I'm homesick. After a promising Friday night, I spent the whole weekend inside the house. Sure, it snowed and I was sick, which are good excuses for the hermit life, but more to the point, I don't know anyone here, except my brother. I need a lot of people around me. A smothering quantity would be nice. I have been asking myself pointed questions in the night, such as, why the fuck am I here? should I be here?
There are reasons why I am not here:
- I'm not a Japanophile, one of the manga watching, Japan-girl-fetishising Westerners which dot (or greasily spot) the landscape
- I'm not here to save for a house deposit or a full fee degree
- I'm not here because I'm running away or because life in Australia sucked
This leaves a dwindling supply of reasons.
Friday night was one - a farewell dinner to one of the Japanese students in the house who was returning to her hometown (another suburb in Osaka, I believe. Strange). Row and I pre-ate, extending the cost-effective theory of pre-drinking. We arrived at the previously unknown nightlife district of Hirakata and made our way to a small izakaya, a drinking place also offering a variety of small dishes. Ushered inside, we ducked beneath curtains and navigated the removal of shoes with stylish aplomb. Our table was low and required kneeling or crossing legs. We ordered conservatively and sat back to wait, chatting to our fellow hostelmates for perhaps the first time in earnest, rapidly discovering a shortage of exploitable topics. The first wave food arrived in time to save us: a bizarre concoction of lotus root and fish eggs fried in light tempura. Not entirely pleasant, but interesting. Scattered around the table were complimentary soya beans in their pods, which served to offset the stronger tastes. Once the food started coming, it kept coming, for two and a half hours. Each time I thought that eating was approaching completion, another wave of dishes arrived, requiring sampling at the very least. Korean rice dishes jostled with Japanese-style pizza (wow!) for space, followed up by the Japanese equivalent of an omelette, okonomiyaki; egg, cabbage, fish and more indecipherable tastes, doused in barbeque sauce. Good lord. Row and I stuffed ourselves - we'd been hungry most of the week, and this was feast time, manna from above (someone else had to be paying for it, surely). The dishes piled higher and higher, the fevered eating slowed, and slowed until people opted out, leaning away from the table, exhausted.
Around midway through the feast, we became aware of the middle aged couple across from us, who had been drinking solidly for quite some time. They had both achieved the advanced state of drunkeness known as the rolling head; she would attempt to toy with her drink but spill half of it on the tatami mats and grin at the man opposite, who would bare his teeth in a gigantic grin. I spent quite a while debating whether he was her husband, or someone else's. Probably hers, which makes it all the stranger. When do you see middle aged couples get blind drunk before toddling home to make out like teenagers? Not often enough. It makes for great spectating. Before long, nature called and the man staggered to his feet and tried to saunter to the toilet, past our table. However, he was distracted by M, the girl whose farewell it was, and plonked himself down next to her. For the next ten minutes, he besieged her with queries, to the delight of our entire table and - again strangely - his wife/lover at her table. It was wonderful, to see a middle aged man drunk with a complete absence of shame about his foolish antics. He even tried to hop at one stage, before plying a tall Canadian guy at our table with questions. The scene is a hard one to describe properly, but I've spent the past week becoming increasingly frustrated at the general overweening politeness and niceness and unobtrusiveness of the Japanese, and here is this man, this couple, finally letting their hair down in fine, fine style. Mystery solved. This is where Japanese talk. It must be that the designated social areas for talking are quite strictly adhered to, while trains and streets are quiet zones, public zones.
If there were moments like Friday night all the time, that would be enough to stave off homesickness. But unfortunately, wonder moments generally have costs associated, even if just for a train ticket (rather expensive). God. I think I'm indulging in self pity. I'll stop.
There are reasons why I am not here:
- I'm not a Japanophile, one of the manga watching, Japan-girl-fetishising Westerners which dot (or greasily spot) the landscape
- I'm not here to save for a house deposit or a full fee degree
- I'm not here because I'm running away or because life in Australia sucked
This leaves a dwindling supply of reasons.
Friday night was one - a farewell dinner to one of the Japanese students in the house who was returning to her hometown (another suburb in Osaka, I believe. Strange). Row and I pre-ate, extending the cost-effective theory of pre-drinking. We arrived at the previously unknown nightlife district of Hirakata and made our way to a small izakaya, a drinking place also offering a variety of small dishes. Ushered inside, we ducked beneath curtains and navigated the removal of shoes with stylish aplomb. Our table was low and required kneeling or crossing legs. We ordered conservatively and sat back to wait, chatting to our fellow hostelmates for perhaps the first time in earnest, rapidly discovering a shortage of exploitable topics. The first wave food arrived in time to save us: a bizarre concoction of lotus root and fish eggs fried in light tempura. Not entirely pleasant, but interesting. Scattered around the table were complimentary soya beans in their pods, which served to offset the stronger tastes. Once the food started coming, it kept coming, for two and a half hours. Each time I thought that eating was approaching completion, another wave of dishes arrived, requiring sampling at the very least. Korean rice dishes jostled with Japanese-style pizza (wow!) for space, followed up by the Japanese equivalent of an omelette, okonomiyaki; egg, cabbage, fish and more indecipherable tastes, doused in barbeque sauce. Good lord. Row and I stuffed ourselves - we'd been hungry most of the week, and this was feast time, manna from above (someone else had to be paying for it, surely). The dishes piled higher and higher, the fevered eating slowed, and slowed until people opted out, leaning away from the table, exhausted.
Around midway through the feast, we became aware of the middle aged couple across from us, who had been drinking solidly for quite some time. They had both achieved the advanced state of drunkeness known as the rolling head; she would attempt to toy with her drink but spill half of it on the tatami mats and grin at the man opposite, who would bare his teeth in a gigantic grin. I spent quite a while debating whether he was her husband, or someone else's. Probably hers, which makes it all the stranger. When do you see middle aged couples get blind drunk before toddling home to make out like teenagers? Not often enough. It makes for great spectating. Before long, nature called and the man staggered to his feet and tried to saunter to the toilet, past our table. However, he was distracted by M, the girl whose farewell it was, and plonked himself down next to her. For the next ten minutes, he besieged her with queries, to the delight of our entire table and - again strangely - his wife/lover at her table. It was wonderful, to see a middle aged man drunk with a complete absence of shame about his foolish antics. He even tried to hop at one stage, before plying a tall Canadian guy at our table with questions. The scene is a hard one to describe properly, but I've spent the past week becoming increasingly frustrated at the general overweening politeness and niceness and unobtrusiveness of the Japanese, and here is this man, this couple, finally letting their hair down in fine, fine style. Mystery solved. This is where Japanese talk. It must be that the designated social areas for talking are quite strictly adhered to, while trains and streets are quiet zones, public zones.
If there were moments like Friday night all the time, that would be enough to stave off homesickness. But unfortunately, wonder moments generally have costs associated, even if just for a train ticket (rather expensive). God. I think I'm indulging in self pity. I'll stop.
posted by Doug @ 2/27/2005 06:51:00 pm
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