January 17th, 2002. Locked out.

Back home, I had a bunch of keys (only two of which I used, the others were for weight), so I always knew if they were in my pocket or not. But here, I only have one key and a light one at that; I'm always leaving it here and there by mistake.

Today M invited me out with some of her co-workers to check some Indian joint in Jiugaoka. Meeting time was 6pm. At 5:30, I was scrambling to get ready and out the door. In my clamour, I left my key on my bed. Shit. I looked around for a metal coat hanger (you can pick the locks with one easily), but there were none to be found. Shit again.

Luckily, I ran into La Fille Francaise and she helped me get the door open with a fork. This tells me that I either have to learn to be more careful with my keys or carry cutlery with me at all times.

I arrived at Jiugaoka a few minutes late, and saw M with the secretary from her school, Aya. We exchanged quick howdya-do's and headed off in search of the place. M tells me that it's a tea shop, but serves some great curry. "It's hot." she warns. "No prob." I say.

From the polite banter the three of us had going, I learned that were to be joined by two more of M's co-workers, Claire (from NY) and Meg (from Hawaii). We get to the place and it looks weird. It's about the size of gas station booth and the entire exterior is covered with some sort of climbing vine. The only clue one has to it being an eating establishment is a little sign that says tea, sticking out of the wall of green.

We went in and at once we were consumed by the smell of incense and spices. Mmm. It's dim and the walls were cluttered with Indian paraphenalia. The man behind the counter greets us with a toothy smile. Meg and Claire arrive soon after and both make a point to warn me that the curry here is hot. "Thanks," I say, "M's told me already." And they both smile.

We order and in a few minutes, the salad is served. Ok. Looks innocent enough. I take a bite and fear shoots through my body. The salad is spicy! Oh fuck. Images of my going beet-red and sprinting to the toilet are running through my head.

The toothy man comes back with four plates, and sets one down in front of me. He smiles and motions for us to begin. Warily, I take my spoon and dip it into the curry, mixing it into the rice. I do it slowly and am half expecting the spoon to come up burnt to a crisp, like in those old Tom and Jerry cartoons.

I took a bite and...nothing. It was spicy, but not like what I was expecting. Poor Aya beside me was sniffling away because of the spice. I laughed a little and went back to eating. At the end of the meal, all five of us were sniffling and trying desperately to figure out where we had heard this Indian music from before. Just as we were making some headway, M reminded her friends that it was time for their Japanese lessons and that we had better jet, if they were to make it on time.

I walked with them back to the station where we said our goodbyes, and went our separate ways. Aya went back home to her hubby, M et al went off to learn Japanese. And me, I wandered the streets a little while longer with my mouth open, trying to cool off my tongue.