By Claytonian
Oh, to be a foreigner in backwoods Japan! You can't know unless you've done it, but I recommend you relocate posthaste! When you arrive, prepare to be treated as a king. Only if you look foreign, of course.
I spent a few years in such an environment. People were constantly turning to see my foreign presence enter a room and letting their eyes widen to proportions usually reserved for those magazines in the back corner of the combinis. "Where are you from?" They would say while putting an arm around me and guiding me to a seat adjacent to them. Then they would wine me, dine me, and tell me to marry their daughters (no exaggeration). It didn't matter that it was all shakoujirei (social pleasantries), cause it made me feel special, damn it.
Fast forward to life in the big city (I'm living in Yokohama now), and things are a bit different. In this town, most people don't bother with the double take that their country brothers throw around like so much whip-lash fodder. No, I am anonymous and unnoticed for the most part. Sure, when I engage people on a personal basis, I still encounter the Foreigner Reality Distortion Field, but for the most part I am left to my own devices, which is great for an eternal tourist such as myself.
The other night though, I heard some loud sax. I love me some good sax, so I walked down the street until I found it. Turns out a guy was grilling in the entrance to a bar, and in between flipping shish kebabs, he traded notes with a guy on an old Hammond organ beside him. It was really swinging. When the sax/grill-man saw me, he beckoned me inside, telling me I needn't worry about the cover in a way that felt like those old friendly greetings that I used to get in the countryside bars.
Once inside, that familiar foreign royalty feeling came rushing back as everyone cheered at seeing me and told me to chow down. I ordered a kebab and drank in the atmosphere. A man offered his wife's female friend for dating purposes. Then a guy and his kid moved tables to sit with me. They asked what I was drinking, but I insisted that I wasn't interested in alcohol. Then they pointed to the soft drinks menu and said it was okay. Now, you have to understand, strangers in bars don't ever do this unless they plan on paying for the drink. That's my experience. So I relented, thinking it would be fare compensation for the awkward little English lessons he was forcing between his 11 year old and me--who wants to talk to kids when there is live and energetic jazz in a bar?!-- and ordered an orange juice. Stiff price it was too, but if he really wanted to pay...
I drained the glass and ate my kebab. He ordered me another one. Just kinda decided on his own, hey, you want this, and I had another one placed before me. Well, if that's what he wanted to give me, who was I to argue? I finally asked for the bill, confident that the man would follow the pattern I was so used to and pay for my drinks. I even half expected him to cover my kebab as well.
Well, you have probably already guessed that I ended up paying full price for those icy orange juices. You may also think that I am a little spoiled. I do. It was a good reminder that I can't always be a taker, living off of the goodness of Japanese strangers. In fact, maybe it's about time I bought a Japanese person some food for a change. I'll even insist that he date my daughter.
Oh, to be a foreigner in backwoods Japan! You can't know unless you've done it, but I recommend you relocate posthaste! When you arrive, prepare to be treated as a king. Only if you look foreign, of course.
I spent a few years in such an environment. People were constantly turning to see my foreign presence enter a room and letting their eyes widen to proportions usually reserved for those magazines in the back corner of the combinis. "Where are you from?" They would say while putting an arm around me and guiding me to a seat adjacent to them. Then they would wine me, dine me, and tell me to marry their daughters (no exaggeration). It didn't matter that it was all shakoujirei (social pleasantries), cause it made me feel special, damn it.
Fast forward to life in the big city (I'm living in Yokohama now), and things are a bit different. In this town, most people don't bother with the double take that their country brothers throw around like so much whip-lash fodder. No, I am anonymous and unnoticed for the most part. Sure, when I engage people on a personal basis, I still encounter the Foreigner Reality Distortion Field, but for the most part I am left to my own devices, which is great for an eternal tourist such as myself.
The other night though, I heard some loud sax. I love me some good sax, so I walked down the street until I found it. Turns out a guy was grilling in the entrance to a bar, and in between flipping shish kebabs, he traded notes with a guy on an old Hammond organ beside him. It was really swinging. When the sax/grill-man saw me, he beckoned me inside, telling me I needn't worry about the cover in a way that felt like those old friendly greetings that I used to get in the countryside bars.
Once inside, that familiar foreign royalty feeling came rushing back as everyone cheered at seeing me and told me to chow down. I ordered a kebab and drank in the atmosphere. A man offered his wife's female friend for dating purposes. Then a guy and his kid moved tables to sit with me. They asked what I was drinking, but I insisted that I wasn't interested in alcohol. Then they pointed to the soft drinks menu and said it was okay. Now, you have to understand, strangers in bars don't ever do this unless they plan on paying for the drink. That's my experience. So I relented, thinking it would be fare compensation for the awkward little English lessons he was forcing between his 11 year old and me--who wants to talk to kids when there is live and energetic jazz in a bar?!-- and ordered an orange juice. Stiff price it was too, but if he really wanted to pay...
I drained the glass and ate my kebab. He ordered me another one. Just kinda decided on his own, hey, you want this, and I had another one placed before me. Well, if that's what he wanted to give me, who was I to argue? I finally asked for the bill, confident that the man would follow the pattern I was so used to and pay for my drinks. I even half expected him to cover my kebab as well.
Well, you have probably already guessed that I ended up paying full price for those icy orange juices. You may also think that I am a little spoiled. I do. It was a good reminder that I can't always be a taker, living off of the goodness of Japanese strangers. In fact, maybe it's about time I bought a Japanese person some food for a change. I'll even insist that he date my daughter.
Good post. Good to be put on our place once in a while.