Although it's been a while, mistakes still come naturally.

Luckily, the big ones are behind me. I've got the shoe-changing business down, self-introductions are a breeze and I never turn down a gift, even if it is left-over Christmas chocolate. The big ones are easy to avoid, because they arise from foreign situations. Canadians don't wear bathroom slippers, don't make self-introductions and don't give souvenirs from their trip down the street.

It's the little mistakes that are harder to avoid. They're more subtle, arise from more nuanced cultural difference, which I am only now becoming privy to.

At an office party the other night I commented on Hamasaki-sensei's English ability. "Anata wa shogakko-sei no Ei-go o hanashimasu. Watashi mo. Watashi no Nihon-go wa ichi-nensei desu." You speak elementary school English, just like me. I speak grade one Japanese. Har-de-har-har, or so I thought.

Maybe I'm beginning to forget Canadian culture, but back home that a comment wouldn't have derailed the conversation. In our family we were always taking little jabs at one another. It's called sarcasm, and while I suppose it isn't for everyone, it's generally more accepted in our culture. If I get a bad haircut and someone says "nice hair", I'm going to know what they mean, and it isn't going to bring a tear to my eye. Sarcasm is difficult here, not only because of the language barrier, but because people respond differently - for many, it's more stinging criticism than light jest. But how do you change your sense of humour?

One way has been to depersonalize the sarcasm. For example, Taka-san asked what I was going to do on the weekend. "Buy socks. Very exciting." Even though I spoke the Emperor's Japanese, no one got it. They were truly puzzled. Hirose-san went into her dictionary for about twenty minutes before asking, "Jon, why are you excited to buy socks?" "Oh, it's just a joke," I said, at which point everyone laughed it up.

Another has been to play the idiot savant. Luckily this seems to come naturally. At taiko last night the sensei explained the drill in detail, and everyone got going. Of course I was daydreaming. While everyone else was doing their thing, I was looking around trying to figure out what everyone was doing. It was totally natural, look around to try and figure it out. Still, everyone thought it was hilarious. And it was. So I laughed.

Of course, I don't pretend to understand the Japanese sense of humour. Lord only knows what in the hell that TV hamster is doing with his head stuck in a door three sizes small than the rest of his body, let alone what the five-person panel is colour-commentating about.

Nonetheless, I've somewhat managed to fit my sense of humour to the Japanese sensibility. Hopefully, the longer I stay, the easier it will get. Hopefully, the mistakes will become fewer and farther between.