In my first city, I mostly spent time with Japanese friends I met at language school, and of course, everyone I met there spoke English as their second language.
At my part-time job, there weren’t any Kiwis either—I had far more chances to talk with other non-native English speakers.
And because conversations somehow “worked” in that environment, I started to think:
“Wait, maybe… I’m getting the hang of English?”
But then—
After returning to Japan temporarily, I moved to a new city and started a new job. That’s when I met a lot of native English speakers.
And just like that, my sweet little daydream was shattered.
The speed of their speech was completely different.
Their accents had nothing in common with the international friends I’d been getting used to for six months.
They used slang all over the place.
They gave me space to talk and listened when I spoke.
But I couldn’t grasp the bigger picture of what was going on. I didn’t get why everyone was laughing.
I found myself left out—and that became normal.
Sometimes I didn’t understand a single thing being said, and on top of that, work was hectic.
Still, for some reason, I genuinely enjoyed being in that space.
Looking back, maybe it’s because the chefs would joke around with me,
teach me how to plate cheese boards and desserts during quiet times with a “you’ll need this when it gets busy,”
and even though I was mainly doing dishwashing, they’d let me handle plating when things got intense—
they made me feel like a real part of the team.
As I got more confident and efficient at the job, the head chef offered me a chance to work at one of their sister restaurants.
I had time on my hands, so of course I said yes.
The next week, I started working at both places.
The new crew was just as unique—but this time, I sensed they already had their own groups.
I didn’t quite have the courage to break into them.
Then on my second shift, after I’d finished all my tasks and cleaned up the kitchen, I tried to leave…
and one staff member exploded at me, yelling for an hour straight.
It was a rough start.
I wasn’t sure what to do.
“Maybe this place doesn’t suit me.”
“I’m scared of working with that person again.”
“But I feel bad quitting on the head chef who gave me the opportunity.”
“Still… I want to earn while I can.”
And then came my third shift.
That’s when I first worked with George—a loud, seemingly super social chef,
but with a quiet gentleness hidden beneath all that noise.
And just like that, George easily pulled me out of the mess I was in—
and changed my life again.
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