Read Online Hokkaido Highway Blues by Will Ferguson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Will Ferguson
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normal conversations. It is almost like talking to someone at night in bed, when the voices are disembodied and anything seems possible.
A sea change is under way, and Japanese women are the ninja saboteurs. In Japan it is not a revolution, but sedition. It is not about confrontation, but subterfuge. Together, Mayumi and Akemi were charting a course. A trip to Britain and then a journey through Europe, a change of jobs, whispers of work abroad. Secret passages. Hidden dens. Escape.
Mayumi was unfolding the world for Akemi, like a glass gift in layers of silk. I imagine that courtesans once opened the world for their younger novices in much the same way. It is a sensual discovery to find yourself stepping from an isolated island into a global bazaar of experiences and possibilities. Akemi had that impatient panic of people on the verge of something new. It is like a first kiss, this journey abroad, and she twisted in her seat, almost breathless, and asked me about the world.
She wanted my advice about British society. Not being British, I gave it. (It is one of those wonderful perks about being a foreigner in Japan that you are accepted as an expert on everything from Australian koalas to American gun laws.)
“Is Britain really so foggy?”
“Yes, very foggy,” said I, suddenly an expert on fog and all things mist-related.
“But how can people breathe if it is so foggy?”
“Well, they’re British, you see. Used to it.”
“Is Britain safe?”
Mayumi answered this one, speaking in near exasperation. “Of course it’s safe, I told you that many times. The world is not as dangerous as Japanese think.”
But Akemi wanted to hear it from me. “Is it really safe?”
“Well,” said I, “it is safe. Not as safe as Canada, of course, but still fairly safe, in a foggy British sort of way.” And on I went, building up steam, flinging out cultural stereotypes and pontificating about national traits, with Akemi all but taking notes as I went. When we exhausted Britain we moved on to France and then Switzerland—a country that I have not technically visited. Not that this stopped me.
“The Swiss are a very tidy people,” I assured them.
By one of those odd quirks of life, it turned out that Mayumi and I had a mutual acquaintance: Paul Berger. Paul is a wry, perpetually perplexed New York exile who wrote his own book on Japan, The Kumamoto Diary.
“I met Paul in the Rock Balloon,” said Mayumi. “Do you know the Rock Balloon? It’s in Kumamoto City.”
Do I know the Rock Balloon? The Rock Balloon is a “gaijin bar,” where debauched foreign reprobates drink cheap beer and dance themselves into hormonic frenzies as they pursue equally debauched Japanese. Of course I know the Rock Balloon.
I tried to get some dirt on Paul—maybe he had tried to cruise Mayumi with a line about being Paul Simon’s shorter brother, or maybe she poured her drink on his head and slapped his face or something—but no, Paul had been a perfect gentleman.
“He did talk a lot about spiders,” she said. “There were giant spiders in his apartment. He was very afraid.” (Paul has this irrational fear of spiders. It’s embarrassing. Fortunately for Paul, I would never take it upon myself to expose this phobia of his in public.)
“So did he say anything about his bed-wetting problem?” I asked.
“Does he have one?”
“No. But I just thought I’d check.”
14
MIYAZAKI IS A city of sighs. It carries a sense of faded grandeur. It was once the Budget-Minded Honeymoon Capital of Japan, a poor man’s Guam. Guam in turn is a poor man’s Hawaii, making Miyazaki a city twice removed from greatness. It is a city of also-rans, a favorite haunt of cardsharks and small-. time mountebanks, a place for people starting over. Palm trees line the main streets. There are sad, romantic storefronts and bridal suite ads. (The hotels are still flogging the Honeymoon Horse, long after the beast has died.)
Miyazaki has the
A sea change is under way, and Japanese women are the ninja saboteurs. In Japan it is not a revolution, but sedition. It is not about confrontation, but subterfuge. Together, Mayumi and Akemi were charting a course. A trip to Britain and then a journey through Europe, a change of jobs, whispers of work abroad. Secret passages. Hidden dens. Escape.
Mayumi was unfolding the world for Akemi, like a glass gift in layers of silk. I imagine that courtesans once opened the world for their younger novices in much the same way. It is a sensual discovery to find yourself stepping from an isolated island into a global bazaar of experiences and possibilities. Akemi had that impatient panic of people on the verge of something new. It is like a first kiss, this journey abroad, and she twisted in her seat, almost breathless, and asked me about the world.
She wanted my advice about British society. Not being British, I gave it. (It is one of those wonderful perks about being a foreigner in Japan that you are accepted as an expert on everything from Australian koalas to American gun laws.)
“Is Britain really so foggy?”
“Yes, very foggy,” said I, suddenly an expert on fog and all things mist-related.
“But how can people breathe if it is so foggy?”
“Well, they’re British, you see. Used to it.”
“Is Britain safe?”
Mayumi answered this one, speaking in near exasperation. “Of course it’s safe, I told you that many times. The world is not as dangerous as Japanese think.”
But Akemi wanted to hear it from me. “Is it really safe?”
“Well,” said I, “it is safe. Not as safe as Canada, of course, but still fairly safe, in a foggy British sort of way.” And on I went, building up steam, flinging out cultural stereotypes and pontificating about national traits, with Akemi all but taking notes as I went. When we exhausted Britain we moved on to France and then Switzerland—a country that I have not technically visited. Not that this stopped me.
“The Swiss are a very tidy people,” I assured them.
By one of those odd quirks of life, it turned out that Mayumi and I had a mutual acquaintance: Paul Berger. Paul is a wry, perpetually perplexed New York exile who wrote his own book on Japan, The Kumamoto Diary.
“I met Paul in the Rock Balloon,” said Mayumi. “Do you know the Rock Balloon? It’s in Kumamoto City.”
Do I know the Rock Balloon? The Rock Balloon is a “gaijin bar,” where debauched foreign reprobates drink cheap beer and dance themselves into hormonic frenzies as they pursue equally debauched Japanese. Of course I know the Rock Balloon.
I tried to get some dirt on Paul—maybe he had tried to cruise Mayumi with a line about being Paul Simon’s shorter brother, or maybe she poured her drink on his head and slapped his face or something—but no, Paul had been a perfect gentleman.
“He did talk a lot about spiders,” she said. “There were giant spiders in his apartment. He was very afraid.” (Paul has this irrational fear of spiders. It’s embarrassing. Fortunately for Paul, I would never take it upon myself to expose this phobia of his in public.)
“So did he say anything about his bed-wetting problem?” I asked.
“Does he have one?”
“No. But I just thought I’d check.”
14
MIYAZAKI IS A city of sighs. It carries a sense of faded grandeur. It was once the Budget-Minded Honeymoon Capital of Japan, a poor man’s Guam. Guam in turn is a poor man’s Hawaii, making Miyazaki a city twice removed from greatness. It is a city of also-rans, a favorite haunt of cardsharks and small-. time mountebanks, a place for people starting over. Palm trees line the main streets. There are sad, romantic storefronts and bridal suite ads. (The hotels are still flogging the Honeymoon Horse, long after the beast has died.)
Miyazaki has the
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