Time to Read:
I like a good wrap up.
I don’t like to just stop something unceremoniously. I like to set aside time to bring experiences to a place of real completion and closure. That includes taking some time to reflect, to look back, to wrap things up, to celebrate, to appreciate and to put a piece of punctuation at the end of the sentence.
Over the course of this trip, I have found that soft chewy desserts that begin with “C”, whose names are in the language of their native lands and carry those names exactly the same no matter what country they travel to, treats that are both emblematic of the culture that created them and also so iconic and delicious that they can be found in many other countries outside of their country of origin, seem to be the best place for me to have a feast, not just of delicious treats, but a feast of language and a chance to get a solid temperature check on the status of my language progress.
If you have been following along on this blog, you know that vegan, gluten free crepes have not only been a welcome companion and through line of my trip, they have also been places of linguistic fusion, where I get to practice languages from multiple countries and reap the benefits of my efforts.
Well, move over, crepes. Here in Tokyo, Japan, churros are stepping up to take up that delicious mantle.
Here, at the tail end of my adventures, at the closing point of my push towards my polyglot aspirations, there is no better place to get a chance to get that temperature check of where I’m at linguistically and to celebrate my progress than at a vegan, gluten free churro stand in the middle of Tokyo, Japan.
I am officially in the wrap up of my 6 month journey along the circumference (more or less) of our precious little blue dot.
The last strokes of the swim adventure that was to serve as the physical and symbolic epilogue of this trip have been swum (stay tuned for more posts on that incredible excursion!), the summit of Mount Fuji is beckoning me forward towards its towering peak only a few days away and I am now officially at the top of my four day “wrap up” in Tokyo. I will use this time to prepare the massive pile of post cards I’ll be sending from the heights of Fuji, write the pile of unwritten blog posts stacking up in my brain, reflect on six months of living my dream to get to take a little slice of my life to focus solely on my passion for studying language and culture and to think through how I want to approach my continued language study when I get home.
So, last night, after saying goodbye to the incredible crew of new friends I found in the brilliant, blue waters off the eastern coast of Japan, I settled into my new AirBnB that would serve as my cocoon for my final reflections and wrap up activities.
Being someone that is not only into indulgent acts of closure and completion, I am also a person that relishes a good bit of symbolism. When I found a wonderful little AirBnB right in the neighborhood with a decor that boasted two fully painted walls, one with a picture of Mount Fuji in front of the bed, and the other with a picture of a giant ocean wave right next to where I would rest my head and recover from 8 days of plunging through Japan’s ocean waters, it seemed clear that this was the perfect nest between my swimming adventure/epilogue and my Mount Fuji climb/exclamation point. It almost seems too perfect.
After I settled into my new place, I did the mandatory google search for the area’s dairy free/gluten free options. When I saw a vegan/gluten free churro establishment, it didn’t take long to decide what my dinner was going to be last night.
I arrived at the little spot after a 15 minute walk and felt my salivary glands preparing themselves for all kind of deliciousness.
I approached the little window to order my delectable and celebratory treat of the week’s and the last six month’s accomplishments, excited to have some time to be alone and reflect and let it all sink in.
Right off the bat, I got a chance to practice my Japanese. My swim adventure had been a blast, but I had spent 99% of it speaking English and I was excited to have another chance to push myself linguistically. I placed my order in Japanese and learned a new word when the proprietor of the establishment told me that I could select 別々 for my churros. I didn’t know the word, pronounced “betsu-betsu”, and I asked him what it meant. It meant, essentially, “separate” and he was telling me that my order of churros came with a flavored filling and I could pick 2. Yes please. I went for chocolate and the seasonal special, “Sakura”, Japanese Cherry Blossom. I also ordered some dairy free ice cream, cause…well…cause I have a pulse and it’s ice cream. Even more importantly, ice cream I can actually eat.
I was excited for the churros, I was excited to get to have ice cream, I was excited to have learned a very useful new word and I was excited that I had successfully navigated the little exchange in Japanese.
As I sat on the diminuitive bench next to the ordering window, a small family approached. A mom, a dad and little boy, probably somewhere around 8 or 9 years old. They all advanced towards the window with the same excitement I had just been carrying myself. And they brought that excitement in bubbling Spanish.
They saw me sitting on the bench awaiting my treats and gave a smile. I reciprocated the friendly engagement with an, “Hola”.
The wife’s face lit up with friendly surprise, “Hablas español?”
“Si!” I replied, hoping that I could “hablo” well enough to back up my possibly overconfident claim.
Before long, we were knee deep in a Spanish conversation and I was holding up my end of the bargain. I could feel my neurons hopping, trying to pull Spanish out of any cobwebs it had been busy accumulating during its time on the back-burner of my brain.
I was immediately aware of the mistakes I was making as I was speaking and I had to brace myself to face the blistering warp speed of Spanish words coming towards me in classic native-Spanish-speaker style.
I was pretty excited that I knew, just from her accent and how she spoke, that she was from Spain. I asked if she was from Spain and she said, “Si! Soy de Málaga.” We chatted. I told her how I had spent two weeks just up the road in Granada. Her and her husband asked if I had liked it. “¡Claro que si!” I exclaimed. Granada is a hard place not to love.
I told her about my trip. She told me how her family lived in Singapore because of her husband’s job and they were here in Japan on vacation. She indicated that her husband was not from Spain. I asked where he was from, expecting, maybe somewhere in Latin America, but pleasantly surprised when he said he was from a small town near Bordeaux. I switched to French and our conversation continued en français!
They started asking me about the languages I study. When I mentioned Chinese, their eyes lit up again. We were back in Spanish and the wife pointed towards her son who was still busy enthusiastically pouring over the churro flavor options, contemplating his selection with the undivided attention worthy of the massive life decision he faced.
“Habla un poco de chino. Lo ha estado estudiando en la escuela.” she said, “He speaks a little Chinese. He’s been studying it in school.”
The boy looked at me with a look of interest, but only mild interest since I was in competition for his attention against the mighty opponent of churros. I wouldn’t expect to win such a battle, but still, I grabbed the window I had and asked,
“Qué puedes decir en chino?”, “What can you say in Chinese?” (although I think it would have been better if I had said, “Qué sabes decir en chino.”, but, alas, he got what I was asking.)
He responded, happy to present his budding skills, “Nihao.”
“Nihao!” I responded.
“Zǎoshang hǎo.” he said. “Good morning.”
“Zǎoshang hǎo.” I responded.
“Wǎnshàng hǎo.” he said, “Good evening.”
“Wǎnshàng hǎo” I responded.
“Wǒ xǐhuān Miguel.” he continued. I actually don’t remember what name he said. I don’t even remember if he said a Spanish name or a Chinese name. But, he said a name. His mother laughed and I smiled. We both knew what he was trying to say. He had said, “I like Miguel.” After his mother said to him, “not xǐhuān”, he quickly realized his error and corrected himself, “Wǒ jiào Miguel.”
“Hěn gāoxìng rènshí nǐ” I replied. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I actually said, “Hěn hǎo rènshí nǐ”, which, I am pretty sure works too, even though “Hěn gāoxìng rènshí nǐ” is what I had meant to say. Either way, they understood what I was saying.
The wife said she spoke German and Italian too – but we didn’t get into those.
When the family left, not only did I have the celebration of a fantastic fusion of language practice, here in this little language trip wrap up, but I also got an important temperature check to see where I am at, linguistically speaking. It was just what I needed as I say goodbye to this adventure and prepare myself for the next phase. I was pleased to see that I could communicate and that I could easily switch into each language with some degree of grace. I was also very much aware of how far I have to go to get where I want to be. There had been a litany of mistakes, words stumbled over and grammar that was rusty, at best. Not to mention my constant scramble to keep up in my comprehension of the native words coming at me at native speed. It was the perfect blend of proud celebration with humbling perspective of the distance yet to travel.
And the linguistic party was not over. When the family had happily received the churros and we had bid each other “encantada” and “ciao”, another young woman had approached the churro window. While I was just finishing off the last few morsels of deliciousness that had once been my churros, I overheard her speaking in English with the gentleman at the window with a hint of frustration in her voice. It was a frustration coated in a rich layer of dripping disappointment. I knew this disappointment well. It was the disappointment of someone who had thought they were going to be able to eat a treat and was in the process of finding out that their dietary limits would exclude them from yet another gustatory joy.
“How can you call it gluten free if it has oat milk in it?” I overheard her saying, trying to hide her devastation after her trek through the streets of Tokyo towards an establishment that she thought could welcome her was ending in rejection. I looked up and I could tell that there was a linguistic barrier between them.
I stood up to see if I could be of any assistance. I asked her what was going on. She explained to me that she was trying to communicate that oat milk is not gluten free (unless it specifically says that it is) and that she didn’t think the proprietor was understanding her. He didn’t speak much English. It was clear that he was trying. They were both furiously using translation apps to get the job done, but it was clear that something was getting lost in translation.
I was sorry for her predicament and pretty excited, after the linguistic feast that had just occurred, to throw my hat in the ring in an attempt to help.
I know it sounds strange to put so much effort and time in my life for such a little thing, but moments like these are EXACTLY why I am so driven to learn as many languages as I can. Such moments are not the only reason I have dedicated such a sizable portion of my life’s resources to language acquisition, but they are a big part of it. I get the biggest high from being able to help bridge gaps like these. Just the possibility of being able to help out in a moment where there is a barrier built out of the distance between two languages is so intoxicating to me that I want to spend hours and hours and hours, days, weeks, months and decades trying to expand my linguistic possibilities just to be able to meet such moments if and when they happen to occur.
I knew my Japanese was still hovering in the early stages and far from any degree of mastery, but I began to give it a try. She had been typing her message into google translate, but whatever translation google translate was coming up with was dropping the nuance she was trying to get across. I got in there and, after a bit of back and forth, I was finally able to say it in a way that the proprietor understood. He wasn’t gluten free himself, he was just catering to a market. His was a new shop and trying to get the word out, and it turns out that his little 100% gluten free operation was not gluten free enough for someone with celiacs disease, which would be a huge portion of his market. I managed to explain to him the issues and he understood. The girl seemed content to have her message delivered, especially the final one. She knew she wouldn’t be having churros that night, but it was clear that she hoped that, if her message was aptly communicated, perhaps the proprietor would change his ways and she would still have a churro shop she could hope to return to someday. I was able to communicate this final and important message to him. If he were to change his milk choice, she would eagerly return to patronize his young establishment in the future. He understood. The feedback was received.
I was elated.
Wow. What an evening. What a perfect way to kick off my four days of wrap up before the exclamation point of my ascent to Mount Fuji’s perspective-rich peak.
I have a long way to go, linguistically speaking, but I have arrived somewhere – a somewhere I am quite happy to be. After 6 months of travel from country to country, from language to language, I can speak enough to solve a few problems, to bridge a few gaps and to make a few new friends at a churro counter in Tokyo, Japan.
And that is good enough for me.
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