Hokkaido Highway Blues

ought to be an archaeology of facial gestures. I am sure we could trace this particular expression—this eellike sneer—all the way back to northern China. It is a mix of arrogance, utter contempt, and adolescent pride. In Japan it is usually more subtle than this caricature I was now up against. Sometimes it was so slight, you almost missed it. I once had a Korean customs officer sneer at me continuously for three hours straight as I was uselessly interrogated about nothing. When you get to China you see it more often. In Shanghai it is common even among young women. And by the time you reach Beijing, it is almost a permanent feature, more of an attitude than a facial expression. I do not doubt that somewhere out there, beyond the Great Wall in the outer steppes of Mongolia, there exists an old withered tribe, the wellspring of this sneer and the xenophobia that underlines it, the Ur-Sneerers, living in their huts, chewing skins and spitting venom at one another. I was weary. I was weary of this tired old tune, this tinhorn anthem.
    “Oi!“ he said every time I tried to ignore him. He was drunk, or at least pretending to be. He switched back to English, ‘ Japan! Number One!” and to emphasize his point he held up his index finger. I responded with my middle finger. “I agree,” I said. “Number One!” But he didn’t catch, or didn’t understand, my insult.
    I was trying to make this lizard man disappear but he kept inching closer to me, talking about how great, omnipotent, excellent, fully erect, etc., etc., the Japanese navy is. So I decided to take him down.
    “Are you Korean?” I asked.
    “What?”
    “Are you Korean?”
    He sputtered in disbelief. “Of course not! I am Japanese.”
    “Oh, that’s right. You mentioned that. It’s just that, well, you look kind of Korean. I think it’s your eyes. Or maybe your mouth. Very Korean.” And that was it. I had destroyed him.
    It is one of the eternal mysteries of Japan: Are the Japanese arrogant or insecure? Deep down, deep inside: insecure or arrogant? Arrogant or insecure?
    “Well, have a good night,” I said with a smile. And, having driven the poor man to the point of apoplexy, and hopefully given him a lifelong complex— Do I look Korean? Really? Do I? —I paid for my curry rice and got up to leave. Just as I was about to go, I did the cruelest thing you can possibly do if you are a foreigner in Japan. I laughed at him. Not loudly, you understand. More of a chuckle, really. I looked at him and I shook my head and I chuckled. His face was purple with bottled rage, but fortunately—this being Japan—he did not follow me out of the café and beat me senseless. Instead he sat, seething in his own bile, and I left.
    It was a hollow victory, of course. No doubt, he now hates all foreigners on sight, and I have probably added to the already strained relationship between Japan and the West and created bad karma and misused my role as international ambassador of goodwill and poisoned the well of human kindness and killed the bluebird of happiness, but what the fuck, it was worth it.
     
    * * *
     
    I walked toward the white-bright phosphorous lights of the harbor, down to where the ferry was tethered. A group of boys, killing time on a spring evening in Saiki, were on their bicycles by the dock waiting for the ferry to leave. When they saw me, a mini-pandemonium broke out. They yelled, “Hello!” “This is a pen!” and other such witticisms. (Or more accurately, Harro! Zis is a ben!)
    “Gaijin-san! Gaijin-san! Are you going to Shikoku? You are? Did you hear that, he understands Japanese! Good-bye, Gaijin-san! Good-bye!”
    The ferry bellowed once, twice, and the motor began rumbling. Cars were filing on, their headlights on low beam. “Say something in English! Gaijin-san, Gaijin-san, say something in English!”
    “I have never eaten feces knowingly!”
    And on that note, I said farewell to Kyushu.
     

 
     

 
     

1
     
    THE DOOR STUCK. Warped wood and old ball bearings, I suppose. After a moment’s effort, it relented and slid open. I stepped inside and checked the entranceway for footwear. Guests take off their shoes when they enter an inn and, by examining the type of shoes you see lined up in the entranceway, you can tell a lot about the place, its character, the kind of clients it attracts. If you see row upon row of polished businessmen’s shoes, you know that you are in for a loud, sleepless night. (In Japan, male bonding