The Japanese Wave

by Maureen Elizabeth Magee

Since childhood, everything about Japan has enthralled me: food, traditional clothing, bonsai trees, ikebana floral arrangements and, of course, the people themselves. The poster in the window showed verdant, bucolic rice paddies being tended by women in traditional bonnets and straw hats. For dramatic relief, a snowcapped mountain hung in the background and the caption promised that I would “See the real Japan. Become immersed in the mysterious Orient by cycling the back roads of rural Shikoku – an island that outsiders rarely visit.”

It took about a nanosecond for me to walk into the travel agency and pay a deposit.

A few months later, in the baggage claim area of the Tokyo airport, a man met the luggage as it tumbled onto the carousel. Carefully setting suitcases upright, he snapped the tired handles to attention, briskly swished each piece with a white cloth, and then released it to rumble properly along, seeking its owner. He wore white gloves.

As my soft turquoise pack thumped limply to the bottom of the ramp, it exuded a cloud of Indonesian dust. The luggage man yanked it upright, but the bag sagged forward, weighted by its overstuffed outside pockets. He set it up again quickly and as he turned his attention to the oncoming pieces, mine slid onto its back with a slightly inebriated air.  Threading my way through the crowds to claim it, I could see him do a double take; the horizontal piece must have offended his sense of alignment. He sprang into double time, sprinting along the carousel edge to catch up to the limpid piece. Jerking it up sharply and with a stern little shake, he wedged it upright between two stoic suitcases standing on their own. As I pushed my way through the throng, I saw him look down at his white gloves and, with compressed lips, clap them together to get rid of the dust. When he saw me, however, (and for some reason he immediately identified me as the owner) his face smoothed over and he gave a low, dignified bow, which I’m sure, in his mind, I ill-deserved for having such badly behaved luggage.

Had I known at the time, I would have recognized that this one incident told me much about the Japanese psyche.

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Now Playing in Paris

by Dorty Nowak

Several years ago my husband and I moved to Paris.  Although I was an avid student of French culture and cuisine, my knowledge of the French language was minimal.  Freshman year in college I dropped out of French 101 because partying was much more fun than memorizing vocabulary, a decision I’ve regretted ever since.  Over the years I had accumulated several “French for Travelers” texts, some Berlitz tapes, and enough rudimentary vocabulary to get by on my occasional vacations in France. 

photo via Flickr.com by Luca OrsiConsequently, I arrived in Paris with the linguistic skills of an eight year old.  During the next two years, I attended classes at the prestigious Alliance Française de Paris.  Although a diligent student this time around, I was at least thirty years older than most of the students in the class, and proof positive that older brains are slower to learn new languages. I filled a bookshelf with grammar and vocabulary workbooks in my quest for fluency, and another with novels in French aimed at the pre-teen market.  I also acquired a very active inner critic.

My critic was right there with me every time I spoke.  I felt his grim presence from the time I opened my eyes in the morning until I closed them at night.

“No, no, you idiot,” he would shout in my ear. “You should have used the passé compose, not the present!  Why can’t you remember the word for ‘idiot’?   How many times do I have to tell you to use “vous” instead of “tu” when you answer me?” 

As a consequence of this constant barrage, I became almost tongue-tied.  There were long painful pauses between my words as I frantically ran their “rightness” by my critic.

According to one of my teachers, to become fluent I needed to develop a “French brain.” 

“How will I know when I have one?”  I asked. To which she responded, “When you dream in French.”

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