My Big Debut

It’s been almost a month since I last posted, but I’m sure you’ll agree by the time you’ve read through to the end of this one (if indeed you don’t lose interest within the next paragraph or two) that I’ve more than made up for my lack of posting with quite a sizeable word count here. For this I apologise, and I sincerely thank any of you who stick with me to the end.

And now, on with the story . . .

Sunday November 26th of this year was a big day for me. So big was it that I am certain I will never forget it. I had long been looking forward to it, though now that it has come and gone, I look back on it with a strange mix of bitter disappointment laced with astonishment and capped with a serendipitous high. It was the day I made my debut for the Batten Basketball Club.

Now, there had been quite a build-up to this day, and quite a few obstacles had to be overcome in order for me to play. Earlier in the year, on a cool Wednesday night in March, a friend took me along to the training session of said club, and introduced me to the guys. Incidentally, this was how I met Masa, whom you might remember from a couple of posts ago. From that night on I more or less made it to every Wednesday night session. In the beginning it was just a way for me to keep active, but it became much more than that, and it was undoubtedly the best thing that had happened to me, socially, for a long time. I went from feeling like little more than a conspicuous foreigner living in Japan, to feeling like a part of the community; and it was only after joining this group that the vibrant city of Fukuoka really began to open up to me.

Wednesday quickly became my favourite day of the week, and it wasn’t long before Masa and a few others began asking me if I’d like to join the team officially, for competitions. Naturally, I was very keen, but it didn’t happen until just recently, for a number of reasons. First of all, Masa had to speak to all members of the team to make sure that there were no objections to me coming on board. This might sound a bit over the top for a team that currently finds itself in division-D of the Fukuoka Company Worker’s League (a direct translation), but it was done in the interest of that very deep-rooted tenet of Japanese culture—group harmony. So, having received the green light from all team members, I was all set to go. But then, in a cruel twist of fate, my work schedule was changed, so that I would no longer have Sundays off—Sundays being game day. Thus, my big debut had to be put on hold until I could get some time off work; this I was able to do, but only after resorting to the use of some of my paid holidays, of which I have precious few. Lastly, and importantly, I had to have a uniform made up, which took time, and wasn’t cheap.

On the night before the big day, I went out with three or four teammates and a couple of friends. Masa was confidently predicting that I would get a lot of court-time, probably more than I expected. As a way of adding weight to these predictions he mentioned, in a conspiratorial tone, that he had spoken to Tsuitchi, our fearsome, yet super, captain-coach. I replied with a mix of false modesty and bravado, saying something to the effect of ‘I don’t expect to receive much time at first. I would prefer that Tsuitchi puts me in the game whenever he thinks is best; and when that time comes I will show him what I can do’. Nevertheless, in anticipation of all the minutes I would be playing, having taken Masa’s words to heart, and mindful of our ten-thirty start in the morning, I took myself home a little earlier than I normally would on a Saturday night, leaving Masa and co. to party into the wee hours of the morning—clearly they were not expecting much court-time.

The next morning, I was--owing to my newfound self-discipline--fresh and raring to go. When my big moment finally came, I stepped on to the court to the sounds of much cheering and encouragement from my teammates. I must confess, however, that I was not nearly as excited as they were. With Tsuitchi on the court, Masa, who had assumed the role of assistant captain-coach, put me into the game with about two minutes left on the clock—in the fourth quarter. What’s more, he chose Tsuitchi as the player I was to go on for--a move that I felt was perhaps not in the best interests of my future game time prospects.

The fate of the game had well and truly been sealed—in our favour—which is why this part of the game is referred to as garbage-time: the time of the game when all the good players come off the court so as to avoid getting injured, and the not so good players are set loose, eager to absorb every last nanosecond of court time they can get. And so, finding myself in the company of the latter, I gave it my best for two minutes. Let the record show my personal contribution to the team on my debut was as follows:

Collisions with teammates: 1
Points: 0
Rebounds: 0
Assists: 0
Steals: 1

One word to sum up my game? Symmetrical: at least numerically so, and when presented in the manner in which I have above. (Alternatively, leaving "Rebounds" where they are, you could put the other two zeros on the extremities, trading places with "Collisions" and "Steals", and the list would still maintain its symmetry.) Yes, well, anyway, the important thing is we won. I must admit, however, I couldn’t help thinking that perhaps I had taken myself home a little prematurely the night before, and instead could have stayed out for one or two more drinks. In fact, I could have quite comfortably stayed out all night; I dont't think there would have been too much panic and concern had I slept in and missed the game.

The good news was we had another game to play at around 1 o’clock. It was this game that my girlfriend, Tomoki, was coming to watch, and so, naturally, as far as I was concerned, this next game was all that mattered. She may have missed my two minutes of brilliance in the first game, but I was confident I still had enough left in the tank to put on a show for her, to show her what I was made of. To see me play the game that has been such a big part of my life—which prior to this day she had not—I believed, would afford her a deeper understanding of my character, my spirit, and my soul (exactly how these three differ I’m not sure). In other words, I had desperately wanted to show off. Strangely, and inexplicably, I was in an optimistic frame of mind, believing, having received a mere two minutes in the first game, that things could only get better. That Masa was again assuring me I would get substantial playing time should have perhaps struck me as inauspicious. But it didn’t.

When my girlfriend arrived, accompanied by one of her friends, I showed them to a couple of seats in the stand which I had carefully chosen for them, and from which I thought they would have the best possible view of the game, and, more importantly, of my glorious performance. Upon reflection, however, it seems quite a ludicrous thing to have done, as the stand consisted of only a handful of seats, all of which had, more or less, the exact same view of the court.

As the warm-up began, I was to be found, in between lay-ups, strutting about with all the sublime confidence and swagger of an Olympic hundred-metre sprinter, and, I imagine, with an egomaniacal twinkle in my eye. Indeed, all throughout the warm-up, I affected as much grace and style for every shot, pass, and rebound, as I could muster, with the sole aim of impressing Tomoki. Whether or not this worked I will never know because in an attempt to appear cool and indifferent I refrained from looking over to where she and her friend were sitting.

Pride goeth before a fall . . .

We won! Again! Normally this would make me happy. But having received a sum total of ZERO minutes . . .well suffice to say I was not in a celebratory mood. After the game, judging by the way everyone was giving me a wide berth I think my demeanour must have been somewhat akin to an angrier version of Battler-san, whom you might recall from an earlier post. It was a humbling, maddening, humiliating, and confusing experience. When you cannot get a go in division-D of your local competition something is wrong with the world; or, more specifically, something is wrong with our still fearsome, though no longer super (at least not in my estimation) captain-coach, Tsuitchi.

They say that every cloud has a silver lining. Well in this case the silver lining would be that Tomoki’s father had been unable to accept my invitation to come and watch. And so, my humiliation was not as complete as it otherwise might have been. After the game, Tomoki was very sweet and understanding, and it was only after I had assured her that I was okay, that she reluctantly let me go home alone so that I could have some time to myself in which to sulk and lick my wounds.

After I had changed out of my uniform and was preparing to leave the gym, Tsuitchi came up to me and, very cautiously, offered what turned out to be (I think) an explanation and apology: “Zaku, gomene. Something-something-something-something. Getsu-yobi ne.” This translates very roughly into, “Zak, I’m sorry. Something-something-something-something. Monday, OK?” As he said this he seemed to be keeping what he must have felt to be a safe distance from me, as though he were afraid that at any moment I might erupt in a violent fit of frustration. I responded with a very curt "Hai" though I could barely bring myself to look at him. Despite not being able to understand every word he had said, his reference to Monday was enough for me to go on, as our team’s main practice session is on Monday nights. The significance of this will become clear if you bear in mind that I have never attended Monday night practice (because of work). Recall that I go to Wednesday night practice, which in fact is not our team’s practice at all, but is instead another team’s practice at which we are the guests, our role being to provide them with somebody to practice against. Equally significant is the fact that Tsuitchi never attends Wednesday’s practice. Thus, prior to the day in question, he had never seen me play, and evidently was not willing to trust the things he had heard about me from Masa and others. So, essentially, what he had said to me was that if I start coming on Mondays I can get more game time.

Unable to hide my disappointment, I declined to join the team for the post-match dinner. Instead, as I mentioned before, I went home alone to wallow pathetically in self-pity.

Now this story would not be complete if I left it at that, and in so doing left out what happened later in the evening. After the game, Masa, concerned about me, and perhaps feeling bad about the way the day had played out, asked me to meet up with him after he had had dinner with the team, so that we could have a beer and talk about what had happened. At first I had sulkingly declined, saying that I didn’t think I would make very good company.
“OK,” he said, concern evident in the expression on his face. “I can understand how you are feeling. And I’m really sorry about it.”
“I don’t blame you, Masa.”
“I know.” But again, the look on his face suggested that he wasn’t so sure. Wanting to put his mind at ease, I agreed to meet up with him later that night.

So it was at around 10PM that Masa and I took a seat at the polished timber counter of a very traditional-looking sushi restaurant in Tenjin. That he had chosen this kind of restaurant for us to go to said a lot about how he was feeling: this was his way of saying sorry. We ordered some beer and sashimi (like sushi but without rice) and started chatting. Before long, the topic of conversation turned to the huge anti-climax that had been my debut for the team.
“What do you feel about today man?” Masa asked me.
“Well, two minutes in two games . . .I can’t really believe it. It’s incredible. I don’t know what else to say.” After a few more beers, however, I found that I was able to give a more detailed, if heartfelt, account of why I was so upset. Masa was very patient with me and seemed to agree with most of the things I was saying. When I was done he told me a story of how he had had a similar experience when he first joined the team, seven or so years ago. In fact, he said almost everyone on the team had similar stories.
“I don’t want you to quit our team.”
“I don’t want to quit. I want to play (play being the operative word). But you know, I think I realised today that even if I want to play, it just won’t be possible unless my work schedule is changed again so that I can have Sundays off. I just can’t keep using my paid holidays.”
He said that he understood but didn’t want me to make a decision right now. Instead he wanted me to take a day or two to think about it and then let him know. This I agreed to, though in truth I had already decided that I would be content with just playing on Wednesday nights.

“Have you ever eaten whale?” I asked, partly out of curiosity, and partly from just wanting to change the topic. I often find when I ask this question that many older Japanese have, while many of the younger generation have not.
“Sure,” he replied, as I had expected he would. He went on with a sentimental air, “You know, when I was in the elementary school we could eat whale for lunch in the school cafeteria. But now, you know, it’s kind of rare.”
As I was conjuring up images of a whale steak with chips, Masa called out to the stocky and stoic gentleman behind the counter, “Sumimasen!” Excuse me! “Something-something o kudasai.”
“What did you just order?” I inquired, a touch of alarm in my voice.
“Whale.”
Oh . . .you didn’t have to do that, I thought to myself, though I could only verbalise it in the form of a very meek “Really?”

As you might imagine, I watched with interest, and a slight sense of dread, as the abovementioned stocky gentleman with stoic countenance—who I’m reluctant to call a cook, or even a chef, and am instead leaning towards master, because it is, I think, the term that the Japanese use—worked away behind the counter with much industry and an arsenal of very sharp knives. After a few moments he solemnly placed a plate of whale sashimi in front of us. He then took a step back, and with the look in his eyes seemed to be issuing me with a challenge, as though he didn’t believe that I would really eat it. There were three different cuts of whale meat on the plate, all of which I sincerely hoped were not from one of the more endangered species.
“What’s this?” I asked Masa.
“That is whale bacon,” he said matter-of-factly.
Of course it is, I thought to myself. I had made it nearly two years in Japan without eating whale; at least I had never knowingly eaten whale. But all that was about to change. Taking my cue from Masa, I tentatively picked up a piece of the meat with my chopsticks, dipped it in some soy sauce mixed with shredded ginger paste and brought it to my mouth, my left hand underneath so as to catch any soy sauce that might drip. I put the meat into my mouth and began to chew, conscious of the master, and now his assistant, eyeing me closely.
“How is it?” Masa asked, the master still watching me.
“Unnn, oishiiii yo,” I said, with as much animation as my very poor acting skills would allow. It’s beautiful! The master seemed to be satisfied with this and so turned his attention to another group of customers at the other end of the counter. When Masa felt it was safe to do so, he asked me, “Really?”
“No. Well, it’s okay.” Owing to the somewhat overpowering mix of soy and ginger, I was unable to detect any distinct whaley taste.
“I thought so. Actually, I don’t really like whale so much.”
Nevertheless, thinking that it would be sacrilegious to let it go to waste, we ate the remaining whale sashimi, which included what Masa referred to as flesh and meat from the stomach. I did ask what kind of whale it was that we had eaten, and they (Masa and the Master) did tell me, though at the time we were unable to translate it into English, and I’ve since forgotten the Japanese. Perhaps it’s for the best.

Anyway, there was little point to this latter part of the story other than to share with you what is one of the more recent experiences I’ve had this year that go under the heading of ‘Things I never thought I’d do’. Among other things, the list also includes:
(1) Drinking with Sumos in a ‘Snack’ bar (more on snack bars later).
(2) Having a "conversation" with a Nepalese man, in Japanese, on a train heading to Nagasaki (much to the amusement of some of our non-gaijin co-passengers).
(3) Eating a still beating eel’s heart (in a restaurant, not whilst lost in the wilderness).

And on that note, fearing that I’ll be stretching the friendship (if I haven’t already) if I go on any longer, I’d like to wish you all the best for Christmas and the new year. I’ll have some big news (hopefully!) to share with you in my first post for next year, so be sure to come back!

Peace,
eyechan

I've Been Censored!

I spent much of last week duking it out in cyberspace with one very staunch supporter of Bush and American foreign policy. He goes by the name of Rock. He is a religious man; a patriot; leans well to the right; and he’s not keen on questioning the motives and activities of his government. To him, in a world where it’s “good vs. evil” and “us against them” the U.S. is beyond reproach.

Rock has a blog where he writes about political issues and where he has taken on the noble quest of enlightening the ignorant masses. Anyway, for reasons that will soon become clear, he did not publish my last comment, and so, at the risk of turning this into a political blog (maybe I need to start a new blog?) I’ve posted it here for you to see. WARNING: Rock tended to bring out the worst in me and, consequently, I spent a great deal of time in the saddle of my high horse.

November 23rd 2006

Well Rock this will be my last comment for you. As saddened as you must be at hearing this, I think you’ll agree that it’s for the best, as our positions seem to be most irreconcilable.

So, to begin, I’d like to commend you on your choice of name; I think it sums you up nicely. Indeed, your intelligence and ability to make logical arguments seem to be on par with your geological counterpart. What other conclusion can I reach when your typically dismissive response to people who disagree with you is to tell them that they’re reading the wrong stuff and that you have heard the arguments before; apparently this frees you from the burden of responding in any sensible way. When you do attempt to construct an argument they are often both infuriating and laughable all at once. Permit me to demonstrate with some of my favourite comments of yours:

“Islam has had no greater friend than George Bush.” -- a response to Phil. I’d love to see that printed on a t-shirt.

“Here, you'll find good and bad things said about Bush. This is one sign that the site is seeking truth.” – very admirable.

“I think the only stupid thing he ever does is pander to the left. Until recently, he had proven himself to be an astute politician.”– You demonstrating your commitment to the abovementioned pledge. I think it’s fair to say that the vast majority of people who don’t like Bush would have complaints of a very different nature.

“He is not a great conservative, and he has been miserable on immigration, but the man is close to a saint in Iraq and with Israel.” Another example of said pledge.

“I will remain open to what I read. Still, attempting to tell the truth on politics is tricky.” -- This last one says it all; it is clear that you see your role as teacher of the truth, as opposed to a seeker of the truth, and therefore, though you claim otherwise you are not open to what people who disagree with you have to say. That’s why every conversation with you seems to go endlessly round in circles. Much like the violence and the fighting in the world today.

I’d like to finish on a sentimental note by saying that although I don’t like you, Rock, I will most assuredly never forget you and I will look back on our little exchanges with fondness. As I said at the top, this is my last comment, and so I leave the last word to you, which I very much look forward to. Go on, give it to me.

Eyechan

Though Rock found this final comment to be quite unpublishable, he did respond, eventually, which I thought was a bit cheeky, though his response had none of the fire and brimstone that I had been anticipating; I guess he wanted to show me that he was above making personal attacks against emotional lefty scumbags. If you want to read Rock’s brand of truth and see what compelled me to write the above comment then visit his blog at http://truthrock.blogspot.com/. My first comment appears under a post entitled, O.J. and Pelosi, November 17th; his belated response to my final comment appears under a post entitled, Muslim Ingratitude, November 21st.

Till my next post--which I promise will be about my adventures in Japan, and not political--take care!

Hot Springs and the Return of the Ugly Fish

A few weeks ago, I had what I would call a great weekend (my weekends, by the way, are Wednesdays and Thursdays). It all started with a phone call from Masa, a friend of mine. However, before I go on, I feel I should give you some background on Masa. You may recall, from previous emails, that at one stage I suspected Masa of being some sort of mafia kingpin. This was due in large part to our first meeting when after a few drinks I had asked him what his job was. He replied, “logistics”, and offered no further explanation. Also helping to shape my assumptions about him was the fact that he was quite clearly the leader of our little group. Others in the group were always going out of their way to pour him drinks; would never start eating before him; and the night was never over till Masa said so. Or at least that is the way it seemed to me. He always carried with him wads of cash in small manila envelopes and insisted on paying for everything. After several outings where I had not spent a cent I had the nagging feeling that eventually I would have to repay him for his generosity and that one-day he would call upon me for a favour. That day came, of course, and one night he called me and said that he really needed my help with a delivery. It was summer, the busiest time of year for his company—which by this time I had found out was a family owned trucking company specialising in the transportation of frozen foods—so busy that Masa was forced to drive one of the trucks himself. He needed me to help with the loading and unloading. I readily agreed, of course, because it was the least I could do after all he had done for me, and besides, he said that we would be going to Kagoshima, a place famous for its imo shochu (an alcoholic drink made from sweet potato), which, incidentally, happened to be my favourite drink; a fact not lost on Masa. So, he picked me up and we drove to his warehouse to load the truck. Our cargo? Ice cream. This was the moment when my mafia don image of Masa was, at least partially, shattered. I had, during the drive to the warehouse, imagined we would be carting something, how shall I say, not so permissible in the eyes of the law. Though part of me felt relieved, the vainer part of me felt cheated; I could no longer claim to have any kind of affiliation with gangsters. Anyway, with the truck loaded we hit the road, heading southeast. It was eleven p.m. Four hours later we arrived at another warehouse in Miyazaki prefecture—for those of you paying attention you will recall that Masa had told me we were going to Kagoshima, not Miyazaki. As you might imagine I was a bit puzzled by this, and when I asked Masa about this he responded quite apologetically and said that he had meant to say Miyazaki, though I had a sneaking suspicion that he had said Kagoshima as a way of ensuring I would agree to come along. In any case, I wasn’t too concerned; we were there to do a job, and there wouldn’t be any time for drinking shochu regardless of where we were. Though it was dark, I knew, from the winding and climbing road that we had come in on, that we were tucked away in the countryside surrounded by mountains. As it was three in the morning, and too early for unloading trucks, even for the Japanese, we slept; Masa quite comfortably in a space, big enough for one man, behind the seats, while I assumed a less comfortable position, slouching in the passenger seat with my legs stretched out across the dashboard and my head nestled between the window and the headrest—the least comfortable sleep I’ve had since the night I slept on the bench at Manly wharf.

Masa’s alarm woke us up at six-forty five, sharp. Masa climbed into the front, stretched, said, “I’ll be back”, got out of the truck and headed in the direction of the loading docks. I was left wondering if he had intentionally mimicked the Terminator, or if it had been entirely innocent. I looked around and saw that a fleet of other trucks had joined us during the night, including another one of Masa’s. They had parked haphazardly all around us.

I decided that I needed some coffee, so I got out of the truck and went in search of a vending machine; this proved to be quite a dangerous undertaking, and, in retrospect, one probably best attempted in a more wakeful condition. As I made my way between the mess of parked trucks, I had to constantly crane my stiff neck from side to side, being careful not to walk into the path of trucks making there way to the docks; equally challenging was trying to determine from which truck, or trucks, came the reversing sound. If the reversing lights of the trucks in the immediate vicinity were not on I stopped and waited till I saw some movement. Once I knew which truck was reversing I could navigate my way around. In any event, I managed to locate a vending machine, buy a can of coffee, and make it back to Masa’s truck in one piece. Judging by the amused looks I got from some of the drivers, I would guess that there are not many gaijin in the Japanese trucking industry.

Masa came back to the truck with bad news. “We’re not the first,” he said matter-of-factly. I couldn’t quite understand how this could be the case, as we had quite clearly been the first truck on site. As I was lamenting the injustice of it all I noticed a big truck, much bigger than ours, backing into the docks.
“Lets go,” Masa said, tossing me a pair of dirty work gloves.
“Where?” I said dumbly.
“We are gonna help to unload,” he said, referring to the big truck. I guess the expression on my face gave away my lack of enthusiasm, he added, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” This was clearly not true. Standing next to Masa, with work gloves in hand was the driver of Masa’s other truck. He looked to be sixty-odd, and not at all robust, but he was ready to work. What’s more, Masa was nursing a sore back, which was of course why he had asked me to come along. Thus, feeling suitably shamed, I donned my gloves and went with them to the loading area, or in our case the unloading area. At first, when the truck was full, it seemed like there were too many of us, and it took me a minute or so to work out how I could get in amongst it without getting in the way of the others. Meanwhile, Masa, who seemed to have forgotten about his back, and the old man, had set a cracking pace, grabbing four boxes at a time. Not wanting to be outdone, I managed to squeeze my way through to the boxes and grabbed four of my own, then placed them on a conveyor belt that had been positioned at the rear of the truck. As we moved further into the truck my pace quickened, and I started grabbing six boxes at a time. Soon it was the others who were trying not to get in my way, which is, I think, the way they preferred it, and I was faintly conscious of being manipulated by a couple of wily veterans--I noticed that the pace of Masa and the old man had slowed considerably; and fair enough, I thought. I, on the other hand, much to the chagrin of the others, had gotten a bit carried away, and it was brought to my attention that, for some time apparently, I had been unloading the wrong boxes. After a bit of head scratching, however, I was assured that this wasn't a major hassle as all the boxes had to be unloaded eventually, it was just that, unbeknownst to me, there was a particular order in which this was to be done, as we were dealing with several different products. So it was that old chestnut of communication breakdown that had brought me unstuck, and from that moment I resolved to make a determined effort to use what little Japanese I knew--not necessarily with Masa, as his English is quite good, as you might expect of someone who studied criminal psychology at UCLA--in an attempt to avoid any further setbacks. Now, as commonsensical as that may sound, I discovered that hitherto my study of the Japanese language had left me very much ill-equipped for the situation in which I now found myself. I thought back to the lessons in my textbooks, most of which had titles like "At the Bank" "Day and Time" "Catching a Taxi" and so forth. As far as I could recall I had never done a lesson on "Unloading your mate's ice cream truck". Anyway, as Masa was trying assess just what it was that I had been unloading and where it had gone, I sought out the old man for a bit of explanation as to how to proceed.
"Kore?" I asked. This?
"So," the old man replied. Yes
"Koko?" Here?
"So so." Yes yes.
"Sore?" That?
"So."
"Soko?" There?
"Hai, so so so." Yes yes yes that's right.

Well, in any event, it was tough going, and tricky to navigate the floor of the truck, which seemed to be covered in a fine frost or perhaps dry ice and sometimes my feet would suddenly slip for a few centimetres and then suddenly find purchase again. Anyway, after about forty minutes we had unloaded this truck, and, happily, it was our turn next. The driver of the big truck was very grateful for our help, though not so grateful as to stay and help us with the unloading of Masa’s trucks. It was a case of the old you scratch my back and I’ll say thankyou very much thing.

It was more of the same as we unloaded Masa’s two trucks. By the time we were done, I think my back was in much the same condition as Masa’s. As I gingerly clambered up into the passenger seat, I groaned in complaint like an old man. It was around ten o’clock when we headed back for Fukuoka; a light rain had begun to fall. As we drove along, I kept thinking about how we had helped to unload that big truck that had mysteriously circumvented us in the queue. In Australia, we like to give a mate a hand, but the competition? Not bloody likely (correct me if I'm wrong). What would happen if you injured yourself, or if you accidentally damaged some of their product or equipment? As Masa kept getting calls from the office in Fukuoka wanting to know when we would be back because they desperately needed the truck for another job, it dawned on me that Masa’s motivation in helping to unload that other truck had not come out of the goodness of his heart, but instead had come out of a seemingly innate mindfulness of that old adage time is money—the faster we got the truck in front of us unloaded the faster we could unload our trucks and the sooner those trucks could be used for other jobs.

Though fatigued, I made an effort to stay awake and talk to Masa, as he was also quite tired, and, needless to say, I didn’t want him to fall asleep at the wheel. He’s a very interesting man with many stories, and he shared quite a few of them with me on this trip; one day I hope to write some of them down.

We made one stop on our way back at a truck stop along the highway where we got some coffee, and where I found a hot food vending machine that had, among other things, hot dogs. Did I try one? Yes I did; two of them in fact. Were they the worst hot dogs I have ever eaten? Yes they were. I’ll spare you a detailed description; suffice to say that I was pleasantly surprised that I did not become crippled by a nasty bout of food poisoning.

We arrived back in Fukuoka at around 3p.m. After taking the truck back to the warehouse, Masa dropped me home, where I slept for a few hours before I went to basketball training.

Now, again, for those of you who have been paying attention you may have noticed that this story had nothing to do with hot springs, nor did it have anything to do with an ugly fish, though the title may have led you to believe otherwise. If for some reason this is troubling you I sincerely apologise. Though somehow I suspect you’re not terribly fussed. The reason for this incongruity is, of course, that I simply got sidetracked whilst giving background information on Masa. In the end, however, I think the story above is more interesting than the one I would have otherwise given. Having said that, I will probably return to the story of my recent interesting weekend sometime in the future.

Until my next post—or next email or phone call, since the only people who read this blog are friends and family—take care!

My Two Yen

Truly it will be long before cursed war will be swept from the surface of the earth, for force seems to be the final court of appeal even in the private affairs between man and man.

Sorry for the dramatic opening, but I thought those words were fitting given the current state of things. Those words are not my own, of course, but were written in 1904 by Natsume Soseki in his first novel, Botchan. And here we are, just over a hundred years on. I wonder how things will be in another hundred years.

As of course you’re all aware, things are heating up in my neck of the woods. North Korea tested a nuke. World leaders are talking tough. Citizens are scared. Also, the media, in a somewhat alarmist fashion, have been talking about a north Asian arms race where Japan, supposedly, will respond by developing nuclear weapons of its own (apparently they could do this really fast!). This will then prompt China and South Korea to do the same. However, it is the response of the USA that has me far more worried. And I dare say I’m not the only one. With Captain Bush at the helm, who knows what will happen?

It is a surreal feeling to suddenly find yourself in a region that is coming under the ever-intensifying scrutiny of the U.S. Yes I know—the Korean peninsula has always been carefully monitored. But to hear US officials make comments along the lines of “At this stage we are not considering military action, though of course we leave all options on the table” does not exactly fill me with a sense of security.

The problem with North Korea, as I understand it, is that they are unpredictable. And yet somewhat paradoxically, they can be relied upon to ignore the wishes of the UN and the international community (Wait, that sounds like another country I know . . .). I guess the real problem with North Korea is that they belong to the wrong Axis—the dreaded Axis of Evil. They’re also a rogue state. And communist. That’s three strikes, isn’t it?

Time for some semantic masturbation: according to the Oxford English Dictionary a terrorist is a person who uses violence and intimidation in an attempt to achieve political aims. (It’s interesting to note that Webster’s online dictionary goes to much greater lengths to clear up the term for us, just to make sure that there is no confusion as to who the bad guys are--http://www.websters-online-dictionary.org/definition/terrorist) Let’s review our strategy in Iraq. Intimidation: check (Operation Shock & Awe?) Violence: check. Political aim: check (the completely altruistic goal of ousting Saddam). As for Al Qaeda and the like, they of course use intimidation and violence, but as far as a political aim is concerned, well if you listen to Bush, Blair, and Howard, their only aim is to terrorise us simply because they’re evil. Thus, by the reasoning of our own leaders, Al Qaeda do not fit the definition of terrorists. But like I said, I'm merely wanking with words, and a terrorist by any other name is still a terrorist, right?

If protecting America’s and the West’s interest’s means blowing up the rest of the world, is it any wonder that leaders like Kim Jong Il want to do all they can to get some deterrence. And doesn’t anyone else find it a bit rich that the country with the second largest stockpile of nuclear weapons, and, let’s not forget, the only country to have ever used nuclear weapons, is free to attack and condemn other countries for pursuing a nuclear weapons program.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t exactly like the idea of a North Korea with nuclear weapons, especially given the history and the tensions between Japan and North Korea. But nor do I rejoice at the thought of a Texan cowboy (with the support of other world leaders), who believes he has a mandate from God, bringing to Asia the sort of peace and stability that he has given Afghanistan and Iraq.

In my opinion, valued at 2-Yen don’t forget, I don’t think the US will attack North Korea; at least not pre-emptively. I think the American people have had enough of war, and with the approaching election I don’t think Bush and Co. want to start another fight (am I being naïve?) So it is for these reasons that I remain cautiously optimistic.

Anyway, I’ll leave you with a quote from Jon Stewart: “Look at it this way: North Korea now has one less nuclear weapon.”

'Aparto' Hunting - Part II

Tomoki: voice of reason

My girlfriend, Tomoki, has known me long enough now to know that occasionally I make decisions without fully thinking them through. After all, that’s how I ended up in Nippon.

I had told Tomoki that despite all of my reservations about Sugar and his apartment, I was still thinking of taking it because, I believed, there was nothing better out there for the price, and in that location. Tomoki might have had more confidence in this conclusion if it weren’t for the fact that Sugar’s apartment was the only place I had checked out, and therefore, all my assumptions about what else was on offer were based on nothing in particular.

So, wanting to prevent me from making a terrible mistake, Tomoki took it upon herself to get into contact with a number of real estate agencies and to line up some places for us to look at. That Sunday, we met up with three real estate agents and saw about a dozen apartments.

We arrived at the office of the first agent at about eleven o’clock in the morning, and were greeted by a very affable, smiling young gent. The office was quite large, well air-conditioned, clean, no clutter. The guy, who from here on I will refer to as Smiley, led us to a table where we all sat down. Another guy—the only other employee in the office at the time—served us iced coffee. Tomoki and Smiley proceeded to look at a number of papers, maps, and catalogues, to choose the places we were to check out. During this time I sat quietly, drinking my iced coffee, trying to pick out the details from their conversation. I could make out prices and the names of locations, but that was about it. Tomoki and Smiley got on well and were chatting away, with much laughter, like old school friends. I gathered, from the way they kept looking at me (whilst laughing) that much of their talk was, in fact, about me. When I asked what they were saying, Tomoki said, “We’re saying good things about you, yo.” (yo is Japanese for I tell you) They were getting on so well together that, for a fleeting moment, the more insecure and suspecting part of me imagined how they might be making plans to meet up at a love hotel later. These thoughts, however, were interrupted, when the guy who had served us coffee decided, probably from boredom, as there were no other customers in the office at the time, to test out some of his English on me.
“Where from country?” he ventured.
“Australia.”
His eyes lit up. “I went there.” He raced over to a workstation and began searching for something. Smiley, who had overheard, explained to Tomoki, who in turn explained to me, that his colleague loved Australia, and told anybody who’d listen that Australia was the best country in the world, that he wanted to live there, and that he was, for all intents and purposes, Australian. Smiley also claimed to want to live in Australia—forever. He cited marine sports, lifestyle, and friendly people as reasons. The only trouble, according to Smiley, was that the Australian government only accepts ‘high-level’ people. By this I think he meant that it is difficult to obtain a visa. Though it was nice to hear them praise my home country, I felt inclined to put it down to salesmanship. But when Smiley’s colleague, whom I shall refer to as True Blue from here on, returned from his workstation, having found what he had been looking for, he handed me two envelopes full of photos. Having a look, I found most of them were of him and friends in Bondi, where he had lived for five months in 2000. Some of the photos were taken more recently; during this year’s world cup in fact, on the night that Australia played Japan. They showed him and some friends wearing Socceroos jerseys. “Osutolarian desu.” I’m Australian, he said, smiling and tapping his chest.

Leaving True Blue at the office, Tomoki, myself, and Smiley, went out to look at the apartments they had chosen. We took the real estate company’s car; again my insistence on wearing my seatbelt in the back caused a stir, and, as usual, I had to coax Tomoki into wearing hers.

The first few places we looked at were not that good. They were a bit bigger than Sugar’s apartment, but they were also more expensive and in a less convenient spot, being further from the city centre of Hakata. Eventually, though, we found a place that was pretty much perfect. From the very tiny street outside the apartment, however, it hadn’t looked like it was the perfect place. It looked the same as all the others we had checked out. Once inside the building, climbing the stairs to the second level, things didn’t look any better. It was clean and freshly painted, but it felt sterile. The hallways were wide, with pale yellow walls, and the large steel doors of the apartments were mauve. It felt and looked much like an old psychiatric hospital (or at least what I imagine the inside of an old psychiatric hospital to look and feel like). Inside the apartment room, though, was a different story altogether. As I entered the apartment I felt like I was passing into a completely different building. Unlike all the other apartments, once inside the door, I did not find myself immediately in a tiny kitchenette. Instead there was a space, which I'm going to have to call the shoe space because, as you've probably guessed, this is where you’re supposed to keep your shoes; and umbrellas. There was even a shoe cupboard against one of the walls. Just beyond this space, and to the side, was the toilet, on the other side the bathroom and laundry. Then came the kitchen, which was the biggest kitchen I had yet seen in a single-person apartment in Japan. This in turn opened up into the room that would be my bedroom, dining room, and living room all in one. And again it was the biggest room I’d seen in a single person apartment in Japan. I had, it seemed, hit the jackpot. Everything looked brand new; all the surfaces, bathroom and kitchen fittings, doors and drawers, even the air conditioner. Smiley, who was as surprised as us, checked his notes and found that the place had been owned, until recently, by some company to provide accommodation for employees who had been transferred from out of town. The company had sold the building, and the new owners had completely renovated the interior. Hence, the fresh paint in the hallways, and the brand new feel of the room. It was more expensive than the other places we had seen, but this I was willing to cop given the size and newness of the place. Also, it was only a short walk to Hakata station and work. In fact, it was just around the corner from Sugar’s place. In my mind I was already drafting the email to tell him that the deal was off.

Even though my mind was pretty much made up, we kept our appointments with the other two real estate agencies.

The first of these agencies was the exact opposite to Smiley and True Blue’s operation. The office was bare, but felt disorderly and chaotic. In the centre of the room were several tables that formed an L-shape. Filing cabinets lined one of the walls. We sat at one of the tables and a nervously friendly guy attended to us; by that I mean he acknowledged my presence with a quick bow and then proceeded to talk, very quietly, to Tomoki. We were waiting for a car to become available. The guy’s shirt was creased and had a large ink stain on the pocket. His tie was also stained. He looked as though he had not slept for several days. In short, he was struggling, and, going by appearances alone, I assumed that he and his company really needed our business. From here on I shall refer to him as Battler-san.

Another couple, in the office at the same time as us, began smoking (Japan’s smoking regulations are somewhat lax and the regulations they do have are often ignored). It looked as if the couple were trying to decide if they wanted to do business with the agency. I could feel the tension in the air. Nobody talked as the couple sat, smoking, staring at what I presumed to be a catalogue on the table in front of them. The agency’s employees were tiptoeing around them, as though they were afraid that any sudden noise or movement would scare the couple away, never to return. Unfortunately, for them, the smoke started to get to me, and reflexively, innocently, I coughed. The tension in the room went up a notch. The agency staff exchanged a few nervous looks. It was like I had walked up to the couple and demanded that they take their smokes outside. Much to everyone’s relief our car soon arrived and we left with Battler-san to go and see the apartments. Tomoki had already seen these apartments yesterday while I had been at work. Now she wanted me to see them. There was one apartment in particular that she wanted me to see, and she told me that Battler-san had been really nice and helpful and, at Tomoki’s insistence, had spoken to the apartment owner several times to ask for a discount in the rent. And he had succeeded.

Tomoki and Battler-san had planned our tour of the apartments so that we would see the best place last. But, as I had expected, none of them were any match for the place we had found with Smiley.

After seeing the last apartment we got back into the car to return to the office. Battler-san was obviously disappointed, and Tomoki and I both felt really sorry for him. We sat in the car, Tomoki and I in the back, Battler-san at the wheel. Tomoki tried to let him down gently, saying that I could not give him an answer yet because I still had other apartments to see. We would let him know tomorrow. Battler-san, like a man who’d heard it all before, seemed to take little comfort from this. He had not yet started the car, and we were sitting in silence. Naturally, I started to feel a bit uncomfortable. What’s he waiting for? I thought. Tomoki, however, was a picture of calm. To look at her, one would think that to sit in uncomfortable silence without explanation was par for the course.

I could see his face in the rear-view mirror from where I sat in the back. His eyes seemed to be fixed on something in the distance, visible only to himself, his brow slightly furrowed. He looked like a man who’d had all the fight taken out of him, his spirit broken. His thoughts were all but written across that furrowed brow of his, and for my part I imagined him to be thinking something along the lines of, ‘How am I going to tell the boss that I’ve failed again? How am I going to explain to the owner that I have again failed to secure a tenant for them, even after they agreed to numerous rent reductions?’ I almost felt like agreeing to take the apartment out of pity for him.

We had been sitting in the car for what seemed a good five minutes, in silence. I was no longer sure that I wanted Battler-san to start the car. Perhaps we, Tomoki and I, had been the last straw, or straws. I was having visions of him ploughing us head first into traffic, or driving us off a bridge, when suddenly Battler-san unbuckled his belt, got out of the car without a word, and disappeared around a corner. Well this is it, I thought. That’s the last we’ll see of Battler-san . . . Tomoki had a much more sensible reaction. “He’s probably just call to the owner,” she said.

Thankfully, Tomoki was right and Battler-san returned to the car after a few minutes. His mood seemed to have improved, and he drove us back to the office without incident (I made certain that Tomoki wore her seatbelt). Once back at the office, Tomoki and I left Battler-san, with much bowing and arigato-ing, and headed off for our third and final appointment for the day.

No hidden gems of rental property were uncovered in our last appointment and tour of the day. In fact, one of the places we looked at we had been through earlier in the day with Smiley. Upon hearing that I was Australian, the young agent, like Smiley and True Blue before him, claimed to want to live in Australia forever. Though unlike True Blue, he had no tangible proof of this. Thus, I wrote him off as a mere flatterer. If nothing else, I came away from this last meeting with the knowledge that I had at last seen all there was on offer; or at least the best of what was on offer.

Now all that was left to do was to choose the place I wanted and have all the paperwork taken care of. In my mind the choice was obvious: Smiley’s place. However, my final decision was much tougher than I had anticipated. This was due largely to Tomoki, who, in her typical thoroughness, had lined up one more apartment for me to look at the following weekend. This place was newish, clean, very cheap, and in the same area as Smiley’s place. The only downside was that it was a bit small. Going on those things alone I would still choose Smiley’s place with little cognitive dissonance. However, to sweeten the deal they were offering free Internet, and when it came to decision time I was having difficulty making up my mind. I was still leaning heavily towards Smiley’s place, but I was acutely aware that the sensible and financially sound choice may be this other place that was offering free Internet. Smiley’s place was bigger, especially the kitchen, but did I really need that extra space? On the other hand, I would definitely need the Internet, and this other place was about $50/month cheaper.

Would this decision set the trend for the rest of my life? If I took Smiley’s place would I be set on a course for financial ruin, following one bad financial decision after another? Conversely, if I decided against taking Smiley’s place would I end up living an unhappy life because I had always been afraid to take what I really wanted? I’ve no idea why in my mind I had attached so much weight to this decision, but those are the kind of thoughts that were going through my head. Adding to my woes was Tomoki who, God bless her, had chosen this of all moments to do her best Eddie McGuire impersonation.

“So . . . which place?” Tomoki asked.
“I don’t know.” At this point the abovementioned thoughts were racing around my head.
“Place A or free Internet?” Tomoki had taken to calling Smiley’s place ‘Place A’ because it had clearly been my favourite.
“OK. Place A.” I said, trying hard to sound decisive.
“Are you sure?” she asked with a wry smile. “Free Internet . . .” And my moment of decisiveness vanished.
“Free Internet . . .” I parroted. My brain cramped up with indecision once more.

We continued on in this vain for some time until finally I made my choice. Taking into consideration the length of time that has passed since my last post or email, you can probably guess as to what my choice was. That’s right, financial prudence be dammed; I went with Smiley’s place. And I’m very happy that I did so. The apartment is in a great spot. Better even than I first realised. But more on that in another post.

Initially, I had approached apartment hunting much like I shop for clothes: Find something that fits, isn’t too expensive, looks half decent, and leave. No messing about. This approach has its merits, but occasionally it results in a questionable purchase. With Tomoki’s guidance I changed my approach: We browsed. We compared prices. We (she, actually) asked numerous questions. We took our time and had fun. I really took a liking to being chauffeured around town to inspect the different places (with the exception of the Battler-san incident). Who knows? (Actually, it’s a pretty safe bet) If it hadn’t been for Tomoki I may have gone with Sugar’s apartment. And that would have definitely gone down as a questionable “purchase”.

'Aparto' Hunting - Part I

Where to begin?

It was a few weeks ago that I decided that it was time for me to find my own apartment. At present I live in a relatively large apartment with two other guys. Both are English teachers, both are American, and, to be blunt, I can't stand them. It's not because they're American. It's because I have little, if anything, in common with them. Also, I'd had enough of things like all of us rushing for the shower at the same time to get ready for work. And there were the little mind games that we would play. There was the garbage game. The unwritten, unspoken, rules of this game are that if you place your item of trash on top of the existing pile of trash without toppling it then you are free of the responsibility of taking it out. However, if you are the poor soul whose piece of trash causes the trash avalanche then it is you who must take the trash out. On occasion this will require two bags: one for the trash in the bag in the bin, and one for the trash piled on top. Trash avalanches, though, were rare. Usually something forced us to take early action. For example, a visiting girlfriend. Sometimes, however, not even God Himself could move us, and there were some pretty intense battles of the will. Similar mind games were played over the washing up. Moves in this game range from the very simple and mildly aggravating, such as refusing to wash a dirty glass for a couple of days, to more provocative moves such as leaving key items, like the one and only frying pan, unwashed. The King of all moves is to cook up a feast, using as many essential items of kitchenware as you can, then the following day, leaving everything sitting in the sink unwashed, go away on a trip for a couple of days. The only counter move left to the other housemates is to wait it out until the offending housemate returns so when he sees that everything is as he left it he will be shamed into finally washing up.

But, I'm drifting off the topic. What follows is the story of how I found my new apartment, which I'm all set to move into in a few weeks.

For a foreigner in Nippon, finding an 'aparto' can be quite difficult. Some of the terms frequently used (by foreigners) to describe the process are 'a joke' 'highway robbery' and 'ridiculous'. Aside from the obvious challenge posed by the language barrier, there are a few other key obstacles to overcome. They include: key money (a kind of 'deposit'); obtaining a guarantor; and finding a place that is bigger than a shoe box and doesn't cost an arm and a leg. Oh yeah, and some places don't take foreigners.

So, two weeks ago, having only a vague understanding of all this, I set out, stubbornly unfazed, and determined to find my own place, without any help if need be, but with no real clue as to what to expect. My first port of call was Rainbow Plaza in the IMS building in Tenjin. Rainbow Plaza is a kind of community centre, which provides information and various services for foreigners. I looked at the dozen or so notices for available rooms and apartments on the message board, and within a few minutes found a place that sounded promising. The details were: a single room with kitchen and bathroom, located at Hakata ekimae (near Hakata station), for 45,000 yen/month (about A$550/month). It sounded right up my alley, so I got the details of the person to contact, a guy named Yosuke, and I gave him a call.
"Moshi moshi," he answered.
"Yosuke desuka?" I asked in terrible Japanese. Is this Yosuke?
"Yes it is. What can I help you?" He spoke in English, as they usually do when I try to speak Japanese. His voice was youthful.
"I'm calling about the apartment you advertised in Rainbow Plaza."
"Which one?"
"The one in Hakata."
He told me that it was too late to look at the apartment that day because it was a Sunday evening. And besides, there was still someone living in the apartment at the moment, a guy he referred to as "Mr Mike". He said Mr Mike would be moving out soon, but if I wanted to see the apartment sooner he would show me another one in the same building so that I could see what it's like. I told him I'd be in touch to let him know when a good time for me would be.
"Do you have my email address?" he asked.
"Yeah, I got it from Rainbow Plaza."
"Ok. Oh, what is your name?"
"It's Isaac."
"Izaaku?"
"Yep."
"How old are you, Izaaku?"
"Twenty-four."
"Huh. And where you from?"
"I'm Australian."
"Australian . . .," he said to himself. "Ok. Well, I look forward your email."
"Alright, thanks very much Yosuke."
"Oh, please call me Sugar. My name's Captain Sugar."
This, as you might expect, threw me somewhat."Ok . . .," I said. "Speak to you later--Sugar." I hung up, optimistic yet bemused. Captain Sugar? What the hell was that about? How did he come to have that name? Does he insist on everyone calling him Sugar? Even if he's never met them before? Surely only some kind of pimp or gangster rapper can get away with that. And I'm pretty sure there are precious few of the latter in this country. Perhaps he used to be a porn star. Or a breakfast cereal logo. It all sounded very strange to me, and somewhere in the back of my brain alarm bells where going off, but mostly I was just curious.

In any event, after a few emails back and forth, and a couple of phone calls, we agreed to meet the following Wednesday at four-thirty, in front of the post office at Hakata station, so that he could show me the apartment.
"What do you look like?" he had asked. "Are you tall?"
"Not really, about average height. I have short, dark brown hair, and a beard." And I'll probably be the only gaijin waiting outside the post office at that exact time, I thought. But I added, "I'll wear a red t-shirt so you can spot me."
So, at exactly four-thirty that Wednesday, wearing a red shirt as promised, I arrived at our designated meeting spot. I'm rarely on time for anything (other than work), and in truth it was only a fluke that I had managed it on this occasion, but still, I was quite pleased with myself. It was no problem to find him, as he was the only person loitering outside of the post office. However, he was much older than I had expected. Probably in his sixties, short and wiry. He wore a dark cap, sunglasses, and predominantly black matching sweat pants and top. If you'd have handed him a form guide he would have looked right at home in a TAB.
"Izaaku?" he asked tentatively.
"That's right," we shook hands.
"You're late." There was no hint of humour or playfulness in his voice, which no longer sounded youthful, or in his facial expression.
Shocked, I checked my watch. It read four-thirty exactly. In protest I held it out for him to see. He looked at it, and then at his own watch. Then, with an air of finality he said again, "You're late." And before I'd had a chance to protest any further he said, "Let's go. This way." He strode off at a determined pace. Despite being quite indignant I held my tongue and followed. For all I knew, the apartment might have been really nice, and I didn't want to miss out because of some pointless argument.

We were mostly silent as we walked down a road that ran parallel to the train tracks. After a while he said, "Mr Mike, you know he's very rude guy, he said he move out on Sunday, but now he said he needs more time. So I have to wait to see when the apartment ready for you. But it will sometime the next week." After a few minutes more, a car pulled up. "Get in," Captain Sugar said, gesturing at the rear passenger door as he went for the front. He fired off a string of commands to the driver before he'd even buckled his seatbelt. I buckled my own seatbelt, much to the amusement of Captain Sugar and his driver--in Japan it is only the driver and front passenger that are required by law to wear their seatbelt. Buckling your seatbelt when sitting in the back is tantamount to saying 'You suck' or 'I don't trust you'. We drove for about two minutes and pulled up outside the Romanesqu Hakata Ekimae apartment building. It had about a dozen storeys and from the street it looked decent enough. However, once inside, it literally took me less than a minute to assess the room. Because that's all it was, a room. A very small room. With a little kitchenette and a tiny bathroom. The biggest problem was, well, the size, especially the lack of storage space. There was no closet. In the kitchenette, there was nowhere to store pots and pans, knives and forks, plates, bowls, cups, not to mention food. There was a little spot for a mini mini-bar fridge. The stove consisted of a single burner. There was a sink. But there was nowhere to put things to dry after washing up. I was trying to picture the place after I had moved in and all I could see were things balancing precariously on ledges, and every square centimetre of surface space being taken up by something. I was thinking, is this as good as it gets? If I keep looking, will I only find more claustrophobia inducing apartments? Whilst Sugar explained the details of the contract to me, he made it very clear that, if I found the apartment to my liking, he wanted us to sign the contract as soon as possible, the 19th of July to be precise, which was the next Wednesday. Although, at the outset, I had thought that finding and securing a place quickly was desirable, crucial even, I now had the feeling that I was being rushed, that I was being trapped. Sugar's brusqueness, which is most un-Japanese--though it is common among those who haven't quite mastered the subtleties and nuances of a foreign language--wasn't helping. On the other hand, I believed that dealing with Sugar could, in some ways, be relatively easy. For one thing, he could speak English. Also, he was the owner, which meant I didn't have to pay a commission to any agent. He also said I didn't need a guarantor (which can be quite tricky to organise, especially for a foreigner, and involves a lot of paperwork) as long as I'd pay a deposit, equal to one month's rent. Of course, this would be in addition to the key money that I would have to pay, though Sugar assured me that he was charging me much less than he would a Japanese tenant. Key money is like a deposit, usually equal to two or three months rent. However, unlike a deposit, you will never see your key money again, even if no repair work or cleaning is required upon moving out. Key money is your gift to the landlord who has been so kind and benevolent as to offer you shelter, for a very reasonable price, from this sometimes cruel and harsh world.

So, it was with mixed feelings that I tentatively agreed to meet Sugar the following week at the same time to sign the contract. Of course, I could always pull out of the agreement before signing the contract, and this gave me some comfort.

Anyway, it was just before we left the apartment that I worked up the courage to ask Sugar where he had gotten his name. He told me, very proudly, that he had once been a Captain for a Japanese 'air company'.
"A pilot?" I asked.
"Yes. For JAL (Japanese Airlines). I've been Australia many times."
"Why 'Sugar'?"
He looked at me, and with the utmost patience explained, "My family name is Sugawara."

So there you have it. Not the kind of answer I had been expecting, but quite creative on his part, I thought. I wasn't, however, entirely convinced that he had once piloted international flights. I mean, he had struggled to do the basic sums when calculating my initial rent payment. Several times he had had to ask his driver, who had come up to the apartment with us, to do the calculations for him, using the calculator on his mobile phone. So, if unable to do simple arithmetic, I think it highly unlikely that he could fly a jumbo, which I'm assuming is vastly more complex than, say, trying to determine how many days there are from the 19th to the 31st of July (this proved quite a challenge for Sugar).

Anyway, I went home that night feeling relatively pleased with myself. I had found a place, albeit a small one, quickly. I didn't particularly like the owner, but my contact with him would be minimal. It was in a good location. It was relatively cheap. And I hadn't experienced any of the hassles I had been told to expect. Well, except that the entire apartment was no bigger than a walk-in pantry . . .

First Post

Hello, all!

Before I get down to some real blogging I would like to clear something up. That is, given that the title of this blog contains the word 'memoirs' you may be under the impression that I will be writing about things that happened many moons ago. Not so. I've only been in Japan for a year and a half, you see. No, this blog will be a diary of sorts, which I'm more than happy to share with you.

The title of this blog also contains the Japanese word Gaijin, which, for a long time, I had actually believed meant hairy barbarian. However, it merely means foreigner.

I will write about various experiences--hopefully ones that are interesting and humorous--shortly after they have happened, or as soon as is humanly possible. As I have no control over the timing of these experiences, I am unable to predict the regularity, or otherwise, of my posting.

I sincerely apologise for the wankerish language used herein, but I seem unable to make myself stop (I think I've been reading too many books!). In any case, please feel free to leave comments. I'd love to hear from you.

Eyechan

NB: I changed the title of this blog because I felt that too many other people were using Memoirs of a Gaijin for the their blog or website--17.2.2007