The Lucky Ones

Today, Janice left me, and now I’m sad. Somehow it was much harder saying goodbye this time than it was in the summer.

I think that now I know a little bit more about what Janice might have went through when I left for Japan. For me, as soon as I stepped into Vancouver airport and said goodbye to her and my parents, everything was new and stimulating. I was meeting people from all over the world, I was exploring Tokyo, and then Iwaki, I was settling into my new apartment, discovering my new job; I was on a high and nothing could bring me down.

But now it’s Janice who gets to leave me behind for the excitement of returning home. I know that she’s going home to good friends and family, delicious foods that I never new were such a part of me, and the comforts of being immersed in one’s own native language. I can see her getting picked up at the Vancouver airport, driving home along Marine Dr. and walking across the front yard to our basement door. The lock will probably be a bit sticky as usual, and the hinges will creak slightly, and it will be dark and cool inside. If it were me, I would throw my shoes into a pile of other shoes, but Janice will probably put them back properly on the rack beneath the window that has a sheet of plywood for a window. From there, she will walk through the laundry room and open the door to our place. The air will be a bit stale from not being down there for a while and the carpet will feel both cool and soft. It will also have that “home” smell, which would be impossible for me to explain here in any amount of words.

On the walls will be a couple of my guitars, with a small bookshelf in between with my practice amp, books, and an aloe plant on top – unless she’s moved it. Luggage will be set down, maybe in the living room, or maybe in the bedroom. Maybe she’ll go into the kitchen, onto the hard linoleum, and open the fridge door, which must seem impossibly huge compared to what she’s been used to in Japan. Then she’ll probably find a glass from the strainer by the sink or in the cupboards above the toaster and the George Foreman grill, and pour a glass of water.

If she’s feeling up to it, she’ll turn on the computer that sits on the kitchen table; it sits here because the reception for the wireless internet signal is sometimes slightly better here than in the living room – although often it is not. Then she’ll go into her email to write me an email letting me know that she got home okay and that she’s going to lay down and that she’ll talk to me in a few hours when I wake up for work – short and sweet. Although, now that I think about it, she’ll probably get an email in her inbox telling her that I wrote this blog and she might decide to check this first – and comment on it later.

Then she’ll walk into the bedroom – if it were me I’d lie down on the covers, but she’ll probably get changed first and curl up under her comforter that she brought over from her dad’s place several years ago, and under the brown blanket that her mom gave me for Christmas a while back. She might look up to see a poster of Metallica – or the Red Hot Chili Peppers (I can’t seem to remember which one is where), which sit beneath the wall shelf that I built and that has books sitting precariously above where our heads lie in bed at night – something that, after living in an earthquake prone country, I will definitely consider remedying when I get home. She won’t look for long though, because it will be about 3 in the morning Japan time, and in minutes, she will be asleep. I think that in Vancouver tomorrow, it will be about 10 in the morning – today.

As for me, as I walked into the supermarket after work (by myself), I couldn’t help but think back to almost 6 months ago when I first stepped into the Maruto by my house. I didn’t know where to find anything and I didn’t know what anything was – and I couldn’t read or speak. I would walk aimlessly down the aisles looking for something that might be nourishing, taste good, and that I might know how to cook. I would walk down one aisle to find noodles of some sort, and then walk down another aisle to find noodles of a different sort – and sauces, always sauces everywhere. Then I would just stand in the middle of everything, make a move for the meats and seafood, only to see something colourful and shiny that would grab my attention for a few moments.

I would eventually end up back at my apartment with a couple bags full of heavy groceries. I would fumble around with the light switches trying to find out which ones turn on the kitchen. Then I would attempt the process of packing all that I had bought into my tiny fridge. I would then begin to prepare for dinner, but I would ask questions like, why don’t any of my pots have lids? Why don’t I have a good knife? Why is there Winnie the Poo on almost every dish that I own? And why did I forget to buy garlic?

Today, there were no bright and shiny objects to distract me in the supermarket. I bought vegetables and meat like a pro. Everything fit in my fridge as planned. I even remembered to buy ginger. There weren’t many surprises waiting for me today – until I opened up my computer this evening: