Traveling can expose you to vistas you may never see anywhere else. For example, today I sat on a pier somewhere near Bentenijima, a town a few trains stops away from Hamamatsu, in the late evening. The water was dark and quiet, and the city lights far away, illuminated the blackness like a small box covered with fireflies. Every few minutes, a train would appear as a long snake, streaking across tracks in the distance, before disappearing into a tunnel. As I sat there, I spoke with a friend of mine, Emi.

 Emi was sitting in the darkness, her long hair like a veil. She was barefoot and wearing a floral dress, the patterns hard to distinguish. We were talking about life. As she sat there in the darkness, and me beside her, I felt an interesting sense of time and space. Earlier, I had come here for a Salsa barbeque. Through Emi, I had transportationto the event with a cool young Japanese man named Taka. He had been to Jamaica, on a cruise with his wife of two months, Marie. Meeting him was a notch in a long sequence  of introductions I had been flooded with since my arrival to Japan. The salsa crowd had been introduced to me by Emi, and I had marveled that first night the way everyone had looked at me, wide-eyed and curious, the question marks like invisible halos over their heads.

That night, many girls requested a dance from me, some so shy to touch my hands I could feel them trembling with every step we took. It had been a whirlwind and intriguing, a barrage of sensations doused with the indigo of the club’s black lights. But here, in the open, it wasn’t the same. My Japanese was hardly conversational, and I’m not a serious Salsa enthusiast anymore. I had danced for years in different clubs, but I lost my passion for it. As I approached the Barbeque area with Taka, we parked in a lot across the road. An old totem pole grabbed my attention, and I snapped a picture with it.

The park itself was a family center, with tables set up for groups to sit, and a rocky path lead to the beach nearby. I was quiet for most of the time, regretting that I hadn’t eaten before I got there. Everyone brought beef or pork to cook, neither of which I ate. I sipped Pepsi and slowly ate vegetables, grumbling at my ineptitude of foresight. Also, I didn’t know there was a fee for the barbeque. Someone brought a little chicken with them, so I was able to eat a few tiny morsels of food, but the barbeque had a price tag of 1000 yen, which I didn’t know. After paying for my meal and grumbling at the emptiness of my stomach, I heard there was a Salsa party afterward, at

a local venue. At some point during this Barbeque, Emi had arrived, looking regal in a black suit. She had taken some kind of exam for teachers, but seemed upset because she didn’t feel like she passed it. After the Barbeque ended, we took a group picture.

We walked over to the club, and I groaned. It was another 1000 yen to go into the club and all I could see beyond me were a sea of Japanese bodies. I started to feel a little choked; something that occasionally happens to me in a completely homogenous environment. Two things were working against me; prohibitive spending for things I did not want to do, and distance. Even if I wanted to leave, I had no way to get home. I sighed and made small talk with the Japanese Salsa crowd, who asked me repeatedly why I wasn’t dancing.

I didn’t feel like explaining to them I was hungry, and didn’t like Salsa dancing that much. I also couldn’t bother to say that I wasn’t in the best spirits to begin with. I sat in a chair, thinking about Japan. Even though this was a different country and a different set of rules of meeting people was essentially the same. You don’t need language to have fun. Cost doesn’t matter, the choice is whether or not you want to take what you can from what’s there. So far, I didn’t feel like taking anything. In the past I would have loved something like this, dancing the night away with a group of Japanese people, happily grabbing every girl that laid an eye on me. But in some way they all felt like obstacles; barriers in this new world. So I went outside.

I sat on the pier, watching mostly fathers and sons fishing in the nighttime. Everyone had a small flashlight on a string around their neck, and it was quiet, save the occasional laugh of a child. I felt a little sad and cold, so far away from friends and family, unable to have fun. It felt like a curse, this “wall” I saw in front of me. I tried to think of five years before, when I leapt at the chance to do anything involving fun, wherever I was. Had things become so dark? Was happiness so elusive?

I sat there for a long time, and soon a few of the Salsa group were on the pier beside me. They stood there like statues, chatting with each other while Emi spoke to me. They went back inside to dance, and I started chatting to Emi about life. She was searching for something meaningful in the world, looking at ways to feel better about herself and her life. I told her about choices and journeys, connections and ways of looking on reality. I told her an interesting yarn about meditation, personal psychology and the power of making decisions. It sounded good to me, and I started to feel a little better. In the midst of this conversation, with Emi and I sitting barefoot there together, I
wasn’t sure how to think of her. She was definitely become a friend, and I her confidant. I didn’t have the luxury of imagining anything else. After my brief time in Japan thus far, the idea of a young woman wanting anything from me even remotely sexual seems vague and unrealistic.

After our long conversation, we walked back inside. The party was in full swing, and I could feel the heat from the dance floor. Near the reception area, a tall Japanese man was giving massages to women, who had formed an eager line. I glanced inside. Bodies moved to and fro with amazing precision. Everyone was Japanese, and I looked at their long silky hair, twinkling eyes and smiling teeth. Then I sat back on the couch. Something in me wanted to dance, to reach out and lose myself in the crowd, but I couldn’t. A girl I met at the barbeque came over to me, telling me to come inside and dance. I told her I didn’t feel like it, and she didn’t seem to understand. My responses were protracted and awkward, and I sighed once more and walked outside.

Now it was completely dark, save the lights of a few vending machines. Emi asked me if I wanted to get an ice cream, and I said yes. She treated me to a cone, and I stood by a railing near the entrance for a while. Soon, a few people were leaving, and I got a ride back into the city. Two very genki women were in the car, and excitedly asked me questions about Salsa and Jamaica. They were fascinated to learn that their car was called an “S.U.V” in the states. In Japan, one of them
said, the car is called “4.W.D”. I laughed at this.

The girls in the car were cute, but I knew I would never know them much better. The gulf of language and culture was always there, too wide for me to cross. I came out of the car at the Hamamatsu station, where I had parked my bike. I thanked them and told them goodnight. I unlocked my bike and headed into the city, hoping to find something exciting to do on a slightly chilly Saturday night.

The bar is filled with people. They are swathed in dull amber lights, and the din of conversation floats out onto the street. I’m sitting beside a blonde Russian with a propensity for saying “Fuck you” as a response to almost any statement I make. In front of me, a tall broad-chested Japanese  man is standing up and pointing a meaty finger at me.

“Show me your magnum.” He says.
“What?”
“Show me your magnum cock size.” He says.

His eyes are furrowed into a make-believe expression of intensity, and he almost looked like a Who Wants To Be a Millionaire TV host, except one that’s really, really drunk. I’m getting used to the Japanese men’s ambiguously gay behaviour, but some nights it’s a little annoying. I’m having a beer, and the Russian is being a bit icy. “You are cool, ” I said to her. “You came here and you are taking care of business.” I said after a sip of beer. “Fuck you.” She replies. I say a few more things, and she keeps repeating those words.
I sigh. Tonight feels like one of those nights when I’m crawling slowly uphill in hot sun with a life preserver on. I leave the table. I go up stairs and chat with two girls, who I’ve labeled M and M. They are chatting to Texas, a cool guy I know who is from… Texas. M number two has an English accent. She has a small, very round face. The first thing I think of when I see her is a porcelain doll.
Today is a going away party for Eric, a guy who’s been in Hamamatsu for a year and a half. He’s  a small guy with dark hair and calm features. They call him Pepsi Boy. There’s a good turnout. Everyone is glowing with positive energy. Twice tonight, people would spill beer on me.
I head to another bar, Liquid Kitchen with M number one. We chat about nothing interesting in particular. I like M number one, but I explained to her my theory about women who are twenty-five years old. “Women who are twenty-five that I’ve met are a little crazy.” I said. “Either they want to sleep with everyone under the sun, or get married in a hurry… there doesn’t seem to be an in between.”
This obviously, means nothing. Liquid Kitchen, I say hello to everyone. A good crowd is in the house, including some of my fellow co-workers. I see a few English girls who were in my training program when I first came to Japan, and I make small talk.
“Marcus, I never see you!” one of them chimes in a heavy accent.
I smile and nod. The other English girl, always dressed in a cute outfit that connotes a somewhat ‘indie’ fashion sense, gives me a sly eye.  She has long dark hair with a set of razor sharp bangs above her eyes. When I met her, she said she loved Reggae music.
“I can dance like the black girls.” She had said to me those months ago.

At the time I’m not sure what I said. I think I probably chuckled, or said nothing, since I was still recovering from horrible Jet Lag at the time. One thing was certain though, the people in those initial groups kept in touch pretty well. I always ran into them, hearing stories about wild parties in Kyoto and Tokyo, trips to small Japanese Inns and people running out on Sushi bills. They were living the kind of Japanese lifestyle that seemed fun and natural for a foreigner. Stuff you laugh about over a cup of coffee or a few beers. They are going to planet Café tonight.
I decide to go.

I go a few minutes ahead of the group and walk in quickly, not paying. Inside, there is a small but decent crowd. Someone says my name, and I see a Japanese lady in a Kimono with a beer in her hand. I met her yesterday. “Marcus!” she says. “You are here… did you get my e-mail?”
“E-mail? I don’t think so.” I replied.
I fished out my phone and checked my messages. I frowned. There were two messages from her. One asking where I was, and then another about her being at Planet Café. She was a masseuse, with short brown hair and a nice smile. I asked her if she wanted to dance a little but she said no, she was too drunk.  She was in the company of two young Japanese guys, one of whom seemed a tad uncomfortable I was talking to her.

Seeing this lady wasn’t particularly thrilling. What eventually happened is that she proclaimed: “I never kiss someone I don’t know until a month. Maybe more.” She said this with a sly deceptive smile. I didn’t laugh. I had met a few of these Japanese women, who kept pushing a vague shield of super innocence, whether they were twenty, twenty-five or thirty. I didn’t ask to kiss her, and I wasn’t about to try and spend four to eight weeks trying to get one either. I told her goodnight.

On the dance floor, a sparse group of Japanese kids were standing up, watching the DJ. The music was okay, but I sighed at the observation of the social dynamics inside. See, Japanese people always face the DJ, seem to rarely interact with each other, and then leave in the group they came in. Occasionally I might break the mold and speak to someone on the dance floor, but it was so awkward (especially when everyone was facing forward and you weren’t ) that it required an extremely good mood and a desire to meet someone, both of which I didn’t have.
Back into the main area with the tables, I notice a few of the foreigners enter the bar. The English girl is sitting in a corner. I take a quick glance at her, wearing her black head wrap and boy shorts. She is chatting to a very effeminate looking Japanese guy in a red shirt. “She likes Japanese girly boys.” A friend tells me. I groan. This night is getting more lame.
I joke with another girl I know, a girl with an English accent who isn’t from England, and she seems bothered. I was teasing her about liking Japanese guys. She is standing with a very short, average looking Japanese guy (incidentally wearing a red-shirt too). “He’s my boyfriend.” She says looking offended.

Now something feels wrong. Living here in Japan is living between the extremes of social interactions with different people. This is the land where short effeminate men dominate the bars and clubs. In America I feel sometimes tall and skinny, but here I feel like a looming beast, intimidating and overbearing. I take one last look at the crowd, and leave.

I go back to KK house, and sing Karaoke with Eric and a few of his close friends. I sing two Linkin Park songs, screaming into the microphone to drown my sorrows. After the last song, I stand up and the crowd applauds. Then I realize, everyone sitting down is a couple. I sigh, and leave. Downstairs, men are reaping the fruits of their labour. Guys are getting numbers and things seem to be progressing. I walk outside into the night air, and hop on my bike. I try to get into a club for free nearby, and three bouncers almost jump me. I am a head taller than each of them, but they exhibit that telltale bouncer behaviour; the arm around the waist, and one kept saying “Let’s talk outside.”

I left the club and went home, flopping onto my bed. On my computer screen, is a frozen image of the movie Back To The Future. Seeing it makes me smile. I let out a heavy breath, and hope tomorrow is a better day.