Deranged Dave

(This is the original version of the posts I've put up over the last three days. I broke it up for readability, and now here it is again in its more confusing, more tiring format. Why, you ask? Because shut up, that's why.)

The more valuable you become as a human being, the more people start asking for a piece of your time. On Friday, I help Shiga edit his speech for a contest, help a new English Club member (our kouhai) with his pronunciation for a recitation contest, and then jet off into the southern reaches of Kyouto, where I will be meeting an American couple and interpreting for them over the weekend.

The assignment fell to me in kind of a weirdly indirect way. The guy, Deranged Dave, is currently regarded as the best In the Groove player in the US (and also the world), and has been invited by the Japanese DDR community to come hang out with their top players. The language barrier was significant, but Soymilk, a personal acquaintance of Deranged Dave, was able to facilitate much of the planning and scheduling, and even acted as interpreter and guide for the Toukyou leg of their visit. Alas, despite his deep desire to continue on to Kansai, he was simply too busy and too poor, but, as I was once a somewhat ok ITG player myself, he tapped me to pick up the slack. We determined that I would meet up with them at the station near their hotel. The conversation went something like this:

Rude Boy: My class ends at 2:30, and it takes a bare minimum of an hour and a half to reach their station.

Soymilk: So you won't be there until 3:30?

Rude Boy: Um, no, because I don't instantly teleport to the station the instant my class finishes. I'll need at least half an hour to deal with my own shit. So, if I rush and get somewhat lucky, I might be there before 4. But I wouldn't count on it.

Soymilk: 4 is too late. I'll just tell them “around” 3:30.

Rude Boy: Don't do that. It'll probably be more like 4:15, or even 4:30 if I get held up.

Soymilk: It'll be fine. Actually, do you think you could get there by 3?

And so on. Luckily we managed to work things out, and I meet up with them at 4:10 on Friday. They've been walking around all morning and they look about ready to die. Fortunately, we're going all the way to Umeda, so at least they have a chance to relax. We're working through a system of stations and lines that I never ride, but I manage to point us in the right direction. Which is good, seeing as that's my one job.

Once aboard the train, the three of us have a chance to get to know each other. I quickly decide that both of them are awesome and I like them. That's a plus right there, since I was worried I might not, and that the entire weekend would be awkward as piss. Deranged Dave is a little bit shorter than I, with a famously long ponytail; his girlfriend, Bank, has like nine different colours in her hair. Both of them are fun to talk to and have interests outside of rhythm games, which is more than I can say for many of the ITG players I've met. They also have what I often call a “good attitude” about Japan, that is, going in without expectations, nor straying too far from the centre of the sliding scale of kimono to anime.

Prior to a few days ago, I'd heard his name but didn't actually know anything about him. He makes stepfiles, like all of the big names, though he's never made anything I liked. Soymilk informs me that he has an ITG machine in his house, which isn't uncommon, and that he's the most famous player, although I learn later that his overspecialization in speed over technical skills has created some controversy over who the “best” really is. Either way, if any lower-ranked ITG players ever find out that I spent a weekend in Japan interpreting for him, they're going to lose their shit, but I look at him and see just another guy. The Japanese community is wild for his YouTube videos, and indeed they will bring them up time and again, asking him to explain the details of what exactly he does in various situations. Also he's a particle physicist.

We have a few hours to kill before we can meet up with Plumfield, who'll be putting us up for a few days, so I walk them around Umeda, just so they can see. Fortunately we're still in an area I know decently well, which will change as soon as we venture beyond it, but by then we'll be with our actual guides. We speculate as to Plumfield's identity. We figure he's probably around 30. When he messaged me he said that his “work,” rather than his “part-time job,” went until evening, so he's probably a shakaijin. Plus, he offered to straight-up pay for their plane tickets, on top of which he'll be driving us around and boarding us for four days, so he's obviously got money.

When we finally meet him, it turns out that he's 26, a policeman, and has his fucking adorable 20-year-old girlfriend with him. Introductions are awkward and nobody's quite sure what to do. Why? Looking back, I will say that it's probably because, in addition to the strangeness somewhat inherent in meeting someone new for the first time, we haven't gotten used to communicating through translation yet. Nobody's sure who they should be looking at (answer: whoever you're addressing), or what language they should be attempting (answer: your own). We also haven't found a good translation rhythm just yet. You see, generally speaking, you have to sort of pause every paragraph or so for the translation to go through, even if you aren't expecting a reply yet, because otherwise I am going to start to forget details from the beginning, or get confused about what your real point is. Learning to recognize those natural breaks takes a bit of practise, when you aren't yet accustomed to international communication.

As the hour-long drive to a Hyougo Round 1 goes on, though, we start to catch it. The perfunctory questions start to lead into more interesting territory, and soon we have a bit of an actual conversation going on. I quickly realise that this is going to be very different from my usual responsibilities; most of the people I deal with regularly speak either English or Japanese and then some of the other, and on top of that are usually trying to learn, so I'm only called in when the conversation grows too complex for them to carry on their own. Here I'm the only one who can bridge the gap at all, so I have to start killing the instinct that tells me I don't actually need to translate stuff like “let's go” or “yes, I think so too.” For that matter, I even have to provide context for things that have nothing to do with language, like when Plumfield joked that we'd end up in Hokkaidou if he took a wrong turn and Deranged Dave merely said “That's ok, as long as we get there eventually.” Both Plumfield and Bank comment several times that holy shit are they glad I'm there, because this would not be happening otherwise. What can I say? I solve problems.

A bunch of the Hyougo and Oosaka people receive us at the Round 1, and as one after another wanders over and realises Deranged Dave has arrived, freakout after freakout ensues. Everybody wants to stand with him and take multiple pictures in multiple poses from multiple angles. Every time a game ends somebody else scrambles up and announces that they want to play with him next. Deranged Dave has gotten used to it by now; basically the exact same thing happens in the US, and, he says, he might as well make them happy, since they've brought him all the way out here.

“Though to be honest,” he admits, “I'm kind of bored.”

Nobody can play anything higher than about an ITG 12, whereas Deranged Dave punches 20s in the face on a good day. But he bears with it. Since I have two charges, I practise my positioning and observational skills, which I'll be making use of a lot. The only grain of sand in my eyes is Millimetre, some American guy living in Kyouto who basically everyone makes fun of.

Bank: I just don't like his attitude. Like he went on some forum and asked how to say stuff in Japanese, but it was all asking how to say stuff like “I got this score on this song” and “I can pass this.”

Deranged Dave: But nobody cares about him.

Bank: He wants so badly to be like a DDR celebrity, but he's always complaining about how the Japanese don't acknowledge him and whatever, and he gets all pissed off about it.

Rude Boy: So the name is a reference to the length of his penis?

Deranged Dave: It's a reference to the length he aspires to.

Indeed, he spends much of the night trying to enter pictures uninvited, as though anybody cared that he was there at all. (His Japanese is pretty awful, as well, but he doesn't quite realise it.) To his clear frustration, nobody actually wants to take a picture with him, they just keep swarming around Deranged Dave and sometimes Bank. What's really funny is when a bunch of them decide they want some shots with me. I didn't even play! The red carpet has clearly been rolled out for Deranged Dave, and judging by the looks of admiration people are shooting me, it seems like I, as the conduit through which he speaks, have had some of his coolness rub off on me.

When we go to yakiniku for dinner, I get to sit with Deranged Dave, Bank, Bolognese, and a couple, 8nee and 8nii. The conversation is dominated by Bolognese and Deranged Dave discussing cultural differences between the American and Japanese rhythm games communities, and various tournament structures that have been attempted. Bolognese – an Oosaka man, I might add – is the undisputed DDR/ITG champion of Japan, and so they make plans for a challenge match the following day. 8Nee and 8nii have been dating for eight years, since he was 15 and she was 17. They met at an arcade, through Initial Dick. She's quiet but sweeter than diabetes itself, and looks like Mayuyu from AKB. President would die instantly if she met her.

I've interpreted at many an event before, but it's never been my main thing, nor have I been the only one. Usually, it's part of what I'm there to do, but only as an accessory to the more important, concrete task I'm there to accomplish. Here, it is specifically the task for which I have been engaged, I am the only one capable of doing it, and I am constantly in the thick of the action. I'm used to being just on the outside, steering the conversation as needed and doing other things in the meantime, so I keep trying to make sure everything is being taken care of, only to be assured, no no, Rude Boy, you are doing exactly what you need to be doing, in fact don't go anywhere because we need you here. It was a pretty nice feeling, actually. 10/10. I've watched interpreters before and felt a little sorry for them; they they do a ton of the legwork and make my father's job possible, but they are treated like furniture, they sometimes don't even get thanked, they are often excluded from official photos, and they might not even get fed properly. Exactly the opposite is happening with me. People want my signature right underneath Deranged Dave's, and Bolognese flatly refuses to let me pay for my own meal.

Bank and Deranged Dave pass the ensuing drive with Pokemon Black/White (respectively), StreetPass Quest, and asking me about Japan. Something's happened with Plumfield and his girlfriend and they're fighting quietly up front, I guess because he didn't pay enough attention to her at the arcade. They live in the far reaches of Hyougo, over an hour's drive from where we are. I guess you could call it Koube, since the city never actually stops, but I would just about kill myself if I had to live there. Their house is gigantic for Japan, which is to say it has a kitchen, living room, another room, and a bedroom. He's got a TV as wide as my legs are long, and décor that would make the narrator from Fight Club grimace with jealousy. On top of that he's going to marry his girlfriend and she's going to become a housewife, and is currently a NEET. I'm pretty sure beat cops don't bring in money like that, so I can only assume his main source of income is taking bribes from the yakuza.

He puts the three of us in his own room, which is...fine, really. When I wake in the morning, several guys have arrived from Nagoya, and Deranged Dave is in the living room talking with them, or rather, attempting to. I jump to action and go out to meet Shinpachi, a 27-year-old clean-shaven yeti. Official delegations usually have a “delegation leader;” in the case of civic delegations it's the mayor of the visiting city, and so of course here it's very obviously Deranged Dave. But it's difficult to say who's the official receptionist. You would think Plumfield, because he did much of the organization and is providing home base. Bolognese is another candidate, as the Number One Japan Player. But then there's also Shinpachi, who's one of the oldest of everybody, the most physically intimidating, and the clear leader of the Nagoya faction. All three are cool as shit, as well, though especially Bolognese.

“We're at Plumfield's now,” Shinpachi says into his phone. “They've got a splendid interpreter with them, apparently he'll be with us all weekend. His Japanese is incredible. I can't believe this, we're saved.”

通訳者。That's an awesome epithet to be known by. I like it. And that is my whole job and actual function this weekend? I could totally get used to this.

Today we head to a slightly less shitty part of Hyougo where, at a small non-chain arcade, there is a DDR machine running Stepmania. Both ITG and modifications of this kind are strictly controlled by Konami, so this is expressly forbidden, but the owner of the machine has kept it a secret from management, who know nothing about the actual game. Both Deranged Dave and Bank have a lot of experience modding, and they teach the players there a few new tricks for making a DDR cabinet more ITG-like.

“Hopefully they'll take what they learn back to where they came from and the knowledge will spread,” Bank remarks.

When we arrive, we meet Chappy, a manic pixie dream girl and one of the top five girl players in the country. I can't help but immediately notice that she has a really nice body, at 25 years old and under 5 feet, with tiny little breasts, a tight round bum, a waifish waist, thin muscular legs, and biteable clavicles. Her face is a little bit fucked up, but she talks constantly, which makes up for it. I already have aJapanese older sister but I start calling her neesan anyway. So yeah, the second the car touches down she just about swallows Deranged Dave whole.

「本物だ！本物だ！本物だ！」

Deranged Dave walking into a room full of rhythm game fans is like Sean Connery walking into a room full of...Sean Connery fans.

Everyone gets to work on the machine, and within seconds someone has pulled out a video camera to make an instructional recording. Deranged Dave explains all of what he's doing and why, and I translate, so possibly there is now a video out there somewhere where a skinny white guy explains how to do ITG maintenance in Kansai-ben. If you're wondering, the point of the exercise is to use tape to raise the panels slightly, so that there is relatively little difference in height between the bracket and the panel, as opposed to DDR, in which the panels are significantly lower. (This is why early-generation DDR players, who started when the difference was even more pronounced, started playing on the balls of their feet, i.e. it is why they look so stupid when they play.) He can't quite get it perfect – partly because he's worried that if he makes an incorrect guess on one of his calibrations he won't be around to fix it, so he's erring on the side of caution – but he manages to make it much, much better than before, at any rate.

Everybody wants to play with him again, of course, and the videos keep on coming. I can only assume they're more for the memories, because he's not even playing anything particularly impressive. I'm finding I have my hands quite full with the hundreds of millions of things both of my charges are having said at them at any given time, and am quite enjoying the challenge of managing everything required for general comprehension on both sides of the language barrier. I do manage to get one game in myself, and it plays pretty well (although the up arrow gets a lot of pad), but I almost fail a 9. I do pass a couple of 12s but they're not even hard 12s. Apparently if you don't do something for eight months you get worse at it.

Then it comes. Bolognese and Deranged Dave square off, and the battle of the century is on. Actually just kidding, it's not that exciting. Neither is warmed up, but Deranged Dave beats him in three songs out of four – two by a narrow margin and one by quite a large one, although, interestingly, in the final one Bolognese absolutely destroys him on his own pick. He approaches us afterwards, complaining of back pain.

“My back has never felt like this before,” he tells us. “I really think I should go to the hospital. Shinpachi's going to drive me. Don't worry, I'll be back soon.”

Bank: Well that's scary.

Deranged Dave: Shit, I can't believe I did that. I hope he's ok.

Rude Boy: I wouldn't worry about it just yet, you know?

Bank: It's just like the word “hospital,” it's pretty, like, WHOA.

Rude Boy: That's just the Japanese system. You get a cold, you got to the hospital. Need to refill a medication, you go to the hospital. It doesn't have the serious feeling like in English.

Bank: Yeah, I hope you're right.

Bank wants to try real Japanese okonomiyaki, so we find a place and Chappy sits at our table. Yay! We start getting close, and she grills Deranged Dave on various aspects of his ITG playstyle. It was his videos, you see, that originally got her into DDR, and she's always tried to imitate him, though she can't yet pass a 13.

“You'll pass me by soon enough,” he assures her.

Bolognese hasn't returned by the end of the meal, but we've set some okonomiyaki portions aside for he and Shinpachi to eat later. We have them bagged up and Plumfield phones in for an update, which he then has me relay to Deranged Dave and Bank.

Rude Boy: Um, ok. So it turns out, he's bleeding inside his back. And they have no idea what caused it, it could happen to anybody at any time, and sometimes it just happens. So they've got him in a brace, and he won't be able to play for a month. And uh, he won't be able to walk for several hours.

Bank looks like she's plunged her face into a fishbowl. They both feel terrible.

Bank: I can't believe we broke Bolognese.

After a goofy purikura session at Aeon, we head back to Plumfield's, where about 15 people will be staying in a home built for two. That's always fun. Nobody from the Nagoya group has slept, but me, Chappy, and Plumfield's girlfriend stay up until 4 in the morning talking about all kinds of things, while Chappy's shy boyfriend looks on quietly, taking in the conversation and occasionally offering an opinion. Chappy and her man have already been going out for four years. I can't even imagine a relationship that long. They ask why and I give a condensed version of my personal history, leaving out my Mother Russia drama, with an explanation on why I've pretty much given up on relationships as a concept. “You can't think like that!” Chappy exclaims. “Nobody's gonna show up,” I shrug. “There will! Eventually you're going to find someone perfect for you,” Plumfield's gf assures me, seemingly desperate to make me trust her. For once, I almost believe that I actually might. Talking to these two cute girls for hours has opened some kind of pressure valve in my chest, and I feel better than I have in a long time.

Sunday is mostly a day of relaxation in Nara. We take a leisurely wander around the vicinity of Toudaiji and do Toudaiji type things, like squeezing through the pillar that's the same size as Buddha's nostril. Deranged Dave badly wants to climb the statue and clamber inside his actual nostril, and is convinced that he'll arrive in Nirvana if they'll only let him try. 8Nii lends me his girlfriend for the day, and we take some pretty great pictures together. She was born in Shizuoka so she's not as loud as Kansaijin and doesn't tsukkomu me no matter how obvious an opening I leave, but she's really nice. Doesn't talk much, but listens like a motherfucker.

Chappy proves surprisingly well-versed in Nara history and Toudaiji in particular, and I am employed largely in tour-guide style translations, which is definitely a first for me. When not interpreting, I spend most of the day chatting with Chappy. She's great. Although, when we see a steering wheel sticking out of the water and I want to pretend to drive the lake, she won't let me, because a nearby sign warns that a pervert has been sighted in the area.

Unfortunately, I realise that I have a class early the next day that I absolutely cannot miss, because while most of my teachers will let it slide once in a while, this guy simply does not accept absenteeism. Chappy and I devise a plan in which I stay the night at Plumfield's, help the Americans get set up with a hotel for their last night, and leave early in the morn'. I wake up at six and leave as discreetly as possible, though a few people stir in the living room. The journey, from Himeji all the way to my university in Kyouto, is relatively arduous considering the main activity therein is sitting in a chair, but you see, the sleep deprivation and the travel fatigue weigh heavy on my shoulders, and heavier on my eyelids. With my class complete and my sexual harassment meeting behind me, I rush back down to Oosaka.

Chappy badly, badly wants to take Bank shopping in Nanba. Bank isn't super into it, but she's not against it either, and it's certainly more interesting than sitting at the arcade watching the boys play DDR for hours upon hours. Chappy wants to bring some of the other girls, too – specifically, she recruits Plumfield's girlfriend and another guy's girlfriend, her own age. But wait! She wants there to be an interpreter on hand – in fact she specifically requests me. Trying on clothes is one thing, she says, but then there are the more detailed and specific aspects of shopping, like explaining why something is or isn't good, and what kind of thing might be closer. And, she points out, I'll get to spend the day with four girls, so there's that.

We move from store to store, fortunate to have this other girl with us because she goes to school in the area and knows it well. Bank, sadly, doesn't find a lot; she has trouble finding her size, and more than that, the current fashion in Japan is pretty baggy, which with her body type just has the effect of making her look fat rather than cute. It's not a total loss, though, and she manages to find a pin for her hair, a shirt-tank top combo, and some stretchy pants. She fails to find anything Engrishy that suits her style, though. Throughout it all, the other three girls – mainly Chappy – troop through with constant suggestions, comments, and questions, all in the name of ensuring Bank has at least one enjoyable shopping experience in Japan before she leaves.

I find out very quickly that my vocabulary has a few gaps when it comes to shopping for women's clothing, since for some reason I've never gotten around to doing that in Japan, but it was mostly stuff like talking about colours, patterns, and fit, so that was well within the bounds of my everyday abilities. I know fuck all about most of what they're saying so mostly I just pass their words straight across the board, but do interject my own reactions from time to time. Over the course of the weekend I've been pleased to find that I've actually reached another level in interpretation – I can now often translate somebody's words into one language while simultaneously listening to them, rather than needing them to pause so I can do it paragraph by paragraph. Damn does that feel cool. That's a great milestone right there.

If you think it must have been boring for me to follow four girls around while they shopped, you severely underestimate how badly I require female attention.

After this, there's not a lot of time left. After a brief visit to the Pokemon Centre, where I buy a ton more stupid shit that I don't need, we go back to the Umeda Round 1, where the guys have spent most of their day, and I unsuccessfully attempt to steal 8nee permanently. Next time! No, I'm totally kidding. I stole a girl once before, but even if I could steal 8nee I wouldn't do it. The two of them are too adorable together.

We don't have time for a proper meal, so we gather at a crepe stand, which is sold out of everything I actually want, but blueberries are ok, I guess, even if maccha and cheesecake would have been better. Not together. I wanted one maccha thing and one cheesecake thing. Not together. That wouldn't be very tasty. Actually, maybe it would be.

The Nagoya group has already gone, but I'm sure I'll see them again, someday, since I have friends over there anyway. 8Nee, 8nii, and Bolognese all live in Oosaka, so really I can go see them anytime I want. Plumfield is a little farther a...field, but he's collected the best photos from the conference and is putting together albums for some of the people involved, and he's promised to hand over mine “the next time we meet,” so that'll happen.

It's Deranged Dave and Bank that I'm sad to see go, since I may never see them again. Maybe if they come back in a few years, or if somebody wants to pay my ticket to America for when the Kansai players go to see their home. That would be cool. But having spent a very short time rarely more than 20 metres away from either one of them, I feel like we've become friends, after a fashion. We walk to Oosaka Eki and the group slowly drops members until only Bolognese, Plumfield, and their respective girlfriends are sitting on the train with them while 8nee and I wave goodbye. Then they're gone.

What a great weekend.

Deranged Dave, Part 3

Sunday is mostly a day of relaxation in Nara. We take a leisurely wander around the vicinity of Toudaiji and do Toudaiji type things, like squeezing through the pillar that's the same size as Buddha's nostril. Deranged Dave badly wants to climb the statue and clamber inside his actual nostril, and is convinced that he'll arrive in Nirvana if they'll only let him try. 8Nii lends me his girlfriend for the day, and we take some pretty great pictures together. She was born in Shizuoka so she's not as loud as Kansaijin and doesn't tsukkomu me no matter how obvious an opening I leave, but she's really nice. Doesn't talk much, but listens like a motherfucker.

Chappy proves surprisingly well-versed in Nara history and Toudaiji in particular, and I am employed largely in tour-guide style translations, which is definitely a first for me. When not interpreting, I spend most of the day chatting with Chappy. She's great. Although, when we see a steering wheel sticking out of the water and I want to pretend to drive the lake, she won't let me, because a nearby sign warns that a pervert has been sighted in the area.

Unfortunately, I realise that I have a class early the next day that I absolutely cannot miss, because while most of my teachers will let it slide once in a while, this guy simply does not accept absenteeism. Chappy and I devise a plan in which I stay the night at Plumfield's, help the Americans get set up with a hotel for their last night, and leave early in the morn'. I wake up at six and leave as discreetly as possible, though a few people stir in the living room. The journey, from Himeji all the way to my university in Kyouto, is relatively arduous considering the main activity therein is sitting in a chair, but you see, the sleep deprivation and the travel fatigue weigh heavy on my shoulders, and heavier on my eyelids. With my class complete and my sexual harassment meeting behind me, I rush back down to Oosaka.

Chappy badly, badly wants to take Bank shopping in Nanba. Bank isn't super into it, but she's not against it either, and it's certainly more interesting than sitting at the arcade watching the boys play DDR for hours upon hours. Chappy wants to bring some of the other girls, too – specifically, she recruits Plumfield's girlfriend and another guy's girlfriend, her own age. But wait! She wants there to be an interpreter on hand – in fact she specifically requests me. Trying on clothes is one thing, she says, but then there are the more detailed and specific aspects of shopping, like explaining why something is or isn't good, and what kind of thing might be closer. And, she points out, I'll get to spend the day with four girls, so there's that.

We move from store to store, fortunate to have this other girl with us because she goes to school in the area and knows it well. Bank, sadly, doesn't find a lot; she has trouble finding her size, and more than that, the current fashion in Japan is pretty baggy, which with her body type just has the effect of making her look fat rather than cute. It's not a total loss, though, and she manages to find a pin for her hair, a shirt-tank top combo, and some stretchy pants. She fails to find anything Engrishy that suits her style, though. Throughout it all, the other three girls – mainly Chappy – troop through with constant suggestions, comments, and questions, all in the name of ensuring Bank has at least one enjoyable shopping experience in Japan before she leaves.

I find out very quickly that my vocabulary has a few gaps when it comes to shopping for women's clothing, since for some reason I've never gotten around to doing that in Japan, but it was mostly stuff like talking about colours, patterns, and fit, so that was well within the bounds of my everyday abilities. I know fuck all about most of what they're saying so mostly I just pass their words straight across the board, but do interject my own reactions from time to time. Over the course of the weekend I've been pleased to find that I've actually reached another level in interpretation – I can now often translate somebody's words into one language while simultaneously listening to them, rather than needing them to pause so I can do it paragraph by paragraph. Damn does that feel cool. That's a great milestone right there.

If you think it must have been boring for me to follow four girls around while they shopped, you severely underestimate how badly I require female attention.

After this, there's not a lot of time left. After a brief visit to the Pokemon Centre, where I buy a ton more stupid shit that I don't need, we go back to the Umeda Round 1, where the guys have spent most of their day, and I unsuccessfully attempt to steal 8nee permanently. Next time! No, I'm totally kidding. I stole a girl once before, but even if I could steal 8nee I wouldn't do it. The two of them are too adorable together.

We don't have time for a proper meal, so we gather at a crepe stand, which is sold out of everything I actually want, but blueberries are ok, I guess, even if maccha and cheesecake would have been better. Not together. I wanted one maccha thing and one cheesecake thing. Not together. That wouldn't be very tasty. Actually, maybe it would be.

The Nagoya group has already gone, but I'm sure I'll see them again, someday, since I have friends over there anyway. 8Nee, 8nii, and Bolognese all live in Oosaka, so really I can go see them anytime I want. Plumfield is a little farther a...field, but he's collected the best photos from the conference and is putting together albums for some of the people involved, and he's promised to hand over mine “the next time we meet,” so that'll happen.

It's Deranged Dave and Bank that I'm sad to see go, since I may never see them again. Maybe if they come back in a few years, or if somebody wants to pay my ticket to America for when the Kansai players go to see their home. That would be cool. But having spent a very short time rarely more than 20 metres away from either one of them, I feel like we've become friends, after a fashion. We walk to Oosaka Eki and the group slowly drops members until only Bolognese, Plumfield, and their respective girlfriends are sitting on the train with them while 8nee and I wave goodbye. Then they're gone.

What a great weekend.

Deranged Dave, Part 2

Plumfield puts the three of us in his own room, which is...fine, really. When I wake in the morning, several guys have arrived from Nagoya, and Deranged Dave is in the living room talking with them, or rather, attempting to. I jump to action and go out to meet Shinpachi, a 27-year-old clean-shaven yeti. Official delegations usually have a “delegation leader;” in the case of civic delegations it's the mayor of the visiting city, and so of course here it's very obviously Deranged Dave. But it's difficult to say who's the official receptionist. You would think Plumfield, because he did much of the organization and is providing home base. Bolognese is another candidate, as the Number One Japan Player. But then there's also Shinpachi, who's one of the oldest of everybody, the most physically intimidating, and the clear leader of the Nagoya faction. All three are cool as shit, as well, though especially Bolognese.

“We're at Plumfield's now,” Shinpachi says into his phone. “They've got a splendid interpreter with them, apparently he'll be with us all weekend. His Japanese is incredible. I can't believe this, we're saved.”

通訳者。That's an awesome epithet to be known by. I like it. And that is my whole job and actual function this weekend? I could totally get used to this.

Today we head to a slightly less shitty part of Hyougo where, at a small non-chain arcade, there is a DDR machine running Stepmania. Both ITG and modifications of this kind are strictly controlled by Konami, so this is expressly forbidden, but the owner of the machine has kept it a secret from management, who know nothing about the actual game. Both Deranged Dave and Bank have a lot of experience modding, and they teach the players there a few new tricks for making a DDR cabinet more ITG-like.

“Hopefully they'll take what they learn back to where they came from and the knowledge will spread,” Bank remarks.

When we arrive, we meet Chappy, a manic pixie dream girl and one of the top five girl players in the country. I can't help but immediately notice that she has a really nice body, at 25 years old and under 5 feet, with tiny little breasts, a tight round bum, a waifish waist, thin muscular legs, and biteable clavicles. Her face is a little bit fucked up, but she talks constantly, which makes up for it. I already have a Japanese older sister but I start calling her neesan anyway. So yeah, the second the car touches down she just about swallows Deranged Dave whole.

「本物だ！本物だ！本物だ！」

Deranged Dave walking into a room full of rhythm game fans is like Sean Connery walking into a room full of...Sean Connery fans.

Everyone gets to work on the machine, and within seconds someone has pulled out a video camera to make an instructional recording. Deranged Dave explains all of what he's doing and why, and I translate, so possibly there is now a video out there somewhere where a skinny white guy explains how to do ITG maintenance in Kansai-ben. If you're wondering, the point of the exercise is to use tape to raise the panels slightly, so that there is relatively little difference in height between the bracket and the panel, as opposed to DDR, in which the panels are significantly lower. (This is why early-generation DDR players, who started when the difference was even more pronounced, started playing on the balls of their feet, i.e. it is why they look so stupid when they play.) He can't quite get it perfect – partly because he's worried that if he makes an incorrect guess on one of his calibrations he won't be around to fix it, so he's erring on the side of caution – but he manages to make it much, much better than before, at any rate.

Everybody wants to play with him again, of course, and the videos keep on coming. I can only assume they're more for the memories, because he's not even playing anything particularly impressive. I'm finding I have my hands quite full with the hundreds of millions of things both of my charges are having said at them at any given time, and am quite enjoying the challenge of managing everything required for general comprehension on both sides of the language barrier. I do manage to get one game in myself, and it plays pretty well (although the up arrow gets a lot of pad), but I almost fail a 9. I do pass a couple of 12s but they're not even hard 12s. Apparently if you don't do something for eight months you get worse at it.

Then it comes. Bolognese and Deranged Dave square off, and the battle of the century is on. Actually just kidding, it's not that exciting. Neither is warmed up, but Deranged Dave beats him in three songs out of four – two by a narrow margin and one by quite a large one, although, interestingly, in the final one Bolognese absolutely destroys him on his own pick. He approaches us afterwards, complaining of back pain.

“My back has never felt like this before,” he tells us. “I really think I should go to the hospital. Shinpachi's going to drive me. Don't worry, I'll be back soon.”

Bank: Well that's scary.

Deranged Dave: Shit, I can't believe I did that. I hope he's ok.

Rude Boy: I wouldn't worry about it just yet, you know?

Bank: It's just like the word “hospital,” it's pretty, like, WHOA.

Rude Boy: That's just the Japanese system. You get a cold, you got to the hospital. Need to refill a medication, you go to the hospital. It doesn't have the serious feeling like in English.

Bank: Yeah, I hope you're right.

Bank wants to try real Japanese okonomiyaki, so we find a place and Chappy sits at our table. Yay! We start getting close, and she grills Deranged Dave on various aspects of his ITG playstyle. It was his videos, you see, that originally got her into DDR, and she's always tried to imitate him, though she can't yet pass a 13.

“You'll pass me by soon enough,” he assures her.

Bolognese hasn't returned by the end of the meal, but we've set some okonomiyaki portions aside for he and Shinpachi to eat later. We have them bagged up and Plumfield phones in for an update, which he then has me relay to Deranged Dave and Bank.

Rude Boy: Um, ok. So it turns out, he's bleeding inside his back. And they have no idea what caused it, it could happen to anybody at any time, and sometimes it just happens. So they've got him in a brace, and he won't be able to play for a month. And uh, he won't be able to walk for several hours.

Bank looks like she's plunged her face into a fishbowl. They both feel terrible.

Bank: I can't believe we broke Bolognese.

After a goofy purikura session at Aeon, we head back to Plumfield's, where about 15 people will be staying in a home built for two. That's always fun. Nobody from the Nagoya group has slept, but me, Chappy, and Plumfield's girlfriend stay up until 4 in the morning talking about all kinds of things, while Chappy's shy boyfriend looks on quietly, taking in the conversation and occasionally offering an opinion. Chappy and her man have already been going out for four years. I can't even imagine a relationship that long. They ask why and I give a condensed version of my personal history, leaving out my Mother Russia drama, with an explanation on why I've pretty much given up on relationships as a concept. “You can't think like that!” Chappy exclaims. “Nobody's gonna show up,” I shrug. “There will! Eventually you're going to find someone perfect for you,” Plumfield's gf assures me, seemingly desperate to make me trust her. For once, I almost believe that I actually might. Talking to these two cute girls for hours has opened some kind of pressure valve in my chest, and I feel better than I have in a long time.

Deranged Dave, Part 1

The more valuable you become as a human being, the more people start asking for a piece of your time. On Friday, I help Shiga edit his speech for a contest, help a new English Club member (our kouhai) with his pronunciation for a recitation contest, and then jet off into the southern reaches of Kyouto, where I will be meeting an American couple and interpreting for them over the weekend.

The assignment fell to me in kind of a weirdly indirect way. The guy, Deranged Dave, is currently regarded as the best In the Groove player in the US (and also the world), and has been invited by the Japanese DDR community to come hang out with their top players. The language barrier was significant, but Soymilk, a personal acquaintance of Deranged Dave, was able to facilitate much of the planning and scheduling, and even acted as interpreter and guide for the Toukyou leg of their visit. Alas, despite his deep desire to continue on to Kansai, he was simply too busy and too poor, but, as I was once a somewhat ok ITG player myself, he tapped me to pick up the slack. We determined that I would meet up with them at the station near their hotel. The conversation went something like this:

Rude Boy: My class ends at 2:30, and it takes a bare minimum of an hour and a half to reach their station.

Soymilk: So you won't be there until 3:30?

Rude Boy: Um, no, because I don't instantly teleport to the station the instant my class finishes. I'll need at least half an hour to deal with my own shit. So, if I rush and get somewhat lucky, I might be there before 4. But I wouldn't count on it.

Soymilk: 4 is too late. I'll just tell them “around” 3:30.

Rude Boy: Don't do that. It'll probably be more like 4:15, or even 4:30 if I get held up.

Soymilk: It'll be fine. Actually, do you think you could get there by 3?

And so on. Luckily we managed to work things out, and I meet up with them at 4:10 on Friday. They've been walking around all morning and they look about ready to die. Fortunately, we're going all the way to Umeda, so at least they have a chance to relax. We're working through a system of stations and lines that I never ride, but I manage to point us in the right direction. Which is good, seeing as that's my one job.

Once aboard the train, the three of us have a chance to get to know each other. I quickly decide that both of them are awesome and I like them. That's a plus right there, since I was worried I might not, and that the entire weekend would be awkward as piss. Deranged Dave is a little bit shorter than I, with a famously long ponytail; his girlfriend, Bank, has like nine different colours in her hair. Both of them are fun to talk to and have interests outside of rhythm games, which is more than I can say for many of the ITG players I've met. They also have what I often call a “good attitude” about Japan, that is, going in without expectations, nor straying too far from the centre of the sliding scale of kimono to anime.

Prior to a few days ago, I'd heard his name but didn't actually know anything about him. He makes stepfiles, like all of the big names, though he's never made anything I liked. Soymilk informs me that he has an ITG machine in his house, which isn't uncommon, and that he's the most famous player, although I learn later that his overspecialization in speed over technical skills has created some controversy over who the “best” really is. Either way, if any lower-ranked ITG players ever find out that I spent a weekend in Japan interpreting for him, they're going to lose their shit, but I look at him and see just another guy. The Japanese community is wild for his YouTube videos, and indeed they will bring them up time and again, asking him to explain the details of what exactly he does in various situations. Also he's a particle physicist.

We have a few hours to kill before we can meet up with Plumfield, who'll be putting us up for a few days, so I walk them around Umeda, just so they can see. Fortunately we're still in an area I know decently well, which will change as soon as we venture beyond it, but by then we'll be with our actual guides. We speculate as to Plumfield's identity. We figure he's probably around 30. When he messaged me he said that his “work,” rather than his “part-time job,” went until evening, so he's probably a shakaijin. Plus, he offered to straight-up pay for their plane tickets, on top of which he'll be driving us around and boarding us for four days, so he's obviously got money.

When we finally meet him, it turns out that he's 26, a policeman, and has his fucking adorable 20-year-old girlfriend with him. Introductions are awkward and nobody's quite sure what to do. Why? Looking back, I will say that it's probably because, in addition to the strangeness somewhat inherent in meeting someone new for the first time, we haven't gotten used to communicating through translation yet. Nobody's sure who they should be looking at (answer: whoever you're addressing), or what language they should be attempting (answer: your own). We also haven't found a good translation rhythm just yet. You see, generally speaking, you have to sort of pause every paragraph or so for the translation to go through, even if you aren't expecting a reply yet, because otherwise I am going to start to forget details from the beginning, or get confused about what your real point is. Learning to recognize those natural breaks takes a bit of practise, when you aren't yet accustomed to international communication.

As the hour-long drive to a Hyougo Round 1 goes on, though, we start to catch it. The perfunctory questions start to lead into more interesting territory, and soon we have a bit of an actual conversation going on. I quickly realise that this is going to be very different from my usual responsibilities; most of the people I deal with regularly speak either English or Japanese and then some of the other, and on top of that are usually trying to learn, so I'm only called in when the conversation grows too complex for them to carry on their own. Here I'm the only one who can bridge the gap at all, so I have to start killing the instinct that tells me I don't actually need to translate stuff like “let's go” or “yes, I think so too.” For that matter, I even have to provide context for things that have nothing to do with language, like when Plumfield joked that we'd end up in Hokkaidou if he took a wrong turn and Deranged Dave merely said “That's ok, as long as we get there eventually.” Both Plumfield and Bank comment several times that holy shit are they glad I'm there, because this would not be happening otherwise. What can I say? I solve problems.

A bunch of the Hyougo and Oosaka people receive us at the Round 1, and as one after another wanders over and realises Deranged Dave has arrived, freakout after freakout ensues. Everybody wants to stand with him and take multiple pictures in multiple poses from multiple angles. Every time a game ends somebody else scrambles up and announces that they want to play with him next. Deranged Dave has gotten used to it by now; basically the exact same thing happens in the US, and, he says, he might as well make them happy, since they've brought him all the way out here.

“Though to be honest,” he admits, “I'm kind of bored.”

Nobody can play anything higher than about an ITG 12, whereas Deranged Dave punches 20s in the face on a good day. But he bears with it. Since I have two charges, I practise my positioning and observational skills, which I'll be making use of a lot. The only grain of sand in my eyes is Millimetre, some American guy living in Kyouto who basically everyone makes fun of.

Bank: I just don't like his attitude. Like he went on some forum and asked how to say stuff in Japanese, but it was all asking how to say stuff like “I got this score on this song” and “I can pass this.”

Deranged Dave: But nobody cares about him.

Bank: He wants so badly to be like a DDR celebrity, but he's always complaining about how the Japanese don't acknowledge him and whatever, and he gets all pissed off about it.

Rude Boy: So the name is a reference to the length of his penis?

Deranged Dave: It's a reference to the length he aspires to.

Indeed, he spends much of the night trying to enter pictures uninvited, as though anybody cared that he was there at all. (His Japanese is pretty awful, as well, but he doesn't quite realise it.) To his clear frustration, nobody actually wants to take a picture with him, they just keep swarming around Deranged Dave and sometimes Bank. What's really funny is when a bunch of them decide they want some shots with me. I didn't even play! The red carpet has clearly been rolled out for Deranged Dave, and judging by the looks of admiration people are shooting me, it seems like I, as the conduit through which he speaks, have had some of his coolness rub off on me.

When we go to yakiniku for dinner, I get to sit with Deranged Dave, Bank, Bolognese, and a couple, 8nee and 8nii. The conversation is dominated by Bolognese and Deranged Dave discussing cultural differences between the American and Japanese rhythm games communities, and various tournament structures that have been attempted. Bolognese – an Oosaka man, I might add – is the undisputed DDR/ITG champion of Japan, and so they make plans for a challenge match the following day. 8Nee and 8nii have been dating for eight years, since he was 15 and she was 17. They met at an arcade, through Initial Dick. She's quiet but sweeter than diabetes itself, and looks like Mayuyu from AKB. President would die instantly if she met her.

I've interpreted at many an event before, but it's never been my main thing, nor have I been the only one. Usually, it's part of what I'm there to do, but only as an accessory to the more important, concrete task I'm there to accomplish. Here, it is specifically the task for which I have been engaged, I am the only one capable of doing it, and I am constantly in the thick of the action. I'm used to being just on the outside, steering the conversation as needed and doing other things in the meantime, so I keep trying to make sure everything is being taken care of, only to be assured, no no, Rude Boy, you are doing exactly what you need to be doing, in fact don't go anywhere because we need you here. It was a pretty nice feeling, actually. 10/10. I've watched interpreters before and felt a little sorry for them; they they do a ton of the legwork and make my father's job possible, but they are treated like furniture, they sometimes don't even get thanked, they are often excluded from official photos, and they might not even get fed properly. Exactly the opposite is happening with me. People want my signature right underneath Deranged Dave's, and Bolognese flatly refuses to let me pay for my own meal.

Bank and Deranged Dave pass the ensuing drive with Pokemon Black/White (respectively), StreetPass Quest, and asking me about Japan. Something's happened with Plumfield and his girlfriend and they're fighting quietly up front, I guess because he didn't pay enough attention to her at the arcade. They live in the far reaches of Hyougo, over an hour's drive from where we are. I guess you could call it Koube, since the city never actually stops, but I would just about kill myself if I had to live there. Their house is gigantic for Japan, which is to say it has a kitchen, living room, another room, and a bedroom. He's got a TV as wide as my legs are long, and décor that would make the narrator from Fight Club grimace with jealousy. On top of that he's going to marry his girlfriend and she's going to become a housewife, and is currently a NEET. I'm pretty sure beat cops don't bring in money like that, so I can only assume his main source of income is taking bribes from the yakuza.

Gion, Part 4: Kiyomizu-dera

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5

No question, on the list of "things you absolutely must see if you visit Kyouto," Kiyomizu-dera is at the absolute top. Until recently, though, I'd somehow never gotten around to it. Kinkakuji, Ginkakuji, Hieizan, Byoudoin, sure, but never Big Mama herself. And then, by a strange twist of luck, I ended up going twice in two days - once with my Doushisha friends, and then again, on a sort of English Club proselytizing tour in which we broke prospective members into groups, tossed them in with a few joukaisei, and spent the day trying to convince them how much fun we are to hang out with. (The real members even paid for their bus fare, entry fees, etc; I paid my own way but did not contribute to the pot because, hey, not a buin!) What's kind of funny is that there were multiple groups for every conceivable tourist sight in Kyouto-shi, and I managed to draw Kiyomizu-dera after having just been there the day before. So I collected some ok photos, thoroughly sated my curiosity, and can say with confidence that it is indeed fairly impressive, and I can recommend it for your itinerary.

 Kiyomizu-dera is all the way down at Gojou. Does this even count as Gion? Let's say yes.

 To get there, you walk up one of a couple of long, steep, narrow roads. This is a pretty fun little excursion in and of itself. Commune with the crowd, check out the old-style buildings, perhaps investigate the plethora of small stores if you're so inclined. They're mostly, like, textile shops, curiosity shops, and snack vendors, although there is one larger place selling maccha-related foodstuffs, which make decent souvenirs. They will entice you inside with cold tea; you don't have to buy anything, but you do at least have to go in and pretend to look, which will provide you with a moment's respite from the beating sun anyway, so maybe keep an eye out for this place if you need it. There's also plenty of ice cream, and some of it is absolutely delicious.

 The front entrance. It may look familiar. Notice that I visited in sakura season!

 The road forward.

 The view backward. Notice Kyouto Tower in the distance. It's down by Hachijou, of course, but it's surprisingly close because the distance between Jous shrinks the farther south you get.

 That's some pretty colourful and auspicious detailing for a temple. Japanese Buddhism is usually much more sombre.

 The good stuff is behind a (trivial) paywall, but you can also just hang out around this area if you want.

 There is a purification basin directly behind this group of people, and you can enter the building to the left for a nominal fee. It's pitch-dark inside and you have to cling to a banister up against the wall, following an unpredictable, winding underground path. Go with a group of Japanese girls; they will squeal and scream and it will be hilarious. (I was admonished for suggesting we cast a little light on the situation with our cell phones...) This confusion and uncertainty is, I think, supposed to represent the confusion and uncertainty of our daily lives, which we can only surmount by putting our faith in someone who has already walked the path. Eventually you reach enlightenment, embodied by a huge illuminated stone with a character on it that I can't read; it spins, and stops when you touch it. The people I was with told me to make a wish, but they may have had that wrong. It didn't come true, anyway.

 Continuing on, soon we come to a massive wooden platform, the main thing to see here. The views are pretty great. Across the valley we can see another small building, but it is completely uninteresting up close.

 No idea what that thing is that's under construction, but I have no doubt that it is very impressive. Perhaps if you go someday, you will be able to enjoy it, and then you will be able to say that you have experienced more of Kiyomizu-dera than some guy on the Internet.

 The confusing part is that there's a shrine on the grounds as well. It's past the platform, sort of off to the left. Don't miss it!

 Everybody wants to pose with this guy.

 Continue on and up the stairs, and you come to open skies, kind of.

 "Love fortune-telling stone!!" So awesome. There's two. You start at one, close your eyes, and try to walk in a straight line towards the other one. If you hit, you're in for some love-luck in the near future! You're welcome to get people to help you verbally, but if you do this indicates that you will require a middleman to make things happen for you (unless it's your lover who does it, in which case I guess your communication will improve?). But that's still better than if you miss, in which case you will be alone for at least the next three months, or break with your current partner within three months. Interesting, right? You rock, rock.

 Overlooking the front area.

 You can, of course, purchase all manner of omikuji here as well. I found these three particularly amusing, and not just because of the English - we could all use some For Against Disaster, am I right? No, I just wonder if the effects stack. It seems to me that if you're going on a road trip, these three in combination should absolutely guarantee that you will face no traffic-related disasters while travelling.

There's normal uranai, as well - Buzz Lightyear, a senpai one year my senior, pulled a Koi Uranai and got "If you don't have a partner, you will soon find one. If you do, the woman will soon be pregnant." He immediately tied it to the fence in hopes of warding it off...

 Here it is - the most famous shot in all of Kyouto! And I finally have one to call my own! I don't why that's so gratifying to me, but it totally is. And you gotta admit it's pretty. There's Kyouto Tower again, by the way. The structure itself is sort of old and rickety if you look at it too carefully, so don't. Up until about a hundred years ago, it was said that if you pitched yourself off this platform and survived the sheer drop, Buddha would grant you a wish. (You may have noticed that basically every possible human activity results in Buddha granting you a wish.) It's unfortunate that the practice is now prohibited, because I really want to try.

 The main complex as seen from across the ravine.

 If you follow the path - which you have to, because there's only one - you will go around the ravine and then down the hill, eventually arriving here. There are three streams of water here, one each to bestow upon you feminine beauty, work-related luck, or good health. Sarcastic dude that I am, it was only with great effort that I restrained myself from drinking of the feminine beauty stream. The process is the same as ever: Each hand, then drink. But you don't have to actually drink if you don't want to. It's not that clean. Maybe just smear it across your mouth and let it fall into the pond if you're not feeling it.

 O.o

 The stairs will lead you basically back to where you started, but off to the side, suggesting to me that you could probably get in for free if you just did the whole route backwards. Let me know what happens if you decide to try it. Around here I was sort of gyaku-nan'd by a couple of a high school girls who wanted a picture with me. 「クールボイ！」

 Heading back down.

 No need to head straight down to the main thoroughfare, though! You're here, might as well explore a while. It's pretty cool.

 Hey, what's that in the distance?

 Whoa! It's a five-story pagoda. This is one of the things I love about living in Kyouto - you can just plain stumble upon this stuff and it's the most natural thing in the world. Some people walk past this thing on their way to work in the morning.

 Keep going, of course, and eventually the preserved olden-style touristy stuff gives way to the more modern, rundown parts of Gion. And eventually we make our way back to...

...Yasaka-san!

It's just about time to wrap up this modest series on Gion. In the final part, we'll see some of the little things that didn't fit, didn't warrant a whole post, or weren't very good pictures but which I want to show you anyway.

Old Friends! New Adventures!

When the majority of your friends and associates are international, you get used to your life featuring a revolving cast of characters. Hell, just since I've been here I've already had a J-girl disappear into the ether of England, and who knows if we'll ever reconnect. Even back in Canada, outside of a small core of lifelong companions, the majority of the people with whom I dealt were from elsewhere; not only did I spend most of my time among the Japanese, who cycled in and out on a constant basis, but there was an endless stream of news like, India Club has a new president because the old one, whom we were close with, moved back home; those two are in a long-distance relationship now, wonder how long it'll last; this Chinese guy I know, maybe he'll be here next semester, maybe not.

Sometimes you get to see on Facebook how a group of Toukyou people who all met each other in Canada got together and had a party or something, but you just kind of nod, wistfully imagine the scene, and move on. For the most part, you tacitly acknowledge to yourself that your goodbye was probably the final goodbye. You learn to accept that length of time and depth of feeling don't always experience a direct relationship. So when one time at the airport (a place that contains more mixed emotions for me than anywhere else in the world), I bid a friend of mine 「さようなら」and he breezily came back with “See you again,” I thought it was a really cool thing to say, but it never occurred to me that I actually might.

Until he sent me a message out of nowhere.

“Rude Boy,” he said, in English – never a good way to approach me, but at least his English is better than my Japanese. “Remember me?”

Of goddamn course. People I used to hang out with on a daily basis don't usually just slip my mind.

“I'm thinking about hitchhiking down to Kyoto or Osaka next week. Do you have time to hang out?”

Osaka, I tell him. Let's do Osaka. For one thing, fuck Kyouto. I can tool around Kyouto whenever the hell I want. I need a reason to go to Oosaka, and I love having one. Plus, if we do it there, we can add a couple of other familiar faces to the proceedings.

We manage to wrangle two. The first is a tiny, quiet girl whom I mainly remember for rarely saying more than three words back-to-back. But she must have a couple years of university under her belt by now; that's always good for pulling people out of their shells, whether they want to stay there or not. Anyway she's very sweet and I'm looking forward to seeing her again.

The second, however, I'm a little more leery of. She's probably the sluttiest girl I know – except like, in a bad way though, and she always did have a thing for poking fun at my lack of luck in love. The fact that I actually had a pretty huge crush on her definitely didn't help my feelings of resentment over these comments. Thank God I have better taste now. The only thing she has going for her is that she's gyaru, which, admittedly, is a pretty huge plus. We had some fun times together, no doubt about that, but we had some very antagonistic ones as well. I've talked to her a handful of times since I've been here, mostly to have her call me “still shit at Japanese” for writing 「７－１１」instead of 「セブンイレブン」、or tell me that we should hang out together in Ibaraki-shi, which I promptly did not do. Because I just know I'm not coming out of that feeling good about myself. This has all the potential for a full-blown encounter, so I make a few rules for myself:

1. Don't start anything. If she plays nice, you play nice.
2. Even if she does start anything, try not to react. It's not worth it.
3. If you can't resist, respond with wit, not venom...and recognize the thin line between the two.
4. The first one to get angry loses. (Don't worry. She's quick to anger. You're slow to it.)

Finally, of course, there was our MC. When I knew the man back in high school, he was a soccer nut, and later he studied at the University of Baltimore. He was never the type who would have hitchhiked anywhere, but I can see how he could have transformed into one. I picture him as some kind of road scholar now, The Communist Manifesto stored in the cavity of his acoustic guitar as he randomly travels Japan in search of thought-provoking conversation. I have a robust imagination.

*

Yokohama is exactly as he was the last time I saw him. He doesn't even appear to have aged a day. He looks like the guy from Sukima Switch. The one without the afro.

The last time I saw Hyougo, she was a 16-year-old girl; the person standing in front of me is a 21-year-old woman. She couldn't have undergone a heavier metamorphosis if she'd spent the intervening time in a chrysalis. I remember her wearing this sort of pseudo-emo all-black ensemble before, but now she's decked out in one of those sort of frumpy, yet somehow appealing look that less flashy Japanese girls sometimes do. Her face is completely different. I don't even recognize her. She's...she's kind of hot, now.

We head for an udon shop and reminisce about the old days. Though Yokohama's goal in coming down was mainly to see me, specifically (since he'd seen most of the others more recently), in fact we are all veterans of the ESL Room at our old high school back in Canada, where they ryuugaku'd. There were others, but of course the Japan Group was pretty close-knit, and I got in on that. There were Canadians there too, a little group of us, and I made a couple of precious friendships that I am lucky enough to still have today. It was sort of a second home. We congregated there every lunch, every break, every day both before and after school. I spread my textbooks and other scholastic paraphernalia across the top of the TV. I got up extra-early so I wouldn't miss any happenings. They were momentous fucking times, as far as high school goes.

Yokohama and I took Art 12 together, too. One time at the end of class he presented me with my project, which he'd just straight-up done for me. I think I got like a B on it. I helped him puzzle through To Kill a Mockingbird, too. Hyougo and I TA'd a Grade 11 Japanese class together. We communicated, in our way, with her not really speaking any English and me managing to at least make myself halfway understood in Japanese.

We wander around Umeda with no particular goal in mind, settling on a bench in an atrium high above street level. A cool breeze takes the edge off the humidity. We relax and talk about nothing. It's like High School Days: Redux. Exactly the same sensation.

Unfortunately, Hyougo has to leave for work, but now that we've reconnected, we can probably hang out again anytime. Maybe. You know how these things work. Yokohama and I kill some time waiting for Ibaraki to get off her ass and come meet us, and we end up cruising through Joyopolis. We have to pass through the medal games part, and a couple of girls are standing out front, yelling things at passersby with microphones.

“Oosaka! Oosaka! Yay, Oosaka! Oosaka! Yay, Oosaka!”

Yokohama gets a kick out of that, since Hyougo and I have just spent the last few hours making fun of him for not being from Kansai. He thus decides that it would be a good idea to draw their attention to me. One asks me in English where I'm from, I respond in Japanese, and now I'm running my usual set. As a foreigner in Japan, you get asked the same questions so often you'd have a good chance of offering an appropriate answer without even listening (to be fair, this is by no means particular to Japan). I leave feeling pretty good, which is when I realise that they're probably there to pump people up, causing them to spend more money. Pretty clever actually. Ibaraki eventually makes her way to our vicinity, and Yokohama makes me answer the phone.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello, are you here?”

“Hello? Who is this? Is this Rude Boy?!”

“That's right, this is Rude Boy.”

“Holy shit, Rude Boy, your Japanese got better.”

When she comes in she looks ready to paint the walls in an explosion of excitement. Immediately she goes in for a hug and – ok, so this is a thing that is happening now. I had no idea she was so fond of me. She warns us that she thinks she has influenza, but she sure the hell doesn't look it. She embarks on a stream-of-consciousness conversation, as if trying to speak on every possible topic simultaneously. Yokohama and I can barely get a word in edgewise. I wonder if she even needs us there.

She hasn't changed a bit. No, not one bit.

She grabs and swipes at both of us, gets me to feel how hot her neck is, intentionally coughs in my face while laughing. Amazingly, she went to a joshikou, and she's going to a joshidai. Truly, she needs male attention like she needs oxygen, and she's gotten it, too, every day for the last twenty years. I wonder idly what her life's going to look like in another twenty. I'm starting to remember why I liked her in the first place. Not just because she's hot, although damn but is she, and gyaru to boot. But there's more. She's fun. She's loud. She's indomitable. She's got this boundless, directionless, irrational energy that somehow just oh god damn it it's happening again isn't it.

She's feeling lousy enough that she wants to go in and sit down somewhere. Where? “Here.” This is a cake shop. “I want to eat cake.” Uh, ok. But it looks expensive as piss. “Whatever, I'll treat you.” If you say so. It's a cafe type place with an Indian theme, but no Indian food. Ibaraki orders something that isn't cake. How long has it been, anyway? So Yokohama, you've been living in America? Seriously, Rude Boy, your Japanese got way better.

Then she starts with the bullying. She's held it in for a good twenty minutes but now she lets loose. Like I goddamn knew she would. She asks:

“So, are your numbers any less awful than the last time I saw you?”

And she brings me to my knees just like that. It's strange, I literally feel like I've been stabbed in the chest, straight through the ribs, just below my heart, and it's her that's holding the knife. Shock and pain echo down my stomach. She's asked basically the one question that I can't just shrug off, and she doesn't even know it. She's like a cat, torturing a mouse. It's just fun for her. She doesn't even know she's hurting anything. That makes it so much worse.

“Who knows,” I shrug.

As a matter of fact, they have gotten slightly better, but I'm not about to discuss it with someone whose numbers are as enviable as hers.

“He's a playboy,” Yokohama interjects, perhaps reading my discomfort.

“Rude Boy, a playboy?!”

“Only in my heart. I'd be a playboy, if I could.”

“Hahahahaha, if you could.”

“Ibaraki, you should introduce Rude Boy to some girls at your school.”

“I don't think I have anybody who'd go for him. What kind of girls you into?”

“Lots. Gyaru, I guess.”

“Ah, like me!”

She cracks up.

“Impossible! No, of course not. Definitely, Japanese girls don't like guys like you. If you're not Japanese, you have to be either super-stylish, or, like, huge or something. You're just not good-looking enough. Like when you're around, do you hear like 'oh my god, foreigners are so cool!' You don't, right? You don't have any appeal.” I fucking know that already, Ibaraki. Stop talking about it.

“Marry me, then. Then I can immigrate.”

“Ah, sorry, there's no way I could have children with you.”

“That's ok, I don't want children.” And if I did I don't think I'd want a mother like you raising them.

“Go build up a ton more muscle and come back.”

My attraction to her is boiling into resentment, and hard. I try to make it stop, because holy shit. I'm the picture of emotional health, hey? She smokes, now. I'm not even surprised. Except that Mother Russia at least turns her head; Ibaraki blows it straight in my face, and laughs when I frown and lean away.

She tells me, later, that she wouldn't make fun of me if she didn't like me. I want to believe it, and do. Maybe she's just gaming me. If so, well played.

Ibaraki's condition continues to deteriorate over the course of the stop, and after a few phone calls she decides she's calling in sick to work and going straight home. We agree that she should probably do that sooner rather than later. She perks up enough to start walking, but she has me carry her bag. Ordinarily, I'd have shoved it back at her. A girl like that, you don't do what she wants. You push her away, she'll push harder; try to reel her in, and she'll back the fuck out. But if you let her know that she's got you by the balls, she'll squeeze just as hard as she goddamn wants and you'll never, ever see that roll into anything. Besides which, what the hell kind of Beta male shit is that anyway?

But I'm not trying to sleep with her (not because I wouldn't, mind you, but because I know it's not going to happen), and she really does look sick. I'm starting to get genuinely worried for her, so I suck it up and sling the thing over my shoulder. It's kind of fun, anyway, doing a favour like that for a woman, and probably there's something in that but holy shit I have absolutely no desire to explore it. I realise, in a flash of repressed montage, that I used to do this literally all the time for her – carry her bag, I mean. And I remember pretty well how that worked out. See, it's stuff like this that I'm talking about when I say that I used to be a different person. Within minutes she's got an arm entwined around one of ours each, barely able to support herself or walk in a straight line; we lurch dangerously into the paths of opposing foot traffic. If it were a few hours later everyone around us would assume she was drunk.

“Call your boyfriend,” Yokohama suggests.

“He doesn't have a car. I'm breaking up with him soon, anyway.”

She starts to feel even worse amid the sway of the crowded train. She takes hold of my sleeve and entrusts a significant portion of her weight to my safekeeping. “I'm sick. God, my head hurts. I think I'm going to throw up. My head's going to explode.” Finally she swoons forward and buries her head in my chest. I reach up and stroke her head.

“You're just being nice because you want me to marry you,” she mumbles.

When a bunch of people get off, an older lady clears some people away and tells us to sit together. I laugh. I'm carrying her bag, she's clinging to me, she's mentioning marriage, she's momentarily stopped verbally abusing me. The lady must think we're dating.

I can totally see us hatefucking. Not tomorrow, but at some point. You're all gonna say that's just wishful thinking. But there's a difference. I feel like I want to all the time; here I feel like we will. I will certainly let you know if this happens.

Yokohama and I wile away the last hour or so in the vicinity of Kyouto Eki. We find a small arcade and I kick his ass at Initial D. We stop in at a cafe and he treats me. Finally we just stand around waiting for his bus, debriefing on the day's events. I feel like I've been reminded why I came to this country in the first place, and why I want to stay. And I hate to admit it...but I kind of like these people better than my current group of friends. Is shared experience just that powerful?

“Let's meet up again,” he says.

“Definitely,” I reply. “Hopefully before another four years passes.”

Learning Korean

My Korean teacher is a badass. That's a horrendously overused word and I don't toss it around lightly. He earned it. He teaches Korean with an attitude like, “Oh, it's you people again. Well, I'm just going to think out loud about Korean now, maybe write some things on the board. It's part of my process. You're welcome to stick around and experience it if you wish.” But then when the time comes he is very careful about actually going around to each student in the class of about twenty and making sure they have all, individually, understood the concept he has introduced before he moves on. Sometimes he'll pick somebody at random and quiz them. He doesn't hand out undeserved praise, and he'll laugh at incorrect guesses – but not in a way like “Haha, God but you suck,” more like “Look, we are learning a language! Isn't this cool?!”

He also has the looks to be an actor, a penchant for tardiness, a distant preoccupation that suggests a storied past, and a fine wardrobe and sense of style. When I got singled out twice in two classes I thought he was being hard on me, but then I realised he was actually just treating me like an equal to my peers. It's only that I've grown accustomed to being condescended to. 10 times out of 10 I'll take the teacher, or the friend, or the stranger who makes me work for my keep over the one who thinks I can't tie my own shoelaces. A few weeks ago he introduced us to a number of K-pop fixtures, because, after all, this is “Enjoyably” Study Korean, so it's not all writing drills and call-and-response. This turned out to be a great excuse to show off Bubble Pop during class time. As if you need one.

Before we could get to this, though, we had to endure a fairly brief and painless quiz. I'm finding hangul to be elegant in its complexity, as every time I think I've more or less grasped the gist of how letters come together to form characters, I run across one in my blogsailing that stops me dead. I had this faulty idea that all characters were made up of two to three letters; I've actually seen some with, like, six. I'm horrified by the knowledge that Korean has spelling, and it seems to be every bit as bemusing as that of English. In Japanese, you can write a character incorrectly, you can use the wrong one, you can mishear a long vowel or a double consonant, but you can never actually misspell a word. I've sort of grown accustomed to the idea that words in foreign languages are just written the way they're written.

On the other hand, whenever the day comes that I first decide to sit down and read something in Korean of my own volition, even if I have to look up every third word, at least I'll just be able to type it into a dictionary and get the meaning instantly, rather than hunt through a radical table making tactical use of the clipboard. Maybe if I tried to read 1Q84 in Korean I'd be more than 15% of the way through after working at it for six months. I'll tell you one thing that Japanese has over Korean, though: If I see a Japanese word I don't know, I can scan over a character, or even part of a character, and work out an idea of what it might mean, maybe even look at the tsukuri and guess at one of the Chinese readings. I can't say for sure, but I imagine you could probably study Korean for several years without ever realising that the connection between hwisa (会社) and sahwi (社会) is more than coincidental. Realistically, my own Korean etymology is unlikely to ever reach that level. I am still quite satisfied with my gradual progress towards Korean semi-literacy however, and was even pleased to find that 가 (ka) has stopped saying フト to me. Unfortunately, the 0101 on the side of the Marui Building now says 이이 (i i).

For the quiz, we were given a list of 21 words to memorize, 10 appeared on the test, and we were tasked with translating them from Japanese into Korean. To study, I sat down a few times for a few minutes each and did a little bit of rote memorization. Quizzed myself when I started feeling confident, took another look at the ones I got wrong. It was great. It felt like good, honest work. My level of success enjoyed a direct relationship with my level of effort. See, the point where I'm at in Japanese, I'm starting to really dig into the meat of the language, and everything I learn is all abstract concepts, subtly different technical terms, and grammar points that have usage notes like “only to be used immediately after a refreshing rain on a fine summer's day when the speaker is wearing purple socks, barring any exceptions as detailed in Appendix Q.” For this Korean test, I memorized words like “dog” and “I.” Kasu is kashu. Toro is douro. Great, got it!

Korean, at this point, is still something I can sit back and relax with, the way a hockey player might relax with an exercise bike after a tough practise. It's still a toy, a parlour trick, not something I'm using to communicate with people, yet. I haven't experienced frustration at not being able to express myself adequately, or had my pride injured through not knowing something I should have learned by now. There was definitely a time, after I'd mastered the basics but before I stopped sucking at it, that I had a lot more hate than love for the Japanese language. I was Rocky, Japanese was Apollo Creed, and the first movie had just ended; I was lying beaten and bloody on the floor, and for a while there I seriously considered giving up on it completely. It was just too hard. The grammar was too alien, the kanji too numerous. Every time I reached a new plateau I saw that the peak was farther away than I'd thought. But I persevered, the sequel came, and this time I won. Japanese started working for me. But it was a long and lonely road to get there, and if I continue with Korean, eventually I'll arrive at the same crisis.

All of this raises the question of how far I plan to go with my Korean. It'll never be as good as my Japanese is now; I know at least that much. Japanese has almost a decade's headstart, I started learning when I was still physically almost a child, and this is the language of the country that I intend to spend my life in. It dominates my attention, and I can't see any other hobby ever displacing it (unless, to continue the above analogy, Korean turns out to be Ivan Drago). My interest in Korean is much less fundamental; it comes from a desire to speak with Koreans, maintain numerical parity with Europeans, and impress Japanese. In any case, I don't think I'll ever just stop learning now that I've started, but if I can get to the level where I can maintain a simple conversation – ask for directions, talk about mutual likes and dislikes, invite a girl to a hotel – I think I'll be satisfied.