Mrs Nakahara`s Feeling for Kareoke

Mrs Kawahara is the picture of Japanese humility as she approaches.
Her head ducks randomly, as if bobbing on a calm sea. Her back is
slightly bent, giving the impression that she is in a particularly
low-ceilinged room and her hands are clasped neatly in front of her. It
is clear that I am to be the object of her sweet politeness so I ready
myself with a fixed, delighted-yet-puzzled smile. As is expected, Mrs
Nakahara spurts beautiful, yet indecipherable Japanese. There is little
hope of me understanding more than a fraction.
I hear `Soba`. I hear `pick up`. I hear `lets drink tea`. I feel an
invitation is being offered, but only with the certainty of an almost
completely talentless fortune teller. Without any true grasp of what
might really go on, I accept the invitation with fervour.

The day and time arrives and I climb into tiny Mrs's Nakahara's mighty
sports utility vehicle. She is dwarfed by the manly steering wheel and
handles the car gingerly. As my understanding of the itinerary stopped
at the part about Soba, I feel it is a good topic for conversation, to
take her mind off manouvering the intimidating vehicle.

'So we're going for soba, are we? Which soba shop?'

It transpires that I even failed to understand this part, for Soba was
not on the schedule. Mrs Nakahara collapses into a paroxysm of apology,
sadness and regret that she had led me to such a catastrophic
misunderstanding. She cowers yet lower still below the wheel. It makes
me feel bad. But she nevertheless takes me for soba anyway, and despite
the fact she has already had lunch, joins me in slurping down a basket
of the buckwheat noodles. All I can do is wear my
so-happy-I-could-burst smile. But I still feel bad.

After leaving the Sobaya, we head into the suburban jungle - a
continuous stream of pleasant, yet identical detatched homes,
juxtaposed by endless 24 hour convenience stores. Suddenly a field. We
park in it and she leads me to a house bedecked with kitsch,
quasi-English garden ornaments. I have absolutely no idea where we are
and am guessing that this is her home. Naturally I am wrong.

A lady in a Victorian-style apron welcomes us in. The house appears to
be a shop and the lady an English Tea aficionado. I don't have the
heart to explain that there is
nothing in England that resembles her home, wares or lifestyle. It is
far easier for me to instead join in with Mrs Nakahara's refrain of
'Sugoii kirei! Ah! Kawaii' So pretty! Oh, so cute!

We inspect her wares some five or six times over. Mrs Nakahara likes
the glass tea service embossed with roses and the maxim 'So nice
English space'. We are invited to drink some quintessentially British
'Peach and various other fruits Iced Tea'. I ask her if she has ever
been to England, already knowing what the answer will be. For her sake
I hope she never goes. The disapointment would be crushing.

Taking our leave we once more drive through the residential monotony
until we arrive at Mrs Nakahara's house. She takes me to a little
outbuilding and gestures me to have a look inside. I don't know what to
expect. Perhaps a pet, or a plant. I look inside and see her husband.
He grins and ducking all the way, comes out to greet me.

The home is lovely - in fact it might be the first truly traditional
home I have ever been in. We move into a large Tatami room that
overlooks the rockery. Were I not so inhibited by language and
etiquette worries, I would gush royally about the peace and serenity
created by the light and simplicity of the room. As it is there are
more important things to attend to. Sweet, Jelly substance is placed on
the low table at which we sit cross legged, presumably for consumption
with the green tea that Mrs Nakahara is preparing in the corner of the
room. Mr Nakahara and I make small talk about all the countries in the
world he has never been to. He encourages me to eat some green and blue
jelly. I aquiese whilst emitting cries of 'Zannen!' (what a shame) and
'Taihen!' (full on!) at his inability to get to England.
Mrs Nakahara brings over huge bowls containing the macha, a bitter tea
that resembles pond water. I don't think I grimace, but suddenly we are
whisked into another room, which isn't so nice, in order to drink
English tea. Whilst Mrs Nakahara is preparing it, Mr Nakahara and I sit
quietly for some minutes. This room is crammed full of largely tastless
knick knacks. I have already commented on how kawaii (cute) it all is,
so there is little left to say. But Mr Nakahara has a brain wave and
jumps up. He busies himself at the bureau, finding a pack of cards
which he brings back to the table. He preoceeds to entertain me with
three or four card tricks. For the first time that day I react with
real sincerity as his prowess at magic is revealed. It is with genuine
dissapointment that I watch him tidy the cards away as Mrs Nakahara
produces the tea. Tea is beginning to wear a bit thin, but the biscuit
is delicious and helps to exorcise the memory of the blue and green
jelly.

Perhaps it is because Mrs Nakahara believes things aren't lively enough
or maybe she has had just one cup of tea too many, for she exclaims
with what poses as complete spontaneity 'Karaoke shimasho ka!' 'Lets
sing Kareoke'.
We get in the car and drive off in search of a karaoke box. The first
one we come to is closed until seven (it is 4:30 in the
afternoon).
'What a shame' I exclaim. 'Perhaps we can do it some other
time?'.
'Other time?' says Mr Nakahara in either incredulity or
confusion.
We find a place that is open. The sign on the outside claims '10 000
song'. We are given a 'box' that would easily accommodate 20, perhaps
30 people. There is a long table in the middle of the room surrounded
with sofas. I sit opposite the Nakaharas and wait politely while Mr
Nakahara selects his song. He sings with passion about a train, or at
least that is what I glean from the accompanying video. Encouraged by
my enthusiasm at his performance, Mrs Nakahara joins him in the next
song which also seems to be about a train as well as the changing of
the seasons. I clap every time they split into harmony.
Soon it is my turn. Believe me, I am no novice at singing karaoke but I
would be lying if I claimed I had ever sung karaoke sober and at any
time earlier than 1:00am. Panicking slightly, I poor over the catalogue
of songs, searching for something that doesn't reek of kitsch
drunkenness. I realise I've failed utterly as the booming opening
chords of Shirly Bassey's 'Goldfinger' fill the huge empty room. I
can't look at the Nakahara's who sit with hands on knees in
expectation, and instead close my eyes and take myself to another place
for the duration of the song.
The Nakaharas don't stop talking about my performance until they drop
me off at my home some 45 minutes later, and for all I know their
praise hasn't stopped to this day. I try to return the flattery but I
haven't the stamina they have.

I get out of the car, bucking under the weight of the their acclaim. As
they drive away and I am left cringing slightly in the shadow of my
apartment building, I reflect that on some un-predetermined date in the
future, I might feel I have grown from the experience.