The Land od the Rising Yen

the loo you step out of your ordinary slippers and step into the
special loo-slippers, and leaving that establishment you leave the loo-slippers
facing the entrance so that the next visitor — probably yourself — will be able
to step into them without touching them with his hands. This is regarded as
elementary courtesy to yourself. You have also to learn the tatami-ce remony:
before stepping on the tatami you must take your slippers off. There are
no special slippers for the tatami: you must walk on it in your
stockinged feet. The most heinous crime, of course, is to walk on the tatami wearing your loo-slippers; a crime which — being thoroughly confused by all
this changing of slippers — you frequently commit.
    You really feel at home in the ryokan. They are sweet to you, charming and welcoming. As soon as you come home — and
you may return home ten times a day — your own maid will bring you hot towels —
a very refreshing and civilized habit — and a pot of green tea which most
people love but I detest. The Japanese are as sensitive about their tea as the
English, so I invariably poured my tea down the loo (usually wearing my non-loo
slippers) because they would have been hurt if I had just left it. The loo
itself in my ryokan was a Western one with sketches and drawings and
written instructions in Japanese, meant for absolute beginners, on how to use
it. (The drawings were very neat, showing a gentleman in standing and sitting
position, and the text, I was told, was concise and instructive, composed by
the Professor of Scatology, Tokyo University.)
    The great difficulty in the ryokan is communication. Only the lady at the front desk is supposed to know English.
A Tokyo friend of mine, a Mr Shirato, promised me that he would come down to
see me in Kyoto and would — if he could — stay at my inn. So I went to the
front desk, trying to find out if Mr Shirato had booked a room. I asked my
question. The lady smiled. I repeated my question. The lady smiled even more
charmingly and this time she repeated: ‘Mr Shirato.’ I nodded. She took the
telephone book and rang up three different Mr Shiratos in Kyoto and shook her
head sadly. I tried a bit of a charade, pointing to the bedrooms and imitating
a man sleeping. She laughed heartily. I pointed to her own list of reservations
and asked: ‘Mr Shirato?’ She looked to see if she had received a message from
Mr Shirato, then rang up a fourth Mr Shirato in Kyoto, and finally shook her
head more sadly than ever before. Suddenly she had a brainwave. She gave me
pencil and paper and indicated that I should draw my question. But how do you
draw ‘Has Mr Shirato booked a room?’
    Soon afterwards I discovered an
admirable institution, common to all ryokans. Our maid came in with a
roneoed booklet of Japanese phrases, the English translation written next to
them. She pointed to the English question: ‘What do you want for breakfast?’ I
pointed to the Japanese answer: ‘Coffee, toast and boiled egg.’ She asked with
her fingers: ‘At what time?’
    ‘Eighty thirty,’ I pointed, in fluent
Japanese.

    That little booklet caused one of the
bitterest disappointments of my life. One day my pretty maid, wearing her
alluring kimono, came in and pointed to the question: ‘Do you want to
see my front?’
    I nodded. Yes, I would be very
pleased to see her front. She pointed: ‘Please follow me.’
    I followed her, not a little
surprised and with an air of anticipation. But all she wanted was for me to see
her front desk.
    The ryokan closed its doors at
12 p.m. and there was a large and conspicuous sign at the entrance, in English:
     
    ‘all guests are requested to be
    UNITED IN BED BEFORE MIDNIGHT'
     
    That was the clearest and most lucid
instruction I ever came across in Japan.
     
    Paros , Greece
    June-September, 1969

BY
THE SAME AUTHOR
     
     
    How to be a Brit
    In this George Mikes minibus are the
fruits of forty years of field research; How to be an Alien, How to be
Inimitable and How to be Decadent are collected in this volume to
provide an indispensable manual for everyone who longs to attain True
Britishness — even Brits born and bred may pick up a few unexpected tips from
his irresistible blend of laconic humour and sharp observation.
     
    How to be Poor
    Subtle, ironic and marvellously
funny, George Mikes’s review of the money trap should convert the most strident
millionaire to a state of abject — and happy — poverty.
    How to be an