THE COLOR PURPLE

A friend, Megumi and I went out for dinner the other night. I could tell that she had something important to say when she leaned across the table and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I think,” she paused, checking for eavesdroppers, “I think, my hairdresser might be gay.”

I spat out my green tea in what I thought to be obvious mock disbelief. “Are you serious? You mean your flamboyant hairdresser? How do you know?” I raised my voice at the end and threw my hands in the air for added comic affect — a gesture I use in Japan to punctuate my sarcastic remarks, should there be any room for doubt.

Megumi giggled before replying. Good, I thought, not without excitement. Maybe she’s beginning to understand dry humor.

“Well, he always wears nice clothes and his voice sounds like a woman’s and he always talks about nice clothes.” I nodded my head in agreement but admitted that I was still skeptical. Void of humor, she sounded like a witness testifying at the Nuremberg Trials. Sarcasm I’ve learned, like pubic hair grooming, is largely a foreign concept in Japan.

Two weeks ago I spent some time in South Korea. Despite the countries close proximity, the Korean and Japanese people seem worlds apart. Koreans are laid-back, their youth do not dress like senior citizens or in blackface, and when Koreans smile, it doesn’t look like someone set a grenade off in their mouth. However there is one common thread that ties the two cultures together: their inability to comprehend or detect sarcasm.

While in Korea, I spent a day in a Daegu mountain village with my friend Mike and his ex-pat comrades, Llana, Stephanie, Julie and Julie’s Korean friend, Chen. Chen was a middle-aged loner hell-bent on showing foreigners a good time. He met Julie earlier that day at a subway station when he spotted her eyeing a poster for a festival and offered to take her there as a guide.

We spent the afternoon hiking and afterwards we decided to dine at a local eatery. The owner brought out several appetizer dishes such as kimchi, pickled vegetables and sliced radish dyed purple. I had never seen purple radish before and I joked to Llana that I couldn’t eat anything that was purple, such as prunes, grape-flavored candy or eggplant. Llana laughed politely but Chen took action.

Moments later, a beaming Chen returned with the owner who, in a flurry of apologies, set out fresh plates of white radishes. Chen confessed that he overheard the comment about my no purple diet and didn’t want me to feel left out of eating delicious Korean radishes. Not wanting to make him look the fool, I thanked him for his consideration and sharp ears.

Later in the day, Chen turned to me and inquired why it was that I couldn’t indulge in purple provisions. “Good question Chen,” I said, stalling for an answer. “I guess it goes back to my childhood when I had a birthday party at McDonalds. As we were enjoying our McNuggets and milk shakes, a man showed up in a purple Grimace costume and tried to burn down the building.” Chen stared at me blankly. “Also,” I added, “he popped my purple balloon.”

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