not a youtuber
the sun has already set when i arrive at the train station of a small town in the north of japan. three streets lead from the train station. i pick the left one for a stroll. something for dinner would be good, i think to myself. finding a place to sleep should be easy. half of the buildings are abandoned in this well-run-down town. somehow i enjoy the look of decay. a couple houses and a fallow piece of land down the street, i spot a lonely guy. he is standing, smoking in front of a house. a neon sign is hanging on the side of the building and, from the inside, muffled voices can be heard. i go up to him and ask if this is a restaurant. he affirms and corrects me: shokudo. a cheap, local restaurant, reminds me my brain. "is the food good?" i ask. "delicious!" he shouts, putting out his cigarette and opening the sliding door for me. i am greeted by the waitress and seated on western furniture. the man from the door is joining a group of three men in the traditional seating area. he tells them how this foreigner over there just asked him if this place was any good. they laugh as i order the recommendation. the waitress is running back to the kitchen to ask the chef. fried chicken, comes the answer. my order is placed. "tastes good?" the guy — i will refer to him as morgan from here on — asks me. indeed it’s good and plenty. ten pieces of fried chicken, a bowl of rice, miso soup, an assortment of pickles and some sardines on grated radish. my stomach is filled to the brim. i pour some hot green tea down my throat in hope of helping digestion. as soon as i’ve paid, morgan calls me over. i am asked many questions, some of which i can try to answer. art student, germany, smaller brothers, etc. sake is ordered for me and i have to intercept the waitress to tell them i am fine with tea. sorry, i do not drink alcohol. "german? no beer?" by now a typical situation. instead, fried shrimp are ordered for me. the next question: "do you sing?" "no, not really, sorry," i reply in shame. morgan is a little disappointed, i can see that. the shrimp arrive, packed in a plastic box. the group is gathering their belongings. cigarettes get lit as we greet the waitress and cook goodbye, pouring out of the restaurant. morgan is heading up the street. i am part of the group now and follow. he opens — almost rips open — a small door on a corner building 100 meters down. dim and warm light is guiding everybody inside. my brain begins to tingle. the smell catapults me back in time. i must have been four or five, running around a local park. in the middle of the park was a low pub. it was a dark hole in the greenery with slot machines and hidden corners housing arcade machines. finding pinball and auto racing was the goal back then. the smell is not the immediate sense of tobacco smoke, alcohol sweat or a spilled drink. it is rather the place's memory of such things — etched into the substrate, aged under minimal ventilation and no uv exposure. my nose tells me: this place i am entering must have similar memories. the room is no taller than 2.20 meters. red carpet, red velvet bar chairs and a red leather couch along the wall. the walls — once white — are dyed by many smoking guests. wallpapers are framed and set back into the wall: a romantic scene in italy, the zugspitze, a wet t-shirt pinup on the beach. towards the bar, an assortment of instruments — bongos, tambourine and rattles, a selection of ukuleles and a black electric guitar. we are welcomed by a woman in her seventies. quickly there is money passed over by morgan. everybody sits down at the bar and drinks are served. either whiskey with cold water or sake with hot water. i get orange lemonade on the rocks and smoke seven stars. kampai! a small discussion about the song that should be sung first. japanese pop ballad. morgan sings first. his colleague leans over to me, points at him and says: "he is mafia." i want to ask if morgan has tattoos but he denies it. this would be a yakuza thing and he has nothing to do with them. chips, candy, as well as pickled sprouts and lotus root are on offer. tangy, sour, sweet and salty — tasty. "i think you have a cool nose!" one of the guys says. "don’t you think?" he asks, turning to the others. "europeans all have this nose and big eyes. not like our small eyes." his sign language and grimace are interpreting for me. he comes to the conclusion: "we are different, but you have a cool nose!" my ability to speak japanese forbids any appropriate response — that would be a joke about cleopatra. i shrug and we laugh. "kampai!" "kampaaai!" "in german?" "prost." "purosuto! purosuto!!" song after song. the mic gets passed along. applause for the performer. a beer for the bar-woman. the men call her "mama" — archetypical name for the provider, in this cave of ritual. the light is dim and i still try to take some photos with my camera. "photos ok?" no problem, but mama does not want to be photographed. she says she looks bad in photos. i think the thick makeup looks good on her. her skin the white the walls now dream of, and her lips apple-red. a long black dress falls down her shoulders. a blue and white brooch resting on her chest. she is resembling the room — not to say she is the room. everything seems to be pasted from a movie… kill bill 3 maybe? morgan interrupts my thoughts: "wow, old camera!" pointing at my rollei, sitting on the counter. "true! maybe 1950s." "filmu?" "what?" "filmu?" i understand — "yes, it is!" "so old, very good. are you a youtuber?" "hahaha, no!" "good, i can’t stand them!" as soon as we understand each other, we get along great. the local yakuza and me. "so far away" is sung with japanese lyrics. meanwhile, a taxi is called on a big old telephone sitting on the far end of the bar. mama is kneeling behind the counter, one hand pressing the speaker against her ear, the other shielding the microphone from the singer’s voice. numbers are exchanged. "if anything happens, call me." i will definitely call — when i pass this town again. handshakes are combined with bows — the taxi is waiting outside. i fall asleep in the bushes next to the road. the rattling trains guide the way to my dreams.