I have walked into poles, planters, doors (the Japanese really know how to keep glass looking good), several old people, a McDonald's delivery guy in a really big hurry, a Department store candy display that pretty much disintegrated on impact and, today, I walked into a men's bathroom. I have no defense on anything except for the men's bathroom.
I'm not sure what's going on but I am going to attribute it to my tourist status. As a tourist, my eyes are always looking someplace else and not directly in front of me; nor does it seem that my peripheral vision is operating with any working gears. But here's the thing about a smash up with a Japanese person. They always take the rap. I am not pleased or happy with this little interpersonal coup d'Etat, but when a stranger in Japan apologizes to you--in Japanese, a language that you do not and will not ever understand--it is a moment to savour and appreciate. Nobody does it better. And here's the thing: it takes no time at all but the intensity of there sorrow is a thing of beauty. There is much bowing--you too will find yourself bowing in return which only serves to elongate the already discomforting exchange at which you are not going to come out ahead in any way you will recognize--and despite your own element of regret, it will be for naught. So here is my advice: When in Tokyo, try to pay attention.
The glories, comforts and accessories of Japanese public restrooms and toilets cannot be overstated. It is nearly reason enough to relocate here. There is always one nearby when you need one. The moment, "I have to pee..." enters your consciousness, a restroom appears, as if by the Emperor's Decree. They are free, clean, well-stocked with all of the provisions one needs, and range in design from very basic floor troughs in the public gardens to department store high tech toilets with heated seats, fake toilet flushing sounds to drown out what you are there to do, and, best of all, a number of water-squirting-finish options, which I won't go into. But I must add that the water-squirting business is such that you can regulate the intensity of the flow and how long it goes on. This could explain their popularity, which I also won't go into.
I am very familiar with trough toilets from my trip to India. I am lucky. I can pee anywhere and into anything, so a trough, while a bit odd, is not the off-putting element that many women from the West find it. Frankly, I think a trough toilet is great sport.
Today was a beautiful day so I wandered about the neighborhood--which I have been neglecting-- and visited a shrine and a park nearby. Closing in on the noon hour, I decided to use the restroom and then find a lunch spot. The shrine was in a lovely park with trails and trees and a water fall and really annoying birds--the kind that are fed by tourists and become a real nuisance rather than an adjunct to the park; but I digress. The directional sign for the restroom led me down a long path into very dense vegetation and when I finally arrived at the restroom, it struck me how small it was. And so I assumed that when the sign said "Restroom" and not "Restrooms," they meant it literally. A unisex facility. As a former government employee who was raised by Republicans, I understand such economies.
So I walked into the only opening I saw--there are no doors on most public restrooms in parks--though I did pause for moment at the odd lay out. There were several troughs side by side, no doors; there was one private stall with a "Western Style" label on the door. This Western Style designation is very common. Some people like troughs; some people like Western Style. I'm an American and when there is a choice, I'll take the Western Style. I let myself into the Western Style stall and proceed to go about my business. All the while, I am assuming this is a unisex restroom and through I briefly thought that the set up was rather casual, especially for the Japanese, other pressing goals swing into play in such a situation. So imagine the dual surprised faces that appeared when I emerged from my Western Style stall to find a very nice and very embarrassed Japanese man using the trough for its intended purpose. Oh, dear, I cannot even begin to describe what followed. Picture me just beating a hasty dash for the door and not even bothering to hear his apology or try to explain my presence. I like to think that this story for him will be a tale that he will recite to the everlasting boredom of his wife and children, but will provide him with a lifetime of storytelling. As for me, this is the last and only time I care to mention it.
I know this entry began with a promise of long list of other dumb stuff I've done and believe me, there is more, but after the retelling of the restroom saga, I find I can't go on. I worry about my Japanese-trough-man partner and am concerned that he may be experiencing some PTSD as a result of today's encounter. On the other hand, I'd give nearly anything to get his take on the exchange. The best I can hope for is that, in the end, he thinks I was German.
What I wish I could have said to him:
I hope you don't mind if I leave now.
Excuse me for leaving first.
Watashi wa kore de shitsurei shimasu.
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