An American Pen in Japan --
During the summer of 2000 I moved from Missoula, Montana to Nagoya, Japan. I left the insulation and ease of my university town—an area blessed with diverse community, ample outdoor activity, and sunset sky theatre—to teach English in Japan’s third largest city. The Japanese language school, Nova, hired me to teach seven forty-minute lessons a day to businessmen, housewives, and ambitious students.
From the first step onto foreign soil, the surroundings seemed equally dazzling and disrupting: intense population density; traditional temples in bright pastels amidst industrial buildings; hot and humid weather yet everyone donning business suits; the continual loud whirring and humming of cicada; local seafood markets that could double as sea aquariums; sped-up, high-pitched music in supermarkets and convenient stores; green tea cookies, green tea cake, green tea ice cream; green tea candles, green tea air freshener, green tea deodorant; smaller streets, smaller apartments, smaller beds, smaller chairs, smaller dishes, smaller everything. It could have been Lemuel Gulliver’s fifth destination.
Further, Japanese people were extremely accommodating. If I was lost, and made the slightest attempt to get assistance, any pedestrian walking down the street would stop abruptly, take me into a cafe or convenient store, buy me a green tea soda or snack, and sit down with me for at least fifteen minutes. He or she, or sometimes a group, would make a few marks on my map and do their best to explain the city. Then they ushered me back outside, apologized excessively for their poor English, and bowed deeply as if wishing me good fortune on a grand and perilous journey. For several minutes they would watch as I walked down the sidewalk to make sure I was headed in the right direction.
Was this first-class treatment because foreigners rarely visit Nagoya? Or was it their unique culture and honor code? At any rate, I needed the assistance, and am ashamed to say I started to enjoy it. Then came the pen incident.
One afternoon, three weeks into my stay, I struggled with some lengthy insurance documents inside a small government building. Soon the head manager abandoned his rear office and stacks of paperwork to sit down with me and fill out my forms. He brewed fresh green tea and served green tea cookies. He showed me some traditional paintings on the office walls and tried to explain their history. In short, the manager welcomed and then bid me adieu like a long lost brother.
While walking down the sidewalk—finding my way back to the subway with a map—I discovered I had left my pen back in the building. I paused and checked my watch. I hated to bother them again after all they had done, but it was a good pen, and I had already lost too many good pens in my life. Maybe it was just sitting on the counter? Maybe they had already found it and were agonizing over how to get it back to me?
Once inside I tried to avoid the head manager, but he was quickly re-summoned, and in a spontaneous attempt to justify my pettiness over a pen, I lied and said it was a gift from my brother. A look of quiet horror overtook his face. He sprung up some stairs to a tiny control room, switched on a loudspeaker, and made several booming announcements. Again I was directed to sit down, drink green tea and eat green tea snacks. Business was brought to a standstill; all employees were gathered to join the search; all offices and desks were ransacked. After fifteen minutes I was red-faced and couldn’t take anymore, and tried to bow out, literally. I slowly backed away towards the front door with my Japanese phrasebook in hand, stammering sumimasen (excuse me), dijob (that’s okay), domo arigato gozaimasu (thank you very much). The head manager turned even more grave, rushed over to me, and pulled out his wallet. Ikura deska? Ikura deska? (How much? How much?) He tried handing me a 5,000 yen note, about $50. I refused again, and he insisted I leave all my contact information, including my Japanese home address, work address, and my family’s address back in America in case my pen turned up.
Twenty minutes later, on the subway, I found the pen in the bottom of my backpack. Had I had a small sword with me, I may have committed hara-kiri right there. From that moment forward, I pledged to be on my best behavior and serve as a shining American diplomat to Japan.
Several months later, I moved to the historical city of Kyoto. Just before leaving Nagoya official business required my visiting that office again. I tried to squeak in and out unnoticed, but the head manager saw and recognized me immediately, leaped up from behind his desk, rushed over, and took both my hands into his. His words still echo in my mind: “Your pen, your pen, is it okay?”