You may recall that in the previous tale (I speak the language but I don’t understand) my wife was trying to convince me that she was not fluent in Japanese. Her reasoning was officially flushed down the toilet when the nearly unintelligible plumber came to visit. My wife not only understood him but explained what was wrong with our toilet; something she could never have done in English. (Fluent Plumbing).
I have now officially entered the “I speak the language but I don’t understand” level of Japanese proficiency. Well, sort of. This should probably be titled, “I know how to say just enough to get what I want, but don’t ask me any questions ‘cause I won’t have a freakin’ clue!” (A bit on the wordy side, don’t you think?) I can now go into any restaurant and order food. Most importantly, I can do it politely. This is great! It remains great right up until they ask me a question. There are a half dozen ways to ask me if I want my coke before or after my meal. Fortunately, the answer doesn’t matter since they always bring it after the meal. I can finally understand the question preposterous question of whether I want my coffee hot or cold. More importantly, I have figured out how tosay I want my soba noodles hot. This phrase also comes in handy when I want my cinnamon roll at Starbucks warmed. But there always seems to be glitches.
Just the other day a taxi driver didn’t understand my Japanese. This did not present a huge problem. I handed him the business card with the address so he could read the address in Japanese. By the time I handed him the card, I had used up my daily allotment of Japanese vocabulary words. Surely, since he is a cab driver and can read Japanese, he can get me where I want to go; it is after all HIS job. He then asked me a question. You see, here is the real problem with trying to function in a foreign language: once you say something, you open yourself up to all kinds of surprises. I would figure out hours later, that what he had asked me was if the address on the card was valid for his GPS. I mean, clearly this guy wasn’t working with me! We have already determined that my Japanese sucked. In fact, it sucked so badly, that I had to give him a business card with Japanese on it to get him moving. And it was at that point that asked me (ME!) if I knew if the address was valid for his GPS. We eventually got to the office… don’t ask me how.
The other fun thing I can do, when I speak the language but don’t understand, is ask who is at the door. I have a little four-inch square TV screen beside my phone. (Just a quick aside. Can I point out that my telephone has a TV screen beside it. Next to that is a control panel for a radio that receives over 100 satellite radio stations. Next to that is a burglar alarm and a special kill switch for the gas line in case of an earthquake. But my house is not wired for broadband and it took more than three months to get internet service. I ask you, is it me, or is there something wrong, something very, very wrong with this equation?) For months, people have been buzzing my apartment downstairs, and I just push the button to let them come up.
But now, everything has changed. You see, I can be very polite now and pick up the phone and ask, “Donata desu ka?” (“Who’s there?”). It is apparently somewhat intimidating when this happens, as my voice comes through a speaker in the ceiling in the lobby. I like to use a really deep voice, so that they can have a religious experience in the foyer. I really need to learn how to say, “Knock and it shall be opened.” But with every advance in communication, comes more confusion. I have been in the lobby when people ring up to other apartments and they usually just say a little something and the door opens. But when I say, “Donata desu ka?” folks tend to launch into their entire life story. They tell me their name, how many children they have, when they graduated from high school, how long they have worked for the company and what they had for lunch. Or something like that. I mean I speak the language but I don’t understand. They all apparently have a long speech memorized because I have a hard time getting in the next phrase I know. The polite, “please come up” phrase. And I am afraid that if I just push the button to open the door, they will be insulted that I didn’t let them finish their speech.
On some level, it was a lot easier the old way. The old way I got to shock them once they came to the apartment door! Now, I create this false sense that I understand who they are and what they want. And it actually seems more rude to mislead them and then surprise them when they get upstairs.
This whole scenario played out the other night. Guy buzzed. I asked, “Donata desu ka?” He launched into his speech. Now, this guy I could understand. Well, I caught four semi-recognizable words/phrases: He was delivering a package; the name of the department store the package was from; it was for my daughter; and his name was Bob. (OK, I only caught three things.)
These three things made no sense, because we have never bought anything at the store he mentioned. But he finally took a breath, so I politely told him to come up and buzzed the door.
He gave me the package; we smiled. He said nice things, I said nice things. I signed for the package which was addressed to my daughter in Japanese. He said more polite things. I responded with more polite things. We bowed, he left.
My daughter, who speaks the language and understands far more than I ever will, gives me the third degree: What is it? Is it for me? Can I open it? Why can’t I open it? Why can’t I open it now? Why do I have to wait?
I try to make out the address of the sender and check it against the addresses of the three people we know in Japan that might shop at this store and might send us something. I can’t find a match and and have to admit defeat, “Dad doesn’t understand. Let’s wait for mom to come home before we open it.”
My wife comes home and we explain about the package and she reads the address and says, “It’s from the yochien, but I don’t recognize the name.”
We open the box together. Inside is a lovely set of towels for our daughter from Matsuzakaya – one of the largest and nicest department stores (its sort of a cross between Neiman Marcus and Macy’s). You may recall that the ending of the first “I speak the Language…” tale resulted in us going to a Buddhist wake. This package had arrived exactly three months later. Three months after the wake when we had gone and literally paid our respects with our daughter’s name on the special death envelope. And so, per custom, this was the pay back of respect for having paid our respects in the first place. It wasn’t until the beautifully written calligraphy note that accompanied the towels were read that we were able to figure this out.
Our daughter had only one question, “Dad, why do dead people send us towels?”
Sometimes, its just easier to not understand. And sometimes, things are hard to explain regardless of the language.
Written -July 5, 16th, 2004