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.
I walked on, the old alley capturing my imagination, luring me in. I couldn't explain it. Although it was eerily quiet, it seemed like this place was alive, as though it had somehow been expecting me. Time moved at a slower pace and a sense of serenity washed over me as I ventured further down this peculiar lane. Halfway down the street, a small, unassuming door emanated a warm glow that beckoned me. Pushing aside the curtain, I stepped inside a bar from a bygone era.
The bar was like a museum piece, adorned with polished wood, a pair of samurai swords in a glass case, and walls covered with faded photographs of old patrons, long since departed this world. The air smelt like paper, which was oddly comforting and behind the counter stood a wizened old man, his beard flowing in long white cat-like whiskers.
With a gentle gesture, the barman welcomed me inside and gesturing with his hands he offered me a seat at the bar. The barman wore a kindly expression characterized by a curious smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. In my broken Japanese, I poured out my woes to him over a cold Kirin beer and though his replies came in measured doses of incomprehensible Japanese, his warm glowing eyes and gentle affirming nods conveyed a sense of understanding I hadn't felt in weeks.
The elderly man endured my self-pity with good grace while I drank my beer, and his attention did not waver until I drained the last sip from my glass. Then he excused himself with a bow, disappearing momentarily behind the bar. Reappearing a short while later, he carried a small bottle cradled in his wrinkled hands. The label, faded and peeling from the bottle, offered no clue as to its contents, but the mysterious golden liquid within shimmered enticingly.
I asked what it was and without answering he offered me a glass, a mischievous glint in his eyes. I was a little nervous, but I agreed. It would have been rude for me to have declined. The barman careful poured out some of the golden liquid. Hesitantly, I brought the cup to my lips. The sake, if that's what it was, had a pungent aroma, far removed from the light, floral varieties I'd tasted before. But as the liquid touched my tongue, an instant warmth spread through me, comforting like a living room fire, and there was something else too, which I couldn't quite put my finger on.
The old man watched me, his smile widening with every sip. He spoke again in Japanese, his voice a soothing rumble. Though I couldn't understand the words, the sentiment was clear - encouragement, perhaps even a touch of wisdom.
I took my time savouring the strange drink and admiring the décor of the bar. We had fallen into silence and yet there seemed to be an understanding passing between the barman and I that went beyond words. Touched by his hospitality, I fumbled for my wallet, determined to pay for the exotic speciality he had so generously offered me, but the elderly barkeep waved my money away and absolutely refused to accept compensation. And then, with a final, enigmatic smile, he pointed to the door and ushered me back out into the deepening night.
Emerging from the warm haven of the bar, my stomach rumbled instantly. The mysterious sake had awakened a ravenous hunger within me and with renewed purpose I set off down the alley, determined to find something to eat. My strides were brisk, and the cobblestone streets soon gave way to the familiar neon glow of modern Tokyo. Spotting a brightly lit sign with a cartoon duck eating Raman, I hurried forwards.
Stepping inside the noodle bar, I slid into a plastic booth and scanned the menu. I placed my order and reflected on the unusual experience I had just had. I decided then, that I would go back some time and have another drink with that friendly old timer. Something felt... different. Suddenly, life didn't seem so bad anymore and for the first time I was happy to be in Tokyo.
