Author: K (page 6 of 6)

November 9, 2016

It was in the small hours of the morning that I arrived at New Delhi airport. As usual, I looked for an ATM to get the local currency rupee. Strangely, ATMs in the airport was all closed, so l exchanged money at a bank. After I slept a bit on a chair until dawn, I took Delhi Airport Metro Express to New Delhi station; it was modern design with great speed.

New Delhi station was a lot of hustle and bustle. It was very hard for me to proceed toward an exit. Once I got out of there, rickshaws, coming and going, jumped into my eyes. In stagnant air, there was full of life. I took a rickshaw to go to my hostel. On my way, I saw a crowd of people in front of a bank―they seemed to holler at banks. I thought to myself: “This is India. I’m getting thrilled,” and while I was checking if he took a detour by using GPS on my phone. Sure enough, He did it, but I condoned his act and overpaid to him because the fare was cheep.

I entered the hostel and went right up to the reception. In the registration procedures, I put the money on the tray to pay a deposit. “We can’t accept old bill,” said one of the staff. “What?” I was not sure what it meant. Then he went on,“New bill only. You check the news.” I rooted my pocket for my phone and read the articles: “Bank of India says it will roll out new higher security 500 and 2,000 rupee notes,” “Banks re-opened on Thursday to dispense new notes in exchange for old 500 and 1,000 rupee notes that are no longer legal tender.” ―the removal of black money. “What a coincidence.” I lamented with flashes of closed ATMs and of the crowd in front of the bank―my bills was all old ones.

The following day, The crowd was surging out from a bank onto the street.  For more than three hours, I had been stuck fast in them, until I applied for exchanging old bills for new ones that was all 500 rupee. To my relief, someone told me that ATMs would open “Tomorrow.” After a while, l noticed my jacket attached on the backpack on my back had vanished.

As a matter of fact, ATMs had remained shut, day in, day out. But I supposed the situation would change by the time I reached Rishikesh, where I was going to learn yoga for four weeks.

Unlike New Delhi, there were many tourists in Rishikesh. I walked with Lakshman Jhula bridge―its mark reddy poles―across Ganges river that lulled me into a sacred mood. Taking a long walk made me hungry. From time to time I stopped by food stalls, enjoying eating samosa and pani puri, which sold at reasonable price; I loved to know the local food.

While my yoga programs started, ATMs closures still continued and what’s more, the banks did not function properly. I supposed I should not to use cash, in case I needed something. The trouble was that the food stalls and local shops did not take credit cards, and so I could not help but eat at restaurants or cafes at times, though I was thrifty with money.

Eager to get cash, I checked if ATMs were operative day after day; however, they had showed no sign of starting to work. Dozens of tourists around them had been stranded and irritated. ‘’No cash, I can’t go home,’’ said a man, who squatted down and hung his head. What he said was exactly right. He would have to take a taxi, bus, or train to go to the airport―they only accept cash. Then an anxiety came over me as to how enough I would have cash to be going to go to Kolkata after yoga program.

On the other hand, I started to vomit and have diarrhea, like food poisoning, several days after I came Rishikesh. Having a lot of blanket covered my shivering body, thinking of my missing jacket, I had learned yoga.  

Winter nights in Rishikesh were cold. My bathroom in my hotel had no hot water and no heater; there was no way I took a shower. Only when my head got itchy did I plunge my head into the bucket filled with cold water and wash my hair in no shampoo. Now and then I had diarrhea in the middle of the night―I was on the toilet seat, having been screaming with the chills and the pain in my anus.

Amid yoga program, one evening I was browsing the internet on my phone, I came across the peculiar mail. The contents of them indicated that I had ordered several items separately in less than one hour. The total amount was more than 3,000 dollars. As I suspected someone had stolen my credit card detail, the same things happened again―some bastard kept on buying the goods like home appliance. I could not help imagining my bank balance was close to zero.

I made in confusion a call to the bank center for invalidating it. The operator said, “Do you have anything about them?” “No.” I said immediately, becoming impatient. “Isn’t there possibility, you used it yourself? Could you remember buying them?” “Not my fault, It’s a crime,” I said in a stern voice, not wanting him to ask any more question.

But that made me uneasy about whether I could receive a full refund; I had a hard time falling sleep that night. I was so exhausted. Nothing worked: out of cash, the card fraud, food poisoning. It was not until next day’s supper that I pulled myself together; my friend Frei, a yoga student who was Swiss, and his Indian wife Kaira emboldened me in my thing. And as I played my phone … No kidding―that rat had indeed started to use my card that was not frozen.

The next day, I could barely work up no energy. After lunch, Frei told the cook, a yoga staff, that I needed some help about credit card frauds. One afternoon, the cook summoned me and introduced to a middle-aged stranger, who turned to walk out of the school; I called for Frei to come and we followed him. “I knew the nearest police station. Ride on my motorbike,” he said, sit on it and started the engine. Frei sat astride behind the stranger; I sat after Frei and said loudly. “And, do you know where an ATM is open?” “Yes, I know. I’ll take you there,” the stranger said; I believed him.

We rode it down the steep hill, the cows bellowing in a wilderness and entering the town; foreign people swarming about ATMs, passing many rickshaws, through the alley, the motorbike pulled up in front of a house. We alighted from it and Frei and I saw the stranger walk into the house alone.

After a few minutes, he came back and said, “Here is a pawnshop, not the police station. I’m not certain where the police station is.” I winced, not expecting him to say such a thing. “Where is the ATM?” I asked tentatively. “ ‘Tomorrow,’ public servants come to activate them,” he said, cocking his head. I was not sure what to make of these.

In the days which followed, I noticed people lined up at the ATM. It was a long time before ATM began to work. There were all “new 2’000 rupee notes” and the limitation: 1 note per card―if you want more, you have to use other cards. I was so relieved that I was able to get 4’000 rupees … But that was only temporary. Not only food stalls and local shops, but also cafes and restaurants did not accept this new one, not having change for “new 500 rupee notes” that had run short. It sucks. It was no use getting big ones, unless I had a luxurious meal otherwise.

I wandered around the town aimlessly, wondering if I could buy a bus or train ticket using these big ones. I stopped at the bank and walked in, not expecting anything. Once I found the customers did some kinds of procedures, I turned to leave. “Hey, may I help you?” Looking around, I saw a woman beckoning me; I fluttered 2’000 rupee notes I had pinched, wanting to exchange them.

Soon she begun to draw a map that marked the location of another bank, with a kindly explanation. She handed it to me, “It’s thirty minutes’ walk from here. You can get small ones.” She rose from her seat and went out, “Keep going along this street.” “Okay, thank you very much,” I said, feeling a little better.

So plausible was hers that I believed her. I started to walk with the map; past groups of tourists, at the stall that sold samosa I often ate, and the long and gloomy road with a tunnel of trees, no one walking, rickshaws running at full speed. After a while I came into a sandy road dotted with cows and horses. There was a row of shabby houses and cycle rickshaws running. I saw a man, whose clothes were frayed, loading fruits and vegetables on the iron cart. I continued to walk. Each time a vehicle passed by me, sand danced, blown by wind, covering me, as if to feel mocked for my effort.

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.” 

The tiredness of the journey begun to sweep over us. As she was asleep, she tended to tilt her head toward me. Each time I thought it could touch my shoulder, suddenly it stood upright as if she felt a sense of danger, disoriented, slowly leaning on the window of the bus―I was thinking about whether her strategy or not, even though the tour conductor spoke eloquently.

On the sunny afternoon, we were walking on pathways through the woods in Jiuzhaigou National Park. She grumbled about something. “There was a Russian man in my dormitory room before. He was too bothering. He asked me out so many times.” There she goes again. I thought. That was the simple way to stimulate jealousy of a man, who might accelerate his approach to her.

“We sat on a riverbank talking about astronomy. So exhausted, physically and mentally. Because I wasn’t interested in it, much less him.” While I supposed that she just wanted a man whoever he was, I made her look good. “You are popular, don’t you? Everyone wants to talk with you.” “Not really,” she smirked and looked a little tired, a long hike, maybe. 

When Vivid color came into view, Five Flower Lake, through gap in ancient trees, she got her second wind. So intense in the center, that it shed an emerald green luster that lost its color outward―the submerged tree trunks complemented its beauty.

The route from the park to Chengdu―the tour bus stoped by the resting area. We were enjoying browsing in the souvenir shop; loitering about then looking for gifts together, maybe drifting apart. When I went out from there, I spotted her talking with a young man of another tour group. They spoke English and exchanged WhatsApp IDs. After that, they started to walk side by side around the exhibit; She had dismissed me from her mind. In some ways I felt inferior to them—I could hardly speak English and was reserved with strangers. 

I got on the bus alone and sat down in my seat. After a while, I noticed that she came back and I did not pay her any mind, but she said, “You know what? He was a Taiwanese. We exchanged contacts. I’m wondering about visiting Taiwan someday.” “That’s good,” I said, not looking at her.

During the bus trip, at times she was glued to WhatsApp, Facebook or LINE(akin to Whats APP) on her smartphone. “Guess what? I’ll show you,” she scrolled through her phone. “This is him, a gross man in Thailand.” she muttered. I took a squint at the photo of a mediocre man, who would play with her feeling. “I wish to see him, I’m thinking over when I could … .” “Tomorrow,” I suggested. “No way … ,” she grinned and I laughed, not wanting to appear annoying. “Tomorrow, I’m going to Hong Kong. I’ll leave Chengdu no later than 9 am.” “Okay, I will see you off, uh … how about the lobby in the hostel?” she said. “I wish I could get up by then … .” “No biggie, take it easy.”

The next morning, I lounged on the sofa in the lobby, but she did not show up at that time. When I got to my feet and put my backpack on, the entrance door opened. “Oh, you were awake?” She stood there without expression on her face; I went out to catch a taxi, followed by her, “Yes, I ate ramen at a stall, five yuan (about $1 in 2016), very cheep but nice.” “You have to save your money, don’t you?” “Yes, After China, I am going up to the north toward Russia, stopping briefly in Xi’an, and in Mongolia where I’m staying at the ger.” “That’s good.” I raised my hand to stop a taxi, turning to her, “I’ll be in touch with you.” “Okay,” she nodded. 

I knew that a kind of woman flitted from one man to another. Nevertheless, I was glad that there were her replies to my mail, photos of pandas in Xi’an and the ger in Mongolia attached, but soon, I lost contact with her.

Three months later I received a mail from her. “How have you been? I was able to get to Larung Gar and Yarchen Gar, a city of East Tibet―I enjoyed the hot springs and the superb view. And then, through the Silk Road, I’ll come back to Kyrgystan, then, Tajikistan … . I sent you their photo. Tajikistan was the most beautiful view ever… .”  

I opened the photo folder―what a tremendous beauty. I pressed the reply mark: “Thank you for your message and photos… .” It occurred to me that, like mediocre men in Thailand, Russia, Taiwan and more, she would be somewhere comfortable. I erased the draft.

* Larung Gar and Yarchen Gar are most likely to be closed for foreigners.

I was at a hostel in Chengdu, an inland city of China, following the procedure for the tour. I felt someone stood by me. “Could I ask where you are going?” A voice was in Japanese. Turning, I saw a young woman in black dress, carrying a huge backpack on her back. The look of her―glossy black hair, her slender figure, and strength and grace.

“Not at all,” I went on. “Tomorrow, I’m going to Jiuzhaigou. I’ve heard of the lakes, crystal blue, very beautiful.” “Oh, let me see … ,” she took her wallet and zipped. “Oh, what should I do?” she juggled her traveling expenses. “I’ll just be a second.” After some consideration, she said, “Would you mind if I joined the tour, too?” I thought to myself: “ Of course”; I disguised my feeling and said, “If you are okay with me … .” 

In the afternoon, we headed for Jinli Street, Qing Dynasty style: temple, buildings, stores and shops. “I’m K, and you are?” I said. “My name is Miki(anonymous).” She was in her mid-twenties. A fine drizzle had started to fall. We were strolling about the streets, telling each other what we had been up to. She was eager to reach Larung Gar, the community of mostly Tibetan, and had gleaned its information. 

We had coffee together at a cafe. “Do you mind if I smoke?”she asked. “Go ahead,” I said and saw her light a cigarette, needing to reevaluate the woman. “What do you think of women who smoke?” I felt that she sounded me out, as many women do. She knew I did not smoke and that I could not say I really don’t like that. Naturally, I was considerate toward her. “I don’t mind.”

The night before the tour, we sat on the stools outside the hostel, conversing and waiting for a Japanese staff who has extensive knowledge of Larung Gar. When he showed up and begun to talk about it, she was engrossed in his story―so long a talking was boring, I just pretended to catch up with them, for I did not want to leave them alone.

Huanglong, “Yellow Dragon” in Chinese mythology, was inundated by tourists, almost Chinese. To get to the main scenic spot, we took the cable car up to the top. From there we started a very long walk. As we savored the ambience of the forest, she talked about her family, her work―free-spoken―and her experience in love.

“I’ve so far had more than ten boyfriends. I was now chasing a man, since the first time I met in Thailand. He is Japanese. He and I have similar values. Music, book, food and so on, in addition, ways of thinking. One evening, we drank until morning and made love … I thought he was now waiting for me. He said, ‘Let’s be together, just the two of us.’ Though, he divorced once and had a child.”

There was something flirtatious. Why did she get involved in me, despite her having been into him? It was also typical of a shallow woman who implied how popular she was in the way she showed off a large number of guys she had been with. She would never articulate my thought quality counts, not quantity, and that she only debases herself by saying that; somehow I missed my old girlfriend—a decent woman.

I could not stop thinking of the good old days. She was not such a foolish woman. She was beautiful and had inner strength. Whenever guys would have come up to her, she would have snubbed to them. I thought if she saw me with this fast woman, she would despise me―I felt like I had fallen low. Miki kept on talking about something, but I could not hear to what it was.

Meanwhile, we were approaching the main spot. The valley―like terraced paddy fields―housed plenty of turquoise pools, so crystal clear, that I could imagine a celestial dragon waded through underwater. We started to take photos of the scenery. I took photos of her and vice versa, however, and none of us said “Let’s take a picture together.”

In the late evening, we arrived at the hotel and sat down on the chairs in the lobby. The female tour staff called my name, holding out one key to us. “No, separately,” Miki said flatly. It was natural that the staff thought we were a couple. Then the staff asked, “Why? What make you inconvenient?” “We are ‘friends’,” she stressed the word with a serious look, as if she was a decent woman. “Exactly,” I said, without looking in her direction. The staff looked curiously at us and cocked her head.

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.