Yayoi

1. First encounter

I met her on my first trip to Japan, while traveling with my wife, who is also Japanese. I was right away drawn to the fact that there is anyone actually named Yayoi, which just sounds like too much fun to be a real, traditional Japanese name, but it is. She seemed very serious when I first met her, dressed in a suit-ish kind of thing, the sort of thing professional women wear before they get in front of a camera and read the news, which is what Yayoi was doing when I met her (or a few minutes afterward, anyway).

I'm not sure if there's anything sexier than a beautiful young woman in a smart suit reading the news into a camera. There's that whole veneer of serious professionalism that's just crying out to be poked at, broken down, turned into its opposite.

Yayoi wasn't just reading the news into a camera, though. She was reading a Japanese translation of a leftwing American broadcast, a translation for which she was the principal translator. Her English was impeccable. I couldn't believe she had never lived outside of Japan. Millions of other Japanese people study English for ten years as kids, and by the time they graduate from high school they can't speak or understand a word.

In some places, like Scandinavia, being fluent in English is just something everybody does, to get by in the world, the vast majority of which does not speak Norwegian or Danish. In other places, though, the people who learn English really well are some the people I'd otherwise be least interested in meeting. English fluency in some places is often a sign that someone is interested in commerce, involved with tourism, or an Anglophone, and being an Anglophone often places one somewhere other than the left side of the political spectrum.

But as soon as we started talking about politics and music and getting ready to do this interview, it was clear that whatever else Yayoi was, she was young, beautiful, highly intelligent, leftwing, and fluent in English. And though she maintained that air of professionalism throughout, the left side of her mouth would lift up slightly at times, forming what seemed like a little hint of possible other sides to Yayoi. I wondered, somewhat desperately, if I'd ever have the good fortune to become acquainted with any of them. I figured in all likelihood I'd never see this woman again, actually.

I asked her where in Japan she was from.

"Kyoto," she replied. I looked at her quizzically for a second at first, realizing which city she was talking about just before she said the name again, changing her pronunciation to be more like the way Americans would be familiar with - "

kee

-o-to."

I was glad she was from a city that I knew at least one thing about, aside from the fact that it had some famous shrines in it.

"One of my favorite punk bands is from Kyoto," I exclaimed - probably, I thought, with far too much excitement for my own good. "Do you know Geronimo Story?"

Her face lit up momentarily as she said "yes."

It's a magical combination of events when a woman like Yayoi's face lights up at the same time as she says that potent word. I had to squelch the desire to ask her to say it again.

She continued: "I've been to many of their shows. I've also worked during them. They play a lot at a club where I used to be a bartender."

She likes music. She goes out to hear leftwing punk bands, not just because she's working in the bar, but because she likes music. And she worked at a bar as well as working as a newscaster. Brilliantly well-rounded.

All especially attractive to me given that I was and am a leftwing musician and news junky, here in Japan not only to visit my wife's friends and relatives, but to sing for anarchists in Tokyo, and peaceniks and communists in Hiroshima and elsewhere. And I was a fan of Geronimo Story.

I believe I succeeded in not drooling at any point during the interview or the rest of the encounter, though whether I managed to sound intelligent is another question. Staying on topic was more than a little challenging.

After far too little time, we left the studio, bidding adieu to Yayoi and her colleagues there. Aside from the atrociously hot and humid summer weather and the complete unavailability of marijuana, I had a lovely first tour of Japan back then. It was three years and two visits to Japan later that I was again singing for the small but vibrant anarchist scene in Tokyo when Yayoi appeared, as if out of a dream.

2. Correspondence

She wasn't in her professional attire this time. She was dressed in such a way that she'd fit right in among the outrageously fashionable women of the surrounding, ultra-modern neighborhood of Shinjuku, wearing tight jeans that had come pre-shredded and those fur-lined boots that go most of the way up one's knee, with heels. I can't remember what else she had on. I was too overwhelmed by the vision of her perfect legs, and the slight bulge of her pelvic bone, being hugged so tightly by those stretchy, torn-up jeans.

In the context of the anarchist cafe, she looked somewhat out of place, though even anarchists in Tokyo tend to dress a little more upscale than their brethren in many other wealthy nations. And they bathe every day, which definitely differentiates them from many other aficionados of the circled "A" around the world.

I recognized her right away, but Yayoi introduced herself anyway.

"We met when I was one of the hosts for a show on community television," she said.

"I remember well," I replied, trying to modulate my voice so I didn't sound too much like a 13-year-old boy about to come in his pants. "Are you still living in Tokyo?" I managed to inquire.

"I'm back home in Kyoto now, working in a bar. Geronimo Story still plays there now and then." She remembered our conversation. "I'm going back there tomorrow."

"When did you get into the big city?" I asked, hoping it wasn't too obvious I was searching for things to say to keep the conversation going, not wanting her to walk away now or ever.

"I just took the

shinkansen

here today."

I don't know if she was trying to let that sink in, or if I was just at a loss for words at that point, but things got quiet after that statement. She had spent over three hours on an expensive bullet train from Kyoto to Tokyo in order to catch my show, since on this trip, Tokyo was the nearest I'd be getting to Kyoto. And she would spend over three hours on that very train the following day in order to get home in time to go to work. In a music venue, no less.

That's when it occurred to me that she really did like my music. Of course she probably liked to have an excuse to visit her friends in Tokyo, some of whom would fairly predictably be at my show, due to the milieu. But she picked this particular show to make a one-night trip to Tokyo, which I figured might count for something.

I was trying to come up with a good excuse to ask her for her contact information. The fact that she worked in a music venue didn't even occur to me as a legitimate reason at the time. But I was saved from any further wracking of my brain when I watched her approach my email list, pick up the pen, and write down her name and email.

Trade secret: this has long been my most effective way to get to know people better as well as the most effective dating technique. It's mainly a matter of paying attention at the right time, because although I may have been talking with someone at a gig and I thought I wanted to have more occasions to do that in the future, I may or may not remember their names when the time comes. But if I see them sign my email list, and I remember what they looked like, then I easily tend to remember and be able to make the face-name connection.

I was hesitant about writing personal emails to women who signed my email list at first, fearing they would find the idea intrusive. But I've been happy to discover that if someone signs your email list, they're apparently pre-conditioned at that point to not be bothered by me writing them a personal email, rather than just list stuff. This doesn't always result in volumes of intense correspondence back and forth, nor does it always result in a date, or becoming lovers on a long-term basis.

In the case of Yayoi, my brief email to her would be the beginning of all of those things.

What began was months of near-daily emails back and forth. A funny, philosophical and often very steamy bunch of correspondence. In the first weeks especially, every day seemed to involve new revelations in terms of just how much we had in common.

My wife, Sachi, is from a small city in a very traditional, socially conservative part of the middle of the three biggest islands. Going to graduate school in Boston, Massachusetts opened her eyes to many things, including alternative lifestyles she had never heard of in small-town Japan. But it probably wasn't Boston that prepared her for her years of living with a pot-smoking, leftwing, polyamorous touring musician.

At least as far as polyamorous part goes, Sachi's preparation was her traditional upbringing, more than anything else. If in practice "monogamy" means "exclusivity except when it isn't," which is at least for part of 90% of supposedly monogamous relationships, Sachi understood that in practice well. Those cheating husbands have to cheat with someone, and one of those someones was Sachi. The only long-term relationship she had been in before me was with a married university professor.

My preference is for a much more open kind of arrangement, but it's easy to get used to "don't ask, don't tell." It's a slight variation on cheating, something most people are intimately familiar with. Cheating in practice, but with a clearer conscience.

Yayoi, it turned out, had been practicing a more open form of polyamory, or at least attempting to. By the time our email exchanges began, she was preparing to find out if other parts of the world might have more to offer her in terms of a social life more in line with her ideas about how things can be. Her interest in pursuing journalism more led her to the question of graduate school, and she had ended up with a full scholarship in the journalism program at a university in Copenhagen.

She had already joined a polyamory discussion group based in Copenhagen, and was meeting people online in the way that only people at least a decade younger than I know how to do. She was also reading every blog post I had ever written, and was quickly developing a better recollection than I had about things I had said, written or sung at some point in the past fifteen years.

Knowing Copenhagen was one of my favorite places to be, it turned out, was a factor in her decision to go to school there, but Yayoi had thought good things of Denmark before she ever heard of me. There is a general positive orientation toward Denmark in Japan. The simplicity of Danish furniture design and architecture is big in Japan. Fashionable, tall, fit and blonde is always popular in Japan, and Denmark exemplifies all of that. Plus nice pastries - and there's a chain of Danish-inspired bakeries all over Japan these days.

Yayoi's attraction to Denmark, aside from all of the above, was also the reputedly cosmopolitan nature of the Danes, the notion of Denmark as a socially and politically progressive society, relative to most other places, at least.

I like all of those things about Denmark, and more. After years of touring there as well as getting into significant relationships with a number of Danes, it feels like a second home for me, although I have yet to learn even a smidgeon of the Danish language. My next tour of Europe was coming up, and I was already planning on spending a week off at the beginning of it, recovering from jet lag in Copenhagen.

It had become abundantly clear that Yayoi and I were destined to spend some time together, and she asked me if I minded if she organized a week-long Danish holiday for the two of us. She said she wanted to test herself on how well she had grew to understand me, during our months of intense correspondence, and also how well she had grew to appreciate Denmark through my blog posts and songs related to it.

April eventually arrived, and it was time to board a flight to Copenhagen.

3. Christiania

Yayoi and I had been corresponding so much for so many months. It had all been either interesting or scintillating or both, at different times, depending on the subject and such. But there had been such a volume of it, it had clearly been occupying so much of our collective time and energy, that I was occasionally concerned about the level of obsession that might have been happening here. Which is a much nicer concern to have than being worried about whether someone is disinterested.

Something about seeing Yayoi's expression there, waiting to greet me at the airport, banished all such concerns. She was beaming, but beneath the smile was the same confident woman exploring a new continent that I had exchanged so many emails with. This was going to be a fun week, and I already got the distinct impression there would be more of them in the future.

Jumping ahead of myself, I thought. We haven't even had sex yet. But so many cool women (and men, I'm sure) act like they're cool with polyamory, up until they develop an emotional attachment to you, then they want you to choose between them and everybody else. I have a bit of a sensitive sensor up, looking for that kind of thing, but Yayoi has failed to make it buzz. I so wanted this to work out, and not for this to be some kind of trial week to determine whether it's all or nothing...

Other immediate impressions as I was walking, guitar slung over my back, wheeling along one suitcase full of clothes and another suitcase full of merch, was that Yayoi had quickly adapted to Danish fashion. Gone were the ostentatiously fashionable shredded jeans and Lolita dresses. Now she was dressed like a typical Copenhagen woman - completely in black. Warm tights on the bottom, a black jacket on top. Only her red and white kaffiyeh provided a splash of color, wrapped around her neck.

We had never kissed before. I was familiar with the public reserve of Japanese culture, and I was trying to prepare myself for a brief, self-conscious embrace before we headed off somewhere. But once I was out of the mass of the crowd of people exiting the secure area of Kastrup airport, Yayoi carefully helped me unburden myself of the guitar on my back, and once this was done, she squeezed me hard, and kissed me passionately, if only for a few seconds, beaming at me now from inches away.

Seeing her face up close, feeling her lips and tongue against mine, holding her lean young body in my arms, it was all pretty overwhelming. I felt that wonderful feeling you get in these relatively rare situations, seeing someone I'm wildly attracted to that I haven't seen in a long time, or in a sense, ever, in this case. I've never injected ecstasy before, but I imagined if injecting MDMA was something you could do, it would feel like this.

"We're going to rent a car," Yayoi said as she led me in the direction of the Hertz booth. "Some of the places we'll be going, there are no train stations."

The way she enunciated each syllable was the main indication that she was speaking English as a second language. Otherwise her pronunciation was with a perfect American accent of non-Southern but otherwise indeterminate origin.

We picked up some espresso drinks and then meandered along to the building with the rental cars. Once we had gotten the car loaded up and I had plugged in my GPS, Yayoi spoke.

"First stop, Christiania."

"What a great idea," I said. "I'd really like to get some pot."

"I know!" Yayoi smiled.

Of course she knew. My pot habit is one of so many topics we discussed over the past months. I also figured I knew the answer to my next question, but I asked it anyway.

"Have you tried pot yet?"

It's very rare to come across pot in Japan, it's

haram

. If you do come across it, it'll be 10-20 times as expensive as in Copenhagen or Amsterdam or Seattle, and it won't be very good. But now, of course, she was living in Copenhagen, one of the marijuana capitals of the world, much to the constant chagrin of some of the country's more conservative politicians.

"Not yet. But I was thinking I'd try it tonight." Yayoi paused for emphasis, put on her best Lolita expression, and added, "for the first time."

I was in the driver's seat. There was no question about this, since Yayoi didn't have a driver's license. When you come from one of the bigger cities in the country with the world's best mass transit system, there's not much need for driving. And they make it expensive to own a car there, which is probably good, because if everybody had one, the country would be unlivable. It's crowded enough as it is just with pedestrians, let alone cars.

Denmark has a similarly great mass transit system, and similarly few drivers, at least among those in the capital city. The favorite mode of transport is the bicycle, which is obvious as soon as you leave the airport. Bike lanes everywhere, filled with bicyclists, whatever the season or the weather. And the bike lanes are actual lanes, not painted onto the roads like in the US.

We drove alongside the bicyclists, toward the city center, and then toward the spire in the distance that I knew was the center of the Christianshavn neighborhood, where the old military barracks-turned-hippie-commune, Christiania, was situated.

I was heading toward one of the side streets along the canal near the main entrance, where I've often found parking in the past, when Yayoi directed me toward a different street.

"This is the nearest street to where we're staying tonight," she explained.

"We're staying at Christiania tonight?" I asked, seeking further information.

Yayoi smiled. We had had lots of communication, but she had been completely mum about her many plans for this week. We both knew that surprise parties were not a Japanese tradition, but Yayoi had clearly been enjoying organizing what seemed to be a very elaborate week of surprises for me.

"There's someone I met through the polyamory discussion group who lives in Christiania. I think you know her. She's home in Spain for the month."

I do know her, assuming it's the same polyamorous Spaniard I have in mind. In fact, we were lovers, briefly. Couldn't remember if Yayoi knew that or not. I had been to her place in Christiania a number of times. She moved there a couple years after I first met her. Few new people manage to move into Christiania, if they weren't part of the original 1970's era land occupation, but our mutual friend is very resourceful. Christiania is a very popular place to live, given that there's basically no rent, no cars, and it's a lovely place full of hippies and the sorts of tourists who are looking to buy some pot or hash on Pusher Street and chill out in or near one of the many cafes scattered around on area of the sprawling former barracks, from which Denmark used to launch periodic invasions of Sweden way back when.

Yayoi and I found parking. I took out a change of clothing and some other odds and ends, along with my guitar, leaving everything else in the trunk for safekeeping. Not only are there no cars in Christiania, but there isn't much in the way of paved sidewalks either, so it's not the optimal environment for wheelie suitcases. We walked along the dirt path beside the water, til we eventually came across Maria's rustic little house.

It was good to be in a house, and not carrying anything. It seemed very much like we both had an initial impulse to lay down on the bed together, and both resisted it.