Two weeks after my return to Japan, I agreed to participate in an International Exchange Salon, held in Miyazaki. My friend, Vance, a CIR (Counselor of International Relations, yet another government program designed to enlighten Japanese to the Western world and vice versa) organizes these little get togethers and asked several of us to help save what had become international events of anti-social significance.
Known for our delightfully droll demeanors, we were to be undercover agents, of sorts, assigned to add some special, secret agent “social” to the scene. In accepting this mission, our main task was to participate in the televised learning of the Koto, a thirteen string instrument. This will now be my third appearance on Japanese television and I must say…
I don’t like it.
Not one bit.
Especially when the film footage consists mainly of scenes of me making a complete ass out of myself. This event was no exception. I believe I took being musically ungifted to an entirely new level. Even my sweet, demur, pint-sized-sensei wanted to take a slug at me for drawing such pain from the ancient, stringed instrument. Despite – or maybe because of my inhumane ineptitude – I was eventually able to draw several participants out of their shells and into conversations and the afternoon went far better than was anticipated. Especially after I spotted the arrival of… Omar.
Now who might… Omar… be?
Just this dark, handsome German who works at a local Italian restaurant, whom one can’t help but fantasize about. Not just because he has the looks of a handsome prince from a fairytale, but because he’s oh so much more than a drop-dead gorgeous hunk of man. Just to name two of the fascinating things about him: he speaks five different languages (rapidly approaching his 6th with Japanese) and is interested in studying the cultivation of shitake mushrooms.
Okay, I didn’t find the latter all that interesting, either.
At least I didn’t until I learned that one of the best towns for shitake cultivation is my sweet, little, town of Shintomi.
Seizing the opportunity and trying to remain as calm as possible (while still mentally undressing him in a forest of fungi), I ripped a piece of paper from the nearest source, wrote down my name and number, turn-ons and turn-offs, and handed it to him with an offer to take him out for dinner or drinks.
“See you in Shintomi, then,” Omar smiled as he floated from the room like a Roman God on a cloud chariot.
My female companions, all having watched my brazen behavior, stood silent and green with envy; while the men nearby whispered something about him probably being gay.
“Say what you will, oh jealous ones,” I sighed and smiled. “For I simply seized the day. Let’s just hope he finds me as interesting as mushrooms.”
“Tall order,” someone mumbled.
“I heard that!”
I have to admit that it must be awfully difficult to keep up with the men I keep mentioning, but honestly, they all seem to go nowhere – and quickly. For example, I unwittingly (I thought a group of us where meeting at a gallery opening) agreed to go out with Sunada, one of the boys from the computer room down the hall recently. The first stop on our night out was his mother’s art gallery in Miyazaki where there was no opening; just me, Sunada and his mother. It was a place I had passed by and admired on numerous visits to the city, so it was a pleasure to be invited in.
The gallery was filled with lovely pottery and ceramics from around Japan and in the back was where Sunada’s mother had her studio. Although I wasn’t terribly impressed with her paintings, there were several I liked and commented on. Sunada asked which was my favorite and I pointed out one which I was told was titled, “Last Supper.” The next thing I knew, both mother and son had decided I should receive the painting as a gift. Although I felt the painting was far too generous, here in Japan, it’s very hard to say “no” to such an grand gesture for fear such a refusal would be considered extremely insulting. So, I thanked Sunada’s mom profusely and then off the two of us went for dinner at a local tempura restaurant where he and I were having a lovely time eating and laughing.
That is, until someone in the restaurant recognized me. Oddly enough, I didn’t know the man, which makes what I’m about to relay to you even more bizarre.
The man who recognized me was the husband of one of my adult students at the community center – a lovely lady whom I’ve come to adore. Now mind you, I had little problem with the man introducing himself. The part that rubbed me the wrong way was that the next person he introduced me to was his mistress. Now what on earth would have made this cheating sack of dog shit decide that instead of continuing his two-timing tryst incognito (with me none the wiser), he would boldly introduce himself and his bimbo? And then, after ordering us a bottle of bogus wine, lecherously whisper in my ear that this chance meeting was “our little secret?”
I was pretty fucking mad. In fact, I was so pissed off by this unnecessary encounter that I dragged Sunada out of the restaurant, leaving the bottle of bribery unopened on the table and proceeded to have a bit of a meltdown. I know that extramarital affairs are a common occurrence here (so are the number of housewives who are closet alcoholics), but I don’t have to like it. And I certainly don’t want to be drawn in as a knowing party.
Eventually, I did manage to put this awkward event to the back of my mind, after which Sunada and I continued our night out. At the end of the evening, Sunada escorted me to my front door (after unsuccessfully urging me to spend the night at his apartment in Miyazaki) and was given a friendly kiss on the cheek. As I entered the quiet sanctity of my apartment, I grabbed the stack of mail from the entrance table, threw off my shoes, made myself a green tea, and settled onto my futon where I went through my mail. On the very bottom of the pile was a letter from Raymond.
He missed me, it said. He thought about me every day and hoped I hadn’t forgotten him.
He asked when I was coming to Hong Kong again.
I wrote back that night and ended the letter promising that if he got some time off, I would come. Thinking about Raymond while I drifted off to sleep… all the other men I’ve met here – even Omar – pale by comparison.
Dog-eared Stories 