April’s rent, but I had to skip the office stop and shorten breakfast (rice and miso soup) due to moving in slow-mo.

Worse.
I had my weekly Japanese lesson which I always dread. I spent most of Friday night studying, but I had missed last week’s class and didn’t feel prepared.

Better.
Nobody else did any better than me; in fact, everybody did worse. I still got a couple of things wrong, but by the end of class I managed to loosen up a bit and enjoy myself for once.

We learned a couple of “to be” type verbs, one for people and animals, the other for inanimate objects. As part of the lesson, sensei told us to use imasu for sakana (fish) if you’re talking about a live pet or arimasu if you’re talking about dinner. I wondered if the same subtle change in the language could be used to shift “Fluffy is in my bedroom” to “I got a dead cat in my bedroom.” I wanted to ask her, but three and a half decades of dealing with people have taught me the following:
1) Never say the first thing that comes to my mind.
2) Likewise, don’t say the second thing that pops to mind.
3) I probably shouldn’t say that, either.
4) In fact, don’t say anything at all.

I managed to get through the rest of class without bringing up dead cats and time seemed to move at a decent clip. Sensei still hates me despite being polite and hard-working, but that’s her problem. I wonder if she’d like me more if I didn’t flirt by chasing after her and shouting “You are Tokyo! I am Godzilla!”

Worse and worse.
After class, I decided to lunch at Umezono Japanese Restaurant. The only other so-called Japanese restaurant I’ve ever eaten at was Ru San, a restaurant mostly known for poor service, inauthentic sushi, loud rock music, and an open hatred for Americans (despite voluntarily being in Georgia). Of course, I heard nothing but good things from people who don’t know dick about squat until I ate lunch there and nearly puked up my baby octopus.

My book and sensei both claimed the Japanese naturally exercise more than most Americans by walking / biking whenever they can, so I decided to walk to the restaurant since it’s only about two and a half miles roundtrip. The day was bright and sunny so I put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, grabbed Satan Sue (my iPod), and stepped outside into the 45 degree weather and high winds. On the way, I discovered reasons why nobody walks around here – the sidewalks, where there are sidewalks, are uneven and broken and most of the major intersections don’t have crosswalks. I guess I’ll save any future walking for the treadmill at the gym.

On the way, Satan Sue locked up and didn’t recover until the battery died that night. Bad karma.

A lot better.
After walking under the glaring sun in the icy winds, I arrived at the dimly lit restaurant and couldn’t see anything for a minute, but they seated me after my eyes adjusted. The restaurant seemed authentic – cramped, staffed and mostly patronized by Asians, featuring Japanese newspapers and Japanese TV (during my meal I got to practice my Japanese by watching an exercise program featuring a quartet of leotard-clad J-hotties). I sat at the bar next to a semi-hot Asian woman and ordered the vegetable tempura which came with miso soup, rice, and green tea. The tea was fine, the miso soup better than what I’ve been making (although it’s closer to theirs than the cup-a-soup stuff), and the tempura the best tasting vegetable meal I’ve ever had. It was the first time I ever enjoyed zucchini, although that was my least favorite part of the meal.

Before walking home, I stopped by the Asian market next door. The staff at both the restaurant and store were friendly*, despite me being one of the few round-eyes there. There was a blonde soccer mom in the store who was talking loudly on a cell phone the entire time (of course), but otherwise it felt like stepping into another world – no labels in English, tiny shelves, and tiny people chattering in a language in which I could only pick out a word or two. I found some of the things I couldn’t locate in Harry’s Farmers Market; between the two, I can make any Japanese meal for which I have the recipe and skill, i.e. miso soup and rice.

Slightly worse.
I went to Harry’s for some greens and fresh fruits and fish (at that point, I’d been eating J-food for a week but hadn’t had any fish – very non Japanesey). I found most of the ingredients on my list, but I couldn’t find scallions. I asked the nearest store employee, a young and soft-spoken Asian man, if they carried scallions, and he pointed me toward an area I had already perused. I pushed my cart back to the area, began looking closely at the labels, and then turned to see him standing next to my cart. He had materialized next to me ninja-style and proceeded to inform me that I already had scallions in my cart. That’s right – I didn’t know they were the same thing as green onions.

In my own defense, I should point out a) they are alternately called green onions and scallions in the same recipe book, and b) I was raised with an alternative vocabulary supplied by my mother, who hated me, and my sister, who didn’t hate me but found me most useful as a tool for staying on my mother’s good side, analogous to the new kid at school – the quickest way to ingratiate yourself to the ruling clique was to find out who they hated and then join in picking on them.

My mother and sister created a whole new vocabulary for me. For years I thought quarple came after triple, asylum was pronounced “uh-say-lum,” the phrase “tongue in cheek” was pornographic, and a lulu was a dirty joke and I would be punished if I ever used that term. After the grocery ninja informed me of my gaffe, I remembered a mental clip of the first time I came across the word “scallion” as a child. My mother screamed at me and told me they were something that grew up North and I would never see them so I didn’t need to worry about it. She was chopping a pile of green onions at the time. I suppose it could have been a mistake, but given our history I think it was another round in her perpetual “Screw with my son’s head” game.

If you’re curious why my so-called friends never corrected me, it’s because they liked laughing at my mistakes and kept insisting I was just playing around when I asked them for the meaning of something that seemed really obvious to them. And you wonder why I hate everybody.

Fortunately, after that experience, I realized mirin and cooking rice wine were also the same things.

Better.
Fortunately, I survived the shopping experience and went home for an afternoon of anime and studying. For dinner, I tried a new recipe – teriyaki salmon with homemade teriyaki sauce (there’s only three ingredients in the stuff). It was the best salmon I’ve ever had, although Cajun blackened runs a close second. Overall, definitely a plus day.

*If you’re considering leaving a comment claiming that all people of all nations are much more polite than Americans, save the cyberspace. I’ve been to plenty of places, some of which lived up to the reputation, many of which did not. If you still want to comment with the claim that the peoples of other nations are polite except when dealing with Americans and this is to be expected because Americans are known for their lack of manners and therefore the others are simply responding to our stereotypical actions in advance of us actually making them, then please submit your comment via the following method:
1) Write your comment on a piece of paper.
2) Set it on fire.
3) Shove it up your nose.