My new friend and I sat in a bar in Roppongi that was only slightly wider than your outstretched arms and about as long as a school bus.
Another Suntory helped him wax eloquent: “The hardest part about Japan,” he said, lighting another cigarette, “is being a foreigner. Eventually, with enough practice we can figure out the road signs and train schedules and order food so we won’t starve to death. If we’re really lucky, we’ll meet a nice Japanese girl or two, and have some fun. But we’ll always be foreigners. And to them, “foreigner” doesn’t just mean someone from another country,” he paused here to concentrate on his smoking for a moment. “A foreigner isn’t just from somewhere else. No. A foreigner is an alien, someone from outside the culture, someone who can never, truly be a part of the culture. We can never change that.”
I nodded, not knowing what else to do.
He continued: “I have been pointed at by schoolchildren as if I was on display at the zoo. People have crossed the street when they see me coming. Little old ladies hit me with their canes even when I am the only one polite enough to give up my seat on the bus for them. I am instantly recognizable as a cultural trespasser, unable to change my disguise.”
He turned to me, quite emphatic now: “Do you know what? Despite all that, I have never had a better time in my life. I love it here.”
He slipped off his barstool and carefully navigated his way out of the packed bar. I never did catch his name, and when I looked down at the business card he had given me, I was surprised to discover that he was a Mormon missionary from Provo, Utah. Japan will do that to you.
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