- 24 May 2004
- 1,046
- 12
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Great story! Man I love msnbc!
Dec. 12, 2005 issue - I tiptoed into the small inner sanctum of the women's ofuro (communal bath) at the small ryokan (inn) in the Japan Alps. Following custom, I had left my clothes in the outer dressing room, bringing only a small towel with me. The steam rising from the square wooden tub obscured the small window, hiding the tiny garden outside.
Unfortunately, the steam did not hide me, a tall, fair-haired, light-skinned foreign woman. As I sat on the little plastic stool and turned on the wall tap to start the prewash cycle, I became aware of sidelong looks, gasps, muted giggles and a sudden exodus of the Japanese women and children. I must have resembled a gorilla in the mist, or the repulsive creature that was Sigourney Weaver's nemesis in another of her movies. After all, that's what I was to these women: an alien, a gaijin.
Japan's homogeneity has been well documented. The saying "The nail that stands out gets hammered down" describes not only the Japanese loyalty to the group, but also the penalty for not blending in. Because I was a foreign woman, I stood out; the fact that I am 5 feet 10 made it worse. A group photo from my sayonara party says it all: a straight line of my Japanese women friends and me—the unhammered nail standing out from all the rest.
Although I was never really comfortable with being tall there, I had to learn to deal with it. After all, Tokyo is a large city with a large population squeezed into a very small place. It's not surprising that Japan excels at making mini cars, coffeepots, washer-dryers and food processors. But I am definitely not mini, and I simply took up too much space in Japan.
Yes, I was a gaijin giant, and my height provided more than one awkward moment. I hit my head on the overhanging subway straps. I often had to stoop to enter doorways or look into mirrors positioned for shorter people. Sitting at the low tables in coffee shops, I was unable to cross my legs without knocking over the water glasses (small) and the coffee cups (demi). More than once I slipped slowly into the small, deep ofuro only to create a large tidal wave that flooded the white tile floor, overturning the wooden stools, green soap dishes and pink buckets in a scene reminiscent of "The Sorcerer's Apprentice."
Page 2:
Dec. 12, 2005 issue - I tiptoed into the small inner sanctum of the women's ofuro (communal bath) at the small ryokan (inn) in the Japan Alps. Following custom, I had left my clothes in the outer dressing room, bringing only a small towel with me. The steam rising from the square wooden tub obscured the small window, hiding the tiny garden outside.
Unfortunately, the steam did not hide me, a tall, fair-haired, light-skinned foreign woman. As I sat on the little plastic stool and turned on the wall tap to start the prewash cycle, I became aware of sidelong looks, gasps, muted giggles and a sudden exodus of the Japanese women and children. I must have resembled a gorilla in the mist, or the repulsive creature that was Sigourney Weaver's nemesis in another of her movies. After all, that's what I was to these women: an alien, a gaijin.
Japan's homogeneity has been well documented. The saying "The nail that stands out gets hammered down" describes not only the Japanese loyalty to the group, but also the penalty for not blending in. Because I was a foreign woman, I stood out; the fact that I am 5 feet 10 made it worse. A group photo from my sayonara party says it all: a straight line of my Japanese women friends and me—the unhammered nail standing out from all the rest.
Although I was never really comfortable with being tall there, I had to learn to deal with it. After all, Tokyo is a large city with a large population squeezed into a very small place. It's not surprising that Japan excels at making mini cars, coffeepots, washer-dryers and food processors. But I am definitely not mini, and I simply took up too much space in Japan.
Yes, I was a gaijin giant, and my height provided more than one awkward moment. I hit my head on the overhanging subway straps. I often had to stoop to enter doorways or look into mirrors positioned for shorter people. Sitting at the low tables in coffee shops, I was unable to cross my legs without knocking over the water glasses (small) and the coffee cups (demi). More than once I slipped slowly into the small, deep ofuro only to create a large tidal wave that flooded the white tile floor, overturning the wooden stools, green soap dishes and pink buckets in a scene reminiscent of "The Sorcerer's Apprentice."
Great story! Man I love msnbc!
Dec. 12, 2005 issue - I tiptoed into the small inner sanctum of the women's ofuro (communal bath) at the small ryokan (inn) in the Japan Alps. Following custom, I had left my clothes in the outer dressing room, bringing only a small towel with me. The steam rising from the square wooden tub obscured the small window, hiding the tiny garden outside.
Unfortunately, the steam did not hide me, a tall, fair-haired, light-skinned foreign woman. As I sat on the little plastic stool and turned on the wall tap to start the prewash cycle, I became aware of sidelong looks, gasps, muted giggles and a sudden exodus of the Japanese women and children. I must have resembled a gorilla in the mist, or the repulsive creature that was Sigourney Weaver's nemesis in another of her movies. After all, that's what I was to these women: an alien, a gaijin.
Japan's homogeneity has been well documented. The saying "The nail that stands out gets hammered down" describes not only the Japanese loyalty to the group, but also the penalty for not blending in. Because I was a foreign woman, I stood out; the fact that I am 5 feet 10 made it worse. A group photo from my sayonara party says it all: a straight line of my Japanese women friends and me—the unhammered nail standing out from all the rest.
Although I was never really comfortable with being tall there, I had to learn to deal with it. After all, Tokyo is a large city with a large population squeezed into a very small place. It's not surprising that Japan excels at making mini cars, coffeepots, washer-dryers and food processors. But I am definitely not mini, and I simply took up too much space in Japan.
Yes, I was a gaijin giant, and my height provided more than one awkward moment. I hit my head on the overhanging subway straps. I often had to stoop to enter doorways or look into mirrors positioned for shorter people. Sitting at the low tables in coffee shops, I was unable to cross my legs without knocking over the water glasses (small) and the coffee cups (demi). More than once I slipped slowly into the small, deep ofuro only to create a large tidal wave that flooded the white tile floor, overturning the wooden stools, green soap dishes and pink buckets in a scene reminiscent of "The Sorcerer's Apprentice."
Page 2:
Dec. 12, 2005 issue - I tiptoed into the small inner sanctum of the women's ofuro (communal bath) at the small ryokan (inn) in the Japan Alps. Following custom, I had left my clothes in the outer dressing room, bringing only a small towel with me. The steam rising from the square wooden tub obscured the small window, hiding the tiny garden outside.
Unfortunately, the steam did not hide me, a tall, fair-haired, light-skinned foreign woman. As I sat on the little plastic stool and turned on the wall tap to start the prewash cycle, I became aware of sidelong looks, gasps, muted giggles and a sudden exodus of the Japanese women and children. I must have resembled a gorilla in the mist, or the repulsive creature that was Sigourney Weaver's nemesis in another of her movies. After all, that's what I was to these women: an alien, a gaijin.
Japan's homogeneity has been well documented. The saying "The nail that stands out gets hammered down" describes not only the Japanese loyalty to the group, but also the penalty for not blending in. Because I was a foreign woman, I stood out; the fact that I am 5 feet 10 made it worse. A group photo from my sayonara party says it all: a straight line of my Japanese women friends and me—the unhammered nail standing out from all the rest.
Although I was never really comfortable with being tall there, I had to learn to deal with it. After all, Tokyo is a large city with a large population squeezed into a very small place. It's not surprising that Japan excels at making mini cars, coffeepots, washer-dryers and food processors. But I am definitely not mini, and I simply took up too much space in Japan.
Yes, I was a gaijin giant, and my height provided more than one awkward moment. I hit my head on the overhanging subway straps. I often had to stoop to enter doorways or look into mirrors positioned for shorter people. Sitting at the low tables in coffee shops, I was unable to cross my legs without knocking over the water glasses (small) and the coffee cups (demi). More than once I slipped slowly into the small, deep ofuro only to create a large tidal wave that flooded the white tile floor, overturning the wooden stools, green soap dishes and pink buckets in a scene reminiscent of "The Sorcerer's Apprentice."
