I moved into the university dormitory for international students only to find out that there was nothing international about it. At all. It is situated in the suburbs of Tokyo near Matsudo town, surrounded by thousands of cozy family houses and served by a high speed train station that takes you to Asakusa or Narita in about 50 minutes. The streets around there were empty but clean and seemingly safe, with occasional children on bicycles strolling through the neighbourhood playgrounds. When I was pushing around my suitcase, they looked at me like I was an obvious error in their well-managed system. Clearly invading their early afternoon peace, I hurried to seek shelter in the entrance hall of the dormitory.

The exterior of the three-story reinforced concrete building looked far from fashionable but the insides turned out to be spacious and bathed in great natural light. A TV drama could be heard somewhere at the back of the reception room, a woman was crying and the only phrase I managed to understand was "I love you" followed by some intense sobbing. I rang the bell twice and waited for a while, inspecting a list of the resident students on the wall. Out of 36 names only two were written in roman letters, one of which was mine. International students? Wait, something's not right here. And then it hit me: everyone else is Chinese and Korean. My subsequent thoughts about potential survival among Asians in the common kitchen were interrupted by a 70 years old man emerging behind the reception desk. When I first saw him it became immediately clear that he didn't understand a word in English. Nevertheless, he took me on a long tour around the building, enthusiastically explaining in Japanese how to use all the facilities. The worst part were the light/air conditioner/water heating/fridge control panels. Mind you, there are five of them in my 12 sqm room, and I still have no idea what most of the buttons are for.