Cherry Blossoms
Stepping off the bullet train and into the crisp Tokyo air, my whole body vibrated with nervous excitement. Here I was, fresh out of university with a TEFL Masters certificate and a backpack full of dreams, ready to conquer the Land of the Rising Sun.
Admittedly, my desire to teach was not born from a love of language. It was the prospect of teaching pretty girls that motivated me, and I spent hours dreaming about cuties in sailor suits giggling and flicking their long dark hair as I waited for my visa to arrive.
By the time I arrived in Japan I was buzzing with sexual anticipation and the thrill of adventure. But my lurid fantasies were swifty dispelled when I arrived at the language academy.
Ms. Watanabe, the diminutive principal, met me at the door and greeted me with a bow so deep her forehead almost kissed the floor. I offered a polite greeting, and the tiny woman ushered me into a room that could only be described as...bleak. Instead of the pastel-coloured posters and cartoons of animal mascots I had envisioned adorning the walls, a sterile beige scheme reigned supreme, replete with a white board and a row of uncomfortable-looking fold out metal chairs.
"This is the Sakura Business English Class," Ms. Watanabe chirped in heavily accented English, gesturing to the vacant chairs. "All men, very serious."
My glued on smile faltered. Men? Serious? What about the giggling girls with Hello Kitty pencil cases I'd spent weeks preparing for? A knot formed in my stomach. Teaching horny 18-year old females with fluttering eyelashes was one thing, my enthusiasm for such students would help overcome any potential difficulties in communication. But Japanese businessmen?
The door creaked open, and the students entered the room. Three men, all old enough to be my grandfather. Their faces etched with wrinkles, suits impeccably tailored but somehow rumpled. Obvious distain showed on their faces, and they barely acknowledged Ms. Watanabe or myself, with only the first to enter offering so much as the slightest nod in our direction.
Ms. Watanabe bowed again, her smile strained.
"Sensei Max, from South Africa. Please, introduce yourself!"
I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to smile.
"Hello everyone! I'm Max, and I'll be your English teacher."
Silence. The only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner.
"Konnichiwa," I tried, remembering the only Japanese phrase I knew.
This elicited a flicker of something in their eyes - amusement? Despair? It was hard to tell. One of the men, his hair a distinguished salt-and-pepper, finally spoke. His voice was a low rumble.
"Business English, right?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow. "Let's begin."
That first lesson was a masterclass in futility. My improvised icebreaker activity - a role-playing exercise where they had to pitch a product to a potential client - fell flatter than a sumo wrestler on ice skates. Their English, while strictly grammatically correct at times, was largely devoid of any inflection let alone genuine emotion. Each answer was delivered in a monotone, a litany of "yes" and "no" answers punctuated by the occasional, "We will have to discuss this further with our superiors," which seemed to be a well-rehearsed phrase.
By the end of the hour, I felt pretty dejected, and I left the school that day wondering if I had made a mistake in coming to Japan.
The following few days did nothing but suggest an answer in the affirmative. Outside of teaching, Tokyo, a city that had promised neon lights and bustling nightlife, seemed determined to match my darkening mood. Rain lashed against my tiny apartment window, day after dreary day. Unlike the sun-drenched beaches of Durban or the majestic mountains of Cape Town, Tokyo offered no escape from soulless modernity. Only endless stretches of grey concrete under a leaden sky.
On the packed rush-hour trains, faces were buried in cellphones, a sea of glowing rectangles offering a glimpse into a world I wasn't part of. Unlike the easy camaraderie I'd enjoyed back home, there were no friendly hellos, no shared smiles. Here, everyone was an island, lost in their own digital world, barely speaking with each other, let alone a weary foreigner like me.
Loneliness, cold and damp like the weather, started to seep into my bones. Was this what I'd signed up for? Where was the vibrant, exciting Japan I had dreamed of? Was there any way to bridge the cultural chasm that seemed to be widening by the minute? These were the questions that echoed hauntingly in my mind as I stared out the misted window, the Tokyo rain blurring the neon lights into a meaningless smear of unending disappointment.
The weather kept getting colder as autumn drifted towards winter and the only thing frostier was my class of grumpy elderly students who remained unenthused about my carefully constructed lesson plans. As the leaves turned brown on the autumn trees I felt ever lonelier until finally one day the sun peaked out between the tall buildings and lifted my mood. I decided to go for a walk to see if I could find a bar or restaurant where I might find someone to talk to.
Bundled up in my warmest clothes, my faithful jacket a defiant splash of green against the city's monotone, I ventured out, navigating the labyrinthine streets, determined to find a place where the warmth wasn't just from the heating but from some relatable company. Perhaps a change of scenery, a chance encounter, was all I needed to break this isolating spell. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a spark of connection in this seemingly indifferent city.
Eventually, after getting completely lost, I entered a narrow alleyway that seemed to be from a totally different era. Cobblestone streets glistened mysteriously beneath the soft glow of paper lanterns and the leaves of a maple tree swayed hypnotically as I passed. I could not understand the calligraphy on the lanterns, but they gave off an inviting glow and being hand painted gave a sense of authenticity to the scene.
As I walked deeper into the alleyway, the old fashioned wooden buildings, likely survivors from the pre-war period, teleported me back in time, and although their wooden awnings had been weathered by centuries of use, everything seemed novel to me, as though I were finally seeing the real Japan for the first time.
