Welcome to Mars. February 2, 1988
That thought rang through my head during my first week in Japan. Over and over: I hadn't moved to a foreign country. I was living on another planet.
This hadn't been my first time I'd been in Japan. When I was eight, my family had been stationed in Tokyo for eleven months. However, I had never been in Japan on my own, and this experience was a far cry from viewing the country from the safety of US military facilities, chaperoned by parents and teachers.
I'd just graduated from college, and found myself without direction. A friend told me about how I could work in Japan as an English teacher--all I needed was a college degree. The book she gave me, Jobs in Japan, pulled no punches and sounded appealing--an adventure. She was leaving in February, and I could come along if I wanted, and I'd have a place to stay while I looked for work. So I saved my money, packed my bags and hopped onto a flight bound for Tokyo. Was I out of my mind?
I'd been on edge throughout most of the trip, which had started on a flight from Orlando to Los Angeles. In LA, an escort from Japan Airlines met us at the gate, and whisked us from one end of the airport to another at a dead run. Wearing a heavy wool topcoat given to me for the trip and hauling two heavy suitcases, I half-ran and half-staggered far behind. When we reached our connecting flight, I felt like I had already left America. Throngs of Japanese passengers, most carrying boxes of American beef and other goodies, stared at me as if I had grown horns. The stares continued on the flight, as I moved uncomfortably from seat to restroom, mumbling, "Sumimasen, sumimasen, sumimasen..." Sumimasen is a handy, all-purpose word, meaning, "Excuse me," "thanks," and "I'm sorry," depending on the situation. I used it a lot.
On final approach to Narita International Airport, I looked down to find a green landscape shrouded in fog. As we got closer to the ground, I noticed all the different colors of the tile and metal rooftops: red, blue, green... I'd remembered Tokyo as being a grey, dingy place and I hadn't expected all this color. Things looked vaguely familiar from my childhood memories, but not as familiar as I'd have liked.
And I'm going to live here? Oh my god, what have I done?
The first hurdle we encountered was the Immigration line, divided into Japanese and non-Japanese, with the line of non-Japanese filling the room and traveling at a snail's pace. I sat on the floor to wait. The book had said to look nice to get better treatment from the officials--if I looked scruffy, would they refuse to let me into the country? I'd changed clothes and put on makeup on the plane, but I still looked tired and frowsy. I began to sweat as the officer grilled the Iranian man in front of me: "What are you planning to do here? Where are you staying? Give me the address. Do you have money? Show it to me." But when my turn finally came up, he just stamped my passport and said, "Enjoy your stay."
We passed though Customs and finally into the main area, where our friends were waiting--another acquaintance from Florida, Sumiyo, her friend and our future hostess, and Sumiyo's four-year-old son, Yoshihiro. I just stared at all the hugging and carrying on, since I didn't know these folks at all. All the Japanese I had learned in college vanished. Yoshihiro stared at us suspiciously, then whined and clung to his mother's legs. I understood how he felt.
Sumiyo had enlisted the help of a friend with a car, so we tossed our bags in the back and began a long, cold drive to Tokyo. I had my face pressed to the window, my mouth hanging open as I took in all the familiar, yet alien surroundings. Up front, a little bell dinged to warn the driver he was exceeding the speed limit. People asked me questions occasionally, but I don't think I answered them.
Finally, we stopped at a huge, sprawling apartment complex: lines of four-story buildings with balconies, manicured trees and brick courts crammed with bicycles. A modern three-bedroom apartment on the third floor would be home. I would share a small tatami-floored bedroom with my travelling companion. The futons had been laid out. I stepped inside, and was instantly yelled at for having slippers on the tatami--a new rule for me. I kicked off the slippers, put my bags down and retreated to the living room. Somebody offered me food, and I ate one or two nikuman--steamed buns with meat filling. Then somewhere around that point, my brain overloaded. I couldn't speak the language--people would talk to me and I couldn't answer. I couldn't read the signs. Everything was covered in arcane little symbols. Even the light switches. I sat there, frozen, on the tiny living room sofa.
Sumiyo suggested I take a bath and call it a day--it had been a long flight. The tub was already full, so all I had to do was turn on the water heater for the shower, then fire up the tub heater long enough to heat the bathwater. Not that I knew how to do this--I was in a stranger's house, trying to manipulate unfamiliar appliances all labeled with unreadable symbols. The signs on the bathroom wall intimidated me further--everything was labeled! The shower and tub had warning labels (could I blow up the house by not doing something to the gas?). The Western-style toilet had two flush settings (if I used the wrong one, would the toilet overflow?) and a plaque with usage instructions, complete with a little stick figure to show you how to sit on the toilet seat. Even the cover on the toilet paper roll had a label on it. And I couldn't read any of it.
I took a cold shower, then crawled wretchedly into my futon to hide from this alien world. Sumiyo said goodnight, and I think I waved.
The initial onset of culture shock, assisted by jet lag and "Benihana's Revenge," was not kind. I felt overwhelmed and stupid. The food was weird--why couldn't I get a slice of toast less than an inch thick? I wanted to go home, where at least I could read things. My roommates discovered that if they spiked my tea with a bit of Nikka Whisky (available in pint bottles from the vending machine outside the nearest supermarket), I would shut up and quit pacing. At last, I got a phone call from the US: my father wanted to check on me. "This place is like Mars, and I don't fit in," I wailed. "And I wanna go home!"
And then my father said something that he came to regret: "You dummy, you're there to enjoy yourself. Now go have fun because you'll have plenty of time to get a real job when you get back!"
Well, I took his advice. And I had so much fun that I didn't even think about going home and getting a real job. For eight and a half years.
All Japan stories (c) Wendy Dinsmore 2004.