Red Shoes and Baby Goats

The tendency to think I'm right began when I was young.  I have proof of this.  Let's use the four-year old me as an example.

"There's a little girl wearing red shoes.  She was taken away by a carrot."

I own a pair of red shoes.  That's what triggers the memory of me singing this song as a child.  Allow me to continue.

Those are not the words, the little girl taken away by a carrot, but the four-year old me was convinced:  a). the little girl singing the song on the record didn't know carrots didn't walk and thus clearly had the mistook the lyrics, or, b). the person who wrote the song was trying to be funny.  It never occurred to me I was wrong.  No.  Never.  Why would I be?

The word for carrot in Japanese is ninjin.  The word used in the song is ijin.  They sound alike, which is why the little girl singing the song could have gotten it wrong, or the person writing the lyrics thought this play on words would be funny.

Now, here's the thing.  If we replace ijin with ninjin then the song goes like this.

"There's a little girl wearing red shoes.  She was taken away by a great person."

This is better than being taken away by a carrot but not by much.  It doesn't quite make sense.  How does the person singing the song know the person leading the girl away was "great"?  What if it was just her father or mother?  Not that parents can't be great, mind you.  But, still.  I must now investigate.

There are two other definitions of the word ijin.  I've not heard either used in a conversation during my years in Japan and this has me all the more confused.  Here's the thing.  One of the definitions for ijin is significantly worse than the idea of being taken away by a carrot.

The definition in question is this: ijin is barbarian.  So, the little girl was taken away by a barbarian?  This definition also says it's a disparaging word for foreigners.  Is this Japanese children's song teaching kids to curse?  To look down upon foreigners?

Another definition is "a person from a mixed marriage".  There is certainly nothing wrong with a little girl in red shoes being taken away by a person who is of mixed race.  Perhaps they are going to a picnic.  The problem I have with this word is that there were so few children of mixed marriages when this song was written--ages ago--that it makes it difficult to believe this word choice is deliberate.

Which leaves us to assume the little girl was taken away by a barbarian or a great person--a very different outcome for the girl, presumably.  Poor thing.

Here's a different story.

I recently had the opportunity to visit the Alps.  This, of course reminded me of a children's clapping game I grew up playing--something similar to Miss Mary Mack.  (Google it.)  The song goes like this:

Alps, 10,000 jaku
Let's dance the Alpine dance
On top of a baby goat

Jaku is an old Japanese measuring unit for some distance.  I don't know what the distance is as it's no longer used.

I grew up playing this clapping game thoroughly confused why anyone would dance on top of a baby goat (how cruel, really) but perhaps this is something people in the Alps do when they dance?  Baby goats aren't important?  They're sacrificed as a part of a cultural tradition?  My childhood imagination ran wild with images of dead baby goats being trampled upon.

As I drove up the Alps I posted a note on Facebook changing the words of the song as I announced my trip the world all while trying to be nicer to baby goats.  A comment made by a friend to this post made me feel much better about the Austrians or Swiss or Germans or whomever and their treatment of goats.

"The song is about the Japanese Alps because the Alps in Europe are higher than 10,000 jaku and the Japanese Alps is about the right height."
You actually did the math?  (I didn't write that.)  Instead I accused him of not knowing the song.
"I do know the song," he said, "and I've actually been to Koyagi which is where they do the Alpine dance."
Dear man, clearly you are confused.  The word koyagi means baby goat.  Why people dance upon them is a mystery shrouded in cruelty but you don't go to a baby goat--as in, you don't go to Koyagi.  It's so sweet you think that, though.  Really. 

He sent photos.

"This is the big rock at Koyagi on one of the peaks of the Japanese Alps, elevation 10,000 jaku, and this is where you're supposed to do the Alpine dance."  His response was kind.

Ah.  So, Koyagi is a place, not a baby goat.  Yes.  That's much better.  Much less cruelty and death.

Two songs I sang as a child come back to me with very different meanings now that I'm an adult.  So it is in life.

When Global Means Local

Today I divide my time between two towns in Iwate on the coast surrounded by beautiful purple-green mountains.  These towns face the ocean, and on this Sunday the winds from the sea have blown away all clouds leaving a bright and blue sky.  We can see for miles.

This wind and the chill it brings we remember fondly in August when the humidity is too much and we drip sweat just standing outside.  Today we're cold.  Today we're cold but venture out even in the wind, enjoying the crispness of the day and the calls of the hawks overhead.

People in these towns are happy and pained, bored and committed, mean and kind, petty and generous.  These towns are like any other; we're just like you.

Except that we're not.  Still reeling from the disaster three years ago, life here is different.  Adjectives describing emotions are more intense.  Not better or worse.  Just intense.

Much has been written on the plight of those affected by the disaster that struck northeastern Japan three-plus years ago.  For the most part, the reporting has been accurate, fair, generous.  A small population exists in these regions that has received less coverage, and today I write about these people.  Today, this is personal.

I can count the number of foreigners living in these small, banged-up communities.  We know each other.  We stand out in town.  There are very few of us.

Some lived through the disaster.  They too lost.  Homes.  Cars.  Friends.  A sense of normalcy.  Their lives have received significantly less coverage.  A victim is a victim is a victim.  Right?  Wrong.  We still quantify pain based on loss.  When we clearly don't blend, we are automatically "not of here."  Except for each other and the friends cultivated personally, there's no immediate support group for these foreigners.  Add to this the language barrier and cultural nuances often lost in translation and the uphill battle my foreign friends have fought is on a good day just tiresome, and on a bad day debilitating.

Enter in a spring day with sunshine and we have our version of a fix.  Today a bunch of foreigners from the region gathered to show each other there does exist a network in these towns.  We brought food.  Eggs were boiled the night before in preparation for an Easter egg hunt.  Kids played in the park while parents stood around eating, chatting, hugging.

My job is to handle global PR for a city in Iwate.  Today global met local, my focus shifting from the outside global community to towns where I have a personal connection.

In communities where foreigners are still a rarity a "gaijin" (foreigner) sighting can be cause for tears or giggles.  For the gaijins who gathered today it was pure joy;  a celebration of what makes us different making us the same.

With the firm support adults offer each other and the squeals and laughter shared by the kids, it's a no-brainer--we'll get together again--definitely.

When Size Matters

There is an international boarding/day school tucked away in the suburbs of Tokyo known for its strict and rigid rules.  A decent number of alumnae live in Tokyo still, and every now and then a group of us get together to reminisce.  This walk down memory lane usually gets tawdry very quickly, the telling of stories causing gut-, and side-splitting laughter; the restaurant we're at on any given night almost always regrets letting us in. 

Last night was one such night.

Quite a sight, we are.  I am the lone woman who goes to these evenings out--the consensus being I'm the only one who can handle the abuse and stories of completely inappropriate behavior from days long past--a compliment, I know, albeit cloaked.  It's a good thing I can dish out similar libel, have thick skin and stories of my own, many of which include embarrassing moments my friends' memory has conveniently erased.

Our teachers would be surprised by the lives we lead today.  Collectively, our reputations and grades would have led most to assume none of us would end up this successful.  Proud of our accomplishments, we toast our teachers for being wrong.  Very wrong.

As we made our way out of one eatery to another, over-staying our welcome at the first place, we walk down stairs leading into what can only be described as a present-day dungeon sans the torture tools.  There are no chairs here.  It's dark, cramped, and as we file past those already standing with their food and drinks, we all mutter our "excuse me"s pushing up against the already imprisoned.  The hallway is that narrow and that tight.  This place is small.  Lamps hanging on the walls offer little light, and monsters and dragons could very easily poke their heads around any given corner.  I feel like I'm in 13th century France.  We file into the corner booth arguing over how much space my purse takes up, who stands where, who's claustrophobic.  And here it begins.  The Japanese man standing closest to us, clearly wanting to hang out with the "cool kids" comments on the height of one of the gang.  Again.  And again.

Which gets me thinking.  We are a hodge-podge of sizes.  There's the really tall one, the tall and thick one, the short and stocky one, and the medium-height thin one.  And then me.  We represent all sizes, makes and models. 

I ponder this for a moment.  Comments about height and weight fly out of the mouths of most Japanese I know with seemingly remarkable ease.  There is typically some discussion of my weight when I get together with those who haven't seen me for a month.  I've either lost weight or gained.   A discussion ensues among those who have opinions on my weight.  I'm usually not a part of these chats that take place as if I was invisible and unable to hear the result of the general consensus.  Fascinating.

No one I know back home would dare, ever comment on my weight, but here in Japan it seems to be a free-for-all topic.  I ponder this, too.  Casting aside judgment on why it's okay to comment on peoples' weight here in Japan, I instead think about how the Japanese have changed.

I am no longer the tallest or heaviest woman I know in Japan.  Anywhere I go, I'm surrounded by women who are larger than me.  Growing up here, for the most part, this was never the case.  While in the US, I am shorter than the average woman and "normal" in weight, here in Japan, I've always been tall and borderline heavy.  Today there are plenty of women who are taller (even without the four-inch heels) and who show the results of a diet rich in meat and milk.  Japanese bodies are changing.

And then there are the men.  Talk show hosts in Japan can often be heard discussing how young Japanese men prefer to remain single, living at home and interacting with the virtual world more than the real one, content to eat their mother's cooking.  Relationships?  Too bothersome.  Jobs?  Meh.

There is another crop of young men in Japan many find just as troubling:  the beautiful ones.  Arched and plucked eyebrows, coiffed hair full of product and seriously styled, clothes that make us all wonder who's credit card is being used, these men are elegant, beautiful, and thin.  Called "the vegetarians" for their--what?--lack of interest in anything hearty?  For the most part, boys don't grow up wanting to emulate this subculture of young men who personify nothing masculine. 

The fifteen days of sumo, the summer bout, which ended on Sunday shows the exact opposite.  Men meant to be large show off their strength and skill as they collide into each other.  Here, too, their weight and size is a topic of discussion.  Even in the world of sumo, the ultimate in sports where size matters there is evidently something to being too heavy.  I continue to marvel at how "appropriate" size is defined.

In a world where size continually matters, where we are all but defined by our height and weight, and in a country where comments about both fly out of mouths way too quickly I wonder what lies ahead for the new Japan.  Beautiful but seemingly weak men, women who are taller and larger than their mothers, and the ongoing commentary on observations regarding the size of gaijins (myself included) all make for interesting material for those inadvertently embroiled in the discussion over how size matters. 

Inked: "I am not a gangster."

It is with much displeasure and great regret I announce the following:  I am now a member of a gym.  For someone who despises sweat and sweating, and for someone who considers exercise to be walking from the front door to my living room (and back) several times a day, the idea of paying to twist muscles, life heavy objects all while my body perspires a smelly substance--this act is a coup.  The recent influx of photos taken on iPhones and other such hand-held devices which show up on Facebook has led me to this moment.  I simply do not look like that.  I refuse to accept or believe this.  But, there's power in numbers.  The more photos show up of me the less I'm able to refute what is evidently fact.  Hence, the gym.  And sweat.  And sweating.  If I don't lose it now, it simply will not happen.  I concede.

Enter an evening spent looking through various gyms and memberships online.  I find one nearby and choose it because a). I like the photos I see of the gym, and b). I like their logo.  This is how I choose where I will sweat.  (I know.  I don't ask you to understand.)

Deciding reading the fine print on the membership rules would be a good thing here, I reluctantly put on my reading glasses and attack the text.  And yes.  There it is.  "No one with tattoos will be allowed membership."  Bugger.

Undaunted, I read on.  Surely they mean "no Japanese with tattoos"?  There are simply too many servicemen and women with ink on their shoulders.  To exclude those is a bad business decision.  Yes?  No.  They mean everyone.  "No one with tattoos" means just that.  No one.

To be fair, I know the reasons behind this.  Those inked in Japan have traditionally been members of the Japanese yakuza.  These are Japan's gangsters, mafia, mobsters, bad guys--they're beautifully inked scary men.  There has been an effort made by police and politicians (more on this some other day) to keep these bad boys at bay, preventing them from using public and private facilities and buildings by instituting policies refusing entry by "anyone with a tattoo."  

Back to my application form.

Then I see it.  It's a good thing I chose this one day to read what I was agreeing to because it's there:  "Unless our club determines your tattoos are acceptable."  Hmmm.  What's an acceptable tattoo?  Mine.  Right?

I decide this is not a question I can ask on the phone.  Because I like their prices, location, the look of the gym (and their logo) I make my way down to the building which will serve as my own personal torture chamber.  Feet apart, I stand in front of the nice, healthy looking young man and say, "I'm interested in your gym, but I want to know what you mean by 'acceptable tattoos.'"  He smiles at me as if he gets this question a lot.  "We need you to promise to keep your tattoo covered from the moment you enter this gym," and he points to the door "until you leave."

Pffft.  That's nothing.  I can do that.  I make an appointment for a tour and leave.

Today was my tour.  I like the place still, confirmed their tattoo policy, and signed the papers.  I am now a member of society who pays to sweat.  I'm not at all sure whether this is a good thing.

I signed documents, paid, had my photo taken for my ID card, and just as I'm about to put my coat on and leave, the woman who handled my paperwork hands me one more form.  "Read this and sign, please.  It's about your tattoo."  I glance down.

There are five boxes I'm to check.  The first one reads, "I am not a gangster."  I am to check this to swear, certify, and promise I am not a member of the Japanese mob, the yakuza.  It's funny but it's not.  I check it, and read on.  Boxes two through four are so insignificant I honestly don't remember what they said.  Box five was interesting.  The gist was to agree I will be kicked out of the gym if any member notices my tattoo and complains about it.  Well now.  That's rather harsh, isn't it?  Evidently they take this quite seriously.  Fine.  Check.  I keep coming back to this same thought--it's funny but it's not.

So, for the record, inked that I am, I am not a gangster. 

Hug, Bow, Shake, Peck, or Kiss?

Public displays of affection (referred to as PDA, not to be confused with PDAs--the techno-gadgets that you're supposed to use to remember your schedule) ... see, I'm digressing already ...

Public displays of affection in Japan have become more and more visible.  I snuck a photo of a couple, early retirement age perhaps, who were walking down a sidewalk hand in hand.  I've snapped others on the sly.  Young couples cling.  Even people my age, I passed two yesterday, walk around with open and public displays of affection.  I don't remember seeing much of this growing up.  And, that's putting it mildly.

I've long taught Westerners to bow when doing business in Japan.  If you can bow and shake at the same time, that's even better.  "Don't do the double peck-on-the-cheek thing," I've had to tell many Europeans. 

Publicly showing affection, while more prevalent in Tokyo, in Tohoku is another story entirely.  Most up north know from movies and television foreigners are touchy.  "You gaijins hug a lot" I was once told by someone in Rikuzentakata.  I laughed and replied, "I guess we do."

This makes it all the more interesting that eighteen months after I first set foot in the disaster zone, my friends, friends of friends, and family members of friends are now starting to explore the idea of physical expression.  Not in a sexual way, mind you.  The jabs I get in my ribs (literally) from one man up north happen only when he's drunk--this is the only uncomfortable physical contact I've experienced in Tohoku.

Men and women now want to say hello and good-bye with a hug.  The first one is awkward.  We stand there both with a mental message "You go first" but neither of us move.  I don't want to be pushy by leaning into hug, and they want to but are shy (they don't hug anyone else in public) and yet still are hoping to connect.  Once we get past that first hug, awkward moments and all, greetings are now more physical.

To be sure, there are those whom I will not hug (it's not appropriate), and those who are uninterested in hugging.  I can just picture several of my male friends in Tohoku saying, "It's not manly."  It's not.  Where men are men, strong and stoic, there's no room for public hugging or pecks on the cheek.  That's okay.  For those who want to incorporate a more physical expression of affection, there's now a whole new method open to them.  On my trips to Tohoku I hug children, men, and women.  With big smiles and shy grins, they reach back.

Physical touch is a bigger deal in Tohoku if for no other reason, emotional healing is still a process many are going through.  Hugging creates warmth.  It bonds.  It leads to a faster, deeper connection.  The bonds of friendship become intense quicker and lasts longer, too.  Just yesterday, I hugged a woman and she gripped back, not letting go.  Touch is the fastest way to reach those wanting to feel whole, healthy, and loved.  I think back to the sensation of my grandmother's hand on mine, a peck on the cheek from a niece, my son jumping into my arms.  I smile.  Of course this is good.

Where rules are still rigid with predetermined expectations on who bows lower and raises their heads up first, hugging, holding hands, and kissing is still new.  Combine these, especially all at once (i.e. hug and peck, shake hands but then turn it into a "whassup" grip, bow and shake, etc.) and it's challenging to those here who want to experiment but don't know what to do with whom, or how, or when.

Except they're trying.  With more freedom to show love in public, old rules are changing with new ones being made up as life unfolds.  It's really fun to watch.  It's even more fun to be a part of.

How Unintentionally Misquoting the Bible Led to a Revelation

I collect quotes.  I have lists of them.  One such list is to be read at my funeral.  It's sealed, and my husband knows not to open the file it until the day comes.  As much fun as I've had reading books and articles compiling this list, I've found myself unable to recite any of these quotes without actually reading them from paper.  This means I refrain from repeating them out loud from memory lest I butcher it, misquote the author, losing any opportunity of conveying the zing they so often have.  The list for my funeral is one I'm especially proud of, but it's tucked away in my husband's office.  I won't try to share the quotes with you now.  You will just have to wait.

I read somewhere recently, one of my favorite quotes from the Bible "God helps those who help themselves" is not actually in the Bible.  Well now.  That's a bit of a problem.  Evidently, I've been misquoting someone for quite some time.  That I've been mistaken in this quote, one that has to do with God at that is even more problematic.  Needless to say I've stopped citing the Bible lest I misquote, say, God this time.  Clearly, there's something to not quoting people or books unless I know it was really said.  Really written.

Which made me think of another verse from the Bible (this time I looked it up) about the "gong."  This is also a quote I've liked over the years.  The verse is from I Corinthians 13.  "If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal."  Often read at weddings (including ours), it always makes me smile.  I particularly like the "I am only a resounding gong" part.  I conjure up loud-mouthed gasbags who don't know when to stop talking, and people who stood on a box (I only imagine it to be a box) in ancient Rome, dressed in a toga, reading something out to the masses.  Resounding gong, indeed. 

The idea of being a resounding gong, or being thought of as a resounding gong, going on and on about the plight of people and communities in Tohoku has been on my mind lately.  A lot.  How long can I keep this up?  How long will people listen?  How many have stopped listening?  What am I doing?  Am I just making noise?  Am I a gong?

I had lunch with one of my best friends from university recently.  She made a joke, what she thought was a joke, about me being in Tohoku.  It hit a nerve.  It was the proverbial straw.  I told her I was "done talking."  If she didn't "get it" there was no way I could get anyone else to understand.  Apologizing, trying to get me to hear her out, she said, "You never told me why you're there.  You never explained.  I've supported you, but I honestly can't say I understand why you keep going back."

Ah yes.  The question I am still, to date, unable to answer adequately.  Why do I go?  I've tried explaining my reasons using analogies, examples, logic, emotion, and humor.  Most people nod politely.  Most people don't understand.  The question will be asked again.  And again.  I will likely still remain unconvincing.

I gave my speech.  She listened, trying to understand.  "I think I get it," she mused.  I wasn't sure I believed her.  We sat in silence for awhile, both of us frustrated.  The next thing she said ended up being an explosive statement, opening up years of pent up frustration.

"You're bilingual.  You're bi-cultural.  You can do things in Japan because you're white, female, foreign.  I get that.  You know the rules.  You get things done.  I understand that.  What you don't understand is that you're much more than that.  You have a unique world view.  Things make sense to you that many of us don't understand.  A lot of us just don't get you."  

She was right.  I am often misunderstood.  I am comfortable with who I am.  But, I know, rather I have known for decades, many aren't.  Take for example, my last two undergraduate years.  I look back now and can say I was bullied.  There was no physical violence.  I wasn't hit, beaten, or cornered in the bathroom.   There was, however, stupid and mean-spirited nastiness.  From women.  I didn't understand where it was coming from for a long time.  It hurt.  That it went on for two years took a toll on me.  I loaded up on classes, hoping to graduate early.  I wanted out.  Significantly more polite and timid than I am now, I didn't push back.  I didn't know how.

Then one day I had a break-through.  I was sitting in class.  I don't remember what it was anymore.  Three of the "mean girls" sat several seats down from me.  Evidently, I was clicking my pen.  It wasn't a conscious act.  Just something people do, right?  Click down once, the tip sticks out.  Click down again, it retracts.  I must have been bored.  I guess the noise I made with the pen annoyed these women.  I looked over and saw one of the women nudge her head over towards me.  They all looked at me.  One woman sighed out loud.  Another shook her head and rolled her eyes.  Passive-aggressive and catty they were.  Here we go again.  What can I do wrong today?

I smiled.  Had I not been in class I would have laughed.  The ridiculousness of it came crashing to the forefront.  Then, right there, I decided I was "over it."  Enough was enough.  I understood it then.  Something "clicked" (no pun intended).  I don't know what it was that made it so clear that day.  But, clear it was.  I was being bullied because I was "different."  You don't "get" me?  Fine.  Honestly?  I didn't care.  I put the pen down and ignored them.  I continued to ignore them for the remainder of my time at school.  Life became easier starting that day.

Here's the thing.  I look American.  I sound American.  But, evidently, I am not American enough.  This isn't a problem I have in Japan.  I don't blend.  I can't.  I look different.  I'm taller and heavier than almost all women there, and some men even.  I look foreign.  There's nothing I can do to change the fact I am not "one of them."  I'm totally and completely at peace with this.  In the US, I am expected to be American.  One of the gang.  That I'm not made me the target of bullying.  Today, it makes my choices harder for people to understand.

What is difficult to explain is how being different benefits my work in Japan.  I get things done precisely because I am not "one of them."  Doors open to me that don't for others.  Add to this, I know the language, play by their rules (for the most part) and I'm good to go.  I am uniquely qualified to be a gong right now.  So long as I pepper my reports, this blog included, with stories about life in Japan in general, not just Tohoku, I simply have to hope I'm not one of those annoying gongs that people tune out.  I like to think I make a gentle "booooong" as opposed to a loud clang.   

So, gong as I may be, I will keep telling stories, making every effort to quote people accurately.  This is my job right now.  While I will continue attempting to explain why I am there, why I keep returning, for now I am content with the knowledge I'm okay being a gong because there is love in what I do.

The truth about lying

Here we go again.  I'm back in Japan, and after getting out of bed way too early for my taste (all thanks to jet lag) I spent the morning looking at apartments.  From the outside, that is.  Where do I want to live?  How much do I want to spend on rent?  I did my homework.  I asked for advice.  Following it, mostly, I took my print outs and combed the streets. 

Looking at buildings only tells me so much.  I know this, of course.  It's the inside that matters.  I want space, a toilet that sprays warm water, air conditioning, an elevator.  I need to get inside.  Before I do, however, I want to walk the distance from the nearest train station.  Is there a supermarket nearby?  A Chinese restaurant?  I walk telling myself research is good.

"Except you need to just go to one of the rental agencies and make the appointments to get inside."  My Japanese Alpha male points this out, not as criticism but as fact.  (He's not "my" Alpha male, per se.  Just one of the few remaining in Japan.)
"I know," I sigh and try not to whine.  "I just don't want to deal with the 'we-don't-rent-to-foreigners' thing again.  Can't you come with me?"
"Not for awhile." 
I don't say anything.
"Just do it."  Now he's annoyed.  "Just go.  It'll do you good.  You need to know how to do this."
And, now I'm annoyed.  I'm annoyed that he's annoyed, and I'm annoyed because he's right.
"Okay.  Fine.  I'll go."
"Let me know what they say."
"I will."
"Gotta go.  I'll call later."  With that, I'm on my own.

I pick one of the rental agencies from the many folded-over sheets I'm carrying with me.  That I can't find the place after 15 minutes of walking is a bad omen.  The map says it's just right around this corner.  It's not.

I stumble upon it (another bad omen) and walk in, say hello, sit down, and show them the apartments their agency lists, and ask if I could see one.

"Do you have a guarantor?"
"Yes.  Does he need to come with me?"
"Is he a family member?"
What?  I'm confused.  No, he's not a family member.  I'm here on my own.
"No," I say slowly and try not to make too much eye contact.
"He's my sponsor.  My employer."
"Ah, well, your guarantor needs to be an immediate family member."
I'm stunned.  No way.  This is news to me.  All along, I've been told my guarantor needs to be someone that the rental agency can go to in case I bail, reneging on my contractual obligations.  An employer, a boss would make a much better guarantor than my father, I think to myself.
"Except that my family doesn't live here," I say.  "Can't I use the president of the company I'm working for as my guarantor?"
Big sigh.  "Aaah, sorry, no."  Then, "What kind of company is it?"  Really?  What does this have to do with anything?  I tell him.  It doesn't change anything.  So, why ask? 

Something isn't right.  I'm not buying this.
"It's very hard to rent a place as a foreigner as you know, which is why my visa sponsor is willing to be my guarantor."
"Sorry, it needs to be an immediate family member."
Who is not here with me, of course.  I almost ask him, "So if my husband were here with me and we couldn't pay the rent you don't think he and I would bail on our contract together?" but I don't.

Truth is cloaked with sugar and icing in Japan.  Truth is used when convenient.  As are untruths.  I'm reminded of an article my mother wrote years ago which I some how ended up reading one day.  It had something to do with the concept of truth-telling (or not) in Japan.  She used me as an example.  Evidently, my completely untrue responses to "Have you brushed your teeth?" were not at all convincing.  Here I thought I was getting away with a). not having to brush my teeth before bed, and b). lying about it, and all along my mother knew I was not being honest.  Stunned she saw through me, I think I brushed my teeth more regularly there for awhile after reading what she wrote.

I know the line between truth and lies is often fuzzy in Japan.  The delicate dance over when to be completely honest and when to tiptoe around it is choreography I'm accustomed to dealing with.....except when it has to do with why I can't rent an apartment, get a cell phone contract, or the like. 

I'm fine.  Annoyed, but fine.  I will find an apartment.  It might not happen the way I had hoped or planned, but I will.  What I can't predict is how I will react to those who continue to tell me as they sigh and cock their heads, why I'm not a suitable tenant.  Then again, the 10-year old me lied to my mother about (not) brushing my teeth.  Clearly, I'm capable of lying.  Or, shall I say, "I'm capably of lying, too"?  It takes two to tango, rental-agency man.  You just may have found yourself a partner.

Down the up stair case

I don't ask for much.  Connect me to the existing Wi-Fi spots in town and I'm happy.  I go to the local Softbank store yesterday and am told I need an Alien Registration card in order to purchase a Wi-Fi device.  Fine.  I make my way to the local ward office this morning, and spend money to register myself.

I head back to the same Softbank store that promised to bump me to the front of the line to get the Wi-Fi connector.  I am.  The registration process begins.  I hand over my passport and Alien Registration and everything is going well.  I'm told I will get the unit for free.  I'm pleased with myself for some reason.  I feel just the slightest bit successful, as if I've just successfully negotiated some huge deal.  That they do this for everyone who signs a contract isn't the point, of course.  Then it comes.  My Alien Registration card says I'm only in the country for 90 days so I now have to pay for the little, magic machine that will give me access. 

"Why?"
She's uncomfortable.  Am I going to make a scene?  She stops what she's doing and gives me what I can only describe is a lame explanation.
"Fine.  Do it."  I try not to snap.

Then she throws me a zinger.  They won't sell me the unit because I need to be in the country longer than 90 days in order to have a contract.  I'm floored.  Why did she even start the process if Softbank policy doesn't allow them to sell me anything?  I make her repeat it.  I'm pissed.  She brings out the sheet that spells out their evil policy.  I can't read the fine print so I stretch my arm out as far as it will go and repeat back to her what I heard her say.

"So, I can't buy this because I'm going to be in the country less than 90 days even though you told me yesterday if I came with my registration card I could get this?"
She apologizes.  I can't win.  I leave.

To say I'm angry is putting it mildly.  This policy stems from the fact there's a history, albeit it not long or extensive, of foreigners buying pre-paid phones and policies and then using said phones for criminal activity.  Surely, if some foreigners are criminals it's safer to assume many, nay most could also be as well.  Right?  Let's just create a policy that confirms phones and policies are sold to legitimate foreigners committed to a long-term stay. 

I make a point of walking down the up stair case at every train station the rest of the day.  It's a pathetic and private rebellion but it's the least I can do to uphold the image of foreigners behaving badly.