Japan

The Core RPGC Main Forum
1

Disclaimer: This is going to be a ridiculously long post about Japan. I visited last month for a couple of weeks, though I didn’t really do any sightseeing. A couple good friends of mine from back home are teaching English there, and they managed to open up the doors for me to take the insider’s tour of the country. This story will contain a lot of terrible things, like alcohol and drug consumption, infidelity, sexism, mild racism, and an incredibly cynical outlook on the world. Why even bother posting something like that? I don’t know, usually I don’t bother, but I know a lot of people here are interested in Japan, so what the hell. This is basically more like a blog post than anything, but I don’t have a blog because I want to have some hope of a job in the future. Instead, I keep a traditional, hand-written journal of my life, so I’m basically just copying this out of there, but changing some stuff around to make it sound more like a book and adding some information so you know what the hell I’m referring to. Also, I’m sorry the first post isn’t really about Japan…more about China, but it’s important to set the mood. Again, it’s long, so this might take a few days. TL;DR = just look at the pictures asshole.

There was a slight open space between the plane and the landing dock, and for just a moment I could feel the blistering heat of Tokyo in August triggering the sweat glands at the back of my neck. I felt a little dizzy, and my stomach churned. It was three in the afternoon and I was still a little drunk. Why the hell did I drink so much the night before? Oh right, “Asian culture.”

“Come on, Josh!  Hurry up!” one of my students shouted to me over my shoulder.  Jesus Christ, I was going as fast as I could.  It was the last day of summer classes for my students, and most of them would be returning to their universities for fall semester, though a few would be staying on to continue their English studies.  I work at a preparatory school that prepares Chinese students for undergraduate studies abroad in Australia or America.  I would like to be able to tell you that those foreigns students you see in your classroom are the cream of the crop of their country, but unfortunately I must tell you the truth.  China is a country with more potential university students than actual spaces available in universities.  As of this year, only about half of the students that take the university entrance examination will actually be awarded a spot in a university.  Most of the rest of them will study night and day for the next year to take the exam again.  Those with rich parents will be sent to my school to learn English to go study abroad instead.  

Of course, you might be thinking that tests can't tell you everything, especially tests given by pseudo-Communist regimes.  Some people just aren't good at taking tests, or maybe they weren't feeling well the day of the test, or maybe their parents died the night before.  In a way, I'd say that you're right.  My students are not the cream of the crop, though it would be wildly inaccurate to say that they are the bottom of the barrel.  The fact is, in China, finishing high school and being eligible to take the university entrance examination still puts one ahead of most of the country by a significant amount.  And as a teacher stuck in a classroom 3 hours a day for 2 months with the same students, you will inevitably develop a unique bond with them.

A unique bond in China generally also involves heavy drinking at some point or another, and if the bond happens to be with a member of the opposite sex, it also often involves some sort of stunted, intensely unsatisfying sexual activity.  I knew that tonight would probably be no different, and though I also knew that I had a plane to Narita to catch at eight the next morning, which meant getting to the airport at six, which meant getting up at four thirty, there was pretty much nothing I could do about it.  When a group of Chinese people ask you to dinner, you don't turn them down.  Turning them down would only further fuel their desire to fill you up with bai jiu (a uniquely Chinese alcoholic substance clocking in at an impressive 116 proof and costing just over a dollar for a liter) when you eventually acquiesce to their request.  Better to just accept it at the outset.  

I finished writing the last mark on the last paper, and we were immediately out the door on the way to the restaurant.  There were ten of us in total: 8 males and 2 females.  China is still a bit more conservative than most nations, and most parents are warier about sending their daughters off to foreigner land than their sons.  Most of them are quite young, fresh out of high school really, though one of the girls is on her last year of university and preparing for graduate school.  I knew that she had a bit of a crush on me, though the cynical side of me was saying that she would have had a crush on any blond-haired, blue-eyed teacher she had for two months.  Regardless of such thoughts, I knew it would take every ounce of drunken willpower left at the end of the night to not do anything about it.  As a rule, I never touch a student.  However, she wasn't technically a student anymore.  She was a graduate, and we've all seen that movie.

We arrived at the restaurant and were escorted to a private room upstairs with a large circular table.  All of them were from different parts of China, and they went around the table ordering different specialties from their home regions.  Three large pitchers of beer were brought out, and since I was the oldest one at the table (oh how I hate saying that), I was responsible for pouring out the glasses.  A couple of them who were from Beijing and had to return home to their parents' houses later in the evening opted out of the drinking, though this did not apply to the girls.  To start the meal, we all stood up, raised our glasses, and shouted 干杯 (gan bei), which means cheers or literally “clean the glass.”  We raised the glasses to our lips and drank until the glasses were empty.  It isn't exactly the healthiest tradition, drinking an entire glass of beer before eating anything, but it gets the job of getting drunk done quite efficiently.  Luckily, Chinese glasses aren't that big.

The dinner continued much in this fashion for about two hours.  Dishes would be brought out, passed around the table, and someone would intermittently shout out “gan bei!”, glasses would be emptied, and more pitchers of beer would be brought out.  About an hour and a half into the dinner, we experienced our first casualty.  An overweight student who called himself Kobe (he wore a different Kobe Bryant shirt everyday) started turning as red as a tomato.  Another student and I picked him up and started walking him toward the bathroom, but he unfortunately didn't make it and the contents of his dinner (and copies amounts of undigested alcohol) were strewn all over the floor of the restaurant.  You might think this would be grounds for getting us ejected from the restaurant, however this is a nightly occurrence at most Chinese restaurants.  

The rest of the dinner passed pretty uneventfully, though as every started getting drunker, more of the conversation started shifting from English to Chinese.  My Chinese isn't that bad actually, though it isn't really good enough to understand much of what a bunch of drunk teenagers are talking about.  The dinner was winding down, and I was beginning to think that I might be getting off easily tonight.  Nobody had yet to mention the dreaded word muttered only during the darkest moments of my most terrible nightmares.  And then it happened.  “So which KTV are we going to?” muttered Luke, who also happened to be my best student.  I should have failed him, I thought.  KTV.  The most heinous word I could think of in my expansive vocabulary.  For those not in the know, it is the Chinese way of saying karaoke, though it's not really a karaoke bar.  A KTV is more like a hotel with many private rooms that people can rent to do karaoke.  Think the scene from “Lost in Translation,” but without Bill Murray singing “More than This.”

It was already ten, and my plane left for Japan in less than twelve hours.  I also had my bike with me, and I wasn't about to leave it sitting on the street for two weeks.  If I could even remember where I left it by the time I got back, the chances of it actually still being there would have been about the same as me being able to find some excuse to get the hell out of going to the goddamn KTV.  I was left with no other choice but to huff it to the KTV, which really wasn't that far, but I was already tipsy and dehydrated.  A few of the boys who still lived with parents left us at that point, but we were still seven strong (well maybe more like 6.5, considering Kobe was practically unconscious).  

My bike route took me through the center of the city, past Tian'anmen Square and the Forbidden City.  Though I had ridden past this spot almost everyday for the last few months on my way to work, it was the first time I'd ever ridden by drunk.  My students' taxi drove by, and they shouted out to me.  Mao's mole-marked face seemed to watch the whole incident with that same detached look of solemn awareness he always had, as if drunk foreigners and their students exchanged English profanities with each other in front of him everyday.  Just a couple weeks before, a Xinjiang protestor had hurled a flaming cocktail at the picture, leaving the entire top-left corner charred for a few days until the picture was replaced with an exact replica.  The picture has had to be replaced countless times since first erected.  Rumors have it that they keep thousands of copies of that painting right underneath Tian'anmen Square, and though I'm sure they do keep thousands of copies, I doubt they keep them that close by (otherwise it wouldn't take them three days to replace the painting every time some minority chucks a bomb at it).  

Being a Thursday night, the KTV was relatively empty and we were able to get a large room without any wait.  Though the building is eight-stories tall, every single one of them dedicated to private KTV rooms, the rooms do actually fill up.  We sat down, ordered a round of beers (whiskey for me thanks), and the singing commenced, an endless array of similar-sounding Chinese pop songs sprinkled with a few random, well-known English words like “OK” and “I love you.”  I opted for a few easy picks like “Yesterday” and “Every Breath You Take.”  The booze was really starting to get to my head.  For a second, I thought I could understand most of the characters passing before me on the screen, which often seems to happen while intoxicated.  Olive, the girl I was worried would try to make a pass at me, was finding herself ever closer to me.  I could smell the shampoo she used in her that morning, a sure sign that I was soon to lose control and the animal was near.  I ordered a bottle of water.  Midnight and one passed and I found myself in the unisex bathroom (I'm pretty sure KTV's have unisex bathrooms for just this purpose) with Olive, my tongue halfway to her liver and her hand squarely in the central business district.  Somewhere deep in the recesses of my conscious I dragged myself to the present and told her that she was a lovely girl, and though I'd love to get freaky in the bathroom, it would be such more “meaningful” to wait until I got back to Japan.  The ability to use words like meaningful and not giggle while intoxicated is a skill that every man should master.

Realizing that I would need at least two hours of rest to sober up enough to pass through immigration, I thanked the hosts for a lovely evening, tossed some money (probably way too much) on the table, and somehow managed to bike my sorry ass back home, finish throwing some of my clothes in a bag, jump into bed and kiss my girlfriend goodnight, and get two hours of much needed drunk sleep. The last thought I remember is realizing that the hangover wouldn't hit me until I was sitting in the terminal, waiting for my plane.  What a lousy final thought.  

The taxi ride to the airport took me back past Mao's portrait, unchanged as ever as if nothing at all had happened since the last time we met.  I figured it was probably a good thing that he didn't see me in the bathroom, because he seems like the kind of guy that might have put a bullet in my brain for such an indiscretion.  Beijing is at its most beautiful at sunrise.  The air feels clean, or at least cleaner than normal, and the mad rush of fifteen million fucking people crowding into the streets is but a glimpse of the future.  Nevertheless, it would feel good to get out of China for a while, even if it was to another country where the people looked the same.  A chance to start fresh, to see old friends, to remind myself of the true reason I had come to Asia in the first place.  I'd lost sight of that vision in a haze of booze, women, and smog.  A clean slate, a tabula rasa, buddhist inner-peace.  My cell phone vibrated in my pocket.  It was Olive.  “Have a good trip to Japan.  I'll be waiting for your return.  :-)”  I'm sick of always being wrong.


Drunk KTV Singing with Kobe. Yes, we were singing that love song from the Lion King


My students


Chinese KTV rooms are pretty swanky actually


I look like a pervert who knows he’s gonna hit it

2

zeppelin 变成一个帅哥啦

3

I don’t think the outlook is really cynical at all. Selfish, perhaps, but not cynical. On the contrary, the text refers to a “true reason” and a “vision.”

4

That was a very good read Zeppelin. I enjoyed it very much. In my undergrad I had a to take a Business Culture class with the professor spending a lot of time in Japan. He told us many stories about how co-workers and managers go out driking after work, party, make fun of each other, then return the next day like nothing happened. Anyway, it’s always good to hear firsthand accounts. I look forward to reading more.

5

This reminds me a lot of my times in Thailand, only with making out instead of fighting. We’ll have to compare Gonzonotes of southeast asia sometime.

Cool to know somebody else knows about Bai Jiu, bt the way. We serve that at the restaurant where I work. It’s been ordered once, ever, in the whole time I worked there.

6

Is this why I keep reading here sometimes? Also, I always wonder what Cless posts when it’s not in English…

I’m interested in reading more. I’m also interested in the remarks post-finding inner peace, whenever that happens.

7

He told us many stories about how co-workers and managers go out driking after work, party, make fun of each other, then return the next day like nothing happened.

This happens in all countries :stuck_out_tongue:

Japan has always seemed weird, since their mass media is almost psychotic, yet the people are well-behaved with little crime etc. My dad has spent some time there, since he’s a pilot, and says he was seriously irritated by the jarring, too-bright advertising that is everywhere in the country. Also that the women are xenophobic and won’t even look at Westerners, but I don’t know how true that one is.

8

[quote=]I figured it was probably a good thing that he didn’t see me in the bathroom, because he seems like the kind of guy that might have put a bullet in my brain for such an indiscretion.[/quote]

According to “Nixon in China” Mao was quite the womanizer. It’s not as if he had a problem picking them up. Next on RPGC:Mao’s constipation and the Long March. Only on RPGC.

9

I never drink Baijiu. I don’t think they will insist you to drink it if you really don’t want.

10

“Whaaaaaaaaazzzzzzzzzzaaaaaaaaapppppppp?” I hollered into the small, cheap, and efficient Japanese payphone.
“Don’t you ever get sick of that fucking joke?” my friend Sean whined into the phone after a few seconds of hesitation.
“You know that one never gets old,” I replied.
“Right, whatever. You’re fucking two hours late, what the hell happened?”
“Sorry man, this phone is too small and efficient, it only gave me like 45 seconds of talk time. There’s a little fucking icon of some Japanese women counting down the seconds on the screen in front of me. Meet me at the subway station in 72 minutes. The hotel website said 72 minutes, and since it’s Japan they must be right.” I hung up.

My head was still pounding like a cow's heart in a slaughterhouse.  They won't even let you bring bottled water that you bought in the airline terminal onto the plane anymore, and if there was one thing that I needed in large quantities today it was water.  My plane ended up delayed about 90 minutes, but of course the delay was while taxiing, not in the terminal.  Only in Beijing could a plane get delayed for 90 minutes despite crystal clear, wind-free weather at both the departure site and terminus.  I pleaded with the flight attendant, even going so far as to track down one of the Chinese attendants and give her my best blue-eyed puppy dog eyes.  美女，我有宿醉。 (Please baby...I've got a hangover).  She wouldn't have any of it, however.  The fat-ass American businessman sitting next to me reading the latest Michael Crichton novel about how anyone who believes their science teacher is a terrorist wasn't doing much to alleviate my headache either.  I decided my best option was to just sleep and deal with the consequences later.  

Four hours later, we were in Narita, and I was still thirsty as hell.  I ran through customs, changed money, called Sean, and ran to the nearest convenience shop I could find to buy the biggest bottle of water available.  After getting distracted at the dizzying array of pornographic materials available for a minute, I decided that my first purchase in Japan should be from a vending machine.  They are ubiquitous in modern Japanese culture, after all.  Throughout my trip, I encountered vending machines selling just about everything an alcoholic, sex-crazed maniac like me needed for day-to-day living.  Aside from the basic water, tea, cola, and snacks, vending machines could be found selling beer, cigarettes, condoms, pornographic DVDs, and the most useful of all, bizarre energy drinks of all kinds that probably enjoy some sort of semi-legal gray area in American convenience store law books.  They made an excellent additive to 500ml cans of Asahi purchased in the adjacent vending machine.  Best of all, these vending machines could all conveniently be accessed on the street.  It was like my sixteen-year-old dream come true, except that I was now older and my hair was already one-quarter gray.  Nevertheless, it gave me a strange sort of exhibitionist sensation to buy a pint of beer on a street corner in Tokyo and drink it on the subway.

I promised Sean that I would meet him in 72 minutes, and I didn't want to disappoint.  I headed down to the light rail station at Narita Airport, bought a ticket on the Keisei Line headed toward Asakusa, and two minutes later I was cruising into the Tokyo suburbs.  Japan can certainly be more than a little disorienting to a newly-disembarked passenger, especially one whose Japanese vocabulary, like mine, is limited to the numbers one through ten, hello, goodbye, thank you, and “how much is the beer?”  Luckily for me, however, I can sort of read Chinese, which means I can sort of read Japanese (though a little less sort of).  Any little bit helps though, because Japan has a lot of fucking people, and even more fucking signs, and being able to look at them as anything other than ooga-booga caveman drawings is a good start.

Japan fulfilled most of its stereotypes for me within about an hour of getting off the plane.  On the train into Tokyo, I noticed the following things: lots of giggling girls in schoolgirl uniforms, a businessman reading hentai, androgynous long-haired rockers, some guy drinking a beer from a liter can at three in the afternoon, and two unbelievable fat white people (even sadder was that they were a couple) wearing some kind of animation t-shirts and looking wide-eyed as a fly in freshly-laid cow shit.  For what it was worth, I tried my best to keep it cool with my sunglasses and i-pod, and to keep my own giggles for Internet postings.  Before I knew it, I had arrived at Asakusa Station, home of scenic Asakusa district.  Tokyo, like any major city in the world, is divided into a large number of districts and neighborhoods, many with their own distinct feel and attraction.  Asakusa is the district dedicated to preserving the look and feel of ancient Tokyo, and despite the oozing feeling of tourist trap and the giant sign advertising Denny's American Diner at the center of it all, it did have the nicest feel of the districts I visited.  The choice of Asakusa was more practical than anything, however, seeing as how it had the cheapest hostel we could find, and since we'd actually be at a rave in the Tokyo countryside all weekend, we didn't really need anything other than a place to store stuff for the weekend.

The train was a bit faster than the website predicted, and I arrived about ten minutes before I told Sean to meet me, so I decided to wander around a bit despite the heavy ass camping backpack I was lugging around.  I immediately discovered that Japan, much like China and Korea, is really nothing more than a giant restaurant with karaoke bars strewn in between.  Pretty much every store was a restaurant, convenience store, or KTV (with ample vending machines in between each of course).  I never quite figured out how three convenience stores could stay in business on every block of the city with vending machines selling the same thing for the same price right outside, but I guess sometimes at three in the morning you just need that human touch.  I met Sean at Kaminarimon (雷门 – sorry, too lazy to find the traditional characters), a famous gate leading to the Senso Buddhist Temple at the center of Asakusa's ancient district.  We shook hands, exchanged man hugs, and we were on our way for me to drop my stuff off at the hostel.  

The hostel turned out to be quite fantastic at the price.  The name is Sakura Hostel, and at a mere 2,940 yen it's quite a steal.  It was past five at this point, I was hungry, hungover, and we were left with only two choices.  We'd either crash at the hostel until the next morning, or go out drinking.  We had an express train to catch in the morning to Shizuoka to attend Metamorphose, an annual, 20-hour long mega-techno bash with tens of thousands of people dancing to some of the world's greatest Djs and electronic musicians, including Richie Hawtin (a.k.a. Plastikman), Model 500, Darren Emerson (of Underworld fame), Matthew Dear, and dozens more.  I wasn't in Japan to sleep though, and sometimes the best cure for a hangover is more alcohol, so it was decided.  Sean started me off at an Izikaya (居酒屋), a Japanese-style bar serving all varieties of sake, shouchu, and fried delights like yakitori, fried chicken, and cheese balls.  We each ordered a 1L glass of beer, a massive plate of fried goodies and pickled vegetables, and I must say I enjoyed one of the best meals of my life that night.  It only took a few minutes for the beer to settle my head, and once that happened, my body quickly remembered that I hadn't eaten a thing since about 24 hours earlier at the restaurant in Beijing.  My appetite turned ravenous, and I ended up consuming about forty dollars worth of bar food alone.

It was about 7:30 Friday night, and the bar was starting to fill up with scores of smoking and drinking businessmen, so we decided to hightail it for a less sausage-filled atmosphere.  Though Asakusa is a great place to stay in Tokyo, it is unfortunately about as far away as you can get from the main bar and entertainment areas of the city like Shinjuku, Roppongi, and Shibuya and still get metro service.  Sean informed me it would be a forty minute subway ride to Shibuya, so we grabbed some more beer at the Family Mart (ironically, the “Family Mart” is the most reliable convenience store in Japan to purchase beer, as 100% of the establishments sell alcohol, as opposed to 7-11 where you will often find stores that do not sell alcohol) and headed down to the subway.  Asakusa are both bookends of the Ginza line, meaning we had to pass through the entire subway line to arrive at our stop.  I was already starting to feel a little tipsy again, as I hadn't completely recovered from the previous night yet and was running on about three hours sleep the last forty-eight hours.  Obviously it wasn't ideal drinking and partying conditions, but who has time for recuperation in Tokyo?  

Again, the vast array of modern Japanese styles and fashions got on and off the subway, sat next to me or across from me, or brushed up against me on their way to an open spot.  Businessmen in suits, schoolboys and schoolgirls in stereotypically Japanese school clothes, old ladies in kimonos, young girls in skirts short enough to send your average Midwestern housewife into violent epileptic convulsions.  Guys with 80s metal haircuts and trailer-park mullets, girls with bleached-blond hair, old men with pony tails, young girls with jet-black, straight, flowing hair, just like you'd see on a shampoo ad.  I could already tell that anyone who thought Japan was some sort of monolithic, homogeneous culture that could be easily described in one-sentence “sound bites” was a monolithic retard.  The sociologist in me was shouting “culture, stupid!” at the top of its lungs, and I was suddenly reminded of the fact that I was once again in a modern, free, and open society, and this was reflected in the sheer multitude of fashions, styles, and attitudes one could witness even in the small confines of a single subway car.  It was unlike anything I had seen in China outside of Taiwan or Hong Kong.

We arrived at Shibuya, and the famous, Times Square-esque scene opened out in front of me.  Neon signs were blazing everywhere, massive throngs of people were moving about in every direction, TVs and radios were blasting advertising and Japanese pop music at full volume.  It was truly a feast of the sensations, and I was sorry that I hadn't brought my camera as I would not return again at night, but unfortunately my photogeek Minolta is too large to carry around while bar-hopping.  We ducked into a pedestrian side street and found a quaint little bar selling pints of Half-and-Half for only 500 yen, and we quickly made it our first home.  We talked about all kinds of things: the differences between China and Japan (he had not been to China yet), what life was like back home (he had recently returned to Chicago for a visit), our girlfriends and how many times we had cheated on them and the morality of such actions.  I think the sign of a true friendship must be that even though you haven't seen each other for two years, you can just pick up and have a conversation like you'd just seen each other yesterday.  We moved on to another bar and a pool hall selling pint drafts of Guinness.  Midnight was approaching, and we decided it would be best to take the last train back to Asakusa rather than spending 70 bucks on a cab back to the hostel.  

We both fell asleep on the train back and were awakened by the calls to get off the train because it was the final stop.  We stumbled back to the hostel, drunkenly laughing about something that was probably so unbelievably stupid it would forever scar the intellectual in me to attempt to remember what it was.  The hostel bed was hard, but I could have fall asleep on a cobblestone street at that point.  I wanted to take advantage of all nine hours I had to sleep, because the next day we would be arriving in the countryside at Tokyo's largest electronic music festival, and we wouldn't have another chance to sleep until Sunday night.  It was going to be one hell of a trip.


Lost in Translation


Beer vending machine


Senso Temple in Asakusa


Sean being at an art fag at some late-night eatery in Shibuya


Traditional-style Japanese shopping street in Asakusa


Shibuya by day, home to some of Japan’s trendiest stores, nightclubs, and an important center of Japanese rock music. More impressive at night, unfortunately.

11

Thanks for the read, Zeppelin.

12

You continue to be one of the most thrilling narrators I ever read. The blend of exciting personal remarks in your own distinctly zepplin style never phases me, from a walkthrough of a game to a walkthrough of a country.

Gen Bai!

13

Zep, I have to join the chorus of admirers – Bravo!

14

Magnificent story-telling.

15

Well-written, I like the noir/gonzo tinge to the style, without being too damn much.

16

For Vicki’s benefit, my post was roughly equivalent to “zeppelin is da playa with all da bitches 'n ho’z”

17

Another great narrative zep!

18

先爱以后FUCKYFUCKY

I guess…is there such a philosophy as visionary cynicism? I’m always saying that I’m trying to be visionary, but I don’t think the way I have lead my life has really been following my ideals.

I’ve spent very little time in Southeast Asia…I’ve been to Thailand and Vietnam, but only for a couple weeks. I’ve mostly been up north. It’s good to know I can find bai jiu back in the States though. Man I’m getting addicted to that stuff.

Not to spoil the ending, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.

Yes, this does happen in many countries, but it’s particularly obvious in Asian cultures. Large groups of businessmen or salarymen, as they call them for some reason, will go out two or three times a night and get absolutely shitfaced drunk with each other. It’s pretty much a requirement if you want to keep your job, and generally the people who can hold their drink well will get more promotions. It’s also a very sexist practice, and women will rarely be brought along on these binges (though other “special” types of women might regularly be visited on these nights). Asian men have two wives: their wife and their job, and generally the job is the first wife. In Japan, if a man gets caught drunk driving (A very serious offense), the police will inform his job first, and his wife second.

False modesty. You know how it works better than anyone else.

Anyway, it’s the weekend now, and I’ve made plans with my girlfriend. Egyptian Lover is in Beijing, so I will be enjoying that. I’ll have the third part up Monday.

19

Thanks!

Which is exactly why I added the “whenever that happens”. :slight_smile:

20

Very fun read.