What is it with people throwing their kids at me?

In the land of the samurai and the ninja, few things are certain.

I went to the chiropractor last week. His name is Seiji, and he did the usual job of fixing my back. There was the usual TV with the news in which a woman very courteously explained the forthcoming weather. There were the usual seats just a mite too small for me, causing my knees to protrude into the air as I sat and waited my turn. And there was the usual company of a student or two, also waiting, whom I saw at school earlier that day.

But it had been six months since my last visit here, and in that time Seiji had found a wife.

“I’m married man!” he exclaimed while applying ample palm pressure to my back. He said this while I lay face down on the bed, trying to relax but also not slide off. It was a tricky balance.

“Wow! Congratulations!” I said.

“Hahaha!” was his reply, not noticing my predicament. Everything I say seems to make him laugh.

He told me he has a kid, that his kid is incredibly cute, and that he and his wife are very happy. I said I’d like to meet his kid.

Later, as I approached the receptionist to pay, a woman carrying a baby emerged from the back door.

“My wife and my baby!” Seiji exclaimed. As it turned out, their house was part of the same building. Fair enough. But how did she materialise with such perfect timing?

“Hold baby,” he said, ignoring my bewilderment. “Let’s take picture!”

I held the baby. The receptionist scrambled to take a picture. Seiji and I went through the process of adding each other on Facebook, which, like the baby himself, I did not expect.

Seiji, baby, and me.

Nothing about Seiji is certain. He always has a new story to tell, and he loves to tell it. His stories are twice as good due to his animated gestures which go a long way in making up for his lack of English. He’s also getting better at dumbing down (and slowing down) his Japanese so that I can understand him.

Some things in Japan are certain: the peace, the orderliness, the atmosphere, the routines and the routine things to say as you greet people. Even the layout at every convenience store is uniform: that is, they all resemble Pokemarts exactly.

This isn't a bad thing.

I can, with certainty, walk into Naoko’s flower shop and say, “Indoor plant. Easy to manage. Need,” and know that she’ll provide.

I can walk into the hairdressers and say, “The usual,” and be sure that they’ll be sure what I want.

And I can visit Seiji and say, “Fix my back, eh?” and know that he’ll do a decent job of fixing it (as much as it can be fixed – which, if we’re honest, isn’t very much).

But in spite of what might be expected, there is so much that simply can't. People's reactions here are golden, and their quirks are uncontestable. It’s hard to put in words. I guess, if you’ve ever watched an anime, know that the bizarrely animated reactions of characters aren’t actually all that bizarre. They’re based on reality. One of the English teachers I work with very nearly falls over whenever I tell her something funny and/or ridiculous. She has to grab hold of the nearest desk what with her knees giving way.

Just this morning, Akiko, one of the other teachers, made a point of complimenting my Japanese. She didn’t know how to express her delight in words I’d understand, so how did she do it? She patted me on the head and clapped, and everyone else in the room stopped what they were doing and laughed at her methods.

This may be what I love most about Japan. There’s predictibility: the system is the system is the system. But within this system, people couldn’t be less predictable. The sun comes up as it always does, but then it does something totally out of the ordinary. It waves at you and says hello, and you’re like, “Wow, this country is amazing!”

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