Official Dispatch
To: Native Personnel of the United States Foreigner Relations Department
Regarding: Matters of Personnel Conduct
Body:
Dear Staff,
In short, the bar has been raised. My time spent amongst the Japanese citizens has been unexpectedly and abundantly pleasant. It is unfortunate. We will undoubtedly have to redouble our own national efforts for expressing courtesies to foreigners, which means more work for the department. Included herein is a short account of hospitality to be considered for your Domestic Reparations Division.
Internet Cafe Cashier- Helped change my computers settings and keyboard functions to English, temporarily leaving his work post.
Noodle Shop Server- To accommodate my inability to read the restaurant's menu, I was walked out to the front of the shop. There the young woman had me point to the plastic display of the entree I wanted: she never stopped smiling.
Curry House Server- See above entry.
Don Quixote Supermarket Employee- When asked about my computer's laptop cable and US plug converter switches, the attendant disappeared. I was left to puzzle through the electronic section's display boxes (all written in Kanji) when the young employee returned with several cable boxes. She opened them all at a nearby outlet in the store and we tried every one.
Drugstore Clerk- Looking down the aisles in a pharmacy in Juso, the cashier interrupted my hunt for painkillers; presumably offering assistance. I pointed to my head, pinched the bridge of my nose and the man, along with his mother who was watching TV behind the counter, came out onto the main floor. He asked about my age, symptoms and severity of the headache before finding one box in particular, and then deciphered the Kanji instructions on the boxback. It was opened, his mother brought me a glass of water, and they had me take two in the store before I left.
Subway Police Officer- When asked about a nearby "Torei", the man walked me 50 yards or more to the nearest bathroom.
Free Hug Lady- Though she may have been mentally unsound, her cardboard sign was plainly stated. The promised hug was comforting and fraternal.
Though this list is hardly exhaustive it represents the vaguest outline of my interpersonal experiences to date. I hope that these accounts may serve to motivate those of you in our Foreigner Relations Department when conducting yourselves in the field. Take care and keep up the good work. We owe these people.
Sincerely,
Your Deputy Agent of International Survey and Information Reconnaissance
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Charles
I can't get back to reading. I've tried but now I've done gone and got distracted. What'cha thinkin' bout Nate?
I'll tell you.
I just had my first significant English conversation. Sitting, reading a chapter from I, Lucifer in a Mister Donut, a fellow approaches my table. The man is Nigerian looking, slender, not much taller than a 14 year old and is wearing an orange polo, not fitting quiet right because it's stretched out about the neck. He introduces himself, telling me that he was on the bottom floor outside when he looked up at the glassed in upstairs and saw me reading. He said he felt compelled to speak with me. Ok, sure.
'Have a seat'.
We shake hands and the man seems pleasant. He gives me his name, Charles, and tells me he's a "world traveler". At this point, he hasn't yet quit the handshake and when he turns my wrist over to ask me where I got my watch and if it was important to me, I realize trouble's just pulled up a chair.
I set my book down, so as not to be rude, and the man has dropped my hand to pick it up. No invitation just turning it over a few times. He marvelled at the book as if he were surprised to see written pages fastened together so cleanly, and with a glossy cover to boot.
'What's it about?' Charles asked.
'Uh, the Devil gets a second chance on Earth.'
'Oh, are you religious?'
Stop right there. I think I've figured it out. Charles must be some scared-if-you're-different, tongue-speaking, "Extremist for Jesus" that saw my book with Satan on the cover from down in the street and thought it a perfect cry for help: a lost boy just achin' for a savin'.
'No, I don't subscribe to any one thing. I think that there is something that runs beyond us and....'
He interrupts, 'Have you ever heard of the "Power of the Invisibles"?'
Honest Abe, the 'Power of the Invisibles'. I figured he was a little loose but now I'm sure he hoped on the crazy train and blew right past Certified and Bat-Shit a long time ago.
I say 'no', thinking that he'll continue but he quickly gives the subject up to talk about his marriage, his girlfriends, his time in Japan, American media, and his "world traveling" which included 36 (unnamed) countries. After 34 minutes, yeah I was counting, I notice: the man's spittle collecting at the side of his mouth, the readiness and frequency with which he adjusts himself in the chair and changes topics, a seeming inability to blink and an incessant chewing of his upper lip. After listening to Charles' not-so-detailed account of the Amazon which he saw on vacation... in New Zealand, I get it.
Charles is tripping balls. Hours earlier in the rising high of a drugged-out euphoria, he must have been window shopping for one thing alone: a fixation point. Perhaps after a long tour of the neon lit, pulsing, slot arcade; eyes dilated and full of wonder, Charles stopped in front of a Mister Donut. And there on the second floor, perfectly wrapped in solitude behind glass, he found a bargain.
Credit where it's due, I stuck it out. Frequent sips at my cup of tea allowed me to break out of his acid glossed, take-it-all-in, Medusa stare and with only vague, half-answers on my part, he grew weary. He wrote his number out on a piece of paper ('No, really. I'll call you.') and headed back downstairs. Back to hunt down another courteous Westerner or focal point for his last few hours on the magic journey, which is a shame because I know the Japanese have gotten Pan's Labyrinth: that would be a trip.
I'll tell you.
I just had my first significant English conversation. Sitting, reading a chapter from I, Lucifer in a Mister Donut, a fellow approaches my table. The man is Nigerian looking, slender, not much taller than a 14 year old and is wearing an orange polo, not fitting quiet right because it's stretched out about the neck. He introduces himself, telling me that he was on the bottom floor outside when he looked up at the glassed in upstairs and saw me reading. He said he felt compelled to speak with me. Ok, sure.
'Have a seat'.
We shake hands and the man seems pleasant. He gives me his name, Charles, and tells me he's a "world traveler". At this point, he hasn't yet quit the handshake and when he turns my wrist over to ask me where I got my watch and if it was important to me, I realize trouble's just pulled up a chair.
I set my book down, so as not to be rude, and the man has dropped my hand to pick it up. No invitation just turning it over a few times. He marvelled at the book as if he were surprised to see written pages fastened together so cleanly, and with a glossy cover to boot.
'What's it about?' Charles asked.
'Uh, the Devil gets a second chance on Earth.'
'Oh, are you religious?'
Stop right there. I think I've figured it out. Charles must be some scared-if-you're-different, tongue-speaking, "Extremist for Jesus" that saw my book with Satan on the cover from down in the street and thought it a perfect cry for help: a lost boy just achin' for a savin'.
'No, I don't subscribe to any one thing. I think that there is something that runs beyond us and....'
He interrupts, 'Have you ever heard of the "Power of the Invisibles"?'
Honest Abe, the 'Power of the Invisibles'. I figured he was a little loose but now I'm sure he hoped on the crazy train and blew right past Certified and Bat-Shit a long time ago.
I say 'no', thinking that he'll continue but he quickly gives the subject up to talk about his marriage, his girlfriends, his time in Japan, American media, and his "world traveling" which included 36 (unnamed) countries. After 34 minutes, yeah I was counting, I notice: the man's spittle collecting at the side of his mouth, the readiness and frequency with which he adjusts himself in the chair and changes topics, a seeming inability to blink and an incessant chewing of his upper lip. After listening to Charles' not-so-detailed account of the Amazon which he saw on vacation... in New Zealand, I get it.
Charles is tripping balls. Hours earlier in the rising high of a drugged-out euphoria, he must have been window shopping for one thing alone: a fixation point. Perhaps after a long tour of the neon lit, pulsing, slot arcade; eyes dilated and full of wonder, Charles stopped in front of a Mister Donut. And there on the second floor, perfectly wrapped in solitude behind glass, he found a bargain.
Credit where it's due, I stuck it out. Frequent sips at my cup of tea allowed me to break out of his acid glossed, take-it-all-in, Medusa stare and with only vague, half-answers on my part, he grew weary. He wrote his number out on a piece of paper ('No, really. I'll call you.') and headed back downstairs. Back to hunt down another courteous Westerner or focal point for his last few hours on the magic journey, which is a shame because I know the Japanese have gotten Pan's Labyrinth: that would be a trip.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Belated
This is just going in front to let everyone know that until I get the internet in my place [Coming Soon in November] my blog action is going to be delayed until I can cut it off my computer and paste it up here on ol` Popeyes Internet Cafe. Sometimes a day. Sometimes two of `em.
What this means to you, the end reader: not much. It`s just old news to me. So, keep on reading and I`ll keep on posting; blog-chunks big enough to keep you busy while that favorite YouTube vid buffers its way into your heart.
What this means to you, the end reader: not much. It`s just old news to me. So, keep on reading and I`ll keep on posting; blog-chunks big enough to keep you busy while that favorite YouTube vid buffers its way into your heart.
An Occurence at Maison Jeunesse
This morning I had my first English conversation with a brother and sister new to the apartment complex who were also going to work for ECC. They struck me at first as a timid pair who must have went knocking about door to door until I had invited them into my little space. I can't be sure how I didn't get their names but it never once came up.
The girl was attractive, with marbly blue eyes and a sort of greasy teenager look that was fitting given that she had accepted the job not long after working alongside high school students at a local Pizza joint in New Jersey. The brother seemed to suffer from the same oily inheritance and his well-worn Nintendo t-shirt was in constant duress, losing a fight against sausagy arms and a Santa size tummy. I asked them how they liked New Jersey and the guy seemed willing to let the girl answer for the both of them.
She told me how great it was to be near all the cities but that she also liked the country because of banjos and black people. I didn't ask her what exactly she meant and she continued to say that 'If I have a kid in the city, I'll get him a banjo but it'll be a shame he won't be able to play it. You know all the people who play banjos live in the country.' I had no evidence to the contrary so I let that one slid too.
Here, the brother jumped in and mentioned the hiring session in Toronto. They had been, but experienced a blackout or some such difficulty that cut short an otherwise in-depth orientation. Both were surprised to hear me relate, what I considered basic information: length of stay, commuting arrangements and even pay specifics. Jumping in again, the brother cut me short in an aggravated way and joked that 'I had too much time just sitting around to read all that stuff,' and while he was painfully right, he came across as ignorant and insecure. The girl picked up on my talk about money, which I referred to in yen, and didn't quite seem to get the scale of pay. She told me how she had recently purchased a home with her boyfriend back home and now worried that she might have to save longer than planned to get back to him.
'So you are going back to the states, to New Jersey?' I asked. 'Oh, yes,' she replied. 'I don't have much of a choice. I've already put 800 dollars down on the place.'
'But you could save that working here in like two months,' I told her. To which she simply stared at the floor as if it were easier to do the math on the blank tile. Perhaps sensing his sister's distress the brother pulled out a laptop and wanted to show me something he thought I might get a kick out of. I realized that the girl had gotten up and left. The brother gave me a 'watch this' nudge and, as the screen filled up with an anime cartoon of military jeeps trading gunfire and dodging rocket explosions, I heard a tinkering in my kitchen which fully woke me from my sleep. I scrambled up, grasping after the pair of idiots who slipped back into the nothing I had pulled them from.
One might turn to a troubled psyche for interpretation but they needn't, really, go farther than isolation and a large plate of poor Japanese-spaghetti before bed to understand the vividness of my encounter and the disappointment, like yours upon facing a cheap literary trick, of its non-reality. Oh, well. It's morning and even if I've still met no body, whose to say ghosts aren't people too.
The girl was attractive, with marbly blue eyes and a sort of greasy teenager look that was fitting given that she had accepted the job not long after working alongside high school students at a local Pizza joint in New Jersey. The brother seemed to suffer from the same oily inheritance and his well-worn Nintendo t-shirt was in constant duress, losing a fight against sausagy arms and a Santa size tummy. I asked them how they liked New Jersey and the guy seemed willing to let the girl answer for the both of them.
She told me how great it was to be near all the cities but that she also liked the country because of banjos and black people. I didn't ask her what exactly she meant and she continued to say that 'If I have a kid in the city, I'll get him a banjo but it'll be a shame he won't be able to play it. You know all the people who play banjos live in the country.' I had no evidence to the contrary so I let that one slid too.
Here, the brother jumped in and mentioned the hiring session in Toronto. They had been, but experienced a blackout or some such difficulty that cut short an otherwise in-depth orientation. Both were surprised to hear me relate, what I considered basic information: length of stay, commuting arrangements and even pay specifics. Jumping in again, the brother cut me short in an aggravated way and joked that 'I had too much time just sitting around to read all that stuff,' and while he was painfully right, he came across as ignorant and insecure. The girl picked up on my talk about money, which I referred to in yen, and didn't quite seem to get the scale of pay. She told me how she had recently purchased a home with her boyfriend back home and now worried that she might have to save longer than planned to get back to him.
'So you are going back to the states, to New Jersey?' I asked. 'Oh, yes,' she replied. 'I don't have much of a choice. I've already put 800 dollars down on the place.'
'But you could save that working here in like two months,' I told her. To which she simply stared at the floor as if it were easier to do the math on the blank tile. Perhaps sensing his sister's distress the brother pulled out a laptop and wanted to show me something he thought I might get a kick out of. I realized that the girl had gotten up and left. The brother gave me a 'watch this' nudge and, as the screen filled up with an anime cartoon of military jeeps trading gunfire and dodging rocket explosions, I heard a tinkering in my kitchen which fully woke me from my sleep. I scrambled up, grasping after the pair of idiots who slipped back into the nothing I had pulled them from.
One might turn to a troubled psyche for interpretation but they needn't, really, go farther than isolation and a large plate of poor Japanese-spaghetti before bed to understand the vividness of my encounter and the disappointment, like yours upon facing a cheap literary trick, of its non-reality. Oh, well. It's morning and even if I've still met no body, whose to say ghosts aren't people too.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
The X-ray
It's done.
I can now give "the company", as I've come to call them, an x-ray of my chest which will complete their medical records. Obtaining the x-ray was not, however, without its difficulties. The trip would be my first outside of the 10 square blocks around my apartment which I have anxiously been ambling about for the past 3 days. In fact, if the locals have come to recognize my presence, if they have an image, then it is of a timid and uncertain, lanky fellow walking about: one time, as someone might recollect, looking toward the sky while toting a package of toilet paper precariously out of an unzipped backpack; maybe lost, they would think, but most probably stupid.
The trip to Namba section where the doctor is located can be no more than a 30 minute commute but, curveball, there is a transfer from train to subway. The only complication this offered, and indeed the only one I encountered, was the necessity to change ticket types. Turning to the handiest tool I have ever owned, my pocket dictionary/phrasebook (Thanks Jake), I was given a beacon of hope. The book included a diagram of a standard ticketing machine which showed, to my delight, a button promising a full walkthrough in English.
Firsthand, no button exists. Rather, my solution for depuzzling the Japanese ticket machine was to start with small bills and work my way up to cut loses as I would inevitably screw up. A fine plan but it takes some guess work, guess work that holds me wide eyed in front of the automatic teller for some time. The people backing up in the line make me nervous and it isn't long before I abort the mission and let the crowd at their business. It's okay because there are quite a few tellers about the station but scattered wildly which sends me walking back and forth in a curious bee line looking for a vacant machine and shying away when the next train empties its cars of people back into the lobby and so back into the intimidating queues. If my dazed shuffling about the station concerned anyone, if they could comment to one of my neighbors, they might receive a dismissive wave of the hand, they might say, 'Oh, he does that.'
Tickets purchased. Things go smoother. Outside of the station I've reached Namba, Osaka. I rarely need to consult my map and can enjoy walking amongst the many towers and animated billboards, past the flamboyant traffic men waving their flags and the crowds they are herding, to find the tower where the doctor's clinic should be. To be brief, I am ushered into the lobby by a pleasant receptionist and asked to fill out a questionnaire while I wait for the doc.
Do you smoke? Have you had a serious illness? Do you break 2 days in between drinking? The last question hints at a touchstone for alcohol abuse in the country much higher than I would've granted and I begin to reconsider my allowances when the doctor steps in and calls me back. He introduces himself and asks 'How are you?' not 'Ogenki desu ka.' He speaks English and the potential conversation is exciting.
I gush a little about the trip telling him that 'It was difficult but I'm fine now though its been warmer than what I would have imagined for the fall though I suppose..." when his slack expression interrupts me to say 'I'm sorry, what?' My face answers back, 'This is going to be like everywhere else isn't it?' and his quiet says 'Yes.' While the doctor and I banter quietly, a lovely nurse has stepped with us into the examination room. She motions for me to take my shirt off and her gesture strikes me as a little provocative but, alas, I am the one on stage. I'm coached onto a platform where I'm instructed to rest my chin and shirtless belly against a dull, brown, metal rig. I wonder briefly about the lead vest one would expect but disregard it because the doctor and nurse are standing in place behind me, the doctor prompting me to inhale and exhale slowly. By the third breath I've chalked the lack of radiation protection up to advanced Japanese technology when the doctor says 'Stop' and hopes quickly out of the room and shuts the door. I've been tricked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can catch the bastard going for a button and then a quick clicking noise behind me spools up. Next, I swear I feel a lethal, carcinogenic, gamma pulse working its way through my chest; recruiting cells to take up the fight and revolt like some cancerous Paul Revere.
In an instant he's back in the room, smiling. He tells me to put my shirt back and I remember how to ask 'How much?' in broken Japanese. Looking back on the scene I must've appeared like a first time prostitute without much confidence: standing shyly after an unpleasant experience and snapping my shirt back on while hoping that he'll cut me a fair price.
To set a fair comparison, Wilkes Regional Medical Center gave me a quote. $148 dollars for the x-ray plus technician's fees and 3 days to process. The doctor told me it would be 2,000 yen, roughly 20 US dollars, and if I waited for 5 minutes, then the receptionist would bring everything I needed right out.
Sure. I can live with that.
I can now give "the company", as I've come to call them, an x-ray of my chest which will complete their medical records. Obtaining the x-ray was not, however, without its difficulties. The trip would be my first outside of the 10 square blocks around my apartment which I have anxiously been ambling about for the past 3 days. In fact, if the locals have come to recognize my presence, if they have an image, then it is of a timid and uncertain, lanky fellow walking about: one time, as someone might recollect, looking toward the sky while toting a package of toilet paper precariously out of an unzipped backpack; maybe lost, they would think, but most probably stupid.
The trip to Namba section where the doctor is located can be no more than a 30 minute commute but, curveball, there is a transfer from train to subway. The only complication this offered, and indeed the only one I encountered, was the necessity to change ticket types. Turning to the handiest tool I have ever owned, my pocket dictionary/phrasebook (Thanks Jake), I was given a beacon of hope. The book included a diagram of a standard ticketing machine which showed, to my delight, a button promising a full walkthrough in English.
Firsthand, no button exists. Rather, my solution for depuzzling the Japanese ticket machine was to start with small bills and work my way up to cut loses as I would inevitably screw up. A fine plan but it takes some guess work, guess work that holds me wide eyed in front of the automatic teller for some time. The people backing up in the line make me nervous and it isn't long before I abort the mission and let the crowd at their business. It's okay because there are quite a few tellers about the station but scattered wildly which sends me walking back and forth in a curious bee line looking for a vacant machine and shying away when the next train empties its cars of people back into the lobby and so back into the intimidating queues. If my dazed shuffling about the station concerned anyone, if they could comment to one of my neighbors, they might receive a dismissive wave of the hand, they might say, 'Oh, he does that.'
Tickets purchased. Things go smoother. Outside of the station I've reached Namba, Osaka. I rarely need to consult my map and can enjoy walking amongst the many towers and animated billboards, past the flamboyant traffic men waving their flags and the crowds they are herding, to find the tower where the doctor's clinic should be. To be brief, I am ushered into the lobby by a pleasant receptionist and asked to fill out a questionnaire while I wait for the doc.
Do you smoke? Have you had a serious illness? Do you break 2 days in between drinking? The last question hints at a touchstone for alcohol abuse in the country much higher than I would've granted and I begin to reconsider my allowances when the doctor steps in and calls me back. He introduces himself and asks 'How are you?' not 'Ogenki desu ka.' He speaks English and the potential conversation is exciting.
I gush a little about the trip telling him that 'It was difficult but I'm fine now though its been warmer than what I would have imagined for the fall though I suppose..." when his slack expression interrupts me to say 'I'm sorry, what?' My face answers back, 'This is going to be like everywhere else isn't it?' and his quiet says 'Yes.' While the doctor and I banter quietly, a lovely nurse has stepped with us into the examination room. She motions for me to take my shirt off and her gesture strikes me as a little provocative but, alas, I am the one on stage. I'm coached onto a platform where I'm instructed to rest my chin and shirtless belly against a dull, brown, metal rig. I wonder briefly about the lead vest one would expect but disregard it because the doctor and nurse are standing in place behind me, the doctor prompting me to inhale and exhale slowly. By the third breath I've chalked the lack of radiation protection up to advanced Japanese technology when the doctor says 'Stop' and hopes quickly out of the room and shuts the door. I've been tricked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can catch the bastard going for a button and then a quick clicking noise behind me spools up. Next, I swear I feel a lethal, carcinogenic, gamma pulse working its way through my chest; recruiting cells to take up the fight and revolt like some cancerous Paul Revere.
In an instant he's back in the room, smiling. He tells me to put my shirt back and I remember how to ask 'How much?' in broken Japanese. Looking back on the scene I must've appeared like a first time prostitute without much confidence: standing shyly after an unpleasant experience and snapping my shirt back on while hoping that he'll cut me a fair price.
To set a fair comparison, Wilkes Regional Medical Center gave me a quote. $148 dollars for the x-ray plus technician's fees and 3 days to process. The doctor told me it would be 2,000 yen, roughly 20 US dollars, and if I waited for 5 minutes, then the receptionist would bring everything I needed right out.
Sure. I can live with that.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The Begining
My name is Nathaniel Hanks: 22 years old, tall and adorable. I grew up in western North Carolina, graduated from Appstate University and put on my big boy pants to find a job that pays. The job, teaching english as a second language to kids and adults in Osaka, Japan. Will I exploit this unique opportunity of mine to create some entertaining blogtent? Yes. Did I make up the word blogtent? I think so. With the introduction aside, let it begin. Cultural friction, Big city livin for a kid from the sticks, Ninja Warrior ambitions and the fumblings of a foreigner all swirl together in a perfect storm of material. Kampai!
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