Santa Cross

Long time no blog! Again, I must apologise for taking so long to update, and also for writing what is, I’m afraid, another long post (possibly the longest yet). So, kudos to anyone who reads the whole thing, and arigatou gozaimasu to anyone who leaves a comment!

Now, if you cast your minds back, many moons ago, to my post entitled Ten Minutes in Tiffany’s, you may recall that despite having made up my mind to ask Tomoki to marry me, I was completely ignorant of the conventions of proposing. Recall, too, that Masa had offered to help me find and buy an engagement ring. And then when I, in classic form, failed to make even the most basic preparations, that is, to ascertain Tomoki’s ring size, Masa took the whole operation into his own hands.

Thus, ladies and gentlemen, this was supposed to be the post where I told you all about the outcome of Masa’s mission, and how I went about proposing to Tomoki. But alas, Tomoki has expressed some concern about me writing, in detail, about her and me and this special time in our lives, and she has, in her own way, all but sworn me to silence and secrecy. What I can tell you, about the night I proposed, and the way in which I did it, is this: I proposed to her in my apartment; and I proposed without a ring. Masa, despite his promise to the contrary, failed to determine Tomoki’s ring size, though it was not from lack of trying, let me assure you. And far from diminishing him in my view I feel very lucky to have such a friend. It is because of Masa’s generosity and kindness that I’m always willing and ready to offer him a hand should he have occasion for it. Though such times are rare, he does, every once in a while, call upon me with a task fit only for a gaijin. Such was the case this past Christmas Eve; and it was at Masa’s behest, and against my better judgement, that I agreed to dress up as Santa for his children.

Now, legend has it that Japan’s affair with Christmas began sometime after WWII when a Tokyo department store, evidently unable to discern the somewhat significant difference between Clause and cross—or perhaps they just thought they were being clever—put up posters depicting Santa on the cross. From this rather rapine beginning things got weird—I mean more weird—and oddly enough, they got romantic, too. For the Japanese, the peak of Christmas is the twenty-fourth. It is the day that children open their presents from Santa. It is the day which, for many, lunch will consist of a KFC roast chicken value meal, for which they are willing to pay 5,000-Yen (U.S.$50) and for which they are willing to stand in a line that will, without fail, extend from the store counter back out the door and around the nearest corner. Come nightfall, the streets, restaurants, and hotels, all over the country are swamped with couples, mostly young, some of whom are deeply in love, others whom have been propelled to seek out one another solely to avoid the humiliation of being alone on what the Japanese consider to be the most romantic evening of the year.

The importance of this night, for couples, and for women especially, was made abundantly clear to me when I mentioned to Tomoki, about a week prior to the night in question, that I would be helping out Masa for a few hours masquerading as Santa for his children. Foolishly, I had thought that this would impress her. But it had the exact opposite effect, and for a few days, in her eyes, I was the most inconsiderate boyfriend there ever was. Now, the wisdom of upsetting your girlfriend a couple of days before you plan to propose to her is questionable. Nevertheless, I was committed to helping Masa, and no amount of pouting was going to stop me (but still I tried, over the course of the days that followed, to convince Tomoki that I was capable of both helping a friend and having dinner with her all in the one night—she remained sceptical).

The days went by—one of which being the day I proposed—until the twenty-fourth was upon us. Like any other Sunday, I worked. As per usual I finished at 7p.m., whereupon I headed to a nearby convenience store to meet Masa, my CEE (Chief Executive Elf). He was waiting for me in what was to be our sleigh for the night: his 2005 Toyota MRS convertible, its rear-mid engine harnessing a modest 130 ponies, or thereabouts, in lieu of reindeer.

I got in the car, Masa handed me a huge sack full of toys, and off we went. Despite it being a cold night, Masa insisted on having the roof retracted.
“We have to get your wear,” he said in reference to the Santa costume. He explained that it was in his other car, which was at his apartment.

As we drove on, I grew nervous. I felt certain that I was about to ruin Christmas for some very unfortunate kids—for Masa’s kids. There were three things making me uneasy. Firstly, it’s plain to see that I’m a bit young in years. Secondly, and equally plain to see, is that I’m not of the traditional Santa build. Thirdly, I felt certain that there would be some kind of beard malfunction, where it would fall off my face, either of its own accord or assisted by one of the more curious and mischievous children. Of this last concern, however, I was freed, as Masa informed me that he didn’t actually have a white beard for me to wear (and to hide behind). This revelation, it is perhaps needless to say, brought no amount of relief to my prevailing state of angst.
“The kids won’t believe that I’m Santa; everybody knows Santa has a big white beard.”
Masa was fantastically unconcerned.
“I think yours is okay,” he said, pointing to my none-too-Santaesque, trim reddish-brown beard. “Anyway, don’t worry; I have a story,” he added rather cryptically. A broad grin on his face, he went on, “I will tell them that last year’s Santa retired; and that you are the new Santa; and you are the youngest Santa ever; and that’s why your beard is not white, and you are not so fat.” He laughed so much during the telling of his little fabrication that it was rendered much longer than I thought was necessary.

As his laughter subsided, and finally petered out with a long sigh of self-amusement, he said, “We’re gonna go to three houses. The first house there is just one little boy. His name is Takuna. The second house are three girls: Chikano, Satano, and Haruno. We will go to my house last—,” he broke off and turned to me with a look of mock warning, and said, “You can’t forget my children’s names.” Though it was said in jest, it was clear that he had a real concern that I would indeed forget the names of his three children. His concern came from knowing me well; from knowing that I am prone to bouts of forgetfulness, especially where names are concerned. On this occasion, however, I felt I was up to the task, as Masa has blessed his children with quite unforgettable names. His son, his first child, now six-years old, he named Noah (Yes, like the guy with the ark in the bible). His second child, and first daughter, he named Rimn, the inspiration for which came from ‘basketball rim’ (I kid you not). His third child, second daughter, he named Kira, which to my ears sounds much like Killer.
“No I can’t forget your kids’ names,” I assured him. “But the others . . .”
He said he’d tell me the names again as we went along to each house.

We arrived at Masa’s apartment and parked in the street out the front, behind his other car, a Nissan X-Trail; from it we retrieved a few more presents, and the Santa suit. The former Masa added to the sack, the latter I put on over the top of the clothes I was already wearing, hoping to gain a bit more bulk. Thus equipped, we got back in the MRS and sallied forth to Takuna’s house.

Along the way I learnt what it is like to be truly conspicuous: here I was, a gaijin (as if that alone is not enough) wearing a bright red Santa suit (minus the beard—a state which in itself is quite conspicuous) being chauffeured around one of the smaller outlying suburbs of Fukuoka (where I think few gaijin have ever tread before) in a convertible. Masa, who was wearing sunglasses despite the sun having disappeared below the horizon hours ago, outwardly seemed not to notice the attention we were receiving from other motorists and passers-by; inwardly, though, I think he was relishing it.

We arrived within five minutes, having navigated the extremely narrow streets around Takuna’s house. I got out of the car, put the sack of toys on the ground, and adjusted my Santa suit. Masa hurried around to give me some last minute instructions.
“His name is Takuna, OK? Ta-ku-na. OK? You got it?” I told him I did. “This is his present, here, this big box on top. OK?” It was. “OK, that house there, man.” And with that he ducked into the shadows.

Filled with much trepidation I opened the little gate to the front yard, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. A few moments passed without answer. I rang the bell again. A few moments more, still no one came.
“What’s going on, man?” Masa called from his hiding spot.
“Are these people even expecting me?”
I heard him speak with someone briefly on his mobile. When he hung-up he said, “OK, try again. They’re coming now.”

So, one more time I rang the bell; and soon I could hear the approaching footsteps and the excited voices of little Takuna and his folks. When they at last opened the door I was fully expecting the child’s reaction to be, at best, a look of bitter disappointment, and at worst, tears. But to my great surprise and relief, his face lit up the moment he saw me, and, perhaps more tellingly, the big sack of toys that I was holding. Buoyed by this unexpected positive response I launched into a ‘HO, HO, HO, Merry Christmas!!’ and surprised myself with the amount of gusto I put into it. It paid dividends, and Takuna’s face lit up even more. At that moment I realised that to this little boy I was Santa, I was the real deal, and he could hardly believe his eyes.
“Takuna desu ka?” Are you Takuna?
He vigorously nodded his head in response.
“Ok, let’s see here; what’ve I got for you?” I made a show of rummaging through the sack. “Oh, what’s this?” I slowly pulled the large box from the sack, which, not wrapped, appeared to be some kind of action figure. “Douzo”, I said as I handed it to him.
“Arigatou! Arigatou!” was his very grateful reply.

Masa chose this juncture to make his presence known. He strode out from his hiding place in the shadows, came in through the gate to the little front yard, and presented himself with a deep and gracious bow. Straightening up, he offered some mutterings that were altogether incomprehensible to me, and then bowed once more. The parents, manifestly impressed, returned the favour.

Takuna and I had a quick photo together, then Masa ushered me back through the gate and into the MRS. I waved goodbye to the small family as we rolled away. “See you next year!” I yelled over my shoulder. Things had gone much better than I expected, and I believe that I'd had as much fun as Takuna, if not more.

The next house was that of the aforementioned sisterly trio of Chikano, Satano, and Haruno. I’m not sure of their exact ages, but I’d say they were all younger than five. They were most adorable. Two of them, Satano and Haruno, the eldest two, were less concerned with their presents than they were with tyring to outdo each other in the rate and volume of their “Melli Klissmass!!”-ing and “tank-you!”-ing. The youngest, Chikano, about a year old, just stood there, on wobbly legs (reminiscent of my own legs after a few ales) holding her present in both of her little hands and alternately looking at me, with pure curiosity, and then to her parents and grandparents, as if seeking answers to all the questions she was unable to voice.

Before leaving, I gave them all a high-five, which inadvertently had the effect of whipping them into a frenzied state of screaming, giggling, and jumping up and down. I remember thinking that this must be what it’s like to be one of The Wiggles.

So with two successful visitations on the trot I was feeling positively high. But, as a wise man may have once said, he who gets high soon reaches new lows. My descent began on the journey to the third and final house—which I had believed would be Masa’s place—when Masa informed me that his wife and children were not at his house but were instead at a Christmas party at a friend’s house. Consequently, that is where we were headed. There would be approximately ten children present. Though taken by surprise, I wasn’t initially too concerned. After all, so far the kids had loved me. All I’d had to do was say ‘HO! HO! HO!’ etc, and hand out presents. Nothing could be simpler. Or so I had thought.

We pulled up in front of the house of the party and were met by Masa’s wife, holding another sack full of toys. We got out of the car, Masa went to speak to her, and I readjusted my Santa suit, which wasn’t the best fit; getting in and out of the car, which was very low to the ground, would cause the coat to come undone and my belt to get all twisted. When Masa and his wife had finished talking he brought the new sack over to me and started transferring the toys into my sack whilst telling me the names of the children to whom they belonged. After the third or fourth name I realised that there was no way I was going to be able to remember them all. Masa realised it too, as he also had trouble remembering them.
“Okay, don’t worry about it. We’ll help you,” he assured me.

Masa’s wife went back into the house, presumably to make sure everything was set for my imminent arrival. When Masa gave me the nod I made for the front door, and he, as he had done at the previous two houses, seemingly morphed into the shadows.

I rang the bell. The effect was instantaneous: a flash flood of children. Before I had even taken my finger off the buzzer I heard them rushing down the hallway. Screaming. Laughing. Jostling. They got to the door and I could hear them whispering excitedly to each other. One brave soul opened the door a crack giving me the opportunity to produce the salutation they were all waiting for. There was uproarious laughter, the door was flung open wide, and I HO HO HO’d my way inside.

I set the sack of toys down on the ground, the kids crowded round, and I was about to begin handing out the toys, when Masa, now at the door, suggested that we should go into the living room. The kids, much enthused, led the way.

In the living room is where all the parents and adults were. Though not as animated as the children, they were just as interested. A few of the mothers were taking photos. One of the dads was filming me. The rest were looking at me as though I was some kind of strange beast.

Because of all the scrutiny I was somewhat out of my comfort zone, and so I wasted no time in getting to the handing out of the presents. As expected, I was able to recall the names of Masa’s kids; but because of the confusing way in which the kids responded when I called their names—a few times two or more of the kids had cheekily, and falsely, claimed to be the child whose name I had called whilst the real child of that name had been too shy to come forward and collect their present—coupled with the fact that I had only met Masa’s kids once or twice before, I had needed Masa’s help in actually identifying Noah, Kira, and Rimn, not to mention the other seven kids.

With the present distribution out of the way I looked to Masa to see if it was time for us to take our leave. It was not. Masa and the parents told the kids that they could ask me some questions; and though at first they were a bit shy they soon found their voices, and I soon felt like I was being cross-examined by a team of veteran lawyers.

“What is your favourite food?” was the first seemingly innocent question, asked by one of the older boys.
“Ramen.” I answered without thinking. The parents laughed, the children looked confused.
“It’s too Japanese,” Masa explained. “Santa doesn’t eat ramen—baka gaijin.”

Next, a little girl called out something to Masa, which he translated for me: “How many reindeer do you have?”
Shite. I tried desperately to recall that passage from ‘The Night Before Christmas’—Now Dasher, now Dancer, now . . .Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer—and then there was nothing I could do to get that name and tune out of my head.
“Too many,” I answered feebly. Again, the parents laughed. Perhaps they felt sorry for me. But the children were eyeing me somewhat distrustfully and I sensed that I was fast losing credibility with them. Facing a tough crowd, and with the temperature in the living room quite warm, I was literally feeling the heat under my two layers of clothing. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, which I tried to surreptitiously wipe away with my hat and the sleeves of my coat.

The next question came. Again, Masa translated.
“Why is your beard not white?” That familiar grin had returned to his face.
“This would be a good time for your story,” I suggested.

So he told them; and this time he managed to suppress his laughter. Thankfully, the children seemed to accept it, and a potential crisis was averted.

Now, it will suffice, I think, to share with you just one more question; a question that generated one of the weirdest little exchanges I believe I’ve ever participated in. The question came from Masa’s son, Noah.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
I know this one. Wait; is it the North or South Pole? I decided to check with Masa.
“Is it North or South?”
“What do you mean, man?” He was utterly perplexed.
“Is it the North Pole or South Pole?”
“No. It’s Finland.”
“Finland?” More than perplexed, my brain felt like it was on the verge of imploding.
“Helsinki,” he said—and he said it with such certainty that I half expected him to give me a street address.
“Hel—?”
“Finlando!” he announced to the kids. But the name clearly meant nothing to them. A few of the parents, however, nodded their heads in assent as though it were quite common knowledge. I’ve since quizzed other Japanese people about Santa’s homeland, and nearly all agree that it’s Finland (though there are some who think it might be Holland). So intrigued was I as to why they all held this belief that I did a quick search on the Internet. I found that both Finland and Holland are claiming the right to be called the home of Santa, and are thus competing with one another to attract tourists based on that claim. So far, in Japan at least, Finland seems to be winning. (It’s because of things like this, which happen everyday, that I can’t remember the last time I was bored.)

Anyway, to my great relief there were no more questions, and all that remained to be done was to have a photo with the kids in front of the Christmas tree. Once that was done, Masa told the kids that we had to leave; after all, Santa still had to visit many boys and girls in other countries and get back to Helsinki before the night was out. So, amidst much excitement I wished them happy Christmas and bade them good night, promising to return next year.

Thus my brief stint as Santa was over; and while the last house had not been as enjoyable as the first two, the overall experience had been incredible. To cap the night off, Masa, as a way of saying thank you, took Tomoki and I to a roadside Korean BBQ restaurant and bought us dinner.

As we ate and drank and talked, I remember just being tremendously conscious of where I was and what I was doing. I could go off on a pages long digression about the thoughts and feelings that enveloped me that night, but instead, in what may seem to be final proof that I’ve completely lost the plot, I offer you this little haiku (if I may be so bold as to call it that):

Santa’s work is done
In Japan with friends I taste
Korean spices

eyechan

PS: Happy B’day Gem! Tried to call. Hope you had a good day. Speak soon.