I would like to take this opportunity to thank my friend and fellow WiK member Nathan Mader for his constructive advice in ironing out a few wrinkles to make my piece a more polished read.
Before moving to Kyōto, I lived in Takatsuki City. Takatsuki is situated in northeastern Ōsaka Prefecture roughly halfway between Ōsaka and Kyōto, which makes it a convenient base for commuting between these two Kansai cities. I moved there from Matsumoto, Nagano Prefecture so that I could be closer to Mayumi, my girlfriend at the time and eventual life partner. As fate would have it, we got married in Matsunoo Taisha in northwestern Kyōto, even though we were still living in Takatsuki. Our two children, Yōsuke and Ayano, came along and we eventually moved to Kyōto 35 years ago with Mayumi’s parents who chose to live nearby so that they could see their grandchildren whenever they wanted to.
But, more about Takatsuki. When we lived there, the Hankyū railway had not been elevated so you can imagine the chaos and mayhem the level crossings caused at peak commute times. Timing was critical. Mayumi and I had to hurry to be just in time to park our bicycles and make it to the station before the barriers came down and stalled us for up to over 10 minutes sometimes.
Before we got married, I had yet to find steady work. I’d travel into Ōsaka every day armed with CVs to plod the streets and promote myself at translation companies for in-house positions or freelance work. Translation accounted for just a single page in the Yellow Pages. I made a copy of both sides of this page, and visited listed companies in alphabetical order. We’d often go in together on the same commuter express. We’d be standing in the aisle packed like sushi all the way into Ōsaka and the madding crowds — still holding hands.
This is the first of a few anecdotes from around that time, mainly about the station front area, that I’ll be posting over the coming weeks.
Tale 1
“Don’t worry! He lives here.”
On the corner of one of the streets near the south side exit of the Hankyū line was a rāmen joint. It had a single wide entrance that led you toward a triangular counter surrounded by round seats embedded into the concrete floor. In the inner sanctum, the proprietor would be slaving away in his kitchen. He was a hard worker. He made his own noodles and cooked them as soon as they squiggled out of the hand-cranked noodle maker. Copious amounts of ‘kimchi’ pickles and ‘nira’ garlic chives were placed at equal intervals along the narrow counter. Fifteen or so customers in such a cramped space learned to get along with each other. Everyone’s coziness was well rewarded as the rāmen was amazing.
I remember the first time I went in there. There were just a few customers and I was welcomed with a big ‘irasshai’ from the back. Out pops this smiling face from the steam and the first thing he says is “You’re a foreigner!” And, unapologetically, “Just like me.” The playing field had just been leveled. “Show me your card,” he says. In situations like this, you aren’t playing poker. There was only one deck to flash. I showed him mine, and then he whipped his out. He wasn’t bragging, at least I thought so. “I’m Kim, third-generation ‘zainichi’ Korean resident. Not quite there, are you.” as he said looking at my regular visa status. “Long way to go. Ganbatte!” Then we started talking about ourselves, what life was like, our hopes and desires. He spoke about his grandparents and parents, and the trials and discrimination he went through growing up in Osaka. His family kept their traditional Korean name instead of opting for a Japanese name to hide their ancestry like a lot of zainichi do. This made him an easy target. He also mentioned that, on the few occasions that he went to Korea, he never really felt at home there however well he could speak Korean. Whatever he spoke about, though, he was always passionate and, more importantly, upbeat. He was also intrigued about why this foreigner in his mid to late 20’s should be there in Takatsuki, of all places. I gave him my story of studying Latin and Classical Greek at secondary school, by chance picking up a book titled ‘Teach Yourself Japanese’ at the age of 16, starting to learn Japanese, and then going to London University to study Japanese. Coming to Japan was a natural progression of all of this. Here we were from totally different backgrounds, at the same place and time, sharing the moment, talking openly like old friends. That, in itself, I found rather comforting. I put this down to 縁 ‘en’ or fate, something I strongly believe has affected me very much in life. I went to Mr. Kim’s place quite often. His warm, smiling face was always welcoming, and our frank and friendly chats made each trip worthwhile.
In May 1990, the South Korean President Roh Tae-woo visited Japan. Mr. Kim was over the moon as the Emperor and the Prime Minister made public apologies. President Roh was the first Korean President to address the Japanese Diet. “Things will get better for us zainichi from now on,” he said ecstatically, his face full of hope. He was right. Major improvements were made in the rights of Korean residents, including exemption from fingerprinting.
One late afternoon, when I was slurping away and piling in more of his mouthwatering kimchi, I noticed two little shiny things at ground level in the corner just inside the door. A big, fat rat was glinting at me. I was quite taken aback. My hand flinched suddenly out of reflex. This must have scared this new punter away. It scampered away behind all of the other customers and disappeared into the steam of the inner sanctum.
“Mr. Kim!” I called out.
“What is it?”
“I just saw a huge rate running into the back!”
“Don’t worry! He lives here.”
Mr. Kim instantly homed in on the look of disbelief on my face. “He’s OK. He takes care of the roaches,” he said with a big grin.
I’m not exactly sure why he knew ‘it’ was a ‘he’. Admittedly, though, it was a buff-looking rodent.
Everyone chuckled and continued chomping away on their noodles. One guy even took a chunk of roast pork from his rāmen and tried coaxing the furry thing out, just as you would do with Fido at the dinner table.
Nobody was perturbed. They just continued eating. Everyone was intent on savoring their noodles.
Eventually, I made the leap and got to where Mr. Kim was with permanent residency. I wonder if he is still there running his business with new helpful ground-level tenants.
A short trip back to Takatsuki is in the works, methinks.
We are all shaped by where we have lived and who we have interacted with. Experiences turn into memories that make us what we are now.