Anna Matsushita

  Even now, when I look back on it, it was a most peculiar encounter. It happened nearly 40 years ago.   To call it an "encounter" may be overstating it, as I merely caught fleeting glimpses of the man in two different places. Yet, to this day, it remains a mystery that lingers in my mind.   In the early 1990s, I travelled to the United Kingdom for a year-long university exchange programme. A friend who had helped me arrange my plane tickets and Eurail pass accompanied me on the journey.   We flew with Aeroflot Airlines. After an overnight stay in Moscow, we set off for Heathrow Airport. Upon arriving at Heathrow, we boarded the Piccadilly Line underground train and headed towards our destination—a youth hostel nestled within Holland Park, right in the heart of the city.   It was late summer, and the park itself was alive with the sounds of music festivals. Simply staying there, one could enjoy operatic performances and concerts wafting through t...

  "Just let the tourists gorge themselves on those overpriced Cotswold afternoon teas!"   This scornful remark came from acquaintances of mine who spent mere few years of their youth living in England some thirty years ago. Having also lived in America for much of their early life, they were no stranger to long-term stays abroad. Still, it struck me as peculiar that someone with only a passing connection to tourism could voice such a seemingly authoritative opinion on the subject.   There’s a curious phenomenon among some who have lived overseas for an extended period, especially in their early childhood. A sense of distinction begins to grow—an invisible line separating themselves from mere tourists. For these individuals, their time abroad elevates them in their own eyes to residents or locals, entirely distinct from transient visitors.   Indeed, the longer the stay, the stronger this mentality tends to become. It’s as though time alone confers an unspo...

     "Whoa, you can like, speak English? No way, like a native or something!" This was a catchphrase of a former supervisor during my time at a certain company. He seemed to believe that calling someone “native” just because they could use a bit of English would somehow flatter them. It struck me as shallow.   In the professional world, whether during meetings, business exchanges, or social dinners, I’ve had numerous opportunities to use English. Over time, I’ve observed two ideals emerge:   *Achieving near-native fluency in English is, of course, desirable.   *Yet, equally critical is the ability to communicate effectively with those for whom English is not their mother tongue.   These ideals reflect a challenging paradox.   The Challenge of Non-Native Communication   Having attended an international high school, one of the most valuable lessons I gained wasn’t just English proficiency—it was the ability to comm...

      Allow me to indulge in a little rambling from my twilight years. It was some forty years ago, on an otherwise ordinary day at school, when I was abruptly asked, “Anna, why did you go upstairs?”   It was in late 1980’s, and at the time, my family had been relocated to London due to my father’s job, and I was attending an international school. The weekend prior, we had ventured to London’s Chinatown for a much-anticipated dinner. The memory still lingers—savouring stir-fried greens, steaming noodle soups, fried rice, and tapioca in coconut milk. Bliss.   On the way to the restaurant, I’d run into a classmate and their friends quite by chance. Later, I learned that they had trailed us, curious about where Japanese families dined. Apparently, the sight of us entering a Chinese restaurant had intrigued them enough to follow us inside.   The restaurant, like many in those days, operated on a system of subtle (or not so subtle) racial disti...

  It was about 30 years ago. I was waiting for my plane at the Heathrow airport.   I was on the way back to Japan after studying at a university in UK for a year. The final exam date was not out until last minutes, and it was difficult to fix the day I leave the country.   I booked the seat only 3 days before the flight. As soon as the exams are over, I sent out my text books and belongings from my college room, said goodbye to my friends, and headed for London.   It was slightly late in the afternoon when I arrived at Euston station. I went straight to a youth hostel in city centre, whic had a good access to Piccadilly line which has direct connection to the Heathrow airport.   I slept soundly, and got up early to catch the underground bound for the airport.   After check in, I sat at one of bench in airport lobby, waiting for boarding announcement.   Then, there came a group of soldiers. They were walking in a line, wearing kh...