Today I treated myself to lunch at the intimate sushi counter at the Conrad Tokyo. Just me, the sushi chef, his assistant, and a rather nice glass of Japanese wine.

The chef spoke English, thankfully, and since I know my way around most sushi and sashimi, I ordered à la carte. Uni (sea urchin), hotate (scallop), saba (mackerel), sake (salmon)—all the good stuff.

For a while, I had the counter entirely to myself. Then two Japanese women, perhaps in their forties, arrived and sat beside me.

We mostly kept to ourselves, enjoying our respective lunches, until they struck up a conversation.

“Where are you from?”

“America.”

A few pleasantries followed, along with the mistaken impression that I could speak Japanese. Oh, hell no. My Japanese vocabulary is largely limited to food, thank you, and a few expressions of gratitude.

Somehow, we progressed from conversation to photographs. First, a picture with the chef and his assistant. Then the women wanted a photograph of the three of us together.

They also taught me how to make a little finger heart by crossing my thumb and index finger. Apparently, it’s a popular gesture of affection and friendship. How sweet is that?

The assistant chef, who had remained fairly quiet throughout lunch, turned out to be quite the character. In our photograph, he’s standing in the background, grinning from ear to ear and making TWO finger hearts. Clearly, he had been saving up his personality for the camera.

The women were absolutely delightful. What began as a quiet solo lunch had turned into one of those unexpected encounters that make traveling alone so rewarding.

We said our goodbyes, exchanged smiles, and I returned to my room feeling rather pleased with the afternoon.

I even remembered my purse.

And then I looked in the mirror.

NORI. EVERYWHERE.

Black seaweed plastered across my teeth. Not a discreet little fleck tucked away in a molar. Oh, no. I looked as though I’d been chewing on a compost heap.

Now, apparently, the proper way to eat sushi is in one bite. Which I did, religiously. No dainty nibbling, no dissecting the chef’s beautiful creations. Just pop the whole thing into your mouth, chew appreciatively, and swallow.

Unfortunately, nobody mentioned that the nori might remain attached to my teeth for the rest of the afternoon.

And I’d been eating gunkan-maki, those little battleships of rice wrapped in seaweed and topped with delicacies like uni. As it turns out, they’re practically engineered to sabotage your dental appearance.

So there I was, conscientiously observing Japanese sushi etiquette, while apparently cultivating an entire seaweed farm between my teeth.

And suddenly I remembered all those photographs. All those smiles. All those lovely people who had been smiling right back at me.

Good God.

Somewhere in Tokyo, two delightful Japanese women may now have photographic evidence of an American tourist with a mouthful of seaweed, enthusiastically making finger hearts.

At least my heart was in the right place.

Even if the nori wasn’t.