"New" Story
Wow... it's been awhile. So what have I been doing since the last post? I've moved back to good old Winnipeg, Canada and re-entered the good old world of university studies. In the next year and a half, I should be a licensed teacher. Yay! That's enough about my life, how about you?
Anyway, I have been working on some of my fics amidst all the lovely paper writing, lesson planning, and student teaching. This story I actually wrote in June for a challenge at Asian Fanfiction, but I re-edited it recently and figured I should put it up here. Let me know what you think! Though I'm sure no one's really reading this anyway. oh well.
I could have sworn it was Tuesday.
Tuesdays. Blissful, beautiful Tuesdays. Kai-yobi. The day when I could take my worries and my doubts, and shove them out the window with the refreshing fragrance of fresh coffee beans, the soothing taste of sweet mocha, and compelling sight of really, really hot waiters. Sure, there maybe some communication problems from time to time, but honestly, I was just there for the scenery. And an o-i-shii matcha latte. Such is my weekly indulgence. My Tuesday indulgence. I probably could have this joy more than once a week.
But then I’d have to deal with HIM.
“Irashaimase!” someone greeted me when I walked through the door. “Welcome to Bishounen Caf- AH! G-CHAN! Ohisashiburi!”
Great. Nino.
I nodded briefly in greeting when I entered the cafe, drowning the urge to turn tail and run. My blood rushed to my ears and my palms got sweaty like they always did when I felt uncomfortable.
I took a deep breath. He was right. It had been a long time since we had seen each other. At least two months. When Tuesdays were the days he usually had off.
So why was he here now? My personal torturer with the sarcastic smile and knowing eyes. I took another deep breath. Maybe today would be different. I could hope. I could pray.
“Konnichiwa, Nino-san. Genki desu ka?” I said slowly. My prayers went unanswered as I watched him in his barely contained puppy-dog excitement.
“OH!” he exclaimed loud enough to attract the attention of everyone else in the cafe. And as usual, there were a lot of people. “SU-BA-RA-SHI!! G-chan no Nihongo ga jousu, deshou?” he cried, clapping that awkward, slow clap. That annoying, awkward, slow clap. You know, like they do at the end of movies right after an outsider does something to finally gain the acceptance of his peers?
Yeah. That slow clap.
My Nihongo wasn’t as great as he seemingly wanted to imply, but it was good enough to know when he was mocking me.
God. There were times I absolutely hated being a foreigner.
Seven months ago I arrived in Tokyo, a starry-eyed wanderer, still unsure just where the hell life was supposed to go next, and still tentatively tasting my first breath of real independence. Let’s just say I was… unhappy with my life and I was looking for an escape. So, I packed my bags, hopped on a plane and headed to Japan to do the only thing I could do with absolutely zero Japanese skills and little job experience: teach English.
The first few days in Tokyo were a never-ending rush. I was hit with the sights of towering skyscrapers, lights that never faded, sounds that never died, and a constant sea of people never subsiding. I was meeting new people from all over the world, not just Japan, seeing new things, and experiencing a culture so similar and yet so different from my own. It was not until I settled into my new place and job did it hit me. Maybe this whole living abroad thing was too much for me to handle.
They say the effects of culture shock and homesickness come in waves and that first wave hit me with a force strong enough to drown me. Each day was overwhelming and I was relentlessly bombarded with some new failing. The students weren’t warming up to me. The staff at school wasn’t sure what to do with me. Buying groceries was a struggle. My tiny apartment, with its smelly tatami floors, was confining. I couldn’t seem to remember the simplest Japanese phrases. The days were long, but nights came early. I was alone in strange place and lonely for someone I had no business being lonely for. After a week of crying myself to sleep, I had almost convinced myself that I just needed to suck it up and go home. Running back to the reasons I left in the first place. It would be easy.
But I couldn’t. To do so that soon would be failure. And to leave would mean I hadn’t changed.
And it was at this low point, I discovered the Bishounen Café.
It was particularly bad day. Lessons just didn’t go well and I had gotten an email from someone saying how foolish I was and that it was time to come home. Not particularly keen on returning to an empty apartment, I wandered a different route. And there it was, nestled in a quiet side street some twenty minutes from the high school I taught at.
It was the sign that first caught my eye. Phrases written in Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and, thankfully, English.
Welcome to Bishounen Cafe where you meet your ideal man!
We have everyone’s type.
We only wish to please you with our aromatic hot drink.
Step inside, forget the stress and just enjoy.
Was this for real? I couldn’t help wonder out loud. A pretty boy café? Was this like one of those host clubs I had heard about? Seriously. Only in Japan.
Curiosity overrode common sense and I found myself entering. While I wasn’t exactly attracted to Japanese pretty boys- they always seemed too frail and girly for my taste- I was definitely lured in by stress-free drinks.
“Irashaimase! Welcome to Bishounen Café,” I was greeted at the door. Not just greeted, but blindsided. My original opinion of pretty Japanese boys forgotten. Here was a man that was neither frail nor girly. Kind dark eyes, a genuine smile, wavy dark hair, tall and lanky-no wonder women plunk down money for their ikemen idols. For a moment I was speechless.
“Ano… hitori dake desu ka?” he asked me.
“Huh?” I replied dumbfounded.
“Ah…eto… only one?” he held up his finger. Only one? Oh.
“Uh… hai. Just me.” Alone. Of course. Did that sound as pathetic as I thought it did?
“Just a moment please,” the pretty man said to me.
“OK,” I smiled weakly. I tried to make myself slightly more invisible to the curious eyes of random customers and waiters. And there were a lot of customers it seemed. All women.
On the wall next to me, I noticed, there were framed headshots of good-looking men. At least eight. Who were they? Famous movie stars? So-called idols? Nope. There were apparently the waiters, I deduced when I found the picture of the one who was at the door. His name was written in Japanese kanji- yet another aspect I was failing at- but also in normal letters below. Ka-wa-gu-chi Yo-shi-a-ki, I mouthed to myself. I looked at the rest of the pictures. Find your ideal man indeed. There were plenty of types to choose from. Cool types, girly, tough guys, a nerd or two. Even a couple of foreigners.
“Ah. You want one here?” I jumped as the waiter Kawaguchi returned.
“Sorry, gomen, one more time please?”
He motioned to the wall of pictures. “Anyone ok? Who you like?” I tried not to cringe at his broken English.
I shook my head. “Ah. No. Iiee. Um. Daijoubou. It’s ok. Anyone is ok,” I smiled apologetically for my even worse Japanese skills. He smiled brightly and I felt some of the tension that had been building up inside me melt away. This was going to be fine. Fun even.
“Kochira desu,” he bowed to me and gestured towards the tables. I followed him to a cozy corner window seat.
“I be your waiter,” he said to me. “My name is Kawaguchi Yoshiaki. Please call me Yoshi.”
“Yoshi?”
“Yes. Yoshi.”
“Ok. Yoshi. You speak very good English.” I heard a quiet snort. I turned slightly, only to meet the smirking face of another pretty boy waiter. He wasn’t typically pretty at all. He had a prominent, round nose and stubborn jaw. His hair was definitely styled better than mine. And his eyes… his eyes were clear brown. Piercing. Way too knowing, all too aware. But what struck me was the hint of disdain he had when he met my assessing gaze.
“Nino-kun!!” a girlish voice cooed. “Nino-kun, kochi kochi!” A woman, maybe a year or two older than I (with Japanese woman it was really hard to tell what their real ages were), motioned the waiter over to her table, patting the seat next to her. He tilted his head to me, still smirking, and sauntered over to the beckoning lady.
“Hai, Reina-sama!” he saluted her.
“I’m no good at English. But I want to talk more English,” Yoshi was saying to me. “Can I speak English with you?”
“Of course!” He was so eager, how could I refuse? I was very grateful that he wanted to try. “Maybe I can try Japanese with you?”
“Yes! Let’s try and do our best!”
“Gambarimasu!”
“Ah! Sugoi!” Yoshi clapped.
There was laughter from the neighbouring table. “Nino” was glancing over at us and saying something to make his customers laugh. I heard the word “gaijin”. Slang for foreigner. I frowned to myself.
“What is your name?” Yoshi asked me.
“Um... Watashi no namae wa Giselle desu.”
“Ji-se?” Sigh. My name always got completely butchered by the Japanese.
“Ji-ze-ru,” I pronounced my name slowly using Japanese sounds.
“Ah-Ah, Jizeru-sama.”
“Ah... sama... no... it’s ok. Not sama. Just Giselle,” I insisted. Wasn’t sama reserved for really important people? I’d feel weird if he called me that.
“Ji-se-ra.”
“Giselle.”
“Ji-ze-ru.” It was probably the best he could do.
“Yeah. Jizeru.”
“Jaa,” that Nino guy drawled loudly from where he sat. “Ji-chan desu yo?”
“G-chan?” I asked.
Yoshi went up to Nino and bopped him on the head. All the girls erupted into a loud giggling fit.
“Oi, yokunai! Ji-chan ja ne yo!”
They spoke in rapid Japanese and all I could do was blink Finally, Yoshi came back to my table, rolling his eyes.
“Gomen ne, Jizeru-sama.”
“It’s OK. And you know what, G-chan is ok. I know my name is not easy to say.”
“Hora!” Nino yelled out, pointing to me. He was turning out to be a bit of a brat, but his customers seemed to love it. “Daijoubou datte. Ji-chan kawaii ne?”
I understood “kawaii”. That meant cute. “Yeah. G-chan is cute. It’s ok. Makes me more Japanese, right?”
“Demo... Jizeru-sama... ji-chan... is ‘old man’.”
“Oh. Heh.” I laughed weakly.
I glared a little at that increasingly annoying waiter who was laughing and yelling something in that grating voice of his. Was he really someone’s ideal?
“It’s ok,” I insisted. “G-chan is still cute. You can call me G-chan. But only you, Yoshi. Because we’re friends... um... watashitachi wa tomodachi desu. ” I didn’t glance back at the bratty waiter whose eyes I could feel drilling a whole in my head.
Yoshi’s eyes sparkled and he nodded. “Hai!”
He took my order and we enjoyed a jumbled, broken, Japanese/English conversation. And the Bishounen Cafe kept its promise. That evening I forgot my stress and enjoyed my drink. It was the start of a beautiful, caffeine-filled relationship.
Anyway, I have been working on some of my fics amidst all the lovely paper writing, lesson planning, and student teaching. This story I actually wrote in June for a challenge at Asian Fanfiction, but I re-edited it recently and figured I should put it up here. Let me know what you think! Though I'm sure no one's really reading this anyway. oh well.
I could have sworn it was Tuesday.
Tuesdays. Blissful, beautiful Tuesdays. Kai-yobi. The day when I could take my worries and my doubts, and shove them out the window with the refreshing fragrance of fresh coffee beans, the soothing taste of sweet mocha, and compelling sight of really, really hot waiters. Sure, there maybe some communication problems from time to time, but honestly, I was just there for the scenery. And an o-i-shii matcha latte. Such is my weekly indulgence. My Tuesday indulgence. I probably could have this joy more than once a week.
But then I’d have to deal with HIM.
“Irashaimase!” someone greeted me when I walked through the door. “Welcome to Bishounen Caf- AH! G-CHAN! Ohisashiburi!”
Great. Nino.
I nodded briefly in greeting when I entered the cafe, drowning the urge to turn tail and run. My blood rushed to my ears and my palms got sweaty like they always did when I felt uncomfortable.
I took a deep breath. He was right. It had been a long time since we had seen each other. At least two months. When Tuesdays were the days he usually had off.
So why was he here now? My personal torturer with the sarcastic smile and knowing eyes. I took another deep breath. Maybe today would be different. I could hope. I could pray.
“Konnichiwa, Nino-san. Genki desu ka?” I said slowly. My prayers went unanswered as I watched him in his barely contained puppy-dog excitement.
“OH!” he exclaimed loud enough to attract the attention of everyone else in the cafe. And as usual, there were a lot of people. “SU-BA-RA-SHI!! G-chan no Nihongo ga jousu, deshou?” he cried, clapping that awkward, slow clap. That annoying, awkward, slow clap. You know, like they do at the end of movies right after an outsider does something to finally gain the acceptance of his peers?
Yeah. That slow clap.
My Nihongo wasn’t as great as he seemingly wanted to imply, but it was good enough to know when he was mocking me.
God. There were times I absolutely hated being a foreigner.
Seven months ago I arrived in Tokyo, a starry-eyed wanderer, still unsure just where the hell life was supposed to go next, and still tentatively tasting my first breath of real independence. Let’s just say I was… unhappy with my life and I was looking for an escape. So, I packed my bags, hopped on a plane and headed to Japan to do the only thing I could do with absolutely zero Japanese skills and little job experience: teach English.
The first few days in Tokyo were a never-ending rush. I was hit with the sights of towering skyscrapers, lights that never faded, sounds that never died, and a constant sea of people never subsiding. I was meeting new people from all over the world, not just Japan, seeing new things, and experiencing a culture so similar and yet so different from my own. It was not until I settled into my new place and job did it hit me. Maybe this whole living abroad thing was too much for me to handle.
They say the effects of culture shock and homesickness come in waves and that first wave hit me with a force strong enough to drown me. Each day was overwhelming and I was relentlessly bombarded with some new failing. The students weren’t warming up to me. The staff at school wasn’t sure what to do with me. Buying groceries was a struggle. My tiny apartment, with its smelly tatami floors, was confining. I couldn’t seem to remember the simplest Japanese phrases. The days were long, but nights came early. I was alone in strange place and lonely for someone I had no business being lonely for. After a week of crying myself to sleep, I had almost convinced myself that I just needed to suck it up and go home. Running back to the reasons I left in the first place. It would be easy.
But I couldn’t. To do so that soon would be failure. And to leave would mean I hadn’t changed.
And it was at this low point, I discovered the Bishounen Café.
It was particularly bad day. Lessons just didn’t go well and I had gotten an email from someone saying how foolish I was and that it was time to come home. Not particularly keen on returning to an empty apartment, I wandered a different route. And there it was, nestled in a quiet side street some twenty minutes from the high school I taught at.
It was the sign that first caught my eye. Phrases written in Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and, thankfully, English.
Welcome to Bishounen Cafe where you meet your ideal man!
We have everyone’s type.
We only wish to please you with our aromatic hot drink.
Step inside, forget the stress and just enjoy.
Was this for real? I couldn’t help wonder out loud. A pretty boy café? Was this like one of those host clubs I had heard about? Seriously. Only in Japan.
Curiosity overrode common sense and I found myself entering. While I wasn’t exactly attracted to Japanese pretty boys- they always seemed too frail and girly for my taste- I was definitely lured in by stress-free drinks.
“Irashaimase! Welcome to Bishounen Café,” I was greeted at the door. Not just greeted, but blindsided. My original opinion of pretty Japanese boys forgotten. Here was a man that was neither frail nor girly. Kind dark eyes, a genuine smile, wavy dark hair, tall and lanky-no wonder women plunk down money for their ikemen idols. For a moment I was speechless.
“Ano… hitori dake desu ka?” he asked me.
“Huh?” I replied dumbfounded.
“Ah…eto… only one?” he held up his finger. Only one? Oh.
“Uh… hai. Just me.” Alone. Of course. Did that sound as pathetic as I thought it did?
“Just a moment please,” the pretty man said to me.
“OK,” I smiled weakly. I tried to make myself slightly more invisible to the curious eyes of random customers and waiters. And there were a lot of customers it seemed. All women.
On the wall next to me, I noticed, there were framed headshots of good-looking men. At least eight. Who were they? Famous movie stars? So-called idols? Nope. There were apparently the waiters, I deduced when I found the picture of the one who was at the door. His name was written in Japanese kanji- yet another aspect I was failing at- but also in normal letters below. Ka-wa-gu-chi Yo-shi-a-ki, I mouthed to myself. I looked at the rest of the pictures. Find your ideal man indeed. There were plenty of types to choose from. Cool types, girly, tough guys, a nerd or two. Even a couple of foreigners.
“Ah. You want one here?” I jumped as the waiter Kawaguchi returned.
“Sorry, gomen, one more time please?”
He motioned to the wall of pictures. “Anyone ok? Who you like?” I tried not to cringe at his broken English.
I shook my head. “Ah. No. Iiee. Um. Daijoubou. It’s ok. Anyone is ok,” I smiled apologetically for my even worse Japanese skills. He smiled brightly and I felt some of the tension that had been building up inside me melt away. This was going to be fine. Fun even.
“Kochira desu,” he bowed to me and gestured towards the tables. I followed him to a cozy corner window seat.
“I be your waiter,” he said to me. “My name is Kawaguchi Yoshiaki. Please call me Yoshi.”
“Yoshi?”
“Yes. Yoshi.”
“Ok. Yoshi. You speak very good English.” I heard a quiet snort. I turned slightly, only to meet the smirking face of another pretty boy waiter. He wasn’t typically pretty at all. He had a prominent, round nose and stubborn jaw. His hair was definitely styled better than mine. And his eyes… his eyes were clear brown. Piercing. Way too knowing, all too aware. But what struck me was the hint of disdain he had when he met my assessing gaze.
“Nino-kun!!” a girlish voice cooed. “Nino-kun, kochi kochi!” A woman, maybe a year or two older than I (with Japanese woman it was really hard to tell what their real ages were), motioned the waiter over to her table, patting the seat next to her. He tilted his head to me, still smirking, and sauntered over to the beckoning lady.
“Hai, Reina-sama!” he saluted her.
“I’m no good at English. But I want to talk more English,” Yoshi was saying to me. “Can I speak English with you?”
“Of course!” He was so eager, how could I refuse? I was very grateful that he wanted to try. “Maybe I can try Japanese with you?”
“Yes! Let’s try and do our best!”
“Gambarimasu!”
“Ah! Sugoi!” Yoshi clapped.
There was laughter from the neighbouring table. “Nino” was glancing over at us and saying something to make his customers laugh. I heard the word “gaijin”. Slang for foreigner. I frowned to myself.
“What is your name?” Yoshi asked me.
“Um... Watashi no namae wa Giselle desu.”
“Ji-se?” Sigh. My name always got completely butchered by the Japanese.
“Ji-ze-ru,” I pronounced my name slowly using Japanese sounds.
“Ah-Ah, Jizeru-sama.”
“Ah... sama... no... it’s ok. Not sama. Just Giselle,” I insisted. Wasn’t sama reserved for really important people? I’d feel weird if he called me that.
“Ji-se-ra.”
“Giselle.”
“Ji-ze-ru.” It was probably the best he could do.
“Yeah. Jizeru.”
“Jaa,” that Nino guy drawled loudly from where he sat. “Ji-chan desu yo?”
“G-chan?” I asked.
Yoshi went up to Nino and bopped him on the head. All the girls erupted into a loud giggling fit.
“Oi, yokunai! Ji-chan ja ne yo!”
They spoke in rapid Japanese and all I could do was blink Finally, Yoshi came back to my table, rolling his eyes.
“Gomen ne, Jizeru-sama.”
“It’s OK. And you know what, G-chan is ok. I know my name is not easy to say.”
“Hora!” Nino yelled out, pointing to me. He was turning out to be a bit of a brat, but his customers seemed to love it. “Daijoubou datte. Ji-chan kawaii ne?”
I understood “kawaii”. That meant cute. “Yeah. G-chan is cute. It’s ok. Makes me more Japanese, right?”
“Demo... Jizeru-sama... ji-chan... is ‘old man’.”
“Oh. Heh.” I laughed weakly.
I glared a little at that increasingly annoying waiter who was laughing and yelling something in that grating voice of his. Was he really someone’s ideal?
“It’s ok,” I insisted. “G-chan is still cute. You can call me G-chan. But only you, Yoshi. Because we’re friends... um... watashitachi wa tomodachi desu. ” I didn’t glance back at the bratty waiter whose eyes I could feel drilling a whole in my head.
Yoshi’s eyes sparkled and he nodded. “Hai!”
He took my order and we enjoyed a jumbled, broken, Japanese/English conversation. And the Bishounen Cafe kept its promise. That evening I forgot my stress and enjoyed my drink. It was the start of a beautiful, caffeine-filled relationship.