Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 71595 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71595 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“You’re so cute,” they squeal in Japanese.
I beam, saying sincerely, “Anata-tachi mo kawaii desu.” You guys are cute, too.
And I mean it. They are cute, just like the rest of the city is, and by the time I make it back to the dorm, my jaw is aching from smiling too much. I just love Tokyo so much. I really, really do.
Have I mentioned how much I love Tokyo?
Because I do.
I used to think a person falling in love with a city was just an exercise of artistic license, but now I know it’s true. I’ve been here for over two weeks now, but every day I just find more reasons to love the city. Tokyo is the Gotham to my Batman, never mind if Japan’s capital has more colors than blue, black, and gray. If my hometown is my first love, then Tokyo is my destiny – the place I want to stay for the rest of my life.
And this city is almost perfect, except for one teensy little thing.
“Tadaima,” I wheeze out when I finally make it to Room 488, my home sweet home in this part of Japan. If there’s one thing about Tokyo that I’m not so enamored by, it’s their allergy to elevators in residential buildings. Only the really tall ones seem to have them, so my five-story dorm?
Not a bloody chance.
“Okaeri nasai.” My roommate is still in the bedroom, fixing her hair in front of the vanity. Her name is Vivi Anderson, and she’s one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever met. I should probably hate her a little, but daughters of theology professors like me just aren’t wired that way. Most times, I’m simply content marveling at how perfect she is. Hair the color of sunlight, eyes that are like liquid silver...you get the drift.
If I tried drawing her, my sketches would probably still have more flaws than the real deal.
When Vivi is done pinning her hair, she says in Japanese, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No hurries,” I assure her in the same language, only my accent is ten times worse and at one-fourth of the normal speed of talking. Although I have N2 certification in Nihongo now, passing a fluency test is different from actually applying your knowledge in real life. ‘Motto yukkiri hanashite kudasai’ is still one of my top ten daily phrases, which in English means ‘could you speak a little more slowly.’
Vivi’s insisted on giving me a full tour of the campus today, and it takes us almost an hour to check out everything. I have no idea why the kingdom chose to enroll me in the Tsubaki College of Fine Arts, but I’m definitely not complaining. Every inch of the place is picturesque, its facilities topnotch.
Our last stop for the tour is the three-story university hall, which Vivi tells me is like a mini-mall and town plaza all rolled into one. It’s where all the restaurants and shops are, and it also has several exhibition rooms that students could book at no cost for official school activities.
After, she turns to me, saying gravely, “Our tour is thus concluded.”
Doing my best to keep a grin off my lips, I say with equal graveness, “And so it is. Thank you very much, Vivi.” I bow deeply, and she returns the gesture with the same level of formality. Have I mentioned that my roommate was raised by priests and before coming to Tokyo, she’s lived in a shrine her entire life? While the priests there did a good job in making Vivi as fluent as any local in Nihongo, they weren’t as successful in teaching Vivi her native tongue. Let’s just say that half of their English lessons seem to come from Downton Abbey while the other half seems based on a pirated copy of Merriam Webster.
“I really appreciate you taking the time to give me the tour,” I tell her. “Can I treat you to coffee—-”
A grimace starts to mar Vivi’s lovely features.
Oh. Right. I keep forgetting the priests in her shrine think Starbucks is evil for some reason. It’s a far cry from the ones I’ve seen sipping on frappes in Asakusa, but to each shrine his own I guess. And so I smile apologetically at Vivi and correct myself, saying, “I meant tea. Are you in the mood for some tea?”
Vivi brightens. “Always.”
“Great. Any suggestions where we should go?”
Five minutes later and we’re being escorted to our seats in The Blooming House, which is on the second floor of the university hall. It’s spacious and cozy at the same time, with dark wood paneling, leather chairs, tree trunk tables, and hanging flowerpots.
Our table is next to the windows, and when I glance outside, I notice a small crowd of girls gathering by the steps of the university hall. “Is there a big event scheduled today?”