Our chartered buses pull into the empty parking lot of the hotel, which will be our improvised training center for the first few weeks. The surrounding cabins sport signs for ski gear rental, but everything is closed. It’s the beginning of April after all, and because of the off-season timing there isn’t anyone else in sight. We exit the bus and head towards the imposing grey hotel, greeted on both sides by bowing hotel staff. Inside I wheel my two large suitcases to my room, where I discover that I will be sharing it with another salaryman trainee. For the next few months, I expect not to have much privacy. Group activities, shared room and meals, living in training centers for gods sake—this is not just training. This is bootcamp.

Nonetheless, I soon discover that room-wise some people have it even worse than me. Because of the large number of new recruits (over 200), combined with what I assume is our company’s attempt to shave some costs, a substantial number of new recruits have been packed into large tatami rooms, where close to 10 people will have to work together to secure spots Tetris-style on the floor for their futons. I have only a single roommate for the week, and have a bed. Perhaps I am the lucky one here.

Despite my room having its own shower I decide to head down to public bath in the basement of the hotel for a little communal salaryman bonding. The atmosphere downstairs is not unlike a high school or college summer camp. Everyone is friendly and loud, and many already know each other from college. Most introduce themselves not by stating what they studied or majored in, but rather what sports team they were a part of.

“What did you do in college?” I ask someone in the bathroom changing room.

“Football.” He replies.

I also discover there are only a handful of colleges—Keio, Todai, Waseda—represented in the company, while naturally I am the only one from mine. With basically no one having heard of my university, the best I can hope for is to tell them I went to school abroad, which is met with a few oohs and aahs before the conversation moves on—there are rarely any followup questions.

Also, I should note that while I am using the word salaryman, there are women among the new recruits too, albeit less than 10% of our total numbers. I bring up the lack of women to my new football-playing acquaintance.

“So… in a pool of 200+ new recruits fewer than 10% are female. How exciting…” I remark sardonically. While I love male bonding, at the same time I also recall just how long training will last and that I am going to be stuck in such an environment for that long.

“I know!” He perks up. ” I think it’s a new record this year! So many!” He does not pick up on my sarcasm.

I later discover that there are other women in the company, but that their training is separate from ours. As in most Japanese companies, there are “office career” recruits and “management career” recruits. The hundreds of “office career” (mainly administrative work) recruits, whom are all female, will be having their training is a completely different location. No gender mixing allowed. I imagine a future Japan where due to the declining population the first male “office career” recruit is hired, and as a result, shares a training center with a couple hundred young Japanese women. It would be a hit manga, at least.

After the bath I head out into the hallway and grab one of the few chairs lined up outside a row of vending machines. The one that sells beer has a handwritten sign that says “out-of-order,” but peeking under the sign the machine appears to be in working order. I begin to consider a number of conspiracy theories behind the existence of the sign until I am interrupted by another one of my fellow salarymen.

“Hi, do you speak Japanese?” He asks me in Japanese.

“Yes.” I reply.

“Wow! You’re so good at it! How long have you been studying?”

It’s a fairly standard conversation one must have a million times coming to Japan as a non-Asian looking person. I bite my tongue and thank him. The conversation turns to the activities we will be doing tomorrow, one of which includes a knowledge test of our company’s product line-up that we were expected study before the official company joining date. And I don’t just mean perusing a few brochures—I’m talking about reviewing complete, internally published textbooks that go into exacting details on everything that a good salaryman ought to know about what our company does and sells. The test is first thing tomorrow morning. Failure is—apparently—not an option.

“So, the test tomorrow — you ready?” He asks me. “It’s going to be in Japanese, so you’re kinda screwed, right?”

“I’ll do my best.” I refrain from adding asshole at the end of my response.

Despite talking with the guy in Japanese for the past 5 minutes, the possibility that I could actually read Japanese too seems so remote as to not even be possible. I consider the pros and cons of this situation — as a non-Japanese, non-Asian person in a very Japanese environment, I stand out as a curiosity, and most everyone is excited to engage me in at least in some sort of do-you-speak-Japanese conversation. But at the same time, I’m not treated as just another one of the new salarymen. I’m an outsider that can’t possibility function on the same level or complete the same tasks. Most of the new recruits here are surprised I even speak their language, without making the connection I’m in the same training center with them doing the exact same training. I want to stand out and be popular—and my physical features allow me to do so—but I want to fit in too. It’s a paradox and I can’t have it both ways, so what do I really want?

I decide not to consider that question any further and head back to my room. There’s going to be a test tomorrow, and I need to study. Day 1 of salaryman boot camp is about to begin.