"My Keitai"
Author: Alanna Krause
Program: Kyoto Center for Japanese Studies
In Kyoto, far from the sunny beaches of southern California and the lively bustle of Chicago, I was light-years removed from all things familiar, a solitary speck afloat in a wholly new galaxy. In the vast reaches of a new world, there was only one tether keeping me from drifting into the gravityless abyss: a small electric transmitter linked via satellite to support, encouragement, and companionship. Metallic blue and small enough to fit snugly into my hand, it emitted light in the darkness and reassuring beeps to remind me that, even in the loneliest of times, someone, somewhere, was out there. I called it my keitai, my cell phone.
"In Japan, you can't have friends without a keitai. There's no way." I was told on one of my first days. Though intimidated by the prospect of talking about technological matters and signing contracts in a language in which I was, at that point, shaky at best, I ventured into the phone store. I did want friends. An hour later I left triumphantly with my new treasure in hand. Oh the worlds I would see! The channels of communication seemed to be opening before my very eyes - until I realized I had no idea how to operate my phone. All the menus were in Japanese. The phone, despite being the most basic and inexpensive model in the store, did more things than desktop computers did at the beginning of the century. After some quality time with my dictionary and the users' manual, I'd puzzled out some of the main functions: email, voicemail, address book, calendar, alarm clock, and, most importantly, how to get the little full-color animated panda to dance across the screen every time the phone needed to tell me something.
Incoming calls were free, which pleased my mom, vindicating her decision to sign up for an international calling plan with the phone company. Separated by 16 time zones, we (after years of seeing each other mostly passing ways in the hall as I, the night owl, went to bed, and she, the morning person, started the day) were finally on the same time schedule. She was the inaugural caller, and the first name in my address book. Whether a curse or a blessing, my mom has a 6th sense of my state of mind, even on the other side of the world, and if I was feeling blue, or excitedly needed someone to relate a new adventure to, my caller ID would inevitably flash "Mom." The phone also handled email, keeping me in better touch with my friends back home than I ever could have achieved without it. At lunchtime I'd hear the friendly "Beep boop boop!" of an incoming text message, and read "Hey! It's 4 am in California! What day is it there?"
At first, my address book was hopelessly bare. It was populated with only a few names, and all of those in roman characters. Fortunately, the situation soon improved. Within my first few weeks in Japan, through my part time jobs, international clubs at neighboring universities, and my escapades in the nightlife district of Kyoto, the list of names began to grow. Soon, I had to use the phone's search function instead of scrolling, but even then, in search of a name beginning with Y, I would get a string of "Yoshi, Yoshimi, Yoshitomo, Yoshiyuki, Yuki, Yuki, Yuki, Yukiko" rushing my by eyes in a blur of Japanese characters. Since we spoke different languages and came from different countries, communication with these people was, like with my phone, at first a challenge, but soon became fluid and familiar. I began to use the phone's advanced notation features to keep track of which Yuki was the one studying nutrition at the women's college, and which was the one who played volleyball and lived down in Osaka.
The list became a comfort to me. Scrolling through and seeing the numerous names let me know that if I needed something, I could get it. If something went wrong, someone would be there to save me. If I was sitting in my room feeling a little homesick, I would turn to my phone and it would connect me with a friend to meet at a coffee shop. A question about Japanese? A quick email to one of my coworkers brought the answer. When I had the flu, a plea to a friend with a job at a hospital produced medicine, soup, and orange juice. Lost downtown, a call summoned a ride home or at least directions to the nearest train station. And, most nights before bed, a round of gossip with 6 text message conversations going at once would send me to sleep dreaming of the cute boy who I now knew through the grape vine had no girlfriend after all, and visions of that weekend's plum-blossom viewing excursion, just arranged via satellite.
Turning off my phone for the last time, in the airport shuttle as we crossed the bridge to Osaka international airport, brought tears to my eyes. It symbolized the true end to a chapter of my relationship with Japan, and to my relationships with the people in my phone's address book who made my time there so meaningful. My turn with that keitai has come to an end, but I'm happy to say that I was able to pass it on to a friend who is now just beginning his own Kyoto life. Now he can have friends in Japan too, and family, and friends back home, and a dancing panda.
