A Japanese weekend

On Friday night, having spent most of the day cleaning the house, I headed out for a bite to eat. I decided to try one of the smaller places near the station area and eventually stumbled on yakitori (grilled chicken) shop. When I went in though, it wasn’t like a normal Japanese restaurant, rather a pokey little place. I started to feel self-conscious and couldn’t interpret the menu. Eventually, having lost my confidence altogether, I asked the guy behind the counter to help me out on something to eat. Whereupon the gentleman next to me immediately pushed over a flask of hot sake saying, “If you want to eat here, son, you have to DRINK!”

It turns out that yakitori places are actually bars in disguise; going out for yakitori is code for going out for a night on the turps.

Though you may speak Japanese, grasshopper, you still have much to learn. (And when Yusuke heard about it, the first thing he said was “so why didn’t you invite me too?” A major cultural faux pas.)

Anyway I soon became Best Friends with the guy next to me, who turns out to be Mr Nishihara (we exchanged business cards—of course—and next month he’s going to take me hiking to watch the sunrise from a nearby mountain) as well as the guy next to him, a Sony consultant visiting from Tokyo. And here’s the proof:

On Saturday morning I introduced myself to the neighbours.

I remember from our time in Tokyo that when you move in to a new apartment, you’re supposed to introduce yourself to the people above (ie upstairs), to the left and to the right. In our case there’s nobody above (in terms of up the hill), only an embankment, so I figured I’d go with across the road (to the left), next door (on the right), and behind (or below, seeing as we’re on such a steep hill).

My first attempt on Thursday night had been an abject failure; nobody was home and I ended up accidentally handing over a gift to the lady two doors down on the right whose house isn’t even visible from here and therefore doesn’t rate. What a waste.

So off I went again on Saturday morning armed with my little pre-prepared bags of ancient traditional cultural tea gifts, and this time met with greater success.

First port of call was Mrs. Hara across the road, a kindly lady of about 60 who I’d bumped into on the street the day before. The goodie bag was duly handed over and there was much bowing and scraping and I think I made a good impression.

Next was Mrs. Masuda behind us, who immediately took me around to visit the leader of our the neighbourhood association, Mrs. Kanda. Neighbourhood associations are big in Japan; everyone is expected to join up and take part in exciting neighbourly activities such as cleaning up the local park, sweeping the streets and making sure that people are putting out their rubbish properly. No, really, I’m sure it’s a great way to foster local community spirit and a collective consciousness that we could all do with a bit more of.

However this created a dilemma in that I ended up giving Mrs. Kanda the gift that I had earmarked for Mrs. Masuda—seeing as you can’t introduce yourself empty-handed—so now I had run out of gifts despite having covered only one of my three key targets.

Mrs. Masuda said she didn’t need a gift but I’m not letting her get away with it that easily; it’s back to the tea shop for more supplies on Monday.

Meanwhile, the people on the right are away at the moment so that reduces the burden slightly.

Then on Saturday evening I went out drinking with Yusuke and young Mr. Kobayashi, who is also the real estate agent who arranged this wonderful house for us.

When you go out drinking in Japan, it appears you must go to at least two places as a bare minimum. On Saturday we managed three, and it would have been four or more had I not started feeling a bit pathetic (the combination of beer, sake, choshu and Japanese plum liqueur may have had something to do with it) and pulled the pin. And because you can still smoke in bars in Japan, my clothes all reeked of smoke when I got home. Just like the good old days!

Things got even better on Sunday: I went skiing in Japan for the first time in 15 years.

Mr. Kobayashi (first name unknown, despite the fact that we’ve been out drinking together) took me along to a ski field about two hours away, with his two kids aged 5 and 6. Unfortunately for Mr. K, he had to spend the day pulling them on the sled up and down the kids’ slope, but I had a wonderful time zooming up and down the daddy slopes unhindered. Once again, though, after just a few hours I was starting to feel my age (the combination of beer, sake etc the previous night may have had something to do with it) and was reduced to standing around minding the kids while Mr. K did a bit of zooming up and down of his own. And on the way back from the ski field, just to cement the Japaneseness of it all, we stopped in at a hot spring to have a communal bath while admiring the views of the snow-covered mountains.

What a great weekend.

After all, how many people can honestly say they’ve seen their real estate agent naked?