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Letter from Japan: Living, and learning away from Florida

 
Alex Orlando, a former Tampa Bay Times reporter, is now living — and learning — in Japan.
Alex Orlando, a former Tampa Bay Times reporter, is now living — and learning — in Japan.
Published June 4, 2015

My most important lesson in Japan cost ¥190, and it came from a convenience store.

It was a Friday afternoon in January at the end of my first week of training to teach English, the reason I moved to Japan in the first place. I wanted to celebrate, but being several days shy of my first paycheck meant club hopping in Shibuya wasn't yet an option. I decided instead to grab something cheap and sweet during my lunch break.

Japanese convenience stores, or "conbinis" as they're called, are unto themselves a jarring experience for anyone who's new here. American gas stations conditioned me to expect limited interactions with attendants: A "welcome," "this costs X dollars" and a goodbye salutation if you've really made an impression.

Pulling open the door of a conbini, on the other hand, unleashes a persistent stream of Japanese from the clerks behind the counter, like trying to shut off an alarm clock you can't find. They could very well be saying, "Hello, Mr. American! We haven't got any chewing tobacco, but the Budweiser's in the cooler and we have warm corndogs up front." I understand only about 11 words of the language, but it's probably that.

That Friday, my celebratory sweet tooth led me to a clear plastic container full of six golden batter balls.

"Donut holes," I thought. "Perfect."

The clerk broke her steady flow of Japanese as I put the package on the counter. "Ah, takoyaki," she said. "Kyaku kyu-jyu (190) yen"

A quick walk back to the school, then I pulled up a chair in an unused classroom and unwrapped my desert.

"Takoyaki?" asked my coworker Nikki from the next table over. "Nice."

"Yep!" I said, and I repeated the new word in my head while I separated my disposable chopsticks.

My first bite punctured the center of the orb between my teeth. It was immediately recognizable as something that was not strawberry filling, but saltier. Chewier.

I plunged my fingers into my mouth and grabbed a chunk of the stuff. It was deep purple on one side, white on the other with suction cups. Definitely not a donut hole.

"Nikki," I said with one cheek still full, "what's takoyaki?"

"It means grilled octopus. I thought you knew."

I do. Now.

The pearl here is this: When traveling to a foreign country, it's a good idea to come armed with a passable knowledge of the language or a very open mind — preferably both. Because lacking in one will inevitably force you to compensate with the other.

I've since grown to love takoyaki. But my Japanese illiteracy continues to make my eating life a low-stakes game of Russian roulette. It's one of the best things about living here.

I moved to Tokyo this year after leaving the Tampa Bay Times in September. It's hard to point to a particular reason why I left. Call it a quarter-life crisis. Or the fact that I discovered Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations and Jon Krakauer's Into The Wild just a few months before my departure. Twenty-four years in Florida seemed like enough.

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I heard once, and I can't remember from where, that Florida is a good place to be from. Now, I can see the truth in it. It's not lost on me that I moved from one internationally renowned weirdness epicenter to another.

The brightly dressed Ganguro girls strutting around Harajuku remind me of some folks I've spotted in South Beach. The feared monsoon season here is nothing to a wet, hot summer in Gainesville. And I've had stranger seafood than takoyaki in Pensacola dive bars.

If you're young and aren't sure what you want to do with the rest of your life, I have to recommend packing up and being gone for a while. Going out in the world to snag new experiences is just as beautiful and perspective-changing as you'll hope. And in the end, maybe you'll look back and realize the crazy old state you couldn't wait to leave raised you right.