Gaijin Moments

While in Kyoto last weekend, I had the most Gaijin moments in any given period of time that I ever had. It all began with my journey from my apartment to my friend’s apartment in Kyoto. I had the journey all planned out in my mind. I knew exactly which bullet train I needed to take to get to Kyoto and when it was scheduled to leave. So, I arrived at the station in Tokyo with just enough time to buy my bullet train ticket, board the train, and bolt off to Kyoto by 7:20. I got to the front of the line and the salesman called me forth. To my horror, he didn’t speak a word of English.

Lately, I have started using a tactic when this happens that may actually be more detrimental than beneficial to getting the things I want to happen to happen. I kind of act like I understand with two phrases: “daijoubu des” and “hai,” or “that’s okay” and “yes.” So I began my enquiry with “skinkansen Kyoto” which he responded to with a slew of questions. Eventually I tried to say I didn’t understand, which led to him spewing out the SAME questions in Japanese but a tad slower. I blinked my eyes at him with a confused expression and he just did the exact same thing again. I finally sighed and went with my default response of “daijoubu des.” He handed me a ticket, didn’t tell me which track it left from or at what time. The ticket itself had no specific time written on it, as they normally do. It also turned out he gave me a ticket with a non-reserved seat. Great. I felt like a confused failure and headed over in the general direction of the bullet train tracks like a dog with its tail between its legs and asked an agent there which track. He angrily mumbled “18” handed me the ticket and pointed. Well, at least I was sort of getting somewhere.

When I got to platform 18, I encountered more problems. I got on the train and asked a passenger “kore…Kyoto?” meaning “this…Kyoto?” and pointed at the train. He was actually kind and smiled and said “no, no, next!” I thanked him and got off the train. The sign, however, said that the train I was on was going to Kyoto, so I asked a police officer. He said “yes, this. Car one, two, three.” So I walked up to car 3, and noticed a huge line outside of the door. I assumed they were waiting for the next train and began to step towards the door. A security guard blew his whistle at me aggressively, so I bolted backwards. A minute later, the train left. Well, I sure hoped at that point that the next train was correct. I was so irritated with conflicting information that I wanted to leap through a wall and hope for the Hogwarts Express.

Thankfully, the next train actually was mine, or even if it wasn’t, I still ended up in Kyoto. No one checked my ticket so who knows? I wanted to relax on the bullet train ride and listen to music and read, but the woman next to me was Japanese so of course she was working and furiously typing on her laptop the entire 2 hours and 45 minutes. I don’t think they know how to take breaks from work here.

My next “Gaijin moment” occurred on the following day. My list of “must-see things” in Kyoto basically only included the place where Scarlett Johanssen went in Lost In Translation. So, that was my first destination and it was lovely, but my actual experience lacked the emotional soundtrack playing in the background like hers did. Whatever, it was still nice.

Next, I decided to go to Kinkakuji, the famous Golden Temple, because it is arguably the most famous tourist spot in Kyoto. I knew the general direction of the temple, so just started biking and figured I would know when I came across it. So, eventually I biked past a huge temple with many student groups and tourists, so I figured it must be Kinkakuji. I walked around, took pictures, and even asked people to take photos of me in front of it. Then, suddenly, I was struck with the thought that this temple only had a little bit of gold on it, so it probably wasn't the golden temple. It didn't say anything in English, which made me even more skeptical, since this was allegedly the most famous tourist spot. Crap. I decided to keep biking, and eventually came across a sign indicating that Kinkakuji was still far ahead. Great.

Finally I found it, and this time I was positive because the temple was…well, golden. Also it cost like $5.00 to get in. If it isn’t free, you know it must be a big tourist attraction. So, I made it there with only minimal obstacles.

The language barrier became a little easier to deal with on my last day. I successfully got a ticket back to Tokyo with a reserved seat thanks to my friend’s ability to understand Japanese. Also, I ordered coffee at a Starbucks and the employee said that my Japanese was “really good.” That’s pretty sad actually, but I will definitely take the compliment. Go me and my sad amount of Japanese! I’m not even embarrassed about my “foreigner moments” anymore. Bring them on, they make for entertaining stories.

My Nagging Conscience

During my weekend in Kyoto, I had no shortage of "Gaijin moments." Gaijin, which means foreigner, is a slightly derogatory term used here in Japan. So, those moments are ones where visitors do something totally stupid because of cultural differences. I am not immune to those moments. In fact, I am particularly prone to them. 

One particular incident that stands out like a preppy girl at a goth convention (do they actually have conventions? How strange would that be?) occurred at a sushi train restaurants. For those of my readers who are unfamiliar with these places, they feature little plates of sushi going around on a conveyor belt in front of diners who can reach out and take what they like. Each plate costs about $1, which is pretty awesome. It kind of makes me feel like this: 

So, almost immediately plopping down on a stool, my eager eyes caught sight of what looked to me like tuna and some fish I didn't recognize topped with a dollop of something that looked like horseradish. The little card featuring the name of the sushi had a lengthy title beginning with the word "horse" so I assumed that my thinking was correct. 

A look of terror quickly befell my friend's face and he asked me why on Earth I just took that plate. I didn't understand the problem and just stared at him blankly. Then, my face adopted the same expression of shock and terror as he informed me what my "horseradish fish" really was. Not horseradish. Raw horse meat.

My first instinct was to immediately return the plate to the conveyor belt, but of course, since I touched it, such an action was unthinkable. My heart began to race and I was awash with complete panic at the revelation that there was RAW HORSE MEAT in front of me. So many horrific thoughts began to swim in my mind. First, that it went against every ethical bone in my body to have to PAY for that plate. Second, the fact that they were serving horse at a sushi restaurant. If it were a seahorse, MAYBE I'd understand.

I began to calm myself down when it hit me that there was really nothing I could do. The horse was dead and on little blobs of rice on three plates going around and around on a sushi conveyor belt. Nothing I could do could change that. But the horse continued to haunt me like a ghost, slowly passing me by about every two minutes, because no one else was a terrible monster like me and picked up the horse plate. After about an hour, only one plate in addition to the one on the counter way too close to me was taken by someone else. That person is far worse than I am, however, considering they actually ATE the graceful, majestic creature.

The situation felt very reminiscent of the horse head in the bed in The Godfather. I couldn't even escape the haunting of the horse meat in the picture of me in the restaurant. If you look right to the right of my hand, you can see the little plates of equine "sushi."

WOW, I really can't escape my mistake! I am listening to Pandora, and a song by a band called "Horse Feathers" just came on, no joke. I am scarred enough by knowing what horse meat looks like. Visions of raw horse meat will dance around in my nightmares like sugarplums dance in the visions of sleeping children waiting for Santa. Except I bet that sugarplums dance in a jolly, cheerful and magical way whereas slabs of dead horse dance in a demonic, terrifying way. Strange analogy, sorry...

I'd prefer this any day

I will never live this down...I am sorry to horses everywhere! At least I didn't actually EAT one of you! Please consider this my public apology.