When I lived in L.A., the things that caused the most stress were lack of money, lack of free time and my old car. In Japan, I am making more than enough money to live, I have ridiculous amounts of free time and I'm not legally allowed to drive a car, so stress comes instead from daily interactions in a language I basically cannot speak. It is hard, especially for someone like me, someone who likes to be independent and on top of things, to think: "I'm at the library. I want to get a library card. How on earth am I going to get a library card? Is this the form I need to fill out?" So I take it and fill out as much as I can figure out, and approach the librarian. Then, in my inelegant Japanese I say, "I would like a card please. But I don't understand Japanese." She giggles and asks the other librarian, who thankfully does speak some English and that is how I get my card.

But there's no guarantee there will be someone there who can understand enough English to know what I'm talking about, no guarantee that my limited Japanese vocabulary will coincide with the words needed to express what I want. So every new interaction is stressful. Sending money home after my first paycheck was a major undertaking and one that took three days to complete: one day to scope out the post office and figure out that none of the financial services are available on weekends; one day to ask a clerk, "Eigo ga wakarimasuka?" ("Do you understand English?") and hear an embarrassed, "Iie, wakarenai!" ("No, I don't!") and also figure out that the service I needed closed an hour before; and one final trip to actually make the transfer.

The clerk who helped me was incredibly sweet and spoke a teeny bit of English. Together with my teeny bit of Japanese we successfully filled out the necessary forms and made the transaction. I was sweating but relieved when I sat down to wait for her to finish the process. Then, after I thanked her in Japanese, she handed me the receipt with a smile and bow, and said, "So sorry. I must English very hard!"

I rode my bike away from the post office, triumphant, and realized I was humming "We Are the Champions." It's apparently a popular song in Japan, but I swear I haven't heard it since I got here, so I think it's somehow invaded my brain, like it's a virus I inhaled at the fireworks show two weeks ago or something. It's as insidious as my recent squid sushi cravings or my constant need to nod and bow. Before you know it, I'll be asking for mayonnaise and crab guts on my pizza.

...No, I'll never be THAT Japanese.