Depending on the Kindness of Strangers

OK, so I’ve been delinquent in my posts for a while, but I haven’t had the chance to sit down and write much so I’ll just go with what I’ve got and post more on it later. I apologize in advance for dragging this thing out...


So it's out the frying pan and into an electric maze of neon, buildings, and a sea of people. I walk up to the a young lady, who’s bright yellow and white uniform makes it immediately clear that she’s under the employ of the store with the matching yellow and white motif, where her apparent job is to stand outside and in an obnoxiously cheerfully voice yell into the night while handing out flyers. I wait catch her between breaths and then interrupt “Sumimasen, Koma Theater?”

She smiles and gives me a look as if I had more to say.

I don’t, that’s all I got, so I repeat it.

She obviously doesn’t get it so I type it on my phone and show it to her. “Ah Koma Theater!,” she nods and then wrinkling her forehead, pauses, as if thinking how the hell am I going to explain this. She starts making a few hand gestures and chirps away in Japanese. It looks to me like she’s telling me it’s two blocks down and then a left. I repeat her gestures and convince us both that I got the message. A small bow and I’m off.

Of course it wasn’t that easy and I end up entering a frustrating game of “hotter, colder,” Where I wander from the corner of one block to another and ask some unfortunate passerby or employee, “Koma Theater?” By the puzzled looks and conflicting directions I soon realize that the “Famous” Koma Theater”isn’t. But with all the efficiency of a blind man groping in the dark I finally make it there.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. I think in my mind I had pictured the Grauman’s Chinese Theater, but it turns out it’s just another non-descript grey building with the letters “KOMA Theater” about a third of the way up.

I walk around the build and there’s no sign of the restaurant I’m looking for, so I call their phone again.

“OK you’re at the theater. Do you see the McDonald’s?”

“Si, I see it.”

“You see the Pachinko parlor next to it?”

“Yeah, I’m right next to it.”

“OK. Next to it are some stairs, go down those and you can’t miss us.” Click.

I am LITERALLY standing five feet in front of these stairs, and there is no would have guessed that though this dimly-lit cave of an opening with no sign is supposed to be a restaurant.

I walk down a few flights and right before I’m about to give up (again) I push through a door and walk right in to what immediately reminded me of a darkened elementary school auditorium/cafeteria (complete with an empty stage at one end) transformed in to a high-end food court with tiny kitchens dishing out Mexican, Japanese, English, Italian, and of course Spanish food.

I quickly mix in with the diverse little group of about 25 people spilt fairly evenly between, Latinos from all over, and Japaneses(?) interested in learning a little about the Spanish language and culture. Everyone is super friendly, probably because the drinks have been following for a little while now.

The way a lot of restaurants run group parties is that they charge a set price per head (normally around $30-$40) and for two hours they’ll shovel out as much as you can eat and drink.

I get a feel for the different groups within the group and avoid the mutants at table 9 chaired by an older British lady, who judging by the vacant look in her eyes, and the uncomfortable loudness and slowness with which she’s speaking is either really drunk, or slightly retarded, or both. And there’s the other clique that’s been commandeered by a twenty-something, rail-thin Japanese kid, who is whining away in English (with a perfect gay American accent) about how the Spanish chef and all these other hot Latinos have been blowing-off his advances all night.
I settle in with a normal looking group of about 3 Japanese girls, 1 Japanese guy, two Spaniards, and a Columbian-American dude. The conversation is lively and the two hours quickly pass.

“Time to move this party elsewhere!” the lanky, gay guy shouts. He knows of a couple a great party spots and invites everyone to follow him. But I insist that it’s getting late… I’ve got a train to catch… I'm done drinking... I’ve got to get up early… Honestly, I’m just not that adventurous.

So I duck off with my little group to have just a couple of cocktails before calling it a night. The Japanese guy I‘ve been talking to, Nikka, who’s about 28, and fashionably dressed in a jacket, button-down collared shirt and jeans tells me he’s got to go. He hands me his business card and tells me he’d like to “invite me to dinner sometime.” I’m later told that this is completely normal guy behavior, but I was a little gun-shy at this point. Still I take his card quickly glance at it and instinctively stick it in my back pocket.

Immediately I hear the teacher’s voice from the cultural awareness class that I just completed When Japanese person gives you the business card with all the personal information it’s a little picture of the face so prease whatever you do do not prease put it against the butt.

Oops.

I quickly take it out pretend to read it for a few more seconds and then with big deliberate gestures try to make it obvious “Look! I’m not putting your face against my butt. It’s going right here in my jacket where it’ll be safe and respected.”
…
Goodnight nobody,
Eric