The Queso Stands Alone

So this past weekend on the advice of my wife, I sign myself up for a "Meetup" group. Unbeknownst to me, all over the world there's these groups of like-minded individuals who get on the internet and plan... get-togethers. This particular bunch was the Tokyo Spanish Language Meet up group.

Initially I was impressed that there was even such a group, but after realizing that there's just under 40 Million people in the greater Tokyo area (that's more people than in all of California) and only 25 of us would be at this meet-up I was a little underwhelmed. Still, I was determined to figure out what these 24 other individuals would be like.

So, I read the directions: Take the train to Shinjuku, head out the East Exit, walk five minutes, and across from the famous Koma Theater you'll find the restaurant we're meeting at, 'Caribbean Pirates.' 6:30pm." Roger. I’ll be there.

Sounded simple enough. I use my iphone to look up the train schedule: Trains departing about every seven minutes. Two quick transfers and in just about an hour’s time and for a little over 6 bucks I’ll be there. I swear these smart phones are such amazing things. It’s like if you can dream of something you’d like you phone to do, then it probably already can. Sometimes I even feel bad for my phone. I’m sure it feels it’s not living up to its potential and if it only had an owner with a little more imagination it could be truly awesome.

So I plan on taking a train to get me to Shinjuku with half an hour to spare—you know in case I get lost, or I can even just wander around if I don’t want to show up too early.

It’s a 10-15 minute walk from my room to the train station so grab my iphone, mp3 player, wallet, and I’m out the door. About half way to the station I plug in my headphones and realize that the battery is almost dead. I figure I got maybe 15 minutes at best—Kelso, you better save these for one of those awkward train situations where you’re jammed face-to-face with some foreigner--errr--native Japanese person with nothing to do or say.

The train tickets are pretty sweet. Put a deposit on a card, charge it up, and stick it in your wallet. Wave your wallet past the sensor as you breeze by the toll gates and you checked into the system. You can ride the train all day to just about anywhere, and you only get charged when you exit the station and only for the distance from where you checked in at.

4:53 RIGHT ON SCHEDULE. After a couple of simple transfers on the local line and I’m riding the express train into Shinjuku. Easy-peasy.

The train doesn’t start off crowded, and I usually opt to stand. I like to think that it’s the gentleman in me surrendering my right to a seat to someone less able bodied. Truth be told, however, the seats are pretty small and the Japanese have no qualms about snuggling up right next to you if there’s five inches of bench space left open.

Before long the train car starts filling up. In the States walk into an elevator and you’re supposed to head towards the back and turn around to face the door, right? So that’s what I do. It’s not even that crowded but I’m leaned up against the back corner. Then suddenly I’m pinned in by a middle-age guy right in front of me and a couple of younger-looking girls (maybe junior high school, maybe 36—I can never tell) against my only open side. The guy breaks out a cell phone and starts tapping away. The girls don’t do much; just make a quite comment every now and again. Time for that Mp3 player.

It’s dead within 3 songs.

I put it away, but the guy is facing me just six inches away, while gazing down at his phone. After a few minutes of trying not to look at anyone or do anything, I put my headphones back on and pretend to listen to music. It only makes things more awkward in my mind. After a little while I look around and realize that everyone who’s standing in the train is facing me! …well not me, but in my direction. Apparently in Japan it’s customary to just walk in the train, squeeze yourself as far forward as you can go and forgo the about-face. I was the one weirdo in the elevator facing the wrong way. It had to be uncomfortable for them too. It was so quite, like a church, everyone neatly packed in, heads bowed, facing some invisible altar that I’m undoubtedly blocking. Just the click-clack of the tracks; the whoosh of the occasional passing train and this bumbling American, confusedly looking around thinkin’ “Gosh, this here sure is different from how’s we’s use to do thang’s…” I start to wonder maybe those occasional comments are about me?

Awk... ward...

I take a moment to listen--real hard--as if I could somehow pick out a piece of evidence from the strange mumblings all around me that I was being mocked. Eventually the pressure becomes unbearable and in an uncomfortably obvious admission of my ignorance, I slowly shuffle around to dutifully face the wall now in front of me and imagine turning up the volume on music that isn't there.

Good Night Nobody,
Eric