The Boss. That’s what I’ll call him. He’s a good guy. Not his fault he learned French before English and his pronunciation is now rather jacked. I have the same problem in Japanese, thanks to Spanish.

The Boss met Matt and I at the Trust School office. There’s a strange feeling to Japanese workplaces. Imagine the offices you see in 70s TV shows and movies, and then outfit them with some of the latest technology, but then…make that technology look really, really old. That’s a Japanese office. Wires and papers everywhere, people bustling in and out of narrow hallways, poorly designed layouts and precarious cubicle placement…. Yup, that’s Japan. Not the sleek Art Deco world of the American office by any means. The Japanese make more use of the wonderful art of stacking. Because of the size of America, we’re always used to growing outward. Expanding. Giving ourselves some breathing room. In Japan, there isn’t so much space, so…they grow upward. Pile things on top of each other. If you ever live here, you must make that paradigm shift, or you might go insane. Problem is…for someone my height, stacking just means more stuff to accidentally knock over.

But I digress, again. The Boss greeted us at Trust School. He’s…I can never tell the age of Asian men, but I’m guessing he was 45, short (compared to Americans), slightly balding, and a little wide about the midsection. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, as it was rather warm, even in the evening.

“Ah, David-san. Very nice to meet you finally. Ah, you are very tall! You play basketball?”

Matt fights back his laughter.

“Yes…I did in high school,” I say, calmly.

“Ha…I bet you can slam dunk quite easily, ne?”

Matt is turning beet red.

“Yes…with some warm up,” I manage.

“Very good, very good…ah, but Japanese children, they are not used to tall men like you, so when you go to class, you kneel down to talk to them, okay?”

Understandable. I’m freakishly tall even in America. So, here…I don’t know what’s beyond freak of nature, but, uh…that’s me. “Sure, I can do that.”

The Boss smiled. “Ah, and maybe when you talk to teachers, you bend down to make them feel less comfortable, ne?”

Wait. I’m supposed to bend down like I’m talking to a four year old…right…that’s gonna come across REAL well.

“Sure,” I said. “Not a problem.”

The Boss continued. “Ah, David-san. I called the schoolboard in Chikusei yesterday, an told them about you. I say you’re a very nice boy, very nice, because you are. But when you go there tomorrow, you must understand, these are older men. Very conservative. And your hairstyle is very extreme, you know? So, is there any way you can…fix…because your headband, it makes them stick out, and you might scare the men.”

Uh oh. Now, they told me the dreads were okay. But, if the schoolboard doesn’t like me, they can reject me, even if Trust School accepts me. Then I’d have no schools at which to teach. No school means no contract means no money means…probably gonna have to go home. And it’s kinda hard to pull back dreads that are too short to really grip. “Well, I don’t know if I can do…maybe if…the headband could…”

“Yeah, he can do it,” said Matt. “He’s done it before. His hair is just a little messy from the plane ride.”

“Y…yeah, I can do it,” I added, trying not to sound nervous.

The Boss nodded and smiled.

“Well, sir,” said Matt. “Just wanted you to meet my friend. We’re gonna go get some dinner, okay?”

“Ah, yes, yes, I’m sure you are very tired and hungry. David-san, please be here at 3 pm tomorrow, okay?”

“Yes,” I said. Tired of words for some reason.

“Well, you have a good night, and I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and went back into the office.

I just stood there for a moment, trying to figure out if I shouldn’t just shave off my dreads that night.

“Lesson two, Dave,” said Matt. “In Japan, when someone asks you if you can do something, the answer is always yes. Even if you can’t. Don’t rock the boat. No surprises.”

‘Well, that’s gotta cause problems,’ I thought. “Right,” I said.

Matt smirked again. “Come on, let’s get some food.”

We walked to a small restaurant, where Matt tried to order some food, but we ended up getting only half the order. Simply because he missed a few relationals in Japanese. I sometimes had to step in and repeat/complete sentences for him, so that the cook could understand. I hated doing that, though, because it felt like I was telling Matt, “Step aside, buffoon! You haven’t the lingual skills for ordering foodstuffs and ales!” But, hey…we got two plates of gyoza, two big bowls of real ramen, and two huge bottles of beer. Good times.

We walked back to my apartment, and Matt opened the big bag he’d brought with him. It was a “transitional pack”, chock full of all the things I was worried about. He’d gotten me cleaning supplies, toiletries, work supplies, cups, glasses, silverware…the guy had covered all bases.

“I…thanks…man…I don’t…thanks.” I’ve never been good at expressing thanks, mostly because I’m too busy feeling bad because someone went to the trouble of doing me a favor. I guess I’ve always been Japanese.

“It’s all yours, man,” said Matt. “Should keep your brain from exploding for the next few days.”

“I…yeah…”

I walked Matt back to Mito Station, where he was to catch a train aaaaaaaaaall the way back to Saitama, in a completely different prefecture. I fronted him the cash for his ticket back, which I owed him anyway. And thus, we parted ways.

As I walked back from the train station to my apartment, I realized that Japan really felt no different from any other part of the world. It was strange because it always felt like, just beyond the tallest buildings, West Palm Beach lay nestled in a valley somewhere, right where I left it. Home wasn’t thousands of miles away, it was right around the corner. I wasn’t homesick, I wasn’t alone. I had friends here. I…didn’t feel any culture shock.

“…I’m in Japan.”

I was in…Japan.