A brush with Engrish

I had my first major communication breakdown yesterday. Most conversations I've engaged in thus far have been fully understood, understood after some major stutters, or not understood at all, but today I had my first wild miscommunication; it was hard not to laugh. For the whole day. One of my co-workers (not an English teacher -- he does administrative and computer work) was driving me to City Hall to get my Alien Registration Card. He's not much of a conversationalist, so I decided to try to milk him for some information to ease my transition into the far east. "Do you know where I can find a voltage converter?" He looked at me, confusion apparent on his brow. "[Um]... chicken hamburger?"

And that's about as good as it gets... if you're looking for a comedic interlude, maybe hold tight for a future entry because now I'm going to relate stuff prior to that point. I'm actually not too keen about writing right now, but I was informed that my internet connection might not be available for another month so I'm typing this up at the apartment and posting it through the school's connection. One more thing before you X-out this window and find the latest youtube video of someone finding yet another place to stick wasabi: I have an address. Please feel free to send me postal love (email me for the address).

Somewhere 37,000 miles above the Pacific ocean, I began to think the same thoughts that, I assume, plague all those newly ordained globetrekkers who have dropped everything in favor of the unknown: "Holy crap, what the hell am I doing?" It was a smooth flight, possibly the best turbulence to distance ratio I've ever experienced. The food was top notch for an airplane, the movie selection was great (Nacho Libre!), and I was extremely lucky in that not only did my $99 economy plus upgrade grant me an aisle seat, but the window seat next to me was also vacant. However, when you're struck with a rough case of the holy-craps halfway between elsewhere and nowhere, you want someone to talk to. But most everyone was sleeping, so instead I watched movies, tried to sleep (unsuccessfully), and reminded myself that in a few weeks, once my routine becomes established, all doubts would be assuaged.

Bleary-eyed, I mindlessly followed the throng off the plane, claimed my baggage, found my bus, and I was off on the dark road to the unknown city I discovered only when researching a lost cause. And when I say dark I mean dark. It would seem that between Japanese cities, street lights do not exist, and between the mountains, the light pollution is practically nil. On a bus full of Japanese, heading into a void, knowing no one in my new world, I felt very alone, more so than on the plane where at the very least I could bother a flight attendant. And then the darkness gave way, the lights revealing my new home, and I emerged to be greeted by a tiny shell of a woman with awful teeth who asked, "Andrew-san?" Welcome to Japan.

As you can see, I've left out my city name. Actually, who cares, it's Himeji, Hyogo. But for people, I'm going to need code-names, I think, because I already know I'm going to have to vent about a number of characters. So, we'll call this woman Mrs. Eh because she responds to everything I say as if I had just handed her a treasure map leading to a big X right beneath a tatami in her bedroom: "EhhhHHHH?" Her husband is Chicken-Hamburger. They're very nice, no major complaints.

They drove me to my apartment and we took the elevator up to the top floor of the seven-story building. I surveyed the place and observed through one of the windows a sign advertising a Japanese company called Fukyo.

Fukyo. That's about what I felt. Mrs. Eh and Chicken-Hamburger gave me a whirlwind tour of the place, explaining gas, hot water, stove-with-fish-cooker, A/C, and the works. They offered me dinner, but I was too tired, so I declined and quickly went to bed. On the floor. That's where I sleep.

The apartment, against all odds, is too large. I have an eight-tatami bedroom, a kitchen/dining room, an entry way, a bath/shower room, a toilet room (replete with mickey mouse toilet mat and toilet slippers and toilet paper cover and toilet seat hood), and this other room that has only a table. I have no idea what to do with that room. I'm thinking about buying a small rug and using it for working out because gyms here go 10am-10pm and my hours are 11:50am-9pm. Or maybe I'll sublet it to a family of 25, who knows.

So before I passed out on that first night, still suffering from the what-the-craps, I thought to myself, what would Maslow do? 'I have a place to sleep and enough money to get me through a few weeks. Seems like a good enough start.' That (coupled with being awake for 26 straight hours) was enough to send me off to dreamland. Less than 48 hours later, I was drinking beer and singing karaoke, but that's for another time.