May 9 - 19, 1995
There is a gene that travels diagonally through my family. Its recipients tend to be a tad eccentric and creative; they collect clutter; their imaginations leap and their attention wanders. In my mom's generation, the gene found a home in her sister, my Aunt Rhea. In my generation, it fell to me. In the next, to my brother's son, my nephew, Sean. He is now 24, exactly half my age, very much himself, but also like me in too many ways to number.
It had nothing to do with environment. I barely saw Sean in his childhood. Over long distance, I would ask his mother how he was doing, and she would say, in tones of mystification, "He's buying books." So, driven by DNA and excited at the prospect of an adventure, I recently flew to Japan, where Sean lives and teaches English. I hate to travel, but some times you have to see if you're still alive.
Toronto, for a Start Tuesday night, May 9th, Laurie and Abbie took me to the Syracuse airport. The round-trip ticket from Toronto to Tokyo was only $500 (Canadian Airlines "Eagle Fare" for American citizens who book in advance), but first I had to duck and crawl into a commuter jet the size of a hollow Ticonderoga No. 2 and wing my way to Toronto. I watched Laurie and Abbie through the window as the plane pulled away, and I wondered why I was leaving them. Was I nuts? I looked out the window a lot for the next half hour; it was dusk, and from the air I could see the Finger Lakes; I wondered how Native Americans knew the lakes looked like a hand print before they had commuter jets.
Speaking of Indians, in Toronto, the Sikhs have a corner on the airport taxi concession, which makes for very dapper, turbaned cabbies.
To make the stopover part of the adventure, I'd arranged to meet Paul Cormack, a friend who is a high-end video mojo. (The next night he was working on a Molson Ice commercial wherein a band that hadn't performed in the Molson Arena would perform before 20 people packed into a very tight square who would then be multiplied by Paul and some very elegant software into a sold-out house. If seeing isn't believing anymore, it's because of people like Paul.)
He drove me through Toronto, a city I haven't seen since I was a boy. The buildings were wonderful, majestic, especially the old city hall. We had dinner on Queen Street at the Bamboo Club, home of reggae music and Thai food. Abbie would love the sides of the building, wild paintings in bright colors lit by strings of lights. While we ate and talked, I looked out the windows into the courtyard, where a man in Jamaican garb and sunglasses was doing a video, a light shining on his face while he gestured and held forth with considerable energy.
Flying to Japan Wednesday morning at the Travelodge, I had a pre-flight breakfast of Claritin, Zantac, Kwai garlic tablets, Metamucil and a box of cereal. At the airport, I rounded off the morning meal with a cheese/cracker pack, a sign of Laurie's gracious love, and a bottle of juice. I sat and watched serious Japanese businessmen and young Japanese guitarists with nose rings.
I boarded Canadian Airlines Flt. No. 1 (easy to remember) at 9:30 a.m. It was going to be about 13 hours in the air, over scenic Edmonton, Anchorage and the Kamchatka peninsula. When I sat down in my assigned seat, a kindly steward said, "It gets noisy in that seat. Sit over here, no, right in the middle of the center row, yes. Now nobody will sit next to you. Watch, you'll see." And he was right, they didn't, and suddenly I had five seats to myself. After lunch, I laid down, stretched out and closed my eyes for eight hours. The sun never went down, my first night without a sunset, but there were three movies, and that made it something like night. During one movie, I got up to walk around and asked the steward what time it was. "Four a.m. in Japan," he said, so I went back to lie down, whispering, "It's 4 a.m. It's 4 a.m." There is a 13-hour time difference, but I was willing to fool myself.
The Japanese passengers slept with enviable ease, in whatever position they found themselves, some for ten or more hours, as if they were in their own beds. Some with neck pillows, some leaning against the walls, draped in blankets, some with slippers on, all totally relaxed in the midst of strangers. A little Japanese boy, about 18 months old, walked by with bare feet; he smiled at me.
I was not relaxed. I felt like the character in Hemingway's "Big Two-Hearted River," doing everything very carefully. Sleeping, or at least holding still with my eyes closed, for as long as I could, going to the restroom often, washing my hands as often as Lady Macbeth, taking walks up and down the aisles (learning from Dan Quayle's mistakes), packing and unpacking my carry-on luggage so that whatever I would need next would be on top. If I hadn't been traveling alone, I would have driven someone crazy.
It was a Canadian flight, so we heard every announcement three times, in English, French and Japanese. I'd brought four books to read and leave with Sean, collections of short stories by Flaubert, Chekhov, Kleist and Pushkin, left over from a short story course I took in college. At the time, I was too busy worrying about Vietnam to read the books, so I went to class and took notes, on those days I was in the mood to go to class. I was ill-prepared for the final, but still indignant when I got a C. So now I finished the reading, coming across my old notes (I must have read some of it), but the stories were sadly depressing, about lost love and unfaithful love and empty love and wasted love, apparently something weighing heavily on the mind of the professor.
At the Airport The flight got in an hour early, which meant I had to wait two hours for Sean, so I wasn't in a hurry, which was nice because I had to clear customs with a ponytail and I didn't want to appear agitated. I got the language down right away. The young woman checking my passport at 'Immigration' said, "Hai," and I said, "Hi." Of course, she was saying, "Yes," and I was saying, "Hello," but it worked out, and suddenly I was in the lobby.
I watched people. A young Japanese mother who had come in from Toronto with a beautiful Eurasian child. She was waiting for her parents, and when they arrived I watched the wonder in the new grandchild's eyes as she was being introduced. Grandma had brought yogurt for her, and a thermos of coffee for her daughter. I imagined the handsome Canadian husband back in Toronto, missing his beautiful family.
I saw a daughter carrying her mother on her back to the Ladies Room, and back again, and passing her to her father, who carried the woman away on his back through the terminal, without embarrassment or any sign that this was out of the ordinary. The mother had a bandage wrapped around her left wrist. Her wrists were very thin.
I saw a column of school children go by, holding hands, two by two, giggling in bright red caps. I saw a column of young women go by in very stylish black dresses, but still two by two, as if it was deeply ingrained.
I thought about how much Abbie would have enjoyed the shoes, clogs, high heels, boots, ankle boots, shoes with 3" soles.
I watched a tall American stride by pushing a baggage cart. He was wearing a floor-length brown leather coat with a stiff cape that stuck straight out over the shoulders to make his broad shoulders look even broader. He looked like he was in costume.
I listened to the repeating PA announcement, the English version, "This is a message from the airport authority. When you find suspicious objects, please keep away from those without touching. Please report them to the police or the airport authority." This was in reaction to the Supreme Truth guy, still in hiding, and the fear of another gas attack. I wasn't in the least bit afraid because I knew I was safer anywhere in Japan than I had been anywhere in Syracuse.
And then Sean arrived, white shirt, tie, backpack, speaking English. It was lovely to see him. And off we went, downstairs to the trains. Sean bought the tickets, which was good, because I didn't have a clue as to what was going on. It was mid-day (Thursday), so the trains weren't crowded. I loved the plush red seats; in the U.S. they'd be slashed to bits in minutes. I looked out the windows into a sunny afternoon and saw rice paddies and Japanese roof lines and Japanese billboards in the stations and lots of Japanese people. Hey, it was Japan.
We arrived in Kamagaya Diebatsu, Sean's town, and went straight from the station to Mos Burger where I enjoyed the first of many chicken sandwiches with a vanilla shake. You could order by pointing, but I let Sean handle the honors in Japanese. The staff was extraordinarily polite. As in all stores in Japan, they greet you as you enter with voices that sound like singing, and bow and await your pleasure. Mos Burger is known for having the slowest fast food in the world, but they're so nice about it, and the food is so good, that it's not a problem.
We walked the last mile, my suitcase balanced on the back of Sean's bicycle, to his apartment, spacious by Japanese standards, and filled with posters, art and a stereo/TV salvaged from the trash. Sean has found that his neighbors don't trade in; they trade up, and leave perfectly usable cast-offs at the curb.
Sean observes the amenities of the culture, removing his shoes at the door, with separate slippers (bright red and marked "Toilet") for the bathroom, and another set outside the sliding doors of the bedroom by the clothesline for outdoor wear. You never track dirt anywhere, although I found my feet getting cold on rainy days.
Sean gave me his room and he slept on the couch, mindful of his inheritance. I immediately took over the kitchen table with my dazzling array of prescription medicines, nostrums and personal care implements, and sat down and called Laurie. How lovely to hear her voice and reassure her that I had arrived safely. Like everything else in Japan, the phones work; the connections are crystal clear, with no time lag.
We watched TV, "Bomber Ball," the Chicago Bulldogs taking on the San Francisco Penguins in dodge ball/bombardment just like you played in gym, except you didn't have slo-mo replay. The coaches were Americans in suits, just like the NBA (and where do you apply for that job?), but the floor was filled with smiling Japanese celebrities having fun for an appreciative audience. This was probably the best TV show I saw; other programming was surprisingly dull -- visually at least, the dialogue could have been incredible and I wouldn't have known -- with many panel discussions with charts and pointers, and the occasional soap opera set in medieval Japan. The programs were like those in the 1950's in the U.S., but interspersed with the most wonderful commercials, far better on average than you'd see in the U.S., six to ten in a row and they were magnificent, imaginative, technically advanced, creative, beautiful. It completely reversed the U.S. experience of waiting for the show during the commercials.
The Izakaya As evening fell, we went off to the izakaya, the neighborhood bar. You know they're open when the flags are out. It was wonderful, one of the things I now wish I'd done more of. It was small, with a bar in the front half, and past the bar was a raised room with low tables and tatami mats and shoes left at the steps. Sean's colleagues at the language school, and some students, gather there, and at the head of the table we found Heather Chilton, a Dionysian younger sister of Bacchus, ginger-haired party girl from England, who was entertaining her mother and sister who were visiting from Kent, the heart of hop country, and you can guess what we talked about.
The waitress bowed and delivered an appetizer, something chewy, like a small knuckle in a spicy red sauce in a cup, and someone asked me what it was and I said, "I think it's from the ocean." And Heather said, "The bottom of the ocean." But it was followed by a very tall glass of Sapporo, and fried squid (yum), octopus, chicken yakitori and French fries (yes, even in Japan they ask you if you want fries with that) and another Sapporo, an excellent repast, with a wonderful conversation.
Heather's mother, Drusilla (a family name), talked about buying a bottle of Scotch for her dad at some sort of Scotch Institute where the clerk said, "Where is he from? How old is he?" and matched him with a 25-year-old bottle, "He'll like this," which amazed him when he opened the wrapping. And we talked about oast houses, where they dry the hops, and Drusilla's recipe for Christmas Cake which was judged the best in Lancashire when she was just 12 years of age, and her pen pal and writing letters. Mother and daughter were returning to England the next morning via Virgin Airways over Siberia, and I was glad I got the chance to meet them.
Shopping On Friday, I rested while Sean worked. I didn't have jet lag, but I napped generously just in case. I walked to the grocery store and did a little shopping. The sidewalks are narrow and the cars and trucks pass close by, and it was thoroughly unpleasant to walk anywhere. At the store, I picked up a little basket and walked up and down the aisles, ignored by the women who were shopping. I could identify perhaps 20% of the food items. (Sean says that's pretty good.) I bought a box of tissues, a bunch of bananas, white bread, tuna, yogurt and cheese and vanilla cookies. It came to about $36. The stories are true; everything is more expensive, and when you compound that with a weak dollar, the prices are staggering. But this was once in a lifetime; I didn't let it bother me.
However, never again will I be critical of people who miss things from home when thrust into a new culture. Outwardly I was in control, but inside I was definitely sliding into shock. I wasn't afraid; the rituals and settings were familiar, people shopping. But I couldn't read or understand a single word of print or speech. I didn't need to, but I wanted to. When your life revolves around reading and writing, as mine does, the sudden ignorance is painful and humbling.
At least the Yen is a decimal currency and the total showed on the register; I could read the numbers. I said "Thank you" in Japanese, the one phrase I knew, and the clerk replied with a long string of words that, Sean tells me, include "You're welcome" and express best wishes for my day's efforts. She could have been saying, "Those socks don't match," and I would have been clueless.
I watched other shoppers to see how they bagged their groceries, what they did with their empty baskets. I walked another few blocks to the shopping district and went from store to store. I was astounded at the number of open, unattended stores, no one watching the merchandise at all. The assumption of honesty and morality was overwhelming.
This is good, in so many ways, one of them being that few places take credit cards, and so you have to carry lots of cash. I carried about $750 with me, and never felt nervous. In the states, I carry $20, and I'm looking and listening constantly.
Back at Sean's, with familiar food, I did three loads of laundry and cleaned the bathroom. I napped. When Sean returned, he made an excellent chicken curry on rice and we watched a TV show on the evolution of Japanese school lunches, with mounted displays (I am not making this up), charts and pointers.
Whispering Saturday morning, it was time for culture, off to Kamakura on the train, about an hour south of Tokyo, to see the Great Buddha. We changed rail lines in Tsudanuma, and as we walked a few blocks to the next station, we passed a pachinko parlor where the men were lined up waiting for it to open. Sean told me that they know the night before which machines are about to pay off, and come early so they are the ones playing them when they do.
We walked alongside a trio of school girls, who began giggling and whispering. Sean could understand them, but even before he told me, I was aware that they were talking about me, and I was pleased to be able to offer some amusement.
School girls were everywhere, in navy blue blazers and pleated skirts, white blouses, white socks with loafers, carrying dark colored backpacks. Sean has seen them glue their socks in place, so they wouldn't slip down. They were uniformly cute and polite and healthy, trim from years of walking, climbing stairs, riding bicycles.
Speaking of trim, I was in Japan for a week, and saw thousands of people, and perhaps ten of them were mildly pudgy or stocky. No one was fat, except a few sumo wrestlers, who actually have a lower body fat percentage than the average American businessman, but I'll get to that later. How do they do it? I don't know, although I'm sure their diet, public transit (with lots of walking) and self-restraint have something to do with it.
And the lack of sleep. The students have a saying, "Eight hours of sleep, fail. Five hours of sleep, pass."
How do people stay awake? Two answers: 1) They don't. On the trains, they sleep standing up, sitting down, and somehow never miss their stop. 2) Caffeine. You cannot walk 20 steps without seeing a vending machine for cold canned tea and coffee, with great brand names like Boss or Jive. In shops, I saw coolers filled with what Sean and his cohorts call "genki (healthy) drinks," laced with caffeine, ginseng, herbs, vitamins, whatever. Rocket fuel for humans.
The Great Buddha of Kamakura And then the train pulled into Kamakura, home of The Great Buddha, a huge statue cast here in 1252 (coincidentally the same year the Spanish Inquisition began using instruments of torture). (Which brings to mind the time Gandhi was asked what he thought of Western Civilization and he said, "I think it would be a good idea.")
As we walked from the train station, I took photos of the Kentucky Fried Chicken and Baskin & Robbins before we popped into Love Burger for a snack. I had to eat at Love Burger, because I love what the Japanese do with the English language.
And then we made our way to the statue proper. You climb some steps, purify your hands, using a ladle to pour water over them from a small fountain, turn the corner and there is the Great Buddha, and it is breathtaking. If it doesn't stop you in your tracks, there's something wrong with you.
He sits, hands in his lap, eyes cast downwards, silhouetted against a green hillside, unmoving, calm and hugely peaceful, a soft, weathered green/gray, the folds in the clothes catching the shadows. It's more than 40' high, and weighs more than 210,000 pounds, although I'm not sure how you'd weigh it.
When it was cast, the bronze sheets were finished with chisels, and the whole statue gilded. Originally it was enclosed in a large temple, but a typhoon and tidal wave destroyed the temple in 1495 and since then the statue has sat outdoors. Traveler Lafciado Hearn noted in 1903 that no westerner should miss it, and right he was. It is truly beautiful, in the very fullest sense of that word.
I gaped. Sean took my photo in front of the Buddha, ecumenical in my California Baptist College t-shirt, a gift of Dr. Melissa Conway. And then I left ¥20 in an open box (open! filled with money! unattended!) at a little gatehouse at the side, and went down some stairs, inside, and upstairs into the hollow interior of the Buddha, where people have written their names by the dim light from the back windows, and you can reach up and place your hand against the bronze and feel the heat of the sun and the statue's warm immensity.
In the gift shop, I bought 10 packs of Buddha postcards. Then we walked across Kamakura to Hasedera, the Hase Kannon Temple, sort of a temple complex with many temples and statues, including one of the Buddhist goddess of mercy, Kannon, 9 meters high, carved from a single tree trunk of camphor wood, gilded. Because the goddess has 11 faces -- three facing forward, three facing left, three facing right, one facing upward and one facing back, each with a different expression -- she has the power to hear the pleas of many people and to save them.
We walked past the Jizo-do, where small figurines are available to represent children who were not able to be born into the world. Some had toys, and clothes; it was profoundly sad. And then we went into the Benten cave, which goes back into the hillside and is filled with images carved into the rock and lit by scores of small candles. I had to bend my knees, which is about where my claustrophobia kicks in, but I was too excited and fascinated to flee. The setting was straight out of Indiana Jones, except this wasn't a movie.
We walked over to the Kyozo, the Sutra Repository, which has a huge revolving bookcase packed with scriptures. Sean and I grasped the handles and walked it through a respectful 360° turn; one revolution has the same merit as chanting a Buddhist sutra. (I'll take help from wherever I can get it.)
Around the temples there were signs that said, in English, "No smoking. No bonfires." We, of course, complied, but I wondered if bonfires were as common as smoking. Then we stood on the observation deck and looked at the ocean. There was a Zen temple in Kamakura, but I was about templed out, so we walked back to the train station and on the way an elderly Japanese man said, "You are from California?" And I said, "No. The t-shirt was a gift. I'm from New York." And the gentleman introduced himself as Kazuo Takahashi, and said that whenever he saw someone from the U.S., he always thanked them for the food the U.S. sent to Yokohama when he was 9 years old and the 1923 earthquake destroyed his home. The food saved his life, and he will always be grateful.
It reminded me of one of my Serbo-Croatian instructors who also credited the U.S. with saving his life. When he was a boy, a smallpox epidemic broke out in his village and the American Army came and vaccinated everyone. And I thought about the people who want to end foreign aid and humanitarian missions, and how, if they succeed, 50 years from now there will be no one in the world who remembers the U.S. with gratitude.
Mr. Takahashi was with us all the way to the train station and into Yokohama, telling us his life story, how he was a photographer for a public relations firm, and now he was retired and had 46 "pen friends." The train stopped in Yokohama, and he seemed reluctant to go. (I gave him my card and said I'd write to him if he'd write to me, and his letter was at my office when I returned, along with a photo of himself and his dog, and another with the view from his apartment window at night.)
That evening we relaxed at Sean's, eating a hearty meal and drinking some of the beers he had been stockpiling for me, good beers in beautiful cans, and watching Steve Martin in Leap of Faith, which I liked a lot. You hardly notice the Japanese subtitles after the first minute.
Harojuku Sunday was another day of adventure. We did a little laundry, then hopped the train around noon and headed for Harojuku, Sean's favorite part of Tokyo, where a street in a park is blocked off on Sundays from 1 to 4 p.m. and filled with rock bands and performance artists. Upon arrival in the neighborhood, we lunched at MacDonald's. Certainly by now, some of you are wondering why I traveled all the way to Japan to eat at Mos Burger, Love Burger and MacDonald's. A valid question, one I would ask. The answer is simple. One, my body already knows what to do with a chicken or fish sandwich, and I was challenging the organism enough with travel, time and cultural displacement.
Two, MacDonald's has a western-style bathroom. In the west, we sit, elevated, over water. I've gotten used to that. In the east, they often crouch, over a shallow porcelain oval, flush with the tile floor (no pun intended). And while I might be up for that posture in the Rockies, I was not up for it in a train station with more than a million passengers in transit per day. So call me prissy.
Harojuku was a scream. A long street divided into two lanes by a center hedge, with band after band on both sides, running off generators, playing all kinds of rock & roll, people dressed in 50's garb dancing to old 45's, three young guys with blue gloves who do choreographed routines to recorded music which are mimicked by the girls in the crowd, and there are many, many girls in the crowd adoring the musicians. And Vanishing Point, a band with a woman dressed as Madonna doing "Material Girl," and really putting her heart into it, all dressed as western rockers, except they're Japanese. Punk bands. Bands dressed like Mozart. It was a hoot. There were places you could stand and listen to four bands at once, not normally my cup of tea, but with the amazing variety of people, the dissonance seemed appropriate.
I watched the people. There was a man who had shaved the sides of his head and brought the hair on top up to a point about 18" above his scalp; he stood with umbrella and briefcase and watched the bands as we did. I watched three western women who looked like the bad girls of all time, giggling, conspiring, and a large man dressed in a bright red school girl's uniform.
And then Sean nudged me and we went to the head of the street and sat down just as Rumble was getting ready to go on. Their performance starts out with the street empty, loud music playing over the speakers next to their van, a chorus from Orff's "Carmina Burana," some classical Japanese stuff, and then they appear, moving in sharply choreographed steps, masked, in long leather coats, moving, stalking, leaping, finally breathing fire. It was way cool and then it was over.
Hard Rock, Tokyo We hopped the subway to Rappongi, to the Hard Rock Cafe -- where I got a t-shirt to wear on Hard Rock night at Silver Bay, an informal evening meal where, last year, Hard Rock t-shirts from London, Stockholm, L.A., etc. appeared and I had none of my own. Now I have my Tokyo. We had an early dinner while we were there; a single beer was ¥800, about $9, so I had ginger ale with my California Club sandwich. The place was packed with westerners, most there on business, although I saw some American servicemen soaking up the music and familiarity along with the ¥800 beers. We were wedged between two sets of Brits, engineers smoking on the left and a young couple flirting on the right. She was married and he didn't care.
The Ginza Next stop, the Ginza -- with a stop at the Jena bookstore where I got two new books on sumo and looked longingly at all the British children's books at Japanese prices -- and then on to the Lion, a beer hall owned by Sapporo, a German beer hall built in 1934. As German music played, we sat at a table with two Japanese matrons who ate pizza with chopsticks. It's a small world. We had a beer and watched the people and the walls. The interior walls and pillars are entirely tiled, with mosaics set in the walls, as beautiful as the cultural mix was strange. Some things never change -- old Japanese men made grabs for the waitresses. We visited the upper floors briefly and saw a man passed out but still standing, leaned against a cigarette machine. So polite.
When we came out, the sky was getting dark and the lights of the district were on; it was fun. And then it was a train ride back to Sean's for a stop at the video store, a viewing of "Pulp Fiction," which Laurie had requested that I see in some other country and for good reason, and another night of refreshing sleep on Sean's rice husk pillow, which makes a grinding noise when you move your head but you get used to it. It is not the kind of pillow, however, to drop one's head on; rather, you need to lay your head on it gently and then kind of settle in. I would be skeptical of such things, but my allergies disappeared while I was in Japan, and perhaps the rice husks had something to do with it.
Monday, Sean had to work and I had to rest. It poured rain all day, but I splashed out to the post office, a must, and mailed 60 postcards (for about $60). I licked my stamps, until directed to a sponge. You don't lick stamps in Japan. It's terribly boorish. I went back to the grocery store, a confident veteran now. I left my umbrella (one Sean had found in the trash) outside, and of course it was still there when I came out. What a country.
Touring Sapporo Tuesday was the moment of truth. While still in the U.S., I had made an appointment to meet Mr. Norifumi Sumiyoshi of the Sapporo Brewing Company at Funabashi Station, thence to be conveyed to the Sapporo Brewery for a tour. But since Sean was working, I had to get there myself. On Sean's neighborhood RR line, there were few English signs. So Sean counted stations for me (10) the day before. On my own, dressed in a coat and tie and trying to look unconcerned, I kept count, and indeed got off at the right stop. Walked two blocks to the next station. Found the right line (the map was in Japanese, except for my destination, phew) and paid the correct fare and arrived. I felt pretty good about that.
I had a short wait outside the main entrance, and then Mr. Sumiyoshi appeared with briefcase and umbrella and led me to a taxi with white-gloved, uniformed driver. Mr. Sumiyoshi's English was excellent, and we talked about beer and breweries and travel. His first two years were in Paris, which sounded like a good deal to me, but he said, "That was hard for me." And he explained that he had three months' notice to learn French. His daughter was born there, and I got the picture of a young couple in a foreign country, not at all like the movies. His daughter returned to Japan saying "No" in French rather than Japanese. Now two years old, she's still saying "No" and he had scars over his left eye to prove it; I told him that she'd lighten up when she hit three, and he was both surprised and hopeful.
The taxi took us to the front doors of the brewery, which sits on the shore of Tokyo Bay and is surrounded by palm trees. It's a huge modern structure. I walked in and was greeted by the uniformed guides who were all smiles. First we went to the movie theater for the big screen history of beer; they gave me headphones tuned to the English soundtrack; oddly enough, it had been shot with the actors speaking English, so their lips moved in synch with my soundtrack, and not the Japanese version that was being played over the speakers.
Then they asked for Mr. Winshipu and Mr. Sumiyoshi said, "That's you," and I went off for a personal tour while a room full of Japanese seniors eyed me and wondered who I was. My guide spoke English, very sweetly.
The brewery is a thing of beauty, if you like breweries, not a classic beauty of polished copper, but a modern brewery with polished stainless steel brew kettles. "Beautiful," I said to Mr. Sumiyoshi, and he said, "You think they are beautiful?" "Yes," I said. As was the advertising art, huge posters framed along the hallways, dating from the late 1800's. The Sapporo Brewery was founded in 1876, so they have a lot of history. Dutch traders introduced beer to Japan, and then the Japanese began brewing their own.
In the tasting room, I had my own table with a name tag and a view of the bay. It was 11:30 a.m. when they brought the beer over (Sapporo Draft), so I ate a lot of crackers to soak it up. The crackers are a brewery specialty, made with brewer's yeast from the fermentation tanks. We stopped at the gift shop for postcards, and then it was time to go to the Yebisu Center, a taxi ride and train ride away, a huge new corporate headquarters with shops and atriums and patios, and the Beer Station and the Beer Museum!
On an escalator in a train station, Mr. Sumiyoshi turned to me and asked if I was familiar with Aum Shinrikyo's "program," and I said yes. And he said, "They caught the boss today." That was really good news.
We ate lunch at the Beer Station, another restaurant with German music filling the air. I had Weiner Schnitzel; it was excellent. And a Sapporo Dunkel, brewed at a small microbrewery they are running nearby. And a Yebisu, an all-malt lager that is really delicious. We talked about sumo. He asked me if I liked Konishiki, who is American and quite huge, 616 pounds, and I said yes, although he only has one direction. And he laughed so hard he had to cover his mouth and turn his head away from me. "One direction," he said, "That is very funny."
Then we went to the Beer Museum, yet another brewery experience, including the "Virtual Brewery," a computer-animated experience where you tour a brewery by peering into goggles. I "drove" the presentation, and I'm sure I made several innocent Japanese seasick because I didn't have a clue as to how to operate the thing, although the guide occasionally whispered in my ear in Japanese and moved my hands and suddenly I was inside a brewery and through a wall into the fermenting room and through the tank wall and shrinking as small as a yeast cell, watching my fellows swim, grow and ferment the beer. The sound effects were cool.
And then after seeing the other exhibits, antique brewing equipment, etc., there was another tasting room. Mr. Sumiyoshi brought me a Black Beer, on draft. Japanese Black Beer is the country's only unique beer style; it has the lighter body of a lager but the deep color and roasted flavor of a stout. I'd had it in bottle before, but never fresh on draft, and it was much creamier and more complex. Yum.
Soloing And then it was time for us to part. "This is the end," he said. But not before he handed me a white shopping bag filled with parting gifts. He made sure I knew where I was going and bought me a ticket to Tokyo Station, the main station. And I was on my own again.
This time, I was ready to step out, probably emboldened by the beer. I left the station in search of the central post office, which, as fate and my map would have it, was right across the street. I felt like Marco Polo. In I went, walking slowly down the main corridor and returning finally to the philatelic shop near the door, where I bought air mail postcards and envelopes.
Then I had to make the trip back, reading the station signs which I could not read, and figuring out the ticket amounts, pumping change into the machines. My training had been excellent and my adrenaline was up, and I made it.
Have I mentioned street signs? They don't name the streets, so you don't have to worry about reading the street signs which you couldn't read anyway, because they're not there.
Early Risers The next day was sumo. We rose at 4:15 a.m., showered, ate a light repast (yogurt) and headed for the train station, catching something headed for Tokyo at about 5:05. One of the many beauties of Japanese trains is that they come every five minutes so it's very hard to be more than five minutes late.
The Kokugikan (sumo stadium) is next to the Ryogoku train station, so we were in line at 6:15 a.m., really pumped because the line was short and we were a sure thing to get tickets. Sean went off for a few minutes and found tuna and egg salad sandwiches for our breakfast, and we watched people. The stadium is really beautiful, with long, colorful banners outside and a tower with drums at the top that are played to announce the opening of the ticket office. At 8 a.m., the young drummer rode the elevator up and hit the skins, and the line began to move. I think at least four people were poised to help us at the ticket window; they practically knocked one another over to see that the English-speaking person had some help. Such was our good fortune that we scored reserved seats (just ¥4000 each), enabling us to wander off and see more of Tokyo rather than go right in.
Rush Hour One of Sean's favorite districts is Shibuya, so it was back to the trains. As we piled in and more and more people continued to pile in. I said, "Sean, would this be rush hour?" And he grinned and said, "Yup." I count it as one of my best memories of the trip.
How tightly were we packed? I was pressed against a businessman shoulder to shoulder, buttock to buttock, calf to calf. When a muscle twitched in his butt, I could feel it in mine. In another direction, I was just four layers of cloth away from starting a new family. Sean said, "Look," and let go of his backpack; it hung suspended. He grinned. I grinned back; it was tremendous fun made all the more amusing because no one was looking at anyone else, making a sound, or suggesting in any way that this involved a loss of privacy or a violation of one's personal space.
Which is not to say the trains are without their unsavory characters. Sean said they had a real problem with dirty old men positioning themselves next to school girls in the crush. There was even a poster campaign cautioning school girls, and the man in the poster was portrayed as a wolf.
There was also a nose-picking poster, asking men not to pick their nose on the train. Sean said it was quite common, and indeed, on the way in from the airport I noticed one gold-miner at work, removing the occasional nugget and holding it up for inspection, twirling it, flicking, and then going back for more.
And a "be polite" poster that showed other bad things you could do, including playing your Walkman too loud; the young man shown in the poster was obviously western and wearing a "New York" t-shirt while the notes from his earphones were biting the head of the Japanese man next to him. (Which reminds me that all the shoplifting signs were in English.)
And then the train rolled into our station and the real fun began. It was like rugby with the sound off, and I was very intent on staying within hailing distance of Sean, regardless of the consequences. As we exploded out of the door like so many champagne bubbles, I was pushed to my right, raised my forearm from my side to keep from falling and hit a young woman squarely in the ribcage. She was about five feet tall, short dark hair, wearing a nice green business suit, soft wool, and the shot to her ribs startled her, but she looked straight ahead and showed no disapproval as she reeled to the right. She would have gone down for sure, had she not hit the man next to her with a well-planted shoulder, sending him reeling further off to the right and out of my field of vision because I was being swept along to the stairs, where everyone looked down, placed their feet very carefully but swiftly, and then we were upstairs and at the last possible moment I heard the sound of the ticket machines and turnstiles, produced my ticket and found myself in the lane, ticket in, gates open and we're outta here.
Whoa. I did not know how Shibuya was going to top that. A district of closely packed buildings with streets like the spokes of a wheel. It was still very early in the morning, so we walked around and watched shops open, looked in windows. And what should I spy but a MacDonald's, with the much treasured western-style bathroom. In we went, ordered the "fish sandwich breakfast set," and then I retreated to the tiled haven. It was a nice one, with an especially neat sink. Under a chrome hood were three jets with electric eyes. Hold your hands under the first one, and out squirts liquid soap. Then move to the right, and out comes warm water. Move over another 6" and bask in warm air to dry your hands. I was really impressed and told Sean not to miss it. We sat in the window on the second floor and watched the people going to work below, while soft Windham Hill music played, accented by birds chirping from an automatic chirper.
And then we walked. We saw a Preble High School t-shirt, from a town just south of Syracuse, in a shop window. I stopped and stared. It reminded me of the TV ad I'd just seen the day before, for a cable company, that showed a clip from an S.U./St. John's game; you're never far from home.
Unfortunately, many of the coolest stores were closed because of the previous day's arrest of Shoko Asahara, and fears of reprisal; the signs read "spontaneous holiday." And thus I was closed out of Seibu department store, Tower Records and the Kinokuniya Bookstore. Bummer.
Sumo But we had sumo to look forward to. We returned to the stadium, where, for the first time on my trip, someone went through my briefcase, very, very carefully. An usher rushed over to me with an English version of the Banzuke. (How did she know?) Inside, we looked at the trophies. We gazed into the arena, eyed the expensive seats. Then we took in the sumo museum, which has some really neat stuff. We watched young wrestlers walk down the halls in their robes; they were huge, not fat huge, but big huge and strong huge. And these were the new guys.
And then on to the concession stands with sumo playing cards, sumo towels, sumo banners, sumo chocolates in the shape of fat little wrestlers, sumo watches, sumo postcards, sumo books (alas, entirely in Japanese), not to mention boxes of cold yakitori chicken, cold cans of Sapporo Black Label, cans of sake with a cool sumo label, potato chips, chocolate raisins, etc.
We shopped and feasted like kings, held forth in our reserved seats with a commanding view of the contests below. Sean had been sending me sumo on videotape from the evening's "Sumo Digest" telecast, but it was no preparation for the real thing. The light was so much better, the room so much more spacious and beautiful, and the crowd so much more a part of it. Sean had the line-up in Japanese and I in English, and because it was our day, all of our big boys won, including Konishiki. I saw Mitoizumi send his trademark fistful of salt up into the rafters, heard the crowd roar in response, saw all of it firsthand. A Japanese gentleman next to me chatted with Sean on the other side of me, and we had a wonderful afternoon.
Travel Day Thursday morning, I brought in the laundry, turned off the gas, thumped the futon and walked to the office to meet Sean, just finishing up a lesson. We took the train to Narita. I looked out the window at one of my last bizarre store signs, "Spic Amor." Then Sean left me at the turnstile, armed with my suitcases and memories, and disappeared back into Japan.
I went upstairs to catch Flt. 2 to Toronto, which was not flying. Instead it was Flt. 16, with a Vancouver stopover and an arrival two hours later in Toronto. I murmured darkly about my travel agent. The flight was the worst of my life, with an Indian couple directly behind me kicking, slapping and jerking my seat back, even pulling my hair when they used my seat to pull themselves up, which was every time I began to fall asleep. I shot them an evil glance at one point, and was rewarded with a huge smile and a wave. The woman in front of me reclined her seat fully, almost into my lap. The man across the aisle from me stripped to his t-shirt and began hawking and spitting into the UNICEF envelopes, originally provided for those who wished to donate their pocket change to a worthy cause. The man next to me, also from India, got into an argument with the steward about Sprite vs. 7-Up. The steward said there was no difference; the man replied, "You must be joking."
A Japanese smoker was caught puffing, twice, in two separate restrooms. "He thinks he owns the plane," one steward said. "I'll bring him to his knees," and with that he poured him a huge whiskey. An hour later, he was found smoking in the galley. "HE WILL BE ARRESTED," the Japanese stewardess said to the leader of the tour group, her wrists crossed in the universal sign language for involuntary restraints, her voice quavering. His wife crushed his cigarettes, wringing them into dust.
Back to North America In Vancouver, I called Laurie and told her I wouldn't be at the airport as I was going to miss my connection, so I'd call her from Toronto.
The flight from Vancouver to Toronto was heavenly. Most of the people who got off didn't get back on. As we began to taxi, I spotted an open center aisle and, a wiser man, staked my claim. After lunch, I stretched out and slept like a baby.
Thanks to the international date line, I arrived in Toronto about 30 minutes after I'd left Tokyo. (If I'd caught Flt. 2, I would have arrived before I'd left.) I cleared customs and sorted through my options. It was $130 to stay overnight, and the next morning I'd still be in Toronto, at the mercy of the airline. But it was $100 to rent a car and drive home. It was a no-brainer. Hertz had a Mercury Cougar from New York, hence no drop fee, and with really big tires. I called Laurie and told her I'd be home in five hours. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked.
I really wanted to be home. So I did three things I hate. I got into a car (1) I'd never driven (2) to go someplace I'd never been (3). I didn't even write the directions down. He said "427 South to Q.E.W. to Hamilton" and I was out of there. Of course, it took me several minutes to find the headlights, but it was still light out and the wipers were working fine, every time I looked for the lights in fact.
At the Border And then I saw the signs for Niagara Falls - Bridge to U.S.A., took the exit and shazam, there was the Rainbow Bridge. When I was learning to drive 32 years ago, I found myself at the Rainbow Bridge one night and couldn't see the lanes, or where to go, just a spread of concrete. I still have nightmares about it. And it's still just like that, but it was light out this time, and I found my way to the proper lane.
The customs man was laconic ("What's the most expensive thing you bought?" "A Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt." "You kidding?"), and gave me easy-to-follow directions. ("Turn right at the corner.") And I was back in the U.S.A., back in my childhood, crossing Grand Island at dusk after a day at the Tiffany's, looking at the lights and flames from the oil refineries.
And then I hit the Thruway and really knew where I was, but I was getting sleepy after a long day of travel, so I stopped for Cokes, one for each cup-holder in my spacious rented Cougar.
Then I stopped for more Cokes and a bathroom. The stall, with its coveted western-style facility, also had an electric eye. It began flushing as I sat there. Okay. Once, then twice. And again. And with each flush, the water sprayed higher, more enthusiastically. I had not wanted a bidet. I began toweling off with toilet paper and it flushed again, and again, and I was finally backed up against the stall door trying frantically to get dry and pull my pants up and get out of there.
I arrived home at 11:00 p.m., EST. I had been traveling for exactly 24 hours. As I drove up my street, I wondered if Laurie would be sleeping. Or looking out the window. She wasn't. She was standing in the doorway, with the light glowing behind her. What a tremendously reassuring sight. My suitcases were full of treasures. I unpacked on the kitchen floor and pulled out stuff after stuff. Laurie and I stayed up until midnight talking. I went in and looked at Abbie sleeping, watched her breathe. And then I went to bed, fell asleep and dreamed I was on the trains and couldn't read the signs.
If interested, you are welcome to peruse my sumo library.