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.
It was raining in Yosemite National Park. I got off the bus and trotted toward the nearest eaves of a house. After a few minutes, eager to get into a building, I started to walk under my umbrella. The rain splashed on the road, thunder, maybe, on the way.
When I entered The Mountain Room Lounge, where many families were eating lunch, I recognized how lonely I could be up here, idling in the nearby souvenir shop. Having nothing to do in particular, I headed for the place I got off the bus twenty minutes before the bus departure time.
I was waiting for the bus beneath the eaves, staring at rain streaming down from the trees, however, and neither the bus nor any of the tour guests emerged. I remained uncertain as to whether they come here. Did I miss it at the wrong time or place? No way―I was coming and going on the road, looking here and there.
Several buses passing before my eyes, I immediately checked one license plate after another. I felt my face turned pale―the bus left me stranded in the darkness of the forest?; the next thing I knew, I ran as fast as I could back to the lounge. With a sigh of relief, I toweled off my head, took off my drenched hoodie and wrung it, for I discovered the tour guests sat around the table enjoying lunch.
Los Angeles, in contrast to San Francisco, was hot and sunny (June). What excited me in Hollywood was that there were many people in outlandish outfits. Whatever that makes you unique seemed to be significant for those who wanted to achieve great success. I was jealous of them―I was determined to be marginalized in Japanese society, which embraces normal people.
When I strolled about Hollywood Blvd., I found a stylish cafe where there were people in long lines. I walked in and stood in a line. They chose something to eat and drink, talked to the staff and left―this process smooth and quick―however, I shrank back at the sight of their small conversations. That reminded me that when I ordered a coke at McDonald’s I got three. There was so much pressure on me―people were waiting behind me. I casually stepped out of the line and I entered a Mexican restaurant where the seats were empty.
I came into Los Vegas to go to Grand Canyon and see “O” by Clique du Soleil. One morning, I was running along Las Vegas Blvd street. Each time I crossed path with strangers who ran or walked, I would say good morning―it was very pleasant moment. I pulled off my T-shirt on the way and continued to run.
After running I lifted the weights at my hostel, believing that building up my muscles would offset my weakness that had sapped my confidence. It temporarily made me more positive, and while there was something wrong with my mind. I got the feeling that if stripped of an armor called muscles, my weakness came to light, as a mere masquerade.
For instance, some people would cling too much to the position of authority, by acknowledging he can do nothing without it at heart. Fear of losing what he gained would freeze him to the place he has been. Others who had settled into the company’s strong brand power when starting his own will bring home to him the reality that nobody deals with him. But, in other words, it is time to show them what I was made of.
I had gone away from Grand Canyon vantage point. I became aware three women figures waiting for the tour bus at the roundabout. At that time, of course, I had made sure of the departure time and location since the mishap had beset my Yosemite tour; I knew the buses never come on time, and that nobody was as strict about time as Japanese.
As I was standing a little away from them, the other tour guests had not turned up. I noticed three women, two Asian and a white, having anxious faces. A white woman, who seems to be traveling alone and who was a what imposing figure, was as much as to say that she did not associate with Asian men, and so I said to Asian women, “The bus hasn’t come.” (Read part1.) “No, but the bus driver dare said ‘twenty minutes,’” one of Asian women tilted her head thoughtfully. I begun to walk off toward the pathway. After a few minutes, I saw the other guests leaning against the back of the couch.
To find out myself, as so many come, I had come to New York. I passed through the gait of Colombia University later in the evening. I walked by students―intelligent faces―reading books: biology or physics or philosophy or … ? And then, when I saw a group having conversation on a flight of stone steps, for some reason, I recalled my teenage years―remorse welled up through me. If I had not strayed from right path, this kind of university was where I should have been long ago. I turned my gaze away and walked into the path with greenery in the dark.
The next morning, I ran at a faster speed than usual in Central park. What on earth can I do?―no career and no friends and no person I can lean on and no … . Suddenly I stopped to know where I was and looked around―at the top of the concrete slope stood a matronly woman with her dog on a leash, gazing at me. “May I help you?”
“Why don’t you know that?” said a flight attendant, “You need ESTA(Visa Waiver Program) to enter America.” “What?” I stood gaping in front of the check-in counter at Fukuoka Airport. “You might still make it,” she said in a hurry, and started to register for ESTA on my behalf. Three attendants had gathered around the PC.
“What’ the matter?” whispered one of them. I was staring absent-mindedly at them. It was not unusual for me to make such a blunder: in Thailand I failed to withdraw local currency at ATM and in Morocco I got pickpocketed. With a bitter smile, I pretended that I was not bothered by that.
On the plane, suddenly it dawned on me that the transferring from Taipei to San Francisco was only thirty minutes―I was likely to miss it. I came to my senses at this point, in the stirring of desperation, signaled for an attendant and asked her if there were any Japanese because of no skilled English.
After a few minutes, a young Japanese attendant, who seemed to be adept at customer support, crouching low, came out of the blue. As soon as I explained that, she grasped my situation. Light on her feet, she ushered me toward the entrance door so that I would be the first person to get off the plane.
Soon after she and I sat across from each other, a Western man came right up to her; there was a very short talk. Impressed by her quick wit and command of English, I was being oblivious to what happened to me. Not showing her emotions on her face, she said to me. “He is going to San Francisco too, you would follow him.”
When I stepped off the plane, a Taiwanese attendant already waited for me. Anyway, I scuttled after her and saw her get into the small open vehicle. Just as I climbed into the backseat, it started suddenly, and though she said something to me, her voice was drowned out by the blast of sirens. Moreover, I was a little taken aback when the vehicle moved with tremendous speed; she seemed to enjoy the headwind that fluttered her hair out behind ears.
I got off the vehicle with her at the point, where I saw the long straight road to the boarding gate; in no time, we raced for it at full speed. No passengers around the gate, but I made it just in time to get on the plane and said to her, “Thank you. Really thank you, all of you.” “You are welcome,” she was panting and puffing.
America was the first time for me. I was able to get through the passport control with no trouble. With a leap of my heart I went down a few escalators to the baggage claim where there were people awaited their baggage. When I saw them catching their own disappearing from my view one after another, I paced back and forth around the carousel.
After a while, the carousel slowing to a halt with a click and there were a few people left―I was in silence. Soon a sturdy man on a heavy machine started to clean the floor. So confused, that I searched for my baggage in every corner of the area. Eventually, I took my book, “A correction of phrases in travel English,” out of my backpack. The excerpt words: “My baggage hasn’t come.” I recited.
I showed my claim tug to the airport staff. He told me my baggage was in Taipei, and that I would get it in my hotel; however, I was not sure if it would be arrive during my stay, because I was suppose to leave San Francisco for Los Angeles in three days. And then, as I was at a loss how to respond, how to ask, and what to do next, I missed my chance that I kept talking to him, for he had left his seat. I was paid no attention and solitariness engulfed me. I remembered how I behaved at Fukunaka airport, and that in spite of my blunder, they did the best for me.
It was late evening that I walked in food court in the airport. At the restaurant several Japanese people in business attire sat around a table laughing and talking boisterously. A man with a few buttons on his white shirt open put his arm on the woman’s shoulders―she seemed to gave him a flirtatious smile. Another drunken middle-aged man spoke eloquently to the others as if to boast his glory days. It was such a sight, so awful and absurd, that I made me think I was superior to them: I could act independently, but he could not do anything on his own. I walked with a swagger by the restaurant.
At dawn when I exited from Powell Street Station, cold air sucked my anxiety―a black man lingering around the corner of the exit, a white woman with her blonde hair tied back walking her dog and traffic lights making simple sounds I had never heard. Having come to want warmth, I passed a middle-aged couple with Starbucks cups peering through the glass into a miscellaneous shop. I bought coffee at 7-Eleven―the clerk put small change with a bang in front of me―whether his behavior is common or not, I sensed I was about to enter a new life.
In Aquatic Park in Fisherman’s Wharf, I lay down and gawked at people walked by, so obsessed with my baggage, that I could not enjoy the moment. I recalled the young attendant, who I met on the plane to Taiwan―beauty and brains―if she were me, how would she handle this? The next second I pulled myself together, rose to my feet and started to walk along Jefferson street.
When I ate Shrimp & Crab Sandwich on the bench, my phone was vibrating. I answered the call. “Hello … Is that K … ?” I got agitated extremely and felt like escaping somewhere so far, even though she went on and on about my baggage; I could not get what she said at all, hovering around the bench restlessly.
“Ah, I … I waited … Iugga … baggage. Tomorrow tomorrow (I didn’t know how to say ‘’day after tomorrow’’ in English) I go to Los Angeles.” The more I spoke, the more embarrassed and discouraged ―my own uselessness with poor English―I became. After the call, I finished off seafood that had gone cool.
At Casablanca station, I was looking for a train to Marrakech. It was not long before I noticed someone coming up to me; he beckoned me to follow him. I thought he would also go to Marrakech. He sat the seat next to me on the train and gave me a friendly smile. He advised me, to save me troubles, that I put my ID from my “skinny jeans” pocket into my backpack close to my chest. I didn’t understand what he meant, but obeyed him. Soon the train arrived at a station and we changed trains. The next one was very crowded. As soon as it began to run, someone or something bashed into me. At the same time, my peripheral vision were blurred with a violent jolt of the train.
After a while, suddenly I became uncertain as to what was in my “skinny jeans” pockets. Hardly had I fumbled in them when I realized my wallet had vanished without trace. I stood with my hands holding a big luggage and my back put on a backpack, surrounded by passengers, who stuck fast to me. He too had vanished. I looked around desperately and caught at once him easing his way along the platform. The train was slowly moving; I just stood with them―if I chased him, my all belongings might go missing with the train, and while I seemed to have done something shameful, with no taking action. I stared at him fading into waves of passersby, falling into a state of panic. “Skinny pants”: it should be hard for someone to pull out my wallet from my front pocket without me noticing―he was a highly pickpocket and left my ID intact.
I was strolling in Marrakech square, a lively market that was occupied by food stalls. Under the sun I drank fresh orange juice, which helped me feel better. As a matter of fact, I had divided all my money into a couple of places before I got pickpocketed; one credit card was safe. But what really troubled me was that the card was added no cash advance service―not only was I short of cash, but I had yet to find a mediocre restaurant or better, as most local shops and restaurants rejected credit cards. Moreover, I was oblige to cut off my itinerary: Sahara Desert, Fez(an ancient city), and Chefchoaouen(a mysterious blue city) for nine days. The largest portion of my heart was the Sahara.
One morning before the Sahara tour: two nights three days, I conversed freely with a riad (guesthouse) clark, who was an agreeable man, across the front desk from me. And when checking out, I held out my card to him for the fee. “The machine doesn’t work. Cash please,” he said bluntly. “How come?” I said. “You can’t be serious. You once said I could pay for the fee by cards. I could use this one at some restaurants,” I put my finger on it.
He reseted the pay device, inserted the card into―no signal like “succeed”―and ejected it. “I don’t have any cash,” I muttered. I read his expression looked stiff as if I got on his nerve. Still, I spurred him further, as I saw a tour staff leaning against a nearby wall. “Try, try, try,” I said. He let it go in and out of the device many times; we were quarreling over what was to blame―my card or his device? Pressed for time, I showed him what a little money I had. He shrugged his shoulders. Actually, I stashed 200 dirham (about $20) just in case, but had little cash to fall back on―I was to stay in Morocco six more days.
When I got in the van, the tour guests welcomed me. We travelled on the road that wound through hills and valleys, it stopped in a small country town and we stepped out of the van. When taking a breath as I was idling around, a man come right up to me. “Would you like to have lunch with us?” said the man, Michel (anonymous), a tour guest who was Spanish in his late forties maybe, with his daughter and his wife. Giving a laugh to cover despondency, I explained what happened to me and why I could not have a meal other than breakfast and dinner including the tour package. “But, you must hungry.” He went toward the entrance of a light-blown brick building.
As I was at some distance away from there, I saw him and a local staff conferring earnestly―the latter gestured to me to enter the building. At the sight of the cuisine through the glass of the building, I said no money and refused to come into. “No problem. you can eat,” he got closer to me and patted me on the back. Bewildered by my thought I would be charged for the meal later, I walked in the restaurant.
There were lively atmosphere, all the tour guests sitting around the table, talking and eating. “Come, K, enjoy lunch,” Michel raised his voice. I saw him, getting on his feet and waving to me. “K, come,” he motioned me to an empty seat. I couldn’t turn back any more. After a few minutes, the lunch―I was too upset to recognize what it was―were served before me.
After lunch, I leaned on the bridge’s handrail, staring down at sparsely palace architectures against a background of reddish brown cliffs in a row; I was haunted by reflection of a series of misfortunes. “K,” the voice was Michel. “I want to help you. I’ve been now working for Toshiba, you are my friend.” To begin with, l wondered what was behind what he said. Just because he worked for Toshiba co. and l was Japanese, why he wanted to help me I didn’t know.
Throughout the tour, among his family was so many talking with warmth and humanity―I would say, extremely pleasant one. They were also ready to help me unwind and enjoy myself when I was worried that I would be able to go back to Japan: Michel gave me water and foods that he bought at local shops, whenever we stayed at the rest areas. I was all the more sorry I could not do anything more than I expressed my gratitude to him, so miserable, that every now and then I excused myself and became distance from him.
It was in mid-afternoon of the second day that I walked through the gate way to the Sahara; a hot-dried air engulfed me. I ride the camel and moved across the field in single file, steered by the local staff in cloaks. There were the voids and the sun visible. I commanded a sweeping sand all the way to the horizon, observing something looked like a huddle of tents far away, where inhabitants maybe lived―the aloneness of the area blurred my tales of woe.
After forty-five minutes, we were blocked on a sharp sand slope. I got off the camel, and then begun to climb the hill. Every one of us, stamping the sand that swallowed each foot, ascended. When I got to the top of the hill, my body drenched in sweat mixed with sand into my clothes. Ahead of me, I saw Michel flopped onto the sand. In no time I stretched and massaged his entire body as if to make up for what I got from him.
The last day of the tour, when I bought water at the rest area, Michel asked me, “K, which do you like bread or sandwich?” “No, no.” “But, you have to decide straight away, to wrap them. I already ordered.” So sudden, I wavered in an impending decision and said “bread” in a reserved manner: Moroccan bread was cheaper. And then, he handed me a pile of bread wrapped in aluminum and said, “With this, you can stay in Airport for the last three days.”
The van was going back to Marrakech. The tour conductor talked to someone on the phone, ‘’One person, today.’’ After a moment, I heard a voice call my name, turning. Michel slipped a money into my hand; naturally, I refused to take it out of courtesy. He also asked me to email him where I was now and if I was all right, until I went back home.
“I wonder if you wouldn’t mind” —I paused. “To pay it back, telling me your bank account?” “No,” he shook his head. “You are my friend.” “But…” I sometimes peeked out through the van windows. When I became aware of the van approaching Marrakech square, I asked him, “By the way, why was I able to eat lunch at that time?” “The staff,” he said. “Corrected money from every one. That’s all.”
Some guests were about to stand up from their seats. The conductor signaled with his eyes to me. “K, you’ve got to go down. Follow me. You can stay a riad.” I couldn’t control my complex emotion; I had to say something to … I brought my fingertips together before me, bowing slightly.
“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.
