Four Little Words

saved by the mud

Spring 1997.

Liam Gallagher’s sullen face stares out from Vanity Fair. He’s lying next to his partner Patsy Kensit, draped in a union flag covering his naked torso as she lies seductively in her bra in a move to signal this era-defining moment of sex, drugs, and rock n roll. The promise of redolent women, money and glamour all splashed across various glossy magazines, aimed at heterosexual men and to be taken with a large gulp of lager, lager, lager. Tony Blair is elected Prime Minister and people are high on the latest drug, which is being taken with gay abandon in metropolitan wine bars across the UK. New Labour.

I’m at Heathrow airport about to board a flight to Tokyo, having checked in two, large, mismatched cases. I have checked out my apathy for England – although the current euphoria is making me doubt myself, but it’s too late to change my mind now. My mother is with me. This is strange as my mother has never really been one to accompany me on life events – instilling in me a fierce independence. But I think she is worried that I may not come home. Our main method of communication will be air mail. Her guilt has brought her over 100 miles to the airport. Her words to me as I leave: “I’m sorry if I’ve not been there for you.”

I mumble something non-committal and unresponsive and give her a hug.

The night before, I stayed at one of my best friend’s homes in Acton and having spent a few weeks saying goodbye to my loved ones around Manchester, who literally helped me pack my bags, I am now ready to go. I have had an epic send off and I have donated some of my ‘funny clothes’ to friends who will never wear them. I’m waving goodbye to my old life as I board the plane.

My gaijin card

The flight is full of Japanese salary men smoking. The recycled air is as grey as their suits. I am sitting in the middle seat next to a young man called Geoff and an elegant woman with dark brown hair. They are both a similar age to me and have been recruited by the same company to go and teach English as a second language in Tokyo.

Geoff is giddy and we hit it off quickly. When the meal is served, he dares me to eat the accompanying packet of green paste saying it is delicious. I oblige and the wasabi shoots up my nose and hits my sinuses bringing tears to my eyes and fire to my cheeks. I start coughing. We order martinis. I’m not sure why this was a good idea. But people were smoking on the plane. Common sense wasn’t 1997s strong point.

The woman next to me talks about Yukio Mishima and we share a love of Japanese culture. Our anticipation of what lies ahead is pertinent. You can see it on our excitable faces. The flight is long, but I’m in good company.

On arrival, Japan doesn’t hit me over the head like I expect it to. It’s raining and the view from Haneda airport isn’t that dissimilar to a dank Manchester day. Haneda is miles away from Tokyo. Customs checks are long and thorough. I’m asked to open my cases by a man in a pristine, bottle green uniform. He rifles through my things wearing white cloth gloves and promptly confiscates the paracetamol. Thankfully he leaves my two boxes of hair dye and I’m waved through to pack up and proceed.

I’m met by a Japanese woman who is tall and slender with a long dark ponytail. Seiko is taking me to my accommodation. I’m given my gaijin card. My status as an alien confirmed. Seiko explains that I need to carry it with me at all times and that we have a long journey ahead.

The train is modern and clean. We sit and make polite conversation until we need to change at Shibuya on to the Den-en-toshi line. I’m tired but in awe. Standing in the station is like the aftermath of a migraine when the pain has gone but there’s an aura hanging over you. It’s confusing and busy, and I note the signs are all in Kanji and I can’t read them. The stops whizz by until we arrive at Mizonokuchi station, a short walk from my new home and seven miles out from Shibuya.

The house is like a grown-up, international hall of residence. There are communal bathrooms with coin operated showers. There is a communal kitchen and living area. Bedrooms line the downstairs and upstairs corridors. I make friends with my Japanese and Australian neighbours, two of the few women in the house and over time we share many adventures and wonderful evenings together. For now, it’s a warm hello.

My room has a foldout futon. There is a cupboard to keep it in, alongside a rail for my clothes. It’s very minimal but I’m happy and ready to begin a new career in a new town.

I’m jet lagged for a few days, and I spend it trepidatious, walking around the neighbourhood getting my bearings. I visit the supermarket and try my hardest to work out what is what. I have heard rumours of a single apple costing up to £10. The apples do not appear to be that expensive, but I quickly learn that there is a lot of food that I do not understand and being a vegetarian will be challenging. I buy simple things, cans of tomatoes, bread, rice, and tofu.

Image by Alex Knight

I begin my new job, travelling in with a couple of housemates who also work at the same school. Jacob a Philadelphia native and Hayden, from the east coast of Australia. Very different people.

Jacob and I hang out at lunchtime. Our school is in Sangenjaya – known as Sancha, which translates as three teahouses. The area has a sophisticated vibe with lots of little eateries and noodle bars. We have lunch out once or twice a week and Jacob quickly coins the phrase ‘meal regret’ for the unlucky, unappetising mistakes we are prone to make. Glutinous broth, strange ramen, sugary bread.

The school is on the first floor and the windows overlook the highway, which is a complex tangle of wires. I can see the drivers and passengers faces clearly as they concentrate. We are overlooked by the large gorilla that comes poking out of the top of a family mart store. Why King Kong’s hairy face should be the most dominant thing about Sancha no one seems to know or care.

August 1997

It’s a Sunday morning and I am in school early for a group lesson with three, intermediate students. I gather their files, books and paper and plan the topics and enter the tiny cubicle where I teach them. There is enough space for a round table and four chairs and we are surrounded by glass panels.

I greet them all and they look at me aghast and say that they are sorry. I ask what are they sorry about?

“You haven’t heard the news?” says the older man in the group.

“No, I have just come straight into work this morning. What news?”

“Princess Diana has died,” he says solemnly.

The students all show considerable concern for my grief, which should probably be apparent, and I fear that I am acting inappropriately having not come into the lesson in mourning clothes.

“OoooH.” My intonation fades. “Thank you for letting me know.”

I try to begin the lesson, but they don’t want to do it and begin discussing the death and the news in the best way they can in the English language. It’s a surreal day. The class finishes after 40 minutes, and I gather the books and leave the room and mention to the staff on the desk that maybe today may be a bit different. They nod and suggest that I go with the flow.

My next lesson is a one-to-one with Mr Fujiya. This is awkward. He is around 65 years-old with an incredible smiley face. He is small and semi-retired. He asked me out. Not on a date as I understood it. I wasn’t sure what it was really, but I agreed to meet him for a drink.

I shouldn’t have done this, but I was too obliging, and I guess I thought he was a sweet old man. I met him on a Thursday evening in Sancha at a bar he told me was very nice. I sat at the counter next to him and we made polite conversation. We had a couple of drinks as was my intention and then I would make my exit.

The bar was very quiet. It was clinically clean. There was a woman in there, wearing a kimono, who looked a little like a hostess. She hissed at me as I walked to the toilet: “You naughty girl.”  Why was I naughty? I said my goodbyes.

I was trying hard to fathom out Japanese culture. What I had started to understand was that they had never had a sexual revolution to the degree that we had in the UK. Women were still subordinate to men.

My friend Helen had persuaded me to go for a job interview in Shibuya at a hostess bar, where lots of western women would work to make extra cash. I went along with her for moral support as much as anything and because my mind is curious. The man interviewing us stared at us both hard. I could tell he didn’t like me. He judged the way I looked.

He gave us a run through of what was expected of us. We sit. We talk. We pour drinks. We listen. We smile. When the men go to the toilet we wait outside and present them with a hot towel and bow.

That was what did it for me. I was out anyway, but if I was in any doubt then the presentation of the hot towel cemented it. And the bowing.

Back in work a picnic was arranged for staff and students to get to know each other. The picnic would be held on the banks of the river Tama. It was a hot day and we walked down from the station.

It was all very civil. We sat and chatted and ate onigiri and drank Oolong tea. After some time one of the students asked me to go for a walk. I looked at one of the members of staff and she gave me a nod as if to say, yes sure. We walked away from the picnic and over towards the river skirting the banks.

The student was a large man, with ill-fitting trousers. He was socially awkward. I had only taught him a couple of times and had no real understanding of who he was. His English was rudimentary. I asked him simple questions. He was sweating profusely. I suggested we turn around and walk back, but he said no just a bit further. As we walked along the bank, he stopped suddenly, got down on one knee and said: “Will you marry me?”

My mouth fell open. At this point he lost his footing and slid down the bank towards the river and splashed into the water like a weeble that wobbled and fell down.

“Are you ok?” I asked knowing he wasn’t.

“Yes,” came the reply of a very deflated man with his pride gushing down the river.

I turned on my heel and went back to the picnic as he pulled himself out of the water. It was the only proposal I had ever received.