The Perils of Japanese Language: Semantics, Nuances, and Dialects

I came back down to Tokyo from Tohoku for a quick meeting.  Done with my day, I head back up to Tohoku to continue my work at Rikuzentakata City Hall.  I'm in Tokyo Station.  Return ticket bought, I walk around the station for a few minutes looking for this famous bento store (boxed meal).  This is the only place in Tokyo that sells the most amazing sushi box and I have high hopes they'll have a box left.  I take my ticket out of the back pocket of my wallet, go through the gate and proceed towards the store.  I find it, make my way through the swarms (why is this place to packed??) and do not find my sushi box.  Undeterred and convinced I just can't find it, I ask one of the staff members where it would be.  He checks. 

"We're out."

Crap.  I decide to settle and pick what has to be the next best box of goodness and reluctantly proceed towards the cashier.  At which point I begin 24 hours of major hassle. 

My wallet is gone.  It's really gone.  I dig through my bag.  I move things around, take things out.  It's not here.  I had it five minutes ago when I took the ticket out.  Someone I bumped into in the last five minutes grabbed everything I need to operate fully in Japan and walked off with it.  It's not panic I feel.  It's the five-stages-of-pickpocket-angst that hits me in 15 seconds.  Disbelief, shock, rage, "oh, this is so not cool" and then reality.  I have no cash, no cards, no paperwork.  My passport is in another little bag in my purse.  Is it there?  Yes.  Relief.  I must find a cop and report this.  And so it began.

I make calls.  Alpha Male first. 

"What do I do?  I've not ever been robbed in Japan."
"Go find a station employee and ask where the nearest police box is."
I look around.
"I can't find a station person."
"Relax.  Keep looking.  They're there."
I keep looking and still can't find anyone in station uniform.  Where have they all gone?
"I can't find anyone!"
"Where are you?  Specifically.  Which exit did you come through.  Go back there.  Someone will be at the gate you walked through."  Of course he's calm.
"I see them."
"Good.  Go.  Call me again when you're at the police station."
"Okay."

I call another friend, a cop, and leave a message.  I call a friend and say I'll need to borrow some money, completely forgetting she's on a date.  I call someone up north and say I won't be coming back up, until at the very least I have a new driver's license.  Really?  Do I have to go through that whole process again?  The last time I went to the two police stations in Tokyo that issue licenses to foreigners, I left having had words.

I find the police station and tell them what happened.  So began three hours of paperwork.

Here is where Japanese language comes in.   The cops, two of them in full uniform (what are all those gadgets for?) are polite but unsympathetic.  I tell my story, and they make me repeat it.  I do.  And again.

Several times in the three hours I filed my report, the younger one taking my statement said, "When you lost your wallet" and I politely corrected him by saying, "When my wallet was stolen."  Semantics, I know, but "lost" is when I put a credit card on my desk piled up high with things, and then can't find it in that pile whereas "stolen" is having something taken from me by someone who shouldn't have it.  The cop, evidently not accustomed to being corrected, does.  Correct himself, that is.

"Right.  Stolen.  Not lost."
"Yes.  Stolen."

I head back to my apartment.  With no cash, I'm grateful for the fact the pickpocket did not get my train pass.  It has enough money on it for me to ride the train. 

The next day I start the process of going to all the right offices and banks filing more paperwork, explaining again what happened the night before.  At the immigration office (foreigners in Japan have to carry an ID card) I sit with other foreigners all speaking different languages.  When my new card is issued, I'm handed it with a warning.  "This is a very important document.  Don't lose it again."

It's the nuance of the word "lost" here again that rattles me.  I didn't lose my card.  I didn't misplace it.  It was stolen.  I decide not to correct the official who is surely tired of dealing with opinionated foreigners but am not happy with the insinuation.  Fine.  Whatever.  Since when has the Japanese language gotten this passive-aggressive? 

On the way home, I receive a call on my cell phone.  I don't recognize the number but decide today to take the call.  It'll be fine.  I usually let calls from unknown numbers go to voicemail but today I'm feeling risky.

It's one of the grandmothers from temporary housing in Minami-Soma whom I've worked with.  She introduces herself in thickly accented Japanese, her Fukushima dialect coming through loud and strong.

"Oh, hello!"  I say.  It goes downhill from there.  I do not understand what she's saying.  In person, I can figure out what's being said.  When she's in front of me, I can keep up.  On the phone, however, I'm guessing, assuming, hoping I'm getting the nuances of what she's trying to tell me.

I'm pretty sure she's telling me they've made something new, this group of grandmothers in temporary housing who in the past have made beautiful origami kusudama balls.

"Oh, really?"

And, here I think she's trying to explain to me what these are.  If I'm wrong, my answer will mean nothing--be completely out of context, so I think fast about how to respond safely, not giving away the fact I have no idea what she's saying.  I decide to go with "I see."  It seemed to work.

Next I think I'm being invited up.  I'm pretty comfortable with this assumption.
"I won't be able to make it until some time in late February" I say, and she replies with something, oh please help me, but I'm lost.  Say what to this??  Think, woman.

"Uh huh."  Now there's silence.  Crap.  Did that not make sense?  Not giving her a chance to think through my incorrect (?) answer further, I decide to butt in.
"Is it okay that I can't come until late February?"  She's excited, rattling fast and I'm so lost.

In the end, I believe I agreed to go down for a visit sometime in the spring to see something they've made, but I honestly can't be sure.

Having spoken Japanese since I was a child, I'm not accustomed to having to correct, stand down, defend myself, explain, listen hard, and hope I'm making sense.  Between the pickpocket incident and having to make sure my Japanese is clear to cops and government officials, conveying exactly what I'm putting out there, I'm exhausted.  Twenty-four hours of drama, indeed. 

On Women in Japan: "The Rules Are Different Here"

Sometimes it's the conversations we have with our best of friends who then turn around and say something we weren't expecting that hit us the hardest.  This is one such case.

I get a call from a dear friend in Tohoku.  Let's call him Yuta.

"A bunch of us are concerned about the amount of time you spend with Kiki," he says out of the blue.  (Kiki is not her real name.)
"Why?"
And so it begins.
"Well, this is a bit hard to say but Kiki doesn't have a very good reputation in town.  She's business first, and then there's the fact she spends so much time out drinking at night--away from her husband and kids."
I don't say anything.
"Are you listening?"
"Uh huh."
"It's not okay that she's doing this."
"What do you mean by 'this'?  Is it the she's-focused-on-getting-her-business-off-the-ground part that's not okay or the staying-out-late-at-night part?"
"Well, the latter mostly.  Women, wives and mothers, can't just go out and party like she does.  And, to be focused on business over family, that's not cool either."

I like Yuta.  A lot.  Which is why his words pain me.  She's not allowed to be focused on her store and she's not supposed to be going out at night because she's a woman?  Because she's a wife and a mother?  Seriously?

"Let me get this straight," I say.  "It's because she's a woman that these things aren't okay."
Yuta pauses before he answers.  "Yeah."
"And, this is why you think I should spend less time with her.  That my reputation will some how be tarnished by being associated with her.  Is that right?"
"Something like that."

Poor Yuta.  If he were anyone else, if we weren't as close as we are he wouldn't have gotten the beating that came next.  I simply lost it.  I went for the jugular.

"You guys, you men, this is normal for you.  You're always out drinking, socializing, staying out late.  You guys prioritize your businesses over your families all the time.  That's okay, right?  That's what men do, right?  So, when Kiki does the same thing, trying to restart her business so she can contribute to the family income, and when she enjoys life with her unmarried friends for dinner or drinks, that's not okay.  Because she's a woman?  Are you kidding me?"  Yuta is trying to cut in but I won't let him.  "And, what about me then?  Some in the States say 'you left your husband behind to work in Japan.'  I go out with you guys, and Kiki.  We eat.  We stay out late.  Why is it okay for me and not for Kiki?  Is it because I'm American?  The rules are different for me?  Or is it just that the rules are different for Kiki because she should know better?  Local woman, married with kids, she's supposed to pack up her shop promptly at five pm and go home and cook dinner and bathe her children?  Yuta, this is dumb.  You can't say 'it's okay for Amya' but 'it's not okay for Kiki.'  You just can't."

I've hit a nerve.  Yuta's angry now, too.

"Look.  I'm just telling you what people are saying about Kiki."
"Back her up then!  You're in a position to tell those who say this about her that she shouldn't get read the riot act, get the cold shoulder just because she's a woman.  Do you say that?  Why don't you say that?"
Yuta sighs.  "The rules are different here," and adds, "for women."
"That's ridiculous," I snap.
"Yes, it is.  But it's also true.  You're right.  You don't get the same crap thrown at you because you're here helping us get back on our feet, and because you're a foreigner.  No one would dare say that about you."

We're both quiet.  I'm oddly completely drained from having yelled at him, and he's hurt his advice has been met with such a violent reaction.  Soon we mumble our good-byes and hang up.  The rest of my day I get very little done, my thoughts going back to Kiki, and Yuta's words.  The injustice of the existence of different rules for women infuriate me.  Do I stop seeing Kiki?  No way.  I won't get sucked into this muck.  Is Yuta right, though?  Will I get less done if I hang out with "the wrong crowd"?  Do I ignore these rules or play nicely in the sandbox?

The next time Yuta and I talk, I apologize.  I took it out on him, and that wasn't right.  He was giving me a heads up, and I could have taken that as valuable information but didn't.  He understands.  He agrees the double-standard is unjust.  There are more pauses in our conversation this time, each of us dancing around the uncomfortable air between us.

"I'm not going to stop hanging out with Kiki," I finally say.
"I didn't think you would.  Especially not after what you said last time."
"I realize I may be taking a chance, a risky one, that people will stop working with me because I spend time with Kiki.  But, I guess I honestly don't believe that will happen.  I'm associated with a lot of different groups.  Not everyone I work with is thought well of.  Right?"
"Right."
"If I as a woman stop supporting Kiki because she's a woman...well, that's a line I can't cross.  It's some code we have as women.  Or something."

Yuta says he understands and I choose to believe him.  The subject of Kiki hasn't come up since.  I've known the rules are different for women in Japan, and especially so in Tohoku.  To have them so clearly spelled out for me, however, is unsettling and off-putting.  My choice to ignore cultural protocol for the sake of supporting my kind may or may not have repercussions.  To date, I think I'm fine.  I'll let you know.

The Fight: On Women in Japan, Part 2

Alpha Male’s question hits hard.  I don’t want to answer him about whether I’ve been felt up on Tokyo trains by perverts.  I’m embarrassed.  In the silence between us it’s clear the ball is in my court.  It’s my turn to speak.  I look at him.

“I don’t want to tell you.”
“It’s okay.  You don’t have to,” he says so fast that it’s almost comical.  Except it’s not.  This is him trying.  We keep missing each other, our points flying over the head of the other.
“I want you to know.  I want to tell people, but it’s…it’s embarrassing, you know?”
He pauses.  “Yes, I know.  But, as you said earlier, I guess I don’t get it.  At least not the way you want me to.”

I look out the window watching the people walking on the sidewalk.  The stores behind them sell stationery, fruit, shoes.  We pass a car dealership.  I’m not thinking of what to say, much less how to say it.  My mind is blank.

“Hey,” he says.
“I know,” I reply.  “I’m thinking.”  I lie.  Do I tell him?  How will he understand if I don’t?  It’s time.  Like bile about to burn my throat on its way back out, what I’ve not told anyone is like acid inside me.  It’s eating away at my soul.

“Well,” I start, “let me tell you some stories.”  I decide to cover myself—a poor attempt to maintain anonymity.  “I won’t say whether any of these stories happened to me or someone I know.”  He doesn’t speak.
“Okay,” he says slowly.  “They may or may not have happened to you.”
“Right.”  And, I begin.

“She was standing near the door.  She could see her reflection in the window because it was dark out.  The first thing she felt was his breath on her neck.  It smelled like beer.  Then she felt a hand on her butt, moving up and down.  ‘Nice ass,’ he said.  She glared at his reflection in the window.  He grinned back at her.  They were communicating through their reflections.  ‘It’s big, your ass,’ he said.  This shame,” I pause, taking a deep breath, “This shame—it’s powerful.  There’s shame, and then there’s anger.  It’s pretty scary stuff, making the heart race in a way that’s probably really unhealthy.”  I look out the window again.  “She’s wearing heels today, and decides to fight back.  She leans back into him, and two things happen at once.  He says, ‘So you like it?’ and she steps on his foot.  He’s wearing soft shoes, tennis shoes maybe, and so the heel digs down.  She hears, ‘Ow!’ so she knows she’s got him.  She keeps putting her weight down on her heel and feels him trying to pull his foot out.  He pulls his hand off her butt, and he’s now pushing against her back.  She keeps stepping down.  ‘Stop it’ he whispers, and it’s a violent whisper.  Something pops in his foot and he yelps.  People are looking at him.  She sees this in the window reflection and smiles, no sneers at him.  He gets off at the next train station, limping.”

Alpha Male laughs.  “Good girl!  She fought back!  I’m impressed.”

Feeling bold with what I take is his support, I go on.

“Then there was this time this woman just shamed him.  Feeling a hand moving up and down her thigh making its way toward her butt, she just said right there, out loud ‘Get your hand off my butt.’  Everyone went quiet.  Immediately.  He didn’t pull his hand away, so she said it again.  ‘Will you please get your hand off my butt.’  He did.  The man standing next to her asked if she was okay.  Before she could answer the doors in front of her opened and the man behind her pushed her aside and ran out, flying down the stairs in front of them.”

“She spoke up.  That’s good,” Alpha Male is encouraging.
“Yeah.”  My face is burning.
“So, when you say middle-aged women are targets, well I guess I appreciate the warning, but it’s hard to hear.”
“I’m telling you these things so you’ll know.”
“I know that.  I know, but…”

We pull up to a subway station.  This is where I’m to get out.  I stay in the car and say, “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Look,” he says after a few minutes.  “These are things we don’t hear a lot about.  Real stories, I mean.  I’m married, but I don’t know if this has ever happened to my wife.  I guess I should ask her.  If I had daughters I’d want them to know what to do.  My wife, too.  All we can do as men, all I felt I could do was warn you.”
“I know.  Thanks.”  I need to get out, to let him go do whatever he’s doing next, but the idea of riding a subway after talking about gropers--this now bothers me.  Alpha Male picks up on my ambivalence. 
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“No,” and I open the door.  This is ridiculous.  I can’t keep from riding trains just because of what might happen.  “I’ll be fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”

I get out, wave good-bye and walk down the stairs towards my next ride through the tunnels of underground Tokyo.  When I get on the train, I look around me and see who is where and make my way to the corner, pushing my back up against the wall trying to look as nonchalant as I can.

Japan may be changing, visible warnings of impending arrest for those who assault women on trains.  For women who have been groped, these changes cannot happen fast enough.  The moral of the story is this:  whatever your type may be, it’s never okay to feel women up on trains; speak up; and, keep talking about this. 

The Fight: On Women in Japan, Part 1

My first encounter with groping, a chikan, came at age 12.  The entire sixth grade went to an indoor skating rink to...play?  Practice?  I don't remember.  What I do remember about that day was the hand between my legs as we stood outside waiting for the bus to take us back to school.  Knowing in an instant what was going on, I was being felt up and groped, I spun around only to see a blue coat running away.  Shocked and livid, I followed the boy in the blue coat with my eyes until I lost him.  I must have had "the look" as a classmate next to me said, "What's wrong?" to which I replied,
"Find a boy in a blue coat."
"Why?"
"Just do it."  One boy, another classmate, laughed, "Were you felt up?" and I gave him a look I hoped would kill him on the spot.  Did he know?  How?  The anger I felt inside scared me.  What just happened?

I never did find that boy.  I don't remember what, if anything I said to my parents that night.  I do remember seething rage, shame, and an ultimate sense of violation.  Had I found the boy, I was truly prepared to get violent.  Not having physically fought at that age, I probably would have done the only thing I knew would cause boys immense pain, the thing I was specifically told not to do:  kick him in the balls.  Repeatedly.

Fast forward several decades and I'm in the car with Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan.  The topic of chikans (gropers)  comes up for some reason, and he says, "You need to be careful."
"I'm always careful," I reply.
"No, I mean it.  You're a target.  Your type is 'in' right now."
"What's that supposed to mean?  My type?"
"Japan's going through a jukujo phase."  This is a new word for me.
"What's that?"
"Think about it.  The characters."  I do, but I can't place what the character for juku would be.  I ask him.
"Ripe," he replies.
"Ripe woman?"
"Uh huh."
"What the hell is a 'ripe woman'?"  He looks at me.
"Think," he says back.  "You're it.  Middle-aged.  Experienced.  Willing.  Desperate."
I'm shocked.  That's what Japanese men like now?  This is what Japanese men think middle-aged women want?  They think I project this?
"You're middle-aged," Alpha Male continues.  "You're presumably," pausing, "experienced."  I'm about to object to the "willing" and "desperate" part but before I can say anything he adds, "And, you've got, well, boobs--padding top and bottom.  You're what men are in to now."  I don't now whether this is a compliment or an insult.  I'm stunned.  I look down at my chest.  For what?  To see if my breasts are still there?  I don't know what to say.  Picking up on my confusion and shock, Alpha Males says, "Look.  Just be careful, okay?"

Browse any Japanese porn site and sure enough, there's now a jukujo category.  The requisite links to lolitas, maids, foreigners, and wives (the last fetish) are still present.  Clubs listing services, prices, faces of the women with their ages compete for men from sexless marriages.  Or, perhaps just those who want a little fun on the side.  Who knows.  The point is, there's now a category for men looking for ripe, middle-aged women.  We don't have to be pretty.  Or thin.  In fact, many I see on these sites are neither.  Willing and desperate.  Those two words haunt me.

What is it about Japan where women are bought for sex (but "legally"), felt up on trains to the point there are now cars for women only, and if strong are considered loud and "not-for-marriage-material"?

I noticed the signs in train stations two years ago when I came back to Japan for a longer stay.  These posters weren't there before.  Now prominent, they're everywhere--loud, angry.  "Groping is a crime."  "Report a chikan."  "Ask for help."  It's not just the women being groped who are supposed to call out for help.  Those who see what's going on are supposed to speak out as well.

This poster, specifically the writing in orange print has confused me.  The literal translations is something like, "'I did it on a whim' is not an excuse."  What?  I like to think I know a thing or two about Japanese ways of thinking.  That this warning is supposed to curb that desire to grope, that it would prevent assaulting a woman is, even by Japanese standards lame.  I ask Alpha Male about it.  "How's this supposed to deter?"
"The idea is to keep men who wouldn't normally grope from going through with it.  On a whim, as the poster says."
"That's stupid," I say angrily.  "That makes no sense."
"It also means, the reasoning 'I did it cause I felt like it' doesn't fly."
"And this poster would make men think twice?"
"Yeah."
"Really?  You really believe that?"
Alpha Male pauses.  "The point is, these posters are now visible.  They're posted in trains and throughout train stations.  Before they weren't.  Everyone knew about chikans but no one reported them.  Women wouldn't say 'Stop!' so men went on groping, whereas now men are aware women can say that.  And do.  It's supposed to make men think twice before they do something stupid."

This man is important to me.  He's my go-to man in Japan.  But, that the man I think so highly of comes out with this explanation pains me.  He can't believe this, can he?  Is Alpha Male just another Japanese man?  My silence and anger bothered him evidently, as he asks, "You okay?"  No, I'm not okay.  You don't get it either.  You never have to worry about this.  That you're huge is deterrent enough, but more than that you're male.  You're Japanese.  I can't possibly expect you to understand.  But, you of all people--I was counting on you to get this.

None of this comes out, but I think it.
"Hey," he says, touching my arm.  "You okay?"
"Yeah," I reply and don't meet his eyes.  "I'm fine."

I'm not, of course.  I think back to a television talk show I watched, a sort of "Facts About Japan" show where a group of foreigners on one side point out things uniquely Japanese, as another group of Japanese celebrities and the like offered back commentary.  The group of foreigners, thirty or so, are comprised of people from different countries.  On this day, a Russian woman did a report on why there was so much Japanese smut in newspapers and posters visible to all.
"It's called the 'pink pages' or something," she complained.  "Why is there Japanese pornography being advertised on trains?  Why do newspapers have a section reporting on where to go for sex?"
I remember this because a young woman representing South Korea spoke up following the Russian.
"Why don't women actually speak up when they're being groped on trains?  Why do they suffer silently?"
Bravo, dear woman.  My point exactly.

"You don't get it," I replied to Alpha Male after he checked to see whether or not I got what he was saying.
"You don't ever have to worry about groping or having unwanted advances hurled at you or being a target of harassment or assault.  No one's ever going to feel you up."  I'm angry.  Of all people, I want him to understand.  He doesn't speak for what seems a very long time.  When he does I know he's choosing his words carefully.
"I can see how you'd think that," he offers.  "But, Japan is changing.  Japan is trying to change."
"By creating a new target of women to grope?  Middle-aged women who, what?"  I wave my hand around in the air.  "Project it's okay to be felt up because we're desperate?"
"This is Japan," I hear him say and it almost sounds like he's pleading.  "It's not right.  I know it's not like this overseas," and I interrupt.
"You got that right."
He inhales.
"Look," but I cut him off.
"No.  It's not right.  What the hell?!  I'm now a part of a targeted group of women for groping?  Because of my age?  Because I've got 'padding' as you say?  What am I supposed to do?  Not ride trains?"
"Do you want me to tell you these things or not?"  He snaps at me.  Oh wow.  Are we fighting?

I recall this conversation to my husband.
"You've got to be careful with this 'you-can't-possibly-understand-because-your-male' attitude," he says.
"It's true, though.  You can't understand."
"But, saying it that way is off-putting.  It's not much of a leap for us to then say, 'Fine, then.  If I can't understand I won't try.'  That's not what you want."
"No, that's not what I want.  I want you to fight along with us.  I want you to be as upset as we are.  I know you can't empathize, but I want your anger."
"Some people will understand what you're saying.  Others won't.  You have to decide if Alpha Male is one of those guys who will understand."

I want Alpha Male in my corner.  I do want Alpha Male to tell me these tidbits about what's "in" even if I'm angered by the content.  Alpha Male epitomizes objectivity, safety and neutrality.  He's calm.  He doesn't rattle--except during this back-and-forth about me being the latest target for gropers.  I'm caught between my anger and not wanting to sound hysterical.  I feel hysterical.  And angry.  Not wanting to actually fight him futher, I decide to tell him a story.

"I was told once about this American woman who came to Japan on business.  She got felt up and fought back.  She grabbed the wrist between her legs, dragged the guy off the train at the next stop and proceeded to beat the shit out of him right there on the platform.  People came running over, and she was the one arrested--charged with assault.  He claimed he didn't grope her.  She said he did.  He got off but she got arrested, all because people saw her beating him and no one but her knew it was his groping wrist she grabbed."
Neither of us say anything for awhile.  "This is what I'm up against," I say finally.  "It's a he-said-she-said.  I can't actually prove it's him if he denies it."  When Alpha Male speaks, his words make my heart race.  I'm about to cry.

Softly, he says, "Has this happened to you, too?"

...to be continued.

What the Nose Knows

It all started with a visit to Aroma Sanctum to see my friend Akuura who creates a special blend of perfume just for me that gloriously envelopes me everywhere I go.  We talk about the power of scent, how powerful our noses are, and our favorite memories of our grandmothers' kitchens.  All this talk about how things smell, including me, reminded me of several stories.

I'm at a preschool on one of my visits.  It's "Play With Auntie Amya Day" and today I'm teaching them duck-duck-goose.  Japan is not known for geese--I've seen none in my 20 plus years here--so before the instructions can be explained, we spend time establishing what a goose is.  We all settle on a "big duck."  I'm the first goose, and "duck, duck, duck" several kids before pegging one "goose!" and proceed to run in a wild circle.  I'm caught, so I start over.  This time I slide in, just barely, to the spot vacated by the goose and am cheered by the kids.  A great miracle, indeed.  The goose just stands there, and I pick up on the fact he's too shy to go out on his own.  I get up, lean towards him and ask if we should "duck duck" together.  He nods shyly.  I asked quietly so it's our secret.  We touch heads together but I let him whisper "duck, duck"and we make our way from kid to kid.  I soon become the adopted goose, a defacto Mother Goose of sorts, and I make the way around the same circle with each gosling, "duck-duck"ing everyone.

I lean down towards one girl as the gosling and I "duck" her head, and she leans up, craning her neck towards mine and says, "You smell like my mother."  I melt.  Pure words of acceptance, those are.  I'm touched.  Since that day, whenever I'm in her class she comes up to me leaning in for a hug and smells my neck.  "You smell good."  I love this.

At another preschool, the focus is on my nose and not my scent.  Since childhood, the size of my nose has been a commonly discussed topic.  The most used phrase is, "Your nose is high."  High, as in a tall building, or as in someone who's tall.  This is not the same as "You have a big nose."  High does not mean big.  I've not grown up being told I have a big nose.  This is important.

We're playing tag in a (different) preschool playground one day, and a boy runs past me and says the words I've never heard to date, "You have a big nose." I practically fall over.  I almost call back "HIGH!  Not BIG!" but don't.  He doesn't mean it the way it sounded.  He means well.  He's five.  Let it go.

To noses like mine, whether they're considered big or high, scent matters.  Sean Connery's words about the American Express card, spoken in a television commercial twenty (?) years ago, "Don't leave home without it" applies to perfume for me.  I do not leave home without it.  Ever.  Which is why, evidently, this one taxi driver needed to point this out to me.

Whether or not I end up talking with any given taxi driver is like rolling the dice.  There's no pattern.  Some days I'm hit right away with a "You're foreign, right?" comment, while others won't say a word.  On this day, the driver saved his questions until the last thirty seconds.  About to pull up to the corner where I asked to be dropped off, he looks at me in his rear view mirror and says, "You're not from here, are you?"
"No," I smile.  "I'm not."
"You know how I knew?"
Do I want to know the answer?  How bad can it be, right?"
"No.  How?"
"You said 'hello' when you got in the car."
What??  This is news to me.
"People don't say 'hello' when they get into your taxi?"
"No way."
I ponder this.  While I'm mulling this over, I hear, "And, you smell."
"Really!?"  I must have sounded really shocked.
"Not bad.  You smell good.  But, you smell.  Like perfume."

This conversation took me back to another taxi driver's comments about how he almost didn't pick me up (following that statement with a quick bow and an apology).  "I picked up a foreign woman once before, and..." bowing again, "...she smelled so bad.  I had to air out the taxi for hours to get the smell out."  I'm flattered he picked me up, after hearing that.

Whoever it belongs to, the nose knows.   For better or for worse, the nose knows.