Last night I was supposed to have dinner with “shacho,” the company president. A fellow teacher and one of our bosses were to be there also. So we arrived at his office, per instructions, at 8:30. The three of us were there, but shacho was not. Dai, our boss, called him, and he said he’d be right over. No problem, right?
I got to meet shacho—present-less, as nobody instructed me that it was practically mandatory to bring some gift, usually edible, from America to give to him—and we talked in a rather limited way, and then we all got into shacho’s car. But not to go to dinner—no, we went to shacho’s home, where his wife made us green tea and we marveled over what Jacob referred to as Japanese expressionist paintings on his walls. Then shacho made us guess how old his wife was. Hilarious! The usual “Not a day older than 20!” business didn’t fly, either. “No really, how old.” I just kept saying “I don’t know” until he dropped the subject.
After about 15 minutes, he kicked us out of his home and drove us back to the office—no dinner tonight. Maybe we got punished because I didn’t bring a gift? I’ll never know. But Dai still wanted to eat, so he insisted Jacob and I go with him to eat sushi somewhere. So we tried one place nearby—reserved for a private party. Then, we decided to drive 30 minutes to a bigger city nearby, where Dai ordered eight million things and we had a ton of beer and sake and generally had a good time.
Then Jacob wanted to show us this bar he goes to nearby, so we stopped in there, to quickly meet a bunch of similar expats, most of whom apparently were really into a New Zealand rugby team called the All Blacks. The place was wood-paneled, so I was in heaven, and it also had a pool table, where Jacob and I hoped to play a game, but Jacob ended up getting in an argument with some Japanese guy about who was up next and we realized we had to catch the last train out anyway.
So we came back home, no problem, and bought some beer at the 24-hour grocer and hung out in Jacob’s room—no Dai at this point, he went home—and listened to records til 4am. And then I got up at 10 so I could talk to Caroline and what I hoped would be my parents online at the internet café, since it would only be early nighttime over there. Talking with Caroline was great, though I was so sick that I had to keep running to the bathroom to wet my face, and one time stealthily threw up when the bathroom was empty. The internet café was so hot, and I saw all these pitchers of water nearby, but needless to say I didn’t know how to ask for a glass of water and so I just continued to get sicker and sicker. Finally, she had to go and I raced home, violently dry heaved, and curled up under the covers until sometime mid-afternoon when a man continued to ring my doorbell, at least four times, until I came out. How he knew I was home, I’ll never know. I saw him through the peephole, with his helmet and official-looking uniform and thought it would be better to pretend not to be there, but his patience was greater than mine. I gave up and opened the door, where I had to sign to accept a letter from the bank with my bank card in it. Guess it was a good thing I opened the door after all!
Now I am debating whether or not to escape this apartment or not. The cities are intriguing, but not knowing Japanese, I’m afraid to wander into most stores. There is a punk show tonight, however, that I wanted to rendezvous with Jacob at—it’d be sweet to check out the Japanese scene. I figure I should go—I mean, what have I got to lose, besides myself?
No comments:
Post a Comment