I’m the writer of this story.

When I first came to Japan, I went to a Japanese language school in Yokohama. I had a great apartment a twenty- to twenty-five-minute from the school, and since I always went there and back at the same time, I got to know and chat with some of my neighbors and other people who happened to be walking along that same road. 

One of these was an elderly man who lived in my neighborhood whom I often saw on my way home. One day, he invited me to meet and chat with a group of his equally elderly friends. I was a little shy but didn’t know enough Japanese at the time to refuse, so I went along with him. It was the middle of winter, and so I was wrapped up in quite a few layers that pretty much hid any kind of figure I had. (Japanese winters can be bitter if, like me, you’re not used to the cold.)

The group was lovely and asked me a lot of questions about where I came from, did I like Japan — the usual catechism that foreigners get. About ten minutes later, one of the women leaned forward.

Woman: “You have really beautiful skin.” 

This is a comment I often get from random Japanese people since the genetic lottery gave me skin that is smooth and naturally very pale, which is considered beautiful in Japan. I’m also never entirely sure how to answer it.

Me: “Oh…uh…thank you.”

Woman: “Yes. You almost look like a woman.”

After much hysterical choking and spluttering into his tea, the man who’d invited me said:

Man: “She is a woman!”

I know I have a pretty deep voice, but I hadn’t realized it was THAT deep!

Related:
Ah, The Delightful Quirks Of Language

I had to reschedule a thyroid appointment, so I am seeing a different doctor from my usual one. My hypothyroidism is extremely manageable with medication, and all they have to do is check my bloodwork numbers, say, “Yep, looks like that’s the right dosage,” and give me the same prescription until my next appointment. I am not particularly worried about a new doctor since all the information from my last four previous appointments appears on the same printout, and it’s very easy to see what’s increased and decreased.

Doctor: “Your TSH and T3 levels look fine here, and the dosage is working for you, so we’ll continue with this medication.”

Me: “Okay, good.”

Doctor: “However, you’ve been steadily gaining weight for the past few months, and your cholesterol is pretty high, so you might want to work on that.”

Me: “…Okay.”

Doctor: “Looks like you’ve been coming in once a month? Shall we schedule another appointment in a month, then?”

Me: “Yeah, I was told to come in monthly during my pregnancy so we could closely monitor my levels.”

The doctor pauses for a beat.

Doctor: “Oh, you’re pregnant.”

Granted, my clothes weren’t exactly skintight, but I was nine months pregnant and clearly looked it. The steady weight gain and increase in cholesterol are both normal for pregnancy.

To her credit, she immediately revised her diagnosis and gave me my regular prescription and another to switch to after giving birth. No harm, no foul, but I hope she checks her other patients’ records a bit more closely after this.

I am the oldest of three kids; my brother and sister (twins) are no less than ten years younger than me. Naturally, as soon as I was old enough to be trusted in the house alone, I was expected to babysit my siblings whenever my parents were out of the house.

After a couple of years, I came to resent my parents for constantly announcing their nights out at the last minute, given that I was a teenage boy who had made friends, found a girl I liked, and could not safely plan to hang out with them because my parents might suddenly decide I was babysitting.

Fast-forward to a couple of years after I graduate. That girl I liked has become my girlfriend, proposed to me, and asked me to move home with her to Japan, to which I have replied with an emphatic yes. There are cheers and tears and snot from everyone we tell about this in the month between the rings and the wings. I am gradually meeting her extended family, getting used to life in Japan, and generally thinking I might want to live the rest of my life here.

My cell phone rings; it’s my father.

I stare at my phone for the whole ring cycle, distinctly remembering that I told everyone back in Canada to text me once I’m overseas. Have I missed a message? No, there’s nothing waiting.

Almost as soon as the ringtone stops, my phone rings again, and this time it’s my mother. I answer the phone, REALLY hoping this isn’t what I think it is.

Mother: “Hey, [My Name]. Why didn’t you answer your dad?”

Me: “Why the h*** are you two calling me?”

Mother: “We’re going out tonight. I need you to watch [Brother] and [Sister].”

Me: “I beg your… what?! I can’t babysit!”

Mother: “Well, why not?”

Me: “I’M IN JAPAN, YOU STUPID S***! I told you up and down for a month that [Fiancée] and I were moving to Japan! I can’t just come over to watch the kids on a whim anymore!”

Mother: “But we’ve got reservations for [Fancy Restaurant]!”

Me: “Then hire a babysitter! Or take them with you! Or cancel! Just make plans instead of expecting me to drop mine at the last minute because I physically can’t anymore!”

I hung up on her and turned to my fiancée to find her glaring at my phone with IMMENSE disapproval.

There were several months between that conversation and the wedding, during which time I was treated to several missed calls from my parents — because I stopped answering the phone when they tried to call me — and numerous texts demeaning me for “acting like your tourism is more important than taking care of your siblings”.

My parents were NOT invited to the wedding.

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I live in an apartment complex. About a year ago, I noticed a letter wedged into the door frame of the apartment across from the complex’s entrance hall. It struck me as odd because only residents or management can get into the building, so it was clearly not a normal letter that would go in the mailbox. About two weeks passed without any sign of the letter being moved, and another letter appeared in the doorframe. Another two weeks after that, a notice was posted on the door itself for everyone to see. The gist of it was that, due to unpaid rent and lack of communication, the apartment management would enter the apartment and begin eviction procedures if they didn’t receive any reply within the next month.

I started to get a bit nervous. Skipping out on rent is a great way to tank your ability to get a new apartment — the rental companies can and do talk to each other about tenants — so the most likely explanation seemed to be that someone had died in the apartment and no one had figured it out yet. There was no smell in the hallway, so I hoped that wasn’t it but couldn’t think of an explanation.

Then, suddenly, the letters just disappeared from the door and nothing new was posted. I figured I’d never learn what happened, but when my partner called up the management company for an unrelated repair request, he asked them what the deal was, not actually expecting an answer. I don’t know if they lied to him or not, but frankly, their answer was so outrageous I have to believe it’s true.

The only person living in that apartment was a cat. Someone had rented out a two-bedroom apartment within a thirty-minute train ride of the city center, probably around 700 USD a month, just for their cat. That’s why the door wasn’t used for over two months; the window was open for the cat to get in and out. 

I’ve still never seen anyone go in or out of that apartment, and this is a nice, new-ish building, so if someone did die, there’s no reason they wouldn’t clean it up and re-let it. I refer to it now as Schrödinger’s apartment; the cat is both living there and not living there until someone opens it up and finds out what the heck is going on.

I’ve been living in Japan for eight years, and I teach English to private students. I specialize in beginners and people with little confidence in their English ability, as they’re the kind of students I find the most fun and rewarding to work with, but I also teach more advanced students. 

New students often get a little flustered due to the one-on-one nature of our lessons; they worry because they can’t answer me RIGHT NOW. I’m fine with this and have developed a kind of autopilot response; the student says, “Just a moment!” etc., and I always say, “Sure, no problem. You can have all the moments you want.”

I’m teaching a Japanese woman who did a homestay in England some years back. In this case, she’s not floundering for an answer — her English is at a pretty high level and she’s very much not shy about using it — but rummaging for something in her bag.

Student: “Just a sec!”

I reply completely on autopilot and seriously not thinking.

Me: “Sure, no problem. You can have all the secs you— WAIT, NO! THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT!”

Fortunately for me, she was too busy searching her bag to hear; otherwise, I’d never have been allowed to live it down!