A Long Shot - Pt.1
On the bullet train I felt pretty confident about my plan. My friends were all shocked; they said I was nuts. But lately I’ve been feeling kind of nuts, so it seemed like a natural fit. Things have been rolling quickly lately – really mounting up – particularly this month: work is busier than ever, I’m making lots of new friends, turned 24, split up with the girl I was dating, nearly passed the halfway point of my contract here, and it’s about to be 2010, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to say “two thousand ten” or “twenty ten” and since there aren’t a lot of native English speakers on hand I’m sort of own my own on that one. Anyway, it’s been a big December so far with both good and bad. So I decided to cap it off with some fresh capers.
The bullet train ride to Osaka was about two hours. It was my first time going to the station and not only buying the tickets myself, but also decoding the train schedule and getting myself onto the right express train. After my last bullet train fiasco I was a bit wary concerning my railway smarts, but in the end it all came together.
During those two hours, as the houses, rice paddies and mountains whizzed past, I contemplated things. Granted, I did come all the way to this country on my own, but since then I’ve had a bilingual Japanese friend along with me for just about every major event. This would be the first real test of my independent survival skills; the first time stepping out without a safety net. That’s not something I do so often, but at some point over the last week I got a pretty fierce bug in me about it.
As I said, despite the rather un-Japanese abruptness of my trip, I didn’t feel nervous about it. And that lack of apprehension was part of what confused me and had me thinking. I’d booked my hostel room online the previous evening after only a brief perusal of the options – I had only an hour after work before I was supposed to meet some friends to go out. In that hour I made all the arrangements for the trip. And then at ten I closed my laptop, put on my jacket and went out. I got home around 3 am, slept, woke at 9 am, showered, and went to the train station. Usually a slapdash plan like that falls apart on me immediately, but this time I had a sense that if it wasn’t going to work, it wouldn’t have worked from the start. Nuts, right?
Anyway, I’ll take a step back to the birth of the plan, which was only a little earlier on Saturday afternoon. One of my students asked me what I’d be doing during the break. When I answered that I’d be doing nothing, the student seemed shocked and dismayed. “Well,” I reconsidered, “maybe I’ll go to… uh… Osaka?” The student looked at me quizzically. “Yeah,” I said, actually liking the sound of the idea, “Osaka is famous for their food, right? Plus there’s a town there that’s one of Japan’s two knife-forging capitals.” The student didn’t seem to think that it was a vast improvement on my previous plans, but that seedling of a notion stuck and took root in my mind.
So now, back on the train, I was wondering if this could really all work out. After all, it was my first time making a bullet train trip alone, my first time staying at a hostel, and my first time visiting a distant city without any support. I didn’t have any maps or really much of a clue about where I was going – just some notes, addresses, and phone numbers scribbled in a notebook.
Sure enough, however, after two hours the train announcer said that we were arriving in Osaka city. I exited the train and made my way through the crowded passageways of Osaka station. According to the hostel’s web site, I needed to take the subway south seven stations, and then walk east for about five minutes. If you know me at all, you know that I can take directions from a clearly labeled map complete with detailed turn-by-turn directions and still completely lose myself. So these buried treasure-esque instructions should have terrified me. But still I felt that if things had gone without a hitch so far, they just had to continue.
Before heading to the subway tracks I scouted around the station for an Osaka map. I became rather dispirited by the utter dearth of useful information until I discovered that it was all hoarded in one place – the tourist information desk. It’s much easier to go there first, before scouring the station book shops and convenience stores. Lesson learned.
Now, as an egotistical foreigner in Japan, one of my pet peeves is running across Japanese people who speak English in situations where I can get by using my Japanese alone. Of course, at the bank or post office or airport you can never find somebody who speaks enough English to help you do what you need to do. But as soon as you’re trying to buy a donut at SevenEleven or put some air into your bike tires there are like nine people foaming at the mouth, practically bursting with English. And at the information desk I had what I wanted to say all planned out and ready to go when the lady said in perfect English, “Can I help you with anything?”
“Oh, umm…” I stammered, lost between languages and thought processes, “I think I need, uh… oh yeah, a map.”
“Here you go,” she said, handing me one with English labels.
“Thanks er… thanks very much,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” And with that I left clutching my map, glad that I had it but feeling robbed of the sense of autonomy that, until then, I’d been soaking in.
Next I made my way to the subway tracks. When I reached the ticket machines I encountered an attendant whose occupational cheerfulness bordered on lunacy. I wanted very badly to read the train schedule, understand it, and buy the tickets all of my own steam. I’ve been studying Japanese for more than three years now, and at the very least I wanted to prove to myself that I could buy these tickets. But sure enough, as I gazed at the colored lines representing various routes and times, the man came bubbling over and asked where I needed to go. I wasn’t totally put out, though, because he didn’t appear to know any English. That changed, however, when I told him the name of the station I wanted to get to, and he proceeded – with much mental vexation and thinking noises – to tell me the price of the ticket in English. “Hundred… two hundred… two… two hundred and seventy…err…. seventy!” he finally said, quite pleased with himself. I appreciated the effort and his help, but it was a bit overbearing.
“Two hundred and seventy yen?” I asked in Japanese. I wondered why, after we’d been speaking in Japanese up until that point, he’d felt the need to give me numbers in English.
“Yes! That’s right,” he said. “And it’s on side one!”
“Thanks very much,” I said. I went to the machine, paid, entered the tracks area, and boarded my train.
I felt good, standing there on the train holding onto a pole and trying to look as nonchalant as possible. Osaka is Japan’s second most populous city during the day and third most populous during the night. That supposedly shows how big an economic and tourist hotspot it is. But in any case, because of that I was sure that most of the people there on the train with me were tourists, especially since we departed from a station that also houses bullet train tracks. My plan was going smoothly, though, and I was feeling cool, invulnerable – that is, until a businessman rushed past, knocking sharply against my book bag. That’s when I became aware of how much I probably stuck out.
Not only was I a foreigner in one of Japan’s biggest tourist destinations, but I was also wearing a book bag packed to capacity. I’d tried to pack light, but somehow felt it necessary to bring along my laptop, two Japanese textbooks and two thick novels in addition to a change of clothes and toiletries. As a result, my book bag was big, heavy, and cumbersome. Despite my scheme, I was still more like that kid in high school trudging down the hall with the overstuffed backpack, than a genuinely fearless traveler. But those were the cards I’d dealt myself, and there was no turning back or amending the situation now.
After about 20 minutes I got off the train at the No. 7 station. A moment later I found myself deep in the urban, neon-lighted maze of downtown Osaka. It was about 1:00 and check in at my hostel wasn’t until five. I was hungry – I’d only had a muffin on the bullet train – so I set my sights on Dotonbori, Osaka’s premier foodie street.
I knew from my map that Dotonbori was only a few blocks south of the No. 7 station. Passing through dense clusters of clothes and souvenir shops, I headed in that direction. When I emerged from one of the high, dome-ceiling shopping corridors I found myself before a colorful, flashing arch that read, “Dotonbori.” And sure enough the street was packed with people eating all sorts of things in plastic containers or wrapped in paper: octopus dumplings, fried soba noodles, sushi, and a number of other things that I didn’t recognize.
Whenever anyone mentions Osaka food, the first thing that always comes up is okonomiyaki – a kind of pancake with all sorts of seafood and vegetables mixed into the batter. I usually hate to do the expected, but my stomach was complaining and the only thing more numerous than okonomiyaki joints were the people in the street crowding around them. So I made my way down a basement staircase to the one that seemed least likely to have a wait.
To my delight, there actually wasn’t a wait and I was seated right away. I set my bag on the booth seat and as I took my jacket off, heard the rather unfamiliar sound of English being spoken to my right. Despite my efforts to find the most hole-in-the-wall spot, I’d landed myself at a table right next to an American guy and his Japanese friend.
Now, there’s a weird bit of psychology that goes on for foreigners in Japan. Most people, myself included, have this pervasive, irritating desire to be the only foreigner in Japan. As a result, when foreigners come across one another, more often than not they’re standoffish and territorial. There’s this mental dichotomy where, when you see some twenty-something Caucasian you immediately feel obligated to acknowledge the relationship you share as strangers in a foreign land. But at the same time you think, “Well, but if I ran across this person anywhere else I wouldn’t think twice about talking to them.” And since most Westerners don’t come to Japan to meet other Westerners, this kind of awkward barrier goes up – a barrier that causes you to closely examine a blank brick wall as you walk by another foreigner in the street. I’m guilty of it, too. Although recently I’ve tried to be a little more polite.
Anyway, the American guy didn’t acknowledge me at all, and the passing of 20 or 30 seconds while I got my things in order and debated whether or not to say hello made that initial contact even more improbable. So instead of saying anything I just opened up my book and read until my food arrived. But as time went on, I regretted not even attempting to be cordial. It seemed rude, stuck-up, and just stupid. Maybe this guy was from the area, maybe he could tell me some interesting things to see or do. I thought about this as I listened in on the conversation at the next table. I comforted myself in the fact that from the sound of it, I wouldn’t really like this guy. He sounded arrogant, self-absorbed, detached from reality; the kind of guy who tries to look blasé on a local train despite the hulking, tourist-screaming, over packed bag on his back… yeah, nobody likes that guy, right?
Anyway, before long they left. No contact was made and I finished off my lunch in silence. From there I went back out and walked around Dotonbori for an hour or so. I spent the rest of the afternoon just exploring the city. To my disappointment I didn’t turn up very much of interest.
At about 4:00 I decided to head for my hostel. I was tired, my book bag was heavy, and I was kind of sick of being pressed among so many people. According to my map the hostel should have been only about 10 minutes from my location, but 30 minutes later I still hadn’t found it. Between examining street maps and ducking into corners to inconspicuously study my own map, I just couldn’t seem to turn myself in the right direction. I walked up and down the same street for about 20 minutes before finally going far enough in the right direction to find the hostel. “A five minute walk” is a littler harder to gauge than you might think.
I was fairly exhausted when I passed through the revolving door. A balding, skeletal middle-aged man sat at the front desk talking on the phone. He apologized and asked me to hold on for a minute. I sat down and caught my breath. From the sound of it, the man was less than confident about his business with the person on the line. He nervously finger pecked at a computer keyboard and shuffled papers and file folders. At last he hung up and beckoned me to come to the counter.
“I have a reservation,” I said in Japanese, “the name on it is Andrew Welsh.”
“Okay, Mr. Welsh,” he said. “Let’s see…” He shuffled through a tray of papers, then peered inside a few manila envelopes, then rifled through the fax machine paper tray. “Um… let’s see…” he kept saying.
After a few minutes I said, “Well, I made the reservation just yesterday.”
“Oh,” he said and stopped his investigation. “Well, maybe it hasn’t been processed yet. Let’s see…” The man opened an email program on his computer and clicked through a few emails, closing them without seeming to really comprehend what he was looking at. Then he closed the email program and just stared at the blank screen for a few moments.
“Sorry,” I said, “It was kind of a last minute thing. But any room is fine if you have something available.”
“Oh, huh… well, um… yes. Do you remember what the price was?”
“Yeah…” I said, wondering where this was going. “It was about 4,500 yen, though I paid 500 or 600 online when I reserved the room.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Let’s see. Well, how about this. 5,000 yen. That should do it.”
“Okay…” I said slowly.
“Well, of course, I’ll return the 500 to you later. You see, I uh… well, here,” he said, writing down the amount on a sheet of paper. “And 500 will come back to you later.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Anything’s okay. I just need a place to sleep for a night.”
“Just one night?” the man asked. I nodded. “Okay, yes, 5,000 yen then.” I took a 10,000 yen note from my wallet and set it on the counter, but the man made no move to take the money. He scuttled about behind the counter, making notes and rifling papers. The money stayed where I’d set it for some time. The man brought out a room key and had me fill out some paperwork. As I wrote down my personal information it occurred to me that I probably wasn’t supposed to pay until the next day. You usually pay at check out, right? So I scooped up the money and put it back in my wallet. The man watched me but I saw no reaction in his face. Then he handed me the room key, said “Thanks,” and scurried back into an office. I waited a few minutes for him to return in case there was anything else we needed to do. Finally I decided just to go up to the room. In any event, they had my phone number and of course knew where I was staying.
I fell asleep for about an hour and then decided to go back out into the city. On my way out the clerk called me over. “Here’s the 500 yen,” he beamed, handing me an envelope. He looked as though he’d just put some unpleasant business behind him. When I got outside I opened the envelope to find four 100 yen coins and two 50 yen coins. “A real nice place,” I thought. “Not only did they lose my reservation, but then can’t even consolidate their change.” I wasn’t really upset, though. The guy was nice and it was more humorous than anything else.
It was dark, but things were still lively downtown. I’d planned on getting dinner at a nice sushi place, but after walking around for a few hours I didn’t have quite the energy to sit through another solitary meal. Besides, a surprising number of restaurants had big carry-out displays and menus set out on the street. The carry-out sushi, in particular, seemed to be a thriving business. The place I picked was crowded, bustling. The manager, an older man in a suit but with a loud voice to accompany a rather brazen character, ran back and forth from the dining room to the front counter yelling to servers and customers alike. He spoke both Japanese and scattershot English, saying things like, “Clean table 4,” “Please, sit counter!” “Garudon 5 party,” “Get those dishes off the counter,” and so on.
At one point as I waited for my order he ran up to me and shouted, “Arubansan, 4 party!” He looked at me intently. “Arubansan?” he said again, more forcefully.
“Me?” I asked, confused. The girl at the cash register stepped in.
“No, no, he’s waiting for an order.”
“Oh, sorry,” the man said and rushed off. A big group of Chinese people came in, bunching together and looking scared. Anyway, I suppose they were Chinese, from the name the manager shouted at them and the fact that he spoke English to them. “Ah, you came! Welcome,” he said. A few people at the front of the group nodded sheepishly. “Here, come! Inside! Sit!” He screamed, herding the group into the dining room. I chuckled and the girl at the cash register looked over at me. I raised my eyebrows and glanced toward the manager pacing manically around the group of Chinese. She grinned and shrugged her shoulders. A moment later my food came. I paid and left, glad that I hadn’t opted for a sit-down dinner.
When I returned to the hostel there were two Caucasian girls at the counter talking to the clerk. One was standing quietly by while the other was talking in tense tones with the clerk about accommodations.
“We need accommodations for two,” she said loudly and clearly. “Two,” she showed with two fingers. “Two singles or one big room with two beds. A single or a double.”
The clerk nodded and appeared to understand, but then said in poor English, “Okay, single. There are single.”
“No, no, we need two singles, or one big double,” she said.
“Yes, single,” he said. The girl shook her head. She was obviously frustrated, and had been for some time. She seemed to know some Japanese, peppering her requests with a noun or a verb here and there. But there wasn’t much communication going on. The clerk himself seemed amused rather than frustrated. He wore traces of a smirk across his lips and the girl came near to shouting at him. I caught his eye, trying to give him a look that said, “Do you want help?” He just shot off that half-smirk, and then said, “Single. There is small bed. In single.” I was surprised at the change in his demeanor. Perhaps the brashness of these new customers had finally broken him.
The girl breathed in deep. “Okay, I know the single has a small bed. Do you have two singles?” The clerk continued to describe the proportions of the bed. The girl’s silent friend looked at me. I smiled, trying to seem friendly. She performed an un-interpretable half smile half wince. I went to the elevator. As I pressed the button for my floor I was gripped by the sense that I should try to help. But that same awkwardness and pride of being an autonomous foreigner who “can make it” paralyzed me. I’d tried to put myself in an easy position to be asked for help, but I’m sure they all felt the same awkwardness that I did. Besides, I reasoned with myself, my Japanese isn’t all that good. I’d probably just end up looking like an arrogant doofus, trying to step in and save the day.
Walking down the hall to my room I wondered why it was so hard for me to reach out to people. I wondered where this pride came from, why it seemed so awful to form any sort of camaraderie with other foreigners. Blowing people off doesn’t award you any sort of special cred. In fact, my trip could have only been elevated by meeting some new people. I really felt then that I should have tried to say something. But then, as in the okonomiyaki place, just enough time had passed to make going back seem like an unnatural gesture. I knew deep down that that probably wasn’t the case, but I’d just over thought the whole situation so much by that point. Moreover, I was starving and had a big bag full of sushi under my arm. So instead of doing anything noble, I returned to my room, enjoyed my dinner and watched a few episodes of The Wire on my laptop.