life on a stratovolcano ^{oshima edition}

Reading over some of my old posts, I realize that I haven’t spoken enough about how accommodating and kind the Japanese people have been to me. I’m talking about over-the-top niceness. The kind you would find in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book, not just the normal insanely polite and friendly Japan. I really don’t want to ever forget these things, so I’ve decided to list out a few here, in no particular order.

The Magical Returning Wallet

The very first day I arrived in Oshima, I was being taken around the island to get all of the necessities of living in Japan set up (gas, water, car, etc.), and somewhere along the way, I managed to lose my wallet. Normally, this would have been merely very bad. That day, however, was a special case, because I had my 150,000 yen ($1,300) move-in bonus inside of it. Needless to say, “panic” is a very weak word to describe what I was feeling. I waited with explosive anxiety as one of the teachers called each of the places we had been that day. Turns out, it had fallen out of my pocket at the mechanic’s place. Within an hour, it was returned, money intact.

Asking for Directions

This wasn’t a solitary moment, per say, but rather an experience shared by a multitude of foreigners in Japan. The first time I remember experiencing the wonder that is “asking for directions,” I was completely lost in Osaka, looking for some way to get my bearings to the capsule hotel. It was late, and I was sore and tired. Eventually I worked up the nerve to ask this well-dressed 30-ish woman where a landmark that I needed to find was. Simply telling me wouldn’t be Japanese enough — she grabbed me, and, smiling the entire time, walked me all the way to where I needed to be. This wonderful woman went maybe fifteen minutes out of her way to help an absolute stranger in the middle of the night.

Shopping for Clothing

Customer service in Japan is impeccable. Everywhere that you go, even to McDonald’s, the person that is assisting you invariably appears to see helping you as the highlight of their day. Japanese people don’t even make tips — their niceness is completely real.

One of the most profound instances of this happening was when I was clothes shopping in Shinjuku. I entered a department store — which, regrettably, I don’t remember the name of — looking for clothing that would fit my enormous gaijin self. I walked up to one of the departments and asked in horrendous Japanese if they had clothes that would fit me. The woman working there did my measurements, freaked out a bit, and started making telephone calls. This continued for several minutes, and then asked me to follow her. She took me to every department in the men’s section of the store. When it was clear that there was nothing that fit, she began apologizing profusely and giving me directions to different stores in the area that might have my size. I’m sure that if she hadn’t been working, she would have taken me there herself.

At the Sushi Restaurant

One of the most immensely generous acts of kindness that I received was when I went to a sushi restaurant in Habu Harbor with Julia. I introduced myself as the new teacher at the high school up the street, and they seemed delighted to speak with me. At the end of the absolutely fantastic meal, the chef approached us with two boxes. “Present,” he said. We opened them, and inside were two beautiful, painted stoneware mugs that looked to be more expensive than the meal itself. “Welcome to Japan,” he said, grinning.

At the Mechanic’s, Again

I returned to my mechanic because, being the idiot that I was, I fell into a “gaijin trap” (incredibly stupidly placed drainage ditches on the sides of the road that are just wide enough for a tire to fall into and just deep enough to break an axle). Luckily, I didn’t break an axle, but I did manage to knock my muffler off.

They gave me a loaner car for the rest of the day, and when I returned, they thanked me, asked me to sit down, and brought out some canned drinks and a mysterious bag. I opened up this bag, and lo and behold, it was completely full of traditional Japanese desserts.

In Roppongi

While this could certainly be filed under the “not selfless” category, it was still an incredible experience nonetheless. I was walking down the street in Roppongi, dismayed at the stupidly high expenses everywhere, when a large group of well-dressed businessmen and women drunkenly stumbled up to me. They started yelling things like “America I love!” and “You handsome! Come with us!”. I obliged, and we ended up at an extremely posh and expensive darts bar. I remember walking in and seeing people being rung up at the cashier for hundreds of dollars worth of yen.

It evidently wasn’t enough to simply enjoy the company of everyone else around them, because my benefactors rented out a private room for the evening, complete with drinks and dartboards. At the end of the night, they walked me back to the correct train and bid me farewell.

My Birthday

Maybe this one was not so big, but without me reminding anyone, I was presented with an enormous chocolate bar by my co-workers — one two feet wide and a foot high. They also bought me marshmallows and lunch. The teacher that sits next to me, Machiko, also bought me a book on kanji stroke order, since I asked her about the subject every day. This amazed me, considering I had only been in the country for one month, and didn’t really know anyone by that point. A few days later, I went to the bar, and Gus, someone I had only just met, ordered a pancake with ice cream, bananas, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream for me. Best birthday cake ever.

Bungee Jumping

I was eating soba at an outdoor counter in Shinjuku a few months ago, when suddenly the guy next to me looks over and asks, “Are you American?” We spoke for a while, and eventually the subject turned somewhat strange.

Him: “Have you ever been bungee jumping?”
Me: “Yeah, once.”
Him: “Do you want to go again?”

Later we met up with his roommate, a Thai girl, and all went to Yomimuri Land, where he paid for everything. Afterwards, he insisted on giving me a tour of Shinjuku. We drank quite a bit later on that night, and I was so grateful to him that I did the least I could and picked up the tab.

Leaving to Pick Up Julia

Two weeks before leaving Japan to go back to America, Julia came to Tokyo. I needed to go there to pick her up, but the last jetfoil that day had been inexplicably canceled, leaving me with two options: the 10:30 am or the 2:30 pm boat, both of which were during class time. I was about to resign myself to the fact that I’d have to wait until the next day and that she would have to fend for herself that night, when suddenly one of my the JTEs walked up to me and said, “Tyler, take the 10:30 ship to Tokyo. Don’t worry about the classes, we’ve all decided to cover them.” He then proceeded to make ship reservations and book a hotel for me, the entire time being as gracious as possible.

At the Bar

After a particularly stressful day at work, I headed to MAG, my favorite bar, and ordered up some food. Mariko-chan, the bartender there, evidently noticed my distress, because she decided to forgo the mediocre bar food that I had ordered. Without even asking, or me noticing until it was finished, she prepared a delicious home-cooked-style meal for me, absolutely free of charge.

At the Yakitori Restaurant

I was actually inspired to write this because last night I went to the yakitori (shish-kebab) restaurant in Motomachi, and was reminded of an event that took place there a month or so ago. Alex and I were drinking some brewskies, and I was chowing down on the yakitori. After we were done, we stepped outside into the freezing cold weather, and the owner, a wonderfully nice old lady, came out after us saying “Too cold! We drive you!” and offered to have us both driven back to our houses, free of charge. Last night, one of the chefs told me, “Whenever you drink here, I’ll take you home!”

If Americans cared half as much about treating people as kindly as the Japanese do, we would live in a much better society. In the business sector, I truly believe that excellent customer service is the mark of a great business, and hot damn, do the Japanese do it well. I think I may have found a new business: teaching American companies how to adopt Japanese customer service principals.

Japan — Thank you for your unwavering kindness!

Well, up until now I’ve honestly been too busy to update. Julia came in shortly after the last update, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to write during that week, and then I headed home for two weeks, where I cherished every single moment of Americana thrown at me. It was beautiful. My entire experience can be summed up by this piece of correspondence that I had with one of my friends recently:

“Knoxville lost it’s novelty very, very quickly, but the fact that I’m actually able to interact with people on a deeper level than “Konnichiwa” definitely hasn’t gotten old. Being here has made me realize just how much living on Oshima has changed me. For example, the other night I went to a friend’s house with a bottle of wine and a bunch of cigars. We were outside on his driveway at 3:00am smoking said cigars, when all of a sudden we heard angry screaming coming from down the street. A few minutes later gigantic SUV rolls up, and the window rolls down. An obviously drunk middle-aged man stuck his head out the window.

God Bless America.”

So now I’m back in Oshima, but only after an extremely long, entirely too complicated transit. You see, people were extremely generous to me this year, and I thusly had lots and lots of presents. Thinking myself clever, I brought a backpack and an empty suitcase to America with me. Unfortunately, I ended up returning with three more bags to carry. There are only a couple of things that I can think of that are worse than having to get from Narita to Hammamutsucho via subway with nearly two hundred pounds of baggage, and both of them generally happen in prisons.

Fortunately, I was able to get to Hammamutsucho without incident, and entered the Takeshiba (port authority) building at about 6:00. Unfortunately, the ticket office hadn’t opened yet. “No problem,” I thought to myself, “I’ll just take a nap in the tatami room.”

Takeshiba’s tatami room is only available to islanders, so, to say the least, I get a few puzzled looks whenever I go there. No matter. I walked past the gaping old people, sat my stuff down, and stepped up to the tatami, where I promptly fell asleep for a couple of hours. When I awoke, I felt very strangely alone, and walked over to the ticket counter. Remembering absolutely zero Japanese in my daze, I told her that I wanted to catch that night’s ferry to Oshima.

Her: “Fune wa kunai.” (there is no ship)
Me: “Shit.”

So, as it turns out, I arrived on one of the three days of the year where there is no overnight ferry. Feeling an impending sense of doom, I called Mr. A (I’ve stopped using real names).

Mr. A: “Hello, Tyler. Are you on Oshima?”
Me: “No, I’m in Takeshiba. Did you know that there’s no ferry tonight?”
Mr. A: “Yes. Everyone knows that.”
Me: “Well, I didn’t. The next ship is at 8:15 tomorrow.”
Mr. A: “Well, what are you going to do? You need to be here.”
Me (expecting laughter): “I guess I”ll start swimming.”
Mr. A (not laughing in the slightest): “I’ll tell the teachers that they’ll have to cover your classes.”
Me: “Ok man, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Mr. A: *hangs up*

After that awfully serious conversation, I was a bit shaken up. Were they very angry with me for leaving work early to get on the boat? Only time would tell. For now, I loaded up all of my bags, and started walking. Unfortunately, one of the wheels on my one piece of rolling baggage decided to forgo it’s only purpose in life, and quit rolling. After a careful inspection that ended with me looking like an idiot, I decided that I’d drag the bag along anyway.

So off I went again to the “Islander’s Hotel,” where you can get a room for about forty bucks on short notice. This was about a kilometer away, which wouldn’t have normally been a problem had I not looked like a pack llama. Feeling my body giving out from the jet lag, I cursed every single step that I took.

When I finally arrived at the hotel, I heard the words that I was expecting: “Ippai, ippai!” (We’re full!). At this point I was fully convinced that God hated me, and simply sat down. I started pondering the option of sleeping on the street, but thoughts of my laptop sneaking away in the middle of the night to elope convinced me otherwise. Eventually, I remembered that there was one other hotel immediately next to the port: the Azure. I’m going to go ahead and say what I was thinking at the time: the Azure is not a budget hotel. Julia and I went there, and didn’t even check the prices because the place looked so damned fancy.

That night, however, I was willing to pay anything just to lay down. I only had twenty thousand yen, or about two hundred dollars on me that night, and since the nice people at the school neglected to put my paycheck in my bank account this month, I was extremely worried that I might not have enough. Feeling quite a bit of sympathy for Atlas, I practically collapsed in the lobby, and completely botched my Japanese to the guy at the front desk. Fortunately, hotel clerks in Japan almost universally speak perfect English.

Clerk: “We have one room, it is 9,800 yen.”
Me: “I love you.”

So I forked over the hundred bucks for my incredibly tiny room, and entered into the deepest sleep I’ve had in a long time, with the possible exception of last night.

At 5 AM I woke up, showered, and played some video games to get my brain moving. Curiously, there was no iron in the hotel room. There was, however, a sign that said “Do not leave open door when shower. Or fire alarm on.” I thought it wise to obey this advice. I loaded up my things again, and walked the hundred meters or so to Takeshiba. I hopped on the Jetfoil, and, thinking it wise to be prepared, came up with a bitchin’ lesson plan for that day.

After arriving at the port, I fired up my car, and promptly started driving on the wrong side of the road. A passing motorist notified me of this with a bout of furious bowing. Fortunately, this wasn’t America, so I didn’t get shot at.

I arrived at my house to find my door unlocked. Oops. Expecting an extremely nasty smell from the meat I left out two weeks ago, I held my breath. Strangely enough, however, my apartment smelled fresher than it ever had. I thought this curious, and with a furrowed brow opened the door to my living room to find my light on and sliding glass door wide open. In my haste to leave, I completely forgot to take care of the simplest of matters. It’s funny how something stupid can turn out so well (as in my apartment not smelling like rancid meat).

I threw my excessive amounts of omiyage into my bag, and began the long drive to Minami High School. I was feeling pretty snazzy due to my new wardrobe and CK suit (thanks Dad), so I confidently strolled into the building, changed into my new leather inside shoes (thanks Lizzie), and marched upstairs, bag of gifts in hand. Beaming, I opened the door to the staff room, and opened with a big “Ohayoo Gozaimasu!” Then, the unthinkable happened.

Everyone averted their eyes from me and pretended not to hear me.

Looking back, this was some pretty mild foreshadowing for the events that were about to transpire. I walked over to my desk, and everyone sort of looked away.

Me: “Happy New Year’s, Mr. A!” I said in my most cheerful voice.
Mr A: “Go apologize to the Vice Principal. Now.”

From the look on his face, his entire family had just been killed by my hand.

Freaking out pretty considerably, I made my way over to the VP’s office. “Sumimasen,” I said quietly.

Not smiling at all, he said “Koko matte,” (stay here), and fetched Mr. A. I didn’t know it at the time, but he pulled him in as a translator. If I had known about what was going to take place, I might have just stayed in America. For the next hour or so, the VP proceeded to rail into me via Mr. A about everything I had done wrong over the past few months. Japanese people on a whole are extremely passive; if there’s something wrong, they’ll let it build up inside of them and won’t tell you that there is a problem. Eventually, however, the dam will break. I can’t say what was said during the meeting because of my NDA, but let’s just say some very surprising words were spoken. I will say that I am extremely sorry for Mr. A for having to translate what was said.

After that verbal ass-kicking, I was in a pretty terrible mood for the rest of the day. I don’t know if it was the jet lag or the threat of death from above, but I was extremely “off” in class.

Immediately after this, I typed up an apology letter to Mr. B at the other school detailing what I did, and the steps that I would take to correct it. If my ass got kicked at Minami, I would probably be killed at Oshima High School, where the main offense took place. Feeling like I was dressing for an execution, I put on my best shirt and tie with my suit, and drove over to the school in the morning. Without saying a word, I handed the note to Mr. B, who took it, read it, asked me a few questions, and then said “Okay.” I’m pretty sure he bottled it up, but he went right back to normal. Strange how things never quite turn out like you expect them.

Anyway, I’m really quite happy to be back now, even though last night I was 100% certain that I wanted to leave the island that moment and never look back. People at Oshima High School were dazzled by the omiyage I brought back, and things seem to be back to normal (except that EVERY SINGLE PERSON who walks by me points out the hole in the seam of my sleeve. Why couldn’t the tailor have seen it when I tried the suit on?).

I’ll end this post on a happy note. I was just told to get my hanko (personal seal that acts as your signature) in order to receive my tax refund. I didn’t even know that there was such thing as a tax refund, so, delighted, I jumped in my car, drove home, came back, and stamped the form. The office guy handed me an envelope, addressed from the higher-ups in the Tokyo Metropolitan Government building, which I ripped open like a kid at Christmas. The exact contents of the envelope? 165 yen. $1.50. It’s sitting on the desk as I type this, and I’m trying to decide what I’ll buy with such a huge fortune. I almost have enough to afford one grape or a quarter of a strawberry, but I think I’ll save up until I have twice as much so that I can buy a can of coke.

This isn’t the first time this has happened, mind you. At the volleyball tournament we were given bento (boxed lunches) that were 950 yen apiece. I paid mine in exact change, just like everyone else. Two days later, an envelope was hand-delivered to me because we were overcharged. How much was in the envelope? Three yen. 2.7 cents. I swear to God, these people are nothing if not meticulous. Later, I was told that the same teacher who delivered the envelope to me traveled all the way to the middle school to deliver Alex his three yen. It’s moments like these that make me never want to leave this place.