English and the Japanese

Many people have questioned throughout the years as to why the Japanese have a difficult time learning foreign languages. In Japan there is a popular proverb, “The protruding nail gets hammered down”.  Therefore, I believe it to be a product of their culture where individualism is scorned and those desiring to express their individualism are “hammered” down by society as a whole, or are ostracized from the group and, in Japan it is very important to be a part of the group whether it be a member of a school club, a group of housewives where all the husbands work for the same company, or a circle of friends where everyone shares the same interest such as working for the same company. Most everyone in Japan, at sometime or another belongs to some particular group, club or whatever.

Also, in the learning of a foreign language such as English for example, regardless of whether a person can speak proficiently or not, because of this “group mentality thinking” and the custom of “not standing out” in the group (for fear of being ridiculed as showing off), a person would, more than likely, not speak up even though they know the answer or can answer correctly and succinctly.

This can easily be observed in a group setting where no one wants to be the first to answer a question (language related or otherwise), even though most can probably answer it. This kind of group mentality thinking I believe, severely hampers the Japanese in their desire and efforts to learn a foreign language and is directly responsible for them not being able to do so as I do not believe there is another culture on the planet where the entire society, as a whole, cannot learn how to hold the most simplest English language conversation. Especially since most of them have been studying it since grade school and it’s mandatory from middle school on up.

 

However, as the following story will illustrate, get them out of that group mentality thinking, away from their own kind, and they will flourish and their individualism will come to the forefront and release them from the chains of the group.

When I had my own English school which I ran out of my 3LDK “mansion” condo (3 rooms plus a Living room, a Dining room and a Kitchen), I had close to 100 students. I would teach English conversation classes ranging from elementary school kids on up through high school, college students, and businessmen. My Japanese wife would teach what was called “chugakko eigo” (literally middle school English) which one was required to pass for entrance exams into high school. She also taught grammar classes for high school students preparing for college entrance examinations. All it entailed was teaching the grammatical parts of English along with vocabulary and reading comprehension no aural comprehension or speaking is required for these entrance exams.

Of all the students I taught throughout the years, none made more of an impression on me than Miyako and she really showed me how the Japanese culture can suppress the individual and what can happen when that individualism is allowed to express itself when away from the group.

Miyako was your “average” Japanese high school freshman in that she had short hair, wore glasses, belonged to a few clubs, and was very shy and timid. However, one could notice that under the glasses and shyness was a petty woman. I had been “teaching” her English conversation for two years with barely any sign of success. Still, like clockwork, she would renew her contract with my school each quarter and show up every Tuesday evening at 8 pm for her lesson as well as the once a week lesson for the written and grammatical portions of the language.

After two years I could barely hold a decent, simple conversation with Miyako and I really felt sorry for her in that her family shelled out a lot of money for her conversation lessons. Sure, she could complete the lessons from the book well and fill in the blanks or substitute words and such, so I knew she was studying. However, during our “free-conversation” time with no books I couldn’t be sure one way or another if she really knew what I was saying to her or not or, she was too shy and afraid to answer thinking she may make a mistake and embarrass herself, and we all know how the Japanese do not want to embarrass themselves in front of others. In fact, she would barely make eye contact with me during our lessons. The other four students in the class did fairly well and were less shy than Miyako, but their level and participation was still far from what it should’ve been.

For all I knew she may have understood me completely during “free-conversation”. After all, you’d think that after two years something must have sunk in, but she just answered timidly with a word or two and maybe, maybe a complete sentence here and there.

In a way it was frustrating to me, but after teaching English in Japan for more than ten years I had become accustomed to the majority of Japanese not accomplishing much in the way of English conversation and did my best anyway no matter how futile it seemed. If they were paying, I was teaching, results or not. Once you can get used to that and understand it, one can be successful in “teaching” English conversation in Japan. Many conversational teachers, however, can not get used to it and burn out or become extremely frustrated and go home disappointed in their experience.

Anyway, one day during the end of her first year of high school she asked to speak to me and my wife in private. She asked us if we thought it would be good for her to participate in a home-stay program where she would attend her entire second year at a high school in the USA. Knowing how shy she was and the slow progress she made during the two years she was with us, my wife and I looked at each other and were speechless. Knowing she was waiting for an answer I stammered that sure, I think it would be ok for her and my wife readily agreed saying that it would probably be a great experience for her to attend high school in the USA and I concurred. We went on to explain (in Japanese) the high school system in the states and all the good times and memories she would probably have. She seemed genuinely interested, said she would apply and left with a smile on her face.

After she departed, my wife and I discussed the situation and we both agreed that she would probably have a hard time of it with her shyness and all, but that it would be a great experience for her and her English may improve. I sure hoped so as it is extremely expensive for a home stay program.

She applied immediately, was accepted, and during the next couple of months we prepared Miyako as much as we could with customs, dress, habits and such and then she was gone. We asked that she write to us and she said she would. We never heard from her and sometimes joked that we would probably never see her again and that her experience in a US high school was probably so devastating to such a shy person that she may hate us for even encouraging her.

Fast forward to about thirteen months later. I was preparing my lesson plan for the elementary school “monsters” one day when the doorbell rings at about 3 pm. I open the door and there, standing before me, is what I took to be about a nineteen or twenty year old good looking woman. And I mean good looking. She was sharp in her tight jeans, tee shirt, shoulder length stylish hair and nice makeup with a touch of lipstick.

Thinking she was a new, prospective student I said in Japanese, “Hello, can I help you?”

“Sensei, it’s me, Miyako. How are you?” she said in perfect English with no hint of accent.

Stunned beyond belief I said in English, “Miyako? The one who went to study in the states?” I honestly did not recognize her at first, but after a second or two I could see that it was she even though the glasses were gone.

“Yes, it’s me and I want to tell you what a wonderful time I had in the states.” Her English was flawless and she had no sign of accent whatsoever. It was as if I were speaking to a native-American born and bred in the US.

“Please come in,” I said and called to my wife.

We sat at the sofa, my wife served up drinks and we began to chat. Gone were the glasses and there was absolutely no hint of the timid, shy person she was in the past. This was a completely transformed person and I still could not believe what I was seeing and hearing from this young woman whom I had such a hard time teaching simple English conversation to for two years. She was confident, outgoing and jovial, and I swear I did not have to search for simple words to speak to her. It was no different than speaking to another native English speaker. Her accent, vocabulary, sentence structure, grammar, and syntax were excellent.

She told us of her experience and explained how hard it was and how afraid she was at first, but the family she lived with and the students at school were so nice that she soon became comfortable and settled down. Since no one spoke Japanese she had no choice but to learn English as fast as she could. She went on to tell us of the good times she had at the sports games, the outings, the restaurants and food, the traveling, the school activities, a boyfriend, etc., etc.

Through it all, although I tried hard to not let it show, I was just awed at what a year, completely immersed in a culture and with no fallback on Japanese and the fear of standing out can do for a person and we had a great conversation. I was so impressed and happy for her that I also had a hard time holding back a tear or two that started to well up in my eyes as I witnessed this complete metamorphosis from a timid and demure introvert into a beautiful and confident extrovert full of life and not at all afraid to speak. Her future goal she said was to attend and graduate from a university in the US.

Miyako continued studying with us until we sold the school a year later to return to the US. We had to put her in the advanced class with three others around her age who also attended schools in the states because of their fathers being there for business and it was one of my more pleasurable classes to teach. These students wanted to learn, were not afraid to speak or ask questions, and had an excellent grasp of the English language.

I do not know whether Miyako completed her goal of graduating from a university in the US, but I’d like to think she did. Either way that one year spent in the US did wonders for her and her language ability that even if she didn’t reach her goal, I’m sure she remained somewhat fluent in English and confident in herself. Also, being that she was now so confident in herself, I sometimes wonder if she had a hard time fitting in with Japanese culture again.

Miyako is a perfect example of how, no matter how shy you are or what your disposition, any Japanese person can become fluent in a foreign language in a short time by being completely immersed in the culture and with no possibility of falling back on their own language and culture as a crutch thus hindering their learning experience.

If I had continued with my school in Japan or were to open one again today, I would be actively involved in a program that promoted at least a year’s home-stay for high school students that were dead serious about learning, really learning the language as, if Miyako could make such an unbelievable improvement anyone could.

Little Akira

Living in Japan as a gaijin, a foreigner, especially one that is not Asian, you stand out like a sore thumb and are constantly stared and pointed at by children and people in general, especially if you lived outside of Tokyo in an area where foreigners did not usually live. It’s something you get used to, but it can wear on one after the novelty wears off and if you don’t learn to just ignore it, it can drive some foreigners to the boiling point of anger and a general dislike for the country as I have seen it do to many a foreigner. However, being a foreigner does have its upside in that, being a male, it is very easy to meet women as they are so curious about you.

While a student in Japan I lived in a rented small 2DK Japanese apartment (2 rooms plus a dining/kitchen). The rooms were 6 mats and 4 ½ mats and the kitchen was 3 ½. Not much of a “dining/kitchen”, but it was just big enough for a small table and two chairs if I wanted to put them in there. Also in the kitchen were the washing machine and refrigerator, and the entrances to the bath and the toilet.

I was living on the bottom center floor of a two story apartment that had three apartments on each floor. On either side of me were young married couples just starting out in life and they both had young children. In the mornings the husbands would go off to work early and the wives would stay at home with the kids to do the laundry, cleaning and shopping or talking to each other outside. One husband was a blue collar worker, owned his own small dump truck and contracted himself out. The other was a white collar worker and always went to work in a suit.

The wives were polite in the Japanese tradition and would always bow to me and say “good morning” or “good afternoon” when they saw me. After they satisfied their initial curiosity as to why a foreigner was living there we sometimes conversed, but it was just the usual small talk about the weather and such. The husbands I almost never saw as they both worked long hours and came home late. I think in the five years I lived in that apartment I spoke to the husbands only a handful of times. Besides, being a student and working six days a week I was not home much myself. So we really never got to know each other.

One of the families had a small boy who was born shortly before I first moved in. His name was Akira. While he was growing up, every time he saw me he would cry his eyes out like there was no tomorrow while he was in the stroller or in his mother’s arms and she did her best to console him while apologizing to me. For some unknown reason he was deathly afraid of me and, for the most part, I ignored him as I hardly ever saw him. Maybe it was because I was “different” in his eyes and he could tell, even at that young age that I was not like the others of his kind and didn’t look at all like his parents. To him I was probably no different than a monster and probably looked like one with my long blond hair and all.

When little Akira was a little older, perhaps 3 or 4 years of age, he used to play outside his apartment by himself. However, whenever I left the apartment to go to school in the late morning or come home in the afternoon and he was outside, he would again ball his eyes out and practically kill himself trying to get into his apartment. His feet would be running in motion while trying to open the door to his apartment which he could barely reach but was in such a panic that he couldn’t open it.

Every time he did this, his mother would come out, bow and apologize to me, pick up the little brat and console him telling him that there was nothing to worry about and take him into the apartment. I tried talking to him on some occasions but he would have no part of it and would scream at the top of his lungs.

One day I thought to myself that this had gone far enough. If he wanted to cry for no reason at all I’d give him something to cry about. You’re a little older now and should not be afraid of me as I did nothing to cause you to cry other than being a foreigner. So the next time I saw him outside I quickly glanced at the windows to make sure they were closed so his mother or the other neighbor could not see and I raised my arms in the air, walked towards him with the scariest face I could make and made like I was going to grab the little bugger and eat him for dinner.

Little Akira went into his usual panic. He tried to get up off the ground and his feet moved so fast he was not going anywhere all the while screaming at the top of his lungs. It was like watching a cartoon character. A few seconds later he managed to reach the door and was pounding on it for all he was worth while looking back at me with my hands raised and slowly walking towards him.

As his mother came out I pretended like I did nothing wrong and tried to talk to him in Japanese as a parent would. Again his mother would bow and apologize and disappear with him into the house. This went on for about another year and once in a while I would play the monster. However, if he caught sight of me first walking down the street, or hearing me getting ready to exit my apartment he would be in his house in a flash. Sometimes I would glance out the window before departing to see if he was out there. If he was, I would cough or growl real loud and I could hear him scurry into his apartment about ready to cry.

Shortly after starting school he suddenly stopped crying when he saw me, but I could tell he was still deathly afraid of me and didn’t want to be near me for anything. Since he stopped crying when he saw me, I stopped pretending I wanted to eat him.

At the time I thought it was the funniest thing. Today, I hope I didn’t mentally traumatize the kid. “Little Akira” must be about 34 years old and probably has his own family. I wonder if he still remembers the “gaijin monster” that used to live next door to him and wanted to eat him for dinner?  I’m sure he does. And I also sometimes wonder what he thinks about foreigners in general as he got older and how he feels about them to this very day. I wonder if he would he allow his daughter to date, and maybe marry, a foreigner? Does he hate and despise foreigners? And, did he ever get over his fear of foreigners? I’d like to think that he did, but I still wonder and think about it.

“Chijo”

Anyone who has lived for any length of time in Japan and knows a little bit of the language and culture knows the word chikan. The meaning of this word is a molester, but basically refers to a male who is prone to be a Peeping Tom, stealing woman’s underwear from their clothes lines, or even groping woman on the trains, catching a quick feel here and there, or pressing themselves into females. In other words, a pervert!

You can sometimes spot chikan ogling young school girls in their sailor uniforms. A brave woman or girl being molested or felt up on a train might blurt out, “chikan!” to warn others of his presence and have him taken down by bystanders and arrested at the next train stop.

The female counterpart of chikan is “chijo” and basically has the same meaning, and yes there are some chijo in Japan, but they are rare or hardly reported to the police. I mean what hot blooded male, in his right mind, would report that he was felt up by a woman on a train or other location other than to let all his friends know about it? I know I wouldn’t and I didn’t report it when it happened to me.

Yes, I was groped, or molested, or whatever you want to call it on a train by a female when I was a college student in Japan. I was shocked and awed at what happened, but I didn’t feel I was molested. No way, no how! In fact, after I got over the initial shock, I kind of enjoyed it and let her “take advantage” of me so to speak. Or at least, after I understood just what the hell was going on, let her “have her way with me.” This is the story of that one and only experience I ever had with a chijo on a public train in Japan.

I was on my way back home from university during rush hour and I didn’t feel like waiting the 20 or so minutes for the third express train at the platform in Shinjuku in order to ensure that I got a seat on the train that originated from there. I wanted to get home so I took my place in line for the next express train. I was ninth in the double line, so I knew I would not be getting a seat.

When the train arrived and all the people emptied out the left side of the train, the doors on the right side opened and everyone near the front scrambled for a seat. People are so desperate for a seat, especially after waiting 20 minutes, that they practically knock each other out of the way! Since I was so far back in the line I couldn’t get my favorite standing spot next to the door and was stuck standing near the door in the middle of the aisle. The train was crowded, but not very. I knew it would get worse at the next two express stops.

As usual, the crowd at the first express stop at this time of the evening was large and the people were packed into the train. I mean we were so packed in that I didn’t have to hold on to anything as the throng of people and the closeness of our bodies would keep me from losing my balance. That’s how close we were. It was so crowded that I hardly had any room to fold my magazine in quarters to read it.

As the train pulled out of the station all the people kind of moved backwards with the forward momentum of the train. One woman who had her back to me leaned into me with her butt and back. As the train gained speed and we were able to stand I kind of backed away from her an inch or so as I didn’t want her to think I was pressing into her or anything that may make her yell, “chikan!” and get me arrested or something.

It was about an five minute ride to the next express stop so I just got as comfortable as I could and began to read my magazine. To my astonishment the same woman in front of me moved back a little and placed her butt ever so lightly squarely into my crotch. I was startled and moved backward maybe a centimeter or so as there was virtually no room for me to move back much. I no sooner did that than she did it again. At first I thought it was an accident and, as there was no more room for me to move back without my pressing my butt into some guys crotch, I kind of arched my hips back a bit so my crotch wouldn’t be touching her butt. I no sooner did that than, again, she moved her butt against my crotch for a second time. Now I knew this was no accident. She was doing it on purpose.

I had heard that there were women, chijo, who sometimes did this on the train, but I had never personally experienced it myself in seven years of living there. I had heard that they did things similar to what chikan do, and I had even heard secondhand stories about how they would even grab a man’s crotch or massage his butt. Now I was experiencing it for the first time. Call me crazy, but I am a male and I was not about to let this experience with a chijo pass me by. If she was pitching, I was catching.

As she continued to press her butt into my crotch, I straightened up and, ever so lightly, proceeded to press my crotch back against her butt. The harder I pressed, the harder she pressed back and the harder I got! I remember thinking to myself, this is no accident. She’s actually encouraging this! So I pressed against her all the more. I shyly glanced around to make sure no one was looking at us, but it was really too crowded for anyone to really notice as we so packed together.

Throughout the entire ride to the next stop we pressed against each other so much it was as if we were making love. In a way we were making love. She continued pressing her butt ever so slowly against my crotch in a circular motion, side to side, and then up and down a little. I couldn’t believe how aroused I had become and I responded in kind. All the while she had her head down pretending to read a book she had in her hands.

I never once saw her face, but I guessed she was in her 20’s. She had long black hair and was wearing what seemed to be a business suit. I could smell the hint of a nice perfume and the nice fragrance of her long shiny black hair. The top of her head came up to about my chin and we played our little “love making” game until the train pulled into the next station; her pressing against me and me responding in kind. I was so hard I couldn’t believe it. I thoroughly enjoyed her pressing her soft round butt against my rock hard crotch and enjoyed every minute of it. Any minute now and I knew I would have an orgasm.

As the train pulled into the third express stop and the doors opened, she abruptly got off much to my dismay. I tried as best I could to get a look at her, but she had her head turned completely away from me, (probably on purpose) and I never even got a sideways glance at her face as she blended in with, and disappeared into the crowd. If she was beautiful I never knew, but I like to imagine she was as beautiful as my wildest fantasy.

As quite a few people got off at this station there was now room for me to stand in relative comfort and I took my usual place against the door for the remaining 20 minutes or so ride home. For obvious reasons I faced the door. The little tease had left me high and dry and frustrated, and I couldn’t wait to get home to “take care of my frustration!” Man was I turned on!

However, it was an experience I would never forget and I often think about it, with a smile, to this day, nearly 30 years later, of the chijo who had the nerve to molest a foreigner on a crowded train in Japan. (Something told me this was not her first experience).

When I relayed this experience to my Japanese friends, both male and female, they didn’t seem all that surprised and both had said that, although rare, it is not unheard of for chijo to do that on trains. Maybe that is why men do it. Maybe, they are making the first move hoping they are interacting with, or hoping to find, a chijo. I don’t know. In my case it never happened again with a female although I have had more than a few men press themselves up against me both before and after this unique experience. In those cases, I either moved out of the way, got off at the next stop and then back on again, or found another spot quickly in the same or another car. But I didn’t make a scene and they never persisted or I may have ended up being arrested for assaulting someone.

After that exhilarating experience I often didn’t mind taking a crowded train at rush hour and kind of looked forward to it. In fact I often made it a point to take a crowded train for a while after that experience. But, I never experienced it again. And, I would never make the first move myself and press myself against a woman on purpose for fear of being called a chikan and maybe getting arrested. It is just not my style.

As a matter of fact, groping and the feeling up of women on trains has become so prevalent these days that the train companies in Japan are forced to have women only cars during the rush hour, especially in the mornings. Also, there are more than a few women these days on trains who yell “chikan!” and blame some innocent man for groping them when they never touched them. They do this so they can extort money from them in lieu of pressing charges. Also, there are quite a few female undercover cops who ride the trains these days and will arrest, on the spot, anyone groping them. Therefore, if you happen to find yourself on a crowded train in Japan these days be real leery of any woman pressing herself up against you as she may just be trying to trap or arrest you. Today, I would never respond in kind as I did back then.

If chijo ever became so prevalent, in Japan (which I doubt would ever happen) that they had to have separate cars for men, women, and mixed, I’m pretty sure the men only cars would be empty or filled with men looking to have an experience with other men. I know I would not ride in a men only car. Co-ed all the way for me! I mean what hetero man in his right mind would ride in a male only car?

Whoever you are, chijo-san, you gave a young man an experience he’ll never forget and one he’ll fondly cherish forever and still does! And for that, being a hot blooded male at the time, I thank you. Heck, I would even savor it with as much delight today as I did back then, but times are different.

Losing My Wallet

As a whole, are the Japanese really an honorable and honest people as most people seem to think or are they just like everybody else? A lot of people seem to think they are. Some say it is because they are of one race and ethnicity. Some say it’s because of the group mentality thinking. Others say it’s because of their deep rooted culture based on codes of the samurai with bushido and the similar codes of the Yakuza. Others say it’s because of their morals and upbringing. And, still, others say it’s because of the dense population and close proximity to each other that one has to think about another’s feelings so as not to disturb their “Wa” (harmony). I don’t know the correct answer, but I do know one thing, and that is, in one experience of mine, I was grateful that at least one person was honest and honorable.

This experience occurred in 1980 when I was a student. I had a part-time job teaching English to businessmen and college students at a small school I worked at during the week and on Saturdays. We always were paid in cash on the 25th of the month. I had adopted the bad habit of carrying around one of those long rectangular wallets that I had received as a gift from a friend of mine. Maybe you’ve seen them. They are thin, sometimes made out of leather or silk, and are long enough to hold Japanese bills without them being folded. A lot of businessmen carry one in the inside breast pocket of their suit jacket as do many Yakuza and Chinpira (young Yakuza in Training)

It was a fashion trend back then to have one prominently sticking out of your back pocket as it kind of made you look cool and fashionable. (And we all know how important it is to be fashionable and “with the times” in Japan.) Why they were carried like that I don’t know because they could easily be lifted from your back pocket and pickpockets are well known in Japan. However, I was told that that was rare.

Anyway, to look like I “belonged” and cool, I started carrying one about two months prior. When I got paid this particular day, I put the twelve 10,000 notes (about US$600 back then) in the wallet, stuffed it in my back pocket and started out for home after my classes ended at 9pm. I got a seat on the train and slept most of the way.

When I got to my train station I proceeded up the stairs with the crowd to the ticket taker. I reached around for my wallet to show my train pass and it was gone! It had everything in there, my train pass, my money, my bank card, important phone numbers, student ID, etc. Luckily I didn’t keep my gaijin card (aka Alien Registration Card) in there as back then it was a little booklet that wouldn’t fit in any kind of wallet. I always kept it in the other back pocket.

It’s amazing how many thoughts can go through one’s head in a split second. I instantly panicked thinking how I was going to pay my rent and bills this month. I knew for sure right then and there that I would never see it again and it was gone forever. I figured I was pick-pocketed while walking to the train or getting off. With Shinjuku station being so crowded I could understand how easily someone could have lifted it without my ever knowing it.

I explained my plight to the ticket taker and he pointed me to an office. I went in and explained my predicament to the station master. He asked me for a complete description of the wallet and its contents. He also asked for proof of who I was and luckily I had my gaijin card. I explained that I probably lost it after I got on the train at Shinjuku as I had to show my train-pass for entry. He wrote everything down and made a few phone calls to the major express stops along the train line. From his conversations I knew he wasn’t having any luck. After his last phone call to Shinjuku station he hung up the phone, looked at me apologetically, and said that I might have better luck checking back with him the morning.

Even though our conversation was conducted in Japanese, he never seemed surprised that I could speak Japanese, nor did he try to speak to me in English. He was professional throughout and treated me, I guess, as he would any Japanese person.

I went down the stairs of the train station and walked home in utter despair. I kept thinking how stupid I was to carry that thing in my pocket like that knowing that it could’ve been so easily lifted. I had no money on me whatsoever save for a couple of 100 yen and other coins and the banks and ATM’s were closed. Being single, I usually ate dinner out as it only cost 4 or 500 yen (about US$2 – $2.50 back then) and I couldn’t even eat that night. I did have some ramen, eggs and bread at home though so it wouldn’t be a total loss.

When I got home, I was still so despondent that I wasn’t even hungry. I just sat at my kotatsu and stared into space thinking about the 120,000 plus yen that I had just lost. I quickly did some calculating, got out my bank book, and figured that all was not that bad as I still had just enough money in the bank to pay my rent and bills and buy a new train pass. Then I thought about my student ID as I couldn’t buy a new student-discount train pass without one; and my bank card. I couldn’t even go to an ATM. It would take a couple of days to get a new student ID and at least a week to get a new bank card.

After about an hour or so I thought that I was not going to let this screw up my life. It’s gone and there’s nothing I can do about it. I chalked it up to a “stupid tax” that one pays going through life’s experiences. Besides, there is still tomorrow. Even if I just got back the wallet with my student ID and train pass I would be happy as the train pass cost me about 7,500 yen for a three month pass and I just bought it the previous month!

I was now feeling a bit hungry and decided that I was going to go out to eat and get drunk. I wandered over to the little snack across the street from my apartment and asked the mama-san if I could pay her tomorrow and explained what had happened to me. Without so much as a second thought she told me not to worry about it and that I could pay tomorrow or whenever I could. I quickly ordered a beer and some food.

After a while my good friend Suzuki-san walked in with his ever present dog, Jiro, on his back. Mama-san explained to him what had happened. He immediately said that he was paying my tab that night and I was not worry. As I ate and we talked, I thought about what a great country this is and what good friends I had made. Here a foreigner loses his months pay and his Japanese friends step in to help him out. Mr. Suzuki even offered me 10,000 yen to tide me over, but I refused as I told him I would be going to the bank in the morning.

We drank and sang a few songs and then I went home. As I lay in the futon waiting for sleep to befall me, I still couldn’t stop thinking about the lost wallet.

I awoke the next morning, started up the kerosene heater, put my futon away, made some coffee and watched a little TV. After about an hour I got out my bank book and my hanko (official seal with my name on it), put them in my bag, turned off the heater, and ventured on up to the train station and the station masters office in the hopes that someone may have found my wallet and turned it in. But I still highly doubted it.

The station master was a different person, but he had all my information. When I told him who I was he said, “hai, hai,” yes, yes, and went on to explain that my wallet had indeed been found and I could pick it up at Hon-Atsugi station, a short distance away, as that was where it was turned in. I breathed a sigh of relief and asked him if there was any money in it. He said he didn’t know. I was just so glad that at least I might get back the train pass, my student ID card, and my bank card. I wasn’t so much worried about the train pass and my bank card as, unless it was a young person who pick-pocketed me, they wouldn’t be able to use my train pass as it had “STUDENT” stamped in bold kanji on it. Also, they couldn’t use my bank card either as they didn’t know my PIN number.

As I had enough money to buy a ticket to Hon-Atsugi, I didn’t bother wasting any time going to the bank as, if my money was indeed stolen, I would go to the bank at Hon-Atsugi station. I purchased a ticket and a can of hot coffee from one of the vending machines and sat on the bench waiting for my train to arrive. It was a sunny day. A brisk March wind was blowing and I was warmed by the coffee. It was one of those days when the sun was bright, the air was crisp with just a hint of spring, the sky was picture perfect blue, and you were just glad to be alive. I just hoped I would feel the same after getting my wallet back.

After about five minutes I heard the familiar female voice announcing that the train was arriving and to stay behind the yellow line. I boarded the first car as I usually did and stood behind the engineer as I always enjoyed the view from this perspective.

Five stops later I was at Hon-Atsugi and found my way to the station masters office. I told him who I was and produced my gaijin card as proof. He asked me to identify the contents in detail and I did. He then went around a partition and after a few agonizingly long minutes came back. He had my wallet and a piece of paper in his hand. I was relieved as all hell. He laid my wallet on the counter and explained that the piece of paper he was giving me had the name, address, and phone number of the person who had found my wallet and turned it in. He said that I should call them and thank them. I said that I would. He asked if he should write the information in romaji (Japanese in the English alphabet) and I told him that he needn’t bother as I could read Japanese. He then asked me to check the contents of the wallet. As I opened it I was dumbfounded that every single item in my wallet was still there right down to the money! Nothing was missing, not even a 500 yen note! It was all there! I signed a piece of paper accepting my wallet and it’s contents and that nothing was missing. This time I put my wallet in my bag and vowed that I would use a normal wallet from now on. No more trying to look cool.

As I left the station masters office I bowed and thanked him and headed for my train back home. I still couldn’t help but be awestruck that my wallet was turned in and that nothing was missing. I really expected the money to be gone at least. If this happened in the States, I’m sure I’d never see it again. The odds there were against me especially with all that cash in it. But some kind person may just as well have turned it in there also.

As I rode the train home I just couldn’t get over it. I had heard that the Japanese were an honest people, but this was just unbelievable. I looked at the paper and the name on it written in Japanese. It was a woman’s name and she lived in Atsugi city. After I got to my own station I went immediately to a phone booth and dialed the number. A lady answered and it was she. I immediately guessed she was probably in her 40’s or so and told her who I was. I thanked her for finding my wallet and turning it in. She seemed more worried than I was as it had my bank card and train pass in it. She said that she noticed it on the seat of the train after I had gotten off. As the doors were already closed, she decided to turn it in at her station after finding no phone number for me in the wallet. She said that she worried about it all night as she knew I would be bothered by my loss. Leave it to the Japanese to be more concerned about the other person! She complimented me on my Japanese and I thanked her profusely and finally said good bye. Come to think of it, I’m sure I was also bowing my head while thanking her on the phone.

After hanging up the phone I immediately went to a nearby post office where I purchased an envelope. I asked for a sheet of paper from the postal person and wrote a thank you note in Japanese to this kind lady. After I signed my name, I reached into my bag for my wallet, opened it and removed a 10,000 yen note. I placed the note in the envelope and sealed it up; wrote down her address in Japanese and turned it in to the postal person. I had learned somewhere that it is a custom in Japan to pay a reward to the person finding, and turning in, a lost item. I fulfilled this custom.

As I left the post office and headed home I was more than happy that I was living in a country where some people do think about, and feel for others, including foreigners. The golden rule, so far as I knew, applied to Japan. And, as a side note, I still have that green silk wallet to this day. Once in a while I’ll go through my boxes, see it, and remember this experience with fondness.

Kumiko-chan

When I became a student and moved off base in December 1976, I opened a bank account at the Bank of Yokohama near the station. As I had an ATM card all my withdrawals and deposits were done at the machine and I never used the tellers save for the one time each month I would need to pay my bills and rent.

Going to a Japanese bank back then was far different than going to a bank in the US and can be a very time consuming ordeal that may take 30 minutes or more just to pay a few bills and your rent or even to deposit some money if you didn’t use the ATM machine.

A form must first be filled out with your name in Japanese and stamped with your personal name stamp (hanko). You then place your money and form, along with the bills into a tray at the counter and a teller will usually give you a number and you have to wait until your number or name is called. Your tray is then passed among 3 – 5 people sitting at desks behind the counter who methodically check it and place their own stamps on it. After what seems like an eternity, your name is called and you receive your tray with your change and receipts along with a bow and a thank you from the teller who served you.

There wasn’t much I disliked while living in Japan, but I did dislike having to go to the bank. What unusual experience could come out of simply going to a bank you may ask? Well, you are about to find out.

One day a couple of years later I went in to pay my rent and was waited on by your typical female teller in her late 20’ whom I had never seen before. She was tall for a Japanese woman, and had short black hair. She was dressed in a blue skirt and vest with a white shirt and small, blue cross tie with a small, white name tag on her left breast with her name printed on it. We hardly spoke, but she was impressed that I could speak and write Japanese and she mentioned that she spoke a little English. She asked what I did and I told her I was a university student. She inquired as to whether I was an exchange student and I told her that I was just a regular student at the international division of Sophia University in Tokyo.

Throughout the transaction she was very professional and I didn’t give her a second thought when I left. However, I did notice the unusual, long eye contact she made with me even though our encounter was brief. Most people, especially at banks and other places of business, when they encounter a foreigner (maybe even Japanese for that matter) will hardly make any eye contact with them even if they do speak Japanese.

A couple of days later I get a phone call at home at about 9 pm and it is this same female teller that waited on me at the bank. She apologized for calling me at home and I instantly thought I had left something there or didn’t fill out my forms properly. But that wasn’t the case at all. This woman was calling me to ask me to dinner!

I was completely taken by surprise as this was most unusual for a Japanese female to be so forward, especially with a foreigner, as most were shy beyond all get out. Being single and not attached to anyone, I agreed to meet her at a time of her choosing after giving her my schedule for the coming week. I remember thinking that she wasn’t especially attractive or anything like that. In fact she was not even my type. I agreed to meet her more out of curiosity as she was so forward and I wanted to find out more about this woman who had the guts to call a strange male foreigner, at home and ask him out.

Afterwards, I wondered how she got my number and figured that she must’ve gotten it from my records. This is even more unusual as what she was doing was probably against the law or the rules of her company and she could probably get into big trouble if I complained. Now I really wanted to meet this woman who would take a chance like that.

We met a few days later after she finished work at 7 pm and went to a nearby Denny’s. We talked and I found out her name was Kumiko. She lived alone only a few stops from the train station where she worked and I lived; has worked at this particular branch for three years; studied English while at university, was born and raised in northern Japan, enjoyed playing tennis, and liked foreign movies and music. She said she never dated a foreigner before but was extremely attracted to me because I could speak Japanese and wanted to get to know me. She was also 28 and I was 24. She offered to pay the tab for dinner since it was she who invited me out, but I wouldn’t allow it. After a little back and forth haggling over the tab we agreed to split it and I told her that the next place was on me.

Her English speaking ability, while not fluent by any means, was fair and we spoke in both languages. My Japanese, while also not fluent, was better than her English but, to not seem rude to her we spoke both languages. All in all it was interesting to say the least.

After dinner we went for a couple of drinks and something to eat at a nearby “snack” that I knew. Afterwards, I walked her to the station and we agreed to meet again the following Saturday night at her station (her suggestion). I thought about inviting her to my apartment, but I didn’t want to be too aggressive on a first date and give her the wrong impression. Also, the encounter did not make me any more attracted to her, but she was intriguing nonetheless.

The following Saturday night we met again at her station and went to an Izakaya where we drank beer and ate all kinds of Japanese food a la carte for a couple of hours. Our conversations were again in both languages. After a while she asked if I wanted to go to her apartment. Since I had no other plans, of course I said yes. What single male wouldn’t?  Besides, even though I was not attracted to her in a physical way, I still wanted to know more about her.

Kumiko’s apartment was about a 15 minute walk and consisted of two rooms: a six mat room with a small kotatsu (small table with a removable top for the placement of a quilt, with a heat lamp under it to keep the feet and legs warm), a single bed, a TV, a radio, a phone, and a couple of other items of furniture along with a kerosene heater, and a small kitchen with a bath and toilet. It is what the Japanese would call a 1K apartment (one room with a small kitchen).

I sat at the kotatsu, warmed my feet, and leaned against the bed while she put on the TV, opened the window a crack and lit the heater. Then she grabbed a couple of beers from the small refrigerator and brought some Japanese snacks of seaweed potato chips and some dried squid. While we sat on the floor drinking and eating we continued to talk about all kinds of things like our likes and dislikes, our lives and plans and what any two people would talk about when out on a date. When the conversation lulled for a bit, we watched TV.

After a while she mentioned that it was getting late and that, if I wanted, I could stay her place. That is unless I wanted to catch the last train home at 12:30 am and had other plans tomorrow. I thought about it for a millisecond and told her I would stay if it was alright as I was feeling pretty good and really didn’t feel like going home.

Now I was in a kind of conundrum here. Was she asking me to stay because she was being friendly in a Japanese sense and was comfortable with me, or did she want to sleep with me?  Having been in Japan more than five years now, I was well aware that persons of the opposite sex sometimes asked one to stay at their place as a courtesy or sign of friendship and NOT as an indication that there would be sex. Japan can be strange in this sense, especially for a foreign male, and one has to know how to tread lightly here and know the culture. One misstep and you could screw things up. However, she had showed no signs, in either her words or her body language, that lead me to believe that she was interested in me in a sexual way.

Now if this were a woman I had met in a bar or other place frequented by foreign males, I would know immediately that her intention was to probably sleep with me as it had happened a few times in the past and the signs were quite obvious. However, this was different and I didn’t know how to read her. It was a little like when I met my first wife after being in Japan about a month and she took me home only for me to find out – in the morning! – that she lived with her parents and I ended up sleeping in the same room as she and her sister!

We talked for a while longer and I decided that she was just being friendly. Soon she asked if I’d like to take a bath before bed. Still she made no advances to me, or I towards her. Knowing the Japanese custom of daily baths and their penchant for cleanliness, of course I said yes.

She proceeded to heat up the bath while I sat there sipping on a second beer racking my brain to figure out her intentions. Not wanting to be too forward (read: I was too shy) I decided that she was just being friendly as she had made no advances towards me nor I towards her. I quickly drank my beer and decided that I would be “too drunk” to do anything with her besides sleep just to be on the safe side. My mind wanted this, but my hormones were dictating something else and I had to put them to “sleep”.

We continued to have small talk until the bath was ready. She brought out a pair of her oversized sweats for me to wear and I changed in the kitchen and took my bath. The sweats fit quite well for, as I said, she was tall for a Japanese woman. In fact she was almost my height and I was 5’ 9”.

After my bath she went into the kitchen and did the same while I drank down another beer and munched on the snacks and watched TV while warming my feet under the kotatsu. (Man do I love kotatsu’s). Now I was feeling real good and was getting quite inebriated and was really not quite feeling up to initiating sex with her. This was a good thing I thought. Besides, if I were a “gentleman” tonight, I thought, it may pay “dividends” later on if the relationship did develop further.

After her bath she came back into the room in her pajamas and sat down. Seeing that my beer was gone she brought another. Now I was really getting drunk; my hormones were “asleep” and I had no intentions whatsoever of being forward with her.

We continued to watch TV for about an hour or so and then, after the TV had signed off for the night at about 1:30AM, she turned it off, turned on a radio, said something about bed, and got a futon out from the closet. I moved the kotatsu against the wall and unplugged it while she laid out the mattress and quilts in the middle of the floor. Man did it look inviting and I couldn’t wait to get into it.

She turned off the kerosene heater and we sat on the floor a little while longer talking and listening to the radio until the smell of the kerosene heater dissipated. Then she closed the window and turned off the radio. I slipped into the futon and she turned out the light leaving only the tiny 5 or 10 watt bulb in the ceiling lamp lit and slipped into bed. Throughout it all I made no advances towards her and neither did she towards me. Maybe she was waiting for me to make the first move while all the while I was waiting for her to move first.

I lay there for a few minutes thinking about this woman, where I was, and the interesting time I had had with her; a woman who called a foreigner out of the blue and asked him out on a date, which was unheard of back then and I am now sleeping in her room! Man, this is an interesting country I remember thinking and I was still loving it all. I was glad I was living here in this foreign land of the “Rising Sun” as I am amazed almost on a daily basis by the differences in culture and thinking.

I’d like to say that she slipped into my futon or I into her bed and we ended up making wild passionate love, but such was not the case. I just fell asleep and awoke in the morning about the same time as she. She made me some coffee and afterwards some buttered toast. We talked for a while longer and I left about noon promising that we would meet again.

We did see each other several more times after that, but it never amounted to anything more than a drink and something to eat. As I mentioned earlier, she was nice and all, but the “spark” was never actually lit for me and I never again took her up on her offer to stay at her place when she offered. Had I taken her up on her offer again I know for sure that we would’ve had relations as I could tell she was really beginning to like me and the signs were there and that may not have been a good thing.

Call me crazy, but I am funny in that way. If I am not attracted to a particular woman I cannot sleep with her even though the indications are there. It’s just not me. There are exceptions of course, like “two ships passing in the night” or something similar where the attraction is there and it is just a one night stand. Or the woman bass player of an all girls band I dated for a couple of years later on who only wanted to have sex and nothing more serious (that’ll be another story), but this was different in a way that’s not easy to put into words.

Seeing that she was beginning to fall for me I gradually cut down our dates until I had to come right out with it and tell her one day that I was just not interested in her in a loving way and it wouldn’t be fair to her for me to take this relationship any further. I really felt bad as I could see the hurt in her eyes. But it had to be and I did not want to lead this woman on even though I could’ve probably had all the sex I wanted. It’s just not me. I can count on three fingers the number of women I broke up with and Kumiko was one.

Kumiko continued working at the bank for about another year and then was gone. Maybe she was transferred to a different branch or maybe she got married. I don’t know. If she was the one who waited on me when I went to the bank we just exchanged small talk and that was it. She never called me again nor I her. However, it was an interesting experience and one I’ll remember forever as it was rare indeed for a Japanese woman to ask a man out back then, especially a foreigner. She was ahead of her time.

Kumiko-chan, I wish you well and it was pleasure meeting you.

“Pachipro”

Pachinko, an upright pinball machine, is a “legalized” form of gambling in Japan and today, one can still make a living out of playing it as it is a 23 trillion yen industry far surpassing Las Vegas in profits in this time of world-wide recession. The reason is perhaps that, in Japan, an average person has at least a decent chance of hitting a jackpot, while in Las Vegas it is very rare for the average person to hit a jackpot, even a small one. Maybe Las Vegas could learn something from the pachinko industry of Japan instead of being so greedy, as any average person walking into a pachinko parlor in Japan has a far more better chance of hitting a jackpot than one does in Las Vegas more often, and on a daily basis. Even though the average jackpot at pachinko is about $65 one can hit on the same machine 3, 4, 5, or even 10 to 20 times in a matter of hours and on a daily basis. In Japan it is not difficult to make a living from playing pachinko and it is more enjoyable than gambling in the U.S if one can stand the noise and smoke.

Anyway, this is the story of how I survived for about 8 months playing only pachinko and how received the name Pachipro (Pachinko Professional)

I started playing Pachinko while in the military back in 1973 when, out of curiosity, I entered a small place near the base. It soon became one of my favorite past times when I had nothing better to do. Since I was so green to Japan at the time with barely any knowledge of the language, I never won more than a couple of thousand yen on the rare days that I did win. Back then yen was 300/US$1 so my winnings never totaled more than $10-$13, but it was still good money when your monthly salary was about $360 a month and a beer cost 300 yen at a bar.

Also, all the machines were manual at the time in that you had to shoot the balls by operating a lever with your thumb and hope the balls would fall into one of the five or so “tulips” placed strategically on the board where you would win 15 balls for opening the tulip and 15 more for closing it (which was much easier than opening it.) 30 balls cost 100 yen. I found it intriguing and it was a good way to pass a rainy Saturday afternoon before hitting the nightspots as a few hours seemed like a few minutes. Also, it was interesting to see how lucky one could get. Most of my friends found it boring, but I enjoyed it.

I heard that gambling was illegal in Japan and since I had only a rudimentary knowledge of Japanese at the time I didn’t know that you could convert your winnings into cash. Therefore, I only took my winnings in the prizes or food and snacks that I would store in my room on the base. After I heard about the loophole in the law from my Japanese friends that you could win cash by exchanging small packets of flint or whatever they gave you at that particular Pachinko parlor, at a little kiosk off the premises, I always took my winnings in cash. Winning cash seemed to make it that much more interesting and fun. After all there was only so many lighters, candy bars, chips, or “Cup O’ Noodle” one could have. At this time I also did not know any of the techniques of playing the game like looking at the width of the pins above the tulips or judging the speed of the balls. I just watched where everyone else was placing their ball when maneuvering the lever and I did the same.

I continued playing it every now and then and became an avid player in my college days beginning in 1977. I didn’t win much and on some days I would lose two or three thousand yen while on others I would profit anywhere from four to seven thousand yen for a minimum investment of 1 – 3,000 yen. I didn’t play but maybe 2-3 times a week, but I usually won more than I lost as I learned how to “read” the machines by the width of the pins and the speed of the balls.

By 1980 all machines had been converted to automatic in that there was now a handle that one turned to adjust the speed and placement of the balls instead of a manually operated lever that often left regular players with a calloused thumb and middle finger and the speed of the balls was controlled electronically by a computerized random number generator.

Also, instead of just tulips for the balls to fall into, the center area had things like the wings of an airplane that would open once or twice when a ball fell into one of three holes and this increased the speed of the game and your winnings.

This is hard to explain, but if a ball fell into a small center hole (which was only the width of the ball itself) in this center piece, a “bonus” would be paid in that the wings would open 10 times in succession. For each ball that fell in, 15 would come out. And, during this “bonus time”, if another ball happened to fall into the center hole before 10 balls fell into the other two wide holes, you could continue up to 10 times. If this happened 5 or 6 times in a short period of time, you would win about 2,500-3,000 balls which was equal to about 6,000-7,000 yen in winnings. The machine would be closed and you either left with your winnings or continued playing on another machine. Also, it usually took anywhere from an hour or two to five, six, or maybe even seven hours to “close” a machine if you were lucky enough to find a good machine.

If anyone knows anything about pachinko it is this: About 2-3 times per year a parlor will install new machines and YOU ALMOST ALWAYS WIN ON THE FIRST FEW DAYS OF A PARLOR INSTALLING NEW MACHINES as this is what they called the “honeymoon” period. The machines are loose and maybe 90% of the people win to entice them to come back with their winnings. (This is also done to introduce people to the new machines in the hopes that they will return to play more often.) After a couple of days things return to normal. Not all the machines are replaced, maybe 20-30%, but it’s enough to fill the place with customers as all the machines are loose.

Sometime in early 1981 a new type of pachinko machine was introduced called the “Fever” and “Bravo” type that would change the industry forever. I was in my senior year at Sophia University (上智 大学) and a contract I had teaching had just expired and I was in between jobs and wondering what I was going to do for money. Do I sign a new contract with them or maybe find something different closer to home or another gig that paid more?

I had just gotten off the train about 5pm and was walking home when I heard the familiar music from a pachinko parlor indicating that they had new machines. Back then they used to hire a group of musicians in traditional garb who played the flute, drums and a cymbal like instrument outside. Now they just have a bunch of huge artificial flowers outside and include fliers in the newspapers. One can always tell when a place has new machines when you see 100 or so people lined up outside about 3 or 4pm on the first day and around noon on the second and third day.

Why not give it a shot I thought. It was free money and I could always use 4 or 5,000 yen. The place was already opened and I went in. Practically 50% of the machines had been replaced with a new type that I had never seen before. They were called “Bravo” and “Fever” machines. They were the first computerized, digitalized machines controlled by a random number generator and would change the industry, the speed of the game, and payouts, forever. Instead of the familiar wings of an airplane or something else in the center that would open when a ball went into a special slot, this was a new type that had what looked like a slot machine in the center.

The “Bravo” type of machine had three digitalized numbers and a jackpot was “777” or “333”. The “Fever” type resembled a slot machine in that the center three would spin and a jackpot was “777”. The place was packed and luckily I found an empty “Bravo” machine. I looked around and saw that a lot of people had large boxes of balls sitting on the floor. More than I had ever seen before. Wow, I thought, this place is really loose.

I sat down and put in my usual 200 yen for 60 balls. This was pretty cool. When a ball went into a hole in the middle, under the numbers, the three sets of numbers would spin like a slot machine. The directions said that if the numbers stopped on “333″ or “777″ it would pay out a bonus 15 times. If it stopped on “337″ or “773″ a small bonus would be paid. I didn’t understand this, but continued to play. I lost my 200 yen and put in more as I knew I would eventually win. This was really cool and was more interesting than the other types of machines.

After investing about 1,000 yen I hit “777″. Bells went off and the machine lit up like a Christmas tree. A small tray opened up on the bottom and balls flew in. For each ball that went in I received 15 bonus balls. Balls were coming out like crazy and so fast that I had a hard time scooping them into the small box. An attendant came over and gave me a big box that I knew held 2,500-3,000 balls. I thought I broke the machine or something as something like this had never happened before. After 10 balls went in, the tray would close and open again. 10 more balls and so on until it did it 15 times. All in all the machine spit out about 3,000 balls as a jackpot. I had a huge box of balls that I knew was worth about 7,000 yen at the exchange rate of 2.5 yen per ball.

To my surprise they didn’t close the machine on me like they usually do when you win that many balls. Usually when you won about 2,500-3,000 balls they would close the machine and sell it for 500 yen later in the day. A closed machine indicated that the pins were open quite wide. This was unbelievable! It used to take at least 3-5 hours or more with the other types of machines to win this many balls. And I did it in a matter of minutes!

I continued playing and within 20 minutes I hit “333″. Jackpot!  Another 3,000 or so balls. The machine was closed, a cart was brought, and my 2 boxes of balls were wheeled to the counter. Wow! I knew I had about 15,000 yen here. I opted for cash and came out with about 14,000 yen in profit! I’m going to try this again.

Back in I went, found another empty machine and within 2,000 yen I hit it again and about 45 minutes later I hit it again! Closed again and this time about 13,000 yen in winnings. This is unbelievable.

Back in I went. This time it took a little longer to hit the Jackpot. Maybe about an hour or more, but the funny thing was that I only put in 500 yen. Balls kept falling in the center hole like crazy as the pins for this hole to spin the numbers were unusually wide. For every ball that fell in, 15 more would come out. Honestly, the machine never stopped spinning. I closed that machine and took away another 14,000 or so yen in about 3 hours. I decided not to push my luck that day, but I sure as hell would be coming back tomorrow. All in all I profited over 40,000 yen and I had never won more than 10-12,000 yen in a single day before, and that was extremely rare.

The next day I was there at the noon opening time. I spent about 4 hours there and profited over 20,000 yen for an investment of about 4,000 yen.) I would’ve stayed longer, but I had to get to classes at the university that night.

The next day I was there at noon and came away with another 20,000 or so yen in about 5 hours. Wow, this is unreal. Can these new machines be really that loose? Here I was after three days with about 80,000 yen in profit. About 2 ½ times my rent and two-thirds of my monthly take home pay from teaching English.

Of course I was there the following day at the 10am opening. Now the honeymoon was over. Things should be back to normal. Within a couple of hours and 4,000 yen invested I closed another machine. I continued playing all day until about 6pm and came away with over 15,000 in profit. Maybe one can really make a living out of this, I thought. I had heard about the so-called “Pachipros” who did nothing, but play pachinko all day, everyday. I thought it would be boring to play everyday, but this type of new machine was fun and the hours spent there felt like minutes!

I continued going everyday (except Sunday as that was always the most crowded day and a day I reserved for my girlfriend) and became a regular. Some days I stayed 12 hours, but mostly I stayed until about 6pm; about eight hours. Some days I did lose 10-20,000 yen, but the majority of days I profited a minimum of 10,000 yen and the really great days I came away with 50,000 yen or more in winnings.

A couple of the regular “Pachipros“ taught me a few rules on how they profit. For example:

- Never lose more than 10-20,000 yen. Just walk away and come back tomorrow.

- Set a limit on winnings. Say 10 – 30,000 yen. When that is reached leave, no matter how early it is (that is easier said than done!) as more than likely you’ll lose some of it back. Aim for an average profit of 10,000 yen per day.

- If a machine is spinning well but not hitting the jackpot, take a break and go to lunch or something. They will hold the machine for 45 minutes. It might hit later as it’s controlled by computer.

- Always look in the ashtray. If it is full with the same type of cigarette or looks like it has been used heavily, the machine is probably a good one. (This turned out to be true more often than not.)

- If you notice someone who has fed a large amount of yen into a machine and has not won and they leave it, play it for a few thousand as you will probably win. This also turned out to be true more often than not. One should always keep a lookout for machines that take a lot of yen without a jackpot and play them.

There are more “rules”, but I won’t go into them here.

As I also became a daily patron there I made a few friends and I was given the name “Pachipro” by the regulars and welcomed into their group. There were about 15 “Pachipros” at that place who did nothing but play pachinko all day, everyday. No job, no nothing. Their only income was from pachinko and/or Pachislo, a slot machine that took coins instead of balls and actually was a slot machine. I now completely understood how that could be done as, for almost a year I never worked, ate out everyday, paid all my rent and bills and had money to burn at the bars at night and on the weekends, with the income from Pachinko. And it was a helluva lot of fun too.

These days I only play Pachislo. The pachinko type machines have become really sophisticated and it is really hard to win if you aren’t willing to invest 10 – 20,000 yen or more. You can lose that in 45 min. Of course you can win with less than that invested, but not too often. (I’ve hit a jackpot with only 1,000 yen invested more than a few times.) They also tease you too much as there is no “small bonus” for two of three numbers anymore which comes up quite often. And instead of 15 balls coming from a spin, you now only get 5-7 depending on the machine so you have to constantly feed the machine. But, when you win, you really win these days.  Also, they don’t close machines as they did in the past. I’ve seen people sitting at machines with 8, 9, 10 or more boxes and I myself have had that many! At about 2 – 2,500 yen per box, that is a lot of money. My best day was several of years ago when I won 120,000 yen (about US$1,200) in 8 hours! The Pachislo’s are, in my opinion, a lot easier and I know that some Japanese would beg to differ. I guess it all depends on ones preference, but even the pachislos are becoming more like pachinko machines in that they tease you too much.

Today, I would not consider myself a pachipro as I no longer live full-time in Japan and even though I play it when I return for my yearly visits, the machines are always new and more sophisticated, but the basic premise is still the same. In the long run though, you can still make a living out of playing pachinko and pachislo these days if you play smart. With no taxes to pay it is a damn good income if you play smart and know when to quit.

I never did go back to teaching English that year. I graduated from university in March, 1981 and since my visa didn’t expire until December, I stayed and played pachinko everyday until I left for new horizons in New York that December.

With a degree in International Business and Economics and a fairly fluent knowledge of Japanese, I would knock them dead. Big salary here I come! The Japanese economy is booming, Japanese management style is becoming the rage and I have the keys to help bridge the gap between Japanese and American companies! Unfortunately my dream didn’t pan out. With interest rates at 18% and a depression going on, no one was hiring and, even though I found a job at the Bank of Tokyo on Wall Street. It didn’t pay much and I was back in Japan within 14 months where I opened up my own English School and play more pachinko!

Kita no Yado Kara (From an Inn in the North)

The year was 1977. I had just started my freshman year at Sophia University in Tokyo and had been out of the military for a little more than three months. Rather than move to Tokyo to be closer to school and work, I ended up renting an apartment not far from the base as most of my friends were still stationed there, and I knew the area well. Besides, I could get three rooms with a bath for the price of one room in Tokyo with no bath. Back then public baths were still common and there was one in every neighborhood. The price of a bath was around 25 cents

I lived near Odakyu-Sagamihara station which was halfway between Camp Zama, the small Army base where I was stationed, at Soubudai Mai station and the then base hospital at Sagami Ono. This station was also where the base housing was for the military families stationed at Zama and where a few of my friends lived. It was about 30 minutes by express to Shinjuku station from Sagami Ono on the Odakyu line.

One spring night I was feeling rather bored and decided to go on out to a bar to have something to do and to continue to explore my new found freedom as a civilian in Japan. It was one of the few times I would venture out on my own and I never went into a strange bar before by myself as there was always someone to show me around or take me to a new place. During my four years in the military in Japan when I went out alone, I usually only went to bars and ‘snacks’ that someone had already taken me to, or I had visited with friends. Up until today I had never ventured into a new bar alone around my neighborhood. Today I was feeling cocky and decided to give it a try. After all this is my home now, I’m on my own and I might as well get used to it and check out my new surroundings.

I wandered on up to the area around the train station and walked up and down the two narrow streets trying to decide which bar would be most welcoming for a foreigner. I didn’t want a hostess bar where I would get ripped off for drinks. I wanted a regular bar or snack where I could just drink and maybe meet some of the locals.

Also, it was difficult around a military base in the mid 70’s as a lot of bars and snacks that didn’t strictly cater to servicemen, like near the large navy bases of Yokosuka or Atsugi base, refused service to foreigners as they were usually loud and obnoxious, didn’t know the language and customs, and sometimes didn’t want to pay their bill after they ran up a few thousand yen, or demanded that they be allowed to pay in US dollars. Since the base I was stationed at, Camp Zama, was a small base these bars were few, but they were still there nonetheless.

Also, in Japan, as most men who have lived there, or are living there, can attest to, they have what they call “Hostess Bars”. These are bars where a group of girls of all ages work hustling “drinks” at 500 yen a clip for what amounted to brown water or tea, on up to 1,000 yen for the real stuff. (I don’t believe the price has changed much in around 30 years or so.)

Here the girls would split half the cost of the “brown tea” with the proprietor or mama-san. The more “drinks” they could hustle from a customer, the more they made. As long as you kept buying “drinks” for them they would sit next to you, rub your leg, and make you feel like you were the sexiest man in the world. As soon as you slowed down, or stopped buying them “drinks”, they would move to the next customer. If it was a really slow night and she liked you, or knew you as a regular, she might sit with you without you buying her drinks and may even spend the night with you.

I spent a fortune in these types of bars in Yokohama‘s Chinatown during my first year there in 1973! Man did they see me coming! (18 years old and green as all hell!) I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it though, as quite a few times it “paid off” at the end of the night and I learned a lot, real quick, about this part of the culture.

Anyway, this evening I decided on a little hole in the wall place called “Murasaki” as I saw a pretty good looking woman enter about 15 min earlier. (Why else would a foreign male enter a strange establishment?) Also, there was no sign saying “No Foreigners” tacked outside. I took a deep breath and went on inside.

I was greeted with “Irashaimase”, welcome. There were two women behind the bar. A woman who appeared to be in her 40’s and one who appeared to be in her 20’s (the one whom I had seen enter this place). Both were pretty good looking.

The older woman was dressed in a kimono. This was the mama-san, the owner or manager, and the woman with her was the one who made me decide to enter this establishment. A third woman was seated with a customer. I took a seat at the bar.

Immediately the older woman (mama-san) said in Japanese to the younger woman near her something like, “What is he doing in here? I hope he has yen and not dollars. Should we serve him?”

She then looked at me and said in broken English, “What drink?”

Playing dumb, I said in English, “Kirin Beer kudasai”. (I knew basic Japanese fairly well, including reading and writing at the time, as I had studied it for a year a couple of years earlier on base, spoke it with my wife and her parents, albeit on a basic level, and was now taking it seriously at the university.)

She said “hai” and placed two coasters in front of me. She placed a glass and a bottle of Kirin beer on them. She poured the beer into the glass and I proceeded to drink while they politely ignored me.

After a while the mama-san said to one of the other girls something like, “I wonder why he came in here. We don’t have American music. The gaijin (foreigners) that usually come in here usually have one or two drinks and then leave. I hope he has yen.”

One of them answered to the effect that my hair was long so I couldn’t be in the military. She said to the mama-san that maybe I worked on the base. After that they went about their business and didn’t say anything else. They took it for granted that I didn’t speak any Japanese. (This is the norm in Japan.)

After a while, another customer came in, sat at the bar a few seats down from me and the younger girl behind the bar quickly sat next to him. He seemed to be a regular as he was asked how he was and that it has been a while since they last seen him, and then they talked about things I didn’t understand. He quickly ordered her a drink. I realized that they were hostesses after all, but they didn’t bother with me and I thought about leaving.

I quickly drank the first beer and asked for another.

“300 yen ok? Now 600 yen ok?” the mama-san said holding her right index finger against her left palm that had all five fingers showing. Still no one bothered with me.

I said, “Ok”, and put 1,000 yen on the bar. She took the money and gave me back four one hundred yen coins.

Halfway through the second beer the alcohol started coursing through my veins and I began to feel pretty confident. I figured I’d impress the hell out of them and play some Japanese music.

I took a 100 yen coin from the bar and went over to the juke box. Of course the music was all in Japanese and I thought to myself, “Shit, I hope I can read enough to select a decent song and not make a fool out of myself.”

I could hear them talking behind me that they didn’t have any American music and that I probably didn’t know any Japanese songs.

Why did they think I was American? I could’ve been Canadian, or English, or Dutch, or German for all they knew and this used to piss off my foreign friends from these countries. All foreigners in Japan at that time (even today) were considered American if they were white or black but, in this case, it was probably because I was in an establishment near a US military base.

Anyway, I digress. They were right. Sure I knew the tunes to some Japanese popular songs that I heard in bars or on the radio, but I didn’t know any titles to them. But I could read some Japanese.

I selected two songs that I could read with basic Kanji: 北の宿から (Kita no Yado Kara, by Miyako Harumi) and 赤いくつ (Akai Kutsu, by the Hi-Fi Set). Little did I know when I selected those songs that I would drink for free that night and they would all become my friends.

As Kita no Yado Kara started playing I sat at the bar. The mama-san looked at the other girls with a bemused look and then looked at me and said in Japanese, “Nihongo wakarimasu ka?” Do you understand Japanese?

I answered that I understood a little and she quickly smiled and said, “Ah soo desuka”, Is that right?

Then she hit me with so many questions so fast that I had to slow her down and tell her that I was just learning and was a student. Then the other lone customer came up to me and said, “Congrajulashions,” and ordered me a drink. He and the hostess with him came and sat next to me.

For about the next two hours, the entire conversation was in Japanese with a little English thrown in here and there and I didn’t pay for a single drink. Even the mama-san bought me a beer. Although I had only a rudimentary knowledge of the language, we managed and it was interesting. I stumbled home completely drunk for 600 yen (about US$2 then.)

I had no idea then that “Kita no Yado Kara” was one of the most popular enka and karaoke songs of the previous year and is still popular today. It was just easy to read in Japanese!

Needless to say “Murasaki” became one of my favorite places to drink throughout my college years until it closed in 1981 to make room for a six-story business establishment filled with bars and restaurants with a Dunkin’ Donuts on the ground floor. I made many friends in that place, a few of which are still friends today. And all of my visits were conducted in Japanese only, the best way to learn the language, especially for a beginner or one with only a basic understanding. I also gained a few private students that wanted to learn, or improve, their basic English skills which turned out to be pretty profitable.

In the end, I guess you could say a little language goes a long, long way!  Besides, it will completely impress the hell out of the Japanese as they figure that anyone that can learn their language must be pretty bright as they themselves have a real difficult time with other languages.

Therefore, if you’re living in Japan (or planning to) and learning the language, stay away from the tourist places or English-only speaking places where mainly foreigners frequent, and visit the out-of-the-way places, the regular places where the locals go when they want a drink even if you have only a basic understanding of the language. It will probably make you a few friends, open a few doors, and introduce you to a completely new world and culture that you never would have experienced otherwise. You’ll be glad you did as you may still have some dear, close friends some 30 years later.

Suzuki-San

Suzuki-san

I met Suzuki-san in 1979 during my junior year at Sophia University. The house across the street had renovated their downstairs and opened up a small snack. (By “across the street” I mean about 15 paces from my front door!)

How strange I thought, that a snack would open up on a residential street. It really was true that you can open up a business anywhere in Japan! (A snack is a small establishment that serves alcohol and cooked food. Since they serve food, they can stay open until the wee hours of the morning. A bar, on the other hand, serves mainly alcohol, no cooked food, and has to close by midnight-1am.)

I had never ventured into that place because I was usually too busy with school, teaching, and partying with my friends at discos and “Live Houses” (places where live rock music was played). Besides, I didn’t like venturing into strange places if someone didn’t take me first.

Some nights when I was studying or trying to sleep, I would hear the singing of karaoke from that little place. It really bugged me at times, but I let it slide as this was, after all, Japan and karaoke was becoming all the rage. What the big deal was about karaoke was beyond me, but the Japanese just loved singing to the “empty orchestra.”

Yes, this was Japan. One of the few places in the world where you can rent an apartment with paper thin walls and hear your neighbors snoring or making love as clearly as if there were no walls. But, like everyone else, I pretended that I didn’t hear them, and never complained or knocked on the walls, and neither did they. After all, I knew they could hear me also when I had a “guest” for the night no matter how quiet we tried to be.  It was something you got used to and learned to live with as all Japanese do.

Anyway, one night at about 10 pm, having nothing to do, I decided to venture over to that place as it was so close rather than walking the 10 minutes to the places I knew around the train station. I opened up the sliding door and ducked under the curtain. Talk about a hole in the wall! The place was no more than eight feet wide by maybe, 16 feet long and had a counter that sat 6 people. That’s it. Any more than 6 or 7 people in that place and it would probably be deemed over crowded and a fire hazard.

The place was empty and I was greeted with the customary “Irrashaimase”, welcome, and sat at the counter. I could tell that the small (no more that 5 ft tall) mama-san was perplexed that a “gaijin” came into her place, so I quickly ordered a beer in Japanese. As the place was empty, I wanted to put her at ease in case she thought I was going to rob her or start some trouble.

She gave me the beer with the customary small plate of some snacks and poured it into my glass. Sometimes the snack would be potato chips, or peanuts, or pickles, or whatever she was serving with drinks that night.

Since I ordered in Japanese she began the conversation with the usual “20 questions” in Japanese. “Oh, you speak Japanese?” “What do you do?” “Do you like sushi?” “Do you live around here?” etc.

I answered her questions and I could tell that she quickly became at ease with me, especially since I told her I lived across the street. After the questions stopped it became eerily quiet, so I ordered another beer and wondered if anyone else would come in here.

The mama-san asked if I was hungry and I scanned the menu on the wall and ordered some edamame (soy beans in the pod) and some ika maru yaki (fried squid rings). Live in Japan long enough and you come to find out that one important, unwritten rule-of-thumb in Japan is that one MUST order food with ones drink in a snack.

She was impressed that I could read Japanese and quickly made my order. More small talk followed while she cooked my order and played some music in the background. Still no one came in.

After being there for what seemed like an hour or so, the sliding door opened and an older Japanese man with a black French beret and glasses on walked in. I glanced over to the door and was surprised to see that he had a dog on his back. He was carrying it the way mothers carried their babies on their backs! In Japan this is known as “Onbu suru”, to carry on ones back. How strange and cool I thought!

He came in and the mama-san got him his “key” bottle of whisky from behind the counter. I could read the name “Suzuki and Jiro” on the bottle. For those unfamiliar with the term, a “Key Bottle” is a bottle of Whisky, Sake, or other alcohol, that you purchase at a bar or snack for about double or triple its regular price depending on the area. Your name is put on it and it is kept on a shelf for the next time you come in. Once you purchase a “Key Bottle” you only have to pay for a bucket of ice & water or whatever, if you are drinking mixed drinks. This usually costs about 500 or more yen, again, depending on the area. If you are drinking it straight, then you pay nothing. In either case it is expected that you will order something to eat. It’s still the most economical way to drink when out in Japan and you frequent a place often.

Jiro was the name of his dog. It was a beautiful Shiba-ken dog.  Anyone who has lived in Japan for any length of time knows what type of dogs they are as they are very popular.

Suzuki-san bent his knees and lowered the dog to the floor. Mama-san brought the dog a bowl of water and Suzuki-san sat at the far end of the counter about three seats away and didn’t even acknowledge that I was there. I looked at him nodded my head in a greeting and said, “konbanwa” (good evening). He nodded back with a little grunt of “Un”.

I love dogs, so I bent over to pet his dog which was quite friendly. Still no acknowledgement or words from Suzuki-san. Well, the heck with you too, I thought and went about drinking my beer and eating my squid and edamame.

Mama-san played some more music and they began to talk. I ignored them as, although I could hear most of the words and phrases they were saying, I had no idea what the subject was. That’s one of the great things of the Japanese language. You can have a conversation with someone and only you two know what you’re talking about as the subject is understood between the speakers and is usually never mentioned in front of strangers.

After a while I heard him say, “Kono hito dare?” Who’s this person? Mama-san came over to me and asked my name. I told her it was Joe. She repeated my name to Suzuki-san and he said with a bow of his head, “Joe-san, yoroshiku hajimemashte,” Nice to meet you Joe. I noticed he was missing a middle tooth. He introduced himself as Suzuki.

I replied and introduced myself in Japanese and we began to talk with the usual “20 questions”.  I found out that he was a retired business man who lived alone with his dog about a 10 minute walk away. His wife had died two years previous and he had a son who lived somewhere up north. I also, later on in the relationship, found out that he and his son were not all that close.

He started looking through a book that was on the counter and after a while asked to sing a song. Mama-san slipped an eight-track tape into the player and he began to sing while reading the words from a book.

After the song was over, he asked if I could read Japanese. I replied that I could. He then asked if I could sing karaoke and I told him that no, I couldn’t. He said I should learn. I told him that I couldn’t carry a tune and would probably sound terrible. I also told him that I was too shy.  He said he would teach me. I replied to the effect of, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Suzuki-san looked disappointed and our conversation suddenly came to a halt. He continued singing now and then for the next half hour or so, but didn’t say much to me.

I didn’t know it then, but in Japan when you are asked to sing a song when out with a group or another person, no matter how shy you are or how terrible you sound, you MUST sing. Everyone does and no one will put you down or boo you for it like they do in the states on “kary okey” (US pronunciation) nights. Failure to do so will cause you to lose “face” and make you look “stuck-up” or “too good” in front of the others. Even if you can’t read Japanese, there will always be words to some corny song in English that everyone knows, like “Yesterday”, by the Beatles or “You Are My Sunshine” or “My Way” by Frank Sinatra, etc.

In my six years there to date no one had ever asked me to sing a song. Maybe they took it for granted that I couldn’t or wouldn’t sing. I don’t know. Besides, till then karaoke was not all that popular and was just coming into its own.

Anyway, another customer came in and he and Mr. Suzuki began to talk. After a while they were both singing. They asked me to sing and I politely declined. They just ignored me after that and I finally paid my bill and went home.

I went there the next night as it was pretty convenient and was told that Suzuki-san came in there about 3 or 4 times a week always with his dog. I went there maybe 2-3 times a week after that and every time Suzuki-san was there he would try to get me to sing and every time I declined. However, he didn’t ignore me and we became close. Every time I went and he was there or would come in later, he would great me with a loud “Joe-san!” and a wave of his hand. I can still hear his voice today.

I began to frequent the place often and about three weeks later I went there at about 9pm and Suzuki-san was already there and, as usual, began singing. I really liked the tunes to some of the songs he was singing. Some of them I knew from the other bars and radio and TV and some I didn’t.  He pushed me again to sing and, again, I declined.

After about three beers, one which was bought by Suzuki-san, he again pushed me to sing. I finally gave in and said “Ok, I’ll try.” He selected what he called an easy song: “Omae Ni” by Frank Nagai. He opened the book of words and we began to go over it together. The words were simple, mostly hiragana with a few kanji that I knew. After he was satisfied that I could read all the words he asked mama-san to play the tape. We each had a microphone and we went over it together with me following his lead. It was a simple song that anyone could sing and was mostly in hiragana. Then he asked that I sing it alone. The tape was played and I did pretty well for my first try. He made me do it about three times afterwards to make sure I got it. With the echo turned up I didn’t sound half bad after all.

I mastered that song that night. The next time he taught me another song: “Kuchinashi no Hana” and I mastered that. After about a month I was able to sing about 10 different songs. My favorite song though, even today, is “Kitaguni no Haru by Sen Masao.

Soon he began to take me, and introduce me to, other places in the neighborhood and we would sing songs. He would sing one and then I would sing one and sometimes we would sing together. We became the hit of the neighborhood snacks and the bars around the train station. Me, Suzuki-san, and Jiro.

Jiro soon began to take to me and we would walk from the bar across from my apartment to the other places with Jiro on my back. Soon I was known and welcomed in almost every snack and bar in the neighborhood. I was known as the gaijin who could sing Japanese enka.

I made many more friends there and Suzuki-san and I became the closest of friends along with the mama-san. I looked to him like one would a grandfather. He would visit me often at my apartment with Jiro and we would sit and talk while watching TV and drinking. We would play pachinko together. Once or twice he even cooked for me. A couple of times he came with me to Yokohama when I carried the Omikoshi at festivals with my friend, and he even bought me a watch when I graduated the University which I still wear to this day.

I really came to love that man and we became the closest of friends. We were together at least 3 days a week for two years. We just plain enjoyed each others company and not once were our conversations conducted in anything but Japanese. Even though he knew some basic English, he never tried speaking it. I can still hear him knocking on my apartment door at about 8 or 9pm saying, “Joe-san, nomimashou!” Joe, Lets go drinking! Always with his constant companion, Jiro, on his back.

On August 17, 1981 I was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of fire engines. They sounded really close. I looked outside, and since they weren’t on my street, I went back to sleep. The next morning I get a knock on the door and it is the mama-san in tears telling me that Suzuki-san and Jiro died in a fire the previous night. It turned out he fell asleep while smoking and the rest is history. I had just seen him a couple of days earlier and I must’ve cried for what seemed like a week after that I was so saddened.

Yes, even today I still visit a few of the places we used to frequent at Odakyuu-Sagamihara station that are still there when I make my yearly visit to Japan. Luckily, for me my in-laws live near that station. And every time I sing, I make sure to always sing “Omae Ni” in honor of Mr. Suzuki. The song may be 30 years old and ancient now, but I don’t care and it is always in the karaoke books. And I always preface the song with a tribute to my Ojiisan (grandfather) and “sensei” (teacher) who never gave up on the young gaijin and taught him to sing Japanese enka.

It was 29 years ago this August that he passed away and I have never forgotten about him. Sometimes, as I lay awake in bed waiting for sleep to befall me, or while driving at night, I fondly think of him and I can still hear his voice, loud and clear as if he were right next to me saying, “Joe-san, nomimashou!”

Umeboshi vs. Oshibori (Hand Towels and Pickled Plums)

Throughout my time in Japan I have discovered that many a foreigner residing in Japan, including myself, and knowing even a little bit of the language has the tendency of thinking he/she knows the language well and can speak it more fluently than they realize. They are proud of their ability, speak it with confidence, and are ready to use it as often as possible to impress the Japanese, especially Japanese women if they are male, and their non-speaking foreign friends while all the while not even realizing they are making basic mistakes. Maybe we become overconfident as the Japanese will usually lavish praise on any foreigner even speaking a few words in Japanese as they themselves have a difficult time with foreign languages.

Anyway, if you have lived a while in Japan, or know a little about Japanese food you know that an umeboshi is a salty, pickled Japanese apricot/plum. Foreigners know them as just plums. They are usually small, about the size of a gumball, pink or brown, and salty as all hell. Sometimes they are dried, like prunes, but still very salty. One can’t help but wince when they are tasted. The Japanese say that these pickled plums help to balance the alkalinity and ph of a person’s body. The more you wince the more your body’s ph is out of balance and some studies say this is true. Umeboshi are usually not on a menu in any restaurant, but can be bought in a store or made at home.

An oshibori is a moist, hot in the winter, cold in the summer, hand towel that is given to customers of a restaurant, bar, or snack so that they may clean off their hands and face before being served or after using the rest room. If you’ve lived in Japan you know they are a most welcome treat. You’ve probably received one if you visited a Japanese or Asian restaurant in your country or on the plane over.

The two words are not similar in sound but, to a person not very familiar with the Japanese language, it’s easy to mistake words when first learning and trying to use the language in public. This is one such story.

After I met Sachiko, I soon signed up for a Japanese course that was being offered on the base. I had been studying basic Japanese for several months and was grasping it quite quickly, or so I thought, as I had the advantage of practicing it with Sachiko and her family on the weekends. I stopped studying after basic Japanese 1 & 2 as I had only wanted to grasp the basics of speaking, reading, and writing and figured I could learn the rest in real life.

I was working at the Camp Zama Hospital at Sagami Ono station and late one night a few of us were sitting in my room listening to music and smoking. After a while we developed a bad case of the “munchies” and were deciding where to go to get something to eat. No one but me was in the mood for ramen again, but late at night that was about the only food available other than at a snack (A bar that serves food and allowed to remain open past the usual closing time of midnight) as all restaurants around the train station were usually closed by 9pm.

I remembered that, in my drives around the city, I noticed a Denny’s restaurant had recently opened up not far from the base. I mentioned this and everyone was fired up about getting some “real” food.

This was something new to Japan at the time: “Famuri Lestoran” – “Family Restaurants” they were called, and they started popping up in the mid ’70′s. Denny’s was one of the first and they were also the first full service restaurant open 24 hours a day in Japan. Here, one could get the bottomless cup of coffee for about 120 yen (about 36 cents) along with a hamburger or a western meal, or some curry rice or ramen. The bottomless cup of coffee was unheard of at the time in Japan and a cup of coffee at a coffee shop would set you back about 2-300 yen (about a buck, but still quite expensive at the time) and you were limited to only one, small cup.

Anyway, we drove the short distance from the base to the restaurant located out on route 16. We were greeted at the door by a woman who bowed to us and said, “Denizu eh yookosou. San mei sama desuka?” Welcome to Denny’s. Will there be three of you? she said as she held up three fingers up.

I answered, “Hai”, yes, while thinking sarcastically to myself, of course there’re three of us. Can’t you tell? I still had a lot to learn about Japanese culture and language.

Another man at the register, wearing a white shirt and black tie, also bowed and said, “Irasshaimase”, welcome. This was the manager. The cooks and the other two waitresses also yelled “irasshaimase” as we were led to our table. If we didn’t know we were in Japan we could swear we were back home in the states as the restaurant was an exact duplicate right down to the booths and menu.

“This is great,” we said as we sat down.

I could tell that the young woman was perplexed that three gaijin, foreign, men had entered the restaurant as she was quite nervous when placing the menus in front of us and, since this restaurant was so new, we were probably the first foreign customers.

After we were seated at the booth I watched her as she immediately went to the manager and said something. He, in turn, went over to the window behind the counter and said something to the cook. The cook then yelled “Eigo wakarimasuka”? Speak English? to someone we couldn’t see. I couldn’t tell if anyone answered. The manager then went over to the waitress, said something to her and she went around to the two other waitresses and spoke to them. By the back and forth nodding of their heads, I took it for granted that she was asking them if they spoke any English and, to her dismay, they were answering no or pretending they didn’t know any English as later on I came to learn that all Japanese study at least basic English at school.

We looked at the menu and made our decisions. It was quite easy as the menu was in both English and Japanese. We’d start off with coffee. We waited a few minutes and still no one came over to us. Our waitress was busy either politely ignoring us or probably hoping that we’d just leave or something or that someone else would serve us. I caught the manager’s eye and raised my hand indicating that we wanted some service. He called to the waitress, pointed in our direction, and she came over with her order book in hand.

I, being the “speaker” of Japanese, decided that I would put this waitress at ease by speaking Japanese. “Kohi san pai kudasai,” Three glasses of coffee please, I said to her not realizing that I had made a mistake here. I should’ve said, “Kohi mitsu kudasai”, three coffees.

She quickly wrote it down and my friends each ordered what they wanted by pointing to the picture, or saying it in English. Me, trying to impress my friends and this waitress, ordered in the Japanese accent.

“Boku wa cheezubaga to fulenchi fli kudasai,” I’ll have a cheeseburger and French fries I said, knowing this had to impress her. She gathered up the menus and brought us our coffee a few minutes later along with some silverware.

After a few minutes I noticed that we weren’t given the oshibori, the moist hand towels that all customers in a restaurant were given to clean their hands and face with. I knew they had them in this restaurant because I could see that others had them on their table. I caught the waitresses’ eye and, after she came over to the table, said confidently, “umeboshi kudasai,” please give me/us a pickled plum.

I was so sure of my language ability that I didn’t even realize that I had asked for a pickled plum instead of a hot towel!

“Umeboshi desuka?” you want a pickled plum? she said with a dumbfounded look on her face.

“Hai umeboshi kudasai. Mitsu.” Yes, pickled plums please. Three, I said in return while making a circular motion with my hand around the table indicating that I wanted one for all of us. And why do you look so confused? We’re customers also, even though we may be gaijin, I thought to myself.

You can see that I was a little sarcastic and defensive after being in Japan for almost a year and feeling a little of the prejudice and animosity sometimes aimed at gaijin, especially around a military base.

“Shoshomachi kudasai,” just a minute, she said with a little bow and went over to the manager.

My friends asked me what I was saying and I informed them that I was asking for the hot hand towels. They knew what I meant as they were familiar with the Japanese custom and agreed that they wanted them also. It hadn’t dawned on me that I was using the wrong word as I was very confident in my Japanese ability and “knew” perfectly well what I was saying.

After a minute or two our waitress returned and said, “Sumimasen, umeboshi wa nai’n desu”, I’m sorry, but we don’t have any pickled plums.

Now I was getting a little irritated as I could see that the other customers had, and were being given hand towels as they were seated.

“Umeboshi hoshII’N DESU,“ I WANT a pickled plum! I said, raising my voice a little as I spoke looking her in the eye.

Now she was really nervous and looked towards the manager. The manager came over and said something like, “Nan desuka?” What’s the matter?

I looked at him and said, “Umeboshi kudasai, umeboshi hoshii’n desu. Oneigaishimasu” please give us some pickled plums. We want pickled plums. Please do us the favor.

He in turn repeated that they couldn’t serve us any pickled plums as they didn’t have any.

What in the hell is he talking about? I thought to myself. I knew damn well they had the hot towels. I could see them. Is this a joke?

In my frustration, I put my hands up to my face and vigorously moved them up and down in the motion of washing my face, while saying in an irritated voice, “UMEBOSHI KUDASAI!” GIVE ME A PICKLED PLUM!

I then made the motion of rubbing my hands in one another, like I was washing them while saying again, “Umeboshi!” Pickled plum! My friends meanwhile were laughing at my actions.

At this point the waitress looked at the manager and said, “Ohshibori. Kare wa tabun oshibori hoshi’n desu.” Hand towel. Maybe he wants a hand towel.

The waitress then looked at me and said, “Oshibori desu ka?” A hand towel?

Upon hearing the word oshibori, I instantly realized my mistake. My face must’ve turned a hundred shades of red and I could feel myself starting to sweat. If I were a snake I probably would’ve slithered out the door as I was so embarrassed.

I looked at her and said in a soft voice, “Hai oshibori desu. Sumimasen.” Yes, a hand towel. Excuse me.

She said, “Hai,” and both she and the manager bowed and left. She returned a few seconds later with our three hand towels.

I relayed to my friends what I said and the mistake I made and we enjoyed our American food while laughing about that blunder on my part. However, that mistake stayed in my mind throughout the meal and it bothered me that I had made a fool out of myself.

I was humbled by that experience and never again arrogantly thought that I “knew it all” when it came to the Japanese language. Even after I became quite fluent later on, I was real careful of being overly confident in my ability and never took it for granted after that experience.

My friends never let me forget it either as they always kidded me about it throughout their tour.

Tips are not a custom in Japan, but I left the waitress a 500 yen tip and apologized to the manager when I paid the bill at the register. He just waved it off and said in English with a smile, “No Probrem.”

Looking back on it later, I really felt sorry for the waitress and the consternation I caused her by mistakenly using the incorrect word. She was professional through it all though, and I’m sure she still laughs today, as I do, when she recalls the gaijin that wanted to wash his face with pickled plums.

Crash Course in Japanese Culture (Final Part)

After her father was done with his bath, he came into the room and sat down. Sachiko brought him a beer along with some snacks for the both of us, poured his beer for him, and then poured me a glass. Her father raised his glass to me, said “kompai“, cheers, and I did the same and we drank our beer. I felt kind of awkward sitting there on the tatami mat floor as I couldn’t speak Japanese and he couldn’t speak English so we just sat there for a few minutes in silence and watched the news on TV. Since I screwed up in the bath most of the food that was on the table put away.

Sachiko, meanwhile, busied herself in the kitchen and started bringing the food for our dinner into the room and placed it around the table. She also placed a portable, electric one burner stove on the table and plugged it in. On top of this she placed a large pot filled with all kinds of vegetables and turned on the heat. In front of me was a small, shallow dish that had an egg in it. I wondered what it was for and figured it would be cooked along with the dinner somehow.

Her father had finished his beer and raised his bottle towards me and said something I didn’t understand. By his gesture I gathered that he wanted me to drink up. I did, and he poured me another glass and poured one for himself. The Japanese do like their beer, I thought to myself. By now I was beginning to feel the effects of the beer as I had been drinking since my bath. I picked at the rice crackers and continued to watch a kind of slapstick comedy that was now on the TV.

There were also some, what looked like peas in the pod, in a bowl on the table. The father would grab one and squeeze the “peas” into his mouth and place the empty pod into another bowl. Not wanting to look unsociable I also tried one. The pod was a little wet and there was salt on it. I squeezed the “peas” into my mouth and boy did they taste good. I had another and another and almost couldn’t stop myself from eating them.

After a while the pot started to boil and the heat was turned down a little. Sachiko then brought in a large plate of the paper thin slices of beef we had bought that afternoon and knelt next to me at the table. With chopsticks, she began placing pieces of the meat into the pot of boiling vegetables. Her mother came in and knelt at the table also. I thought it odd that the women were kind of kneeling and the two men were sitting cross legged. Sachiko explained that we were going to eat Sukiyaki, boiled vegetables and meat. I asked about the “peas” and mentioned how good they tasted. Sachiko said that they were soy beans, also known as edamame. I had never tasted soy beans before, but they sure were good.

I asked about her brother and sister and if they were going to eat with us. Sachiko said that her brother would be going out with his friends and that her sister would be home later.

Everyone then broke their egg into the shallow bowl and began beating it with the chopsticks. I followed suit and wondered what we were going to do with the egg so I asked Sachiko. She explained that the meat and vegetables were to be taken from the pot, dipped in the raw egg, and eaten. I found this rather repulsive as I had never eaten a raw egg before.

Everyone then started dipping their chopsticks into the pot and placed a few pieces of vegetables and meat into the bowl with the raw egg and began eating. I did the same, but was awkward with the chopsticks, so Sachiko got some for me. I looked in the bowl and saw the vegetables and meat in the raw egg and wondered what it would taste like. I took the piece of meat first and, after letting as much of the raw egg drip off the meat as possible, placed it in my mouth. Hey, this is not that bad after all. I hardly tasted the egg, but the meat was delicious. I couldn’t ever recall eating meat that was boiled like this before. I then tried the vegetables and they were pretty good too. I then followed suit with the family and we all ate while watching the comedy on TV.

Sachiko explained that the raw egg is supposed to cool off the hot meat and vegetables before eating while adding a little flavor to the already flavorful food. There were also some vegetables and large mushrooms that I had never tasted before, but they were all delicious. And so was the beer that seemed to never end.

I couldn’t quite grasp the concept of the TV show we were watching, but everyone was laughing. It seemed that mostly everyone was yelling at each other and then, one person would slap the other in the head and the audience would roar with laughter. A few skits were shown that showed a Samurai type scene, men dressed as women, a scene in a house, etc. It seemed to be live and performed on a stage in some large hall. One thing I did notice was that there were no commercials.

As soon as I had finished a glass of beer, it was filled again. Sometimes, her father would hold up a bottle towards me and gesture me to drink while my glass was still half full. I drank up and soon was beginning to get drunk. I noticed that, after a while, her fathers face was really pink. The women drank too, but not us much as her father and I. There was a little small talk, but mostly we all sat in silence, while eating, drinking and watching TV.

Sachiko explained that the TV show we were watching was the most popular comedy show in Japan and was on every Saturday night. I still couldn’t get it, but everyone else seemed to enjoy it. I asked about the commercials and she said that this was NHK, the public television station, and that there weren’t any.

All in all dinner lasted about an hour and a half and everyone was full. I continued eating the soy beans which I found very delicious and addicting. The mother seemed happy that I enjoyed them and made another large bowl after the table was cleared.

After the comedy show was over, the father switched the station to a police drama type of show. This I found fairly interesting and easy to follow, even though I didn’t understand the language. Sachiko and her mother washed the dishes in the kitchen.

After we had finished our fourth beer or so, the father said something to me and I understood the word whiskey. He yelled something into the kitchen and soon a small tray with two glasses, a bucket of ice, and a pitcher of water was brought in along with a bottle of whiskey. The two glasses were placed on the table and the father filled them with ice.

“Whiskey wada,” he said. “You like?”

I had never had whiskey and water before, but feeling rather good, nodded my head and said “yes”. He poured a little whiskey into the glasses from a small, dark, round bottle with a yellow label on it. The label said Suntory. He then filled the remainder of the glass with water.

“Disu izu mizu wari“, he said, pointing at the glass. “Whisky Wada.”

His accent was funny in English, but I knew what he meant. Now I was really getting drunk and my shyness and inhibitions started to fade into the background. The father and I started speaking with Sachiko being the interpreter. I don’t remember much of what was said, but I do remember us laughing a lot. I also don’t know how it happened, but I vaguely remember myself standing up in that room and singing like an idiot while the parents and Sachiko laughed. I was told later the next day that I put on a one man comedy show for them. I didn’t know it at the time, but I guess I was singing karaoke before karaoke was cool.

The next thing I remember is waking up in the morning, groggy, still a little drunk, but with no headache like I was accustomed to after a night of heavy drinking. I put on the sweats and stumbled into the warm kitchen. The parents and Sachiko were already in there and were eating breakfast. Her younger brother and older sister were in the parent’s room watching TV. Everyone looked my way and said “Ohayo“, good morning. I said “ohayo“ in return and took a seat at the table. Coffee was made for me.

I was asked if I wanted something to eat and I said that I would like to have some of that delicious toast I had yesterday. The toast was made and a small bowl of soup was put in front of me that had some small clams in the shell in it. This I found very tasty and ate a couple of bowls of it. I had never eaten clams before.

Her father talked, through Sachiko, about the previous evening and how much fun he had had. I thought I must’ve made a real fool of myself with my singing and antics, but no one seemed to mind.

It was only later on, as I came to learn more and more about the Japanese culture, that drinking helps the Japanese relax and it’s perfectly okay to make a fool out of oneself and “let your hair down”, so to speak, when inebriated.

I mentioned to Sachiko that I was surprised I didn’t have a headache with the amount of alcohol I drank the previous evening. She said that she gave me an aspirin before I went to bed and passed out. I didn’t even remember it. She said an aspirin before bed, after drinking alcohol, will prevent a headache. I’ll have to remember that, I thought to myself.

Anyway, we finished our breakfast and I washed and brushed my teeth at the sink and we all ended up in the family room sitting on the floor watching TV for the remainder of the morning. They drinking their tea and I my coffee. We also ate some tangerines that the mother placed in a small wicker bowl on the table. After a while, the older sister got dressed and left and the brother went to his room. The mother washed dishes and Sachiko did the wash and hung out the bedding.

What was different this morning was that there was no wooden table. Instead there was a kotatsu. I particularly enjoyed this. With the sun shining into the room, the kerosene heater lit with the kettle of water hissing on top, and my feet warmed by the kotatsu, it was a real cozy atmosphere and, for some unknown reason, I felt like I belonged there.

The father laid on the floor while reading the paper and I, also, “read” the paper, or rather looked at the pictures and strange writing. I was more interested in the advertisements inserted in the paper. There’s nothing you can’t get in this country, and the prices are pretty decent, I remember thinking to myself. I was most interested in the electronics ads than anything else.

At around 1pm, it was time for lunch. Sachiko mentioned that they were going to order lunch and asked what I would like. I was given a few options and selected the pork on rice, also known as katsudon. The mother made a phone call and after about 30 minutes our lunch was delivered by a man on a scooter.

I was little surprised that lunch was delivered in real glass bowls. I was half expecting paper boxes much like a Chinese restaurant in the states. The plates were placed around the table and everyone ate while watching TV. I found the katsodon extremely tasty and enjoyed it very much.

After lunch, the plates were gathered up and placed outside. Sachiko said that the store would come by later in the day to pick them up.

At about 3 pm I mentioned that I had to be getting back to the base as I had to get up early the next morning and I asked about how to get home. Sachiko mentioned something to her father and the father yelled something to the brother. Sachiko then said that her brother would drive me back to the base.

We then went into Sachiko’s room where I changed clothes. What surprised me was that my underclothes and socks were washed. Sachiko said that she had washed them that morning. I felt kind of embarrassed about this, but didn’t say anything.

When it was time to leave, I said “domo arrigato”, thank you, to the parents (one of the few phrases I knew in Japanese) and bowed a little as I had seen the Japanese do to each other. The parents said they were glad to meet me and hoped that I would visit again. I secretly hoped that I would also.

The three of us left the house and walked a short distance to the parking area where her brother’s car was parked. He owned a brand new, dark green, 1973 Nissan Skyline (courtesy of his parents who bought it for his graduation from high school); one of the coolest looking sports cars in Japan at that time. Cool, I said to myself. Sachiko got in the back and I rode in the front.

As we drove the narrow streets back to the base, Sachiko and I talked a little. I asked if I could see her again and she said, “Sure”. She wrote her phone number down on a piece of paper and I tucked it away carefully in my wallet.

During the drive home her brother hardly said a word except to Sachiko to ask where the base was. I knew the city name and train station name and the adjoining city, but that was it. I had no idea how to get home by car. He managed to find it anyway. He never spoke directly to me and I still had the feeling that he didn’t much like me, even though we were about a year and a half apart in age. Maybe he didn’t like Americans dating his sister, but I thought that that couldn’t be it as he already had two sisters married to Americans. Maybe two were enough for him. Oh well.

The drive from her house to the base, about 30 kilometers (18 miles), took almost an hour. The traffic on route 16 this Sunday afternoon was horrendous. It was mostly stop and go all the way. I couldn’t get over that most of the backup on this two lane “highway” was mostly due to traffic signals and the massive number of cars. I also noticed that a majority of the cars were white and contained families or couples. I also remember noticing that when there was a family in the car, the wife was always in the back.

When we weren’t talking, I mostly stared out the window at the small shops, houses, signs, and took everything in while thinking about the most intriguing weekend I had ever experienced. The sun began to set and Sachiko pointed out Mt. Fuji to the left. You could clearly make out the top third of the snow covered mountain standing tall just over the Tanzawa Mountains to the west. What a majestic site.

Once at the base, I signed them in and we drove the short distance to my living quarters. There I said “domo arrigato” to her brother. He nodded his head, said something I didn’t understand, and I exited the car. I moved the seat forward so Sachiko could get out. When she was outside the car, I reached down, clasped both her hands in mine and, looking into her eyes, squeezed them and said “Thanks for a very interesting weekend. I really enjoyed it.”

She looked back at me, squeezed my hands in return, and said, “You’re welcome. I enjoy too.” I kissed her on her cheek, said I would call her, and held the door open as she got into the front seat. She looked up and me, smiled, and said “mata neh,” “see you again”. I closed the door and waved as they made a u-turn and headed back down the street to the gate.

I did call Sachiko the next day, and the day after, and the day after that. I saw her the following weekend, spent it at her house again, and continued seeing her as often as I could. I spent many a weekend at her house and eventually started working with her father and brother on Saturdays.

We eventually fell in love and were married in a civil ceremony at the American Embassy and the city hall in late spring of 1975 with the blessings of her parents. As her parents were not well off, and neither was I for that matter, there was no formal wedding.

I’d like to say that we lived happily ever after, but such was not the case. After I decided to get out of the military two years later and enter a university in Tokyo our standard of living declined somewhat and I insisted that I did not want any children until I at least graduated from university and found steady employment. I guess the insecurity of not having a steady paycheck, a free place to live and access to the base stores kind of took its toll and things started to go downhill as the life of a student was probably not the life she “envisioned”. Besides, to be totally honest, having been married way before I matured and allowing my “small head” to do the “thinking” instead of my large head, I still had a “wandering eye” and ended up having an affair which was discovered and, Japanese women, once hurt like that rarely, if ever, forgive.

Even after our amicable divorce, in 1978, we remained friends and did have a couple of dates. We almost got back together in 1980, but fate would not allow it as it probably wasn’t meant to be. She did upgrade herself though, and through mutual friends I heard she ended up marrying a US Naval Officer and I hope she found the happiness I failed to give her.

In my opinion, given the Japanese economy at the time and the birth of its beginnings as a major industrial power, I feel that maybe she was one of the last generation of Japanese women that married US servicemen or foreigners for a “better life” outside of Japan. Not that I thought she didn’t love me or anything as I know she did. Today, the Japanese economy equals or exceeds the standards of the US and I doubt very much that Japanese women marry foreigners for a better lifestyle, but that will have to be explained at another time.

However, I did meet and made quite a few friends through her sister and the people she worked with as we used to hang out and travel together often; one of which is still my closest and dearest friend today. He was my best man when I got married again in 1988.

Even today, some three and a half decades later, I still think of Sachiko and her family. I wonder what she is doing, hope she found the happiness I failed to giver her and I smile when I remember that weekend totally immersed in the Japanese culture for the first time when I had been in Japan for only one month.

I smile at how awkward I was, the blunder of the bath, my shock at her sister sleeping in the room, and the little discoveries I made and the things I learned. The food I tasted, the coldness, the kindness of her parents, and my first introduction into all things Japanese. And I sincerely hope she eventually found happiness, even though it wasn’t with me, as she and her family were really nice people and treated me great throughout the three years we spent together. She at least deserved that.

Even if our relationship wasn’t meant to be, maybe that weekend was, as I came to truly love Japan and the culture, and ended up staying in Japan for more than 15 years after we parted and opening up my own English school.

That weekend totally change my life and pointed me in a whole new direction that, I often wonder today, where I would’ve ended up had I not met Sachiko. There is a saying that, “everything happens for a reason,”and “there are NO coincidences in life.” I am sure, for reasons I cannot explain here, that when I look back over it maybe it was supposed to happen. Who knows?

To Sachiko and her family, I thank you. I thank you for welcoming me, a foreigner, into your family when I was a complete stranger and introducing me to life and culture in Japan, a place that I now call home.