Just when I feel jaded about the blogosphere, I discovered a new blog InvisibleGaijin that mixes wicked satire and faux news with a focus on men’s fashion. Swoon.

The above is from InvisibleGaijin’s story about Japanese underwear, which connects undergarment obsession with recession and soshoku danshi (herbivores), and in part reads:

Self-professed gaijin with love/hate relationship with Japan, Fuzakeruna Konogaijinme, commented, “Japanese salarymen always turn inwards in recessions, peering into their navels in hopes no one notices they don’t do shit at work. Underwear that makes your balls feel good always sells.”

(Image from www.pants-ya.com. Almost NSFW).

The Japanese are well racist – everyone knows that. Or the internet does anyway; log on to any expat forum and you’ll find it’s full of complaints and complainers. They call foreigners ‘gaijin’, which is bad, apparently. They don’t allow foreigners to rent houses, apparently. They won’t let you in to bars, or baths, and woe betide you if you’ve got a tattoo. All of these things are true, of course, but they’re equally true of pretty much any part of the world. My Japanese wife once went into a pub in proudly multicultural London only for the landlady to shout, “NO DVDs” at her. Presumably she assumed that my wife was a DVD or something, but she was actually just a Japanese woman, who wanted a piss. A year or two later, when we were trying to move to Hereford, several of the letting agencies had signs up on their doors saying that Polish people weren’t welcome. (About a year after that a schoolboy was stabbed to death about a hundred yards from our new house after a racially motivated altercation.)

I offer these anecdotes not to justify the racist behaviour that very clearly does exist in Japan; just to demonstrate that it is wrong to characterise Japan and the Japanese as any more racist than any other place or people. But, having hitherto had no firsthand experience of any sort of racism in Japan , I encountered my first bit over the weekend. I was visiting Shinjuku, in Tokyo, and I was in a rush so I asked a policeman for directions. In return, he asked me for my Gaikokujin Tourokushou (or 外国人登録証 for anyone with Japanese fonts installed). It’s a card that foreigners are, by law, required to carry (which, in itself, is a little bit racist, but not really, because while they don’t have to carry ID, Japanese nationals are expected to register themselves on various local registers).  

Anyway, by coincidence I had recently chanced upon firebrand foreigner Debitu Aruido’s advice for anyone who might find themselves asked to display their gaijin card. So I followed it and asked the policeman (who, actually, was probably some sort of community variant thereof) why he wanted to see my ID. He very politely told me that there were foreign criminals in the area, so it was just a spot check. And then he copied down all of my details, while chatting to me about Yamanashi, where I live, and how I met my wife etc. Once he’d done that, he very politely escorted me to where I needed to go.

As indignities go, it was a pretty dignified one. It was certainly less annoying than the two occasions that London’s police stopped me to see if getting blown up by terrorists had inspired me to carry a bomb in my bag (just as an FYI for the police: if I ever do decide to carry a bomb in my bag, I’m going to wait until the precise moment you accost me to search my bag, and then I’m going to blow it up). But I guess it was still an indignity. So I decided to seek my revenge by wreaking drunken havoc on my way home later that night.

Once upon a time, two or three years ago, I was on a train home from celebrating New Year’s Eve in Kamakura. It was about 3 or 4 am and the train was silent, because everybody was tired and cold. I was, like several other passengers, napping. Then, all of a sudden, it wasn’t silent. It was loud and American. A bunch of drunken foreigners got on the train. One of them was a short, fat, ponytailed guy with bad skin and a purple velvet suit. He proceeded to accost all of the passengers on the train, loudly, in English, to ask them if they’d had a nice night, or to ask them if they thought he was drunk, or whatever drunken idiocy had just occurred to him. I mean, he actually woke people. He woke me up! Sure, by that point, after enduring about ten minutes of this inebriated cabaret, I was only pretending to sleep. But still, he woke me up. I didn’t reply. I just glared. Apparently I glared pretty badly, because at that point his friends shushed him and he sat down with a drunkenly exaggerated apology.

On Saturday night, in return for being asked for my gaijin card, I became that foreigner. Having consumed lots of sake, plum wine, and lager with a friend from university, I proceeded to disturb the last train silence by using LOUD PIDGIN JAPANESE to ask if I was on the right train, or which station to change from the express to the local train, or if this was the right stop etc. And then I met my wife in a local family restaurant where I messed up everyone’s wa by explaining that MY WIFE IS ALREADY HERE and taking up too much room at the table etc.

In retrospect it’s a bit embarrassing. But it’s only what racist Japan had coming to it.

Amazing how much can change in so short a time. Last post I was plagued by a need for a job and no hopeful prospects. Now, I have a seemingly ideal job with contract signed and certification starting in three days. I’m going to be an English teacher at Gaba. They’re an English-teaching company in Japan that specializes in one-one-one lessons (“man-to-man”, as they call it, which of course sounds awful). I applied two months ago, and then again one month ago, and then again this month, because they put out a job posting on Gaijinpot.com every month (or maybe that’s just because they weren’t getting enough teachers – but if that were the case why didn’t they contact me sooner?). They were actually where I applied first this year, but after hearing nothing but a single rejection letter in two months, I had all but given up hope. I wasn’t going to apply in November, but I just happened to remember about the website after leaving in search of a Japanese job, and whaddaya know, I get the job this time.

I remember thinking as I applied for November that it would probably ironically work out this time, simply because I had come so far since my first time applying, in terms of courage to call (even Japanese) employers and do interviews, etc. Those were things worth learning, so I can’t be too mad that I didn’t get the job until now.

However, I’m definitely glad for it now. I was getting worried.

I felt so out of place at the first interview (information seminar, then brief cursory interview). There were probably eight of us, and though I probably looked fairly similar to the rest of the applicants, I felt so conspicuous. They all looked exactly like the stereotype of a Caucasian English teacher in Japan, mostly due to their formal dress. Like I said, I was dressed up too so I probably looked far less out of place than I felt. I think I was the youngest.

Another thing worth mentioning is that having grown up in Japan, I naturally assume that any foreigner I see on the street has less experience with the culture than me. So I avoid interaction with them, seeing as they will sooner or later do something extremely stupid and embarrassing and I will be associated with them because, to a Japanese, I look just like them. Funny, isn’t it? I’m a foreigner, and yet I’ve developed the same attitude towards them as the Japanese, that is, “He is a gaijin, he must be stupid and culturally inept. Must distance, must distance.” I only realized this a few years ago when I worked here with guy from America and he noted, “Foreigners here don’t associate with each other, do they? They almost seem hostile.” Yeah. You are embarrassing me, go away.

But now I willingly thrust myself into that environment and I’m going to stay in it because now they’re my colleagues. Ha. I don’t mind terribly. They’re interesting people. I’m just being forced to embrace my foreign self more than I’m used to doing when I’m here in Japan.

It’s quite an ideal job though. I submit when I’m willing to work each month and the clients sign up for times on the website. I can work as much or as little as I please. I hope there are a lot of students, because I want to earn a lot. I’m also going to be teaching kids. I was relieved to hear that that’s also one-on-one, because one kid is easier to manage than a group. I just hope I can keep him/her happy.

Most of the lessons are “blue-booked”, meaning that the client chooses the instructor based on prior experience or maybe just the profile and ten-second video on the website. I wonder how appealing mine is. It was quite awkward taking it, I hate those situations. It was funny to imagine weird videos though; for example the stereotypical American who came to Japan for the anime and maids and whatever else, and now finds that he still needs money to live on in his fantasy country. So he somehow manages to get a job with Gaba, and in his profile video belts out, “Konichiwa! My name is Bob Smith, I’m an otaku! I love Japan!!” And I imagine him doing the awesome Andy “I love Japan!!” face which involves him rolling his eyes back and…you know, better than me trying to explain it would be simply showing you. Here. Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=azxO12l0mVw

Like I said, he’s awesome. I don’t think he’ll mind me shooting him a little traffic, although maybe yes if I’m acquiring all sorts of creepy readers. Which I don’t think is the case, seeing as my daily view count is still in the single digits.

So now I have a job and will soon have a (presumably) stable source of income, but I’m still curious about making money with a blog. I figure it’s only a matter of time before word gets out about this, and then I’ll hardly know what to do with all the traffic. I hope you know me well enough by now to understand just how seriously I believe that sentence.

I was looking into putting ads on blogs, and I haven’t looked very far, but it seems to be very simple. I’ve also heard that you need at least a hundred views daily to start making money. Any thoughts on that? Yes, I know that I could just find a blog on that very topic, but I’m giving you a chance to speak up. Actually that’s wrong, you’ve had that chance ever since you stumbled onto this little waste pile of cognition. Now I’m giving you the invitation.

And everything is of course so much brighter now that I have a job coming. I can enjoy life. I can open my shutters and breathe in the sunlight. I can also get back to studying Japanese, because that test is closer than ever and I have so much left to study.

I have a lot of things I want to write to you about but it will have to wait because I’m still busy. I’ve worn a suit every day for the past three days – but I need to get used to it, because with Gaba’s dress code I’ll likely be wearing a suit six days a week from now on. I want to buy a suit rather than borrow my dad’s forever. I wonder if they have my size here, if it won’t be astronomically expensive, and if it will look cool.

Study time.

-Grant

(Disclosure: www.pants-ya.com is a client of a client. This is an unpaid advertisement. Testing 1-2-3. YMMV;)

A recent survey by the Japanese newspaper, Daily Yomanai, reveals Japanese men of all ages are obsessed with their underwear, to say nothing of the J-girls who love them for it.

Fashion-conscious young so-shoku danshi (herbivore men) choose the classic fundoshi loin cloth and middle-aged old fart ojisan are going Lady Gaga over pastel yakuza irezumi prints.

Self-professed gaijin with love/hate relationship with Japan, Fuzakeruna Konogaijinme, commented, “Japanese salarymen always turn inwards in recessions, peering into their navels in hopes no one notices they don’t do shit at work. Underwear that makes your balls feel good always sells.”

“The essence of wabi-sabi is the elegant understatement of one’s fashion policy,” explained noted designer, Hanae NanikaTsukkomu, “it’s definitely not about in-your-face gaijin-ism. Sort of like pissing on one’s own face in a didactic metaphysical Bauhaus kind of way.”

Joe “Dick” Wilson, purported 2012-is-the-end-of-the-world-according-to-the-long-Mayan-calendar-Republican-Wing-Nut-Tea-Party-presidential-candidate, said, “嘘つき!” and invoking the over-used Kanye West internet meme, “Yo, I’ma let you finish but Beyonce wears the best underwear evah.”

# # #

In other news, Japanese killer gets plastic surgery, gets busted. http://bit.ly/r8cgR

Photos: Agencé Furyo_Gaijin

Gaijinkirai Kamo, the Japanese national accused of murdering a young British woman was arrested today after a nationwide manhunt, following the release of photographs taken before and after his extensive plastic surgeries.

National Police Agency spokesperson Omaru Omawari whined, “We’re just relieved we’ve caught this fugitive especially since we let him slip between our fingers in the first place. We also failed to anticipate just how far this dastardly criminal would go to change his appearance. I mean now he looks just like Taylor Swift, how were we supposed to know?”

Noriko Sakai, who was convicted on Monday of neglecting to throw away drug residue, acting way-too-cute-way-too-past-the-expiration-date, and marrying a self-proclaimed pro surfer, commented, “I plan to get a divorce, study care-giving, and then in three year pose nude to re-start my career when my suspended sentence is up. I’ll be baaack.”

When asked for comment, Perky Oppai, young Japanese woman on the street, said, “Wow, where did he get his bihaku treatment, I want to look like that! Kawaii!”

The unidentified caller who called the police was to receive a JPY 10 million reward but was stoned to death by neighbors, colleagues, and family members who became jealous and resentful of his windfall.

# # #

In other news, the Michael Jackson tribute movie, “This is it!” failed miserably at the box office when the movie title was translated into Japanese as, “This is Shit!”

Posted via email from invisiblegaijin

Long story short: I have an extra room in the basement and I rent it out to  desperate people, students and vagabonds.  Currently it is occupied by a couple. American guy -23-, and a Japanese girl -23-.  I left my room to get a piss and heard the following as I froze in place to ease drop……

Dude:”You have ha new boyfriend?”

J-girl:”Whats dis?”

“I want to sleep.” This was followed by some assorted moaning.

“Whats dis?”

“It’s my day off…I want to sleep.”

“Whats dis??”

“iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii” just him shrieking.

“You like dis?”

“I.want.to.sleep.”

“Whats dis?”

“What are you doing? Don’t touch that.”

“Feeling good for you?”

“iiiiiiii i wanna sleep don’t touch that.”

“You day off. Whats dis?

More moaning.

“Can you pee on me?’ He asks her.

“What?”

“Please…” he enunciates each syllabub super clearly. “Pee.On.Me.”

“Can I pee to you?”

“Yes can you pee on me?”

“Can you pee on us?” She sounds confused. He laughs, moans then moans again, in what sounds like agony.

That was it. Then I went to the toilet. So who wants to move in?

“Well I have thing to ask of you.”

When someone says something like this to you, forget about it.  Things have already turned a corner and are headed the wrong way. Thats the way you don’t want them to go.

She looks right at me smiling and says “I want to go to eat shabu-shabu tonight at my favorite place.”

I’m already bracing myself as I bring the draft beer up to my face and take a really long, necessary pull off of it.  I’m sittin’ across from her at a cafe, Segafredo Zanneti, near Kabukichou in Shinjuku and this is a private English lesson. How I ever wound up in Tokyo Japan, teaching private English lesson’s…fuck if I know.  Yet here I am.

“OK….you want to eat shabu-shabu and…what?”

I say that.

I smile.

I smile a lot.

Big and dumb because why? It works. Smiling works. I learned that from Tom Cruise.  She must be 45 and Japanese and this is our eigth lesson I guess and my smile has alot to do with her renewing the contract tonight and thats good because money is good.

I smile.

“I want to eat shabu-shabu…do you know shabu-shabu?” She reiterates.

Her: big smile.

Her: Bad skin.

Her:Too much makeup.

“Sure I know Shabu-Shabu. Sure.” Personally. Me and Shabu-Shabu go way back.

Me: Smiling like a maniac. A plastic,dead smile.

Me: Wearing a beanie cap made for me by a girl years and years ago.

Me: Finishing my draft beer.

“I want to eat shabu-shabu but I don’t want to eat it…alone.” She makes both the words “shabu-shabu” and “alone” feel spongy and hot-moist. These words are the towel under a fat Russian in a sauna. These words are some mal-formed newly born chicken that looks more like a sausage on a stick with a condom over it.

Me: holding my breath.

Me: not wanting this.

“So I want to invite you to eat shabu- shabu with me tonight….at the…restaurant. Of course I do the paying.” And satisfied now she just sits there….beaming.

Her:  married.

Her: my client.

Her:  really not my deal.

My smile BURNING on my face I verbally scramble “Shabu shabu? I love it! But…too bad…I have another client  this evening and its just…simply…” I shrug and and make a puppy dog face “…impossible.”

The lesson moves on and it all seems fine until the end.

Until its time for her to give me the payment for her next contract.

“I need to tell you, I really wanted, oh I really wanted to have another contract with, uh, you but I have been doing a thinking and it seem like I will be busy in the next of two months so…I think…”

You evil beast. ” I must wait…today is just…”

Don’t you dare. “…impossible.”

Nasty double dealing cosmetics junky. It wasn’t just being invited to dinner. This was a progressive thing.

This was her breaking the physical contact barrier, to my personal horror.

This was her using “heart marks” in emails to me.

This was her asking to see my chest hair.

This was me not being pumped…..

The gym helped…but not enough. Hence the post.

Hey There,

The trip back from Sapporo was pleasant.  The day started with a couple of donuts from Mister Donut.  I can say without hyperbole that those donuts were the best I’ve had.  Next to Dunkin Donuts, of course.  The plane ride was also nice- I had two seats to myself in a mostly empty plane, got a nice drink of Orange Juice (in Japan they give you Mikan Juice, which is what we would call Mandarin Orange Juice, which is less tart than Florida Orange Juice), and was able to play a few rounds of Pangya Golf on my PSP.  By this point, any travel time was taken up playing Pangya, Madden 10 on the PSP or Mario Cart on my DS.  Normally, when traveling I would read, but I usually didn’t have a bag with me and the DS was convenient enough to carry in my pocket.  Also, since I can’t read while listening to music, video games are a nice diversion.

When we got back to Tokyo, we got on the Monorail.  I’ve been on monorails in the past- at the zoo, here in Seattle, but this was more like a commuter monorail, or at least,what a commuter monorail might be like.  It was a fun ride.  When we reached our station, however, we had to walk down many flights of stairs to get to street level.  I kept thinking that if we kept going down, we’d end up in New York.

After a quick stop at the hotel to drop off our bags, it was off to Yokohama to see the BayStars.  The BayStars are an interesting team because they are the only team in the NPB that does not use their corporate sponsor in their name.  Their corporate owner, Maruho, is a fishing company.  The team also was formerly know as the whales.  Given the bad press about the Japanese and whaling, they changed their name to the BayStars and dropped Maruho from their team name.  Some (that is, the people in my group) feel that the whole whaling thing is a convenient story- we think they dropped Maruho from their name because Maruho was embarrassed about how the BayStars played.

Yokohama Stadium is a fairly normal, but old ball park.  The weird thing about the field itself is that while it looks there are dirt paths between bases, it is really mostly turf.  Only the areas around the bases and the pitcher’s mound are actually dirt.

I’m not sure why, but I didn’t have a great time at this game.  Maybe I was “baseball’d” out, or maybe it was the fact that we were seeing the hated Swallows again and that the BayStars didn’t have much of a chance.  Maybe it was the lame mascot of the BayStars:

I don’t even know what that bear was doing there.

One thing about this game, there were more Gaijin at this game than at any other.  I found that weird because the BayStars are a horrible team, but then it was pointed out to me that there is a big US Naval base in Yokohoma.  We didn’t meet any of them, which was good, because they were a bunch of drunk idiots.

Despite getting off to a good start (2-0 in the first inning), the BayStars lost the game, 6-2.  I think that first inning would have been better if not for a batter’s interference call that ended the inning.  I didn’t see any batter’s interference- especially since it was a foul ball that went to the wall behind home plate.

A day or so before the game, the BayStars decided not to re-sign Kimiyasu Kudo, drawing the ire of their fans.  This is interesting to note because Kudo is 46 years old and the oldest player in the NPB (and maybe in all of organized professional baseball) and a fan favorite.  He got into the game and pitched two-thirds of an inning, retiring both batters he faced.  I heard recently that he might be signed by the Seibu Lions, the team he started with back in 1982.  I hope it all works out.

In Tokyo, businesses frequently place advertisements on packs of tissue. The idea is that because public restrooms do not always carry paper towels, people will want to keep a pack on hand at all times. It’s a pretty brilliant idea, because unlike a flyer, people will actually hold onto the ad, and look at it at least several times.

My husband, Taylor, remarked recently that he almost always gets passed over by people handing out ads. I felt skeptical until we had lunch recently in central Tokyo, and I received a pack of tissues and he did not.

From a business perspective, this makes some sense. You do not want to waste resources on people who can’t read your advertisement. Contrarily, appearances don’t tell the entire picture. Unlike my husband, I have the benefit of not being immediately labeled as a gaijin (foreigner), but this doesn’t necessarily mean that I can read enough yet to understand targeted advertisements. There are also plenty of gaijin in Tokyo who are fluent in Japanese. Discriminatory treatment must be incredibly frustrating for those individuals.

It was all basically an accident.

I arrived in Japan with the intention of living here in 2004. I had come in December of 2003 to see the PRIDE FC New Years eve event at the Saitama Super Arena.  It rocked.  Gary Goodridge knocked Don Fry out with a head kick in the first 30 seconds.  The last cool thing Goodridge would ever do in his Fighting career.

I was really into MMA so I checked out the famous Takada Dojo in Meguro here in Tokyo. By checked out I mean I went and trained there a couple days.  I left unimpressed. A friend recommended I go train at least once at the equally famous  (in japan anyway) Ihara gym and this is where I still train, for the most part, to this day. It impressed me that much.
I am telling you all this because it should be clear that I did not come to Japan planning to teach English. Nor was I interested in temples or learning Japanese or Kimonos or Manga or whatever. I was just really into MMA and at the time PRIDE FC was THE show. UFC hadnt blown up yet. I did discover however that I liked Tokyo. It is such a dynamic city and has a vibration that I immediately connected with, so I up and moved here. I started Teaching English because I needed a Visa and the Owner of my gym said “Just go Teach English.”
At the time I thought this was absurd. I didn`t even know the Japanese were learning English, and why would I?Anyway I got a job with a company and I was going to be teaching Elementary school in Minato Ku. In 2004 this all meant very little to me, I was just happy that I could stay and train and could do this without being homeless or turning  tricks in a dirty bathroom someplace.

Naturally Gifted
First I think you should know that I am a natural Teacher. I have a lot of experience and I can give references.

• I was 7 when I taught this kid Roger Ganly that if you have braces it isnt a good idea to elbow me in the stomach and knock the wind out of me because I will probably walk up behind you after school and call your name and when you turn around I will crow hop your dumb ass.
• When I was 13 and my brother was 10 I taught him some really valuable stuff.  He would look out while I shoplifted comic books and whatever else I wanted from the Book store.  I taught him all about team work, planning and communication: verbal or otherwise.  Not to mention that with the right attitude nothing is impossible.  Really good stuff.  He has never thanked me though.
• I was maybe 14 when I invented my own martial art. It was kind of like Karate and Judo mixed with Kung fu and wrestling. ..but it had a lot more spinning kicks and jumping around.  This was a really big deal as far as teaching went because my friend Patrick and I had decided that he would coach my brother, I would coach his and then the next day the two of them would fight to the death and we were betting a lot of money, like 5 or 6 dollars so everyone was taking it really serious.  I had to　impart all my warrior knowledge on his brother Tyler (no easy task as he had no natural killer instinct to speak of) basically in 2 hours.  I think I succeeded but sadly we never got to try it out because Tyler got grounded for something.  Jerk.
• I was 17 when I taught my 15 year old girlfriend Melanie how to give head and have all kinds of sex.  She was a quick study let me tell you but I think my natural instincts for imparting wisdom on others really made a difference. Melanie was a very cool girlfriend.
• After I left the Military for a while I was teaching Cops in California how to do CQB (Closed Quarters Battle) incase they had to clear a Nursing home in which a Meth Lab had been constructed.  I also taught them how to kick the shit out of an unruly suspect if she refuses to sign a speeding ticket or whatever.

Look the list goes on and on but I think you get the point right?

NATURAL.

Megumi “MAD DOG” Yamada

The first school I taught at was in Odaiba.  It was an Elementary school. Very few foreign people live in Odaiba (a man-made island in the middle of Tokyo bay. Weird place.) so there were no mixed kids or foreign students.  In fact there wasnt a single teacher that spoke any English at all.  My boss from my company took me there and introduced me and then to my horror just left.  The first few days are a blur as I had no idea what to do, when to do it or with whom. I resorted to teaching basic military drill movements my first several class under the guise of it being “learning your left and right”.  “Snap and Pop”. “Sound Off!”  Keep in mind I spoke no Japanese. None.  It was all going so well.

I was trying to use the online translation software “Babbel Fish” to achieve some basic level of communication but it wasnt working.  I am sure the teacher was trying to ask me “At lunch time, can you eat fish?”  but Babbel fish came back with “Fish it consumes a supper of Ok time?” I was fucking lost.

In the 3rd grade class this little girl was just staring at me.  She just sat there in her chair glaring at me.  In the lunch room (this school had one oddly enough most Japanese elementary do not.)  I saw her again across the room slowly eating while MAD DOGGING me the entire time.  This went on for months.  Finally one day this future super model (looking at her face was like looking at a puppy dog. a very cute puppy dog.) walked up to me outside the school when I was heading to the train station.  I heard the little voice behind me “Eric Sensei!”

I stopped and turned around and there she was with her little red bag pack and she was standing in a power position: feet a bit wider than normal, hands on her hips and a very serious expression on her face.  Something you might call a conversation then ensued.  I had learned about 10 words of Japanese in those few months and with that and gestures and more of this puppy dog face scowling at me I ascertained that she was inviting me to her house which was I also ascertained on the 40th floor of one of these big streaming steel and glasses high-rise apartment buildings which are the only domicile`s on the island.  It was 3:30Pm and I declined. This did not go well.  She was not happy.  I was lost.  this pattern continued for a long time.  By the end of the year she had learned one English one real well: Stupid.  She practiced it often with me when I would decline yet another invitation.  To this day I have never been able to figure that little girl out.

The Kancho Incident

Kancho is this thing that Japanese kids do.  I will walk you through it so put your coffee or crack pipe down and follow along.

1. put both hands up in front of you palms facing each other.
2. enter lace your fingers while extending together you right and left pointer fingers so your hands resemble a church steeple or a gun.
3. Now sneak up behind someone.
4. Now jam that church steeple up their ass.

That is Kancho. It’s like a prank…although the humor or enjoyment is frankly, lost on me.  But its RAMPANT at elementary schools.  The Muppet Puppet foreigner, English “ALT” (assistant language turd/teacher) is no exception…in fact often its just open season on your asshole.

The thing is…”what Kancho is” or “advice on how to handle kancho”  was not included in the “Things you might need to know” handbook my Company never gave me.  So when I felt a hard foreign object intruding into that restricted area I naturally whirled around at top speed and my eyes took in the situation just in time for me to see the back of my right hand impact this 8-year-old boys head.

SMASH CUT and he is on the floor basically conscious I guess with one eye going to 3 oclock the other to midnight.  Only a little blood was trickling out of his nose.  His partners in crime, about 12 kids boys and girls stood in a half circle across from me with jaws on the floor. Nobody spoke for what seemed like a long time but was actually 2 seconds untill my initial response of “Fuck me Hard.”

I dragged the kid to the nurses office where thanks to the cohorts, she was told what happened. 

This became a whole “incident” and my boss had to come to the school and bow about a million times and I did my awkward foreigner bow about a million times and the Principal bowed about a million times and the kid never came near me again. 

Head Teacher/Pimp

  The second year I worked for that company they fired the “handler” who did a lot of the leg work going to schools and talking to people and helping us, the ignorant and troublesome teachers survive.  I guess they fired him because in fact, he was incompetent. A nice guy but incompetent. Like when he failed to tell me at contract re-signing time that this year the company would NOT be paying the summer holidays.  That was nice. A really nice surprise when I went to an ATM one day to pay my rent.

In his place they hired and American as a “head teacher”.  I will call him “Bob”.

Bob had been in Japan for years. Had a Masters in Japanese linguistics or something and was basically to become the Companies English departments “Head Liar.”  This he did well.  I guess liars and lies are just part of the business here so I am giving him a free-be on that score.  Head liar gets a pass.

No it wasnt the lying that bugged me but rather his continuous attempts to convince me to either appear in Homosexual pornography or to be a gay prostitute.  Ole` Bob was 100% FLAME ON gay gay and lived with his Boyfriend in Tokyo.  I remember the  conversation pretty well.

Bob: Have you ever considered doing some acting?

Me: No that isnt my thing I dont think….why?

Bob: Oh nothing…just…I know some people who make videos. All types of videos and its an easy way to make extra cash.  You should think about it.

Me: You mean Porn?

Bob: Yeah…

Me: You mean gay porn Bob?

Bob: Well yeah…but you can just masturbate on camera…alone.

Me: masturbate on cam in a gay pron flick.  This is your advice….

Bob: You can totally wear sunglasses or a Mask…like a professional wrestling Mask.

Me: Wear a mask….thats your advice….

The potty mouthed fucking butt pirate. Needless to say I never made my debut.  If you have read some other posts on the website you would know I am not too into being videotaped. Extravagant photo graphs…fine…video…no.  Apparently Bob is doing this regularly. A friend came to me one day and I could tell he wasnt in top form mentally and after I inquired as to way he told me Bob had tried to recruit him for a “film role”.  Yeah I bet. 

The Kiss of Death

All of the new “teachers” or “clowns” or “Puppets” or “assholes” had to go to the City hall to meet the god of english education one day.  It was my first time to do this.  I was new in Tokyo and had no idea about the trains etc. My boss had just said “hey see you at Daimon at 1000AM.” Right. Daimon. 1000AM. See you.  I arrived at 1020 after about 30 train changes, a series of sprints and a back flip.  I saw the other teachers all looking bored standing in a line. Lots of kackies. Lots of sweater vests. Lots of ugly ties.  I was wearing a pair of black slacks and a grey turtle neck sweater.  I also hadnt shaved at all in about 3 months and my beard was a thing of pride.  My boss, this little woman about 4 feet tall was wearing this quasi gothic black costume/outfit and black platform boots and she immediately started babbling incoherently as I emmerged from the station sweaty and panting. 

We went to the city hall where god lived and as we entered I apologized to everyone for being late and this one fellow wearing a really bad gray suit said in a booming baritone voice. “Its the kiss of Death. Being late is the Kiss of Death in Japan my friend. You had better understand that. Kiss of DEATH.”  I actually nodded my head and as I was about to ask who invited Sean Connery’s character from “Rising Sun” here, but here  he came again “And a beard…again Kiss of Death my friend.  Beards are a no go. I have been here a long time and I know what the deal is and let me tell….Beard = Kiss of DEATH.”  By this point I was dumbfounded and simply nodded numbly.  The guy next to me spoke up “Beards are the Kiss of Death huh? You’re a fucking idiot. ”  This was Brian. I would soon learn that both “Fuck” and “idiot” were words that he cherished dearly. A Black/Jewish expert on the Hebrew version of the Bible, married to a lovely Japanese woman and I would soon find out: essentially a Narcisstic psychopath.  We immediately became fast friends and are to this day. 

In the meeting with some of Gods minions from the Board of Education and Mind Control, essentially only Japanese was being spoken.  Myself and another “boot cherry” could understand nothing so Sean Connery, a man I would from that day forward simply refer to as “THE VOICE” cowboyed up to perform translation services.  Gods Minion would talk for a few minutes then The Voice said ” ok….essentially what she is saying is that at after lunch time you need to play with the kids outside during their Recess. You see it is a vital bonding time for us to connect with the children, our students, and really impress upon them that foreign people are just that…people.”  Brian spoke up loudly in the somewhat high-pitched, on the verge of laughter voice that he always seems to have. “What the Fuck are you talking about? Thats not what she said. Fucking Idiot.”  The whole meeting stopped and stared. The Voice spoke. “That is precisely what she said.  Look…my Japanese language skills are…” Brian again “You’re a fucking Moron. She was telling us we are expected to EAT LUNCH with the students and the rooms we should eat in will alternate each day so we have a chance to visit every class.  Fucking recess? She never said anything about that.” 

Silence. Heavy and True.  The voice left it alone after that.

Ironically a few months later The Voice would be fired for first stalking and then trying to solicit sex from two of his Junior Highschool students.   

Any Questions?

Like a new teacher would do at any school anywhere, on my first day with each class I usually introduced myself and gave a brief introduction followed by a little open Q&A with the help of the Japanese home room teacher. 

It was 5th grade class at a public school in Shibuya Ku this time.

“Ok…any questions?”  The list was pretty basic. Do you have a girlfriend? Do you eat Sushi? Can you use chopsticks? What is your favorite color? Do you like dogs? How tall are you?  Do you like Dogs?  Can you eat Raw fish? Do you like Dogs? Like that.

Today would be a bit special though….the last question I took that day was from a boy.  He stood up when I called on him and very clearly speaking asked in Japanese “Eric Sensei no chinchin ha nan centi gurai?”  essentially “How big is your dick?”  It was like a moment from BACKDRAFT as all the air in the air seemed to suck back for a split second as everyone, except me because I didnt catch it immediately, sharply inhaled.  The Home room Teacher, a 30-year-old lady who was very energetic and kind, well her face went through a serious of evolutions before become a fairly neutral mask despite the red color creepy up her neck and across her cheeks.  Then when the reaction came from the ”has asocial death wish” kids fellow students, it came big.  “What the hell?!?!” “What kind of question is that?!” “God you are dirty!” “You are always asking dirty questions!” “You are such a pervert!”  One boy turned around and punched him in the stomach and then a piece of balled up paper that came from where, I dont know, hit him in the side of the head. 

I looked at the Home room teacher for Clarification.  She opened her mouth, then she flinched then closed her mouth, then opened it again, then tilted her head and looked at me like I was a lost doggy. Finally she just shook her head over and over and when I asked “What?” she just shook her head and waved her hand at me. The international signal for “Uh no. no no no.” 

Kids are so great. Full of curiosity.

I no longer teach Elementary school and I have branched out and am doing a few different jobs in Tokyo now including some writing.  However I am sure the interesting events and stories will keep coming so there will probably be more of this.  There is actually a lot left to tell.

Hey There,

We flew from Kansai Airport to Sapporo on September 14th.  The flight was okay and really quick.  It felt like I had just buckled my seat belt and then they were announcing that we were about to land.  The only problem with the flight was when they were serving drinks, I thought I was ordering tea (I said “ocha” but I also pointed at a pitcher) but I was served broth.  It was okay, but imagine my surprise when I took a sip and tasted salty broth instead of plain green tea.

We had the Monday off, so for dinner we went to “Ramen Alley.”  I’m not sure if that is an official name, but there is a long, narrow alley in downtown Sapporo that has a long line of small Ramen shops.  Apparently, there are two such alleys.  We were in “Old Ramen Alley.”  The shop we entered was known for their crab ramen.  It was so small that the six of us almost didn’t fit.  The owner/cook was surprised to see us; apparently Gaijin are not common this far north.  The food was outstanding.

For those of you unfamiliar with ramen, it is a simple noodle soup that usually includes a slice of pork, green onions (negi), bean sprouts and spices.  You can add other things to the noodle soup- I’ve seen noodle shops offer egg, corn, mushrooms, and other things.  The ramen shop we went to served ramen with crab meat (you could get the plain ramen if you wanted).

I’ve had a long history with ramen, dating back to college, where it was a staple for those of us who decided to have dinner at two in the morning (at 25 cents per package, how could you go wrong?).  I never used to like the flavor packets that were included with the dried noodles, but since I’ve returned from Japan, I’ve started to appreciate it better.  I have chicken flavor ramen about once a week now and I boil some frozen vegetables and add minced garlic and cayenne pepper to it.  It’s a filling, tasty meal.

Here are some pictures of downtown Sapporo taken before our dinner:

I hadn’t taken any pictures from my hotel room, mainly because I never really had much of a view.  In Sapporo, I thought I did have a good view from my room, but I’m not sure what I saw out my hotel window that led me to take these pictures:

On Monday, 31 August, we took our first trip into Tokyo. Getting there was easy, simply because the Japanese train-service was absolutely stupendous. H.’s house was about fifty minutes outside the capital’s city centre by car. The train we needed to take could do it in about twenty-five, and it arrived on the turn of the minute without fail. Not once was any train I took in Japan ever late and not even by thirty seconds. Even if a train is ten minutes late, the conductors will give the passengers on board notes that they can show to their superiors to prove that their delay was not their fault, but that is probably only likely to happen every few years.

Taking a train in Tokyo can be a little daunting for the unknowing gaijin - although all of the signposts are in English, the plethora of different lines, the extremely busy turnstiles and often unbearable heat can be a tad off-putting. Despite all that, it was still great fun. JR (Japan Rail) conducts itself more like a military than a train-service; the express train we took into the city-centre was apparently being tested as it ran, so on a few of the main stops, conductors on the platforms would shout instructions at the drivers, wave their arms about, blow whistles, write important things on clip-boards and finish with a salute to the carriages before marching off, presumably to scare small children. That sort of efficiency can only be described as Japanese. It really should be an adjective to describe the punctual and ergonomic. In Ireland, it wouldn’t really surprise me if a train-driver decided to stop in the middle of nowhere, prop his legs up onto the dashboard, light a fag and read the Daily Star (not that I’m implying that Irish train-drivers, or indeed, the Irish rail-service are lazy or ineffective, though last weekend’s track-repairs at Dublin’s Heuston station forced me to take a bus with the unwashed proletariat).

See what I mean?

Central Shibuya - a lot of people.

When we arrived in Shibuya – arguably the hub of Tokyo – to describe it as bustling would have be an understatement. It swarmed, throbbed and pulsated with people, and Japan has a lot of them. 127,590,000, in fact, crammed into a landmass only a little bigger than Britain. Unfortunately, the typhoon was still ongoing so it limited what we could do out and about. (Not that I minded of course, as I was simply happy to be there).

We ended up doing completely random activities like bowling and table-tennis (the Japanese youth are seemingly very occupied), and we made a brief visit to a karaoke centre where we (or rather, H.) sang a few songs. Karaoke is something that will never catch on in Europe. Ever. In Japan, it’s been bred into them; it’s a fun activity you can do with your friends and family. Nobody bats an eyelid, even if your singing prowess matches the gurgling of an asthmatic bulldog. But for an Anglo-Irishman and a pure-bred German, a night of karaoke (without alcohol!) is perhaps akin to musical Hell, so with about as much enthusiasm as a dog might have going to a vet, we cautiously exercised our gullets for a few songs, only to feel frightfully embarrassed and sadly sober. Oh well, at least Melon Fanta was on tap…

A very rainy Shibuya.

A very cheap, surprisingly good meal in Tokyo.

When night falls naturally in Tokyo, an artificial day seems to replace it. Lights flick on absolutely everywhere. Barely a single building goes unlit – I really hate to think of the electricity bill the mayor of Tokyo has to oversee every year. Every building talked, too, bombarding passers-by with advertisements. Don’t the Japanese see that when the Robot Uprising occurs, the machines will use these deafening loudspeakers to broadcast their mind-control messages? Sigh. Fears of mechanical rebellion aside, we wandered around rather aimlessly, making a brief trip to an extremely quiet Harajuku (we would return next week), salivating as we passed by the curiously large amount of crêpe stalls.  However, without any set objective, we headed off back to H.’s.

The next day was taken up by a trip to a beach in Zushi, about an hour’s drive from home-base; it was a rather scorching day, but our swim cancelled out the worst of it. The water was gorgeous, but as with most tropical seas, all manner of unpleasant marine organisms patrolled the currents, so the three of us were stung (very lightly, mind) by some sort of jelly or shell fish. Terrors from the deep aside, it was a lazy day in comparison to the previous, but it was still bloody enjoyable.

Tokyo at night.

Zushi beach

I couldn’t get over it – I was still in Japan.

Hey There,

Since the first game, people have been telling me about Koshien Stadium, home of the Hanshin Tigers.  Koshien is the site of the big High School Baseball tournament, which is probably the biggest sporting event in Japan.  This stadium is also notable because it is the only stadium in Japan (and the only professional one I’ve ever seen) that has an all dirt infield.  Getting to the stadium from our hotel was fairly easy, since Hanshin owns their own subway line.

While the Hanshin Tigers are considered a “brother team” of the Detroit Tigers, they are more often compared to the Boston Red Sox.  The reason for this is that the Tigers rivalry with the Giants is similar to that of the Red Sox and Yankees.  Through their history, the Tigers have lost to the Giants when it counted, like the Red Sox did with the Yankees.

Additionally, a curse legend similar to the Red Sox’ Curse of the Bambino to explain why the Tigers have bad luck has developed among Tigers fans.  This curse involves a statue of Col. Sanders (yes, that Col. Sanders from KFC).  When the Tigers last won the Japan Series (1985), the fans celebrated by jumping into the Dotonbori Canal, but only those fans who resembled players on that team.  Randy Bass (a Gaijin) was on that championship team, but there were no fans present that looked like him.  So, the fans decided to throw a life-size statue of Col. Sanders into the Canal as a replacement.  The Tigers have not won the Japan Series since then, though they have gotten to the Japan Series twice since (2003 and 2005)

The fans of the Tigers are known for their exuberance and dedication to their team.  Their cheering section is the largest I’ve seen- it takes up most of the outfield seats.  By contrast, the visiting team (the Bay Stars) only occupied one small section, and even then, was surrounded by the Tigers cheering section.

I mentioned this in an earlier post, but I decided that the Tigers were my favorite team.  To show my dedication, I wore my Detroit Tigers T-Shirt to the game.  This drew some confused looks from Tiger fans, but overall, they were happy to see the word “Tigers” and I got a bunch of nods and fist bumps.

As games go, this one was pretty uneventful, but still a good pitcher’s duel.  The Tigers won 2-1.

© gaijineye photography

© gaijineye photography

Gaijineye Photography は、2010年4月より、日本国内に拠点を移し本格的に活動を開始いたします。

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From April 2010, Gaijineye Photography will be based in Japan;

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Gaijineye Photography

Meet Japanese Women

I know that this topic, well its fair to say it will be of interest to a fair amount of the visitors that find their way to this humble piece of cyber space. I think to begin I should say that although I am not “Don Juan” I have been around the blog a few times and I am a fairly keen observer. I know some people that really are “pick up specialists” and whilst observing them I have put together some guide lines for interested parties.
So….to begin I will try and stay on point here by employing some Marine Corps knowledge.

O.S.M.E.A.C.

O- Orientation
You like Japanese women. Why or how or from when, don’t worry about that, this is not a counseling session and I am not a psycho analyst. The fact is you like Japanese women and you want to meet more of them. I am going to be addressing people that are going to be looking to meet ladies in Tokyo so if you are not in Tokyo, too bad. Alot of these points can still be employed in other locations though.

S-Situation
The situation is that You have hit a dry spell for no good reason at all. This is TOKYO. 20 million people crammed into a space meant for 6 million. C’mon….you can do better than what you have been getting up to right? Yes…you know Im right.
So lets move on….

M-Mission
Meet new Japanese women. Simple isn’t it?

E-Execution

Dress to impress
Style goes a long long way in Japan. This doesn’t mean you need Gucci…although this would not hurt….but what it means is that you need a clear personal style, whatever that may be. If you re an Oxford cut type from a prestigious university then hey, play to your strengths. If you are more of a North Shore Hawaii type then go with that. The point is…GET A STYLE And ROLL WITH IT. Ambiguous and unsure is a turn off. Having your own groove is attractive.

Find a Wing man
This can be a guy that you are good buddies with….or it can be a woman. IF it is a woman, I recommend she be HOT and either not so interested in you or neutral. You do not want to take a woman that is in love with you to the bar so YOU can try and chat up other ladies. Recipe for Disaster that.
However a cute girl who is interested in supporting your cause is a real asset.

Location Location Location

This is no more true than when we are talking about you hunting for a dream Japanese woman in Tokyo. There are a few locations at which your chances of meeting someone great go…WAY UP.

• The HUB: It’s the British pub that most of you have been in once or twice. They have these ALL OVER TOKYO.  You can find a list
  HERE. Now…The Hub. Your right…it’s not amazing. HOWEVER it is easy picking’s. I mean…the women that go there alone or with a friend WANT To talk to YOU. YES. They are going to THAT bar out of thousands of alternatives for a REASON. Even if it is subliminal…they are still there and you can take this as your que to give it a crack. Be Fun. Smile. Look relaxed. Be that Poster boy happy gaijin.
• T.G.I. Fridays: I know I know; this place sucks. I get that.  The thing is, its not unlike the HUB.  A lot of people and by that I mean women, go here because they are interested in YOU.  Go in, Sit at the BAR and have a few drinks. It is a good place to casually look around and find out who is eye balling you.
• Heart land Roppongi. Although this is not my scene, at all, in fact I have never been there, I include it because I have heard nothing but positive reviews from other people Heartland apparently, is a very easy fix. A lot of women, Cougars and the like, in side looking to chat it up with a fun, exciting gaijin fella. I will include a disclaimer here: proceed at your own risk.  I have heard good stuff but a fair amount of horror stories as well.
• Advocates: Shinjuku 2 chome. I know I know. “Advocates is a gay bar.” Yes it is…but….come on….1000 yen all you can drink beer blaster?  What does that mean to you when you take a date there? Also…its a gay bar! This naturally makes ladies feel more relaxed and calm. This is good for you. Good conversation and its a gimmick: it makes you seem cultured and slick. Also it implies that you might, in fact,  bi-sexual and despite what girls say that actually seems exotic and hip.
• International Parties: ok….I have been to one. And yes, it blew an old lumbers cock. However…I gave out about 40 business cards for a party and I got a lot of mails back.  These can suck but they can be good.  Cheap and usually all you can drink and full of women who went there for 1 reason: To meet you.

A-Admin and Logistics

Ok….you need some money.  If you are going out you need some cash. Thats just how it is.  If you want to impress bring more.   At the least, you need enough cash to foot a drink or two at the very beginning and at (hopefully) will be the end.

Make sure your cell phone is charged and functional. You will need the Infra-red functions to be well….functional.  IR is the easiest way to get the details for contact and hence, the next date.

C- Command and signal

Ok who is in charge?

You. You are the boss.  The single most important element in meeting women is CONFIDENCE. If you dont have it, your done. You dont need to think you are the end all be all of the game….however….you need to be SECURE in your domain.  Whatever your area of expertise is, you need to really feel you are the master there.  So dwell on that. Wallow in it. Think about that before you go out and project that knowledge and know how into the date.

For now…thats it…mostly because Im tired.

However I will put up more tips and what not soon. There are alot of strategies and concepts out there and honestly, there is no reason for you not to be meeting the type of Japanese women you are dreaming of.  Good luck…

As a whole, are the Japanese really an honorable and honest people as most people seem to think or are they just like everybody else? A lot of people seem to think they are. Some say it is because they are of one race and ethnicity. Some say it’s because of the group mentality thinking. Others say it’s because of their deep rooted culture based on codes of the samurai with bushido and the similar codes of the Yakuza. Others say it’s because of their morals and upbringing. And, still, others say it’s because of the dense population and close proximity to each other that one has to think about another’s feelings so as not to disturb their “Wa” (harmony). I don’t know the correct answer, but I do know one thing, and that is, in one experience of mine, I was grateful that at least one person was honest and honorable.

This experience occurred in 1980 when I was a student. I had a part-time job teaching English to businessmen and college students at a small school I worked at during the week and on Saturdays. We always were paid in cash on the 25th of the month. I had adopted the bad habit of carrying around one of those long rectangular wallets that I had received as a gift from a friend of mine. Maybe you’ve seen them. They are thin, sometimes made out of leather or silk, and are long enough to hold Japanese bills without them being folded. A lot of businessmen carry one in the inside breast pocket of their suit jacket as do many Yakuza and Chinpira (young Yakuza in Training)

It was a fashion trend back then to have one prominently sticking out of your back pocket as it kind of made you look cool and fashionable. (And we all know how important it is to be fashionable and “with the times” in Japan.) Why they were carried like that I don’t know because they could easily be lifted from your back pocket and pickpockets are well known in Japan. However, I was told that that was rare.

Anyway, to look like I “belonged” and cool, I started carrying one about two months prior. When I got paid this particular day, I put the twelve 10,000 notes (about US$600 back then) in the wallet, stuffed it in my back pocket and started out for home after my classes ended at 9pm. I got a seat on the train and slept most of the way.

When I got to my train station I proceeded up the stairs with the crowd to the ticket taker. I reached around for my wallet to show my train pass and it was gone! It had everything in there, my train pass, my money, my bank card, important phone numbers, student ID, etc. Luckily I didn’t keep my gaijin card (aka Alien Registration Card) in there as back then it was a little booklet that wouldn’t fit in any kind of wallet. I always kept it in the other back pocket.

It’s amazing how many thoughts can go through one’s head in a split second. I instantly panicked thinking how I was going to pay my rent and bills this month. I knew for sure right then and there that I would never see it again and it was gone forever. I figured I was pick-pocketed while walking to the train or getting off. With Shinjuku station being so crowded I could understand how easily someone could have lifted it without my ever knowing it.

I explained my plight to the ticket taker and he pointed me to an office. I went in and explained my predicament to the station master. He asked me for a complete description of the wallet and its contents. He also asked for proof of who I was and luckily I had my gaijin card. I explained that I probably lost it after I got on the train at Shinjuku as I had to show my train-pass for entry. He wrote everything down and made a few phone calls to the major express stops along the train line. From his conversations I knew he wasn’t having any luck. After his last phone call to Shinjuku station he hung up the phone, looked at me apologetically, and said that I might have better luck checking back with him the morning.

Even though our conversation was conducted in Japanese, he never seemed surprised that I could speak Japanese, nor did he try to speak to me in English. He was professional throughout and treated me, I guess, as he would any Japanese person.

I went down the stairs of the train station and walked home in utter despair. I kept thinking how stupid I was to carry that thing in my pocket like that knowing that it could’ve been so easily lifted. I had no money on me whatsoever save for a couple of 100 yen and other coins and the banks and ATM’s were closed. Being single, I usually ate dinner out as it only cost 4 or 500 yen (about US$2 – $2.50 back then) and I couldn’t even eat that night. I did have some ramen, eggs and bread at home though so it wouldn’t be a total loss.

When I got home, I was still so despondent that I wasn’t even hungry. I just sat at my kotatsu and stared into space thinking about the 120,000 plus yen that I had just lost. I quickly did some calculating, got out my bank book, and figured that all was not that bad as I still had just enough money in the bank to pay my rent and bills and buy a new train pass. Then I thought about my student ID as I couldn’t buy a new student-discount train pass without one; and my bank card. I couldn’t even go to an ATM. It would take a couple of days to get a new student ID and at least a week to get a new bank card.

After about an hour or so I thought that I was not going to let this screw up my life. It’s gone and there’s nothing I can do about it. I chalked it up to a “stupid tax” that one pays going through life’s experiences. Besides, there is still tomorrow. Even if I just got back the wallet with my student ID and train pass I would be happy as the train pass cost me about 7,500 yen for a three month pass and I just bought it the previous month!

I was now feeling a bit hungry and decided that I was going to go out to eat and get drunk. I wandered over to the little snack across the street from my apartment and asked the mama-san if I could pay her tomorrow and explained what had happened to me. Without so much as a second thought she told me not to worry about it and that I could pay tomorrow or whenever I could. I quickly ordered a beer and some food.

After a while my good friend Suzuki-san walked in with his ever present dog, Jiro, on his back. Mama-san explained to him what had happened. He immediately said that he was paying my tab that night and I was not worry. As I ate and we talked, I thought about what a great country this is and what good friends I had made. Here a foreigner loses his months pay and his Japanese friends step in to help him out. Mr. Suzuki even offered me 10,000 yen to tide me over, but I refused as I told him I would be going to the bank in the morning.

We drank and sang a few songs and then I went home. As I lay in the futon waiting for sleep to befall me, I still couldn’t stop thinking about the lost wallet.

I awoke the next morning, started up the kerosene heater, put my futon away, made some coffee and watched a little TV. After about an hour I got out my bank book and my hanko (official seal with my name on it), put them in my bag, turned off the heater, and ventured on up to the train station and the station masters office in the hopes that someone may have found my wallet and turned it in. But I still highly doubted it.

The station master was a different person, but he had all my information. When I told him who I was he said, “hai, hai,” yes, yes, and went on to explain that my wallet had indeed been found and I could pick it up at Hon-Atsugi station, a short distance away, as that was where it was turned in. I breathed a sigh of relief and asked him if there was any money in it. He said he didn’t know. I was just so glad that at least I might get back the train pass, my student ID card, and my bank card. I wasn’t so much worried about the train pass and my bank card as, unless it was a young person who pick-pocketed me, they wouldn’t be able to use my train pass as it had “STUDENT” stamped in bold kanji on it. Also, they couldn’t use my bank card either as they didn’t know my PIN number.

As I had enough money to buy a ticket to Hon-Atsugi, I didn’t bother wasting any time going to the bank as, if my money was indeed stolen, I would go to the bank at Hon-Atsugi station. I purchased a ticket and a can of hot coffee from one of the vending machines and sat on the bench waiting for my train to arrive. It was a sunny day. A brisk March wind was blowing and I was warmed by the coffee. It was one of those days when the sun was bright, the air was crisp with just a hint of spring, the sky was picture perfect blue, and you were just glad to be alive. I just hoped I would feel the same after getting my wallet back.

After about five minutes I heard the familiar female voice announcing that the train was arriving and to stay behind the yellow line. I boarded the first car as I usually did and stood behind the engineer as I always enjoyed the view from this perspective.

Five stops later I was at Hon-Atsugi and found my way to the station masters office. I told him who I was and produced my gaijin card as proof. He asked me to identify the contents in detail and I did. He then went around a partition and after a few agonizingly long minutes came back. He had my wallet and a piece of paper in his hand. I was relieved as all hell. He laid my wallet on the counter and explained that the piece of paper he was giving me had the name, address, and phone number of the person who had found my wallet and turned it in. He said that I should call them and thank them. I said that I would. He asked if he should write the information in romaji (Japanese in the English alphabet) and I told him that he needn’t bother as I could read Japanese. He then asked me to check the contents of the wallet. As I opened it I was dumbfounded that every single item in my wallet was still there right down to the money! Nothing was missing, not even a 500 yen note! It was all there! I signed a piece of paper accepting my wallet and it’s contents and that nothing was missing. This time I put my wallet in my bag and vowed that I would use a normal wallet from now on. No more trying to look cool.

As I left the station masters office I bowed and thanked him and headed for my train back home. I still couldn’t help but be awestruck that my wallet was turned in and that nothing was missing. I really expected the money to be gone at least. If this happened in the States, I’m sure I’d never see it again. The odds there were against me especially with all that cash in it. But some kind person may just as well have turned it in there also.

As I rode the train home I just couldn’t get over it. I had heard that the Japanese were an honest people, but this was just unbelievable. I looked at the paper and the name on it written in Japanese. It was a woman’s name and she lived in Atsugi city. After I got to my own station I went immediately to a phone booth and dialed the number. A lady answered and it was she. I immediately guessed she was probably in her 40’s or so and told her who I was. I thanked her for finding my wallet and turning it in. She seemed more worried than I was as it had my bank card and train pass in it. She said that she noticed it on the seat of the train after I had gotten off. As the doors were already closed, she decided to turn it in at her station after finding no phone number for me in the wallet. She said that she worried about it all night as she knew I would be bothered by my loss. Leave it to the Japanese to be more concerned about the other person! She complimented me on my Japanese and I thanked her profusely and finally said good bye. Come to think of it, I’m sure I was also bowing my head while thanking her on the phone.

After hanging up the phone I immediately went to a nearby post office where I purchased an envelope. I asked for a sheet of paper from the postal person and wrote a thank you note in Japanese to this kind lady. After I signed my name, I reached into my bag for my wallet, opened it and removed a 10,000 yen note. I placed the note in the envelope and sealed it up; wrote down her address in Japanese and turned it in to the postal person. I had learned somewhere that it is a custom in Japan to pay a reward to the person finding, and turning in, a lost item. I fulfilled this custom.

As I left the post office and headed home I was more than happy that I was living in a country where some people do think about, and feel for others, including foreigners. The golden rule, so far as I knew, applied to Japan. And, as a side note, I still have that green silk wallet to this day. Once in a while I’ll go through my boxes, see it, and remember this experience with fondness.

A lovely view of Kyoto

When you think of Japan, the words; politeness and friendliness seem to be synonymous with the country but is that really the case?  Is Japan really all about sunshine and cupcakes?

Well perhaps if you yourself are Japanese, then the day-to-day living of your life will seem normal or uneventful, yet here in the West, Japan is still looked upon as a land of mystery and technological brilliance.  For many Western otaku, Japan may appear to be the Holy Grail of their lifestyle, whereby the source of their obsessions flow like water.  Yes, many Western otaku (though generally we’re refered to as ‘geeks’) wish to either visit Japan or even emigrate there in order to ‘live the dream’.  Unfortunately, ‘the dream’ seldom lives up to reality as many foreigners will tell you.

I, myself wish to go to Japan, but only to visit.  If you stay in the country for a few days, or a couple of weeks, you will probably enjoy your stay. I would probably check out Tokyo first to get a taste of the high-tech (albeit overcrowded) capital, visit the various famous districts like Akihabara, and then check out some of the more traditional towns like Osaka or Kyoto, all the while taking thousands of photographs to reminisce over later when I’m back home.  However, if you stay for a year or longer (the easiest way is probably to become an English teacher), you will begin to see past the ‘happiness & tranquilty’ as the true cracks of society begin to show.

The fact of the matter is, that the Japanese people, mainly the older generation, are extremely xenophobic.  The younger generation embrace change and will generally accept foreigners, but it’s the elders who are pretty much stuck in their ways, I guess having two H-Bombs dropped on your country will result in deep-seed disdain for foreigners .  Even if you are fluent in Japanese, If you have not completed a level one proficiency test and you’re trying to apply for a job, the odds of you being employed are next to zero.  The Japanese will simply ignore the fact that you are fluent in the language because you do not have a piece of paper telling them so.  Basically you will be treated as a child.

A level 3 certificate, presented after completing the test.

Use of the word gaijin is also quite prevalent, it is a derogatory term for foreigners meaning ‘outsider’ and is used when referring to a non-Japanese person.  If you do intend on moving to or visiting the country, ensure that you arrange to stay with a family (check the internet, you should be able to find various advertisements of families willing to offer you food and board at a reduced rate) as hotels are extremely expensive and the last thing you want to end up in is a gaijin house.  A gaijin house is basically a derelict old house, older than ten years that is kept aside for foreigners.  These houses are generally unsafe and are horribly overpriced.

The other thing to bear in mind is that food is also pretty expensive, especially meat, which is why a lot of rice and noodles are consumed.  While you and your friends may sit down in a ’sushi bar’ at home, you need to realize that the average Japanese native doesn’t eat sushi as it is a delicacy and thus expensive.  You are able to purchase ‘ready-made’ sushi in plastic containers though I’d strongly advise against that.  The best shot you will probably have at becoming a permanent resident is to get your level one proficiency certificate and teach English, an acquaintance of mine has chosen to go that route and I’m interested to see how it all works out.  He’s one of these deluded weeaboos who thinks that living in Japan will be exactly the same as the anime and manga stories that he reads.

The Japanese police force are also notoriously racist and harsh towards foreigners, including incidents where people are arrested for no reason other than sitting on a park bench and then detained for months on end while being denied access to a phone.  That’s pretty scary if you think about it, I mean you go to Japan for a holiday and end up behind bars with no way to contact your loved ones, or a lawyer for that matter.  And this is a big problem for the country as many foreigners will think twice about visiting and Japan relies on exports and foreign currency to remain afloat.  Not too long ago a massive (costly) campaign was launched in order to revitalize Japan’s tourist industry and for their sake I hope it works.

I’m not trying to dissuade people from going to Japan, I just want them to realize (and this is mainly for the otaku’s benefit) that the idea that they have of the country isn’t the same as reality.  Reality seldom lives up to one’s fantasies and Japan isn’t an exception.  Like any other country, Japan has its fair share of problems; natural disasters, racism, sporadic economy and so on, and it’s the otaku sub-culture who need to realize this.  I love anime, manga and video-games (PS3 ftw) but I’m not in denial, I realize that Japan isn’t perfect and am not a mindless Japanaphile who will argue to the bitter end that paradise does in fact lie in the East.  If you intend on using anime and manga as a reference of life in Japan, you will be sorely disappointed.

Even though I have not yet visited the country myself and have yet to experience these things first-hand, I do however have plenty of knowledge on the subject through years of research and first-hand accounts by friends and fellow bloggers alike, check out this site for an idea of what you’d be in for.

Anime and manga; not exactly an accurate depiction of Japanese people...

Hopefully this article will provide you with a bit of insight into the truths of Japanese society, if you can come to terms with the fact that there will more than likely be a difference between your idealized version of Japan and the actualized version of the country then you will probably enjoy your stay there much more.  As I said before, Japan has its problems but if you embrace the truth you will uncover a wonderfully unique and quirky country, specially if you’re an otaku.

My summer vacation, if you could call it that, begins in earnest the moment Yugami leaves me, drenched in beer at Umie. For nine days, I won’t have to endure her forlorn glances and heavy sighs, the sarcasm of Okorin, or the summary reprimands of my unpredictable boss.

Blame it on the dreary weather we’ve been having, but I’ve been as homesick as a recruit in boot camp lately. The temptation of Christ in the desert is child’s play compared to the desire I have to blow my meager savings on a ticket back to the oh so very comfortable and familiar in the States, to my friends and, yes, even my family.

I miss it all: lazy summer evenings at the zoo, sitting on freshly cut grass listening to live music; sweaty nights on crowded dance floors in smoke-filled dives; slow Sunday mornings reading the Oregonian over huge American breakfasts; bohemian afternoons loafing in cafes in Northwest Portland, sipping demitasses of bitter espresso with the pinky raised ever so sophisticatedly.

And my mind must be poisoned by nostalgia, because I wouldn’t mind being dragged along to the Sunday morning Mass at St. Cecelia’s again, to check out how the gorgeous Dougherty girls have filled out in my absence, to listen to the nonsensical sermon of our stuttering and apoplectic Father O’Brien, and, afterwards over the doughnuts and coffee, just to get my father’s knickers in a twist tell him what a bunch of crap it all was.

I want to borrow a car and take an aimless drive to the countryside again, following the road as far as it will take me and talk with the nutty loquacious hicks I’m sure to find there.

I want to drop in at Escape From New York Pizza, to stuff my face with greasy slices of pepperoni and wash it all down with a bucket of Dr. Pepper, to satisfy my craving for the Satyricon gyros to lick the yoghurt sauce as it drips down my forearm, to pig out on carne asada burritos stuffed with frijoles, red hot salsa and cilantro, to put the fire out with cans of Tecate.

I long to spend an evening in the Dublin Pub, packed to the Reilly with the Irish Diaspora, to rub elbows with the good Catholic girls and rub up against a not-so-good Protestant one, to introduce her to Paddy. I want to belt out Irish folk songs, keeping the throat lubricated with pint after lovely pint of pitch black Guinness till the manager gives me the boot.

But, more than anything, I want to stop playing the role of brooding loner that was thrust upon me when I entered the Japanese stage. I yearn to have my friends’ arms around me, to be embraced again by that motley cohort of slackers I parted with when I came to Japan. I’m starving for the conversations we used to have, the conversations inspired by cheap bottles of pinot noir and pints of microbrew that would keep us up laughing all night until our sides hurt and the neighbors got sore, and they could fuck off for all we care, so would you like another drink? All the conversations I’ve had the past several months have left my gut half empty, still hungry for more.

Letters from America don’t come as often as they used to, the phone calls have stopped altogether. I worry more and more that I’ve lived for so many months cloistered in this silent vigil, that I am beginning to lose my voice. I feel it in the awkward self-consciousness that overcomes me whenever I talk to someone for the first time, in a new reluctance to break the ice, in the creeping shyness that has its hands around my throat and chokes me where I once sang.

This has got to change.

-

In the evening, I head back to Umie to return the t-shirt Shô lent me after Yugami poured beer all over me, and to apologize for all the trouble I had caused.

It wouldn’t surprise me if Shô told me to fuck off, but when I stick my head in the door, he greets me with a cheery smile and a booming “welcome home!” that takes me by surprise.

I enter, scratching my head with embarrassment and nodding humbling and, good god, when did I ever start acting so, so, so Japanese.

When I’ve ascended the steps and am standing before the counter I begin to recite the apology I prepared in polite Japanese earlier today: “Kinô-wa taihen meiwaku-o okake shite . . . “

“Tondemo nai!” Shô says–Not at all, not at all–and gestures for me to take a seat at the counter.

“Ah no, that’s okay, I-I just wanted to return this,” I say, opening up a department store bag and removing the t-shirt, laundered and pressed by yours truly like a proper Japanese housewife. “And this,” I add, handing him another paper bag. “It’s a trifling thing.”

“Oh! Hiyoko manju! Yatta!“

I prepared a box of Hiyoko Manju, a popular local souvenir of chick-shaped cakes with bean jam centers to fill out my act of contrition. Shô stares at me, dumfounded, and says, “Pay-chan, you’re turning Japanese!”

“Turning Japanese?” I smile awkwardly, and scratch my head again. “You really think so?”

I suppose Shô means it as a compliment, but coming from someone who has for the most part done his best to ignore me all these months it strikes me as sarcastic.

He encourages me again to sit down, and when I do, Hiro, the other bartender with Jagger lips, places a draught before me, saying, “Sahbisu,” meaning it’s on the house.

“Well, if you insist. Arigatô gozaimasu,” I say raising the mug of beer. “Kampai!“

-

Six beers and a switch to whiskey and water later, a soothing blanket of equanimity is drawn over me. The pangs of nostalgia I was feeling in the morning are replaced by a very Japanese resignation. Shikata ga nai, I say to myself, it can’t be helped.

Maybe I am turning Japanese after all.

By the second whiskey, I’ve also forgotten that I’ve given up cigarettes and accept a “vanilla taste” Caster from the young salariman next to me. According to his meishi, he works for JTB, the same prestigious travel bureau that dear old Okorin used to work for before she left her husband and Tokyo for the glamour of Fukuoka. The salariman says he hates his job and wants to quit. When I tell him the feeling is mutual, he buys me a drink, god love him.

I ask him what he wants to do with his life, he says travel and–drum roll please–surf. Only, the way he and most Japanese pronounce the word, it sounds like “serf”.

“Serf? Why in heaven’s name would you want to be a ’serf’?”

Naturally, he’s confused and tells me so.

“‘Serf’ is a kind of dorei,” I explain.

“No, no, no. I don’t want to be a dorei. I already am a slave for my company. No, I want to surf, you know, surfing.” His gestures remind me of a clown balancing on a giant rubber ball.

Now, the only reason I’m teasing him is that after living in this country for almost a year and a half I have never seen so much as a ripple on the surface of the sea–not much to skip a pebble on, let alone catch a big wave. Still, I have met so many goddamn surfers, that were I to throw a rock into the crowd of pedestrians milling about Oyafuko, I’d surely hit one, if not two of these poseurs.

It’s ironic, I tell him, that travel agents in Japan are so busy they seldom travel themselves. He doesn’t see the humor in it, though. I guess I wouldn’t either if I were working six ten-hour days a week and my summer bonus had just been cut again because of the recession. No, I don’t think I’d find it funny at all.

“So, if you really want to travel and surf, then why not just do it?”

He drops his head dejectedly and mumbles, ” . . . difficult.”

When he asks me what I want to do with my life, I answer: “Build things.”

“Daiku?”

“No, not a carpenter, ye eejit, an architect. Kenchikuka. Here.”

I borrow a pen from Shô and in matter of a few minutes draw a pretty good rendering of Umie on a napkin.

“Sh’geh,” he exclaims. Wow!

I tell him that’s nothing; any kid with a good eye, a steady hand and a prescription of Ritalin can produce a picture like this, especially the kind who’ve got their noses in manga all day. On another napkin, I sketch a plan for what Umie could look like with minor changes, such as moving the DJ booth to the other side, losing the beer cooler, adding a second, narrower counter that would run parallel the current one for standing customers, halving the restroom with it’s single Japanese style toilet such that a second room with a urinal could be built, and so on. Again, this is something any uppity housewife with a subscription to Better Homes and Gardens could manage.

Just as I am about to knock his white socks and black loafers off with a sketch of how Umie could be by resembling what its name implied, a beach house, rather than the mildly seedy bar that it is, two women sit down on the empty stools besides me. Distracted from my drawing, I glance up from the napkin and make the happy discovery that they’re both gorgeous.

The one sitting further away, while the better looking of the two, possesses a beauty that is almost too perfect, rendering her unapproachable. Not that I am missing out on anything because the girl is so obviously enamored of Shô it is as if a sign saying “No Unauthorized Personnel Permitted” hung around her neck.

I get the feeling I’ve met the one closer to me, but, alas, can’t remember where. With her hair done up in pig-tails, she has such an innocent look about her, what the Japanese call the “Loli-type”, that were she not drinking shots of vodka I’d place her age at around sixteen. Not that I’d have a problem with that; I can be, I have shown before, equal opportunity in that regard.

Pigtails turns to me and asks, “Don’t you remember me?”

“Of course, I do.” I shoot back, scrambling through the dimly lit, cobwebby labyrinth of my mind, frantically running my fingers through dusty filing cabinets, searching for a clue, a bone, a hint. “We met . . .the other day . . . at . . . um.”

“At the kimono party last night,” she says.

Yes! “Urara . . .”

“Oh, you do remember me after all?”

With a name like Ooh-la-la? “How could I forget?”

Mind you, the Urara sitting next to me looks nothing like the Urara I chatted with at the kimono party only twenty-four hours ago. Not only her hairstyle, but her make-up as well couldn’t be more different. She’s like a chameleon that has changed its colors. This adorable Urara, in a matter of only twenty-four hours, has gone from looking like an exquisite Japanese doll to being a spunky, little peaches and cream cheerleader.

“It’s just, I didn’t recognize you at first,” I say.

“I’m surprised you recognized me at all.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, you didn’t seem all that interested in me last night.”

“Nonsense!”

“You never took your eyes off of Tomoko-san.”

“Tomoko?”

Urara bends over pretending to pick up food on an imaginary table before her, then with her finger draws a line from my eyes to her tits.

“Ah, right, Tomoko. Was it obvious?”

“Obvious? You were staring at her breasts the whole evening.”

“I am what I am.”

“It must be tough being a man.”

“It is. It is,” I admit. Especially for someone who was bottle-fed.

“You know, last night wasn’t the first time I saw you,” Urara says tapping me playfully on the shoulder.

“It wasn’t?”

“No. I’ve seen you around. In Tenjin and on Oyafukô. Come to think of it, I’ve seen you a quite a few times here on Oyafukô.”

“Here? Really?” I pretend to be surprised by this, but I am as inconspicuous as a giraffe trotting through a flock of sheep. “You haven’t been stalking me, have you?”

“No!”

“Ah, what a pity.”

“Do you want to be stalked?”

“By you? Yes, definitely. Shall I give you my address?”

“You already did . . . last night.”

“That’s right I did, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but . . . “

“But what?”

“Oh nothing,” she says. Finishing off her vodka, she holds her empty glass up to Shô who takes it and without a word pours her another shot.

I’ll regret it in the morning, I know, but tell the Shô to give me the same. Raising our shot glasses to each other, we say, “Kampai.”

“You like drinking, don’t you?” she asks.

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I do, yes. A bit too much, I’m afraid.”

Giggling, she tells me she does, too.

When I ask her when she first saw me, she replies, “Around Golden Week, I think.”

Dislodged by a soft tap, unwelcomed memories like dust flutter down.

“April twenty-seventh. Urara, you were wearing your hair in pigtails like tonight, and were standing in front of the bank of cigarette vending machines at the corner. You were in a tight-fitting dress with ‘Cabin’ written across it, weren’t you?”

“Wow, Paedor! That’s some memory you’ve got!”

As much as I would prefer not to recall that unfortunate night when Mie and I last met, I can’t keep the more embarrassing images of it from being projected in heartlessly living color against the inside of my skull. This is where I suspect the migraines come from.

“Did you notice me waving to you?” she asks.

“That night?” I say. “When I was standing outside Mister Donuts?”

“Yeah.”

“I wondered who you were waving at.”

“Was that your girlfriend you were waiting for?”

“No, no, no . . . No, that . . . That was just, er . . . a, uh, a friend,” I answer without a note of credibility in my voice. Looking beyond Urara to the drop-dead beauty she came in with who has been making the goo-goo eyes at Shô, lucky bastard, I ask, “So, what’s her story?”

“Hiromi-chan? Oh, she’s just in love with Shô.”

“You don’t say. I never would have guessed. And, who does Urara love?” I point to Jaggerlips, a third bartender named Naoki who is snapping a towel at the lanky DJ. “Any of them your type?”

She makes a show of glancing deliberately around the bar, taking in staff and customers alike, before answering. “Yes, there is one.”

“Yeah? Who?” I figure it’s Jaggerlips because if there is one thing I have observed over the months coming here most of the women who come into Umie form two camps: on the one side there are those, like Hiromi-chan, who find Shô with his Bundeswehr tank-top and whimpy arms irresistible; and, on the other, those who go weak in the knees for Jaggerlips.

“You,” she says, turning those big brown eyes of hers to me.

“Who?”

“You,” she says again and takes my hand. It’s a kind gesture, humoring me like this, but frankly I can’t believe it. Especially when she’s been drinking straight shots of vodka and god knows what else. Pump enough booze into any woman and they’re liable to find even a manhole cover attractive.

Urara and I continue to chat and knocking back vodka until Hiromi says that it’s time to go. I look at my watch. It’s only twenty after eleven.

“Last train?” I ask.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” says. “Peador?”

“Yeah?”

“Call me, will you?”

She gives my hand a final squeeze. Lovely, slim fingers. I don’t want to let them go. I’ve zeroed on those fingers all evening, watching them twist around loose strands of hair, touching her face just between the chin and mouth, playing with her lower lip. God, how I’d love to bite that lower lip.

I promise Urara that I will call here, and with that the two of them are gone.

-

Everything slows down in the city as the Buddhist festival of the dead, O-Bon, nears. While most salarymen and OLs have at least three days off from the thirteenth to the fifteenth, giving them what amounts to a long weekend, the more generous of companies allow their employees to take the day before and the day following the three day festival off so that they might avoid the inevitable crowds at airports and train stations.

Shortly after noon on the twelfth, many of the mom-and-pop shops and the small family-run diners in my neighborhood close up shop. Their shutters are lowered and locked, hand-written notices are taped up apologizing for the inconvenience. Considering that most shopkeepers hardly sneak any breaks in throughout the year, you’d think they wouldn’t have to beg for a measly three days off as if they were panhandling, cap in hand, for spare change from passersby.

In the evening for want of anything better to do, I find myself savoring the hospitality of Umie again, barstool up my arse and an Asahi resting on my lip. All day, I contemplated what to do with my tennuous sobriety only to let it go, let it go, let it go.

“You were really messed up the other night,” Shô says.

I needn’t be reminded. As soon as the Urara and her friend left, all the alcohol I had consumed hit me like a bulldozer.

“That I was,” I say saluting the bartender. “That I was.”

Shô smiles wryly as he takes the empty bottle away. “You want another?”

I nod and say, “You have to put up with a lot, don’t you? Drunks like myself, and . . .”

“It’s no problem.”

“You’re far too generous.”

“It’s my job to be so.”

“I realize I’ve been nothing but trouble for you guys, but, um, thanks all the same.”

Shô hands me another Asahi

“Quiet tonight, isn’t it?” I say.

“O-Bon,” he replies. “Hiro’s grandfather died earlier this year, so he’s gone back to his hometown.”

Shô is referring to the bartender I’ve been calling “Jaggerlips” all this time. “His hometown?” I say. “Hiro’s not from Fukuoka?”

“No, no, he’s from Kagoshima,” Shô says. Kagoshima is the southern-most prefecture in Kyushu.

“Kagoshima City?”

“That shit-kicker? Nah, he’s from the sticks, a miserable little shithole called Sata. It’s so small they’ve only got one traffic signal. You know, one of those flashing jobs.”

There are so few customers tonight that Shô and I chew the fat for a couple of hours, the first time in all the months coming here that we’ve ever done so. I can’t help but mention it to the bartender.

“To be honest,” Shô tells me, “I didn’t like you very much at first.”

“I didn’t like you, either,” I say.

“I thought you were an arrogant bastard.”

“I thought you were, too!”

We share a good belly laugh over this.

“Your Japanese has really gotten better, Peador.”

“Nonsense.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Listen: I still study everyday, have private lessons two or three times a week. I review my notes like a zealot studies his Bible quotes and on top of all that I spend a good thirty minutes each morning writing kanji into a notebook just like the elementary school kids do. I read manga, albeit at a tortoise’s pace, and watch Japanese TV dramas and movies with a Japanese-English dictionary always close at hand. Nevertheless, I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere near where I want to be with this damned language.

“Can you read katakana?” Shô asks. He’s referring to the angular phonetic syllabary used to write foreign loan words such as “ビール” (bîru, beer), “トイレ” (toire, toilet), and so on.

“Wha’? Y’think I’m an idiot?”

“No, no, no. It’s just . . . “

“Of course I can read katakana.” I learned it and hiragana, too, within the first few weeks of coming to Japan.

“Wow. How about kanji, then?”

Now, the trouble with those pesky little Chinese characters known as kanji is not that there are so many of them–there are 1945 different ones used commonly–but that they have so many goddamn different ways of being read. In Chinese, from which the characters originally came some fifteen hundred years ago, there is usually a single reading for each pictogram. For example, the character “行”, meaning “go”, for example, is read as “xíng” in Chinese. In Japanese, however, it can be read as “iku“, “okonau“, “yuku“, “an“, “gyô”, “kô”, “gô” and so on depending on its usage, meaning and pairing with other kanji.

“I’m getting there,” I tell him with a shrug.

“Incredible,” he says. “The reason I ask is, another foreigner came in here the other day. He’s been living in Fukuoka, I don’t know, maybe six years now, and, well, I don’t mean to be rude, but . . . his Japanese was awful.”

“Six years?”

“Yeah, six years. Maybe more. I mean, I showed him the menu, but he couldn’t even read katakana.“

“Well, he’s either a lazy bastard, or just a fool. And, Shô, I really do hope you told him so.”

“I couldn’t possibly do such a thing,” he replies wagging his head with astonishment.

“So, what did you tell him? That his Japanese was good?”

“Of course,” he says with a grimace. “I am Japanese after all.”

We’ve all got our crosses to bear.

“Well, thanks to you, Shô, that gaijin will never learn your language now.”

And just as I’m saying this, who other than Urara should come through the front door? She’s wearing a simple beige suit with a white blouse. Her long hair falls in soft curls on her shoulders. She looks absolutely gorgeous.

Walking directly towards me, Urara places her hand on my back and, much to my surprise and delight, kisses me on the cheek.

Jesus, when was the last time a woman did that to me?

She turns to the man next to me and asks if he would move over a bit. Naturally, he obliges. I am genuinely flattered. So much attention and kindness from someone as lovely as Urara; I don’t feel worthy.

“I thought about calling you today,” I say.

It’s the God’s truth. Every time I looked at the phone, my heart filled with a gnawing pain. In another lifetime, I wouldn’t have wasted a second worrying. I would have picked up the receiver and, assuring myself I’d had nothing to lose, dialed Urara’s number and asked her out.

“Why didn’t you?”

Yeah, good question: why didn’t I? Well, for starters, after almost a-year-and-a-half-long run of disappointments, I am so decorticated of self-confidence that it is becoming difficult to conceal the stark naked weakness of my character. Had I called Urara only to be let down, I might very well have thrown in the towel, retiring from the maddening sport altogether.

“I, uh . . . Well, . . . What with Bon starting tomorrow and all, it just seemed better to wait . . . “

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Peador, but, really, you needn’t be so careful with me.”

Earlier when I was chatting with Shô, it occured to me that the reason my Japanese seems to have improved, allowing me to finally maintain conversations beyond all the insipid self-introduction I have been chagrined to give, is that I have finally broken through the dialect barrier. In the first several months since moving to Fukuoka, the local dialect had been keeping me shut out, peering in and wondering what the devil everyone was talking about.

I doubt most Anglophones appreciate how dramatically regional dialects can vary. Mind you, it’s not just a matter of accents, which betray a speaker’s origin like “shibboleth” did in Biblical times, marking my Dad as having hailed from Dublin, my mother from Cork. No, I’m talking about huge variations from region to region in grammar, phrasing, and vocabulary that make the sundry dialects sound as if they were/are distinct languages in their own right.

It was frustrating enough when I first began studying Japanese to discover that the phrases in my textbook that I had gone to the trouble of memorizing were seldom used in situ.

Listen: A simple question like “What are you doing?” ought to be straight- forward, right? Well, my good-for-nothing textbook taught me to utter the following mouthful: “Anata wa nani o shite imasuka?” Had I ever managed to get that doosie to roll properly off my tongue, my curiosity might have been duly answered. The trouble is, it’d be as natural as jogging on the beach in clunky ski boots. Your average Tarô, afterall, usually rattles off a curt “Nani shiteru no?” or something close to it.

When I figured this out, I wasted little time taking my Sensei aside and telling her to please, please, please throw politeness out the window and start teaching me real, living, breathing Nihongo rather than the embalmed and entombed Japanese she had been inflicting on me. I don’t care what the old Japan hands say, a little confrontation can go a long way.

With time and encouragement, my very square Sensei mended her stubbornly proper ways, but, even then, she took great pains to warn against using casual Japanese too lightly. You must never cause offence by saying something inappropriate, she’d instruct sternly as if her very reputation were at stake. I’d remind Sensei to let her hair down because this wasn’t the Edo Period anymore. A samurai wasn’t going to lop off my head because I’d showed him because I’d dis’d him.

No sooner had I got phrases like “Nani shiteru no?” under my belt than I moved to neighboring Fukuoka and slammed up against an unexpected brick wall: the local dialect known as Hakata-ben. Suddenly, it was as if everyone around me were speaking in tongues. If a Fukuokan wanted to know what I was doing, he didn’t ask, “Nani shiteru no?” He said, “Nan shiyoh to?”

In a matter of six months, I’d gone from “Anata wa nani o shite imasuka?” to “Nan shiyoh to?” Italian and Portuguese couldn’t be more different from each other.

Something clicked sometime during the past few months when I wasn’t paying attention, and the next thing I knew, I’d got one leg over the wall and was shimmying the other one up. The idle banter between Yugami and Okorin, among my students, between bartenders like Shô and the customers started to make sense.

So, when Urara places her hand on my arm and says, “Suki yaken, sonna ni ki o tsukawande yokaromon.” I didn’t have to translate it inside my head from Hakata-ben into the standard Japanese, which would have sounded like, “Suki dakara, sonna ni ki o tsukawa nai de ii yo,” I just took it now as having meant that this Urara likes me so I ought to stop tip-toeing so carefully around her.

“Are you here alone tonight?” I ask.

“No, Hiromi-chan will be here soon. And, what about you, Peador?”

There are times the right words just flow from my mouth making me feel as if I had French-kissed the Blarney Stone, and then there are those that make me feel as though it had been dropped on my head. Today I am in that rock’s good graces; I tell Urara I was waiting for someone special to show up.

“Oh? And who might that be?”

“You.”

That evoked a hug and a peck on the lips, which has the effect of putting me in a right sunny mood, Festival of the Dead or not.

“I saw your commercial,” I tell Urara.

“Did you like it?”

It’s hard to be diplomatic sometimes. In the commercial Urara is wearing a one-piece bathing suit with her hips exposed. The outfit–or lack of it depending on whether you are a half-full/half-empty kind of guy–flatters her narrow waist and long, slender legs, but makes her look even smaller in the breast department than I suspect she really is. No, it isn’t the most attractive get-up she or any woman could wear in private, let alone on television, but then these hai-reggu get-ups, these high-legged bathing suits, are all the flavor of the month, and young Japanese men just can’t seem to get enough peeks at women in them.

What Urara in a bathing suit has to do with selling used cars–this is what the commercial is pushing–is a mystery to me, but then I don’t fit in with its target audience, do I? Perhaps the geeks that tune into late night TV to catch a bit of tit to jerk off to before hitting the sack are moved into a consumer frenzy like a drop of blood in a pool of sharks by that kind of advertising. Who knows? It was a stupid commercial and depressing to watch, but am I going to tell that to the lovely girl who’s sat down next to me, taken my hand and ordered a shot of vodka?

“I liked your part,” I say.

After several shots and a beer to keep it down, it’s easy to forget where I am. I grow oblivious to the people around us–the men to Urara’s right, Shô behind the counter, Shinji in the DJ booth, the few customers below–as if the dimmer on my consciousness has been turned. In spite of all the people, I feel completely alone in the universe with Urara, a solitary star orbited by a single planet. We lean against one another, holding hands and touching as if we’ve known each other for years rather than six days.

And we talk. Good god we talk! Urara has that rare ability to draw words and stories out of me, to coax me out of my cave and undress me of the itchy reticence I have been clothed in. She can do it, because she makes me feel that nothing else matters more than to listen to what old Peador has to tell her. She never lets herself be distracted, nor does she ever allow my attention to turn to something else either. If I look away, she touches my chin, bringing my face closer to hers. When I falter, she squeezes my hand, reminds me what I’ve just told her to keep the conversation moving. Why she does this for me, I have no idea. What could she find so interesting in a moody gaijin like myself? It’s time I stopped asking questions and start thanking me lucky stars that it is me she has her big dark eyes on rather than someone else.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks.

“No.”

“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” she says taking a swig from my beer. Before I can reply, she answers the question for me. “Oh, I get it, you like to date many different girls, don’t you? You’re a playboy, aren’t you?”

“You’ve hit the nail right on its head,” Shô interjects with a smile in my direction.

One of the perversions so common among women, and Japanese women in particular, is that they are attracted, often tragically so, to men who are already taken. A guy with a girlfriend is infinitely more appealing than one without. A divorced middle-aged man, or even one who is still married, is far more preferable to one who at the age of thirty-eight has never wed. It boggles the male mind, it does.

I’d ask Urara whether she had a boyfriend if it actually mattered. These girls, I’m slowly discovering, have a fluid notion of commitment. Mie made that clear by taking me along on her self-exploration although she was for all intents an purposes engaged to be married. I still don’t quite understand how I fit in her plan– that is, assuming she’d had one to begin with. No matter how much I’ve thought about that relationship and, believe me I have brooded over it, I am no closer to understanding what happened, or how I managed to fall into the gap between them, or what, if anything, I meant to Mie.

All I am certain of is the pain I felt after she abandoned and the loneliness that has haunted me ever since because I still haven’t found someone to replace her. I don’t really know what I want anymore, to tell you the truth. A year earlier, crying on the outside of Mie’s apartment I would have told you that all I wanted was to have Mie back in my life. Now, however, I’m beginning to suspect that her leaving me, as painful as it has been, was probably for the best. I doubt if I could ever be the kind of husband she was hoping to have. Listening to the way housewives carry on about their husbands has hammered that fact firmly into my usually impervious head.

So, if Mie wasn’t the answer, then what is? Is it this Urara leaning into me, holding my hand in her lap?

By the time Hiromi comes to pick Urara up, the two of us are beyond repair.

“You have my number, right?” Urara slurs, hobbling off the barstool.

“Yesh.”

“Well then, call me, call me, call me.”

“When?”

“Anytime.”

“You know, Urarara, Japanese always shay ‘anytime,’ ‘anywhere,’ but they, but they don’t . . . “

She looks into my eyes, and, with both hands cradling my face, kisses me slowly on the lips. “I mean it, Peador. Anytime.”

The bar erupts in catcalls and if my face weren’t already pink from the drink I’d be blushing.

Hiromi, too, kisses me lightly on the cheek, and there they go, the two are gone, flitting away as effervescently as they did when they first came into my life only a week ago.

Tokyo Strange

“Dude…Japan is a strange place. Women buy you jewelry and shit.”

A friend of mine told me this before I first visited Japan in 2003.
Now It is 2009 and I have lived here almost 6 years. One would think that I would “get used to it” or Id “adjust” I would “acclimatize to my new environment” but nope. I haven’t.

The amount of strange, bizarre and unexplainable things that I have either been witness to or have been a part of would be a long list indeed but today I feel as though I cant hold it in. I need to release this tension so I am going to let this blog write itself, gloves off, I spare no feelings and waste no time…here we go…Tokyo Strange…

• I was on a train, Marunouchi line on a Tuesday or maybe a Monday and it was late but not busy.  The door opened and this big guy is getting on and he stares right at me. He Mad dogs me. I’m thinking “I dont need this.”  I’m thinking “Come on man, we have to knuckle up on the train? I skipped lunch.”  So he turns to face away from me and despite being on a train with alot of room, I mean alot, seats and everything, he stands close enough to me so that when he started rubbing my crotch with the back of his hand it must have looked super natural to someone watching from someplace behind me on the train.  I moved away thinking “hes drunk” and he moves closer to me again.  It then dawned on me that this big faggot was trying to molest me in the 6 car on the Marunouchi line at 9 o’clock on a Monday or a Tuesday.  At that moment I had a glimpse of why Japanese women, infamously, sit silent when they are groped on trains.  It was pretty ridiculous. I ate pizza later that night.
• Recently more and more people seem to be really into this “trend”, I hate the word “trend”, when I was in highschool nothing could be worse to me than someone saying I was “trendy” and apparently this has stuck because Japans obsession with “trendiness” irritates the hell out of me. Its like nails on a chalk board. Its like another “Sex and the City” movie.  So the new trend of “cool” fixed gear racing style bikes that is taking Tokyo by storm much like snowboarding 4 or 5 years ago and much like tennis before that and much like those skirts with that pattern I hated and much like the etc etc etc.  This new bike trend cuts down on something I always loved seeing due to the sheer absurdity of it and this thing was….impeccably dressed “hip” “sleek” “outfitted” young business men in Hermes or Armani and with Gucci brief cases and Prada rain coats  speeding around the greater Tokyo are on there old rusty, solid steel grandma bicycle complete with a bitch basket in the front.  Whats the point of getting dressed at all? Those cool points you were striving for well guess what? There fucking gone. You lost them the moment you even considered THAT form of transportation.
• There have been a couple of times over the years during which I have been legally homeless.  I lived in an stolen SUV for a month in Palm Springs California.  A while back I shoplifted my groceries for two weeks.  So during one of these fiscal dry spells when I was waiting for a train to come in October sort of near the time that big homo tried to feel me up but not the same time or anything, this funny outgoing fella started talking to me on the train platform.  He was ok I guess and in the end he chatted me up for 3 or 4 stations then finally gave me his phone number explaining that his wife, Japanese, really wanted to talk to foreigners and she would make dinner, a big dinner if I would come over to there place in Shin Okubo near Shinjuku the next day.  It was clear that something was rotten in denmark yeah but like I said the grocery situation was not so hot and one can only eat so much cup noodle and canned tuna before jumping out of a fucking window.  I took him up on the offer. Nice place they had in Shin Okubo and she could cook. Lots of dishes including Gyoza and Sushi and some yakitori and a load of beer and then shochu.  So we all drink alot and I was doing my pretty decent “amiable foreigner” act so damn well I should have gotten a nobel peace prize for cultural outreach or something and then his wife, who clearly was having the time of her life and why shouldnt she be, sort of slumped over on the talbe and was sleeping.  The guy is so nonchalant and says she always drinks alot, so he lays her on the floor, we were all sitting around a low table on the floor.  Then hes asking me if I like Japanese women and do I like his wife?  I told him she was very kind and the food was great. Do I think shes cute hes asking and Im not sure where to go with this so I say yes and then he tells me he knows American men like big asses so he proceeds to pull up his wifes skirt, flip her over and show me her ass, which was big in a good way. He even did that thing the guys do in Japanese porno where he grabs her panties and pulls them up giving her a fantastic wedgy. Needless to say I was impressed by that. Then he spent 45 minutes trying to convince me to fuck his wife while she was passed out and he would video tape it.  I declined. He insisted she wanted it and this was the whole point tonight. I declined despite the boner I now felt pulsing inside my jeans because hey, this was all pretty hot despite the titanium bonds of Judeo christian morality that clung to me like those alien ghosts the Scientology freaks are also gabbing about. He offered to pay me. I declined.  It took me awhile but I finally got out of that nut house.  I never heard from them again. I jerked off when I got home.  Those gyoza were good.
• There is no sort of rule involving public drunkenness in Japan.  In the states if the bar tender thinks your drunk, they can and should cut you off. Not in Japan.  No, not at all. You dont even need to be able to stumble to the bar and manage to speak. Your friends can just prop you up in a corner like some kind of dubious scare crow, and go buy drinks for you then hold your face open while they funnel more booze into you. I have seen this.  It is always entertaining to be walking around at 2 AM lighting cigarettes taking two drags then flicking them away even though I dont smoke and in fact hate smokers, and have to watch my step so that I dont trip over the Salary man that is passed out, sprawled on his back, in the middle of a Side walk across the street from a Police box and hes still clutching his briefcase. He is making a snow angel. Hes a victim of gangland violence. Hes just getting some time away from the wife.  This is fine. This is acceptable.  This is no problem.  Once in a izakaya (bar and restaurant fusion where you never get to eat anything other than appetizers) I was drinking with friends and a college party was drinking near us. One girl was so drunk she was crawling all around the resteraunt on all fours, her skirt up and her ass out in the wind while she made dog noises and various people pet her head in a pretty genuinely loving way and nobody took any notice but the staff came over when she vomited all over the floor near the kitchen entrance.  Two suspect looking guys from her college group came, picked her up, wiped her mouth off and literally carried her upstairs and outside, nobody else, girls or boys from that group followed. Hope they found a nice quiet alley or a cheap Love Hotel.

There are so many things it would be stupid to stuff it all in here so I will be writing more Tokyo Strange when the mood takes me.  And you know what? My friend was right, they do buy you jewelry here.

I’m living in Japan right now; I’m studying the language. I have to live in a dorm, because all of us Gaijin (foreign people) are a bunch of fucking children that want to jack off on everyone’s faces. But my roommate hooks up with this Brazilian beauty queen he met at a club, and when I’m sick, he asks if I can get the fuck out of the dorm so he can fuck her. The piece of shit even said, “even though you can stay in my friend’s room, (his friend was having a party) it’s ok if you want to stay in here”. Mother fucking piece of shit. I hope he catches aids from this bitch, and then begs me not to turn him over to the Japanese authorities, after the prime minister and the emperor tag teamed his childlike Gaijin ass.

I slept two hours. I figure the day is shot. But how many days will I spend in Tokyo in my lifetime? And, on this Sunday, the sun shines pure early fall glory. I Skype with Annabella (Wonderlust: “Eat. Love. Pray.”), surprised I can form a sentence, and then head to Kijiochi.

As I hit the Tokyo Metro, my thoughts drift in a tired haze. They lack completeness, like twins separated at birth. I picture a guy at a Twix factory who puts only one bar in every wrapper and scratches his head, “…I just know something was different yesterday…” My thoughts equate to either the worker or the solo Twix bar in this scenario.

Especially today, simple things amuse me, like the Contac cold medicine commercial I see on the train. I can’t make it out entirely but the gist is clear. A Samurai errs crucially and provides an opening for his adversary, sneezing during a duel. He could have avoided this had he the good sense to simply take Contac beforehand. Contac didn’t exist during the era the commercial reveals, but why be nitpicky? Suspend disbelief and we can all enjoy samurai-themed marketing. The main thing to recognize is that Contac is ultimately about honor. A cartoon pill with arms, legs, eyes and lots of little pellets inside delivers this message.

Speaking of the Metro, New York laughs at Tokyo’s willingness to catch some shut-eye. But cheer up Tokyo! The fact that your Metro closes for roughly 5 hours each night places your inhabitants in an interesting position. To oversimplify the options, catch the midnight train or the 5 am train. (Taxis can be prohibitively expensive.) When you eat late dinner with 15 Spaniards, the choice is clear. The early train is kid’s play like Trix cereal. Or even better, a less delicious version of Trix cereal that doesn’t leave your milk all rainbow colored. (I mean to convey midnight is not an option.)

I meet up with Anna (Wonderlust: “Sweet and Sour Grapes”) to check out the Tokyo nightlife with her crew of Tokyo ex-pat insiders. Among Anna’s friends, which represent the elite of Spain, Daniel is the most interesting and hilarious. He left the sticky Ibiza-area as a high school junior. “Parties were from Friday night until Monday afternoon. Straight. Every weekend.” His dad endorsed the move as he started to hear stories from cop-friends. Daniel, I roughly calculate, has spent 10 of the last 13 years abroad in Miami, Melbourne, Venezuela, Philippines, Indonesia and, now, Japan.

With my prodding, he reveals details about wide ranging adventures, his export/import business which allows him to stay in Japan and the peace he found as a former dive master. Some of the places he travelled in Indonesia were so off the beaten track that he needed a government escort and introduction so that local militias would cease-fire. Government officials flashed two lanterns to let local forces know when Daniel traveled by land. I know, I would have thought one if by land too.

We discuss women. “It is a twinkle in the eyes that I am drawn to. The eyes have a poetry that I just know…I need a connection.” Some dreamy combination of Javier Bardem and Walt Whitman? He tells me with a smile how he likes to have a list of 4 or 5 Japanese women that wait for his call. “Japanese women aren’t the easiest to get, but they are easiest to tie up in your bed once you do get them.” So maybe some even dreamier combination of Javier Bardem, Walt Whitman and Larry Flynt.

When the list deteriorates, he heads to notorious Rappongi where Japanese women go to meet gaijin, westerners. “Maybe they studied or worked abroad…and they just can’t go back to Japanese men.” In sum, once you go west, you never go east. I am not sure how that rule reconciles with too far west is east. Maybe approaching the international date line is playing with fire. But every once in a while, it’s fun to throw caution to the wind. Toe that line. Is Samoa west or east? Who knows–are Samoans attractive anyway?

I ask him what the story is at Bar Muse. “Well downstairs they play techno, up here they play hip-hop, there is Karaoke in that back corner, a lounge over there, and pool and ping pong in another downstairs area. And, oh yea, it’s the easiest place in Tokyo to get laid.” Daniel and friends prospect for gold. There is no shortage of talent. Tonight, I have Annabella on my mind and am content wreaking my brand of havoc on the dance floor. After a night of (my new nightlife go-to) diet coke fueled wildness, I roll into my hostel bed at 6 am.

Kijiochi is perfect for my childlike state of mind. Live bluegrass and honkytonk music drift pleasantly, if somewhat surprisingly, through the beautiful fall air. Vendors of the Inokashira Park art fair are happily oblivious that somebody else sells the same postcard, necklace, quartz trinket, or caricature offering nearby. Only the Didjeridoo guy enjoys a monopoly.

I attend a Japanese baseball game after. Some gaijin player homers in the fifth inning, cueing my departure. Superfan #99 sitting next to me, a one man international cheerleading competition, starts to grate. He knows the entire diverse range of cheers. And he has a loudness inferiority complex. He challenges himself to ever-increasing heights the way all the greats do. If he reaches the pinnacle for which he aims, I just hope his efforts aren’t undone by some sordid tale in his closet.

Besides the one man fan grandstand band, the beautiful fall day has given way to a chilly evening. I am underequipped without a sweater or any Contac. So I follow the white rabbit into the wonderland of rainbow colored milk and the early train.

PS-This guy was the highlight of the three acts I saw at Kijiochi.
PPS-Listen to The National if you haven’t heard them already. Favorite new band so far this trip. Read some Marukami if you haven’t already. Favorite new author so far this trip.

Click for LAST OF JAPAN PICS

Most of my foreign friends tell me how they notice the Japanese people often stare at them but don’t stare at each other. It’s true, Japanese people don’t stare at each other, if at all, the same way they would stare at a foreigner. When I went to Italy I noticed there people stare a lot. Because it’s not socially acceptable for the Japanese to stare at each other, I think a bar where everyone can stare at each other would make the Japanese happy to experience what they can’t experience in other social settings

http://www.thinkaloo.com

Si dice spesso che gli amanti del Giappone non possano avere un unico sentimento nei suoi confronti, ma siano sempre divisi a metà tra l’amore e l’odio. Come chi ha letto il blog probabilmente sa, io appartengo alla seconda categoria, ed ho spesso espresso il mio disappunto con sarcasmo; scelta che rivendico e che trovo giustificata, per carità, ma che comunque ha i suoi limiti espressivi… ma questa è un’altra storia, che probabilmente tratterò un’altra volta.

Quanto c’è di amore e quanto di odio (o di indifferenza) in me? Vorrei chiarire il punto, anche alla luce del secondo viaggio che ho fatto quest’estate (sigh sigh, ormai è “la scorsa estate”).

In effetti, mi pare di aver intuito piuttosto vagamente che io in Giappone non ci vorrei vivere: perlomeno, non per tutta la vita. Mai dire mai, certo… soprattutto conoscendo la mia intrinseca dubbiosità, nonché la propensione a cambiare repentinamente idea. Ma vedendo come mi sono andate le cose da una prospettiva temporalmente più distaccata non posso dire di volermici trasferire seduta stante. Vi risparmio i pro, che probabilmente avete ben presente: cortesia, efficienza, rispetto, civiltà, tecnologia; in una parola, progresso. E poi ci sono le città… uno spettacolo. E la sensazione di essere sempre parte di un ingranaggio che si muove alla perfezione, impagabile.
Ed io amo tutto ciò, profondamente, il che è uno dei principali ostacoli ad un mio sereno vivere in Italia. Alternativa che, ovviamente, prendo poco in considerazione.

Cosa si oppone, dall’altro lato?
Innanzitutto, direi “il muro”. L’espressione è probabilmente abusata, ma indica quella serie di atteggiamenti che i giapponesi adottano per farti capire che TU sei straniero, ovvero non sei parte di “noi”; sei semplicemente fuori dalla comunità. Probabilmente, la mia ipersensibilità verso questo punto è determinata anche dal fatto che la mia esperienza l’ho vissuta in campagna, in una piccola cittadina nel mezzo delle montagne… magari, ecco, in città le cose vanno meglio, da questo punto di vista; di sicuro, poi, ci sono più cose da fare (come ho avuto modo di appurare quest’estate grazie all’ospitalità di un mio amico, Luca, e della sua host-family, la famiglia Shirai, che mi hanno sopportato pazientemente per 9 giorni, senza che io abbia poi avuto modo di ricambiare), e sarebbe sbagliato giudicare il Giappone – che è tutto città – dalla mia limitata esperienza nella campagna. Conosco tuttavia la spiacevole sensazione di essere guardato di sottecchi per strada.
Insomma, non che io non abbia le mie responsabilità, ma alla fine non è stata solo colpa mia se dopo 6 mesi di liceo ad Iida sono rimasto comunque sostanzialmente solo, senza amici per cui valga la pena tornare; non vorrei fare la stessa fine all’università.

Il secondo punto è il lavoro: oltre agli orari che spesso sono allucinanti (almeno per chi vuole far carriera), le lauree italiane non sono riconosciute in Giappone, e lo stesso dicasi per quelle giapponesi in Italia. Che fare? Di borse di studio universitarie per il Giappone ce ne sono, e visti i test d’ingresso e l’esiguo numero di partecipanti direi che non è nemmeno impossibile aspirare a prenderne una. Questa sarebbe, ovviamente, una scelta che mi segnerebbe per la vita perché, ammesso che vada tutto per il meglio, una volta presa una laurea in Giappone la vorrei probabilmente sfruttare: questo riporta però al punto uno, in quanto non c’è nessuno che mi garantisca di non essere discriminato sul posto di lavoro, ancora una volta ipotizzando il migliore dei casi, in cui io riesca a trovarlo.

Non so, sinceramente, fino a che punto sia possibile per uno straniero integrarsi con la società giapponese… ma restare tutta la mia vita un outsider, questo preferirei evitarlo.
D’altro canto… il Giappone è sempre il Giappone.

Ecco il mio confuso delirio su una possibile vita giapponese. Qualcuno condivide?