Lost in Translation

I am on a Thai airways flight, squeezed in among dozens of passengers from many nations.

Just prior to our landing in Bangkok, an attendant passes me one of those ubiquitous arrival/departure cards. My only pen, though, is in my computer bag, and my computer bag is secured in the overhead compartment, and the overhead compartment is several rows from my current seat.

Because Clyde is also penless, I turn to the gentleman seated on my right. As he fills out his customs form, I note his family name is Matsumoto, and that his nationality is Japanese. At that moment, I recall that the second wife of one of my uncles, a man named James, always addressed my uncle as “James-san,” explaining that the addition of “san” was a sign of her great respect and admiration for a Japanese man.

Taking this to heart, I wait until my neighbor finishes his form before I say, “Mister Matsumoto-san?” and gesture at his pen.

He smiles very warmly and hands over his pen. As I accept it, he begins talking to me in rapid Japanese. His speech has a natural rhythm to it and is punctuated with gestures and pauses. Distracted by the task of filling out my customs card, I offer him the occasional smile, match one of his low chuckles, and nod when he does.

At the end of our flight, Mr. Matsumoto leans over to me and says, in English, “It is very rare to meet an American whose Japanese is as good as yours.”

After a moment’s hesitation, I bow my head slightly and say, “Domo oregato” — “Thank you” — the only Japanese phrase I know.

He beams at me again, and walks away.