Local Teacher Walloped by Sadist Japanese Grandma

Grocery shopping as a semi-illiterate foreigner in Japan is not a simple task. There’s always a chance you will buy Lysol to put on your loofah in the shower, dog food to nibble on, pig knuckles, things-that-once-lived-in-the-sea in flake form and, on more than one occasion, I have bought something that had the outward appearance of, say, tofu which ended up having Essence of the Fishiest of Fish as the primary ingredient.

The challenges are endless. For starters, there is the long and arduous process of reading katakana labels out loud in the hopes of figuring out what one is holding. I clutch a package of what appears to be meat and gaze at it beseechingly. “HA-MU-BA-GU-MI-TO… YES. HAMBURGER MEAT!!11” Pleased as punch with myself and my new acquisition, I drop the chopped meat into my shopping cart which is not unlike the PlaySkool faux-grocery cart I had as a child. The size is the same, the only difference being that this time the food items are not made of plastic and appropriate for only ages six and up.

The locals look at me curiously. Battling the brutal heat and humidity, I have opted for a tank top and shorts. This is the uniform of the misinformed. The grandmothers doing their weekend shopping in their visor-bonnets, farmer Brown hats, leggings, long gloves and bland-colored smocks and aprons that reach their toes, glance at me quickly and then turn away, content that they are safe from the sun, whilst I, stupidly, will turn a dark and ugly shade of tan. But it is hot and my instincts refuse to don multiple layers of jumpers, jackets, bonnets, gloves and scarves in sweltering heat. Why is Japan not a summer nudist colony? I ponder to myself.

I find all that I need, check out with a pleasant woman who reads off the price of each item in a chipper tone as if each one were a bit of happy news, and pack up my purchases. The next challenge is getting home, carrying both an umbrella to ward off the heat of the glaring sun, as well as enough food to last me the next couple of weeks. By now I have mastered the art of the pack horse and trudge on home, reminding myself that the food is for me, and me alone; I have no one to blame but myself and my appetite which seems to like buying large, heavy cans of peaches and gallons and gallons of milk and juice, you know, just in case.

I make my way down the narrow streets of Niihama, occasionally stopping to let a car zoom by me or to mop my brow with an already saturated washcloth decorated with Japan’s illustrious and beloved giant cartoon Chinchilla, Totoro. After passing the tiny local eel restaurant and several garages, two new obstacles suddenly appear in my path: Two elderly ladies are standing in the road having a chat. Turning around to make sure no cars are coming and my precious canned peaches won’t end up crushed on the side of the road as I dodge the old women, I continue on my way. The old women stop nattering and gaze at me.

“Hi, hot isn’t it?” I say pleasantly as I pass.

The old woman’s response is unexpected.

She whacks me. She whacks me hard.

I am momentarily jarred. As if walking through a large oven carrying loads of groceries uphill weren’t enough, the local geriatric crew has to go and start shit with me. She appears to be about eighty years old, which, in Japan, means she’s actually two hundred and thirty-nine. For a two hundred and thirty-nine year old, she packs a hell of a punch. Shock registers on my face as I turn to look at her. She beams a toothy and metallic grin at me and starts jabbering in Japanese.

The possibilities are incalculable.

Possibly, I have horribly offended her with my tawdry American tank top and shorts ensemble.

Maybe, she is amused by my red face, labor pain-huffing and puffing, and bulging biceps under the weight of the canned peaches and twenty gallons of milk.

Perhaps, she is a bit of a sadist and wants to add to my already obvious sweaty toils and hardships for her own sick pleasure.

Conceivably, my pack-horse skills have become so honed that she has mistaken me for the real thing.

Or maybe, just maybe, she is smacking me out of friendly camaraderie. Although, I tend to lean towards a combination of possibilities three and four.

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Published:
8.28.07 / 8pm
Category:
amusing incidents, what i call life, unschoolish