There's nothing quite like riding your bike to school at 8 in the morning, enjoying the crisp late-winter air, only to pass by a Japanese businessman in a suit absolutely reeking of cigarette smoke. Can't start your day without having your pre-breakfast cigarette? I hope you don't mind dying of emphysema.
The teacher who sits across from me is also a chain-smoker. He can't go for more than an hour without smoking and takes a cigarette break between every single 45-minute class. He sits more than 8 feet away from me and I can still pick up the acrid smell of nicotine. He also has yellow teeth. Attractive.
The vice-principal of an elementary school that I frequently visit is a closet chain-smoker. He never smokes in public, but the tell-tale signs are there: the smell, the yellow teeth, the persistent hacking cough. He spends most of the day wandering through the teachers' room commenting on the poor health of any of the teachers who happen to be present. He once told a perfectly normal female teacher that she should really diet because she's too fat to ever get married. Because he's such a shining example of good health himself.
Every time I walk out of a restaurant, club, or bar in Japan, I bring with me the aroma of burning tobacco. It sticks to my hair and my clothes. It makes my throat and eyes burn. Most of all, it makes me yearn for the near-fascist anti-smoking laws of California.
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