Last weekend marked the first “wall” I’ve hit since I arrived in Japan. Out of nowhere, I was suddenly hit by the feeling That I Hardly Know Anyone and I Don’t Really Know What I’m Doing.
As a result, I had a mini-existential crisis and devoted a number of hours to wandering around Kyoto by myself like some sort of exiled French philosopher. I spent a great deal of time sighing and writing down Deep And Meaningful Thoughts in my journal and looking intense in cafes. That’s not a particularly good look for anyone, so I resolved to become pro-active and find people to do stuff with. I’m getting on well with my co-workers and have been out for dinner and drinks with them on a few occasions, but I can’t reasonably expect them to be there every time I want to hang out. My social circle must be widened so I asked my fellow teacher Kelly what the best way to meet people is in these parts.
“Oh hardly any of my friends live locally. Most of the people I know I met through International Parties.”
I am intrigued. “International Parties?”
“Yeah they’re pretty fun,” she says. “You get the occasional desperate single person there but overall they’re good, especially if you’re like walking up to people you don’t know and introducing yourself.” She giggles and we get back to work.
One week and some Googling later, it’s a Sunday night and I am back in Kyoto for my first ever International Party. There were some brief details on the event website, but I had no idea what to expect. What I am envisioning is a room full of about 15 Westerners all standing around awkwardly clutching their drinks and trying to make small talk. Awkward drink-clutching or no, I am determined to give it a try. The absolute worst that happens is we swap email addresses and never speak again.
The party is at an Irish bar located near the river. Like so many bars in Japan, this one is located in a multi-storey complex and I get an elevator to the second floor. Sharing the elevator with me is a quartet of young Japanese women who look like they’re dressed for a night out at the Hippodrome. They’re all heels and high-pitched chatter. The elevator doors slide open and I see the entrance.
I hand over 3,000 yen, get my hand stamped and step inside. The room holds around 100 people and is utterly rammed. More than 70 per cent of those here are Japanese. I would have thought they’d have had their fill of gaijin and would have better things to do with their time, but they are here in abundance. I look around and there are a few Western-looking people scattered here and there. The room is positively shoulder-to-shoulder with condensed humanity. I attempt to slip through the heaving mad of bodies and make my way to the bar. Each person here gets a token which enables them to get a glass of Kirin and free refills thereafter until kick-out time. This is both very sensible and very dangerous.
I get my drink and look around me. How the hell does all this work? There are human beings mere millimetres from me but the place is so busy that every single one of them is engaged in conversation. What’s my game plan here? I’m doing the math when all of a sudden a balding middle-aged Japanese man approximately half my height slides up to me and introduces himself.
“Hello, he says, “I’m Satoru. I’m pleased to meet you.”
We shake hands and he asks me my name and what I do. I tell him. It’s genial enough, I suppose. We have been talking for less than 60 seconds when he says: “I would like to see you again.”
I nod politely. This guy isn’t giving off the vibe of someone who would eat my face and then dissolve my body in acid but you never know.
“Can I have your email address?” he asks, while producing a small pile of blank cards from his pocket. No doubt doubt these have been specially prepared for me and many others to write stuff down on. I feel confident that I won’t end up dead in a bathtub just by giving him my Gmail address so I scribble it down. He takes it off me and hands me another card that clearly displays his name, email address and phone number in neat handwriting. This guy is thorough.
“Okay thanks!” I say, doing my best to not look like I will never contact him ever again.
He nods and smiles politely. The awkwardness is palpable when suddenly I find myself talking to a Japanese woman standing next to me. I didn’t even single her out, she’s just there and we make eye contact so the next logical step is to start speaking at each other. It turns out that this is actually how the rest of the night will function.
A few glasses of Kirin later and I am getting into the swing of things. I’ve exchanged phone numbers with about five different attendees and am making a cluster of Japanese laugh by re-enacting my favourite scene from Fist Of The North Star. This whole evening is insane but it’s actually pretty fun, like a kind of platonic speed dating. There are key moments where people stand around exchanging details via Line, a phenomenally popular social networking app in Japan which is like a bastard hybrid of Facebook and WhatsApp. You can swap numbers simply by shaking your smartphone at any other device which has the app, which means there are groups of up to five or six people standing in a circle and all shaking their phones in some kind of bizarre socio-technological ritual.
I’m at the more whimsical side of tipsy when I start chatting with an Australian male who appears to be roughly the same age as myself. I lived in Australia once for about four months and as a result have become weary of most Aussie men I meet as they almost always manage to come across as misogynist alcoholics. This one (he told me his name but it escapes me now as I managed to stop giving a shit bout him mere minutes into our brief chat. Let’s just call him Aussie Guy) starts off well enough by apologising for Australian men abroad. It almost seems as if we might we able to reach an amiable common ground. Then Aussie Guy talks some more and uses the term “fat chicks” and not long after that begins talking so much fucking drivel that I want to throw chairs at him. I try and distance myself from him but he persists like herpes.
Later that evening I am talking to a cute Japanese girl (she has nice hair and her hobby is dancing to hip-hop) when Aussie Guy comes back from the toilet and does that “thing” that skeezy men do where they pretend to be interested in the conversation but really he’s just trying to nail the girl I’m talking to and wants to try cutting in on my action. Teaching English has taught me the value of body language so I step closer towards the girl, not to endear myself to her any feather but simply to cut him out of our personal space. He shuffles back to his corner. Good riddance, you slimy cunt.
It turns out that unsavoury men are a specialty at this particular event. One man (Western in appearance) is talking with a girl he just met, only to pat her on the arse when she pops to the toilet. It’s closing time and desperate-looking Caucasians are looking around nervously as they hope to hitch a ride on the last pussy wagon out of here. I almost feel guilty by association by being in the same room as these clowns.
The night ends with me waving a semi-drunken goodbye to a cluster of people I became “friends” with. Days later we start a group chat on Line and I can’t remember who any of them are, almost none of them use a photo of themselves as their profile pic (one girl actually uses a goddamn picture of Britney Spears). We haphazardly discuss future plans, punctuated by gratuitous use of emoticons. I think we’re all going for drinks this weekend. The system works!
In summary, I had fun at my first International Party. If the mood takes me I may even go to another one at some point. But I will be taking hand sanitiser in the event I have to shake hands with any of the dudes there, especially if they’re Westerners.
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