The trouble with being Japanese-American

The photos in this post are a little presentation of my first week in my neighborhood in名古屋 (Nagoya).

My apartment building 

A temple in my quiet neighborhood

I'm going to say this right off the bat: I'm going to avoid replicating the "gaijin-in-Japan" stories. They're pretty hackneyed at this point, and quite frankly, that whole "white foreigner" angle doesn't exactly apply to me anyway. I don't look white to most people here, and more often than not, I'm mistaken for a Japanese person.

In fact, this has become a hilarious problem, to the extent that I have resorted to speaking my already-broken Japanese with an American accent, just to avoid having people respond to me in turbo-speed Japanese. I've found that speaking in the accent I've tried to perfect elicits troublingly incomprehensible strings of Japanese from shopkeepers and bystanders alike.

Pretty sure this is ume musubi - my BFF's favorite! :)

I'd like to illustrate the disappointing state of my Japanese ability with an example: while pointing to my empty drink can recently, I asked a nearby shopkeeper if there was recycling. Somehow I decided it was necessary to add, "Owari desu!" In the moment, I was understood, and of course, the woman proceeded with that familiar string of reassuring but meaningless sounds. As I walked away, it occurred to me where I had picked up the phrase I'd used: by watching kids' TV programs in my apartment.

And the meaning of the Japanese phrase I'd so earnestly offered? "The end!"

Realization dawned on my mistake, and I had to laugh. There's a long way to go before I can speak the Japanese of my own heritage.

I dropped my ice cream cone... maybe a lifetime first.
Now I know how it feels haha!! (it feels sad and funny)

Animal clinic nearby

Chibi Maruko-chan was my childhood exposure to Japanese cartoons.
I didn't understand a thing, but I watched those recordings over and over.