R-O-B-O-T-S

R-O-B-O-T-S

“Irassyaimase!” When entering a store or restaurant in Japan, you’ll always get greeted the same way. It doesn’t matter whether it’s Dior or local one-hundred-yen store; doesn’t matter, if it’s a Michelin-star restaurant or a conveyor belt sushi. The procedure’s ALWAYS the same; the Japanese customer service’s “Big Five”: 1. they greet you 2. they take your order politely 3. they thank you 4. they bow 5. they tell you to come back.

In the past seven months, I haven’t seen a single digression from this mechanical arrangement. Sometimes, I wonder whether the local ramen place would follow the same procedure, if a major earthquake occurred while they were taking my order. They probably would. First, I thought this machine-like adhesion to procedures was sort of charming – in the way that Blade Runner might be considered apocalyptically cute. I really appreciated the perfectionist professionalism everywhere you go in Japan. They never raise their voice, they never look tired, the never make jokes. But recently, I’ve started feeling a bit strange. Why does no one make any jokes? Why does the sixteen-year-old teenager working at the convenience store use honorifics when talking to me? Why does no one ever give me strange looks when I show up at the supermarket in pyjamas? Why don’t they scold me for spilling miso soup all over the dining hall? Japan’s the land of Robots, that’s why.

Upon realizing that I have been surrounded and served by machines for the past seven months, I went on a desperate search for human emotions. I tried to make friends with local 7/11 workers. I entered the store, grabbed a bottle of orange juice, and paid at the register. Same as usual. They greeted me, they took my order, they thanked me, they bowed, they told me to come back. At which point, I was expected to leave the store. BUT, I decided to go seven-eleven-ice-breaking. I approached the girl working at the store and asked her: “You seem to have such an amazing hold of all the honorifics! Were they hard to learn?” The smile on her face diminished. Confusion appeared in her eyes. She started making strange sounds and then said she was gonna call her supervisor. I panicked: “No, no, no! I don’t need anything from your supervisor. I just wanted to know how YOU feel, what YOU think!” She started staring at the floor, bouncing back and forth. At some point, I thought I heard the meticulously designed operating system overheating. Vapor started pouring out of her head, and it was at that moment when I decided to peace out. I surely did not make friends with the 7/11 workers, so good thing there’s a COMPLETELY identical convenience store on the opposite side of the street. I’ll definitely try to keep my mouth shut when buying orange juice, next time.

A week ago, I was taking the Higashiyama-line at 7 PM – i.e. the hour of the crowded-disco-inferno that only Japanese metro can provide. All of sudden, an ordinary looking salary man went crazy, hitting his head to doors and poles, shouting “I wanna get out! I wanna get out! “ I freaked out and started texting my family and friends asking them not to play Freddie Mercury at my funeral. I wasn’t as freaked out by the crazy man’s bleeding head as by the reaction of the co-passengers – or should I say the lack of it. The expression of people around me showed no signs of distress, everybody seemed as calm and composed as ever before. Business as usual. No one tried to help the pitiful salaryman, no one complained about his dramatic act, no one laughed. The man kept shouting and hitting himself as the train kept passing one station after another. I couldn’t endure his pain anymore and so I decided to get off three stops before Aratama Bashi and just walk home. The walk was long and it felt a bit like the walk of shame. I felt shameful of not consoling him, of not doing anything to alleviate his anxieties. But then I realized that this would probably involve resetting, and unplugging his batteries, which seemed too much of an effort.

I take the second highest level Japanese class at Nanzan. I understand 99% of daily conversations. I can read Murakami. Yet, I don’t know a single swear word in Japanese. I used to think that my lack of bad Japanese vocabulary simply reflects my own refinements. I used to think that I have been hanging out in circles that are just too high-brow to teach me to be bad. But, now I know I was mistaken. My lack of Japanese swear vocabulary says more about Japan than about my education. The robots don’t need swear words, and so there are none. Swearing comes as such a wonderfully deep expression of discontent – of human emotions – that in the land of machines no such words were, are, or ever will be needed. In fact, instead of swear words, the Robots prefer either refrain (我慢) or action. For instance, the other day I tried to cross street illegally, trying to catch the train. I understand that illegal crossing is strongly discouraged as it endangers the flow of machines as well as (my) life. But, come on, guys, I’m sure that at least once in your lifetime you’ve crossed the street without waiting for Mr. Green, right? Well, when trying to step on the road I was hit by an old Japanese man in a yellow vest. With a composed facial expression, he hit me with a sign that said “Let’s cross the street safely!” I really wish he had just called me names instead of leaving bruises on my right shoulder.

The same holds true of Japanese sense of humor. In America, people tend to “joke around” all the time, without even realizing they’re joking. People share dirty jokes with their colleagues, make sarcastic comments about their friends, and try to post witty-funny facebook statuses. “"I mail, I text, I tweet, I blog/I build a Facebook for my dog/I speak no words, I shake no hands/I am at last a modern man."

I don’t think I’ever heard a Japanese person say a joke. When a Japanese student is international enough to get facebook, their status updates are generally not the most attention catching. “Today, it’s sunny. I’m going to school and then I’ll come back. I hope it’s sunny tomorrow, too!” Their comments are usually some kind of variation of the same theme. A few days ago, I updated my status as “Today, I’m going to Xmas party in all black. My theme’s Santa’s Funeral.” My friend Naoko commented: “Have you noticed how sunny it is, too?” My friend Yuki’s comment ran: “Hayppy Xmas! Good luck!”

It is not only the complete lack of active attempts to make life in Japan less serious but the complete misunderstanding of jokes. What do you think about this one: “

One afternoon, a blonde comes to　the library and yells: A HAM-BUR-GER-AND-FRENCH-FRIES, PLEAEAEAEAEASE!

Librarian: I’m sorry, m’am. But this is a LIBRARY.

Blonde (in a very low voice): Ups, then, hamburger and French fries, please.

This joke sounds funnier than it reads – as most jokes. But I’m sure you get the idea. When I was first told this joke by my roommate Austin, I burst into tears. When I told this joke to my Canadian roommate, Joe, he burst into tears. When I told it to my Chinese friend, Mizuki, he burst into tears. When I told my Japanese friend, Mihiro-kun, he paused for a while and then assumed a sorrowful face. I waited for a few minutes, hoping he too would burst into laugher, defying my robot thesis, instead Mihiro-kun simply kept quiet. I asked him what he thought about the joke. He said he felt sorry for the blonde girl, cause she probably couldn’t finish her order.

Japanese Herbivore Men

Japanese Herbivore Men

Last week, I saw an interesting couple. Strolling in downtown Nagoya, the couple first appeared as any other Japanese romance – the boy with perfectly styled hair, Gucci belt, and tight-fitting blazer; the girl with brown orange hair, intense make-up and fake eyelashes. A wonderfully common Nagoya pair. Upon second look, however, I was struck by the fact that the girl held two Louis Vuitton purses. I’ve surely gotten used to the fact that LV rules supreme in Japan, but two pieces of LV hand-luggage at the same time? I found that a bit superfluous. All of sudden, a phone began to ring in one of the purses; the boy violently grabbed the purse from the girl’s arm, quickly opened the zipper, picked the phone and started talking. It was at this point when I realized that one of the purses was his.

First, I contemplated the boy’s tastes. Louis Vuitton is kitschy to begin with, but as a murse (man-purse) its tackiness reaches Himalayan levels. No matter how much I disagreed with the boy’s style choice, I was much more struck by the fact that he let his girlfriend carry the purse for him. Is he that lazy? Is he so inconsiderate as to force his girlfriend to carry his luggage for him? No. He’s a just a modern Japanese man, or to be more precise – herbivore man.

I first read about the Japanese herbivores two years ago in the New York Times. The person who wrote it described them as disinterested in money, disinterested in career, and – most of all – disinterested in sex. I really enjoyed reading it – as a piece of science fiction. I remember seeing the article as an entertaining yet surely overblown piece of journalism. Herbivore men? Sure, there’s a bunch of freaks of any sort in every country, I recall thinking. Tokyo’s a big place and diversity knows no boundaries. Soon after my arrival to Japan, however, I saw the phenomenon in its full beauty. Tokyo – Osaka – Nagoya. The grass-eaters seem ubiquitous, all pervading, omnipresent. You find them among students, office workers, department store clerks…In fact, I shifted my mindset from thinking “which of these guys are herbivore” to “which of these guys AREN’T!?!” Slowly but surely, the herbivores seem to devour all of Japan’s grass , with a lion-like appetite.

Usually, you know them, when you see them. But if you’re unsure just follow the checklist:

1. in restaurants, the herbivores order the smallest portion possible.

2. they rarely pay for their meal when on a date

3. they let the girls do all the talking

4. they always use polite forms

5. they don’t raise their voice

6. they keep checking their hairstyle throughout the day (for which purpose they carry a small mirror in their murse)

7. they carry a murse

8. they say “maybe” more often than an average Japanese person

9. they don’t do sports

10. they use the word “peace” (平和)interchangeably with “cool”

11. if they run into a problem “しょうがない“— “it can’t be helped” is the usual response

12. they never fight.

13. they don’t eat meat

Most importantly, however, the herbivores simply don’t want to procreate. They don’t want girls to be either their friends or partners. That does not mean that the herbivores are gay, per se. The percentage of gay people among them is probably the same as within the larger population. Rather than gay, they’re just Japanesely asexual. According to a recent survey, 43% of Japanese men would consider themselves “草食系男子,”herbivore men. Why? Here are some reasons due to which herbivores become herbivores:

no interaction with members of the opposite gender　—　525 respondents(交際した異性の数が好かない)

no interest in having a partner　−　506　（相手に振り回されたくない）

close human relations are annoying —　478（深い人間関係が煩わしい)

affections are bothersome – 424 (恋愛すろのが面倒)

So, essentially the herbivore men (aka nearly half of all Japanese men) are completely disinterested in most romantic encounters with the opposite gender, deeming it annoying and bothersome. BUT, if the herbivores do end up dating girls or potentially getting married, it’s mostly due to pressure from their parents. In a Japanese society, it is still considered ultra-freaky to stay single, an offense to the whole society. And so with a laissez-faire attitude, and a bit of societal and parental pressure, many of the herbivores end up in relationships with women. It can’t be helped, after all. And so bit-by-bit yet incontestably, the gender roles in Japan are shifting. With Japanese men as phlegmatic grass-eaters, Japanese women are the new carnivores. The wind of change blows fiercely, and the Japanese female carnivores are getting more aggressive by the time you read this.

My Japanese friend Yutaro likes to “study” at the Nagoya University Library. Sometimes, when he grows tired of studying the fashion pictures in Vogue, he goes grab a coffee at the library’s Starbuck’s. A month ago, he ordered a small cappuccino, but got a tall one. He didn’t complain. The next day, instead of a small caramel macchiato he got a grande. The same thing the day after – except for, he also got a free cookie.

Yutaro himself works at a Starbuck’s close to his apartment in Higashiyama Park. One day, a girl with a familiar face entered the Starbuck’s where Yutaro was working. She didn’t order anything. Instead, she handed Yutaro a piece of paper with her cell phone number, and left. Flabbergasted, Yutaro stared at the piece of paper, not knowing what to do. Where could he know the girl from? All of sudden he realized that the girl worked at the library’s Starbuck’s! Heureka! She was the one behind tall cappuccinos, grande macchiatos and cookies. Out of politeness, he called her the next day. During the call, she (Yukiko) asked him out on a date . He decided to go – if only to make his mom happy. They went to grab a coffee, after which they got a dinner. Whether or not they’ll start dating, I don’t know. It’s too soon to decide whether Yutaro will cease to be a grass-eater, and will seize the chance. One thing, however, I know for sure – when they go to see Harry Potter this Saturday, they will run to many similar couples. The girls on their high-heels will be struggling to carry the boy’s coke, popcorn and Louis Vuitton murse, while the boys leisurely check their hair in a portable mirror. Out of politeness, they might express some concern for the girls’ safety. But in general, they won’t really worry about anything. Why should they? There’s no reason for them to worry. They’re herbivores; they don’t care about the night’s outcome. And the girls will have paid for the tickets, anyway.

Yoga in Nagoya

Yoga in Nagoya

Two weeks ago, I joined a yoga studio. I used to do yoga everyday in the US, and so I’m trying to get back on track even in Japan. Comparing the yoga experience in America and Japan…

Yoga is a foreign import to both America and Japan. It came to both countries only recently. And so, it’s interesting to compare how Japanese and Americans adapt the same postures-the same technique to their own context. The different approaches to the Bikram-practice expose a great deal of country-specific attitudes.

First of all, joining a studio in Japan and America could not be any more different. In America, you bring your towel, mat, and credit card. And voila! You’re a member! You don’t have to sign anything; you don’t have to go through any procedures. As long as you pay, you’re good to go. In Japan, on the other hand, you have to take a test, you need to have a name seal, Japanese bank account, alien resident card…You have to be pre-approved through a set of formalities; paying is just an afterthought. In America, it seems that once you have the critical commodity – dinero – all the world is yours; all doors can be opened. In Japan, out-group-in-group is not a function of resources. There are rules to be followed, no trespassing allowed.

Second, I’ve been struck by the gender imbalance at the Nagoya Yoga studio. Whereas in America the ratio of female to male students is more or less equal. In Japan, Yoga is a female enterprise. There are usually 20 women and 3 guys in the class (out of which 2 are foreign) – and that holds true at any time of the day whether late at night or early during the weekend; men simply don’t do Bikram in Japan. I think that this interesting difference reflects a variation in the attitude toward “things foreign.” Japanese women seem more willing to try out new things, men much less so. Japanese women are progressive, guys traditional.

Third, the teaching style in an American yoga studio is diametrically different from its Japanese counterpart. Whereas in the States the teacher always asks the new students to sit in the front row, in Japan they put the new students in the back rows – not to make them feel embarrassed. Moreover, a US yoga instructor tends to emphasize how “easy” all the postures are (“Come on! Piece of Cake! You can do it!” in Japan the teachers always try to empathize with students (“I know it’s really hard, but please try. Isn’t it terrible to stretch a leg like that? I’m so sorry for you!”). American “faster, faster” becomes “take your time, take your time” in Japan. When it comes to “water break” – all the teachers I’ve had in the US tended to emphasize that the students are just too lazy and that’s why they need to drink : “Come on kids. Really? Water, again? Alright. Alright. Go ahead. I’ll give this one to you.” In Japan, teachers always apologize – “I’m sorry I’ve made you wait until now. Please, drink as much water as you need. Thank you!”

Last, the atmosphere in an American yoga studio differs a lot from the atmosphere in a Japanese studio. In America, people stay after the session to chat for twenty sometimes thirty minutes. In Japan, it’s all business. After the session is done, everybody goes take shower and then peaces out as quickly as possible. People rarely exchange more than a few polite words.

The same holds true for the staff-customer interaction. Whereas in the US, the teachers became just “normal” people after the class. In Japan, they stay in for Q&A. The studio staff in Japan keeps the communication professional. They always smile politely, deal with even the most impossible requests politely, clean the showers politely. When you forget to make a reservation three days in-advance (as the rules require), they tell you that “your membership will be terminated and you will be charged a $50 cancellation fee.” Of course, politely.

Birthday Weekend in 東京

Birthday Weekend in 東京

Foreign Student Discount

Foreign Student Discount

Rules rule Japan, and that’s no good. Don’t get me wrong – I do understand that there’s some basic-primordial-let’s-make-our-society-a-better-society need for rules. Yet, everyday life in Japan forces me to think that when it comes to rules less is more. Strike the biblical ten, and get the Buddhist five: don’t kill; don’t steal; don’t cheat; don’t lie; don’t take crazy drugs. That’s all, Japan. You don’t need more. There don’t have to be twenty-two-hundred-fifty-three regulations for recycling; people’s lives would be just fine even without the eight-thousand-twenty-nine requirements you need to fulfill to get a commuter’s pass. Seriously. Less is more.

I understand that somehow, someone, somewhere might benefit from imposing uber strict recycling rules on the entire Japanese Archipelago. I understand that having special cans for different colors of plastic bottle caps might play SOME role in preserving the Earth for future generations. I understand that although some rules seem ridiculously strict, they do serve some sort of purpose no matter how marginal it might be. I know I’m a stupid foreigner; an heir to the messy libertarianism of mother Europa and daddy America. Some rules, however, have nothing to do with cultural differences. Some rules are just dumb. And Japan is full of dumb rules.

Study case number one: entering a Yoga studio.

I cannot do any physical activity in Nagoya. It’s too polluted to go running. The school’s gym is the size of an average janitor’s closet at Yale, and you have to pass an intense physical exam to be even allowed in. The walls in our dorm are paper-thin, so every time I try to do pushups in my room, my flat mates think I’m doing something else.

So I decided to join a yoga studio. I used to do Bikram in America everyday. It made me feel good; it made me feel healthy. I found a Bikram studio in Nagoya’s trendy Sakae. I was just going to show up and get the membership on the spot. But then I realized that, being in Japan, I should probably call in advance. I called them and in the most polite Japanese asked whether I needed anything in particular to become a member…AND DEAR LORD, HALLELUJAH. I learned that I surely needed more than a towel and a yoga mat. I nearly fell of the chair when listening to the list of requirements to be fulfilled before one becomes a member of Sakae Bikram Yoga Studio. Voila, the list:

a. Japanese Health Insurance

b. Bank Account in Nagoya Bank

c. Alien Registration Card

d. Japanese Credit Card

e. Local Address

f. Japanese Cell-Phone

And these are just requirements. Even After all these have been fulfilled, my membership is still not guaranteed. I still have to fight for it. I must AUDIT three yoga classes to be approved but in order to be able to audit I need to wait for the studio to mail a confirmation that confirms that I can audit classes. Before auditing, however, I need to pre-register with a special number that comes on the auditing confirmation letter. When my pre-registration is approved, I’ll get a text message telling me when I can come – and if I cannot come on the specific date and time, I’ll have to do the whole process again. The common belief that Kafka was a German is an Angela Merkel conspiracy; he must have been Japanese. Go ahead, Japan, everyday you’re a step closer to a perfect Kafkaesque bureaucracy. And so I decided not to join the yoga studio. I think I’ll just stick to polluting my lungs; hopefully, by the end of the semester, I’ll be able to pass the test to get into the school’s benchpress-closet, I mean, the gym. And if not, I’ll just keep doing pushups in my room. Think what you want about my deep breathing.

Second case: Exchange Student Discount

Sick of fighting for my yoga membership, last weekend, I decided to go to movies. I needed some respite from the survival of the fittest bureaucrat. I was ready for some trashy H-wood B-buster, hoping for some sort of Musical 3D rendition of Pocahontas 4. I reached the cinema, looked at the prizing chart and couldn’t believe my eyes. DISCOUNT FOR FOREIGN STUDENTS. What?!? Impossible. This was the first time Japan was awarding me for being foreign. I asked the concierge if those kanjis really meant what I thought they meant. She nodded in positive. SERIOUSLY? My heart skipped a beat. I rejoiced. Bliss and Heaven. So, lighthearted and joyful, I approached the counter, where I demanded a foreign student ticket with a smile from ear to ear. BUT…

box-office-person: Welcome, dear customer! I’m sorry I’ve made you wait. I cannot apologize enough. (note: common Japanese phrases…)

Me: hey. What’s up. Can I have one foreign student ticket for Hanazami. Thanks!

box-office-person: I understood. You would like a foreign student ticket for Hanazami at 7:25, which opens at 7:20.

Me: yes.

box-office-person: wonderful! Can I please have your 1025-R?

me: 102..what?

bop: Can I please have your CONFIRMATION-OF-ENROLLMENT-FOR-FOREIGN-PEOPLE-AT-JAPANESE-UNIVERSITIES, in other words 1025-R?

me: Oh, you probably just mean my Nanzan University student ID right?....

So, I handed her my Japanese student ID. She politely looked at it and then said that wasn’t it. I grabbed it back, looked at it myself, and triumphantly pointed at large kanji characters that said “Foreign Student.” She apologized (bad bad bad sign), saying I needed 1025-R. My blood started boiling. My joy and bliss have long gone, and all that was left was anxiety and rage-against-the-machine. Here I was standing, as foreign and as studentish as we come, being told I could not obtain the foreign student discount. My very being has been denied – I wasn’t even a dirty foreign student. Instead, I was reduced to nobody. I’m not very proud of what followed…so please judge me leniently. I grabbed my foreign student id once again, held it with two hands and put it right in front of the poor box office person’s face:

me: please answer without much thinking.

bop: Excuse me?

me: what do you see here? (pointing at the id)

bop: A student id card?

me: good. What do you see here? (pointing at my face)

bop: what do you mean?

me: do you see a Japanese person?

bop: where?

me: exactly. So let me tell you what you see. Here you see a student id and here you see a white person’s face. Together they make a “foreign student.” So, please, give me that goddam foreign student discount right now!

The poor BOP got a bit scared and handed me a discounted ticket. It was five hundred yen less than a Japanese person would have paid. My adrenalin levels were still high, so I decided to quench my thirst for freedom from rules with a bottle of coke and my hunger for a lawless society with a pack of popcorn. Strangely, the same person who was selling the tickets was also selling concessions. She looked anxious, fearing that I was going to make a show out of unjustly priced food, as well. Instead, I tried to turn a previous encounter into a joke and asked her if I also needed 1025-R to get my bottle of coke. She, however, didn’t smile and just looked at me as if I was the wild-wild-west’s most wanted criminal. So, got into the role. When she started naming all the different flavors of popcorn, I just raised my hand and told her, in my huskiest voice, to stop. “Don’t bother with flavors. Like all foreign students, I like my food raw.” I grabbed my coke and popcorn and headed to see Avatar 3-3D-D. The poor Japanese box-office-lady stared at me in disbelief. I don’t think she’s ever gotten a 500-yen tip before.

Aichi Triennale

Aichi Triennale

I traveled to many places

I traveled to many places

I met a Dutch couple in front of stones with a rope bridge.

I shopped at J-Press in a random Kanazawa Department.

I played pool tricks.

I took fast trains.

I tried to immigrate.

I tried to have a "hot night" in Tokyo.

I was being a Harajuku girl in Harajuku.

I had pizza in Naka-Meguro with friends from Hong Kong.

I drank in Shibuya with friends from Barcelona.

I spent some time in a Hokkaido Farm.

I went to a spa in "Hell's Valley"

I drank German Beer in a Sapporo Beer-Garten.

Becoming Japanese (日本人になる）

Becoming Japanese (日本人になる）

“Why are you making that strange sound?” My mum asked during our skype conversation. “Ah, I see. Hmmm…Wait, what strange sound?”

Recently, some friends and family members have noticed

my version of aizuchi. Aizuchi, or conversation interjections, is a very Japanese-specific phenomenon. In English/French/Czech.., the speaker speaks and the listener listens. Japanese conversation, on the other hand, requires a very active involvement on the side of the listener. In Japanese, while the speaker is speaking, the listener “proves” his active listening by constantly making “strange” sounds,aizuchi, often accompanied by “Hmmm.” “I see.” “Really?” “Oh, ok.” “Wow.” It is, in fact, consi

dered quite rude to “just” listen to what the other person says. At first, I tried to resist aizuchi. Now, however, I find

myself hmmm-ing, I-see-ing, Oh-ok-ing, like any other proper Japanese boy. Oddly enough, these Japanese sounds are creeping into all other languages I know.

And so, I wonder: Am I becoming Japanese?

It’s been three months since I arrived to the Land of the Rising Sun. Perhaps, it’s the abundance of rice and miso soup in my diet. Perhaps, it’s the florid-intense Japanese water. I can already see certain mutations. Slowly yet surely, I’m metamorphosing. I might not be getting Big in Japan anytime soon but Japan’s certainly getting big in me, right now. Slowly yet surely, I’m becoming Japanese. And so, like any proper Japanese boy would do, I’m offering a ranking of my newly

acquired Japaneseque features.

5. The more vending machines, the more convenience stores, the more civilized

I started to believe that the level of cultural advancement, the level of civilization, could be measured by the density of vending machines and convenience stores. For those unfamiliar with the vending-machine concept: these are everywhere in Japan and sell everything from vitamin drinks to cell-phones (two years ago, Japanese government banned vending machines that had been selling used underwear; so you cannot buy that anymore; but everything else…). Similarly, Japanese convenience stores are

omnipresent and omnipotent; they’re very small but somehow manage to have everything you’ll ever need. And so, as my fellow Japanese countrymen, I started to orientate my daily life around these two crucial institutions. Likewise, when I find myself in a place where vending machines and convenience stores abound, my heart rejoices. The other day, I passed a street in Tokyo that had 7/11, Family Mart and Coco right next to each other, and all three had two vending machines at the front door. Bliss and Heaven! I thought that civilization could not go

beyond that point, and was expecting little angels whistling Beethoven’s 9^th symphony. On the other hand, however, when I find myself in a location without a single convenience store (or God-forbid, without any vending machines), I feel vulgar and barbaric, expecting Avilla the Hun to pillage the God-forsaken place within moments.

4. Foreigners are to be avoided

Japan is a very homogeneous country. Sometimes, I spent weeks without seeing another non-Asian person. And so naturally, I just feel like I, myself, became a member of the Asian race. Every time, I look into a mirror, I’m startled and cannot recognize the white-Rene. Most importantly, however, I find myself freaking out when seeing a foreign person. When I get on a bus and see a non-Japanese person, I start sweating. What if he/she will sit next to me? What if he/she will want to talk to me?

Naturally, my newly acquired mild form of fear of foreigners (xenophobia sounds a bit too strong) comes largely as a result of Japanese brainwashing. Yet, I would also like to say that my experience with foreigners in Japan has not been exactly a la rose. One example for all: So far, I have been to five Chinese restaurants in Japan, they have all been fairly expensive yet their service was beyond atrocious, especially compared to their Japanese equivalents. Anyone who’s ever been to Japan will testify that even the smallest dinghole Japanese restaurant has an incredibly better service than majority of places in America or Europe. Chinese restaurants, not so. I’m sure there are some well-served Chinese establishments in Japan. But all the ones I’ve visited, so far, had an Ivy-Noodle-on-Friday-Night quality of service, rolling eyes when asked for more water. Compared to an average Japanese food stall even Royal China in Yokohama does not stand a chance. And so like most Japanese people, I think that foreign places and foreigners are to be avoided. Nothing good comes out of non-Japan.

3. Tokyo is the only city in the world. The rest is countryside

At middle-school, they taught us that there are two views of the world: geocentric (with Earth at its center) and helio-centric (Sun being the center). Well, I think they should have also mentioned the Tokyo-centric viewpoint. There might be the Sun and the Earth, but they all revolve around Tokyo. When talking to residents in Tokyo’s archrival metropolis Osaka, one could sense a certain inferiority complex.

Even the proudest residents often admit: It’s just not Tokyo. Likewise, most Ja

panese people regard Euro-American cities with a strange sense of curiosity. Paris is romantic. Prague is pretty. New York is exciting. But that’s all they are. Tokyo is all of it – and ever more. It abounds with superlatives – the biggest, the wealthiest, the most vibrant. After having spent a few months in Tokyo, I’ve been infected with the Tokyo-centric viewpoint. I can see myself touring Japan, temple-viewing in Kyoto and Onsen-hopping in Sapporo. I can see myself “doing” Europe in five days. But then I would like to return to where life’s just better: TO-KY-O.

2. Things are either Kawaii (cute) or not

Japan is a cute culture. Pokemon, Hello Kitty, Sailor Moon. Being “kawaii” is a principal quality that is sought after by both boys and girls, old and young. Being cute (kawaii) is a very peculiar feature – one either is, or isn’t. It extends beyond people to many other things, and only truly Japanese people understand where kawaii-ness begins and ends. Cars, trains, and clothes can be cute, food, hospitals, and white babies cannot.

I, too, have started to see the world through the lenses of cuteness. When I see something/someone I know immediately whether the object/person is cute – or not. And like the Japanese, in case of the former, I exclaim enthusiastically “KAWAIIII!!!, in case of the latter, I just keep quiet. And indeed, being able to recognize what’s cute and what’s not seems a unifying factor that connects all Japanese people (including myself). Two days ago, I took a train to Hakodate. On the train, there was a 5-year old boy who kept mispronouncing the name of the train (in a very loud voice). I recognized his “cuteness” and shouted Kawaiii!!!. Everyone on the train nodded and smiled at me. Towards the end of the trip, the boy got a bit too anxious and started pulling his grandma’s hair. There was another white person on the train who tried to copy my earlier success. And so while the boy was being not nice to his grandma, the white man yelled “Kawaiii!!!” Everyone looked at him strictly, silently begging him to keep quiet. The white man thought he was going to receive the same accolade for acknowledging cuteness; instead, he just estranged himself from the rest of the nation. Unlike me, the man got no smiles.

1. Michael Jackson is the King of Pop. (Still).

Before becoming Japanese, I thought that Michael Jackson was not but an inappropriate relic from a strange age before my time. I recognized his contribution to popular music, and that was it. I sort of understood that in some circles he might be considered vintage-cool, but that was the extent to which I was willing to like MJ. Moreover, I remember being appalled by Mike’s escapades in the Neverland (or whatever the name of his strange Peter-Panesque McMansion is).

In Japan, however, I have been enlightened: Michael Jackson is the greatest artist who ever lived, and the Japanese are the only nation who completely understand his legacy, the only nation that pay him due respects. Michael’s posters are everywhere. His music plays non-stop on most radio stations. And there’s in fact a Michael Jackson TV station, pumping hits such as Thriller (pronounced SU-RI-RAA) 24/7.

My appreciation for Mi-ku-ru-ja-ku-so-nu stands as a monument to my Japanification. I will no longer recede to my pre-Japan identities as long as I keep revering the King, since holding the King in deep respect is the single most important feature of the Japanese mind. To become Japanese, you cannot “stop till you get enough.” To be Japanese means to love the King. It’s pretty black-and-white. You either buy green tea from vending machines, or you don’t. You either get cute or you don’t. You either believe in Tokyo or you don’t. Most notably, nonetheless, you either understand who the King is or you don’t. You can’t beat it, cause THIS IS IT.

Good Society

Good Society

“Arguments are extremely vulgar, for everyone in good society holds exactly the same opinion.”

Once again, Oscar Wilde proved a sparkling clear knowledge of Japanese society. His quote encapsulates my experience in Japan so far – in its entirety. In fact, you don’t need to know much more to survive in Japan. Just remember the alpha&omega of life in Japan: NO ARGUING.

Indeed, the Japanese consider arguing superbly tacky. And they always did. In the epic samurai past, arguments mostly weren’t. But if they were, only two solutions came handy: either the death of one of the arguers or the death of both arguers. Modern Japan is not so extreme. Luckily for me. Yet, my Japanese kinsmen are pretty still serious about finding ways to avoid arguing. Some of the most popular solutions to avoid conflict contain: lightly smiling and pretending they don’t understand or repeating “maybe not, maybe not.” If arguments cannot be avoided, then they’re dealt with in utmost silence, in utmost taste. I suppose saying Sayonara to Mr. Ichikawa was an example of Japanese conflict-solving. First there was Mr. Ichikawa. Then there was an argument with Mr. Ichikawa. Last, Mr. Ichikawa was no more. (That is, he didn’t come to school the next day). Allegedly, Japanese employers learn that they had gotten fired by the fact that their uniform is missing in their locker. An example of Japanese conflict-resolution par excellence!

Nonetheless, I’m still left wondering why Japanese avoid conflict as feverishly as they avoid foreigners with yellow fever. One of the reasons seems to lie in the fact that the whole of Japan, in fact, is “good society.” Unlike post-revolutionary France where the aristocracy just adapted their manners to the customs of the lower echelons of society, Japan in fact managed to impose its high-brow samurai ethics on everyone. And so even the most ordinary Mr. Tanaka has better manners than many high French officials (with the exception of eternally classy Carla Bruni who’s just that swell). And so even the most ordinary Mr. Tanaka avoids arguments – after all, all of his countrymen share the same opinion anyway.

Second, most importantly, Japanese stick to non-conflict resolutions as a piece of seaweed sticks to a piece of tofu in miso soup, due to the fact that they adore rules. In Japan, there are rules – both said and unsaid – for everything. And with rules for everything and anything, arguments become excrescent, an anomaly to be avoided. There are rules for taking a bath, rules for holding chopsticks, rules for washing one’s underarms in an onsen (Japanese bathhouse), rules for folding a futon…

To be honest, the multiplicity and rigidity of rules in Japan grows sometimes over my head. To illustrate the point:

Last week, on Wednesday, I received a strange Kafkaesque note in mail. It had many unknown characters (which is always a portentous sign) and it read my name and a random date of July 29. I asked my roommate what the meaning of the note was and he explained to me the mailman was trying to deliver an important package but since I was not home, he left the package at the local post office. Next day, I handed the note to Mrs. Fukunaga, our Grammar teacher, who confirmed my roommate’s explanation. I grew a bit nervous, expecting an important package including visa forms. A significant feature of Japanese government is burdensome bureaucracy, and so I did surely not wish to miss any important immigration mailings. Thursday and Friday were cray-cray busy so I couldn’t go to the post office. I decided to call them as I was instructed to by Mrs. Fukunaga. Calling, however, proved more disastrous than the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 AD.

First, I couldn’t understand much of what the Japanese post-office worker was saying. I asked her (Mrs. Kanazawa) to speak more slowly and use less complex words, but, as any Japanese learner could tell you, that’s a direct road to hell. As expected, Mrs. Kanazawa apologized for speaking unslowly and complexly only to start speaking faster with so many honorifics and complicated grammar patterns that even the Japanese emperor would have a hard time understanding. I started sweating during Mrs. Kanazawa’s long monologue and decided to hang up. I was not willing to risk a heart attack. My pride was hurt, however. After 5 semesters of Yale Japanese, I couldn’t even make a simple phone call? No! Sure I could! Yes, I can!

I called the post office again next day. I made Mrs. Kanazawa repeat every single word I didn’t understand and tried to make myself understood in the plainest way possible. I explained to her that I couldn’t pick up the package from the post- office since I was moving out of my apartment and the office was open only during certain hours. I asked her if the package could be sent to a different address at my expense. Mrs. Kanazawa started apologizing, at which point I understood something was going hellishly wrong. She said she had to call her supervisor (which is always a bad sign when dealing with Japanese employees…by the way.). She took my phone number and said she was going to call me. In the meantime, I moved from my apartment and embarked on my grand tour of Japan in 40 days. On Wednesday, Mrs. Kanazawa called again. She apologized for making me wait for so many days and said the issue was complicated (oh, please, aren’t all issues in Japan complicated?). She said her supervisor had to call another supervisor in Tokyo, who still has not responded. So, she apologized again and asked if it would be ok if she called again the next day. I said: “I guess so.” Next day, Mrs. Kanazawa indeed called again. She told me that her supervisor had told her that her supervisor had told her that the issue was truly complicated, at which point I grew a bit un-Japanese. “Seriously? Let me outline the problem. I was not home. The package stays at the post office. I want it to be sent somewhere else. It really is not that complicated.” I told her blatantly. She said she understood my concern (a common Japanese phrase) but the package cannot be resent. She told me the only way I could get hold of that package is to pick it up from the post office. “But I’m VERY VERY VERY far away!” I was at the edge of crying. Was she seriously asking me to spend 100 bucks (and several hours) on a train back to Osaka? She said “Sikata ga arimasen – i.e. there’s no way around it,” and started apologizing. I told her it was a very important package and thus I was going to pick it up within the next two days. Sweaty and stricken, I was going to hang up once again. But then I realized I could probably get the sender’s address from her. Maybe, I could send a letter to the Japanese Immigration Bureau asking to resend the package to a different address…I asked her if she could give me the sender’s name. Mrs. Kanazawa started apologizing, which I interrupted harshly. “PLEASE. Just give it to me.” She asked me to wait and then began to read the sender’s info: “Pat…Pato..Patori…Patoriku…Patoriko Hurari…” Wait. What?!? Patrick Hurley? I paused for a few seconds. How the heck did Mrs. Kanazawa come up with my friend’s name? And then I finally understood. I said: “Dear Mrs. Kanazawa, I will ask you a set of easy questions and please answer to the best of your ability.” She started mumbling again. I was determined: “Is this a heavy package?” “No, it isn’t,” Kanazawa responded. “Is it small in size?” “Yes, it is.” “Is it a postcard?” “Yes.”

So, ladies and gentlemen the story comes to its epic conclusion: my Yale friend Patrick sent me a postcard from his European travels. I wasn’t at home at its arrival. And so instead of leaving it in my mailbox the postman took the time to fill up an “important package” note. Was it an important package? Maybe not. But rules are rules. And this is Japan. I have wasted hours and hours of my time trying to get hold of a postcard. I considered returning to Osaka from Mount Koya to reach the holly grail of all important mailings a “Forever with Love from Venice, Pat.”

And so in this postcard episode I’ve learned one important lesson: Here in Japan, rules are rules. And arguments are better to be avoided. If you get an “important package” chances that it is a postcard are high, if it is a truly important package, the chances of ever getting hold of it are minuscule. So just relax, take it easy. Take a chill pill and go with the flow. When in Japan do as the Japanese do. And the Japanese DON’T break rules; they DON’T argue.

At the end of our call Mrs. Kanzawa apologized once again, fearfully awaiting my potentially furious response. This time, however, I smiled lightly and kept quiet. After a few moments, Mrs. Kanazawa asked me whether I was coming to pick up the package. I paused for a while and then, holding the exactly same opinion as the rest of good society, I just sighed: “Maybe not. Maybe not.”