The police returned it to me within the week, bowing deeply after handing it over.Vittorio de Sica's The Bicycle Thieves is remembered as one of the quintessential Italian neorealist films. Recently, it was stolen - outside a subway stop. I was released.Ī few days later, shame still burning, I bought a bicycle of my own. I knelt at the table, my head bent over the paper, and signed. I had read that Japan was a shame culture, rather than a guilt culture. And that’s when I realized: It wasn’t just about me saying sorry. ‘‘Please sign,’’ he said, gesturing toward the paper. ‘‘Please wait a moment.’’ He left the room and returned with three of the officers. ‘‘If you confess and sign, you can go home,’’ he said. He placed a sheet of paper and pen on the low table. ‘‘I didn’t,’’ I began, but his face told me that we would just keep playing this game all night if I didn’t confess. It would be better to say quickly that you did it.’’ He asked the same questions - Did you steal it? Did you take it? - over and over, until finally he said: ‘‘Let me explain, we cannot let you go until you admit the theft. I explained I had found it outside a subway station. He spoke some English and took my details, asking where I got the bicycle. I felt very vulnerable, but I think now that this was the point.Įventually, another officer entered. They exited, and I was left in the cramped room with a very low wooden table, my shoes outside the door. Somehow, after a little more barking, I managed to let them know I couldn’t comprehend what they were saying. Flustered and a little scared, I couldn’t remember a word of the language, not that I speak much. An older, overweight one with a mean face barked at me. I found myself in a very small Japanese-style room with tatami mats on the floor. I was ushered into a police car and taken to the station. The man spoke to them and gestured toward the bike. Finally he began shouting an English word that I understood well enough: ‘‘Thief!’’ He was talking so fast that I couldn’t understand what he was saying. Thinking nothing of it, I bent to unlock it and the man started shouting and taking photos of me with his cellphone. One afternoon when I came out of the subway, a Japanese man was standing near the bike. I cycled around on it for a couple of weeks. I could hardly believe that someone didn’t want it. But then I found a nice shiny red one with beige handlebars and a basket. Anyway, last December, I decided to pick one up.Įxploring the usual mountain of bikes near my subway station, I saw that some were little more than rotting metal skeletons others were bent or missing saddles. I didn’t think bicycles would be much different. Lots of foreigners I know get stuff that way. Like the way that, twice a year, when everyone receives their bonasu, or seasonal bonus, families put furniture and TVs out on the street. My friend intimated to me that it wasn’t quite legal, but everyone seemed to do it, including the Japanese, so I thought it was fine. They’re often in big piles, covered in rust, abandoned for whatever reason. People do sometimes take bicycles - not new ones, but the bashed-in things around the entrance of subway stations. This seems unthinkable, but it’s the norm in Japan. Their belongings are always there when they come back. In Kyoto, for example, people often leave their shopping in their bicycle basket, sometimes even their handbags, when they go into a store. Stealing is wrong, of course, same as it is everywhere, but somehow it’s more wrong here.
That felt really embarrassing, so I learned quickly. I never blow my nose in public, and I always remember to take off my shoes, though at first I would forget.
Laws, customs, etiquette, that kind of thing. I’ve been living in Japan for two years, and I pretty much know all the rules.
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