Confessions of a Gaijin 2: Episode 4 – The Home Stretch

I’ve been blitz-cleaning my apartment today ahead of an inspection by my manager later this week; standard company procedure when any teacher is getting ready to finish their contract and hand their digs over to their replacement.

I spent more than seven hours spraying, wiping, scrubbing, dusting and hoovering. I had Spotify on and at one point Dire Straits’ ‘Walk Of Life‘ came on, making me feel like I was in one of those protagonist-moving-on-with-their-life montages that you see in a Judd Apatow film. Elsewhere, I encountered a lot of ground-in dirt and a seemingly endless array of stray pubic hairs. The wiry little bastards are everywhere and they appear to number in quadruple figures. I could probably collect them all up and weave myself a Persian carpet if I so desired. Maybe that’s what cavemen used to do.

I’ve also started the process of packing my life away and sending it back to England, one large cardboard box at a time. It’s mostly books and clothes, and I’m surprised I haven’t hoarded more crap since I got here last spring. Good people that I’ve met out here are themselves moving on; my friend Sam is flying back to the UK this week and I will miss him. One less person to share my experience with.

I feel bittersweet when I think back to the bright-eyed soul I was when I first got here. That version of me honestly thought it was all going to magically work itself out and that my time in Japan would be a long and happy one. Things didn’t quite go according to plan, and that generated its share of heartbreak, but it also sculpted me. The person I am now is starting to feel more confident, more fearless, less prone to doubt. It’s all still a work in progress of course, but progress feels like the key word. Also, my ticket home is booked. I’m taking an extended scenic route via Taiwan, Malaysia, Thailand (briefly) and southern California. The thought of having nothing to do for a couple of months feels like absolute bliss. All I want to do is read books, explore, occasionally get drunk with strangers and spend hour upon hour at the beach. Then I want to go home, hug the shit out of my parents and take a very big pause to reflect. I’ve still got no idea what I’ll be doing with my life in the second half of this year. This is actually something that pleases me greatly. Does this mean I’m learning?

I’m in the home stretch now; just four weeks to go until I finish up. I’m astonished that I made it this far. Where on earth did the time go? How did I survive night after night of coming home between 10 and 11pm, weary and lonely and confused? It feels like I had some giant, invisible Duracell battery hardwired into my soul as a means of keeping me going. It was tough, but I stuck with it and pushed on through. I’ve achieved a lot but the crunch time is approaching and I want to be match fit. I’m meditating twice a day, gulping down supplements and watching my alcohol intake as I approach the finish line. I still have a sense that there’s everything to play for, but in doing so I may have to dig extra deep.

I might be back in Japan someday, but there is no scenario which exists in this reality that makes me want to work for this company ever again. The good stuff, though, far outweighs the bad; I got a whole extra skill set from this experience. I now have the self-awareness, perspective and work ethic that comes from doing persevering through something that was extraordinarily demanding.

Against my better judgement, I still think of someone sometimes. I wonder how she’s getting on, whether any part of her experience felt like a struggle during her time here (not Japan, but close enough). I wonder when she’ll be packing up and moving on. She keeps showing up in my dreams with annoying regularity. I wonder if we’ll speak before I go? I wonder if we’ll ever speak again? My intuition, for once, has no comment on the matter.

I look over my freshly-cleaned apartment. This little box has been equal parts accommodation, sanctuary and angst compartment over the last 11 months. I feel as if I have undergone amplified variants of every emotion known to man inside these walls. I’ve had every experience, except one.

I want to go out on a high. That sentiment, and all its attendant optimism, extends to this place, so here’s what I’d like; I’d like to bring a pretty face back here one night, and I want to give this person the time of their life – cooking for them and making them laugh and pouring generous helpings of sake down both our throats, and then afterwards I want us to fuck each other’s brains out and part ways happily the next morning. No strings, no regrets. And then I’ll have done all that I needed to do out here. I honestly don’t know if this magical tryst will even happen; I work unsociable hours in a small town and I haven’t met anyone recently that I’ve had any chemistry with whatsoever. But like Brian Wilson said; Wouldn’t It Be Nice?

I still feel exhausted. I still feel sometimes as if I’m pushing a boulder uphill, but the top of that hill doesn’t seem very far away now. On the other side of all this is a world of possibility; untold stories, new faces, new experiences, new memories all waiting to be created, like an unborn universe split seconds before it explodes into being.

All I need to do is get there. Four weeks and counting.