On Being Busy and the Art of Saying "No" in Japan and a Few Thoughts on "Emoji"

March is always a crazy month.  The end of the academic year for schools is also the end of the fiscal year for government organizations and even some companies.  We tie up loose ends.  Students graduate.  New hires arrive in April needing to be trained.  Government and corporate departments shift personnel leaving many with new bosses, subordinates, and colleagues in April.  Before April there is March.  Wrap everything up and move on.

Which is why we're all busy.  Which is why it takes days to respond to a simple e-mail or a phone call.  Many of us in Japan go into complete triage mode.  The loud ones, demanding an answer get it.  Everyone else?  Pick a number, sit, and wait.

I abhor the "I've been busy" line as an excuse.  People say it's true and it might be, but I find it sloppy.  I see "busy" as an issue of priorities.  Let's face it:  You DON'T rank.  When e-mails and phone calls are blown off, it means your request is less important than that of another. 

Which is why I'm struggling this month.  I'm truly busy.  I get up early and stay up late.  I go to meetings and then come back to pound my laptop keys.  Not everyone's e-mail gets a reply that same day.  I'm sorry.  But, clearly not sorry enough to get up earlier or stay up later.  It's about priorities.  I triage.  I'll reply tomorrow.  I use the same line others use on me.  I hate March.

I contemplate this now because it's March and I find it almost comical and ridiculous how much I'm working, but more so because I've taken another assignment.  As of next month I will continue my work with Rikuzentakata City Hall for one more year.  I vowed not to.  I swore I needed to focus on me.  I changed my mind.  I can and will do this for one more year.  It's the right thing to do.

But, I reserve the right to say "NO".  I've not done this until now.  You needed something?  I obliged.  You wanted something done?  I did it.  Those days are gone.  Part of recovery from any crisis--medical, personal, environmental, natural--requires figuring it out on your own.  Long-term dependency is not the answer.

City hall will not be accustomed to this new me.  So then, the inquiring minds ask, how does one go about saying "no" in Japan?  Do people just say it?  Refuse?  Shake their heads? 

No. 

The commonly understood method of turning someone down in Japan is to suck air through your teeth, cock your head, and say something, "Yeah, that's difficult."  That's a cue.  That's an incredibly good indication you won't get what you want.  I'm fully prepared to adopt this into my répertoire of phrases.  Bring it on.  Sorry people.  To quote the Rolling Stones, "You can't always get what you want."  I'm hoping my "Hmmm, difficult" utterings will help people I work with to realize this is how "you get what you need."

Side note:  I woke up to a series of Facebook texts this morning from an ex-boyfriend from high school.

"Are you coming to our high school reunion?  If not, why?"

It takes a unique group of students from a high school to be the only class in the past 30-plus years to have NOT held a class reunion.  It takes an even more unique group of students to be this way when clearly, very clearly, our class was the coolest the school had and has ever seen.

We are busy.  That's the truth.  The rag-tag gang of boarding school friends who live in Tokyo--all men but me--cannot find the time to gather for a drink or a meal because one of us (usually more than one) is somewhere else.  As in South Korea, or Singapore, or San Francisco.  On this, I renege my point from earlier.  We're not blowing each other off.  We simply are too busy and we prefer to meet as a group.  That means we're willing to wait until all can gather.

With the pressure from the one pushing us all to attend our class reunion, e-mails, LINE messages, and phone calls flew around the world throughout our day.  None of the men in my gang are subtle.  We all revert to our 17-year old selves when we talk.  All rules I apply to other men in personal and professional settings fly out the window with these guys.  They're jerks and I absolutely love them.

Our LINE messages today were peppered with emoji, art posing as punctuation marks, words, and used primarily to make a point.  I am not someone who finishes my sentence with a smiley face.  With these guys, I search through the emoji options available on my iPhone to see how to put them down, build myself up, show how grossed out I am by their teenage antics.  We are silly adults, resorting to using emoji for unicorns, bottles of wine, and hot tubs.  (But, we're still the coolest class ever.)

Perhaps a rambling post without any real point.  Then again.  Then again.

Halloween in Japan: Past memories, Future Full of Stories

Growing up in Japan, I celebrated Halloween once.  Even today, I feel cheated.  Not having had access to what surely must have been the world's most amazing candy, back several decades ago there were no pumpkins in Japan, and the idea of trick-or-treating made sense to no one I knew.  Complaining, my usual modus operandi, did me no good as the option did not exist.  No one would be prepared, no one would know what two American children dressed in whatever costumes we could muster up were doing at their front doors, threatening to misbehave in exchange for chocolate.

My parents must have felt sorry for us one year (just one year?) as in late October my mother announced a nice elderly missionary lade in town said my brother and I could come over for Halloween.  With glee, squeals, dancing what I thought counted as a jig, I dragged my brother up to my room to strategize over costumes.  The end result was a cute blond boy in one of my too-small dresses and me as a cowboy.  Don't ask.

We rang the missionary auntie's doorbell giddy over the treats that my brother and I knew she had ready for us.  Tonight he and I would have messy chocolate faces.  Oh, the joy.

Which is of course not what happened.  Auntie invited us in, (we did say "trick or treat!") and we sat down at her dining room table as she pulled out a cake.  Cake?  For Halloween?  Fine.  We'd play along.  Surely it would be chocolate.

It wasn't.  It was a spice cake in the shape of a turkey.  The tail was made out of candy corn, something I hadn't eaten to date, so my brother and I didn't feel too terribly cheated.  There was hope.  Here was American Halloween candy.  Surely it must be all that our cousins told us it would be.  That is except to say we both knew turkeys were for Thanksgiving and not Halloween, and spice cake was what grown ups ate with tea and not something children in cute costumes should be subjected to.  Our hopes hung on the candy corn.

Wax shaped into corn-like kernels that taste like nothing that should be eaten dashed our hopes.  My brother and I used our best manners to eat this crap served us, and we went home dejected.  To this day, I consider candy corn evil and the most horrid food out there.  Sticking the word "candy" onto something otherwise inedible doe not make it candy or good or food or edible.  My brother and I never celebrated Halloween again.  I feel totally and completely cheated.

Because all children should celebrate Halloween (in my most humble opinion, of course) last year I bought a costume and donned a wig, carrying several thousand pieces of American candy-goodness and made the rounds of preschools, Rikuzentakata city hall, elementary and high school sports teams and the like handing out candy throughout Tohoku in exchange for promises of good behavior.  Shy kids with outstretched hands who patiently waited for the green light to scarf down these colorfully wrapped pieces of joy made me smile.  It's one of my fondest memories in post-disaster Tohoku so far.  Dressed as a queen with curly blond hair, they knew it was me, but still moved around me cautiously, wondering just what was about to happen.

Queen Amya was a hit.  Why then did I feel the need to take the costume up a level, adding more drama to what is already a new and foreign holiday?  This year I am going as a witch.  I've always wanted to dress up as a witch.  That this year I'm finally doing so, knowing surely kids will cry at my all-black costume, scared of the evil that must hide inside--I blame the fact I was deprived of the need to celebrate as a child.  Dressing up as a witch is surely a mistake.  Bribing with candy will have to do the trick.

There's another problem with dressing as a witch, and this one I've not yet worked out.  The idea of the "thin veil between the worlds of life and death" and ghosts is a topic still delicate for kids and adults alike in Tohoku where loss of life is still a very painful topic.  Ghosts?  The veil between life and death?  For those who've lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues, this is not necessarily something to celebrate.  Which is why I must bend the truth.  Omission is not always a bad thing.  The consequences of me dressing up as a witch, the potentially scary part of Halloween include not being able to fully share what this day is about.  I'm choosing to believe this is not necessarily bad.  Selective representation of facts?  I can do that.  If I focus on candy and cute princess and superhero costumes kids wear in the US then I can conveniently forget the part about how this might be the night people will return from another world.  That doesn't need sharing.  Especially not in Tohoku.

This year I will say "YES" to candy, enjoying melting chocolate and sticky candy.    (On the faces of kids.  Not mine.)  Childhood memories are powerful and as evident by mine, can linger.  This year I hope to add a layer of unique and fun memories to several hundred preschoolers.  Cue joy.

On Death and Selective Visual Intake

One of my colleagues in Rikuzentakata City Hall came up to me yesterday saying he has something to tell me.  Ichiro has the ability to know when to be serious and when to cut loose.  Because I like all of my colleagues in my office, I can’t say, “Ichiro is one of my favorite people in city hall.”  That said, I enjoy his company immensely.  With each trip up north (even when we have spats of disagreement and hard feelings linger for a few hours or days) I’m reminded how lucky I am to have intelligent, interesting, hardworking people around me.  I like my co-workers.

Ichiro and I are alone in the crowded kitchenette.  I sense his news is not positive but I can’t imagine what it might be.

“XXX-san,” he starts, and immediately I don’t follow.  I shake my head to show I don’t know who he’s talking about.  Ichiro switches to the man’s last name.  “XXX-san,” and I nod, “he went into the hospital awhile back, and,” Ichiro pauses, “and he passed away.”

I’m often amazed at how our minds can process extreme volumes of information in a split second.  Here was one of those moments.  I’m struck by two facts immediately.  There are thirteen of us in the executive section of city hall.  I did some quick mental math and determined I’m the third oldest.  Of the thirteen, three are referred by title (mayor, deputy mayor, director), two are referred to by their last names, and the remaining eight, myself included are called by our first names.  I take back what I said about rigid hierarchy in Tohoku.  At the very least, in our department within city hall here, that rule doesn’t apply.  We are friendly, genuinely caring of one another, and aren’t all that concerned about who’s what age.  Nowhere else in Tohoku have I seen such casual use of first names.  The man who passed away was a manager, which usually means he would receive the courtesy of being called just “manager.”  Instead they referred to this man by his first name.  I didn’t, which is why when Ichiro first used the man’s first name I didn’t recognize whom he was referring to.  Add to this, it's been awhile since I've seen him.

This second fact hits me hard.  As I listen to Ichiro explain in more detail, it dawns on me I’ve not seen this man at his desk on my past several trips to city hall.  I just assumed he was on a business trip, had already left for the day, or there was some other reason for his absence.  It never occurred to me and I never asked whether he might be unwell.

What we choose to see, whether we choose to see what happens in our daily lives and routines isn’t evident until we’re forced to stop and look.  I noticed this yesterday on a different matter but kept my thoughts to myself. 

Yesterday I accompanied a visitor through a tour of Rikuzentakata, explaining what was where, what happened, why the remaining buildings are significant.  At one of the buildings I stopped at, after I gave him some space to take in the symbols of what occurred over two years ago, I directed his attention to the remnants of household items buried in the sand-dirt mixture of what used to be a home.

“Look,” I say and point.  “Here are pieces of a bowl.  Here’s a cooking pot.  Here’s a sweater, and here a t-shirt.”  He looks down and I know he’s shocked and bothered by the realization I’m sharing with him.  These were homes.  People lived here.  People died here.  Then I see it.  A tube of wasabi lies between tall weeds.  I point it out to him.  That tube has been here for almost 30 months, unmoved.  Next to it is a crumpled up brassiere. 

I was just here last week, at this exact same spot.  I was here several times.  How did I miss these?  The slippers, pot, and shards I remember.  The t-shirt and sweater I could tell myself I saw and believe it if I had to.  The wasabi?  No.  The bra?  There’s no way these were there last week.

I glaze.  Some parts of post-disaster life register everyday activities and images, while other items I “see” but don’t.  I had two separate camera crews with me here last week and must have spent an hour between the two crews walking through these tall weeds and talking.  Making a point to show them as much detail as possible, I can’t honestly believe I walked right past these items.  Did they not register?  Did I not see them?  Was I glazing?  Did I choose not to see?

Back in city hall, after my meeting with the mayor, I walk past my late colleague’s desk and notice a tall bouquet of flowers, a white lily prominently standing out from among the rest.  I didn’t see these before.  They’ve surely been here all day.  All day I’ve been here in this office walking past his desk this way and that, and it’s only after I’m informed of his death that I see the memorial flowers.

Lilies are not my favorite flower.  They stink and they remind me of when I laid a similar bouquet into my brother’s coffin.  Let me rephrase.  I hate lilies.  All the more reason why I would have, should have noticed this collection of flowers on his desk.

Routine and patterns;  when everything around me becomes familiar I don’t notice the details.  It’s one thing not to stop and smell the roses because “I’m too busy.”  If I don’t even notice roses are there I have a whole other problem.

I blame fatigue, and then defend myself by saying this is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself.  If I acknowledge every piece of pain-inducing item present in this disaster zone there’s no limit to the mental and emotional exhaustion I would experience.  I have to block things out.  Right?

Or do I?

I have to wonder how many “roses” I’ve walked past without even noticing their presence. It takes a death of a colleague for me to admit there’s a lot I’ve closed my eyes to in Tohoku.  I’m not quite sure what to do with that.

What I Really Think: The Ipponmatsu Debate

Let me be clear.  I'm not writing on behalf of Rikuzentakata City Hall, nor have they asked me to speak out on this topic, and this post is by me as an individual.  These are my thoughts, my opinions, my feelings. 

Today's topic is Rikuzentakata's Ipponmatsu.  Translated into English as the Miracle Pine, The Lone Pine Tree of Hope, and several other similar words strung together, it's about the one pine tree that stood its ground when 70,000 other of its tree siblings were washed away by the tsunami.

First, a brief history lesson.  Ancestors of those living in Rikuzentakata now planted pine trees meant to serve as a tsunami barrier along the coast of Hirota Bay, the ocean facing an expansive flat land leading into the town.  This was in the 1600s.  More pine trees were added to this initial planting, and over the past 300 plus years, the number grew to 70,000.  Paths were created so lovers could stroll at dusk.  Park benches were strategically placed.  By all accounts, this pine grove was peaceful, beautiful, and serene.

The key word here is "was."  All but one of the 70,000 pine trees were blown to bits by the tsunami, sending large trunks into buildings, cars, and people.  Even today there is a large pile of this wood in town almost white now with two years of sun exposure and salt bleaching.  They remind everyone who drives past the mound of what was.

Ipponmatsu, the miracle pine is the one tree left standing.  Or, again, was. 

The short version is this:  this tree, the miracle, the lone survivor died.  Its roots steeped in salt water, the tree was declared dead in the fall of 2011.  The city spent a good amount of time deciding what to do.  On the one hand, the perseverance personified by this tree gave hope to those who were left in the town and to those visiting.  "Life goes on" is what it says.  "If I can withstand a massive wall of water, you can defy hardships as well" is the message it sent out.  The city could cut it down, the tree having served its purpose.  Or, it could attempt to preserve it.  But, how?  How does one go about "preserving" a 27-meter tree?  And who pays for this?

Politicians, businessmen, and visitors to Rikuzentakata made similar suggestions on their trips:  "Why don't you leave old city hall (or the gymnasium, or the library, or the museum) as a monument?  That way people can come here for generations and see what the tsunami did.  It would be like Tohoku's version of the Hiroshima Memorial."  There's some sense to this.  Showing just what the tsunami did, that there was a beat up, bent out of shape car in the lobby of city hall mixed in with chairs and desks and broken glass, that the floor of the gymnasium was covered with several inches of ocean sand with various kinds of artifacts and debris strewn around the floor--this would show the power of the waves, that a robust evacuation plan is a must, that every city everywhere must put time into creating a strategy for how to survive a disaster.  What these same politicians, businessmen, and visitors did not take into account is this:  people died here.  For those still living in town who lost family members, friends, and colleagues, these grotesque buildings are reminders.  Every time they see the gaping monuments they're ripping off the band-aid keeping them together.  Save the buildings?  So others can visit and learn and understand?  What about those with band-aids?

The problem with the analogy with Hiroshima is that no one who made the decision to keep the dome in its place is left to ask how these decisions were made.  Similarly, almost all of Hiroshima was wiped out, hundreds of thousands of lives lost.  It was war.  No apples and oranges comparison here.  Apples and spaghetti, maybe.  War and tsunamis are both disasters.  Apples and spaghetti are both food.  The comparison ends there.

Rikuzentakata City Hall decided to preserve the tree.  The cost for this was unprecedented:  preserving the tree required new technology, multiple processes, and a task no one had ever undertaken in Japan to date.  The price tag is somewhere around 1.5 million US dollars.  That's a lot of money for a tree.  Yes.

Critics say, "If you're going to raise that kind of money, why don't you build temporary homes faster instead?"  Others have said, "You're creating a cyborg."  Still others have said, "You're taking away money from other projects donors might give to."  Here's where I roll my eyes.  Dear people.  Do your homework before you cast stones.  Please.

The only criticism I might agree with is the "cyborg" comment.  Fine.  It's no longer a "tree."  So what?  The tree died.  Would it have been better to cut it down and leave a gaping hole, a stump that would rot, or a plaque reading "here's where the miracle pine was"?  That provides hope?  To whom?  How?

True, the cost for the preservation of the tree is steep.  But, as far as I'm concerned those who don't live here, who don't have to muster up faith and hope and the will to go on need to back off and take a seat.  The Metropolitan Government of Tokyo just spent a huge amount of money luring the Olympic Committee to host the 2020 Olympics.  I live in Tokyo.  As far as I can see, we're fine here.  We don't need tourist yen injected into our city to survive.  Why is no one writing about that?  Where are the reporters (foreign and Japanese) who question whether this was a justifiable or smart use of funds? 

If money was being taken away from other projects, if donors all of a sudden stopped showing up at Rikuzentakata City Hall offering assistance all because of the Ipponmatsu I, too, might question whether all this publicity on one tree was a good thing.  This is not the case.  I've personally worked with organizations still interested in helping the city.  Right there is proof money is not drying up.

As for "build temporary houses faster".... oh, honey.  You really have no clue, do you?  We would be building homes faster if we could.  Typical of what the city faces is this:  thirteen months from three government ministries for paperwork approval to build public housing.  That's the problem.  Not a tree.

Without selling papers, magazines, finding and keeping sponsors for television and internet news, the media can't and won't survive.  I get that.  I do find it rather tedious and tiresome, however, that some reporters have to go out of their way to butcher a story to guarantee sales.  It's the name of the game, I suppose.  Sad, really.

More Firsts in Japan: Pulled Over by Cops

The memorial services marking two years since a giant tsunami tore apart most of Tohoku are next week.  This means the hotels along the coastline are booked with press and visitors.  That means I'm staying in a hotel far inland, and hour and a half each way to Rikuzentakata City Hall where I work.  I'm okay with this.  I listen to books downloanded onto my iPhone as I drive safely tucked in my car in my own personal space.  With no one around me this is precious alone-time I crave. 

I'm deep into my book, listening and driving when my other phone rings.  I see it's someone who's in New York City and know I need to answer this call.  Not having time to unplug my headset, type in my password and stop the recording, log into my other phone and plug in my headset, on a whim I pick up the phone and put it to my ear.  One hundred meters down the road, I see a blue car pulling up next to me, hear a honk, look in my review mirror, and a few seconds later see it's a police car.  Crap.  Not good.  A cop is saying something to me over the loud speaker which I don't really hear--I'm talking on the phone after all--but I get the gist.  I'm busted.  I don't curse the way I would normally, not wanting to mystify the person in New York with my foul language but tell him I have to go and hang up on him.  I see a young officer in the mirror jump out of the cop car, come to my window which I roll down, tyring to smile as he says, "You can't talk on the cell phone."  I nod.  "Please bring your license and your phone and follow me."  Oh joy.  This is the first time I've ever been pulled over by the police in Japan.  I push aside the temptation to record this new experience as an anthropologist might, observing the process and noting it for future generations, instead deciding to be humble, obedient, and cooperative.  I will not pick a fight the way I've been known to with Tokyo cops.  I will not.

I sit in the back seat of the police car as the driver-cop says again, "You can't talk on the phone while you're driving." 
"I know," I reply and decide not to apologize right off the bat.  Clearly, my not-so-pleasant experiences with Tokyo cops not entirely out of my system, I sense in myself the combativeness starting to ooze out.  "Control yourself" I say in my head.  He takes my license, reads my name and asks if this is me.  "Yes."
"This will be a fine.  That's it."  Here, I decide this is his way of saying I won't have points shaved off my license.  I've been told of this dreaded points-system, something every driver fears.  I've heard rumors about a license with points increasing my insurance rate, delaying the ability to obtain the coveted "Gold License" showing what a wonderful driver I am.
"Thank you," I say showing I am indeed capable of being remorseful and appreciative.
"You can pay your fine at any bank or the post office."
"I understand."
"What do you do here?"  For a split second, I contemplate whether I should offer up my title at Rikuzentakata City Hall or say I work for my visa sponsor.  I go for the former.  "I'm the Global Public Relations Director for the City of Rikuzentakata."  The cops look at each other.  Are they contemplating whether this qualifies for an exemption?  In the States, I've been known to conjure up tears when I want to get out of a ticket.  It's worked and I'm not adverse to using this method to prove how sorry I am, worthy of a warning but not a fine.  I've been told this won't work in Japan and decide not to tempt fate although I'm positive I could make myself cry on cue if I absolutely had to.  Before I complete this thought I also realize in giving them my title, I must now inform the mayor, deputy mayor and several other people in city hall of this traffic stop.  I immediately start writing the e-mail in my head, appropriately apologetic, explaining why I took the call, etc.  I can visualize the mayor, half-annoyed and half-amused laughing as he tries to scold me.  City hall will be buzzing with this news when I arrive tomorrow.  Great.

I'm handed the form I'm to take to the bank or post office to pay my fine.  I lean in, looking at it.  I decide to try something.
"I've never been stopped in Japan so I don't know how to do this," I say, and then, "Can I pay this at any bank?"
"Yes," the driver-cop tells me very politely and I wonder if he's just a bit sorry he pulled me over.  I allow myself a quick fantasy about how he'll have to explain to his superior who will surely read my title and yell at him for "not finding a way to let her go."  A girl can dream.
"Once you pay the fine, that ends everything.  It's not like you'll be on trial or anything," and here it takes everything I have not to crack up.  A trial?  For talking on a cell phone? 
"I see."
"You must pay this by March 11th," he says, pointing to the date on the form.  "This much," he says, pointing to my fine.
"I will."

They go over the paperwork, ask to see my phone, take down the model number (I kid you not) and then ask, "Was this a work-related phone call?"  I decide I will give them all the details.  That I've been playing phone tag with this man who's now in New York, that this has to do with children in Rikuzentakata, assistance for them, etc., etc., etc.  (Just a few guilt-inducing facts in case it registers.)  Maybe I'll end up on some list of people not to pull over?  Again, a girl can dream.

"Please sign here," and I'm handed the form which I sign.  And then, "And here," he points to the space above my signature, "Explain why you took the call."  I look up from my signature blankly.  He understands my confusion.  "Say that you had an important call to take, that it was about work."  Oh.  I get it.  I explain myself in the best Japanese handwriting I can muster up, adding for good measure the call came from the US.

When it's all done, I take the rest of the drive slowly and continue writing the e-mail to the mayor in my head wondering just how much of a scolding I'll get.

Life in Japan.  And so it continues...

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.