Communication

I live in shoebox in a three-storey stack of shoeboxes but the ground floor contains the restaurant run by my landlord and staffed by his family. They are really nice but can’t speak any English and I’m really nice but don’t speak any Japanese. It would seem that we have a bit of a problem. But with perseverance and pointing its amazing what you can say to people. We managed to establish where I was from by me noticing my landlord was wearing a t-shirt with a map of the British Isles – this was fuel for a full 5 minutes of laughter. Another day myself, the landlady and their son bonded over our attempts to lower Manwell’s saddle to a manageable height for me. My Japanese is terrible but I’ve discovered I have a talent for guessing what they’re saying to me if I know the context.

The people here are really, really friendly. I had been here four days when I was accosted by a little old lady with a smattering of English. She stopped me and started asking me where I was from, did I live in Dan’s flat, was my mother English-Japanese? The last question immediately followed the information that I was from Ireland – I get the feeling that she thought that I would need a motive like that to come so far rather than her detecting any Asian features.

I heard the story of the gaijin who was followed around the supermarket by an old lady who exclaimed over everything they put in their basket several times. Each time we were told the story the teller would explain that the old lady was not nosy, she was simply curious about this strange foreigner, what did it eat etc. I’m not so sure, I think the old lady is actually just nosy. I know that’s what the old women at home are. They might not follow the guy who has lived beside them all their lives around the shop but they do notice if he puts anything strange in his basket.