So, after dinner, we meet up with more of the wedding guests. They all happen to be from Australia. We all get alcohol and find a spot to loiter, riverside. Rather than drink beer (which you might know I don't traditionally elect), I found a hip flask of Suntory Whiskey, and thinking only of Bill Murray in Lost in Translation, I got a little wrecked.
We had a good time. Penny Arcade references were made, photographs taken, Japanese kids in clubgear were observed and rated for style and difficulty. However, before long, the wedding couple had visiting family members to tend to, wedding obligations to meet, and split. Chris's local friends either had work in the AM, or just had places to be. That left me and these Australians.
"We have a lot more drinking to do. You in?"
I mean, really, that's not fair. It's like a national challenge. I had to hope that my Irish heritage could support me through my more recent infrequent drinking schedule. It more or less did.
The Australians were: Amaya, a young lady with two-toned hair and a mad plan to purchase a computer for the wedding couple -- I plan I both endorsed and in which I became a willing accomplice; the Fiend*, whose beard was taller than most of the local girls and who wore a black jacket with the Sacred Chao painted on the back in gold; and Michael, a reserved sort who seemed like he had resigned himself to the fate of being forced to spend time with Amaya and the Fiend. This was hopefully to his ultimate benefit, as he and Amaya were an item.
So, I've been drinking whiskey, and Michael demanded food, which was passed by approbation. We went to a 280, which is a term for a restaurant where everything costs 280 yen, so you can just order tapas style and keep ordering if the first round doesn't do the trick. Amaya and Michael were ordering something called Calpiss (I could be mispronouncing or mispelling that) that came in a variety of fruit flavors, so I hopped on that train. Here's a spoiler: that is an alcoholic drink, and not the fruit juice I had perhaps anticipated. We had many rounds of this, with gyoza and some other things that the Fiend hoarded, snapping at any prying fingers with his chopsticks. I was able to show off some of my Nihongo by ordering "three of that" and "water," though the similarity of the terms (mitsu and omizu) made Amaya think I was ordering the other one.
This 280 gave way to another 280, where there was a Dharma Initiative sign on the bathroom. I forget whether I kept up with the Calpiss uninterrupted or switched back to the whiskey at some point. I also demonstrated Cousin Drew's lesson about sounding like an indignant old Japanese man in order to get service. Instead of saying "Sumimasen" like a polite person who is trying to get the attention of a waitress, you just yell "SUMIMA--", letting the last syllables trip and fall, while gesticulating rudely. When I showed off this talent, in a restaurant, mind you, a waitress ran to take my order. Well, duh. I felt badly about this summons and ordered another round.
Michael asked me to please explain why the Americans used proof when the rest of the world used alcohol content. I was unable to answer him sufficiently, so he instructed me to tell the rest of the country: stop it. There you have it, America. You want to keep using proof, please take it up with Australia (or their representative).
I was informed that I was not like Americans as they had come to expect. I did not know if this meant I was failing in some way, and accepted it at face value. I also finished the whiskey in my bag.
End of evening / early morning -- I'm trashed, walking about a mile home in dress shoes, delighted with the evening I'd had. Japanese cuisine, the Waffle King, new folks to hang with, and those adorable Ozzie accents. I don't think that being drunk made me pick the accent up. I think.
--3:45 PM, EDT, Philadelphia, PA, she says she'd like to meet a boy who looks like Elvis
*: No, really.
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