Author: K (page 5 of 5)

“K.” I heard a girl’s voice, and turning, saw the two cute girls skipping down the hill toward me. I stopped biting the mango, its yellow juice running down my wrist. “This is the invitation,” one of the girls said, holding out the card to me. “Oh, I knew you were going to graduate in September,” I wiped my mouth with my short sleeve. “Yes. You’d be a ‘welcome guest,’”she said. “Thank you. I’II go the ceremony,” I said in my teaching voice.

Covering their mouth with their hands, they faced each other, chuckled, and scuttled to the school, where I had taught 6th grade pupils yoga every Wednesday throughout the year the boys and girls thoroughly enjoyed my lesson.

As a matter of fact, I was reluctant to attend the graduation ceremony. Imagine a principal or executive giving a speech in the official language. It was just boredom. However, I supposed they prepared something special ―a gift or message cards or a photo album―so I could not let them down.

*

I sat an empty seat at the back in the auditorium. Colorful balloons strung from the ceiling adorned the whole room, people smartly dressed with dreadlocks: the men wore red, blue or green shirts, the women shimmery or partly patterned dresses. I was, in fact, unremarkable in a white shirts and black trousers with an Asian face.

The presumptuous speech of a principal and executives seemed to be no different from that of Japanese ones. Then, I was seeing each alumnus holding his diploma, taking a photo with his homeroom teacher, and it made me smile a little.

As I watched a slideshow of the alumni on the big screen, the yoga photos―several pupils lined up in wheel pose (yoga pose) by a seaside―was projected; I was delighted to learn they did it outside of class. And then a girl begun to introduce me. “K is from Taiwan … .” No, no. You are funny. I am Japanese. I am certain I had said that many times. Then a boy followed her. “He loves ‘Jackie Chan.’” I laughed. Not me, it was you who always mimicked his actions. I never even said the word, “Jackie Chan.” 

Some people exchanged a quick smirk and glanced back at me. Meanwhile, I had leant forward on my chair so that I would go up to the stage when my name was called. But the next moment, the yoga photos switched the other ones of a picnic in the woods―I was somewhat disappointed and sat back on my chair.

Now, one by one each alumnus handed his teacher or educator a small gift and hugged each other. What was in the boxes: food, drink, daily necessities? The presentation ceremony was nearly over; when I saw a pupil approaching me, I would get to my feet, reaching for him, and maybe I would pat his head instead of a hug. I would say something good and shake his hand strongly, and then I would take graduation photos surrounded by the alumni―that would suffice in what I could do.

There had been the lively hubbub throughout the auditorium. A number of guests begun to stand up, then I saw a couple leaving the room. No one pupil came.

I walked out of the auditorium into the narrow corridor, and made my way to the 6th grade classroom next to it, looking at its stage from outside the window. Just as my eyes met with a few pupils, they yelled at me. “Yogaman,” “Jackie Chen.” I smiled and waved to them, but almost Immediately they begun to fool around, barely paying attention me.

“K.” Hardly had I turned to a voice when a girl in a glittering ethnic costume tugged at my arm. “Come.” A tumult of shouting and laughing came from inside it, but she had kept her arm in mine and we now walked back down the corridor; descending the staircase. I was a “yogaman” with Asian face, notably popular with the locals and guessed there would be something of the hospitality to me, recalling the word “welcome guest.”

*

We were standing in front of a dimly lit door by the playground. The glittering girl opened the door and let me in first. The room was packed with people and some stuff; the air stagnant―in the slant of sunlight, a column of dust motes floated upward. At the corner, there was a pile of scattered tools: pairs of scissors, packing tape and crumpled paper. I could see some people eating around a few small tables, including the 6th grade homeroom teacher giving me a cold look with her languid posture, and others putting some food onto their plates from glass bowls.

“We’ll treat you to dinner,” she said, pointing at the plates. I obeyed her. The wood floors were shabby and creaky. I took a plate and regarded the choice: neither fried plantains nor green figs agreed with me, stewed chicken was dry, salad and fruits no fresh. I normally had eaten such meals, felt a little bad.

I put my plate on the empty table, being careful not to bump into the people stranded in the narrow aisles. Straddling a fixed wooden stool, back to back with the person behind me, I was forced to sit up straight.  Under the table, I  had stepped on a tube of paint and it had leaked.

After the dinner, I found myself alone in the playground, gazing at the pupils clustering around a teacher. Some children ran around with snacks. There was the convivial atmosphere around me―to pop music, the man and women in brilliant native dress dancing in a circle, other people enjoyed talking and laughing in little groups who would not have anything to do with me.

Hovering in the middle of the playground, I poised between solitariness and joviality amidst an aloofness just where I could be myself, and came to the conclusion that joining in such atmosphere was no part for me. I could recall the drinking parties, where I always feigned that I enjoyed myself. I sat awkwardly by myself on the tatami floor, giving a feeble smile, while people around me talked with much jollity and wandered from table to table. Not wanting to be seen as isolated, I expected someone to talk to me.

“K, hurry up.” Turning toward a girl’s voice, I was relieved to hear my name called again, since I had been isolated since the beginning. Whether home or abroad, I did not know how to interact with people. At the school entrance, a pupil beckoned me to follow her. Not expecting anything so special, I started walking in a trot to.

We both went through the school gate and stopped in front of the hillslope. “K, cross the road,” she pointed to the hilltop; the rattling sound of a bus (they call van bus) could be heard in the distance. “The last bus.” she said. I found myself at the bus stop in no time and raised my hand to ride on.

Just as I got into the bus, it begun to pull away. The reckless driver warned me of something; I noticed the door was ajar. “Disclosed … ,” he muttered.

Once the taxi driver found out I was Japanese, he said, “I went to Tokyo last year,” “Kyoto is beautiful,” “I like sushi.” I had heard it hundreds of times. It was typical of so many clichés. I had been reminded of the annoying question: “How often do you eat sushi?” “Have you ever seen ninjya?” “Teach me karate,” and so on. The most baffling question: “How many times a week you wear a kimono?” … Only once as a child, maybe.

On the other hand, the taxi driver had a good conscience. I had negotiated with other taxi drivers at 200 TT-dollars (about＄30) for a taxi charter, but he was only one who readily agreed, so I had to play along with his talk―he was supposed to wait for me for two and a half hours while I was on the tour to see scarlet ibis at Caroni Swamp.

In the taxi, I soaked in the afterglow of scarlet ibis and said, “The steelpan, I just think about whether to go see. There is still time.” “I highly recommend it, so traditional, I will take you right there.” “Oh really? But you will work after this, won’t you? Besides, a little far from Woodford Square, where I got into. Will it cost extra?” “No, no, no worries,” he did not mention this any further; I wondered if it made business sense, and said, “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” 

We got stuck in traffic on the highway. Then after a long silence he said, “By the way, tomorrow, where are you going?” “Airport, I’m going to Tobago, though hurricane is approaching.” “As always. Would you allow me to drive you the airport?” I balked momentarily―outside was dark―that would be the demanding task for him. Not only was I going to be early tomorrow morning, it was expected that he would be late. This was a Caribbean country. A sense of time is entirely different from that of Japanese.

“No, problem, I make an early start. I’m leaving seven a.m, so I’ll use a bus.” “But, you must carry heavy baggage. After I’ll call you, l’ll head for your hotel. Around seven a.m, okay?” I was so punctual, that it was better to refuse his offer, but I felt like I should accept his act of kindness willingly.

The following morning, his taxi had not parked. It is time for him to come here. I made a phone call to him, but could not get through, not knowing if he was coming or sleeping. I made up my mind to wait for him a little―he had been very good to me. Fifteen minutes, then twenty minutes, I felt uncertain about when I should I give up on him, wanting to believe him … I put my backpack on and rushed toward the main road, where I would take on the bus. 

Dry wind drafting, I was lingering outside airport in Tobago. “K.” Turning around, I saw a woman put her head out the BMW window and thinking she was Amanda (anonymous), Airbnb host. After she showed me the host house, she drove me around the town: grocery stores, restaurants, a ATM―her action was exactly the same as the reviews that I had checked in advance. I needed a bicycle to go there and asked her to drop in at a rental shop.

“No, 250 TT-dollars for five days,” the clark said soberly. After payment, I rode the bike and headed for  the ocean, where Caribbean Sea and North Atlantic Ocean collide. But as I pedaled it, my buttock hurt and noise―the creaking sound of the saddle. I went back to the shop to have it exchange for another one, but it was closed despite one p.m. 

That evening after cycling around the town, soaked with sweat, I wanted to take a shower straight away. The light in the bathroom in the host house was out of order. I left its door open and went into the room that was very dimly lit. When I turned the faucet, the water came out with tremendous momentum, which hurt my back. I assumed that water pressure was weak overseas. That was too extreme.

The refrigerator did not work, either. I texted Amanda, the host. Then her tall siblings came to check it around midnight. As the tall man examined the fridge, it occurred to me that a landlord had blamed me for breaking the TV before: I was seen as a Chinese and she claimed that I hit it many times.

He said I could use another one in the house next door that they owned. I was relieved that they did not think that was my fault rather than I could. Inconvenient though I felt, I said thank you very much to them; I was concerned about Amanda’s review to me and feared she might think I was a troublesome person. The bathroom troubles were small things.

Whenever I rode the bike past the bicycle rental shop, it remained closed. There was a limit to what my buttock could endure. One day, the moment I got off the bike by the sea, the thong of my flip-flops snapped. As I was at a loss what to do, I remembered Amanda’s mother, who gave me mangos and who I thought might repair it, lived upstairs in the host house. 

Barefoot on one leg, pedaling the bike up the slope lined with exclusive hotels, I heard a voice. “Hey, Chinese. Are you having fun?” Stopping, in the parking lot of one of them, I saw the man, the clark who had done sloppy work, sticking his head out of the window of his car and the woman sitting in the passenger seat. “Yes, of course. I enjoy myself.” I blurted out without meaning to―I might not have wanted to intrude on them, not saying anything about the bike. But he said, “Good. You have to return it before you leave. Have a nice day,” he drove off; I pedaled it again.

I showed Amanda’s mother my flip-flops. In an instant she fetched the tool box from inside the house. And then I saw her pierce the joint of the thong with two short wires, which was crossed and fixed on the back of it. I was taken aback by her quick wit and thanked her. When I was about to go downstairs she gave me mangos and a map in Tobago, on which she told me the sightseeing spots in great detail. I had felt her warmth without a hint of self-interest.

The next day, from Scarborough, the capital of Tobago, I took a bus for Englishman’s Bay that Amanda’s mother recommended me. I told the driver that I would get off at Englishman’s Bay and sat in the seat behind him. As the bus went through the mountain road with ups and down, it began to rain and I started to feel motion sick. After a while, I checked my location by using GPS on my phone; the bus approached the bay.

The bus, however, went past that area. I totally thought he would pull up near the bay or say something to me before reaching there. How would I have misinterpreted the map? I begun to wonder if I should ask him. Probably he took a detour to avoid some obstacles. I waited and saw for a while. Obviously the bus moved away from the bay. It was getting cold and the rain had fallen steadily―I had long since lost my desire to go. In the meantime, farther and farther. Soon the bus stopped at the end of the line, where I alighted from the bus.

In the afternoon, the rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, and I felt a little better, ending up in Nature Park, where there was a unique and quaint atmosphere. It looked like some wildflower garden that housed a variety of wildlife: apes, sea turtles and Tobago birds.

The owner gave me a tour of his park that he had made himself; teaching me about the animals, encouraging interaction with them, and he said, “I consider whether to go Japan. I want to learn pottery. But, there would be few Japanese who speak English, despite a developed country.” Not shallow, how profound insight he had struck home to me. Then he went on. “From time to time, Japanese groups come see the birds. They are not good at English. When I spoke to one of them, she seemed to be puzzled and asked others for help, giving me a little smile.”

“You observe Japanese well,” I said. He never asked the mundane questions about Japan. “Are you interested in sightseeing?” I asked, never having asked such a thing. He stood with his back on an ape eating peanuts from back pockets of his jeans and hardly hear me; I felt that his affection to animals was what he cared for. 

“Why do Japanese not change the job? They don’t look at things with open minds. I don’t understand.” He got to the very heart of the matter. I felt myself interested in talking to him.

“They are averse to change, not wanting to fail, while most of them are insecure about current situation. They’ve been patient, so they aren’t used to being assertive. And they’ll have to be very patient, even when they will be sick of it or go in the wrong direction. Patience, it’s virtue. In other words, ‘timidity.’”

I got on the train from New Delhi to Haridwar and sat on a seat. What I had looked forward to was a train trip in India. I could feel myself relaxing, and I would be soon comfortably, savoring the view, the ambience and some refreshment. What the hell? I saw a portly man in his fifties with gray hair hovering near the train doors. Clearly Japanese. Stay away. I spread my legs, wrapping my arm around  the top of the seat next to me, and made it appear as if I was so nasty, hoping he would pass by me.

He looked around for an empty seat; I turned my face out of the window. Don’t come here, please. “You’re Japanese, aren’t you?” he said in Japanese. What a disgusting man; he spoiled my mood. If I choose who I spend my time with, is not between Japanese, is between local people making me feel exoticism of India. It sucks. I gave a slight nod, frowning at him. He stood beside me and with sitting motion he said, “May I sit here?” He sat on the seat before I could answer. I sighed wearily. I was compelled to be with him for five hours on the train. 

He spoke to me: “Nice weather today huh?” “When did you arrive at India?” “Where did you come from Japan?”―a mundane talk. I said languidly a word, yes or no in order to intend that I was not going to talk with him, and then took a book from my backpack.

Hardly had I turned the page when he started to talk about himself; that was enough, leave me alone. “I had worked as a public officer for more than thirty years.” He flaunted his career as if he was decent person. I had heard that introductory phrase somewhere one gives a formal speech. It is virtue for his generation to work for the same place until retirement. But thirty years? I definitely can not, so boring that it is little less than killing me. No stimulating. For me, saying that is tantamount to saying you were not courageous to try something new. But for them, giving up halfway through as I did means contaminating their carrier, a shame or a failure.

Of course, he would have worked for family and devoted his life to his company. But, there would have been times when he encountered the unseemly situation―abiding orders that do not make sense, severe reprimands despite his good action, or personal changes against his will; there were no way around that. At the worst, he may have feigned ignorance for his colleagues who were treated unfairly―like bullies―while feeling pity for him. In any case, he proved to me that he had done whatever it took to survive in his company as wage slave, albeit good or bad.

“I retired from the work already,” he said with some dignity. “In Japan, up early every morning, I walk my dog in the park, and then relax at home all day.” He looked as if he had recuperated away from the battlefield, where he strived to survive for thirty years. I believed that the 50s and 60s are the most ultimate generation. The amount of his experiences that he has accumulated is immeasurable. He could have summed up his experiences that young people lacked and started up new business. Why let the special advantage go to waste? Young people would be animated by seeing older people be going to aim higher.

“On my last trip, I went to south India, where I ate curries. Those tasted different from the north ones,” he went on. “The south was good place, far more idyllic than New Delhi, it was tranquil. I recommend.” As he said this, I felt myself disarmed by his peaceful mood implying that he wanted to unwind and enjoy himself. He looked kind, but he was just a boring man with portly frame. I liked the person who poured his own passion and intensity into what he loved and who was always challenging.

Those who never tried doing many different things while young seemed likely to defend his own interest. I recalled my superior, who conceited himself and clung his position. He thought he need not improve himself any longer. And to consolidate the hierarchy between him and me, he often said he had worked so hard that he was now in a position to nurture young people.

Working so hard meant working long hours―work on a day off or overtime. Strange to say, getting results in a short period could be seen as cutting corner, laziness.

Meanwhile, however, I believed that the act of nurturing others meant that his own potential was reduced to zero. For instance, sports athletes culminate at the certain point. But soon or later, there will come when they will no longer able to earn money as active players. After that a retired athlete becomes a mentor to make room for others.

There would be a natural fear to be overtaken by young men who were competent. He knew it would be more difficult to find new job as he got older, so his first priority had to protect his own life and position; we all had lost sight of the essentials of the work—making products that ‘’delight our customer.’’

“This is my first trip to the north. I’m going to Rishikesh via Haridwar too, where I will take the cable car, to see Mansa Devi Temple.” He seemed to be full of life, and said, “Possibly I will encounter you in Rishikesh. Yoga, sounds interesting, I guessed, but not sure, I will try it.” It occurred to me that he would reward himself for making achievement and contribution for thirty years―he must have endured emotional suffering: demanding tasks, human relationships, promotion races, which I could not. As for myself, I just stood at starting point, to live my life by just doing what I liked.

We got off the train together, strolling for a while in Haridwar. He asked me. “Do you want to have lunch with me?” “I wish I could say yes, but I’m not hungry,” I said without hesitation because he is not my boss because this is India.

Japanese culture is based on vertically hierarchical relationships, a junior submissively follow a senior, and the atmosphere would not allow you refusing, even if the difference was only one year of experience among them. Whenever I went out for a dinner or a drink with senior, I just could not be myself by taking a back seat to him, and surmising how he really thought and resonating with his feeling, so exhausted.

I had once evaded my senior’s invitation for a drink. He said I was a kind of odd. Furthermore, I had tried to dodge it from my boss: “How dare you refuse my invitation,” he smirked. I was unpleasant that they said that. In Japan, being considered odd is as good as having no social skill.

“Oddball,” while it is unique, is far from ordinary people who devoted their life to one company. I loathed to do the same thing as others―just doing as you are told without saying your opinion, reading the atmosphere.

After He and I parted, I felt at ease. He would not have sensed he wasted my precious time. I wandered around the town, not wanting to meet Japanese any more. Every now and then, Indian stared at me. It made me feel exposed and in India where I was new.

In Luang Prabang, there were small groups of Japanese tourists. The young man belonged nowhere despite Japanese, because he was a really doer―university classes, the part time job and he has been traveling all over the world. He knew he could move faster alone than in a group. He was appealing―short blond hair with fair skin, so unique, like a fashion model.

As he and I were strolled about the town, he said, “Why don’t we go to a sauna?” “Oh, that’s a good idea, where is it?” I said. “When browsing the internet on my phone, I found it. We just follow MAPS.ME.( GPS app).” I depended on its app too much―without it, I would be unable to travel abroad alone.

We were virtually right up to Lao Red Cross Sauna & Massage, but there was no such place that we roamed the street looking around. I recalled a decade ago I took long trips on my DragStar. Anytime I lost my way, I stopped and unfolded a map―what an arduous process. Sometimes I did not know where I was, while that was funny as it was.

The following day, we took a bus from Luang Prabang to Vientiane. Unfortunately, I was forced to hold my knees close to my chest because of a big bump on the floor in front of my seat, and in no position to stretch my legs. For ten hours, that was a harrowing ordeal for me. From time to time I hinted at this thing: “I can’t bear,” I mumbled in a fidget. “That’s unlucky,” he said, not paying me any mind while playing his smartphone or reading a book. If I were him, I would say: “Shall we swap seats?” That was odd. I thought seniority-based hierarchy was deeply rooted in Japan. I really envied him for not being a slave to such a custom.

In Vientiane, I collapsed clothed onto my bunk in our hostel. After a while I heard his voice from the upper one. “I will sent the photos of the elephant tour via AirDrop.” AirDrop? I had heard of it, but I had never used. Would he make fun of me for betraying my ignorance?

It occurred to me that most people in their seventies and beyond lived in no information technology. if he had been sensitive to the internet bubble( in the late 1990s), going to a computer class after retirement, if he tries to learn from young people who is into SNS, what will benefit him? He would enjoy communicating with his grandson on WhatsApp, posting pictures of his hobbies on Instagram and getting some information on Twitter. I only had to revealed my stupidity to enhance my life―he demonstrated how to use it and get done that quickly.

“By the way, tomorrow morning, you are going for a run, aren’t you?” he went on, “Could I come along with you?” I preferred to run alone at my own pace, but I could not help accepting his request, feeling hie zest. “I don’t mind, but you are too young. I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you.” I said, though I knew this was not likely―jogging was my daily routine.

“Let me make a suggestion. At first we will go to Patou Xay(the arch of Vientiane), then to Pha That Luang( the golden stupa) that was our goal. Jogging, simultaneously sightseeing, taking photos, therefore we can save us the trouble of going again.”

That was good idea, though he progressed at his own pace more agile than I, and while I admired his ability of gathering information. I assumed that young people today could reach a correct answer in the best way he shared it by using WhatsApp and Facebook, or read blogs and“googled” thoroughly.

His running form was not good at all, but he summoned a considerable energy that made up for what he lacked. I was glad that he tried to keep up his spirits, and while he seemed to force himself to continue to run, as if to get approval from me. From Pha That Luang to our hostel,  however, he shuffled his feet and I said, “You should get some rest.” “It’s okey,” he started to accelerate even more and thereby had muscle pains—only then did I think experience won over age.

After running, we got on the Tuk-Tuk to go to Buddha Park. We talked about the fees for getting cash from ATMs. He had researched credit cards and made a list of them, which took me aback and brought home to me his continuous effort. Having been exposed to the internet since childhood, he could have got financial knowledge no one taught in compulsory education.

When I was around his age, if I wanted to know something, I would had called or e-mailed my friends, or gone to libraries or bookstores. If I were to gain certain knowledge from my superior, I had to wait for him out of courtesy until his task was done. Those meant that I stole one’s time, and vice versa. 

Now that we can study anything to some extent by YouTube, one-clicking on Kindle Store and “googling,” I wondered if he needed to go to the university, where he could get a chance to join a Japanese large company when he would be a new graduate. He is now seeing more than a possible world I had inhabited.

We got to Nong Khai by bus from Vientiane and took a sleeper-train(from Nong Khai to Bangkok) to cross the border between Laos and Thailand. It took a long time, but I preferred to travel by train rather than by plane. Not just because it is cheap, but because it give me sufficient time for writing articles and reading books, and looking out the window, I come up with what I want to do in my life. The latter, however, requires some procedures: inspections, boarding, baggage claim and customs. In the mean time, I can not use my time effectively.

In Hua Lamphong, Bangkok Train Station, he scuttled between ATMs. The fee, he really wanted to avoid. For just two dollars. It was not until half an hour later that he gave up on it. I was a little irritated at what a wasteful time this was. It is like a housewife does store hopping, being so stingy with her money. Time is more important than money―by knowing what not to do, something else can be gained. With thirty minutes, he should glean fresh information on smartphone to cultivate himself. He lost two dollars, or rather if the process is sound, more money are likely to follow.

Frustrated at the fee, he walked towards the bus terminal, where we would part. “I’m going to Brazil for two weeks in October, my professor take us,” he muttered. “And so I need a lot of money. I’m considering renting out my room in Japan, by using Airbnb. It is a good way to make foreign friends.” “That’s awesome. You are a businessman,” I said. “It is good for you to be interested in ‘money.’ If I were you, I would do an internship overseas and learn about business. The larger the Japanese company, where seniority is valued, the slower it moves. You can take action faster than them.” 

It was drizzling as I walked along Hollywood Blvd.. “Hey dude.” A man’s voice said behind me. I saw the speaker with a skateboard under his arm. So sick. The man in street fashion with long, curly, black hair jogged toward me and said, “I saw you coming out of the hostel, where I stayed, too. I arrived in Los Angeles this morning. I’m new. Would you mind if I walked around together?” It was my first fresh encounter since I arrived in America and his English easy to hear. “Not at all. Let’s go,”I said.

In the afternoon we took the tour organized by the hostel. The sun was braking through the clouds. Hid name was Ivan (anonymous). The chemistry―he was warm and outgoing, and I was collected yet introverted―was somewhat good. Unlike his appearance, actually he taught English to elementary school students in Colombia, and so he often translated what I didn’t understand into what I could understand.

“K, watch me,” he put his skateboard on the edge of the water plaza against the background of the letters: BEVERLY HILLS. It was showtime―he wore his cap backward, stood on it, and begun to ease ahead balancing his body carefully. But I felt something was wrong. His board wobbled and tilted, and in no time he stepped to the water side; the water splashed and his pants wet. What is this all about? He cocked his head pulling up his pants.

We walked on for a while past the gorgeous houses. He begun to do that on the sidewalk again. It had not been for three seconds when he fell out from his board―five seconds at most. He overturned it countless time through trial and error as a beginner did, however, and the look of him―holding a well-used skateboard, dressing well in street style and his long hair blowing in the wind―was sophisticated. I tried to clear up what a conundrum.

Ivan said, “K, let’s go eat something before climbing the hill.” And then he started to talk to a Brazilian guy in Spanish with a laugh and bright; I was not a character to jump in by goofing around. At the same time I thought he must have pushed himself somewhat to speak to me―he had to use easy English in the way he did to a child. Following behind them, I felt as if I had been invited to make up the numbers.

At Hollywood/Highland station, the tour host taught us how to use the TAP(Transit Access Pass) Card. I struggled to reload my card alone, and while the others had gone through the ticket gate. “K, what’s up?” I heard the voice of Ivan from the other side and almost immediately he came back to me―that was a relief.

The path to Griffith Observatory climbed steeply. We hiked in the group: three men from Mexico or Brazil, except for Ivan, were quiet and a woman from Australia was always full of energy and dancing. Ivan was quite the social butterfly and got along well with her, however, and once he begun to hang out with the other groups, there was an awkward tension in my group.

I acted on my own in the observatory, for it was a little hard for me to fit in the others. “K,” Ivan came out of the blue with the energetic woman. “You ‘disappeared’ on the way, l’d been looking for you,” he said. “Oh, I’ll take photos for you.” I thanked him, had photos taken and walked with them. Seeing him and her joking around and playing together, I become a little distance in order not to get in the way of them―time with me would be fun for him? I wondered.

When I was refreshed after the shower that night, I saw the tattoo on his arm and said, “Cool tattoo.” I did not know if I really thought so. Since I watched him skateboarding, he had looked dodgy. “Thanks. Do you like tattoo?” he said. “Yes, that’s art, but I can’t put it on my skin,” I went on. “In Japan, there are a lot of people who linked the images, in a word, outrage. It would also affect your career, even if it was invisible. There will come a time I’ll make money outside, then get tattooed.” I laughed at a little, but he looked puzzled and said, “I have never been to Japan, but interested in. I will come to see you someday.”―I thought he said that to just flatter me.

The next night, I played billiards with Ivan, who asked me, “Want to go for a drink?” “I would, but tomorrow, I was to leave here early in the morning,” I said. “All right, I will see you off,” he said and then I saw him leave the hostel with the Brazilian guy―my instinct told me that he would not do that: after the drink he may well sleep late.

I strolled around the glittering hotels in Las Vegas when I got email from him: “Hi, K! … I wanted to goodbay to you. But I didn’t know what time you leave. It was really great meeting you … .” That sounded like a clumsy excuse.

Over the next two months, we exchanged a few email. His email: “I hope to see you again.” “I miss the good days we shared in LA.” “I hope you are doing good!”―I sensed that I was just one of his many friend and, sure enough, I did not hear from him since I sent the photos in my trip to Vietnam.

In the winter of that year, there was an email from him … I replied to him less and less, until I no longer used that email account. 

Two years after I met him, I opened email inbox for the first time in a year: “Hello K! What’s up with you? You ‘disappeared’ again.” 

The second email: “Next June, I am going to travel to Tokyo. I am so excited about this trip, but at the same time a little sad, since you are not in Japan.”

Of my foreign friends he was the only one who has got in constant touch with me.

* I couldn’t speak English at that time, All conversations was not what I really said, but what I wanted to say.

I buy a cream puff at the cake shop every Sundays. A young patissier, who looks honest and obedient and would gave her fidelity to her boss, says, “How long dose it take to get home?” I say, “Five minutes, I’ll eat right away.” Next Sunday I buy a cream puff. She says, “How long does it take to get home?” I say, “Five minutes, I’ll eat right away.” Next Sunday I buy a cream puff. She says, “How long does it take to get home?” I say, “Not far, a few minutes,” next time, “I live near by,” then, “I eat immediately.”

I buy Alcoholic beverages at the supermarket. A middle-aded woman produced the laminated sheet: left, “I am over 20 years,” right, “I am underage.” “Please point with your finger,” she said in a lively voice. I deliberately made me languid, putting my right index finger on left side. “Thank you very much,”she smiled. By behaving cheerfully, she seemed to think the customers would be comfortable. She has a serious misunderstanding and would be too old to understand it. She was an epitome of devoting her task “with no thinking.”

The patissier’s same question seemed to go on endlessly and every time I buy alcohol, I was told to point with my finger(in one country, I presented my ID when buying alcohol, but next time no showing simply because they remembered me). They irked me to reply―why can not they remember my face? Of corse, she knew, but had a reason she must ask me, because her boss said to do that. She just does exactly what her boss tells her to do.

One Sunday, as usual, the young patissier said, “How long does it take to get home?” I was about to blurt out: “You can tell by looking at me.” or “You don’t need to ask me.” or “Are you stupid?” But, I could have been too kind to say anything, for she was likely to adhere to what I said altogether―she would try to keep silence, even if I showed up looking different as usual.

In any case, if I had said that, I would might had sunk this lady’s heart to the bottom of an abyssal sea―the customers is always right in Japan, and while she can not defy her superior, so docile to authority, that her brain “stopped thinking”―changing her words, “You live just around corner, don’t you?” or “You need an ice pack?” or else no asking. Too easy.

Most of the clerks at the supermarket, except for that cheerful middle-aged woman who can not read customer’s feeling, seemed to be fed up the store’s rules. In a common room, they would say: “Why must we ask that every time?” “Can’t we just do this once?” “I’m sure you will be sick of being asked.” ―it is only natural that they think so.

Eventually their boss would say, “If you inadvertently sold alcohol to a minor, how will you take responsibility for it?” Now that he said that, no one said anything more. Zero risk or minimizing it is a top priority for Japanese who be afraid of being held accountable. Therefore, they have no choice to obey him and demanding zero risk make them blind to other important things.

One evening, as I stood by the register to pay, I overheard the small talk of the family in front of me. “That young man never show us the sheet,” an elderly woman went on. “From now on, I will stand in the line where he is.”

He did not present it to me, and so next time I saw him, I was going to casually observe him. He was attentive to customers. Once he knew I had my own bag, he never asked if I needed plastics bags; naturally the others always did that, because their boss told to. 

When there were no customers lined up at his register, light on his feet, he led me in the other line to him—I wanted to say this was not where he was.

“Sawatdii, kha.” The beauty jumped into my eyes―no artificial, genuine. It was shining through―how she grew up, how she was polite to others, what kind of education she got. Two female flight attendants bowed to me with their fingertips brought together, before I got on the plane. There were male ones who looked handsome with great figures. They looked totally different from the Thai I had imaged.

Suvarnabhumi Airport―the youth, the energy, the animation―was such a contrast to Fukuoka Airport where it was quiet and calm that I wandered around to enjoy the atmosphere. It was just five days after I left the company―a cliché, “take action,” inspired me―and the first time to go abroad alone.

I had hit a snag with the ATM because I could not read English. I failed to withdraw cash so many times, that I asked a bank teller to show me how to use it. When she tried to instead of me, the card was already locked. I became bewildered; she connected me to a man who could speak Japanese. “Go to the Japanese Embassy,” he said in broken Japanese. She was back at the reception counter, no longer dealing with me, but I made an asking motion to her. “Embassy,” she said in a terse manner.

Bangkok was flourishing not far behind from Tokyo. I strolled about the town, touted by bike taxi drivers, looking at the map attached to the tour guide book, not MAPS.ME. (Online maps that I didn’t know was popular among backpackers in 2016.) A luxury car passing by me, I entered a shopping center, where many young people in stylish clothes enjoyed the moment.

When I got to the bank floor, one teller at window of a bank caught my eye―she crossed her legs, with her hands fiddling with her smartphone and her elbows on the desk. I asked her to change yen into baht. For five seconds, she didn’t look away from her phone, and there was an awkward silence. After that she put it on desk reluctantly as if to be prevented from watching Youtube, and got down to work; I was completely astounded. Simultaneously, I was jealous of the society that tolerated this. In Japan I had to carry tasks consistently, lest I was thought to be lazy, even if I had free time at work.

Wat Phra Kaew was packed with Chinese who took photos with their smartphone: Huawei, Samsung, Apple. It never occurred to me these were ubiquitous, regardless of generation. I had never used smartphone because in Japan (2016), flip phones, as faxes, was not obsolete. I recalled the small talk: “They lag behind Japan, doesn’t they?” “Dose they know smartphone?” He said with contempt, even though he had never been abroad. It dawned on me that I needed to get with the times.

I saw a woman with a stick taking a selfie by adopting an ostentatious pose like an actress. That looked like a great time for her. As for Japanese, she could care how she looked to others―to the extent that not asserting was her virtue: modest and graceful as what a woman should be like.

Bangkok was so hot and humid, that I decided to take the tour to Koh Larn, a little island. In the van, I encountered two Japanese young women. During the tour, they were always near the Thai tour guide, who spoke Japanese well. I heard her say in an authoritative tone: “Carry my bag instead of me,” “Go get juice for me,” “What a sick fashion!” They seemed to look down on him. I thought to myself: what do you think you are? If he were a Westerner, could they have had such a demeanor? 

In contrast, they were polite to me: ’Excuse me,’’ before they spoked to me, “You’re really good at jet ski,”as flattery. I had a complex feeling that I didn’t get along with them―changing their attitude depending on the person―and while I was never treated me unpleasantly. Sense of recognition that I cared only about myself, or I didn’t care for others. Basically, Japanese could be unwilling to help a person who was picked on at school or workplace because doing that meant that you were the next victim.

Early this evening, to go watch Calypso Cabaret Show, whose performers were the ladyboys, I got on the BTS (sky train), overwhelmed by glittering ads playing on big screen with blasted sound. I saw most of passengers were young, a student group talking, a man having a chat on his smartphone, a woman putting on makeup carefully―carefreeness in chaos. I pictured that Japanese train was dominated by middle-aged persons who was exhausted from work. If he took such behavior, they could felt unpleasant or tell him off for it―what they call manners in public order.

On the boat from Sathorn Pier to Asiatique the Riverfront, city lights at night that were extravagant attracted me. I was strolling through the night market that was full of life. There were a lot of the small shops selling creative goods. Some people neglected her work, chatting and laughing and others sat behind a shop counter, eating or sleeping. I felt sorry for the technical intern trainees from southeast Asia working in Japan; they were obliged to do with a sense of tension. 

At night, I heard EBM playing from a distance, it was obvious that the excitement around Silom station, and there were a lot of stalls crowded a mixture of young tourists and local people. In a smell of burning in the air, we sat around eating Hainanese chicken rice, drinking and talking. And then I walked toward the stall that sold Banana Roti I was really into. As I watched him making it, there was a beautiful woman stood beside me.