ABSTRACT
"You have Coca-Cola in America?" Nishikawa-san looked at us curiously. She had studied English at a local college before she got married and laughed at her possible ignorance. "No, Coca-Cola is best Japanese drink. You are very funny!" She opened a small porcelain container in which a tiny spoon rested in a familiar-looking pool of dark red goop. "Do you also have ketchup?" As she served us dinner, I felt strangely comfortable, as the warm moist smell of freshly cooked rice made my stomach tickle. Papa used to boast that Filipinos eat more rice than anyone else. So far we had had rice everyday, and although we were in Japan, I didn't care who ate more, I couldn't get enough of it. "You will be a strong boy, eat up!" Nishikawa-san added a whole cooked fish, eyes and all on my plate. "Be careful for bones!" The fish stared at me curiously like subway riders, but in this case without fingers.
