Tune In Tokyo:The Gaijin Diaries by Tim Anderson Read Free Book Online Page B

first time since my arrival here, I realize how deeply disappointed I am that my fantasy of traveling hither and yon (mainly yon) upon a moving sidewalk conveyor has not been realized.
    They live on the fifth floor of a giant condominium complex with a lot of security cameras and electronic checkpoints. The little area outside their door is full of Disney garden figurines: the Seven Dwarves, Bambi, Thumper, Daisy, Cinderella’s mice, and, inexplicably, the Tasmanian Devil. We go inside, relieve ourselves of our footwear, and Yoko leads me to the dining room table, where we will be doing our studying.
    It’s a cozy condo. The hallway leads to a tiny kitchen on the left, opening into a dining area straight ahead with a finished wooden table and flanked by a china cabinet full of tiny Japanese bowls and cutlery and a few muted watercolors decorated with swirls of calligraphy. Beyond this is a small sitting room. And the Disney theme continues. A piano stands on the left wall, and next to it is a large shelf full of Disney sheet music and Seven Dwarves tea tins. A big framed puzzle of Cinderella, the Fairy Godmother, and the newly transmogrified pumpkin coach hangs above the piano.
    On the dining table are two books: 500 Basic Kanji and Japanese for Busy People . They are shiny and new, and seemingly purchased just for me. The prices for both are scribbled on a piece of paper and placed bookmark style in the Kanji book, so while Yoko and Fumiko begin furiously to prepare a meal, I get some yens out of my wallet to pay them back.
    Since I’ve already done a little studying on my own in preparation for my lessons, I decide I’ll be clever and thank them for buying me the books and explain that I have some money to pay them, all in Japanese. I practice a few times silently before taking the plunge and adding some vocal cords.
    “,” I say to Yoko when she walks into the room. “Thank you for the books. I’ve brought some money.”
    “ O -,” she corrects me, wincing and giggling.
    It’s amazing the difference one little omitted syllable can make. She shakes her head and waves her hand like she’s sending away a bad smell.
    I read in one of Ewan’s books that the syllable “o” is an honorific, placed in front of some words to make them softer or more polite. I’d omitted it in front of the word “money,” and this omission had drastically altered the sound of the sentence, judging from Yoko’s reaction. So instead of saying, “Thank you so much for the books. I’ve brought some money,” I’d actually said something like, “Here’s your money, you greedy bitch. Thanks a fucking lot.”
    It is this kind of tiny but pivotal error that seems so easy to make on a regular basis when trying to communicate in Japanese as a foreigner. When learning a new language, especially one completely unconnected to your mother tongue and filled with such contextual nuance, you’re naked, totally unprotected, walking blind in a brambly and treacherous terrain full of colloquialisms, multiple meanings, varying levels of politeness, and double entendres. I am terrified that one day, while trying to tell someone they look nice, I’ll instead end up saying I want to lick their daughter’s underarms. I’m about to learn what it’s like to be the student crying over his textbook and not the teacher laughing up his sleeve.
    Here’s the thing: if you’re going to learn a new language, you’ve got to be unafraid to make mistakes, relax, and have fun. What I tell my students, in other words. I’d thought I’d been blowing out a bunch of useless hot air, but turns out I was wise beyond my own understanding.
    During the lesson, I sit at the dining room table with my notebook and books in front of me while Yoko and Fumiko team-teach me. They stand on each end of a dry-erase board that they’ve wheeled into the room, and both hold large wooden pointers for easier gesturing. Fumiko, a giggly gal with a frizzy bob, proves herself