Something to believe in

During the situation at Haneda airport I described in the last post there was an interesting exchange. The fourth Asiana Airlines employee who came to speak with us was a man, probably in his early 30s. Called to the baggage claim at 1 a.m., his task was to clearly tell the Gaijin, "You guys not having a bed to sleep in is not our company's fault."

He was polite yet firm in doing so, and we were polite yet firm when we argued back. After a few minutes of that dance, it was clear he had no wiggle room; his company's policy gave him no option. But each time he listened to our case and turned us down, he grew more and more apologetic. After a few times back and forth and the man growing more and more emotional, we finally said, more or less, "Look man, don't take it so hard. We know it's not your fault."

Except to him, it was. He said as much. I'm paraphrasing, but essentially, a junior middle manager working the graveyard shift on a weekend told us, "If my company did something to bother you, I have done something to bother you." He took the blame personally rather than blame his employer, no matter the inconvenient situation he was in that night.

So we learned a little lesson about the Japanese attitude toward the workplace, and the significance of loyalty. As anyone who's traveled abroad knows, your first 10 days in a new country are full of these kind of observations. I subscribe to the theory, explained to be by my father once, that people are experts on the place they are in during the first 10 days — when you are absorbing everything you see and hear — and after ten years, when you have the benefit of context, history, language and experience.

We didn't quite make ten days in Japan, but there were some initial cultural observations that stood out.

Want good coffee? Somebody better be in charge. 

1. Coffee. Maybe in part because we saw the largest and possible nicest Starbucks ever, on the green at Ueno ("Way-No") Park, Japan felt like a "coffee" culture as much as, if not more than, the "tea" culture I expected. The vending machines on every corner and train station dispense a variety of cold frappes or bottles of iced coffee for on-the-go drinkers. Restaurants we were at served really high-quality coffee, in small cups (eight ounces, no refills) but with large prices (400 yen, or $4, easy). Either way, breakfast at Mike and Tracy's (our American hosts in Yokosuka) later in the week ended up feeling like a little culture shock — huge cups of Dunkin' Donuts blend? And refills?

He's going to destroy all the dry grass!

2. Godzilla. I'd grossly overestimated how popular this guy is. When our friend Mike asked these men in Kurihama which way the Godzilla was — and keep in mind, this Godzilla is supposed to be a "giant" tourist destination and we were less than a mile from the site — they didn't seem to know what he was talking about. Mike then acting like Godzilla may of helped (definitely helped us), or it may have made the guys just smile and point in a direction so we'd leave. We eventually found the Godzilla statue in a little family friend park called Flower World, which was full of wilted flowers (we missed the peak by a few weeks) and three old people on the top of a hillside looking at a lonely statue of the great movie star placed near a playground. So with 30 million potential visitors surrounding this Godzilla, either everyone's seen it, or my more likely guess, Japanese people don't put looking at this thing very high on the bucket list.   

2. Fashion. I know little about this topic, so it may be a risk to parade around my amazement. I'm sure this scene is well, well documented, but as a fashion world ignoramus, the way people dressed in Tokyo fascinated me. There is a seemingly rigid standard of men's business wear  — dark dress pants, short-sleeve white shirt (or sliiiighly off-white, though with very little variety), with no tie. (We were told that's because the Emporer had taken off his tie for the summer. When 'ol Akihito puts it back on, so does every guy on the subway.) No polos, no khakis, definitely no Friday Jeans.

Yet non-office workers seem enamored with American logos and labels; all writing on t-shirts was in English, never Japanese. For women, other than kids in school uniforms, I was struck by the individuality combined with a real sense of class. There's probably a J. Crew in Tokyo, but they must only stock one of each item. You'd see a beautiful pencil skirt that could be an heirloom from 1960, worn with Air Jordans; all types of high heels, even on the women riding bicycles; and Saturday night was kimono night, with many women riding the trains in bright and colorful patterned full-length ropes. Of course, this item would be way more interesting if I photos. The problem with that was...

Enjoying some mental privacy — and serious mobile
phone time, sheesh — on the Ginza line.

4. Privacy. In a city of 30 million, privacy is at a premium. You are almost never alone. So when a Japanese person is standing on the train or walking down the sidewalk, we were told by a guy who's lived in Japan a number of years, they are enjoying a moment of what was described to us as "mental privacy." So don't you Gaijin start just saying hello (or gawking and taking photos of their clothes). The averted eye contact was an interesting reaction compared to Kenya, where every Kenyan, especially children, would stare at us, smile, or shake hands. I don't mean to generalize too much, of course, there were Japanese children who'd smile or wave, and at Mt. Fuji the fellow hikers seemed warm when you'd nod while passing on the trail. But in general we observed a very quiet, respectful culture, where folks kept to themselves unless asked a question. No one approached us to speak, or went out of their way. Except one that I can think of...

5. Baseball. On the train Monday night, a short, middle-aged Japanese woman was standing to my right. It was a typically crowded evening train, and she was standing inches away. "Excuse me," she said quietly, and held up her cell phone to my face to show a photo on the screen:

So, David, new hat?

"Is this you?" she asked. Shaving my beard before the trip paid off! I had been mistaken for Bryan Bullington, an American pitcher for the Hiroshima Toyo Carp, this woman's favorite Nippon League team. She decided to interrupt my subway quiet time to take a bold chance at meeting one of the players, who were in town for a series against the Yakult Swallows. We laughed about it, I chose not to make jokes about my inability to hit a ball out of the infield, she was very nice and we talked about baseball until her stop. Timm and I were planning on going to a Swallows game later that week, in fact, and Saturday night we were sitting in Jingu stadium, on a warm, muggy night in Tokyo, watching the Swallows against the Chunichi Dragons, two of the three teams (Yomuri Giants the third) in the cross-town Tokyo rivalry.

Meiji Jingu Stadium exterior.

Meiji Jingu Stadium, the size and condition resembling an American minor league park, the concessions resembling a high school cafeteria (plus weak beer and noodles), was nearly full that night. What stood out was not unfamiliarity of something foreign, but how authentic the whole atmosphere seemed. (Well, maybe other than the fifth-inning break for fireworks.) More so than a Major League Game, in a sense, this felt like how baseball should be enjoyed. We were sitting in the Chunichi section, and almost every person was wearing a Dragons hat or shirt. The attention on the game was much more intense than I'm used to — we'd even wait until half-inning breaks to leave or return to our seats, so not to interrupt — and there are few interruptions like video scoreboard games or pop music introductions. Finally, the fan sections in left field (Dragons) and right field (Swallows) would stand and cheer wildly through their team's at-bat each inning. As the Swallows, with former Seattle Mariner Wladimir Balentien, closed out a 9-0 blowout, the Chunichi fans, still full in the left field bleachers, stayed on their feet, singing and chanting, until the final out.

Trade proposal: Seventh-inning stretch for fifth-inning firecrackers.

The passion for the game goes beyond a rivalry game or a winning season, we were told, which echoes what I've read about the importance and reverence for baseball in Japan. Even the professional players traditionally stick with the same club over their career, mirroring an ethic of loyalty we saw in Carp, Dragons and Swallows fans, and even Asiana Airlines employees on the night shift. Something tells me  a decade in Japan would provide plenty more illustrations of how serious dedication is taken, if you'd need so long to have that characteristic cemented in your image of the country.

The Yakult Swallows new No. 1 fan.

As for Timm and I, we're now Yakult Swallows fans. No going back.