Mar 8

Kirsten’s World: “Home”

Humor, Writers Add Comment (2)

By Kirsten Phillips (Niigata-ken, 2005-08)

The trip home was poetic. Trying to spare myself the tremendous charge for checking more than 2 bags on a flight, I condensed the entirety of my JET existence into three bags. One of them (a duffel bag to be precise) broke 30 minutes before the takyuubin people were due so we Macguyver-ed the fucker up with twine and a paperclip and hoped for the best.

How I thought that bag could not be the source of hilarious drama is beyond me.

You should have witnessed me getting it onto the plane. Narita is like some parallel universe where things have to go right even when they are noticeably falling apart. The lack of stress at Narita is downright fucking scary for an airport. Bless its hallowed grounds.

So let me present you with reason #718 of just how stupid I can be.

Not far away from me is a town called Sanjo. I had many friends in Sanjo and spent many a weekend jaunt there. Sanjo is known as an iron town. Blacksmiths and lead poisoning abound there. One weekend, I was invited to attend a workshop on how to hammer traditional Japanese nails or, to be more precise, railroad spikes. Those things were huge! I pounded out several which were then, in good ‘ol Japanese fashion, wrapped up and handed to me as a pleasant albeit greasy memento of my labors.

I instantly forgot they existed.

Until they ended up in my carry-on, that is. HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

“What is this?” The pretty security guard (bless Japan for being the only country with PRETTY female security) at check in wondered as she carefully but dutifully ripped away the painstaking stitches of twine I had used to fasten together the sad remains of my duffel bag.

“I can’t imagine.” I said. To my knowledge I had not packed any explosives, steak knives, copious bottles of lethal hand lotion, etc. We were willing to bet they were probably 簪. Even though I had no use for kanzashi and certainly didn’t remember packing any.

Oh I had a pretty good story for the pile of greasy iron spikes she finally found concealed in old newspaper buried at the bottom. She laughed, totally expecting to find hair pins instead. With only 30 minutes to clear Immigration and make my flight, I watched her expertly take up a sewing kit and with lightening speed stitch my sorry bag back together again.

Dear Japan, I love you and have always loved you. Take me back, baby? Please??? I can change.

Took some skin off my shoulder but the bag got from point A to B. The flight was packed with no less than a half dozen babies. Fortunately, most of them were Japanese and sleepy and not nearly as annoying as the flight attendants.

I think my BOE designed this flight. There was not much love lost between me and my 教育委員会. Not that we ever flew into cataclysmic trysts but I wouldn’t have put it past them to smack me in the ass on the way out by booking me a flight on the Good Ship Fukkup. Non-direct too. They loved me like that.

Now I would have assumed that a plane leaving from Tokyo with a cargo of predominantly Japanese-speaking/understanding peoples would have employed more than one Japanese-speaking/understanding flight attendant. Not so with Airline X.

These people seemed to me like bad American caricatures. The males were these Walruslike bouncers who were condescending to the Japanese guests if asked to repeat themselves or speak more clearly. The females were all Dolly Parton big hair, too-bright lipstick, aging ungracefully with curt attitudes. I felt sorry enough for the couple next to me struggling with fatigue and less than confident English that I acted as their go-between whenever the bitchy stewardess made rounds.

The lady next to me was traveling with her husband. When I made it clear to them that I could understand enough Japanese to comply with requests, I think this helped them relax. The attendants were completely rude to them. I actually saw this poor woman’s husband get all but shoved back into his seat while he was waiting for the restroom and the seatbelt sign was turned on. The male steward treated him like a 4-year old. Why do some people think that raising voices will make them better understood? Why is it assumed in some places that not speaking the same language equals retardation? Maybe back in the day you got sent to bedlam for babbling in tongues/imperfect grammar but come on! This is 2009, assholes.

The worst part came when the lady discovered in the middle of the night that her seat was broken. Japan/America flights are long and stressful and in the middle of the night, you really want your volume setting to work when trying to watch RUSH HOUR 3. Unfortunately, she made the mistake of pressing the stewardess button.

I was half asleep when I heard this obviously less than thrilled person stomp next to my seat (I was the lucky bastard in the aisle) and exclaim: “What.”

What.

No service person should ever begin and end an encounter with that word. At the very least, follow it up with a “~can I do for you?” Hello, professionalism? Nevermind. If that was her way of simplifying things for the Japanese idiots who got her up in the middle of her fucking coffee break, then she was treating her job like a winning bucket of fail. The poor Japanese lady struggled to explain among the deafening white noise of the plane and this woman’s exasperated glare that her seat was not working properly. Seeing that I was American and conscious, the stewardess looked to me for help.

“Is she Chinese? What language is she speaking? What’s she saying?”

“She’s Japanese.” I said. “She says her seat is broken. The volume button won’t work.”

“Well, what does she want me to do about it?”

I could have punched her in the face for that reaction. Instead, I managed to relay in Japanese that I was very sorry but nothing could be done about the situation. I offered her my seat instead because I sure as hell didn’t need to watch the antics of Jamie Foxx for solace.

“Does she wanna change her seat?” The hog asked me in mid-explanation. I translated politely for the woman and she and her husband both politely declined, not wishing to disturb this person trying to not do her job. Now I understand a flight attendant’s lot is not easy, especially on a crowded, endless, foreign assignment but I felt genuinely sorry for this couple who were just trying to have a good flight.

As we left the plane, the stewardess gave me a free pack of playing cards for my services. Thanks, asshat. As I fought with my heavy stitched up duffel bag of woe in the overhead compartment, I was suddenly stopped by the lady’s husband. Without a single word, he motioned me to step aside and, along with his own carry-on, he shouldered my ridiculous baggage while I breathlessly thanked him, bows and all. I am not an expert bow-er. I just can’t do it correctly but this was a circumstance predestined for a bow, even one as unpracticed as mine.

He walked outside the plane with it and would not put it down until he saw me safely to the customs line.

“Please enjoy America.” I said in English. Good luck.

“Thank you very much.”

I was so worn out by the time I reached Laguardia, I stretched out across my aunt’s backseat and closed my eyes.