A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE AIRPORT

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To.......The Airport; or Independence Day?

She stood in her pyjamas looking out into the darkness from the fourteenth floor, double glazed window. In front of her the twinkling lights of the city, her city – now asleep. Except for her. The digital clock showed 2.45 a.m. She looked at the illuminated face of the mobile phone gripped tightly in her hand. What time would it be now in New York she wondered. She pressed her finger to the keypad and began dialling.... but, half way through, biting her lip, a tear welling in her eye she stopped and closed the phone. She looked again out of the window at the silent, sleeping city; so close and yet so far from her as she stood in her air conditioned, sterile hotel room almost in the clouds. Far below she could see but not hear the night traffic – taxis, police cars with blue flashing lights – but up here, almost in the clouds, she was alone – so alone. Another tear ran down her cheek, she wiped it away with the sleeve of her pyjama and sat down on the edge of her unslept in bed. At the side of her bed lay her suitcase packed and ready – just a small space left for her pyjamas and her toiletry bag. On the hanger by the wardrobe hung her clothes for later; everything neatly laid out and ready, exactly as she had been brought up to do. Again, she opened the phone. She would do it. She would ring, she told herself. She would tell them. Then it would be done. But even as she started to dial her finger trailed off – in the end she could not speak to New York. And she lay back on the bed and sobbed. She was in one of the world’s great cities, Tokyo, her city; a city teeming with millions of people just like her and yet as she lay sobbing, she felt completely alone.

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We stood in the marbled reception hall of the four star hotel. Our two bulging suitcases besides us, eyes bleary from a disturbed night’s sleep and an early morning wake up. I looked at my watch: 5.45 am. The shuttle bus was due at 6.00 am to take us, and half a dozen other travellers, across Tokyo on the two hour trip to Narita airport. We had paid our bill and stood, nervously checking our passports and tickets waiting to wave goodbye to Tokyo and to fly back to Heathrow after a wonderful holiday of a lifetime. Our cameras were filled with photographs, our minds with a myriad of wonderful memories; we did not know that one of the most poignant memories was about to unfold.

As we waited for the shuttle bus we couldn’t help but notice the young Japanese woman standing alone at the side of her suitcase. She was probably about 18 years old, pretty, petite and beautifully dressed and made up. But, despite the make-up, she could not hide the agitated anxiety in her face and the tears that had obviously been recently flowing. Nervously, she checked and rechecked her watch. She flicked on her mobile phone and looked about to make a call and then put the phone away again. She went to the reception desk and was soon involved in animated discussion with the receptionist but then returned to her suitcase looking disconsolate. As we watched, we came to the conclusion that she had missed an earlier shuttle bus and was now worried that she would miss her flight. Then the bus arrived.

A smartly dressed attendant entered the hotel reception and we were called to the bus. Our cases were collected and stored in the luggage hold and we, like the other half dozen passengers, took our seats. The bus was empty apart from we few and as we sat down we watched as the Japanese girl anxiously talked to the attendant as he stowed her case beneath our window. She climbed aboard paper tissue in hand, and despite the mostly empty bus, sat immediately in front of us. The driver climbed aboard, and, as is the custom in Japan, stood at the front and bowed to us all before taking his seat at the controls. Pat and I smiled at each other – the formality, gentleness, reserve and politeness of the Japanese would be something that we knew we would both remember and treasure. And, as the bus drew away, we looked back at the hotel, mentally waved goodbye and then turned to look out of the windows to watch as Tokyo woke up and the streets filled with the busyness of the day. 

A few minutes into the journey the young lady sitting in front of turned and in perfect English said to me “I think that you are English” and she went on “Could you please help me; I need to know what to do”. We were nonplussed but smiled and said “If we can”. Biting her lip and close to tears she told us her story.

She had been in Tokyo – her home city - for about a month visiting friends and relations. Her father and mother lived in New York – her father, a business executive, had a seven year contract there so the whole family had moved to the USA. With tears in her eyes, she confessed that she hated New York and America. People were very kind, she told us..........but, she complained, everywhere seemed so loud and dirty and people were so rude and brash. Unlike Japan they had no manners. Everything was too casual, no-one seemed to care about dress, speech, school and so on. She attended a college but because she carefully attended all the classes, worked hard for good grades, did all the set reading and handed work in on time she was mocked by the other students. In short, although she had a family she loved and American friends that she was fond of she was desperate to leave and return to the Japanese life style that she loved.

Her parents seeing her unhappiness had allowed her to return home for a month to visit friends and relations. Her father had given her his credit card and arranged hotel accommodation. For a month she had enjoyed her home city again but a few days before she was due to return to New York a friend had told her that a job was available in the office where she worked and that if she stayed in Tokyo she could move into the flat where the girl lived. “Why go back to New York”, her friend said, “you’re life is here?” 

We nodded, trying to understand her predicament. “What shall I do” she asked. She told us that she had not slept that night and had packed an unpacked her suitcase whilst trying to pluck up the courage to ring her father and tell him that she was staying in Tokyo and would not return to New York. As she talked it seemed to become clear to us that the predicament was, to a large degree, a cultural one. We knew little of Japanese culture but from what we did know it seemed that the parent/child relationship was crucial; respect for the wishes of elders and one’s parents in particular was sacrosanct. Had she been an English or American or German girl we might have said that she should call her father and discuss it – he might understand and wish only for your happiness and may be pleased to see his daughter seeking her independence. But, increasingly that seemed to be a very difficult option – she was unhappy not only because she had to return to a place that she hated but if she put her case to her father, or simply didn’t return to New York, she was breaking a cardinal social  rule of Japan – going against one’s parents’ wishes. She stressed again and again how kind and loving her parents were – she had spent so much money with her father’s credit card – she not only owed him allegiance and respect but she also owed him money.

And so, as dawn broke over Tokyo and we got closer to Narita airport, we listened, trying as best we could to be a sounding board for her distress. I felt totally inadequate faced with what increasingly seemed to be an intractable cultural dilemma. We simply didn’t know what to say except that whatever she decided she must keep talking to her parents. “You should go back to New York and talk with your parents – you have the chance of a job and good accommodation, perhaps they will understand that you want to be independent. Maybe they will be pleased” we added hopefully. To us this made abundant sense and I think it did to her – but  in the back of her mind was also the knowledge that in her culture one simply didn’t do this. Going against the wishes of one’s parents was cultural ‘no-no’; to even think of it was risking bringing disgrace upon the family. As a dutiful daughter she had an obligation to always recognise her parents’ (and especially her father’s) ambitions and expectations and behave in such a way that befitted these. To even think of breaking the family code was upsetting; it seemed to me that she was castigating herself for having these thoughts that she feared would bring her parents distress and maybe disgrace.

At last the bus pulled into the Departure Terminal. We took our suitcases from the bowing driver and the three of us entered the Terminal anxiously looking for our flights on the Departure Board. Relieved we saw that our Heathrow flight was on time and she looked for her flight to JFK.  We shook hands and Pat and I wished her well – again saying that she should talk about things with her father – “We are sure” we said that “he will understand and be pleased that you have given it so much thought”.  She smiled a thin smile and said thank you for our advice, her face still puffy from her night without sleep and from crying. 

And then she was gone, disappeared into the airport throng towards, we hoped, the Departure Desk for JFK. We looked at each other – both still feeling helpless; the cultural ties and bonds beyond our experience. What must it have cost her, I thought, to seek the advice of two complete strangers on a bus? How anxious must she have been? Maybe she chose us because we looked of the same generation as her parents and we would know what her parents might think or do. We would never know. So, rather pensively, we wheeled our cases to the Departure Desk and joined the queue. And later, as our flight climbed high into the Tokyo sky, I wondered if she too was climbing into that same sky en route to JFK?  Or, had she at the last moment, plucked up the courage and decided to seek independence by taking a taxi back to Tokyo. 

Tony Beale July 2016