The kindness of strangers

There are moments, here and there - scattered throughout life like chocolate sprinklings - that are so perfect, and so solid, that you can almost touch them with your fingers. Like the good bits in a MacFlurry, they're not very frequent: you happen upon them by accident, and by the time you've realised they're there they're dribbling down your chin, or they've somehow attached themselves to the front strands of your hair. Which makes it even more important that you remember to stick your tongue out and catch them properly when you find them.

Today I had one of the most peculiarly beautiful, James Stewart-esque experiences of my life, and I didn't see it coming. I didn't even see it in the distance: I was swearing and sweating so hard, in fact, that I almost missed it. 

This morning, I decided that I was going to go on a mini adventure. A Saturday without any money, thighs that have seen far too much ice cream recently and a prefecture (Japanese county) I have only ever seen from over the top of the heads of other commuters on a packed train all indicated that I should take my bike for a ride, so I promptly ignored the fact that my front light doesn't work, took a quick glance at a map on Google and rode off into remarkably ugly Japanese suburbia. I knew where I was headed - the studio I work in, via a pretty park with a zoo in it - and figured I'd be back in an hour and a half, which included fifteen minutes to eat a riceball in the middle of some picturesque flowers somewhere and maybe feed a giraffe. Google said it was three miles, so three miles - I reasoned - it had to be.

It wasn't three miles. Or if it was, I hadn't factored in a) not being able to read road signs b) not being able to ask for directions c) not having a map d) being incredibly unfit and e) being crap at riding bikes. After three and a half hours of cycling up hills and through blankets of mosquitos - and seeing no signs whatsoever of either park or zoo - I finally managed to reach my destination, only to realise that I couldn't remember for the life of me how to get back. And I couldn't find a map that wasn't in Kanji. And I still couldn't read any road signs. And it was getting dark. And my light hadn't miraculously started working at any stage on the journey. And I didn't want to cycle anymore, because I couldn't feel my thighs. And my Saturday had sucked.

Having sat on the kerb and had a little cry - which is what I always do when lost, stressed or simply after exercise - I got back on my bike again and started cycling, tearfully, towards something that looked vaguely recognisable, and actually looked far less recognisable the closer I got to it. Realising I was totally and utterly lost and too exhausted to continue, and deciding that I had nothing better or more constructive to do, I stopped abruptly at a junction so that I could carry on crying without causing a traffic jam. In front of me was a tiny old lady with a white hand bandage standing completely still, staring at the floor, waiting quietly for the green light so that she could cross. 

With what was left of my strength - and with all of my linguistic power - I asked the little old lady where Mitsukyo station was. She spoke rapidly in Japanese and made enough complicated hand gestures to make it clear that it was a long way away, that it was difficult to get to, and that I was screwed. She then pointed at the sky and made it clear that it was getting dark, and that - again - I was definitely screwed. Then she took one look at my face, waved her hand at me and asked me to follow her.

Walking slowly with my bike next to me, the little old lady then took me at least thirty five minutes through winding back streets without saying a single word. I couldn't speak - partly because I was so overwhelmed at her kindness, and partly because I didn't know how to say anything - and she didn't or couldn't say anything either. We simply walked through tiny, quiet streets, with the sky getting redder and redder and darker and darker, and the only sound was the click of my bike wheels. After a mile or so, she stopped on the pavement and silently got out of her bag a piece of paper and a pen. Then she drew - with her bandaged hand - a very simple map, pointed down a long road and smiled at me. Then she bowed, turned round, and started walking back the way we had come.  

It took an hour to cycle back to my house down one very, very long and dark road, but I didn't cry again. There are some moments that come when you don't expect them, and they are supposed to be held on to. And, without a doubt, that one - the kindness, the bandaged hand, the silence, the click of my bike wheels, the sunset - was absolutely one of them. 

Shoulders

Today, finally, I received an email from my little sister. Five weeks, and not a bleep; she is citing moving house as a legitimate reason for the silence, apparently.

3/4 of a mile, I pointed out. You moved 3/4 of a bloody mile. If you stand on your tiptoes you can still see the roof of the old flat. 

It's very hard work, my sister responded, ignoring me. Our sofa is heavy.

I moved 6,000 miles and still managed an email, I answered in a sulk. 

You weren't carrying a sofa. It's taken weeks to be able to feel my hands properly again. Anyway - I've been reading the blog, and you've not answered any of the things I really want to know. 

Maybe you should have emailed me then, I typed back. 

Are you going to sulk about that for the rest of the time you're out there? she asked. 

I thought about it for a little bit.

No, I eventually, sticking out my tongue at the computer.

Don't make that face at me, she wrote. I can't see you but I know you're doing it. Anyway: the first question is... 

I quickly braced myself for some soul searching, which basically involves revolving my shoulders a couple of times and eating a piece of chocolate.

What's it like being taller than everyone? she asked.

I stared at the computer screen; the shoulder rotation had clearly been a total waste of muscle exertion.

Eh? I said.

Well you're taller than everyone, right? You're five foot ten. And blonde. What's that like?

Um. I thought about it. I'm taller than most people in London too, I pointed out.

But do people stare? 

Yes, I said. But I'm staring at everyone too, so it's ok. 

Do people say anything?

Sometimes, but I can't understand most of it. 

Second question. What's the food like? Is it all sushi?

No, I replied. But there is a lot of sushi. And fish. And rice. There's also crisps and chocolate and pot noodles and pasta and pesto and curry, just like in England.

Cool, mum won't die when she visits then. Ok, third question: is there Manga everywhere?

Tara, I said, Japan isn't just one big cliche you know.

But is there? she wrote.

Yes, I admitted after a short pause.

What about those games where they hit buttons and dance around? Are there lots of them?

Yes.

Is everyone very good at it?

The people who do it are.

What about those girls in crazy clothes? Are there loads of them? Do they all look like dolls?

Not really. Most of the girls are dressed like London girls. Only better.

Are the kids you teach adorable? Are they tiny? And have you tried to nick one?

I stared at the screen again. 

Mostly and mostly and no, I said. 

In what order? my sister typed back immediately.

In that order, I replied. 

I think I would try and steal one, she said. Maybe you can nab one at the end of your year there. Stick them in your suitcase. Ok, most important question....

Mmm, I wrote dubiously. Is it about shoes? 

Oooh! she said. It wasn't, but do they have nice shoes?

Very. I don't fit them, but you might. They're not too expensive either.

There was a silence while Tara pondered that fact. I might visit after all, she decided eventually. Ok, so, most important question, Oh Lady of Bad Romantic Luck. Boys. Met any cute ones? 

There was a pause while I wondered just how much to tell her. While I wondered whether to admit that I had met somebody; when it could jinx it, or fall through, or make me look foolish or naiive or stupid if it all went wrong. That - after three years of being on my own - I might not actually be on my own anymore. And that I wasn't quite sure how to deal with that, and so was quite possibly hiding it from everybody, including myself.

I rotated my shoulders a few times, and decided that it was probably time to answer the most important question. Even if briefly, for now.

Yes, I admitted finally. One. 

And then I ate a piece of chocolate.

Bubbles

Language is something I have always taken for granted. Unlike numbers, words have never scared me: in fact, from a very young age they gave me power. If I wanted to negotiate an extra ten minutes in the garden eating mud, I could argue with my mother about the importance of a free childhood and varied diet. If I wanted an extra dollop of icecream, I could charm the shop-keeper into thinking it was an investment (like a drug dealer). If a boy was mean, I could write a letter that would make him cry; if somebody made me angry, I could make it very very clear exactly how I felt straight away. Books, poetry, plays, letters, emails, blogs, press releases: I've sucked them all up, chewed them around for a bit, swallowed as much as I can and spat out the bits that stuck in my teeth; partly because I love the English language for itself - the sounds, the subtleties, the forms - but mostly because I love the ability to communicate effectively, and to absorb the thoughts and sounds of other people the best way I know how. Through words.

And now, effectively, I'm screwed. Living in Japan, I feel the way Superman might feel after a large piece of Kryptonite has attached itself - via a piece of chewing gum, perhaps - to the bottom of his shoe. I can't read anything. Not a road sign, not a train sign, not a sandwich packet, not the buttons on my washing machine or rice-cooker, not my gas bill (if that's what it is: I haven't been able to work it out yet) and certainly not any novels or plays. I can't speak: I walk around in a vacuum of silence, because all I can say is "thankyou," "sorry," and "where is the toilet/subway/convenience store/nearest rice ball". I therefore can't charm, I can't argue, I can't make jokes, and I can't reason my way out of hostile situations or work out where I am when I'm lost. Worse still, I can't listen. It's like watching the world through one way glass, because I can see people but I can't really hear them; I can tell that they're making noises, but I don't have the faintest idea what any of them mean. The joy of sitting in a crowded cafe and listening to a hundred conversations and a hundred different lives is gone: I sit in a crowded cafe, and it's just me. Me, and a hundred lives that I can't even begin to wonder about, because they are all completely unknown to me. Just like that, my power has evaporated, and the way that I process the world has evaporated, and I am simply floating around in a confusing, silent little one-way bubble. A bubble I can't pop, because - even if I could convince somebody to talk to me, or sit next to me, and even if I could learn the questions to ask that would help me to break through it - I wouldn't understand the answers. And so I am utterly and completely alone, apart from the handful of English, American and Canadian friends I have made, who have simply joined me in my bubble and float around in it with me.

Which, on one hand, is not what I want. I came to a different country to experience a different culture; not to simply float through it, buying English muffins and expensive butter and pretending I'm actually back in England. I want to understand people; I want to hear things. I want to know what people are thinking and saying; I want to begin to comprehend what is going on around me.

But, on the other hand, my senses are being stretched in entirely different directions. I have spent so long focusing on the power of language that I have entirely forgotten the importance of everything else. In my silent little bubble, I am suddenly noticing facial expressions, gestures, the shade of somebody's cheeks when they're embarrassed. No longer able to express myself verbally, I have suddenly become very aware of the way I stand, the way my mouth is set, the expressions I make when I'm tired, because I'm suddenly very aware that these are the only things I can be judged by. Like watching a silent film, or watching a  foreign film without subtitles, the world has suddenly changed shape, and - after a short period of utter incomprehensible silence - I'm starting to read it differently, and be read differently in return. It's a quieter kind of communication, but it's no less worthy. Like somebody who loses the ability to see and learns to smell everything - every single nuance - instead, I am finally learning to read body language, which is a skill I have always lacked (as anybody who has ever been on a date with me can testify).

It doesn't mean that I am not going to try to learn Japanese, of course: I'm carrying my phrase book around with me, even if it sinks in slowly and painfully and with the kind of effort my 3 year olds don't seem to need. If I leave Japan without being able to at least understand a little of the language around me, I will have wasted my time. 

But.... I'm going to try to hang on to this new world too; the one you don't need words to understand. Because it's one that's not limited to this country, and it's a skill that I should be able to take with me everywhere. Even when the bubble is broken again.

Too tired to write. Too tired to sit up properly, actually; am lying in a semi-vertical position on a futon, waiting to get the energy to climb back down ladder from loft* to go to the toilet. Considering some kind of bed pan, because knees have locked again. Five classes (back to back without toilet breaks: probably why my bladder has sealed up), 7 hours of teaching plus three hours preparation, one mouthful of pasta, one punch in the face, one smack on the arm and eighty three loud and imminently arthritic knee clicks and I'm just about ready to a) climb into my teeny tiny Japanese bath and drown myself b) burn all of my school books on large bonfire and then get fined by Yokohama government for polluting atmosphere, and c) get every single one of my baby making tubes tied, in no particular order. 

Compensated for lack of time to eat with three packs of crisps and four chocolate bars before and after day. Forcing junk food into pre 9am and post 10pm slots is not on any dieting manual I've seen recently, frankly, so if I don't render myself broken with joint problems, I'll be so fat somebody is going to have to roll me home. 

Will write more when properly awake and legs can move, if do not fall down ladder in state of semi-paralysis.   

*PS mum: yes, I have a ladder up to my bedroom. Please don't worry, bed is far from edge. And am very careful climbing. And hold on tight and do not swing down from ledge with hands. In fact, apparently I look like a sad little baby monkey, clinging on to the edges and pouting.