I knew Veracruz had a small Japanese restaurant around somewhere, but I’d nearly walked all the way to the beach before I stumbled upon the squat building with Kanji painted around all the windows. As I stepped into the nearly empty restaurant, a short and weathered old Mexican man stood up to greet me, “Buenas tardes.”
I thought for a moment and then muttered in Spanish, “Hablo Ingles?” In a split second, it occurred to me that I’d conjugated the verb wrong. The old man just waved me off and motioned for me to sit down.
Not exactly sure what to do or say next, I reached down to the nearest table and picked up a pair of chopsticks. The old Mexican man looked puzzled and said, “Hashi da.”
With renewed confidence and a gleam in my eye, I asked, “Nihongo hanasemasuka?”
“Un,” grunted the Mexican.
“Eto ne… Boku wa Eigo no sensei desu. Kyo no jyugyo de hashi tsukaitai. Moratemoii desuka?”
“Ii desu yo,” he said delightedly and gestured for me to take the chopsticks in my hand.
“Yon seto de ii desuka?”
“Ii yo,” the Mexican’s son said coming out of the back kitchen with a handful of chopsticks for me.
“Arigatogozaimashita,” I said with a bow as I backed out the door. “Shitsuraishimashita.”
As soon as I was back out on the street, I thought it was strange to meet a Mexican family that could speak Japanese.
Then, I began wondering what they thought. Some white boy pops in off the street, can’t speak a lick of Spanish, but in Japanese says he’s an English teacher and wants to use four sets of chopsticks in his class, and he pops back out.
Yeah, that might be a little odd. I smiled and hurried towards the bank. Now I needed to ask for $20 worth of coins.
