The flight east is via Hong Kong. Most of the Asian passengers are sneezing for some reason. Like here, sneezing is performed with some polite effort to cover your mouth and nose, to contain the mucal spray. Apparently this doesn't apply to coughing. The otherwise-very-nice Tokyoite lady beside me evidently smokes 25 ultra-tar cigars an hour and hacks the contents of her bronchials deeply and happily all over my food and in my drinks.
The Chinese flight attendants have bilingual name badges: a row of complex kanji characters, with English underneath. 'Stephanie', the first reads, not very probably. The next – impossibly – 'Sharon'. There must be a custom of adopting Western names.
The feeling of stepping out of the aircraft into sudden, enveloping heat is instantly familiar and I find it impossible not to smile. Feels very far away from home. There's something vaguely satisfying about being the only Westerner in the planeful of passengers. Instant clues that we are in Japan. (1) The first glance out of the terminal window reveals a team of uniformed engineers performing a motivational star-jump dance routine on the tarmac. (2) The moving handrail on the escalator is noticeably lower down and hobbit-friendly.
While standing in the immigration line I make notes in my pad. The local attendant nods sagely at me and sighs wistfully, "Ahh… memoranda." I grin back, incredulous.
The uniformed girls in the Narita rail office are impossibly cute and helpful. Another white-gloved attendant runs after me to return a broken bag-strap i had intentionally ditched. Service is the order of the day.
Find the Tokyo train without too much trouble, bound for Shinjuku station. The place names are fantastic and ring with associations for me. Chiba, beloved of William Gibson's cyberpunk novels. Sakura, from the Street Fighter series.
The trees are different here, darkly green and tall. Shining green flats devoted to rice paddies, and forested hills in the mist. The rooftops of ordinary houses are tiled in the upturned pagoda style. Old men with fans; old women glimpsed in kimonos.
The first hit of Tokyo is skyscrapers and monorails and elevated highways and a riot of colour. Ikebukuro station is a teeming multi-level labyrinth. With stoic, heavy-bag patience I traverse the steps and escalators and bright signs and finally meet Danieru.
05-Jul-06 at 6:47 pm | Permalink
The Chinese flight attendants have bilingual name badges: a row of complex kanji characters, with English underneath. ‘Stephanie’, the first reads, not very probably. The next – impossibly – ‘Sharon’. There must be a custom of adopting Western names.:
My friend Sophie (not her real name
) told me that in her English lessons in school in China, they were all assigned Western names to help with pronunciation etc., and many of them just adopt them should they ever travel into the Western world or encounter Western types, for ease of communication on both parts…
I found it interesting, figured the context meant I’d share…
06-Jul-06 at 5:00 pm | Permalink
My Chinese friend Heidi picked her name herself, just because she liked it.
06-Jul-06 at 6:15 pm | Permalink
Oh my god. I wish it had just come up with the : and the ) instead of that wanky smiley thing. Grr.
07-Jul-06 at 9:22 am | Permalink
I picked Danieru because I like it. Why did you pick Airu?
I smoke cheeba it helps me with my brain. I might be a little dusted but I’m not insane
07-Jul-06 at 12:42 pm | Permalink
If you put a space between the : and the ) it works out alright : )
Maybe we should disable them cos the little fuckers are pissing me off now too. Or get a new set, but then that’s work isn’t it?
I didn’t pick CJ, it was picked for me.
07-Jul-06 at 5:51 pm | Permalink
Ha. Fred, I said that too. Particularly disgusting, so they are..
08-Jul-06 at 12:13 pm | Permalink
This is meant to be laughing.