Back to the UK

I am now on my way to the airport,courtesy of the Odakyu Bus Company.It's a dull, dreary day in Tokyo - a day that matches my mood completely. The last three months have gone very quickly. The expected brick wall of homesickness just didn't happen. In fact,quite the reverse. I genuinely feel far more relaxed, far more at home here than I did in the UK. Of course it will be fun to see friends and family. But a very, very big part of me will forever remain here.

よBloody ほほ (yo bloody ho ho)

It’s Christmas time and here in Japan, like everywhere else in the known universe, that means streets festooned with decorations and Last Christmas blasting out from every shop PA system. However there is one major,major difference between Christmas here in Japan and the rest of the world: While the rest of the world will be enjoying a fun-filled, relaxing Christmas Day on December the 25th, in Japan all the decorations will be gone; the Christmas CDs shoved in the drawer under the counter until next year and all trace of Christmas spirit erased. The commuter trains will once again be packed to capacity during the morning rush hour and all over the country it will be very much “business as usual”.

 

The word superficial doesn’t even begin to describe the shallowness of Christmas here. This is not the first time I’ve been in Japan for Christmas, but there is something very different about this year in that I am actually living here rather than merely choosing to visit during the festive season as has been the case in the past. Previously, I guess like most Westerners, I was simultaneously amused and bemused by the Japanese approach to Christmas. As in everything else they do, the Japanese throw themselves at it with a vigour and enthusiasm that few other people could match. Every street, every shop and every window is lit up with galaxies of fairy lights. Yet they have absolutely no concept of why or what it’s all for. The meaning is utterly lost on them; like a middle-ager dropping some highly inappropriate Yoof buzzword they’ve picked up into a conversation, without realising its true obscene meaning – Christmas in Japan is amusing but at the same time, a bit disturbing.

 

The thing that is the most disturbing is that they really don’t care about the meaning – it’s just an excuse to put up lights, buy presents, eat cake and Kentucky Fried Chicken on Christmas Eve. Once that’s done, that’s it. There is no significance whatsoever in any of it – it is as false and plastic and contrived as the Santa-suit clad Colonel Saunders figure that stands outside KFC.

I don’t consider myself to be a religious person as such, and if I was, I doubt that I would be particularly inclined to adopt mainstream Christian belief. Nevertheless, like most people around the world, I do believe that Christmas, Yuletide – whatever you want to call it – is a special time. A time when, just for a day or so, there can actually be Peace on Earth and where everyone, no matter what their beliefs and circumstances, should be able to feel the warmth of human affection, as expressed through family or friends. This appears to be an utterly alien concept to the Japanese - my wife included, who scoffs at the very notion.

According to her, Christmas means nothing – it’s just a shopping festival. My assertion that the festival carries with it a deeper and more profound personal significance for most people was roundly and aggressively slapped-down.

I was quite offended by the arrogance of this. How can someone who clearly has no concept of Christmas dismiss it as being trivial and worthless?

Emotionally difficult for sure, but also a very difficult thing for me to grasp intellectually. How can an otherwise rational and intelligent person fail to acknowledge that the idea of Christmas is – if not one of religious significance – then at least a noble one.

Of course I am very aware that Japan has no tradition of Christmas, and so I held no preconceptions that Christmas here would in any way resemble that in the UK. But in true British style, my natural inclination was to acquire the various iconic Crimbo elements as best I could i.e. Turkey, Crackers etc, and do the best to create a semblance of Christmas Day. Now, after experiencing my wife’s cold dismissal of its significance as a family festival, I have – quite unexpectedly – become a little depressed about it all.

But, after trawling through various blogs, I find that I am not alone. It seems that many gaijin before me have stubbed their toes on this particular cultural rock that lies just below the waterline. The words “depressing”, “shallow”, “bleak” are commonly used to describe the feelings that a Christmas driven exclusively by commercial cynicism evokes in the hearts of many Westerners. Some use stronger language; some even go so far as to return home at this time of year to avoid it.

Perhaps the answer is that there are some things that just can’t be explained or translated without a cultural reference point to relate it to. Christmas is perhaps one.

Mt Fuji at sunset

We visited my beloved J-Mart DIY store this afternoon. On coming out, I was surprised to see Fuji san silouetted against the evening sky. It's not often that you get to see the mountain due to the cluttered skyline and photochemical haze that hangs over the city during the day. My shaky picture taken on a cellphone doesn't really do it justice. But it was a powerful and unexpected encounter with this most Japanese of icons, made all the more striking by its appearance in the most mundane of settings.

Fuji is an impressive sight. At 12,388 ft (3776m) it is the highest of Japan's many mountains. Even though it is around 60 miles away, it has a brooding presence that makes it seem far closer. I was surprised - and a little shocked - to learn that Fuji san is officially an active volcano, albeit with a low probablility of eruption. As someone who grew up in the comparatively benign environment of the British Isles I must admit to being quite terrified of volcanoes. I sometimes question the wisdom of moving to a country that boasts over 10% of the world's active ones! We Brits are not accustomed to thinking of Mother Nature as anything other than nurturing and obliging in her bountiful gifts. Here it's a different story. Of course it's a beautiful country, but there is an unspoken understanding that it is also a fragile one; for all its rich culture and its technological advances, Japan is completely at the mercy of Mother Nature. Fuji san awakening from its slumbers, for example, would be enough to turn Tokyo into an ash-choked wasteland.

As I gazed at Fuji san, it was a sobering thought that this dark silouette on the horizon had the power to change the lives of literally millions of people at a stroke - not the sort of apocolyptic vision likely to be encountered in the car park at B&Q Canterbury.

Japan:Take nothing for granted

One of the most endearing features of Japanese life for a Westerner is that absolutely nothing can be taken for granted. Food is, of course, probably the first culture-shock people experience here. We are not accustomed to having our dinner arrive still attempting to escape, nor do we share the Japanese enthusiasm for plonking raw egg yolks on everything. But long after these occurrences cease to become remarkable, the country still has the capacity to catch you out with some unexpected cultural roadside bomb.

Take, for example, shower gel. A pretty innocuous household substance, that you would think was fairly universal in its formulation and use. But you’d be wrong, for in Japan they strive constantly to achieve perfection – and those good people at Sea Breeze shower gel are no exception.

Sea Breeze is quite a good name for a shower gel I guess – conjuring up images of bracing sea air, the exhilaration of the briny spray with a hint of wind-swept manliness thrown in. Combined with it’s attractive sea-blue bottle, these factors swayed me in its favour over its – frankly – rather effete competitors. However Sea Breeze proved to be a little more appropriate in its name than I bargained for.

Say the word “congestion” and probably the next thing you think of is “menthol” – of course renown for its ability to clear blocked sinuses and ease the breathing. One can almost picture the chain of thought that led the product designers to that eureka moment where Sea Breeze acquired its magically invigorating powers. Yes, you’ve guessed it. Menthol shower gel.

On the face of it, it doesn’t sound too bad. And on the face of it, it isn’t. However it’s a slightly different story when Sea Breeze meets the slightly more delicate parts of one’s anatomy. If you’re not expecting it, a sudden warming sensation in the nether regions can be a slightly alarming experience. There may be a warning on the bottle I suppose – but there’s no way I could have know. Perhaps I should suggest some typically cute graphic indication of the likely effects of Sea Breeze when applied inappropriately – Miffy the Rabbit clutching his nuts with a pained expression perhaps?

Byoin ni ikimasu

The Beerhound locks have become rather unkempt of late and so, after a courage-bolstering trip to Yebi-san’s fine drinking and yakitori establishment near to Nishi Ogikubo station, I decided to take the plunge and have a haircut. The problem was – where to go?

To be more precise, which of the roughly hundred thousand barbers, stylists and hairdressers within a 1km radius I should visit. I’ve never seen such a high concentration of hair-care specialists in such a small geographic area. It’s almost like every other shop is something to do with hairstyling. Having neat hair is clearly a major preoccupation of the good people of Nishi Ogikubo, only narrowly eclipsing their enthusiasm for stamping their names on things – judging by the number of hanko shops.

I finally chose a place quite close to our house. Big M tried to explain to the barber what I wanted: Out came the styling books; in true Japanese style, the conversation ranged far and wide, encompassing every aspect of my life. The hair should be short, because of physical pursuits such as running and martial arts. Yet not overly so because of my professional life and the fact that short hair tends to make me look a little too aggressive (moi?). Inevitably, the delicate subject of my bald spot popped up in the conversation.

Yes it’s true, certain areas of the Beerhound bonce are a little threadbare. Being 6ft 2 means that few people here every get to see it, but for the record, I don’t really have a problem with it. All my angst was worked out many years ago – the Summer I first got a sun-burnt head! However, being the consummate professional, the barber tentatively raised the prospect of “the barcode”

The term “barcode” rather accurately describes the effect on the average Japanese male of what we in England would call the “comb-over” or “Bobby Charlton”.

There is no power on Earth that would ever induce me to indulge in this most transparent of self-delusions. Nothing could look so ridiculous, nor reveal so much about the fragile sense of self-worth of its wearer, than the comb-over.

Not that I need it, anyway.

Brown should come here if he wants to see how a government dept should be run

After my previous post (see below) I wanted to contrast my experience with the Japanese authorities while applying for residence, and that of Big M’s in the UK. Basically, there is no comparison whatsoever. In the UK, we were treated like criminals – forced to cough up thousands of pounds, forced to enrol in English classes we didn’t need and finally subjected to the totally demeaning and utterly pointless New Labour Propaganda Life in the UK test. The total cost of all this, just for my wife and stepdaughter to stay in the country, was in excess of £2,500. We had to travel twice to the disgusting Home Office Immigration facility in Croydon, carrying a truly ridiculous amount of supporting paperwork that required an entire archive box. We were forced to wait in the cold and rain with no toilet facilities; when we were eventually allowed in the building we were searched like thieves and treated like absolute shit.

Contrast this with Japan. The application for a marriage visa took one visit to the very pleasant Japanese embassy in London. Even though there was an irregularity with our paperwork, the staff were unfailing helpful and polite and the problem was sorted out easily. Total cost: £5

In Japan, the application for residence took just one visit to city hall and about a 20 minute wait while they processed the application. Cost: £0

I returned one week later to collect my card and register my stamp (see below) Cost: About 25p

Just a little bit different to rip-off Britain!

If there is any UK resident reading this that is contemplating settling in the UK with their Japanese spouse (or any other non-EU passport holder for that matter), my advice simply is – don’t even think about it. I would say that trying to start our family life in England was one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made.  

Feels like I’m here to stay

This morning I went to city hall to collect my gaijin card. This basically is my permission to live and work freely in Japan and it’s what all foreigners who want to stay here strive to achieve. For foreigners arriving here in the hope of getting a job, the gaijin card can prove a major obstacle; you can’t get a job without it and you can’t get a card without a job! But of course for me it’s been pretty easy thanks to the missus.

The other major acquisition today was my personal seal (hanko) which people here use instead of a signature. I found a place around the corner that produced mine for about £25, complete with a smart black case with built-in ink pad. While I was at city hall I also registered my stamp so I can now do things like opening bank accounts etc.

With these two bits of personal administration sorted out, I feel a lot more settled and it really is starting to feel like home now.

A stroll in the park

This morning we got up early (for us!) and went for a stroll in nearby Inokashira Park. It was an absolutely beautiful morning. The trees in the park are just beginning to be kissed with Autumn gold, but the weather is still pleasantly warm. There is something about the light here that is extraordinarily beautiful – the trees in the distance are rendered a kind of smoky blue that is extremely evocative of classic Japanese art and paintings. Even though there are loads of people in the park on a day like today, somehow the crowds seem to do little to spoil the tranquillity and elegant beauty of the place. It is quite the most wonderful haven of timeless peace in a sea of frantic urbanisation.

Intrigue & scandal at the post office

The tranquility of Shoan 2 has been rocked by a series of scandals involving someone who clearly has a grudge against the Japanese Postal Service. Big M went to post some letters today, but when she got to the post box, it had been sealed up. And it wasn’t just one – they all had. After questioning the bird behind the counter, it appears that they’d been having a problem with somebody who’d been smearing poo over the post office window. But not content with that, they’ve now started shoving it into letter boxes as well. Bizarre – the work of a disgruntled post-stool worker perhaps? Sorry – couldn’t resist it.

Pie wa tabemashita ga dare desu ka?

In an effort to tackle my burgeoning waistline and get me back into some kind of shape in advance of joining a iaido dojo, myself and Big M ventured along to the local sports club for a look. Like you’d expect, it was very impressive: 3 floors consisting of very well equipped multi-gym, swimming pools, saunas and even an indoor golf practice room. Amazing. We were shown around by an enthusiastic young chap, clearly excited to have a gaijin to talk to.

The culmination of our visit was a detailed analysis of body composition carried out by a machine that looked like Captain Kirk’s bathroom scales. After being instructed to stand on metal plates, clasping an electrode in each hand, the machine proceeded to probe the mysteries of the Beerhound physique, concluding – with commendable accuracy –that I was a fat bastard. Impressive thought it was, I couldn’t help thinking a glance in the mirror would have probably sufficed.

The Last beer in Canterbury

I visited Canterbury one last time today. At last the weather smiled long enough to be able to enjoy a beer in a pub garden, and so it was I found myself sitting in the Unicorn's very satisfactory little garden. Today's trip was mainly about shopping - particularly the things I can't get easily in Japan, like shoes. Not to mention trousers to fit my inexorably swelling waistband. I've really got to do something about that. I also bought a couple of cashmere scarves for the girls, and some very expensive chocolates. And finally, I bought a mini-cathedral for Big M's model house collection. All in all, a very pleasant day.

But also a rather strange one. I had to remind myself that home was no longer a short walk from the High Street. I will miss Canterbury. For all the trials and ordeals that I've suffered here, I feel Canterbury will always be "home" - at least in a spiritual sense. Yet it also feels like time to move on. So despite the odd pang of regret, I'm very much looking forward to the next period in my life. I am sure it will turn out to be just as frustrating, bewildering, taxing and punishing as establishing a homestead in Canterbury. I hope it also turns out to have been similarly worth the effort.

Goodbye to an old and trusted friend

This morning saw the departure of our faithful and long-suffering family car to the great car park in the sky. I was very sad to see it go. Spookily, it actually broke down for the first time since we’ve had it this morning – which I find almost unbelievable. It’s like it knew.

The mysteries of the east

As regular readers will know, I am subject to frequent borrockings from the missus. Some are deserved; some come about due to cultural misunderstandings and some are just unfair. Occasionally, I get ones that are just plain inexplicable, and today saw just such an occurrence.

The Japanese side of the family has been noticeably non-communicative today, despite several prompts. Finally, I just got a cryptic message letting me know what a disappointment I am and nothing else. Why? your guess is as good as mine.

Sometimes its impossible to fathom what’s going on in that head of hers. I’ve racked my brains to try and think of what I might have done wrong this time, but to no avail. So I suspect it will remain a mystery. At least for the time being. In the meantime, I shall rise above it by exercising a Zen-like detachment from the confusion and emotional turbulence of the existential world; in other words, ignore it.

Where were you when I needed you?

I’ve finally found the source of information and support I have so desperately sought over the last 4 years in the shape of a guide book to Japanese women. Kind of an owner’s manual, if you like. The 160-page booklet has done so much to explain the odd behaviour of the wife, and put my mind at rest that I am not alone in experiencing these difficulties. But more than that, it has given me an insight into the relationship from the Japanese perspective, which I’m sure will prove invaluable.

The interesting part is that I can now see much more clearly which of the problems we experience can be attributed to cultural differences and which are just her (or me, for that matter). For example, the gender roles differ greatly in Japanese society – seemingly very antiquated from our modern Western standpoint. And yet, they are not so dissimilar to the standards of behaviour which were the norm here in perhaps the 1950’s. The man is expected to be a man; strong, silent and capable of handling problems with no complaints. The women rely almost entirely on the men to protect and provide for them: there is very little shared responsibility of the sort we’ve grown accustomed to here. Men are expected to take the lead in everything outside the home and act decisively when making arrangements. Looking back over the early part of our relationship, I can remember quite a few occasions where I was far too “Western”; doing what I thought was the gentlemanly thing and allowing the lady to make the arrangements for visits or things like that.

One really interesting example of how the cultural differences can easily be misinterpreted is our habit of holding doors open for ladies to enter. This seemingly genteel behaviour is viewed as anything but in Japan, where the custom is exactly the opposite: Men go in first always. To our Western eyes, images of swaggering bigots barging into restaurants while their demure wives struggle along behind appears extremely sexist. But not so. In reality, this custom dates from Samurai times, when potential danger lurked behind every doorway. The men would enter first so as not to expose his wife and family to any risks which lay beyond. Far from being the act of a chauvinist, it is in fact an act of selfless courage and love. Interpreted in this way, our seemingly quaint custom of holding open doors for ladies appears utterly cowardly and the act of a total cad. This is the perfect illustration of just how complicated things can get when crossing cultural boundaries.

The Last Supper

Tonight is my last night in Randolph Close. Tired though I am, this was not a night to go unmarked. A trip to the Phoenix was essential, and a very pleasant evening it was too. Now back home, I’m lying on a mattress on the floor of our bedroom, listening to Radio 4, eating Marmite on toast and drinking sake. I can’t think of a more fitting cross-cultural culinary tribute to our time here.

A lesson learned

Another day of toil; a bigger pile of rubbish and more problems. It’s looking increasingly likely I’m going to have to just give away some expensive items like the tumble drier and Little M’s bed because I can’t find any takers. My mum said to just do it and forget about it; “You’ve done your best so you can’t do any more.” She is right.

Although she doesn’t know it, she’s reminded me of one of my most important philosophies – that of letting go of things that don’t matter anymore. In Wing Chun, the striking fist contains energy only at the moment of impact: Too soon, and strength is wasted and the blow becomes slow and cumbersome; too late and the energy contained in the striking limb can easily be turned against you and your whole body unbalanced. Life is a bit like that sometimes. Everything has it’s right time for action; a right time for energy to be focused into it. Like the striking limb that’s too tense, putting energy into things at the wrong time can actually work against a successful conclusion. Holding on to something – expending emotional energy on something - that is no longer of use is just as damaging. I think there is a passage in the Hagakure of Yamamoto Tsunetomo that says something like “Waste no time on useless things.” This is sound advice.

A central tenet of Zen Buddhist philosophy is that all human suffering derives from our attachment to things that are impermanent. Possessions, money – even life itself – are impermanent constructs and will one day slip through our fingers like water. Perhaps a lesson from today is that rather than expending energy on trying to hold onto things that can’t be held, I should be celebrating and be thankful for the good things that they represented when they were part of our lives here in Canterbury.

A new day brings no relief

Another day dawns over the wreckage of our home. I was pretty down last night when I went to bed, and now in the cold light of day I’m even more demoralised by the mountain of problems that still have to be overcome. Just 3 minutes with pen and paper has filled an A4 sheet with tasks that must be completed within the next 24 hours. This marathon is taking every ounce of courage and fortitude I possess to endure. Last night I found a picture of me from 2004, slim fit and glowing with health. You wouldn’t recognise me now – burnt-out, haggard, decrepit and out of shape. I must be crazy to put myself though all this. And, I keep asking myself, for what?

I am still really fuming with Big M over her attitude. I have resolved to cut her out of my life until I get everything sorted out. She’s bloody useless anyway, so nothing lost.

The wrong trousers

Another exhausting and demoralising day in limbo draws to a close, and I’m sitting here beer in hand trying to make sense of the day and formulate a set of objectives for tomorrow. All this against a backdrop of sniping and criticism from “’Er indoors”. Today’s moral-sapping exchange involved the arrangements for the disposal of our dishwasher. Sorry, I meant Big M’s dishwasher. In our marriage, everything that I own is hers and everything she owns is her own. Seems fair.

Our, sorry, her dishwasher got roasted in an incident with the central heating boiler in our old house. It is the Simon Weston of dishwashers; perfectly functional but a little odd to look at. Consequently, it has a resale value of around £0. Actually rather less than that, as you’d probably have to pay someone to take it away. In that kind of situation, I’d rather it go somewhere where it will do some good. We met a young couple a little while ago. The guy has just finished training as a teacher and is trying to get his first posting. With a young child as well, a financial situation that must be a little challenging. So I thought they’d be able to give our dishwasher a good home. The offer was gratefully received. That was until the news reached Japan.

Now apparently “she will never speak to them again”. And of course, it’s all my fault. Apparently, I was not authorised to get rid of “her” dishwasher, even though she has done nothing to assist in its disposal. Nor with any of the other significant consumer durables that have to be out of this house by 9am Thursday morning. Her parting shot was that, apparently, she has such a hard life, thereby making it impossible for her to take a more active role in the moving process.

Yeah, right.

Apart from preparing three meals, I struggle to comprehend what she actually does all day: But after several days with my hand in the Flash bucket, I can personally attest that whatever it is, it’s not housework. Without putting too fine a point on it, this place is absolutely filthy. The bathroom, the cooker, the cupboards have obviously not been touched for most of the time we’ve been here. This has led me to question the role of the Japanese wife in the marital home; specifically – have I just got a duff one or are they all this bloody useless?

It appears that they are.

Over the last few days – and today in particular, I’ve been privy to some quite frank exchanges with Westerners married to Japanese women. It appears that I am not alone. Many people concede that their Japanese wives are invariably demanding, often dissatisfied, moody, critical, unsympathetic, selfish, lazy around the house and just bloody hard work a lot of the time. Now, I found this quite shocking: Whereas on one level, I was quite relieved that I’m not alone in experiencing feelings of exasperation, on another was the chilling realisation that this bunny-boiling behaviour might actually be considered the norm in Japanese society. It would certainly explain the high number of suicides and drunken salarymen on the late night trains in Tokyo – too scared to go home to face “She who must be obeyed”.

However it doesn’t explain why on Earth such women apparently crave the open-minded Western-style marriage.

And of course the same us true of us; What did I – and do I – expect from my Japanese wife? From my perspective, I am not expecting the values and demeanour of a Western woman, and I’m certainly not expecting the mythical demure and submissive Japanese wife of legend. As a fair-minded, easy-going sort of character, I couldn’t think of anything worse, actually. But by the same token, there’s no way that I intend to live my life as a Salaryman doormat, and it’s really unfair for them to expect us Westerners to do so.

Our attitude is, I think, one of equanimity: we expect to have to adapt our ways to that of our host culture, and we do so out of respect. We, as husbands, expect the same courtesy. We don’t want to become Japanese, not do we expect our wives to become Europeans. But it would be nice if – sometimes – we could just meet in the middle. This can’t happen without effort on both sides. At the moment, this cordiality doesn’t seem to be happening in my marriage.

Tired and tested

I am currently lying on my bed, trying my best to keep a positive mental attitude to the trials and tribulations that lay in the immediate future. For despite Herculean efforts from everyone involved – especially my mum who has really bust a gut to help out – there remains a mountain of problems to solve and very little time left to do so. The pile of trash in the yard has grown to Alpine proportions, with still more stuff to go on tomorrow. Yet I still have a tumble drier, a dishwasher, a sofa and Little M’s ‘Princess’ bed to get rid of. I’m pretty worried that I’ll just have to throw them away. That would seem a criminal waste.

I feel a strong sense of déjà-vu; the same empty despondency that I felt when I had to walk away from my house and all my beautiful furniture in 2001. I know it’s not quite the same this time around, but the feeling of having worked so hard and achieved precisely nothing is extremely, and depressingly familiar. I feel I’ve just travelled in a huge and expensive circle just to end up where I started. I just hope it will all make sense in the end.

Completely stuffed

If they were giving out Olympic medals for packing storage units, we’d have definitely struck gold yesterday.

More or less the entire contents of a three bedroomed house condensed into a mere 35 square feet unit with not even a fag-paper’s width to spare. Even the guys from the moving company didn’t think we’d do it. But all those years packing trucks on the road clearly weren’t wasted!

There is no way any of that stuff is coming out anytime soon. In fact I think that given the density with which it’s packed, the biggest danger is a black hole forming in the middle!