Usually, I find the customs exotic, or at least quaint. Usually, that is, except when I am sitting cross legged on a cushion propped on a ledge at dinner and I start to doze because I am exhausted from all the travel and the large beer I just sucked down and I just barely catch myself from falling backwards onto the cold hard tile. I tremble to think of the permanent psychological damage that could have caused my children, particularly my son; not so much because of the serious head injury but by the sight of mom upside down at the table, chopsticks still in hand, her dress falling over her head and her brand new cankles and swollen clown feet kicking wildly in the air. We narrowly escaped complete disaster, but I'm guessing he'll think twice about bringing friends next time to meet the family for a meal.
Somehow we got through dinner with my son's psyche still relatively unscathed and my vertebrae all still intact. It's now the very wee hours of my first morning here in Japan, and I am sitting in the hotel lobby pondering those cankles and clown feet I acquired on the plane ride over here. Wondering who on earth will ever love someone who can store enough water in her ankles to hydrate a small nation on a hot summer day, I could not believe my good fortune when I checked my email.
Every once in a while, I find something in my inbox from an old dating site, trying to woo me back. Usually it's very helpful articles about what not to do on dates (apparently it's bad form to ask someone why his marriage failed, at least on the first date), but sometimes it's a little teaser message from some suitor to whom I can only respond if I re-up.
You have a great profile, said the note from Mr. Potentially Right. I assume he was referring to the stuff I made up about myself (lies like I laugh in the face of adversity -- yeah, right) and not the side view of my face, and I always have a soft spot for guys who at least pretend to have read what I wrote. This particular guy didn't include a picture of himself or, if he did, that was a carrot being dangled by the dating site. I decided to read on. To be honest, I am only interested in casual sex and some good laughter and conversation. Hmm. That was new -- and, I have to say, more than a teensy bit refreshing. So many guys announce in their profiles that they are honest, which I always take to mean they are pathological liars, but this guy was putting his money where his mouth is, and kudos to him for his forthrightness. If it weren't for my past experiences with folks who don't offer up a picture right away, I might have taken him up on his offer. But then I remembered the faceless guy with loads of personality back in the day who finally sent me a picture of himself and his dog; the guy looked like Shrek on a bad day, but the dog was really cute -- especially by comparison -- and at least that gave me something nice to say.
Back to reality, such as it is here on the other side of the planet. Where a guy would never have the gall to send an email to a woman he's never met and tell her all he wanted was casual sex and a few laughs. Where everybody is exceedingly polite. I sat between two Japanese nationals on the plane; when one of us got up to pee, we all went to pee, so nobody would have to bother the others at a different time or make anyone feel bad for getting up. It was an odd sort of buddy system but really very sweet. And my neck still hurts from all the bowing good night in the hotel elevator last night. (The bowing is a really nice custom, but if you bow back then they keep bowing and then you need to bow again and you just want to yell please stop! but you don't because you should appreciate the fact that people here smile and bow rather than either looking the other way or looking you in the eye and flipping you the bird.)
Ah, but beware of stereotypes, even the nice ones. Here, where we assume everybody is exceedingly polite, there are now "women only" cars on the trains. At first I thought it was some kind of "red tent" thing; maybe menstruating women need a place of their own, maybe there are pads on the seats and tampons hanging from the straps. My son straightened me out. Apparently, here in Japan, where everybody at least seems exceedingly polite, there is a groping problem. Just like in the real world I guess, men on crowded train cars cannot resist the urge to use their free hand to grab some unsuspecting woman's ass. Oh dear, more illusions, shattered. Next he's going to tell me that while folks are bowing and smiling and muttering in Japanese to me in the hotel elevator what they're really saying to me is get the hell out of my way.
I am feeling a bit demoralized and shaken. By my cankles and clown feet, by faceless men emailing with requests for casual sex, by the thought of neatly dressed Japanese men grabbing asses on subways. But the good news is I made it through the first evening without a concussion and without adding to any psychological damage I have already caused my children. A good grope on the train might not be such a bad thing, and I'm no stranger to bloat.
Tonight, though, I'm going to have to insist on a real chair at dinner.
No comments:
Post a Comment