Alien

No, Sigourney Weaver does not play a role in this post.  There are no acid bleeding, inner mouth biting, face sucking aliens in this post.  I'm talking legal alien.  Sort of the New York cab driver stereotype for alien.  You know, they don't speak our language, they don't understand our culture, and they do really awkward things sometimes.  That is closer to the type of alien I mean.

Well, now I'm it.  I'm the guy who doesn't speak the language, who doesn't understand the culture, and inadvertently does all sorts of rude things.  The Japanese word for foreigner is gaijin.  It is an interesting term.  If you don't look Japanese, your gaijin.  If you don't speak Japanese, your gaijin.  If you are Japanese, but you're just way too weird, your giajin.  These are the outsiders.  No matter how long you live here, no matter how well you integrate into society, you will always be gaijin.

Our first day here we went to the local city hall and registered as aliens.  We had to wait two weeks to get our Alien Registration Cards (typing that just made me think of "Men in Black," which is fairly apt, because sometimes people look at you like your an eight foot tall cockroach with googly eyes).  Until we recieved our official Alien Registration Cards, we couldn't open a bank account, get cell phones, or set up the internet.  Luckily the gas, water and electricity companies didn't require it.  April would've been a dark, cold, showerless month.

After the wait, we got our cards.  I am now an official alien.  I'm so proud I think my heart might burst out of my chest.