Scribbler's Cafe

Concrete, stilettos and the most beautiful woman in Japan

(Penned last week)

The stone circle in the heart of Osaka’s Americamura glows in the half light of evening. The fading rays of sunlight can no longer compete with the street lights, neon letters and blaring video screens. I sit on a cold bench and pull from my bag ink and clean white paper so that I may sketch the concentric circles of brick and the stilettos that click across them.

Strangely, it is here among the fashion punks and docile gangsters that I feel most at ease. Suddenly, I am back on the central staircase in Seattle’s Broadway Market, watching the burly fairies stroll by and dodging the sidelong glances of the other adolescences playing hooky and hiding under dark hoodie sweatshirts. Same kind of place. Dark. Busy. Dirty. My kind of place.

Then just a few blocks and a world away, I ease myself into a slick black booth in café bar drenched in cool. Comfortable cool – swank I can slide in to. I drink my one strong drink and scribble ink in a tattered notebook. I do not fear being alone here, for I am foreign and beautiful. I wear tall black boots and a serious pout. I am worthy of this atmosphere. This scene clamps around me like silken nylons on curved calves. We fit each other’s groove.

Tonight, later, I will dine with the doctor of linguistics. I am charmed that he called me out. His New York ramble is very entertaining. He does not doubt for a second that I would be any less than enthralled with the minutiae of his inner dialogue. As we are still rather new to each other – his current assumption is correct. I am enthralled.

Last night, I could not sleep. Too many cups of coffee coupled with too many “not dones”. I am tired. It takes me a while to realize that the other Japanese woman in the long black apron is not who I think she is. She looks nothing like her, but I call her by the name of the other woman anyway. This girl is new here and stammers. I blush with embarrassment.

More than a couple Japanese people, once they have gotten comfortable enough with me to ask such a horrid question, ask me if, as an American, all Japanese people look the same to me. I hate this question. The honest answer is that when I first arrived, well, yes, many people seemed very similar. My students, with their legion of uniforms and short cropped black hair were particularly difficult to distinguish from one another. Yet, this condition of mine did not last very long. Within a month I found new ways to differentiate, rather than relying on hair color and skin tone. Now it is very difficult for me not to see the differences among Japanese people. But I still hate the question. After I hear it, an angry sentiment “White people think all black people look the same” ripples through my mind. Unlearning racism is difficult work, so it stings when it is assumed that I am not aware of my own ignorance.

The other waitress on duty tonight I know well. We’ve never really chatted – as I have with all the others. Yet her warm smile is as much of a fixture of my Thursday nights as the pernod in my curved glass. I’d love to sit with her and ask her questions about her life and who she is. But I must remember that she is on the clock. What is a place of sanctuary for me is a place of work and different necessity for her. She is, of course, the most beautiful woman in Japan – slender, stylish and full of silent grace, yet with a subtle strength and ripple of power that separates her from all the other sophisticated beauties. I would love to dive into her mind and witness the dark things lurking. She has survived something – but love or life or addiction I cannot name. I am infinitely curious.

I must head across town to meet the linguist. After I hand my yen to Kazuo, the young waiter that holds my eyes with his as he pours my drink, the most beautiful woman in Japan grabs my arm to stop me from striding out so quickly.

“I’d like to know your name,” she says. “I really should.”

I smile and laugh and tell her quickly. She repeats it twice to get the pronunciation right and then I ask if I may know hers.

“Chisaato,” she says.

I repeat it 100 times as I float over the pavement to return to my train.

posted by Scribbler @ Thursday, December 01, 2005