The other day I spied a foreign couple across the room in a Japanese restaurant. They were so new to Japan they bore an aura of green. Bright green. So bright, I had to squint.
I watched them drag the waitress outside so they could order by pointing at the plastic food. I watched them fumble around and drop more noodles in their laps than in their mouths. I watched them gush with glee as the lady at the next table offered exaggerated compliments on their awful chopstick skills. And I heard their strained "Domo arigato," with pronunciation so high and squeaky that I am surprised it didn't shatter my beer mug.
I found I couldn't look away. Why? Because I was jealous, that's why.