Going to Japan

It could have been worse I told myself. I could have lost my passport. I kept repeating this potential scenario in my head, but it wasn’t helping. I was on a train bound for Dong Deagu an hour later than I was supposed to be. My trip and tickets to Japan were planned and reserved. It was supposed to be a two-day, one night trip to the Korean Consulate in Japan. I was to fill out paper work, and they would give me a visa to work in the country. The trick: I had to be everywhere on time. Sounds easy right. Which is part of the reason this portion of my trip is particularly difficult to discuss.
My day began at 5:45 in the morning. After an orange juice and a bowl of cereal, I dressed and left. I stopped in the foyer and patted down. Passport? Wallet? House key? Toothbrush? Directions? I had everything. I trotted down the sidewalks and through the sunlight that twinkled through the tree leaves. I arrived at the subway station. The long escalator sank me slowly into an enormous opening. Granite walls circled me, and their balconies held erect pines and tufts of ivy curled over its rails. Glass doors drifted open to welcome me into the marble foyer. I wondered until I came to an automated ticket machine. I could not read anything except the illustrated subway map overhead. I needed the train bound for Ansim, a change at Banwaldung, and that would take me to Dong Deagu station. I boarded a brand new subway car and sat on a carpeted row of seats. I read Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge then I arrived at Dong Deagu. Now to find the train station.
The escalator lifted me to a street corner. I circled around a few times. I saw a man and approached him. KTX? I said with my reservation papers on display. He put his hands up and shook his head. I paced a bit until by chance I saw a huge window front buttressed by white trusses. That must be it. I ran around shrubbery and a large compass embedded into the ground. I passed a fountain while the morning sun was lifting itself above the large glass front I was approaching. I walked inside and looked around—cuddled in a small corner I found the automated ticket machine. I tapped through the touch screen windows and my train ticket printed. I waited for the train schedule to flash in English—I sank down another escalator to the right boarding dock. I was ten minutes early for the train heading for Busan. I relaxed on a bench and had another turn at The Mayor of Casterbridge.
Things became bad. My train whined to a stop and the doors opened. I stood to board when I noticed I was boarding car number 12. My ticket was for car 7. Why I did not just board car 12 and walk to car 7 while on the train is the question that haunted me the rest of the day. For some reason, I didn’t. I was one car away from number 7 when the doors closed and the train started to leave. I showed my ticket to a staff member. Too late he said—buy another upstairs. I limped back to the escalator with my hand on my brow. In the ticket line, an army man told me that another train was head to Busan at 8:05—perfect. I’m only going to loose fifteen minutes. If this line moves fast enough, you might be able to make it. Sure enough, I got my ticket on time and raced back down the escalator to the boarding section. I sat down on the bench and decided to spend the remaining five minutes with The Mayor of Casterbridge. This is the part that requires a fair amount of patience for human blunder. In my haste, I took the wrong escalator to the wrong boarding dock. It was 8:10 and I looked around to see if the train was possibly late. A teenager at a convenience stand broke the news to me: you’re time is up and this is the wrong boarding dock. Up the escalator this time, I was leaning on the rail with my face buried in the crook of my arm. I got another ticket for an 8:40 to Busan. The trip took an hour.
Once I arrived at the Busan station, I needed to go the Busan international ferry. And the boat was to take me to the Hakata port terminal in Japan. I shuffled through my backpack to find my reservation paper. It did not say when my ferry was leaving—just it’s number and reservation code. It could be a late departure. I could be on time. I found enough consolation in my own guidance to calm myself enough to enjoy The Mayor of Casterbridge for the rest of the train ride. When I got to Busan station, I walked through another enormous glass front buttressed by white trusses into a panorama brick esplanade. Each light post was connected by a string of Japanese lanterns. I ran to the edge of the esplanade to two cab drivers lounging on rock slabs smoking cigarettes. Taxi? I said. He pointed to a list of cabs idling in front of a glass, waiting hut. I showed the cab driver my directions (written in Korean) to take me to the port. We drove through alleys: crisscrossing power lines over head, vendors rummaging through their fruits and vegetables, a man shining shoes sitting on an upturned trash bin. We turned into a main road passing through a green light adorned with ivy and tree leaves while seagulls flew over-head. I arrived at the Busan international port terminal.
The place was empty. Not a good sign. I saw a woman typing through the window of a closed ticket booth. I showed her my reservation ticket. She printed a new ticket for me. Yep, I missed my ferry. The next one was not leaving until 2:15 and the boat takes three hours. I think I forgot to mention too that the Korean Consulate closes at 5:00. Damn-it. I was alone in the waiting room, I had three hours to wait, and for all I knew the trip was a bust. I flopped into a chair and took out the cell phone my manager let me borrow.
Hmmmm. I don’t know what to tell you. Tough Break man. I will call Janice and let her know. I put the cell phone away. Then, I saw a family of westerners—weighted with two suitcases, a Korean guidebook, and a baby in a backpack. I made eye contact to get their attention.
Ahhhh, good day mate. I’m Cameron and this is my wife Katrina. And the little guy I’m carrying is Andrew. They were from Cairns, Australia. And they were on a month vacation exploring the Asian coast. They just finished venturing through Korea and now they were on the final leg of their vacation: two weeks in Japan. The husband and wife were both majored in science. He was a marine biologist and she was temporarily retired until their kids grew (they were planning on two more children). I chattered on about the places I’ve been in America—Indianapolis, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Chicago, New York, the south east, the southwest and parts of Appalachia: they had never been to the states. They talked about Cairns and how tough it is to find a good paying job in the sciences. And so we passed the three hour wait in the lobby while their son wondered about pushing buttons, riding escalators and elevators—the conversation altered between husband and wife while they took turns chasing their son down—and people gradually populated the lobby. I had forgotten I wasn’t going to make the consulate on time.
On the boat I drifted between sleep and The Mayor of Casterbridge, until resting blue-mountains emerged. Soon, crisscrossing highways were visible: and bordering pine trees. I was approaching Japan. At customs I showed my passport and declaration papers, and waved goodbye to the Australian family while I was being patted down and shoes inspected. Good Luck with the consulate he said and they disappeared through the door. I felt fortunate to have met them.
Downstairs I showed my hotel brochure to a woman at the information desk. She marked a map of Fukuoka for me and I needed the number 51 bus into town. Outside, I crouched under the bus roof in front of a weed-entangled fence. People gathered and disappeared with each bus. The red sun was descending behind the Hakata port terminal. A friendly woman asked me if I needed help. I showed her my brochure and said I needed to get to Fukuoka. You can take this bus—It’s a different number but it follows a similar route.
Where are you from? She asked.
Philadelphia. You?
I’m from Japan. she giggled.
Where in Japan? I saved myself from embarrassment!
Tokyo.
We boarded the bus and moved under towering highways of roving cars and tucks, and through plain-faced buildings of either pink of blue. I exited the bus. Glowing taxi lights, towering ads, passing bicycles, and hundreds of people six inches shorter than me: Fukuoka. I showed her my map and asked her if she could point me in the direction of my hotel. I thanked her for her help and walked down the sidewalk. I needed more assurance that I was headed in the right direction so I turned into the post office. A row of no-back vinyl chairs made a long rectangle down the marble lobby. Behind the desk: employees donned in blue shirts moved large yellow sacks of mail amongst littered desks, cubby holes, and the ephemeral glowing of copy machines. I showed a man my reservation ticket (one half of it was written in Japanese) and asked where. He pulled a map-book from under the desk, leafed through a few pages and traced a street line with his finger. He tapped the spot once and said to me: at corner make left. I crossed the street and entered the Watanabe stretch. I walked a few paces and saw two people eyeing a map display. Unsure if they spoke English, I showed them my hotel reservation ticket. She lit up and told me my hotel was a ten-minute walk down the sidewalk.
I checked in and on the lift up a dusty-haired man—his hair brushed over his eyes—look at me and said where from? Amelica?
Yes.
Where?
Philadelphia.
We shared a smile and I went to my room. At this point, I knew the consulate would be closed, I had a whole night to myself, so I thought it would be a good idea to try a dry run so I would not get lost. In the lobby, I showed them my reservation ticket for the consulate: fortunately, it to had Japanese lettering on it. I asked where and the woman pulled a paper with directions on it. It was a challenge to decipher the English on these directions—and as I’ve demonstrated in this passage: I get lost easy. I concluded it would be best to show a cab driver the Japanese lettering on my consulate reservation ticket. I showered, had a turn at The Mayor of Casterbridge and fell asleep.
The morning came with a new feeling of confidence. I decided to try the directions, but first I needed to change my won into yen. I walked back to the post office took a number and waited. A Czechoslovakian man sat down next to me. We talked briefly about music: he liked Radiohead, Tool, Rage Against the Machine, and his brows narrowed when I told him I liked the Beatles and he winced when I expressed my love for Bob Dylan. He said he spends a lot of time in South Street and was in Japan selling music samples of his band: we shook hands and he said it was nice to meet other people with open minds. I exchanged 60,000 won for 6,000 yen ($60 American dollars). I had 1,000 yen in my pocket and with what I just exchanged: I had enough to cover the consulate fee and my cab ride.
The cab ride. Everyone says cabbies love to gyp foreigners and they do it by taking the looong way. The alternative was wondering around the subway all morning. Cab drivers know the city and I don’t. At this point in my trip, I did not want to be lost: I decided to take my chances with the cab driver. The trip only took ten minutes and only cost 1,000 yen. I counted myself lucky.
It could be worse I repeated to myself. And again it was not working. To my chagrin, a visa takes a whole night to process and there was no way I could get my visa or my passport until 10:00 the next morning. I sighed, flopped into a chair and assessed my situation. I was checked out of my hotel and my reserved ferry was departing back to Korea in three hours. The cell phone my manager lent me had a dying battery and I did not know Korea’s international calling code. What a fix. I could only think about Dong-Daegu: all I had to do was walk to the correct car while onboard the train. I would have initiated the visa process yesterday, and on my way to Korea today. But no. I was alone in the consulate with all the time in the world, and no way back to Korea.

My predicament was not completely hopeless: the consulate had a water cooler. Something about the cold cup of water helped me recollect myself. I asked for a map and if she could highlight the nearest hotels. My new plan seemed simple enough—I would check into a hotel, come back tomorrow, and I’d buy a new ferry ticket—worse thing: I’m out a hundred dollars for the hotel and a new ferry ticket. But luck was on my side. Walking into the consulate just then were three friends who I met at the training session. They were Brent, Mike, and the South-African. (I feel terrible. I did not catch his name when we first met. And too much time has passed between us for me to ask for it, without me blushing profusely. What’s worse everyone else I ask from the training session does not know his name either) Mike spoke a fair amount of Korean.
Just ask her to call the ferry company—say I don’t know any Japanese can you see if you can change my boarding pass. Mike asked her in Korean. The woman was on the phone for about 10 minutes. It worked! I had a new time tomorrow at 2:15—I did not loose my reservation! Things got better. Even though Brent and the man from South Africa had to leave for Korea in a few hours, Mike had the whole day and night to wait like I did. I had someone to explore the city with.
I checked into the hotel and we went to lunch. We walked into a snug restaurant. At a long table shared with other businessmen we sat and ate our ramen. Brent and the man from South Africa talked about how they partied with Jeff all night—and massaged their temples when they talked about their pounding hangovers. Back at the hotel, I waved goodbye to Brent and the man from South Africa again as they descended from view into the subway.
The crosswalks glowed white in the sunlight. Mike and I crossed through a crowd of businessmen in pinstripes, and gorgeous Japanese girls: mascara, rust colored hair, curled to a bun, shadowed by the floral-paisley umbrellas they carried while pedaling bicycles with white high heels. We strolled through open-air malls, down long tunnel hallways with arced glass tops. Merchants were bustling about their wares: furniture, clothing, cell-phones, all adorning shelves sprawling into the walkway. We were true foreigners—snapping pictures of what they find common. The subway under Watanabe road: the ceilings were decorated with green, wrought iron floral patterns. And the lights on the wall gave a comfortable white glow while speakers played birds chirping. We had dinner at a Zen bar. From my booth my knees pressed hard against the counter. But the tempera (I don’t know if I spelled that right breaded, it was deep-fried shrimp) was very good. On an escalator in canal city, a group of kids on their way down said hi to me. I waved said hi, how are you and they giggled amongst themselves. We watched a clown juggle knives on a unicycle. The sun was setting and the city lights reflected off the river we watched from atop a bridge. We were exhausted from walking. We found a line of glowing huts along the sidewalk. We parted into the folds of the drapes for a small dinner and sake. We made plans for tomorrow, I said goodnight and was quickly asleep in my hotel bed. Much to tired for Thomas Hardy.
In the morning we each had two donuts and a coffee at Mister Donut and rode the subway back to the consulate. Our visas were finished. A small group of children crossed the road—each holding onto a section of leash—all to the beat of their teachers whistle. We passed them with a smile on the sidewalk and all their white uniforms were bright in the sunlight. I was headed for the Hakata station, but Mike’s plane was not until 8:00 that night. He patted my knee with a grin: are you sure you’re ok to find your way back?
Yes. I will be fine.
I’m going to exit here and see what I will find. I said goodbye and watched him disappear into a crowd outside the closing subway doors.
Inside the Hakata station, I found another westerner. Her name was Ann and she was from England. Are you for the 2:15? She asked.
She was another English teacher as well, but with a different company. From there she shared stories about the six years she lived traveling through the Far East. And about the fever she caught from a mosquito in the Philippines. She had made a living in New Zealand for a year, doing odd jobs.
Was it nice there?
Oh, it was a dream. She said with a sigh. I miss it so much.
Have you ever been to the sates?
I was in L.A
I’m sorry.
Yeah, the people there are so phony. And L.A is it’s own bubble: they don’t care and are ignorant another world exists. I was working in a bar, and someone asked if my accent was practice for a part. I said no….I’m from England this is how I talk. He could not understand that I was working in a bar just to work in a bar. No ulterior motive, seriously!
I chuckled. And another woman asked me what language they spoke in England, and someone else told me to speak English after calling an elevator a lift. Um hello, it was my country that spawned the language!
I laughed. America is so much more than L.A. I’d recommend Chicago.
Oh I’ve wanted to go there.
It’s a gorgeous city. And Midwesterners are genuine people, just be wary of the scary, Bible-thumping, holier than thou crowd.
We got in line. Or as she called it: queued. I had my passport out and she seemed very impressed with it. She leafed through its unstamped pages and marveled at the artwork, and pictures of legendary moments and landmarks of American history. British passports are so plain she complained. The gold lettering on the front of hers had long since worn away, and visas, stamps, and declaration papers billowed out from it.
A man from a few paces back called her name. They talked for a few moments. I did not think anything of it until we sat down again after customs. So I know I’m probably being a total bitch, but that man I was talking to in-line is really starting to creep me out.
Oh yeah?
He’s been asking for my address and email. And when he saw me here today he said oh I thought you would be on this ferry.
Uh oh.
I’m probably just being paranoid—he was probably just trying to be nice.
You can’t be too careful traveling alone I said. Does this thing happen often?
Yeah, I seem to have a knack for attracting strange folks.
There must have been 100 open seats in the lobby and the above-mentioned man flopped down in a chair right next to mine. I wouldn’t have minded except we were both Americans and he was definitely crossing the American personal space boundary as he leaned in to talk. It was uncomfortable. Especially when he was talking about how him and his father got robbed in a rough part of Philly. He said black kids came and knocked out their truck windows.
We boarded the ship. Ann paused and turned on the stairs for the second floor. It was lovely talking to you.
I wish you the best of luck teaching. I said and turned the corner and took my seat.
I buried my face into the crook of my arm to watch from the windowsill the departing Hakata terminal. A light blue shade fell upon crisscrossing highways, palm trees, shipyards as they shrank into the distance.
At the Busan seaport, I saw the man again. Do you have any won?
No I said.
Do you want to get a cab?
No.
Do you need won?
No. With that I walked down the asphalt path and crossed the street. I’m not proud of giving that man the cold shoulder like I did—he probably was just trying to help and I could have been more diplomatic. But Ann’s story had really shaken me a bit. A Korean man helped me find the subway and we descended together.
Back in Korea, I met a man who helped me find the train I needed to go to Dong-Deagu. He said Car 7 was a few cars down.
I’ll just board now and walk down while aboard.
Suit yourself he said.
His name was Jang-Ju and he had a business apprenticeship in Seoul: which was where he was headed. He was also coming back from Japan—except he was on a five-day vacation. Jang-Ju had been everywhere. His apprenticeship had taken him to England, Germany, Italy, and France. We talked about sports. And he seemed a bit surprised when I told him Japanese liked baseball more than Americans. It is our national pastime I said but Americans get more excited about the NFL. Raindrops scattered and streaked across the windshield as we hummed along.
Dong-Deagu station came—he asked if I would be ok finding my way. I smiled and said I would be fine. I left the station in dark, steady rainfall and took the subway back to my apartment. Nothing is better than a hot shower after dripping wet clothes. Things could have been worse I thought—I could have boarded the right train in the first place and missed all this.