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.

The Facetiously-Answered Questions! (That's FAQ, people)

Updated when and where I see fit.


When do you start?
November.

Cool; what company do you work for?
I don't think it's a good idea to come out and say that. If my company was really invested in finding this blog, I'm sure they could. I haven't actually started yet, so all I have to say is YAAAAAY FOR [MY COMPANY]!

Fine, loser. Where are you going to be working? Can you at least tell me that?
Kanto.

WHERE in Kanto?
Dunno yet.

GOD!
Well, sor-reeeee.

So, you were an English major? Or Asian Studies?
Physical anthro and history double-major.

Way to use those areas of expertise.
Hey, if someone dies in the apartment next door, I'll be able to figure out how. Then I'll get really famous and have a TV show called "SUPER CRIME-STOP GAIJIN!" where I solve mysteries and then do really inexplicable ads for sandwiches.

Wow, I would totally watch that.
Of course you would.

Was it hard getting the eikaiwa job?
Kind of. There was a lot of preparation involved- I spent hours reading about others peoples' interview experiences and the various "Dos and Don'ts" lists that invariably followed them. A lot of forum-reading and logging in major hours at eslcafe. I also made a really shitty poster about different jobs that may or may not have had a picture of a Nazi on it.

Seriously?
Well, no...it just kind of looked like one.

How many places did you interview at?
In terms of companies, three. In terms of countries, four.

Can you tell me about your interview experience with ______?
I'm only equipped to discuss the details of three major eikaiwa: AEON, ECC, and Berlitz. If you ask about one of them, I can be more specific, but I'll be happy to give general tips to anyone who asks.

I heard this thing about NOVA and--
I know as much about NOVA as any uninformed observer. Please don't ask me about it; all I can do is point you to a handful of helpful articles. I do not teach for them and I don't know anyone who has. This may change once I'm fully entrenched in the eikaiwa world.

What does your blog name mean?
Back in the Dark Ages (1998-9ish) when I actually read manga, one that I liked was Great Teacher Onizuka.

....and?
Sorry, Blogger fucked up. Anyways, the plot of GTO is about a guy who becomes a teacher in order to shag underaged girls, but eventually ends up helping kids instead through his wacky "street" methods. My name is Anna. I felt punny.

So you're gonna nampa.
NO, dammit.

What does "nampa" mean?
Extrapolate from the context.

You're a poop.
Well, I can't argue with that one.

"To die will be a very great adventure." J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

The thing I hear most from other people about this whole "going to Japan to teach English" thing is, "Oh, I wish I could do something like that." Being the persistently-helpful asshole I am, I immediately offer a laundry list of people and companies to contact, only to be met with a whole slew of excuses: need to save money, don't want to break up with my boyfriend, can't abandon my pet goldfish, etc.

Well, there's always a reason not to do something. Me, I only have reasons to go to Japan. Let me explain:

I was born in the US and lived most of my life there, but went to Canada for university. In my second year, my parents decide out of the blue to pack up our shit and move to Abu Dhabi, a fairly esoteric choice. What's a girl to do straight out of school when she can't even flop at Mom and Dad's and work a shitty temp job?

I'm no weeaboo. Sure, I had an anime period when I was in eighth grade or so, but I don't really watch the stuff. I do still listen to J-Rock, but everything I like is hopelessly outdated (I like to pretend Malice Mizer never folded), and every time I hear Gwen Stefani squeal about Harajuku, I feel vaguely ill. I don't speak Japanese. I don't cosplay. I don't even eat fish.

You might very well be asking, then, "why Japan?" Well, Steve- I can call you Steve, can't I?- I love Japanese history and culture. It's fascinating. I have an anthropological interest in sex workers, and Japan is nothing if not a neon candyland of crazy poon. I'm also very interested in geisha. And Shintoism. And trains. And very small trees. And going to the store and buying a small luxury item and having it wrapped in no less than three bags, plus tissue paper. Maybe I'm not the average eikaiwa drone; I don't really know. All I know is that Japan feels right for me, right for now.

I'm leaving for Japan at the end of October, and until that point, I'm in limbo. I figured that, in between puttering around the US-Canada border and selling my old possessions on eBay in order to make beer money, I might as well do something vaguely constructive. Hence, this blog. Vamonos.