Declined

Last week, after realizing that I had successfully cooked a bunch of packaged food with Japanese instructions, my roommate asked timidly, "Are you starting to read Japanese now?"

Guys, I can't even tell you how badly I wanted to answer "yes" to that ridiculous, ridiculous question. Sadly, as far as I know it's impossible to learn a language just by staring at it. Fortunately for me (and my stomach), picture instructions are universally understood. Besides, there's really only one way to cook ramen, right?

Let me tell you, t's not like I'm not trying to get around and communicate...it's just HARD. I thought body language made up the majority of communication, but apparently that only applies to the United States. In Japan, you have to know the language. Otherwise something very, very strange happens to your brain as it tries to switch over to a different atmosphere and is consistently denied access. Out of a crippling appetite for understanding--something! anything!--you start to read colors and photos as you would words, start to notice things you never would at home, like nature. Or the way the nail on your middle finger curves slightly inward on the right side. Your breathing patters. The new pinhead-sized mole on the inside of your ankle. The total number of times you blink per hour.

Even more disturbing is how much you start to love things for the simple fact that you recognize them, like baby cries and *gasp!* numbers.

Internet, I am not a numbers person. I normally loathe them. I loathe them so much in fact, that it took me 4 years to finally take the one math class that was required of me in college. I registered for one every year but ended up dropping it because I didn't vibe well enough with the teacher. Didn't vibe well enough with the teacher! Can you believe that? As if I was in some math class speed-dating adventure.

I am a writer. A talker. A person of words. Communication is my forte and I'm in a land where the language looks like fucking decoration. Can you imagine what that's doing to my mind? To my SOUL? I am, in fact, so starved for the tiniest morsel of something I recognize that when I overhear tourists from English-speaking countries talk, no matter the topic, I get a boner. Srsly, the biggest hard on you ever did see. In every other instance, no matter how wide I open my eyes or which direction I flail my arms, nobody gets what I'm going on about. To everyone else, I just look like a chimp.

So here I am, this stupid foreign chimp, hanging out in a tiny apartment in Tokyo with my roommate from college, who happens to be growing exceedingly tired of having to deal with me and my non-understanding ways. She works all day Mon-Fri (and by all day I mean all day because people in Tokyo do not believe in sleep) and understandably wants nothing on the weekends but uninterrupted loafing time. As a result, my hopes of getting to know this city have been whittled down to a nubbin. I've lightened up severely on the whole "what does that say?" bit out of the fear that she's going to turn around and punch me, and when her non-English speaking boyfriend turns to me and vomits up an entire speech or question in Japanese, I blink several times and quietly wish for a hole to curl up and die in.

I feel bad about it, really. There's nothing like going from being an independent, social butterfly to a non-communicative, twitchy primate that needs to be babysat. And so, in a desperate attempt to prove my worthiness as a temporary member of the Japanese society to my fed-up roommate, I decided to cook her dinner.

One day while she was at work, I gathered up every ounce of bravery I had and walked, alone, to the nearest grocery store. Throw into this pathetic sounding equation my non-existent sense of direction, Tokyo's TINY, jam-packed-with-everything-you-can-think-of streets, and the absence of actual street signs (NOT THAT I'D UNDERSTAND THEM ANYWAY) and suddenly it's like, whoa, Chelsi, how did you survive such a breakneck adventure?!

No clue, but somehow I arrived at the store without getting lost or kidnapped by some band of rampant, magical anime characters. This accomplishment felt like that scene in Castaway where Tom Hanks manages to procure a tiny wisp of smoke from two sticks and is like, I AM MAN. I MADE FIRE. It didn't bother me that I didn't understand any of the food I was looking at, or that I stood in an aisle for at least 5 minutes, unsure if the bottle I was holding was full of mayonnaise or baby formula. I had gotten to the store and that meant I could SURVIVE.

That is, until I got to the checkout counter and my credit card was declined. The clerk turned the register screen around to show me the big black "!" all dark and scary like a death omen, and to further illustrate the problem made a big "X" with her arms while repeating the word "sagarime" over and over again. Even though it was pretty obvious what she was saying, I googled the word anyway. It's defined as "eyes slanting downward" and "decline." I feel a racist joke coming on; a racist joke that I think would be totally excusable because I myself am a product of slanty-eyed people, but I'm going to pass.

Anyhoo--PROTIP: If you're going to travel to foreign lands, make sure you tell your credit card company beforehand. You know, unless you *want* to feel utterly alone even though you're surrounded by more people you've ever been in your entire life and broke to boot.

Tragic, isn't it?

In closing, I just want to point out that I'm aware that I'm not giving Japan the credit it deserves. I only talk about the terrible things, much like people do when they're in a relationship. Heh. Truth is, Tokyo isn't that bad of a boyfriend. I mean, he hasn't put out yet, but that's cool, I ain't no hussy.

In other words, a post on the good things is coming soon. Promise, promise.