I’m surrounded by men in suits drinking cold canned coffee as the train arrives; of course it’s on time. I’ve grown to expect punctual transport in Tokyo rather than be surprised by it. The doors open and an aging salary man with kindly steps aside to let the other morning-zombies out. Two people get off; ten of us try to get on.
A young station worker pushes my bag into the carriage so the doors can close. The glass on the door in front of me starts to fog up with my breath. Thought the Luas at Christmas was crowded? Try the morning commute in Tokyo. I never thought that I would miss Dublin Bus.
I struggle to take out my phone. The eight hour time difference makes it a perfect time to contact home. I message my brother, using “bleedin”, “deadly”, and “Jaysus” as much as I can without sounding like I have Dubliner tourettes. It’s my morning fix of being Irish, and is as important as my morning fix of Lyons Gold Blend.
How do you say “Jaysus” in Japanese, anyway? You don’t. In that sense, it’s very hard to be Irish in Japan. I almost envy emigrants in Anglophonic countries. At least in English speaking countries you can still sound Irish. Japanese, however, is a different kettle of raw fish. You can sound Japanese, or you can sound like a foreigner. Irish isn’t on the menu.
As such, my Irishness is often be temporarily suppressed, replaced by a new set of cultural skills that are, for example, more tolerant of hierarchy. Yet, my Irishness never completely goes. Mostly, it’s a conscious effort, like my overuse of the colour green in spreadsheets and annoying my friends in the cinema by saying, “He’s Irish” whenever Michael Fassbender appears on screen, but that serves more as a reminder rather than a feeling of being Irish.
To actually feel Irish abroad, I need to connect with a part of myself that developed in Ireland. For me, that’s not a sipping on a pint of the black stuff that lost its flavour as it sailed over the Indian Ocean. It is, however, walking into a guitar shop to see framed pictures of Rory Gallagher and Phil Lynott, only to realise that the owner is just as passionate about them as I am. I may be “A Million Miles Away”, but Rory’s battered Strat still sounds the same as back home.
The train finally arrives at my stop and the cold coffee must have kicked in as everyone bursts out onto the platform in a scene that would be best left to David Attenborough to describe. The buildings on O’Connell Street have risen to become gargantuan high rise offices, the humble Wicklow Mountains have traded places with the snow-capped Mt Fuji, and my suit is the same dark navy as the other salary men. But the green flame underneath just won’t die out.
