Revised

Notes: I spoke with the professor about my piece and he suggested I focus on making it more of a travel writing piece than a feature article, since that was how it was leaning in the first place. So please don't expect this to be something you'd read as a feature; more like a blog, or maybe a travel piece in a magazine. It's still more a draft, but I feel a lot more confident about where this is going than I did the first version I posted. Please enjoy.

Chai over Sushi

“Are? Nihongo wakaru?” the clerk asks, his eyes widening in disbelief.

Smiling, I reassure him that yes, he’d heard me correctly; and yes, I did in fact just speak to him in Japanese. Then, I give him a minute or two to pick his jaw up off the floor while I fumble for my passport with numb fingers.

I’m used to this sort of shocked reaction; after six months of studying in Tokyo, I’m no longer bothered by the native speakers who are in awe of my abilities. It’s no longer surprising to me to have complete strangers congratulate me on knowing how to say “thank you”, let alone “Excuse me, I have a reservation here for a single”.

What I’m not used to is his soft chuckle a moment later. Instead of the usual stunned silence, the clerk informs me that I’m the first person at the hostel today to speak to him in his own language. I try to imagine being back in the States and spending an entire day using any language but my own. It doesn’t compute, and I laugh at the absurdity of it.

You get used to absurdity in a foreign country after you’ve been there long enough; knowing the language and the basic etiquette is only dipping your toe into the pool. It isn’t until after you’ve seen the sights and eaten the food—in this case, the sushi—that you realize that you might be the only sane (?) one in the country. What can be even more worrisome, however, is how quickly you get used to everything.

The clerk walks me through the usual routine as he glances over my passport, accepts my payment for the next few nights, and hands me an 8.5-11” receipt. How long have you been here? It’s cold outside, isn’t it? Have you tried the sushi yet? As I tuck the receipt into my bag, he sucks his breath in through his teeth. Eeeh? What do you mean, you don’t like sushi?

For some reason, disliking sushi is even more brain-breaking to him than the fact that I can understand his language. This is nice, because it means I can mumble something noncommittal—in Japanese, of course—about how ah, well, you see, it’s just a little bit… and leave things at that. He nods his head, and fishes for a key to my room while I have a look around.

As a student in another country, I decided it would be wise to avoid the high-end hotels for this trip down to Kyoto. Instead, I’d decided to book a hostel. However, instead of being confronted with fellow drunken students and questionable roommates, I had been invited into a guesthouse—a converted old Japanese house that could have passed for a bed and breakfast had it not been in an alley. Here, for about $25 a night, I had my own private room. It wasn’t much of one; when the clerk opened the room, I noticed it was barely big enough to fit a twin-sized, western-style bed, a nightstand, and about three paces’ worth of floor. But I was too pleased about having a space heater directly above the bed to care much about the lack of pricey water bottles or pay-per-view TV channels.

He hands me the key, and I stuff it into a pocket. Then, we go on a tour of the rest of the household while he asks about what kinds of food I do like.

Before I ever set foot on a plane to Tokyo, my Japanese teachers had warned me about how reclusive people might appear at first glance—not because they were trying to be rude, but simply because I had no part in their social circles. During my stay as a student, a couple of the local Tokyoites had reached out to me, but for the most part, I’d found their assertions to be true.

As we peek in at open group rooms—ones with tatami mat floors and sliding doors, instead of the lock and key I’d gotten—I find it reassuring that the clerk is going out of his way to be chatty. Then again, I can’t help but wonder if I really am the only person he’s talked to in his own language all day.

We pass through narrow hallways with creaky, wooden floors that protest as we slip over them with socked feet. Then, we peer in at the bathrooms—two private toilets, and two separate shower rooms. Sinks line the walls, so that anyone who needs a quick face wash or a tooth-brushing can do so without fighting over turns for the restroom.

At the end of our tour, we settle into the common room. It’s another tatami mat floor on the main level of the house, complete with sliding doors, a low table with cushions for seats, a bookshelf crammed with English language travel guides, and a television. We settle in to the room, falling silent in favor of watching what I guessed was a news report. I entertain myself with the idea that the clerk might understand the setup of Japanese television as much as I do.

Are you cold? he asks, worriedly. “Daijoubou?”

I’m fine.

Apparently I’m not very convincing, as he rises back to his feet and announces that he’s going to make some tea. As he heads out to the kitchen, I realize I’ve been rubbing my chilled hands together and pull them into my lap.

The apparently serious news report turns out to be some sort of gameshow, after all, as a panel of three people suddenly appear on the screen in place of the announcer from before. I lean back against one wall to watch the contestants try to figure out what was so important about the last few minutes, with a timer ominously ticking in the background to add suspense. It doesn’t work very well.

Tea arrives; hot chai tea with milk already mixed in. I accept my mug from the clerk with thanks, needing to hold it in both hands to keep it steady. To my cold hands, the nearly too-hot mug feels heavenly. The gameshow gives way to an eating contest, and I smile as I spot several big bowls of Japanese curry being set out for the contestants. I remark to my companion that I could definitely get behind a curry-eating contest.

He nods thoughtfully, sipping at his own chai—not minding that it’s still hot enough to burn one’s tongue. Then, he wonders aloud at the temperature, and how long it's going to be so cold.

It’s a quiet conversation that lasts until the windows go dark and the clerk has to get up to turn on a light or two. As he does, the front door opens, and he excuses himself to tend to the newcomers. His loud, heavily accented, “Herro, how ah yew?” shocks me awake from the lull that the chai and the constant TV chatter had sent me into, and I realize that it’s the first time I’ve heard anyone speak in English all day.

I finish my mug of chai, and set it down on the table, not sure what to do with it as the kitchen is off limits to visitors. After listening for a moment or two to the English out in the main hall, I slip up to my single room to relax. As I do so, I’m struck by the realization that I’ll have to go through this song and dance again once I reach home. People will ask where I’d been, how good my Japanese was, what sorts of amazing things I’d seen and how the “real” sushi tasted—exactly the sort of thing I’d been asked while I was here, living in the moment.

And thanks to my extensive practice, I’ll have my answers all lined up: the cities, reasonably good, a lot, and while I can’t tell anybody how good the sushi is, I can at least recommend the chai tea in Kyoto.

(Wordcount: 1339)