Fuddland

I made a new friend whilst walking back from a restaurant the other week. A young Chinese man, he caught me up as I was attempting not to slip on the icy pavement, and said [in English], “Hello, can I talk to you?”

I managed to control my natural wariness and decided to engage him in conversation as we continued to walk up the road. Between answering his questions about why I was in here and where I was from, I discovered he was local but studies at the University of Japan and was just back here for a couple of weeks during the holiday; his English was pretty good, a lot better than even the advanced American English class I teach; his mother is a dentist and his father is an engineer; and he wanted to invite me round for dinner at the house he shared with them.

This last thing took me aback slightly — although I had heard tale of the friendliness of the locals when it came to foreigners, this was the first time I had experienced it first hand, and my wariness came to the fore once again. I pretended I had no idea what my telephone number was — a half truth, for although I didn’t have it memorised, I did have it written down in my wallet — and would instead take his and give him a call to arrange a convenient date. Neither of us having a pen gave me the bonus excuse of forgetting the number he’d given me if I decided not to call but subsequently ran into him again, even though he did have the world’s most memorable telephone number.

As it turned out, I’ve been quite busy since that day and I’ve still not called him, which I feel slightly guilty about [but not enough to pick up the ‘phone right now], and there’s been no sign of him on the street since.