Japan, forgive me.

Forgive me, I have unintentionally become...a grandma killer. Not, as in a murderer, but, you know, as in a lady killer....but instead with grandmas. Don't worry, I've never killed anyone, let alone a grandma.

Japan, I'm a grandma killer, as in "real good with the ladies who are over 70 years old." As in, "a MacDaddy wit da senior citizens ." Yup, reeeal smooth with the grand-ladies, a prince with the oba-sans.

Actually, Japan, I'm not sure how I feel about this title yet. This is merely what the women members of my Tuesday Night english conversation class told me. They are, ironically, all Japanese grandma-swinging-foxes.

No, really, though: they love me, Japan. I'm a short young man, but I'm taller than all of them, and, in their eyes, I can do no wrong. My forearms are constantly in their boney grips, them shaking my arm as they grin from ear to ear at me and depart wordly advice on what I ought to do with my life. They bake me bread, bring me crackers, have a new comment on my appearance every week, and BOY do they love english.

God, they are all beautiful people, so full of experience and memories that young eyes like mine might never see. They've made it through wars, seen a country so rooted in culture and tradition undergoe drastic changes that would shock a chameleon. They know the harships of life and how successful they are to make it to the age they have, and thus talk comfortably to me about their eventual death. I say, No, don't talk about that! They grab my arm and say, here's some crackers for you, John. Thanks, I say, because I'm low on money and this is what I will eat tomorrow morning for breakfast, and, hell, if they can accept their death with such fluid wisdom, then maybe I can, too.

What makes your grandmas so wonderfully cute and wise, Japan? So warm, so willing to open up, so loveable? Just last week I had a Christmas party at my apartment with my english-lovin' Japanese grand-ladies. Of course, one of them--a short fire-cracker of an older women who insists on being called Kuma-chan (Ms. Bear)--brings her study-notebook to the party, along with enough fruit to last me at least four years. She brought her notebook so she could take notes throughout the party--she'd be damned if she missed a new vocabulary word. She asked me what "velveeta" meant. That's a tough one, I said. I think it means "over-processed." Anyway, we all had a blast listening to stories, talking circles around topics that on the surface might not appear to matter, but we all know they do. They went home, leaving me with enough snacks and left-overs to feed the animals at the Ueno Zoo. I had invited some of my same-aged American friends also, and Kuma-chan, bless her, was there with us until the the last dog was hung, laughing and sipping on her tea while we slurped beer and listened to her memory's greatest gems.

The next morning, around 7, as I'm slowing making my way into my morning coffee and contemplating my latest stack of dirty dishes, I gaze over to my window and see a black something silouetted against the orangey-blue morning sky. The steam from my hot-coffee had painted a blur on my window, so I didn't realize the silouette was a head until I saw two little hands cup themsleves around the eyes to squint in. Then came a sudden, loud banging on the window:

bomm bomm bomm "JOHN-JOHN!" bomm bomm"JOHN-JOHN!"

I open the door, and Kuma-chan coasts right in past me, mumbling something about a notebook she forgot last night and, oh, it'd be so bad--unthinkable-- if she lost it, and she goes over to the table where it's sitting, grabs it, and rushes back outside. I've never seen someone so purposeful at 7 in the morning. But, right before she closes the door, she reaches out, grabs my forearm, skakes it while she laughs, and says...something in Japanese that I didn't quite catch. But, the TONE was unmistakable: it said, "John, you are a sly sly grandma-killer, you devil, you!"

John