In Japan
I knew several Americans who, when eating out in Tokyo, would wistfully
reminisce about the large food portions found in U.S. restaurants. Not surprisingly, I only
got disturbed by the portion discrepancy there when I was served a cup of coffee. My
replies to the baristas as they served me a seemingly thimble-sized cup of
coffee were never said aloud, mostly because my Japanese vocabulary lacked
words like ‘thimble.’ But if I had been fluent and if I could have eschewed the
propriety that I was brought up with, my responses would have gone something
like this:
“No
no, I ordered a regular
coffee, not an espresso.”
“I
believe this must be for the fairy in my pocket, not for me, a grown-ass woman.”
“Do
you really think this tiny cup
of coffee is going to take the edge off?”
“You’re
sliding this midget-sized cup of coffee across the counter at me, an American
who, according to your stereotypes of Americans, is most likely carrying a gun
right now. Is that really smart?”
Cultural differences when living abroad are going to be encountered, of course. In general though, most
cultural differences should be more laughable and fodder for great stories than
points of serious contention and frustration. (Note: lack of coffee is never laughable.) Of course, there are always days when
one’s level of patience is tested due to multiple events of cultural
differences. That seems to happen here some days in regards to what I deem as
inappropriate personal questions.
For example, a mechanic’s
worker came to my apartment complex to look at a truck that wasn’t running. The mechanic's worker -- a complete stranger to me -- who now knows where I live asks me, as he’s leaving, “So, you live
here alone?” Maybe that question seems innocuous to you, but in a place where
home invasions are increasing – and where one just happened on my street during
which someone was killed by the group of thieves – having someone know where I
live, that I live alone, and that I’m American (read: money) is not a good
idea.
I just don’t understand
strangers asking me for such personal information. Maybe it’s my steely New
England heart that prevents me from confessing my fears to strangers within a
few seconds. Or maybe it’s being a teacher for so long, protecting what I can
of my personal life from my students’ prying eyes and, in some cases,
tech-savvy research skills. (For the record, there is another blonde teacher with my first and last name
out there, so be aware that everything you find may not be about me).
An example of
inappropriate questioning happened last week when I met a neighbor’s teenage
daughter in the neighborhood grocery store. The exchange went something like
this:
“Hi,
how are you?” I asked.
“Are
you here to buy chocolate?” (Seriously, that was her response.)
“Um.
No.” (Do I really talk about my
love of chocolate that much? I need to stop that.)
“Was
your university mad at you for taking so long to come back?”
“Uh…no.”
(Seriously? You’re a fifteen-year-old, not my mother.)
“Well
at least you got to spend more time with your family. Your mom must miss you.”
“Yea,
it was nice to spend so much time with her.”
“Did
you tell her about me?”
(Ummmm…really
not good at lying on the fly…)
“Sure.”
(Phew, dodged that bullet, I think.)
“What
did you tell her about me?”
I think my mouth probably
went slightly ajar at the cheekiness of this girl at this moment.
Another one of my
favorites here is people talking about me as if I’m not directly in front of
them. This happened just yesterday. I met my Malawian sisters in town outside
of a shop. They were talking to an acquaintance. I walked up, introduced
myself, shook his hand, and stood directly in front of him. The guy then
immediately turned to one of the sisters and asks her,
“She
works with you?”
(Hey,
jerk, I’m right here. The ‘she’ is ‘I,’ and I’m standing a foot away from you.)
“No,”
my Malawian sister responded, “She’s our sister.” (My two Malawian sisters and
I have practiced a rather elaborate story of how we are sisters, and it’s
actually believable when we tell it right.)
“She
lectures at the university with you?”
(STILL
right here!)
“Noooo,”
my patient sister said, “I said that she’s our sister.”
He looked confused.
Perhaps it was because he’d suddenly looked up and saw me still standing in
front of him? You know, because he thought I’d magically disappeared while he
asked personal questions about me.
The frustration level from such interactions is kept at a minimum, as long as I can laugh about it (thank you, Malawian sisters!) and write about it later. And, thankfully, I now know of not just one but two places to go to get a good cappuccino around here, which keeps my cold heart humming rather happily.
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