Yeop

I was gonna do NaNoWriMo and bang out 50K words about My Tokyo Experience, but I got distracted. Here's what I came up with. Note that this completely unedited, and that names have been changed:


We are sitting, absolutely rapt, listening to his story.
“So I put my hand down there...” My friend Lee is telling the story, and as he says this, he gestures towards an invisible crotch, “...and there's something I didn't expect.”
“Tiny penis,” I say knowingly.
“Vagina?” asks my friend Drew.
Lee doesn't even blink. He has committed to telling this tale of woe. “No, I went to take down his Calvin Klein boxer briefs, and there's...a pad.”
We don't react. Finally, my friend Gemma asks, “a maxi pad?”
“Yeah.”
We don't react again for a few seconds, before breaking into cruel, helpless laughter.
“What did you do?”
“I don't know,” Lee admits sheepishly. “I was really drunk, so I just...I don't know, I gave him a handjob and went home. And now I can't go back to that bar again. Which sucks, 'cause it was a really nice bar.”

Welcome to love in Tokyo. The women are conniving and infantilized, the men have hugely overinflated senses of both entitlement and inferiority, and those who are looking for a meaningful connection often are left texting in tears on the subway platform. This is the kind of thing that we are now used to.

When I left Canada for Tokyo, I had never had a one-night stand, had never made the first move in my life, and didn't know how to do so. The usual yellow fever infecting most Asian transplants was not an issue for me; Japanese men looked like asexual vampires who had stuck their fingers in light sockets- a maximum weight of one hundred pounds, hair that rose in magnificent waves about a foot above their heads, and a fondness for plaid lumberjack shirts that had died elsewhere in the world about the time that Kurt Cobain embodied the phrase “nice shot.” I was beyond awkward.

It changed, and the first date process would often go something like this:

Shibuya is one of those places in Tokyo that is synonymous with, well, Tokyo. You can go down there any time and see hordes of people: street performers, drunk chicks, yamamba, salarymen, droves and droves of gap-jawed tourists- why on earth can't white people close their mouths when they walk around?- housewives, homeless people, gothic lolitas like eroticized cupcakes, and everything in between. It is a confusing hodge-podge of neon and voices and curry smells, where you can buy just about anything, drink in any kind of establishment (including, but not limited to, bars where they lock you in a jail cell and force you to stir your drink with cheerful glistening vibrators), and make passionate love in a dungeon, or a Hello Kitty nightmare, for a mere five thousand yen an hour.

I fucking hate Shibuya.

First of all, you can't walk anywhere. There are too many people. Try to take a man-sized step in any direction and you'll run up against some knob with a camera and likely bump your nose. If you're wearing high heels, it's almost a certainty that you'll get the heel stuck in the wheels of some businessman's rolling suitcase, or stub your toes against a crossdresser's cape. It might sound exciting to you, but trust me, it's a nuisance, and after a year in Tokyo I've completely lost my joy of context.

The second bad thing about Shibuya is looking at the other white people. Whenever I see a closely-huddled knot of lumpy, camera-toting people in “LOOKING FOR A JAPANESE GIRLFRIEND” t-shirts, I get this uncontrollable urge to vomit. Or cry. I try to avoid walking anywhere near them so that people don't assume I'm part of their group. I'm convinced that half of them don't even leave the station; they stand in front and snap pictures for hours whilst catching flies in their yawning, cavernous traps. Not that there are flies in Shibuya; it's too inorganic. They take pictures of the SHIBUYA 109 sign, the video billboards, and I'm sure they do their best to get a shot of Hachiko. Of course, Hachiko can never be seen for the piles of soused homeless people and bored-looking Japanese girls in three-inch skirts waiting for their emotionally-detached boyfriends with Flock of Seagulls hairdos that surround it. But the tourists try, they do.

The third thing I hate about Shibuya is that every time I go there, I get drunk, and then I go to Don Quijote and go shopping and buy loads of incredibly stupid things that I don't even half need. For example, my last intoxicated retail adventure netted me a twenty-dollar bottle of green nail polish (I already own six bottles of a similar shade), a packet of coconut incense (bad choice) and an oversized hot pink gangsta hoodie made of a fabric halfway between “towel” and “Muppet.” Not that it isn't a great little hoodie- warm as fuck!- but come on, self. Was that really necessary?

Therefore, I wasn't happy to be in Shibuya that Sunday night. I was stuffed into my First Date Jeans and my First Date Top- black, plunging neckline, long enough to hide my thighs- and a pair of First Date Shoes that were giving me a pair of wicked First Date Blisters. I had checked my makeup four times and even attempted to blow-dry my hair before giving up in abject, frustrated apathy. Despite these all being the same First Date Accoutrements that I had employed on the past eight unpleasant first dates I'd had this year, I had some inkling that they might work this time. Wishful thinking, I know.

His face was average, his body was average, he made the same amount of money I did, and within about three minutes I realized that we had the typical things in common: a fondness for shows like Family Guy, an enjoyment of Judd Apatow productions, and the stagnant commonality of all Tokyo denizens, a hatred for riding the trains. He took me to a typical bar: 300 yen per draft beer, stuffed to the gills with foreigners, that he bragged he had “discovered” months before and that I had been to no less than six times already.

Two beers down, he pops the typical question: “So...are you seeing anyone else?”

I eyed him suspiciously over the rim of my beer glass. “Well,” I said, praying that I wouldn't lose the bet I'd had with myself, “Not really, no. Why? Are you?”

He shuffled and smiled and his Adam's apple bobbed, and I mouthed the words into my beer as he said them out loud: “Um...kind of.”

Which kind of?

It came out, as many of these stoies do, in a semi-patronizing, dismissive tone, and it's difficult for me to remember which iteration of the tale was offered to me by this iteration of the man, so I offer you the following in lieu. Circle the options you find juiciest. “Yeah, she's Japanese. We've been together/ engaged/ sleeping together and seeing other people- well, I see other people, she doesn't/ married for (choose whatever length of time you like; I've heard them all). I mean, it's not a big deal or anything.”

Stupid me, I have to ask the question they expect. It's part of the dance. “Um, does she know?”

“Well...”

The women never know.

At this point in the conversation, I usually light a cigarette. If the guy doesn't smoke, it might drive him away. If he does, his wife or girlfriend or love slave probably doesn't, and he'll disapprove of me. All foreign men who date Japanese women develop a Madonna/Whore complex towards foreign women, with the gaijinettes making up ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the “whore” category. We're too difficult, too demanding, too selfish, too independent, and thoroughly too good at communicating our actual feelings.

I stubbed out my cigarette and looked into his mild, bland eyes. “So what are you doing here, exactly, then?”

There is no answer to this question. The best of the lot will shrug and say something like “I like you,” or “you're pretty,” or “I don't know, I just feel trapped”. These are the men who you can charmingly bid goodnight. A few will apologize later and you can be friends with them.

The worst of the lot, however, will immediately begin bitching and moaning about how their Japanese love interest wants commitment. Babies babies wedding babies wedding babies. Or “she's too busy and I never see her.” Or both.

(My favorite response, “fuck off, none of your business,” I got only once. I kissed him on the forehead before storming off. It was the most honest reply I had or still have ever received.)

So which one was this guy? “Well, you know, she works a lot...and sometimes it's hard because...like...she has all these expectations...but I'm just not ready for a commitment.”

It is here that I smiled prettily, made up a kindergarten teaching appointment for early the next morning, and left him standing at the train station after dodging an awkward attempt to take my hand.

On my way home, I don't read. My entertainment of choice is staring out the windows of the Yamanote while my iPod blasts Ani Difranco and death metal in equal quantities.

This is the Gaijin Love Connection. You want them. They want you. Somewhere along the line, though, normal behavior and typical connections from person to person get lost in a sea of neon and false eyelashes and crushing work schedules and inconvenient train lines. So we drift, a group of educated, fairly ballsy individuals, from chance to chance to fleeting hope. Usually, we fall.

Hell no, we WILL go.

Company policy dictates that if we leave a school during our shift in order to get something to eat, we should ask the staff first.

It's never been a problem before today, but when we asked if we could make our habitual run to the konbini, we were shot down with the typical buck-toothed, two-faced "Ohhhh, so sorry..."

No.

FUCK no.

We're at the school with no lessons; I'm sure my coworkers who read this blog know the school in question.

DO NOT ACCEPT THIS. Fight the system.

Why I Hate Japan Right Now

Okay, so here's what happened:

I've been looking for an apartment since the end of March. Instead of going through Sakura House (not a good company to deal with) or any of the usual foreigner channels, I took my friend up on his offer to introduce me to his real estate agent, a formidable and wonderful woman who I will refer to as "Ikuko".

Ikuko, my friend "Steve", and I pounded the pavement for a day, and I found a beautiful apartment in Shin-Okubo, which is the Korean part of town. It was within walking distance from Shinjuku and two stops away from my friends in Takadanobaba. In short, perfect.

In the twenty hours between then and my return to the office the next day, the apartment had been rented. Ikuko did some sleuthing and found another unit in the same building- not as good of a view, on a lower floor, and slightly less unique than the original apartment, but still quite good. I decided to snatch it up.

Three days later, Ikukp called me: the owners were "uncomfortable" renting to foreigners. May I reiterate that this place is in the KOREAN part of town?

The search started again. I must have walked all over Tokyo. I even went looking two days before my kidney infection put me in the hospital for a week. I found a new place in Ogikubo: not as great as the one in Shin-Okubo, but still pretty good. Great location. Tatami mats. An affordable 2DK. Nearly everything I wanted.

Ikukp called me two days after I told her I'd take the place: oh, now they need a Japanese emergency contact, instead of Steve (who speaks perfect Japanese). And not just any Japanese emergency contact- a coworker.

Okay.

So, I had one Japanese coworker I felt I knew well enough to ask for this- my friend "Yuka". I asked her and received a fawning affirmative reply within minutes. All right, set to go! Right? Right???

Weird things started happening. Ikuko would call me, looking for Yuka, or call me into the office to talk about how hard it was to reach Yuka. Meanwhile, my moving date got pushed up by several weeks due to my hospitalization. The whole time, Yuka assured me that everything was fine, even though Ikuko kept telling me that Yuka refused to take any calls and had called HER yelling. Apparently, she was offended that she was asked to give my guarantor company such violently personal information such as the name of her hometown and the phone number of our work's head office. I know, I know, it's like being raped, huh?

Yet, we pressed on. I left for Abu Dhabi, assured that everything would be okay. Ikuko hadn't mentioned anything about Yuka in a few days, and we'd gone over all the necessary documents with no mention of hitches, so while I wasn't exactly feeling confident, I was comforted that things might happen properly.

Oh, and I should mention that I canceled my guesthouse contract and set up my moveout date during this time.

I got back into Tokyo and the next day, Ikuko called with great news: she had convinced the management company to accept Steve as my emergency contact, instead of ephemeral Yua. She did say that she had left Yuka's name on the official paperwork just in case she did come through, as Yuka'd be a more conventional and acceptable contact, being Japanese. Okay, I said.

Last Saturday, less than 24 hours before I was to sign the contract and move in, Ikuko called. The housing company had dropped me and refused the contract.

It seems that Yuka had sent them a multiple-page fax detailing her fees for translation and English teaching services, threatening noncompliance if they weren't paid. I'm not entirely sure what she expected to accomplish with that, nor what in hell she could have meant by doing so, but the management company was so offended and so freaked out that they refused to deal with me if it meant dealing with her.

Ikuko left for vacation the next day, and she won't be back until the seventeenth. I lose my right to live in my guesthouse a week after that.

So now, I don't know what to do. The timing is such that I'm fucked for Tokyo City Apartments and Tokyo Rent, since I work twice as much as usual this week.

I am out of time, I don't feel well enough yet to be dealing with any of this, and I'm fucking tired.


Racism is a beautiful thing.

Note: I have not seen the offending faxed materials, nor have I witnessed any of the alleged yelling. I do not claim that either detail is one-sided; I am merely reporting the facts as I know them.

Don't fuck up in Japan

Seriously, don't. These are some of the things you will have to do for committing a grievous infraction, like being seven minutes late or teaching the wrong part of a lesson first:

1. Write apology letters. In triplicate.

2. Be brought in for an exquisitely torturous scolding.

3. Have to stuff packs of tissues with flyers.

4. Bow a lot, which might fuck up your neck.