April 1984, Japan 

After finally arriving at Narita airport slightly after sunset, a tall, skinny man, who called himself Mr. Tajima came and picked me up in his Mitsubishi, which seemed a nice gesture on the part of the College that had agreed to employ me in Kawasaki, a place that sounded like where you might find a motorcycle factory.

As it turned out, my new “mansion” (which is the word they used for a small rabbit hutch)was located next to a Kirin beer factory, which sounded nice, but smelled horrendous. When Mr. Tajima dropped me off at my new place, he left without any lingering suggestions or warnings, rolling down his window in the narrow street. “I’ll be here to pick you up tomorrow at 8 am”. It felt abrupt, and I was alone.

An elderly couple (who made mannequins) on the first floor gave me the key to my new flat in Oriental Mansion, and I trundled upstairs, along with a few heavy bags, to the fourth floor. Four, it turns out, is an unlucky number in Japan. Luckily, I had a pocket flashlight, and I managed to unlock the door and get my junk inside. None of the lights worked, for the previous tenant had taken them all. As it turned out, I soon discovered there also wasn’t any fridge in the flat, nor was there an oven or an air conditioner. Feeling sudden exhaustion from the long flight, I sat on the floor and wondered where I might find something to eat, as I was feeling a bit peckish. As I contemplated getting up and heading out in search of food, I heard a rather plaintive cry from the street below….”Yaki Mo….Imo….Yaki mo”.

Venturing downstairs, I soon discovered that the voice belonged to a tape recording of a man who sold sweet potatoes from a rather ancient looking cart. I wanted something more familiar, so I headed down the alley in search of a convenience store or a restaurant. Finally, after what seemed a bit of a long walk, I spotted a small pub, not far from the Kagetsuen Mae railway station, which was also known for its proximity to a bicycle racing oval. Wandering through the wide doors of the establishment, the room immediately hushed when I entered, with all the gamblers and drunks staring at the odd looking gaijin in their midst.

Not knowing more than a couple of words of Japanese, I ordered a beer and headed for a neutral corner, as far away from the other customers as I could manage. One older gent took a particular interest in me, and advanced in my direction with a plate of edamame, green beans that are commonly eaten when drinking beer. “Hey, gaijin, tabete kudasai” he slurred as I backed up even further into the darkest corner of the room. “No thanks….I’m good” I responded, but of course he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. Finally, after he kept approaching me, I indicated as diplomatically as I could that I was going to hit him if he came any closer. He did, and I made good on that promise, shoving all 125 lbs of him into a wall. Suddenly, six men grabbed me simultaneously, and threw me out of the pub “country and western style”, sending me face first into the dirt outside. “Welcome to Japan”, I thought, as I stumbled my way back to my new residence.