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Riding home on the Chuo line yesterday, I saw another
one. Hanging from the train’s center aisle was a real estate advertisement
depicting the Japanese dream home. And once again, I had to laugh.
Everything about it was meant to look American, from
the complacently smiling family (Mom and Dad, junior and sis, golden retriever)
to the van peeking out from a well-stocked garage. And, of course, the
house itself. Under a cloudless blue sky, the two-storey neo-Colonial
boasts four bedrooms, four-meter-high ceilings, a “system”
kitchen larger than most Tokyo apartments, and hardwood floors. The garden
in front would make inner-city developers drool with visions of vertical
space revenue. In secondary photos, the children sleep soundly while the
parents entertain a neighborhood couple by candlelit dinner. Sweet suburbia.
The house is probably located in Reston, Virginia (a
“model community” half an hour south of Washington, D.C.)
or somewhere like it. But that’s not what makes this vision of the
Japanese dream home seem so implausible. Nor is it the outrageous bank
loan one would need for the down payment. What’s absurd is the frame
showing the two couples enjoying a bottle of wine over their Tuscan salmon.
In most Japanese city homes, it’s not going to happen.
How do I know? After four years of living in Tokyo, Yokohama
and Kawasaki, I can say with some assurance that urban Japanese prefer
to entertain outside of the home. Many of my supposedly close friends
have treated me at izakayas on countless occasions, but never invited
me to hang out at their apartments. When I ask others about this phenomenon,
they usually offer one of two explanations:
1) “We Japanese are ashamed of the small size of
our houses.”
2) “We are afraid that our food will not be satisfactory.”
Okay. But as long as I don’t have to stand while
eating a bowl of cold porridge, I’m pretty forgiving when someone
makes the effort to entertain me. So are most people. I suspect that a
reluctance to invite friends into one’s home comes, in fact, not
out of consideration, but a curious blend of apathy and fear.
Many years ago, I travelled alone through South America.
My guide in Santiago, Chile, was Felipe, a man loosely employed by the
municipal bus system. He looked like a hoodlum in his old denim jacket
and ratty fingerless gloves, but I quickly grew fond of him. Cheerful
and adept, he showed me a more colourful time than any professional tour
could have. On our last day together, he invited me to dinner at his home.
We had bonded over the course of the week and he wanted to make a parting
gesture of friendship. Felipe lived with his wife and two sons in a slum
twenty miles south of the city; a filthy, dangerous neighborhood. Their
home was spartan but clean, and the food, though simple, was tasty and
plentiful. Afterwards, Felipe rode back into the city with me to make
sure I boarded the right bus to my next destination. To this day, that
evening remains one of my emotional touchstones. Faith in humanity, I
found out, can be restored by something as ordinary as the proffering
of a ham sandwich and a soft drink.
Are the Japanese capable of such hospitality as Felipe’s?
Better, certainly. Take a short trip into the countryside and you’ll
find yourself being feted like a king, sometimes by almost complete strangers,
regardless of their financial status. Shitarachou in Toyohashi, for example,
has a flower matsuri (summer festival) every year, during which locals
throw open their doors to cook for whomever happens to drop by. All day,
the entire town is involved in a kind of open house feast, complete with
music and dancing. Yes, it’s only once a year. But it’s not
difficult to extrapolate from Shitarachou’s matsuri customs and
imagine its daily atmosphere. An open front door bespeaks a generally
open heart, a philosophy that rural Japanese maintain and urbanites have
allowed to atrophy.
Let’s itemize the fear and apathy I mentioned earlier
as it pertains to home entertainment:
- Those who still live with their parents might find
it difficult to relax with friends while family members are walking in
and out (Fear).
- Even if you live alone, allowing others to see your private world can
be a source of deep psychological discomfort (Serious fear).
- Tokyo is huge: if people live far apart, commuting to get together may
hardly seem worth the effort (Apathy).
- “And I have no time to entertain!” some will say. It’s
true that many city dwellers work extremely long hours, which means weekday
socializing is out of the question. And as for weekends…”Hey,
I’d rather be sleeping or watching TV than shopping for hotpot ingredients”
(Downright sloth).
These excuses easily came to mind but so do their refutations:
- In the best households, a child’s friends are
welcomed by the parents as extended family.
- Most people tend to associate with others of roughly the same socio-economic
background and, hence, there will be little disparity in standards of
living. True friends have nothing to prove to each other anyway.
- It’s always worth the effort. “Face time” with someone
is infinitely better than exchanging cellphone text messages. Relationships
don’t grow on a 3 x 4cm screen.
- Time isn’t found, it’s made. Get off your butt.
Perhaps the very lameness of Japanese excuses for not
inviting friends over is a symptom of a pathologically shy culture. But
why would an already shy culture want to turn ever more inward?
What's even stranger, people with greater wealth—and,
hence, more free time—than the average Taro and Hanako, don’t
socialize at home either. Just take a stroll through Den-en-chofu, one
of Tokyo’s richest residential areas. These enormous houses, although
packed together like a rugby team in an elevator, are castles against
society. Sure, everyone knows who their neighbors are, but you’ll
rarely catch them chatting over the garden fence.
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OTR Dispatches - May, 2005