As the months I stay in Japan draw on and I grow more and more acclimatized to the country’s cultural and behavioural differences, the thought of returning to the UK fills me with dread ever more.
I have developed a tendency to make strange noises for no particular reason, curtsey in the corner shop and cheer over enthusiastically at the simplest of conquests, like button bashing my way to success with a photocopier. What have come to be involuntary responses to daily situations would see me lose the respect of family, friends and colleagues back in Blighty.
While on the orient, it is perfectly acceptable for grown men to attend weekend cooking events kitted out in homemade, personalized Hello Kitty aprons and maintain excitement levels telling of borderline retardation at all times - in England even the Queens of Soho would disown them.
Yet as they jump up and down, cheering emphatically as I dice an apple, I find their enthusiasm utterly endearing.
The situation intensifies as we move on to the gymnasium for a spot of ping pong. No matter how bad our serves and how many points are scored against us, they cheer like monkeys on ecstasy, shouting phrases of encouragement such as; “you are magic serve” and “bat job good.”
The excitement of exploring new cities is accelerated by the very fact that, being white, everyone wants to be your friend. Children point at us in shops while adults openly stare for extended periods of time.
Unaware of their subliminal racism, no matter how unnerving it may be, it is difficult to be offended. Especially when nipping into a bar for a swift pint turns into an evening of free drinks and banter with locals who want to know everything about you and a conversation cobbled together through a pocketsize phrasebook.
Many westerners miss out on these experiences. In true American style, why stray from what you know? Arriving in new cities, their immediate reaction is to seek out the Western bar for a burger and a pint, passing up a whole array of culturally superior venues where strangers remain friends they will never meet.
These so-called Gaijin bars are the equivalent of scooping up all those waifs and strays still lingering as the day-glo lights rise at 3am in the seediest clubs along Blackpool seafront in the vain hope of finding a someone to take home to riddle with every venereal disease known to man – as well as some that aren’t – and dumping them together in one sticky, smoke stained room.
Musical preference in these venues is similar to what blared from the blacked out windows of souped up Pergeouts owned by 18 –year-old motorists who frequented the kerbsides outside English high schools circa 1992.
This bargain bin meat market is not as appealing as fraternizing with the locals, which is the reason I wrongly assumed people came to Japan in the first place.
It pains me that such a wonderfully diverse and patriotic culture, paved with traditionality and pride can be totally wasted on the stereotypical lager swilling Westerner abroad.
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