I was sent to Tokyo for a “very important” business meeting about selling widgets to a company that probably didn’t need widgets.
My boss said it would be “a great cultural experience.” What it actually was was seven days of me bowing at the wrong times and pretending I understood what was happening.
The first morning I stepped off the plane and immediately got lost in the airport because every sign looked like beautiful calligraphy and I couldn’t tell the bathroom from the gift shop. A nice lady in a uniform pointed me the right way and I bowed so low I almost fell over. That set the tone for the entire trip.
The meetings were held in a glass tower that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. Everyone wore perfect suits and exchanged business cards like they were sacred relics. I handed mine over with both hands the way the guidebook said, but I had printed them at Kinko’s the night before and one corner was slightly bent. The Japanese executives stared at the bent corner like I had just insulted their ancestors.
Between meetings they took me to a karaoke bar. I sang “Take Me Home, Country Roads” at full volume while everyone clapped politely. Then a tiny woman in a power suit sang something that sounded like pure emotion and everyone cried. I clapped too, even though I had no idea what the song was about.
On day four we went to a fancy restaurant where the chef prepared fugu — the poisonous blowfish. The translator explained that if the chef makes one tiny mistake everyone dies. I spent the entire meal sweating and calculating my life insurance payout. The fish tasted like nothing and everything at the same time. I told the table it was “life-changing” while secretly praying I wasn’t about to become a cautionary tale on the evening news.
The last night they invited me to a tiny izakaya where the salarymen drank beer and complained about their bosses in ways that sounded exactly like American salarymen. One guy kept refilling my glass and saying “kampai!” I drank until the neon signs outside started to look like they were dancing. I tried to explain the concept of a shaggy dog story to them using hand gestures. They nodded politely and poured me another beer.
On the flight home I realized I had no idea if we actually sold any widgets. I had a suitcase full of gift-wrapped green tea and a business card with a slightly bent corner that I still keep in my wallet as a reminder.
And that’s why every time someone says “business trip” I just smile and nod. Because somewhere in Tokyo there’s probably a group of executives still wondering what happened to the American who sang John Denver and ate poison fish. Or maybe they just needed the widgets after all.
Who knows?
The end.
Image © Matsujima | Text © Storyteller
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