Thinking in Japanese.

For dinner I went to the very yuppified Holland Village with my two Japanese exchange friends Seitaro and Toubi. I probably didn't realize this until today, but they are probably my first real Japanese friends that I can only speak Japanese with. Indeed, I have a lot of Japanese friends back home, but there's really no need to speak only Japanese with them.

I really enjoy their company. They marvel at my American pronunciations (especially words that involve the letter 'r') while they patiently explain difficult Japanese vocabulary to me when I don't understand. Unlike my Japanese language school experiences growing up, I don't feel so intimidated about making mistakes or sounding stupid when I speak. We sat around in a Mexican restaurant and then an ice cream place for about four hours talking about everything from international politics to basic cultural differences between America, Japan and Singapore.

Perhaps the easiest way to describe my attitudes concerning these two languages is cliche: English is the language of my brain, but in the end, Japanese is the language of my heart. I can pretend to be clever, intelligent and witty in English, but I feel more safe when I hear and speak Japanese. After five hours of trying to keep up in conversational Japanese, reverting back to English somehow feels a bit cold and impersonal.

Sometimes when I am walking back home I repeat random phrases to myself like a mantra; just the very act of shaping Japanese words with my lips and tongue gives me a sense of security.

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Speaking of Japanese things, the online edition of the New York Times did a feature travel piece on one of my favorite places in West Los Angeles, Sawtelle Boulevard. The easiest way to describe this place is Little Tokyo condensed to three blocks. Good place for crepes and hipster credibility.

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EDIT:

Holy freaking shit, how could I possibly forget?

I was walking out of a club with a friend when this fat, balding European guy comes up to me.

"Excuse me," he asked. "Are you Japanese?" I told him that I was.

"I knew it!" he said triumphantly. "You have a very Japanese way of walking. I noticed the way you were walking at the club and I just had to go up to you and ask."

He then went on to tell me about how he loves Japanese culture, how he goes there every year, how he participates in their festivals, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah it's not like I haven't heard this before, mister.

Now Iike any other Asian girl living in the States, I've had many a share of yellow fever-related collisions, whether it comes in the form of some white guy empathetically speaking about his Japanese fob girlfriend while giving me a very leery look or some black guy at a bus stop telling me how much he just LOVES Oriental women.

But the way I walk? Amusing, I suppose.

Next time I go clubbing, I'm going to carry a samurai sword on my back.