Tune In Tokyo:The Gaijin Diaries Read Online Free Page A

I’ve just arrived, and at this her pensive face brightens. “Oh, that’s nice. I want to tell you about my church…”
    Your what ? Church? They have those here? Hmm. I was actually hoping she’d be able to give me directions to a good ramen shop, a decent record store, and/or a news agent that sells English-language magazines. Perhaps I’m expecting too much.
    “Church? Your…church?” I stammer, trying to think of a means of escape.
    “It’s lovely place, everyone accepted. We have many meetings and enjoy. Jesus there. It’s near to here. Please, let me take you to there.”
    As she places her open hand against my shoulder to lead me towards Christ, I wonder, can this be true? Can I have traveled all the way across the world from the God-fearing American South to an island known more for its electronics, its love of stately rituals like tea ceremony and flower arranging, and its raging Lolita complex than its faith in Jesus Christ, only to be witnessed to in broken English about the Good News?
    “We all God child ren. Brother and sister with Christ . Jesus love you .”
    Yes, I guess I have.
    When I envisioned my first jaunt through vast Shinjuku, it went something like this: I would first circle the city on the Yamanote Line, starting at Tokyo Station in the east and making my way westward, through Hamamatsucho, Shinagawa, Gotanda, Ebisu, and the hot-to-trot districts of Shibuya and Harajuku. Along the way I might pick up a pair of Harajuku girls dressed fashionably in fitted burlap sacks, ten-inch heels, and Mouseketeer hats, and we would walk through Yoyogi Park arm in arm as a band of Taiko drummers followed behind us on a dolly and beat out a rhythm for us to swagger to. We would arrive in Shinjuku and immediately go for a few cocktails at a place called Hello Highballs. The cocktails would be neon blue, and they would turn our lips a fetching shade of fuchsia. After drinks we would spill back out onto the street and hitch rides with a clan of bosozoku motorcycle bandits. They would escort us into the next club, which would have a name like Stark Raving Suzuki. There, we’d have more cocktails—these smoking and gasoline-scented—and befriend the DJ, who would be in the midst of a world tour that had taken him to Paris, Berlin, Rome, Moscow, Hong Kong, Bangkok, and Jersey City. After his set, he’d offer us some magic mushrooms, and we’d gladly accept them. Then we’d take turns at the turntable rocking the worlds of the club kids. As the night slowly came to an end and the crowds dispersed, we’d elegantly take our leave, lock arms again, and step out into the crisp morning air hand in hand, escorting each other to the station, secure in the knowledge that we’d done a little bit of Shinjuku.
    Nowhere in my wild imaginings did I consider that the first Japanese person I spoke to socially would be a forceful born-again Christian with nothing but time on her hands and a quota to meet. Because I must say that, all due respect to my parents, who tried their hardest to raise me right, realizing a closer relationship with Jesus is not what I’ve come to Tokyo for.
    “Thank you so much, but I’m really not…able.” Not unless your church sells Details or Vanity Fair . Hell, I’ll even take a damn New York Dog . “I’m…waiting for a friend.”
    Either she sees through my lie or she doesn’t care.
    “We have meeting right now, please, you can come and we food and drink and talk and enjoy with other of Jesus people. We sing about Good News and praise God and Jesus Messiah. You bring your friend. You call from there.”
    It hits me right then how important correct intonation and word choice are to evangelism. You absolutely must put the right stress on the right words or you’ll sound unemotional and disembodied, like Ira, the chatty computer screen consultant on Wonder Woman . Because of her flat Japanese intonation, she sounds only vaguely interested in what she’s saying. But she is