1st Prize – “Maid Man”
by Adam Douglas
San Francisco State University
After working in the publishing industry for 10 years, Adam Douglas decided to go back to school and study Japanese, having fallen in love with the country and its culture. He has made five trips to the country, including living there as an exchange student to study the language. He writes about his experience in Tokyo at a “maid cafe”, a type of popular new destination for young Japanese male techies.
“Welcome home, master,” the young woman greeted me as I arrived. She was the perfect image of a French maid, all black and white ruffles and lace, her hair pulled back and held in place with a feminine bow. Her skirt was coquettishly short, however, revealing an inch or so of bare skin, the rest of her legs covered modestly with white leggings. She smiled at me, a perfect smile gained after much practice. It was inviting and friendly, with a hint of flirtatiousness, yet completely innocent. She giggled and handed me a menu.
I had finally done something I’d wanted to do in Japan since I started coming to the country in 2004. No, not go on a date with comely actress Aoi Miyazaki. No, not tromp around the Toho back lot in a Godzilla suit. No, not even climb Mt. Fuji. I had gone to a maid café.
Maid cafes first started showing up in the Tokyo neighborhood of Akihabara in 2001, created to cater to an otaku clientele that had largely taken over the area known for its electronics and computer shops. Otaku, what we would call nerds but with more of a specific interest in Japanese comics and cartoons (or manga and anime to those on the inside), flush with disposable cash from IT jobs and indulgent parents willing to let them stay at home rent-free well into adulthood, had made their economic presence felt and business was booming if you knew what they liked. Weaned on girlfriend simulator video games that idolized ultra-feminine tropes like the French maid, and too socially awkward to ever talk to a real woman in the wild, otaku were instantly drawn to maid cafes where they could get some much needed socialization with the opposite sex in a safe and non-threatening environment.
By the time I made it to one in 2008, attracted by the uniqueness of the enterprise as well as the promise of short skirts, the maid café had become something of a sensation, with cafes opening all over not only Japan but the world. The basics were essentially the same—young women treat you with deference and serve you over-priced coffee—but the specifics had become mind-bogglingly varied. The one I chose was known for aromatherapy and massage, while others specialized in more intimate forms of personal grooming, like ear cleaning. Young women not your thing? There were butler cafes for women, transvestite cafes with men dressed as women, and cafes with women dressed as butlers for a straight female clientele. There was even a café where men, dressed as maids, walked around in doe-eyed anime character masks. It seemed that whatever your predilection, there was a café somewhere where you could be served by someone that matched your fancy.
And so, one fine summer day, based on a recommendation from a manga-loving female friend and with two bemused male friends in tow, I headed down a side street of Akihabara and up a non-descript staircase for the maid café experience.
Imagine you are an 8-year-old girl, and your father is Jackie Gleason in the Richard Pryor movie, “The Toy” (an obscure reference, I know, but go with it). He has given you carte blanche to create the café of your dreams so you go nuts, splashing pink paint around and filling the room with heart-motif chairs and stuffed animals. Of course you would, you’re an 8-year-old girl. But this café was made for adult men, not the pre-pubescent daughters of wealthy men in oddly racist early ’80s movies. It was, in a word, non-threatening. Or, to bastardize a British-ism, safe as dollhouses. In fact, I was on the verge of christening it the least sexy place I had ever been when a young woman in a lacey maid skirt and thigh-high stockings materialized at my side like a dating sim character come to life.
After some confusion about whether we could speak Japanese or not (we could), beer was ordered. After getting over the disappointment that there was no heart drawn in the head of my beer, I took a look around. There were about 10 other men there, all about my age—that being old enough to have seen the original Star Wars movies in the theater the first time—and all studiously ignoring the waitresses. Apparently whatever was happening on their hand-held video games or cell phones was more interesting than frilly mini-skirts. I was flabbergasted. I had come a long way specifically for these frilly skirts but for the other men here—the real patrons, mind you; the regulars—the clothing worn by the waitresses was merely par for the course. Even if the course was more akin to mini golf.
We ordered a second round and then soon found ourselves with a maid on either side of the table. The one to my left spoke.
“Should I ask it? Should I?” she said in Japanese.
“Go ahead,” the other encouraged with a giggle.
I was ready for it. I could see it coming from kilometers away, lit up by search lights and haloed in blinking, buzzing neon: “Where are you from?” It was a conversation I had had hundreds of times before while studying the language in Japan, everywhere from bus stops in the middle of the countryside to bars at 4 in the morning.
Today was no exception. I was quizzed on American food and American movies, and we talked about Obama, whose “Yes we can!” had become something of a catchphrase in Japan. I looked back and forth between my two cute interviewers, periodically taking sips from my beer, and tried not to sound like a boastful jackass. But really, how could I not? Every word from my lips led to exquisite, girly squeals. The Japanese don’t ooh and ahh, it’s more of an elongated ehhhhhh, the tone of the speaker’s voice rising ever higher in delight. After a few minutes of this, what with the two beers and close proximity of giggling, frilly skirts, I was absolutely giddy.
I lingered over the last of my second beer and nibbled on Pocky, chocolate covered pretzels, which had been brought to the table in a stemmed glass full of ice. I watched the waitresses chatting with other customers, who seemed far more familiar to them than my friends and I had. They were more like old friends, the girls occasionally looking at the customer’s video games or cell phones, or just stopping by a table to say hello, the men, shopping bags full of magazines and anime figurines piled at their sides, all too engrossed in some digital task to chat.
When one of the maids had a free moment I called her to our table and asked if we could take a picture with her. Maid Cafes have very strict rules about these things. You’re not allowed touch the maid and usually not even allowed to take their picture. Some places offer Polaroids for a fee; this one, however, did not. Slightly disappointed to leave without photographic proof, I paid the bill, was given a frequent customer card, and was sent on my way with a cheery “Please come back soon,” the maid seeing me and my group off at the door like departing loved ones.
I stumbled around Akihabara in a post-maid haze, high from the pink and the beer and the attention. After a half hour of looking at cell phones and MP3 players, it hit me: despite the attention, despite the giggling and embarrassed mouth covering and delightful squealing, those girls were not interested in me at all. Nor America. Not even, perhaps, Obama. By speaking to me in such a way, full of interest and emotion, they were merely doing their jobs. This floored me.
I have always considered myself above the pull of the mizu shobai—literally, the water trade—the Japanese term for hostess clubs and other such places where women pour drinks for men and tell them how rugged and handsome they are for working for Hitachi. Of course, I have never been to a hostess club. I don’t have the kind of money that would make such things possible, but really, how interesting could it be? Paying money to be flattered by women? Please. I have more self-respect than that. I may be a man, but I’m no dummy. I know when my ego is being stroked.
But standing there in the middle of Akihabara, surrounded by a crush of people, I realized that I was just like any other customer of the water trade. For the price of a few drinks, attractive women had made me happy. The fact that it was from women dressed as French maids rather than in the usual hostess evening dresses made no difference. I was made to feel important, that what I said was interesting and—more importantly—more interesting than what anyone else in the room had to say.
And you know what? I loved it.
RateYourStudyAbroad.com is an independent website for students to research and review study abroad programs, with over 4,000 programs and reviews added by thousands of students. It was founded by two study abroad students in 2008.
Rudy Maxa and Allan Comport judged the RateYourStudyAbroad.com Fall 2010 Travel Writing & Photography Contest. Rudy Maxa is the host of PBS‘s RudyMaxa’s World, a former Washington Post reporter and the former host of NPR‘s The Savvy Traveler. Allan Comport is a professor of art at the Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA).
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