Tune in Tokio

# of bowls of miso soup eaten: 414

# of pounds lost: 22

# of looks of disapproval from the natives: 1,156

7

Who proves that no matter where on God’s earth you are, crazy rich people are hilaaaarious.

Ahhh, Ginza. Tokyo’s own Fifth Avenue, and the shopping district of choice for Hotlips from M*A*S*H. For sheer unabashed opulence and unnecessarily high prices, no area in Tokyo can compare to this district on the eastern side of the metropolis, not far from the Imperial Palace, with its wide shopping avenues, costly window displays, and surely the most gorgeously dressed people in all of Japan. There is something about paying ten dollars for a sit-down cup of coffee in a chartreuse cafe that makes one feel strangely alive. And broke with nothing to show for it.

Where did Hotlips like to go when she went to “the Ginza,” as she put it? Ginza is home to the most expensive shopping block in the world, so there was surely plenty to choose from. Ginza is also home to the country’s most depressed and disillusioned window shoppers. Me, for example, eyeing some shirts at the Mitsukoshi store that I couldn’t begin to fit into, much less afford. I look down at my sleeves and am reminded of the last time I tried to buy myself clothes in this city. I had spilled coffee on my shirt at work, so during my lunch break I went across the street from our Shinjuku branch and bought this new one. It fit perfectly, except for the waist, shoulders, sleeves, and neck.

The world-famous Kabuki-za theatre is also here, which of course is ground zero for kabuki aficionados across the globe. (There’s got to be dozens. Dozens of dozens.) I work at the Lane Ginza branch a few times a week, and the school is right down the road from the theatre. I’ve often daydreamed of running into some of the kabuki folk while lunching at one of my regular haunts, like Soup Friends, a cafe near my school that sells soups you never would’ve imagined yourself eating.

I’ll be dipping French rolls into my tiny bowl of carrot, radish, and octopus noodle soup and cramming new Japanese verbs into my head when I look up and there at the counter I see two imposing and stern-looking kabuki actors looking at the menu hungrily, probably exhausted and famished from the lengthy double love suicide they’ve just committed at the matinee performance. They of course don’t use conventional Japanese vernacular; they speak in antiquated kabuki verses that the counter clerks will struggle to understand.

When he places his order for, say, the vegetarian rice ball chili, the more effeminate of the two, dressed in a scarlet robe with gold trim and about thirty-seven folds and tucks, uses grand and graceful gestures and a high- pitched sing-song squeal. Ordering the green tea gazpacho, his more masculine fellow thespian, enveloped in a gray kimono with angry bulls emblazoned on it and sporting a hairstyle resembling the club symbol on a deck of cards, moves like a marionette and speaks in a deep, cranky monotone, proving who carries the sword in their family. When told he cannot get it without cilantro, he becomes agitated, gesticulating wildly in a fit of guttural yelping. Fortunately, his more refined companion succeeds in calming him down with a three-hour lullaby about doomed lovers who slice each other up real good on a mountaintop. At this point they saunter regally to their seats, see me, the Western sophisticate and dedicated student of Japanese, at my table, and bow. I say, “

” and their ears ring. The feminine one breaks into tears, and the man draws his sword, chops his companion’s head off, and slices himself open.

At least once a week I go with my coworkers in Ginza, Kenji and Midori, to a cafe where we sit for an hour and have what is called a “language exchange.” Theoretically, this involves two or more people meeting, often through the classifieds, and going to a cafe to converse in the languages each wishes to improve-usually Japanese and English. Half the time they speak English, then after a while they’ll switch to Japanese. Alternatively, and more commonly, a “language exchange” involves a Western male and a Japanese female meeting and speaking a few words here and there in whatever language is easiest before bagging the whole thing and leaving the cafe to go get it on somewhere.

White Guy: Hi, it’s nice to meet you.

Japanese Girl: Hello, it’s very nice meet you, too.

WG: Oh, darn it all, I seem to have forgotten my pen.

JG: Oh, it OK. I have pen you can to borrow.

WG: Oh, OK. Oh, darn it all, I seem to have forgotten my notebook.

JG: I have a paper you if you want use.

WG: Oh, great, thanks. Oh, shit. I seem to have forgotten my Japanese book.

JG: Oh.

WG: I must have left it in my bedroom. Shall we just…

JG: OK.

But Kenji, Midori, and I are honest-to-God language exchangers. There is no sexual tension between us that I’m aware of, though I suppose I should never say never. Kenji, always dressed in the requisite gray suit, is twenty-eight and handsome, if a little uptight. He is an accountant at Lane and spends most of his days looking at numbers, so he looks at our meetings as a nice change of pace. It is my goal not only to have him speaking better English as a result of our weekly exchanges, but to loosen up, to relax, and to talk about his innermost feelings, his dreams, his favorite numbers, and movies. And if he wants to reach over and plant a big, wet kiss on my soft, willing lips at some point by way of a thank you, well that’s just fine.

Midori might get a kick out of this. She is a receptionist at Lane. The most bored-looking receptionist I’ve ever seen. It’s why I’ve taken to her so quickly. Every day she sits at the main desk listlessly waiting for the phone to ring or a student to walk in while she doodles on a big notepad. When the phone does ring, she answers in the professional, friendly, buoyant lilt so typical of Japanese receptionists. Once she’s transferred the call or answered the caller’s question, she replaces the receiver and goes back to her doodling. Her desk has no computer. Behind her on the wall is the giant and shiny Lane logo, veritably announcing her as company spokeswoman. Her sole function is to serve as greeter, over the telephone and face to face when people walk into the school. Saying “good morning” and “good day” and “good evening” to people all day in a pleasant and welcoming tone as they file in can really take it out of a person.

Mornings are very slow, and it is these times when she appears to be counting the cracks in the wall while contemplating grad school or joining the circus.

One morning I sat down next to her. She looked like she could use a little excitement, and I thought perhaps I could help her look for some.

“Midori-san, how do you say, ‘I’m so dang bored’ in Japanese?”

She laughed and asked, “What means dang?” From those first words grew our language exchange idea. Midori recruited Kenji after hearing that he was interested in taking English classes but couldn’t really afford them, even with his Lane discount.

So we started meeting after work once a week. Since their English is far better than my Japanese, we have pretty decent conversations in English for a while on a wide range of subjects (travel, music, world events, their insecurity about their English skills) before moving on to Japanese, where the conversation tends to gasp and sputter over more basic and yawn-worthy subjects like favorite foods, least favorite foods, favorite seasons, least favorite seasons, favorite sports, least favorite sports, and my insecurity about my Japanese skills (more than justified).

Tonight we meet as usual in front of the Sony building at Sukiyabashi Crossing and then walk toward our regular cafe, Doutor. Doutor is a Japanese coffee chain that serves the most unremarkable, tiniest cup of coffee I’ve ever regretted buying. A typical Doutor store is full of dozing salarymen who always somehow manage to smoke a pack of cigarettes during their naps. But the Doutor in the center of Ginza is housed at the bottom of a swanky,