asia, or, you’re never too broke

2011

Fair warning: My Asia story is lame. It was maybe a 20-minute ride on some random road in a little town in Japan called Awajishima, which translates to Onion Island. Let me paint a picture: I’m on this old-lady beach cruiser that’s probably six inches too small and the chain jumps every time you try to shift. I’m riding this broken bike on a road with no shoulder going up a steep hill, and everyone’s driving like a maniac. The chain keeps jumping, so I’m barely even riding the thing, just alternating between duck-walking and coasting.

How did I find myself riding this terrible bike on this dumb hill?

My mom and I were visiting my sister in Japan, where she’d been teaching English for more than a year with the prestigious JET program. She helped us navigate the byzantine subway system of Tokyo, led us on a tour of ancient temples in Kyoto, and took us out for an epic night on the town in Osaka. Now we were in her hometown, her element. Her apartment was adorable, and her best friend was a 70-year-old piano teacher who served us tea in an elaborate ceremony, and we went to a festival on Nushima Island where we ate boiled octopus and got drunk on a tarp with strangers. When Jill crossed paths with her students outside of school, they ran up to her to hug her and say they loved her.

Meanwhile, back in America, I’d just gotten fired from my job at the Coffee Snob.

The Coffee Snob was this coffee kiosk at Georgia Tech that sold sandwiches that the owner, thinking himself clever, called “snobs.” This meant that whenever someone wanted to order a sandwich, they had to say, “I’d like a Bacon Snob please,” which I think we can all agree is just degrading.

The owner’s entire business philosophy was yelling.

“I’m a YELLER!” he yelled. “We YELL our orders here because it’s so LOUD you can’t HEAR OTHERWISE!”

I nodded quietly.

“Go on, let me hear you YELL!”

“Aaaa?” I tried.

He gave me a look like I was an idiot child. “You’ll never make it at the COFFEE SNOB if you can’t YELL.”

“Aaa!” I tried. He gave me a nod that said THIS IS SUFFICIENT, and I was given the job.

I lasted two weeks. Turns out I hate yelling. And now here I am in Japan, watching the last of the money in my checking account disappear. Did I mention I have a pack-a-day cigarette habit I’m hiding from my family, I haven’t smoked in almost a week, and I want to kill everyone? So I ask my sister if I can borrow her bike and go for a ride to get some air. By “air,” of course, I mean “cigarettes.”

I nix the idea almost immediately; this is a small town, which means the gossip circuit is merciless. There’s no way I could buy smokes without my sister finding out. But even without nicotine, I’m feeling a little better. Maybe it’s the endorphins, that pure joy that comes from riding a bike? Ahh, who am I kidding, it’s the great petty band-aid of sibling rivalry. Sure, I’m an unemployed bum, but my sister isn’t perfect either. Her friggin bike doesn’t even work!