What’s Japanese for “brain freeze”?
A recent post at my friend Marie’s blog made me think about travelling abroad, which of course brought to mind fond memories. Funny how most travel memories involve food, at least for me.
I never got around to writing the all-encompassing narrative that was our trip to Japan. Such a task would be a lot of work to do properly. Perhaps random anecdotes are a better route to go.
Usually, I do a significant amount of research before visiting another country. But the months before our trip to Japan I was swamped with work that took up nearly all my time (and even extended into the trip itself). This left me with little time to read up on Japan and what little research I did mainly involved learning how not to offend or generally piss off the Japanese. Other than the proprietor of a camera shop and a cook to whom I was completely unable to express my desire for a curry, I was moderately successful.
One aspect of Japan that completely escaped my research was the fact that the area of Japan we visited is located at the same latitude as Southern California. I had expected it to be warm, it was summer after all. However, I wasn’t planning on the heat wave. That, combined with my research that said Japanese men don’t wear shorts, meant I was in temperatures that reached “fry an egg on the sidewalk” in long pants.
In a nutshell, it was hot.
When I visit another country, my primary goal is to experience, as much as possible, what it feels like to live in that country. I subscribe to Anthony Bourdain’s dictum: If you see more than two people from your home country, you’re in the wrong place.
So what the hell were we standing in line at a Cold Stone Creamery for?
In our defence we were the only Americans in the long line. Did I mention it was hot?
Cold Stone Creamery had become quite a phenomenon in Japan. Every time we saw one there was a line of at least 20 deep. I had never been to a Cold Stone before. I knew it was an ice cream place, but I didn’t know about mixing various ice cream flavors and ingredients to create dishes out of a Willy Wonka film. Nor did I know about the singing. While I was looking over a menu trying to decide what I wanted and how I was going to attempt to convey that to the girl taking orders, my ears pricked up at a familiar tune. The ice cream scoops were singing A Pirate’s Life in Japanese.
Ordering did prove a little problematic. I kept trying to tell the girl taking orders what I wanted and she kept trying to tell me, “Yes, you keep saying that, would you like that in paper bowl or a waffle bowl?” Deb is more adept at the deciphering the inexact language of International Gestures* and through her we were able to place our orders.
I was busy reminding myself that 1000 yen was equivalent to ten dollars not one, when Deb said something to a girl behind the counter. The girl then responded in heavily accented English, which I couldn’t understand, but Deb replied, “We’re from Chicago.”
The girl told us she’d visited San Francisco, which we agreed was a nice city. Then she said she also visited Las Vegas and stated to giggle before saying “We love America!”
“We love Japan!” said Deb.
The three or so girls behind the counter all giggled, covering their mouths and lowering their heads demurely. Very kawaii.
I don’t remember exactly what I ordered, but it probably involved chocolate and peanut butter. I also probably screwed up the exchange rate again and tried to pay too much for it.
*At one restaurant, after being served, the waitress made a gesture to me that anyone who’s ever played charades would instantly recognize as “It’s a book”. Almost instantly Deb said, “Oh, you’re supposed to break up that large cracker into the dish”.