Yoo-Oh!

This Is My Japan

I pull the coupons for free beers from my bag. “Are these okay?” I ask Taiji.

Taiji is excited. “Sugoi!” he says. "Su! Goi!" Cool!. He takes the coupons from me and shows the others. “Ah! Sugoi! Sugoi ne!”

They must be okay, I think.

We’re in Watami in Ginza, where my students have invited me out drinking after class. Turns out that none of the women in the class can come, so it’s me and my six salarymen: Taiji, Masanori, Minoru, Ryuji, Fumihito, Tetsuya. Taiji is the senior member of the group both in age and relative job position. He tells me where to sit, then he sits down next to me on my left. Ryuji is on my right. Across from me, from right to left are Fumihito, Minoru, Masanori, and Testuya.

On the way to Watami, Taiji and I have talked about baseball, and how the pitcher for the Yakults is terrible. (And he is too. At Friday's game, when he came up to the mound, the opposing team scored FIVE homeruns in a single inning to win the game. Honto, it was shameful.) I have never had a conversation about baseball in my life, and suddenly I am having one in very simple English with a man who speaks Japanese and English (albeit at a very low level) and who trades in plastics all over the Asian subcontinent. This is my Japan.

I enjoy the hell out of the conversation.

The men sit, order drinks, then begin to order food. They order food and order food and order food and order food. They can’t stump me with pregnant fish, so they order three different kinds of different kinds of mushrooms. They can’t stump me with mushrooms, so they order soba and a couple of kinds of sashimi. Nope, I partake willingly, excitedly. They are confused; this is not the behavior they expected. I eat and eat and exclaim everything to be wonderful. This is not the behavior of a foreigner. Have you ever eaten this? It’s tamago. Oh! I love tamago. Finally, they question me about natto and I break, hanging my head. Foreigners cannot eat natto and they know it. They are delighted.

Again, much to their delight, I drink beer, chat in an oblique manner about sex tours in Thailand, the stereotypical images of America, tea ceremonies, all things. They all speak in English out of politeness to me. I encourage them to speak Japanese and they do sometimes, but only very quickly and only when absolutely necessary.

One of them compliments me and they are delighted when I make the motion for gomisuru, the grinding of sesame in a suribachi that indicates that someone is being ingratiatingly insincere. “You’re a good teacher!” he protests. I make the motion again and they laugh.

“Gomisuru!” one of them says.

“Gomisuru!” I repeat.

At the end of the night, they teach me a complicated handclapping that ends the party: 1-2-3. 1-2-3. 1-2-3. 1.

I pick it up quickly and they do this end of party “Yoo-oh!” then the handclapping, complete with quick yells that sound like “Hoi!” in between the pattern.

Yoo-Oh!

1-2-3. 1-2-3. 1-2-3.
1.

Hoi!

1-2-3. 1-2-3. 1-2-3.
1.

Hoi!

1-2-3. 1-2-3. 1-2-3.
1.

Hoi!!!

And the party is done.

If you ever would have told me a year ago that's I'd be ending a drinking party with a rhythmic handclapping game in a bar in Tokyo with a group of salarymen? I'd have been worried about your grip on reality. But you know what? This is my life now.

This is my Japan.

I had a great time.