'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 . . .