Four and a half years ago, on a cold November afternoon, I met my boyfriend; a tall, dark, stunning man with finely crafted Asian features and a wardrobe full of Jean-Paul Gautier and an a crisp, lilting accent to his English. I met him in Manhattan - the melting-pot epicenter of America - at a posh, velvet-draped nightclub. I met him with a glass of French wine in his hand, engaged in conversation with his companions in a language that I couldn't even identify at the time, much less comprehend; but when I asked, he told me his name - Satoru. He told me that he was from Japan.
How exotic! I thought to myself, immediately picturing all the stereotypical things that most Americans do when they think of the Land of the Rising Sun - geisha in splendid kimono wandering down a lane lined with cherry blossoms, samurai in full regalia, pagoda temples and platters of exotic sushi and the bright, bustling never-night of Tokyo. To a Caucasian girl raised on baseball and apple pie, Asia was as far-fetched and "foreign" as anywhere could be. If he'd said "Mars" when I'd asked him of his homeland, he couldn't have impressed me more. When he commented on the astounding nightlife of New York City, I brushed the comment away as hollow flattery - after all, Manhattan could hardly be considered "exotic", could it? New York was the norm, the baseline, the criteria by which I judged every other place. New York was familiar and simple, and couldn't hold a candle to Tokyo.
Now, four and a half years later, I sit in Daddy's Shoes at night, chatting as best I can with my remedial Japanese skills with the locals of Hirakatashi - only this time, I am the foreigner. My blond hair and blue eyes, so standard in my hometown as to be nearly unnoticeable, are exotic here. The mention of my little hometown across the world in New York is met with wide-eyed gasps and impressed responses. Baseball, apple pie, and fireworks on the fourth of July - all these things are "exotic" within the cultural context of my new hometown. For the first time in my life, I am the foreigner - the one who looks different, speaks differently, grew up in a place that many people have only seen in pictures. It's an interesting experience, finding myself on the other side of the proverbial, cultural fence.
And it's even more interesting to see my stunning, jet-set boyfriend with his smoothly inflected Japanese and his inherently Asian face and his Okinawan heritage slide through crowds without warranting so much as a curious glance; here, he is no more "exotic" than I was in New York. He is simply another Nihonjin, one of a million, with nothing far-fetched or fantastic to set him apart. In New York, he seemed like a cultural icon. Here, he is simply part of the community. It's me that's taken on the role of the exotic foreign counterpart.
When I return to America in two weeks, I will once again be just another face in the New York crowd. But for just a little longer, I have the chance to be a foreigner. I have the chance to be different. I intend to enjoy it as much as I can.