Mistaken Identify
By Chip Tsao | published Oct 09, 2008
As a frequent traveler, I have the privilege of being mistaken abroad all the time for a Japanese. I have never spit on Oxford Street. I have never howled at my mobile phone on a Eurostar train. I never crouched on a pavement in New York, waiting for the tourist coach with my countrymen, smoking and picking my nose as if I was taking a rest by the paddy-field. I do not have the habit of jumping queues at airports.
When I went to Paris, I never rushed to the LV store and bought three dozen handbags with cash in an uproarious mix of fury and joy. And of course, when I visited the male toilet in the Louvre, I always remembered to flush afterwards, without looking at the reminder on the wall printed exclusively in Chinese. I traveled alone, with a copy of Lonely Planet in my hand. I liked to sip my coffee in the Café de Flore—right on the famous seat once occupied by Hemingway, with an Albert Camus in my hand, gazing at the traffic and a few Arabs passing by, pretending to look thoughtful, and with a recognizable air of tristesse. Then a French waiter would offer me the menu politely, and hail me with a “Konnichiwa,” to which I always responded with a smile of approval.
Slant-eyed, yellow-skinned and from Hong Kong, I have been taking comfort from this mistaken identity. Until recently, that is. I was in a pub in Dover, England last week. Reading my Daily Telegraph, I was interrupted by an Englishman with a glass of Heineken in his hand. “Hey,” he said, “how come your leader’s got such a funny name?”
My leader, a funny name? The “Who” and “When”? Come on, I thought, these are old puns quoted by hundreds of Beijing correspondents already. “I mean mate, your prime minister, Aso,” said the man. Overhearing this, a small crowd in the background burst into laughter.
As an Oriental, even I am confused by their names. Nakasone and Koizumi, fine. Abe and Fukuda sound a bit funny, but reasonable. But the Japanese never had someone like Stalin, Mao or Pol Pot, so why is their prime minister called Aso? To be openly introduced at a G7 meeting (yes, it should soon be back to G7, as the Russians will be kicked out), with his name pronounced by a ballroom manager at the cocktail party, must be a great challenge to the latest Japanese prime minister’s diplomatic composure.
The Japanese are a patriotic people. They don’t like anglicizing their names. But shouldn’t they be a bit flexible occasionally? Just a humble suggestion to the Japanese consul-general in Hong Kong, if he reads this.
I only want to regain my honor abroad next time.
As a frequent traveler, I have the privilege of being mistaken abroad all the time for a Japanese. I have never spit on Oxford Street. I have never howled at my mobile phone on a Eurostar train. I never crouched on a pavement in New York, waiting for the tourist coach with my countrymen, smoking and picking my nose as if I was taking a rest by the paddy-field. I do not have the habit of jumping queues at airports.
When I went to Paris, I never rushed to the LV store and bought three dozen handbags with cash in an uproarious mix of fury and joy. And of course, when I visited the male toilet in the Louvre, I always remembered to flush afterwards, without looking at the reminder on the wall printed exclusively in Chinese. I traveled alone, with a copy of Lonely Planet in my hand. I liked to sip my coffee in the Café de Flore—right on the famous seat once occupied by Hemingway, with an Albert Camus in my hand, gazing at the traffic and a few Arabs passing by, pretending to look thoughtful, and with a recognizable air of tristesse. Then a French waiter would offer me the menu politely, and hail me with a “Konnichiwa,” to which I always responded with a smile of approval.
Slant-eyed, yellow-skinned and from Hong Kong, I have been taking comfort from this mistaken identity. Until recently, that is. I was in a pub in Dover, England last week. Reading my Daily Telegraph, I was interrupted by an Englishman with a glass of Heineken in his hand. “Hey,” he said, “how come your leader’s got such a funny name?”
My leader, a funny name? The “Who” and “When”? Come on, I thought, these are old puns quoted by hundreds of Beijing correspondents already. “I mean mate, your prime minister, Aso,” said the man. Overhearing this, a small crowd in the background burst into laughter.
As an Oriental, even I am confused by their names. Nakasone and Koizumi, fine. Abe and Fukuda sound a bit funny, but reasonable. But the Japanese never had someone like Stalin, Mao or Pol Pot, so why is their prime minister called Aso? To be openly introduced at a G7 meeting (yes, it should soon be back to G7, as the Russians will be kicked out), with his name pronounced by a ballroom manager at the cocktail party, must be a great challenge to the latest Japanese prime minister’s diplomatic composure.
The Japanese are a patriotic people. They don’t like anglicizing their names. But shouldn’t they be a bit flexible occasionally? Just a humble suggestion to the Japanese consul-general in Hong Kong, if he reads this.
I only want to regain my honor abroad next time.
Labels: Politically Incorrect, 陶傑
posted by Gemini Saga at 12:00 AM
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