The Waiter

            I have tried to write this post many times. Each time I gave up, because I just couldn’t find the right words. Then I came across this sentence in a novel by Stephen King. It captured the essence of what I wanted to say perfectly: 

If you’ve ever been homesick, or felt exiled from all the things and people that once defined you, you’ll know how important welcoming words and friendly smiles can be. 

As I read these words a series of memories flashed through my memory; I think the hairs may even have stood up on the back of my neck. 

And yet, when you read my story, you may wonder why on earth it mattered so much to me. If so, I guess you’ve never felt like Jake Epping, the protagonist of King’s novel 11.22.63. Or like me, for that matter. 

I was travelling alone in the north of Japan in the summer of 2014. I wouldn’t say I was homesick – it’s been about 17 years since I felt that way – but I wasn’t in a good frame of mind. I can’t find a better way to express it than to use King’s words: I felt exiled from all the things and people that once defined me. 

I journeyed down the north-west coast of Honshu, Japan’s main island, one day that July. I think the three local trains I took only covered about 200 kilometres, but the trip lasted eight hours, give or take. I remember it vividly: the apple fields of Aomori, the Sea of Japan, the vastness of Mount Choukai. 

Ikarigaseki Station, in Aomori

My destination was a city called Tsuruoka. I cannot remember ever visiting a place that was more dead on a Friday evening. It was deserted, despite having a population of over a hundred thousand. I walked along the shoutengai (arcaded shopping street) in the fading light, but the shutters were down and the people gone. 

It was sweltering and my Achilles began to seize up as I gloomily wandered the streets, desperately seeking somewhere I could at least have a good dinner. I did a circuit, eventually returning to the station area, which is usually a good option in Japan. 

Yamagata prefecture

In the corner, across from the station entrance, was a sign advertising gyoza. My Japanese stinks, but I do have some reading ability, and my heart lifted at the prospect of a plate of these delicious fried dumplings. I climbed the stairs and entered what appeared to be an empty izakaya (a bar-restaurant type place).

My mood lightened further when the woman who greeted me actually seemed pleased to see me. (In Japan you get used to people panicking when they catch sight of a foreigner.) She ushered me to a curtained off area with a low table on tatami mats and gave me a menu. 

She took my order (nama-biiru (beer), furaido poteto (fries), edamame (green soybeans) and pizza. I stretched my legs out as I had nearly lost feeling in them within the 5 minutes I had been sitting on the floor. Two Japanese guys came in and sat at the table next to me, where they chatted about Germany’s victory in the World Cup. 

A young man’s voice came from outside the curtain, along with the sound of slippers being kicked off. “Excuse me”, he said confidently, and entered my little dining area. He was incredibly thin, like a lot of young Japanese men, with his hair held back by a bandana. He was also smiling. As he put my beer down on the table, he said “this is nama”. 

As he left he said something else in English, though I can’t remember what. I do recall that it wasn’t the correct thing to say. I drank the wonderful beer, which was served in a freezing glass, in double-quick time. The young waiter then returned with my edamame. He went through the same routine, placing the dish on the table with the words ‘this is edamame’. I ordered another beer. 

And so it continued throughout my meal. Everything was presented with the same formula. It appeared his English amounted to little more than ‘excuse me’ and ‘this is’, but he said it with enthusiasm and without fear. I drank four beers, had some excellent food and left feeling enormously uplifted. 

I’m sure that young waiter had no idea how much I appreciated his simple friendliness and effort to speak my language. He was just doing his job and, this being Japan, I couldn’t even leave a tip by way of thanks. It made an enormous impression on me, though, and cheered me to a degree that is difficult to express. Hopefully, with Stephen King’s help, I’ve succeeded.